You are always my comfort zone. I crave your embrace and your unwavering devotion. We can cuddle all night long, and I will never be tired of you. Your bulky build and broad frame are heavenly to touch. I couldn't deny how captivating you are; it was as if you were born for me. If possible, I will never part from you, for your presence warms me up in a way no one could ever do. You are my definition of home.

I adore you, my dear bed.

I haven’t always loved words. I was homeschooled my whole life, and without the comparison of other kids my age, I didn’t know what I was good or bad at–a double-edged sword, to be sure. To me, writing was not a joy but merely a dull task to be gotten through. And it was many years before I would recognize the potential in my own work.

Then, at age fourteen, I started a blog–mostly inspirational-type stuff written for other teenagers. It felt like a calling. As I published more and more posts, I began to recognize the sacredness of what I was doing. My readers were encouraged by the things I wrote, and it seemed to make a difference in their lives. But the person that was changed the most by my writing was me. People were going to read what I wrote, so it mattered that I wrote truth effectively and elegantly. My communication skills grew by leaps and bounds.

Four years later, I was a freshman at college in an English class. I had not yet learned how to cram, so I stayed up half the night working on that first essay with little success. The next morning, when I woke up and returned to it, the words finally flowed. But I was so tired I hardly knew what I was saying, which made me think it must not be great. To my surprise, when my professor gave back my essay a week later, he told me that it was a solid paper. I was elated.

That first essay went well, but it was the best one I wrote all semester long. What I would later learn was a severe bout of depression–a battle I’ve faced since I was ten years old–swept across my life, fogging my mind and making it impossible for me to think clearly for months. In class discussions, I struggled to form sentences–only to forget them when they were halfway out my mouth. Writing essays was a nightmare, as I stared at my laptop screen for hours, trying in vain to put my jumbled thoughts into words.

And yet, it was words that sustained me in those days–not my words, but the words of others. I might not be able to put a sentence together, but I could still quote Bible verses, bits of poetry, and lines from movies that I had once memorized. What others had written, giving their souls on paper, anchored me. Their labor was what kept me from drifting away.

At the end of the semester, I was diagnosed with depression and prescribed some tiny white pills that I still take two years later. The medicine cleared the fog in my mind, and finally, I could glimpse the light. I started my second English class, and this time, I could finally find the right words and put them together in a way that was satisfying. My professor encouraged me and helped me to improve, and for the first time in my life, I realized that my writing might actually be good.

Regardless of whether or not I’m a good writer today, I still love it. It isn’t my goal to ever make any kind of money off my writing, but that doesn’t matter to me, because the words are still intrinsically valuable. They gave me life when I was drowning, and now, I have found my own words and use them to ground me. And I hope that, as I write and share more, my words might be the lifesaver that gives hope to others.

1. I began writing when I was six or seven years old. If I remember correctly, they were all small paper books all with "It was the day before...". My personal favorite was the one I wrote about the day before school. After that, I never regularly wrote, but I was still an avid reader. I remember reading "Ender's Game" when I was in second grade after watching the movie and then knowing that one day, I will write something like this. When I was in 6th grade, I heard about a kid in the 7th grade that wrote a trilogy. That pushed me write, but all I ended up with was a really short prologue about a 12-year-old girl and aliens. Then a year and half ago, the pandemic hit. I began a on a novel idea that I had for a while, but it wasn't where I had wanted it to be, so I stopped mid-way. It was only a few months ago that I found Prose when I was searching for writing competitions, and here I am!

2. To me, writing is expressing myself. My ideas, me, are on that page. Writing gave me something that I had forgotten about: my confidence. Every time someone reads my words, I feel like I can do anything, like a rush of happiness and a burst of confidence. Writing gives me something to be proud of, and I've loved every second of it.

3. My ultimate writing goal is to write something like "Ender's Game" or "The Hunger Games". I have always wanted to make my own world, my rules. I also want to prove to myself that I can do it. I want to have millions of people to know my pages, ponder over what I had meant. I want to be able to shake the world with my writing.

Not for nothing but you are worth so much more

Evidently you must have forgotten, but its ok I'm here to remind you

Whomever failed to see your worth, wasn't worthy of your time anyway

You are special, and unique, a child of the universe and loved beyond imaginable

Every piece of you was carefully thought out, every flaw, every curve, everything

Apparently the naïve, wicked and cruel are blind and they are not your beholder

Remember to love you FIRST, without judgement, and tell the naysayers to take a hike.

~April Arredondo~

1: I began writing about 20 years ago, after my mom had tried to commit suicide for the 4th time, as means of venting. I would be in a crowd of people and had never felt so alone, and time here felt so temporary.

2: Writing was a way to make something permanent, and the only way I was able to reach people in a place they thought they were alone in.

3: My ultimate writing goal is to reach as every person that feels alone in a situation and to let them feel the comfort in knowing they are not...this world is cruel and unapologetic but hidden amongst the evil is us beautiful disasters with golden hearts also just trying to find our way in lives.

A boy loses his father on Christmas day. The father is hurrying home after work to be with his family when his car hits a patch of black ice and he is the victim of a tragic accident.

Flash forward to the present day in December, and the fatherless oy is now a man in his late 30s. His wife has divorced him, leaving him with a small child to raise. He associates Christmas with his father's death, and so hates any mention of the holiday. This was a point of contention between he and his ex wife, and we're led to believe that this one of the reasons they split.

Meanwhile, the man has moved to a new town in middle America to start fresh. He doesn't realize it at the time, but this town LOVES Christmas. He enrolls his child in the local elementary school there, and on the very first day of class, his child proceeds to tell all of the other kids that Santa doesn't exist. The child undoubtedly picked this up from their Christmas-hating father.

The teacher (a good-looking but approachable woman in her late 20s or early 30s), overhears this and confronts the father when he comes to pick his child up. You see, the teacher LOVES Christmas, and she is determined to help this man learn to open up again and embrace the holiday season.

Perhaps, if they're both lucky, he might even end up embracing more than just the holiday season...

He planted a seed today.

A touch of hands, accidental-like. Hers pulling away, slightly,

he seemingly intent on his notes, the sun, and the soil.

A curious, inspecting glance found his hand still there,

resting easy on the fence rail where they’d touched.

Had the touch been intentional?

She couldn’t know,

but he’d sown the seed.

He would give that seed some room to grow,

give the idea time to germinate.

He would let it lie awhile in the rich loam,

and tomorrow sprinkle it with attention.

I have a lot to tell you, but only some of it you will understand at your age. The woman you love, you call Mom, she's not worth all this pain. She's not worth the struggles, bullying, abuse, and heartbreak. She is not worth getting Severe Depression and Generalized Anxiety Disorder to the point where it's classified as a disability. She isn't worth chasing after for years only to still get neglected. So listen when I say this: get help. Whether it be Dad or the authorities, tell someone the monstrosities that happen to you. If not, you will regret this moment for your entire life, in pain and agony. You will be traumatized and emotionally scarred for your life, causing you to hurt yourself and go to mental hospitals. You will have so many therapists, take so many meds, and be super suicidal. So I tell you now: Mom isn't worth it and she's only destroying you from the inside outI have a lot to tell you, but only some of it you will understand at your age. The woman you love, you call Mom, she's not worth all this pain. She's not worth the struggles, bullying, abuse, and heartbreak. She is not worth getting Severe Depression and Generalized Anxiety Disorder to the point where it's classified as a disability. She isn't worth chasing after for years only to still get neglected. So listen when I say this: get help. Whether it be Dad or the authorities, tell someone the monstrosities that happen to you. If not, you will regret this moment for your entire life, in pain and agony. You will be traumatized and emotionally scarred for your life, causing you to hurt yourself and go to mental hospitals. You will have so many therapists, take so many meds, and be super suicidal. So I tell you now: Mom isn't worth it and she's only destroying you from the inside out

.

Hey,

Read this quickly because there isn't a whole lot of time. Most importantly, you should really stop walking to read this because bad things can happen when you're walking without paying attention. Please look up and notice the coffee table in front of you a little to the left. Now pay attention to your feet. You are four seconds from catastrophe. If you would kindly step slightly right as to avoid the very painful crash of your toe into the bottom corner of that wooden table.

Yeah, I stubbed my toe. It really hurt. Save yourself.

You're welcome,

Your future self

Hey Bunny,

I made it. All the way to sixteen. You were right, it was hard. And life did suck so so bad. But you'll find a blue sky.

You're seven now, but soon you will be eleven, and learn that you weren't broken. You'll learn that there are others like you. You'll learn to love loving people.

But please Bunny, please.

Get away from him. Turn around and never talk to him. He is twice your age. Go.

Please, don't start counting calories. Please don't remember what Mom taught you at 8 when you ate something you shouldn't have. Please don't worry about keeping your pants size under a 2.

Please don't start wondering what you can do to feel warm and start hurting yourself... please talk to dad. Tell him everything. If you don't you'll end up showering in the dark and learning how to cry silently.

And when you are my age, there will be a person. They'll have red streaks in the front of their hair, and you'll want to talk to them, but be afraid.

Do it. It is so so worth it. They are worth it.

Please Bunny. please.

All my love,

Bunny (but older this time)