I am putting my newest book "A Gift Of Life" on Kindle and Ebook FREE UNTIL

SUNDAY CLOSES.

A Gift of Life is a true story about a woman getting a Kidney transplant and the things

that occured. It is only free until Sunday. Please go to Kindle or Ebook and take advantage of this true story.

Let me know how you like it and please share it or tell someone that has to get a kidney to read it. I hope this will help someone.

Merry Christimas from me and Happy Holidays to all.

Huggers:)

For those who don't know Huggers is my way of saying much luv.

Link:

A Gift Of Life by Sharonda Briggs https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09LYKM677/ref=cm_sw_r_tw_dp_Q9RRKJGKASTH6N1Y617S via @amazon

It was a tent made by the most chary hands. Curtains of blessed teal were spun around, hanging like flower garlands propped up by wooden sticks. Through the cotton mesh, he could see two figures outlined black, looming out from the radiant lights and towards his home. His knees refused to bend. Old age gnawed at his bones and solitude digested them. Thrusting a hand on his chair, he stood up with some struggle and inched towards what he called a doorway, his right foot limping. A dark-haired man clothed in a white-coat with a clip-board resting on one of his hands looked into the old man’s opaque eyes.

“Nicholas Scott?” the dark-haired man asked. A name tag that read “LENNY” rested above his pocket. He wore a bag on his shoulders, a red cross printed on it with fine strands of polyester. Dark eyes peeped through the thick glasses that sat neatly upon his cheekbones. A lanky young boy, probably in his early twenties stood near him, his skin covered in ephelides.

“I guess I am,” Nick said as his voice broke into a violent cough, leaving him breathless. His cough had hardly subsided when he inhaled deeply, collapsing again into a volcanic hack. The city winds did strange things to him.

“Come in, please,” he said, walking back towards his wooden chair. Milo, the young boy, pulled back the curtains as the both sauntered towards the old man. Sitting on a chair next to him, Lenny zipped open his bag, pulling out a surgical box. Two ampoules of thick purple fluid slumbered in it as he yanked open the metal container. He transferred the contents of one vial into a transparent rubber ring, watching the bubbles sink to the surface.

“Mr. Scott, so you’ll be wearing this in your forefinger. As you can see, there’s a tiny needle attached to its inner surface. Once it hits your skin and the chemical enters your body, you can go to that one place you’ve always wanted to for ten minutes. An alarm will warn you if your time’s about to end. By then, you can remove the ring and get back to the real world,” Lenny said, adjusting the rustic golden rim of his glasses.

“What if I didn’t remove it in ten minutes?” the old man asked, crouching on his chair, looking at him straight in the eye.

“You’ll be dead,” he said, placing the ring on Nick’s hand. His fingers curled around it as he pulled a deep breath.

“So where do you want to go Mr. Scott?” Lenny asked, his chin resting on one hand. The old man closed his eyes and smiled. A warm pallor spread on his face as he whispered those words. “A rainy day in the clement fields of Glasgow.”

Lenny smiled, his fingers tracing his jawline.

“Great memories, eh?”

“Greatest.”

He looked at Milo, gesticulating him with his fingers. Two markers, red and blue, were hiding under his knuckles, their heads waiting to jump away from his grip. Milo extended the blue one, turning its cap open.

“Red.”

“You can’t be sure—”

“Red.”

He pushed the ring into Nick’s gaunt finger as it sat comfortably around it. “Ready?” he asked, rolling his eyes watching him closely through his glasses. “Already.”

*

Dark clouds of gunmetal grey scudded across the livid skies. Nick watched them mesmerised by their constantly changing shapes. They grew dark and thick, saturated with water in its purest form. His wrinkles distended, opening his pores as the warm summer rain kissed his skin. Untrimmed maize fields grown wild, danced with the natural orchestra, their tips brushing like ghostly fangs. The pitter-patter perpetuated into rhythmic pounding as he tilted his head up, and opened his eyes, allowing his tears to sluice away in the rain.

He ran. His legs swooshing in the flooded fields. This time they didn’t hurt, or at least, he couldn’t feel them. He opened his arms wide as if he could pull the air close and hug it. A loud vehement scream absconded from his vocal cords as he spun himself around, his hands stroking the grass. Those halcyon days were resurrected. He felt like an eighteen year old boy in love again. After a fifty years of what seemed like an eternity, he could see the sun, shining like a golden medallion pinned to a sheet of tar-black. The world was no longer a shadowy groove. It was all alight; it was all alive; it was bewitching. If only, if only she was with him… If only, if only this was real…

The timer beeped, counting his last minute. It called on to him, loud enough for his ears to catch. But his body had sunken deep in the feigned trance. His thirst wasn’t fully quenched. He collapsed to the ground, his head spinning in the trippy haze, but clear as ever. A tenuous smile surfaced on his lips as he stared at the timer. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. What is better—to live a dolorous life or to die a happy death?

*

“Eleven minutes gone,” Milo said, looking at his watch. “You think he is dead?”

“Obviously,” Lenny said as he crossed out his name from the clip-pad with his red marker. “Seventy applicants, sixty nine gone.”

Milo’s eyes widened in genuine panic. “This is crazy!” he erupted, shaking Lenny by his collar. “Clever,” Lenny said, apparently calm, his body relaxed as usual. “Revenue and jettison. Hold these for me, will you?” he asked, as Milo took the clip-board and marker in his hands. Lenny packed all his things back in his bag, leaving a message for the capital.

“So who’s next?” The question came like something that was normal. As if it was his habit to unleash hungry souls into the gates of death. Milo rummaged through the clipped papers of crossed names.

“Applicant 70, Sylvia Waterman, 52 years, two blocks from here.” He read out as Lenny outstretched his hand, signalling for the pad. Milo gave it back, his eyes looking down, his lips folded into a thin line, remembering that everything he speaks is being recorded. This time, without hesitation he held it out. The red marker.

#memory #weeklysnippets

there are days when I wake up trembling

as if it’s just been yesterday

the thought that you are no more haunts me to the day

your face is almost dotted in my memory,

every sigh seems like a prayer, a longing to see you

I am pretty tired of the notion of one last chance to see someone

as if it would change anything, it’s just our one hope to make things right

hear what our ears what to hear, imagine what could have happened but

one chance wouldn’t change how things are, I wouldn’t have left my pain with you

I wouldn’t be any different with you, I would just be better around you

you you were the first one to make me feel proud of who I am

dews on eyelashes, maron flush olive green dune white memories

yesterday left like an empty promise

every summer vacation, the sun melts my skin

the longing for monsoon and you have been the same

“I’m headed for a land that’s far away

Beside the crystal fountains

So come with me, we’ll go and see

The Big Rock Candy Mountains”

He sang along with the beats of the cold wind that blew towards the direction of the high clockwork towers. Loose and tattered threads made movements of oriental dance as he swung the bag like the giant swaying pendulum that now stood motionless near him. Sharp minute crystals of frost grew on its raised glass coverings, projecting upwards into the air.

“In the Big Rock Candy Mountains

There’s a land that’s fair and bright

Where the handouts grow on bushes

And you sleep out every night”

He peeled off his fake beard and slid it inside the old bag. The orange wig that rested on his head with the support of the beard rolled down eventually into the bag as he cocked his head to remove the plastic canines. He really was a different man without those cheek pads and the red ball of a nose.

“It’s Jolly, the joker!” they would run to him. He was never the clown children could be afraid of. He could make the most serious man laugh. He could do the trick no warlock could. Yet behind all those pranks and spoofs were innocent eyes that mirrored the shades of bright laughter and summery smiles. He was the real joker.

Twelve notes sounded from the city gong resonating the circus, each beat ending with a prolonged ritardando. The most beautiful phase of time. The very hour of typical Australian midnight. Jolly spun his bag around, making sharp, flat sounds with his thick boots and danced zigzagging towards the faucet that stood near the giant ferris wheel. Water flowed on his face, as he rubbed his cheeks with the back of his knuckles, washing away the flakes of his commanding make-up. He whistled as he filled his empty bottle, a whistle that went continuous and endless, sounding so unique as if the whole of midnight stopped to listen to him. The moon was magnolious that day, barring the clouds, sending her lustre take the form of a halo around her head. She didn’t shine. She didn’t glow. She was dazzling.

His whistle was cut sharp by the loud cries of a little child. His eyebrows raised, following the call that came from the skies. Surely, it can’t be the stars. He shadowed the cries closely, scanning through the graphite clouds. An eerie feeling creeped down his spine as he heard minor sounds of clinking metal. He read the skies, his eyes widening, letting out a knee-jerk gasp. The sound came from the ferris wheel.

The top carriage shook from left to right, going mad like a deranged elephant. He ran to pull the lever that spun the wheel but it was forced and tied with thick iron chains, all connected with a single intricate lockwork. He spread his fingers around a thick block of heavy granite that slept on a wooden pedestal near him, trying to break open the lock. But the moment it hit the metal surface, it crumbled to powder.

The cries grew louder pounding his eardrums, as he stopped for a moment to check if he was hallucinating. He rolled his shoulders, pushed the sleeves up, put his gloves back on, and climbed into a carriage. He stretched his arms outward and upward and with his supple fingers and climbed into the next carriage. His acrobatic skills gave him a hand as he mounted up and up and up until he reached the top carriage. His palms burned red underneath his gloves as he cracked his knuckles, all ten of them in rapid succession. He searched inside the carriage to find the source of the cries, till his boots bumped onto something.

He bent down and sat on his knees as he came in contact with two teary eyes that shone like freshly polished pebbles, washed from the sea. Jolly smiled, his usual joker smile and stretched his right hand into the blackness as a little hand reached out and touched his dirty blue gloves. A little boy, barely a year old, crept from the dark, struggling to stand on his knees. Jolly took him into his arms and with one giant leap, he vaulted towards the ground, rolling himself like a ball, making sure the boy was safe. The boy screamed, a loud ear-piercing scream which collapsed into a cough as Jolly put a finger to his lips.

He fumbled to find his water bottle and slowly glugged little sips of water into his throat. The boy ran his tongue over his chapped lips, gesturing for more. His face was red and pale with dry tears that rolled behind his ears, wetting his sideburns. Jolly loved watching his neck move in and out with every swig. He turned the bottle-cap and slipped it back in his bag. He let the boy rest on his back, carrying him, his arms looped around his neck.

“Ready for home, boy?” Jolly asked, closely watching his grey eyes spread wide open. “Aye? Okie then.”

*

He looked at the boy who sat there, deadpan, his eyelids fluttering from time to time. He wore a wide-collar, perfectly tailored pea coat with buckled leather shoes and tight socks that stretched up to his knees.

“A vest, a shirt, a coat, ain’t that a lot, boy?” Jolly chuckled. “Was yer name?” His mouth stretched wide, trying to weave words he knew but couldn’t produce. Finally he said something, hardly louder than a breath, but Jolly heard it.

“Yova,” the boy had said. Certainly, that can’t be a name. Jolly wrinkled his brows, replaying the movement of the boy’s lips.

“Did yer say, Noah?” he asked, with the newly found curiosity. But the boy shook his head and repeated his utterance.

“Guess yer got the sound wrong, boy,” Jolly said, scratching his jawline. “Les start from scratch.” It all began with Arthur and Elijah and trailed on to Luca, Joshua, Ezra, Tyler and all those circus boy names Jolly could think of.

“Edward?” he asked, one hand clenching his forehead in vexation, the other resting on his hip. The boy let out a slow whistling breath and his face lit up with a tint of rouge as if a chemical fluid had been injected into his cheeks. He smiled, revealing his baby teeth, and nodded his head in affirmation.

“Edward! Yer Edward!” Jolly shouted in delight, throwing his arm in the air. He joined his hands together, his fingers interlocking each other, holding the back of his head like a pillow.

“Yova!” the boy repeated, joining with Jolly who floated in the realm of happiness of cracking the cryptic name. He advanced towards the boy, taking him by his armpits and swung him around like on a flying carousel. The boy chuckled, enjoying the free ride, his face scintillating with eternal jubilation. “Glad yer din scream this time.”

*

“Grab yer papers, people!” he shouted at the top of his voice, pedalling down the placid roads of the sleeping city. Edward slept inside the bicycle-basket, letting out bonny little snores as a fine line of saliva dribbled down his coffee-coloured coat. Jolly picked up a newspaper balancing the cycle with one hand, rolled it like a barrel and threw it inside a house’s open window. His eyes were screwed on the little boy, never bothering to take a look at the headlines.

The sun wasn’t up. The azaleas hadn’t opened. The wrens were asleep. But Jolly was wide awake, his legs busy propelling the bicycle. “Prince Edward goes missing! Windsor castle in a frenzy!” The words were printed in bold letters in the darkest of inks, only to blind Jolly’s eyes.

“Grab yer papers, people!” he shouted, not knowing who he is carrying, not knowing he is being watched, not knowing that this is all planned.

#midnight #weeklysnippets

He crawled beneath his bed sheet, pulling his shirt by the hem, trying in vain to wake him up.

“Oh, come on, Charlie, it’s just eight! Let me sleep, will you?” Abel yawned, pushing him to the floor as he struggled to jump back in.

“But it’s summer! Why would anyone be staying indoors today?” Charlie murmured softly, his words barely perceptible, almost like the susurration of a river. A busy golden bumblebee made its way out through the window, humming a song she just composed. A little grin curved on his jowls as he vaulted out through the open window, following her, trying to catch her with his hands. His legs raced on the turf, running in big circles, going round and round the house. He rolled down the steep side of the greensward, his creamy hair that glowed golden with every brush of the wind, clogging with dirt, covering it with a shade of tortilla brown. His body finally came to a halt, his sandpaper tongue almost dripping, gasping for breath. He lolled on the ground, winking his big brown eyes, wider than a baby’s, glowing like amethysts, at the lambent sun, stretching his hands forward and shaking his body altogether. His ears were busy listening to the young bees that buzzed in circles, darting through the summer air. His hands caressed the sharp ends of the newly trimmed grass that shimmered in the sunlight and slid inside to touch their velvety softness. Oh, how long had he been waiting for this season to come! New flowers, new birds, long walks, no snow. His favourite part of the year.

A flock of new birds flew past the clouds, moving as a group, leaderless, drawing jaunty hues in the growing white canvas, tinting the skies with a shade of cerulean blue, leaving tracks like a child’s oblique curve joined by dots in a coordinate paper. A jocund bullfinch, capped with dreamy black feathers and brilliant orange plume that sang of the hues of newborn petals of beautiful mid-spring garden pansies, alighted upon one of Abel’s trees. He held his head high, his basalt eyes, only the size of mustard seeds, fixed upon the tree next. Charlie’s eyebrows twitched from one side to the other, his eyes blinking through the tousled strands of caramel hair, trying to focus on the little bird.

“That’s not his favourite tree…” Charlie said silently, in a language only he could understand. He tried to cup his hands like Abel would and stared into the other tree which held a continuous layer of thick foliage. Nestled in it was a tiny white-cheeked bullfinch, probably migrated, brooming her feathers with her little grey beak.

“I see, new girl!” laughed Charlie, his lips parting with an impish smile, revealing his incredibly white teeth, punctuated with abnormally pointed canines. He licked his lips, making visible the threads of saliva that fell in spurts on the turf. The little man gave a sharp subtle call, just two syllables, enough to catch her attention “Pyo!” She turned her head instantly, yearning to find the whistle’s source until her shiny black eyes locked with his basalt grey ones. He paused a minute to scan her from head to toe, sending a tingle traveling up her spine. He then improvised a deep song, his voice as sweet as a new blossom, quiet and soothing with a descending series of notes, repeated at intervals; a song which no magical flute can ever produce.

The bird spread her little wings, beating them gently like a tender sea wave and reached the tree to listen to her Peter oh-so-mysterious Pan. She hopped over the summer foliage, drawing herself closer to him. With that tight smile plastered on his face, Charlie knew what would happen next, but he gave no purchase for withdrawing his gaze.

“Charlie!” A cross voice came out of the swaying trees. He raised his eyebrows in pure surprise to hear the bird address him.

“Alright, alright,” he said, turning his back to the tree. But his ears stood straight, ready to wiretap their conversation. Rolling his eyes, the bullfinch let out a little sigh. He smirked a little with his beak, for a lopsided grin to take shape.

“Is that Talia going there?” he asked, his voice booming. Charlie’s ears pricked straight up at the mention of her name. His tail, rather than doing the usual side-by-side wag stood straight for a second, all his hair standing on the ends. Then he cocked his head and let out his signature chirping-bark. In one swift jump he leaped over the five-foot fence, his tongue and tail moving in uniform choreography. His tail, oh you should have seen his squishy tail, going crazy, moving in all directions man ever found. Scattered layers of golden strands lay on the grass as he left. How much his eyes craved to see the young spaniel whose brindled coat curled around her pink collar every time she walked! Ha, there it goes! Strolling over the stoic meadow, nuzzling inside the verdant verdure, soaked in the summer air, whistling all the way it goes—love. Something I’ll never be able to figure out.

#summer #weeklysnippets

Sitting on the rusty bench located at the epicenter of the park,

I stare at little lives playing, dissolving cacophonous chaos into my coffee,

I left home, my skin has grown.

The city lights reflect off my lens as tears roll down.

Feeling left out amidst the world rushing into the metro.

Letting solitude get into your body like cold air from the AC seeping to your ankles.

Rattling wounds.

You stop at the station where life is a desert and your home is a mirage.

Urban sadness is forbidden destiny.

With Graham long behind me, I continue on my trail to the fairy tree. The closer I am, the more I realise how majestic she is. She stands like a queen-- firm on her roots upholding a trunk that stood the tests of time. She stands above everything else in her vicinity, with her branches wide like a queen on her citadel’s balcony. If she doesn’t know where Jo is, I don’t think anyone does.

I hover over the cold river, dark and deep, shielding a moon of its own. The moon underneath seems considerably closer to reach out to rather than the one in the sky. It makes me wonder why no one might have attempted the same. I hold myself from investigating the possibility right there, right then. It was bare and empty, after all. What will it change if I successfully reach out?

I am now only a few feet away from the fairy tree. And another few feet away from Jo. I bring myself to a halt when I reach a distance from where she could hear me, “Ma’am, have you seen a little girl?” The fairy tree doesn’t answer. She seems to be stargazing. I decide to ask a bit louder this time, “She is a young girl. She is missing.”

That gets her attention. Not much, though. She asks me something widely different, “Isn’t it beautiful?” I am unable to understand what she is trying to convey. “What is?” I ask. She is a wise lady. The ones with wisdom always make the simple things appear cryptic. Perhaps, it is what this is.

“The stars. The night sky. The cold wind. Look around. With your eyes open.” She says. Is this a riddle? Does she mean that I am not looking hard enough? But where is Jo? The tree continues, “Did you find what you are looking for?” Now, it’s a bit terrifying. Not terrifying. I am not terrified. But it feels weird, like a murderer asking whether their prey is happy tonight.

“I am Camila. And you?” Camila! What? Why? Camila literally means young. And she is old. Way old. Her barks seem to have wrinkles like that of Jo’s grandmother. This is hopeless. This psychic tree is not taking me anywhere. Why is everything so fruitless tonight?

I walk away from her. Some part of me still anticipates a call from behind, finally sharing the relevant details. But she doesn’t. She goes back to gazing at the blank sky the moment I take a few steps away from her. Hopeless. A small blade of grass is called Graham, and a too old fairy tree is called Camila! Who even names these people?

“I did?”

########

I know the chapter feels like a let-down after what might have seemed like a nice start. I wrote the beginning a few weeks ago, but I could never finish the chapter after that. So, this is much more of a rough effort to get things done rather than a well-written chapter. I hope you guys forgive me for that (: The chapter does follow the outline, just not good enough... I will try and make up to it with the next chapter ^-^ Hope you guys like it!

These days when everything is online, memories fleet with time. Capturing every moment in fragments and retaining it forever is tough. I like to associate a memory with feeling. Last year this time of the year. I was hungry to make a change. I wanted to turn every sigh into a prayer to recover the pandemic and everyone’s mental health.

For a long time, my bio statement is a common girl with uncommon dreams. It’s just that I have different dreams than other teenage girls of my age. It’s always a struggle being authentic and putting yourself out online with an idea. And especially with the risk that it’s going to stay there forever. But online memories are circumstantial. People remember the worst and forget the best.

Some lavender candles aroma surround my room like it did last year when I wanted to light a match in the storm. I wanted to be that little spark everyone needed. If that one idea never came to me. I can’t fathom how my life would be today.

What if our ideas were ideas. We might not have smartphones or the internet or you wouldn’t see skyscrapers concealing lovely stars. We never know.

The veins of my ideas were my words. As soon as I learned writing my passions branched out of it. My main folder on PC is titled writing which has subfolders. This basically explains everything I am till now. So I am writing my excitement and feelings. It’s the OG thing I did.

It’s one year of Inertia teens, a mental health initiative by teenagers for educating youth through vivid discussions, literary magazines, YouTube videos, and much more. It’s a new show called Teen Talks that is going to be out today on World Mental Health Day and our 1st Birthday. https://youtu.be/lPu4nxeAJXw

However, this post is not for bragging. It’s showing all the hard work I am proud of. It wasn’t a cakewalk. It was in fact a rollercoaster of emotions. I learned everything from scratch which is pretty hard especially with other priorities like school, writing, designing, etc. I am learning to appreciate myself a little more. This is one of the first steps.

On an ending note, one of my favorite artists once said, “The world’s not perfect but it’s not that bad if we have each other and that’s all we have.” I am so thankful to you all for being such an important part of me and my growth. Please continue to support me!

Thanks :)

Samina

"Anything else, dear?"

Sabrina politely refused Mrs Taylor's offer with that sweet smile that could only belong to her. It was that gracious giggle that made the young lady famous in town, even when she rarely appeared down here. Her house is somewhere near the woods, the young boys say. It was the sole thing her father left her with, says the older fellas in the armchairs. And yes, to have stories told about you can be exciting. But not always.

"Oh, and I could use a broom, Mrs Taylor. The old one leaves more dust than it sweeps."

And that was the moment when everything changed. Mrs Taylor, who had been busy totalling all the prices despite her poor mathematical skills, gazed up at her in shock. The young boy, fiddling around with the worn-out bicycle tires, stood still as his tires rolled down the stairs to the harbour. The senior gentleman, busy scanning the papers beside her, no longer cared about the headlines. Clearly, they just beheld the beginnings of the forthcoming big news in town.

Even as Sabrina left the store, no longer wearing her adorable smile, she could feel the stares. How can someone feel those eyes? She doesn't know, but those eyes pierced right through her skin. The broom stood projected out of her little jute basket, and no one hid their suspicions as she walked to the edge of the town. Sabrina could hear the faint whispers amidst the cacophonies of the busy street. And for some reason, she knew they were talking about her.

Sabrina walked a little faster, feeling a growing sense of uneasiness clawing about her insides. Unfortunately, this only adds to the suspicions of the piercing eyes. She could now hear their breath. Perhaps if the town was quieter, she could have listened to their heartbeats too. Soon enough, she could hear the footsteps following her in stealth, closing in for the day's prey.

And before Sabrina could restrain herself, her legs took off, attempting their best to carry their keeper to the safety of her home. The jute basket slipped off into the gutter, soaking her favourite cookies in the swamp. But she couldn't care any less.

Of course, the home could not keep her safe. But sometimes, it seems to be the solution to everything. Returning home. But in those nefarious eyes, it was no longer a home. It was a coven. And Sabrina, a witch. Their prey. The one to burn while they relax and watch.

********

"Burn her." There never was much Sabrina could do. Apparently, the young man, whose love she refused, had seen her cooking potions. Smoke billowing out of her little coven. And another little girl who had seen her in her nightmares. All she could do was beg, and she did. But the men took the decision for the Gods, and how could she prove them wrong?

The young man was smirking as she got carried away by the relentless guards. The little girl sneaked behind her mother, unwilling to listen to the pleads of a witch. One day, they might take her away too. She doesn't know. In the name of God, they say. How could one kill an innocent girl in the name of God?

She doesn't know, but as she felt the fire melting her skin, she realised it. Her father loved the legends of the lost kings and their declining realms. They perch helplessly on their thrones when the Wicked takes over. In the name of the King, they say. But the King would have long lost his hopes on bringing happiness back to his kingdom. He just shuts his eyes and says it's dark. Sabrina wouldn't blame him. There wasn't much he could do.

Even as the young lady could feel Life doing its best to hold on to her, she was perplexed. Who was more terrifying? The King or the Wicked?

########

I got a long explanation to make, haven't I? *innocent lauughter* Well, to start off, I am in college! As if that justifies everything XD Well, I messed up. I guess that's pretty evident when it's about me *facepalm* But yeah. Well, technically, life messed up way better than I did this time around, so I guess I did okay XD Anyway, I will try to come up more often from now on. And yes, this story will (from now on) hold the record of the fastest story I have ever written ^-^ It took me about... an hour? An hour and a half? Well, definitely not a week or longer, as it normally is XD I hope you guys like the story. Missed you all too much!!! Warm hugs everywhere ^0^ <3 <3 <3

#fiction, not the last part (:

Hello,

So I have been posting a piece on Prose every Saturday. This week I have come up with something new. It's similar to a video essay. The video is titled, '5 Things I learnt as a teen writer' in which I will be discussing diversity, mental health, submitting to literary magazines and publications, writing competitions, and much more. It's been almost 1 and half-year since I have been writing online and hence I learnt many things the hard way. I hope you will like it and lmk if it's something you would like to see more.

https://youtu.be/FMtq0BbqNtc

xx

Samina