BE Storybook

 In a small city apartment on the sixth floor, where buses hummed below and the sun only brushed the windows for a few hours each morning, lived Michelle and her 12-year-old daughter, Amira. Michelle had raised Amira alone, their lives stitched together with early morning chats over oatmeal, evening walks to the corner store, and the kind of quiet understanding that can only exist between two people who have weathered much, side by side. Their apartment was filled with love, but also with expectations. Michelle, once an art student who’d traded paintbrushes for paychecks, wanted stability for her daughter. She made sure Amira’s schedule was packed: piano lessons on Mondays, math tutoring on Thursdays, reading assignments every weekend. She spoke of college constantly, gently guiding, sometimes nudging, sometimes insisting. Amira was bright and dutiful, but lately, something in her had begun to shift. One morning, while Michelle was making coffee, Amira hesitated at the kitchen door...

The Ramjohn-Walkers were the kind of family you heard before you saw. Laughter, steelpan beats, soca, chutney, and the smell of curry goat or pelau usually gave them away. With nine siblings, sixteen cousins, and a rotating crew of friends, neighbors, and even exes who never really left the fold, their house in San Fernando was never quiet for long. Patricia Walker, the matriarch with her booming laugh and penchant for bright lipsticks, always said, “In this house, we celebrate everything—even if it’s just Tuesday.” Her husband, Ravi Ramjohn, a retired school principal with a weakness for pepper roti and a habit of quoting Tagore, fully agreed. He used to say the mix of their roots, her Afro-Trinidadian fire and his Indo-Trinidadian calm, wasn’t just a love story, it was a reason to celebrate life. And so they did. When young Anjali passed her SEA exams, the entire neighborhood was invited over. There was dhal, pelau, sorrel, and coconut bake. Uncle Shaun brought out his old DJ set, an...

 Roger had always loved the outdoors. As a boy, he would escape to the rocky edges of north coast Trinidad, where the ocean sang louder than any thoughts he carried. Now in his thirties, the habit remained. The world had grown louder, faster with emails, expectations, decisions. But the rocks were the same. Weathered. Unmoved. He parked his car just before sunset, the orange hue casting long shadows across the sand. Shoes in hand, he walked the familiar path to the beach, feeling the cool granules shift underfoot. At the far end of the cove, jagged black rocks jutted from the shoreline like tired guardians. Roger climbed them with ease, settling on his favorite perch, a flat boulder, warmed by the day’s sun. The waves rolled in rhythmic intervals. With each breath, Roger let go of something: deadlines, disappointments, the mask he wore in meetings. Out here, there was no need to perform. And yet, even in this sacred space, he felt something different today. A heaviness. He pulled h...

 In the crumbling alley behind an old bakery, a scruffy gray and orange cat called Whiskers hid beneath a broken crate. The world had not been kind to him. Abandoned as a kitten, he'd learned early that hunger stings and kindness is rare. The other alley cats didn’t bother with him as he was too quiet, too small, too strange. Failure, it seemed, had followed him like his own shadow. Whiskers didn’t dream anymore. He used to imagine chasing butterflies in sunlit gardens or curling up beside a warm fireplace. But those dreams faded, replaced by the constant noise in his head: “You’ll never belong,” “You’ll never find home.” So he stayed hidden, watching life pass by through slats of wood and puddles of rain. Then one evening, a soft voice broke through the silence. “Hey there, little one…” It was the bakery girl. She had seen him before, his eyes glowing faintly from the shadows. She had begun leaving crumbs, then bits of chicken, and finally, a small bowl of warm milk. She never cam...

 In a quiet field kissed by golden sun and gentle winds, two butterflies emerged from their cocoons—Liora, and Vey, bold with wings streaked in deep sapphire. From the moment they took flight, they danced together over wildflowers, whispering secrets of freedom, wonder, and the joy of being alive. But the world, as beautiful as it was, held danger too. One day, while playing near the edge of the field, Vey warned, “Not all hands that reach for you mean to help.” Liora, ever trusting, replied, “But how will they ever know us if we don’t let them come close?” Just then, a net swept through the air. In panic, they darted in opposite directions. Vey soared skyward, but Liora caught too late brushing the edge of the net. One wing tore, and she spiraled down into the grass, her world spinning. Hidden by wild thyme, she lay trembling as footsteps faded. Vey, meanwhile, had flown safely to a tree branch, but her heart was heavy. She saw Liora fall, and though fear gripped her, she returned...

  There was once a river fisherman who spent his days gliding through winding waters in a humble pirogue, carved by hand and guided by instinct. He knew every bend, every current, and every hidden eddy of the river. His days were quiet, steady, and full of rhythm. As he pushed his oar into the water each morning, he felt a calm certainty that this was where he belonged. Over the years, though, he began to feel a pull. He’d catch himself watching the newer fishermen with their sleek power boats, motors humming as they raced past. A part of him wondered what it would be like to move faster, to cover more ground, to bring in bigger catches. The desire wasn’t desperate, just curious. It stirred something within him, not as dissatisfaction with life, but as reflection on fulfillment. Eventually, he saved enough and bought a power boat. It was a different way of being on the river as it was much louder, quicker, more efficient. But something unexpected happened. As he sat at the helm, sl...

In a dusty corner of Havana, Jorge crouched beside the rusted frame of a '56 Chevy Bel Air. The car had seen better decades, but its owner still hoped for one more cruise down the Malecón. Jorge, a seasoned mechanic with grease-stained hands and a mind like a blueprint, examined the engine and suspension with the calm patience of a man who had long made peace with the impossible. There were no OEM parts. There never were. Sanctions, scarcity, and time had turned every repair into an act of creative defiance. Jorge didn’t pray for new parts. He scoured junkyards, bartered with neighbors, and once rebuilt a transmission using pieces from a Soviet washing machine. But today, staring at a worn suspension arm, cracked exhaust manifold, and a warped carburetor, even Jorge knew: some things couldn’t be bent back into place. He sighed, not in defeat, but in understanding. “Mira,” he said looking at his customer. He wiped his hands on a rag, “I can fix a lot of things. But I cannot make met...

 At a popular girls' college nestled in west Trinidad, there were once seven inseparable friends. They were vibrant young women whose laughter filled every corridor they walked. They were sisters in everything but blood, sharing dreams, fears, and countless plans for the future . But one rainy evening, tragedy struck. A car accident on the Churchill Roosevelt Highway took the lives of three of them — Anya, Leila, and Brianna. The news shattered their world. The school halls that once echoed with their joy now felt unbearably hollow. Grief and feelings of depression of loss bonds wrapped around the seven who remained like a heavy fog, threatening to pull them under. At first, silence ruled. The kind that only deep, soul-wrenching pain can bring. Some days it was hard to even get out of bed. The loss felt too big, too unfair. But slowly, something remarkable happened. Instead of retreating into their sorrow, the seven made a pact: to honor the memory of their friends not just with mo...

 One summer afternoon, Sunil sat quietly in a meadow brimming with golden sunflowers. Their wide faces turned unashamedly toward the sun, soaking in every drop of light as if in silent prayer. He watched as a ladybug landed delicately on one of the thick green stems, her tiny red shell gleaming. She made her way upward, her path slow but certain, until she reached the vibrant crown of yellow petals. Without hesitation, she nestled herself there, almost as if greeting an old friend. Moments later, a low hum filled the warm air as a honeybee, round and fuzzy, hovered nearby. She flitted from one bloom to the next, dipping into the heart of each sunflower with a sense of determined joy, gathering pollen to carry back to her hive. There was no hesitation, no competition between them, the ladybug, the bee and the sunflower. They each simply doing what they were born to do, communicating without sound, moving in perfect harmony. Watching them, Sunil realized: this was the purest form of ...

Marcus had always been the kind of guy who circled the same dream in his mind, over and over: owning a Ferrari. Growing up in Tobago, that dream seemed almost comical a European supercar roaring down narrow coastal roads where pickups and old Toyotas reigned supreme. Every Sunday, he scrolled through right hand drive car listings from the UK to Latin America, eyes fixed on that iconic prancing horse. But every time, the same thought shadowed his excitement: “I’ll never be able to afford one. People like me don’t own cars like that.” For years, he let that mindset limit him. He saw the Ferrari as a symbol of wealth, something reserved for people born into privilege, or those who lived in big cities with highways and luxury car dealerships around every corner. Resources, he believed, were the deciding factor. But deep down, it wasn’t the money holding him back, it was the belief that the dream was out of reach. One day, a chance conversation with a visiting businessman flipped the switch...

  Amanda used to rush through her mornings, grabbing a sugary pastry and coffee, barely tasting it before her day began. By noon, she’d feel sluggish, reaching for chips or fast food to push through. One evening, after yet another energy crash, her grandmother handed her a bowl of vibrant greens, roasted sweet potatoes, and grilled salmon.   “The Earth already give everything we need,” her grandmother said. “But if you treat your body like rubbish, it will feel like rubbish.”   Curious, Amanda started small, swapping her pastry for a smoothie, her chips for nuts and fruit. She learned to savor her meals, to cook with spices that delighted her senses. Weeks later, she noticed the difference: steady energy, clearer skin, even a brighter mood.   One day, a coworker asked, “How do you have so much energy?” Amanda smiled. “I stopped eating like the world was ending and started eating like my body mattered.”   Turns out, her grandmother was right. ...

  Shareefa had always believed that beauty was more than skin deep but growing up in a small, close-knit Muslim community, she often struggled to find makeup products that felt like her. The shelves were filled with brands that either overlooked her skin tone or clashed with her values. She wanted halal-certified products, shades that embraced all women of color, and most of all, a brand that celebrated confidence without compromise. At 22, with a notebook full of sketches, product ideas, and scribbled affirmations, Shareefa dreamed of launching her own makeup line. But dreams alone weren’t enough. She had no business background, no investors, and no connections in the industry. What she did have was passion and an unexpected mentor. During a local entrepreneurship workshop, Shareefa met Nadia, a successful businesswoman who had once faced similar obstacles while building her own modest fashion line. Nadia didn’t hand Shareefa a step-by-step plan. Instead, she asked one question: ...

 Finley was a goldfish with shimmering orange scales, drifting in endless circles inside a glass bowl. The world beyond was a blur with shapes moving, colors shifting, a vast and incomprehensible elsewhere. The water was his entire universe until one day, he noticed his own reflection.   "Why does the world bend at the edges?" he wondered. "Why do I always return to where I began?"  Finley decided to break the cycle. He swam harder, faster, darting in zigzags, convinced that if he just moved differently, the walls would vanish. But no matter how he twisted, the bowl remained. Exhausted, he floated near the surface, staring at the distorted ceiling above.   "What if the prison isn’t the bowl," a quiet voice inside him whispered, "but the belief that you were meant to escape it?" Finley stopped fighting but rather chose to pay attention. He observed the way light fractured through the water, the slow dance of bubbles rising, the gentle rhythm of hi...

 In the sunlit hills beyond the town of Santa Lucía, Señora Carmen’s kitchen breathed history. The walls, cracked and weathered, held the scent of generations: roasted corn, simmering black beans, and hand-ground spices that drifted into the dawn air like a daily prayer. Her old clay stove, built by her grandfather’s hands, was the heart of it all. Every morning before the roosters crowed, Carmen would rise, light the stove with a practiced flick of her match and prepare meals that had earned quiet fame beyond the hills. Tamales wrapped in banana leaves, slow-cooked stews, and sweet, smoky empanadas found their way into brown paper parcels, then onto the back of her grandson's old motorbike, and finally to the small businesses and shops of the nearby town. But one afternoon, while counting coins from the morning’s delivery, her nephew, Javier, arrived with news: a government grant for rural kitchens. Modernize and grow with new gas ranges, industrial ovens, bulk refrigerators every...

 There is something almost sacred about the quiet of a wood cabin nestled deep in the forest hills of the Caribbean. Far from the hum of city life, the only sounds are the rustling of leaves, the occasional call of a distant bird, and the soft crackle of a fireplace. In such a place, time seems to slow, not because it stretches endlessly, but because we finally allow ourselves to notice it.   Modern life thrives on distraction. We fill every spare moment with noise as if silence were something to fear. But in the solitude of a cabin, with no agenda but to simply be, we remember what it means to listen. Not to the world outside, but to the thoughts we’ve buried beneath busyness. It is in these unguarded moments that we hear ourselves most clearly. Nature does not hurry, yet everything is accomplished. The trees grow at their own pace. The river carves its path without force. There is wisdom in this unhurried rhythm, one that mindfulness seeks to reclaim. So let the image o...

Mara had always believed she was a good person. She worked hard, looked after her aging father, and did her best to raise her son alone. But each month, as the bills piled up like stubborn weeds, her patience wilted. The fridge was usually half-empty by the third week, and her father’s medical needs such as his pills, check-ups, repairs to his old wheelchair cost more than she ever managed to save. She told herself every Sunday night, “I’ll be more patient this week. I’ll be calmer with Dad. I won’t snap at Dylan when he asks for things I can’t afford.” But Monday would come, and like clockwork, the same triggers crept in. Her father’s complaints about his aching joints, her son’s hopeful eyes asking for new soccer shoes, the phone vibrating with another overdue notice. The frustration would rise, hot and fast, and words would spill before she could stop them. Sharp words. Regretful words. One evening, after another long, tearful conversation with her son about "why money doesn’t ...

 The sun hung heavy over the dusty pitch in São Paulo, where the local football league had drawn another roaring crowd. Referee Marco Silva adjusted his cap and glanced at the players lining up for kickoff. His fingers gripped the whistle tight, as if it were the only thing keeping him together. For years, Marco had worn the badge of a referee like a suit of armor. On paper, he was the arbiter of fairness. But inside, a quiet war raged. Every bad call, every jeer from the stands, every critic’s word had left a scar. And rather than face his own fragile pride, Marco had built internal walls made of iron judgment and double standards. When a forward from the home team fumbled the ball and fouled his opponent, Marco waved play on, brushing it off as clumsy passion. But when the away team’s captain, Renan, so much as breathed too close to a tackle, Marco’s whistle cut through the air, sharp and merciless. Players noticed. Coaches complained. Fans shouted. But Marco stood his ground, co...