"Lily's Love Lives On: A Story of Loyalty and Miracles"

Once upon a time, there was a little girl named Lily who lived in a small village at the edge of a vast forest. She had a bright smile and a heart full of love, and everyone who met her felt touched by her kindness.

Lily had a best friend named Jack, who was a stray dog she had found wandering in the woods. Jack was fiercely loyal to Lily and would follow her wherever she went, even if it meant braving dangerous paths and treacherous terrain.

One day, Lily fell gravely ill. Her parents tried everything they could to make her feel better, but her condition only worsened with each passing day. Lily was too weak to play outside or even sit up in bed, and Jack would lie at the foot of her bed, his big brown eyes watching her with concern.

As the days turned into weeks, Lily's health continued to decline, and her parents feared the worst. One night, while they were all gathered around her bed, Lily took her last breath and slipped away.

Her parents were heartbroken, and so was Jack. He howled mournfully and refused to leave Lily's side, even after she had been laid to rest in the village cemetery.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months, but Jack never forgot about his beloved Lily. He would lie on her grave for hours, his nose buried in the soil, as if trying to catch a whiff of her scent.

Then, one day, something miraculous happened. Lily's parents were out for a walk in the woods when they stumbled upon a litter of puppies. As they approached the tiny creatures, they noticed that one of them had a striking resemblance to Jack. In fact, it was Jack's own son.

The couple took the little puppy home and named him Lucky, for they believed he was a sign from Lily that she was still watching over them. Lucky had the same loyal and loving spirit as his father, and he quickly became a beloved member of the family.

But the most amazing thing was that Lucky seemed to have a special connection to Jack. Whenever they were together, it was as if Lily's spirit was present, guiding them both. And although Lily was no longer with them in body, her love lived on through her faithful dog and the son he had left behind.

Story by: ChartGPT

How to Return a Book Titled "How to Improve Your Writing in Five Easy Steps" in Five Easy Steps

 It was an anxious and desperate night; my sweat fell in torrents—except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by the violent shriek of a middle-aged white woman with an unchecked ego which swept up the aisles (for it is in Walmart that our scene lies), rattling along the plastic toy displays, and fiercely agitating the volatile attitude of the underpaid sixteen-year-old who struggled against the onslaught of last-minute shoppers.

There I stood, holding my unopened copy of How to Improve Your Writing in Five Easy Steps, resting on my two sore feet which had been purpled with bruises from a long day of standing in front of a whiteboard teaching calculus to a full room of glass-eyed freshmen, rocking back and forth slightly to relieve the pressure on each in sequence, at the back of the customer service line, which meandered like a ball python around the corner and past the self-checkout machines where a gaggle of elderly shoppers out well past their bedtimes were trying (and failing) to scan the last of the pre-made pies from the bakery section; and I wondered why oh why I waited until the last day of the 30-day return period to get $11.99 in store credit for the book that my coworker gave me for my birthday after I mentioned briefly during a meeting that I had a passing interest in writing as a distraction from the impossibly dense textbooks about integration on abstract measure spaces, debating whether or not I should just bite the bullet and put the book up with the rest of the unread books that sat collecting dust in the small library I had assembled in my home office; then the line shifted ahead by a single person and every one of us stepped two feet forward in a cascade whose wake worked its way at a uniform pace backward down the line, and we crawled ever closer to the paradise shrouded in the pale light of a tube bulb that hanged by two partially-rusted chains above the light blue counter, behind which stood the underpaid sixteen-year-old who ran from the line of customers to the computer and then to the phone and finally back to the line of customers which appeared to recede infinitely into the horizon and merge with the power tools for sale on the far wall; and in my boredom, my growing sense of ennui that caused me to rock faster and sweat harder and question why everything in my life felt so overwrought in the tedium of this capitalistic modus operandi that served only to degrade the consumer’s patience to the point where they simply accept the mediocre product and let the money remain squarely in the pocket of the corporation, I decided to open the book to the first page to see what I could possibly be missing out on by putting it back on the shelf from whence it came.

*****

Step 1: Avoid clichés and overly-long, melodramatic, or unnecessarily extravagant sentences. 

*****

When I was almost done reading the page, I heard the person behind me speak to get my attention.

“Whatcha got there?”

I turned around to see a woman, the most… (I peered down at the book) average-looking woman I’ve ever seen. She had… eyes and… hair. 

Not particularly interested in having a conversation with the stranger behind me in line, but having nowhere else to go and not being one to be blatantly rude, I responded.

“Oh, just a book I’m returning.”

“What’s the book about?”

“How to improve your writing.”

“Interesting! Are you a writer?”

“No, I’m not. That’s why I’m returning it.”

“Why’d you buy the book then?”

“I didn’t buy it, it was a gift.”

“You’re returning a gift?”

“It’s not like he’ll know I’m returning it.”

“But the principle, y’know?”

“Who cares about principle when I can have store credit?”

“Well, okay.”

“Yeah. It’ll save me on my next grocery run.”

“Who got the book for you?”

“My coworker.”

“Why did he get it for you?”

“My birthday.”

“Does he know you’re not a writer?”

“He should. I told him it was just a hobby to get away from my job.”

“Oh, okay. What do you do for your job?”

“I’m a professor at the local community college.”

“What do you teach?”

“Calculus.”

“Do you like teaching?”

“I do, but it’s been tough. None of my students are particularly engaged with the material.”

“Oof, I understand them, I never liked math.”

“What do you like, then?”

“Writing!”

“Is that what you do for a living?”

“Yes! I’m working on a book right now.”

“What’s it about?”

“Not sure yet. I still have many directions I can take it.”

“Well, that’s good. Always nice to have options.”

“Yes, definitely.”

“Say, what are you doing in this line?”

“Oh, me? I’m looking for a book about how I can improve my writing.”

“Huh, would you like this book, then? Five bucks sound fair for it? It’d save us both a bunch of time and you’d get a good deal.”

“Oh, no thank you.”

“Why not?”

“I already have that book.”

“What book are you looking for, then?”

“How to Make Your Writing Better in Five Simple Stages.”

“Sounds pretty similar to this one.”

“Oh no, they’re totally different.”

“How are they different?”

“Seems pretty obvious to me.”

“Hmm, alright. Was this one helpful when you first read it?”

“Definitely. It has some great steps.”

I took her statement as a cue to take a look at the next page.

*****

Step 2: Keep your dialogue interesting and short. Advance the plot and don’t rehash things previously covered in exposition for no reason.

*****

“Nice talking to you.”

The line had shifted forward considerably during our conversation, and I ventured into the next leg of my adventure: the Gates. 

Through the automatic doors came and went people whom I could only describe as those who gave rise to the term “lowest common denominator.” I saw a steady incoming stream of sparkling-eyed children leading their parents by their hands toward the section of playthings and knick-knacks that spanned every color on and off the rainbow. Equal and opposite went the monotonous, hollow shuffle of zombified consumers carrying bags full of the latest race car sets and doll houses. The Keeper stood in the middle, donned in her vest and nametag, greeting those coming in, thanking those going out, and receiving no response from either group.

Seeing that I still had quite a ways to go, I reminisced on my journey thus far.

It started in the Forge, where I was surrounded by tools of unknown purpose. Throngs of strong, rotund, bearded men grunted to one another like boars, picking up hammers of various sizes and putting them down after a few firm swings. Then the Smith approached and guided them to the selection of drills kept under lock and key behind the plexiglass. They were so enchanted by the multitude of sizes, lengths, power ratings, and attachments that they became children again. “Can I have this one? No, wait, this one! No, no, both!” As the line moved on, I looked back and saw the gnarled maws full of unwashed fangs that constituted their beaming smiles.

Then came Cyberspace, the future, but now! Google-faced and scrawny, the inhabitants spoke in encoded, rhythmic bursts, peppering in theorems and figures every few words. They prodded at the laptops and tapped on the tablets, diligently inspecting each for their CPUs, GPUs, RAMs, GUIs, and a bunch of other acronyms unknown to me. One by one, they approached the Scholar for his wisdom in the fields of payment plans and extended warranties; and one by one, he imparted this knowledge to each one of his students. The last thing I saw before the line moved on was the metal-filled mouth of a joyful tech-enthusiast as he smiled at his brand-new wireless stylus.

The Boutique was the next stop. Everywhere I looked, I saw the finest polyesters and cottons displayed elegantly on their plastic hangers. There was a wide selection of superhero underwear and stylish short-sleeved shirts adorned with wise proverbs such as “Sarcastic Comment Loading… Please Wait.” The Seamstress assisted the ladies in selecting the garments that were most flattering to them, then guided them to the dressing rooms where they promptly put them back on the racks after trying them on. Once the line moved on, I saw the pearly smile of a young woman who clearly used too many of those whitening strips as she spun around in a tacky rainbow dress.

I then found myself in Utopia, where children ran about, gazing in wonder at everything they ever wanted. There were dolls, action figures, monster trucks, board games, bouncy balls, drum sets, and all those other little things that kids love and parents eventually “accidentally” throw out during spring cleaning The centerpiece was a plastic cooking set with pots, pans, spatulas, and a sink, and a burner that simulated heat with LED lights under the stovetop. A large group of children, girls and boys, flocked around the cooking set and begged their parents with big puppy-dog eyes to buy it for them. Each parent agreed in sequence, and as the line moved on, I saw the cavity-filled teeth of children smiling up at their moms and dads. 

The Meadow followed, where I was met with the sickeningly sweet smells of drooping roses and daisies with missing petals. There was a pimply teenager in a white dress shirt, brown khakis, and haphazard tie ruffling through the selection of corsages, working his way through the displays in order of ascending price. The Florist came up behind him and pointed toward a rather pretty one with orchids. While it appeared to be a bit outside his budget, she managed to convince him to spend a little extra on his special girl, and as we walked away, I saw his smile which showed off his apparently freshly-brushed teeth.

I trekked through each of these departments over the course of five grueling hours. After the trials I overcame, the people I faced, the headache-inducing light I endured, I was surprised I had even made it this far. 

After reminiscing, I looked at the book again.

*****

Step 3: Keep everything that is absolutely necessary; cut out everything that is not absolutely necessary.

*****

I was nearing the front of the line, so I turned to the next page.

*****

Step 4: Ensure your characters have strong motivations.

*****

… I had motivation.

I was ambitious throughout my entire life. I went to undergrad, where I achieved a 4.0 GPA and got published in a somewhat prestigious journal, which guaranteed my admission to grad school where I wrote the most thorough thesis the department had ever seen, which allowed me to achieve my dream of becoming a college professor. Everything I needed to do, I did. I kept my head high every day, knowing that I had been “certified” as someone of greater intelligence. Someone who would not deign to step foot in a Walmart.

Yet in the end, I stood for five hours in the same place as all of these other people. These people who lived lives just as important as mine, yet were far more willing to spend a few dollars on a trinket that made them happy. My success, if it could be called that, didn’t make me spectacularly wealthy enough to simply keep the book in my library or give it away. Some part of me decided that it was worth my time and sanity to get the measly pennies for the gift I never wanted. I thought for a moment, and questioned if I was any less a cog in the system as anyone else. As I thought more, I questioned whether or not I was a well-defined person at all. Did I define myself in terms of everything that constituted me, or did I define myself in terms of everything that I was not? Why did I feel the need to put myself above everyone else to feel like I mattered? Was I truly motivated?

… Yes.

Yes.

Yes! I did!

I was there for the credit.

The $11.99.

Though I could only spend it at Walmart, the prospect of free money was one only a fool would turn down, and I was no fool. How happy can a life be without a little bit of mindless consumerism?

It would be magnificent! I would walk through the aisles like a king through his land, dignified and important. I could buy the extra-large bag of frozen pizza bagels, miniaturized and microwavable for my convenience, topped with tiny cubes of what could only be legally described as “pepperoni meat product.” Or I could buy the battery-powered pillow ring with three massage settings that offered the “most relaxing rear-end experience” and still have 99 cents left over to buy a melted Snickers bar from the shelf by the checkout. Or perhaps, I could buy the three-in-one ultimate utensil complete with a spork, knife, and cheese tongs. Better yet, I could buy the double-decker cat tower, though I would need to adopt a cat to really get my money’s worth on it. These things, and everything else, were all at my fingertips, begging to be taken home with me!

Yes!

I could have it all!

It would all be mine!

I wanted it!

Needed it!

If not to use, to have!

To know the glory of! 

Just like the last page of this god-forsaken book!

*****

Step 5: Introduce a plot twist.

*****

I approached the counter, as it was finally my turn.

“Hi, I’d like to return this item.”

“Do you have the original receipt?”

Writer: Jacob Brown

Source: https//blog.reedsy.com

The Student's Struggle

Harvey Deenwaller really shit the bed when he tried out for the basketball team, because he forgot what we all knew: junior high school was bullshit. Trying leads to judging, judging leads to failing, and failing leads to being a loser. Of course we only heard about him, but it was all anyone talked about all day, and when we got into seventh period English we found out that Stacey McCain had seen it. She was always creeping on Carlos Messerschmidt – although she’d never admit it, except she was always admitting it – and Carlos was already on the team.

So yeah, Stacey was an instant celebrity, and old lady Laveau just sat in the corner shaking her head and I guess I kinda felt bad for her, but it was her own damn fault for trying to teach us stuff. Teachers are basically fascists, so I guess I learned something in social studies after all. At least she stuck around though, unlike Hotdog Krasinski last year who we nervous breakdowned. Nervous brokedowned? Broked down? Whatever.

Stacey said that Carlos passed but Harvey didn’t see the ball, and it hit him in the face. It broke his glasses and nose and he lost a tooth and there was blood everywhere, and he crumpled like a third grader getting beaned with a baseball, which I actually saw happen to Dominic Courvoisier. And Jet Marlow said that Harvey shit himself from shock. I don’t know about that, ’cause Jet wasn’t there and he says everyone shits themselves all the time, but then other people started saying it too so I guess it was probably true. Anyway, Harvey cried, which you just don’t come back from.

He wasn’t in school today. If he’s smart he’ll move to a different city.

Stacey started repeating herself so we stopped listening, and then the bell rang. Science was next, but we had a sub ’cause Mr. Van Beekom said racist stuff again, so that meant it was skip o’clock. But just as I was about to leave, old lady Laveau waved me over. I was going to ignore her but she used that voice that’s like “I’m super concerned about this, and I don’t want to call your parents, but”. And anyway, Bachman and the rest of my friends were already out the door so it’s not like they’d see me.

But Laveau smiled when I got to her desk and she was like, “I really like the essay you wrote!”

And I was like, “Okay?”

And then she’s like, “I mean it. That part where you were talking about treading water? How you drifted away from the shore – I’ll assume that’s childhood, right? – and how fear of the future was like trying not to drown… That’s a great metaphor.”

And then I was like, oh my god. I felt embarrassed, but also like, there was this fluttering in my chest. Like, I think she actually read it. Maybe Laveau was all right, for a fascist.

I almost didn’t regret trying, but then she’s like, “I think you should write for the school paper. You have some real talent that you could develop.”

Pfft. Almost got me, old lady, but I’m not falling for that.

I caught up with my friends. I thought we were going to the mall but they’re all going to science after all and I asked why.

“Because,” Bachman said, “this new sub, man. Ms. Morgan.” He chef’s kissed. “She’s hot!” And the others all said the same thing, and then Boner O’Neill stuck his hands in his shirt and made tits, and we all laughed.

And then we went to science because we had to see her for ourselves.

***

Man, Ms. Morgan was all that and a bag of chips, and when she started talking about titrations we couldn’t stop laughing. Get it, tit-rations? Okay, it doesn’t sound like that, but it was still hilarious, and then Ronnie Cho said he was in love with her and then he got this face, like it was all red and his eyes were wide and Boner figured it out first – because of course he would – and then we really started laughing.

And then some of the girls figured out Ronnie had wood and they were all like, “Ew! Gross!”

And then Ms. Morgan was like, “Gentlemen, please.” And we settled down and I even learned something about science. I mean, okay, you need the minimum to pass their stupid tests, I guess. I could listen to Ms. Morgan. There were worse ways to spend eighth period, and okay, I felt kind of bad for hassling her. Maybe not all teachers were fascists.

Ronnie spent the rest of the class hunched over his desk, trying to disappear, and I didn’t bug him because it could happen to anyone, and anyway, we’d give him shit for it later. Then bell rang and we all started packing up.

I saw Linda Armistice talking to Ms. Morgan, but then Linda came to me and I dropped my book. I’m not afraid of Linda, but like, I kinda am, if you know what I mean? She’s a total teacher’s pet. But she’s also that kid. Honour-everything, advanced-placement-everything, award-winning-everything. She tries, she gets judged, and she wins. And she makes all the rest of us look like butts.

She walked up to me, hugging her textbook, shaking her head. She ran her tongue along her new braces. “You guys are so immature.” And like, what the hell! She’s younger than me but she sounds like a mom!

Well I’ve always been quick on my feet and came back with the perfect comeback.

“Whatever.”

Linda rolled her eyes. “I wish you were better.” She started leaving, but then something hit me. It was like… this weird little shot of guilt, or something? It’s all ’cause of stupid Laveau’s stupid idea.

“Wait!” I said.

“What.”

“You’re, um… you’re the editor of the student paper, aren’t you?” I was stalling. I knew she was. Everyone knew it, because she’d never shut up about it. “What would I do if… you know… I wanted to write…”

Her face lit up like it was a birthday – I mean, you know, back when birthdays mattered. We were too old for that stuff now.

She was like, “Oh my god!” She tore through her backpack and pulled out a stack of pamphlets. “I’m so glad you asked!” She shoved one into my hand. It was covered in clip art, and the title read ‘Get You into the Styoudent Paper!’

Gross.

“So, like, everything you need is in here?” she said. “But, like, it’s real easy, okay? Just, like, write something and submit it by Tuesday, and then we’ll take a look at it? Okay? And then if it passes our rigorous journalistic standards? We’ll publish it for the Thursday edition? Okay?”

“Okay.” I was already regretting asking.

***

It was Friday, so we all met at the park after school. Bachman had got his hands on a cigarette, and the three of them were already passing it around by the time I caught up.

Bachman was saying he knew a guy, couple years up and a school over, that could get us a doobie. I didn’t know what a doobie was, but I know I wanted one. When my turn came up for the cigarette I took a little puff and then immediately started coughing. That’s how you know it was a good cigarette.

I was still holding the pamphlet in my hand, stupid me, and Boner snatched it while I wasn’t looking.

“What the hell?” he said, and then laughed. “You writing for the paper, nerd?”

“No.” Oh my god. I wasn’t really gonna. And they weren’t supposed to find out.

“I like the paper,” said Bachman. “Especially those comics Walid makes.”

“Oh, holy shit!” said Boner. “Yeah, those are hilarious. Man, that guy draws good.”

“Yeah, wish I could do that,” said Ronnie.

“Good on you,” said Bachman, and it took me a moment to figure out he was talking to me. And later on I realized, that was it. They didn’t really rag on me, which was weird, but okay.

“What are you gonna write about?” asked Boner.

“Oh my god!” said Bachman. “You should write about Ms. Morgan’s tits!”

Then we all laughed.

“Oh my god, you guys,” said Ronnie. “She’s so hot!” He was totally in love with her, just like he was totally in love with Nina de la Cruz last week, and friggin’ April from Ninja Turtles since forever.

Then we all made air tits and laughed and finished the cigarette. Later on I went home and felt pretty good about writing something. It wasn’t going to be about Ms. Morgan though, that’d never get past Linda. And besides, I wanted to write something that would count, something that would shake up the world and change things.

***

On Sunday, I realized I had signed up for voluntary weekend homework.

Damn it.

But… man, I hate to admit it, but I actually kind of liked writing the piece. I think I had a really good idea, and on Thursday everyone would see it. They’d call me a hero.

***

On Monday we learned Ms. Morgan would be with us for at least a few weeks, as Mr. Van Beekom really shit the bed this time. Some people said he even got fired, and Danny Eidelbaum’s step-dad’s cousin worked with the school board, so he would know. Only, Danny said he hadn’t heard anything either way, so he couldn’t tell us. Needless to say, none of us were going to skip eighth period science.

I spent lunch in the library typing up my submission, and then put it on a floppy, just as Linda’s pamphlet said to do. After science, I tracked her down and handed it to her.

“Oh, cool!” she said. “Thanks so much!”

My job was done. Now all I had to do was wait till Thursday.

Man, those were the longest days of my life. I didn’t want to tell anyone about my work because I didn’t want to spoil it, but waiting was hell.

But it was so good! I was going to change the world. I wrote a story about kids in a prison. It’s like a metaphor, ’cause school’s like a prison, and we’re the kids in the story. Get it? It was called “The Student’s Struggle”. I had characters based on all the people I know, kind of moping around, until a leader kid came along. Oh, and like the wardens? They’re the teachers. They’re keeping the kids down.

So this leader comes along, and he writes this book about his struggles and the prisoners all pass it along in secret until they all see that he’s the guy who’s going to lead them to freedom, ’cause he’s been through it all and he knows what to do. I kinda based him on myself. And isn’t that the coolest thing ever!? A story where a character in the story writes another story!

Anyway, so the kids all band behind the leader, and he leads them in a glorious revolution and they take over the prison. But he’s a hero, right? He knows there’s other prisons around the world, so he vows to hunt down all the teachers, so that all the kids would finally be free, so that they’d have all the space they needed to do whatever. It’s hopeful like that.

Oh man, I couldn’t wait.

***

Thursday!

I couldn’t believe it, but I actually got to school early. And I didn’t even care! The papers were normally near the front doors, by the office, and I got there as Linda and some of the others delivered them.

I grabbed one and flipped through it. I skipped past the announcements for next week, but I did stop at the Walid comic. Hilarious as usual! I bet he’s going to do professional comics one day. Then I flipped on to the student submissions.

And you know what I saw? Ronnie Cho ended up submitting a piece. He called it Fata Morgana, whatever that means, and it looked like some kind of lovey-dovey fairy tale poem thing, only as I read on I became pretty sure it was about Ms. Morgan. I mean, it actually wasn’t bad, but holy crap. I think he really was in love this time.

I kept flipping, looking for my own piece.

And I came to the end of the paper, without seeing it.

“The hell?” I said. I flipped through the paper again, and again I didn’t find it. I checked the table of indexes or whatever, and it wasn’t in that either. When I looked up I saw the others had dispersed. I only saw Linda down the hallway.

“Linda!” I ran after her.

She turned around, and she had this weird smile. “Oh, hi.” It’s like she had just come across a kindergartner who fell off his trike and didn’t scrape his knee, but was bawling anyway.

“What the hell! Why’s my story not in the paper?”

“Well,” she said, drawing it out. “It just wasn’t that good.”

I felt like she kicked me, and I wasn’t wearing a cup.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “But, like, there’s spelling errors everywhere? And, like, it’s like seven pages long but there’s only five line-breaks? And, like, the dialogue tags are all wrong? You’re supposed to put the comma inside the quotes?”

Each condemnation, another kick.

No, my story’s good. I had to fight back.

“But you published Ronnie’s poem! It’s about Ms. Morgan’s tits!”

“I know,” she said, looking up at the ceiling like she was weighing things. “But the imagery really is very vivid, and he has a sublime grasp of lyrical language. And while it’s about Ms. Morgan’s tits, it’s also about all of us, don’t you think? Like, it really hits some deep life meanings. It would have been a crime not to publish it.”

I… I didn’t know what to say. Unfortunately, Linda wasn’t done.

“And,” she said, frowning, “frankly, I’m not sure about the subject matter of your story. The main character kind of sounds like Hitler.”

I couldn’t breathe.

“We don’t want the paper to promote fascist propaganda, y’know?”

That’s what I get for trying. Judgement. Failure. Loser.

“Listen,” she said. “Not everyone gets published the first time around. I didn’t. Frankly, it takes a lot of work. I think there’s some good stuff in your story, and you definitely have some great skills. Why don’t you come by writing club? We can help each other learn.”

Wait. Me? And Linda? Help each other? Maybe… maybe I wasn’t a loser, just ’cause I tried. Maybe there was more to life than just win or lose. And maybe me and Linda could figure it all out… in writing club… together.

Then she’s like, “My boyfriend’s really good at dialogue tags. He can help you out.”

Damn it!

Written by: Michal  Przywara

Source: https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/vzcftb/

5 Ways to Avoid Adult Acne

Won't they ever go away? As an adult, you expect pimples to be a thing of the past. But for many adults, blemishes continue to mar otherwise healthy skin. For some people, acne may be even worse in adulthood than in adolescence. In fact, it’s estimated that one in five adults between the ages of 25 and 44 experience acne. 

More than simply a cosmetic problem, acne can greatly affect your quality of life, no matter what your age or the severity of your condition. If you are battling recurring skin breakouts, finding a path to clearer skin can help improve your self-esteem and body image. 

There is no single adult-acne cause, and because of this, there is no surefire way to avoid it or control it. Acne is influenced by several factors, many of which are out of your control. But the way you treat your skin does play an important role. 

With a little know-how, you can minimize or potentially eliminate occasional acne outbreaks on your face, back, shoulders, neck, chest, limbs or elsewhere merely by changing a few small behaviors. 

1. Check your hair and skin products 

Hair conditioners, gels, pomades, shaving products, cosmetics, moisturizers, sunscreens and other products that contain oil can clog your pores and cause a breakout. Simply switching to hair and skin products that don't clog pores—called "noncomedogenic"—could make a big difference in the appearance of your skin. 

Check the labels on your hair and skin products to see if they are marked oil-free and noncomedogenic. Also, consider whether you truly need every product you use. Even products marked "dermatologist tested" can cause acne for some people. Minimizing the number of products you use may help further reduce outbreaks. And when you exercise, wear as little makeup as possible. Even oil-free and noncomedogenic cosmetics can clog pores if worn during heavy, sweaty exercise. 

2. Adopt a hands-off policy 

Do you often rest your chin or cheeks in your hands or rub your nose? Doing so can encourage the growth of bacteria and cause infection to the areas most inflamed by adult acne. Adopt a strict hands-off policy that holds for breakouts, too. Picking or squeezing can drive acne bacteria deeper into the skin, leading to more inflammation and possibly to permanent scarring. So, try to resist the temptation to touch. 

 Don't let sweat stick around 

Rinse off as soon as possible after you work out. Physical activity heats up the body, causing perspiration to mix with surface skin oils. Together, they trap substances in your pores. If a quick rinse isn't possible, towel off and change into dry clothes as soon as you can. Sitting around in sweaty clothes, especially if they are tight-fitting, can lead to acne on your chest, back, and other parts of the body. Also, avoid wearing tight headbands or hats that rub against your skin. If you wear a helmet or any other safety gear with straps, be sure to wash the straps frequently to reduce bacteria. 

4. Avoid overwashing and harsh scrubbing 

Adult acne is not caused by dirt, so washing frequently with harsh substances such as alcohol-based products won't solve the problem. In fact, it may make the situation worse by prompting excess oil production and more blemishes. Be good to your skin by washing gently from under the jaw to the hairline with a mild soap once or twice a day. You might find that simply washing with lukewarm water and using clean hands rather than a washcloth works well for you. To avoid irritating or inflaming your skin, pat it dry—rather than rub it—with a soft towel. And be cautious when it comes to cleansing products that claim to be formulated for acne prone skin, as these can leave healthy skin dry and irritated. 

5. Lower your stress levels 

When you're under stress, your body produces stress hormones, such as cortisol, which can stimulate an overproduction of oil from the sebaceous glands in the skin. But how does stress cause acne? When this excess oil mixes with dead skin cells and bacteria, it can cause acne to develop or become worse. If you regularly suffer from stress, try to take short breaks throughout the day to stretch and practice deep breathing. Exercising regularly is another great way to ease anxiety and reduce stress. 

Start with simplicity 

While there is no cure for acne, most mild breakouts can be controlled with proper skin and body care. Start by focusing on the basic strategies mentioned here, keeping in mind that when it comes to skin care, simplicity is often the best solution. 

Keep up these healthy habits for a month or two, and if you still don't see any results, there may be other factors causing your skin to break out, such as: 

• Hormonal changes (e.g., menstrual cycle, pregnancy, or starting or stopping birth control pills) 
• Medication side effects 
• Allergic reactions to foods or cosmetics 
• Genetics 

Written by: Michael Gollust

Source: https://www.sharecare.com

I Knew Better

As a child, I would hide in the coat closet, taking advantage of the door that wouldn’t close, as I watched my mother command the items around the house to do her bidding with the smallest gesture. The moment she heard a sound, the items would set themselves down as if they hadn’t been acting of their own accord just moments earlier. My father would come home and rant and rave about more and more witches being discovered in town. My mother would nod her head politely in agreement, but I knew her secret. 

Whenever the ladies in town would enviously gossip about how my mother managed to get so much done in a day, I would smile knowingly to myself. I knew better than to boast that my mother was a witch, for some reason, being a witch was a bad thing. 

When I was twelve, I could make my room clean itself. I was always careful to hide this, of course. The moment I heard the creak of the floor, or the door swing open, everything went to looking perfectly normal, perfectly un-magical. This went on for a few months, and I remained aware of every sound in the house. I even heard the cat padding by outside one day and quickly dropped the broom I had been controlling with my mind. I didn’t hear my mother’s footsteps one day though, and I can still hear the gasp of horror when she swung my bedroom door open. I can remember the look of terror on her face as it dawned on her that even being married to the pastor of the local church didn’t protect her from a cursed daughter. 

The memories blur together after that point. I remember my father didn’t come home after a hunting trip. My mother told me it was a bear, I knew better. We moved shortly afterward, the tone of gossip shifting from envy to suspicion. The new town was smaller, it would mind its own business as long as you mind yours. We settled in a small two-bedroom house for six months before we moved again. The worry lines on my mother’s face seemed to grow deeper with each late-night knock at the door. One rule was made clear to me, I was not to use my magic under any circumstances. 

One house after the other, one town after the other, we never stayed in one place for too long. On my eighteenth birthday, my mother sat me down. She looked older than she was. I couldn’t remember the last time I had seen her face at peace. She explained to me what we were. She viewed it as a curse, I was never sure why. She explained why we couldn’t practice and what the world thought of us. She explained how she’d gotten too comfortable, and how it wouldn’t happen again; how I couldn’t let it happen to me. 

I stayed with my mother for a few years after that. We finally found a small cottage on the edge of a town that didn’t ask too many questions. It welcomed us as a widow and her grown daughter, which, I suppose we were. I got a little too comfortable once we’d been there for a year. I would go down to the creek and make little whirlpools in the deeper areas of water. Sometimes I would pull pretty rocks up from deep below the almost dry creek bed, even though I knew better. Something about that creek made it impossible to stay away.

I was always careful not to be seen, I would go before the roosters would crow in town, far before anyone would be down by the creek. On my regular walk home after a few months of doing this, I heard little footsteps crunching through the leaves. I could tell the little footsteps were running, and I knew then that we were damned. By the time I got back to the edge of the town where our little cottage sat, there was a group of people with torches and pitchforks surrounding the house. I never imagined I would see a mob quite like this one. It felt almost fake, like a scene from a storybook. As the thatch roof of our house went up in flames, I could hear my mother’s voice, telling me that I should’ve known better.

Part of me wanted to turn and run, but I was still unseen behind an old oak tree. I wanted answers, something I knew I was never going to get. I cursed myself as my mother’s words played over and over in my head. We weren’t supposed to be found. Still, it was done. I knew nothing could be done for my mother. Even I, the one who killed us both, would at the very least be damned to a half-life of running. So, thinking quickly, I chose to do the only thing I knew would solve my problem.

The thing about angry mobs is that they’re incredibly unobservant. They have very little forethought. If they had, they wouldn’t have decided to burn a witch in late fall, during the worst drought the town had seen in twenty years. All it took was the snap of a finger to make an ember fall just right on the overgrown, dry grass that we called our yard. The entire perimeter of our property was engulfed, enclosing the angry group of people along with our house. Another snap and embers landed on roofs in town, causing the fire to spread hungrily from rooftop to rooftop. I stayed and watched, ensuring the only living things spared were the innocent animals. Even children were dangerous and I knew better than to leave my work unfinished. 

I don’t know at what point after the fire I decided this, but something in the ashes told me I could never leave.…

I walk the worn path back from the creek to where I rebuilt the cottage my mother died in. The stone remains of the rest of the town are overgrown now with moss and vines. The descendants of the animals I saved in the fire eat happily at their troughs. People don’t bother me here. They hear stories about the witch that razed a town, and they know better.

Writer: Kylah Adams

Source: https://blog.reedsy.com/

A Letter From St. Lydia's Hospital

 

I know I should have said it before, but I'm sorry I ruined your birthday. If I could do it all over again, I would. I hope you know that. But I understand if you don't.

You wanted to know why, do you remember? You were standing in the doorway, a bit of blue frosting still on your fingertips. I'm sorry, but when you appeared, all I could think of was how much sugar and fat were in those cupcakes. Probably about twenty-six grams of sugar and four to five grams of saturated fat.

I couldn't tell you why I had started wailing the second you went to blow out the candles, because I couldn't talk. But if I could have, I would have screamed apologies. The guilt was eating me from the inside out. That's why I was curled up in that chair. A monster was devouring me.

When you were standing there, I could see your feelings. You were angry and hurt. Your soul was red-hot and burning at the edges.

I could blame the doctors who put me on a new medication four days before your birthday. It was pretty bad timing. I've never had a good reaction to starting new medications. The first time I tried one, I vomited for two days straight. This time, I saw giant talking gorillas and gray wolves running through the room, and fairies with huge fangs started dancing above my head while they threw cupcakes with blue frosting at each other. That's why I screamed. I know that doesn't make it any better. But that's why.

-

If nothing else, can we say that I ruined your birthday in revenge for you stealing my boyfriend? I know you'd deny it if you were here, but we both know it's true. I saw the two of you from my window. You were holding hands as you walked around outside in the garden. You kissed a few times. Maybe if I were someone else, I would have been angry. But the closest thing to an emotion that I felt was a bit of relief: at least the two of you would be there for each other. Besides, you were better together. You told jokes that made him laugh. At the time, I thought you were healthier than I was.

Of course I wasn't angry. I thought I was going to die soon, after all. Or maybe I didn't think that. I don't even think I really wanted to die. I wanted to disappear, like the smoke after a firework. That's why my soul stayed blue, instead of red. (And it was blue, not gray like you always insisted. My blue may have been different than yours, but it was still blue. I was still alive, if only a little.)

-

Do you remember the girl with anorexia that was in our dorm and had that miscarriage, Emily? I can't believe she didn't scream, either from what was happening or to get someone to help her. Why did it have to be us who found her when we went to the bathroom late that night? Anyway, there's something I never told you. When we walked into the bathroom and saw her and the blood everywhere, I looked where she was looking, and I saw the tiny, bloody thing there on the bathroom tiles. I was wearing that zip-up red jacket, and I yanked it off and threw it over the thing so Emily would stop seeing it, and so you wouldn't see it at all. Emily's feelings were a rainbow: red anger, purple sorrow, green horror, black guilt, and something white that I never figured out. (Was it death?) We screamed a lot. The nurses came running in, and Emily was whisked away to see doctors.

Do you remember the therapy sessions the next day? The girls who had been so excited about the baby were screaming and crying. One of them got angry at a girl who was crying, and said "It was her own fault, she was trying to throw up!" That girl had bulimia. One of the boys stared off into the distance, and I thought of the little thing wrapped up in my jacket that was hidden in one of the shower stalls.

The police asked the three of us where the "fetus" was. You started crying, saying you didn't know, and Emily said nothing, so I said nothing.

After dark that night, I found the jacket and took it to Emily's room. For some reason, the red fabric looked darker than ever. She stared at it for a long time before she stood, and we walked outside to the garden. Emily smelled like blood, at least to me. We kept walking until Emily stopped and knelt down, digging into the dirt with her hands. I watched, holding the jacket like it was a real infant. I looked up at the clear night sky and imagined it was just a ceiling painted black and dotted with white stars. The air I was breathing was recycled and disinfected. The scent of damp earth was somehow replicated by essential oils through a diffuser. The world was fake, and it was created for people just like me. It was an illusion, and it was perfect. Emily kept digging for a while, then she stood up and looked at my jacket. I waited for her to take it, but she didn't move, so I knelt down and put the bundle in the hole in the dirt, and started covering it with the cold dirt. I imagined the bacteria in the soil sinking into my cuts and comprising my immune system. It was always like that for me. Just like everyone else, everything could kill me, it was just a matter of what and when.

When the jacket was completely covered, I stood up and glared at the dirt on my hands and jammed under my nails like blood. I knew no matter how many times I scrubbed my hands, I wouldn't feel clean for weeks.

"Thank you," Emily said. It was the first thing said between us. I said nothing. We walked back to the dorms, and then we never talked to each other again.

-

You probably don't need to know all of that. But I know seeing the blood scared you, and you wondered what happened to my jacket. You knew it was my favorite.

-

I sometimes wonder why you ever took me under your wing. I asked you once, the week before I ruined your birthday. I shouldn't have said it. You were excited about your birthday, and it was no secret that the nurses and doctors were planning something special because you had gotten better. We were in your room, and you were looking in your closet for what to wear to the party. But I was thinking of the fact that you had friends and I didn't, and you didn't have to have food tracking apps blocked on your phone, and your hands weren't cracked and bleeding because you kept washing them.

"Why are we friends?" I asked suddenly. You looked at me with your eyes wider than I thought anyone could make them, and I felt myself start to die inside. "I mean, we're just too different."

"What are you talking about?" you said. "We're exactly the same."

I didn't want to argue with you, so I didn't say anything else. But I still don't understand why you said that. My boyfriend and I broke up a few days later. I probably don't need to tell you that, though. You already knew it. Please don't think I'm angry. I know you cared about him more than I ever did. I hope you were happy together.  

-

I didn't die, by the way. I get that's probably obvious, given that I'm writing this, but it was something I was so convinced of when we were together, that I feel like I need to mention it. I guess you could say I got better. It's not like I had much of a choice in the matter. You know how expensive the inpatient center was, and our families weren't rich. That was definitely something we had in common. We knew how much of a drain we were to the people around us. The dietitian helped me eat better and the therapists made me touch things and not wash my hands after. I got better at entering a "solutions mindset," no matter how much I hated the positive self-talk the CBT people liked. I sent in my resume for jobs and got a haircut and applied for a service dog. Then I packed my bags, and the nurses hugged me and told me to come back soon. I went back to my parents' house and pretended not to notice how they watched me do everything. When I had a job interview, one of the interviewers asked about the gap in my employment history.

"I was in the hospital," I said. "I got pretty sick."

I could tell the woman on the video call didn't believe me. I could tell she was looking at my hair, long and healthy. But I got the job. When they told me, I closed my eyes and pretended like I could feel other people's feelings, the way we would pretend together.

-

Then, I went looking for you. But I couldn't find you. The nurses said that you had left, against the doctor's wishes.

"She came back?" I said, more than a little shocked. You had left before I had, and it had burned like acid that you had never come back for me. It was one of the main reasons I had worked so hard to get out of there. Because you did that to me, you asshole. You hurt me, and it forced me to swallow heavy pills that made me see talking animals and fairies with blue cupcakes -- your favorite color was blue, and I never told you that it was a trigger for me. While I was at the hospital, I said hello to the ugly little thing I'd buried. It didn't say anything back, obviously. Unlike what people think about me, I'm not insane. Neither of us was.

I went to your house, and you weren't there. I found your real friends, the people you knew before you got locked up in the loony bin, and they couldn't find you.

But I don't give up easily. Obviously. And I think I found you. But not the way I wanted to.

So I guess I'm sending this letter out on some western wind, hoping it'll reach you someday. If you ever get it, return the favor that I did in this letter. I want you to tell me all the things you never told me before. Oh, and I'll buy you a cupcake. I owe you a birthday, after all. This time, the frosting will be red.

Written by: Lindsey B

Source; https://blog.reedsy.com/creative-writing-prompts/author/lindsey-b/