Author

July Updates!
Hi everyone, Happy July! I'm back in action and diving into the new story inspired by my incredible trip to New Orleans.
By Sai Marie Johnson2 years ago in BookClub
Meet the loudest animal in the world.
Who could have thought that some animals can produce noises than jet engines. or that a tiny shrimp may kill a little fish with its loud noise? Not to be outdone by howler monkeys, how about those insects?
By Ajayi Olalekan2 years ago in BookClub
Delightful Feeling (Poem);
I have no words for what I felt. I wore a beautiful, windy belt. Closed my eyes and flew away. Like following the heaven’s way.
By Tehreem Azhar2 years ago in BookClub
How To Take Proper Care Of A Mentally Sick
Summary More people suffer from mental illness than any other health issues. This kind of behavior is different from the normal and the treatment depends on the degree of deviation.
By Binay Srivastava2 years ago in BookClub
Celebration of Community and Tradition. AI-Generated.
In the heart of July, when the days were longest and the sun painted the sky in hues of amber and gold, the small town of Willow Creek hummed with anticipation. For generations, July had been more than just another month; it was a time woven with threads of tradition and community spirit. Every year, as the first whispers of summer heat touched the land, preparations began for the Festival of Lights.The festival traced its origins back to a time when the town was little more than a cluster of cottages nestled between rolling hills and meandering streams. Back then, before skyscrapers and highways, before the world seemed to spin faster with each passing year, the festival was a beacon of unity. It was a time when families gathered, old friends reunited, and stories as old as the hills themselves were retold under the flickering glow of paper lanterns.Sarah, a young photographer with a penchant for capturing fleeting moments of beauty, had grown up steeped in the festival's magic. Her grandfather, a jovial man with twinkling eyes and a penchant for storytelling, had been one of the festival's founding members. He had regaled her with tales of how the first lanterns had been crafted from simple paper and candlelight, how the entire town had come together to light up the night sky with hopes and dreams.But this year was different. This year, as Sarah unpacked her camera gear in her childhood bedroom, she felt a pang of sadness tugging at her heart. Her grandfather, her beacon of warmth and wisdom, had passed away earlier in the year. The festival, once a time of joyous reunion, now loomed before her like an empty canvas waiting to be filled with memories she wasn't sure she was ready to confront.As dusk settled over Willow Creek on the eve of the festival, Sarah found herself drawn to the quiet streets that had once echoed with laughter and music. Lanterns hung from every lamppost, casting gentle pools of light on weathered cobblestones. The scent of jasmine and honeysuckle perfumed the air, mingling with the tantalizing aroma of grilled corn and caramelized apples from the food stalls that lined the town square.She wandered aimlessly, her camera slung over her shoulder like a lifeline. Memories of her grandfather flooded her mind—the way he had laughed, the way he had taught her to see the world through the lens of his old Nikon camera. She found herself retracing the paths they had walked together, capturing moments that seemed to shimmer with a bittersweet clarity.As night fell, the town square began to fill with people. Families gathered around bonfires, children danced with sparklers in hand, and musicians tuned their instruments beneath a canopy of stars. Sarah found herself drawn to a group of elderly women sitting in a circle, their faces bathed in the soft glow of lantern light. They spoke in hushed tones, their voices tinged with nostalgia as they reminisced about festivals past.One woman, her silver hair catching the light like strands of moonlight, told a story that made Sarah's heart ache. She spoke of a time when the festival had been a time of healing, a time when the entire town had come together to celebrate life in the face of hardship and loss. She spoke of Sarah's grandfather, of his unwavering belief in the power of community and the importance of holding onto traditions that bound them together like threads in a tapestry.Tears pricked Sarah's eyes as she listened, her camera forgotten in her lap. She realized then that the festival wasn't just about lanterns and laughter; it was about honoring the past while embracing the future, about finding solace in the company of loved ones and strangers alike. It was a testament to the resilience of the human spirit, a beacon of hope in a world that often seemed dark and uncertain.As the night wore on and the last embers of the bonfires flickered into the early hours of morning, Sarah found herself surrounded by newfound friends and familiar faces. They shared stories and laughter, passing around steaming mugs of cider and plates of freshly baked pie. And as the first rays of dawn painted the sky in shades of rose and lavender, Sarah knew that her grandfather's spirit lived on in every flickering lantern and shared smile.In the quiet moments that followed, as she packed away her camera and prepared to leave Willow Creek behind once more, Sarah knew that she would carry the lessons of the festival with her wherever she went. She had learned that even in the midst of grief and uncertainty, there was beauty to be found in the simplest of moments, in the quiet strength of a community bound together by love and tradition.And as she drove away from the town she had always called home, Sarah glanced back one last time at the flickering lanterns that lined the streets. In their soft, warm glow, she saw not just a celebration of July, but a celebration of life itself—a reminder that even as seasons changed and years passed, the echoes of July would always resonate in her heart.This story explores the emotional depth of a festival tied to memories and tradition, emphasizing the power of community and the resilience found in honoring the past while embracing the future.
By Francisco H Walker2 years ago in BookClub
The Illusive Donna Tartt
A name you may not have heard of for a while but may hear more of soon is Donna Tartt. Why? She releases a book every ten years, and we are slightly overdue. The Goldfinch was last released in 2013. Tartt first exploded into the literary scene in 1992 when she released The Secret History. Her mix of mystery, intrigue and beautiful prose has earned her a place on the list of great writers.
By Sam H Arnold2 years ago in BookClub
A Shadow Among Shadows: Questioning Reality
The room was a tapestry of shadows, each one vying for dominance as the candlelight flickered uncertainly. The flame was small, barely a breath away from extinction, yet it held steadfast in its rebellion against the encroaching darkness. I found myself staring into it, mesmerized by its delicate dance. The light seemed to pulse in time with my racing heart, a metronome of my unsettled thoughts. Who am I? The question echoed in my mind, an unwelcome guest that refused to leave. It was absurd, wasn’t it? To not know one’s own identity? Yet here I was, lost in a labyrinth of uncertainty. Each attempt to grasp at a memory, a name, a sense of self, slipped through my mental fingers like sand. I glanced around the room, hoping for a clue, a sign, anything that could anchor me to reality. The walls were lined with bookshelves, their spines whispering secrets in languages I couldn’t comprehend. Titles blurred together, creating an impenetrable wall of knowledge just out of reach. The air was thick with the scent of old paper and forgotten words, a comforting yet disconcerting presence. A mirror hung on the opposite wall, its surface shrouded in a fine layer of dust. I approached it hesitantly, as if confronting an old enemy. My reflection was a stranger—dark hair in disarray, eyes wide and haunted, lips set in a perpetual question. The figure in the glass mimicked my every move, yet felt alien, disconnected from the person I believed myself to be. “What is real?” I whispered, my breath fogging the mirror. The reflection remained silent, offering no answers. I turned away, the weight of my own existence pressing down like a heavy cloak. Chapter Two: The Phantom Library I wandered through the house, each room a new puzzle. The furniture was elegant but aged, as if it belonged to another era. Portraits adorned the walls, faces of people I did not recognize yet felt an inexplicable connection to. Their eyes seemed to follow me, filled with a mix of pity and accusation. In the study, I found a journal. Its leather cover was worn, the pages yellowed with time. I opened it cautiously, half expecting it to dissolve into dust. The handwriting was meticulous, each letter a piece of art. The words, however, were a descent into madness. *”Today I woke and knew not where I was. The faces in the mirror were strangers, their eyes empty. Am I real? Or merely a figment of some cruel imagination? The lines between dream and reality blur, leaving me adrift in a sea of doubt.”* The entries continued, each one more desperate than the last. It was as if the author was trapped in a nightmare, unable to escape. My hands trembled as I read, a chill creeping down my spine. Was this my fate? To be lost in an endless cycle of self-doubt and confusion? Chapter Three: The Guardian of Time A clock ticked incessantly in the hallway, its sound a constant reminder of time’s relentless march. I stood before it, transfixed by the steady rhythm. The pendulum swung back and forth, a hypnotic dance that seemed to mock my inner turmoil. Time was supposed to be linear, a clear path from past to future. But for me, it was a tangled web, each thread leading to more questions. I reached out, my fingers brushing against the cold metal. The clock’s hands continued their journey, indifferent to my plight. I could almost hear it whispering to me, a voice just beyond comprehension. Tick-tock, who are you? Tick-tock, where are you? I stepped back, the sound growing louder, more insistent. It was as if the house itself was alive, feeding off my uncertainty. Every creak of the floorboards, every rustle of the curtains, felt like a heartbeat, an affirmation of its sentience. Chapter Four: The Abyss Within Night fell, and with it came a suffocating darkness. The moonlight seeped through the windows, casting long, ghostly shadows. I sat in the center of the room, knees drawn to my chest, the journal clutched tightly in my hands. The silence was oppressive, a living entity that threatened to consume me. Who am I? The question returned, a relentless specter. I closed my eyes, trying to remember, to find some fragment of my past. Images flashed before me—laughter, tears, love, loss—all slipping away before I could grasp them. It was as if my memories were fragments of a shattered mirror, each piece reflecting a different aspect of a forgotten life. Am I real? The doubt gnawed at me, a parasitic thought that drained my strength. What if I was nothing more than a character in someone else’s story, a pawn in a game I couldn’t comprehend? The idea was both terrifying and strangely comforting. If I wasn’t real, then perhaps none of this mattered. I opened my eyes, the room spinning around me. The shadows seemed to move, closing in, suffocating. I stood, the journal slipping from my grasp, and stumbled toward the door. I needed to escape, to find answers, to reclaim my sense of self. Chapter Five: The Final Revelation The hallway stretched before me, a never-ending tunnel of darkness. I moved forward, each step heavy with dread. The house seemed to shift around me, its walls closing in. I reached the front door and paused, my hand hovering over the knob. What awaited me outside? Was there a world beyond this house, or was it all an illusion? I took a deep breath, steeling myself. There was only one way to find out. I turned the knob and stepped into the unknown, the darkness swallowing me whole. The last thing I heard was the echo of my own voice, a final, desperate plea. Who am I? Epilogue: Echoes in the Void The house stood silent, a monument to forgotten dreams and unanswered questions. The candle had long since burned out, its flame extinguished. The journal lay open on the floor, its final pages blank, waiting for a new story to begin. Somewhere in the void, a whisper lingered, a reminder of a soul lost in the search for truth. “Who am I?”
By R R2 years ago in BookClub
Beyond the Screen: How Augmented Reality is Transforming Our Everyday Lives
As technology continues to advance at a rapid pace, augmented reality (AR) is emerging as one of the most exciting and transformative innovations. By blending digital content with the real world, AR is revolutionising how we interact with our environment, enhancing everyday experiences, and opening up new possibilities across various industries. This story explores the profound impact of AR on our daily lives and the future it promises.
By shakthi devi2 years ago in BookClub
How to Outline a Memoir in 6 Steps
Sharing your life narrative with others can be facilitated by writing a memoir, which is an extremely intimate process. But in order to make sure your memoir is interesting, well-organized, and powerful, you must first outline it before you start writing. This is a six-step, step-by-step tutorial on how to outline a memoir.
By Blueroseone2 years ago in BookClub
Why tigers are not in Africa?
WHY TIGERS ARE NOT IN AFRICA? Tigers, among the most revered and majestic creatures in the animal kingdom, are conspicuously absent from the African continent. This omission is particularly puzzling given Africa's diverse ecosystems, which vary from rainforests to savannas and appear to be ideal for these large cats. The reasons for their absence are a combination of evolutionary history, geography, and ecological niches.For example, the dense jungle habitats of Asia, where tigers are apex predators, differ significantly from Africa's open savannas, where hunting techniques and adaptations vary.
By Ajayi Olalekan2 years ago in BookClub
THE ASSASSIN LOVE
THE ASSASSIN LOVE ________________________________________ The first time I saw Laura turned into at a gallery opening in downtown Los Angeles. Amid the muted chatter and clinking of champagne glasses, she stood out like a colorful stroke of colour towards a gray canvas. Her darkish hair cascaded in waves, her inexperienced eyes sparkled with an intensity that drew me in, and her snort—melodic, carefree—was a siren's call inside the sea of sophistication.
By Issa Betsungu2 years ago in BookClub
Magical Realism 101: How to Write Magical Realism in Your Own Stories
A literary subgenre known as magical realism skillfully combines the fantastical and the commonplace. It transports readers to a place where the fanciful is acknowledged as factual. With its distinct storytelling style, this genre—which is rich in cultural and historical significance—has the ability to change stories and enthrall audiences.
By Blueroseone2 years ago in BookClub