The Cream-Colored Envelope

I was late for work again. And it was because of my writing. It was going nowhere, and was again in the way of my “real” career as an ER nurse.

Enough! Never again!

I shoved my papers at the back of my drawer. I had five issues of nursing journals to read. I had to start studying for a nursing course. Everything had been put aside for my writing. And for what? Nothing!

Time to reset the clocks.

I stepped into the ER, smiling. I was already enjoying myself, and hadn’t even put my scrubs on. Who needs writing when you have this?

I checked the schedule. I was working in the Evaluation Room. I loved working there. It’s a big room with ten beds, where stable patients are put for a 24 hour observation period.

In bed eight, there was a 25 year-old young man. He was dying of terminal cancer. Yes, 25. It happens all the time, in my ER. He was in agony. All the drugs that I was pumping into him, all the hot packs and massages and repositioning weren’t working.

At ten, he told me that he was going to be fine. He was worried about me. I hadn’t gone for my supper break. He and the other nurse working the room forced me to go on break.

When I came back, he was again typing away on his laptop. He was a writer, you see. One way to treat his pain was for him to lose himself in his work. We talked about writing. I was the nurse, and he needed the care, so I didn’t burden him with my problems and listened to his. I made sure he had enough light and was comfortable. I finally left, frustrated that I couldn’t treat something as simple as pain.

The next shift, I learned that the young man had passed away. It saddened me, because I had looked forward to talking to him again.

During the evening, a woman came up to me. “You must be Sahar,” she said, smiling.

I noticed her red-rimmed eyes. “Yes, I am. How can I help you?”

She told me she was the mother of the young man. I told her how sorry I was about her loss. She reassured me and told me about the funeral and commemoration. It had all gone smoothly.

“There is one last thing to do,” she said, handing me a beautiful, cream envelope. “He wrote this for you. It was his last story.”

He told me, in the opening lines of the story, that it was for my eyes only. But I can tell you that it was about me and my struggles as a writer. He had somehow guessed accurately far more than I had told him. He gave me hope and inspiration, something that had been lacking lately in my writing.

Time to reset those clocks again.

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Baha’is in Iran

Dear all;

There are unfortunately many human rights violations around the world. We often feel helpless in the face of such injustice; however, helplessness has never helped anyone. The first step to empowerment is information, and so I offer part of this blog as a source of information on the human rights violations that touch me more personally. In no way do I think these particular cases are more special that others; there are so many out there that I could spend my entire life blogging about them and still not manage to cover them all.

The Baha’is in Iran have been subjected to the violation of their human rights from the beginning of the inception of the Baha’i Faith in 1844. Thousands of Baha’is were killed in those first tumultuous years of the history of the Faith.

Today, the violation of the human rights of the Baha’is takes on many forms. For decades, the Iranian government has denied the young Baha’i in Iran their right to higher education. Unable to quench the spirit of these young Baha’is, many of whom try, year after year, to get into university, there are now reports of mistreatment of Baha’is students of all ages in Iran, including young children in primary school. These young people are being subjected to harsh and shameful treatment by their teachers and their peers, and is the result of a government-sponsored campaign to suppress the Baha’i community and spread misinformation about the Baha’i Faith. There are many accounts of some of these incidents, a couple of which I’d like to share with you.

The following were taken from the document: “Summary Report of Attacks Against Baha’i School Children in Iran, June 2007-January 2008”.

“At the beginning of the school year, at least fifty Baha’i students were refused enrolment for wholly unjustified reasons, such as having referred to the Faith in classes in the previous year; in some cases religious staff simply refused to enrol any student who is not a Muslim. Many families were therefore forced to enrol their children in schools much further away from their homes than the schools they could have attended if not for the discriminatory treatment of school officials.”

While I can understand that an Islamic country wouldn’t want other Faiths to be taught in the official school system, I find it hard to swallow that children aren’t allowed to receive basic education on the basis of their Faith. Wouldn’t it be enough to tell children of other Faiths to not mention them on school property? The school could focus on teaching the tenants of Islam, and parents can choose to teach the tenant of their own religions at home.

“Ten Baha’i students were expelled from schools in Vilashahr, Najafabad, and Shahinshahr in the province of Isfahan for having chosen to specify ‘Baha’i’ in the space provided for religion on forms the school authorities gave them to complete some two months after school had begun. The students and their parents, having sought legal counsel, sent letters of complaint to the relevant school officials. A few days later, the parents and their children went to one of the schools to ask that their children be allowed to return to their classes. The principal evaded this request and instead called the police. Although the police never appeared at the school, soon after this call approximately thirty Islamic Revolutionary Guards arrived in a blatant attempt to intimidate the students and their parents, followed shortly thereafter by some one hundred women from the School of Theology in Vilashahr. When the Baha’is declined to leave the schoolyard, the Guards physically assaulted a couple of them and then carried a bench, with the Baha’is still sitting on it, outside the schoolyard. Throughout, the Guards were chanting anti-Baha’i slogans.

As a result of the foregoing incident, the Baha’is contacted the office of the Ministry of Education in Isfahan province, where they were asked once again by the head of the Security Office in Isfahan to enter two strikes in the space for religion on the school registration form, which the Baha’is were not prepared to do. The head of the Security Office then explained, “We do not wish to harm anyone, and our intention in identifying religion is to know the principal belief on which the students wish to be tested.” Eventually the Baha’is suggested that ‘Islamic Studies’ be stated in the form, and the authorities accepted this. The Baha’is, who had refused to bow to pressure that they pledge not to mention their Faith at school, wrote on the form, “If we are not asked and our beliefs are not insulted, we will not volunteer our religion.” The authorities accepted, and the students were finally able to return to school. The following day, however, the school principal expelled them from school again and indicated that if they wished to continue their studies, they would have to leave the space on the forms blank, or strike it through, or write “Muslim”. Three of the Baha’is did choose to strike through the space and were able to return to school; the remaining Baha’i students have still not been permitted to return. Throughout this process, a considerable number of non-Baha’i students and teachers defended the Baha’is, some also visiting the homes of expelled students to convey sympathy.”

Personally, I am of the opinion that the suggestion of the Baha’i students, to not talk about their Faith unless they are asked or they are insulted, is a good middle ground. Although it still refuses these Baha’is of their freedom to express themselves, it helps the government of Iran in maintaining calm within an Islamic Republic.

I also think that it is important to note that most Iranians are not against Baha’is and very few of them treat Baha’is with callousness and disrespect. The same can be said about Muslims; not only are most of them sympathetic to the plight of the Baha’is in Iran, there is even a movement of Muslim students dedicated to ensuring that the Baha’i students in Iran aren’t denied an education.

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Telling it as it is

I’m certain that there are a lot of people out there, be they health-care professionals or not, that often wish they could say it is as it is. Well, Reader’s Digest recently gave a group of doctor’s a chance to do just that.

If You Only Knew …

Reader’s Digest offered two dozen doctors a chance to tell it like it really is, and general practitioners, surgeons, shrinks, pediatricians, and other specialists took the challenge. Some wanted to be anonymous; some didn’t care. But all of them revealed funny, frightening, and downright shocking things that can help you be a better, smarter patient.

Here are my favorite of the bunch:

• I am utterly tired of being your mother. Every time I see you, I have to say the obligatory “You need to lose some weight.” But you swear you “don’t eat anything” or “the weight just doesn’t come off,” and the subject is dropped. Then you come in here complaining about your knees hurting, your back is killing you, your feet ache, and you can’t breathe when you walk up half a flight of stairs. So I’m supposed to hold your hand and talk you into backing away from that box of Twinkies. Boy, do I get tired of repeating the stuff most patients just don’t listen to.
Cardiologist, Brooklyn, New York

• Thank you for bringing in a sample of your (stool, urine, etc.) from home. I’ll put it in my personal collection of things that really gross me out.
Douglas Farrago, MD, editor, Placebo Journal

• I wish patients would take more responsibility for their own health and stop relying on me to bail them out of their own problems.
ER physician, Colorado Springs, Colorado

• So let me get this straight: You want a referral to three specialists, an MRI, the medication you saw on TV, and an extra hour for this visit. Gotcha. Do you want fries with that?
Douglas Farrago, MD

• I used to have my secretary page me after I had spent five minutes in the room with a difficult or overly chatty patient. Then I’d run out, saying, “Oh, I have an emergency.”
Oncologist, Santa Cruz, California

• Your doctor generally knows more than a website. I have patients with whom I spend enormous amounts of time, explaining things and coming up with a treatment strategy. Then I get e-mails a few days later, saying they were looking at this website that says something completely different and wacky, and they want to do that. To which I want to say (but I don’t), “So why don’t you get the website to take over your care?”
James Dillard, MD
• When a doctor tells you to lose 15 to 20 pounds, what he really means is you need to lose 50.
Tamara Merritt, DO, family physician, Brewster, Washington


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The Black Eye

My job often takes me on the road, more often than not. In the days when I am travelling, my laptop is my lifeline, the one constant in my life. I can often be seen at local wireless cafés, typing away, working on a project while chatting with friends. Being online, having these conversations, brings a certain sense of normality and constancy to my life. Every day for two hours, I log on – the same people are there, and we talk, as if we were in the same room, as if I am at home and they are a couple of blocks away and we could go for coffee at that instant if we wanted to. I could even attend meetings through instant messaging systems, and lead a somewhat grounded life. Internet had brought this into the otherwise unpredictable life that I lead, and for that I will always be grateful.

My present trip was definitely one of my least memorable ones – I had gotten an assignment that had sent me to the middle of nowhere, where the weather was terrible and the night life lacking. To make matters worse, I had a bad case of insomnia. After trying vainly to sleep the first two nights, I gave in and went to yet another café. Better to be tired but satisfied after a good night’s worth of work than tired and frustrated from tossing and turning. And, hopefully, the working would tire me enough to get a couple of hours of sound sleep.

At the counter, I ordered something new. I always tried something local that I couldn’t have anywhere else – another quirk I have. With my mug of candied coffee (I wasn’t so sure anymore I’d be able to catch any sleep, with the amount of sugar I calculated my drink to contain) I sat at the far corner of the café. It was my preferred seating arrangement, as I could keep an eye on the occupants of the room and daydream if I was hit by writer’s block.

A woman was sitting in front of me, facing to my right. I smiled at her as I sat. She smiled back. Something struck me about her, something that touched me – yet I couldn’t define it. Has it ever happened to you, an unexplainable connection to a perfect stranger, the urge to confide everything in your heart to someone you don’t even know, that perfect understanding between two people who logically can’t know what the other is feeling or thinking?

I opened my laptop and opened up my music player. I slipped on my headphones and started the music before opening up my work file. After awhile, feeling her eyes on me, I turned my head. Sure enough, she was looking at me with a slight smile. I slipped my headphones off.


“Hi. What kind of music are you listening to?”

“Just some ambience trance music – gets me in the mood to write.”

“Would you mind putting it on your speakers? The café’s radio is down, and the silence is killing my inspiration.”

I unplugged my headphones; the soothing yet upbeat music filled the air between us. “I hope you like it.”

“I am sure I will.”

“If you happen to have a blank CD on you, I could make you a copy of my favourite ones.”

“I’d appreciate it,” she said, slipping a CD that was on the table towards me.

We exchanged another comfortable smile and both of us set to work.

It was oddly soothing to have someone else at my side, working on a piece, while I was working on my own. The double sound of keyboards being tapped on in a rhythmic fashion set the tone, and both of us worked non stop for an hour before I realised just how in sync we were.

She typed at the same speed I was; she would pause exactly when I paused; we’d both smack satisfyingly on the enter key at the same time and lean back at the same time. We’d both rub the bridge of our noses at the same time. It was uncanny, and if she hadn’t been wearing a wedding band, I would have seriously considered asking her out.

At one point, she raised her eyes towards me and smiled. “I haven’t worked this well in a long while.”

“Me neither. We might be meant to work together.”

“Maybe. Are you a writer?”

“A journalist. You?”

“An aspiring writer. I’m an accountant.”

“A writer and an accountant. Impressive.”

We both glanced at our screens at the same time. We both felt the need to stretch out the good spell of writing as long as we could. In common, unspoken accord, we went back to work without saying another word.

I looked up again after a long while. My coffee was long gone; so was hers. I offered to get us some refills, which she graciously accepted. I was back in a flash.

“What are you working on?”

“A book.”


“Yes, but loosely based on real life.”

“What is it about?”

“A young girl living in the Northwestern Territories.”

“Are you the young girl?”

She smiled. “Yes.”

“How long did you live there?”

“Seven years. My father is a nurse, my mother a doctor. My sister and I were born there.”

“How old is your sister?”

“She’s my twin.”



“I have a brother. He’s older than me, but we look so similar that people often mistake us for twins.”

“Do you have any pictures?”

I nodded, bringing the file up. I turned the laptop towards her, and she leaned forward to look at the pictures. As I was recounting yet another family anecdote, she turned towards me with a smile and my world tilted. In this light, there was no way of mistaking the faint outline of the bruise around her eye for anything else.

Something in my eyes gave me away; her smile froze and melted. “I fell down a flight of stairs,” she said.

We just looked at each other. I knew she was lying, and I could tell she knew that I knew.

“How badly did those stairs hurt you?”

She shrugged. “I just broke one rib.”

“How often do you fall down the stairs?”

Her eyes rested briefly on mine before fluttering away. “Not as often as I used to. I seem to have found my balance.”

“How often?” I repeated.

“Once a month, sometimes more.”

The anger I had vainly tried to control crashed through me, unrestrained and wild. I hid it – it’s not what she needed. “What are you going to do about it?”

“I want to change stairs. I don’t like these ones anymore.”

“Can you afford to?”

She looked at her laptop, tears filling her eyes. “Not yet.”

I waited.

“I need to finish this book and get it published,” she whispered.

Now I knew why she was typing so fiercely. This was more than writing, more than getting thoughts and emotions on paper, so much more than an expression of her inner self – it was her way out.

“I will help you,” I said.

“Stairs can be hard to change.”

“That’s why you will need a friend.”

She suddenly smiled. “I don’t even know your name.”

I laughed, startled. “And I don’t know yours.”


“Ian.” I put my hand out and waited patiently for her to accept it. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

“You promise to help?”

“Yes.” But although I knew I was doing a nice thing, I felt guilty; my intentions were not selfless at all. I couldn’t help but wonder and even hope if she’d leave her husband for me. I knew it was a terrible thought to have, but it wasn’t like I was breaking them up or anything. After all, he was the one beating her.

She nodded. “Thank you.” She turned towards her laptop as I turned towards mine; the writer in each of us was begging to find release in the words and sentences whose outcome we could control on our laptops, a world that we create and can manipulate however we wished it. We commonly turned our attention to our work, finding in it a soothing release Carla soon shattered with three simple words.

“I love him.”

The statement, out of the blue, shocked me.

“How can you, after the way he treats you?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I just do.”

“Are you going to leave him?”

She nodded. “I can’t bear to live like this anymore. But I love him.”

“Carla… I want you to promise me that however much you love him, you will leave him. You can’t stay with him – he will destroy you.”

“I will leave, there is no doubt about that. I hope he will see the error in his ways and repent.”

Although I had known it was coming, it still shocked me. “Do you think that could happen?”

She shrugged again. “Anything could happen.”

“Don’t raise your hopes up. People don’t change overnight, and not that drastically.”

“What if he does?”

“What if he doesn’t?”

“You aren’t helping.”

“What do you want me to say? You want me to lie to you, to tell you that your husband will change and become a devoted man, when I know very well that the chances of this happening are quite minimal, or non existent?”

But I knew what she meant. I wasn’t helping her – I was helping myself. Instead of looking for a solution for her, I was looking to further my own interest, which was to have her leave her husband as soon as possible so that I could pursue her myself. It pained me that she wanted to stay with a man who didn’t treat her the way she deserved.

Then again, was I treating her the way she deserved? Instead of treating her like the adult she was and helping her the way she wanted it, I was treating her like a child, making her decision for her that she shouldn’t be with the man she vowed to stay with through better or worse. I might not be a wife beater, but I certainly was not being respectful of her.

“The help I need is to find a way of making my marriage work, not of terminating it.”

I didn’t respond; whatever I had to say wasn’t going to help the conversation. Once again, the writer in each of us sought the release of words, and both pounded furiously on our keyboards for a couple of minutes.

“You’re right,” I said a few minutes later, my eyes glued on my screen. “I am not helping you – I am helping myself help you.”

I could feel her gaze on me, burning through my flesh. “Thank you.”

We wrote some more for a few minutes. At least, she did – my fingers were poised, frozen, on my keyboard.

“I wish I had met you before my husband.”

It was a bittersweet moment. “So do I.”

“Maybe, one day…”

She was wavering, when she had been right. I couldn’t let my own weakness bring her down. “Maybe. But this isn’t the time and place to discuss it. You are married to a man you love, and although things don’t look too good, you might be able to salvage it. I have wireless internet access at the moment – why don’t we look up support groups in the area?”

“Thank you,” she whispered, tears gathering in her eyes.

I couldn’t resist – I reached up and wiped her eyes. “Don’t cry. After the storm, there is always sunshine. Sometimes it just takes a little longer to come out.”

She nodded. “But it will.”


I don’t know what is going to happen. It has been six months since I met Carla, and all the time that we spend together, on the phone, by email or in person, has only made me like her more. I don’t know how this is going to end. She still loves her husband, and he has been seeking counselling. She moved out of her house for the last four months, but she and her husband are talking about her moving temporarily back in.

However this finishes, I know that it will be for the best, because I am not helping her for myself. It is hard for me; sometimes I just want to grab her and run, brainwash her into forgetting about her husband and staying with me. I know I could do it – I can see it in her eyes, questioning herself, wondering what life with me would be like. But it has to be her decision. She has to make it without me interfering. She asked me last week if I was in love with her, and I answered her truthfully – I was definitely attracted to her, and could fall in love with her given the right circumstances (read: if she wasn’t married). It’s all up to her now – and I hope that whatever she decides, we will both be happy.

Until then, I will continue touring the North American continent with my laptop, trying out different coffees and meeting new people, living life out of a suitcase while restlessly pursuing an objective even I can’t name.

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Having fun with 419 scammers

In the same vein as the post titled Telling it as it is, here is another little thing that many people have probably thought of doing but only a few courageous (or insane?) enough have actually done. It’s definitely worth the read!

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The Bus Ride

I decided to start easy and import some of the stories that used to be on Red Dawn. Enjoy!


I had finished my night shift in the ER and was on my way home. I actually was a full two hours early, as I had gone off for break so late that I was sent home by the head nurse. It was still dark outside; usually I left the ER around eight, and now it was barely six fifteen. We had had a good, easy night, and we certainly deserved it, as the last couple of weeks in the ER were horribly hectic to the point of the entire staff being ready to quit en masse.

When I got into the bus, I was relieved that my favourite seat at the back was empty. From that vantage point of the back corner of the bus, I could see everyone. I didn’t like being in a weak seat, where someone I couldn’t see could be watching me.

A man came in a few moments later and chose the sideway seat in front of mine. He was carrying two bags. One was a red postman’s bag slung over his shoulder, the other was a black heavy-duty garbage bag he was half carrying, half dragging behind him. He put them both on the ground, propped his feet on them and leaned back in his seat.

For some kind of reason, I was particularly interested in this man. He had intrigued me, and I didn’t know why. It happened sometimes that someone would catch my fancy. It made my imagination soar, made me weave an intricate web involving the person and the most insane stories.

In between quick glances, I noted that he was a middle-aged man, between forty to forty-five years of age, tall, thin but muscular, with an angular face and eyes set deep within their sockets. He had a five o’clock shadow and dark smudges under his eyes. His gaze was flickering around nervously, fluttering on each face around him, starting with the one on his right leading all the way to mine. I didn’t react to the scrutiny. I held his gaze, then slid my eyes away. Just enough contact to let him know I wasn’t afraid, but not too much so that he’d think I was interested.

He continued watching the different people around him, his lips moving soundlessly, leaning his head back against the window and closing his eyes. He visibly relaxed. He was probably wary of meeting someone on the bus. An old girlfriend, maybe? Or maybe he was hoping to see someone, and was nervous about meeting again with that person.

I shrugged his eccentric behaviour off – after all, he was just another one of the odd people who live in this city. I directed my gaze outside again at the city waking up. I still had thirty minutes of my ride to go.

Different scenarios explaining the man’s behaviour spinning in my head, I was dozing off when a sharp, foul smell made my eyes snap open. The man has opened his red bag and taken out a bottle which seemed to be the source of the odour. I tried to control my wincing, as I didn’t want the man to see it. God only knew what his reaction would be.

The man, unaware of my musings, took a long sip out of the bottle. It looked like plain, clean water – why did it stink so much?

Once again, my imagination started to wander. Maybe the man had gone down on luck, and had spent the night hunting for meat to feed him family. Maybe he worked as a sewage-cleaner during the night. Maybe his washing machine didn’t work, and when his clothes reached a state of utmost dinginess, he finally gave up and is now going to his mother’s house to use hers, which would explain his state and the smell emanating from the bag.

My imagination was now fired up; I was wide awake. Since he was looking the other way, I observed him more closely, to fine tune my story. I suddenly noticed the blood on his hands. Some of it was fresh, the rest caked. It formed an indistinct pattern, and I couldn’t see any visible wounds explaining the presence of blood.

However, it did correlate with my theory that he was a sewage-cleaner. After all, it wasn’t easy work, and he could hurt himself easily. I wondered if he had taken the time to disinfect his wounds, since he could get an infection.

I was musing on the dangers of simple wounds when the man slowly turned his head towards me. His gaze travelled from my hands, resting on my bag, up to my eyes. He met them and I shuddered. His eyes were empty and cold. Eyes cold like this could only belong to someone who had no soul… Someone who could be capable of anything.

The man started fidgeting again, as if looking for a comfortable position. Maybe he had a guilty conscience. What had he done, that he couldn’t even sit comfortably in a bus?

My gaze fell on the ring that he was wearing. It was a gold chevalier, with a large green stone that could have been an emerald. The reason I noticed the ring was its spotlessness against the man’s dirty skin. It wasn’t a new ring; the stone showed obvious signs of wear. It didn’t match the man’s clothes and overall appearance, either. He was wearing the clothes of a construction worker, with visible wear and tear. He had no other jewellery on. It didn’t make sense that someone who was wearing old, torn up clothes, would be wearing such a clean, expensive looking ring. Personally, I would leave such a piece of jewellery at home for when I’d wash up and put some cleaner clothes on.

The picture was becoming grimmer by the minute. What if that smell wasn’t that of sewage or an old sandwich? I had heard that smell before. After all, I am a nurse. The smell was that of rotting meat. When taken in with the blood on his hands and the out of place ring, it did look like the man had killed someone and stuffed him or the clothes he was wearing during the killing in the bags he was wearing. It wasn’t his own ring the man was carrying. It was the ring of the person he had killed.

My stop was coming up, but I decided to stay on the bus until the man had left. The fact that he might be a murderer was too serious for me to ignore, especially after he caught me looking at him with an odd look in his eyes. Had he guessed that I knew his secret? Would he follow me off the bus, then ambush me and kill me? Would my blood pouring over him add to the overall stench of his person?

By then, my heart was pounding. Horrific visions of my mutilated body danced before my eyes. I forced them away with much difficulty. I didn’t know what to think; surely I was exaggerating. I had to be exaggerating. It was possible that the murder story I had read last evening had been lingering in my mind a little too long. When I thought about it, holes appeared in my carefully knitted theory. Surely a murderer wouldn’t take a public bus and face possible identification. But what about the proof? It couldn’t lead to any other conclusion. I was certain about it.

However, as I watched my stop roll by, the ridiculousness of the situation hit me and I felt a sudden sense of embarrassment. A grown woman such as myself should know better. What looked innocent could be more than that, whereas what looked horribly suspicious could be just as innocent.

Many people had questionable hygiene. Maybe he was a homeless man moving from one location to another. It was probably the long, sleepless night that had fuelled my errand train of thoughts. That and that book that would find its way to the donations box as soon as I got home.

It was embarrassing to have to admit that I’d made a mistake. I rang the bell and was getting up to leave when the man looked at me and winked. It startled me. I tentatively smiled back. When he smiled, I felt utterly ridiculous. A man with such a nice smile couldn’t be a murderer. I got off and told myself that the extra walk would serve me as a lesson.

I finally got home, cold and tired. The wind had been blowing in my face the whole way, and every muscle in my body felt frozen. I took my keys out and opened the door. I kicked snow off the newspaper that was lying on the ground and gasped.

Looking up at me was the man from the bus. Over his head was the title: “Man caught on tape killing wife and kids”. It seemed that I had been right, after all. I fearfully looked around. I had been right about the man’s past actions; had I guessed right about his future actions, including my possible demise? I hurried inside the house and closed the door firmly, knowing that I wouldn’t be able to sleep anytime soon.

The End

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Hello World!

Yes, I did use the title of WordPress’ generic welcome post, but it seemed to à propos that I couldn’t find anything better.

Welcome to my personal blog! It has been years in the making, from finding out what in the world a blog is, to reading a couple of blogs that my friends around the world have been holding, to helping start a blog for junior youth activities in Montreal (MUCH more on that later, I promise), to working on Red Dawn (more on that later, too) – basically it is as if I was meant to be blogging. After all, I do old school blogging a lot, which involved Post-its (lots of them) and the desks of my coworkers.

A friendly reminder to all my coworkers, past, present and future: not ALL those Post-its are from me. There are some wannabe old-school bloggers out there, and you know who you are.

This is going to be an experiment, so I beg you humbly to be patient with me. I used to have a website called Red Dawn, which hosted many of the short stories that I have written. After my previous Webmaster (to whom I owe an enormous debt – George, you rock), I was initially planning on restarting Red Dawn as a blog, adding short stories as the came along.

But I realized that it could be so much more than that. There are so many things that I have to share with the world, not only my writing. For example, my love of the Baha’i Faith, the various weird stories and forwards that I get from many of my lovely friends and family, the amazing Youtube videos I stumble upon, the insane anecdotes from work, the highlights of living in Montreal, hockey (if you aren’t a Habs fan, you might not like this part) – hence, many things that other people have shared with me and that I’d like to pass on to as many people as possible, in the hopes that their lives may be touched just like mine has.

So, without any further ado, here goes Sahar’s Blog!

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