I just wanted express my gratitude.

Six years ago, I lost my confidence. No matter how many times I tried to recapture it, it constantly eluded me.

Then I found this site and, by extension, writing colleagues who - maybe unknowingly, maybe not - reignited the passion I thought life had drained from me.

These past three weeks have been a reawakening and I have thoroughly enjoyed playing with words again, crafting new characters, accepting your challenges; a return to joy and imaginative abandon.

To everyone who has commented, liked, reposted and/or followed, and to everyone who inspires me to do the same, a mere "thank you" does not seem enough.

When Jacob Smith discharged from the army, he took with him only a foreign sidearm he had claimed as a war prize, a gold ring presented to him when he has passed out and many memories of his valour. There was nothing else in his life; not a wife nor a girlfriend, no job or home. With his parents already dead, the only family that remained was his estranged brother, Milo.

Milo lived on the wrong side of the tracks. The broken suburbia – with its dilapidated shop fronts, constant sounds of yelling and sirens and the underlying threat of violence that hung in the air like a poison cloud – reminded Jacob of many of the war-torn villages he had visited during his tours of duty.

When Milo answered the door, his dilated pupils took a moment to register his brother.

‘’Sup, bro?’ he drawled.

‘I’m out,’ Jacob announced. He’d never been one to mince words. ‘Need a place to stay. Can you put me up for a while?’

‘Got cash?’

‘Not yet,’ Jacob answered.

‘Nah, dude,’ Milo said. ‘Gots to pay your way in this world.’ And with that, he closed the door in his only brother’s face.

Stifling his frustration, Jacob left and began to wander the neighbourhood. He doubted there was a hotel in the area, or at least a reputable one. Anyway, he did not have any money to pay for his lodging. After a while he found himself in the local park. Chains of the broken swings groaned in the twilight. Half a seesaw sat abandoned and useless. The roundabout lay rusted and unmovable.

‘You look troubled, friend.’

Jacob turned to the elderly man hobbling toward him. He was wiry and bent over, a charcoal cloak over his shoulders protected him from the chill in the air. Old as he appeared, his sapphire eyes glistened with life.

‘In need of some help, are ya?’ the old man asked.

‘What is it you offer, sir?’

The old man shook his hand dismissively.

‘No “sir”, if you please,’ he said. ‘My name is Theo and you can address me so.’

Jacob smiled, despite the strange air the man exuded.

‘Of course, Theo. And what aid can you offer, I wonder?’

Theo grinned devilishly. His eyes shone in the gathering gloom.

‘Riches beyond counting.’

Jacob fought to keep his laughter in. What riches could this man, a homeless man if ever he had seen one, give to Jacob? Rather than providing an honest source of income, he was more likely to enrol Jacob as a peddler of drugs or inform him when the local shop was most vulnerable to being robbed.

But Jacob decided to engage the man. If nothing else, he was entertaining.

‘And what would I need to do to earn such reward?’

‘Just two things,’ Theo said, stepping closer. ‘The first is to prove your courage.’

Here we go, Jacob thought. Would pillaging the store be proof enough for you, old man?

Theo continued. ‘I want you to kill...’

Jacob bristled. This had turned dark fast.

‘…that bear.’

Jacob spun in the direction Theo was pointing. Looming from the darkness was a large grizzly. Not stopping to wonder how such an animal had found its way to the outskirts of the city, Jacob raised his stolen gun, aimed with practised ease and shot the bear square through the forehead.

‘Yes,’ Theo chuckled. ‘Yes, you are the one. Bravery comes easily to you, as natural as taking a breath.’ He shambled over to the fallen creature. From under his cloak he pulled a hunting knife and a bumbag. He threw the bag at Jacob then set to work on the bear with the knife.

Jacob caught the bag with one hand. It was heavy and sang with the chime of metal on metal.

‘What’s the next thing?’ he asked.

‘Hmm?’ Preoccupied with skinning the bear, Theo seemed to have not heard.

‘Two things, you said,’ Jacob reminded the old man. ‘Two things to earn these riches beyond counting.’

Finishing his task, Theo ripped the hide from the bear and dragged it over to Jacob.

’Yes. Two things, yes. Next, you must see about yourself. For the next seven years you must not wash yourself, nor comb your hair or beard, neither must you cut your nails nor say one paternoster. If you die within that time you are mine, but if you live you are rich and free all your life long.

‘The sack you carry is filled with coin and will not deplete. It will pay your way over the years, but more is available should you succeed.’

Jacob zipped open the bumbag and pulled out a handful of coins. There was all manner of money, different sizes and denomination and nationalities. He dropped the coins to the ground and scooped out another fistful, and another and another. Sure enough, the bumbag was not emptying; for every penny, doubloon and yen he retrieved, another took its place.

Reaching up, Theo draped the still-warm bear hide over Jacob’s shoulders.

‘This will keep you warm. Wear it at all times ’cepting at night when you must sleep upon it and no other bed. Do so, and you shall be named Bearskin.’

‘Seven years?’ Jacob asked. Despite the scent of bear which now engulfed him, he still wasn’t certain this was actually happening. He expected laughter to come from the darkness as men with cameras revealed how he’d been punked.

‘Aye, seven years,’ Theo said quietly. ‘Meet me here in seven years and the riches will be yours.’

*

Bearskin found a place to stay for the night, a rundown hotel which charged by the hour. It took him a while to pull out only sterling coins from the bumbag to pay for his room. He soon realised though that the more he was successful, the more pound coins were in the bad. Soon it contained nothing but English currency.

Disregarding the bed with its stained and faded quilt, he threw the bear hide on the floor and lay down upon it. It was warm and soft and offered the most comfortable night’s sleep he’d had in years.

Bearskin spent the next year shuffling around the neighbourhood. The homeless population was high here, perhaps the greatest concentration in the city, and he helped out where he could, overflowing their begging cups with coins. It did not take long for him to became a welcome and praised sight, and the street people would offer prayer for this kindness and wish him eternal health.

During the fourth year, with his hair long and matted, his beard covering much of his face and nails sharp enough to slice steel, he chanced upon a skirmish in an alley. A middle-aged man was being accosted by three men, all bigger and younger than him.

‘I can get the money,’ the victim stammered.

‘Too late,’ spat the hoodlum wearing a brown jacket. ‘Shoulda thoughta that ’fore you borrowed from Sharkey.’

‘B-but my b-business needed a b-boost.’

‘Buh-buh-buh,’ mocked the second, his trainers a gleaming white. ‘Nobody wants to buy your tatty furniture any way, old man.’

‘I have daughters to feed.’

The last assailant, dressed all in black, stepped forward. ‘Maybe we need to meet these daughters,’ he snorted menacingly.

Bearskin had heard enough. He marched forward, a deep rumbling growl sounding in his throat.

The three youths turned and paled at the size of Bearskin. As one, they fled quickly, squealing like scared little pigs.

The recused man looked up at Bearskin, fear all over his face.

‘Do not fret,’ Bearskin said. ‘I am not here to harm you. Now, take me to this Sharkey.’

Despite Bearskin’s assurances, the man still looked afraid and, unwilling to anger his saviour, led the way to the loan shark. He took Bearskin to a small laundrette, the façade withered and peeling.

‘He works out of the back,’ the man explained.

‘Wait for me,’ Bearskin commanded, then disappeared inside. He returned a few moments later, a great smile on his face. ‘Sharkey will bother you no more.’

Blood drained from the man’s face. ‘What did you-’ he began.

Bearskin laughed as he realised the man’s fear.

‘No, I did not hurt him,’ he said. ‘I have simply paid your debt and released you from his clutch.’

‘Thank you, sir, bless you, sir,’ the man muttered.

‘And now, to your place of business.’

‘Yes, sir, of course, sir,’ the man replied, and took Bearskin to his shop: Wilhelm’s Wo derful Wor d of icker.

Bearskin looked at the place – the crack in the door panel, the dust on the display shelves. ‘Are you Wilhelm?’ he asked.

The man nodded silently.

‘Then the first thing you need to do is replace that missing lettering.’ He took Wilhelm inside and poured out enough money onto the counter for the shopkeeper to completely refurbish the place.

*

Over the next few months, Wilhelm’s trade began to boom. He was so grateful for Bearskin’s help, he invited him to tea.

‘Though I can offer nothing material as my thanks,’ he said, ‘my daughters are all wonders of beauty, so choose one of them for a wife. When they hear what you have done for me they will not refuse you.’

Bearskin thought it odd that, in this day and age, a father would pimp put his kin so, but he had grown fond of Wilhelm’s company and accepted for the chance to sample a homecooked meal. When they reached Wilhelm’s home, the man called out to his daughters:

‘Amalia. Bettina. Christiane. Come and meet the man who has saved this wretched family from ruin. Come and decide which of you should wed him.’

Amalia entered the room and looked at Bearskin. His monstrous hair and unruly beard; the hide that covered him, now reeking and worn; the talons at the ends of each of his fingers. With a shriek loud enough to break crystal, she turned and ran away.

The next girl to enter was Bettina. She glared at him, the revulsion clear on her face.

‘How can I take a husband who has not a bit of human countenance?’ she scoffed. ‘I would rather marry the rat that infests our kitchen cupboards, for at least it seems used to living inside.’ And she promptly left.

Christiane came in last. Looking on Bearskin, she shuddered involuntarily and gulped a few times before speaking.

‘Dear father, this must be a good man who has assisted you out of your troubles; if you have promised him a bride for the service your word must be kept.’

Bearskin felt his heart break for this angel of a woman. To put her pride aside and place her loyalty to her father above all else, he knew she would make him a kind wife. And, once his deal with Theo was completed and he was able to hack and wash away the years of hair and filth, he knew he would make her a fine husband. For the first time in his life, Bearskin could envisage a happily ever after.

‘Fair Christiane, I would not presume to wed you in this state,’ he said as he slipped the golden ring from his finger. He snapped the ring in two and used his nails to carve his name on one half, her name of the other. Tossing Christiane the half which bore his name, he said, ‘In a few years I will be free of my pledge. At that time, I will resemble a man again and then we can marry.’

*

For the remainder the seven years, Bearskin continued to stalk around the neighbourhood, aiding the unfortunate where he could. He watched Christiane from a distance, sad that she wore nothing but black since their parting yet glad that she was keeping her promise to her father. The day he could return to her was drawing ever nearer.

And so, seven years after first meeting Theo, Bearskin made his way back to the park. He was aching to be rid of the bear hide which was now almost one with his own skin. He longed to bathe and to shave and to lie on a soft mattress.

As he neared the playground – now bright and sparkling thanks to his own generosity – Bearskin heard the old man’s voice.

‘My name is Theo and you can address me so.’

Theo was obviously talking to someone else. That didn’t concern Bearskin. He had no shame in interrupting their conversation to demand Theo make good on his promise of riches.

‘Of course, Theo,’ the stranger said.’ And what aid can you offer, I wonder?’

‘Riches beyond counting.’

The familiar words echoed in Bearskin’s ears.

‘And what would I need to do to earn such reward?’

Fear prickled Bearskin’s spine. He began to run forward.

‘Just two things. The first is to prove your courage. I want you to kill...’

With professional reflexes, the young man tuned from Theo, lifted his weapon and put a bullet right between Bearskin’s eyes.

I am not frightened of the dark; just the dangers and the monsters it conceals.

I am not frightened of heights, not even of falling; it is the landing that fills me with dread.

I am not frightened of strangers; but of allowing them close should they break my heart.

I am not frightened of dying; but to exist without living.

I am not frightened of solitude; though, loneliness is impossible to endure.

I have no phobias; all my fears have solid rationale.

The man with the splotchy facial hair raised his eyebrow at me. "Can I go now?"

"Just a minute, lad," I replied, though my cheeks reddened at the realization of how awful my accent sounded.

I looked again at the x-ray of the suitcase. It was hard to tell what was in the suitcase but I couldn't just ignore the soft cry I heard when I tossed the case down. The man's piercing gaze was the only thing keeping me from opening the suitcase and figuring out what was squealing. Bryan came over to me and nudged me.

"What are you doing?" he hissed in my ear.

"The suitcase was crying."

He looked at me in disbelief. "You heard crying in the suitcase?"

I nodded. I would've told him to listen for himself, but the noisiness of the airport made it almost impossible to hear anything. He looked back at the blue suitcase then at the man then me.

"You know we can't open it without his consent, right?"

"Of course I know that." I tapped the keys on the computer. "Which is why I'm trying to see what was in the X-ray."

He looked at the screen. We could see a lot of the contents, but there was a small white bundle nearly completely hidden underneath clothing. We both looked back up at the man, who was on the phone now, grumbling in Arabic about us. A chill went down my spine.

"I can just peek inside really quickly if you distract him."

Bryan rolled his eyes, but agreed. He approached the man while I shuck back to the blue suitcase. I noticed something in the corner was moving. I slowly pulled the zipper and was shocked to have a little brown snout greet me. It made a noise. I pulled the zipper back further and another snout appeared. I heard the man behind me, yelling loudly now. Security was running from somewhere and there was a scuffle but I was too immersed in finding what was in the suitcase.

I heard Bryan scream behind me, and knowing there wasn't much time, I unzipped it further, and revealed the owners of the snout, four little pangolins tied together with a scarf. Most of them had been silenced with duct tape except one, who had shaken its tape off. I pulled them out and untied them. Three of the babies tried to run as soon as I freed them, and I had to catch them. The one that was crying just sat on the table and wailed in agony. Its leg seemed to be broken. I looked up at the scene to the left of me. Two security guards had the guy restrained, while the other two were checking on Bryan who was rolling on the ground in pain. I picked up the phone and immediately called PAW to report the animal trafficker then went back to try to tend to the hurt baby pangolin.

For almost five years, Prose has a been a safe haven for me where I could write whatever I wanted for people who actually cared to read whatever story I had to tell. What first drew me to this site was the fact that you didn’t have to pay, as I was quite young when I first joined. Not only that, but the lack of restrictions on what you could and couldn’t write gave me--and everyone else--freedom to pursue their craft in whatever way they wanted.

The supportiveness of the community here is astounding. From day one, others on this platform welcomed me, guided me, and looked out for me. When I wasn’t on the site as often, they would check in to make sure I was okay.

And in the past year or so, things have been changing. I understand the need to add a subscription to help keep this site going. That’s totally okay and I was very glad that it wasn’t forced on everybody like it is on other writing sites. However, particular users have used their membership to treat other users here as less-than or undeserving of the rights to post here. That is not, and never should be, acceptable. Nobody should ever be shamed or bullied or made to feel like they’re doing something wrong because they can’t afford even five dollars amonth for Prose Gold. It’s not their fault if they’re working hard to get through college or too young to have a job and can’t afford it.

I have kept my mouth shut on a lot of the issues I have noticed cropping up around here, simply because I don’t like causing issues or calling people out, but things are really getting out of hand. I’m not here to just rant as that won’t get us anywhere--I’m here to present the problems and then suggest solutions.

1. MASS TAGGING

The problem:

A lot of users have become upset due to the mass-tagging that has been going on around here. And I’ll agree, it’s a bit frustrating to have your notifications bogged down by users you don’t even know or follow.

The solution:

The easiest solution here is to just be respectful: don’t tag random people who don’t follow you, haven’t asked to be tagged in your work, or have asked you not to tag them. But obviously, people have continued to do it anyway. So the next step is to ask them politely to not tag you in the future and if they persist, just block them.

I think if Prose really wants to improve this site and go that extra step, a nice feature they could add would be something like the notification bell on Youtube. Put a button or something on the profile pages so if someone wants to be notified when a user they like posts something new, they can hit that. And boom, they get a notification every time a new post is made.

2. MULTIPLE ACCOUNTS

The problem:

This is a big problem, though not the biggest one (we’ll talk about that one later). I’m not sure how many of you have noticed the increase of fake accounts with no profile pic, no posts and no followers, usually only following Prose and the person who created these fake accounts. I myself, have found many users doing this, particularly in the challenges where the entries with the most likes win. A fellow Proser messaged Prose about this issue, but they never did anything about it. All of those fake accounts are still up, despite extremely damming evidence; the likes are still there, the challenges have been won by people who did not deserve to win. Such a big issue cannot continue to be brushed to the side.

The solution:

This is not that difficult of an issue to fix, which is why I’m a bit confused and upset as to why it hasn’t been dealt with. It’s this simple: you can’t follow, like, or comment on a post unless your email address has been verified. Almost no one is going to create 70 email addresses to win a challenge. Or maybe they will but at least further steps to prevent it will be made.

3. NEW AUTHORS

The problem:

This is not everyone. In fact, it’s just a very, very, very small number of people who are upset or annoyed by the recent influx of young authors from another writing site. As they are quite young, some feel that their posts are “dragging down the quality” and are not talented enough to be here. One user even went as far as to message other Prosers to berate them for liking a post by one of these younger authors because they felt that kids didn’t deserve to be there. Not only that, but this same user commented disparaging and rude remarks under their posts as well, then deleted them when called on it.

The solution:

First of all, if you think new writers are an issue, you’re part of this problem. We all started somewhere. There is no such thing as a perfect writer and it takes a lot of time and practice and bad drafts to hone your skill. If you don’t like a post or a story, just keep scrolling.

4. THE BULLYING

The Problem

This has, unfortunately, become an increasing problem. I have only noticed one user in particular partaking in this under the guide of “constructive criticism” and “feedback.” Nobody has a problem with actual, helpful feedback and pointing out issues and offering solutions in a polite manner. HOWEVER there is a big difference between that and commenting that you hate everything about someone’s post and listing everything you think that makes it terrible. Or commenting under someone’s post where they talk about a struggle in their daily life and saying you think it’s a made-up issue people like being the victim of. None of us are better than any of the other writers here and it’s disgusting to see someone acting like this. What makes me even angrier, however, is the fact the victims of this person feel the need to apologize as if it’s their fault that this person is upset. News flash: it’s not. And this is where we get to the part that probably will get me a lot of hate. For this very reason, I have kept my mouth shut for a long time and just let things slide but I can’t do that anymore, not when all of Prose is about to change because of one person who can’t stop complaining, causing problems, bullying, and then dipping without having to deal with any of the consequences of her actions.

I do not like naming names or calling people out, like I already said. Especially since this could result in ME getting kicked from this site or garner me hate. But after I and many other users have notified Prose of this person’s actions, with evidence, they continued to do nothing.

And I think here is where I should make it clear that this woman is the same person who messaged Prosers and berated them for supporting young writers, insulted and tore them, then complained that SHE was being bullied when she was called out on it and reported to Prose. She also called them terrible, awful kids, said they dragged down the quality of the site and had no right to be here and she hated when they entered her challenges. She has three accounts in total, all premium, and since she has stated she believes her subscription keeps Prose afloat, she feels like she has more say than the rest of us. Which should not be true, but it seems Prose is intent on keeping her happy. Even if that means allowing bullying to go in the mean time.

Many of you may know this user as Finder, who recently wrote a post complaining once again about how Prose has changed for the worse due to young writers. And then likened being called out for being extremely rude to them to “verbal gang rape” which crosses a line. Sexual assault is not a joke; it’s not funny, and it most certainly should not be thrown around like . It’s insulting to actual victims to have their experiences equated to being called on the carpet for bullying kids. Currently, she has deactived her account, claiming she won’t be back, at least right now.

However this is a pattern if behavior with her: say something rude, mean, or disparaging on a post, get backlash from it, delete said comments, deactive whichever account she used to make said comments, then come back when she thinks the dust has settled. Every time Prose is notified, they do nothing and she remains unpunished. And the cycle just repeats, with her actually reporting me and other users for bullying her by telling her her remarks were uncalled for.

As a veteran of Prose with five odd years under her belt and three different premium Prose accounts (though I must say I don’t know if all three are still activated as after the group project fiasco she was involved in, she deactivated/changed the name her joytotheworld account), she also seems to have a good relationship with the people running Prose.

I do not want to point fingers but the only solution for this issue is for Prose to actually take responsibility, stop giving preferential treatment, and stop doing things simply because Finder complains. In fact, the most recent changes that Prose is talking of implementing came after Finder made her post ripping on the newbie writers and saying their nannies needed to come pick them up.

I know some of you here are friends with Finder. I do not want hate sent her way, and I hope you will not send any unnecessary hate my way, either. At the end of the day, I want this to become a better place for everyone. But that’s not going to happen of we--and especially Prose--don’t do their part.

Who in the fuck decided that numbers should be imaginary? And the letters... You've gotta be kidding me with these letters. Proofs, that sin and cos bullshit, just all of math is frustrating. Though I found a few years ago that I do like math. But, not in the sense that we learn it. I was doing some research and I stumbled upon some of the math research of some ancient Indian philosophers. One of my favorites, Bramagupta, was the guy why came up with the concept of zero. I liked reading his notes, not just because some of their examples were very facetious to me, but because it really implied that he was wrong.

This is important to me because Terrance Howard, an actor most famous for being Lucius Lyon on the show Empire, actually has a very fascinating theory that 1 + 1 = 1. Now obviously, people say, "No, Terrance. Just no." but I like his theory because we always just assume that math is right or wrong. You either right two and get a sticker on that question, or something else and get nothing. But, math is all just theoretical. It was a bunch of guys on a boat looking at stars coming up with thoughts. (I imagine them on a boat because it completes the happy scene in my mind; they probably lived on land.)

I also like Terrance Howard's theory because he makes a good point that by saying that adding one and one is two, we give no value to one. One is the loneliest number because one means nothing basically. It tends to be seen as the cell is in biology; it makes up everything. But, cells also have parts, even the most basic prokaryotic cells have components. For the number 1 and the number 0, they're essentially cells and viruses, respectively, and we see them as small non-factors that only add a little bit, but they in fact add a lot.

Now granted, if some teacher just spewed math theory at me, I would quit. I barely got through the letters and crawled through imaginary numbers, and if someone came and basically shot the fundamentals in the face, I would be done. But, I think we should think more about math and what it means. Why it is just seen as universally right, why we accept some answers and not others, and what if everything we've been taught has been incorrect this whole time really needs to be pondered. I mean hell, someone literally stole the number zero. So, math theory is really interesting, but I will NEVER take another math course to raise this point.

When I was born, they didn’t have a name for my condition.

“He’s normal,” the doctor said.

Back then no one was upset by his choice of words, even though it implied that quite a few people — including my parents — were not normal. The hospital interpreter looked at my parents and translated “normal” into sign language. Her right hand drew two small circles in front of the heart, clockwise, with two extended fingers, then moved down toward the stomach and touched her left fist. My father smiled. Normal was good.

*

There was nothing normal about my childhood. Unlike the other kids, who had been mumbling words to their parents since their first year of life, I only discovered spoken language at school. I heard it before, of course, on the street and on TV, but never truly needed to use it. My parents were my life, and life was quiet. Even when friends visited our house, nearly all of them were deaf, just like mum and dad. Before I was old enough to go to school, I could spend days without hearing the sound of a human voice.

My parents had warned me that school would be different, but nothing could have prepared me for their voices.

“Are you deaf? Huh? Deaf? Can you hear what I’m saying?”

They took turns shouting at my face, one louder than the other, trying to test the limits of my silence. All I ever did in response was shake my head. A universal sign for no. The only sign they could understand.

When I mentioned my struggles to dad, he told me I should speak up. I was normal, just like them. Why didn’t I shout back? I shrugged and signed back to him: "I prefer silence."

I was eleven years old when I found out they had finally come up with a term to describe people like me. I was a Coda: an acronym for child of deaf adults. I learned it first from a school psychiatrist, who insisted on seeing me after a teacher voiced her concerns. The psychiatrist tried to keep her notes out of my sight, but I noticed the words "social anxiety".

"Why don't you speak to your classmates, Tom?"

Looking down, I mumbled an answer I had rehearsed the night before. I had grown up use to silence. My native language was sign language, not English. Speech was foreign to me. I even disliked the sound of my voice, just like a native English speaker might hate his own accent when speaking French.

The psychiatrist stared at me as I answered, her pen suspended a few inches over her notebook. At the time, the first thing they used to do after a teacher complaint was diagnose you for something. A lot of my classmates were on Zoloft, Klonopin, Ritalin. They would show the tablets to anyone—even to me. It had become some sort of club.

My case was trickier. There was no pill to make my parents normal, and even if there was one I wouldn’t get anywhere near it. I hated normal. It was noisy, aggressive, uncomfortable. The best part of my day was hopping off the school bus, walking back into my house and quietly talk to my parents about anything else. Sometimes their deaf friends and their kids would come over, too. They knew better than to ask me about school. There was no place for it in my temple of loving silence.

“You need to find your voice,” said the psychiatrist. I mumbled something about sign language being my true voice, but she was having none of it.

“A speaking voice. Your parents are not the only people in the world. How are you going to speak to everyone else?”

I said nothing in reply, but a sentence in sign language crossed my mind. I had to clench my fists to stop myself from signing it.

“Why would I want to do that?”

*

The silent question echoed in my mind until my father’s funeral. His death was sudden for us, but his illness had been growing silently for a long time before it was discovered. Middle-aged men are usually not big fans of going to the doctor. Combine that with the difficulties in communication, the need to find an interpreter, and it's not a surprise that he took years to get his cough check and tell someone about his throat pain.

I was 14 when he died. I remember many moments from his funeral, but what struck me the most was how noisy it all was. The church was crowded. We used to go there every Sunday, but entered and left quietly. The language barrier stopped us from making contact. Very few of those people had ever said a word to us. Save for a couple of other deaf families, none of them were our friends. Yet everyone had come to my father’s funeral, along with the very few friends we had.

I saw pity in their eyes. Not the usual pity one has for a child who has just lost a father. No, there was something else. They pitied us — my father, my mother, even me. They probably thought I was deaf, too, and spoke carelessly in front of me. I could hear their comments from the front seats.

“Poor man. Such a difficult life.”

“It must be hard for the kid. First you have a deaf father, and now not even that.”

Their words made me wish I was deaf.

In sign language, it’s hard to be offended by a stranger. Whenever someone starts saying something hurtful, you can just close your eyes or look away. Communication requires full attention and consent on both sides. A hearing person had no such luck. I tried to explain it to my mother several times, back when the mean comments at school were just starting, but the concept was foreign for her. How could I feel offended by something I didn’t want to hear? Why did I choose to hear it?

Even though she couldn’t understand it, she knew me well enough to notice when it was happening. Right there, as we stood in front of our father’s coffin waiting for the minister to give him a final blessing, she let go of my hand for a second and made a sign to me.

“Ignore it.”

In any other day, I would have followed her advice. I wouldn’t have walked to the pulpit. I wouldn’t have grabbed the microphone. I might have looked at the audience, but I would never have said the words I said to them. I would have thought them, yes, but never said them.

“My father was a greater man than anyone sitting here today. We were lucky to have him in our lives. If you feel any pity for us, I pity you.”

At last, they were all quiet. I looked at their faces as many of them stared me in disgust, shrugged and walked back to my mother's side. If I had to hear them, they had to hear me.

Mamahen was Yushomoto’s prized possession ever since he had moved to India. Being a Japanese, Yushomoto was extremely fond of well-cooked ramen noodles. Yushomoto himself was a part-time sous-chef in his mother’s kitchen in Japan. He knew several mouth-watering recipes of ramen noodles.

Hen comes home

It was on a bright sunny morning of early April when Yushomoto was walking down the lush Arunachal valley that his attention was drawn towards sounds of commotion. They were the joyous noises of boys being hooligans and exulting at the pain of a poor hen, with a trail of firecrackers attached to its feet.

Yushomoto was a compassionate human being who found the sight utterly disgusting. He quickly shooed away the boys, and then, with the help of his pocket knife, carefully removed the firecracker trail. The distressed hen was completely confused of its whereabouts and just ran into the squatting Yushomoto, who was carefully observing her.

Yushomoto looked nearby to see if there were any claimants of the hen. When he found none, he picked the hen in his arms and walked up the valley to his home. Yushomoto was a timber merchant and had a nice big place he called home. He had constructed the house using wood as the chief material and concrete was only sparsely used. He had a beautiful front garden as well as a plush backyard. He lived there alone. But this was going to change, now.

A name means everything

On reaching home, he decided to name the hen. He called her Mamahen. 

The story behind the name was poignant. Yushomoto had lived all his life with his mother, a single parent. She was a tough task-master and provided for their living by selling ramen noodles in various flavors to the local working classes. He learned his discipline and her recipes, both, in her kitchen.

But just like other mothers, Yushomoto’s mother was equally loving and caring. She stayed up nights when he fell sick with jaundice. He hardly saw her sleep those days. His slightest needs were met even at midnight without as much as a grumble. When he recovered, he had to toil hard like always; and to that, she allowed no excuses. She was his role model.

In her last days, Yushomoto’s mother had grown frail but her spirit was still steel. She did not suffer any specific diseases but the battering of life had weakened her. The three main teachings she gave Yushomoto were a disciplined life, honesty towards work and people, and compassion towards humans, animals and plants.

After his mother passed away, Yushomoto was alone. He had learned the workings of the timber business from one of his uncles. From his mother’s kitchen, there was a huge amount of savings. When he heard of a good timber business opportunity in Arunachal, he shut down the kitchen in Japan and moved there. His mother was his sole companion throughout life and thus, he missed her every day of his life. Not anymore. In Mamahen, he sought his mother; and this, was his own little secret.

Getting to know each other

He carefully constructed a spacious pen, for Mamahen, in the backyard. Mamahen was also slowly developing a fondness for Yushomoto. When he was not at the timber factory, he was busy having fun with Mamahen in the backyard or having silent chats with her inside the house. Yes, Mamahen was allowed inside the house when he was home.

Once, during one of the quiet chats while sitting on the floor, Yushomoto was fondly telling stories about his mother to Mamahen. She was looking at him intently and responding with prompt intermittent clucking. In between, she would also keep looking for any stray insects on the floor whom she could convert into a nice warm meal. But the house was clean and so, she had no luck.

Suddenly, even Yushomoto felt hungry. So, he got up and went to the kitchen. Mamahen sauntered behind him; knowing nothing better. She thought she might find some stray insect in the kitchen. But the kitchen was clean too. So she kept pacing the kitchen and clucking intermittently while Yushomoto told her the ramen recipe of the day.

Sharing the meal!

Piping hot ramen noodles with a savory aroma were ready in no time. Mamahen was lurking nearby, unaffected, despite an acute sense of smell. Perhaps, the search for an ill-fated earthworm, or any other stray insect, which she could convert into warm food for herself, demanded greater attention.

Yushomoto sat down at the low-height dinner table and began savoring the tasty meal. Suddenly, he started missing his mother who would often sit across him while they both had dinner. He wanted to share the meal with someone. Just then, it struck him that he could share it with Mamahen! So, he picked a long noodle strand with his chopsticks, kept a saucer on the floor, and placed the noodle on it. After that, he called out to Mamahen.

Mamahen was still busy looking for food when her attention was caught by the saucer and something on it that looked like an earthworm. Her irises expanded, she quickened her pace, and reached out for food! She pecked at it till she thought it was dead. Then, she ate it, piece by piece, with the flair of a conquering knight.

Yushomoto was amused and thrilled at the sight. Never before had he thought that a single strand of noodle could be a reason for so much pride for someone. He felt a filial bond forming between the two of them.

After finishing her noodle, Mamahen looked at Yushomoto with a slight tilt of her neck. Her eyes intense with expression. At that moment, Yushomoto knew that they had formed a close bond. He decided to not just treat Mamahen with ramen noodles every time he made them from then on but to spend more time with her.

©nehasri/Neha Srivastava

~This story was written earlier for a contest on another writing platform. Even though the story got a lot of attention and good comments, it did not place. Since it's a piece from the heart for children, I thought this is a good place to submit.