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

In the early days of the pandemic, I lived in a five hundred square foot apartment. About three hundred of that was taken up by furniture, and the rest was run by my five cats. My momma and I were starved for space, but too scared to go outside for fear of catching covid. We lived in the upper unit of an aged duplex; our downstairs neighbor was never home to keep his apartment cool so the heat rose and baked us in our sardine can. We had a couple decade old window units that tried their best to keep us cool, but more often than not we would eat meals in our car so we could have well-functioning A/C. “All I want is a house,” my mom said while the food wrapper in her hands crinkled. This had been a dream of hers my entire life, I always said if I ever won the lottery the first thing I would do is buy her one. Being in that apartment made that dream bigger, more urgent, something that constantly itched underneath both of our skins. We wanted walls of our own to paint and put holes in, we wanted freedom from overbearing landlords. We wanted to not be scared of eviction with little notice, which is what had landed us in that duplex in the first place. I crossed my legs to make myself more comfortable in the front seat. I stared out at the countryside we had seen so many times in passing, nothing but vast fields with the occasional dots of trees. “I applied for a grant,” I turned to look at my mom and make a questioning sound in my throat, “A grant, some banks will give money to poor folks to help with a down payment. I know we could afford a mortgage and utilities, but I could never save up enough for the down payment,” At the time it seemed like a pipe dream, but the worst thing they could say was no. We would never know if we didn't give it a shot, and at the time all we wanted was that miracle. “Holy shit! Kitty! We got it, we got it!” my mom burst into my room to give me a hug, squeezing me tighter than she ever had before. She nearly dropped her phone her hands were shaking so much. She seemed to be on the verge of tears so I held her a little longer and bonked my head against hers. From that moment on our life consisted of scrolling through Zillow and looking through the newspaper for any home that fit our budget. We didn't have much but fortunately the areas we were looking in weren't the fanciest. We toured place after place, always six feet behind our realtor and shrouded with our masks. “Wow! This place is so spacious and look at those hardwood floors.” She commented as our feet clacked on the floors. The walls were painted a cool blue, it felt like the living room alone was the size of our apartment. It had four whole bedrooms, and a dining room! It was more space than we could have ever dreamed of. At the time we didn't want to get our hopes up, the place was ten thousand dollars over our seemingly meager budget. My mom's door slammed as we climbed into her jeep after the tour. “I mean, it was amazing, but there's no way they'll ever accept our offer,” I looked at her and told her we never thought we would get the grant either. It would hurt more if we never put in an offer in the first place than it would to be told no. It would haunt us to let this opportunity sleep by. A place that wasn't ancient, not too far from family, and had enough room for all of us. She held my hand and nodded, texting our realtor to put in the offer. The day we learned that we got the house, it felt like someone out there was watching out for us. It felt like a blur, between putting in the offer, signing for it, and moving in. For a while it felt like I was dreaming. It didn't hit me until we were standing there in our new living room, with our second hand couch and great value tv stand, that the house was ours. I remember holding my mom real tight, crying for the first time in what felt like years. We spent the night laughing and celebrating, finally able to eat a meal not in our car.

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The Brief Story of Eternity Arthur Stace was not a man that you would have spent your hard-earned money betting on to become a celebrity. Born to alcoholic parents in Sydney in 1885, he lived in grinding poverty. That led to stealing bread and milk and searching for scraps of food in bins. As a teenager, he became an alcoholic, was sent to jail at 15 and, in his twenties, he was a scout for his sisters' brothels. Arthur was 45 when he entered a church one day, probably to get out of the rain and hoping for a handout. The sermon concerned eternity. And, for reasons he could never explain, he immediately gave up alcohol and became obsessed with that word - eternity. Despite the fact that he was illiterate and could hardly write his own name legibly, for the next 35 years he inscribed the word ‘Eternity' on footpaths and doorsteps in and around Sydney. He always wrote in immaculate copperplate and used yellow chalk and it's estimated he did this half a million times. Along the way, he achieved world-wide fame as ‘Mr. Eternity', before his death in 1967 at the age of 83. Only one original still exists, inside the bell of the Sydney General Post Office clock tower, which was brought out of storage in the 1960's. It had been sealed up for 20 years and no-one knows how Arthur had been able to get to it. He inspired many artists (including Banksy) and writers, spawned an opera and even a film by Julien Temple, the video chronicler of the Sex Pistols and The Kinks. In 2000, the Sydney Harbour Bridge was lit up with the word "Eternity" as part of the celebrations for the beginning of the year 2000, as well as being part of the Sydney 2000 Olympic Games Opening Ceremony, in celebration of a man who became eternal though the use of one word.

Miami based music artist Chief Flame, who's an affiliate of Kodak Black was seen on Florida World Star today after he allegedly bought his new female artist an $8 thousand dollar GOLD GRILL. Fans are now saying that she's more than just his artist.😂

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I used to have a friend who was from another country. I had never seen him in person but, I think, we used to be good friends. I learnt many from him and he always gave me good advice. Because of my marriage I had to delete my facebook account and we are not friends anymore. Now my only friend and adviser is my husband. Alloh never leaves us alone! Allah knows better what is good or bad for us! Don't care and take everything easy! Live your best life!

I don't believe in love. With my generation genuine love is hard to come by. No one wants anything serious anymore. For some “I love you” is a meaningless statement, you can't truly love someone if you can get over them in a week. I was under the assumption I would never find real true love. My heart was already torn. I didn't want some silly boy making it ache. My parents got divorced when my older brother and I were young. Since then I never wanted anyone too close. Close enough for me to let my guard down. Figuring being insincere by not letting anyone in, I can't end up hurt. My “childhood” and so far teen years have been very hectic. So I never had a want for a relationship. I've been told to never settle young. I am young. Observing friends and couples around me. I never thought there was any point. Maybe further down the road, but not yet. Then this boy, this boy wasn't any boy. He was like finding a blue lobster, instead of 1 in 2 million, he was a 1 in 7.7 billion. Something you'd never find. There he was at my fingertips. When our eyes met, everything stopped, like the world stopped spinning. Mine did. The vast rush of butterflies I got when his striking deep pools, of glacial blue eyes met with mine is unexplainable. He has a dreamy smile, and an enchanting personality. Wearing his heart on his sleeve, with respect on another level something that most guys our age don't have anymore. I've never met a more gentle and genuine soul like his. The way his finger tips meet with mine, they're right in line. My heart in my throat everytime he spoke. A simple thought of him made my pupils dilate. What we have is fate. I believe in love.

We beg for our cries to be heard We cry for the unsettling storm inside us We adjure for the storm to leave, unharmed For our beat to not be disrupted The human conflict we call pain To be prevented in all scenarios But then again, it narrates a story People in pain are people who write With the pain subsiding, We lose a bulk of stories Is that a world we sought for? This might be the fifth poem I wrote today. The five poems have no relevance to each other. The first is about the moon, the second is about sunset, the third is a satire based on one of Shakespeare's sonnets, the fourth on vision, and the fifth is about pain. What I find ridiculing is the number of poems I wrote since the pandemic as I gave up on writing. And the cherry on top? I was repulsed by the idea of taking on literature. You ask why? Simple, it just felt too monotonous and gloomy. I found it hard to sympathize with it. Once I read The Picture Of Dorian Gray, I straight up went like, "no way this is real." With the extensive poetry and implied erotica, I barely understood half of it. But the writing style had me captivated. I still opined with the fact that writers need a big hug and be a bit optimistic. Now coming from a fellow pessimist, I get why they aren't on the bright side of life. Being locked in a dark room feels suffocating and frightening. Even if the atmosphere is vast, it still feels like the oxygen supply is cut off and soon you would be left with nothing. That is how the pandemic felt. It was around my transition age and everything felt so frustrating, so dull. At a certain point, I wanted to give up and it felt as if nothing is worth living for. Life became like a spiral abyss with no escape gate. Just like the chapters of a book, the plot keeps getting better and better right? But once the protagonist starts pitying himself, life becomes an endless nightmare where everything comes to a pause. Reflecting on past mistakes and never moving from them made me adopt a façade that is not me. My present life is a like a house of cards- a house that might break with the slightest gush of wind blowing over it. It feels like I'm there even though I'm not. Even the slightest of things hurt me and I'm left numb. Sometimes I pretend to not care and just go with the flow. I once told one of my friends, ‘you know it wouldn't hurt me if any of you leave me.' Was I lying? No. As someone who everyone left, I expect the worse and nothing more. It is better to assume the worse than to have your expectations shattered. Ever since I was young, I struggled with feelings. I never had a potential lover neither did I feel anything. Yet I pretended to blend with them. Little did I know it would affect me so much. Almost everyone gave up on me including my parents, after all, I'm the embodiment of disappointment. An additional point, I keep making a fool out of myself all the time. I feel empty most of the time, a feeling I cannot explain. Yet I keep fighting but for what? Why am I trying so hard when everyone has turned their backs on me? Why am I trying when I have no reason to do so? I cannot quite remember the last time I was happy. That is where writing comes into play. It is not much of a hassle, just take a pen and paper and let your hands move. The art of writing is not understood by many but once you let the pen flow, a stream of words appears and your mind becomes active as ever. It's like an adrenaline rush for me- writing until your fingers are numb, the pain in your fingertips feels like you have accomplished something. Tragedy prevails in everyone's life. No matter how much we hide from the demons, staying in the light of the day, we are bound to face them once the night dawns upon us. When we practically vent out to someone, they listen and nod. But when one writes, the secrets are stored. One may look at it after a while and realize the progress they have made over time being and that it something to be proud of. Reading No Longer Human, I realized that Yozo, the protagonist tells us about his life filled with shame. He tried his best to be a human and did everything to act what we call ‘normal'. But his life was short-lived as he met the same fate as the author of the book- Osamu Dazai. Writing is not only for scribbling or writing stories but also portraying yourself in a subtle manner, something that Oscar did to Dorian, drawing his sinful life that led to his demise like Dorian. For a story to be successful, tragedy should be written in its utmost element. A lot of us have many stories to share. Especially after the pandemic that morphed everyone's life into someone they aren't. Someone they never wanted to be. Writing is not any form of rocket science. It is art, words combined to form emotions, something everyone can try. Exploring one's different side won't kill, will it?

Sophie was a young woman who lived in a small town surrounded by rolling hills and sprawling fields. She was passionate about traveling and exploring new cultures, but her plans were put on hold due to the outbreak of COVID-19. The lockdowns and travel restrictions left Sophie feeling frustrated and restless, as she watched her once-bustling hometown turn into a ghost town. One day, Sophie was walking down the street when she saw an elderly woman struggling with her groceries. Sophie offered to help, and the woman gratefully accepted. As they walked back to the woman's house, they struck up a conversation and Sophie learned that the woman was living alone, with no family or friends to help her. Mrs. Jackson was a widowed senior who had lived in the town for many years. She had outlived her children and her friends, and the COVID-19 pandemic had made it even more difficult for her to connect with others. Sophie was deeply moved by Mrs. Jackson's story, and she related to her own feelings of isolation and loneliness. Sophie had always felt like an outsider in her hometown, as she dreamed of traveling and exploring the world. She saw in Mrs. Jackson a reflection of her own struggles, and she was determined to make a difference in her life. Sophie began to visit Mrs. Jackson every week, bringing her groceries and spending time with her. They talked about their lives, their hopes and fears, and they formed a deep and meaningful bond. Mrs. Jackson became a source of inspiration and comfort for Sophie. She showed Sophie that even in the face of adversity and isolation, it is possible to find joy and fulfillment in the small moments of life. Mrs. Jackson was grateful for Sophie's company, and she encouraged her to continue to explore her creativity and find new ways to bring happiness into the world. As Sophie continued to visit Mrs. Jackson, she learned more about her background and her life experiences. Mrs. Jackson had been married to a soldier who died in combat, and she had raised her children on her own. Despite her hardships, she had always remained hopeful and resilient, and she had found joy in simple pleasures like gardening, reading, and spending time with friends. Sophie was inspired by Mrs. Jackson's strength and resilience, and she realized that she too had the power to overcome her own struggles. Mrs. Jackson's story showed her that life is a journey, filled with twists and turns, and that it is up to each of us to make the most of the journey, no matter what challenges we may face. In the end, Sophie realized that her relationship with Mrs. Jackson was one of the most meaningful experiences of her life. She was grateful for the chance to make a difference in the life of another person, and she was inspired by Mrs. Jackson's resilience and hope in the face of adversity. And although she still dreams of traveling the world, Sophie knows that there is beauty and wonder to be found in her own hometown, and she is grateful for the chance to live a life filled with love, laughter, and hope.

​I find it annoying that most people when they say 'I love fish' feel no need to specify 'dead' and 'fried'. Some people throw in the word 'to' in the middle but that is hardly the point I am trying to make. That one kind of conveys both meanings at the same time. It kills two birds with one arrow. Or two fish with a bait, to be hilarious. Anyway, the conversation Finn and Gill were having wasn't any better than this. "The weather is fine but it cod be better." Gill hummed in a shrill voice, banging her beer can hard on the table. "Oh dolphinately." added Finn as he cackled, slapping his hands on his lap. "Holy Carp! You are krilling me" Gill said from the other side. Her voice had hit the roof of her pitch. She could as well be in an Acapella. "Oh Cod! It cannot get Betta than that!" Finn replied gulping down his can in one go, spitting out half of it in middle of giggles. "Finn, that one was eel-y eel-y good! Oh my god, could this night get any punnier?" Gill replied as she choked herself laughing. The next minute she jumped of the stool, her stomach paining from all the manic energy. She needed to stop. "You need to clam down, buddy" Finn shouted at her as she walked around trying to stop laughing. Her entrails hurt from the vibrating. She was getting a little dizzy. Less from the beer, more from the puns. "I got one more, Gill! It is an FIN-teresting one" Finn lost it too at this one. He was rocking in quivers of laughs, spit falling out, jaws hurting, beer raining around. And Gill joined in, chuckling even harder than she was at the start. "Ok stop now. I can't laugh... Haaaaaaaa..... No really... You are such a pain in the ass!" she said hoola-hooping into another cackle. "Do you mean, pain in the BASS?! HEEEEEEE! GET IT? PAIN IN THE... BASS." More laughter. More spit. More eyes looking at them, two drunkards laughing there bass off. "Ok we need to stop. Otherwise we'll have to get tr-OUT!" Gill said as she slipped and banged her head on the barstool, then got up and continued to laugh in an even stronger fit. "Yeah, yeah, they will probably call the oooo-fish-ials on us." More laughter. "You don't want the cops as your anemonenies" It was finally time that they settled down back into their seats rubbing their bellies. The people around were probably glaring at them. But they were too late to care at this point. "I can't Fink of anemone" Finn said. Gill smiled. The joke was done. It didn't feel that funny anymore. The fading laughter brought back the ichthyologist. "So, this is it. I am leaving tomorrow" she said rubbing her head and throwing her hair back. "Yeah... Tomorrow... You better solve the Freshwater Fish Paradox." She smiled and chuckled a little. "You are making it sound like it's a big deal. It's just a research. To study the patterns in freshwater fishes and extrapolate data to account for their evolution." "Yeah, I don't know, that sure sounds like it's a big deal." "You were saying something earlier? Before the puns?" she said. "Oh, I guess I was. I... I don't really remember now." Silence. "I will tell you if I remember." "Yeah." The waiter walked in, his face knotted in disgust. The puddles of beer around the floor were enough to trigger his mood from bad to foul. But as he reached the table, he managed to pull the most artificial fake smile. "Here's your prawns, sir! Anything else?" "No that would be all!" The sight of prawns brought a smile back on their faces. "You know, when you first told me that you love fish?" Another giggle. "Yeah I do." "Right. I had thought you liked... Eating fish." Yet another giggle. The blushing kind. "I know." "Okay, you know what. I... I like you." The blood in his face was hot. Looking in her eyes, he could see the same. The smiling lips flattened into surprise. It felt like an infinity. In-fin-ity. Stop it. It's not the time for puns. She halted there, completely still for a moment. And then slowly, the smile grew back. And it grew larger. "So... You want me to be your Gill-friend?"

Growing up, Sarah always dreamed of making a difference in the world. She was the kind of person who was always looking for ways to help others, whether it was volunteering at the local food bank or organizing a fundraiser for a deserving cause. Despite facing numerous challenges and setbacks throughout her life, Sarah never let anything stand in the way of her dreams. She worked hard, studying late into the night and taking on multiple jobs to pay her way through college. After earning her degree, Sarah dedicated herself to a career in public service. She spent years working on the front lines of social justice, fighting to make the world a better place for all people. Through her tireless efforts, Sarah was able to bring about real change in her community. She helped to establish programs that provided meals to the hungry, housing for the homeless, and education for underserved children. But Sarah's greatest accomplishment came when she was chosen to lead a team of international aid workers on a mission to bring medical care and supplies to a remote village in Africa. It was there that she saw firsthand the transformative power of compassion and generosity, and she returned home with a renewed sense of purpose and determination. Today, Sarah is an inspiration to all who know her. She continues to work tirelessly to make the world a better place, and her efforts have touched the lives of countless people around the globe. Despite all that she has achieved, Sarah remains humble and grateful, always remembering that it is by working together that we can create a brighter future for all. Sarah's work did not go unnoticed, and she soon found herself in high demand as a speaker and advocate for social justice issues. She traveled the world, sharing her story and inspiring others to take action and make a difference in their own communities. As she spoke to groups large and small, Sarah's message was always the same: that each and every one of us has the power to create positive change in the world. She encouraged her listeners to follow their passions and pursue their dreams, no matter how big or small they may seem. Sarah's own dream was to establish a nonprofit organization that would provide ongoing support and resources to those in need. And with the help of a dedicated team of volunteers and supporters, she was able to do just that. The organization, called "Heart of Gold," quickly became known for its innovative programs and its commitment to making a lasting impact on the lives of those it served. Whether it was providing disaster relief to communities in need or offering job training and mentorship to young people, Heart of Gold was making a difference in countless lives. And through it all, Sarah remained at the heart of the organization, always leading with compassion, kindness, and a fierce determination to make the world a better place. As she looks back on all that she has accomplished, Sarah knows that her journey has just begun. There is still so much work to be done, and she is more committed than ever to making a difference in the world. But no matter what the future may hold, Sarah knows that she has already made a lasting impact, and for that, she is truly grateful. As the years went by, Sarah's work continued to grow and expand, touching the lives of even more people around the world. She was constantly amazed by the generosity and compassion of those who supported Heart of Gold, and she knew that it was because of their efforts that the organization was able to achieve so much. But Sarah also knew that there was still so much more to be done, and she was determined to keep pushing forward. She worked tirelessly, never taking a day off and always striving to find new and innovative ways to make a difference. And her hard work paid off. Heart of Gold continued to grow and thrive, and Sarah was able to see the positive impact of her efforts in the lives of the people she served. She knew that she was making a real difference in the world, and that was all the motivation she needed to keep going. As Sarah approached her 50th birthday, she knew that she had accomplished so much, but she also knew that there was still so much more work to be done. She had no plans to slow down, and she was as passionate and dedicated as ever to the cause of helping others. Looking back on her journey, Sarah knew that she had been blessed with many gifts and opportunities. But she also knew that it was her own hard work and determination that had brought her to where she was today. And she was grateful for every challenge and every setback, knowing that they had only made her stronger and more resilient. Sarah's story is one of hope and inspiration, and it is a reminder to us all that with hard work and determination, anything is possible. No matter what challenges we may face, we have the power to make a difference in the world, and to create a brighter and more compassionate future for all.

I watch my old dog from the kitchen window, lying flat out on her side in the heat: dreaming, I reckon, of the birth of her puppies that day when our two youngest crammed inside her kennel, with her and all six of her pups—while she licked and cuddled and groaned and shone with canine pride. I step outside and she's awake in an instant, watching me walk across the yard—like a hawk, she watches—not trying to make it too obvious: unlike the way she would have ten years ago. I make some eye contact but not too much or both of us will get uncomfortable. Don't want her thinking I'm thinking what she is: time to go wander the universe, to check the traps: the earth, the sky and the stars. To see that there's more life than death out there. For we, the two of us, can't really believe the rumour of our demise, the falling down, the unravelling they call entropy. No way! We will get up and walk, we will! We, the two of us, will see the lights, taste the wind, hear the birds; feel the leaves, smell the air, know that all is well. She knows, I know, we both know, the dying is closer now; so close we have to stand up, stretch and make some kind of noise to the universe: telling her that we stand with her. That we are also not happy about these rumours of her coming collapse. That we feel the quiet indignation of the old stock horse, the old mate trimming his lawn, the sparrow; the friend on chemo and the giant mountain ash—the disgrace of this steady, rolling thunder of decay, of loss. Even of that most lovely of secrets we call memory. Huh! What a pathetic word for such a glory. As if this is simply a matter of electrical signals in some freaking brain cells! This memory of the birth of the first daughter, the first grandson; the first puppies: just a memory? Whatever! My thesaurus says: yes, we have recall, retention and recollection. But then it adds, as if it almost forgot to mention: commemoration, tribute, honour, observance and recognition. It doesn't look like it and we don't want it to look like it either; but me and the old dog are crossing this highway to adore the sun, the earth under our feet: the stars and the trees late at night when you can't even see them—just feel them, hear them—know they are there: behind those clouds, through that inky darkness. And you're tempted to bow down and worship their shy glory, like the glory of that grandchild, yesterday; bringing a flower from my wife's garden, telling me that she also knows what I'm thinking: what we are all thinking and feeling and honouring and commemorating.