A sudden crash jolted me awake. Yells of surprise followed, the sound seemed to have come from the kitchen, perhaps someone broke a plate. I could smell something tempting—fish frying. My belly rumbled in response, I couldn't ignore the lure of that delicious aroma. I slipped out of my makeshift house—the old, dusty store near the family's home. My stealthy steps were silent as I navigated past the garden, careful not to alert the dogs. The clattering of plates being set for dinner can be heard from outside. I settled in front of the kitchen door, a sliver of light slipping through the gap beneath it. The sun had set, and darkness covered everything, except for the comforting glow from the kitchen. As the family enjoyed their meal, I waited, hoping for a crumb or two. Though I wasn't adopted by them, I reside in this family's abandoned store. I'm just a stray—one of the many cats wandering the neighborhood in search of food. My days were spent hunting rats and scavenging garbage bins. When hunting failed, I'd sneak into houses and swipe whatever scraps I could find. Humans almost never greeted me warmly. They can be cruel. All I wanted was to fill my belly but they'd chased me away with brooms and slippers. I learned that leftovers from the kitchen sink would get me in less trouble than the more tempting food on the dining table. Yet, occasionally, the allure of the table's offerings was too strong, and I would risk a snatch. Once, a human caught me stealing a chicken leg. It was smaller than most adults but bigger than the little ones who screamed and chased me. Expecting a slipper to fly my way, I darted out of the house. But when I returned later that evening, I was met with an unexpected kindness. Instead of scolding, it offered me food from a bowl. It was the same food they gave to the dogs. It had a meaty aroma with faint traces of chicken. The dogs in this household lived in luxury, with humans going through the trouble of drying mashed chicken and shaping it into small circles for them. The family had finished eating, and I heard them preparing food for the dogs. The clinking of metal bowls and the sound of kibble being poured made me drool a bit. The kitchen door creaked open, a normal-sized human appeared—it was the mother. It wore its outdoor slippers and its gaze fell on me. Our eyes met briefly before it said sharply, “Why are you here, filthy parasite? Go away!” Its words stung. It's true my actions are considered parasitic as I, a stranger, welcomed myself in this household and live off a family who isn't mine. Yet, being likened to the ticks biting my fur made me pity and disgust myself. I scurried away, hiding behind the old outdoor restroom close enough to the kitchen for its light to reach. After the mother fed the dogs, it glared at me and warned me not to eat the dogs' food. I'm not foolish to try—those dogs were eight times my size. They'd rip me apart if I attempted to steal their food. Rain began to fall, the gentle drizzle prompted the mother to return inside. As the doors closed, I was left in the darkness. I slipped inside the restroom for shelter. The rain quickly picked up, and in the silence, I could only hear the dogs' loud munching and the increasing pitter-patter of rain on the stones. If the rain continued, it would be a cold night. I needed to get back to the shack or risk staying in the restroom till it stops. As I was about to leave, the kitchen door swung open again. A bright light spilled out, and I saw a silhouette, smaller than that of the mother—it was the little human. It had a bowl in its hand. “Oh good, you're still here!” it said with a hint of concern. It crouched down and dumped a small pile of fish bones near me. “Luckily, Mother didn't give these to the dogs,” it said, “I left a bit of meat on mine for you.” Some of the bones had bits of meat, not much, but enough. "Better eat that before the rain pours down," it said, then closed the door. The fish bones lacked the aroma of the cooked fish I had smelled earlier, not even close to the faint scent of the dogs' food. They barely had any meat and weren't very appetizing. But food is food; one must eat whatever they can to avoid starving. With the rain pouring down harder, I quickly gathered the fish bones and dashed back to the shack, each step hurried by the increasing intensity of the storm. Once I had transferred all the fish bones to the shack, I called to wake my young ones. They responded with their tiny voices. I checked on them, licking their fur as they nibbled on their meal. Afterward, I cleaned myself, my fur wet from the rain. The storm grew louder, a heavy downpour that seemed endless. After my little ones had finished their meal, I curled up with them, seeking warmth amidst the pile of old fabrics. The rain continued to rage outside, but we were safe for now. We survived another night, with bellies barely full, huddled together in our small refuge.

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.

It is an odd feeling being fifty. Wrinkles are settled in now, and my body feels more flimsy by the day. An elaborate continuum of forgotten memories hangs by a thread. As time passes, my thirst for spontaneity dissipates. My brain is resistant like dusty cogwheels waiting for a spark. Looking around, many strangers I used to know now rest six feet under with an identical bouquet of flowers adorning an $11,000 gravestone. Some of their bodies were taken by the wind, drowned in the deep blue sea, or kept in generational attics. Looking back, I lost many jobs in my late 20s, but thankfully I had a second chance to restart my life. Today is my 50th birthday. A day I never knew would come so soon. Occasionally, I wonder how differently my life would have played out or ponder on old friends. Even at this instant, I can taste the bittersweet memories of nostalgia in my lukewarm cappuccino. Reaching into my pocket, I felt a terrible shock enter my body. Like a pinch too sudden and too painful to even breathe. Slowly I pulled out my hand with purple bruises and a pack of sewing needles. A series of flashbacks entered my mind. My mother had sowed, and her mother sewed, and before her, my great-grandmother sewed, and her mother before that. Funny how bits of my past somehow sneak into my present and future. The pain took me back to when I was a little girl sewing patches of all textures and colors onto my corduroy pants. Clothing was scarce then, and most of my blankets were quilted. Sowing became a part of me and followed me through adolescenthood when I joined the Craft Club at my school. During the second meet-up, I noticed a girl named Lila, with hazelnut eyes and brown hair, in the back of the classroom with a croquet kit on her desk. After introducing myself to her, we became instant friends with the everlasting promise of world domination. Our friendship ended abruptly when she told me she was going to study in Europe. I lost contact with her and thought about her occasionally over the years. Even now, her mystery plagues my mind in times of solitude and reflection. Today is my Birthday. My kids and grandchildren are waiting for me to come home and celebrate a year more. This morning has been my secret escape into the past, but now I must return to the present and finish my cold cappuccino. I reach the table next to me and grab a few napkins to place my needles in. It is an odd feeling being 50, but now I feel comfortable in my flimsy skin. My life has played out the exact way it should have, and now I must keep telling my tale so that my daughter and her daughter, and her daughter will tell it too.

She was abruptly awakened from a rare sleep by what sounded like a crash under her bed. She hid under the covers, which provided a warm, protected feeling, as she froze in fear. She was still curious as to what caused such a bang despite the intense fear coursing through her. It didn't help that she'd been having terrible nightmares lately about monsters under her bed. Childish, she realised. She felt a bolt of courage strike through her like a flurry of lightning, and she nudged her covers—her safety—away and set her feet on the chilly wooden floor. Her double bed was spacious enough for people to sleep underneath it; a large monster could easily do the same. She quickly ducked and peered under the bed after taking a deep breath. She backed away, breathing deeply, sliding under her duvet covers. She shook and shivered under the sheets. Meredith whimpered as her mother flicked the light switch; darkness consuming the room. Meredith turned her head to see a shadow when a large hand grabbed her mouth. No one will hear you scream, and nobody can help you right now, a muffled cry rang out throughout the spotless space. It resembled a hospital ward the most. Her knees were hit in the back by a chair. Under the large hand, she barricaded her teeth in an effort to free herself from their hold. When Meredith unintentionally fell into it, it laughed menacingly. She made no attempt to stand because she knew she would lose this battle. She was thrown to the ground, her eyes welling up with tears. Finally, with fists raised, the shadow moved to step into the light. Meredith woke up with a yelp and a jump. The worst part was probably that. To her mother, Meredith exclaimed. "The dream always comes to an abrupt end!" Meredith became irritated with her mother's lack of interest and stormed back to her bedroom as she simply nodded and busied herself around the office. She sighed as she sat on the bed. The monster's laughter. She is positive that she just heard it next to her. She clenched her hair in agony and cried, "I'm not crazy, am I? She mumbled. It responded, "certainly not," as a giggle broke out. Meredith spun around in surprise to find nothing there. Even as months passed, Meredith's "insanity" only grew worse. She even missed weeks of school because it was so frustrating. Her mother expressed surprise and even concern. Meredith murmured to herself as she held her dry lips in front of her coffee mug. She sighed as the mug became empty. Her head shook and her eyes fluttered shut, disrupting her sleep. The TV's glowing light illuminated the tiny space as she fumbled with her fingers and nibbled at the couch. Meredith slipped into a deep sleep and a nightmare in less than a minute. Meredith was bound to a chair by a rope around her back and her legs were fastened to the chair's feet. The thing said with amusement, "You're back." Meredith's lips quivered with a sob. “don't …. I beg you not to hurt me. Meredith pushed herself further into the back of the seat as the monster began to claw her. Her abdomen was freed when the monster's claws tore the ropes holding her body together. In the light next to her, a knife shone. She picked up the blade after covertly lowering her hand. The monster was preoccupied looking in the opposite direction, muttering quietly to themselves. She slowly pushed the knife against the monsters back, the tip slightly grazing their clothing. A whimper escaped the monster's mouth, “don't please don't.. Hurt me” it sounded like herself, she thought. Meredith had had enough with this madness and insanity. Although she has never considered herself to be a murderer, this situation could influence anyone. The monster's knees were thrown to the ground when she kicked the backs of them. She turned the monster over so that, but for the darkness of the space, she could see the monster's face. Meredith inserted the knife into their chest because it was too dark for her to see anything other than the outline of the body. The monster's muscles tightened around the blade, making it difficult for her to pull the knife out again. She kept slicing and stabbing the body. The stomach, legs, face, chest, and throat were completely dismembered. As she stood over the lifeless body below her, Meredith trembled in terror. The shaky breathing had stopped, and the squelching of the blade being pressed through her skin had also stopped. She gasped and woke up only to witness the end of her own life. She lay motionless, nearly dead, with a knife next to her and identical cuts and gashes all over her body. Her surroundings were covered in blood, and the metallic smell made her feel even queasy. She tried moving and screaming. She had no chance. All this time, she was the monster. She knew she would lose the battle.

My father was always an imposing person, tall and dark-haired, with a piercing judgmental gaze. He tended to look at people from under his brow, giving him an almost constant glaring look. He was quiet, almost to the point of muteness, and preferred books and solitude over parties or socializing. He was by no means wimpy looking, rather a strong quiet aura seemed to radiate off him. He had many dislikes, and was distasteful of people in general, always finding a flaw he did not like in anyone he met. As a child, I was always a bit fearful of my father, yet I yearned for one of his rare smiles to shine on me. My mother always smiled. She seemed to light up a room wherever she went, and everyone loved her. Why she would marry (let alone fall in love with!) such a gloomy pessimistic loner, no one knew. They had met in college, as many couples do, and from what I understand my father found my mother insufferable at first. Why was she always smiling? Why did she show such an interest in him, in everybody? It confused and annoyed him, why was this girl not taking his many hints? He refused to be some popular girl's pet or charity case. It took a long time for him to realize that she was genuine, her actions were not driven by greed, but by a genuine interest in whatever she was doing. He soon fell in love and so did she. Now, it would have been such a romantic and heartwarming story if it had ended right there. His heart was thawed by her warmness, and he became a better person because of it right? No, unfortunately, that wasn't the case. He was still the same, cynical and people hating, disliked many things, and scowled more often than smiled. It was just now...there was a glaring exception; my mother. Picnic dates and going to the movies, things he would have normally scoffed at, he endured just to see her smile and laugh. Don't get the wrong idea, he didn't suffer through these things for my mother, he was many things, but a pushover was not one of them. I am fully confident that if he had truly wanted to, he would have objected. No, just the simple act of doing the normally annoying and insufferable activities with my mother, he enjoyed it. Such was my mother's and father's love; un-understandable for everyone but still strong and true, nonetheless. My father never wanted children. Why would he? Annoying screaming babies that grow into brats that grow into ungrateful selfish adults. But he did have a child, me. I suppose he figured that he could endure it if my mother was alongside him. I think he thought that his enjoyment he shared with my mother could be transferred to me. Perhaps. And anyway, my mother desperately wanted a child. How could he say no? I was born a spitting image of my mother, down to her light eyes and pale complexion. We smiled the same, we laughed the same, we talked the same. Everyone always connected us as familial at a glance. While my father looked more like he was some kidnapper when it was just me and him. His dark aura didn't help at all. We may have looked like an odd family, but regardless, we were happy. As a very small child, I felt that my father viewed me with distaste, but as I grew, I thought I could feel him thaw more and more. His small smiles seemed to grow more frequent the more I grew. I don't think he loved me yet, but it seemed he was coming around. Who knows, maybe he would have loved me one day. Maybe I would have grown through my teenage years with a father and not a stranger. We will never know. Because my mother died when I was 11. And the second she died so did my father's budding love for me. My endearing traits, traits that reminded him of my mother, became a curse. No longer did it make me easier to love because it reminded him of his love for her. All he saw when he looked at me was his dead wife. A constant reminder of her missing from his life and his hatred for me became palpable. “How dare they.”, he seemed to seethe. “How dare they live and thrive, while she rots in the ground” I knew he wished it was me instead of her.

I watched joy bubble in her heart as she said "I Do" to the love of her life. I could feel her happiness as she stared into his eyes and envisioned the start of a good life with the only man that swept her off her feet. Her smile was infectious and broad, reaching her eyes and spreading throughout her features as she had eyes for only one man, the man whom she would build a new world with, whom she would cherish for a lifetime and grow old in his arms. He drew her close and kissed her full on the lips when the Reverend said "you may kiss the bride" and we all applauded. The occasion was a memorable one and my best friend Vera was married to Vandy as he was fondly called in the full presence of her family and friends who wished the new couple nothing but love and happiness in their new home. Sadly, that happiness was short lived and replaced with visits to the hospital a few days after the wedding. Doctors appointments took over the honeymoon, kisses were replaced with prayers for recovery, life plans were replaced with charts for medication and together forever grew farther away as his health didn't improve. That fateful morning greeted me with news so heart wrenching that I couldn't help the tears that spilled out. She told me that her Vandy was gone, never to speak words of endearment to her, never to hold her lovingly and share dreams with her, never to touch her passionately and grow old with her, never to smile again and share this world with her. She was heartbroken and distraught, in denial and pain, shock and disbelief as she watched life take away someone so precious to her and her heart broke over and over again. How are you doing Vera? I asked, her only reply is to burst into tears and say, "my sugar is no longer in this world". Days passed as preparations to lay him to rest commenced and I watched my dear friend transition from a young twenty three year old lady to a widow mourning her husband one month after she tied the knot. As tradition would have it, she had her head shaved, she wore black clothes, she was holed up inside surrounded by older women who comforted and guided her through all the procedures. It was devastating to watch my beautiful, fun loving, energetic and vibrant best friend lose her light and vigour because life stole something precious from her. She was mandated to stay indoors, to avoid the backlash and stigma that would follow such an untimely and unexpected experience. My best friend matured before my eyes as she found courage to mourn the loss of her husband, endure the probing eyes and side talks, sneers and insinuation from people who think they are saints and god's. I could feel her sorrow behind the calm lifeless smile she shared with people around her, I could tell she was scared and confused, she was alone and drowning in the uncertainties of what to come after everything. That experience was a hellish one for someone as young as she to go through and I know she still struggles with it everyday of her life. To my best friend Vera, you are the strongest woman I know. You have endured more than any young woman I have ever met and you came out brave and strong. In the face of all that you went through you never grew cold or let the emotions bury you under its crushing weight because you kept fighting back. You are a conqueror and a queen, you rose about your pain and fought to be a part of this world and enjoy what life holds in store for you. I admire you my dearest and I pray in my next world to know a friend like you. You will love again, you will feel loved again, which won't make you love Vandy any less or forget him in an Instant. He is always in our hearts and I bet he wants you to find someone special to love and cherish with all your heart. Smile for the world to see that you pulled through, that you persevered and came out better and stronger. Smile for the world to know that you are not afraid to love again. Smile for me to show me that you are okay and moving on. My dearest Vera, this tribute is for you. Thank you for being the strongest woman I know. Your best friend, Jane.

Fear. Fear, frustration, and fury. An amalgam of these three emotions consumed me, on March 15, 2020. Still reeling from the buzz of the fruit punch at a pool party, I remember hearing a gasp escape from my friend's mouth as she shoved her phone into my face; I saw the headlines, and felt a sinking feeling in my gut. "All colleges within Karnataka, India will be shut down until March 31, due to the rising number of COVID cases." I slumped down onto the bed, a multitude of feelings and questions all hitting me at once. As my friend Jo went downstairs to break the news to everyone, nearly tripping with excitement, I wondered what it would mean for me. Hoots of joy over not having to attend 8 AM classes for the next 2 weeks filled the house, but things turned sour for me as I realized I may have no place to go. Thoughts of having to spend months in the college hostel alone started drowning out every other notion in my head. Calls were made, tickets were booked, and bags were packed all while I was still finishing up my beer, trying to catch up with just how swiftly things were changing. An hour ago, my friends and I were grumbling about having to wake up early for class. Now texts about carpooling to the airport were buzzing around. Jo ran up to me, visibly shaking with excitement. "We're going home! I can't wait to eat my mom's food again!", she screamed into my ear to make herself audible over the deafening blast of music. I smiled at her, unsure of what to say. I saw realization dawn on her face, she asked me,"Oh no, aren't your parents in Saudi? Where will you be going?" "I'm not really sure yet, I can't get a hold of my parents. I may just stay here." She gave me a look of sympathy, patting my shoulder before moving on to someone else. There it was. Sympathy. It was very quickly followed by my own frustration. Why was everyone going home anyway? Wasn't it more socially responsible of us to stay put? I was so frustrated with my own predicament that I got angry at anyone who shared their travel plans, or showed me even an iota of sympathy. March 16th. My parents finally picked up and told me exactly what I expected: Stay put, don't travel now. Of course, it was the rational thing to do. The only other family I could turn to within the country was my brother. Yes, I could stay at his place, but I risked him getting infected too, and I didn't want that. The guilt would be awfully overbearing, wouldn't it? Thus, it was decided I'd stay put at the hostel until the storm was weathered. After all, the official notice stated that colleges would only be closed for two weeks, which I can handle. At least, I thought I could. March 17. The hostel was now mostly empty. Students filed out of the place as quickly as they could, replacing the halls with an eerie silence resembling a ghost town. If you're anything like me, you would tell yourself initially that you'll get by. You'll manage. However, as hours pass by, and sunrises turn into sunsets, you'll realize you can handle a lot of obstacles in life, but loneliness is not one of them. I'd stay on the phone with my mom for hours every day, until she went to make lunch, dinner, or whatever the next meal would be. As each day passed, I became more and more miserable. Trashy pop songs would play on speaker just to drown out the silence. I lived off of ramen and cereal most days, unable to find the energy to eat a proper meal. Everyday, I told myself that the ordeal would soon be over, and that colleges would reopen soon. How naive I was. A week passed when another announcement popped up: "The lock down will be extended until further notice." That was it. The breaking point. I understood what this meant- I could be stuck here for months. After thoroughly explaining to my parents the recent turn of events, and the fact that I'd inevitably lose my mind if I had to spend months in this tiny, humid, ant-infested room all by myself, they booked tickets for me to go stay with my brother. March 22. I waited at the airport, gleeful about finally returning to a space of comfort and human contact. I scrolled through my phone, looking for new updates concerning the pandemic when my phone vibrated with a text from Jo. "Hey, I hope you're doing okay. Just received news that my uncle passed away due to COVID. You're travelling today, right? Stay safe. I love you." Shame heated up my face. For a week, I whined and fussed, all because I didn't want to live alone. Meanwhile, people were losing lives to this disease. Guilt chewed up my insides as I settled into my seat on the flight. I realized that I was living in a bubble, ignorant of just how gravely this pandemic was affecting others. I was always taught by my parents to place myself in another's shoes, to climb into his skin and walk in it to feel as one and yet, when it mattered most, I chose not to. As the flight gained height, my yearning to go home vanished, now replaced by guilt and regret. Oh well, I was going home.

As usual with days preciding the coming of the rain, the weather was cold and for lack of a better word, damp. I've always been a fan of the raining season, but this time, I wasn't. Not only because it seemed to interfere whenever I had something important to do; typical, but because it brought with it symptoms of my mortal enemy - malaria. I consider myself a healthy and strong girl and on a normal day, would be happy to brag to anyone of my prowess and ability to remain so all year round. Except when visited by this dreaded sickness which has proven to be the only one to bring me to my knees and seek my mothers breast at my middle 20's. It starts with an inability to get out of bed and general body weakness but like I said, I'm strong! So I force myself out of bed. Within the day or the next morning, I'm hit with an intense neck pain , sometimes, the painful clogging of my throat which advances to a raging cough and catarrh then finishes off with a loss of appetite. The same way malaria comes knocking at my health, is the same way it leaves. Closing the door with an even more furious cough and catarrh. Usually, everyone is sympathetic during this period and even quicker to offer home remedies but this time was different and I learnt the hard way. You see, during that period, an even more dreaded disease; corona virus was on the rampage and while many Nigerians where adamant it doesn't exist and was a ruse created by the 'powers that be,' many of them where as scared as chicks without their mother hen. I initially was among the former but I wasn't scared, remember, I am strong! And even better, my father who we fondly call baba lawo because of his tinkering with natural herbs was out to the rescue. Right from the moment we got whisp of the pandemic, he made a concoction of ginger, lemon, garlic and honey long before the rumor of its preventive capabilities. We were also armed with our nose guards and the home made hand sanitizer my father was kind to make. I got to the office where I was an intern and while educating different skeptics on the danger and symptoms of the virus, malaria which had just begun closing its door decided to raise it ugly head and I began coughing profusely. Mind you, many had heard coughing was a symptom and forgetting my condition, I had been too eager to share this. My embarrassment knew no bound when some of the ladies subtly moved away from me and the manager asked me in not too many words " to go home as many of them still had kids and weren't ready to die yet." My mouth dropped, I was offended. I couldn't believe these people thought the virus capable of imprisoning a gallant lass like me, how naive I was. I stood my ground and refused to return home. Not only because I was embarrassed and everyone was waiting for my response but also because I knew I was just recovering from malaria and wasn't a danger. If you know anything about cough, you'd know it could be quite vindictive and annoying. Many days later, when I thought to be done with anything related to those symptoms, I attended a church program. A few days shy to the lockdown in Abuja, Nigeria and sat beside a handsome young man. Eager to learn, the hall quieted down and everyone was paying rapt attention. Then started this low, persistent tingle in my throat. I tried to push it down, I really did. Clenching my teeth and even holding my breathe but nothing helped and before I realized, I was coughing up a storm. My throat aching and chest heaving. I felt like transforming into an ant and crawling away. I coughed through out the meeting and though I wanted to step out, I sat in the middle of my row and was too embarrassed to stand, settling for melting into my seat. Not only because I was obviously disturbing the meeting, but because the young handsome man was so scared, he might have soiled his pants. He couldn't inch way from me faster and if he had the ability, would have disappeared. Not that I blame him, life is precious. We silently had to deal with seating awkwardly beside each other till the meeting ended and he jumped up faster than a kangaroo without so much as a "bless you." That day, I learnt a big lesson. Something that we've all heard but never paid attention to. Discrimination kills faster than any disease. I knew I wasn't hosting the virus but I never felt so uncomfortable and unclean like that evening in the church. Of course, there is an inherent need to protect ourselves and our families from this pandemic but we need to also remember to be kind even to those who may have lost the battle. Love and kindness are truly the greatest cure to everything on earth.

I can't say I was envious of the man that sat so eloquently before me – who smiled and chitted at a woman beyond me. Nor was I spiteful toward the dubious child that would grow into certain knowledge eventually. No, it wasn't that at all but that of a hornet perched on that hand carved vase - slipping its slender feelers through the cracks and flitting its wings ever so slightly. It's a wonder, you see – in its own world of silence. Unconcerned of what this or that could mean or how he or she felt this morning. It didn't know the lot of us and I'd think it fair to say that it didn't care to. The feeling was mutual at the moment – hardly noticed by those at the table. Though once seen, it's certain that man would jump from his seat. You see, if you stayed still – and I do mean ever so still – they'd likely carry on. But, instead, you'll swat and cry – perhaps from fear – perhaps from anger that it's even there. A reaction they wouldn't have at the sight of you. But it's that of a bother. It's a hated being, but accepts your perception and leaves at ease. Not till you provoke the small being does it latch and lash your skin. See – I wish I could be that small – only defensive when my life is at stake. Unknown to the idea of the great unknown. Satisfied with a life of living – one that's beyond desires of my own. But, instead, you see – I'm envious. Envious with knowledge and a simple truth: I could never sit so still, quiet and listen. I could never be blessed with the ears of a hornet, a rabbit or a bird; whose identity is none but that of a hornet, a rabbit or a bird. No. I'll likely understand my part in the death of Ms. Nature. I'll likely notice and rage at your suffering – yes, quite rightly –but it'll dim before I could do a thing. I'll likely want more than I need and scream when that man has more than me. I'll likely know all about it. And I'll likely lie to ease the aches of guilt in me. I'd admit there's one thing that hornet does desire – a life well lived and a day well done. However, so simple. Quite a wonder doing that – I wonder how that'd be. You say – I want a life too! Ah, but what does that mean? For you or for me? It's beyond survival now, isn't it? You want more than what you need. You're defending it now, aren't you? You have the ability to do that – a pity, isn't it? Yes, we can lie to ourselves just as to others. We know it – and that's what I see! That's what we all see, but do we do anything? I'm envious of that hornet – it can't do all that. It doesn't bare the weight of that responsibility. And look at me! Envious of a hornet – you'd think it insane! But he doesn't know what that means. Yes, I'd rather be as that. I wonder if it'd be me? My curiosities grew (another burden I reckon) with the table's incessant chit-chat. It rattled and sharpened as the hornet's presence grew greater yet quieter. It stayed unnoticed until the man before me stuttered his speech, gargled and heaved. He grabbed his napkin and aimed to crush it, swat it, simply be rid of it. Almost as if he knew his impending fate, the hornet rumbled and took to the sky – carrying my thoughts on its frail wings. The man sighed, readjusted and continued his conversation without another thought. And I wonder, if re-joining the chattering would make me forget too. It's a wonder we can do that.

After collecting my tips from today and clocking out, I walk out of the coffee shop at 5:00 exactly. I look to my right and see Noah walking up the block. He catches my eyes and raises his hand to wave. I grin and start walking towards him. “So, where do you want to go?” he asks. I look around at the busy street beside us and then my eyes land on an old but neon arrow pointing at a diner down the block. “There's that diner,” I say and point behind him, “wanna go there?” “Sublime,” he says. “Sublime?” I ask as we start walking side-by-side. “Yes, sublime,” he repeats. “It means excellence or great admiration.” “No, I'm familiar with the definition, Mr. Google Dictionary,” I say and give him a smirk, “I'm just not used to people saying that word as a substitute for ‘yes.'” “Well, I guess I'm not like most people,” he replies casually and then seals his lips as if he were processing what he just said. “That kind of sounded like what a main character in a John Green book would say-.” My laugh interrupts him. “Yeah, it did. But, you're right- most people don't say ‘sublime.' Hence, you are not like most people.” “True.” He opens the door to the restaurant for me and I step inside. “But since when did it become unusual for people to say things like… ‘superb' and ‘cunning' or ‘vehement?'” Noah holds up two fingers at the waitress and she points to an empty booth next to the window. The restaurant is crammed and noisy but filled with a live environment. The walls are teal and the floors are black and white tiled squares. “Vehement?” I ask after noticing another pop-culture poster on the walls of the diner. “To show strong feelings or be passionate about something,” he explains. “Right.” I nod. “How could I forget?” “That's the thing- I can assure you more than half our generation doesn't know squat what any of these fancy words mean,” he continues. “Well, are they fancy words or just old English?” I ask. A waitress with short blonde hair drops off two glasses of water. “No, old English would be Shakespeare,” he replies after taking a sip of his water. “These words, which are outdated, are just that. I mean, if you ask a grade ten class to give you the definitions of these words-.” “Sublime, superb, cunning, and vehement?” “- Exactly- they would stare at you wide-eyed and confused,” he continues. “You might get one smart motherfucker that reads the dictionary for fun who could give you all the definitions. But other than that- zip.” “Hm, interesting.” I rest my head on my hand and narrow my eyes at his theory. “And you're that smart motherfucker?” “I think we confirmed that I'm the main character from a John Green book.” He chuckles. “Then how do you know the definitions to those outdated words?” I ask. He shrugs and sits back on his seat. “Who's to say I didn't memorize those four words to impress you?” “As if a guy would try that hard,” I remark and sit up straight again. “Never mind the fact that that's not even something to be proud of.” “Oh, yeah?” he challenges. “Memorizing a couple of definitions?” I ask. “Let me ask you a question; would you be impressed if I recited the entire dictionary to you on the first date?” A grin grows on his face. “Alright, the fact of the matter is that I didn't memorize them to impress you,” he admits. “The fact of the matter is that you use outdated words, which makes you…” “A John Green character,” he finishes. We share a smile and then pick up our menus. “The BLT looks superb,” I say softly.

He stared outside the window, looking at the children playing with their pants in the air, Without fear or worry of what was to come. smiling he, remembered when he was younger, when he was just like them when, he thought the only thing to life was eating and playing his football. that was, until he met her anyways. he could still picture her in his mind her lips and she pout, her scolding him, and her smile that he spent everything he had for. The colour of her eyes that saw through his soul, the words she told him encouraging him when he was down. He remembered the promises they made to each other, the words he whispered in her ears just to make her smile, the note he passed to her when he thought their teachers weren't looking, the things he said when he thought she wasn't listening. The time he spent thinking of what their future held, the moment he thought he was going to lose her and cried even when his father said men weren't suppose to cry. he knew then, crying wasn't a weakness, it was a strength admitting you were scared. He knew then, even though He might had been bad in everything even though his teachers said he was useless, he was sure he was good at making her smile. She was more than his everything, she was his vision and then he realised the saying was true; you becomes a man, when you discover something you are truly ready to fight for and his was her, she was the vision he discovered she was the one that made it possible for him to be what he was today.\n\n\\"you still day dreaming.\\" a voice said wrapping hands around him.\n\n\\"well can't a man day dream.\\" he said listening to the laughter that filled the room.\n\n\\"So, what were you day dreaming about.\\" she asked pulling a seat close to him.\n\n\\"A girl I once loved.\\" he smiled trying to read the expression on her face.\n\n\\"I though you still loved her.\\" she asked innocently.\n\n\\"I don't, she became me I developed something stronger that love for her.\\" he said kissing her softly.\n\n\\"well....\\"she said, pulling her body close to him \\"she still loves you I still love you and my glad I became your vision.\\"\n\n\\"you didn't just become my vision you gave me another vision you gave me the power to express my words.\\"\n\n\\"daddy.\\" a voice screamed cutting their conversation.\n\n\\"she is your daughter.\\" he heard his wife say as she ran into the kitchen but she was right, they were his and he was theirs and even when he spent his days fooling around they were there waiting for him when, he asked himself everyday what, was a home they showed him, they were his home.

He stared outside the window, looking at the children playing with their pants in the air, Without fear or worry of what was to come. smiling he, remembered when he was younger, when he was just like them when, he thought the only thing to life was eating and playing his football. that was, until he met her anyways. he could still picture her in his mind her lips and she pout, her scolding him, and her smile that he spent everything he had for. The colour of her eyes that saw through his soul, the words she told him encouraging him when he was down. He remembered the promises they made to each other, the words he whispered in her ears just to make her smile, the note he passed to her when he thought their teachers weren't looking, the things he said when he thought she wasn't listening. The time he spent thinking of what their future held, the moment he thought he was going to lose her and cried even when his father said men weren't suppose to cry. he knew then, crying wasn't a weakness, it was a strength admitting you were scared. He knew then, even though He might had been bad in everything even though his teachers said he was useless, he was sure he was good at making her smile. She was more than his everything, she was his vision and then he realised the saying was true; you becomes a man, when you discover something you are truly ready to fight for and his was her, she was the vision he discovered she was the one that made it possible for him to be what he was today.\n\n\\"you still day dreaming.\\" a voice said wrapping hands around him.\n\n\\"well can't a man day dream.\\" he said listening to the laughter that filled the room.\n\n\\"So, what were you day dreaming about.\\" she asked pulling a seat close to him.\n\n\\"A girl I once loved.\\" he smiled trying to read the expression on her face.\n\n\\"I though you still loved her.\\" she asked innocently.\n\n\\"I don't, she became me I developed something stronger that love for her.\\" he said kissing her softly.\n\n\\"well....\\"she said, pulling her body close to him \\"she still loves you I still love you and my glad I became your vision.\\"\n\n\\"you didn't just become my vision you gave me another vision you gave me the power to express my words.\\"\n\n\\"daddy.\\" a voice screamed cutting their conversation.\n\n\\"she is your daughter.\\" he heard his wife say as she ran into the kitchen but she was right, they were his and he was theirs and even when he spent his days fooling around they were there waiting for him when, he asked himself everyday what, was a home they showed him, they were his home.

A snake swallows the dream, and somewhere in the distance I hear laughter before I open my eyes. There's sand on my lips. The wind rises and whispers something in softly-spoken Spanish. Pounding and throbbing, my head feels like an ancient war drum.\nThe laughter resumes and the children of the desert encircle me. Vibrant skulls are painted on their sweet faces. They are beautiful. They are curious. They speak in laughter. One of them leaves the circle and walks slowly up to me. He covers my eyes with his small brown hands.\n\\"Wake up,\\" I hear a familiar voice coming from the lips of this strange child, and I open my eyes. The hands are gone. The dunes are gone. The children of the desert are gone, but my head still hurts.\n\\"Hey. What happened?\\"\n\\"Too much tequila,\\" she giggles.\n\nJaundr\u00E9 van Breda \u00A9 2019

Mystic Reflections is the story of a twelve-year-old who lives in a world where everything is in abundance, and all are equal. Yet, she encounters a problem. Then begins a journey in search of a solution. What can be a problem in a world of perfection? What will be the solution? Who will solve it? https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07MY88S2R?pf_rd_p=2d1ab404-3b11-4c97-b3db-48081e145e35&pf_rd_r=QZ7E1JVXM97VHPPRVMC0