In the old days, in the village of Elms, a wandering family of unknown origin settled down. They built a house on the edge of the fields, near the ghost forest. This family consisted of only an elderly couple. Wherever they went, they went together. The wife was always silent and solemn, never uttering a word. The husband was tall and gaunt, with a face like iron and a nose resembling a bird's beak. His eyes were cloudy and sunken, exuding a cold phosphorescent glow. The husband was a master hunter. His flintlock rifle seemed to have eyes. Whenever he raised it, birds and wild animals rarely escaped death. Behind their house, there were heaps of bird feathers and animal bones piled up like mounds. The bird feathers were disheveled and black as ink, while the animal bones were limestone-white, dotted with yellowish, foul-smelling marrow stains. These piles resembled graves. The hunter seemed like the embodiment of Death in the forest. Birds and animals feared him. The other hunters in Elms were both envious and resentful of him. He spared no creature within the range of his rifle. It was said that someone once saw him shoot a peacock in mid-dance. A peacock in mid-dance, with its head curved like a blade of grass, its tail fanned out in a semicircle displaying vibrant colors, sunlight reflecting off it like golden flames, its legs gracefully swirling. Only love could swirl so elegantly. And then – “Boom” – his rifle fired, releasing a red flame. The peacock fell, its iridescent wings stained with blood. The old wife came, dry and dark, silently picking up the peacock and placing it in her basket. However, the old man spent his life hunting only common birds and animals. He never captured any large animals weighing several hundred pounds. His rifle could only shoot small, foolish creatures. This was his torment. The entire village of Elms shunned the couple, not speaking or socializing with them. Seeing them, people would turn away. Thus, the old hunter lived a lonely life with his silent wife. By the end of that year, the forest of Elms was in upheaval, trees withered, birds disappeared, and no trace of animals was found. The villagers suffered greatly, claiming that Then (the deity) had begun to punish them. The wandering hunter also found it difficult to make a living. The couple wandered the forest. For the first time in his life, the old man faced this situation. For three lunar weeks, his rifle remained silent. He would wake before the third rooster crow and return late at night. His emaciated wife no longer had the strength to follow him and stayed home, tending a fire that burned with a ghostly blue flame, not red but green like wolf eyes. One time, the old man was away for a whole week. He was exhausted, his knees buckled, and his muscles felt like they could be pinched off like leeches soaked in blood. He had trudged everywhere without finding anything. Not even a sparrow or a butterfly. He was anxious and frightened. Was Then punishing the world as rumored? Finally, exhausted, the old man staggered home. At the stream near the village, he paused and looked at his house. There was a light, a ghostly blue light. Surely his wife was still waiting. He closed his deep, cloudy eyes. After a moment's thought, he turned back to the forest. His nose had caught the scent of animals... He was in luck. He saw it. The peacock was dancing. Its feet moved gracefully to the right, its tail spread out in a circle, shifting to the left, the intense blue on its head feathers glistening. The old man raised his rifle: “Boom!” The shot echoed. He heard a piercing scream. He ran to the fallen creature. It was his wife. She had gone to the forest to wait for him, holding a peacock feather. The hunter lay face down in the pool of blood on the decaying leaves, thick and musty like the smell of rats. His mouth gurgled like a wild boar's. He lay there for a long time. Black clouds hung low, the forest darkened, hot and stifling like a fevered body. Near dawn, the old man suddenly sprang up like a squirrel. He had the idea to use his wife's corpse as bait to hunt the biggest animal of his life. He lay in the bushes near her decaying body, rifle loaded, anxiously waiting. But Then punished him. No animals came, only death approached. Days later, they pulled his crooked body from the bushes. A bullet wound pierced his forehead. He had finally hunted the biggest animal of his life.

The most eerie place to be is not under the bed, not locked in the dark, not your hallways at night. It's right inside your head. And we are forced there every night when we get tired. My eyelids are beginning to feel like two large bricks. My head yearns to lean against the wall beside me, but I jerk it back up. I can't see what my mind will come up with if I go to sleep, it knows my worst fears, after all. I've been doing this for hours, splashing the cold water in my face, violently shaking my head like a wet dog, anything to stay awake. I've been waiting forever for this dreadful night to blow over, but it just won't. The moon taunts me, maliciously grinning at me through my curtains. It waits for me to sleep, it wants to force me into my head again.

Vivid imagery and descriptions in a story will remain in your mind long after reading. While dialogues make a statement to ignite your understanding, descriptive language makes a story come alive to leave a lasting impression. A story should feature dialogues complementing great narratives to make it an immersive read. How does a story capture the interest of a reader? The first few lines in a story are important elements to attract a reader to pick up your book. Readers are interested in reading a story until the end when the descriptions are clear, concise, and engaging enough to pull them into the story. While poets often leave the interpretation of a poem to the reader, narratives must be imparted effectively for understanding. When I delve into a book, I am drawn by the vivid imagery and descriptions in the narratives. If an author has painted a captivating, relatable picture of what the book represents, it would interest me to read the whole story. Here's an example: 'Witnessing their love for each other, were the blue corals and pebbles that lined the seabeds, while the rays from the sun glistened like pearls on the shimmering waters.' Dialogues are important structure-building elements of a story. Dialogues add depth, and realism, and are a vital component to effective storytelling. However, stories can be told without them if the imagery and descriptions ignite an interest in a reader's five senses. ‘The Road' by Cormac McCarthy is a fine example of a successful fiction novel without dialogue that won the Pulitzer Prize in 2007. McCarthy concentrates on rich descriptions to attract the reader's senses, adding depth and rhythm to the story. He was so good that his book exemplified the power of descriptive language to pique a reader's interest and win the coveted title. A dialogue-free novel conveys a character's thoughts and reflections through internal monologues that will provide motivating insights into the story. Descriptions expressed profoundly empower a story. To engage your readers use aesthetic language and metaphors. ‘The lush, breathtakingly beautiful green landscape starkly contrasted the blue of the turquoise waters.' When describing an emotion, make sure the reader feels the story as it unfolds. In a reader's mind, he should be able to see, hear, taste and smell. This way you will engage a reader's senses to respond to your descriptions as you want them to. It is in the hands of the author to align a reader's thoughts with his. For instance, if you are talking about the sea, describe how deeply connected you are to the beauty and vast expanse of the ocean. How do the lapping waves affect you? Or the tides as they rush ashore? Use metaphors to describe nature's phenomenal wonder. ‘The translucent waters covered her feet in lyrical movements.' Write different descriptions of the scenes so you make the story intricately variable. They work wonders to create a lasting impression in the reader's mind. ‘The vivid imagery and descriptions in her writing capture the beauty and magic of the sea, likening the eyes to the breathtaking turquoise waters and exploring the wonders of the underwater world, including the delicate anemones.' In the above description, by referring to the anemones as delicate, the sea creatures' strength, vulnerability, beauty, and resilience are explained as they survive a rough underwater habitat. Through creative figures of speech, the readers will imagine and discover the magic of enchantment and intrigue in the words. ‘With eyes as breathtaking as the turquoise waters of the sea, she discovers the true magic of the island.' Textures, colours, sounds and smells are sensory details to focus on to build a rich setting for a story. Create an awesome emotional experience and add authenticity to your stories so readers will never forget how your book made them feel. Some of the stories I have read have impacted me emotionally to a great extent, and the words and imagery still evoke the same feelings as when I first read them. Authentic writing involves properly researched and truthful narratives incorporated into the story to create a deeper connection with the characters and themes. Storytelling is the ability to emotionally engage the reader and leave them feeling contented with your book at the end. Not only do vivid imagery and descriptions emphasise enrichment and broaden perspectives, but they also inspire personal growth. As an author, your goal is to impress a reader so that he will return to read more of your stories. Isn't that the dream of an author? To have his book recognised as a compelling read so that he attains credibility and is renowned as a writer. Storytelling is the art of weaving narratives and dialogues masterfully to enliven a reader's mind with a well-crafted story. Cheers to the great storytellers of all time.

Sphinx Bazel born Bazel Abdella is a fiction Egyptian professional boxer. He is nicknamed Samson because of his super strength. Bazel grew up in Jamaica, but he was born in Luxor which is a modern city in Upper (southern) Egypt. He is known as the greatest and most dangerous boxer of all time with a deadly punch. Bazel has fought a powerful amateur opponent named Domino Storm. He gave Domino a chance to fight him. Bazel knew that Domino didn't fight like an amateur. He fought better than any pro boxer he had ever fought. The first time Bazel fought Domino, it was a tie. The second time Domino lost the fight in 30 rounds. The fight made history as one of the longest fights ever. Listen to the Podcast the Tale of DJ Flip https://www.spreaker.com/show/the-tale-of-dj-flip

Domino Storm is a fiction amateur boxer going for the heavyweight title. He is the sports personality of our time. He is now the champion in the light heavyweight division. Domino is aiming at turning professional. He is a Christian supporting the Christian leader, Mr. Time, whose real name is Jerald Murphy. His first fight was against another tough amateur boxer named Mike Collins. The fight was aired on radio station WDJF. Storm has fought Sphinx Bazel over in Egypt, and the fight was a tie. He lost the fight the second time around. Sphinx Bazel and Domino Storm fought in the longest boxing match ever the second time around. They fought up to 30 rounds. Listen to the Podcast the Tale of DJ Flip https://www.spreaker.com/show/the-tale-of-dj-flip

My new year's resolution was to set aside at least one afternoon for writing per week. I love submitting to short story and flash fiction competitions! ✍️ So far I've kept my resolution but we're only two weeks into the year! You can check out a selection of my work here: https://ko-fi.com/carrieonwriting and of course I've entered the Biopage contest! 😀 https://www.biopage.com/post/de-dahlification

Be warned, child--once initiated into the world of magic, there is no turning back. One may leave the Clockwork Cafe, but one will always end up back in the building eventually, and no matter where one turns, it will linger in the peripherie, mocking, beckoning, luring with the scent of fresh-baked cookies one day and haunting with threatening whispers the next. Many have tried fleeing, but none have succeeded. Those foolish humans who think they can harness the infinite wild magic of the fae to do their bidding, who think they can tame and control it like it is but an unruly dog--those such humans never last more than a week. They come face-to-face with true power and the lucky ones keel over on the spot, hearts and minds giving way to the strain and their bodies withering into dust as the Cafe puts their vitality to better use. The unlucky ones survive. They survive but their minds crack, sometimes even shatter, and they try and flee to no avail--no matter where they go, the Cafe follows, haunting them and driving them ever-so-carefully into paranoid madness, until the mere sight of a clock is enough to send them careening into a fit of terror. The Cafe's facade encroaches further and further into their field of view, until every building they see is the Clockwork Cafe, every tree is a looming elm, every person they pass is a fae initiate on the hunt. One way or another, they all end up back in the warmth of the Cafe eventually. Oh, but recall: this fate is for the greedy and proud alone, those who wish to control the magic. There is no danger so long as one follows the rules. Do not lie in the presence of the Cafe: this is the fundamental law of the land. The Cafe is everywhere: this is a fundamental truth. Beyond these, all one must keep in mind is etiquette and respect. Is this not a worthy price to pay for initiation into the land of the fae? The Clockwork Cafe will be one's home when one has none, the Cafe will provide all the food and drink one needs… one shall want for nothing, in the care of the faeries. In the Clockwork Cafe, none die unless killed--no disease may sour one's flesh; none age within these walls. Does this not sound like paradise? Does this not seem to be a place one could be happy in, for eternity? Is it not a welcome break, from all the mundane miseries of human life…? Yes, good, good, all you need to do now is shake my hand… And one more thing, child… May I have your name?

Temperatures are heading into the hundreds today making it the hottest day of the year so far. But I'm not complaining. Unlike some, I have the luxury of keeping myself cool during these sweltering days. With the touch of a button, I will have my AC unit running and the whole house will be like living in an igloo. Unfortunately, when I got to press the button, nothing happens. But I'm not in panic mode yet. Perhaps someone just accidently unplugged it in the middle of the night. However, I see the unit is still plugged in. OK, a little panic is setting in. I hit the button again several times, hoping it was just a minor glitch, but again, nothing. Now, I am in full panic mode. I head to the computer, wiping the sweat that is already dripping down my brown, and search repair men in my area. There are only two and one of them appears to be on vacation for the summer. Of course, he is. I call up the other one, and after three rings, he picks up, easing my nerves a little. I explain my situation to him and asks him if it is possible if he could help me. It turns out his day is full and won't be available until tomorrow. " Tomorrow?" I say in disbelief. I have no choice but to agree to it. He would be there sometime between 10AM and 3PM. I thank him for his time and hang up. With no AC or fans, I am forced to spend the day in a sweltering heat. I can feel the sweat dripping down my back and my clothes are sticking to my body. I could not take it anymore and headed outside. The sun is burning down on me, but I escape it by taking shelter under the only tree that is growing in my backyard. I turn on the hose and gently spray myself with it. It's so welcoming on my warm skin. It's like Heaven. Until the water aggravates a giant wasp hanging around and it turns its sights on me. " GO AWAY!" I shout, swatting my hand at it. I can feel it trying to get into my hair. I hurry to turn off the water and run back inside. I don't think the outside is for me. Upon my return to the inside, I found it felt hotter indoors than out. I've had enough. I gather a tank top and shorts and head to take a cold shower. The feeling of the pounding cold water on my body is probably the best feeling in the world at this point. I never want to leave but the water bill would be massive. Fresh out of the bath with a cold glass of water and collapse on the couch. The hot air is not doing me any favorite. Despite the cold shower, the sweat just keeps coming. The phone rings and I lazily answer it. It turns out to be the repair man from earlier. He had a cancellation and is able to squeeze me in. Delighted and thrilled, I immediately say yes and dance a small jig around my living room and tell him I'll be waiting. I hang up the phone and sit on the couch, drinking my water and wait. Hours would pass, and still no sign of the repair man. I'm starting to have many doubts that he is going to show. My body is completely drenched in a sticky sweat I pick up my glass and try to take a drink only to discover the water is gone and the ice is melted. I head to the front window and peek outside. To my surprise, the repair has finally arrived. I nearly hug him as he starts in on the job. I allow him to do his magic as I wait in the kitchen. After an hour or so passes, the repair man returns to the kitchen and looks rather grim. " I hate to break it to you miss, but your AC unit went out and the part I need to fix it, well, I don't have it," he said to me. " What do you mean you don't have it?" " I'll have to order it for you, and I'll let you know when it comes in." " How long is that going to take?" " Oh, about three days or so. I suggest you buy a fan or two. The next few days are going to be unbearable. Good day, ma'am," he said, tipping his hat at me as he exits the house. " Three days?" I said, slowly sitting back down. " Three days?" Then the repair man poked his head inside and said: " Three unbearable days." " Oh," I groaned, resting my head on the table. At least it felt cool.

The thick air of the night compelled me into a warm embrace. As my eyes traced to the sky, I saw an endless abyss of darkness, where the stars twinkled to share the embers of their light with the world beneath them. The dimness of the sky inevitably seeped onto the alleyway that laid ahead of me, blanketing any signs of motion. Despite the distant murmurs of street vendors sauntering in desperation to sell their daily quotas, and the soft noise of cars blatantly honking unintentional tunes, I became consumed in the rare silence of the evening. Amidst the silence, a faint growl behind me interrupted my thoughts. With each second, the amplitude of the growl grew louder and louder, like the rugged uproar of a car's engine revving to gain momentum. My eyes widened in terror and my heart skipped a beat. Within moments, the warmth of solace that once enveloped me had instantaneously disappeared into thin air, giving way for the icy shards of angst to be inflicted. The frigidity of the shards weighed my body down, pinning the soles of my feet to the ground. From my inner core to the very tips of my fingers, every limb, joint and muscle felt heavy and prickled with unease. Vainly fighting back the weight of apprehension, I took an abrupt pivot and turned my back to face the unknown, head-on. The abruptness of my movement made me queasy, and my vision became hazed. I squinted to adjust my eyes to the landscape ahead of me, like a camera focusing its lens to capture a new scene. All I could see beyond was a cloud of pitch darkness. Suddenly emerging from the dark, appeared a pair of eyes that gleamed with indulgence, reflecting the light of the stars. I shut my eyes in disbelief, convinced it was just a figment of my imagination. The growling grew louder. My eyelids shot open, and ahead of me emerged three silhouettes and followingly three pairs of eyes. The streetlights ahead of me dimly illuminated their faces, accentuating the furrows atop their temples that were creased in aggression. The tenacity in their eyes pierced through me, cutting open my vulnerabilities and consuming me with their gaze. My stomach began to churn and my mouth grew dry, giving birth to an unpleasant metallic taste that diffused across my taste buds. My eyes dilated as I watched saliva drip out of their mouths, collecting into a pool on the ground. I became paralyzed in fear. An ample lump formed in my throat, and I gulped rapidly to depress the mound of fear that increasingly choked me. The three figures continued to howl in harmony, as if chanting an acapella of doom. The blaring commotion ringed in my ear like a proliferating tinnitus, urging me to clench my jaw and fist to shield off the aversion that trickled into me. I watched as the three figures extended their hind legs, preparing to dive into the next delicacy of their night. At once, an immediate rush of adrenaline coursed through my body, fuelling a stream of light that radiated within my veins. The heat of the light melted the icy shards that had implanted my feet within the ground. I gained control over my body, turned around and ran. My heart pumped embers of fire into each limb that was once numbed. I could hear the demons behind my back rising in aggression, but I closed my eyes and ran straight ahead. Each step I took followed a soft mumbling of prayer to find comfort in providence. The layer of sweat that coated my face felt cool upon the soft winds that blew against my skin, calming the fire that raged within my body. Regardless, I kept running. I ran until the barking went faint, and slowly faded into the very breeze of the night.

Hello there. I am a young dancer, and I'd like to share a story that I am too afraid to share with anyone who will recognize it, so here I am anonymous. I have a specific memory in mind here. We were doing a photoshoot for a show that was coming up. I was very excited because although I had done some small photoshoots before, it was always exciting. An artist specializing in clothing had come, and he chose a few adults (we were working with a company of adult dancers that we knew) and one girl from our company to dress up, and then the rest of us were in our costumes for the show. He picked Avery to wear his garment, and I don't blame him. Avery was probably the best dancer in our company, and she was very pretty. She was often picked for promo images and lead roles. That, I don't have a problem with. There is a difference between favoritism and just being able to recognize talent and beauty. No, my problem is with what happened next. So, we were shooting pictures, the photographer was a bit intimidating, but it was fine. Our teacher was positioning people and then the photographer tweaked our movements as we went. Then, when they decided to go for another angle, something happened. Our teacher was positioning people around but left out about around five of us. Now, we five were not popular in the company. Not for being mean or incredibly bad, but we just didn't… stand out. So, when asked what we should do, our teacher said: “just go stand out of frame, this photo is pretty full of people already (to be fair, there were quite a lot of people), and this will only take a minute, and then you'll be back in!” Okay! We were happy to do so. So we went into the shade, happy to get some break from the sweltering sun. time passed. Five minutes. Ten. twenty. They hadn't called us back into the frame yet, so we just sat and waited. Then they started re-arranging people again. But they didn't notice us. Eventually, we realized that if we didn't say anything, we might be forgotten. Mind you that we weren't out of sight, just in the background. So I raised my voice and asked if we could be in yet. Our teacher was surprised, like she had forgotten we were there. She put us back in, but it still hurt. Getting to see the same four or five people get chosen to be in the spotlight again and again, while we five were continuously forgotten? I tried to act like it was fine, but it stung. It really stung.

A tall boy stood in line for inspection. Breathing hard, he prayed that somehow the inspector would miss him, or wouldn't look too closely. He was sweating. Terrified. Why was he so worried? Because Oran O'Keefe had bright, green eyes. Dangerously green. The inspector came closer. He didn't know where his eyes came from. His mother, father, grandfather, and grandmother all had those dull, blue eyes that would keep you alive in this place. Somehow, by some cruel joke of fate, he had been gipped. Closer. In this place, everyone was the same. Blonde hair, blue eyes. White skin. He had white skin and blonde hair, but it was his eyes that would kill him today. Here. “O'Keefe, Oran.” “Sir.” “Look at me. Head up, back straight please.” This was not an option. He lifted his head and pointed his chin. His green eyes flashed as he prayed God would strike the officer color blind. The inspector stared at him with his Crayola blue eyes and his hand fell calmly to his belt where he pulled out a walkie-talkie. “Sir, we have a code red.” God, no. He fell to his knees, shaking. In a sudden burst of adrenaline, he tried to bolt past the inspector, but even before he was grabbed four seconds later he knew it would never work. He knew he was going to die. At that moment, a squadron of soldiers flew at him from all sides. They snapped his arms into restraints and Oran felt the blue eyes of the line of children freezing his back. The fleet of men led him forcefully to a metal door. They punched in a code and there was an eerie sound of the door's latch unsealing. Fog poured out from the opening. It was dark where they led him, and it was cold. As cold as their eyes. They made their way through the mist, and just as Oran had started to feel the pain of the restraints, they stopped. A screen was positioned directly in front of them, nearly as big as a house. It flickered ominously as the mist swirled around it. A face slowly materialized on the screen. “O'Keefe. Step closer please.” He did. “I have been informed of our current dilemma.” Yes, and what a dilemma it was, to have green eyes in this sea of blue. “As you are already aware, we have certain guidelines that must be met. And if they aren't, well… We must make use of certain procedures to be sure that these guidelines are kept.” He felt like he was swimming in a pool of italics. Make that drowning. “Yes, sir.” “Wonderful! We are all in agreement. How nice! Now let's cut to the chase, Mr. O'Keefe. We will now commence said procedures. Immediately.” Oran dropped to his knees for the second time today, letting out a cry of terror and anguish. This was it. The despicable face left the screen, leaving him to drown in foggy blackness and italics. …. When Oran woke up, he remembered nothing of how he got here, only that he would die. But he didn't. A man walked in and looked at him with those eyes. He said, “We will begin procedures shortly.” But he should be dead! This was all so wrong! What was happening? No one survived having green eyes. A few moments later, another man walked in and started preparing a syringe. He filled it with a red liquid and inserted it into Oran's arm without warning. Oran let out a yell, and a hand was put over his mouth. He felt his head fog and his thinking became slow. He could not remember what he was here for or why this man was holding him down. All he could think of was… Sleep. …. With a gasp and sweaty palms, Oran woke up. He looked around and he felt different somehow. Something had changed. Something was wrong. He sat up and saw a mirror in front of him that he didn't remember being there before. But it wasn't him staring back. It was a boy with white skin, blonde hair, and blue eyes. There was no mistake - Oran was now a blonde, blue-eyed copy of every person in this horrible place. He refused to believe this was him. It couldn't be him. They had made him into the exact person he had never wanted to become. But at that moment, he decided that no matter what this place tried to make him become, Oran O'Keefe would always be the boy with the green eyes.

I opened my eyes at the insistent sound of my alarm. It was such an annoying sound, I hated waking up like that, but I had to, I needed to revise something for school and I couldn't ask my parents to wake up at 5.30am so that they could wake me up, right? It would be extremely selfish. Especially because the reason was not a real reason. I opened the window and the sun rays entered my room. I didn't even bother putting some clothes on, nobody would notice anyway. I know I'm lazy, but online school really brings out the worst part of you. I experienced it in my own skin. As usual from a month or two - I lost track of time, every day is just exactly like the one before - I sent a text to my best friend, Anna, asking her how she was. She had Covid-19 and she was at the hospital. I couldn't go visit her, but that was fine, we always FaceTimed each other, at least once a day. I revised history and at 7.30am I checked my phone: no answer. Maybe she was still sleeping. I turned on my computer and clicked on the link our Italian teacher sent us. Great, another Italian lesson where she won't stop talking. She's a good teacher but since we're in lockdown, she just goes on and on and on with our school program without ever stopping. It's April and she's already doing something we should do at the end of May. At 10am I check my phone again: still no answers. But I mean, wouldn't I sleep until 11am if I could? Most definitely yes. I had a 20 minutes break, so I decided to have breakfast. I can eat at any time and sometimes I just forget to do it in the morning: it's not healthy, but I still do it most of the days. I returned to my online lessons: I had history, the teacher was going to test some people. I wasn't even that anxious, I had my book just next to me, if I didn't remember anything, I could just look at it. But then, then something happened, something I could never even imagine that would happen. I received a call. Obviously, I did not answer for two reasons: I was at school and it was an unknown number. They called again 5 minutes later. And again 10 minutes later. The fourth time I left the zoom call, the history lesson, and answered. I would just say I had “internet issues”, it's not like they can know in any possible way. I heard a voice I did not recognize. Maybe a male? I wasn't sure. They said “Hi, is this Valentina?”. I answered affirmatively. It was probably just a call center, always calling at the right times of the day. “I need to give you bad news.” They said. Oh no, I didn't like how that was going. They hesitated. “Come on, just say it, this way you're making it worse.” I said. “Anna has passed away this morning. You were in her “favorite contacts” list, therefore I thought I should call you.” I froze. “Yes, great nightmare, now can I wake up?” I whispered to myself. “I'm really sorry.” They said. Wait, was that really happening? It couldn't be possible, Anna was 18, she was in good health. It must have been a nightmare, right? “What is happening?” I asked. “I'm sorry.” They said, and then they hung up. I looked around me: everything was in the right place with the right colors: it couldn't be a dream, it was too vivid. I fell on my knees, finally realizing it: Anna was dead because of a stupid virus. I was sure she was going to get better soon enough, I was so sure. How did that happen? I felt a tear rolling down my cheek. I couldn't move. I don't know how long I stayed in that position, I just know that my memories after that moment are very blurry. I remember my mother hugging me, I remember walking upstairs and laying on the bed. I remember crying until I passed out. The next thing I remember is going to her funeral. No, it had to be a nightmare. Just let me wake up.

The rave at the Pub was intoxicating and freaky mixed with the sweet fragrance of booze and whiffs of smoke high in the air. The room was dimly lit with only a swirling club light filling the room with multicolored spots as it rotated back and forth on the ceiling. I saw lots of bodies tangled together in closed spaces as the music blasted from the speakers placed right behind me at the back end of the booth. There was a twinkle of bright light as a young waitress lifted a bottle of an expensive drink, wearing the skimpiest shorts I had ever seen, heading towards my direction. The bottle was carefully placed on our table in front of a very thick man whose eyes were fixed on the full ample breast of the waitress that was nearly popping out of her skin tight top.  The lights were removed from the bottle and I saw the fine Jack Daniels scotch sitting proudly on the table alongside Ice cubes and shot glasses. She turned to leave but was stalled by the man who stuck his hands out to stop her. He placed folded naira notes into her back pocket while he gently squeezed her backside. She giggled and left the booth while I turned away to avoid appearing like a newbie. My head snaps up when the sharp smell of cigarettes hits my nose with a force that made me nearly gag. I do not like cigarettes, so I was totally turned off when I saw a full pack of Benson on the table. I signed up for it by being here, so I will endure. Going out was never my strong suit, so when I finally shook off the girlish shyness for such places and brazenly decided to visit the nearest one closest to me, I knew it would be a hell of an experience because I saw firsthand what went down in such places and most importantly I had fun and let loose. Obviously, I did because I am writing about it. The sitting arrangement at the club was kind of weird because there were only large cushion chairs placed side by side around the room, so the center looked like an open dance floor while the spectators sat and watched. This made me uncomfortable because I sat close to a lot of people I did not know and frankly, no one cared, so I relaxed a bit. My bottle of Smirnoff Ice was opened and halfway empty when some group of girls suddenly got up and started dancing. The lady with the shimmering black halter neck, bare back short gown caught my attention. She was the definition of a seductress. The lights bounced off her dress adding to her allure and I couldn't help but stare at her. She was gently moving to the rhythm of the song blasting from the speakers, twirling and shaking her body and waist to the beat. The other guys were focused on her as well because she was simply captivating and she worked her magic on the whole room while we watched. The song changed and just like that she switched up her tempo and started twerking. As much I loved to watch people dance, I knew I could not dance to save my life if there was ever a situation like that. I was born with two left feet that couldn't interpret any moves I had lined up expertly in my head. So I watched others dance and subtly moved my body from left to right with my head bubbling up and down to the beat of the music. . . Full Read https://www.dropbox.com/s/i3o1rmf7jlwsqy8/A%20VISIT%20TO%20THE%20PUB.docx?dl=0

I don't have the normal story people take the time to write down; I mean normal by eating disordered standards. I don't have any fascinating stories of all the time I was in mental wards. I don't have any horror stories of being trapped in a hospital. I don't have any inspiring quotes about hitting rock bottom and reevaluating my whole life. There's no patient doctor who got through to me, lock ups, or meal plans. There's no parents trying harder to be what I need. There's no life altering epiphany that inspired me to knock this shit off. I longed for understanding of my own mind. I became obsessed pretty young with reading stories about troubled youth with mental illnesses. I'd always loved reading, and I longed to find something to relate all this confusion and pain to, to not feel alone and broken like I could never be fixed. Part of me always still felt lost, because I never experience what this book characters did, fiction or nonfiction. I never had the opportunity (or punishment depending on how you look at it) of being sent to some fancy hospital. It led me down the dark path of never feeling sick enough, so I felt alone, never quite deserving of worry or help, no matter how bad it got. It was never going to be worth the time or effort to fix me. There's something to be said for being the kid no one notices while also having a mental illness. There weren't parents who cared enough to pay attention. There were no doctors to demand I be shipped off for reprogramming to eat like a real girl. And even if either of those things were different, there was no money to support any type of capitalist recovery program. I never even saw a dentist as a kid, (conveniently, since that would have been the doctor to pick up on the eating disorder due to what that does to your teeth). My mother took me to the doctor just enough to get my shots so I could go to school, and my doctor always ignored my shrinking weight, my never getting my period, and other health problems. Doctors will later tell me that the childhood neglect and emotional abuse would have strongly affected my personal susceptibility to having an eating disorder. My childhood piled with future abuse and trauma will also lead to a diagnosis of BPD (borderline personality disorder, not to be confused with bipolar disorder). I've been in and out the therapists and psychiatrists offices my whole adulthood, constantly changing doctors, never even knowing where to begin anymore. I do often wonder if I had gotten to be a normal child, with parents who give a little more of a shit, if none of any of this had happened to me, if I still would have gotten stuck with this disorder, this addiction. I'll also later learn I have a cousin who is anorexic, so perhaps the genetic factor would have screwed me over anyway, even if I grew up in a loving, caring environment. I would often sit and wonder, if any of this was worth it. If I was gonna feel like this forever, if this was the kind of sick that never truly got better, then why even bother continuing to live. Sometimes I couldn't find an answer to that, and those times ended up as very bad days. I often felt too lost to be found. I was always either too much, or never enough. And no one wanted to deal with the girl who never got better. No one has time for you when you stay sick. Living with an eating disorder throughout most of your life makes adulthood exceptionally more difficult to accomplish. You spend years of your adolescence not planning any sort of future, having zero dreams, because you just don't see yourself making it that far. You don't expect a long life, any sort of love story or successful dream career because you aren't going to live that long. Either because you plan on taking your own life to escape, or because deep underneath your denial, you know what you're doing is going to kill you, sooner rather than later. Recovery just a little blip on the radar that you aren't paying mind to, because you're not sick, you're just too strong to give up now, you've gotten so far.

Every single day, I write a gratitude journal. I have been writing one since I was ten years old. In the beginning of the pandemic, I was hopeful. But as people close to me tested positive and one of my best friend's dads succumbed to the deadly virus, the virus was not a cold statistic anymore. My little niece, usually cheerful, wrote a story about how she discovered a magic potion that could combat the virus. For the first time, I knew that I was going to be living through a period in the world that would constitute living history. Indeed, anything we write about this pandemic and our experiences of it, will be used as archival research for years to come. How have I being spending my days, you ask? I have been practising strict social distancing, as several people I am quarantining with are immuno-compromised. In my real life, I live and work as an entrepreneur and a tour guide, so tactile presence is important not just to me as a human being, but also in terms of my career. Of course, my walking tours have dried up, but I have spent my time listening to BTS, a Kpop band that I discovered when I was going through one of the worst phases of my life-getting out of a physical and emotionally abusive relationship. The trauma of that relationship continues to haunt me and sometimes I wake up at night in a pool of tears, frightened and startled too, at the person I became in a relationship with a person determined to impede my growth through their abject apathy and narcissism. It has been three years, and I have emerged out of this terrible equation stronger, wiser and post importantly, much happier. During the pandemic when I have some free time, I watch mukbangs and learn about ASMR, play video games with new friends I have made, the pandemic has really helped me expand my community and appreciate all the creative ways in which food bloggers, sustainable fashion designers are using their platforms. I am also very impressed by the way activists are using the tools available to them to agitate and organize. Writers are writing beautifully. I have been feeling very exhausted of late so I have been snapping at a lot of people who are very close to me. I have built an unflappable social media persona online, but I am still the same quiet, unsure and grouchy person I always was. It is so easy to lose sight of who you fundamentally are when accolades come your way. And contrary to popular belief, success does not always make you confident. It can also make you nervous and insecure. With almost no interactions offline, I find myself comparing my own life to acquaintance's lives. He got an award during quarantine. Her business is thriving. She got a book deal. Once you start looking at other people's curated feeds (and automatically compare your unfiltered life to their curated one), it makes you miserable. Rationally, you know that this is only one part of the story and there is so much more to it, but your insecurity and low self esteem gets the better of you. "I still have not finished the book I promised I'd write," I tell myself. But I have low energy and am mentally too exhausted to actually form characters. "I will be disciplined and create a schedule that works for me." But I fail and I fail every single time. Finally, I decide that it is time for a shift in mindset. I am lucky to be alive and healthy and it is really okay if I don't get much done during the pandemic. I am working on my full-time job, and being productive is not really the prerogative at the moment. Finding a vaccine for COVID-19 is. Surviving is. Staying kind and loving is.