Dec 07, 2020

Friendship Sad Inspirational

Marta carried pieces of scrap paper in her pockets when she walked down city streets. She said it was in case she thought of someone she loved; she’d write their name down and fold the paper and later she’d call them and say, stuttering and heartfelt, I thought of y-you. To say how much they meant to her. She tried to be sweet but she always ended up tripping over her own feet, making mistakes, saying the wrong thing, stuttery and slow. The cities she walked in were always tall and grim and dark. They were windswept and busy but always lonely somehow. It had to do with the darkness. The city lights blocked out the stars and the night, cloaked in chilly fluorescent light, grew darker. Stranger. Marta walked in the big cities because being lonely made her think of the people she loved. 

Marta met Nico while walking down an alley in Berlin. She had pulled her coat tight over herself, for it was beginning to snow, and hunched over her elbows, crossed on her stomach. Her breath fogged in the air, and the alley was silent but for distant cars honking and someone’s crunching footsteps behind her. She let this happen for a few more minutes, but it was so cold and dark and lonely, and she didn’t have a single name written down on her papers, so she turned and yelled L-leave m-me alone! The man behind her put his hands up and replied in a tired German accent, I am sorry, madam. I am only trying to get home. And Marta said, S-so am I. They looked at each other and smiled and that was when Marta made her first friend. He wore leather jackets and smiled widely.

Marta met Julie walking past a shop window in Tokyo. She had leaned over a scrap of her paper, slowly writing out her uncle’s name. She was going to find a pay phone that evening and call him and say I thought of y-y-you today in T-tokyo. I love you. D-do you love m-me? Her words were always simple when she called her family -- why did they always slip out the wrong way, short and broken? Marta had brushed against a woman in a purple coat and shaken her coffee out of her hand. I’m t-terribly s-sorry, Marta said. She stopped writing and took the woman’s hands in her own. P-please forgive m-me. Julie looked confused, but smiled. Marta smiled back, and she had her second friend. She wore big scarves and smiled with her lips closed.

Nico, Julie. Two friends. Marta had people in her life who loved her now, people who weren’t even related to her. People who listened to her and smiled with her and walked along dark city streets with her. Who said Oh, really? How wonderful! when she told them she’d thought of them.

The three of them sat in a small diner in Cairo. Someone in the airport called me crazy today, Marta said. Am I c-crazy?

Nico and Julie looked at each other. 

We love you, Marta, Nico said eventually. 

Marta smiled. You d-didn’t answer m-my question. B-but that’s okay. Oh! She dug in her pockets and pulled out a piece of paper. L-linda. My c-cousin. 

Nico sipped his black coffee and Julie squeezed a lemon into her ice water. Do you need a pen? Julie asked. 

No, th-thank you.

Marta finished writing Linda’s name and pocketed the paper. I’m r-ready to leave. Are y-y-ou walking with m-me, Julie? N-nico?

Of course, they said, and as they walked out of the diner Nico took Marta’s hand and Julie put her arm through the crook of Marta’s. Nico walked with a limp, Marta walked slowly, and though Julie was a brisk person she walked at their pace when with them. Neither smiled but all knew they shared an inward smile. Marta’s eye caught on a flyer pinned to the diner’s door. 

L-look, she said, and pulled it down. A b-baking contest. W-who can m-make the biggest c-cookie? A thousand Egyptian p-p-pounds prize money to the b-baker of the biggest c-cookie. 

In Cairo? Nico asked.

Why not? Julie said, smiling slightly. Then she whispered to Nico, It could be good for her. She needs something to do. 

I have s-something to d-do, Marta said loudly as they walked outside. I w-walk through cities and t-talk with you and N-nico. 

Yes, we know, Julie said. But I mean that… that is to say you should… well, you know what I mean. 

I d-do, Marta said. It’s h-hard to say exactly w-what you mean. I kn-know that too w-well. 

They walked down Cairo’s hot, cluttered streets for a few minutes before Marta said something else. W-when can w-we enter that c-contest? she asked. 

Again, Nico and Julie’s eyes met. 

Tomorrow, Nico replied. He took the paper from Marta and looked over it. We have two days to make the biggest cookie we can and then we bring it to this location here. He tapped the page. Marta followed his finger with her eyes. 

I w-want to win, Marta said simply, looking at her friends. Nico, Julie. I w-want to win for y-you guys. Y-you are such g-good f-friends. Help m-me win this, w-won’t you?

Of course. 

Of course we will, Marta. 

Together they turned and walked up the hot Cairo streets toward the motel. It was a small, mildewy building, bent over at the eaves like Marta when writing. The owner was a thin Egyptian man with a thin smile, thin hands, thin wallet. He was tired in body and mind, honest for the most part, and Marta loved him. She found out his name and wrote it down at least once a day for the week they’d been staying in Cairo. His skin was leathery and his eyes bright from a long hard life, but when she told him each night that she’d thought of him, his eyes grew brighter and his thin smile wider. 

That night while Marta slept in an upstairs room, Julie and Nico spoke together in the small warm sitting room next to the kitchen. The house was almost silent; the owner and the other guests all sleeping deeply, the street outside damp with the beginnings of warm rain, but two people spoke quietly together about someone they loved. 

We have to win this for her, Nico, Julie said. We have to. It means so much to her. Did you hear her telling us?

Of course I heard her. Nico rubbed his exhaustion-lined face with his hand. He hesitated, listening to the whispers of the house as it creaked in the gentle rain. And I didn’t miss the real emotion in her voice, either. 

Julie looked out the dark window, watching the rain. Her short hair was unbrushed and wild, but comfortable. How can we do this? It’s expensive to enter, expensive to buy the ingredients, expensive to transport it when it’s done…

We’ll find a way, Nico said tiredly. We won’t let her down. 

A thousand pounds, Nico…

All three of us could use that. 

They looked at each other like two parents whose child has made a life-changing mistake. They weren’t in love; they were there for each other like they were there for Marta. Marta was their life now. She had that kind of charm. 

Why do we care so much? Julie asked. 

We love her, Nico said. He stood and stretched his arms. I’m going to bed. You’re sharing with Marta, right? When Julie nodded, he said, Okay. I’ll get the ingredients in the morning and we’ll find a way to bake the thing in the motel’s kitchen. And besides -- prize money of a thousand Egyptian pounds!

They parted, and the room was empty and the house was finally silent. Outside, the rain thickened and patterned down even faster, while everyone slept the sleep of familiar dreams. When the next morning dawned and the sun shone brightly into the hot little motel rooms, Marta awoke and walked downstairs slowly. Her feet were bare and her short hair unbrushed. Julie was drinking a second cup of coffee in the kitchen and told her Nico went to go get groceries for the cookie. The owner of the motel was washing mugs and plates from the breakfast Marta had missed, looking a little sour. 

Oh, g-good! Marta said. I w-want it to be h-huge. A huge w-white sugar c-cookie. 

I don’t know where we’ll find that much sugar, Julie said, smiling wanly. But okay. 

Nico returned soon after that and dumped armfuls of ingredients onto the round kitchen table. The motel owner looked even more sour, but Julie gave him a smile and a 150-pound note, and he left the kitchen mumbling peevishly under his breath. W-we’ll clean i-it up, Marta called after him, and he waved a hand behind him, not looking back. 

They baked all day but not very successfully. They tried at first to shove the whole mess into the oven, and when it curled down at the sides and burned on the edges, soft at the middle, they looked at each other and said, Let’s try again. 

I’m s-sad, Marta told Julie. A genuine tear glistened in her eye. Like a child, she asked, W-will this ever w-work? C-can we even w-win?

Of course we will, Nico and Julie replied together. 

Then Nico went out and bought more sugar, more flour, more eggs, more of everything. Julie had the idea, the second time around, to bake it in quarters. It’ll spread out when it bakes, Nico warned. And we won’t be able to make it one big cookie, just four medium-sized ones. 

You are a pessimist, Julie said a little sharply. We’ll pull it out early, when it’s still hot and soft, and squash it together. 

That would only work, Nico said just as sharply, if we had four ovens baking at the same time. 

We’ll shape each one! Julie shouted. We’ll fit them together with the icing!

C-can we m-make them yet? Marta asked calmly, writing down her second cousin’s name on a yellow piece of scrap paper. Julie, h-how do you s-spell Caitlyn?

Is it with a C or a K? 

I don’t think it matters, Nico said impatiently.

C-A-I-T-L-Y-N, Julie spelled impatiently. 

Th-thank you, J-julie, Marta said. 

Subdued, Julie and Nico stopped glowering at each other, sighed, and started working on the second batch together. Marta looked at them as a child looks at her parents when she has made peace between them; pleased and proud and a little adoring. Marta pulled out the first quarter of the cookie and it was fat and pallid and glistening with its mostly-raw sugar coating. Her eyes went wide when she pulled it out, almost greedy, but she didn’t try to pick little pieces off and eat them. She watched as Julie used a spatula and her hands to mold it into a more shapely, sharp-lined circle quarter. When all four quarters were out on the narrow counters, in varying degrees of warmth and sugary pallor, Marta helped Nico mix the icing and spread it over the top and around the sides like glue. She smiled hugely when it was all done, wrapped in a dozen sheets of newspaper taped together, adorned with a twine bow. All done and cooled and hardened, the sugar cookie was a meter and a half across, without the folds of the newspaper. 

I l-love this, she said. It m-makes me think of P-patricia. 

Who’s Patricia? Nico asked. 

M-my friend. 

Oh, I didn’t know you -- I mean -- Julie stuttered, and then stopped, red-faced. 

She w-went to school w-with m-me, Marta said, smiling a little at the twine bow. She stood and went with Nico and Julie when they expertly lifted the cookie and, straining, put it in the motel owner’s little lorry truck. We were f-friends in f-fifth g-grade and I write to her s-sometimes. 

Oh, they say in return, exchanging looks. Marta had told them that she spent fifth grade in a school in England, and then mid-year she was taken to a sanatorium to examine her underdeveloped brain. 

She’s v-very n-nice, Marta said, smiling in remembrance. 

The afternoon was hot and sweaty, like the sugar crystals on the pallid cookie, and passed by cleaning the motel’s kitchen. Marta went to bed early, exhausted, and Nico and Julie spoke shortly in the sitting room before following her. 

The next day was the coolest of that week; if not crisp, it was at least refreshing after days of warm rain and beating, shimmering sun. Nico paid the motel owner thirty Egyptian pounds to take his truck to the contest location. Marta sat in the truck bed with it, folding cloths around it to minimize bouncing. When they arrived there, at a small bakery surrounded by an uncrowded market, Marta began to shake with excitement unlike any Nico and Julie had ever seen. W-we are going to w-win this, she said confidently. Her voice echoed through the bakery, and the owner, a fat Palestinian woman with a scar on her lip, looked up and smiled. 

Here, she said in heavily accented English. She saw Marta looking impishly around and wrapped an arm around Marta’s shoulder protectively, instinctively. Put the cookie over here. It is big!

Marta smiled happily. I kn-know!

The shop filled quickly. The price to enter was 50 pounds, more than many had on hand, so most had come to watch, and to see if the cookies would be given away at the end of the judging. Faces with dark eyebrows, mostly children present, crowded around as the Palestinian owner and her small husband unwrapped the huge cookies, measured them, and tasted the center and the rim. There were six cookies total, and immediately Julie did the math. She saw one that was two meters across, much larger than Marta’s, but she knew the judging was also done on taste. One could not enter a cookie made of sawdust and water. But she also knew that unless that two-meter cookie was completely inedible, they had already lost the contest. The woman moved to Marta’s cookie and cut into it. An ecstatic smile crossed her face. Marta blinked happily and whispered to Julie, I kn-knew it w-would be good. That w-was Mama’s r-recipe.

She gasped and pulled a piece of paper from her pocket. I’ll c-call Mama after th-this. She’ll be p-proud to know her c-c-cookie won. 

Julie and Nico watched with wolfish, desperate expressions on their faces. They’d seen Marta depressed. They knew the fits, the inertia, the overdosing. They knew the consequences of losing something Marta wanted to win because of her friends. Marta placed nothing higher in her life than her friends. Nico, Julie. 

Julie pressed her fingers against her mouth. Nico’s fingernails were down to the quicks already. The woman moved to the two-meter cookie. She cut it open, slipped a chunk into her mouth, closed her eyes. Julie leaned forward, cropped hair swinging with her. Marta leaned forward. The woman wrinkled her nose and mumbled in Arabic to her husband, Not as good as the other, but good enough. 

Nico leaned into Julie and translated. 

Julie closed her eyes and muttered a curse. 

Marta looked at them and, slowly, the smile began to fade from her face. 

The contest was over. A thousand pounds changed hands and a frail Egyptian woman went out with a wide gum-toothed smile. The watching crowd was well-rewarded; after checking with the bakers, the Palestinian woman allowed them to take pieces of the six contestant cookies. Marta, Nico, and Julie walked outside. Nico and Julie watched Marta’s face worriedly. It was pale, sort of wan, blank in a frightening way. 

Marta?

Hey, Marta, are you okay?

It’s going to be okay, Marta. It’s okay that you didn’t win. 

I w-wanted to win for my f-friends, Marta said. Her voice was expressionless, hopeless. 

Nico and Julie exchanged frightened looks. 

How do we…? Nico asked helplessly. 

Julie shook her head, eyes wide. 

Marta, we’re still your friends, even though we didn’t win. 

I wanted t-t-to show you how much you m-mean to me, Marta said slowly. I think of you every day. Y-you mean so much to m-me. 

We already know how much you love us, Nico said, his deep, slow voice careful, like he was trying not to break anything. 

Marta, it’s okay. Say it after me, Julie said. 

Marta paused, pulled out a piece of paper, and wrote down Nico’s and Julie’s names. 

It’s okay, Marta said and did not stutter once. She smiled and handed the paper to them. 

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104 comments

Zilla Babbitt
21:49 Dec 07, 2020

I like this almost as much as I Like To Be Cold. Almost. I kept slipping into present tense for no reason, so there might be typos. And are the characters of Nico & Julie developed enough? I didn't think so.

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Amaya Macaulay
01:17 Dec 08, 2020

you like this almost as much as "I Like To Be Cold" because IT'S AMAZINGGG. seriously, you're getting so good these days I can't even.

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A.r. Eakle
18:14 Dec 10, 2020

This story was so cute and sad! You are a very talented author. I would love to write a small review of your work. Head to my Instagram @EakleReviews so I can get started!

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Zilla Babbitt
19:06 Dec 10, 2020

Thanks, A.r.! I feel so honored. I'm actually not on Instagram, but I'd still love for you to review it, as long as you don't paste the whole story to the site. Thanks again :)

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A.r. Eakle
19:16 Dec 10, 2020

The story won't be posted at all! Just a review of it, and a link to the original submission.

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Zilla Babbitt
20:05 Dec 10, 2020

Well then you have my full permission :) Thank you!

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A.r. Eakle
17:32 Dec 11, 2020

Hi, Zilla! Your review will be posted some time tomorrow! Check out my Reedsy Discovery page for my first review, and keep an eye out for yours tomorrow.

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Zilla Babbitt
18:59 Dec 12, 2020

Yay!🤩

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Amaya Macaulay
02:08 Dec 10, 2020

Do you get any profit with $3?

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Zilla Babbitt
22:07 Dec 11, 2020

Yeah, about 35%. So a dollar.

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Amaya Macaulay
02:06 Dec 12, 2020

oh okay that's pretty good. let me know as soon as it comes out, i actually put it on my xmas listtt

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Gip Roberts
21:02 Dec 08, 2020

You took a relatively simple concept like a cookie contest and turned it into something that made me have to hold back tears. I personally felt like Nico and Julie's characters were developed enough for the purpose of the story. Even if not, I was too absorbed in wanting Marta to see the cookie they made win to notice.

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Zilla Babbitt
22:39 Dec 09, 2020

Yay!

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17:01 Dec 08, 2020

You have done it again! All two hundred and two of your stories are interesting, new and fun to read. The emotional additions to this one make it one of my faves. Yeah, Nico and Julie are developed enough! If you want to go deeper into their lives, though, that could make them a little more detailed.

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Zilla Babbitt
23:38 Dec 09, 2020

Very true. Thanks, Emmie! I edited a little. I was thinking of adding a bit about Nico's mother or Julie's past, but I haven't done that yet.

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Scout Tahoe
02:27 Dec 08, 2020

And you say I write sad stories! This was so good. Really, it's up there with my favorites. The stuttering dialog, Marta, the cookie. Everything. Honestly, I'm so jealous. This needs no critique as it is perfect as it is. Lovely, Zilla. Really.

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Zilla Babbitt
22:39 Dec 09, 2020

Touche! Thanks, Scout :)

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Scout Tahoe
14:22 Dec 10, 2020

Of course.

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A.g. Scott
22:26 Dec 07, 2020

Bittersweet and overall very well-done. I actually disagree with Litlover, I think Marta as a character is well-developed given the space you had. She's that broken person, the one who slipped through the cracks... it'd be tough to go too deep, as some of that wonder about her would go away. I agree with you about Nico and Julie -- you demonstrate very well their care for Marta, but who they are as individuals is sorta forgotten. One of them even says something like, "why do we care so much?" p.s. shameless request for you to check ...

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Zilla Babbitt
22:18 Dec 09, 2020

Well, since Marta is the main character, I sure hope she has enough development! I'll be working on Nico and Julie for sure. They're almost boring as of right now. Maya is a person like Rick in "Your Poor Rick" -- slipped through the cracks, as you say. We all know too many of those people. Actually I stuck that question in there to sort of ask the question the reader might be asking: Why in the world do these two strangers care so much? I'll edit that part. Thanks!

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22:36 Dec 07, 2020

Yeah, I thought Marta was a beautifully done character, with both hopes and anxiety, sorrows and joys. She’s simple and yet complicated. Wise in her simple ignorance.

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Amaya Macaulay
23:57 Dec 09, 2020

real talk now ZILLA WOW. I LOVE THE POEM/HYMN/SONG THING IN UR BIO. worth the wait. im rly impressed actually, like it's amazing.

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Zilla Babbitt
00:04 Dec 10, 2020

Thank you! The first draft was bad. But I worked hard on it. I'm better at modern poetry to be honest, with no meter and rhyme is optional. But I found this more satisfying in the end. Glad you liked it!

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Amaya Macaulay
00:13 Dec 10, 2020

i liked how this didn't give me the feel of someone trying to do old style poetry, it actually comes across as old style. if that makes sense.

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23:25 Dec 08, 2020

Love the poem in your bio.

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14:45 Dec 08, 2020

Just a random side note, I'm pretty sure I'm one of the only people who actually recognized the word triskaidekaphobic in your bio without needing to look it up--the phobias page in the Thesaurus is a fun place to hang out. :P I might be afraid of thirteen... or I might not be. You choose. ;)

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Zilla Babbitt
15:12 Dec 08, 2020

Oh yay! That is a fun word, one of the few phobia words I can remember. The only number I'm afraid of is zero. How come you can't divide anything by zero?? It haunts my dreams.

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15:20 Dec 08, 2020

Well, you CAN divide zero by zero. The answer is theoretically one, but theologically zero. Because while when you divide anything by itself, you always get one, zero groups of zero, is for all practical purposes, zero.

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Zilla Babbitt
21:30 Dec 08, 2020

Mathematicians refuse to say you can divide by zero. That's why philosophy is better XD. For example, 3/0. How many times can three go into zero? No times. Or, how many times can zero go into three? Either zero or three. So in my book the answer is either 0 or three.

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21:51 Dec 08, 2020

Indeed. Philosophy should trump math!

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15:21 Dec 08, 2020

Btw, I’m putting out a new story! I decided to try the bakery theft one. If I have enough time, it should be a decent story.

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Zilla Babbitt
21:30 Dec 08, 2020

Yesss.

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Amaya Macaulay
00:19 Dec 09, 2020

haha i literally saw it and IMMEDIATELY looked it up

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Zilla Babbitt
23:38 Dec 09, 2020

And now your vocabulary is that much bigger!

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Amaya Macaulay
23:45 Dec 09, 2020

yayyy!!

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22:34 Dec 07, 2020

Whoa, thanks for the follow! It means a lot! 🥳 Now, on to the story! First, I agree that Nico and Julie aren’t very developed. They come across as sweet but flat—very similar. They even have similar lines, and react on similar ways. They exist in the story solely to accentuate Marta, and they perform their job well. I had a few ideas on how to differentiate them, but I feel like you can do a way better job than I can. 😋 Beyond that, I found Marta lovable and simple. I felt like her desire to win the cookie competition was symbolic o...

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Zilla Babbitt
02:41 Dec 08, 2020

Oh, also, would you mind reading "I Like To Be Cold"? No need for lengthy critique if you don't want to, but I'd like to get your thoughts on the title. I'm thinking of changing it to "Love and Garam Masala" or just "Love."

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02:49 Dec 08, 2020

Ooh, I did actually read that—didn’t have time to review it when I read it. I’ll go back and read it again. 🙂

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Zilla Babbitt
02:17 Dec 08, 2020

Yeah, as I was reading it for the second time I went, these people are SO flat. I'll be editing tomorrow. And YES! You got Marta! Her desire for friendship and love, and the contest symbolized that and her desire to show the few people who loved her how much she appreciated them. I've heard of that movie but I've never seen it. It sounds great though. And thanks :)

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02:46 Dec 08, 2020

I’ll be sure to re-read this when I can. 😃

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Rhondalise Mitza
22:08 Dec 16, 2020

<333333 Hi! I read the review for this story and so I wanted to reread it. There were so many parts of this that I liked, but the main thing I loved was how you made your story focus on something like mental health issues and made it so not like a bad thing or a character flaw which is something people do A LOT with stories regarding that kind of thing. But I know you've read so much about people with conditions like Marta and I love that beyond this story, you still aspire to make the world a way more inclusive. <333333333

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Zilla Babbitt
17:17 Dec 17, 2020

Thank you! This is so sweet :) I find that most people don't appreciate those with mental problems (I'm thinking mainly of Down syndrome) and prefer to euthanize or abort them. But the people I've seen with Down S are the sweetest, kindest, best people I have ever been blessed to meet. The families to which they belong tend to be happier and more welcoming because they see the light that their child/sibling is. I'm pretty sure this is my first story dealing with things like that, but it certainly won't be my last.

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Rhondalise Mitza
17:54 Dec 17, 2020

Yes! Okay, Zilla, I'm sending you this link because I know you'll appreciate this channel as much as I do. https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC4E98HDsPXrf5kTKIgrSmtQ

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F. A.
22:43 Dec 11, 2020

Hi Zilla! This is another favorite of mine! How can you write so gracefully? Also, when did you learn to write so smoothly? I struggle to find the words I want to use, but your stories always flow like a river! P.S I just finished the story you accepted to be in! Hope you have a great day!

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Orenda ♤
17:32 Dec 10, 2020

Hey Zilla, I've a story out. Would you mind reading it and sharing your views on it? Thanks a lott :-)

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Dorsa Harvens
11:36 Dec 10, 2020

the amount of love and admiration i have for these two friends is really to infinity and beyond- they are the best! in fact, i love all these characters. your writing style is absolutely amazing. your sense of detail and your art of show not tell really compliments and brings alive the whole thing. i never get tired of your stories! :) i would like some criticism on my recent story. i had joined reedsy and now decided i wanted to post. keep up your great work, you're amazing!

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Amaya Macaulay
00:18 Dec 09, 2020

Zilla! did you write the poem in ur bio?

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Zilla Babbitt
02:06 Dec 09, 2020

I wish. No, it's by Alfred Lord Tennyson.

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Amaya Macaulay
02:15 Dec 09, 2020

woahhhh im going to have to look him up

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Zilla Babbitt
02:24 Dec 09, 2020

He's really good. Him and Yeats are some of my favorites. And Gerald Manley Hopkins can express emotion and scenes like no other. I'll paste my favorite GMH poem below. "Pied Beauty" Glory be to God for dappled things – For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow; For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim; Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings; Landscape plotted and pieced – fold, fallow, and plough; And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim. All things counter, original, spare, strange; ...

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Zilla Babbitt
02:06 Dec 09, 2020

Though I have written a song of sorts, very short, that I'll put up sometime soon. It's got rhyme and meter and everything, I'm very proud.

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Amaya Macaulay
02:16 Dec 09, 2020

put it up! put it up! put it up! put it up! put it up! put it up! put it up! put it up! put it up! put it up! put it up! put it up! put it up! put it up! put it up! put it up! put it up! put it up! put it up! put it up! put it up! put it up! put it up! put it up! put it up! put it up! put it up! put it up! put it up! put it up! put it up! put it up! put it up! put it up! put it up! put it up! put it up! put it up! put it up! put it up! put it up! put it up! put it up! put it up! put it up! put it up! put it up! put it up! put it up! put it u...

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Zilla Babbitt
23:37 Dec 09, 2020

It's a hymn by the way. I couldn't think of what else to write about, so I adapted some Scripture. I've written three like it actually. This one's based off Exodus 15:2-5, if you want to look up the original material.

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Amaya Macaulay
23:45 Dec 09, 2020

YAY YOU PUT IT UP

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Amaya Macaulay
23:47 Dec 09, 2020

It's up! It's up! It's up! It's up! It's up! It's up! It's up! It's up! It's up! It's up! It's up! It's up! It's up! It's up! It's up! It's up! It's up! It's up! It's up! It's up! It's up! It's up! It's up! It's up! It's up! It's up! It's up! It's up! It's up! It's up! It's up! It's up! It's up! It's up! It's up! It's up! It's up! It's up! It's up! It's up! It's up! It's up! It's up! It's up! It's up! It's up! It's up! It's up! It's up! It's up! It's up! It's up! It's up! It's up! It's up! It's up! It's up! It's up! It's up! It's up! ...

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Amaya Macaulay
23:48 Dec 09, 2020

wait it's not up :(

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Zilla Babbitt
02:18 Dec 09, 2020

Oh my word... okay, okay. I'll do it tomorrow when I get home XD.

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Amaya Macaulay
03:03 Dec 09, 2020

yayyy

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14:18 Dec 09, 2020

Art we need, From Zilla, freed, For the enjoyment of all the Reeders. Great works of beauty, Not clumsy or tooty, But dazzling like verbose gold. Poems of love, And poems of sorrow, She shall give us on the 'morrow. My gosh! Oh my! I cannot wait, I must fly, To that secret place in the mountains. That place where the starling lilies grow, A writers friend, a lover's woe-- for here have been picked both joy and sorrow, And here Zilla writes for us, poems on the 'morrow. For once you have heard, You're entranced by t...

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14:19 Dec 09, 2020

Dang, can't believe I just wrote fifteen stanzas of nonsense in rhyming format. XDDD

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Zilla Babbitt
22:23 Dec 09, 2020

Brilliance itself.

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Orenda ♤
03:22 Dec 09, 2020

Title:- put it up, man! 🤙 Writer:- Amaya 🙄 Length:- 1939588 words Thank you, your submission has been approved.

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Amaya Macaulay
03:54 Dec 09, 2020

HAHA WHY IS THAT SO PERFECT

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Orenda ♤
04:02 Dec 09, 2020

TOTES

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Sia Sharma
03:39 Dec 09, 2020

XD

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Orenda ♤
10:15 Dec 10, 2020

Eyy Zillaaa, your book's finally coming to lifee. Are you excited? 👀 well yars, you are. Why did I even say that? Haha. Congratulations on it and good luck with your future plans! <3

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22:07 Dec 07, 2020

Great Job!! I liked these bittersweet feelings a lot, but maybe give Marta some more depth as a character, make her not just a sob story. I loved reading it!

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Amaya Macaulay
19:20 Dec 14, 2020

The review was amazing! I'm so happy for you! I think you might win with this....

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Karen Davies
17:49 Dec 12, 2020

A well written, bitter sweet story. I liked the descriptions of the landscape and the development of the characters. I wasn-t expecting the end.

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