BE Storybook

 The first time the stares bothered Liam, they weren’t even directed at him. They were aimed at her, at Naomi, his wife, her dark hands cradling the swell of their unborn child while their toddler, Elijah, tugged at her sundress. A woman in the grocery aisle had actually clicked her tongue as they passed, as if their love was a mathematical error she needed to correct.   That night, as Elijah slept curled against Naomi’s side, Liam finally asked the question burning in his chest. “Does it ever… hurt? The way people look at us? Does it both you?”   Naomi’s laughter was soft, but her eyes were weary. “Every time.” She guided his palm to the curve of her stomach, where their second child kicked. “But this? Us? This is the answer.”   Liam didn’t understand. Not yet.   Then came the Sunday at the beach, when a well-meaning older man chuckled and said, “That boy sure got his mama’s color,” as if Liam’s fatherhood needed proof. Naomi’s grip tightene...

 There was a boy who wore a mask long before the world ever demanded one. At home, his father’s voice was a clenched fist "Don’t cry. Men don’t beg for nothing. Men don’t break. Shut up!" So the boy learned to swallow his fear, his hurt, his longing. He pressed his feelings down like crumpled paper in his pockets, until they hardened into something sharp. Outside, the streets offered him a different mask. The gang called it respect, a sneer for weakness, a glare for defiance. They told him, "This is family. We don’t betray. Brace up! We don’t side step." And because he had been taught that love was silence, that strength was suppression, he believed them. One night, standing on a corner with his fists balled tight, he realized: Both masks were the same. His father’s love was fear in disguise. The gang’s loyalty was fear in disguise. And beneath it all, the boy was still there, aching to be seen, not for his hardness, but for his humanity. We do this too. We wear mas...

 In a quiet village in the mountains of Arouca, there lived an old sage who was known for his wisdom. One day, a young visitor to the Lopinot Historical Complex who was a skilled chess player, challenged the sage to a game. Eager to prove his superiority within the distant community.   As they sat before the board, the young man moved his pieces with swift confidence, capturing the sage’s pawns one by one. "Your strategy weak," he remarked. "The white pieces are stronger when played aggressively. Black is doomed to react, not to lead."   The sage only smiled and continued, his moves unhurried, his gaze steady. Slowly, the tide of the game shifted. The young man’s once-dominant position unraveled as the sage’s remaining pieces wove an inescapable net.   "Checkmate," the sage said softly.   The traveler stared at the board in disbelief. "How? I had the advantage!"   The sage gestured to the black and white pieces, scattered in an intr...

 The first time Jelani, aka “Lani” stepped onstage with a chair, the crowd at the Soca Monarch competition erupted in confusion. Carnival was about wild movement, sweat, and wild abandon, not boring stillness. Yet there he stood, gripping the backrest like a lifeline, his voice weaving soulful melodies into the pulsing soca rhythm.   “What kinda foolishness is this, boy?” a man in the front shouted. “You chupid or wha?”   Lani smiled, sat down, and sang.   His music was an odd fusion of soca blended with jazz, R&B, even spoken word. He didn’t jump. Didn’t wave. Didn’t wine. Didn’t follow the script. But something happened when he performed. People stopped. Listened. And Felt.   At first, they called him "Chair Man Lani," mocking his refusal to conform. But the more he leaned into his strangeness, the more he honored the music in his bones rather than the noise of audience expectation, the more the crowd leaned in too.   One nigh...