Farmer John lived on a quiet rural highway. But, as time went by, the traffic slowly built up at an alarming rate. The traffic was so heavy and so fast that his chickens were being run over at a rate of three to six a day. So one day Farmer John called the sheriff’s office and said, “You’ve got to do something about all of these people driving so fast and k.i.lling all of my chickens.” “What do you want me to do?” asked the sheriff. “I don’t care, just do something about those crazy drivers!” So the next day…
Author: World Wide
One November afternoon when my daughter was in kindergarten, I picked her up after school. She bobbed out to the car and crawled into the back seat. “What did you do today?” I asked. She couldn’t wait to tell me. “We learned that boys are different from girls!” she chirped. Looking into the rearview mirror, I could just see the top of her head. “My teacher told us that boys have a thing and girls don’t,” she added. “Well, yes they do…” I said cautiously. I couldn’t think of anything else to say, so we were quiet for a moment.…
A woman is riding the bus while trying to breastfeed her baby. The baby, however, isn’t interested. After several tries, the mother is quite angry. “Drink the milk or I’ll give it all to the man sitting at the back!” she says. The baby is still playing around. A few minutes later she tries again, “drink the milk or I’ll really give it all to the man at the back, and you’ll go hungry!” The baby continues rejecting her. She tries again, very angry this time, “I’m definitely going to give it all to the man at the back if…
When my father-in-law Richard bulldozed my beloved garden for his unauthorized pool, I was livid. But as the saying goes, karma works in mysterious ways. What unfolded next was a whirlwind of unexpected events that turned his dream project into a nightmare. I never thought I’d see the day when karma would come knocking, but boy, did it ever. Grab a cup of coffee and settle in, because this story is a wild ride from start to finish. First, let me introduce myself. I’m Linda, a 40-year-old high school English teacher living with my husband Tom and my father-in-law Richard.…
It started with a single bookshelf. Not even a big one—just something he built in the garage after my grandma passed. Said the silence was “too loud” without the sound of her reading at night. So he filled it. Slowly. Book by book. Thrift stores, donation bins, curbside crates—he’d rescue them all. At first, he just wanted a room full of stories. But that room became two. Then three. And then one day I came over and noticed all the furniture had been pushed aside, replaced with labeled sections: Memoirs, History, Modern Poetry, Mystery with Dignity (his words, not mine).…
It started off as something I noticed from the kitchen window. Every afternoon, just as the sun crept past the roofline, I’d see the same sight—Officer Dalton, in uniform, walking behind Mr. Reece’s wheelchair like clockwork. No fanfare, no emergency lights. Just the steady hum of wheels and small talk I couldn’t quite hear from inside. At first, I thought it was a one-time thing. Maybe a kind gesture. Maybe Mr. Reece’s chair had broken down that day. But then it happened again. And again. And that’s when I began to wonder if there was more to this routine than…
I wasn’t even trying to eavesdrop. I was just walking past the playroom with a load of laundry, expecting the usual chaos—blocks everywhere, toy truck collisions, someone probably yelling. But it was quiet. Too quiet. So I peeked in, and there they were. My oldest, Jalen, cross-legged on the floor, holding up a board book with little diggers and loaders drawn on the pages. And baby Kai, strapped into his bouncer, wide-eyed and completely locked in like this was the most important story in the world. Jalen was reading to him with such focus and care, his voice soft and…
It was supposed to be a quick walk. Just a morning hike through the lower trails before the rain rolled in—boots on, snacks packed, everyone in high spirits. No maps. No signal. No real plan, honestly. We got cocky. Somewhere between the second fork and that overgrown ridge, we lost track of the markers. The trees started to blur together. The path we thought was a shortcut turned into thick brush and ankle-deep mud. We laughed at first. Took selfies. Made bad jokes about being wilderness warriors. But after an hour of wandering and the sunlight slipping behind the clouds,…
He came in right as we opened—quiet, bundled in a navy coat and beanie, like the chill had followed him in. Didn’t say a word. Just nodded politely and made his way to the children’s section. At first I thought he was browsing for grandkids, maybe waiting on someone. But he didn’t buy anything. He didn’t even stand. He just sat there, cross-legged on the wooden floor, one book after another in his lap. “Where the Wild Things Are.” “Harold and the Purple Crayon.” “Goodnight Moon.” All the classics, all well-loved, like he’d known them by heart for years. He…
