Category: On Writing

STEPHEN KING: The Master Time-Waster


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VS. 

 Stephen King 4

Stephen King

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Stephen King is not a good author. Stephen King is a terrible author. Stephen King is long-winded, repetitive, and most of all, selfish.

When you read a book, you want to enjoy it. Savor it. Learn something new, appreciate life more.

And you know what’s so special about books? They can make you appreciate life more, without taking your life away.

When confronted with a 500, 700, and with Under the Dome, a 1088 page novel, how can you learn to experience life when you spend all of it reading someone else’s novel?

Hey. Maybe I want to spend all my time reading, you say.

What if the novel sucks?

If you read one Stephen King book, you’ve read them all. A crime, some paranormal horror story, sex, murder, drama…then a weak twist at the end that’s supposed to make you feel like you’ve read a good story.

However, I do believe Mr. King can be a talented writer. Among the trash he has offered through the years, only one pearl stands: Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption, a story that has not only entertained, but has revealed great insights about life and humanity. Oh, but after the popular, empty pages that carry such names as The Long Walk, The Stand, and Christine, King became an puppet for modern audiences worthless appetites for commercialized “literature.”

But King is not the only one. It’s a trend – a virus – quickly spreading throughout authors today who pump out large amounts of garbage, not taking in account the lives of 90% of their readers: hard-workers who are trying to live their own lives, who wish to enjoy good literature…not lazy words on a page. Too many pages.

People don’t have time or the desire to inflate your already overinflated ego, Mr. King.

Life: As Fragile As Dust is a much better novel than Stephen King will ever write. Tight, powerful prose that gets straight to the point, and leaves an impact more than the bubblegum fiction of most of today’s authors. Do yourself an extreme favor, and read Life: As Fragile As Dust.

Life: As Fragile As Dust

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A very wise man once asked this question: “What is our life? Our life is like the morning mist – it is here a little while, then its gone.”

To what shall I compare our fragile life?

Life is like a speck of dust that alights upon a surface. It remains there, unmoved, until a draft threatens it. When a breeze comes, it holds on till the last. Finally, a gust of wind, and it is blown asunder. That is how fragile life is, like a speck of dust blown to nothingness.

Life: As Fragile As Dust, Book one of a three part series, is twelve short stories of people living on life’s edge and in a pfft, their lives change.

I value life. I understand how delicate it is. That’s why I write stories. To encourage others to take a closer look at the gift of life the Father has given us.

I invite you to get your copy. And remember: cherish those you love while life is still here.

Available on Smashwords and Amazon.

Look closely at the book cover…can you see the five faces?

Swan Song

You look at her. Wow, how fast she’s grown. Her yesterdays seem so long ago.

Now she’s become a young woman right before your eyes.

You love her so much-you would tear out your own heart to save her. No one on earth loves her as much or as deeply as you.

However, does she know how much you care?

Have you made every effort to make her feel loved?  Or let her express her love for you?

If not, are you willing to change?

For Maggie, change may come too late.

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Purchase Swan Song Here.

I’m just saying…

My father held the firm belief that kids should be seen and heard.

It was that conviction that afforded me the opportunities to sit in the company of him and his friends as they spewed both truths and lies.

Those storytellers made my young life fun. I’ll never forget them or their teachable moments.

And I’ll never forget the greatest storyteller of them all, my dad, or the last time I saw him.

On the last day I would ever see my dad alive, he wanted to walk with me to school. “What about work?” I asked.  He said, “No work today, thought I’ll tag along on the way, catch up on old times, what do you think?”

At thirteen, I didn’t want to appear like some baby who needed his dad to escort him safely to class, but I didn’t want to disappoint him either, so I said, “Sure.”

It was an overcast day and as we walked my father told me tales both old and new. He had my full attention, until we came to the crosswalk at the somewhat busy intersection of Main and Central, one block from my school.

I hate that corner to this day.

“Okay, Dad. I’ll see you later,” I said as the light changed green, hoping he would take the hint to go back home. I didn’t want any of my friends to see him; man, I would have never heard the end of their big baby jokes.

I crossed, dad stayed put. No sooner than my foot hit the other side of the street, my dad called out, “Hey Paul, look!” There he was, doing his best impression of Charlie Chaplin. No doubt he had crossed in that fashion behind me and was now crossing back, doing his Chaplin bit.

“Good one Dad. See you later,” I waved and from the middle of the intersection he waved back. I continued on.

I felt it. That eerie feeling that something’s wrong, that feeling that you can never really explain later. But when I heard the screeching tires and the loud thud, I knew it was my dad.

I was right. He lay on the curb from where we both crossed. I ran and knelt next to him. Blood spilled from his mouth, his legs all twisted underneath him; he tried to pull himself up with his busted arms. I screamed for help. That’s when the driver, who hit my dad, got out his car and ran over to where we were.

With wide blood shot eyes the driver said, “I…I’m sorry kid.” He jumped back into his old green, beat up, rusted car   and sped off.

Not sure if I should run back home for my mother, or stay with my dad, I just kept on screaming for help.

“Paul,” my dad said in his usual calm voice. His eyes looked so sleepy. “Now it’s you who have to tell the stories.” He closed his eyes and died right then and there.

The days that followed were tortuous. I didn’t want to go to school ever again, or any place for that matter. I just wanted my dad.

But I couldn’t miss school forever.

So I had to go back.

It was the longest, loneliest walk I ever made, except when we carried my dad’s casket to the grave.

Our dog Lincoln wanted to walk to school with me that morning, but I shooed him back home. That dog never listened to me and that cool morning he didn’t break protocol.

I wish he had.

Central and Main not only served as markers on my route to school, they were now a horrible memory. Needless to say, I crossed with extreme caution. Lincoln, who I had pelted with small stones and shouted “GO HOME!,” appeared in the middle of the intersection just as soon as I reached the other side.

One car came real close to hitting him, another stopped, cursed, then sped around him. When there were no other oncoming cars I stomped my foot and shouted, “LINCOLN, GO HOME!” He bobbed his head up and down and finally started to retreat. That’s when I heard the sound of screeching tires. I stepped off the curb shouting, “LINCOLN, GET OUT OF THE STREET!”

I was too late. The car hit him dead on, killing him on impact. I raced into the intersection.  Lincoln was stretched out with his pink tongue hanging out of his mouth.

The driver, the SAME one in the old, rusty green car jumped out and ran over to us. He rubbed his grey beard and with those wide blood shot eyes said, “Oh, boy, sorry kid,” and jumped back in his car and sped off.

I was never going back to school again.

All I had left of Lincoln was the medium size mound in our backyard.

A week later my mother was called to duty on NASA’S Apollo 17. The flight was to be piloted by my mom. She took me aboard; NASA understood.

I never saw more beautiful stars like the ones I saw in space. Mom looked over at me and smiled, happy that after so much pain we now had something to smile about.

That’s when I heard a screeching sound. I remember thinking, “No way!,” as I looked to our left that same crappy green, busted up, rusty car T-boned us on the driver side. The impact tore my mom from her seatbelt and threw her through the windshield. She landed on the tip of a nearby star. I made my way over to her.  She was lifeless and now, so was I.

The driver leaped from his car and drifted over to where we were. He ran his hand over the top of his space helmet. “Kid,” he shook a disciplining finger at me, “We got to stop meeting like this, it ain’t healthy.”  He floated back to his car and sped off.

If you like this story, please click on the link for more. Thank you.

~Paul Worthington

http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/WorthingtonPublications