Pointless Stories That We Can All Glean From

Written by: Silas Jones

Orange

There once was a very old woman who lived in an orange house. The house had orange walls, orange ceilings, orange floors, orange doors, orange carpets, and orange windows complete with orange drapes and orange panes. Her orange living room was complete with an orange television set, an orange sofa, an orange rocking chair, an orange piano, an orange bookshelf stocked with orange books discussing all things orange, an orange china cabinet with orange china in it: orange teapots with little orange lids, orange wineglasses coated with orange dust, and orange dolls with porcelain hands and faces wearing orange hats and little orange dresses, and oranges sitting in little orange dishes on a series of orange coffee tables. Her bedroom was decked with orange beds, and her bathroom with orange bathtubs and sinks. Her kitchen featured a variety of orange food, and she owned no fewer then 25 orange house cats. Her body was coated in countless orange tattoos, as were the bodies of her mother, father, sister and niece. Anyway, one day this very old woman was walking down the street when a strange man approached her. He informed her that he was taking a survey, and wanted to know what her favorite color was. The woman then smiled a peculiar half-smile, and gave her reply: "I simply adore red!" The moral of this story is as follows: things are not always what they seem.

The Small Package

An extremely formal man lived in an extremely formal house with an extremely formal wife. One of the things that his wife adored about him was his love of expressions: "Don't judge a book by its cover, slow and steady wins the race, and his favorite, good things come in small packages. Anyway, one day a very small package arrived at the man's doorstep. He bent down, picked it up, and turn the wrapping paper off, only to discover that it was a bomb, and to explode along with his house, his wife, and everything he had ever loved. The moral of this story: Morals and sayings don't always apply, but that includes this moral. So, basically, there are no true morals, except for it being inadvisable to eat poison, although if you wanted to commit suicide it might be advisable, so I stand by my first statement.

Ha! A little silliness goes a long way.

Letter To No One

Dear No One,
The book lies open, reading is not a crutch but a wing, flying is the crutch, imagination is neither wing nor crutch, but comes from flying which is a crutch and reading which is a wing. How can this be?

Sincerely,
You'll Never Guess Who

I have been doing this a lot: typing wierd poem-like things into the search box in google, and seeing what comes up. This one turned into a strange letter. I call it the letter to no one.

Here's another letter to no one:

Dear No One,
If I were to stare at a rather square ball, would it become round? How can a ball be square in the first place? I think not, but in my sight I see one. A misfit. A lamb in a field of llamas. My eyes glaze over from the intensity of thought. Llamas devour the grass, and the lamb weeps. The tears are like the blood of the llamas as the lamb attracts lions to the field. Yet the lamb escapes. What does tell me about myself? Am I a lamb or a llama? I think I am a lamb, but is this good? Would I want to spend the day in the feild of llamas? Will the computer notice if I spell "llama" with capitol I's, as in ice that cannot support the weight of the lamb, who drowns, and joins the horrid IIamas. Yes, it noticed. But who is the villian in this scene? Are you a llama, a lion, or a lamb? Please give your thoughts to me, and tell me if the lions are the best? I think so, as they survive, and kill because they must. The llamas and lambs don't kill, but they still spread evil in their own ways. Lions being good made me think of Aslan from the series by C. S. Lewis. The Chronicles of Narnia. How good is a writer? Can a writer even be capable of good? Yes, but only bad ones. Does this seem right? I hope not.

Sincerely,
You'll Never Guess Who

I hope you enjoyed a little nonsense.

Poetry

Welcome to my happy stars glowing in the faint breezing happily joyous peace calmness here there money is extremely happy staring at the world turning towards the sun noticing writing a noticing glaring at the dog is out of the house for good god where is my child's truck rolls down the street and hits the olden days are behind us, and thus we sing in harmony, melody looked behind the house in the hope of spotting a pound that she gained by eating doe a deer I love you,

Sincerely,

Silas Jones

I have decieded to type a post that features a lot of random words in a random order. Read this aloud: it actually has somewhat of a moving story. IF you like it, here is another.

Pointlessness of it, endless, the voice of a nymph in the airily staying in the perfection of this new year's day, yet the wind sweeps and staring in the wind is a man of sole intensions, his shoes black with soot, his face a blur on the evening wind, the world at his fingertips, my life in his hands, for death is he! Death is upon us all, but for now it is upon me, and he swindles out the candle, and the world in black with woe and misery, for alas, he is here.

Does this sound poetic to you? Note to self: maybe you should start writing poetry. It sounds old-timey to me, like something ouot of the mouth of an writer for the 18th Century. Please comment - yes, I know it's wierd.