In his famous work, “The Second Coming,” early 20th Century poet William Butler Yeats penned the line “Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold.” Having lived through World War I and seen the rise of fascism that would lead to World War II, Yeats’s sentiment is understandable. But the center does hold. We hold, and our humanity reasserts itself at every turn.

Whatever that future holds, it will not necessarily be a recognizable or comfortable reality which any alive today might hope for. It has always been this way. If we were able to bring one of our ancient ancestors forward in time, the physical world would be unlike any she had experienced.

Competition, in the context of a community of practitioners, has a way of bringing reality into sharp focus. You can’t just imagine that your reflexes are sharper than average, or that your endurance outmatches that of your sparring partner. On the mat, your state of training and skill compared to those in the community of the dojang, is immediately and objectively apparent. What can writers learn from the martial arts?

Why has this storytelling structure been around for so long? Because it’s a simple framework, easy to see, easy to understand. Think about it. Every story has 1) a beginning, 2) a middle, and 3) an end. One, two, three. That sums up the three-act structure in a nutshell. Only, in the three-act structure, it’s called 1) Setup, 2) Confrontation, and 3) Resolution. Same thing. Simple, right?

In this evocative poem, Bruce McAllister reminds us that the universe may have devised a destiny for us that is beyond the limited perceptions of the age.

Other than the materials from which it was made, every detail mimicked a human heart. The shape, the size, even wires running like vessels along the surface. It served no true function for Oscar, merely providing the sound of a heartbeat. A sound muffled to all but the most attuned ears, such as my own.

Every day it seemed like more and more offbeat and off-the-beaten worlds started trading their wondrous baubles with Earth. This tiny store was crowded with them— on shelves, hanging from the ceiling, some even waddling along the floor under their own recognizance.

I wondered whether this queen was the villain in her kingdom's story too. It seemed likely, but so what? Some villains really were black-hearted and not to be trusted, but others had to be like me— not without fault, but hopefully not beyond redemption.

Hank lives in a bothy built out of clay, pine needles from an old Christmas tree, and Q-tips. He doesn’t complain about wanting more, and is happy for what he has. “If I spend my life pining o’er the things I want and ne’er appreciate the things I have, then my life is spent with the constant grieving of fulfillment,” he tells me.

Mr. Gibson wasn't thinking about the Eye, though, or the Abominable Snowmen that were walking up Grant as he was walking down on the other side, or the poisonous, perilous flying popcorn monster. He was worried about his job.

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