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

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

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

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

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

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

Will you love to be among the ace writers that will feature in the second edition of our anthology? Will you love to lend your voice through prose, poetry, photo story or essay on salient themes affecting the world? If yes, then this message is for you. Tales Group is an arm of the blog: TalesFromTheOtherLand. This Group is a community of creative minds that provide a platform for sharing creative works & ideas, with the aim of educating, entertaining and also spotlighting writers. The Tales Group has begun activities for the publication of the 2nd edition of its annual eBook – (an anthology)- comprising poems, essays, photo stories & short stories. In line with recent global happenings, this year's edition focuses on: Migration & Epidemics as themes. Based on the above themes, we call for entries from writers of diverse climes that will love to be part of this rich compendium. The aims of this eBook project are: To explore the variety of ideas on the themes in focus. To promote the global visibility of authors & writers. To create a convergence of literary ideas and styles in one book. To encourage social change & a paradigm shift for the attainment of world peace & productivity. It is hoped that through the diverse themes and the multicultural composition of contributors, a melting-pot of ideas, perspectives, styles and flavour will be created in this entertaining compendium. Thus, interested persons are to send in entries to: esshietedidiong@gmail.com Specifications: All entries must be the brainchild of the author, no plagiarism. Entries must be ‘fresh'. It MUSTN'T be published on the social media or any other medium. Authors are free to explore sub themes in their entries but this must be within the confines of the major themes. The entries must not attack persons, Institutions or religions in their contents. Clearly state the title, word count and genre of each entry at the first line of each work. Clearly state the author's name or pen name. Include a Bio of the author & a portrait photo. Authors should state a means where they can be contacted ( in case readers would love to follow their works.) Entries should come in Microsoft word, single line spacing, with font size 11; Times New Roman font style. Poetry For Poetry, a minimum of 3 entries and a maximum of 5 are needed for your submissions to be valid. Prose (short stories/flash fiction): A minimum of 2 entries & a maximum of 3 entries. Word count b/w (1600 words as minimum to 3000 words as maximum.) Essays: A maximum of 2 entries. Word count- 1500 words maximum. Photo Story:  The images should depict one of the themes; it should be original – (that is, the contributor should be the person that took the photo.) The dates when the photos were taken & location(s) should be stated.   Entries under this category must be a minimum of 3 & a maximum of 5 entries. The images should be in JPEG format – 1600 x 1200 pixel. N/B: We accept diverse forms of creativity circling around the themes. This anthology will not be Monetized when published. It will be launched on various online stores; accessibility to this content will be FREE. The Tales Group owns the right of Publication and distribution of this anthology. Contributors to this project will gain the rights to be part of Tales Groupin house Community – where they can get access to publishing their future contents on our blog at a subsidised cost; have access to our online audience on our blog; get access to our consultants that provide services such as editing of manuscripts, blog contents, book cover designing, Website creation; and solicited professional advice/ mentorship on creative writing. DEADLINE FOR SUBMISSION OF ENTRIES IS APRIL 17th, 2020. TalesFromTheOtherLand (TFOL )GROUP retains the copyright. Even if you're not interested in sending in entries, be sure to check out our previous anthology titled: Tales and Twists. Thank you!

He sits alone in the night, there on the seashore amid the cobblestone rubble and tangled driftwood. A yellowy green and gray mottled full moon floats above the horizon like a giant hard boiled egg yolk. The luminous orb slides higher into the sky, shrinking, shedding its yolky hues, morphing into a blazing white disk that illuminates the nocturnal seascape in a silver light. He wades into the wilderness among the barnacled boulders, through the surge of seething windrows of percolated white froth and the rainy blast of cold salty mist spat from the explosive billows crashing toward him. The fizzing liquid roils about his body, heavy and torsional like a pool of serpents set aboil. He leaps onto his surfboard and paddles. He sits in the wintry Pacific Ocean bobbing about the tumult, rolling and pitching with the swells, the water's surface peened to the horizon before him with the moon's brilliant reflection winking across myriad facets of the agitated sea. Men have met grisly ends in the jaws of great white sharks not far from where he floats like chum along California's Gaviota Coast, lacerated by a phalanx of razorous teeth and drowned if not drained of blood in seconds. He is undaunted, thrilled more than horrified. Life is felt more intensely at no other time than in the ecstatic thralls of primordial existence, whether in the joy of love or the jaws of death. The macabre feeling is endangered these days in the Anthropocene. He appreciates that the opportunity to experience these ancient emotions still exists. Wave trains explode on the rocky shoreline behind him. The powerful Aleutian energy from a distant storm grinds the edge of the continent to cobblestones and sand like crumbs from a cookie. He floats up over crests and sinks down into troughs and waits. A set wave silently appears out of the depths of night, a one dimensional black wall growing larger. The big wave approaches in the vague form of a solid constant in an otherwise ceaselessly shifting realm of the darkened half visible. A quick shift to prone position and he is furiously paddling toward the oncoming wall of water. He digs deep and hard with each hand, fingers bent and spread, too cold to draw together. He springs up to a sitting position just before reaching the wave, leans back grabbing the pointy nose of the surfboard with his right hand as it thrusts skyward, his opposing free hand reaching out for balance as he shoves the board leftward riding it like a rodeo cowboy as it swivels around, pushing against the seawater with muscled legs and thrusting onto his belly and into a fierce paddle, chin pressed against the gritty deck of the surfboard, nostrils filled with the fruitiness of Mr Zog's Sex Wax. He affects a ninety degree turn in one fluid, masterly motion, the wave looming over his, crest curling like the snarling lip of a monstrous watery maw about to slam down with the force of a waterfall. Two hard grabs of seawater and the wave grabs ahold of him itself, pushing him forward, the back of his board lifting in the hooking peak of the swell as the nose plunges down towards the trough. He slides down the steep liquid slope on his belly for the briefest moment before pushing up and leaping to his feet. In a second he is standing with arms spread for balance and angled back as if to fly, mouth agape in concentration, eyelids pulled wide, tendrils of wet hair fluttering in the hissing scud blowing up the face of the heaving breaker. At home his family sleeps soundly snuggled in warm beds. His surfboard becomes a vehicle to a parallel universe, a magic carpet slicing a nick in the fabric of time as he enters another dimension for a fleeting moment before piercing back into reality. He slips into a liminal realm where the space between seconds stretches into something that matters. Where there are no barriers but the limits of nature and the extent of her skills. He is the supreme pilot of his existence in a moment of absolute freedom. All burdens vanish. There is no cold; no problems; no pain; no work; no responsibilities; no politics; no arguments; no fights. There is not a worry in the world. There is no world. There is only a single-minded focus on the wave and his relation to nature. And nothing else matters.

I wasn't always great; but, who was anyway? In sixth grade is when I would discover my greatness. I remember vividly the sequence of events that culminated to this revelation. It was in 1998 on a much awaited visiting day. All boarders would crowd by the school's gate waiting for their parents and guardians to arrive. My dad's red Datsun came into view and slowly made its way into the school yard but came to a sudden halt. I excitedly ran towards it wondering what was wrong. A small rock stuck on the left front tire was to blame. I kicked the rock and jumped into the back left side of the vehicle. From the window, I noted by the mouth-covered chuckles that everyone had seen this embarrassing spectacle including Margret. Awhile later, I was seated across my dad with my grades in the palm of his hands. He was fidgeting -- clearly disappointed – looking for words to express his dismay. "You know Felix, the problem with you is lack of passion. Without finding passion in whatever you do -- success will elude you. Do you understand?" "Yes dad." "Also, try to love your teachers. You can't learn from someone you hate." I don't know whether it was the advice or the empathy of seeing my dad this downtrodden but something opened up. Like a blind man whose vision was restored, I could now divinely understand the intricacies of middle school education. Mathematical formulas didn't seem like punishment anymore. By leaps, the rest of the subjects followed suit and became my slaves. Overnight, I became great. In a stream of four classes and 200 students, I was king of the blackboard. Mrs. Wamy, my then favorite teacher, would come with goodies in the form of bananas and avocados for whoever who would crack some mathematical problems she would write on the blackboard. Guess who would get a daily dose of fruit salad? My conquests endured till the end of the 7th grade. Why does life send some people your way? Like many other students, Margret sought me out to explain some concepts. I had seen her on a daily basis and her beauty couldn't go unnoticed. For some reason, I didn't pursue after girls. Maybe it was the fact that I had started school early and was therefore younger than most in my class. Seated on a bench, Margret came and sat beside me. She then proceeded to grab my thigh to position herself within earshot -- our thighs side by side. It was so close. Something weird was happening. My whole body shuddered and tingled. An electric tenderness left my nape caressing my shoulders collecting an army of goosebumps that were spread -- like butter on bread -- across my back and as they dissipated just as they were about to start the ascend of my derriere, I felt a warm mess deposited on my thighs. I was now an adolescent, a proper teenager. God bless you Margret. Thereafter, it was downhill for me. I was now spending my whole time and mental acuity drafting love notes -- meticulously hidden below protractors and set squares inside Oxford and Staedtler geometry sets -- to be passed on in class. During lessons, I would day dream of Margret -- in her blue and white checked tunic -- swaying majestically to the tune of Mariah Carey's Heartbreaker song (her favorite song) across space. On one of these depraved episodes, I was jostled into reality by a question directed at me. Not knowing what was asked, I sought help from my desk mate by stamping his foot. Barely audible, he squeezed out from his lips two words. Confidently, I answered. "Fallopian Tube teacher." The class roared into a delirious howl and for the remainder of the lesson, the spasms of laughter pressed on. There was no way this group would be teachable and the teacher left in defeat. With an expressionless grin I asked what the question was. She had defined an appendix. At this time, my small sister who was two years my junior had joined me in school. During visiting days, we would all sit together in the car. We were now back to where we were two years ago -- with my dad holding my grades wondering what would have gone wrong. I had no answer but my small sister did. "It is a girl called Margret dad."