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The Story of 3 Red MarblesThe Story of 3 Red Marbles
Deep within the West Virginia Mountains there was this town
It was like any other town
And with this town there was a store
Owned by a Mr. Wilson
A shy middle aged man with little to do with his time
Every day he would open and every night he would close his store
Watching the people go about there lives and daily chores
And every day the three poor boys from the other side of the river would make their way to his store
These three poor boys always covered in dirt
Never once did they buy anything, but only stare at the candies and foods they wished they could have
One day Mr. Wilson offered the boys some milk and bread to take back to their families
But the poor boys shook their heads no and went on their way
So Mr. Wilson thought and the next day offered it to them again and said, "I will trade you anything for some milk or bread."
But the poor boys shook their heads again and said, "Sorry Sir, but we have nothing to give you in return."
"Nothing? Hmm a
Ch. 1 Cold Nights....
The sun had set it had to be one of the coldest nights of the year, the snow was falling so fast the plows were working twice as hard and all threw the night. Every time a car would pass I would shiver horrible as the wind would cut threw my thin shirt and pants. I wrapped my scarf a bit tighter around my neck and over the face guard of my helmet and hugged my skateboard to my chest in a failed attempt at trying to block the wind but it only seemed to make it worse.
"c-come on give me a break!" , I said in a loud whisper knowing no one could hear me an even if they could its not like they would help me. To them I was just a dirty street mutt although occasionally you had the people that felt sorry for me and would hand me a couple spare coins they managed to dig out of their pockets.
I had finally made it to the corner and stopped to catch my breath which was a mistake on my part when a large snow plow turned the corner and sent a wave of snow crashing down on me.
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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