May Allah forgive me for what I’m about to say.  Maybe not.  That little imp inside me grew again today, with a stirring rush of blood.  It was the middle the spring semester and I could feel the creation of summer.  Cerulean covered the day, followed by a cooling crispy wind in the afternoon, a wind that carried many gifts, sweet little selfish surprises that ransacked my spirit and plucked violently at my soul.  What is a gift anyway, but a horrible reminder that someone has made a sacrifice in your honor?  Well I have no honor.   My story, however you look at it is a vicious cycle of tangible myths, pure perception of fantasy and the painful truth of imagination.  

     As I stood there in front of the mirror, I could feel the heat.  

SZ is standing in front of the mirror.  SZ’s day begins at the Islamic School where she teaches English literature to American muslim high school kids.    

What are the parallels between SZ and Florence’s stories?