Wrinkled Man Pictures

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Frequently Asked Questions

1. QUESTION:
   What are the most cliched subjects for today's amateur photographers?
   Back in the film days, it seemed all amateurs loved taking pictures of wrinkled old men's faces, columns of smoke and sunsets on the shore. I'm still seeing lots of sunsets, but it seems amateurs are hardly interested in old men. What other subjects besides sunsets are still drawing lots of amateurs?

   • ANSWER:
     Self portraits making duck faces with the camera held at arm's length
     Converse trainers
     Flowers
     Writing on hands
     Overprocessed anything

2. QUESTION:
   Married man with 3 children?
   So i have been seeing this man since July 2010. I really like him. However he carries around this wrinkled picture of 3 children. He claims the children are not his. However, they look like him and i have done some research and they have his last name. I have also found the mother of these children she however doesn't have the same last name. When I ask him about this he denies it. He is 15 years older than I am. I know he doesn't see these children or their mother often because me and him are in Texas and they are in Los Angeles. I have looked for marriage certificates online to see if the mother and him were married. I can't find any. I'm unsure if I should continue my relationship with him because I wanted to marry someone who doesn't already have a family. I feel that there wouldn't be room for me. He hasn't seen these children in 5 years. He wants to have a child with me but I figure he hasn't seen the kids he already has in five years how do I know he will be around to see mine. I want to know if anyone else has been in this situation. I'm unsure on what to do.

   • ANSWER:
     you need to have a frank discussion with him
     he needs to be honest with you
     and tell you who the children are and why he hasnt seen them in such a long time

     you cannot jump to conclusions, and walk away on assumptions
     but neither can you become more involved and have children with him until you know the full story

3. QUESTION:
   What can the wrinkles in the back of neck mean?
   I am bald, and shave my head daily. My avatar has hair but it's only a picture.

   Area where bald men get wrinkles close to the neck area, I have what looks like an image of Virgin Mary according to my friends.

   Could I be blessed? Is it a miracle?

   I'm not a Catholic, but could I make some money off this minor miracle of my wrinkled bald head?

   • ANSWER:
     Take a picture of it, and send it to the news!

     They love stories like this!!!

     You could be on the cover of Yahoo! tomorrow!

     Yes, you probably are blessed with or without the Virgin Mary on the back of your neck.

     It's probably a funny coincidence. Funny being the key word here.

     Seriously, take a picture and see what happens. You must have some funny friends!!!

     

     Have a wonderful day!!

4. QUESTION:
   Why does Yahoo Avatars only offer pictures of people who are very young?
   What happens if you're a 70 year old man with a gray beard and wrinkled face? Do you still have to use an avatar which portrays you as a 20 year old with perfect skin? What happens if you're over weight? Is everyone on Yahoo required to look skinny? Do you think they should provide more "age" categories instead of offering options to dress as a Samurai or wear some crazy hat? I know I can post my own pic but I still think Avatars is a little narrow in its scope (or is it narrow-minded?).

   • ANSWER:
     Theres an avatar of a guy who is balding.

5. QUESTION:
   Explain how we can estimate the underlying intent and mental-emotional state of a picture of an angry guy.?
   Explain how we can estimate the underlying intent and mental-emotional state of a picture of a man holding his fists up in the air, with his eyebrows raised, wrinkled noise, raised eyebrows, and a frown (angry).
   What are the neural systems that allow us to use that information effectively?

   • ANSWER:
     The fight or flight response kicks in automatically. We only get to decide from there. Most of which is a learned response from our upbringing. However, we also have built in personality traits that would play a part in our response to each situation. How well you know the person, information about the reason why they are angry, and so on.

6. QUESTION:
   An American President with wrinkled pants?
   See link - http://blog.360.yahoo.com/blog/popup_slideshow.html?p=254&id=lc2Cu843erIwY6fujsZpxHBX

   Pictured in the link is Mr. Bush waving from Marine 1 on Friday .

   I have never in all my year's of watching Presidents saw one with wrinkled pants . It looks like Bush just got off an American Airlines flight and is ready to sell car parts ! This to me , shows what is wrong with the country . No President has ever had wrinkled pants or any wrinkled clothes and walked out in public like that { at least not in recorded history } because the man represents the Country ! He is supposed to look dapper { handsome } and GQ - yet here he is not , not in the least .

   Question - Anyone agree ?
   This is not a shot at Mr. Bush per se the picture is a symbol of everything that is wrong in America and if you can not see that without throwing insults - so be it .

   • ANSWER:
     I think it's a relevant point.It is a good metaphor for the way he is running our country.Sloppy.

7. QUESTION:
   critique my writing please?
   Sometimes i guess i hate getting inspired cause i leave off a really good story i had started before and start a new one. This was written within like the last fifteen minutes [my microsoft is crashing and my mouse wont work on it so i couldnt correct my errors sorry]

   Sorry if its long...

   Sitting atop his stoop, gazing upon the white land he came to know and love, Oliver noticed his world depleting. He had lived here, alone, not knowing where he came from, not understanding who he was, only having the distinct urge to run his fingers along the smooth white surfaces. That was what Oliver did, for hours and hours letting his soft fingers become tough and ridden with calluses. But Oliver had a much more unique talent then that one, as he wandered living in his bland world, he once saw an end. Where the white would stop and it would become dark and misty slowly fading into a deep world Oliver dared never to explore. Sometimes he would go back to the edge, curiosity, maybe, only to see the darkness overcoming the bright white. Oliver worried more and more his world would come to an end, bringing him to sit on the floor and move his fingers making pictures. He could see them, but as he blinked they would vanish, his wonderful pieces gone, and he would start again with something new.
   But one day as the darkness was just as far as the eye could see, coming much closer then ever before, tears filled his eyes and he drew. The blues and greens spilling from his fingertips enchanted the floor beneath. As he wiped his eyes he realized that these pictures wouldn't disappear as he looked away or blinked, they stayed in view no matter how long he looked away. Oliver used his skills to build a new world, forcing the darkness far away. He drew grass and fences and small cream houses, buildings with dome roofs and gardens with yellow roses. He wouldn't stop until he was finished, finished painting the windows to each house, the locks on each door, the lace curtains for each golden window sill, the spilling fountains made of only the finest stone.
   As Oliver grew, so did his art, becoming more and more real. The waterfalls crashing in to the water below splashing rainbows in the sprinkling mist, the wind brushing against the shutters veering the silence from his ears, developing into reality. Oliver made birds that sung sweet lullabies and fish that had scales that turned all colors as the sun rose into and left the blue sky.
   Though, as Oliver grew and his hearing of the birds singing and the water splashing faded and the smell of bread roasting and the rainbows that grew across the sky became dull, Oliver felt something was missing. No matter how many roses he added to an ivy wall or how ever many golden brown buttered rolls he drew just barely coming out of the roaring stove fire he couldnt fill it. Oliver grew old, seeking vigurously for the thing he needed, drawing anything that came to mind to perfect his world. Soon all that was left of poor Oliver was the wrinkled man sitting in a large detailed arm chair pulstered with blue silk cushion in front of what was left of a roaring flame. The embers crackled just loud enough for his old ears to pick up and the roasting smell just barely lingered in his drooping nose. His mind thinking, though too jumbled to make any sense, as his pointer carved a deep hole into his chair. No color came, just the dull scraping of his fingernail.
   That was it.

   MORE INFO
   gotta ask, i was confused. In the begining, right? it says came... should that be come? and like the birds who sung ... should that be sang? idk ... im bad at that sorta thing. and with that whole than then thing. little help with that.
   This is an intro to like a fantasy more as story and this is the story of how they came to be, like a kids story. And this girl finds that darkness is comeing back... somthing like that...
   YOU DONT HAVTA READ IT ALL!!!! really. just comment on however much [i just put up all i wrote cause like... sometimes people always ask why io stopped where i did. so i just added it all.

   • ANSWER:
     I think it's extremely creative and original! It sounds like a wonderful fantasy story. I like it.

     In the beginning, it should be "he had come to know", and then it should be "birds that sang".

     Hope I helped!

8. QUESTION:
   What do you think of my poem?
   I'm 13- I wrote it.

   Soldier's Legacy

   A metal of valor, sparkling gold,
   A soldiers helmet, blood stained and old.
   A picture of my father, the day before he died,
   My own swollen heart, full of depression and pride.
   He fought on the front line, day after day,
   while I'd neal at his picture, cry and pray.
   He fought for freedom, for his daughter and wife,
   and for his country, as well as his life.
   What do you call it, when a soldier has to fight,
   fight for his family, freedom and right?
   They say that a man will always return after the war
   but only a box of poems comes knocking at your door letters he wrote, and letters he kept,
   stained and wrinkled from tears that he wept.
   His certificate returns in the hands of a man,
   dirty, injured and sun-bitten tan.
   He seems to have a lot of certificates in that car,
   but this one gripped my heart and left a scar.
   Well, he came back the other day,
   in a box, his ashes grey.
   The box meant for shoes, combat boots,
   which made my soul grow mute.
   They were size 12, black and wide,
   but on his feet, the day he died.
   The same ones we sent him his first week by post,
   this next little detail, hurt the most.
   Nestled in his ashes, there lay a locket,
   This unknown soldier slipped it in my pocket.
   In it was a lock of hair,
   Curly brown, placed with care.

   • ANSWER:
     That is a beautiful poem. It is so sad but I felt what you were trying to get through to the readers. Keep writing wonderful poems like this one. Based on what I read you will go far

9. QUESTION:
   What do you think of my artwork? pic included?
   http://img174.imageshack.us/img174/7174/photo89rh6.jpg

   Im 15 and this picture was for school, we had to do a portrait or a person out of a big book with all lots of different people in it. i chose this old man because of his wrinkles and textures, he was interesting to draw, much more of a challenge than someone with smooth skin. i got a A+ for it, what do you think of it?

   • ANSWER:
     You got an A+, so why are you asking us? Seriously, though, it is very good -- keep at it!

10. QUESTION:
    Do you think this is good satire? I made it up?
    In the following satire i wrote, I discussed about how smoking makes kids look cool. Please let me know what you think. I intended it to be a commercial type setting. Thanks

    A Satire Commercial: Smoking makes kids look cool!

    You get a guy in a suit behind a desk with a cigarette in his mouth (Hair combed to the side, 50s style). He looks at the screen and starts speaking:
    Hi kids, I'm from the MegaBig Tobacco Corporation.
    Now, you've probably heard tobacco will make you short on breath, bad at sports, give you bad breath, and give you cancer and heart attacks, yadi, yadi, yada...
    That's all true. We're not denying any of this. (Takes a puff) Mhh... Flavour!
    But there's something the government is not telling you, kids: Smoking is cool!
    So it's up to you, really, would you rather be a 96 year old uncool fart complaining about the kids running through your yard or a legend (picture appears) like James Dean. Who smoked!
    Let's see who else smoked (pictures appear on screen as he speaks) - Jim Morrison. Smoked. Cool! (Doors music) Groucho Marx smoked. Funny man! Winston Churchill smoked (British national anthem comes on) A true hero, that one...
    And now, let's have a look at non-smokers. (More pictures) That wrinkled old lady from your library... Who'd want to hit that?!?
    George W Bush doesn't smoke (film of W. getting stuck on locked doors in China). Do you really want to be like that?!?
    The Pope doesn't smoke. Guess what. He can't have sex either! And he speaks Latin. What the Hell is that all about? Gheez!
    And you know who else didn't smoke kids? ADOLF HITLER didn't smoke! That's right the fuhrer himself. You don't want to be like Hitler, now, do you?
    So remember kids... All you need to know: Smoking is cool! Mhh!Mhh! Added tar for that extra flavour.

    • ANSWER:
      In a word; no.

11. QUESTION:
    Poem...Man at the Motel..inspired by Cheese whisperer's Down and Out Poem C/C/?
    His section eight motel room
    was decked out in fifties gloom,
    so he sat outside in a plastic chair
    pondering on what led him there.

    Scratching at his tattoed arm,
    he sipped his Busch and caused no harm.
    Smoked his Camels to a butt-
    Just how did he get in this rut?

    Phantom shrapnel beneath thin skin
    No one to talk to,no next of kin.
    A wrinkled photo to gaze upon-
    the last one taken of he and Mom.

    A young sailor,old now,without teeth or hair;
    "Like infancy" he chortled,knowing he once started there.
    One picture held tenderly,an anchor to his past,
    One beer and a sunset,it just might be his last.

    • ANSWER:
      You gave some "flesh" to Cheesy's man,
      I think you did him justice!

12. QUESTION:
    Why do you think this may have been wrong?
    Each generation has different views of life. I went into a retirement center to visit a long time ago and during an art class all the magazines showed young pretty women and men on the cover. Almost all the older people frowned when we handed them these pictures. Some even commented about how old and wrinkled they were and looked so sad.

    • ANSWER:
      because everyone wants to stay young no one wants to get old and die.they shouldnt of given them thoose magazines thats just cruel

13. QUESTION:
    I am a guy and I find a man good looking 0_o?
    Its my boss. His appearance is very different to normal men. In a good weired way. I would post a picture but scared of someone knowing me here so let me describe his appearance:

    He is tall (about 185-190cm I think). He walks straight even though he is like 58 years old. He has absolutely no wrinkles on his face that some of us think he did some sort of surgery. His skin is 100 percent clean. The only indication of his age is his white/grey hair. His hair is very long. Its more than his shoulders. But it is so clean and straight hat it actually looks good on him and his face is manly with great jaw bones and face structure that his hair does not seem so silly. If I had his hair then I would be made fun cause my face is not manly but it actually works for him. Why am I turning gay? In my opinion, he is very angelic handsome. Can you help me understand this?
    I have a wife you know

    • ANSWER:

14. QUESTION:
    Why are Civil War generals all old men?
    In all the pictures I've seen of civil war generals, they are all old and have beards and wrinkles. Is there a legitimate reason for the old age?

    • ANSWER:
      during the Civil War the rank of General was awarded on merit. College was not as common so wisdom came with life experience. Older men had more life experience. There were exceptions where young men quickly gained exceptional military experience and wisdom and were promoted to General.

15. QUESTION:
    I need some help with Adobe Photoshop CS4! ASAP Answers immediantly?
    In Adobe Photoshop CS4, that I need to use in a project, let's say you take an image of an young man who smokes a lot, how you add wrinkles to his face, how you decrease the color in his skin to like a very pale color since you know people who smoke have very pale skin, how can you make his hair be brittle, how can you change the color in his fingernails, how can you paste another image into the young man picture and blend it in, so it looks like it was there in the first place? Please answer questions as soon as possible!

    • ANSWER:
      1.ok here is what you need to check in to. to make him pale you need to use saturation. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8nT33sj-dQI)

      2. To add wrinkles to his face you may need to merge another pic of an old person. by using the clone stamp with lowering the opaq part of the picture.

      3. The hair being brittle i am not sure.

      4. the fingernals i would use the saturation tool on it

      Some of the things you want to do you may need to go to you tube for guidance in order to understand how to use the tools.

16. QUESTION:
    Pick one of these please PLEASE?
    Pick your favorite
    1
    I like to ride my bicycle through my neighborhood
    Tires smoothing down the pale, cracked sidewalk
    Glancing at people’s open windows, curtains rolled back
    A quick picture, a window framed snapshot of their lives
    A young girl dancing and twirling in her pale pink room
    An elderly couple on the couch sipping from coffee mugs
    A little toy poodle running from room to room like a maniac
    Ordinary, seemingly perfect, picturesque lives
    Funny how everyone wants people to see them that way
    Funny how people put on a show when the curtains are open
    When yelling starts, or someone’s crying, the curtains are always closed
    Like in a movie, when they snap them shut with a ching and a hush
    Quickly, heaven forbid someone see an imperfect moment
    I like to ride my bicycle through my neighborhood
    Tires smoothing down the pale, cracked sidewalk
    Glancing at people’s open windows, curtains rolled back
    Guessing what’s happening behind the closed ones
    2 (title: Wind)
    It shelters under a bird’s wing
    As the animal leaps into the air
    Breezes through an open window
    Causing the thin curtains distress
    Squeezing its way through cracks
    However small they may be
    Tearing up the clouds above
    Making sure they don’t wander off
    Moving the salty ocean water
    Pushing and pulling like it’s a game
    Fighting with a wrinkled old man
    Ambling along in his puffy winter coat
    Singing as it travels through the land
    The leaves of the trees applaud as it passes
    3
    The coke bottle sits in your hand
    Tiny baby bubbles rise to the top
    Pockets of air floating to the surface
    Pop one by one, quietly dying
    With more and more baby bubbles
    Being born every second
    It’s a circle of life
    Until you drink the last drop
    Murdering millions of bubbles
    In just a few small seconds
    But, no, you prefer a crueler method
    Leave the bottle on the counter
    For a few days, weeks, months
    So that the tiny planet
    With its tiny bubble people
    Become utterly extinct
    Until you open the next bottle

    • ANSWER:
      I definatly prefer the first one, then the third one, then the second one.
      Why? Because the imagery in the first one is -utterly- amazing! The third one has a deep meaning too it, and I don't really understand the second.

      So, yeah, the first.

17. QUESTION:
    A poem, please read, a friend says my best yet?
    A torn, ragged, old leather coat,
    wrinkled and creased, my first love note.
    A picture of my brother, his last before the war,
    and the number of a lover, whose messages I ignore.
    One shot glass, from my first rum and coke,
    and an empty lighter, from my first smoke.
    An obituary from the paper, about a man that I don't know,
    and photographs of places, that I didn't go.
    A 'staff' t-shirt, from my very first job,
    from my first new house, a bronze door knob.
    My poetry filled notebook,
    a dry noodle-I never DID learn to cook.
    A wedding ring, from my second divorce,
    (a 'seperation' shortly took course).
    A tire from a bike, that I never rode,
    a bent house key, not from MY abode.
    A screw from the treehouse, my dad and I made,
    the first ever paycheck, that I was paid.
    And hanging on a necklace, a Heinekin beer cap,
    from my first trip to New York, a rumpled map.
    Years ago it went missing, a key from my laptop,
    And a bracelet made with wire, wrapped around a pop top.
    Last line didn't fit!
    These memories, come hard and fast,
    my first shallow breath, and my last.

    Maddy~~13
    Copyright

    • ANSWER:
      Your friend is right!!! I like your poem alot! Keep writing!!

18. QUESTION:
    Do you think facebook is ghetto....?
    Sometimes i just don't understand how could some people like certain things, it kinda seems like the whole world is attached to facebook . I DON'T LIKE IT !!! i find it ghetto and cheap , like for instance when you put on the interest section "men or women" pictures from wikipedia pop out from old wrinkled people..it looks VERY bad or when you put "money" pennies pop out ..and plus the have NO Music, no layouts, everything looks Messy and repetitive , they have SO many rules and it sucks .. i wish myspace was still around

    • ANSWER:
      I think its getting better.

      They dont have layouts but they do have banners you can put at the top of your profile.
      http://www.imagestatus.com/

19. QUESTION:
    Newest poem, what do you think?
    A medal of valor, sparkling gold,
    A soldiers helmet, blood stained and old.
    A picture of my father, the day before he died,
    My own swollen heart, full of depression and pride.
    He fought on the front line, day after day,
    while I'd kneal at his picture, cry and pray.
    He fought for freedom, for his daughter and wife,
    and for his country, as well as his life.
    What do you call it, when a soldier has to fight,
    fight for his family, freedom and right?
    They say that a man will always return after the war
    but only a box of poems comes knocking at your door.
    letters he wrote, and letters he kept,
    tear stained and wrinkled from when he wept.
    His certificate returns in the hands of a man,
    dirty, injured, and sun scorched tan.
    He seems to have a lot of certificates in that car,
    but this one gripped my heart and left a scar.

    • ANSWER:
      I love it!!!!...It have passion in every word.

20. QUESTION:
    What do you think of this piece of my story?
    Pale moonlight poured in from the open window, casting beams of light dancing on the ground. The moon was a perfect crescent in the midnight sky, scattered glowing stars dotting the stretch. All was silent except the faint sound of rustling pages. Aurelie sat curled up in a little ball in the middle of her huge four poster bed. The satin covers were stained profusely with tears. In her hands was an old dusty photo album filled with pictures of her parents. Her lilac nightgown was wrinkled as an old piece of paper, folded numerous times. The dust laden album held a worn picture. An adorable black haired girl with the reddest of lips smiled in the picture, and on either side of her was a man and a woman. The man had curly short red hair, the corners of his mouth twitching into a lopsided smile. The woman was grinning, her pale blonde hair falling in her face. The thing that really stood this photo was the girl stood in clear contrast to the parents. Aurelie was gazing at an old family photo. The familiar shadow of a small creature with long, crooked ears and thin limbs appeared at the dark wooden doorway. The creature had what seemed like an overturned half-coconut on his head. His ears poked out sideways under the hat and in his bony hand was a spotted handkerchief. “Thank you” Aurelie sniffled, gingerly taking the cloth from the house brownie and wiping her red eyes. In a puff of odd brown smoke, the small elf was gone.

    • ANSWER:
      I think it's good at the core, especially at the end, but it's buried in over-description, which is keeping it from sounding really professional. You repeat yourself often when it's not necessary, or add a description to something that has already been described.

      "curled up in a little ball" could simply be "curled up" because "curled up" already implies that she's made herself little, and she's in a ball.

      "an old dusty photo album" could just be dusty, since old is implied. "Aurelie was gazing at an old family photo" is already obvious, an unnecessary sentence.

      Try rewriting it, and make it so that the descriptions are shorter, but still have the same meaning.

      Also, try restructuring some of your sentences. You have the habit of structuring it with "the noun" at the beginning of each sentence. Just look at all of your sentences... literally half of them begin with "the something." It gets old for a reader, to see that much repetition.

      The cure to this (and will also make the story even more interesting) is to try making your character more active. Make things hers, say "her mother" instead of "the woman" or even begin that sentence with "Blonde hair fell across the woman's grinning face."

      I know it sucks when you get nitpicky comments, but I'll also say that I'm interested. If I wasn't, I wouldn't take the time to answer in such detail. You have a lot of grammar issues, but the imagery is definitely on the right track and with some practice, you could be a good storyteller!

21. QUESTION:
    New poem, let me know what you think!?
    Soldier's Legacy

    A medal of valor, sparkling gold,
    A soldiers helmet, blood stained and old.
    A picture of my father, the day before he died,
    My own swollen heart, full of depression and pride.
    He fought on the front line, day after day,
    while I'd kneal at his picture, cry and pray.
    He fought for freedom, for his daughter and wife,
    and for his country, as well as his life.
    What do you call it, when a soldier has to fight,
    fight for his family, freedom and right?
    They say that a man will always return after the war,
    but only a box of poems comes knocking at your door letters he wrote, and letters he kept,
    stained and wrinkled from tears that he whept.
    His certificate returns in the hands of a man,
    dirty, injured, and sun bitten tan.
    He seems to have a lot of certificates in that car,
    but this one gripped my heart and left a scar.

    Let me know what you think- remember- I'm only 13!!
    Well, he came back the other day,
    in a box, his ashes grey.
    The box meant for shoes, combat boots,
    which made my soul grow mute.
    They were size 12, black and wide,
    but on his feet, the day he died.
    The same ones we sent him his first week by post,
    this next little detail, hurt the most.
    Nestled in his ashes, there lay a locket,
    This unknown soldier slipped it in my pocket.
    In it was a lock of hair,
    Curly brown, placed with care.

    • ANSWER:
      Go to Poetry.com and enter it. First it gets it copyrighted.

      Remember spell check - kneal is kneel. Whept is wept.

      "They say that a man will always return after the war,
      but only a box of poems comes knocking at your door "

      Those two lines need just a little work. I run into the same problem at times - too many syllables.

      Try ...They say a man returns after a war,
      But just a box of poems arrives at your door.

      Otherwise you have good perception.

22. QUESTION:
    New poem, need a title, what do you think?
    A medal of valor, sparkling gold,
    A soldiers helmet, blood stained and old.
    A picture of my father, the day before he died,
    My own swollen heart, full of depression and pride.
    He fought on the front line, day after day,
    while I'd kneal at his picture, cry and pray.
    He fought for freedom, for his daughter and wife,
    and for his country, as well as his life.
    What do you call it, when a soldier has to fight,
    fight for his family, freedom and right?
    They say that a man will always return after the war
    but only a box of poems comes knocking at your door.
    letters he wrote, and letters he kept,
    tear stained and wrinkled from when he wept.
    His certificate returns in the hands of a man,
    dirty, injured, and sun scorched tan.
    He seems to have a lot of certificates in that car,
    but this one gripped my heart and left a scar.

    I need a good tite to this poem, so any ideas...
    I'd also like to dedicate this to any one who fought or knows someone in or was in a war. God Bless!
    I'd really appreciate comments, not just titles!!

    • ANSWER:
      Soldier's Daughter
      Dad's Blood Stained Helmet
      Fallen Father

23. QUESTION:
    Uhm.someone wanna read this?
    I'm walking through a door. I've been here before, but only in my dreams....The room is silver mainly. There's a big wooden desk towards the back. The over sized desk chair is turned around. All over the walls there are pictures of all sorts of people. Men. Women. and a picture of a girl. They all have plaques[sp?] underneath them. "Honorary Service Officer." I see a picture of my dad. next to his is a picture of my mother. The big chair turns around to reveal a man. He has short short black hair, dark silver gray eyes, lots of wrinkles, and his fingers are intertwined. He begins to speak.
    "Ah. Ms.Bryant. Good to see you again. I hope you've come prepared this time. you might end up like them." He gestures to the pictures.
    I scream at him.
    "wheres my mom?! What'd you do with my father??! I want them back now!!!" I feel the guards put there hands on me.

    The bell rings. I wake up. I groan. I have a major headache.
    "abby, finally you wake up. come on sleepy head." says logan as he hands me my binder. Next is publications, hopefully I can stay awake in that class.
    "it's only the second week back, so i'll let you slide this time. but next time it's detention." said Mrs.Harrison.
    I get up and walk out and yawn.
    "why are you so tired?" askes logan.
    "I didn't go to sleep til like 3. I was waiting for the 'rents to get home from their party banquet thing." I yawned again. in hurried Jazz, Brax, and Kayten, just as the bell rang. Mrs.Clay just smiled at them.
    "okay lets go up to the lab" she said and muttered something about school fundings.
    "are you guys doin' anything this weekend?" asked Braxton, or Brax as we call him.
    "nah.I'v e got football practice." said Logan.
    "Movies." said Jazzmin. "with greg."
    "what you about kayten?"she asked him. He just looked at her.
    "going out of town maybe." he looked at me.
    "I dunno." I said, but i knew i'd have to babysit again, like i have to do every weekend when my parents have their stupid business parties. Gosh i have no life.

    -----------------------------------------------

    hahah.thats is prolly as far as i'mma go with this. i can never finish a story. I can only start them....
    hmmm.
    if you want this you can have it.
    but it's crapppppp!
    lol!

    but what do you think about it anyways????????

    • ANSWER:
      You've got a good ear for teen dialogue, and you've come up with some good names for your characters as well. Why don't you continue with more?

24. QUESTION:
    Would you marry someone who was 107 years old?!?!?
    "107-year-old Malaysian woman seeks 23rd hubby"

    UALA LUMPUR (AFP) – A 107-year-old Malaysian woman says she is ready to marry for the 23rd time because she fears her current drug addict husband might leave her for a younger woman, a report said Monday.

    Wook Kundor made headlines four years ago when she married Muhammad Noor Che Musa, a man 70 years her junior in northern Terengganu state, with pictures of the couple's wedding splashed across regional newspapers.

    But Wook is now looking for new love as she fears that Muhammad, 37, who is undergoing voluntary drug rehabilitation treatment in the capital Kuala Lumpur, will leave her once the programme ends, she told the Star newspaper.

    "Lately, there is this kind of insecurity in me," the paper quoted her as saying, showing a photograph of the smiling, wrinkled-faced centenarian wearing a Muslim headscarf.

    "I realise that I am an aged woman. I don't have the body nor am I a young woman who can attract anyone."

    "My intention to remarry is to fill my forlornness and nothing more than that," she said, adding that she felt lonely without her husband by her side to celebrate the coming Muslim festival of Eid al-Fitr next week.

    Wook said she planned to visit Muhammad on the second day of Eid if her neighbours were willing to drive her to the capital.

    Muhammad, who was a lodger in Wook's house, had previously said it was "God's will" that the couple fell in love.

    http://news.yahoo.com/s/afp/20090914/od_afp/malaysiamarriageoffbeat

    I thought this was funny. I hope when I'm 100 I"m still thinking about men!!

    • ANSWER:
      Pretty much picturing that saggy body just made me sick, so the answer is NO!

25. QUESTION:
    Ever hear the pharse Its never to late to get married..Well read this...?
    This is some Funny stuff...lol

    Mon Sep 14, 4:04 am ET
    KUALA LUMPUR (AFP) – A 107-year-old Malaysian woman says she is ready to marry for the 23rd time because she fears her current drug addict husband might leave her for a younger woman, a report said Monday.

    Wook Kundor made headlines four years ago when she married Muhammad Noor Che Musa, a man 70 years her junior in northern Terengganu state, with pictures of the couple's wedding splashed across regional newspapers.

    But Wook is now looking for new love as she fears that Muhammad, 37, who is undergoing voluntary drug rehabilitation treatment in the capital Kuala Lumpur, will leave her once the programme ends, she told the Star newspaper.

    "Lately, there is this kind of insecurity in me," the paper quoted her as saying, showing a photograph of the smiling, wrinkled-faced centenarian wearing a Muslim headscarf.

    "I realise that I am an aged woman. I don't have the body nor am I a young woman who can attract anyone."

    "My intention to remarry is to fill my forlornness and nothing more than that," she said, adding that she felt lonely without her husband by her side to celebrate the coming Muslim festival of Eid al-Fitr next week.

    Wook said she planned to visit Muhammad on the second day of Eid if her neighbours were willing to drive her to the capital.

    Muhammad, who was a lodger in Wook's house, had previously said it was "God's will" that the couple fell in love.

    • ANSWER:
      Yeah that's freakin' great! Sounds like she's a ho!

26. QUESTION:
    Im wondering if, with more work, my writing will ever be good enough to publish?
    It was always the same; she was walking up a path, to a house that seemed so familiar, and yet so different at the same time. She knew she should stay away, but despite her internal protests, she kept walking. She would open the door, and enter into a kitchen. It was such a normal kitchen, much like the rest of the house. The normalcy of the room was almost surreal. In the kitchen, stood a small wooden table and chairs, set out for six. Every item in the kitchen seemed so traditional, and yet it felt so homely; personal. Photographs littered the walls, the faces blurred beyond recognition, like looking through a fogged mirror. The corridor leading to the sitting room seemed too long, and too thin. More pictures blanketed the otherwise bare walls; the majority of the faces were blurred out, but the odd few could be seen. She would walk down the corridor, peering through three open doors along the way.
    The first lead into a cosy looking sitting room, an open fire glowing in the wall opposite the door, and two armchair’s, one slightly to the left, one slightly to the right, faced it. A cup of tea sat steaming on the small table that stood between the two chairs, directly in front of the fire. She never ventured into the room to see who sat in the chair, instead her focus lay on the upholstery of the arm chairs; it was an old pattern, with something incredibly common that she could never quite place. The walls were much the same, as was the carpet. Nothing else, bar a large Book case, occupied the room.
    The second lead into what she could only label a den. It was smaller than the sitting room, but it didn’t feel as cosy. It was colder, and left goose bumps on her skin. It contained a scruffy looking sofa, made of dirty brown leather, with chocolate brown fluffy cushions; something she wrinkled her nose at. A glass coffee table stood in front of that, and an armchair was parked at the head of the table. On the other side of the room, stood an overly large TV. She never saw the walls of the room, it was dark, there were no lights on, bar a dull glow from the TV, the kind that occurs when it is first switched off, and it doesn’t quite settle to black straight away.
    The third room was a bright white bathroom, a stark contrast to the den. The lights were bright enough to give her a head ache. Despite the pain in her head, she never squinted. Her eyes stayed wide open as she scanned the room. Pristine white tiles lined the walls, a white claw-foot tub in one corner, a shining silver shower head attached to the wall above the tub. A matching sink and toilet bowl, also pristine, clung to the wall opposite the bath. There was nothing personal about the bathroom, not that there ever is in the average bathroom, but this room wasn’t even homely, it was clinical.
    From there, she would walk down the remainder of the corridor, and reach a staircase, with a fourth door to the side of it. She always ignored the door, and moved straight for the stair case. Every footfall felt rehearsed to the point she didn’t need to input. The corners of her vision weren’t in focus, as though she was slipping out of consciousness. She would walk up the stairs painfully slowly, and once at the top of the stair case, she would turn left on automatic. By now she knew what was beyond the door ahead of her, and even though she would scream and shout and cry at herself not to open the door, she always did. She would stand in the door way and take in the sight before her, still screaming, still crying.
    A man stood in the room with three young women tied up before him. He would eye each one in turn, trailing his fingers over their bodies. Brennan could see one girl tugging and struggling to move against her binds, while the other two stood rigid. There features were blurred, and the expressions on their faces appeared almost animated, smiling or frowning like a constant parade of traditional drama masks. She watched as the man moved closer to one of the girls, his lower body blurring with hers as he invaded her personal space. He saw her face over his shoulder, the mask of her expression stretching, the eyes opening into pools of black, tears pouring like rain, her mouth widening in a scream. The other two girls in the room mirrored her expression, and the faces began to twist and stretch in a clock-wise direction, mouths and eyes widening, joining and twisting, forming a whirl pool of black holes and flooding tears, swallowing the scene in front of her. And she would scream. She would scream louder and harder than she had ever screamed in her life. She would tell herself to run, but her body would not co-operate, and she would stand as the darkness swirling before her moved closer, engulfing her.
    And then, she would wake.
    Apologies for spelling and grammer, i was in a hurry when i wrote this.

    • ANSWER:
      If you want to become a published writer then there are ZERO excuses for bad spelling and grammar.

      Asking readers to read/review unedited work because you were "in a hurry" is rude and insulting. I scrolled to the end, read that, decided I didn't want to bother, and clicked reply just to tell you so. If you cannot be bothered with editing first, then don't expect readers to be bothered with a worthwhile critique.

      Writing is WORK...period. Being a published writer takes even more work and sloppy, unedited presentation to unsuspecting readers is, as I mentioned, rude. Think twice next time, please.

27. QUESTION:
    Hey Writers: Care to comment on this very short opening?
    Sorry for the reopst, for some reason it's not showing on the B&A Q&A board.

    Thanks in advance for your opinions.
    Short story working title: A Fairytale in Pictures.

    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~…
    On a ship, swaying on a turbulent sea, and old woman sits at the Captain’s table, picking at her food, and watching the Captain intently. Her clothes were made of the finest silk which only emphasized the leathery quality of her wrinkled skin. Her hair, thin now with age, was wound tightly in a bun, but a few stringy hairs had escaped to hang about her face. Nothing could detract from her striking blue eyes, though, as they bored into the man across from her.
    The Captain shifted in his chair, uncomfortable to say the least. He was a study man with a barrel like chest and tanned and sea roughened face. Yet this did not lessen the masculine beauty of his frame. There was stubble on a square jaw was just beginning to show and his black hair was tied behind him in a tail that trailed down his back.
    “Are you comfortable in your cabin, Milady?” He asked.
    She look startled that he had even acknowledged her presence. For she had been staring, thinking, in a wandering day dream.
    “Oh. Yes, It’s a little cramped for my taste, but I am determined to make due,” she said with a flourish of her fork. She continued to stare.
    “You don’t remember me do you?” She asked at length. She couldn’t keep the hurt from her face and the Captain wondered what it was all about.
    His confusion seeped into his voice, “No, Should I?”
    @Ange-- yeah, thanks for that. I noticed the stubble one just now. LOL. Thank you.
    Okay, thanks guys. I edited the typos and fixed the tenses. Sometimes, I miss them even after proof-reading.
    @ 雅, JLT, and yellowspotlight. Thank you for your kind words, constructive criticism, and helpful suggestions (actually thanks to everyone for that).

    yellowspotlight- The Titanic was not intentional and I'm sorry that's what you took away from this piece...haha... it's so not going in that direction.

    • ANSWER:
      Hey Jen,

      I love the way it's narrated, but the first sentence begins in present tense ('sits') but falls into past in the next sentence ('were')

      Great description that follows

      Needs a little bit of proof-reading, e.g. He was a study man - I believe you mean sturdy?

      “Are you comfortable in your cabin, Milady?” He asked. - the 'h' in 'he' shouldn't be capitalized, just think of the question mark as a comma, the pronoun shouldn't begin with a capital, only the name itself. This comes later too, at where it says 'She asked

      I love this line - For she had been staring, thinking, in a wandering day dream. It sounds a lot more interesting and imaginiative than what it would if it were: for she had been day-dreaming

      The very last line is instantly hooking, gets you straight into the story.

      Would love to read more, keep at it, hope I helped =)
      ~ JLT

28. QUESTION:
    Burkina Faso as the setting of my book.?
    I am writing a book that I want to get published and here is the plot I have written so far:

    Kiume always thought he was a normal teenaged boy, living in the dry, desert wonderland of northern Burkina Faso, with his tribe, the Bobo people. He wakes up, feeds the chickens, tends to his younger siblings, and prepares dinner for the village elders. Though one day, his life turns for the worst, when a war breaks out between the Bobo and a neighboring tribe, and Kiume and his family are forced to flee their home and into hiding in the remote and unforgiving terrain of West Africa. His family, if found, will be exiled to Ghana, for being accused of starting this quarrel by the government. Though Kiume will stop at nothing to keep that from happening.

    Set in an exotic world, of hardship, poverty, and fear, Kiume and his family are faced with life or death, while fighting the thought being exiled into an unknown world.

    Basicly its a boy and his family in a drama/adventure story running from the goverment and rival tribes, geard towards 13-16 year olds. I need help making it more appealing, and I have saw pictures of Burkina Faso it seems to be poor, but the people look very happy, am I right? And here is the opening I have so far, PLEASE TELL ME IF YOU LIKE IT OR NOT:

    Nothing at all ever happened out of the ordinary in my village. Thank you very much. People came and went as they pleased, kept to themselves, and always prided each other when they had a rice bowl full of gossip to spread while they conversed over a repast at Temple every week. Laughing over many old stories, throwing their hands up this way and that, and chuckling until the red-sun fell from the sky and decided to hide between the mountain tops. I for one, since the day I was born, had been claimed “Out Of The Ordinary”, by the village Shaman, who told the inhabitants I would bring our tribe people bad luck, and dishonor to our name.
    Infact, I do not ever recall being called my own name, or being addressed directly. My name had been granted to me: “Morowa’s son”. Morowa being my mother, who just happened to be the prestigious wife of the village chief, who had said many times “Had sinned and been cursed with me as a son.” Many have kissed her feet, and hadn’t stopped chanting she is the most beautiful in all of Burkina Faso. But I see otherwise. She is nothing but a snake, who curls up in my dreams, hissing and striking with her deadly venom, never giving me a moments rest.

    I remember the one day when I wasn’t the only one for miles who was out of ordinary, the one day, when everyone seized their speech, peered their heads out of their tall shrubs, and stopped whatever they were doing. The day, when I saw from my bedroom window, a knobby old cart, pulled by a knobby old ox, and who held a knobby old man, rumble up the village pathway, bouncing and turning over the many ruts and bumps that burdened the road to our homes. I however, pushed open the small window made of thin sticks, and examined the strange man, who had appeared to arrive unannounced. He was terribly old, with small brown teeth, long skinny lags, and the most wrinkled face I had ever seen in my fourteen years of life. A long weatherd sign bumped and batted from the back of the cart, held on by an old rotted piece of rope:

    F O R T U N E T E L L I N G
    See what you future has in store for you!

    • ANSWER:
      not bad. not my style but I applaud the effort.
      indeed, do some more research on Burkina.
      Animal traction will be donkey, not ... ox.
      research the scenery: am not an expert on burkina but your description do not click (and I went to Burkina a few times, and also in neighbouring countries.... and it still did not click with me).
      tips to make it colourful:
      use local names (places, people...)
      use local lingo (there used to be a dictionary Dioula / French. not sure it exist in English)
      research places and landscape, geo and fauna/flora. there is a wonderful region in Burkina that might be worth researching for you: Dogon country (pays Dogon) where the architecture and the culture is very specific and striking!
      there is no such thing as a "shaman" in Burkina. it's a witch doctor, gri gri man, traditional healer... but no shaman.
      if your character is a boy, try to identify issues that he would be confronted with.
      Burkina is French so most of the reliable or colourful info you'll get will be in French. unless you speak the language, you may miss a few things.
      last, I live for 20 year in west africa and an "exile" from Burkina to Ghana is ... unlikely!
      GOOD LUCK and let us know when it is published

29. QUESTION:
    What say to "Bering Strait, Mexico, And New York" Poem?

    1. Migration

    The pregnant and the old straggled along jagged cliffs,
    Following their young hunters' path...no frost-snorting horses
    To carry the sick. Only thick-furred, black dogs...pets when
    Stomachs were full.
    Sons, born in the mountain snows, did not cry in the plains below.
    Wails filled the high passes, etching stunted trees, then
    Drifted down...on.
    Voices echoed to each other. Bones marked the trail. When pelts
    Hung loose on hips...shadows sat around the fire, grim-jawed,
    Faces grizzled.
    Children laughed with the puppies at sunset. And old men smiled
    Through their eyes.
    By dawn, fire ashes cold, footsteps wound to the south, disturbing
    Only shriveled blades.
    A week-old wolf kill...arms became strong. An ancient deer dying
    By a stream...stomachs quieted.
    A shadow...holding a skull to the waning sun.

    2. Mexico

    To the moon, an upraised, warrior skull...chants scattered the
    Density of sweet incense.
    Limestone blocks riveled red, priests' hair matted, robes stained
    Stiff.
    A young girl waited in a damp chamber. She smiled for her young
    Man in the war. Tlaloc-God came. As she ascended temple steps,
    Her love, shorn of Eagle armor, proudly entered the enemies camp,
    Wrists fettered.

    At dawn, corn cakes sizzled...old women stirred peppers into the
    Beans. Two boys played with Jaguar claws. The father hoed corn.
    At dawn, twelve thousand chained, climbed temple steps.
    The Hummingbird God came...blood ran to the plains. Drums died
    At twilight. Cakes, beans devoured. The father went to his field.

    3. Thirty-Fifth Street

    Offices hang in parallels. Coolers bubble. Khaki-clad janitors shuffle
    Down vacant halls.
    Huge glass doors are locked against streets.
    In kerosene-scented basements, the sick dream feverishly
    Of cool, mountain streams...snow, sorrow.
    Pictures of animals, trees, crowd split, plastered walls.
    Electric poles lift arms to the sun...sparrows twitter
    Over crumbs.
    Ambulances shriek past red-lighted intersections to waiting pain,
    Deposit their sheeted burden...
    Search for another.

    Somewhere on the Old Continent, fur-cuffed, weather-wrinkled hands,
    Skin their kills
    With finely manufactured
    Japanese knives.

    • ANSWER:
      I have read this several times and well the battle still continues for life and death Whether your your at the Bering Strait or in midtown Manhattan,,,I like the way you brought all three stories together and how each are different but all woven into one How it all comes full circle Each time i read it I came away with something different and yet it all connects,,,,,,,,,Very Well Done
      I don't know if my answer has made any sense it's 1230am after a long day I totality enjoyed this piece One of the reasons is it makes you think and with the imagery Makes for a Great Writing ,,,,,,Thank you

30. QUESTION:
    Where can I get these kind of gloves?
    See the picture below: The gloves shown here are amazing. They are leather but form a very little wrinkle and stick with hand as if a part of hand.

    http://bestgamewallpapers.com/files/hitman-contracts/deadly-poison.jpg

    I too want to get these gloves. Will I find it in any store for men or shall I have to order it from some company? If i need to order it, where shall I post its order?

    Please tell in details

    thks

    • ANSWER:
      They look kind of like a strechy vinyl, or actually they look like salon gloves...
      Try searching for tight vinyl gloves, possibly pleather.

31. QUESTION:
    Do You Want To See Something Amazing?
    This video shows the winner of " Ukraine 's Got Talent", Kseniya Simonova, 24, drawing a series of pictures on an illuminated sand table showing how ordinary people were affected by the German invasion during World War II.

    She begins by creating a scene showing a couple sitting holding hands on a bench under a starry sky, but then warplanes appear and the happy scene is obliterated.

    It is replaced by a woman's face crying, but then a baby arrives and the woman smiles again. Once again war returns and Miss Simonova throws the sand into chaos from which a young woman's face appears.

    She quickly becomes an old widow, her face wrinkled and sad, before the image turns into a monument to an Unknown Soldier.

    This outdoor scene becomes framed by a window as if the viewer is looking out on the monument from within a house.

    In the final scene, a mother and child appear inside and a man standing outside, with his hands pressed against the glass, saying goodbye.

    The Great Patriotic War, as it is called in Ukraine , resulted in one in four of the population being killed with eight to 11 million deaths out of a population of 42 million.

    http://www.youtube.com/watch_popup?v=vOhf3OvRXKg

    MQ. Favourite Ukrainian Musician?
    Be careful Riki, I've fallen under her spell already

    • ANSWER:
      Hey Mr T,
      I'm at work and my Youtube is blocked but I will definately check it out when I get home tonight

32. QUESTION:
    Do you like my poem? What do you think?
    Soldier's Legacy

    A medal of valor, sparkling gold,
    A soldiers helmet, blood stained and old.
    A picture of my father, the day before he died,
    My own swollen heart, full of depression and pride.
    He fought on the front line, day after day,
    while I'd kneal at his picture, cry and pray.
    He fought for freedom, for his daughter and wife,
    and for his country, as well as his life.
    What do you call it, when a soldier has to fight,
    fight for his family, freedom and right?
    They say that a man will always return after the war,
    but only a box of poems comes knocking at your door, letters he wrote, and letters he kept,
    stained and wrinkled from tears that he wept.
    His certificate returns in the hands of a man,
    dirty, injured, and sun bitten tan.
    He seems to have a lot of certificates in that car,
    but this one gripped my heart and left a scar.

    I wrote this, I'm 13!

    • ANSWER:
      Gorgeous, I got chills.

      First, you're an eloquent writer beyond your years.
      Second, your heart is right there in every line and it was so easy for me to connect to your emotion - a poets ultimate endeavor!

      I hope you keep writing, the world needs your voice.

      And I'm sorry for your loss.

33. QUESTION:
    My EYE has 2 different COLORS!! pic inside...?
    http://delete-end.blogspot.com/

    what eye picture looks better??
    is it pretty?

    PS: my mother keeps telling me i look like a girl lol!

    i have bee smiling a lot to get wrinkled and look more like a man...
    yes im portuguese!

    • ANSWER:
      i like your eyes !!
      are you portuguese?
      

34. QUESTION:
    Do you like my poem?
    Soldier's Legacy

    A medal of valor, sparkling gold,
    A soldiers helmet, blood stained and old.
    A picture of my father, the day before he died,
    My own swollen heart, full of depression and pride.
    He fought on the front line, day after day,
    while I'd kneal at his picture, cry and pray.
    He fought for freedom, for his daughter and wife,
    and for his country, as well as his life.
    What do you call it, when a soldier has to fight,
    fight for his family, freedom and right?
    They say that a man will always return after the war,
    but only a box of poems comes knocking at your door, letters he wrote, and letters he kept,
    stained and wrinkled from tears that he wept.
    His certificate returns in the hands of a man,
    dirty, injured, and sun bitten tan.
    He seems to have a lot of certificates in that car,
    but this one gripped my heart and left a scar.
    Well, he came back the other day,
    in a box, his ashes grey.
    The box meant for shoes, combat boots,
    which made my soul grow mute.
    They were size 12, black and wide,
    but on his feet, the day he died.
    Burnt to a crisp, they must have been toast,
    this next little detail, hurt the most.
    Nestled in his ashes, there lay a locket,
    This unknown soldier slipped it in my pocket.
    In it was a lock of hair,
    Curly brown, placed with care.

    I wrote this poem, its not about me. I'm 13 years old.

    • ANSWER:
      Finally a 13 year old with SMARTS!
      You have found your niche.
      Keep it up. I'm sure your parents are proud of you - I am!

35. QUESTION:
    Memorial Day is coming up, read my poem!?
    Soldier's Legacy

    A medal of valor, sparkling gold,
    A soldiers helmet, blood stained and old.
    A picture of my father, the day before he died,
    My own swollen heart, full of depression and pride.
    He fought on the front line, day after day,
    while I'd kneal at his picture, cry and pray.
    He fought for freedom, for his daughter and wife,
    and for his country, as well as his life.
    What do you call it, when a soldier has to fight,
    fight for his family, freedom and right?
    They say that a man will always return after the war,
    but only a box of poems comes knocking at your door,
    letters he wrote, and letters he kept,
    stained and wrinkled from tears that he whept.
    His certificate returns in the hands of a man,
    dirty, injured, and sun bitten tan.
    He seems to have a lot of certificates in that car,
    but this one gripped my heart and left a scar.
    Well, he came back the other day,
    in a box, his ashes grey.
    The box meant for shoes, combat boots,
    which made my soul grow mute.
    They were size 12, black and wide,
    but on his feet, the day he died.
    The same ones we sent him his first week by post,
    this next little detail, hurt the most.
    Nestled in his ashes, there lay a locket,
    This unknown soldier slipped it in my pocket.
    In it was a lock of hair,
    Curly brown, placed with care.
    Please remember, I'm only 13, so they're not that good! I also have a few spelling mistakes, please ignore them. Also, his poem is not about me at all.

    • ANSWER:
      Greetings once again. Wow! You have an amazing gift of poetry flowing from deep within! I had the pleasure of reading one of your other poems as well. Like before, you should publish it!!!! Always remember, you are your poetry, continue to flow!!!!

36. QUESTION:
    Of Mice and Men Typecasting?
    For my english class I have to typecast three characters from Of Mice and Men. The actors must be alive and similar to the book character's description.

    George:“Small and quick, dark of face, with restless eyes and sharp, strong features. Every part of him was defined: small, strong hands, slender arms, a thin and bony nose.”

    Lennie: “A huge man, shapeless of face, with large pale eyes, with wide. Sloping shoulders; and he walked heavily, dragging his feet a little, the way a bear drags his paws. His arms did not swing at his sides, but hung loosely.”

    Crooks: "His body was bent over to the left by his crooked spine, and his eyes lay deep in his head, and because of their depth seemed to glitter with intensity. His lean face was lined with deep black wrinkles, and he had thing, pain tightened lips which were lighter than his face.”

    So if you know of any actors that fit the descriptions or a website that has actor pictures I'd be appreciative.

    • ANSWER:
      Lennie always reminded me of Randy (Ethan Suplee) from the show "My name is Earl", but thats all i can think of for now, sorry. If it helps, my name is earl seems like a modern day version of Of mice and men...

37. QUESTION:
    Ok, a sequel to my first poem AKA Soldier part 2?
    A medal of valor, sparkling gold,
    A soldiers helmet, blood stained and old.
    A picture of my father, the day before he died,
    My own swollen heart, full of depression and pride.
    He fought on the front line, day after day,
    while I'd kneal at his picture, cry and pray.
    He fought for freedom, for his daughter and wife,
    and for his country, as well as his life.
    What do you call it, when a soldier has to fight,
    fight for his family, freedom and right?
    They say that a man will always return after the war
    but only a box of poems comes knocking at your door.
    letters he wrote, and letters he kept,
    tear stained and wrinkled from when he wept.
    His certificate returns in the hands of a man,
    dirty, injured, and sun scorched tan.
    He seems to have a lot of certificates in that car,
    but this one gripped my heart and left a scar.
    ( first poem!)
    Well, he came back the other day,
    in a box, his ashes grey.
    The box meant for shoes, combat boots,
    which made my soul grow mute.
    They were size 12, black and wide,
    but on his feet, the day he died.
    Burnt to a crisp, they must have been toast,
    this next little detail, hurt the most.
    Nestled in his ashes, there lay a locket,
    This unknown soldier slipped it in my pocket.
    In it was a lock of hair,
    Curly brown, placed with care.
    It was silver, with 2 intwined hearts,
    under it "We'll never be too far apart".
    (second part/poem!)

    • ANSWER:
      that was one of the most amazing poems i have ever read in my life, im crying my eyes out right now, im a soldiers' wife he is in iraq i really hope that your knows how much you loved him and how apprcitive that our country is for him, we all love our soliders thank god for everyone of them
      ~Amy

38. QUESTION:
    New poem, back to my usual style, please read and comment!?
    A torn, ragged, old leather coat,
    wrinkled and creased, my first love note.
    A picture of my brother, his last before the war,
    and the number of a lover, whose messages I ignore.
    One shot glass, from my first rum and coke,
    and an empty lighter, from my first smoke.
    An obituary from the paper, about a man that I don't know,
    and photographs of places, that I didn't go.
    A 'staff' t-shirt, from my very first job,
    from my first new house, a bronze door knob.
    My poetry filled notebook,
    a dry noodle-I never DID learn to cook.
    A wedding ring, from my second divorce,
    (a 'seperation' shortly took course).
    A tire from a bike, that I never rode,
    a bent house key, not from MY abode.
    A screw from the treehouse, my dad and I made,
    the first ever paycheck, that I was paid.
    And hanging on a necklace, a Heinekin beer cap,
    from my first trip to New York, a rumpled map.
    Years ago it went missing, a key from my laptop,
    And a bracelet made with wire, wrapped around a pop top.
    last couplet didn't fit:
    These memories, come hard and fast,
    my first shallow breath, and my last.
    maddy~~~~~~13
    Just to let you know, its ©!!!

    • ANSWER:
      pretty cool
      but i don't like to comment on peoples poetry its ur own a poet can write something that others would never understnad becuase it comes from the heart...

39. QUESTION:
    Critique on my poem?
    Remember, I'm only 13!!
    Soldier's Legacy

    A medal of valor, sparkling gold,
    A soldiers helmet, blood stained and old.
    A picture of my father, the day before he died,
    My own swollen heart, full of depression and pride.
    He fought on the front line, day after day,
    while I'd kneal at his picture, cry and pray.
    He fought for freedom, for his daughter and wife,
    and for his country, as well as his life.
    What do you call it, when a soldier has to fight,
    fight for his family, freedom and right?
    They say that a man will always return after the war,
    but only a box of poems comes knocking at your door,
    letters he wrote, and letters he kept,
    stained and wrinkled from tears that he whept.
    His certificate returns in the hands of a man,
    dirty, injured, and sun bitten tan.
    He seems to have a lot of certificates in that car,
    but this one gripped my heart and left a scar.
    20 hours ago
    Well, he came back the other day,
    in a box, his ashes grey.
    The box meant for shoes, combat boots,
    which made my soul grow mute.
    They were size 12, black and wide,
    but on his feet, the day he died.
    The same ones we sent him his first week by post,
    this next little detail, hurt the most.
    Nestled in his ashes, there lay a locket,
    This unknown soldier slipped it in my pocket.
    In it was a lock of hair,
    Curly brown, placed with care.

    • ANSWER:
      ^^ That is wonderfu!!! Keep it up!

40. QUESTION:
    in the mood for a short intro on an alcoholic?
    CHAPTER 1

    Finding a good bar is like finding a good barber or an honest mechanic. You have to search around for awhile. You’ll have take a lot of crap and fork over your money with a smile, more times than you’ll ever care to admit. And afterward you’ll always end up feeling like you just shared your first night in a prison cell with some violent bull dyke three times your size. But when you finally find it…when you finally walk into that room that just makes you smile. That’s when you’ve made it.
    That my friend, is when you’ll drink with impunity. These are the type of places where you’ll start out by making out with some foreign chick. Then later in the evening find yourself in the middle of an argument with an ex Raiders linebacker for some unknown reason and somehow always end up teleporting to a parking lot with the messy leftovers of two tacos all over your shirt.
    Raul “Grande” Lopez knew about those type of bars. Hell, he owned one of those type of bars. Probably the best one in Old Downtown. He had spent most of his younger days watching his father drink himself to a bitter and early grave and was now spending the latter years watching complete strangers do the same. Life is funny like that sometimes. You move something here, you change something there and you think you’ve escaped your worst fear, but it turns out you’ve done nothing but make a nice little nest for it . In his 51 years Grande had heard and seen just about everything. He could tell you stories you wouldn’t believe. There was the time where some blond girl got carried away and after smashing her glass into someone’s head she fended off the bouncers with a pool stick. Grande has the pictures to prove it, which are still taped to the side of the register. He’ll tell you how once, during an argument, one guy sprinted across the bar, lumped into the air and knocked the other out with a kick to the throat. At another instance, some poor sap had been drinking heavily and had spent most of the night dancing and cuddling with this girl, all of a sudden the guy scrambles to the bar asks for a double shot, gulps it down then relates that the girl turned out to have been a guy. So when Damaz Sanchez showed up that particular night out of breath and bleeding lightly from the nose, his biggest question was “so did you beat his ass?”
    “Let me a have shot of Sauza gold and a bud light”
    The bartender immediately complied with the shot and was already reaching for the beer. Damaz quickly gulped it and received his bottle of light. “Thanks, Big”
    The old man behind the counter was a barrel chested mammoth with hands that were as limber in their age as they were massive. He had a wide forehead, a thick mustache and black, graying hair which was still full and always gracefully combed back. His eyes were centered close together in the fashion of most of all of Gods natural predators. And in the corner of both were enough wrinkles to tell you he was a man who subscribed to Dean martin’s idea that if you couldn’t laugh anymore then you might as well dig a hole and have them throw dirt on you. He was known by most of the population on this side of the bridge simply as “Grande” or “Big” He was a man who didn’t actually belong in Old Dowtown but could never actually find a good enough reason to move out.
    “So?”
    “Excuse me?” Damaz was startled out of his trance by the question. He took a sip out of his beer.
    “did you beat his ass?”
    “What? Oh,” he shook his head as if clearing out the spider webs. “Uh yeah, sure did.” for the first time in the night he smiled.

    • ANSWER:
      I think the "foreign chick" remark is fine because it's in context. This is a story about a drunk, after all. It wouldn't very well fit the tone if he said "proper lady" now, would it?

      Very well-written and edgy (I'll disregard the formatting because this is yahoo). I like it. Write some more.

41. QUESTION:
    Read my poem, plz, its alright?
    Soldier's Legacy

    A medal of valor, sparkling gold,
    A soldiers helmet, blood stained and old.
    A picture of my father, the day before he died,
    My own swollen heart, full of depression and pride.
    He fought on the front line, day after day,
    while I'd kneal at his picture, cry and pray.
    He fought for freedom, for his daughter and wife,
    and for his country, as well as his life.
    What do you call it, when a soldier has to fight,
    fight for his family, freedom and right?
    They say that a man will always return after the war,
    but only a box of poems comes knocking at your door, letters he wrote, and letters he kept,
    stained and wrinkled from tears that he wept.
    His certificate returns in the hands of a man,
    dirty, injured, and sun bitten tan.
    He seems to have a lot of certificates in that car,
    but this one gripped my heart and left a scar.

    I wrote this, I'm 13.

    • ANSWER:
      Awesome!!! did ur dad really die?

      but in the part that says "They say that a man will always return after the WAR,
      but only a box of poems comes knocking at your DOOR." it doesnt rhyme..

      try saying this?: They say that a man will always return after the war,But sometimes this happens; very bazzarre.

      like it?

42. QUESTION:
    In 'Six Young Men', what does the writer mean when he says 'to regard this photograph might well dement'?
    What does he mean by this? And what does it show about his feelings? It's about World War 2 in Britain.

    The celuloid of a photograph holds them well,-
    Six young men, familiar to their friends.
    Four decades that have faded and ochre-tinged
    This photograph have not wrinkled the faces or the hands.
    Though their ****** hats are not now fashionable,
    Their shoes shine. One imparts an intimate smile,
    One chews a grass, one lowers his eyes, bashful,
    One is ridiculous with cocky pride-
    Six months after this picture they were all dead.

    All are trimmed for a Sunday jaunt. I know
    That bilberried bank, that thick tree, that black wall,
    Which are there yet and not changed. From where these sit
    You hear the water of seven streams fall
    To the roarer in the bottom, and through all
    The leafy valley a rumouring of air go.
    Pictured here, their expressions listen yet,
    And still that valley has not changed its sound
    Though their faces are four decades under the ground.

    This one was shot in an attack and lay
    Calling in the wire, then this one, his best friend,
    Went out to bring him in and was shot too;
    And this one, the very moment he was warned
    From potting at tin cans in no-man's land,
    Fell back dead with his rifle sights shot away.
    The rest nobody knows what they came to,
    But come to the worst they must have done, and held it
    Closer than their hope; all were killed.

    Here see a man's photograph,
    The locket of a smile, turned overnight
    Into the hospital of his mangled last
    Agony and hours; see bundled in it
    His mightier-than-a-man dead bulk and weight:
    And on this one place that keeps him alive
    (In his Sunday best) See fall war's worst
    Thinkable flash and rending, onto his smile
    Forty years rotting into soil.

    That man's not more alive whom you confront
    And shake by the hand, see hale, hear speak loud,
    Than any of these six celluloid smiles are,
    Nor prehistoric or fabulous beast more dead;
    No thought more vivid than their smoking-blood:
    To regard this photograph might well dement,
    Smile from the single exposure and shoulder out
    One's own body from its instant and heat.

    And what does it show about his feelings?

    Thank you.

    • ANSWER:
      You've left a line out. The actual verse is:

      To regard this photograph might well dement,
      Such contradictory permanent horrors here
      Smile from the single exposure and shoulder out
      One's own body from its instant and heat.

      Dement means to cause to lose one's mind, or to make crazy. So I think he is saying that the juxtaposition of the men in the photograph, so alive, with their eventual fates is enough to make you lose your mind - perhaps because it is so tragic.

      As far as his feelings, it seems to me that he is talking about the futility of war, not just how sad it is, but how awful it is for men at their most vital to be taken from their lives. It is sad and a bit angry, to me. But also a bit fatalistic, as viewing the photo forces confrontation with the mortality of us all.

43. QUESTION:
    I just wrote this poem, so what do you think? PLz read it! I know it needs some revision, just lemme know!?
    THIS IS IN NO WAY:
    -ABOUT ME
    -ABOUT SOMEONE I KNOW
    -FOR A SCHOOL PROJECT OR ANYTHING
    -FOR ANYTHING BUT MY OWN PERSONAL USE

    A metal of valor, sparkling gold,
    A soldiers helmet, blood stained and old.
    A picture of my father, the day before he died,
    My own swollen heart, full of depression and pride.
    He fought on the front line, day after day,
    while I'd kneal at his picture, cry and pray.
    He fought for freedom, for his daughter and wife,
    and for his country, as well as his life.
    What do you call it, when a soldier has to fight,
    fight for his family, freedom and right?
    They say that a man out to war will always return home,
    but what happens when his life returns in a box of poems,
    letters he wrote, and letters he kept,
    tear stained and wrinkled from when he wept.
    His certificate returns in the hands of a man,
    dirty, injured, and sun bitten tan.
    He seems to have a lot of certificates in that car,
    but this one gripped my heart and left a scar.
    the ending didn't fit, so here it is.

    Now I'm drained of love, something he didn't lack,
    oh how I wish, my dad would come back.
    What would you say if I told you that Iam 13 years old?

    • ANSWER:
      As a veteran, this is a very touching poem. Do not worry about 'rhyming', as words like this come from the heart. The only thing I would correct (spelling) is in the first line "metal" should be medal (as in military medals). Otherwise, I found your poem touching. I would highly suggest you send it to the Veterans Admin. to be published. And thank you, and your father...

44. QUESTION:
    Jokes - More Little Johnny jokes?
    JOKE 1
    Little Johnny's kindergarten class was on a field trip to their local police station where they saw pictures, tacked to a bulletin board, of the 10 most wanted men. One of the youngsters pointed to a picture and asked if it really was the photo of a wanted person. "Yes," said the policeman. "The detectives want him very badly." Little Johnny studied a bit. His brow wrinkled up, and asked, "How come they didn't keep him when they took this here pitchur?".

    JOKE 2
    Fascinated, Little Johnny watched as his mother gently rubbed cold cream on her face.
    "Why are you rubbing cold cream on your face, Mommy?"
    "To make myself beautiful," she said.
    A few minutes later he saw her start removing the cream with a tissue.
    "Haw haw! What's the matter, Mom? Ya give up?"

    • ANSWER:
      love em both... very witty.. star for you!!!! hahahahahaha

45. QUESTION:
    help writing a story? this is the intro...?
    This is a short story for my english class
    just want an opinion: does this paint a clear enough picture for you? any comments/suggestions?
    thanks.

    The town of Amorgos, Greece, lay festering in the summer’s heat. The red barns of the countryside glistened, as it seemed, with sweat and the gleeful sun shone down on the hills rolling to the coast. The water in the harbor lay still, conserving its energy, yet glinting forcefully back at the sun. There was no breeze in sight. The sailboats moored in the harbor waited patiently, their yellow sails reflected in the bright blue water. The residents of the town were as peaceful as their settings. Two of them, in fact, an old couple, waited as patiently as the sailboats outside their doorway. The woman looked to be about sixty-five or even seventy, her face wrinkled with age. There was a look of waiting and sadness on her face. The old man was slightly taller than her, with a bit of a potbelly. His expression was a mirror of hers.

    • ANSWER:
      It's descriptive!! There are also grammatical errors in it:

      1) remove the comma after "Greece"
      2) replace "her" with "she" in "slightly taller than her"

      I'd also replace "There was no breeze in sight" with something else since my first reaction was that one could not see a breeze. Silly, I know... but it was what I thought of first.

      I'd also remove the "in fact" when you mention the old couple. I'd also think about not using so many commas -- perhaps the style you want is just that but makes the sentences long and cumbersome to me.

      Good luck

46. QUESTION:
    Comments on my poem(s)??
    Soldier's Legacy

    A metal of valor, sparkling gold,
    A soldiers helmet, blood stained and old.
    A picture of my father, the day before he died,
    My own swollen heart, full of depression and pride.
    He fought on the front line, day after day,
    while I'd neal at his picture, cry and pray.
    He fought for freedom, for his daughter and wife,
    and for his country, as well as his life.
    What do you call it, when a soldier has to fight,
    fight for his family, freedom and right?
    They say that a man will always return after the war
    but only a box of poems comes knocking at your door. Letters he wrote, and letters he kept,
    stained and wrinkled from tears that he wept.
    His certificate returns in the hands of a man,
    dirty, injured, and sun bitten tan.
    He seems to have a lot of certificates in that car,
    but this one gripped my heart and left a scar. (second stanza below)
    Well, he came back the other day,
    in a box, his ashes grey.
    The box meant for shoes, combat boots,
    which made my soul grow mute.
    They were size 12, black and wide,
    but on his feet, the day he died.
    The same ones we sent him his first week by post,
    this next little detail, hurt the most.
    Nestled in his ashes, there lay a locket,
    This unknown soldier slipped it in my pocket.
    In it was a lock of hair,
    Curly brown, placed with care.
    Silver, shining, engraved with my name, It comforts me, so much more then I can proclaim.
    Drowning
    There doesn't have to be water to know that you're drowning,
    The same way you don't need a mirror to know you're frowning.
    Whether you're in a puddle, bath tub or lake,
    or in the ice-cream ocean in your favorite vanilla shake.
    Or drowning in the memories of things you've never done,
    milestones unachieved, prizes never won.
    The thickness of the air, the purity of lies.
    The souls who drowned too fast, the way you sympathize.
    So go tempt fate, but don't swim low,
    because if you outlive the shark, you get the undertow.

    Lacking Love

    I never thought I'd have to push and shove,
    just for a bit of my father's love.
    He never called me 'Daddy's little girl",
    Never spun me in a childish twirl.
    He never read me a tale from my favorite story book,
    Never helped me make a clubhouse in a small corner nook.
    He never danced with me in the rain,
    Never kissed away the pain.
    He never took me to the rink to skate,
    But now its too late.
    (Second stanza below!)
    He never crossed the street, and held my hand tight,
    never chased away the monsters in the middle of the night.
    He never looked at me in awe with pride,
    never came to comfort me when I cried.
    So how come I feel his arms around me,
    after he's died?
    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
    Life's Like That

    Cold and grey,
    your hair blown astray.
    Flustered lost,a windswept sunhat.
    It may be confusing, but life's like that.

    Nervous with jitters,
    heart's butterflies flitter.
    perhaps your shy, oh what a drat.
    Left in the shadows, life's like that.

    Crazy with worry, feeling insane,
    riding around, on a destinationless train.
    Not sure of where you're going,or even where you're at,
    spun like a spinner, life's like that.

    Not feeling well, full of regret.
    your feelings are obvious, by your brow full of sweat,
    full of remorse, you feel small as a gnat.
    It's merely human nature, because life's like that.

    (last stanza below)
    Now you're happy and elated,
    aren't you glad that you waited?
    A tire lacking air, my poem's gone flat.
    So here's the happy ending,
    because life's sometimes like that.
    Hey guys! I'm 13 years old, so this poetry is sort of juvenile. I apologize!
    Remember, there are 4 poems here! Soldier's Legacy, Lacking Love, Life's Like That, and Drowning...

    • ANSWER:
      NICE!

47. QUESTION:
    I wrote something could you please tell me what you think?
    untitled

    Colors exploded onto the canvas. In bright reds, and sapphire tones--at least that's the sky was made of. The ground was made of cotton candy pinks, salmon and fuchsia. In the middle laid a recently deceased woman, though not quite centered, and not quite actually there. She floated in a space, in a time, that had just happened, and was just about to happen. In that little gap lay Amanda Palmer, though none knew quite where.

    The painter, known to be the last person to see Amanda Palmer alive, is an aging man, rustic and gray, still quite in his prime of youth. Gray sprouted from his scalp, and his wrinkles were those of a person twice his age. At his wooden door there came a sudden bang. Not a knock, as of someone asking entrance. A bang of someone demanding entrance. But the young-old man did not remove his eyes from his painting. The bang came again. The door bulged. The hinges started to weaken. Small splinters were flung toward the newly old man. Still he did not move.

    The bang came again, one final time, as the door crashed to the floor. The policemen shuffled into the room. Against the wood surroundings they looked metallic and fake, in their Kevlar vests and helmets. They did not speak as they drew their batons, whacking against liver-spotted skin until the old man fell to the floor. They pulled him out of the small apartment by his bent and twisted arms. Down a winding staircase of sand wood and ivy, out into the public courtyard.

    A red velvet rope separated him from the crowd. Children ate pink and blue cotton candy while throwing rocks at the old man. Adults leered. “Murderer!” they cried. Teenagers laughed and took pictures with their singular devices, throwing larger rocks than the children. A girl with bright green hair threw a stick at his eye. It swelled and stung until he no longer could see out of it.

    He was pulled onto a wood platform. The sun peaked out of the sky, just to disappear again at the horrid scene, as the slightly old man's head was placed on a wooden block. The crow cheered when they saw the axe carried by the man in black. He swung the ax up, and the crowd counted down until it would hit its mark. ONE...TWO...THREE. He chopped but missed. Tension built in the crowd. “AGAIN,” cried the crowd. Again the ax was raised. “ONE...TWO...THREE,” they screamed. Again he missed. The crowd hissed and booed. Finally the silver ax was raised with precision certain. It was clear that he would not miss again. The ax came down, and paint spewed out from where the head used to be, in colors of magenta, salmon and pink, of sapphire and red.

    The crowd still did not know who killed Amanda Palmer. That knowledge was no closer than when the public execution began. Mothers still told their children terrible stories about what would happen to them if they were like Amanda Palmer, stories that kept them safe in bed at night.
    yes it is a bit rushed, sorry about that I needed to keep it shout, and I did not know how to end it.
    -please keep in mind that I am 15 years old, and I don't like harsh criticism-

    • ANSWER:
      Wow, it's pretty good.

48. QUESTION:
    I am asking people about my work again, smiles, what do you guys think of this story? I'll accept the bad too.
    Death and the Old Lady
    By
    Jeffrey Buford Jr.

    I don’t like waiting outside of emergency rooms. I’d rather stand alone, cold and exhausted, questioning my purpose in such a complex and divided world. I shelter the souls that move from one end of the tunnel to the other, and in some cases the elderly are more appreciative of my efforts, I never asked to take lives. I asked to watch over them. It stinks when you’re handed the rotten apple, and from time to time you’re expected to take a great big bite from that rotten apple. I used to listen to the wind. The rustling of the leaves and the bushes conjure incredibly powerful emotions that hide deep within the darkest places of the subconscious. Some people know me when they see me. However, others aren’t certain if I exist at all, and they somehow glance up from their tedious romance novels and stare blankly at nothing. I know you’ve done it before, we all have. I’m apart of a daydream; the long and silent breath one takes while waiting for the spirit to sing.
    I see many things; some of those things would tarnish the relationship between man and the universe. The universe can only offer the human mind so much information before it collapses, and there are things in this universe, which fiddles with the human mind, and the human mind is like a decaying floorboard in an old house, if too much weight is put on its surface it’s likely to collapse. I see quite a bit of people, I don’t know how I find the time to do the things that I do, perhaps I am everywhere all at once, like omnipresent being who detests his ability to endure pain, and such pain is created by the sheer terror of reinventing one’s self. If I could change myself, if I could somehow rebuild my being, I’d shape a fragile heart with a mind of laughter and joy. I don’t care about the darkness, I stand amongst the graves while the sun slowly folds beneath the hills, and the shimmering light of the sun never ceases to calm the storm.
    I remember one elderly lady who was dying of cancer, and she was dying alone. She didn’t have anyone around to make her laugh, and surely there wasn’t anyone around to help her walk to the bathroom. She was dying alone. While she waited in the waiting room, thumping through an old magazine with information that was outdated and meaningless, she saw me. I couldn’t believe the old woman with the long graying hair and the deep wrinkles, the woman with the crystal blue eyes and ghostly white skin. How could I have believed in her? By what force, whether it be on the earth or not, could have mustered the determination to assist me, to help me spare some resentful feelings? I do not know if such a force truly exits in this place we call earth. The lights in the waiting room began to flicker, shadows on the walls danced and moved across the ceiling, and eventually the shadows fell to the floor. The lights flickered because I was in the room; all of the lights seem to flicker when I come around. The elderly lady began to cough; she covered her mouth and leaned over to one side of the chair.
    I stood there for a few moments, listening to the sounds of cancer, my eyes looking down upon a woman who was plagued by illness and depression. In the far corner of the room I stood waiting for the elderly woman to speak to me. At first I was cynical about the idea of humans sensing otherworldly beings. I don’t seriously think I’m otherworldly however I am fantastic and incomprehensible in every single way. I heard the sounds of laughter, the doctor opened up the door.
    “It’ll be awhile, Mrs. Anderson,” he said, slowly closing the door.
    Mrs. Anderson did not care if her doctor waited all afternoon to see her. She pulled a picture of her husband out from her purse; she stared at the picture, as if she had never seen him before. Mrs. Anderson started crying; her gentle sobs made the waiting room shrink. I knew what kind of pain she was in, the pain of not caring anymore. She wanted to be released from the world, and she didn’t mind leaving right then and there in Dr. Rosedale’s office. She’d miss her poodle outside in the car; he made good company after her husband died.
    “Going to stand there all day?” said Mrs. Anderson. “You should know I don’t have much company.”
    “You can see me?”
    “Don’t be so foolish, I can see you. I always know when you’re around, that way I can pick my nose.”
    “You’re funny!”
    “I’d like to think so but I’m too old to care about what’s funny.”
    I sat down beside Mrs. Anderson, I admired the wrinkles on her hands, and they were life’s way of telling a story. The wrinkles on her hands told a long story, a story about love and friends. Most of her friends were already gone.
    “I need a smoke,” whispered Mrs. Anderson. “I need one now!”
    “Are you certain?”
    She turned and looked at me like I was a silly little kid who had a tendency to make bad jokes.
    “Yes! Why should you care anyway? I know a whole lot about you.”
    “Like what?”
    “I know that you’re a sneaky little fellow, and you kill people.”
    “I don’t kill people.”
    “Is that so?”
    “Yes! People design their own fate most of the time, however there are some situations that require my assistance.”
    “What kind of situations?”
    I had never met an elderly lady who asked so many questions, after all I am Death and that makes for easy conversation.
    “Very bad ones.”
    “You’re mysterious.”
    “I am.”
    “I don’t think I like you.”
    “Why?”
    “You kill people for no good reason.”
    “That’s not true, everything happens for a reason. There’s a very ancient balance in this world, and I help preserve that balance.”
    “I don’t care about balance, I care about my prescription.”
    “You could care less about that,” I said, smiling to myself.
    “Whatever,” Mrs. Anderson mumbled. “You think you have me all figured out? Well, I’m a tough old cookie and I’m not ready to leave yet.”
    “You’re lying.”
    I heard a woman crying outside the waiting room, Mrs. Anderson heard the woman as well. I stood up and Mrs. Anderson asked me where I was going.
    “I have some business to attend to,” I said, turning away from the woman with the graying hair and crystal blue eyes.
    “You’re going to take someone,” said Mrs. Anderson. “It’s time for someone to go!”
    I opened the waiting room door and I found a young pregnant woman on the ground sobbing, she didn’t know I was there of course. She had tears rolling down her angel face and she held her large round belly. For a moment, the pregnant woman looked up and stared at me.
    “I don’t want to loose my baby,” said the pregnant woman.
    Mrs. Anderson was standing near the door, listening to the pregnant woman. Mrs. Anderson had tears in her eyes; her tears belonged to the woman on the floor. Mrs. Anderson turned around and sat down in her chair and started to cough.
    “Don’t even think about it!” shouted Mrs. Anderson. “Don’t take that child away.”
    I was standing in the door, looking down at the weeping pregnant woman.
    “It’s the unborn child’s time to go,” I said. “Remember, I told you about the balance in the world.”
    “You can’t take that poor woman’s child.”
    “I don’t have a choice, I can’t let the child live unless someone dies. With every new life there is death, and without death there is no life.”
    “Take me,” said Mrs. Anderson. “I am ready to go!”
    “Are you afraid?” I said.
    “Just a little bit.”
    When the young pregnant woman felt the baby kick she almost fainted, she sat there on the floor and saw a ghostly white lady walk down the hallway. It was the same lady who saved her child’s life.

    • ANSWER:
      I think you've got something going there. I don't think it's refined enough yet, although some of the wording is good enough. I think you only need to keep trying and it will get better and better until it is what you want it to be. Two things that I think would speed up the process are: (1) Keep rereading it as if you were reading someone else's writing. (2) Don't try to make it into a story at the end. You have a natural way of putting together sequences of events and thoughts that carry the reader along, and you could end by cutting it at an appropriate point without trying to tie up loose ends.

      Please note that my only credentials for commenting are that I like to read fiction and do quite a bit of it.

49. QUESTION:
    I'm only 19 and my eyes look like I'm 50?!?
    So, I'm only 19 and my eyelids are droopy and make my eyes seem so small. It's frustrating to say the least. Because of this, I can't put on top eye-liner and eyeshadow like other girls. It's really damaging my confidence. People ask me if I'm mad and accuse me of giving them dirty looks, but it's because of my eyes! I just don't know what to do. I'm sure there are procedures out there, but I don't know anyone who has had them done. Please let me know if you have any experience with this or any other suggestions.
    I don't have any pictures of myself showing off my eyes because I only take pictures on one side of my face so that I can open my eyes wider. Here's a picture of what they look like, but without the wrinkles on the outside:
    http://www.emoryhealthcare.org/facial-center/images/beforeafter/New_Bleph/bleph_5_large2.jpg

    Note: It seriously upsets me to be compared to an older man like this, but I have no other way of showing you the extent of my problem.

    • ANSWER:
      well please do your research before doing ANY surgery, be aware that doing the surgery you will be indoors for at lease 3 weeks due to bruising and you may loose some sensation on the eyelids Maybe you can go to a professional make up artist and they can give you some help on the best kind of make up application for your eyes.

      any way, if it does make you feel better about doing it, go for it. but make sure it is an educated decision not a whim.

50. QUESTION:
    What if there were no Black people in the world?
    This is a story of a little boy named Theo, who woke up one morning and asked God, "What if there were no Black people in the world?"
    Well, God, thought about that for a moment and then said, "Son, follow me around today and let's just see what it would be like if there were no Black people in the world. Get dressed and we will get started."

    Theo ran to his room to put on his clothes and shoes. But there were no shoes, and his clothes were all wrinkled. He looked for the iron, but when he reached for the ironing board, it was no longer there. You see Sarah Boone, a Black woman, invented the ironing board and Jan E. Matzelinger, a Black man invented the shoe lasting machine.

    "Oh well," God said, "Go and do your hair." Theo ran in his room to comb his hair, but the comb was not there. You see, Walter Sammons, a Black man, invented the comb. Theo decided to just brush his hair, but the brush was gone. You see Lydia O. Newman, a Black female invented the brush.

    Well, he was a sight, no shoes, wrinkled clothes, hair a mess without the hair care inventions of Madam C. J. Walker, -- well, you get the picture. God told Theo, "Let's do the chores around the house and then take a trip to the grocery store."

    Theo's job was to sweep the floor. He swept and swept and swept. When he reached for the dustpan, it was not there. You see, Lloyd P. Ray, a Black man, invented the dustpan. So he swept his pile of dirt over in the corner and left it there. He then decided to mop the floor, but the mop was gone. You see, Thomas W. Stewart, a Black man, invented the mop.

    Theo thought to himself, "I'm not having any luck." "Well, son," God said. "We should wash the clothes and prepare a list for the grocery store." When he was finished, Theo went to place the clothes in the dryer, but it was not there. You see, George T. Samon, a Black man, invented the clothes dryer. Theo got a pencil and some paper to prepare the list for the market, but noticed that the pencil lead was broken, as well he was out of luck because John Love, a black man, invented the pencil sharpener. He reached for a pen, but it was not there because William Purvis, a Black man, invented the fountain pen. As a matter of fact, Lee Burridge invented the type writing machine, and W. A. Lavette, the printing press.

    So they decided to head out to the market. Well, when Theo opened the door, he noticed the grass was as high as he was tall. You see the lawnmower was invented by John Burr, a Black man.

    They made their way over to the car and found that it just wouldn't go. You see, Robert Spikes, a Black man, invented the automatic gear shift and Joseph Gammel invented the supercharge system for internal combustion engines.

    They noticed that the few cars that were moving were running into each other and having wrecks because there were no traffic signals. You see, Garrett A. Morgan, a Black man invented the traffic light.

    Well, it was getting late, so they walked to the market, got their groceries and returned home. Just when they were about to put away the milk, eggs and butter, they noticed the refrigerator was gone. You see, John Standard, a Black man, invented the refrigerator. So they put the food on the counter.

    By this time, they noticed it was getting mighty cold. Theo went to turn up the heat and what do you know, Alive Parker, a Black female, invented the heating furnace. Even in the summer time they would have been out of luck because Frederick Jones, a Black man, invented the air conditioner.

    It was almost time for Theo's father to arrive home. He usually took the bus, but there was no bus because its precursor was the electric trolley, invented by another Black man, Elbert T. Robinson. He usually took the elevator from his office on the 20th floor, but there was no elevator because Alexander Miles, a Black man, invented the elevator. He usually dropped off the office mail at a nearby mailbox, but it was no longer there because Phillip Downing, a Black man, invented the letter drop mailbox and William Barry invented the postmarking and canceling machine.

    Theo sat at the kitchen table with his head in his hands. When his father arrived he asked, " Why are you sitting in the dark?" Why?? Because Lewis Howard Latimer, a Black man, invented the filament within the light bulb.

    Theo quickly learned what it would be like if there were no Black people in the world.

    Not to mention if he were ever sick and needed blood. Charles Drew, a Black scientist, found a way to preserve and store blood which led to his starting the world's first blood bank.

    And what if a family member had to have surgery. This would not have been possible without Dr. Daniel Hale Williams, a Black doctor, who performed the first open heart surgery.

    So if you ever wonder, like Theo, where we would be without Blacks? Well, it's pretty plain to see, we could very well still be in the dark!!!

    IF YOU GAINED ANY INSIGHT FROM THIS, PLEAS

    • ANSWER:
      Please what ?

Below are our picks for the three Best Wrinkle Creams.

Website: www.lifecellskin.com

Effectiveness: Excellent
Scam Report: One report found but later retracted
Customer Support: Excellent
Free Trial: Yes - 30 day but unused portion of product needs returned
Guarantee: Yes - 90 days Unconditional
Shipping: $1.50 - 3 day priority (US only), International Priority $15

Pros:
• All-In-One product (Age-Spot Reducer, Anti-Wrinkle-Cream, Firming-Cream, 24-Hour Moisturizer, Corrective Under-Eye Treatment, Lip-Plumper and Makeup Base) no more applying 3, 4 or more products
• Formulated from 6 of the most potently effective, scientifically proven anti-wrinkle ingredients
• Works on all wrinkles (crow's feet, feather lip, frown, smile, forehead and brow)
• Amazing results - wrinkles appear to vanish with the first application
• Continues to work even after washing face
• Botox Alternative without the needles

Cons: None...the up front costs could be considered a negative but when you figure up all of the costs that this product will replace it is right in line with other quality products that don't produce the results that LifeCell All-In-One Cream does.

[Click Here For Your Free Trial of LifeCell All-in-One Cream]

Athena 7 Minute Lift is a wildly popular and an excellent product. The two biggest concerns we have are many users needing to reapply after 7 hours to keep desired look and the long term Anti-Wrinkle benefits didn't measure up to the competition. Compared to our top product LifeCell All-In-One Cream which contains 6 of the most effective Anti-Wrinkle fighting ingredients plus an ingredient that makes wrinkles appear to vanish.

Website: www.7minutelift.com
Effectiveness: Clinical Trails found Athena 7 Minute Lift reduced the appearance of wrinkles in over 80% of users. With this product being hypoallergenic we found very few users who experienced skin irritation.

Scam Report: None found

Pros:

• All Natural Product made from 12 Organic oils and no harsh chemicals
• Hypoallergenic - Safe and Effective for All Skin Types
• Animal friendly - Never tested on animals
• Works on all wrinkles (crow's feet, feather lip, frown, smile, forehead and brow)
• Immediate Results that last up to 10 hours
• Excellent customer service they are second to none
• Safe and Secure ordering online or via phone

Cons:

• Being an all natural organic product it doesn't produce long term results as well as other products reviewed
• Some users reported needing to reapply product a second time during the day to maintain desired results

Free Trial: No - But they do provide a 60 day Risk Free money back guarantee
Shipping: Free via FedEx (US only)
Guarantee: Yes - 60 days Unconditional

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We like to call Revitol Anti Aging Cream our "Best Bang for the Buck" product. It doesn't quite measure up to our top product LifeCell Skin Care but at about 1/2 the price we feel you can't go wrong.

Website: www.revitol.com

Effectiveness: We found Revitol Anti-Aging Cream performed as advertised on over 70% of users. With this being a multiple product application it is very important to follow the manufactures application guidelines.

Scam Report: None found
Pros:

• Contains several Antioxidants, especially Coq10 to fight free radicals
• Contains Argireline, which produces the more beneficial effects of Botox without the potentially nasty side effects
• Penetrates the skin and delivers a host of skin agents that hydrate, tone and reduce facial lines
• Works on all wrinkles (crow's feet, feather lip, frown, smile, forehead and brow)
• Stimulates the renewal of skin cells
• Safe and Secure ordering online or via phone

Free Trial: No - But they do provide a 90 day Risk Free money back guarantee

Shipping: $7.95 US - $16.95 Canada - $29.95 International

Guarantee: Yes - 90 days Unconditional

Cons:

• Multiple products to apply
• No free shipping

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