Ever wondered what it's like to be loved? For 14-year-old Sophia Park, the second child of the Park family, this remains a distant dream. Unlike her younger sister Bora and older brother Ethan, who are showered with affection. She's accustomed to it. The more her family acts cold-hearted, the more she feels solitary. And it breaks her heart every time. A typical evening with the Park family. Everybody has their own bust. Ethan came home from work. Bora rushed to her brother on the instant; Ethan picked his little sister up and kissed her cheeks profoundly. In the meantime, our Sophia was watching this scene with teary eyes. She continued watching her brother and sister bond. Then she walked to her room, sighing heavily. She heard as her brother and sister were playing games in the next room. She could hear their giggles and laughter. She wanted to cry but she couldn't. Not even a single drop of tears could escape her eyes. But she knew deep down her soul was hurt. Then her phone buzzed, indicating she received a new message. She opened the message and read the text. “Hey, princess? How have you been?” She smiled while reading it. It's her friend, Alex. Her only friend and pal whom she is comfortable with and she feels at ease with him. Alex knows everything about her. “I'm good. Nothing serious happened.” She texted back. “Can I call you?" Alex texted. Sophia agreed. They had an enjoyable video call. They talked about their days and incidents that happened today. She is really content with him. After talking with her friend, Sophia started doing her schoolwork. She was peacefully doing her homework when her little sister came in. “Sophia, can you do my homework too?” She asked in a demanding tone. “Sorry, Bora, I'm busy. I also have my schoolwork to do,” she replied politely. Bora stomped her feet in anger. She punched Sophia and walked away from her room. Sophia groaned in pain as Bora punched her back. She ran behind her to catch her. But she witnessed something terrible. She saw her sister falling from the stairs. She couldn't help her. Bora fell from the stairs, and a loud thud can be heard. Every family member stopped doing their work when they heard a voice. Bora was lying on the floor; her head is bleeding, and Sophia is beside her. “What did you do?” Ethan asked as he suspected that Sophia did it intentionally. He bent down and took Bora in his embrace. “I-I…” Sophia looked at her brother with wide eyes. “I am asking you, you dumb. Why did you do it? Are you jealous of her?” Ethan asked with anger visible in his tone. He grabbed her wrists and pushed her on the floor. Ethan tightened his grip on her wrists, making her hurt. “I did not do anything. She fell herself. I didn't push her,” Sophia defended herself, not believing her blood brother is blaming her. “And should I believe that? I know how you are jealous of her. I know how you hate my little princess,” Ethan raised his voice. Sophia can't even form normal words because of shock and hurt. Her soul shattered into million pieces after Ethan's words. Suddenly the house felt oppressive and sultry for her. She wanted to disappear from this world. Meanwhile, parents called 911 and an ambulance. Paramedics took Bora to the hospital, and Sophia was taken to the police station for interrogation. “I'm not guilty. I didn't take any action.” As she was taken by police, she muttered, “I am innocent.” She had tears streaming down her face. She finds it incomprehensible that her family did this. Why? Nothing was even looked into by them. After reaching the station, cops asked her several questions regarding the incident. But she did not answer. “I'd like to sit in prison.” Since it was the only thing she said, “I accept responsibility for it.” She spoke with earnestness and sensibleness in her tone. She was prepared to accept responsibility and leave her callous family since she was truly hurt. Even the police were taken aback by her singular response. Cops did not ask any further questions. They put her behind chambers. Meanwhile, Bora was hospitalized and put in a resuscitation room. Family members are around her, worrying about her health as she didn't open her eyes. Everyone was busy with Bora, and no one even dared to visit Sophia or even think about her. Sophia was in the police station. She hasn't said a word. She lost her hope and motive for living completely. Her life, once painted in black and white hues, felt completely dark. She was sitting alone in a prison cell, looking at only one spot. She can't believe that her family doesn't care about her on this level. She has already given up on her future. She has already accepted her wistful fate, and the silence around her echoed her despair. The weight of her choices pressed heavily on her chest, making each breath feel like a struggle as memories of happier times with Alex flickered faintly in her mind, like distant stars lost in the night sky.

One day, in an increasingly large and crowded metropolis, there was a tiny store, which was specialized in selling books. It was owned by Clara who inherited the store from her parents. The bookstore was the one place that Clara adored with its climate-controlled structure, its old wooden floor, and dusty books all over the place. This place had once been her haven when she faced the worst in her life; thus, she managed it as her parents used to do. There is a story I heard and very much believe to be true: there was a girl named Mia and one day she visited the store. She was perhaps eight years old with big round eyes with the look of a child full of questions and Fabian was rather shy. She strolled around the shelves of the store rubbing the backs of the books with her hand but did not select one. Noticing this, Clara followed the girl and tried to talk to her though the girl seemed surprised and a bit reluctant. “Is there something I can help you find?” Clara asked gently. Mia looked up at her, then down at her shoes. “I'm looking for something… something special.” Clara knelt to the girl's level. “What kind of special thing are you looking for?” The girl paused for a brief moment then cleared her throat and softly said, “My brother is sick. Sick. ” She continued to breathe something ragged before adding, “He's in the hospital, and… I need something to help him feel better. ” Clara could feel a sharp squeeze in her breast at the girl's words. She recalled deep disappointment and hopelessness when a dear person was sick Surrey made a decision that a petty action in such a situation could help Mia to ease her burden She took her by the hand and led her to the corner of the shop where there was a solitary shelf with several sheets of origami paper and a couple of books on how to fold the paper crane. “Yes, it is about a child, a girl, who folded a thousand paper cranes with her own hands for her sick mother”, smiled Clara. Mia shook her head. Clara smiled. It is generally believed that when one has folded one thousand origami cranes, the gods will grant the person a wish; it is a Japanese belief often associated with good health. Mia stared with wide eyes and Clara succeeded in seeing hope in her eyes. “Would it do my brother any good?” Clara nodded. “Maybe it could somehow make him more comfortable and who knows, maybe even magical, don't you think we should try making them together?” Weeks passed and Mia came to the bookstore every day after classes. And she was with Clara in the corner where flannel blankets were wrapped around the books and the bright sheets of paper, making crane upon crane. It was when Clara in the simplicity of showing Mia how to fold a simple bird out of an A4-sized paper that one saw that Clara possessed impeccable dexterity. Days went by and people began to notice what Mia was doing to her co-workers. Gradually, it became customary in the bookstore that Mia and Clara receive paper cranes from those customers who had originally folded them at home, or from people who came into the store to fold paper cranes along with Mia and Clara. Thus, the little bookstore turned into a hopeful place and people of different backgrounds assisted Mia in achieving her dream. A month later, effort was made to fold the last crane, which was the thousandth crane. The two girls properly put the cranes in a big box and the following day, Mia took them to the hospital. When she got to her brother's room, he was confined to bed more weakened than before but the look of joy which was evident in his eyes said a lot when he saw the box of colorful cranes. ‘Here are yours,' Mia said gently. “Each one is a wish for you to get better,” Telling this sad story and looking at the cranes which were made with love and hope her brother cries. He rose and went towards his sister grabbing her hand firmly. For the next few weeks, something quite out of the ordinary started to happen. This time was promising for Mia's brother as he started to recover. The doctors were filled with delight after seeing him fully recover, one even stated that was a very rare occurrence. Mia however was convinced by the other view that there was magic in the cranes, the love that was embraced within each of the pieces. The cranes were suspended from the ceiling of his hospital as a constant reminder to Marge that no matter how bad things are there will always be a tomorrow. And although life is fragile and many times tough, still kindness and love no matter how small can make a world of difference. Years later, Mia and her brother would often come to the bookstore and it has become their source of with full memories of hope and healing. Every time they looked at it, they would regard the strength of a wish, the sister's love, and the mystery of the existence of magic in this world.

In a rather small town in America called Maple Wood there lived a man, who was a rather old man by the name of Harold Thompson. Some of you never had a chance to meet him in person, although one could easily remember him as a kind man, who always smiled. Uh was a man who had wasted over half a century of his life sticking to one house, a neat-looking thatched-roof cottage home at the of a blind street. He had a good wife, Margaret, and a daughter Emily now a grown-up lady, who got married and resides in the city as observed in the text. Margaret had died 5 years back and ever since then, Harold had been on his own in the world. Although his daughter came to his house often, he had the feeling the house was more empty than before. There was once a time when Harold was cleaning one day, more specifically in the attic when he found a box that had not been used in years. In letters, all of them enclosed in a dusty but very much untied faded blue ribbon. They were ardently penned lines that Margaret had written to him at the beginning of their relationship. Harold took his seat untied the ribbon and spread open the first of the letters. When he painstakingly went through Margaret's letter full of hope, dreams, and love the events that they have shared blew his mind. He could just feel her giggling, the touch of her hand holding his, and could just imagine the twinkle in her eyes. Thus for the next few days, Harold spent his time with the letters. Everyone was a treasure to him and the extent to which Margaret loved him was depicted by these flowers. So after climbing to the middle, he saw a letter that looked different at the bottom of the box. It was placed in a new envelope, with his name on it written in curled Margaret writing. Perplexed he cautiously unfolded it. Thus, the letter from ‘My Dearest Harold' jumps right in. "If you're reading this, it means I am no longer by your side. I know how much you miss me, just as I miss you. But I want you to promise me one thing: die, my dear. Live as we used to live before, life has so much more to offer you the things and moments to feel happy You made my life full of joy every day, and I want you to have the same in the search for happiness without me. When Harold met Margaret's words, he wiped his cheeks and swallowed a lump of emotion that formed at the back of his throat. The letter went on, telling him to go out, to be with people, and prove that life was still as great as it was before. In the last line of the letter, Margaret penned down, I will be with you in spirit, in each stride you make henceforth, Love Margaret. Ever since the day of receiving the letter, Harold kept on thinking about it. Margaret had always been the one willing to take risks the one who encouraged him to go out and explore more. And now, even after she has died, she was prodding him to live life to the fullest measure. One day Harold woke up, and within a few minutes, he decided something. He put some clothes in a small backpack, put the letter in his pocket and went on a trip. He visited the parts of the world they wanted to visit but either couldn't or didn't get the opportunity to. Sometimes men are lucky to meet new friends and they indeed reveal to them about Margaret and your life experiences. The sea was as far as his eyes could see it; the wind was playing with his hair as Harold stood on a cliff and such position made him realize the serenity in life. He knew she was with him; in the sunsets, the laughs, and the new adventures that he was about to start in this new chapter of his life. Last of all, he was glad that he finally understood that their love transcended time and space it was within him and it inspired him to live each day and each moment with happiness and passion as the two always used to do. Harold got back to Maplewood months later with a glow on his face than he had ever had before. He had the wish to provide a full life as was expected by Margaret, so he continued living to the fullest. Although he longed for her daily, he had to accept that they were together for a lifetime and gave eternal light to his loneliness in old age.

"Go to your room and study," Mom said as she shut the door. I panted, taking off my slippers and placing them on the shoe rack. Mom took her red slippers from the shelf and gave me my pink slippers. "It's ten thirty. Enya should go to sleep," Dad said from the kitchen. His hair looked like he had woken up, and he wore a white sleeveless shirt that showed his belly. Dad sipped the beer in his hand. "You are not working late today, are you?" Mom asked as she twisted her dry, over-brushed hair. She took out her pocket mirror, plastering her youthful face with makeup. "Not today. We are watching K-dramas for our date night," Dad said, fixing his messy white hair. "I already prepared the popcorn." "Enya, do your homework," he said, glancing at me. I read a research article saying kids are supposed to have more free time than adults. What happened to that? I tried to roll my eyes but failed, so I stared at the wall in front of me instead. A giant family portrait hung on the wall, facing the dining table. Every member of the family was there except me. The grandparents stood, facing their grandchildren with fake pride. Guama's children—my mother and her four siblings—wore white coats and stethoscopes. The youngest son, past his adolescence, had severe acne breakouts no layer of photoshop could remove. The eldest son had wide, red eyes like a vampire. As for the younger daughter, everyone knew what had happened to her. Their plastic smiles failed to hide their misery. Someday, if they like me, I will be in the picture too. I carried my backpack to my room with my remaining energy, then plopped my butt on the chair and spread my homework on the desk: ten pages of word problems, an essay due the next day, twenty pages of assigned reading for history, thirty linear equations for advanced math, and two worksheets for music theory. Meanwhile, the teens outside shook their butts in the middle of the road. I closed the window to avoid distractions. "Hey," Mom said, barging into the room. She carried an envelope in her left hand. "We need to talk about your grades." "Yes?" My heart pounded as fast as rap music—except it was not catchy. Mom slapped the envelope in her hand with a face that wanted to kill me. Not this again... "You did not get good grades this quarter, did you?" "I thought you were watching K-dramas with Dad." I closed my eyes, wishing and waiting. A river of tears was about to overflow, but I kept it inside because I was not a baby. Crying is no way to be a responsible, achieving grown-up. Mom opened the window to let fresh air into the room. Then she sat on the bed beside my desk and opened the envelope. "You got a ninety-five in Filipino." Her dismal voice cracked. I peeked through the window to calm myself. A group of teens my age played with their phone flashlights, dancing and drinking soda. They had the entire road to themselves as no vehicle passed by. A couple of boys hysterically laughed while rolling on the ground. "Who are those?" Mom asked, walking towards the window. Her eyebrows furrowed at the sight of teenagers. "Those pesky adolescents. No wonder you are always distracted, Enya." She rolled her eyes. "Go home and study, or I will call your mothers," she tells the teens. "Party pooper!" A boy retorted with a voice similar to one of my classmates. The street light shone at him as he stuck his tongue out. "You never let your daughter smile," a girl told Mom from outside. Mom growled like a tiger. The teenagers shook as they heard it, hiding behind a bush before Mom could throw a slipper at them. My eyebrows furrowed. The kids did nothing wrong, nor did they mind our business. "So annoying," she told me as she shook her head. I clasped my lips and bowed my head. "If you don't get good grades next time, then you will be like those distractions—" "Mom, that's enough. They are not distractions. You are." How did I say that? Picture Credits: Image">https://www.freepik.com/free-photo/portrait-brunette-asian-student-writing-something-her-exercise-book-drinking-delicious-cup-tea-coffee-library_22966906.htm#fromView=search&page=1&position=1&uuid=a91ad5a0-79fe-443d-8941-e78ce0fd96c4">Image by LipikStockMedia on Freepik

In the heart of Sunflower Valley, a picturesque town surrounded by rolling meadows and sun-kissed hills, lived a woman named Grace. She was known for her radiant spirit and unwavering kindness that bloomed like the vibrant flowers in her garden.Grace's life took an unexpected turn when she faced a daunting health diagnosis. Undeterred, she decided to transform her adversity into a garden of benevolent seeds. Inspired by her love for gardening and a desire to spread positivity, Grace embarked on a mission to cultivate a field of sunflowers that would symbolize hope and resilience.The townspeople, captivated by Grace's vision, joined hands to support her endeavor. Together, they cleared a piece of land and planted sunflower seeds with the same care and tenderness that Grace had shown them throughout the years. As the sunflowers began to grow, so did a sense of community and shared purpose.Sunflower Valley became a haven of compassion and encouragement. Neighbors checked in on one another, shared meals, and offered words of comfort. The once mundane act of tending to the sunflowers became a communal ritual, a reminder that beauty could arise even in the face of life's storms.Word of Sunflower Valley's transformation spread far and wide. One day, a renowned artist named Isabella visited the town, drawn by the stories of the radiant sunflower fields. Inspired by the resilience she witnessed, Isabella proposed a collaboration to create an art installation that would capture the essence of Sunflower Valley.Together, Grace and Isabella worked tirelessly to bring their vision to life. The art installation, named "Blossoms of Resilience," featured a breathtaking display of sunflowers arranged in a mesmerizing pattern that mirrored the interconnectedness of the community. The installation became a symbol of hope, not only for Sunflower Valley but for anyone facing adversity.As news of "Blossoms of Resilience" spread, it garnered attention from art enthusiasts, and the installation went on tour, visiting cities across the country. Grace's story and the transformative power of the sunflower fields resonated with people from all walks of life, inspiring them to plant their seeds of benevolence and cultivate resilience in their own communities.In the midst of the tour, something remarkable happened. Sunflower Valley became a pilgrimage site for those seeking solace and inspiration. Visitors from around the world flocked to the town, not only to admire the art installation but to experience the warmth and unity that permeated every corner of Sunflower Valley.Grace's health journey took an unexpected turn as well. Surrounded by the love and support of her community, she found a renewed strength within herself. The sunflowers, once planted as symbols of hope, now stood tall as witnesses to the transformative power of collective kindness.As the years unfolded, Sunflower Valley continued to blossom. The sunflower fields became a permanent fixture, and the town thrived as a beacon of resilience and community spirit. Grace's garden of benevolent seeds had not only healed her but had also sown the seeds of kindness and hope that flourished for generations to come.

It was a damp cold inside the abandoned church, as I sat in the rotting pews. Staring at the beautifully broken stained glass windows, a depiction of a westernized God glaring down directly at me, his eyes burning so hot, it could have lit the cigarette in my hand. My eyes dart to my hand, almost certain the little, white cylinder has caught flame. It hasn't, of course, and so begins the search for my lighter in one of my many pockets. The search is over and the cigarette is lit. I watch the plumes of smoke drift into the ceiling beams that are barely holding up the weight of the church anymore. The roof caves in, on the brink of collapse and the floorboards have been ripped apart, now used as firewood inside someone's house on cold winter nights. I play with my lighter and the glow sets eerie shadows across the walls, the warm, orange light making the cold cower in the corners of the crumbling building. I stare at the lighter, thinking; what a beautiful ending it would be to go up in flames, engulfed in the heat of fire and the comforting warmth of slow burning. My dead body would be a new addition to the deceased building, adding onto the pile of history that seeps into the dark, oak floors. A mess of flesh and flame, rotting wood and the footprints of sinners and saints. I light cigarette number two, throwing the first butt to the floor, where it lay in its own ashes. I don't bother to stomp it out despite the small flame I can see catching on a splintered piece of the floor. I can feel the flame grow beside my foot as I hold eye contact with the stained glass God yet again calmly inhale my smoke. The fire snakes along the floor, creeping its way into the pews and slowly up the supporting beams. I can feel it enveloping me, the heat growing almost unbearable. The hair on my arms singes and my body starts to sweat. I can taste the salt on my cigarette, can feel it dripping down my neck, my back, my legs. The church's structure begins to fall from the sky, as if God himself is spitefully throwing flaming spears towards me. The already caved in roof crashes down and the flames rise higher, leaving behind a heap of burning wood and bodies.

The first time Avery asked about her mother, she was five. She didn't remember much. Just bits and pieces. But she did recall her and her dad were outside, sitting on their favorite bench – An old, worn-out piece of furniture they liked to lounge on to pass time. All starry-eyed, she asked her dad and got the standard, out-of-the-textbook answer. “She's in a better place hon,” he said, carrying her into his lap. She remembered looking into his eyes. “A better place?” She was confused. “What could be better than being with us?” He laughed and looked into the distance. “You're just going to ask her if you ever meet her.” Six years later, Avery finally understood what being in a better place meant. And to be honest, it didn't bother her as much as she expected. It had always been her dad who had been there for her. Plus, she had never met her mom before and didn't mind cutting her out of the picture. Personally, it was okay with just her and papa anyways. So, it could be imagined the shock fourteen-year-old Avery got, walking in on a phone call her dad was having. “You can't just –!” He was pacing up and down, a habit of his when he was nervous. “Thirteen years Kate! You didn't even call!” Avery moved her feet and began to climb the stairs. She knew when somebody needed their privacy. “But she's our daughter. Your child.” Avery stopped in her tracks. “Couldn't –” He paused. “Couldn't you come to see her at least once?” Silence. Then a muffled voice. And a sigh. Avery couldn't recall what happened exactly. All she remembered was the crushing feeling she had when she realized that her mum was actually alive and probably didn't want her. The shock went just as fast as it came. She made no indication that she knew, and her dad didn't deem it fit to tell her. So, life went on, until it didn't. At least for her dad. Avery was proud to say she didn't cry. Not when she found her dad on the floor. Not when he was rushed to the hospital by the neighbors. Not when she came to visit him and saw him all pale and haggard. Not when she heard the news. Not even after the funeral. She told herself over and over again that she would not cry, and she didn't. People she had never met. People she knew. Everyone told her it was going to be okay, that they understood. But Avery knew that they didn't. After the funeral, Avery had to stay with her dad's sister, Aunt Veronica. In order for that to work out, she had to move. New house, new school, new friends. It was all very strange for her. Everything seemed to be happening too fast for her to catch up. Nobody thought to ask her how she felt about it all, until she met Mrs. Ada. Mrs. Ada, the temporary stand-in for Mr. Jacobs, the English teacher, was petite, brunette-haired lady who was said to be too nice for her own good. After class one day, Mrs. Ada called her back. “Avery?” Mrs. Ada called. “Could I see you for a moment?” Avery took a seat, wondering what this was about. Sure, she wasn't a star student. But she definitely wasn't failing. And even if she was, Avery didn't think Mrs. Ada had it in her to chew her out. Mrs. Ada pushed her glasses up her nose, a comforting smile on her face. “I've noticed you've got a lot on your mind lately, and I was wondering if you wanted to talk about it.” She paused, scanning Avery's face. “I know being a new student and all that can be a little too much –“ She continued, “ – but I just wanted to say that I'm here if you ever got anything troubling you, okay?” Avery muttered something along the lines of a thanks and began to stand up. “Hold on.” Mrs. Ada interrupted. She bent to bring out something from her bag. It was a black notebook with some words on the front. “I heard about your dad.” She placed the black book in her hands. The front cover read: 'There's no greater agony than keeping an untold story inside of you' – Maya Angelou. Mrs. Ada winked at her, “It's my favorite quote. For times you don't feel like talking, it might surprise you how well writing helps.” Avery rushed out of the classroom, a stuffy feeling in her chest. When she got home, she brought out the book and stared. After a minute of silence, she opened to the first page and began to write. About her dad, the mom she never met, how she felt, her new school. About everything. And for the first time, Avery let the tears fall.

A few months after Mabel's 16th birthday, her parents died in a tragic accident and now a blind Mabel was a ward of Aunty Kay. In her absence, Mabel would fall prey to her cousins' incessant bullying and tricks. One day, they had put peanut butter in Mabel's favourite sneakers. A fuming Mabel rushed into Troy's room and delivered a stinging slap with the one sneaker in hand to his face. I told you she was a blind psychopath Troy shouted. Sensing Mabel's distress, the guy introduced himself as Leo but an embarrassed Mabel scurried away. For the next few months, whenever Troy had his friends over, Leo and Mabel would secretly meet in the kitchen. He was 18, fascinated with cars and her first crush. Reality rudely intruded on their secret meeting spot by Troy whose shouts brought his sisters rushing in. An angry Adele, who was liked Leo viciously slapped Mabel d as she let loose angry words and barbs at Mabel's ploys. Mabel, immensely hurt rushed to the safety of her small room. After what seemed like hours, the door creaked open and Leo called out. Mabel flung her pillow at him and told him to go. Leo persisted and pressed a soft kiss to her lips telling her that she was a breath of fresh air in this hell-hole. He continued to caress her neck and shoulders. Kisses turned heated, caresses became more frantic and clothes discarded as Mabel's heart and innocence were offered up and consumed in the lusty atmosphere. In the dawn, after kissing a clinging Mabel, Leo left. Mabel blurted out her love when her cousins barged into her room unannounced. Troy and Adele laughed as they boasted of the bet Leo was a part of or else he would never look at a blind nerd. In the coming weeks, Leo was MIA! One Saturday after dinner, Mabel overheard Aunty Kay on the phone talking about the Johns moving to another state. This hurt Mabel to the quick who vouched to never fall for such a ploy! In the 5 years since that fateful day, Mabel blossomed into an intelligent, caring and capable young woman. Despite her disability, she successfully pursued her passion of cooking with the upcoming release of her first cookbook. That heart wrenching summer with Leo was pivotal for Mabel. Lost in her happy thoughts, she nearly missed her beeping phone signalling that her publicist and best friend, Maria had arrived to give her a lift to the venue but then encountered a slowly deflating tire. Luckily, the service guy Zack, was nearby to pick up the call. With both ladies safely ensconced in the truck, and their vehicle in tow, they made their way to the garage. Mabel smiled as she overheard Maria flirting with Zack. Before long, they arrived at the garage. The door creaked open signalling someone's entrance. After a shuffling of papers, a masculine voice called out Maria's name. Mabel froze in disbelief as her friend went about her business. She could never forget that husky baritone. It was LEO! As Maria concluded her paperwork and payments she hollered to Mabel which grabbed Leo's eagle gaze. The air was tight with tension as Leo stumbled over Mabel's name. As Mabel hurriedly nudged her friend to go ahead, a strong, calloused hand grabbed Mabel's wrist. Mabel was having not of that and delivered a stinging slap to an unshaven but hewn jaw. She was overwhelmed by repressed hurt. Maria tried to calm the situation down with the ladies hurriedly escaping after a few attempts. Zack met a stunned Leo standing in the same position, weary lines on his face. After some consideration, he held up a business card with a naughty smirk. Mabel refused to talk on her way back to the hotel but lying in bed that night, her memories came to the forefront. After a sleepless night she called Maria to confirm her schedule. A barrage of questions of Mabel's well-being were fired by Maria, which Mabel answered quietly. Seven o' clock sharp, the doorbell rang with a sombre trip to the restaurant. When the meals arrived, a frizzle of awareness ran up Mabel's spine. A voice which haunted her dreams announced Leo's presence. Crossing her hands across her chest, Mabel sat back without a word. As soon as Leo broached the topic of the first time they had made love, Mabel lost it and flung her plate of spaghetti at him. He made light of the attack and pleaded that he was threatened by Adele the morning after their sweet night. She had maliciously filmed them entwined asleep and would share a copy with the entire school. He had stayed away to protect Mabel's reputation. Troy had lied to the Coach which got him kicked off the team. His dad had gotten a job transfer out of state which was a clean break. Leo continuously professed his love whilst raining kisses along Mabel's face, hands and wrists. She softly returned her love enveloped in those strong arms that were imprinted in her memory forever and a day.

I have seen in my own experience that the Covid-19 has had a strong impact not only on people's lives, but also on the economy and education. It was the year I started working at the school after just graduating from university. Since I did not have experience of working with school students, I mainly took classes from primary school and less senior classes to teach. It was just my first year of working at the school. I was having my fair share of challenges working with pupils of varying learning abilities. In order to help them, I had to work with pupils who have difficulty in learning for free. When it was the last weeks of the third quarter, which is the longest study quarter in the schools of Uzbekistan, a week-early vacation for all kinds of schooling was announced that people infected with Covid-19 were also detected in the territory of Uzbekistan. The vacation lasted for several weeks, and the prohibition of going out became stronger as the days passed. In such days, I began to think about such questions like "what will happen to school education?" "How to continue studying?" As the most of my school children were small, there was a high possibility that they would forget their knowledge if they were not engaged for a while. When it became clear that the situation would not improve for a long time, it was decided that school education would be continued online, and teachers of each subject prepared and broadcast video lessons on television. In addition, we prepared topic explanations and gave tasks as video lessons and shared them with the students, and checked the tasks they completed all through the Telegram network. The course of the lessons in this form was a convenient environment for students to copy from each other, at the same time to get grades without studying and effort. This could be seen from the fact that many students (of course, not all) did the tasks and exercises in the same way. It was especially noticeable among primary school pupils. However, warning parents about preventing plagiarism could not help much. This was how the last quarter and the 2019-2020 academic year ended, and the students went on summer holiday. On September 19, which was the beginning of the new academic year 2020-2021, students started going to school following the sanitary rules. In the process of learning new themes with students, the fact that pupils could not master the lessons well during online classes had a strong impact on their ability to understand new topics. Because in the textbooks, the themes are always arranged step by step to study, depending on each other. As older students, who had had less difficulty, developed independent learning skills, it caused elementary school children could not understand the new lessons that during quarantine they had not been able to learn the topics in live examples during face-to-face lessons with the teacher. Their lack of understanding led to the fact that they had missed a lot of knowledge without mastering it, and as a result, the students' knowledge decreased. Not having live lessons with schoolchildren, especially elementary students, brought many difficulties and problems to teachers too. Despite the fact that the quarantine is now completely over, teachers are experiencing the difficulties of filling the "void" in the minds of many students. Because the greatest failures of the future will come because of the poor quality of education today. For this reason, the responsibility of successful future forces teachers to eliminate the problems caused by Covid-19.

“We've been over this, Leah," Cole told me for probably the hundredth time. "I'm not about to do that to you.” “But you wouldn't be doing it to me," I argued, determined to convince him of the merits of a long-distance relationship. "You'd be doing it for me." “Go ahead and rationalize, but I can tell you now it's not going to change my mind.” Cole sighed and kissed me on the forehead when he saw I was pouting. “Come on, Lee. We've talked about this. You're gonna go off to college soon, where I'm sure you'll meet a lot of great guys. I don't want you to miss out on anything just because you feel obligated to stay with me.” “It's not like that, though. I want to stay with you. I love you, Cole.” “I love you too, Lee. But trying to maintain a relationship when we're thousands of miles apart… it just isn't feasible.” “Are you afraid I'm going to cheat on you or something? Because I swear I would never-” “Who said anything about cheating,” he asked, confused. “No one, I just… I know that's a common fear people have when it comes to long-distance relationships.” “Not me,” he asserted. “That's the least of my worries.” “You mean you trust me that much,” I asked, touched. “Well, yeah. Of course. But I also just know you don't….” Cole stopped talking suddenly as something occurred to him. “You know I don't what,” I pressed, feeling my heart start to race. “I just… I meant that you… that I know you don't….” Cole looked like he was trying hard to come up with something to say. Though Cole hadn't answered me, the flush in his cheeks and his refusal to meet my gaze told me all I needed to know. “How long have you known,” I asked him quietly. He took a second before responding. “I… have had my suspicions for a while now, but I didn't feel comfortable making that kind of assumption,” he admitted, somewhat sheepishly. I fell silent as I considered how this new information might affect our relationship. It was a long moment before I mustered up the courage to finally ask him my next question. “So… knowing what you do now… that doesn't… change the way you feel about me?” I resisted the urge to cover my ears, afraid of what his answer might be. “I mean, I know there are certain… expectations that come with being in a relationship, and there are, you know… needs that have to be met, and I'm just not sure that I can-” “Don't be ridiculous, Leah.” To my utter confusion, Cole laughed. “This isn't funny,” I told him, irritated. “I'm being serious.” “I know you are. I am too.” “Then why-” “I don't know what it's going to take to get you to believe me, so I guess I'll just keep saying it until you do. I love you, Leah Rose. I love everything about you, and I do mean everything. And I would never, ever pressure you into doing something that you didn't want to do.” The expression on his face was so intense it was almost a little scary. “I need to know you understand that, Leah. Please tell me you do.” “I… I don't….” Much to my dismay, I burst into tears and started sobbing into my hands. “Sweetheart, what's wrong,” Cole demanded, clearly concerned. He wrapped his arms around me in a tight embrace. “Nothing,” I wailed, sobbing into his chest. “So then why are you crying?” It took me a second to compose myself enough to answer him. “Because I'm just so happy right now,” I sniffled, swiping at my eyes. Cole released me then, and I looked up to see that he was smiling and shaking his head at me. “Come here, you.” Before I could react, he pulled me closer, holding me tight against his chest. Cole gently tilted my chin up to kiss me lightly on the forehead.

Once upon a time, there was a young woman named Sarah. She had always dreamed of becoming a successful businesswoman, but she knew it would take more than just hard work and determination to make her dream a reality. She would have to move mountains to get what she wanted. Sarah grew up in a small town where opportunities were few and far between. Her family didn't have the means to support her education or her career aspirations, so she had to figure out a way to make it on her own. She worked tirelessly at her part-time job, saving every penny she could, and studying business in her spare time. Despite her hard work and dedication, Sarah faced many obstacles on her journey. She was constantly told that she couldn't do it, that she wasn't smart enough or talented enough to make it in the business world. But Sarah refused to let anyone's negativity bring her down. The first mountain Sarah had to move was getting a college education. Her family couldn't afford to send her to college, and she didn't have the grades or test scores to qualify for scholarships. But Sarah was determined. She took out student loans, worked multiple jobs, and even took classes at night to make it happen. It was a grueling and difficult process, but Sarah finally graduated with a degree in business. Next, Sarah had to find a job in her field. She applied to countless companies, but was met with rejection after rejection. She was told that she was overqualified, underqualified, or just not the right fit. But Sarah didn't give up. She took on any job she could find, from waiting tables to working in retail, all the while networking and building connections in the business world. Finally, Sarah landed an entry-level position at a small marketing firm. She worked tirelessly, going above and beyond her job duties, and quickly moved up the ranks. But even with her success, Sarah still felt like she wasn't reaching her full potential. She knew she had bigger ideas and bigger plans, but she didn't know how to make them happen. That's when Sarah decided to start her own business. It was a daunting task, and many of her friends and family told her she was crazy for even considering it. But Sarah was determined. She spent every spare moment researching and planning, and finally, she had a solid business plan in place. The next mountain Sarah had to move was finding funding for her business. She applied for loans, but was denied again and again. Banks and investors didn't believe in her idea or her ability to run a successful business. But Sarah didn't let that stop her. She reached out to her network, and eventually, she found a group of investors who believed in her vision. With funding secured, Sarah was finally able to launch her business. It wasn't easy, and there were many times when she wanted to give up. But Sarah's determination and hard work paid off. Her business was a success, and it quickly grew into a thriving company. Years went by and Sarah's company had become one of the most successful in the industry. She had finally accomplished her dream and had moved all the mountains that stood in her way. But Sarah didn't rest on her laurels. She knew that there were always more mountains to move, and she was ready for whatever challenges came her way. Sarah's story is an inspiration to many, proving that with hard work, determination and a never give up attitude, anyone can move mountains and achieve their dreams.

They were the worst days of my life due to the virus in the shape of a crown. Initially, days were not the darkest for me and my family at all owing to the presence of my unique and kind father who was a doctor at hospital and caught coronavirus. Despite all the danger that he encountered like high temperature and harsh cough, he was alive. This was the only thing that encouraged us to live and be hopeful for bright days. One day was so terrible that I felt as the most despondent human in the world because of the absence of my brilliant dad. On that day all bulbs in our city were switched off. A day before that day one doctor who was responsible for my father brought him to our home and mentioned not to approach so as to prevent the infection to be caught by us. On a spur of time, I listened to the conversation between my mom and doctor when he was emphasizing that the disease which is virus was terminal. As soon as I realized it, I was unable to speak, I stood straight as a sculpture. At that moment, I really wanted to die as I could not imagine my life without my father if the event mentioned by doctor came into reality. Fortunately, it did not take place. However, after a day I felt as if I witnessed the life without a shoulder to rely on for a while. At the time when lamps were off, dad stopped breathing for approximately a minute. At that minute I could not manage myself and forgot my identity; there was no difference between me and a dead person. A minute later, when my sisters, brother and I hugged our father and, to our immense happiness, he took up breathing in again and it made cry out of joy. My father told us with a muffled sound that he would never leave us alone and promised to be rally around. After a week, he recovered from that illness as well as started his job regardless of our disagreement and possibility of catching the virus for the second time. He said that he had held the responsibility for ill people due to his job. After that everything was going well in our family. On the other hand, a wide variety of things were forbidden such as going to school, college or university and so on. Furthermore, places that where plenty of people used to go, were closed, for example, markets. There was a dull life at home as I was really into studying. When I explained my mother that I wanted to go somewhere, for instance, to my grandparents' home and stay there in order to spend my time intriguing, she reminded me the condition in which a host of people were dying in hospitals without seeing their family for the last time. In my opinion, it was the worst thing. I changed my mind immediately since I realized feeling bored is not more important than being together with family and agreed to stay at home reluctantly. Another terrible factor of COVID_19 was that education level of children was decreasing as the days passed. In my humble opinion, one of the reasons was that schools were closed due to the pandemic. In fact, students in our country were giving up distance learning day by day. As a result, when pupils returned to schools they had missed lots of things in terms of school programme and were not able to catch up. If my assumption is correct, they lost almost a year of studying, which meant they did not know particular information that must have been taught in specific classes. However, teachers tried to teach students in the period of Coronavirus and some of students, fortunately, did well. In a nutshell, there is an old saying that everything happens for the best and COVID_19 had a huge impact on our lives: we learnt countless things such as appreciating what we have, being ready (to get used to any circumstances) and we learnt from the start to be grateful for the things we have in life.

August was always one of my least favorite months. It was hot, sticky, and there were bugs everywhere. I wasn't an outdoorsy person, or very social. I would spend my summer days in the house, with the air conditioning and a book in my hand. I would spend my summer nights the same way, although I would trade the book for a movie, or some music. I had 5 siblings, all younger, though there were times they made me want to rip my hair out. I can't help but adore the feeling of having people to protect, I love having people who need me. Earlier in the year, I had found out my mother was pregnant with another baby for me to protect. I spent time thinking about all the ways I would love this baby, thinking about who it would grow up to be. I watched as people bought clothes, as we prepped what having a baby would be like in the middle of the pandemic, and how naming it somehow became the hardest task. In the middle of the night, on August 9th, the baby finally came. I was woken up by my grandmother the next morning, she woke me up with such excitement in her voice, and tons of pictures of the little newborn. My mother and step father had decided to name her Kenza, which is funny because up until that night, it wasn't even top 3. I hadn't seen my mom all day, and my impression of the baby came in poorly taken pictures and the occasional video. Due to the covid restrictions, I was unable to visit her. I had never felt such impatience in my life, I was like a child watching their mother unwrap a lollipop, I was like a road trip passenger, waiting for a rest stop. My heart was beating, I was stressed and all that kept me going were those poorly taken pictures. My stepdad was in and out of the house, giving us status reports and trying to keep our mind off it, but his efforts did not work, my mother was in the hospital for about 3 days before coming home, for 16 year old me, that was a lifetime of torture. I wanted to hold my baby sister, and kiss her, and show her off on social media. I wanted to sing her lullabies at night and to be the first one to make her laugh. When she finally arrived, the house was decorated for her arrival. Thanks to mine and my grandmother's efforts, there were signs on the doors and homemade pictures hanging on the walls. We had given the house a welcoming touch, which was something it rarely had. I was one of the first people to hold her, and I felt an immediate connection. It hit me on that day that August 9th would always be important. Along with November 11th, April 28, March 3rd, October 8th and November 14th, August 9th would go on the list of days the number changed. It became one of the days I would cherish and celebrate, because it gave me one more person to love and protect. It gave me a new piece of my heart and it became unforgettable. With that day approaching, and the time coming to celebrate the aging of my last sibling, it's hard not to get teary eyed or emotional, this is the last of them, the last time I will be able to say “my baby sister's one” or “ wow she isnt a baby anymore,” those have been replaced with “you're almost as tall as me!” and “look at how much you've grown” I used to hate August, I hated the heart, and the stickiness and all the bugs. But it's become one of my favorite months, one of my most beloved times of the year, and all becaused it changed a simple number.

I was taken in by one of the oldest tricks in history. In the spirit of “no good deed goes unpunished,” I was robbed of hard-earned monies through a combination of writing flattery and low self-esteem. The curtain rose on this drama when my ego was stroked by the invitation to edit research material for a seminar on racism. It made sense during a pandemic year that saw the birth of Black Lives Matter. Racism seemed like an interesting and news-worthy subject--something a college-educated audience might discuss and debate in a summer school seminar. Racial incidents involving Blacks and law enforcement had tarnished the national scene, their convenient timeliness suckering me in even further. How had “Jennifer,” my client, located me? That too made sense. She had consulted the directory of the American Society of Journalists and Authors, a national organization to which I belonged. Jennifer first contacted me by email, which is normal when you're a freelance writer. So this too did not raise any of the normal skepticism that anonymous mail might cause. She explained in broken English what her project was. She was organizing a seminar on systemic racism at a New England college. Could I edit her research materials into a more accessible format so that she could have them translated into various languages? I remember worrying if she had plagiarized some of the content since it lacked attribution. But I reasoned that paraphrasing the material and disguising her style and syntax would work to prevent plagiarism while preserving the content. I hurried to finish the editing to accommodate her schedule. Caution and logic, however, had not completely deserted me. Before I began the project, I insisted on payment in full with a bank check. Jennifer agreed and the deal was officially struck. No contract, just a verbal agreement via email. After the check landed in my snail mail, everything began falling apart. Jennifer took too little interest in my rewrite and too much interest in how swiftly I could complete the assignment. Yet now that I had the money I had less reason to doubt her sincerity or honesty. After all a bank check is as good as gold, right? The strange part was that the bank check was for a larger sum than the fee we had agreed upon. In a trifecta of naivete, low self-esteem, and avarice I thought that perhaps Jennifer hadn't realized how much work the rewrite had entailed and was rewarding me with a bonus. Turns out I was dead wrong in more ways than one. Jennifer called and told me to send the extra monies to her in several U.S. postal mail orders. I began to get suspicious then, but when you're in the midst of an assignment, you concentrate on satisfying the client, not judging her. Then she threw in the clincher that she needed the monies quickly because her father had recently passed away from COVID and funeral expenses were high. I expressed my condolences. So far I was willing to follow her directions since the pandemic was at its height, and Jennifer sounded both sad and troubled by the supposed death of her father. In the end and through a convoluted series of bank transactions and mail orders, I ended up losing not only the $1,500 fee she had promised but also around $3,000. In hindsight it seemed ridiculous that a grown woman of more than average intelligence fell for such a preposterous story. But the situation had turned into a perfect storm. It appealed to vanity--that of the many competent authors in ASJA, Jennifer had selected me—and my desire to add another academic notch to my writing credits. When her excuses for forwarding my owed monies became lamer and lamer, I realized I had been hooked like a great white whale. The bank where I had first cashed her check now told me the check was bad. She had mustered enough logistical strength to reel me in. And then she just died. Yes, Jennifer literally died, at least according to her boyfriend, who reported to me that she had become infected with COVID. By that time anger had eclipsed any desire on my part to reframe this experience as the sad joke it really was. Naturally I never heard from the boyfriend again, and all the googling in the world did not yield results when the names were fake. Scams like this are met with a smirk and shrug by the police, so I chalked it up to a growth experience. It was my first real scam, and it taught me a good lesson. This week when I was approached by another scammer about my so-called $350 purchase of a three-year contract for Norton Security System, it didn't take but 10 minutes to uncover the deceit. The giveaway was when the scammer tried to convince me I had mistakenly credited his account for $3,500 instead of $350. I shelved my anger and congratulated myself on my newfound knowledge of scam artists. I was finally in the right place at the right time. My skepticism had reached epic proportions and I took out my furor by castigating the felon for his scurrilous trickery.

The weight of the world sat squarely on his back, pushing life free from his lungs with every passing second. Yet, even as he felt death's embrace, he showed them respect and kindness. He thanked them for their service and they squeezed the life out of him. That boy's name was Elijah McClain, and the Aurora Police Department murdered him. I learned about his death last year, but he had already been dead a year by then. As I stared at his face on my screen, all I could think was what if that were my son? When my son was born we planned on moving to Colorado, but the plan always got sidetracked. One minute we don't have enough money, the next the military called and then doctors diagnosed my son with Autism and we decided Colorado, the haven we dreamed about, was going to have to wait. What if it didn't? What if we moved when my son was born? We got a delightful house with a backyard where he and I would build a treehouse. I could watch him play and laugh from the window. Listen to him live his life to the fullest. Let's say we took the leap and ran from the racism that is the south for the beauty of the mountains. He would feel safe and we would feel safe. Then one night he'll walk to the store to get something to drink. A neighbor will call the cops because he's a young Black man at night. What if we went, and he lived his life to the fullest only for me to bury him? My son can't speak, he wouldn't be able to calm the police like Elijah. My son panics easily. He wouldn't have been able to understand the events like Elijah. It would terrify my son, like it did Elijah. He wouldn't have made it home like Elijah. What if I moved to feel safe? Only to find out there is no safety for people of my skin tone, wouldn't that be a terrible thing? So, I sit in the racist south. I hold my family close and I wonder what if that were my son?