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/

The Last Piece of Meat

 A selfish married couple always angrily quarreled over who would get the last piece of meat at dinner. They would keep fighting over the meat until their dinner was spoiled. Finally, they reached a truce. To enjoy a peaceful meal without quarreling, they agreed to not speak to each other during dinner. If one of them should say something during mealtime, the one who remained quiet would get the last piece of meat.

One night, a burglar entered the house with the intent of robbing an empty residence. Startled to see the married couple sitting at the dinner table, he started to escape, until he realized that the couple was not moving or reacting in any way to his intrusion. The burglar thought: “Maybe, they are paralyzed; now I can take advantage. ”

Moving quickly and confidently toward the still speechless and unmoving married couple, the burglar began to search through the woman’s clothes for any valuables.

Steaming angry that her husband was not coming to her aid (he was just sitting there mute), the wife finally couldn’t take it any longer, and exploded:

“You idiot, how can you just sit there without moving or saying anything when this man is attacking me? Aren’t you going to say something?”

“Yes, I am,” responded the husband with unbridled joy. "You talked first. I get the meat!

Writer: Alexander Avila

Source;www.realhealthmag.com

What is Sharenting?

I remember some time ago, I put myself in the shoes of a child and asked a question on the Institute of ICT Professionals, Ghana (IIPGH) Premium WhatsApp Platform, "If I grow up, can I sue my parents for posting my childhood days pictures without my consent?". Silly question?

Some members on the platform laughed at it and brushed it off, but some also found the question intriguing. One member, for example, gave a befitting response: "Well, I will also take you to court and ask you to pay all the expenses I've made for you since you were born."

And my answer to that, as usual, was: "Did I ask you to give birth to me?"

Just when I thought I had nailed the argument, he came back strongly with a knockdown answer: "The semen I produced contained about 100 million sperms. Why did you rush to fertilize the egg first?"

I did not have any answer, and the conversation ended that way.

But is it a useless question to think our children will grow to question things we posted about them on social media platforms when they were young?

Let me frame it this way: Will our children grow up and be happy with all the things we have posted about them on social media? Now we even start posting about them before they are born or immediately after they are born.

This practice of parents sharing information, photos, and videos of their children on social media is called Sharenting. According to Wikipedia, the origin of the term "sharenting" has been attributed to the Wall Street Journal. It is a portmanteau of "oversharing" and "parenting."

Is it a good thing to do?

Well, sharenting is a double-edged sword.

On one hand, sharenting can be a way for parents to connect with others sharing the joys and challenges of parenthood, and also share milestones and memorable moments of the child with friends and families who may live far away. It can provide a sense of community and support. It is also a means to create a digital footprint for the child, something most of us do not have because we were born when there was no Internet.

On the other hand, sharenting can also raise concerns about privacy and security. Once something is posted on the Internet, it is difficult to control who sees it and how it is used. So, the digital footprint remains forever, and this can come back to haunt us. This puts them at risk of cyberbullying or other forms of harassment online. Sharing too much information about children can also have long-term consequences for their privacy and reputation.

What are the consequences of this? As stated above, there are safety and privacy issues here.

Below is what ChatGPT, an Artificial Intelligence (AI) tool, has to say about sharenting, in terms of safety and privacy.

One of the biggest concerns with Sharenting is privacy. Posting photos and updates about children can expose them to potential predators, or even identity theft.

The ChatGPT also talked about the issue I raised earlier. Whether the child will be happy with that when he or she grows up.

Below is what it said.

Another concern is that children may not be comfortable with their parents sharing their photos and updates about them. Parents need to respect their children's wishes and not post anything without their permission.

Wikipedia describes Sharenting as the practice of parents publicizing sensitive content about their children on internet platforms. It mentions concerns over the potential social motivations for sharenting and legal frameworks to balance child privacy with this parental practice.

With newborn children, how do you even seek their permission?

Now, what happens if the child grows up and uses his/her date of birth as another layer of security for the online systems s/he will use? The parent has already denied him/her that. Or if s/he grows up and is an undercover journalist, how is he going to hide his face from the public?

Aside from the security and privacy concerns, one other problem with sharenting, is targeted marketing. This information we put out there is a gold mine for companies that provide products that are meant for children. Once they know you have a baby, they can target you with things relating to children or things that target the lactating mother.

Also, this information we put out there serves as a gold mine for bad guys. Kidnappers, for example, can have an encounter with your child years later and may tell him or her lots of information that will let the child believe they are real.

Finally, we are making a lot of data available to systems we do not know. There are a lot of systems that gather specific images online to train models. This can come back and hurt our children in ways we cannot imagine now.

So, how do we go about this? How do we balance it? How do we share our children's accomplishments without putting them in danger someday? Which information should we share, and which one should we keep secret?

Once again, ChatGPT has advice for us, the advice I agree with, that is "responsible parenting".

Responsible Sharenting

Parents should make sure to only post photos and updates that they are comfortable with and that their children are/will be comfortable with. It is also important to be aware of the privacy settings on social media. Many platforms have settings that allow users to control who can see their posts, and parents should take advantage of these settings to ensure their children's privacy.

Let us take advantage of the settings on those platforms so that at least the things we share are not seen by the entire world.

Connect at OnlinePresident.org or become a member of IIPGH and join the premium platform to engage with other IT Professionals in Ghana.

 

Author: Kaunda Ibn Ahmed (Online President) | Communications Team Member, Institute of ICT Professionals Ghana, Communications Team.

For comments, contact author kaunda@outlook.com | +233234809010.

 

Beyond Words

 

A bell chimes above her as Katy pushes open the old wooden door that leads into Silo’s Books and Curios. She had finally found the small, almost invisible, shop tucked in between a craft store to its right and a health food store to its left. It would have been easy to walk by had you not been expressly looking for it, as Katy had been. 

Ding, Ding.

Katy looks up at the sound, surprised to see not a brass shopkeeper’s bell, but two silver bells that look as though they have just been cut from Santa’s sleigh. The crystal-clear ringing of the bells hangs in the stale air of the otherwise quiet shop long after she shuts the door and cautiously steps within. The lights are dim and the walls are covered from floor to ceiling with tall, rickety shelves. And every inch of every shelf is stuffed, corner to corner, with books! Old books, new books, soft and hard-cover books, picture books, and old boring-looking books. Books, books, books, as far as the eye can see, more books than she has ever seen before. 

In Katy’s house, where she lives with her mom and dad, all of her parents’ books are kept in a very special glass case, and she is not, under any circumstance, to touch them. Her mom says they are precious and to be treated with respect and that she can read them when she is older. Her dad calls them expensive and not for little girls and their grubby, sticky hands.     

But these books aren’t behind any glass. They are just sitting here, waiting to be held, to be touched, to be read. Katy looks around the shop suspiciously, curious that no one else seems to be here. After a moment, and moving very carefully, she makes her way to the bookshelf closest to her, raises her hand very slowly, and stretches her fingers towards the books. 

“Fancy an adventure, do you?” a voice says mysteriously from somewhere in the darkness behind her. Katy pulls her hand back and spins around, looking horrified as a tall, slender, and bearded man makes his way out of the shadows in the corner of the bookshop. He appears to be very old.

“I’m…I’m very sorry,” Katy stammers, as she takes a step backwards, away from the tall man, whom she assumes is Silo, the name on the sign above the door. At least she hopes it is. She bumps into the shelf behind her, and an old, expensive-looking book tumbles from its home and lands heavily at her feet. “I shouldn’t have tried.…” 

She stops talking as she looks up at the old man and he stares back at her, and for a moment she considers running to the door. Just then the old man tilts his head back and laughs, loudly and heartily. There is something special about him, but Katy isn’t sure what it is. Before she has a chance to say anything else, Silo takes two long strides towards her and bends down to pick up the book. He flips it over and inspects its cover as he stands back up straight. 

“The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, eh?” he asks, smiling again, “fancy a ride down the Mississippi, do you?” He holds the old book out to Katy, but she doesn’t take it; in fact, she is scared to be even close to it. 

“I shouldn’t,” she says, looking up at the old man cautiously. “It looks expensive.” 

“Pshhh,” Silo exclaims as he pushes the book into her hands. “Books are for reading, young lady, not for coddling. I implore you, please, take a look.” Before she can protest any further, he walks away towards the old cash register at the back of the shop, leaving her with the Twain classic clutched tightly to her chest. When he reaches the counter, he turns around and looks back at her. 

“Open it up; you may be surprised by what you see.” He smiles slightly, and Katy sees a small twinkle in his eye before he bends over the counter and begins to scribble on some papers. She watches him for a second longer before returning her attention to the book still clasped in her small hands. Very carefully, she opens it at random, somewhere in the middle. What she sees next makes her gasp in surprise. 

In the middle of the page, where Katy expects to see words, and sentences, and paragraphs, there is instead something that looks like a cross between a picture frame and a small, rectangular television set. At first she thinks it is a picture, but when she looks more closely she sees that it is moving. She can see a large river and after a moment two young boys on a small wooden raft paddling along the shoreline. She moves her face so close to the page her nose is almost touching it as she watches the small raft bounce along in the current. The boys on the raft turn and wave, smiling widely at her. 

“You could join them, if you like,” Silo says quietly from across the room. Katy looks up from the book and sees that the old man is looking at her again, a smile on his face. The twinkle in his eye is still there.

“What do you mean?” Katy asks, glancing between Silo and the book, watching the boys continue to make their way down the great Mississippi. 

“I mean, you could dive right in,” he says, “take part in their grand adventure. It has only just begun.” 

She says nothing for a minute as she continues to stare into the book, watching the boys she holds in her hands make grand plans for their day. After a minute, she looks back up towards the counter. 

“I can’t swim,” she says shyly, as she carefully closes the book. “I’d be too scared to try.” 

“Well, that’s all right,” the old man exclaims as he bounds out from behind the register. He rushes past Katy towards a bookshelf on the other side of the shop. He pauses there, one hand on his hip and the other on his chin as he looks up and down the rows of books. 

“AHA!” he cries and reaches high above his head and snatches another book from its home. He hurries over to her holding the book out in front of him. “Have you ever wanted to explore the cosmos?” 

“The what?” Katy asks incredulously, looking up at him with a questioning expression.

“The cosmos,” he repeats, “Space!” He stoops down and holds out the book. It is the most chewed up, dog-eared, poorly treated book Katy has ever seen, but she is able to read the cover, faded though it is. 

“A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Eagle,” she reads, looking up at Silo as she carefully pronounces the author’s name. 

“Madeleine, yes, perfect.” He flips the book open and once again Katy sees, instead of words, a small frame with something inside of it. She peers carefully inside and sees three young children, two boys and a girl, standing at the edge of a forest in the dark, appearing to be scared but also relieved as they look out at a large house just past the trees. As Katy watches, the young girl turns and gives her and the old man a small nod and a little smile before returning her attention to her friends. The two boys don’t seem to notice them. 

“You could tag along if you like. Meg, Charles, and Calvin are travelling the galaxy, trying to save their father. I’m sure they would be happy to have you.” 

Katy watches the page for another moment as the three children leave the forest and head towards the large house. Then she turns and looks up at the old man again. 

“I can’t go to space,” she says, looking nervous. “I haven’t brought a coat with me. I would be so cold.” She wraps her arms around her shoulders, as if she could already feel the freezing, desolate vacuum of space all around her. 

“Not a worry, not a worry!” Silo says, and the old book snaps closed in his hands, causing dust to fly up in the air between him and Katy. He places the book on top of a pile of others, sitting atop a very wobbly, spindly-looking table. He then begins to turn on the spot as he surveys the shop, hand once again on his chin, fingers weaving delicately through his beard as he does. After a moment he crouches down and pulls a book from the lowest shelf.

“Now here is one that may be just a little bit warmer if that’s what you’re looking for,” he says with a wink, as he hands the leather-bound book to her. 

Katy takes the book carefully from his outstretched hands and looks down at the cover. It is very old but in remarkably good condition. It is black, with large, gold embossed letters on the front. 

“The Jungle Book,” she reads, running her finger over the name, feeling the gold beneath her fingers. “It’s beautiful.” 

“Just wait until you get inside,” Silo replies, grinning at her out of the corner of his mouth. 

Moving very slowly and being careful to touch only the edges of the pages, Katy opens the book. At first she can’t see much of anything at all, just a dense forest, tree after tree covered with a thick blanket of green leaves and vines. Slowly but surely, however, the jungle starts to thin and before long she can see a clearing ahead. There is a stream with a fallen tree lying across it. Suddenly, a young boy, wearing only a small loincloth around his waist (Katy averts her eyes for a second before remembering it’s a book) hops onto the log and begins to walk across it, holding his arms out for balance. Right behind him, a large bear follows. He doesn’t look like he is chasing the boy, but just following along. Taking up the rear a large, black panther prowls nearby, looking as if it is just out for a leisurely stroll. 

“It certainly is beautiful,” Katy remarks to Silo, who is still standing beside her, high above her shoulder, as he also peers into the book. He says nothing, but points down at the page, smiling. As Katy looks back she sees a giant python winding its way down a tree towards the three friends. It turns its head slowly to look at Katy and the old man before flicking its tongue at them. Katy snaps the book shut. 

“Snakes?! I can’t stand snakes!” she says, pushing the book quickly back into Silo’s hands. “I could never go on an adventure in a jungle!” 

“I see,” Silo replies, with no hint of disappointment on his face. He takes the book she has just thrust on him, carefully walks back to the shelf, and gently squeezes it into its home. Then he turns back to her and smiles once again. 

“Then, my dear, the question is: What kind of adventure would you like to go on?” 

Katy looks back at Silo for a minute, unsure of what to say. She gazes around the bookshop, books as far as her eyes can see. Adventures, mysteries, love and romance. They are all at her fingertips, but yet…. 

“I want to have my own adventure!” she exclaims, thrusting her hands high above her head. “My own adventure that takes me places that I never thought I could go, to see things I never thought I could see. Full of surprises and magic.” She spins in a circle, but then suddenly stops and stares at Silo again before adding, “But no snakes.” 

Silo looks at her carefully, so carefully in fact it seems as though he is trying to look right through her. 

“Sir, are you okay…” Katy asks, sounding concerned, afraid that she has upset the old shopkeeper, but just then Silo’s magical grin returns as he spins on his heel and walks back to the wooden counter where his cash register sits. He ducks out of sight, and as Katy approaches the counter she can hear him rummaging behind it. Before she can say anything, he reappears, wearing the same magical smile upon his lined face. 

“Well, I think I’ve found it,” he says, the twinkle in his eye shining brighter than ever. 

“Found what?” Katy asks, searching his face for an answer. She finds none, but Silo doesn’t keep her waiting long. 

“The perfect book for you,” he replies, and from behind his back he reveals a small, white book. It looks neither old nor new. It’s perfect. He places it close to his heart for a moment and then without another word holds it out for Katy to take. After a second’s hesitation, she reaches up and slips it delicately from his fingers.

She looks down at the small book and finds there is nothing on the cover. No picture or any writing adorns it. She flips it over and discovers that the back is just as blank as the front. Then, very slowly she opens the book to the middle. To her surprise, the page is completely empty. She flips from page to page and finds them all without a mark. 

“It’s completely empty,” Katy says, trying not to sound disappointed. “There’s no adventure in here at all.” 

“Well, of course not, dear,” Silo says, his face breaking into a wide smile as he gazes down at her, his long beard twitching with delight. He reaches into his breast pocket and pulls something out, but before Katy can see what it is he stretches out his long arms and holds the mysterious object in front of her. It is a pure gold fountain pen, with her name engraved on its side. The name she had never told him. 

“You haven’t written it yet.”

Written By: Mat Francis

Source; https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/cco2p3/