May 2021. The day when the pandemic struck our lives like a storm. "What should we do with the body?" The head nurse said it louder, awaiting a reply. We stood there, my brother and I, blank and shocked. We heard the nurse shout. We didn't reply. Our brains have been dead for quite some time. After a few minutes, "Pack the body. We'll take her to our native place," Brother said. "We cannot hand it over like that. Have you the permission?" Brother told her. "Okay then. And I take it that you're aware of the norms?" Fifteen days ago, Mom was fine when we brought her to the hospital. Soon she became a patient. Now a body. Brother requested to keep her face open so Father could see the body for one last time. 24th of May, 2021. We buried her a few metres away from our home. It was Father's wish to have it like that. To stay close to Mom. Soon after, the pandemic struck our lives like a storm. We admitted Mom to one of the best hospitals. I still remember the first day of our visit to the hospital. Mom peeped us from her bedroom window from the 4th floor while we lay on the road looking at her. Her actions showed how much she missed us. But we made signs that everything would be alright. And it was, for the first three days. Then after there was no improvement in her oxygen levels. The doctor who saw Mom blamed Mom every time for not responding to medications when we approached her to inquire about the status. But Mom as always maintained her usual conduct. Her intention was to never trouble us a bit. Had the doctor invested the same time in caring Mom rather than complaining about her, perhaps things would have been different? Now we're all parted. Father now stays alone in our native place with Mom's memories. I stay at my wife's place, and my brother at his wife's. Because our permanent address in the city has lost its value without Mom. So we stay far away, thinking her existence still exists. We do not want to be reminded of her absence. Some thirty years ago, when I was born, we were thrown out of the house. My grandparents were against my birth, which resulted in our separation. "Please don't dare return. In any case, if you ever get such a feeling, find a railway track," said they. Mother did not utter a word. This was her routine from birth. To be with the worst. For more than fifty years of her life, she had gone through thousands of such phases. When it was time for her to relax, God sent her to rest. When we admitted Mom to the hospital for treatment, she was hesitant at first. Later, when we asked the reason for her ignorance, the first thing she asked was, "Does the insurance cover my expenses?" Only when we convinced her that the expenses would not burden us, did she insist on staying. A day before she passed away, she called me closer, gave a smiling look and held my hand. "Tell me the truth now. Is there any money leftover in the insurance to cover my expenses?" Such was her nature.  In retrospect, I can't think of a single day when she bothered us. She was a strong, an independent woman who led her own path. She set the guidelines. We followed. When the numbers of infected were increasing in the city, we sent her to stay with Father since our native was the safest bet. The place was more remote, with fewer than a hundred people counted and each establishment metres apart. But tragedies occur without a plan. The loss has been heavy upon us. Without her, everything has come to a full stop. It feels like we're left in the middle of the road, to start all over again. There's no one at present to guide, to scold, to warn, to care and to grant unconditional love like her. Everything is still now. Even the trees. What we do not want now is to leave those things unattended which she always wanted us to put an end to. I dare say it needs more than hundreds of living creatures to fill her place. She has no comparison. She would not have received any awards but as we know, she herself was an award. She is not an inch less than God. If there's one thing we ask of the world, It is this: Her rebirth.

Television was the only source of the sound echoing all over the house. The channels were being kept changing between classical Indian music, sports and news by Rumi's father Ramesh. And on the other side, Rumi was sitting beside the window sipping the chai and enjoying her new storybook. 'The breakfast is ready!' exclaimed Brinda with ecstasy. Then, Rumi and her father went to the basin to perform the perfect five steps of washing their hands properly to protect themselves and the others from the prominent virus all over the world taking lives - the covid 19. After that, their faces were equally bored by eating the same recipe of poha for three days regularly. The storage of food had decreased due to the scarcity in the corona time. Minutes proceeded with only the sound of ticking clocks and then they heard footsteps coming from the stairs. 'Good morning !' Ananda said. Ananda had come to travel all over Kolkata but he was stuck because of the lockdown all over the world. Suddenly seeing her uncle, Rumi's innocent face turned dull. Her fingers were shaking, and the spoon in her hand clunked loudly onto the floor. She took it hastily and left the room to the kitchen by running. Rumi was staring at the fan circling above her head making whirring sounds. She was listening to music and wanted to delete all the noises in all the world and her screams in her head. The sweet girl was spending her abundant time thinking about death. Her eyes were watering and seemingly nobody knew the reason. She was clasping her thighs and pushed her nails into it, there became prominent red marks when she heard a knock on her door and as a reflex, she covered herself up, covered the strikes with her ladybugs printed pants, wiped out her tears, paused the playlist and went to open the door. Brinda came with a plate of freshly cut mangoes from their garden and gave it to the hands of Rumi. Mom: 'Is there anything you want to tell me?' Rumi was awestruck for a moment. Although she tried to tell everything but converted the discussion to her studies. 'I am fine ma. I am a bit late in my studies but I will cope up. Mom: ' Yeah, I noticed that too. This is the first online test where you got a b grade in maths, you have always got a grade in all your subjects' Me: 'Ma, I said Nah! I will improve ' Mom: ' Ok, I told this to your uncle and he said he will help you with mathematics from today .' Rumi was petrified, panic-stricken. The hair stood on end, her heart was in her mouth. She was standing there without motions and shaking like a leaf. She broke into a cold sweat, and she could not open her mouth to speak a word also. In the crisis going on the whole world because of the pandemic, all people were facing different troubles in their lives. There were fewer oxygen tanks for patients suffering from the disease and for Rumi - there was less oxygen in her lungs as well, in her house, in her home. She could not breathe. In the evening, she sat stiffly by her uncle to learn maths. The scary sight was being nearer to Rumi in disguise of Ananda's hand. He was pointing one hand to algebra and with the other hand, he was brushing little Rumi's shoulder with his thumb. His hands were going up, stroking the little neck of Rumi. He snatched one strand of her hair and was twirling it. His evil fingers were being circled onto the girl's face. Then the hands were reaching for down. Ananda was scratching Rumi's soft neck with his claws, and then the hand was crawling inside her turtleneck top, towards her bra strap. Rumi's legs ceased, her voice fell silent, she could not make a sound also. All was numb from her head to the nails of her legs, the fingers were cold, and she was sitting with a closed door behind. Wearing the turtleneck top on this hot summer day and full leggings also not protected her, she thought to herself. She felt that her uncle was not stuck in her house in the lockdown, she was - she was stuck in the lockdown in her own home. She tumbled, fell and fled to the bathroom and shouted hard. Rumi was moaning, screaming and sobbing. She was slapping herself and was trying to rip down her full clothes. Brinda and Ramesh came down horrifically and was banging the door. Rumi finally found the courage, she came out unhurriedly, pointed her tiny fingers to her uncle Ananda and let out all the pain ' He harassed me, he tried to rape me, he had touched my thighs before and now he is trying to touch all parts of the mine. ' After some prominent calmness, the storm came. Rumi's father's rage was coming out, his eyes became red with trickling water. Ramesh took Rumi in his arms and caressed her hair. Brinda's eyes were flowing with water, she squeezed Rumi and took her into her core. Ramesh just uttered some words which were so straight and severe to not her uncle but her rapist; ' You will get the place you deserve. A police station or better death. Now take all and leave at this instant only. '

Television was the only source of the sound echoing all over the house. The channels were being kept changing between classical Indian music, sports and news by Rumi's father Ramesh. And on the other side, Rumi was sitting beside the window sipping the chai and enjoying her new storybook. 'The breakfast is ready!' exclaimed Brinda with ecstasy. Then, Rumi and her father went to the basin to perform the perfect five steps of washing their hands properly to protect themselves and the others from the prominent virus all over the world taking lives - the covid 19. After that, their faces were equally bored by eating the same recipe of poha for three days regularly. The storage of food had decreased due to the scarcity in the corona time. Minutes proceeded with only the sound of ticking clocks and then they heard footsteps coming from the stairs. 'Good morning !' Ananda said. Ananda had come to travel all over Kolkata but he was stuck because of the lockdown all over the world. Suddenly seeing her uncle, Rumi's innocent face turned dull. Her fingers were shaking, and the spoon in her hand clunked loudly onto the floor. She took it hastily and left the room to the kitchen by running. Rumi was staring at the fan circling above her head making whirring sounds. She was listening to music and wanted to delete all the noises in all the world and her screams in her head. The sweet girl was spending her abundant time thinking about death. Her eyes were watering and seemingly nobody knew the reason. She was clasping her thighs and pushed her nails into it, there became prominent red marks when she heard a knock on her door and as a reflex, she covered herself up, covered the strikes with her ladybugs printed pants, wiped out her tears, paused the playlist and went to open the door. Brinda came with a plate of freshly cut mangoes from their garden and gave it to the hands of Rumi. Mom: 'Is there anything you want to tell me?' Rumi was awestruck for a moment. Although she tried to tell everything but converted the discussion to her studies. 'I am fine ma. I am a bit late in my studies but I will cope up. Mom: ' Yeah, I noticed that too. This is the first online test where you got a b grade in maths, you have always got a grade in all your subjects' Me: 'Ma, I said Nah! I will improve ' Mom: ' Ok, I told this to your uncle and he said he will help you with mathematics from today .' Rumi was petrified, panic-stricken. The hair stood on end, her heart was in her mouth. She was standing there without motions and shaking like a leaf. She broke into a cold sweat, and she could not open her mouth to speak a word also. In the crisis going on the whole world because of the pandemic, all people were facing different troubles in their lives. There were fewer oxygen tanks for patients suffering from the disease and for Rumi - there was less oxygen in her lungs as well, in her house, in her home. She could not breathe. In the evening, she sat stiffly by her uncle to learn maths. The scary sight was being nearer to Rumi in disguise of Ananda's hand. He was pointing one hand to algebra and with the other hand, he was brushing little Rumi's shoulder with his thumb. His hands were going up, stroking the little neck of Rumi. He snatched one strand of her hair and was twirling it. His evil fingers were being circled onto the girl's face. Then the hands were reaching for down. Ananda was scratching Rumi's soft neck with his claws, and then the hand was crawling inside her turtleneck top, towards her bra strap. Rumi's legs ceased, her voice fell silent, she could not make a sound also. All was numb from her head to the nails of her legs, the fingers were cold, and she was sitting with a closed door behind. Wearing the turtleneck top on this hot summer day and full leggings also not protected her, she thought to herself. She felt that her uncle was not stuck in her house in the lockdown, she was - she was stuck in the lockdown in her own home. She tumbled, fell and fled to the bathroom and shouted hard. Rumi was moaning, screaming and sobbing. She was slapping herself and was trying to rip down her full clothes. Brinda and Ramesh came down horrifically and was banging the door. Rumi finally found the courage, she came out unhurriedly, pointed her tiny fingers to her uncle Ananda and let out all the pain ' He harassed me, he tried to rape me, he had touched my thighs before and now he is trying to touch all parts of the mine. ' After some prominent calmness, the storm came. Rumi's father's rage was coming out, his eyes became red with trickling water. Ramesh took Rumi in his arms and caressed her hair. Brinda's eyes were flowing with water, she squeezed Rumi and took her into her core. Ramesh just uttered some words which were so straight and severe to not her uncle but her rapist; ' You will get the place you deserve. A police station or better death. Now take all and leave at this instant only. '

I entered Theinkedperceptions.blogspot competition this week with my fable, "Why You Can See the Rabbit in The Moon." It is the first of many to come. https://theinkedperceptions.blogspot.com/2020/09/why-you-can-see-rabbit-in-moon-inked.html?spref=fb&fbclid=IwAR103N6oLDjCwOpRQ4na8kpkIe9NzYYrRRFQV1RT7E1GF0eFEa5xUBEG5Ho

The lockdown has opened my eyes to many things. As a writer, before the enforcement of lockdown nationwide in my country, I had a lot to write about, because I was always going out, seeing new things, witnessing so many interesting things, and enjoying myself. When the lockdown started, it was like a living hell for me, because in normal circumstances, I'm the type of person that will prefer to go a long way to see my friend and talk rather than just sit down at home and talk with my neighbors. Two weeks into the lockdown, I was already feeling homesick, all I did most times was to wake up, take my phone look for writing opportunities online, chat my friends up, sleep, and eat. It got to a time that even writing became a problem for me, I was just seeing the same thing every day, which was beginning to make me sick. One month passed, and there was still total lockdown, I had no choice than to start mingling with my neighbors, starting to know them better. Fortunately for me, one of the children who were my mate was also a writer, and I always enjoyed talking to him, we could rub minds together. Soon enough, I began to see so many things I could write about, but the laziness that I had allowed to enter me hindered me, I kept on postponing my writing plans. This neighbor of mine noticed my not writing, and forcefully asked me to pick a date when we can write together so that I don't get the opportunity to postpone again. So, I picked a date, we met at his house, and then we chose what to write on, I was hoping to be the best writer in my area. I picked my pen to write, and then boom, I went blank, I thought of what to write, but it still was not coming, wow, I was stuck and shocked, because I felt I could just pick up writing just like I dropped it, but wow, it shocked me. My neighbor and I then started to write more frequently, any little happening within the environment, no matter how minute it might be or look we would turn into a writing challenge. We began dusting our pens and books, writing articles, poems, stories; narrative, descriptive, any type, and form of writing. We went online, took courses that could help our writing ability, and help us improve it. Then we began calling our friends that we used to write together, to help them as well so that we won't all forget and relent on our writing skills, we began passing writing competitions to ourselves, at least if we could not reach the qualifying stages for some of those competitions, at least we tried our best and wrote what we felt was our best. Then came my mom's birthday, we all planned to bake a cake, the female among us helped us bake it, then somehow, some of my friends smuggled themselves to my house that day to celebrate my mom's birthday, it was really fun, and as usual, we converted into a very fine and interesting story. After about two months of doing our writing exercise, the lockdown was eased in my country, we were able to move out on weekdays but refrain on weekends. We were really happy at this new development, we started planning big, we were moving from house to house together, writing with our friends, my neighbors' friends became my friends, and my friends too became his friends. At times, we would go to a friend's house on Friday, and come back on Monday. Of course, we were not only writing throughout, especially weekends, we would play games as well, football games on a laptop, combat games as well, we even contributed money to buy good games that we could all play together with, but at the same time, our burning for writing did not die down. Then came the day for the senior sister of my neighbor to tie the knot, and get married. We were very excited because one, she was very understanding, and we always enjoyed her company, we were more like her very own best younger ones. Secondly, we were going to eat a lot, without anybody disturbing us, oh my goodness, and finally, another story to write on. We all loved her, so we helped her with the preparations for the party. We were all sad that she was leaving actually because that meant that we won't be having anybody to disturb again, but we were mostly guys, so just to form the big boy impression, we could not cry, we just kept on doing all we could do to help her smooth transitioning into her husband's house. The wedding day came, she allowed us to seat in front like we were all her ex-boyfriends. I was really happy, and made the best use of that day, because that was my first official outing to a party, in months, it was like I just broke out of prison, it was really fun that day, we all planned that we will write about our experiences before that day was over, but trust me, we all slept like logs of wood, we could not write anything until the next day, and we wrote a lot on the next day. I doubt if I will ever forget that party. My lockdown experience was more of a neighbor helping neighbor experience.

In this quarantine times, I find a breakthrough in my life, that makes my life more meaningful. I found a self-development program that really makes a great impact in every aspect. This program has a refund if we really did all the task required, but we can also continue to the next level if we choose not to refund it. The program is called Life-book. It was developed by Jon and Missy Butcher and emphasizes on how we create and achieve our goals in 12 different aspects: Health and Fitness, Intellectual, Emotional, Spiritual, Character, Love and Relationship, Social Life, Parenting, Financial, Career, Quality of Life and Life Vision. I joined this program through Mind-valley education program. Before this quarantine times, I lived a remarkably busy life. Sometimes it feels like 24 hours is not enough to finish all my ‘need to do' list. Sometimes I feel exhausted because of all the activities all day round. That makes my life seems meaningless, because I do not have times to evaluate and correct my life. And to make it worse, I never have a clear life vision when I finished my education long time ago. So, it seems that I only live my life just like that, without ever plan or evaluate my achievements. When I first joined Life-book program, I directly saw what went wrong in my life. This program forces us to think about what our vision is in every aspect, and how to get them. And although it's not part of the program, I also review all my achievements and failures in the past and try to understand myself. It seems that I already lost control of my life. Because of that, I vowed to take back the control of my life in every aspect mentioned before. Now, I continue to control my own life. Sometimes I can get more than expected, sometimes I experienced some setbacks. But I keep using my Life-book as my life compass. And every month, I evaluate my Life-book and update it according to the present circumstances. And I hope this Life-book will help me achieve all my life goals in the future

It was one fine morning, I woke up as the sun's ray glimmered onto the closed lid of my eyes. I was wide awake but my consciousness only grew when my mother knocked on my door to summon me for breakfast. I turned my phone on first to post “Good morning!” on Facebook, then stood up, wore my glasses, fixed my bed, and went straight ahead to the dining table where I found my family properly seated and ready to eat. It was a hearty breakfast. As Filipinos, we are accustomed to eating a significant amount of viand composed of the reheated food left from dinner, freshly cooked scrambled eggs, slices of bacon, cheap bread, a large bowlful of fried rice, and mugs of either hot chocolate or coffee. After working up my appetite, I went to the living room to turn the television on and watch the news as I remember we're still being haunted by the COVID-19 pandemic. My attention got instantaneously caught by the TV show played when I changed the channel -- an emotional thief, his nanny, and his blind blue men, and how they are fixing the problems they created while fighting an invisible enemy. He's no ordinary burglar though, he's not the typical wearing-an-aged-stripes-shirt type of thief. He's wearing a fine cloth and hands-free. He repeatedly assured everyone that he will no longer make the same mistakes that he still commits over and over since 2016, despite the overflowing number of people being cheated on and robbed of, apart from the overwhelming number of people acquiring the virus. The thief has a nanny whom he commands to face the people when he's been face slapped by the problems that he had inflicted on him. I cannot fully fathom how head-high the nanny is while talking about how the thief is robust in fixing his problems. The nanny then applauded the thief's blind blue men for doing great in advancing and imposing discipline to those who are aggressively retaking what they lost. They call them “terrorists” Probably because they are aggressive when they demand justice and equality from the thief? “Can we blame them?” I asked myself. “They only want to retake what was theirs. They are mere citizens peacefully living their lives but were robbed of by the thief. It is their basic right to demand.” I cannot fully grasp how great the thief and his cronies are at misdirecting the people's attention. Instead of fighting the invisible enemy, they chose to focus on reprimanding their so-called “terrorists” for loitering on the street. They even cut a rich man and his company workers' tongues to keep them from spreading credible information to the people whom the thief has been cheating on to. Can they reconsider their priorities?” I mumbled furiously. The show ended with a glimpse of the next episode. It began with how the thief is seeking for the masses' cooperation for him to finally eliminate the enemy, and ended with him, his nanny, and his blind blue men standing in front of a crowd with their right fist clenched towards the people. I sat quietly as the show faded to a close, gazing steadily at the transparent vase in front of me, wondering how such an idiotic TV show, whose main purpose is to entertain, awakened my senses of the reality that is happening around me. I am uncertain, but I know one thing is for sure: This is real. It is happening. Now, I understand that the people's rage is sparked by the unfair treatment and abuse of those who are in power. Because instead of putting an end to the invisible enemy which has claimed too many people's lives, the thief prioritized presenting us with laws that do nothing but trample our rights and take away our freedom of speech by arresting us for airing our grievances on our social media accounts. And instead of putting first our welfare, he chose to shut down a media company for speaking the truth and providing us with credible information. While his nanny and his blind blue men, on the other hand, continue to do what they're best at -- tell the people that everything is fine while things are falling to pieces, and if we choose to dissent, arrest us without a warrant and present us with trumped-up charges. I was beginning to think that all this is just part of my dream and I only need to slap myself to wake up, but no, this is the reality and I am living it. I posted something on Facebook that says “What we can do for now is to wait for the vast spread of the virus to finally stop, because after that is the day of reckoning” and put my phone on the side to rest. --- It was one fine morning, I woke up as the sun's ray glimmered onto the closed lid of my eyes. I was wide awake but my consciousness only grew when my mother knocked on my door to summon me for breakfast. I immediately stood up, wore my glasses, fixed my bed, and went straight ahead to the dining table only to find two men in blue uniform waiting for me to go with them to the police station for posting something that angered the thief.

The sidewalk is stained and uneven. Presumably, the unevenness came first and tumbled the alcohol-filled bellies of the night folk, which in turn caused the stains. The people who surround me right now remind me of those night folk. They yell and stomp to the melody of their own voices. They bump into one another and pour their hearts out to the sky. Their energy is truly intoxicating, it envelops me and soon enough I am doing the same. We sing and we scream, and we cry. But it is not night time. All the bars and the clubs are closed. In fact, the sun shines so bright behind us that I can feel a puddle of sweat gathering on my lower back. We do not sing to music, we do not scream because we are free, and we do not cry for our own selfish reasons. We do it because we no longer have the choice not to. The strings of morality attach themselves to the crowd and move us forward like a winding snake, waiting to strike. Signs painted with pleas are pushed out of the crowd and then pulled back in. Their corners sharper than the ingrown toenail digging through my flesh. It's painful, but it's the kind of pain that is truly nothing. The kind of first world melodrama that manifests itself in different forms at the end of every week. What I am doing is supposed to be bigger than that, bigger than everything. A matter of death or even faster death. These are the words the wind speaks to us on a sweltering day in September. They begin their journey far north where melting glaciers screech profanity as they drown in the ocean below. Their cries are slowly moulded by time and space until they become digestible enough that they can be fed to our fragile egos. A man spits them out onto the sidewalk in front of our conservative representative. The crowd falls silent as this cartoon fool contorts and cusses until his face can no longer support a darker shade of red. In the distance, you can hear our glaciers moan as they accept defeat in this global game of telephone. Congratulations, you have succeeded in looking like an idiot in front of the man who just tried to tell us that solar energy works better in Europe because they are closer to the sun. Behind them, a window reflects a scene back to me. In the middle, two little boys point fingers at one another. Behind them, 600 people stand and watch. Reality TV has gotten quite predictable these days. The crowd seems to agree and slowly people die off until there are only a few of us left. We stand in a circle and listen. I don't know why I stayed, to be honest, I don't completely understand why I walked here in the first place. All I know is that what we did today feels important. We did not walk to get to a destination, we walked so that 50 years from now our kids can walk too. But their bellies will be full, and the moon will be shining and the only thing they will have to worry about is the uneven sidewalks.

I'd usually refer Dalat as a ville, rather than a city. I call it ville with the whole of my innocent heart and girliest love. Every time I think about la ville, I always picture a large expense of blue sky dotted with cotton-candy clouds, vast greenery of forestry and streets masked with a thin layer of highland fog. I also think about him and myself when we sat on top of the hill on that chilly afternoon, looking down on the calm and lively city. There are so many emotions associated with la ville - from loneliness as the winds comfort me that day when he mistreated my heart, happiness when he held me tight under the soft sunbeam, to eagerness as the butterflies flutter in sync with the butterflies in my tummy that morning when I was waiting for him to pick me up or enormous sadness as the chills surrounded us when he told me he moved on. A multitude of nature imaginaries accompanied me throughout that lovely experience with my first love. I hold the city deep in my heart, as how we all would hold our first loves. But unlike how I connote him, I feel at peace whenever I imagine la ville. La ville has been genuinely kind to me. La ville is like an elegant mistress who possesses everyone's minds. Her every step emphasizes her gracefulness and sophistication. Her winds are soft, rains are gentle, even her silk-thin sunbeams are comforting as they cast upon the city-wide dewy branches. Just like him, la ville's inhabitants are kind. They are careful with their soft-spoken words, always politely start their sentences with a "dạ". La ville's residents treat each other with a type of authentic love that I would rarely find in the southern region and treat foreign visitors with tremendous hospitality. La ville even has a charm in her daily events. At night, she gracefully lays a light layer of fog to signal curfew hours. When morning arrives, her beams slowly pull away the layer to reveal the rustic lines of the French-styled streets soon followed with steady gusts of the gentle breeze. When it rains, la ville awakens the large mountainous branches to protect its equally thoughtful inhabitants - they greet each other with gentle smiles, friendly embraces, and frequent cups of warm tea. It's obvious to note that la ville is wholly verdant - you'll see an endless expanse of greens. La ville is famous for her romantic forests of pine trees, attracting couples for generations seeking for that rare feeling of bareness and unity with nature. I've seen all the seasons of la ville's: from rows of pink blossoms in the spring to green patches dotted with summertime lavender transitioned to fresh daffodils, all transformed to glittering fairy lights during festive seasons (la ville also notoriously hosts a large population of Christians). All year-round, though, are the lovely rows of colorful hydrangea grown outside the houses' short fences, wild roses in street pots, open coffee fields, and flower valleys. Essentially, every house embraces a French atmosphere with antique architecture and a generous area for greeneries. Personally, I reunite with la ville every year for her chilling aura... Taking a break from the bustling metropolitian cities and enjoying a stay at la ville always feel luxurious. However, the heartwarming people inhabiting at la ville are gems - interacting with them or merely enjoying hot cocoa as they go along their daily errands are the most enjoyable passtimes. The stress-free behavior relaxes even the most tense visitors. And of course, with so many tourists visiting each season, it embraces new trends and styles through the years. Despite this, the soul of the city remains - it's still the same ville I'd call home and the host to so many nostalgic memories and strong feelings. Although we'd normally atatch emotions with events and locations, la ville is different in the fact that my love for her and my former love are separate.

The Beach I don't like the beach at all. Not even a little bit. I make no excuses and no apologies. So there. I hear it all the time. “Oooh let's go to the beach!! I need to hear the ocean waves crashing onto the shore”, or “Ooh lets' go swimming and sunbake and eat fish and chips on the sand.” And the ever popular, “The beach is so relaxing, it helps me to calm my thoughts and I can think clearly again.” Puh-leese. If it's hot, there is no shade and not a tree in sight. Unless it's a tropical island, in which case, good for you. The gentle breeze most people anticipate is, just wind that blows your hair and your belongings around, let's not forget the sand, into places that sand, was never meant to go. Sand. Ugh. The nature of sand means you cannot or should not wear shoes unless you want said shoes filled with it. You take them off only to give your feet third degree burns. So, you either; take off running full speed to get to the water to try to stop the burning OR do a ridiculous dance from one foot to the other until you manage to drop your towel or whatever you plan to sit or lay on (because no-one just SITS on the sand itself. I mean …duh) As far as I am concerned, there should be floor tiles or grass, all the way to the water. It would make for a more pleasant experience all around. As for the water itself, once you get to it, you never really know quite what it is, you are standing on. Or swimming in. Is it the sand moving underneath you? Seaweed? Jelly fish? Why was it suddenly warm, just … there? Shudder. Nope. Just don't.

I was diagnosed with epilepsy back when I was 14. It slowly progressed and got worse until I was put on medication. Only one of my many seizures I was conscious for, sort of. I was asleep in bed when my entire body was numb, stiff. I was unable to move. I tried tp move my left arm, nothing; I tried to scream, nothing. I wanted to cry. I couldn't do anything and I didn't know why. I hadn't been diagnosed yet. I was completely terrified. I could feel my dad by my side. That is literally all I could feel. I tried to call him and I couldn't. It is by far my worst ever memory and my greatest fear that it could happen again. I haven't a clue how long this went on. It doesn't matter. All that I ever think of when it comes to my epilepsy is this horrendous memory and the fear of it happening again.

Today, we care about likes and comments more than we care about our health and safety. Now, don't get me wrong. Social media is the very reason that I am able to talk to you right now. I always thought it was a blessing until I discovered the dark side of it. I used to be an extremely good student in class but it didn't last long. My parents were always happy with the grades I got. One day they decided to gift me a tablet and that's when things changed. It was the day that I lost my true identity. I was simply not myself anymore. In the beginning, I used to play a game or two which slowly turned into an hour or two. My creativity and passion was replaced with chatting and surfing. It went on until the point that I used to spend almost 14 to 18 hours in a day and sometimes it used to go upto 20 hours as well. Yes, I was an addict. My parents tried everything to help me break free from the chains of digital addiction including counselling but nothing worked. The only result was that I turned more aggressive and anxious. It wasn't until last year that I confronted reality. I was chatting on my phone while crossing the street when I met an accident and from then on everything changed in my life. I couldn't walk or eat on my own anymore. I needed help for almost everything. That single moment turned my life around. This is not just my story but every one of us who is on their phone while driving, eating or crossing the street. Our phones have become an extended part of our lives and we all are tied in the chains of social media. We all can stop this before it gets worse. These are my tips from my experience: 1. Track your usage. 2. Use your phone with a purpose. 3. Set aside time for journaling, mediation and exercise. 4. Make time for yourself and your passion. 5. Make time for face-to-face interactions. 6. Be present and live in the moment. SOCIAL MEDIA CAN BE A BLESSING OR A CURSE, THE CHOICE IS YOURS!

We perched precariously on the edge of his seats. Dust and the stuffy atmosphere of the room weighed in on us. Drenched in the truth of it all, I fixed my gaze on the great bookshelf across the other side of the room; a second skin to the wall. The tall sash windows streaming sunlight through that half of the library, splintering the shelf with solid shards of light: the collections of various works obscured. Their spines were dark emeralds, royal blues, and rich red wines. Gold embossed titles glittered sharply through the blocks of amber where disturbed motes spiralled: ghostly unsettled pools of spinning, lost particles. The solicitor cleared his throat. My attention snapped back to the cold reality of the room; and my dead uncle's affairs. In this moment, I saw the look of bewilderment on my cousins' faces, all directed at me. The leather upholstery of Uncle Barty's chair grew warm beneath me. “Did you hear me, Miss Devonshire? The entire estate?” I swallowed, my throat catching on the dust. The vastness of the room and circle of seething relatives suffocated me, as if someone was replacing the air with steam. Outside, I touched the lion's head. He lay on his belly in the entranceway, sightlessly surveying the gardens. A patch of moss had grown over his eyes. Lightly clutching his cheeks, I stared into his old grey face as if my uncle was in there somewhere; turned to stone by the coldness of our own family. Uncle Barty had always loved my thick, curly blonde hair. When I was little, Barty would to lift me up on to the lion's back and laugh at how I'd stolen his mane. I stood there, welling up, my forehead gently pressed against the lion's. The closest thing to our last hug. He was cold, and cooled my burning head, slowing its panicky buzzing. I let out a long-suppressed sigh and pulled myself up straight. As I walked back through the hall, turning left at the long corridor of rich silk wallpaper, I heard raised voices. I thought of the lion and walk faster, stalking, gathering pace, taking deeper strides; until I pushed past the big oak doors into the library. It fell into a stony silence. “Ah, Miss Devonshire, you're back. Would you like some water? I've poured you a glass. It must be quite a shock, understandably, but Bartholomew always did say that you were-” “She coerced him. You made him write that, Cassie. You used your smile and tossed your hair about like you always do, and guilt tripped him into leaving you all this. Why would he choose you over his own children, fucking hell?” my cousin burst out, the one who flew in yesterday from halfway across the world. Not a moment too late to hear the will. “Michael,” I began, not knowing if I could finish without cracking. “Michael, when was the last time you saw him? Any of you?” Another silence. “Checked up on him?” Nothing. “You're his own children and you couldn't even pick up the phone, could you? He loved you and you just did nothing!” I choked, frustrated by how emotional I sounded when I wanted to roar in their faces. Michael and his sisters twitched in their seats, dry-eyed. Taking a sip of water, I seethed at how they had left their last living parent to die, alone. Michael sunning himself into a thick leathery tan out on a veranda; Judith and Suzanne blissfully spending their trust funds. I would have done anything to see mine again, to embrace them and feel their warmth on my skin, just one last time. The years I had taken to contemplate how precious each particle of my parents had been; from a hazy, half-forgotten vision of an idyllic childhood together. Soon, the Pride dispersed. I climbed on the lion's back and watched them leave our kingdom. They stepped into lined up cabs and trailed away, ant-like. Going on to God knows where; the solicitor too.

There once was a princess, in a land far away Who wasn't the youngest, she'd started going grey Her name was beautiful, though the rest of her less so Aurelia wasn't married- had never had a beau Her features weren't aweful, it was just her attitude Her face had grown sour, from being arrogant and rude Like other royal ladies, she had to wait for a prince Unfortunately, seeing her, made handsome princes wince The old king spent years trying to convince Posh princes such as John and Vince That his daughter was lovely and smelled of mints Petrified princes galloped off, yet the king took no hints The king couldn't wait to see Aurelia hitched In every town he visited, he made sure she was pitched As any young man's dreamy wife With whom they'd have a fabulous life He needed her to marry off well So he could live in luxury and dwell His old days in the castle, swimming in dough Thus he needed Aurelia to score a rich beau She was shown many a pretty polaroid Though no one seemed to fill the void The princess felt deep inside her heart Scrap that, in her every body part Despite the king's best efforts, nothing really paid off To every prince she met, she said “Do YOU know what I love? Horrible words, like ‘blast!', ‘poo', and ‘bum'” The princes ran and cried, “That's not why I've come I want a fair lady!” They stamped their feet and screamed That this mean princess Aurelia was not one they deemed A lady they'd take for tea along with their precious Mums “She looks as though she lives in the dirty slums,” One disgruntled prince yelled Want to know how Aurelia felt? Smiling, she shook her hair out over the balustrade And demanded the king arrange a date With the bum who lived out in the street She said, “That bum doesn't mind my smelly feet He doesn't care about wrinkles or grey strands He doesn't need Prim and Proper, or manicured hands This man likes me for who I am inside, Unlike those arrogant princes, for whom I have to hide My flaws and the profanities I daily use One broken fingernail and those princes would pop a fuse!” And so Aurelia married, the homeless guy next door The king was forced to move into their shack, all poor For there was a strict rule in their land A princess who doesn't accept a prince's hand From the castle, the royal family is banned A rule is a rule, no point taking a stand But for the very first time in his life He saw a smile on the bum's wife He'd never seen his daughter not look grim The light in her eyes was no longer dim! She was happy; she'd come alive Even though they now drank - not from crystal -in a dive They all lived happily ever after On tins of beans and laughter

So, there's this girl from my school; she's the most loyal and hard-working people I have ever met. There's just one problem. She hates me. Let's take this back to when we were 11, At first sight I knew I wanted to be her friend;. I loved her more than anything but had a problem with appreciating things until they were taken away from me. Hence why I thought it would be a good idea to tell her to stay away from me after 2 years of our friendship, I thought she was toxic but I was wrong. My best friend was the toxic one, hurting me and emotionally abusing me for the next 2 years of my life. I realised how big of a mistake I had made and then tried to fix it. Obviously, it all went horribly, we ended up arguing and she told me our whole friendship was a lie; that she never liked me, her friends found me annoying and that I was one of the biggest mistakes she had ever made. From that point on I didn't contact her. I would look back on photos some days and cry myself to sleep. Hating that I was now stuck with a toxic best friend and the person I loved most in this world wanted nothing to do with me. I was emotionally and physically a mess. I gave up. That was until I came across a quote read: “If you looked back at yourself in twenty years' time, could you have tried harder?” I shot up from my slouched position and had the biggest smile on my face. I could try harder and I would! I immediately decided to come up with my plan, I could ask her to talk. Now that we were both 2 years older, we would have been more reasonable with the way we dealt with things, right? But of course, I went for the difficult and risky route; I befriended her best friend and tried to get through to her that way. If i was friends with someone that close to her, she should be more open to having me as a friend. So, I had started to get closer to her best friend, but it was all going too far and her best friend loved and cared for me more that she did for anyone! How had this girl prioritised me over everyone, when all I wanted was to use her to get to someone else? I would still try my best to love her back. But it didn't work. I fake loved her for 10 months, to me she was just a tool that I used in order to obtain my goal. Which I did obtain. I was her friend! I had gotten back this amazing person back into my life and I had honestly never been better. I had faked not 1, but 2 friendships in the process but I finally had something that I had been trying to get for years. That was however, until everything fell apart five months later. The loyal, loving, caring friend had stopped caring about all of us. I didn't mind. I didn't need her to care and love me in order for me to do the same. But my other ‘friends' hated her. They were forever calling her names, talking about how she betrayed all of us. Her emotions were all over the place and these people decided that she was the one in the wrong? These ‘friends' that I didn't even care about, were against the idea of me talking to the girl that I'd tried to befriend for nearly 4 years.I didn't care. I continued texting her. Some 'friends' knew I was talking to her called me fake and back-stabbing. I mean I was talking to one of my ‘friends' ex-best friends but it was none of their business. But I needed them to think I hated her. Which hereby births stupid plan #3. Bad mouth her. Talk so much crap about her that everyone believes I hate her. That way I'll have nobody asking me any questions or calling me fake. But I didn't think it through. I thought everything was fine. Text her at night, come to school the next day and laugh at the jokes my ‘friends' make about her. Everything was fine until suddenly there's a change in her tone when she texts me. She doesn't text back for days, sometimes even weeks. So, I ask her, and it all came out. She heard what I said about her, all those empty insults and pathetic attempts of getting other people off my back finally reached the one person I care about most; and resulted in her wanting nothing to do with me all over again. I sat there that night on the phone with her, weakly trying to get to her understand my situation but I knew it was helpless. The things that I said about her were disgusting. I cried and cried on the phone, muting the mike. Letting the tears flow aimlessly onto my pillow. I'd messed up and nothing I could do could fix this. I had to go to school the next day, eyes still puffy from the night before. None of my ‘friends' cared to ask what happened. I sat all day holding in tears, holding my head down, holding myself together. I had to get out of this school. I couldn't handle seeing her knowing I ruined one of the best things that had ever happened to me. And was now stuck with many ‘friends' that I didn't care about. Within the next two weeks I was moving school, to a whole different city. I could start over! Except I still cried daily, still hated myself for a mistake I could never take back. Betrayal. Back-stabbing. B*tch.