| I’m a ten-letter word, but when I am heard, I have only four, not one letter more. My first two sounds are neat; a kind of sheet, Of my sounds, the third is what will be heard, If you want to hear more, then like the shore, What word am I? |
 |
 |
At her father’s wake, a woman told her priest that ever since she was a child she and her father had discussed life after death. They had agreed that whoever went first would contact the other. They had discussed this again just two weeks before his death.
He died in her home and a few days after his death the smoke alarm in her garage went off. She had lived there 28 years, and it had never gone off before. She couldn’t turn it off so she called the security company that installed it. The next morning, the smoke alarm sounded again, and the reason finally dawned on her. She said aloud, “Ok dad, I missed the signal yesterday, but I get it now! Thanks for letting me know that you are safe on the other side. Now turn the thing off so I don’t have to call the security company again.” The alarm fell silent. She immediately called her priest to tell him the good news. His response: “Dear lady, if every time your father sends you a message he sets off the smoke alarm, just where in do you think he’s calling from?”
|
| I take you forward, yet stand still, A time machine that bends your will. In darkest hours, I hold you tight, Stealing moments till dawn’s light. What am I? |
|
