Story Time with Mr. Wartsbaugh
stories and sketches
Welcome to Story Time with Mr. Wartsbaugh, the home of my stories made (gradually) available to you, the reader. Yes, you're the reader. I feel we've established a relationship now, identified one another's roles in this grand experiment. This should be enough to build on in the future.
Here at Story Time, you'll find all sorts of possibilities available to you. And, as with all of my favorite possibilities, they can all be Wartsbaugh-centric. Ning provides you capabilities for blogging about my stories, naturally a section to comment about my stories at the end of each blog post, the ability to post photos inspired by my stories and videos declaring your undying love for me and my stories, and a forum in which you can create and hold discussions about my stories and the earth-shaking truths they reveal. Hopefully I'm not being too presumptuous, here. Based on our previously established relationship, I simply assumed that you'd be as interested as I am in me. If you must, you can also use these capabilities for other ends. Build your profiles, connect with friends, and together form a coalition to drive me to the top.
It is necessary to join in order to view the content, for which I humbly apologize and pretend that it was not according to design, but joining is easy. Simply sign up, enter an email address, and then gain access to all that the ning has to offer. As a small concession, I will give you the featured story here on the main page. But to read anything other than the featured story, you'll have to dig through my blog, which will require joining.
We now have a podcast available to you, for those willing to listen to stories but unable to devote your eyes to the endeavor. And if you'd like to subscribe, and have the updates sent to you, simply follow the link below.
That's all I really needed to say. I feel you're probably oriented enough now to be going on. So please, pull up a chair, pour yourself a drink, and have a look around. I think you'll like what you see.
Subscribe RSS
Here at Story Time, you'll find all sorts of possibilities available to you. And, as with all of my favorite possibilities, they can all be Wartsbaugh-centric. Ning provides you capabilities for blogging about my stories, naturally a section to comment about my stories at the end of each blog post, the ability to post photos inspired by my stories and videos declaring your undying love for me and my stories, and a forum in which you can create and hold discussions about my stories and the earth-shaking truths they reveal. Hopefully I'm not being too presumptuous, here. Based on our previously established relationship, I simply assumed that you'd be as interested as I am in me. If you must, you can also use these capabilities for other ends. Build your profiles, connect with friends, and together form a coalition to drive me to the top.
It is necessary to join in order to view the content, for which I humbly apologize and pretend that it was not according to design, but joining is easy. Simply sign up, enter an email address, and then gain access to all that the ning has to offer. As a small concession, I will give you the featured story here on the main page. But to read anything other than the featured story, you'll have to dig through my blog, which will require joining.
We now have a podcast available to you, for those willing to listen to stories but unable to devote your eyes to the endeavor. And if you'd like to subscribe, and have the updates sent to you, simply follow the link below.
That's all I really needed to say. I feel you're probably oriented enough now to be going on. So please, pull up a chair, pour yourself a drink, and have a look around. I think you'll like what you see.
Subscribe RSS
A note to readers
As you may know, I've been busy producing a play for the last few months. Performances were this weekend, which means that I have had little time or energy to write recently. So updates are on a hiatus for now. But soon I'll be adding stories again, and I may be uploading video of the play, if I can manage it.
For now, if you like, you may want to jump over to the forum and get some discussions going. Apparently the play was pretty thought-provoking; maybe you'd like to discuss it here.
For anyone that came to the play (or didn't) and would like to order a DVD, send me a message and we can arrange payment and shipping for you.
For now though, while there is nothing new for you to read, I encourage you to let your minds wander and let your own ideas flow. Enjoy my break!
For now, if you like, you may want to jump over to the forum and get some discussions going. Apparently the play was pretty thought-provoking; maybe you'd like to discuss it here.
For anyone that came to the play (or didn't) and would like to order a DVD, send me a message and we can arrange payment and shipping for you.
For now though, while there is nothing new for you to read, I encourage you to let your minds wander and let your own ideas flow. Enjoy my break!
Featured Story
What the Moon Said - The Moon Loved Little Children (The tenth night)
A little girl sat curled in the corner of her darkened room, the only light the lonely rays of the moon. She shivered and tried not to cry, whispering prayers to our-father-who-art-in-heaven and to hail-mary-full-of-grace. She kept her voice low so that no one would hear her and know she was awake, choked back the tears to keep anyone from coming to make her stop. Shouting pierced the walls, filled the hallway outside her door. The girl looked toward her brother, worried that the sound would wake him. It was hard for her to decide whose attention was worse, her brother’s or her father’s.
She was too young to know she was poor, too young to question what was done to her, too young to have learned all she knew. She repeated her prayers and stared at the door, making sure it stayed closed. She asked forgiveness for her trespasses, and thought it was all her fault. She forgave those who trespassed against her, knowing this was her only hope. She prayed to the ever-virgin, knowing that she’d been forever heaved out of her company.
Something thudded against her wall, and her brother stirred in his sleep. She froze. One of them would be coming for her soon.
She repeated her litany. Deliver us from evil. Deliver us from evil. But she knew he wouldn’t. Not yet. She was a ruined little saint.
The moon loved little children. He looked down and wished he had tears left to weep.
After ten nights I knew the pain that the moon felt. Sadness seemed to prevail even where the world should seem most joyous, and comfort seemed replaced by simple endurance. Only glimmers of hope shone out in the midst of suffering. But those glimmers were there. The moon could not weep, but he could feel the pain, and I could lend him my tears. And where those tears fell, moonbeams would shimmer.
A little girl sat curled in the corner of her darkened room, the only light the lonely rays of the moon. She shivered and tried not to cry, whispering prayers to our-father-who-art-in-heaven and to hail-mary-full-of-grace. She kept her voice low so that no one would hear her and know she was awake, choked back the tears to keep anyone from coming to make her stop. Shouting pierced the walls, filled the hallway outside her door. The girl looked toward her brother, worried that the sound would wake him. It was hard for her to decide whose attention was worse, her brother’s or her father’s.
She was too young to know she was poor, too young to question what was done to her, too young to have learned all she knew. She repeated her prayers and stared at the door, making sure it stayed closed. She asked forgiveness for her trespasses, and thought it was all her fault. She forgave those who trespassed against her, knowing this was her only hope. She prayed to the ever-virgin, knowing that she’d been forever heaved out of her company.
Something thudded against her wall, and her brother stirred in his sleep. She froze. One of them would be coming for her soon.
She repeated her litany. Deliver us from evil. Deliver us from evil. But she knew he wouldn’t. Not yet. She was a ruined little saint.
The moon loved little children. He looked down and wished he had tears left to weep.
After ten nights I knew the pain that the moon felt. Sadness seemed to prevail even where the world should seem most joyous, and comfort seemed replaced by simple endurance. Only glimmers of hope shone out in the midst of suffering. But those glimmers were there. The moon could not weep, but he could feel the pain, and I could lend him my tears. And where those tears fell, moonbeams would shimmer.
Blog Posts
What the Moon Said - The Moon Loved Little Children (The tenth night)
A little girl sat curled in the corner of her darkened room, the only light the lonely rays of the moon. She shivered and tried not to cry, whispering prayers to our-father-who-art-in-heaven and to hail-mary-full-of-grace. She kept her voice low so that no one would hear her and know she was awake, choked back the tears to keep anyone from coming to make her stop. Shouting pierced the walls, filled the hallway outside her door. The girl looked toward her brother, worried that the sound would wak… Continue
Posted by Dan Wartsbaugh on May 1, 2009 at 12:00pm
What the Moon Said - Reflections (The ninth night)
Nick slept with his knees pulled tight to his chest, a naked woman pressed against him. It was always like this. He’d have his way, then curl up until he woke from the cramped feeling in his legs and back. He could stretch on his way to the door. Less chance that way of waking the thing in her bed before he was gone. He ruined his escape this time. A mirror stood next to the door. He was compelled to stop, to smile at the man he saw, to congratulate him on another successful night. He must have… Continue
Posted by Dan Wartsbaugh on April 24, 2009 at 12:00pm
What the Moon Said - Holes (The eighth night)
The booze was just a mask. Most people that knew about his condition assumed he was just a black-out drunk, and he was drunk often enough for it to seem reasonable. But it was just a coping mechanism, a way to forget his forgetfulness. If he was hammered he could only live in moments, and moments were all he had to live in. The past could creep in, he could be reminded of things he’d done and know they were true, but there were holes everywhere, dark spots that could cover hours or months. His c… Continue
Posted by Dan Wartsbaugh on April 17, 2009 at 12:00pm
What the Moon Said - The Charcoal Faun (The seventh night)
The faun wore a top hat on his cane, and tails, as she presumed to be the fashion of the day. The tips of his pointed ears pushed out slightly from beneath a shaggy mane that seemed to resist control by comb, brush, or cap. Even in nothing but charcoal lines, his eyes seemed to shine with a lusty glimmer and a laughing spirit. Chalks probably would have been better, she supposed, to capture her exact image of this pre-fall Donatello. Perhaps a deep forest green for his coat, a bit of chestnut fo… Continue
Posted by Dan Wartsbaugh on April 10, 2009 at 12:00pm — 1 Comment
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