FORTY WINKS

          ( This short story was selected in an online writing competition.)                                                                                                        Dear “M” Among the stacks of books, I noticed an old novel. Curious, I grabbed it up. The author was not celebrated, and the cover had a neon green text with the simple title "Dear M." I went up to the storekeeper to ask what the pricing was. "Take it as a gift; the novel has been waiting for you," he said, a smile showing through his wrinkles. I felt strange because the shopkeeper had never been so kind. Mom would take me shopping on my birthdays. She adored giving books as gifts, and I loved to read. However, I have paid the...

RISE, MY TRIBE,  Hold my hand, take me along, and pick me up when I fall.  Roar hard when I charge to break the glass ceiling,  Be the comrade I can count on, saber to walk through obscure days.  And on those quiet nights, a salve to alleviate my pain. It isn't  time yet to raise a toast  to celebrate the hustle of  mothers, sisters, and daughters alike.  The clinking of glasses got to wait.  From the depths of slumber, I march on to awaken the latent feminism.  Of dismayed mothers feeling flawed for not birthing a son.  For she is a progeny, too.  Of braggart aunties who could have more than one.  For male is but a gender.  A highheaded senior relative quizzed about how she could afford an original Fendi.  For she, too, earns.  Of daughter's friends gauging their worth on the scale of pulchritude,  For looks only last for a while.  Of spiteful co–sisters ridiculing the new bride in the kitchen....