In a few minutes, we reached Blue Path facing the low level of the grounding avenue and we stopped momentarily on the edge of the fountain. I noticed the day was marvelous. The sun was dying like a fat red bull behind the mountainous rocks; the birds were flying in circle around themselves and the wind from the open land seemed to kiss lovely through the huge trees and palms. The voices of people and of children coming from anywhere and made everyone more touchable to walk through the park. As we began to walk through the bridge, and as impassive as my little Tabby was, the river was running below. As mysterious as its enigma emerged to us, my little Tabby held herself a little. And suddenly, without any reason at all, she asked me, “Do you think I came from a river, Mom?” Imperiously, I tried to distract her by showing her a single fish at that moment he was swimming towards the deep water; but after a few moments, she asked me the same question again. “Do you think I came from a river, Mommy?” Somehow, I hated the monotonous method of explanation, the 'no-mistake' world that does not product anything else than a gap between an adult and a child. It was mattered to me and it was impossible to hold her any longer. I turned and looked at her. And slowly I began to explain her that she did in fact had come from a river. A small one, I said. “That was located between Spring and Autumn.” “Really, Mom?” she said. “How come? Can you explain it to me?” “Well,” I began to say. “Look at this river—” She turned and looked down at the river. “I'm looking at the river, Mom. Now what?” “What do you see?” She moved further and glanced down at the river. “Water...” “And?” “Lot of fishes and water, Mom.” “And?” “Weeds and lot of fishes and water, Mom.” “Now do you see this single fellow fish?” “Which one, Mom? There are so many of them?” “The strong man.” “This one, Mom?” “Yes! This one!” Then I began to explain her that many years ago there was a fish wandering up and down through a river like this one. He was alone and he did not have any kingdom and land. But he was a handsome fish and he was ready to be a king in this new land. That day he began to swim all day along until he entered into a black whole filled of sands and weeds. “As that one, Mom?” “Yes, like this one.” And he was surprised to see many fishes already gathering around or swimming toward a large tunnel guarding up by a group called Feeders. But our Handsome Fish was ready to be king and he didn't care about them. After an arduous battle he crossed the main floor of the tunnel; and then so imperative, he began to move through it. He turned his eyes back to see if the other fishes were behind. Yeah. They also were moving closer after him. He began to swim faster and faster. Until several feet ahead, there was a second gate surrounding by millions of fishes who have the same idea of his to pass the second guarded gate and reached the desirous throne. As they were beginning the difficult journal, Our Handsome Fish saw a second group called The Fish Knights who would make ever more difficult to trespass such gate. Because they were the only who had been authorized by the Fish Queen herself to kill any intruders. But the Handsome Fish was strong as well as smart that they had never seen one like him around and he was determined not to let them to eat him alive... My little girl Tabby interrupted me and asked who were really those Fish Knights and why they were guarding up the gate. Ah they were the tinny creatures who were designed to that purpose and their main job was to defense the queen against bad fishes. Then I said, “As you see, Tabby, there must be only one fish to be crowned as king.” “Oh!” she said as she stared at him quietly. Meanwhile in the two ways beneath the bridge goes out into the sea there was the entrance of the cattle. There was a glorious battle took place. The Noble Fishes and the Fish Knights began to fight. At this instant, Our Handsome Fish moved faster, followed by a Fish Knight. The Handsome Fish jumped into a sloppy wave and moved his arm desperately to reach the lighten hall. He saw an open door, just as Fish Knight was a foot away from him, Handsome Fish dashed into the lighten hall and fell himself against the soft carpet and began to laugh. And at the same time, the golden door closed behind him with a sound. And when those fishes reached the guarded gate, there would be one among them who would be able to pass through it. “Who was them Mom?” “It was Our Handsome Fish.” “How he would become a king?” I told her he would be first a Prince; then, inside the cattle after too much trouble, he would be crowned as a king. After that he would show everything else against it would close until the next season. “Was that the way I was born, Mom?” my little girl Tabby asked. I looked at her smiling. “Not only you, my sweetheart,” I said. “But each one of us.”

Before the covid pandemic started, I was a completely different person than I am today. And I think we all have it the same way. We've all been affected by this strange time. Was it good or bad? The answer is probably different for everyone. When we were announced for a two-week vacation, I believed it would really last two weeks. No one knew what was going to happen. And I really thought it will be just a vacation. The first few weeks were great. I took a break from all the bustle, and practically had days off. I didn't have to get up at six, have breakfast in a hurry and pour my shirt with milk and oats, go by morning bus amongst a bunch of people, and come home tired in the evening and get ready for the next day. I was enjoying nothing. I had time to eat, I slept until late morning, I did my job on short notice sometime between the fun, and the rest of the time I watched a plethora of Netflix shows. After about a month, I'm afraid I got tired of it. There was nothing left to look at, nothing was happening. On people's Instagram profiles, I've seen how creative people are. Yes, one started knitting, the other started playing the piano, the third started practicing yoga, the fourth started to bake healthy cakes, and the fifth started to fold kits. They were all supposedly discovering new beauties of this lifestyle. I didn't find those beauties. I tried the yoga a few times, but after a while, I didn't know why I was doing it. Why? No one will appraciate that. (at the end of quarantine I didn't do a single push-up) I tried to bake too, some zucchiny cream cake. Unfortunately, I burned the whole oven-it didn't quite work out and I don't like zucchini anyway. So I gradually went back to doing nothing. Every day was the same. Nothing new, except that the hero of my favourite show was killed, and, of course, came back to life the next day. It was dreadful. I was in room every day. And either I was lying in bed, on the couch, or sitting in the armchair. There was no one to make me laugh, no annoying classmate or talkative saleswoman. My days were so boring and still the same. I got up in morning, ate breakfast, ate chocolate, worked at the table, ate a bar of chocolate, worked, ate chocolate and watched Netflix and ate chips! Sleep. So I started spending my days on social media. I wasn't able to concentrate at online meetings anymore. I've been looking at terrible nonsense for hours. First it was Tiktoks with dancing, and it ended with strange people dressing their dogs in tailored sweaters, or better yet, frying Snickers. Yeah. That's where I ended. Why? I was looking for something interesting. I was looking for news, for something going on. I needed to know, that something is happening. It was like a drug. It was needed, but deadly. I was everywhere, in every corner of the world, and nowhere at the same time. Unfortunately, this gradually came to the conclusion that social media started destroying me. Everyone seemed to be so happy, they lived such a perfect life, something was going on with them, and I just watched. I was so jealous. Why my life isn't like this? I felt there's something wrong with me. I also haven't talked to anyone in months, no one cared about me, I didn't text my friends, nobody wrote anything. Like I don't exist. I disappeared. Every evening when the sun went down beyond the horizon I sat on the floor and cryed. I felt insecure and scared. All I saw was the dark. And came the philosophical and existential questions. I started to doubt everything... Will I ever get out? Will it ever be the same? Will I ever be able to have fun again? Does anyone else like me? Am I any good? Nobody misses me. Does my life have meaning? Does it all have some meaning? It was like inside a snow globe. It looks so beautiful on the outside. But when you're locked inside every day alone and every day is the same, there's nothing what makes life a life. And you don't know how to break the glass... But then, unexpectedly, they started relaxing the measures, and although I wasn't happy at all. I had to go back to my normal life. It was a big shock at first. I couldn't spend my day „normaly“. Luckily, I got used to it. And I realized one important thing. I realized that what we experience every day is our life. The meaningless little things. I realized how much I missed it. I now appreciate the awful wake-up with alarm, the breakfast in a hurry, and even the weird people on the way to work. It's fun, because every day is so different and interesting. I'm finally enjoying what I didn't realize before. I enjoy talking to a shop assistant in a store, a silly performance at the theatre, or a cold evening on the summer terrace of restaurant. So I have to rethink it... actually, I have to admit, there is one positive thing about the quaratine, it made me really start living. But still, I wish you only an "ordinary" life and no more lockdown.

It is no secret that we are living in a crazy time right now, one that we have never seen before. I do not think anyone could have ever prepared us for the dramatic changes that the COVID pandemic has inspired. I do not think anyone could have prepared us to handle the pain-staking death toll that this virus has brought about. I feel as though that is how tragedy works, though. Even though we think we are prepared for major events to happen in life, there is nothing that can be done to prepare us for the consequences of a horrific event, no matter if the outcome is expected or unexpected. As sad and frankly shameful as the pandemic handling has been in the United States, there are also positives in the situation as well. I believe that there are positives in every situation in life, even if you have to search high and low for them. I believe that the pandemic has strengthened many relationships due to all of the time most of us have been having to spend together in close quarters. This either has strengthened your relationships or made them worse. Do not worry, though, you are not alone. We have all been stuck together, and we all get on each other's nerves after long periods of time together. In the case of being homebound most of the time, this pandemic often just felt like my normal life. I have Quadriplegic Cerebral Palsy, and as a result, I have to be dependent on a wheelchair to move about my days. To many people reading this, this might sound like a nightmare. It is really not that bad, though, and if it is all you know, it is what you adapt to. I am not able to work a normal job due to chronic pain issues and extreme fatigue. As a result of both of these issues, I am used to being home at least 5 days-a-week with the exception of medical appointments and the occasional grocery trip. When the pandemic first began, I honestly found solace in the fact that a large number of normal people were experiencing what it was like to live within the confines of a limited lifestyle. Even though this led to an increase in cabin fever for many, it was almost like everyone else had developed a sense of understanding when it came to my lifestyle and the opportunities that exist, albeit limited. Many of you were forced to find and discover new hobbies and activities that you enjoyed doing to fill the empty spaces. I can definitely relate to that idea. Coloring has always been a hobby for me. It carried through with me from my childhood. It has been a huge relief for me throughout the hard times last year and through the problems that we have yet to overcome this year. Coloring has been significantly helpful in treating both my anxiety and depression. I am confident that there has been an increase in depression throughout these times. It is not only understandable but relatable. There is nothing wrong with asking for and receiving the help that you may need. I am sure that there are people in your groups of family and friends that are willing to help you along your journey, and if you find that their advice is not sufficient, you can always seek the professional help of a therapist or counselor. Needing help in life, especially during significantly tragic events, does not make you weak. If anything, it makes us human and more compassionate about life. I am often asked how I am so happy and in an even-keeled mood most of the time, even when times get hard. The secret is actually not much of a secret and it is not that hard to maintain. It is that I am grateful for everything I have in life. I count and rely on my blessings every single day to help me along my life journey, which is both arduous and amazing.

1)Brush you teeth properly minimum of two minutes and wash tongue properly 2)Your toothbrush matters Always keep it clean. After use rasineproperly and allow to dry 3)flux use After meals always flux 4)Stop smoking 5)use the right dental products if possible visit a dentist to get one that works for you 6)Take lots of water 7)fortify tour body with teeth friendly nutrients 8)Reduce intake of some beverages like coffee which changes teeth colour 9)Avoid late night snacking 10) make dental care a routine Always go for checkups at your nearest dental clinic at least two times in three months.

The Living “I'm so stiff,” cried the corpse, “I'm dying to dance again.” And there he rose, hopping off the autopsy table to do a pirouette on the pristine tiles of the room. He twirled and twisted in perfect synchrony to imaginary music, jumping and turning with such conviction that the coroner nearly heard that same music the dead was dancing to. He moved around the room, avoiding each object with such precision that the amazed onlooker couldn't help but wonder if this man had ever been there before. The coroner never got any company – only the dead came to visit him. He stared, amazed at the newly exhumed corpse jumping across the room in a perfect brisé. The dancer became akin to a top spinning out of balance, coiling around in some hidden rage before reaching a crescendo with a sweep of his hand. He moved into what looked like the final position, right leg outstretched, tracing a circle around him with his arms spread far behind, face wistful as he looked up past the ceiling. Spellbound, the coroner couldn't but clap at what had played in front of him. He had never been too much of a fan of the performing arts but to deny the dance proper appreciation would be a sin, even if it was to music he can't hear. The beauty of his form, his harmony, the sincerity of his expression; it was all utter perfection. The undead dancer gave a low bow to the coroner, a humble thank you coming from his lips. As he did so, the stunned man was reminded of something he'd read a long, long time ago. “And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music,” he whispered, eyes wide. “Nietzsche,” the other nodded, pale as death but looking more alive than ever. He reached his right hand towards the still man. “Now, dance with me.” The coroner, entranced, put a hesitant hand on his. A gasp escaped his lips as their skin touched. “It's cold.” + The Dead If the corpse heard, he didn't show it as he wrapped his left arm around the living one. He hummed in approval as the other put his hand on his shoulder. The beat of the other's heart was intoxicating to his ears; the breath on his lips, the blood running through his veins. It had been so long since he'd last been alive that all he could do was admire the essence of life in his arms. He loved how it brought him on the cliff of ecstasy; dangling off the edge, so close to falling into intense, never ending pleasure. Infatuated he was with life – no – he daresay lusted for it. He lusted to feel life in his hands, in his control, doing as he desired. He waltzed the living man across the room, carefully avoiding the chairs and tables and gently twirling him around, making the other lose balance slightly just for the dead to catch him in his cold embrace once more. The unlikely pair did this again and again, their delicate stepping and turning becoming something more aggressive; they pushed and they pulled, their turns sharpening. The corpse shoved the coroner on to the autopsy table he came from, pushing him down on the cold metal. “You are mine now.” This shook the living man out of his enchanted stupor, and he writhed and kicked, trying to escape from the cold, rigid grip of death. “No,” the dancer tutted condescendingly; a reasoning mother to an irascible child. “That is not how you are to behave.” From the side table he produced a scalpel, blemish-free and all but gleaming in the harsh light. An unsettling thought came about the coroner. I had just finished sharpening my tools.

They say love can make you do strange and peculiar things. Others say it's exhilarating. But my husband, Will, and I think of ourselves as much too practical when it comes to life's important matters, such as love. And then we took a vacation to Belize. We read, researched, and planned. But only a few hours into our itinerary, we had to abandon it. As darkness snuck up on us, rain poured, and a windshield wiper on our tiny rental car didn't work. We dodged dogs and people moseying along the highway. The highway had no lights. Will suggested a place to spend the night but I countered, remembering reading about Hopkins Village. Little did we know, it would take us a white-knuckling, breath-holding 45-minutes to maneuver the four miles of unpaved, crater-filled so-called road. “Are you sure there is a village at the end of this?” Will asked. No, I wasn't. I panicked silently, wondering what I had gotten us into and hoping I hadn't made the entire situation worse. This situation being our vacation. I thought about shouting “We should've gone to Costa Rico!” but refrained. When the village's twinkling lights emerged ahead, I managed to breath. As we approached, the rain began to let up. The sea was straight ahead, and we arrived just in time to watch the full moon rising over the Caribbean. It was magical. So magical, it didn't seem real but more like an Elvis Presley movie set. The restaurant had thatch roofs, waves softly lapping, and this amazing moon emerging from the sea. And that was our very first night! Listening to the faint drumming sounds over a meal of fresh fish, the rain turned to a slow mist, melting the stress we had brought with us. And then we did something strange, peculiar, and exhilarating. We vowed to move to this little fishing village in Central America. In reality, there would be several more trips, extensive planning, and a five-year plan. But really, it was that first night, with the tropical breeze, delicious food, rum-drinks, and rain-soaked hair, that we fell in love with a place. We gazed at that moon and each other until our eyes succumbed to sleep. We wanted salt air, tropical moonrises, and authentic living. We wanted to fall asleep to the waves of the Caribbean Sea rather than the planes of Love Field. We wanted to ride on beach cruisers instead of sitting in traffic. We wanted beach walks not side walks. We wanted slow and relaxed instead of frantic and frazzled. We wanted Belize. Belize is a small little country about the size of New Hampshire with an abundance of nature—both sea and mountains. The rural country boasts of no fast-food or big box stores and it probably has more chickens than people. This developing country has much the romance of the wild west, complete with chaos, dangers, and take matters into your own hands' kind of place. And what an adventure it was! We decided to “go west,” buying and building. We planned to live in a little wooden cabana--Belize's version of a mobile home-- while building our dream beach house. We were so full of optimism. We embraced our setbacks and challenges with unabashed enthusiasm. No bed? We will sleep in a hammock. Can't find parts for the bathroom door? No problem. We will hang a hammock up for privacy like some hippies from the sixties. It could be months before any of furniture is ready? We'll reminisce our younger days—crates for nightstands…concrete blocks and boards for dressers. Four months later, we took delivery of bespoke tropical hardwood furniture. We took our time, we went slow, and soaked it all in. If we weren't blessed enough, it turned out the oldest bed and breakfast, our favorite vacation spot, with Lucy, our favorite beach dog, may be for sale. We'd known Lucy, the Irish wolfhound mixed with something much smaller, over the years and enjoyed our walks together to our favorite beach hang out. She trotted the two blocks to our place frequently. Some mornings we'd open our front door only to discover Lucy laid across it like a welcome mat. Lucy reminded us of our first dog—smart and funny. Will and I day-dreamed of Lucy and the inn being ours. We talked of importing expensive mattresses and soaps…of expanding the verandas and having romantic double showers. We drank dark rum. We strolled along the beach. We made love without worrying about rushing off to work. We were happy in this magical, quirky, little village. And, I could say “the end.” But it may not be fair to finish the story like that without also including that it may have been a rash decision to purchase a bed and breakfast to get a puppy dog. I could also add that we didn't do things the way they've always been done, upset the status quo, and made a whole bunch of people angry. No doubt, there were twists, turns, and stumbling blocks on our adventure. But even so, our goal of adventure-seeking was reached in record time.

Skupoy , or Skudny lives in a foggy swamp , he breathes wind and eat crumbs and spend a lot of his time with insects . Skupoy often prefer to be away from human beings , but he is in love with village people . He is not a human being but rather belong to nature's creatures , it has been said in ancient mythology that he was a living creature in swamp water , while in other novels it was pointed as swamp itself . Best not to provoke him, not one to be taken lightly , he just may decide to focus squarely on others and people forbid to imply he is a creature , who always lurking right above the surfaces . Over the time people noticed the spread of unpleasant odors , reproduction of parasites where it spread and began to eat crops , while the activity of fungi increased to cover heavily houses , roofs , portals , and houses of reverence . The swamp acquired a nature other than its own nature , the dark water turned into brown viscous clay . Which finally led people to look out in the swamp , the surprising part of this myth when they found the reason , it were only worms . Carried with clouds and thrown by rains into the swamp , it didnt take time to adapt with grumpy swamp as a warm shelter . The swamp was a source of inspiration and many other benefits for those people . They quickly decided to pull uot the worms , they gently remove them . Near the swamp they dug the land to build another shelter for these worms with provision of fruits and vegetables in order to avoid worm's revenge . _____________ This is my first fiction story which i wrote months ago but I did not find time to publish it, I hope I see your impressions on my writings, whether spelling or grammar ...,

Independence—everybody wants it. When the British taxed the colonists, they got upset and decided to declare their independence. When a teenager FINALLY makes it to their 18th birthday, they celebrate their newly-found freedom from their parents. I don't know too many people who would eagerly serve another man as a slave. All of these things are so because everyone wants to be independent; everyone wants to do what they want when they want; no one wants to be held back by anything. People want to be free. But what if I told you that there is more freedom found in dependency than in independency? It appears to be a contradictory statement, so let me explain. It was a warm August day, and I stood on the grass watching two girls walk out into the lake. They were being baptized that day, and my family had come to the picnic to celebrate. I wanted to be happy for them--I really did--but my stomach was twisted in too many knots to offer anything more than a half-hearted smile. If I had been brave, there would have been three girls in the water that day. Unfortunately for me, I was too scared to be baptized because I hated crowds, attention, and giving testimonial speeches. I just could not bring myself to do it. August soon came to a close and my disobedience was pushed to the furthest possible corner of my mind where I hoped it would be forgotten. September and October passed with only a few reminders of my shortcoming, and the holiday season came and went in a blur of turkey, wrapping paper, and a giant falling ball. By January, I was ready to forget about it for good and start over. But despite my best efforts, God wasn't ready to let it go just yet, and I found myself drowning—not in the lake, but in conviction. The God of the universe asked me to do something so simple, yet I couldn't do it. I wanted to follow Him, I wanted to depend on Him for strength, but I didn't know how; instead, I found myself at rock bottom crying in despair. I wasn't strong enough, I wasn't good enough, I'd never be free from the shame that shackled me each and every day, I told myself. But I had one last resort, and that was prayer. So I sat at my desk and looked out the window, silently asking God for a second chance and the strength to follow through. I let go of my problem and gave it to God. It didn't seem to do much, but behind the scenes, those few words that didn't even come out of my mouth audibly were going to change the course of my life. I walked into church three days later--January 6th--with that prayer being the last thing on my mind as the pastor started the service. He went over an announcement, then another one, and another. But the last one caught my attention more than the rest. I sat up in my seat. Did he really just say 'baptism service'? I asked myself. It couldn't be true, could it? As he talked on about the details, I realized that his words were more than just my imagination—they were really real. My fear melted that instant. I was astonished; I was thankful; I was amazed. I was baptized on February 10, 2019. If I had continued to depend on myself—my own strength—I would never have gotten anywhere. I would still be frozen to the grass by the lake, staring at the water wishing I had the faith to step forward. But I am free from my shackles of fear and it's all because I decided that independency wasn't the answer. Self-reliance doesn't always get you anywhere but surrender and dependency on God will always get you exactly where you need to be. If I've learned one thing these past few months, it's that surrender to God results in freedom. I've never been closer to God--never been happier--never been so hopeful and trusting that He is faithful. I recently found an out-of-state college that is offering a writing workshop camp, and as an aspiring author I desperately want to go. Unfortunately, with all of the expenses necessary to make that trip happen, it would take a miracle to get me there. Fortunately, however, I serve a God who knows no bounds. I immediately got online and started searching for contests, and it just so happened that I stumbled upon Biopage. Maybe I'm meant to go to writing camp, maybe I'm not. But I have written this essay in an attempt to win, and now I prayerfully give it to God because I can't rely on my own self. Dependence on Him is always the answer, because dependence means freedom.

I've had a to rip off quite a few band-aids in my life already. I turned 60 at the age of nine, and every year I continue to get older. CYS removed me from my mother's home, and released me to my second cousins-whom my sister and I did not know well. A year and three long and grueling court battles later, our father finally rescued us from our cousins basement. While living with dad we moved three times, and changed schools twice. I made many friends, though temporary, as many are. Living with dad was the way I felt life was supposed to be, he had a stable income, and loved us unconditionally. He kept us happy and At the top of the list of priorities resting on his always weary shoulders. His health though deteriorating, he remained to be the father he always wanted to be. Until I was thirteen years old, the day after my birthday, my father was struck by an 18-wheeler and killed instantly. To this day it is the worst moment of my life to come home from school only to find my to-be stepbrother, ready to deliver news no one should need to give to a child. This eventually resulted in more custody battles, once again landing us back into the welcoming hands of our cousins. For another year, there was where we stayed. It was an eventful year, I had found a love for singing in my youth group and my mother had gotten pregnant with a new sister. Elated to finally go home, my sister and I moved back in with our mom. The baby was born the upcoming fall. She has since then become my sole purpose for life. However, During my tenth grade year of school I found my mental health getting worse everyday, due to my mother's drinking. I gave her one more chance to come clean and remain sober. She didn't take my warning seriously. I moved out early march, and went to live back in with my cousins. I am now sixteen years old, it has been three years since my father's death, and my cousins have come to feel more like parents than ever. My mental health is getting better with every psychiatrist visit, my sisters grow older and get even more beautiful every day. My mother, though upset with my decision to stay here, still supports everything I do. I have ups and downs still, but the ups are starting to get even with the downs. I try and strive harder and harder everyday to become the young lady my father would be proud to call daughter. I am a strong, resilient, blossoming woman, who just keeps on going. I am determined to not only change my life, but to change the world. All I can go from here is forward and I will grow more everyday, keeping my goals in front of me and in reach. I'm so much stronger than I used to be, I understand so much more. After all, I am a 60 year old trapped at sixteen, And well.... I've come so far.

We all hate death. Even those who commit suicide do (God rest their souls). For most people, talking about death is like talking about that surgical procedure you're scheduled to go for. 1. If you could have it your way, you would not want to go through with it. 2. Now that it is inevitable, it does not make it any better when you're told, "you won't be the first". 3. Even when you're assured you won't feel any pain, it still does little to still your thoughts. 4. And you'd be alone. A. L. O. N. E. It's the same with death. But what if we could sit death down and talk? What if it was not an " it" but a "he/she"? What if it listens to our rare talks about it and wishes it could... Say something? 1. Maybe then we would realize that in this staged play of life, death is also just an actor. 2. No matter how much we hold on to life, death is bound to follow through with the script given. 3. And like those villains, they are never loved but the movie is usually not complete without them. 4. Maybe then we would realise that if death could have its way; a. It would ask to be taken off the stage rather than take others off. b. And if it has no choice, it would listen to our pleas to take the 'very old', and 'evil' ones only. c. And when all is said and done, it would feel even better if none is in that category. But. The script is written. The players are chosen. The play is on. And death has a sad role.

Do you know what it's like to hear the word CANCER? This is my second round of hearing that word., Once was 25 years ago, and again last year. I heard stage 4 this time and when asking the doctor what it meant she turned her back on me. When she did that I knew it was time for a second opinion, and that's what I did.(To tell you what this Doctor did, there isn't enough space). Didn't have stage 4, but what I was told was just as bad. New doctors that explained exactly what was going on, and what the plan was that would save my life. Chemo started-phase one went well, phase two not so good. Chemo stopped new plan put into place and its working. 'There have been days when I sat and cried, trying to figure out WHY? Days that I cried how can I afford this, how can I pay for my medicine(over $3000) just to stay alive until surgery could be performed. Many days of screaming and yelling at my poor hubby telling him "stop changing things, I'm not dead ", stop treating me like I'm not in the same room. Pure hell as I look back now. The worst part was when I started loosing my hair-what a shock (actually thought it was the dogs shedding)-nope it was me. It was devastating and as I look back it was the worst thing I have ever been through. I had a support team that was unbelievable in getting me through that stage. My best friend had her hair shaved down to her scalp so that I wouldn't be embarrassed. Her doing that made me cry and made me realize that she was there for the duration. (There were others that spread vicious lies about me and my condition). Why would someone who claimed they were friends do something like that? . At this point in my treatment I couldn't go outside without a hat whereas I didn't want anyone to see me like this. After each treatment I would get sick and then three days later would be fine until the next round. For my own piece of mind I would go to our campsite for rest and relaxation, cry, and try to keep a stiff upper lip. My support team was there the whole time. They made me laugh, and helped keep my spirits up. If they didn't see me outside, they knocked on the door to be sure I was okay, had me over for dinners and went out for ice cream afterwards, along with lots of fires at night. These were the people that kept me going along with my hubby.(My hubby also got sick during this time with his sugar levels way out of balance, so along with my treatment, he had his own.Thankfully his is under control now). When you hear the words "Cancer" your whole life changes, You have to adjust to all the doctor appointments, the chemo treatments, along with staying positive. You sit and realize that changes have to be made. Stress is not an option for you at all. You don't need it in your life. I had to make a lot of changes, as there was a lot of stress in my life at that time. Hubby and I sat down and discussed all of our options, what would we do, how could we do it, and who should know what was going on. The hardest part of this was telling my daughter. From there we set up our support team and things started to go easier. The support team consisted of some close friends who are still on the team, and I couldn't ask for a better group. The next thing we did was get rid of the problems that was causing the stress. We moved our camper to a new place, got rid of the people in our lives that were causing the stress. That was the best part of all of this. You could say that we "threw out the trash". What a relief it was to have the stress gone. We have surrounded ourselves with kind and loving people, people who care and help if it is needed. What I am saying is this: when you hear that word "Cancer" , stop and think for a minute. Get your priorities in place. Sit down make a plan. Stick to that plan. Make sure that you have the right Doctors around you that will work with you, tell you what is wrong and what they plan to do, along with what you want done.. This way you wont have to go through what we did. Surround yourself with a team of people that will help when needed, give you support when you have a bad day, and believe me you will have them. Remember to have a sense of humor (you're going to need it). Laugh as much as you can, do what you want to, get a hobby or keep on doing the one that you have to keep your mind off of what is going on. My crafting helped me during this time., Take a nap if you need one, they are a good way to take a break,. Above all FIGHT like you have never fought before, you will be in the biggest fight of your life. I'm still fighting and looking forward to a better life, spending time with family and friends, Doing the things that I have always wanted to do: travel, crafting, taking photo's, yard sales and many other things, Remember stay happy, smile, laugh, love, and be surrounded by people that love and care for you.

The bare bones of writing comes down to expressing a thought, idea, or feeling. We use it to communicate with others, as a way to convey a message we find important or personal. The bare bones doesn't care about brilliance, complexity, mistakes, or your chosen medium (pen and paper, anyone?). It's significant in only having written your word or words of choice, and the rest—be it a masterpiece, or just a grocery list—is up to you. When I was a teenager, the act of writing was a way to release, and to entertain myself. I wrote stories with characters that accurately, if not dramatically, conveyed the emotions that I had a hard time expressing in my adolescence. The themes crossed paths with things I experienced, and things that I anticipated to experience. It was my world, glittering and bright, even through the dark themes and circumstances that were written. While I didn't know it at the time, it was an important self-reflection through elaborate plot lines and quirky characters. It didn't matter that it wasn't what I had deemed publish-worthy. All that mattered was that I conveyed my feelings, and sometimes shared them with others—and with that, catharsis. I stopped writing like that years ago. These days, writing has become something of a chore. The pressures I put upon myself to just write something good, or even better than good, made my joy burn out like a candle wick. I put writing on hold while my life unraveled into the milestone of young adulthood. Through it all, I'm certain that my life would have a clearer direction, and my soul a happier glow, had I written... anything. No matter what though, I couldn't bring myself to do it, even if it were simply “Today sucked.” The desire to create was burning in my veins, but my self doubt riddled me with a hate plague I couldn't shake. Taking a look back, I knew I yearned simply for life experience. I wanted to experience without reflection, even if that took me through a lot of impulsive choices that I regret now. It also took work to sit down, focus, and write. Now, with the desire to be heard, to be seen as articulate, and with something to offer, I still struggle. The fear of a page written with utter garbage is a greater fear than of an empty one. And I want to change that—even if the page is merely filled with one word, I'll know I've put forth an effort to say something. In today's world, where everyone puts out their best image, their best work, and the edited, filtered versions of themselves—I vow to allow myself to be raw, messy, mediocre, and riddled with mistakes. To speak what's on my mind, to dare to create, to do. It's now my time for honesty, even if it masquerades as a poem, a crime drama screenplay, an essay, or an account of my day. The bare bones are all that matter, and even if to no avail, it all ends up in a graveyard—then, at least for a moment, they lived.