While both cats and dogs use vocalizations, body language, and scent to communicate, the style, intent, and social context behind those signals are wildly different.
Dogs: The Social Extroverts
Dogs evolved as pack animals, so their communication is geared toward cooperation, hierarchy, and emotional transparency.
Vocalizations:
Barking: Can signal excitement, alertness, fear, or boredom—often loud and persistent.
Belly exposure: Trust—but not always an invitation to touch.
Cats are masters of ambiguity. They often communicate in ways that require close observation and interpretation. Their signals can be contradictory—like purring while in pain or showing affection with a gentle bite.
A sweet little story for children
Some of the best stories come from the unlikeliest of friendships!
Noodles, the kind-hearted dog, always feels sad when his best friend gets him into trouble, mocks him, and only thinks about herself.
Despite Cicada’s naughty behavior, Noodles always forgives her. But can he find it in his heart to forgive her once more after her latest selfish manner?
There's something about the flames of the crackling campfire
and the darkness beyond the flickering light that stirs a primal fear within
us. As the wind howls through the trees and shadows dance on the forest floor,
our imaginations run wild with all the things that could be lurking out there
in the night. It's a way to confront our fears in a safe environment,
surrounded by friends who are just as spooked.
And sometimes, just sometimes, those chilling stories
contain a kernel of truth, a sinister echo of something ancient and malevolent
that prowls the woods, refusing to be forgotten...
The campfire crackles, sending sparks spiraling into the
inky sky, while its warmth barely holds back the encroaching chill of the
night. Beyond the circle of light, the forest is dark, dense, and impenetrable.
The wind threads through the branches, producing an eerie howl that sends
shivers down our spines, as if the trees were whispering secrets to each other.
Shadows leap and twirl on the forest floor, forming shapes that seem almost
alive, causing our hearts to race with the thought of unseen creatures lurking
just out of sight. We sit huddled close, the orange glow painting our faces,
sharing tales that make our skin prickle. Occasionally, a branch snaps in the
distance, making us jump and clutch each other tighter, as if that might ward
off whatever ancient, malevolent presence that could still wander these woods. Some
of those chilling stories we share by the campfire might contain a kernel of
truth, a sinister echo of something ancient and evil that prowls the woods,
refusing to be forgotten...
The Spider
The sudden discharge of the Colt Python .357 magnum was
totally unexpected. The sinister tale being woven by Sheriff Chester Randal and
the revolver being fired at the climax of it caused the four men sitting about
the campfire to jump to their feet in dismay. After regaining his composure,
Sheriff Randal shouts at the shooter, his new deputy Andrew Jenkins, the fifth
man on this camping trip, “God damn Andy, what the hell!?”
As Andy flips open the cylinder of his revolver, ejecting
the spent cartridge, he replies, “I don’t like spiders!” After inserting a new
cartridge into the cylinder and snapping it back in place, Deputy Jenkins walks
up to what is left of the tarantula he just obliterated, and kicks it into the
fire. Watching the carcass crackle in the flames with satisfaction, he slides
his pistol back into its holster.
Grumbling, the other campers return to their places around
the campfire. As Andy joins them, the sheriff growls, “Jesus Andy, you could
have hit it with a rock or a stick, you didn’t have to nuke the damn thing with
that hand cannon!”
Andy glares at him, stating emphatically, “I don’t like
spiders!”
Sheriff Randal takes a moment, recalling the conversation he
had with his friend on the San Antonio Police Department about his new deputy.
After clearing his throat, he says, “Deputy Jenkins, after reading your resume,
I couldn’t help wondering why such an accomplished officer, the youngest
officer to make detective in that department, would leave the big city police
department for a deputy sheriff job in a Podunk Arizona County. I mean, we’re
camping in the middle of nowhere, not much here but desert sand, and a few
tarantulas, which seem to give you great offense. So, I called an old pal of
mine on the SAPD and asked him about you. He was very professional, never said
anything negative about you, but what he didn’t say, what he was holding back,
that’s what I want to know. So, Andy, tell me what he was holding back.”
“Did he tell you my partner was killed?” Deputy Jenkins
asks.
The sheriff replies, “Yes.”
“Did he tell you how my partner died?” asks Andy.
“No,” Sheriff Randal answers.
Andrew Jenkins says, “Did your friend tell you that I was
there when Travis, my partner for four years, died?”
“Yes, he told me. Though he didn’t go into detail, he did
say that it hit you pretty hard. But that’s to be expected, losing a partner is
as bad as losing a wife,” the sheriff tells him, “But damnit, Andy, that doesn’t
excuse doing what you just did.”
Andy looks at the faces of the other deputies; he can see a
mixture of expressions ranging from sympathy to indifference. Facing the
sheriff, Andy says, “So I take it he didn’t tell you what I put in my sworn
statement, what I told internal affairs at my debrief.”
The campsite was much as I remembered, although the brush
was thicker, and the trails were less well-defined. Today’s youth didn’t keep
it beaten down as we once did. There were no video games on the mountain or
reception, either.
“It’s been a while, guys. Anyone remember whose turn it is
for the campfire story?” I asked.
Mac and Smitty turned toward Bear. The man’s eyes shone in
the dim light of the crescent moon, and he hunched up his shoulders. His lips
curled into a dark smile.
“Sure, I’ll go. I’ll piggyback off the old hiker story. It
seems appropriate for where we are. As you know, my dad was the Sheriff then,
and I guess I heard a little more about it than most folks.
“Mr. Jenkins was a sprightly old man. He was as narrow as a
board but wiry, with thick, work-hardened hands like meat hooks. Dad said he
could hold his own in a fight with any man. But he was a hot-tempered
soul. I never heard of him hurting his
wife or kids, but the screaming matches coming out of that old cabin were the
stuff of legends hereabouts.
“This particular night was no exception. It was so intense
that folks clear on the other side of the holler claimed dishes rattled in
their cupboards.”
An owl’s sudden: “Whoooo! Hooo! HooHoo!” broke the story’s
spell. We looked up at the trees, and the great horned owl’s large yellow eyes
glared back at us.
Bear picked up a stick we’d collected for the fire and
tossed it at the large bird. It dropped from the tree and swooped low overhead.
Its silent wings carried it to its next perch nearby, where it continued its
haunting serenade.
“Why did you do that? Isn’t that bad luck?”
“No,” Mac said. “You are mixing up your old wives’ tales. It’s
worse. Owls mean death is coming.”
“Now, who is the superstitious one?” I asked.
“Probably just smelled our hot dogs and hoped we’d share,”
Bear said. “Still, it is interesting as that was the first thing old man
Jenkins heard on his fateful night.”
I glanced at my cell phone, but it had no bars.
“See, old Jenkins,” Bear continued, “he enjoyed a little nip
of moonshine now and again. But it didn’t much like him. I don’t know what the
cause of the ruckus was that evening, but you can be sure some “corn squeezings”
were at the root of the trouble.
“Misses Jenkins, the sweetest lady there ever was, by all
accounts, had enough of the old man’s shenanigans. She told him to get out and
stay out. Jenkins never knew what was good for him, so he headed up the
mountain, bottle in hand. He tried sleeping it off in the old mill but said an
owl wouldn’t shut up. Kept him awake most of the night. He passed out in the
wee hours only to have a flock of ravens wake him at dawn.
“Jenkins told my dad he knew something wasn’t right. He
could feel it in his bones and raced home. The scene when he got there was
beyond description. The blood began on the front steps. The floors and walls
inside were covered with it. Dad said he’d never seen so much, even at
community hog killings. I’d like to tell you they caught the murderer, but it
never happened. My dad retired, but it’s the one case he never forgot.”
I suspect we all had a restless sleep that night. My dreams
were unnatural, dark, filled with haunted shadows, and too real by far. A
shriek from the river jolted me awake. A woman’s scream of horror, only broken
by moments of insane laughter. I slipped on my boots and crept towards the
sound.
Peering from behind an old oak, I spied an old woman
knee-deep in the water. Her gray hair was greasy and matted to her skeletal
head. Her dress was of a style long out of fashion. What was left of it anyway,
as it hung from her in tatters. She raised her face to the heavens and
screeched again. The sound sent shivers down my back. She was washing something in the river, and I
stretched my neck to see. It was Cathy’s favorite dress—covered in blood! She
turned towards me and cackled, then smiled with pointed yellow teeth. She
raised one shriveled hand toward me, pointing at me with long, yellow
fingernails.
“Death comes for us all,” she said. I woke in my sleeping
bag, drenched in sweat.
Jack leaned
closer to the fire as its orange glow leapt eagerly onto his face, painting a
lively tapestry where the years of his life were etched like well-worn roads.
It was one of those nights when retired cops got together with young officers
to have fun and to share their stories with them.
“Tell us a
story, Jack,” one of the new cops said.
Jack’s eyes
sparkled with excitement; he basked in the attention of the eager faces turned
toward him, their hungry eyes fixed upon him, like fledglings waiting for their
first taste of flight, and their breaths hung suspended in the crisp air,
caught in a moment between reality and the world his words would summon.
The fire blazed
brightly, embracing them like a cloak of mystery and wonder. Shadows danced
across their faces, and Jack basked in their craving for a tale so chilling it
might creep into their very dreams and set every nerve alive with fright and
intrigue.
“Oh, I have
many stories for you,” Jack cried, reveling in their hunger as he rubbed his
hands with glee. “There’s the one about The Lurker in the Woods, or maybe you’d
like a spine-tingler about The Ghosts of Black Bear Lake?” He paused, drawing
out each delicious moment of longing in the pregnant silence, savoring the
suspense as any fine craftsman might, until he felt the very air quiver with
expectancy that only a bone-chilling story could satisfy. “But I think the best
story for tonight,” he said at last, dropping his voice to a whisper, “is the
tale of Rose.” His eyes sparkled with promise, and he let the words hover,
taking root in each listener’s imagination. “It’s a story,” he continued,
wrapping them in mystery, “about a haunted truck stop diner, where Rosie
finally had her revenge.”
The group
shifted closer, captivated and wide-eyed.
“You see,” Jack
said, stretching the suspense like an elastic thread about to snap back, “Rose
was a young waitress in that truck stop diner on Route 19 twenty years ago, as
full of life and dreams then as you all are now. She was full of life and had a
smile for everyone. But fate had a darker plan.” He paused and sighed, allowing
the gravity of his words to seep into their imaginations, much like ink
spreading on thirsty parchment. “One night, under the cloak of darkness, she
was brutally violated and murdered during her night shift,” he continued, his
voice barely above a whisper, heavy with the burden of tragedy. “Fred, the old
cook, went looking for her because he thought it was taking too long to take
out the trash. That’s when he found her mutilated body left carelessly by the
dumpsters. Her heart, liver, and kidneys were missing.”
Jack looked
around the circle, making sure every face was drawn tight with dread and
intrigue. “I was just a young officer back then, green and eager, when they put
me on the case. But the investigator,” he said, a note of bitterness creeping
in, “he was convinced Fred did it. I knew better.” Jack leaned closer to the
fire, feeling the heat of its memory burn as brightly as it did that day. “Everyone
knew better,” he repeated. “Although the investigator insisted, there was no
evidence that would’ve proven Fred’s guilt.”
“Not long after
Rose’s murder,” Jack said, his voice curling like mist in the dark, “the
strangest things began to happen in that diner. Chairs scooted across the floor
when no one was near them. Music played from the radio that didn’t even have a
plug in its socket. Everyone freaked out, and the owner was close to having the
diner closed,” he said, and shivered as he recalled the memories. “But we all
knew who it was: Rose’s ghost, refusing to leave.”
We tend to consider ourselves lucky when something desirable happens that feels out of our control, as if fate gave us a wink. Luck is often the name we give to the gap between effort and outcome, especially when the outcome exceeds expectations.
You realize how good you have it compared to what could’ve been. Living in a peaceful country, when watch videos of dying people and starving children in warzones.
Surviving hardship:
Looking back, you feel lucky to have made it through a long surgery after an accident and you feel lucky that the surgeon was able to save your leg.
Being born into certain circumstances:
Health, safety, education, things we didn’t choose but benefit from.
Luck is often a story we tell ourselves to make sense of randomness. But it’s also a feeling, a mix of surprise, relief, and joy. Sometimes we say “I’m lucky” not because the odds were in our favor, but because we feel deeply grateful.
The audience for traditional storytelling has undeniably shifted. My social media analytics tell a sobering tale—where once my posts attracted readers spanning from twenty-somethings to retirees, now the engagement comes primarily from those in their fifties and beyond. The younger generations, it seems, have redirected their leisure hours elsewhere, leaving novels to gather digital dust while their parents and grandparents remain the faithful guardians of the written word.
I asked AI why people don't read anymore, and got a sobering answer:
Book reading has declined in many
parts of the world, and the reasons are layered and fascinating. Here’s a
breakdown of some of the biggest factors:
Digital Distraction
Smartphones
and social media offer constant stimulation, making long-form reading
feel slow by comparison.
Short-form
content like TikToks, memes, and reels cater to quick dopamine hits,
reshaping attention spans.
Many
people feel mentally exhausted from work, news, and digital noise, leaving
less bandwidth for immersive reading.
The
rise of multitasking culture means fewer people carve out quiet,
uninterrupted time for books.
Economic and Lifestyle Shifts
Longer
work hours, gig economy pressures, and commuting cut into leisure time.
Streaming
services and podcasts offer passive entertainment that fits into busy
lives more easily than active reading.
Changing Media Habits
Audiobooks
and eBooks have grown, but they often compete with other media rather than
replace traditional reading.
Algorithmic
feeds personalize content so effectively that people rarely seek out
books for discovery anymore.
Generational Trends
Younger
generations often associate reading with schoolwork rather than pleasure.
There's
also a shift toward interactive storytelling—like video games or
fan fiction communities—that offer narrative engagement without
traditional books.
Cultural Shifts in Value
In
some circles, reading is no longer seen as a status symbol or intellectual
pursuit—it’s been replaced by other markers of cultural capital like tech
fluency or social media savvy.
But here's the twist: while fewer people may be reading
books, storytelling itself is thriving. People still crave narrative, meaning,
and emotional depth—they just find it in new formats.
Yet the well of tales within me remains deep and undepleted; perhaps it's time to pour these narratives into vessels better suited for today's thirsting minds to reach those who have abandoned the printed page.
A woman's words have the power to leave deep wounds more profoundly
than knives. Although not every woman says hurtful things, and not all men
react the same way, certain expressions can unintentionally—or
deliberately—diminish a man's self-confidence, particularly when they touch on
societal norms or personal vulnerabilities.
Some phrases that can leave invisible scars:
When a woman says, "You're not as good as you
think," it's like watching a balloon deflate. Imagine preparing for an
important presentation, feeling confident, only to hear those words from
someone whose opinion matters the most. The self-doubt creeps in immediately.
Or consider hearing "Real men don't get emotional about
this." In an instant, vulnerability becomes weakness. A man fighting back
tears after losing a job might swallow his feelings entirely, believing that
showing emotions equals failure.
When she sighs and says, "You're useless around the
house," he remembers the proud feeling after he organized the pantry last
week, and how she redid everything the next day.
The dismissive "Men are only after one thing"
stings particularly when he's spent weeks planning their anniversary, choosing
gifts that reflect her interests rather than his own.
Nothing cuts quite like "You're not man enough" words
that echo his father's disappointment when he quit football at sixteen. He
works to be different, thoughtful, and present to hear "You're just like
every other guy" after forgetting one dinner plan.
Even in discussions where he feels passionate and confident,
"Your opinion isn't the only one that matters" can silence him
completely, especially when delivered with that dismissive eye-roll.
"All men are trash." This broad statement can seem
unjust and disheartening, particularly to those striving to be respectful and
kind.
Why These Words Are Important
Men often link their self-worth to their abilities, respect,
and emotional affirmation.
Intent vs. Impact: Even if a remark is intended as humor or
a way to vent, it can still have a lasting effect.
Better Alternatives
Rather than making sweeping judgments about who someone is,
consider expressing how specific situations affect you:
"When you check your phone while I'm talking, I feel
like my words don't matter" creates space for change that "You never
listen" doesn't allow.
"The casserole is in the oven, and I’m going to do the laundry.
Could you do the dishes and clean the kitchen?" invites a partnership
where "You're useless around here" builds resentment.
"I'm struggling with this too and could use your
support," opens vulnerability, where "Man up" slams the door
shut.
What are your thoughts on this subject?
Next time, we'll discuss hurtful things said by men that leave deep scars in women.
As a young child, I was often (perhaps too often) told by my frustrated mother, "If you don't behave, the Vasorrú bába (Iron-nosed hag, a child-hunting witch, akin to Baba Yaga) will take you away!"
Hungarian fairy lore is rich, mysterious, and deeply entwined with nature and ancient cosmology. The central figure in these legends is the Tündér, a uniquely Hungarian type of fairy whose name evokes shimmering light and illusion.
The Tündér: Hungary’s Ethereal Fairy
Etymology: The word Tündér likely comes from tündöklő (“shining”) or tünékeny (“fleeting”), emphasizing their radiant and elusive nature.
Tündér are described as stunningly beautiful women with delicate features, flowing garments, and wings like butterflies or dragonflies.
They are playful, wise, and emotionally influential—often benevolent, but capable of mischief.
Role in Folklore
Nature Guardians:
Tündér are protectors of forests, rivers, and mountains. They symbolize the sacredness of nature and the human connection to it.
Otherworldly Realms:
Legends place them in magical underwater palaces or hidden groves. Some tales say regions like Csallóköz were once populated by fairies.
Guides and Helpers:
In stories, they often assist lost travelers or reward kindness, reinforcing moral lessons and the value of respect for nature.
One of the most famous figures is Tündér Ilona, a fairy queen known for her beauty and allure. She embodies the archetype of the elf-beautiful woman—seductive, powerful, and not entirely human. Her tales often explore themes of love, transformation, and the tension between mortal and magical worlds.
Shamanic figure who battles dragons and controls weather
Symbolism and Cultural Impact
Fairies in Hungarian legend reflect a worldview where nature is alive, sacred, and morally complex. They’re not just whimsical—they’re reminders of ancient beliefs about balance, respect, and the unseen forces that shape human life.
Fairies in legends are far more complex than the glittery winged sprites of modern children’s tales. Across cultures and centuries, they’ve been feared, revered, and woven into the very fabric of folklore. They’re not just whimsical, they’re reminders of ancient beliefs about balance, respect, and the unseen forces that shape human life.
Fairies symbolize the mystical unknown, the power of nature, and the thin veil between worlds. They reflect human hopes and fears of the wild, the unseen, and the morally ambiguous. In modern culture, they’ve evolved, but their roots remain tangled in shadow and wonder.
Origins and Cultural Roots
Celtic Mythology:
Many fairy legends trace back to Celtic beliefs, where faeries were seen as nature spirits or remnants of ancient deities. The Tuatha Dé Danann, a supernatural race in Irish mythology, are often linked to fairy lore.
Christian Influence:
In medieval Christian tradition, fairies were sometimes viewed as fallen angels—neither good enough for heaven nor bad enough for hell.
Global Analogues:
Similar beings appear worldwide: gandharvas in Sanskrit texts, jinn in Arabic lore, and lauma in Baltic mythology. These beings often share traits like magical powers, liminality, and moral ambiguity.
Traits and Behaviors:
Nature Spirits: Fairies are often tied to natural places—forests, hills, rivers—and are said to protect or haunt these areas. They’re especially associated with ancient burial mounds and fairy rings.
Tricksters and Guardians:
Legends warn of fairies leading travelers astray with will-o'-the-wisps or swapping human babies for changelings. Yet they also help with household tasks or offer blessings—if treated respectfully3.
Protective Charms:
People used charms like iron, four-leaf clovers, and church bells to ward off fairies. Wearing clothes inside out was another common tactic.
Fairies symbolize the mystical unknown, the power of nature, and the thin veil between worlds. They reflect human hopes and fears of the wild, the unseen, and the morally ambiguous. In modern culture, they’ve evolved into icons of whimsy, but their roots remain tangled in shadow and wonder.
Shady book marketers are the tricksters of the publishing world offering glittering promises while quietly draining authors’ wallets. Here’s how they operate and what to watch out for:
Some marketers promise to make your book a bestseller often by manipulating rankings or buying fake reviews. These tactics can backfire and damage your reputation.
Junk marketers charge thousands for spots at book fairs or expos, with little to no return on investment. You might end up with a lonely table and zero sales.
They sell “media packages” that include social site posts. There are legit promoters and influencers, however, the scammers' posts rarely lead to real coverage or visibility. Check their profiles to see the views and interactions with readers on their posts.
Some companies use U.S.-sounding names and addresses but operate overseas with no real presence. They often recycle website templates and rebrand frequently to dodge bad reviews. Check their website ranking and read verifiable reviews from customers.
Why They Thrive:
They prey on authors’ dreams and insecurities, especially first-time writers eager for exposure.
Their services often sound legitimate, and they use industry jargon to appear credible.
Many operate in legal gray areas, making them hard to shut down.
Erika loves to dance
to her own tunes and follow her dreams, introducing her story-writing skills
and her books that are based on creative imagination with themes such as
magical realism, alternate history, urban fantasy, cozy mystery, sweet romance,
and supernatural stories. Her children’s stories are informative and
educational, and deliver moral values in a non-preachy way.
Erika loves to dance
to her own tunes and follow her dreams, introducing her story-writing skills
and her books that are based on creative imagination with themes such as
magical realism, alternate history, urban fantasy, cozy mystery, sweet romance,
and supernatural stories. Her children’s stories are informative and
educational, and deliver moral values in a non-preachy way.
We could never truly grasp the complexities of how people
live, or the depths of their thoughts and emotions. All we can do is catch
fleeting glimpses of their everyday existence as if we were peeking through small
windows into parts of their lives. We remain outsiders to their struggles,
blind to their fears, and can only imagine the warmth of their joyous moments.
Let us venture into the world of Nancy and Bruce, exploring the tapestry of
their shared life, woven with threads of disappointment, heartache, hope,
compromise, and resilience.
Read a chapter: Her clock is ticking
Nancy Morris, an accomplished and sophisticated lawyer in
her mid-thirties, first met Bruce Davis at an elegant dinner party hosted by a
mutual friend. The room was filled with the soft murmur of conversation and the
gentle clinking of glasses.
Bruce, a charming drifter, flitting from one romantic
entanglement to another and in-between relationships, treading the uncertain
waters of low-paying jobs. His gaze swept the room until it locked onto Nancy,
capturing his interest with her poised demeanor. A rich lawyer who looks
good in that black cocktail dress. And that emerald choker and earrings… must
be worth a fortune, he thought with a sly smirk on his lips. The air seemed
to hum with potential as he approached, his silver tongue ready to weave a web
of smooth talk and artful flattery—his only true skills. Soon, the two were
engrossed in a lively conversation, the world around them fading into the
background.
After several weeks of whirlwind dates—romantic picnics in
the park, late-night stargazing, and cozy evenings at jazz bars—Bruce surprised
Nancy by getting down on one knee during a sunset walk along the beach. His
proposal felt like the natural progression of their blossoming relationship.
Nancy’s eyes glistened, and a warm smile on her lips, she was utterly
captivated by Bruce. He was five years younger, with a boyish charm and a
playful personality that was hard to resist.
Cathy, Nancy’s closest confidante and best friend, watched
their relationship unfold with a knot of unease tightening in her stomach each
time she saw them together. Her concerns bubbled over during a quiet coffee
date at their favorite café, her voice low and filled with worry as she leaned
across the table, “Bruce doesn’t truly love you, Nancy. He’s more infatuated
with your sharp mind and the hefty paychecks you bring home.” The words hung in
the air between them, assessed with Cathy’s womanly intuition. Her instincts
raised red flags about his seemingly superficial affection, leaving her with a
persistent sense of doubt that she couldn’t shake.
“I can feel it,
Cathy, and truly, I’m at peace with it,” Nancy said, smoothing the pleats of
her skirt as she anxiously shifted in his chair. “But I’m thirty-six now, a
point in life where I’ve devoted the majority of my youthful energy to forging
a successful career. My past has been a series of fleeting relationships,
driven more by brief desires and physical needs than by any profound quest for
love. I’ve always walked this path alone. I abandoned the fantasy of a prince
on a white horse and an earth-shattering romance long ago because my prince
never came. Now, at thirty-six, the ticking of life’s clock grows louder,
echoing in my restless nights. I yearn for a stable relationship, the warmth of
a family, a future built on something lasting.”
“That’s a
mistake! You’ll see!” Cathy exclaimed, her voice edged with concern as she
leaned forward, gripping the edge of the table.
Nancy didn’t
listen; her resolve was unwavering. She gazed at the horizon, where the sun
dipped below the city skyline, casting long shadows. “I’m done with waiting and
trying to find Mr. Right. Bruce is a good man; he comes from a large,
boisterous Italian family. He will make a good father to my children,” she
asserted, her voice firm yet tinged with a hint of longing for the future she
envisioned, images of family dinners and laughter flickering in her mind.
Cathy
countered, her words laced with urgency and concern. “Nancy, this is crazy. He
has a roving eye. I’ve heard stories about him that you wouldn’t believe. He
can’t keep a job for more than a few weeks. He’s a loudmouth, a lazy bum who
will drain the life out of you!” Cathy reasoned, her eyes wide with disbelief
and worry as she painted a picture of a tumultuous future. Her hands gestured
animatedly, as if trying to physically ward off the impending disaster she
envisioned for her friend.
“Then what?”
Nancy snapped, her frustration bubbling to the surface like a simmering pot
ready to overflow. “What do you want me to do? Wait until I’m too old to find
someone, until the clock has ticked past my chances of having kids?” Her voice
was a tight coil of desperation. “If you didn’t notice, there is nobody else
lined up, eagerly begging to be my husband, and nobody is eagerly waiting to
father the children I desperately want.” Her words trailed off into a whisper,
raw with vulnerability and despair. She stared out the window, the fading
sunlight casting long shadows on the street.
“But he flies
from one failed relationship to the next, leaving a trail of broken hearts. He
will betray you!” Cathy warned, her voice urgent, almost pleading. She leaned
forward, elbows on her knees, her eyes searching Nancy’s face for
understanding.
Nancy lowered
her gaze to the worn carpet, her teeth gently biting her lower lip as if
searching for the right words. “I know he’s a charmer, a lady’s man,” she
admitted, her voice a soft whisper. “He’s undeniably handsome, and I find
myself drawn to him just like everyone else,” she said, releasing a deep sigh
that seemed to carry the weight of her hopes. “But I truly believe he will
change once he’s settled in a steady, loving home. I can offer him that
sanctuary.” She turned to face Cathy, determination etched in her features. “He
confided in me that his father, too, had a string of girlfriends, and his
mother never truly loved him. His mother is as cold as ice, bitter and
unyielding. She treats her husband with disdain, constantly belittling him with
her unending nagging and harsh criticism, leaving the poor man in a state of
perpetual unhappiness.” Her voice quivered slightly, the story of his past
hanging heavy between them, mingling with the dusk that settled outside.
Cathy shook her
head, her brows knitted together, frustration radiating from her every word. “But
Nancy, he’s a slacker, just like his father,” she insisted, her voice edged
with a sharp exasperation. She leaned forward; her eyes fixed intently on
Nancy. “My mother knows Bruce’s parents well, and she told me that his father
always finds a way to dodge responsibility, slipping out of work with excuses
stacked like a deck of cards. He lands a job, and within two weeks, he gets
himself fired, pointing fingers at everyone else for his bad luck. It takes him
forever to find another job, and she puts up with it all for her children’s
sake. But you? You deserve so much more than that.”
Nancy sat in
silence, her eyes downcast and filled with deep sadness, and suddenly felt a
surge of heat flooding her cheeks. Her demeanor shifted rapidly as fiery anger
replaced her subdued sorrow. Her voice rose, shaking slightly as she shouted at
her best friend, “You’re just like my mother! You always think nobody is good
enough for me. Leave me alone, Cathy! I love him, and that’s that.” Her words
echoed with the intensity of her emotions, creating an almost tangible tension
that hung heavily between them.
Cathy, startled
by the outburst, bit her lip and chose to remain silent, her thoughts churning
despite the storm brewing inside her. She clenched her jaw and forced a steady
breath as she nodded, respecting Nancy’s request for space. Her feet felt heavy
as she stood up and turned away, each step echoing her reluctance. She glanced
back once, catching a glimpse of Nancy sitting alone by the window, her figure
silhouetted against the dim afternoon light. Inside, Cathy’s heart thudded
erratically, a storm of anxiety swirling in her chest. Her thoughts spun with a
flurry of questions and uncertainties, each one louder than the last, making it
hard to focus on anything but the unease gnawing at her.
In the thick jungle of hashtags and quick scrolling of
sensational news, lived Lia, a glamorous vixen with flawless fur, her phone
glued to her paw. She wasn't just any vixen; she was an influencer, adored by
woodland creatures for her posts about glam vacations, fabulous parties, her
cooking and literary talent, and motivational exercise videos.
But here’s the trick: none of it was real.
She posted edited images of waterfalls she had never seen,
copied recipes from renowned chefs, and claimed credit for bestselling books
that were actually plagiarized from genuine writers, with only the settings and
character names altered. Her social media was a carefully crafted illusion, and
her followers were captivated by it.
One day, Uhu, the wise owl, noticed discrepancies in Lia’s
post pictures. A shadow that didn’t match the sun. A mushroom only found in
northern climates, far from their forest. She sniffed out metadata, traced
watermarks, and pieced together the truth.
Uhu started a straightforward thread titled "The Truth
Behind Her Posts." She included screenshots, proof, dates, and receipts.
The forest animals were stunned. Lia watched as her follower
count nosedived and sponsors disappeared as quickly as morning dew. Lia’s
carefully crafted image fell apart. Yet, Karma wasn't finished with her and
presented her with a decision: fade away in disgrace or take responsibility.
Lia chose honesty. She uploaded a raw, unedited video: “No
filters. No script. Just pure truth.”
She admitted why she had lied. Not out of malice, but to
feel significant. To feel relevant. She told the true tale of a vixen growing
up with low self-esteem who feared being overlooked and tried to shine brighter
than the stars.
The forest took in her words, and gradually, trust was
restored. It wasn't trust in a fake glamorous vixen, but in a humble being
discovering the strength in honesty. Her new followers? They were drawn not to
flawlessness, but to the evidence that reality could be far more compelling and
relatable than a polished falsehood.
Erika
loves to dance to her own tunes and follow her dreams, introducing her
story-writing skills and her books that are based on creative imagination with
themes such as magical realism, alternate history, urban fantasy, cozy mystery,
sweet romance, and supernatural stories. Her children’s stories are informative
and educational, and deliver moral values in a non-preachy way.
