Thankfully, there are a lot of humans in this world who are kind, caring and compassionate towards animals. Here a just a few of the stories of human’s being kind to animals that I came across that will warm your heart. To see all these amazing stories click here

 

No seriously one of the weirdest things about writing is actually feeling anger/disappointment towards one of your characters even as you’re writing every single part of the disappointing thing happening. You are literally creating everything but there’s still this disconnected part of you that feels emotions as if you didn’t just write the words, as if those words didn’t exist, as if the character was real…

So tonight I kicked a guy out.

(I’m a bouncer in a really nice club)

So this guy stood at the end of these girls table and stared at them then would occasionally say something to one of them. I kept an eye on him because I knew he was being a bit weird. You have to let people handle themselves a little. But then the girls waved me over and told me he that he kept saying really weird things and then just staring at them. Right before he walked away he said to one girl he’s “going to pick them off one by one”. So immediately walked over and booted the guy out.

I hear so many terrible, creepy attempts at picking up women.

So here’s some tips from a bouncer:
1. Don’t scare the fuck out of them
2. See 1
3. Ask them questions. Don’t walk up and start ranting about yourself
4. Don’t try to force a conversation. If you don’t get a positive response right away then she’s probably not attracted to you so say have a good night and leave it at that.
5. Be aware of your body language. I watched a guy tonight put his fucking leg up on the foot rest under the bar and trap a girl at the bar with his crotch and his other arm. It looked like he was trying to mount her (I kicked him out too)

The Writer

Absolutely no reason for writing this. I just did. And those are the best times, aren’t they?

I didn’t know what he was writing. He had his laptop balanced precariously on his knees and he was typing quickly. When I sat down he didn’t look up, and as much as I tried not to look at him, it was difficult. He was old, really old, but he had the type of face that still looked young and innocent despite it all. He wore a faded black suit over the top of a red sweater, and his grey hair was neatly parted. His square glasses reflected the screen of his laptop and behind them I could see his bright eyes transfixed.

I felt stupid for staring so long and tried to make it seem like I had just been looking out the window. I watched fields go by, dulled by the stormy sky, and listened to the sound of the old man’s keyboard. He never faltered and the steady sound made me sleepy.

When my eyes started to droop I knew I needed to do something to keep me awake. That was when I initiated a conversation, a really strange conversation.

“Hello,”

He didn’t answer back. His typing didn’t even slow down.

“Sorry if this is a bit nosey, but what are you writing?”

Again his typing continued, but this time he replied. In a warm but worn voice he said,

“I don’t think it would be wise for you to know.”

Huh? I didn’t know how to respond, so I didn’t. I just awkwardly nodded and looked down at the leather seats as if they were the most interesting thing I’d seen all day. I shouldn’t have said anything. That was a ridiculous thing to say.

Although it probably should have, his response didn’t offend me. He didn’t say it harshly. He sounded, what was it, courteous? No, cautionary. He came across so peculiarly nice.

The typing continued. I waited for the tension to diffuse—tension on my behalf, as the old man continued writing with no regard for my intrusion of his privacy. I tried to distract myself until I felt comfortable again. I looked around at the other passengers. There was a mother looking at her napping son in relief. There was a businessman who would occasionally check his phone, furiously type, and then return to looking longingly out the window. There was an old women chatting vigorously with a teenage boy beside her, and the boy looked straight on and nodded occasionally.

Still, I couldn’t stop thinking about the old man on his laptop. I felt the glare of the screen pulling me in, whispering in my ear to look at it. I didn’t know if I was just going crazy because of the travelling or if I was going actual crazy. Even so, I realised that this train ride was going to get a whole lot more uncomfortable if I didn’t find out what he was typing.

It was as if he knew. I thought I was being subtle, but every time I leaned slightly towards the window or pretended to stretch, it was like he sensed my eyes searching for the words. He would angle his laptop away from me and continue typing; I even saw a small smirk every time it happened. And every time he deflected my attempts I realised how strange I was being. Why did I care?

I cared because, after convincing myself that I didn’t care at all, the typing became the loudest thing in the compartment. Ever tap resonated within my skull. Every other sound dulled and the typing was the only thing left to listen to.

I looked at his hands on the keyboard to try and figure out what he was typing, while he was typing it. He tapped the letters so fast that I could hardly decipher a word. I did see him type ‘looking’ and ‘she’, but I could have easily been projecting my madness onto the keyboard and forming letters out of thin air.

I resigned myself to madness when I saw him type ‘crying’, as not a minute later the little boy a few seats up burst into tears. His mother looked agitated while trying to calm his sudden outburst. I looked at the old man by my side and saw his mouth twitch into a grin.

And then that was it. The train stopped, and I had to leave. I hesitated. I felt so attached to my seat next to that mysterious old man and his keyboard. I thought I’d never find out what he was typing, and at the time, that made me immensely sad. Of course in time I forgot all about it. From time to time there are certain things that get into your mind and inhabit it, but after a while you forget it even existed.

I didn’t think of the old man on the train again until I received a package. There was no return address. It looked like a manuscript for a really long book. It was held together by a massive clip and on the cover was my name typed crisply in black ink. I turned to the first page, which begun,

“She is born on April 24th 1986,”

My birth date, although not difficult to come by, looked strange on the page. And there was more writing. There were descriptions of my parents, about the auburn colour of my mother’s hair and the way my father’s smile contrasted the tears in his eyes when he saw me for the first time. All of it was written as if it were simultaneously happening. I held the story of my life in my hands and it was heavy with accuracies. Every time I turned a page I became more and more confused, because everything was so right.

I could see a note sticking out of the pile of paper just under the halfway point and I skipped forward to read what it said. Written in scratchy and unpractised handwriting was a note that said,

“From your travel companion: Sorry for being so conspicuous.”

Understanding is a funny thing. Sometimes you get it straight away and sometimes it takes a while, but either way it feels brilliant. As I read the chapter the note was attached to it took me a while to understand. But with one sentence my stomach dropped and I felt faint. With one sentence I felt incredibly light.

“She is looking at me trying to decipher what I am typing, trying to take a peek back at her life before it is done,”

I laughed. I laughed so much tears welled up in my eyes and my stomach started hurting. I don’t know when I stopped laughing, it felt like an eternity. All I know is that when I stopped I closed the manuscript, intent on leaving it to gather dust. I didn’t feel like looking at the ending.

2

Noong bago pa lang tayo. Kada minuto mayroon kang text. Palagi kang nagtetext kung nasaan ka na at kung ano yung ginagawa mo. Lage mo akong tinetext na "babe, kain ka na." Dont forget to bring umbrella" "Ingat ka sa pag uwi." "Iloveyou so much and take care." Pero ngayong lumipas na pitong buwan. Wala na yung mga bagay na lage mong ginagawa. Yung hindi ako kinakalimutang itext simula pag gising hanggang sa pag tulog di mo nakakalimutan yung mga salitang nakakapag pagaan ng pakiramdam ko. Yung nagpapawala ng pagod sa mag hapon. Yung mga katagang “iloveyou. Goodnight.” ” I really miss you. Hope to see you soon.”

Ngunit bakit habang lumilipas na ang panahon napapansin kong madalang kana lang magtext. Nung una iniintindi ko lang ang lahat kase sabe mo busy ka at babawi pero halos ilang buwan ng ganon. Di ba kung mahal mo ang isang tao. No excuses ang lahat ng bagay? Gagawa at gagawa ka ng paraan para lang makapag text. Pero bakit ngayon isang umaga wala akong natanggap na text mo? At alam kong pag wala kang load, nag aalert ka saken e. Bakit wala akong natanggap? Nag hintay ako. At umabot na ang first anniversary natin. Wala nakong natanggap na text mo. Di ko alam kung tama bang mag abang sa mga text mo at umasang magpaparamdam ka ulit. Sa twing tutunog at mag vavibrate yung cellphone ko. Iniisip ko ikaw na yung tumatawag… Hindi pala

sorry to burst other british people’s bubbles but burying the history of how the british empire came about does not make it any less true nor does it hide the fact that those foundations of imperialism still remain regardless of how ‘great’ you make it out to be

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Introducing— “The Pig”!

Years ago my family went to Home Depot and my mom let my sister and I pick out statues for the house. My sister picked out a rabbit, and I picked out this pig

I can’t remember where we put the rabbit, but we put the pig in the front yard, right by the driveway and in front of our foremost tree. For years and years our house informally became “the house with the pig.” We would literally add “It’s the house with the pig” to any driving instructions given to friends and company.

But a few years ago some assholes went around stealing lawn statues from people. Our yard was one of the ones hit and Pig was stolen. We were pretty sure we’d never see him again at that point

Not long after, though, someone found out who had stolen all of the statues, hiding them in their garage. Either they forced the person to give them back or the person did so willingly, I’m not sure, but someone recognized our pig in the garage and contacted us to come get the pig

Unfortunately, however, Pig was injured when the boys stole him. They’d dropped him on his back, and he had deep holes and one of his ears was nearly falling off. He was also weatherworn from age at this point and did not have much paint left on him. So instead of getting his proper place in front of the tree back, he was placed in the carport so we could maybe repair him one day

Recently I got some air-dry clay and decided to try and fix him up. I didn’t bother with his broken base since it isn’t visible from where we place him, but I patched up all of the holes in his back, his ear, and one on his chest. The patch jobs are a bit lumpy, but better than gaping holes, I suppose

And today I finally finished repairing Pig! I painted him with some acrylic paint, put some mod podge on him, and then sprayed some clear outdor sealant on. Now Pig just has to dry and he’s ready to go out in front of his tree ; u ;

SHORT STORY - One and the Same (Part 1)

I sat by my dresser, staring at the white piece of paper, embroidered with pretty flowers and pink ribbons.

You are cordially invited to the union of Gabriel Andrew Ferrer & Amanda Maria Woods

Saturday, the Twelfth of July

Two Thousand and Thirteen

Ten O’clock in the Morning

St. John’s Church

Dyer wood, California

I looked away from it, took deep breaths and willed my tears to stay were they’re supposed to be…hidden. I closed my eyes, pinching the bride of my nose as I told myself that this is not a dream; that’s it’s really happening and there’s nothing I can do about it. I kept repeating this in my head but my heart kept saying otherwise.

The truth is, I am mostly at fault here. If I had told him sooner, if I told my best friend that I loved him ever since the first day we met… then there won’t be an invitation, there won’t be a church filled with people wearing pastel dresses and tuxedos, there won’t be a bridesmaid’s dress in my closet waiting to be worn. Most of all, there won’t be a wedding and I wouldn’t have to loose the love of my life.

 

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"I was always the, ‘skinny girl.’ Some girls would call me anorexic just because of how my body was made. I used to eat so much that I would get sick just to have a ‘normal body.’ Then I realized that I don’t have to change my body for people to love me. I am so worth loving, and so are you!"

Love Caitlyn

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