Writing Prompt

For one lurching moment Tarek shook with an impulse to get back onto the plane. The hot dry air was like a wall. The hot dry earth under his feet. Then. Shouting and his mother's tears washing his face. Now. Fingers teasing the cuff of his suit. Tarek Fathi, UNFPA Assistant Investment Officer. From Manchester, England. Not from not Al-Kufra, Libya. Not anymore.

The giant blue sky loomed over the airport building and everything else around. Uncle Adel stood by a Toyota pickup talking to a couple of soldiers. Chatting online hadn't shown Tarek the size of his uncle, Adel was a big man, able to swallow up the two soldiers with room to spare. One of the soldiers lazily held an AK-47, the other had his weapon slung round his back. Tarek ignored the thoughts of NGO workers kidnapped and held for ransom by one of the warring tribes. Only at the last did he look up into his uncle's eyes to check they were smiling. Their hands clasped, skin thick and hard as leather gripped him

"Peace be upon you Tarek, you are a grown boy!"

"Peace be upon you Uncle"

"You left when everything was falling apart, twenty years?"

"It is twenty years, I'm glad to be back and to see you and your family"

"And my nephew working for the United Nations, a big man!", Adel laughed, releasing his hand and turning to the soldiers, "and from Manchester"

"Manchester City!", the soldier not holding the AK-47 cheered and rattled off player names. They swapped predictions on the coming match with Liverpool, and lamented injuries and referees. Then Adel was motioning for Tarek to get in the pickup as the soldiers sauntered away

"So nephew, you have money to invest in my farm?", Adel's big hands moved on the wheel as they drove away from the airport. The pickup passed by a tumble of tents and shacks, a child with impossibly dark skin running naked alongside them, waving and laughing, a shadow

"The investment is in infrastructure, we have a report recommending transport investment, healthcare, but water networks are a priority", Tarek looked at the shopfronts and had a dizzying sense of being back in England. Bright signs and well-dressed people. A tall young woman with a small dog. Two soldiers stood on a street corner looking at her. Some more tents and shacks tucked between buildings. The spell was broken.

"Water, everyone wants it and only so much to go around, we need it, they need it, but investment is good", Adel waved to the thriving street, "Al Kufra is good, no fighting now, people with money, but I want more money for my farm", his big face looking at Tarek and laughing loud

"I can only make recommendations to the team”, Tarek straightened, “but agriculture is a priority"

"Good", Adel swung onto a rougher road, away from the whitewashed buildings.

"These are all migrants, workers?", Tarek looked out over a field of breezeblock built huts covered in corrugated metal

"Migrants, refugees, escapees, they all pass through Al Kufra", Adel gestured around them, "but we give them houses, food, water"

"You give them aid?", the next field was the same, knots of people dotted between shacks, a group of soldiers walking through.

"For a price", Adel laughed, "this is my agriculture now", the car bumped around an old crater mark.

Tarek tried to find words. He was to help bring investment, increased living standards, and then peace and democracy would surely follow. His contacts in Al Kufra would ensure money flowing to the right pockets. Criminality would wither on the vine. A bitter taste twisted in his mouth.

Adel laughed again "they have money, they pay the soldiers of Subul Al-Salam, they pay others to take them on, and they pay Adel for a room, that is the real world boy, don't listen to what they tell you at the United Nations, and we treat them good, a nice room, not like some others, not like other places, if they are no trouble"

A few men were putting up yet more breezeblock huts, they raised their hands as the pickup drove by. "Abdul, you remember? My second son, you remember, you always were playing in the irrigation channels, my precious water, splash splash splash, all day, ha!” Tarek looked at the faces, trying to guess which one was Abdul. A memory of a stream in the sand, running with the cool feel of wet clothes, waving.

"A traffiker", Tarek barely spoke the word

"Yes, yes, a trafficker. We are all traffickers now, better business, better wages, and always more trade", Adel gestures to the house in front of them. Big metal gates swing open, a man dressed in black salutes. Private security. The house is new, big, big windows, big doors, the pickup slewed to a stop just short of the entrance.

Adel shrugs and sighs, clasping his hands together, "after you left, maybe we live, maybe we die, we are on the edge, one tribe wants this, one tribe wants that, bombs land on my farm, guns at my head, at my sons, my wife, but then when the refugees came, we are builders, we can take care of people as well as crops, we can do business, we are useful and now we live", Adel gestures to the house and then behind them to the fields of refugees and migrants, to the town and the airport

"You can come in and pray and then we talk agriculture" Adel looks at him and smiles his broad smile, "or you can go back, it's ok, the hotel always has a room for my friends, there are many flights now"

Tarek looked at the house, built with the profits of everything he had come to destroy. All Tarek’s dreams became fractured, blown around with the dust. Then images came, of running alongside a car, waving, clothes cool with the water. A shadow. Then he knew. He would bring them water. He would help them grow. And maybe good could still bloom. Tarek opened the door and stepped onto the hot dry earth, walking through the gates.

I joked the other day that I hate myself. Mostly just as a response to the impulse of the thought. My friend told me to say three things I like about myself. I said I like my hair, my eyes, and how much I love books. Pretty random, right? They were the only answers I could find. And I lied about liking my eyes.

(Not this prompt)

Fake smiles Fake laughter Lasts all day, Until I walk into the bathroom. I let my expressions fall, In the middle of the smallest stall.

I walk out and repeat it all, But this time someone catches me falter. I criticize myself for being caught, But they didn’t care at all. They can be the culprit of these days, Lucky them it isn’t them this time.

I’m the type of person, Who will be so hurt and can’t say goodbye, Not even to their parents to get to school. But the second I do something in spite of someone, I immediately feel bad. How can someone hurt somebody else, So terribly and not feel the same?

(Previously on Chinese Love book 1)

Ming and Grace fall in love while Tony the school bully is bullying Ming. Ming is forced to stand up for her self Tony then remembers his father, and how mean he was being. With help from, Ming, Grace, and the school, Tony finds a way to get rid of there mean principal. Then they got a new Principal Grace’s dad’s best friend. It has been two years since then and Ming and Grace’s relationship grew stronger except for one fact Ming has kept their love a secret from her parents let’s see what happens.

I need to know DO YOU GUYS LIKE STEAK. IM LONELY IN MY FRIEND GROUP BC KO ONE ELSE LIKES IT😂

Have you ever heard of Andorra? It’s this micro country in Europe. Stunning mountainous landscape. A little city surrounded, hidden by the peaks.

I thought I was ready for this year abroad. I had all my ducks in a row logically and physically. Socially and emotionally, the first week took a toll. Moving in was fine. Not great but fine. I could still act like this was a long vacation.

After the first week, I realized that I became homesick. I thought it would easy and exciting. Exciting? Sure. Easy? No.

People don’t speak English, yet there doesn’t seem to be one set language. I hear Spanish, French and Catalan, confusing me to no end. I can speak Spanish a little, but being conversational is extremely difficult for me.

After two months, the language barrier was a little better. I picked up small phrases in several languages and that actually opened my eyes to uncommon dialects. Now my problem was what to do. When I wasn’t in class, what was there to do in a micro country. Not much it appeared.

I still miss home, but we came up with a schedule where I get to talk to my family. I guess it’s getting better.

After six months, I had been to so many cool places. Naturland was one of the most fun places I’ve ever been to. The little historic towns were a sight to be seen. I enjoyed the quiet of this city. Not like cities in the US.

After the year finished, I was proven wrong about Andorra and many parts of myself. I thought I was adventurous and ready and prepared. I thought this would be easy. It wasn’t, but this experience gave this rewarding feeling. I got through it and learned about different cultures and a different way of living.

There is so much more to things when you take a closer look. I couldn’t have selected a better place for my study abroad.

(I didn’t spend a year, but I have been to Andorra so some of this is based off of my own experiences.)

Loosely connected to the prompt???

Dreams exist like the webs we weave And hope collects on it like droplets But it always freezes overnight And if one string’s cut, it’s shattered.

Dream. A word of many meanings, Of many things. A dream can be a nightmare, A dream can be happy. A dream can be a wish, A dream can be a fantasy.

But a dream is just a dream. A nightmare is just a nightmare. A wish is just a wish, Until you make it happen.

Maybe you need to cut the string, And let the hope run like a waterfall. Maybe you need to let go of hope, And dig into your resolve.

Hope won’t get you anything. You have to do that. And we all have dreams, So I say make it happen.

** This is my 100th writing yay!!!***

I grew up in a community where pineapples were considered a sacred fruit.

They were few and far between. Families, if they could afford it’s rarity, had them displayed on a shrine never to be touched.

My family could never afford one. We were a level below middle class but two levels above lower class.

Thankfully my parents could still afford to pay my first semester of college. I managed to get an academic scholarship that paid for the rest of my school.

And now I am somewhere in Italy for a study abroad trip. One of the most bizarre things about traveling the world is that you are exposed to different customs and beliefs all over the world.

And one of them shocked me to the core of my being.

Pineapple on pizza.

At first, after the shock settled, I was really confused. For a time I refused to accept the idea that others would use, much less eat, a sacred fruit.

But the entire point was to learn new things. And though a shock, it fell under that category.

One day, after contemplating it for a two weeks, I finally decided to try something that I could get arrested for in my hometown.

But when I took that first bite, I immediately came to the conclusion that pineapples are meant to be eaten, and that they indeed go on pizza.

What am I, if not these terms outlined Who am I, if I should be undefined All I know, is what they told me All I see, is what I tell myself My words now sound like theirs But in this place no one cares To be here, is not to be there Confirmed were facts untrue Though deeply held Thee, I knew not well Yet to part ways I fear I cannot bear it When truth calls And the mask falls Away I shied from its revelation Too jarring its proclamation At first, But a gift, not a curse Time after time, at my hearth Until clarity made free my earth

One handed Nic cracked an egg against the large jadeite mixing bowl. Behind him a generous pat of butter surrendered to the warm cast iron griddle. Nic reached for the cutting board. With a graceful butcher’s knife, Nic swished sliced portobello and oyster mushrooms into the golden puddle of sizzling butter.

“Mmmm that’s looking good,” Peterson said. “I don’t know what I love more eating your omelettes or watching you cook your omelettes.”

Nic stirred the mushrooms and turned to his partner to give a sexy comeback. Nic noticed the dusty bottle in Peterson’s hands. He turned his head back to the stovetop and began to angrily grind pepper over the sautéed mushrooms.

“Another one?” Nic said with an impatient sniff.

Nic had followed Peterson from always sunny Burbank to the sleepy New England college town of Hollyhock. Peterson was the new English department chair with faculty housing on campus. Nic encouraged him to cash out the housing allowance and with their savings they purchased the old McClean estate. There had been rumors about the estate being haunted but Nic used the ridiculous legends to knock an additional $100,000 of the asking price.

“Yes, another. Clare says they’re witching bottles, charms to ward off—“

“So we are consulting checkout girls now,” Nic snapped.

Nic returned to the milky green bowl. He cracked four more eggs deftly, flinging the shells into the sink. They found the first bottle that first night, rolling down from the back staircase. Thick grey glass filled with hand hewn nails, the bottle was corked and wrapped haphazardly in rusted wire. More bottles were found. Bound bottles filled with silver pins and needles, bottles of nails, bottles of sharp stones.

A true lover of stories, Peterson was part terrified, part enchanted. Soon the dining room table was covered in old maps and history books. Peterson was filled with witch trials by water, an enchanted duck pond, and hereditary madness.

Nic whipped the eggs sun yellow and frothy. He added sel de mer and Parmesan to the eggs. There was a soft tinkling sound as Peterson turned the bottle in his hands. With a hiss, the eggs were poured from the mixing bowl onto the griddle.

“I will get rid of this, shall I?” Peterson said.

Nic concentrated on his spatula testing the edges. Peterson hesitated before heading outside. With a slight smile, Nic returned to his cutting board. He chopped crisp blades of chives. Peterson leaned against Nic from behind. Nic leaned back. He scraped the herbs into a tidy pile. He turned to an empty kitchen. Nic felt the room sway. In the window Nic watched Peterson walking towards the burn pile. On the counter sat another witch bottle. This one filled with brown hair. Nic sprinkled the chives on the eggs and plated breakfast.