Are Books and People Alike?


Books are not so different than people are. Both come in many different genres, they see things from different points of view, and they speak in unique voices.

Unfortunately, it is easier for me to judge them by their covers, as they wait patiently on a shelf. If I am not careful, I will walk past a great one and never open it–because I am busy, impatient, and thoughtless.

But when I do take the time to look, I find each one has an exclusive set of contemplations: observations, interpretations, and insights about life.

I do not agree with all of them. Some do not share my curiosities. Some I do not understand. Some irritate me for no good reason. Some of them just plain make me mad.

Still, every time I open a new book or talk to a new person, I learn something about life that I did not know before, and that makes my whole view of the world a little bit wider.

We all need to find meaning. We all need love.


A Connection We Crave?

In the womb as unborn babies, we each shared ourselves with our mother through the umbilical cord of life. In this union, we are totally dependent upon our mother for our very existence. We received nourishment from our mother. And with her, we also shared the very same breath of life.

Through this connection with our mother, we joined together in the union of a shared human bond of safety and love. We needed our mother, just as our mother needed us to need her also. The psychologically healthy bond between two people fulfills the needs of both individuals

I believe that as we live out our lives, we carry an unconscious emotional craving for this original nascent union. We seem to seek emotional connections with other human beings to satisfy our craving. We still seem to need to share our selves. We all need to need someone, and at the same time, we need to feel needed by him or her. I think one human being must join emotionally with other human beings in order to feel fulfilled, in order to be truly happy, and even in order to survive. Continue reading

Inspiring Words for when you are feeling down as a Writer.


Inspiring Words for when you are feeling down as a Writer.

A video narrated By Phillip Glass.

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Boy Spinning, Looking up at Sky, Shapes in Clouds


8-year-old Ricky remained focused, carefully counting the number of paces as he walked away from the playground and headed straight out into the vast, open, grassy field of the city park. Ricky was a boy curious about all things. And the 8-year-old wanted to know exactly how many steps it was from the merry go round, to the spot-on center of the open green expanse.

Ricky counted his paces in his mind, while his mouth worked silently, as it always did whenever he was in deep thought. He never let himself daydream or lose his count; on the contrary, he tallied each successive pace, noting the incrementing total with a pronounced seriousness. Finally, he was nearly to his destination. He kept his eye on the central point as he counted… 497, 498, and 499. Ricky stopped. He was standing on the spot.

It took the young boy exactly 499 paces to get from the merry go round, to the exact spot-on center of the lush, emerald-green field. If Ricky’s total step count had been a perfect, round numbered 500, he would have been quite suspicious of himself. Most 8-year-old boys would take an extra step on purpose, and pretend that they had not, because a total of exactly 500 steps would seem joyfully miraculous, and a lot luckier than 499—but it was not honest, and the total would not be true. Most boys would not care. But Ricky would, and he knew life usually gave you a less exciting, but correct number. So this is how he knew that the count was indeed 499 steps exactly.

As he stood at center point, Ricky noticed his shadow. The afternoon sun that day was a joyful radiant orb and it bathed the park in long, extending, golden rays of light. Continue reading

The Orphaned Child, and a One-way Train Ticket to Uncertainty.


The small train limped slowly along the snow-covered tracks. It was not a strong engine pulling the six passenger cars and caboose. To cut expenses there was no berthing car and no commissary or diner area. It was primarily a third rate, lower class transportation means meant only for the poor working class, those who would bring their own food to eat and sleep on the seats of the passenger cars, wrapped in old mildewed blankets, exhausted and sunk into a mass much like wet, heavy sacks of bad potatoes. It was the least expensive passenger coach that could make the 750 mile slog from El Paso, Texas, up and through the mountain passes to its final destination in Rifle, Colorado.

Along the climbing, route through the passes in Colorado, the tiny train rounded the powdery bases of the immense white, snow-swaddled mountains. The tiny engine carriage smokestack coughed and hacked up thick black plumes of smoldering coal residue, the furnace constantly gasping for air, as the fire powered the steam engine and it ascended arduously through the peaks and snowy passes. In the engine car, the fireman worked double- time shoveling coal into the fire box. It was all he could do to feed the fire, to heat enough steam, to keep up the train’s present sluggish pace.

Inside the second passenger, carriage was a small frail girl. She rode all by herself, alone and insignificant, sitting on the hard wooden passenger bench. The girl had a one-way ticket to Colorado, all paid for with money scratched together, and donated by numerous neighbors of the girl’s parents. She had no other money.

Train in the Snow

THE TRAIN

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This is the Family (Intro to Short Story)


The Writings of Bryan Edmondson (Fiction and Satire) (c) 2012

The Writings of Bryan Edmondson (Fiction and Satire) (c) 2012

We are all one Family. Time recognizes us by one shared name. We are all the direct descendants of the progenitors, the patriarch, and the matriarch, the first of us who came. We are one lineage, a succession of generations through twenty-five decades in this country. Continue reading