never get busted again

former texas drug agent, barry cooper, will soon join the rest of the online-entrepreneur-millionaires by selling his video 'barry cooper's never get caught again,' designed as a how-to on successful drug possession and getting around the man. barry will teach you, the user, all the necessary tactics and diversion techniques from concealing your stash to fooling a drug dog. trained by the dea, cooper was seen as one of the best drug task force officers in the country with over 8hundred arrests. his help can be yours for the incredibly low price of $24.95 barry cooper: anti-narc - welcome to the dark side.

the godfather of soul

the hardest working man in show business. mr dynomite. soul brother number one died today, the 25th day of december, from a heart attack; the result of a fight against severe pneumonia. he was 73. now, this isn't exactly the type of thing i want to be posting about and i'm not sure how i feel about 'tribute posts' but mr james brown impacted my personal development as an artist immensely over the years. i could never talk about my influences without mentioning funk and the godfather of soul. rest in peace james. thank you for sharing your talent with the world.

sweet engineering

together we can accomplish so much more. clearing skies... thank you.

the holding pattern...

... as it was so precisely put to me the other day has left me circling turbulant skies. the circling is nauseating but not completely dreadful. the turbulance however has left me up in the air and away from my blog. there are plenty of decisions that need to be made before i come down from these clouds (each cloud banging me back and forth like a football), and it's easy to say i will be circling the runway for a bit until i navigate through some of these desicions. with air traffic control helping me realise that the holding pattern is an acceptable plan of action for the moment, i've already been able to begin plans to clear the air and start my descent. luckily, i have found some inspiration in these skies and will hopefully be back posting anytime now. sorry for my flight delay. eta: unknown.

fff #62

this is the first post coming from my new sexy laptop, and my is she sexy. that said, i've finally completed an fff. i admit that it's not exactly my masterpiece but my head was preoccupied a majority of the weekend. just the same, it feels good to fff again.

He/She ran in front of…

he ran in front of the pack; sprinting toward a goal that he had been dreaming of for what seemed like a lifetime. the endless days of training to become faster were finally about to pay off. his newly acquired speed made his feet feel like feathers hovering on a gentle wind just above the ground; the way it feels to rush down a steep hill as a child. he moved so fast that the air made his eyes water and the world around him blur. his heart and his arms pumped in unison. his chest burned. his throat went dry. he tried not to think about what tortures he could face if the wolves behind him caught up. they each wanted to reach his goal, his dream, before he did. the finish was already so close. he could hear their banter and knew they were clawing right at his heals. one of them got hold of his shirt in a last ditch effort to lead the way, but was denied by his unstoppable desire to win. the goal was within reach and his dreams were about to come true. he could see the shiny silver truck that contained his trophy and knew that if he won there would be music to accompany his victory. nearly in shock by his success he sprinted straight toward the truck, running his fingers down the blistering metal as he came to a stop by the it’s side. out of breath, he leaned against the truck briefly and listened to music that reminded him of a circus. he looked up toward the side of the truck in astonishment as the glass window slid open. a man dressed in all white with graying hair and soft hazel eyes looked out the window at him with a kind smile. “what’ll it be, son?” “chocolate fudge chuck,” he replied, pulling his 50cents from his pocket and setting it on the counter. the man filled a sugar cone full of the ice cream and handed it to him. his eyes lit up as he took the first lick. his chest cooled. his throat sighed in relief. the first one in line at the ice cream truck – not too bad for the last day of summer.

update: a friend, a hero

evidently, i have one last quick post in me before i depart from the connected world for a while. to echo a previous post, there is a video on carribeanfreeradio filmed by wendell manwarren and edited by roger roberts, himself, highlighting his triumph at the new york city marathon. check out our friend and hero: roger roberts.

obituary

unfortunately, despite every attempt for revival, my laptop has passed after a long two-month battle with an unknown cancer that inevitably lead to it's self-destruction. it is survived by myself, creator, owner and friend. it was nearly 6years old. i ask that you understand this time of mourning. i will be unconnected from the rest of the world for at least a week while dell builds a new laptop for not just anyone, but only one: me (i acted fast to help the kids forget). i'll be using this time to remember the feel of my pen as it strokes across the pages of my notebook. hopefully by the time i rejoin the digital community i'll have plenty of posts to share with my new, younger, sexier laptop.

ghana youth photo project

i gotta say that i love the power art has to change life. the ghana youth photo project was started in october 2005 by photographer jamie lloyd in nima - one of the poorest ghettos of ghana's capital city, accra. i came across a video describing the project on youtube earlier today. the objective was to give ghana's youth a chance to become ambassador’s of their neighborhood, city, country and continent by showing the world a look at life through their eyes. the project provides these children with an amazing outlet to express themselves: photography; one of my many personal favorite mediums. there are similar projects already in existence in other countries like india and indonesia; inspiring hope and creativity among the world's youth. the sad truth is that programs like this should be offered on an even wider scale. in this day of war, mass genocide, and extreme poverty, the world's youth needs a reason and a path to seek out the beauty and the truth woven within the chaos. even in this city, the capital of the supposed "most powerful" country in the world could use more programs like this one. as an amateur photographer and a believer and leader of the consciousness (the effort to better the world), trying to create a program like this one is very appealing. the dc youth photo project has a nice ring to it - now it's just a matter of lobbying for funds and support. this link will allow you to check out some of the photos taken by the children in ghana. big-up jamie lloyd for her efforts to create a better more beautiful world. more to come...

orchéstre baka de gbiné

i am always on the lookout for great music, particularly music with a purpose. recently i came across this album: gati bongo by orchéstre baka de gbiné. orchéstre baka de gbiné is a musical group composed entirely of people from the baka tribe found deep in the rainforests of cameroon. the baka pygmies spend their whole life in the same forest that is continuously being harvested for wood by several international logging companies. this unfortunate conflict of interest inspired the name of the group - gbiné meaning help. the group's first album, gati bongo, which was released this past april echoes the baka people's cry for help. thankfully, with help from the global music exchange, a charity based in the uk, all royalties earned from sales of their album are returned back to the tribe. the album is fantastic and is available on itunes and cduniverse.com. the purchase of this album will support a great cause for a struggling people. give it a listen and a purchase for yourself- help the baka save their home.

hbo would rather women play nice

i love hbo. not being able to afford it right now kills me on a weekly basis. their original series programming is without a doubt the best entertainment television in production to date. most nights, hbo shows are the only programs worth tuning in for which is why, when it's not football or comedy central, my dvd player gets nearly as much time as my television. clearly, i am a huge advocate of the hbo network; they do not disappoint - until now. i was checking out espn.com today (yes, i am a guy afterall) and came across an article that popped my hbo bubble. apparently, an ali will be fighting at the garden once again. muhammad's daughter laila (the best known female boxer in the world) is set to be in one bout of a four bout ticket, including the male heavyweight championship fight this saturday night at madison square garden. the evening is scheduled to be broadcast live via hbo late night boxing starting 10pm est. unfortunately, hbo is refusing to broadcast laila ali's bout against shelley burton simply because they do not condone female fighting. while i, myself, am not much of a boxing enthusiast, it does seem wrong that in this day and age, where we could possibly be watching hillary run this country in 2008, that a network like hbo is taking it upon themselves to sensor the world of female boxing.

friends and heroes

i spent yesterday with a sweet trini traveling to nyc to visit two thirds of the 3canal triad. roger roberts and warrenman made their way to new york from tnt so that the ever heroic roger could be one of the 37,000 running the ing new york city marathon. holding tough through the 42kilometer race, roger crossed the finish line in the 224th minute (quite an impressive time for those unaware). as if i needed another reason to look up to rr - he really is my hero and one of my best friends. congratulations roger. i am very proud of you. the near 4hour lime with the boys, complete with bonus homemade barbecue, rice and beans, and macaroni pie, was entirely worth the 9hour drive. seeing wendell and roger is a rejuvenating event. they both thankfully looked happy and healthy, even with the p-funk-role-reversal experienced between, the movie star, warrenman and myself. thanks for the lime fellas. sorry to miss stanny. biglove and blessings to all the canals.

fff#59

i had a hard time with this fff and as a result it was a bit rushed. just the same, it's still nice to be fffing. thanks to jj for the opportunity.

It was untoward what he/she said to him/her/me but worst of all was…

it was untoward what he said to me but worst of all was the tone he carried through his near incoherent mumbling. it was his “long-day-at-work, third-glass-of-gin, you-little-shit” tone again: a tone that i hated and tried to avoid at all costs. it meant i would be waking up hours later with a headache and any combination of fat lips, black eyes, chipped teeth and bloody ears. i often wished my ears could bleed earlier as a warning sign; at least then i would know to keep my distance. they never seemed to warn me on time, of course, and the stresses of the work day and the chilled sting of the gin could be felt with each individual punch which i found was proportional to the number of drinks. sometimes, when the drink count was above five i was able to find him too tired, well, too shitfaced to take out his stresses. unfortunately, tonight had only been a 3 or 4 drink night, judging by the amount of slurring, and i had to bare the brunt of it. after i came to i would normally watch him passed out on the couch, staying awake all night to make sure that if he did wake up in need of another stress relief, it would be on me and not one of my siblings. tonight would be no different, including the strict promise that i would never let it happen again. i told myself, as i had so many times before, that the next time i would battle back. i snuck away from my post at the end of the couch long enough to see what stress marks he left on my face. with my head throbbing and my right eye practically swollen shut, the blurry self-portrait starring back at me couldn’t lie and showed me a monstrosity of a man i was starting to know all too well. i tried to wash my face clean of all its color, but the soap and water removed only the red; leaving behind the blacks, blues, and purples. returning to my post just after midnight, i noticed immediately that there was an escapee from the couch’s holding cell. where was he? i rushed to the bedrooms, checking on each room to ensure the safety of the innocent. they were fine. walking back down the hall and past the holding cell, the faint smell of gin got caught in my nose and i turned just in time to dodge the bottle coming toward my head. i watched the image of a beefeater shatter against the coffee table and quickly grabbed the largest shard i could find in anticipation for combat. he came at me in a drunken, staggered rush and moments later found himself with the glass shard pressed hard against his jugular. it was time that i hold up to my promise. i pressed the shard even harder into his skin until a bead of blood developed at the point of impact. in a moment of sobriety, i watched his face go white and fill with fear. my arm went weak and dropped the now red-tipped shard. “never touch any of them, or i’ll come back for you,” i said with a certainty to let him know i meant it. i walked out the front door and collapsed to my knees in the street long enough to comprehend that i had just nearly killed my father. i’ve never gone back and hope my siblings are still alright.

catch and release

if you love seafood then you may want to get out to your local red lobster or legal seafood restaurant while you still can. the next generation may not have the luxury. recent studies (another source) have determined that fishery stocks have depleted by one-third on a global level and if current trends continue the sea fish market will drop out by 2048. experts chalk up this near inevitable destruction of marine biodiversity to direct individual acts: the pollution of the seas and over-fishing. the technological advancement of the fishing industry, in recent years, has increased the success and ease of the trade and thus increased the tendency of over-fishing. both pollution and over-fishing are problems contributing to a possibly permanent change in the ecosystem - something no one should be willing to settle for. as a species we would definitely feel the effects of such a change and it is ultimately up to us to reverse the process. it starts with a conscious effort to cut down on pollutants across the globe. of the 48 areas in the world set up to protect marine biodiversity, all have shown an improvement as a direct result of a growth in the protection against pollution. over-fishing is, unfortunately, a problem that will require more of a political powered regulation. hopefully that will come with time. this is a call to stay conscious about our ecosystem and make every attempt to take care of it. if we don't, we may leave behind a world with far less than just a lack of sushi, shark+bake, and lobsterfest.

fff#58

sorry for the disjointedness and the lateness of this fff. with no time over the weekend, i wrote it today during work and had to continuously leave my desk and this piece. when i finally went to post, blogger was down. still... it feels good to be fffing. blink... blink, blink... the tv is on the fritz again. without that mind-numbing device to serve it's purpose i'll have to resort to numbing my mind by other means; anything to forget about the day's events. the television being out would actually give me a chance to do some of the painting i had been meaning to undertake. i've had the time but it's often hard to stay motivated when your job involves relinquishing you of your soul as you relinquish people of their money. nevertheless, all i would need for a successful evening was the right inspiration and my paints. getting excited about the prospect in front of me, i light the incense, among other things, and the apartment begins to fill with smoke. the inspiration hits and sends me bouncing around my apartment like a puppy with a new toy. i strip out of my suit (it often feels more like straight-jacket), grab my paints from under my bed and turn to face the four white walls that have contained my creativity for too long and become, perhaps, the greatest irritant in my life. by night's end, those walls will be filled with greens and blues and yellows and reds - just the therapy i'll need to rest my mind and remember what it's like to feel good again. the prevalent smell of herb and incense reminds me of the countless rainy days spent pretending the rest of the world didn't exist - i was happy then, smiling at the colors in my life. after spending the next 4hours sketching the world i was about to paint around me, i grab my first brush and select a color: blue. the anticipation of that first stroke is like waiting for that fabulous orgasm after hours and hours of foreplay. i stand, wearing just my boxer's, in the middle of the white room contemplating which wall to start with when there is a knock at the door. i wonder briefly which one of my possible horrors would be waiting on the other side, turn the lock and go for the handle. the door flies open and two 12gauge-buckshot-rounds pump through my chest. the mafia must had found out i was skimming and decided to do the painting for me. the last thing i catch with my eye, is a beautiful red color splattered across one of the walls. happy with the result, i smile at the color and blink... everything fades to black.

home

home is the place in your life where you feel most comfortable. maybe it is the place where you grew up: your parent's house, your old neighborhood, or your birthplace. maybe it is the place you come back to everyday, or the place you work in. maybe it is simply the place where you rest your head each evening or the place you find your family. for me, home has been nothing more than that key that i can't quite stroke with my pinkie finger; the same key which takes you back to the beginning... ... starting over. home has never really had much to do with family or location in my life. my "home life" growing up wasn't much of a home and wasn't much of a life. i found the true meaning of homeless early on and was forced to learn quickly how to take care of myself. i was eventually able to find comfort in my friends who were endlessly willing to help and were full of support. with time i came to realise, as i've mentioned before, that my friends have always been my family and the only true home i've ever known. even then, however, my sense of home has only ever lasted a few weeks at a time and is something i haven't had a hold on in the last 3years. i write this not as a sob story (i'm too hardened to care for sympathy) but as the end of a recent revelation. i went for a weekend trip to my parent's house, my old neighborhood, my birthplace about two weeks ago. i left the district around 6am saturday with an emptiness in the pit of my stomach. my instincts, something that i've learned to know, recognise and trust, were telling me to stay in dc. my car stopped on the shoulder for the third time just before i reach sugarloaf mountain; now very aware that i should turn around and seriously considered climbing to the top to watch the sunrise before returning to my apartment. instead, against my better judgment i eventually continued on my trip and unfortunately fell victim to a disaster of a weekend that not even a fallout shelter could have protected me from, proving once again that i should always follow my instincts (it's gotten me this far). what i had realised that saturday morning that made the drive to my "hometown" so difficult was that i was in fact leaving home to go nowhere. my home has found me here. it's beautiful smile has filled my life and for the first time ever i'm not worried about it leaving. thank you for giving me a home.

what does your blog say about you?

over the past two weeks or so i've had to seriously consider and reconsider this whole blog concept. i started my own blog, with some outside persuasion, originally for the intent of using it for fff and emptying my own creative mind. however, i have found that this blog still hasn't really become my own and thus blogging has posed quite a challenge. in an attempt to come up with a solution i began to, as many of us have, scroll through the most random of blogs courtesy of the "next blog" button. what started out as a search for inspiration, in hopes that something would spark a blog post of my own, quickly turned into the analyzation of blogging in general. what i found over the course of my searches is that regardless of the content, each blog is personal on some level and thus represents its creator. whether or not the blog is meant for self-preservation, or revolution, or if it is a daily journal, a place to vent, or simply a trigger to let your twitchiness run wild; each blog becomes a look into the life of its creator. it doesn't matter if you blog about restroom signs or constant arousal; while the product may be different, we're all selling the same thing - a piece of ourselves. within my own blog, i have refused to get too personal and have thus been unable to truly embrace this space. that is changing through some recent revelations and is beginning with this post. when this post began it could have just as easily ended with an "i'm done blogging" but instead i'll dip into that creative mind that i've promised the world. in closing i would like to big-up all bloggers for providing the necessary motivation to continue blogging myself. do check this blog in the future - there is more to come.

disney sex tape (edited 10/16 6:00pm)

before my departure this weekend i came across this: "disney says "non" to mouse orgy." my guess is that disney finally figured out a way to share in some of the billions of dollars in "leaked" sex tape scandels. the online video clips have unfortunately already been removed from the internet about as fast as mark foley's screenname from the under12 chatrooms on yahoo. check it out for yourself: mouse orgy on youtube. everyone have a great weekend. edit: after previously believing that the disney sex tape had been struck from the internet, i actually found a copy in google's video archive. the real mouse orgy.

echo

in response to a close friend's most recent post i would just like to echo her call for consciousness about the issues surrounding her home: trinidad and tobago. my friends have always been my family making tnt my home too - it will be shortly. some of the people that mean the most to me are affected by these issues on a day to day, thus making the issues important to me too. they deserve a mention on this blog, just in case someone other than sweet trini actually frequents this place and could learn something. check out this website, read up the issues and then thank sweet trini for the enlightenment.

in other news...

for the one of you that may check this blog regularly, im clearly trying a different layout. i was never particularly fond of the "tictac" template although i did find the green color quite pleasing. hopefully this change in layout will help me feel like the blog is more my own and thus inspire more frequent posts. give me your input while i test run this new template.

fff #56

thanks to some not so technical achievements i was able to trick my computer into letting me online long enough to fff this week. luckily, no one was harmed in the battle between man and technology that made this possible. another great starter this week from the purgatorian: the air was redolent with... i hope you enjoy it.

the air was redolent with a strong stink that stung the nostrils the way a habanero pepper or a stiff bourbon might. the pungent smell yielded an instant headache that produced a hard throbbing with each exhale of the odorous irritant. with the moisture suddenly gone from my eyes, i feel as though they catch fire and squint for some relief. i can barely see through my dried, frosted lenses and know a prompt exit from this toxic aroma is essential. the scent pounds my head harder and with greater potency as the room begins to spin like i had indulged in too many carnival rides. losing my balance, i drop to my knees, reminiscent of a grade school fire drill, and crawl across the hard stone toward the door. gagging on the thick musky air as it hits the back of my throat, i cough in a panic, hearing it echo off the walls as everything fades to black and my chest meets the floor. not wanting to die kissing the cold tile, i reach up in a final moment of desperation, grabbing the door handle. using all of my weight to throw it open, i collapse into a pillow of fresh air on the other side and breathe easy. still weak, i struggle to pull my torso up against the wall just outside the room. allowing my sight to slowly come back into focus i stare up at the entrance of the room that nearly killed me and read the sign: women. never again.

fff#55

thanks to the purgatorian for another great fff starter. this week: "she never would have done it if she hadn't got drunk..."

she never would have done it if she hadn’t got drunk… at least that’s what i tell myself; i’ll have to be ready with a better story when everyone else starts to ask questions. i had promised to protect her at all costs: name and dignity included. she was my world; my air, food, and drink – if it came to it, i would take the fall for her. the makeshift story i’m already developing has to wait and i force it to the back of my mind in an attempt to deal with the situation in front of me. i had already sent her to bathe and needed now to figure out how to dispose of the bloody corpse. i flash to a movie clip; someone feeding the remnants of a body to a pen of starving pigs – clearly not an option. trying to come up with something practical, i hear the water stop in the next room so i light the post-shower-spliff rolled to accompany my reassurance that everything would be okay. taking my second strong hit, i walk it to the bathroom and offer it up in front of her dripping wet body. i catch a fleeting smile as she brings it to her lips. i wrap the towel around her, pulling her close and gently kissing her forehead. as i head toward the bedroom for the car keys, i tell her “dry off and get dressed. i’ll be right back.” “thank you. i love you.” “i know. it’ll be alright. i’ll be right back.” outside, i quickly survey the terrain. i sneak into the car and stealthily pull it into a parking spot closer to the house. i walk back and she meets me at the door, still damp but clothed, and hands me the spliff. i take a quick hit and hand it back. “thanks babe. you okay?” “no, but i will be.” in this dire moment, the blanket that covered and comforted us so often in the past would now serve that same purpose in a different way. i heave the blanket, weighted with its stiffening contents, over my shoulder, carry it out to the trunk and set it in. i go back for her, not fond of her coming for the trip, but knowing she wouldn’t want to stay home alone. we creep to a halt on the bridge. the water that runs beneath us has a reputation for being so disgusting that no one dare go near it if possible. the blanket streams through the darkness and hits the water with a low thump, about the same tone as my car door closing when i return to the driver’s seat. i give her another reassuring look and we return home in a silence which follows us the whole way to the couch. “i love you, you know?” “i know.” “i’ma roll another spliff.” i knew the marijuana would help her sleep. she passes out in my lap before it’s half gone. “sweet dreams, love.” i whisper, just in case she can still hear my voice. i spend the rest of the night working on her alibi and mine, wondering if the stories would hold up; knowing that if it comes to it, i’ll take the fall for her.

scars

scars are permanent: beautiful marks of glory or pain, suffering or determination; each with its own story. whether they are worn on the heart, body, mind, or soul, these marks trace the history of their bearers' lives. a map of tragedy and triumph, scars cannot be ignored or hidden. i sit alone this evening nursing my knee with ice and the rest of my being with a nicely rolled spliff wondering if my fresh wounds will leave scars that i'll remember years from now. i crashed and burned today while free climbing wet rocks in the mountains. promised photography found me, at the time of the spill, with camera in hand leaving my body as the safety between the hard rock and my promise. those closest to me know that promises are not something taken lightly so with my body as the barrier, i took the brunt of a few rocks. my head now a little filled with smoke, i ponder over the newly developed scars; some visible, some not - all scratching at the surface to mold the core. the scars are beautiful and mold beauty. my knee will heal with time, and the scar will tell the story.

fff#53

this fff proved a huge challenge for me for reasons i can't explain. nevertheless, thanks to jj for providing the starter: i saw her/him through the smoke... thanks to my dreams for inspiration.

i saw her through the smoke and the crowd like i did every thursday night. she never missed a show. guitar in hand, every thursday i would stand under the dim stage lights of that shitty basement bar and wait for her. she would stroll in each week about half way through my set to watch me, and i knew it. she was beautiful and something about her constant gaze made me incredibly curious as i watched her watching me.

she would only stop staring when she danced to a few certain songs – songs i had now learned to play later in my set when i was sure she’d be there to enjoy them. watching her body move was voyeuristic, to say the least. even with the bar full of smoke and drunks, it often felt like she was dancing just for me and I was playing just for her. this relationship lasted months. each week would find her closer and closer to the stage until she was finally right up front. she would dance for me, i would sing to her, but still, we would never talk.

it was a beautiful romance, and i never even knew her name.

fff#52

thanks to angela for inspiring jj for giving us all a great sentence for this week's fff. "her arms shackled to the stone floor and her wings constricted by leather binding..." her arms shackled to the stone floor and her wings constricted by leather binding, she would scream if her mouth weren’t forced shut. during operations such as this they had to force her mouth shut – the pain might otherwise scare her into breathing fire uncontrollably which, needless to say, was plenty dangerous. the scaly, thick skin was surprisingly softer than expected and would not pose a problem for such a skilled surgeon who had operated on nearly a dozen supposed mythical creatures in the past; none as important as this dragon. while this surgeon had always been successful, it was still a nervous time for one little girl. dia loved her dragon, lara, more than anything. lara had been with her from the beginning and had flown her anywhere she wanted to go every day of her life. their bond was simply unbreakable. they traveled together, watched sunsets together, ate meals together, and slept together. dia would read lara stories at night before hugging her strong around the neck and falling asleep. they would die for each other so it wasn’t shocking that dia felt a small piece of her died when lara’s wing was partially torn from her body and needed immediate surgery. thankfully the expert surgeon was available. dia waited patiently, trying to keep lara calm while they strapped her down to the ground – all safety precautions for dia and the surgeon. lara’s wings, claws, tail, fangs, and, of course, fire could all prove incredibly treacherous if she were to twitch during the operation. in actuality if she wanted to she could break through the straps and shackles like they were twigs, but dia’s voice and gentle touch would keep her friend calm over the course of the surgery. as the surgery began and the doctor reached for the wing it became abundantly clear just how loose and delicate it was. it was worn and even softer than the rest of lara’s body as if her insides had been forced out, and in fact they had. from the wing poured what seemed like little clouds of white smoke; typical for dragons of this type. the smoke would have to be replaced if lara would ever fly again. the surgeon mysteriously was able to catch and hold the smoke with her hands and work it back down into the wing. slowly the bellowing cloud of smoke that dispensed from lara’s wing vanished as it began to take shape. the surgeon then took her needle and threaded back and forth through the scaly, soft skin suturing the tear closed. completing the surgery, the surgeon laid a band-aid across the stitching and, lifting her daughter’s favorite stuffed animal off the slate floor, kissed lara’s wound, then her dia’s forehead and reunited old friends. dia’s face lit up as she was returned her best friend and immediately grabbed lara around the neck as they flew off to their bedroom. it was time for a story and some sleep – dia knew lara would need her rest.

fff#51

the plan was simple – make a trip across the border and make some extra money. it would never be enough money to disappear completely but it would certainly relocate me far enough to start a new life. a life away from this urban nightmare where i wouldn’t have to hide. no more dodging bullets and dirty cops. the city had been fucked for nearly a decade and i wanted out. maybe the chance at a new life clouded my mind and i didn’t fully understand what i was getting into, but this seemed no different than the game i always ran, except now the rewards outweighed the risks ten times over.

with runs like this i was rarely the only person offered the job and this time would be no exception. there were three couriers at the boss’ meeting other than myself and i could only assume that they all got an offer too – the world might call us transporters but we preferred “couriers,” even if what we carried was typically illegal. one of the other three was a real asshole who called himself switch – no one else knew his real name was malcolm. he worked alone and covered the same turf i did. if i ever lost a job, it was to him.

crossing the border wasn’t exactly something to look forward to. residents of the eastside had been banished from the rest of the city ever since the riots and anyone crossing the border into the city was supposed to be killed on sight. i had crossed in daylight plenty of times before but that was normally in the back of a police car – for runs like this i’d wait ‘til night. cops might not patrol the eastside but those dirty scumbags would come looking whenever they needed a somebody to take a fall. avoiding them and border patrol, i’d have to cross over, collect the package (i had stopped wondering what was in them), and bring it back in tact; and it would have to be tonight.

everyone from the eastside knew the safest way to cross into the city was through the sewers. years of dumped toxins and its faulty structure made the sewers quite dangerous which seemed to keep the cops and border patrol at bay. i ducked into the sewer just after midnight, knowing i would be on the run the moment my feet hit the sludge. it reeked like shit and window cleaner which served as a constant reminder that i was probably inhaling some unknown poison and expedited my trek across the border.

about 20 blocks later i climbed up a ladder that spit me out into an alley well within the city limits. i crawled behind a dumpster to let my lungs and head clear the fumes of the sewer. any of the other transporters could be close so i sat for only a few moments before heading for the warehouse. the warehouse was the one building in the city that could be mistaken for the eastside. it had nearly burned to the ground years earlier when a witness in a case against the boss tragically died the day before trial. it was never rebuilt, which made access easy.

i went up the stairs toward the room where the package was supposedly held. i knew now by the amount of ether in the air that the package was probably a hefty sum of coke – whoever had cut the cocaine had done it right here in the warehouse. i approached the package, an army-issued olive green backpack, but just as i pulled it onto my shoulders i heard a voice. i would’ve known that voice anywhere. it was malcolm. i knew he was close.

in this world of transporting it’s all about running, but i was tired of running; that’s why i took this job to begin with. pulling my gun from my belt, i spun to face him, and fired… but the little creep beat me to it.

fff#50

and then, by god, i killed the son of a bitch. i killed him in cold blood. there was nothing romantic about it; nothing particularly memorable. it was just his time. he fucking deserved it anyway. you can’t treat people like that your whole life and expect to get away with it. eventually someone’s bound to push back, and when it came to pushing back, i was the one who applied the pressure. it was my job and i enjoyed it.

i didn’t always have to kill the mark – sometimes it was just about scaring the shit out of them or torturing them a bit for information. this one was different though; personal. i wasn’t collecting on a contract or reaping a reward – none but the gratification of knowing that he would no longer be breathing.

with the cold steel still smoking in my hand i stared into his eyes so he would know exactly who had betrayed him. slowly, his eyes began to dilate and i knew he was probably searching through the darkness for meaning, wondering how he found himself in such a predicament. i watched as his body quivered and his eyes raced behind closed eyelids. they flicked open again, searching his killers face for some sort of explanation.

i heard him coughing up the blood that then began to pool on the tiled floor beneath us: choking on your own blood is much like drowning in a glass of water you can’t stop drinking. he wanted answers that he knew wouldn’t come. he knew my style as well as i did, so he wasn’t surprised when i said nothing over the duration of the transaction. i never spoke to any mark and he had been in the room every time.

we had spent our lives together fucking people out of theirs and i guess it was only a matter of time before the money got in the way. finally the contracts out on our lives would pay off enough to make it worthwhile. he didn’t understand that, of course, and never would have, so i had to take the issue into my own hands. i half expected him to actually get it this time, but who was i kidding, he had always been a selfish prick. the contract would soon be fulfilled and the reward would be dropped off to her in the morning. finally she would have the life she deserved.

i waited while he became quiet and stiff before i stepped over his body to position myself to finish out the contract. i cocked back the hammer of the gun in preparation. looking up from his body i caught my own eye in the mirror, bit down on the barrel and pulled the trigger. i felt nothing but redemption.

i presumably collapsed to the floor alongside my brother. maybe this last good deed would cleanse my soul – i didn’t really care about his. her life would change dramatically tomorrow when she was presented with the 20 million and the exact instructions i left her on how to launder the money. the offshore account in the caymans was already active with the few extra million i had dropped in it waiting for her. her life would be better because of our deaths, something i could never accomplish while i was alive.

my last thought was simply that she could appreciate it and find happiness.

fff #49

this is only flash fiction compared to a novel and doesnt really truly follow the hero's journey but nevertheless - this is my fff. Vampires on a Train. he had always hated his fucking job (if you can call it that, he was more like a slave) and this time would be no different. he couldn’t believe they were actually expecting him to go into the subway of the world’s worst city just to take care of the so-called “pest problem.” even more odd was why they sent the mission to him via telegram. truth be told, the satellites had been down for weeks which he would’ve known if we wasn’t on the back end of a 3 month bender. he hadn’t been completely sober since the end of the last war; a war he was lucky enough to walk away from – no one else did. he knew going into the subway system would mean certain death but what was the difference; the coalition would kill him anyway if he didn’t go. secretly he had been hoping that the booze and cigarettes would kill him long before he could be called up for another favor. it, unfortunately, didn’t work out that way. after lying in bed until his vision cleared a bit, he tossed the telegram in the trash. lighting a cigarette, he threw his backpack over his shoulder and left. it wouldn’t take him long to reach the subway, though he would take his time to allow the nicotine to calm his nerves. he turned the corner onto 8th street and started down the steps toward the subway platform. only the heavily armed or the mentally insane would be brave enough to continue from here. like walking down into the belly of the beast, he felt like the saying “thrown to the wolves” held all new meaning. lighting up as he reached the platform he had nothing to do but wait for the next train uptown. if his memory served him right the next train couldn’t be but ten minutes away; the times were pretty regular even since they incorporated the automated system nearly 3 decades ago. he sat down on the cold stone bench on the platform and, inhaling deeply, reached into his pack and grabbed his gun; it couldn’t be to early to start protecting himself. it felt like the entire world rattled as the train pulled up to station. the already irritating fluorescent lights flickered, a thick dust filled the air, rubble and tiles fell from the ceiling; an omen that this was obviously a bad idea, but then again it was never his idea to begin with. he moved from the stone bench onto the train and as it shook away from the platform it became abundantly obvious that he was alone – or was he? racing through the tunnels the lights continued to flicker and flash and he stopped to think that maybe it was all in his head, not that it mattered much. his thoughts moved to his fresh cigarette and the cold steel he clenched in his hand. soon both would be streaming smoke and fire from their barrels. the lights flashed again and he jumped to his feet, cocked his gun, flicked his cigarette and prepared himself; he was no longer alone. the temperature had dropped maybe 20 degrees; he could see his breath and putting on his overcoat he remembered how much he hated these fuckers. the smell was terrible too which is to be expected – they are the undead. the smell would be even worse once he started pumping combustible rounds into these monsters; nightwalkers as they liked to call themselves. imagine the smell of 1000 rotting corpses ablaze in fire and you’ve only begun to understand the stench. it was disgusting. he had strapped up his ammo, fire grenades, incendiary sword and his prize possessions; duel classic desert-eagle semiautomatics (modified, of course, to be able to handle the combustible rounds). one gun still in hand he was ready for battle. then the lights flashed again and suddenly he was no longer alone. from the beginning of the underworld wars there had only ever been one true mission: kill the father. if legend was true then killing the father would destroy all of the father’s offspring. he had only ever came close once; in fact he had only ever seen the father once. of course that was when it was a little more of a fair fight and both sides had armies. now it was just him against the minions. thankfully during the last war he had killed the bride and last female of the nightwalkers and as far as he knew the father hadn’t yet resurfaced to claim a new bride. no new bride meant no new followers – their army might still be diminished. knowing this he figured he would try to end this war once and for all. it was like a high school reunion on the train. the father had sent his two firstborn and what looked like ten or twelve other nightwalkers – it could just as easily have been 50 since these bastards disappear when they’re in the shadows. the sons showed almost a sense of respect for him as they closed in, centering him in the train car. they certainly wouldn’t kill him; the father would want a word with him first. he drew his second gun from behind his back and raising the weapons pointed one in the face of each son. no words were shared; it was apparent he wanted to do this the hard way. he was up for the fight, but as he tired of the dance and prepared to clean house, the room flashed to black and the sons were gone. the train car lit up in new hues of light, bright oranges and yellows as he shot round after round into those sons of bitches, watching them burn from the inside out. it was a beautiful thing in his eyes and actually made him crave a smoke. his thoughts on the cigarette, he hardly noticed how many of the damned things he had killed until he slid his last clip into the gun. he would have to use his fire grenades soon which would easily engulf the entire train car. luckily, being fire resistant, this wasn’t his problem. standing in a few inches of ash as the car finally came to a stop at the end of the line, he lit a cigarette and was glad to smell something other than burning undead carcass. the train door opened and he stepped out of the flames leaving a few live fire grenades aboard to ensure everything on that train wouldn’t be coming back. he hated it when they tried to regenerate. mother fuckers. he always thought it looked like something trying to give birth to itself – it was enough to make him sick to his stomach. he had reached the end of the line, where a layer of ice covered everything and he was again thanking his cigarette; first for the smell, now for warming his lungs. he would find the father and sons here – or more likely they would find him. he began toward the dark end of the platform, unsheathing his incendiary sword when the darkness was complete. he watched as it exploded into flames, then with enough light to continue on he walked further down the platform until two figures appeared. the sons. the flame on his sword grew as he prepared for battle and the sons circled him. flares of orange would fill the platform for the next hour as he dismembered the sons, being sure to burn their hearts to guarantee their deaths. when the battle was over he stood in a pool of melted ice and ash, a sight the father would surely cringe at. with that in mind, he lit a smoke off his sword and decided to wait. he sheathed his sword, figuring the darkness would be more inviting for the father. the pool of water that had filled the platform suddenly froze solid, accompanied by a terrible screeching that was getting louder by the second. he immediately drew his sword again and lighting up the room instantaneously found himself surrounded by what seemed like millions of bats. a few slashes of his sword seemed to only infuriate the bats but seconds later they withdrew to the shadows. the screech silenced and from the depths the father emerged. the father’s actions were lightning fast, so fast the flames from the sword couldn’t even catch up. he fought smart, using what fire grenades he had left to make it near impossible for the father to hide; but who really needs to hide when you can fly? the battle raged on for what seemed like days and only ended when the father went in for the kill at his neck and he shoved the flaming sword through both their hearts. the father combusted in a pure white fire that quickly turned death black, and then he was gone. tired, wounded, and craving a cigarette, he began his long trip down the platform, back downtown, and back to his bed and his bottle. he hadn’t gained anything but the four recently discovered holes on his neck; but would finally get that long-awaited vacation from the coalition. the father’s venom would spread through his body over the next few hours and if the legend was true, with the father dead, he would die as soon as he became one of them. he figured he had just enough time to get home and get drunk. laying back in his bed, bottle in one hand, cigarette in the other he felt the venom race through his veins and knew the transformation was about to occur. taking one last drag of his cigarette, he exhaled, and his whole body went up in smoke. ... and thats the end of that story.

the question

"who needs a sense of direction when you have a sense of adventure?" this question has been posed to me by an old friend of mine for years now. "where do we go from here?" i would always ask, knowing her response would be the same question over and over. i never really thought too much about what was being asked. the question seemed to simply be her way of saying we should do whatever we wanted -- or in her words, whatever our heart desired. heart, not hearts. she was convinced that everything in life was a part of something bigger so we must all share the same common similarities; like a heart or a heartbeat. getting back to the question at hand. who needs a sense of direction when you have a sense of adventure? i never spent too much time on this question while she was alive. never really thought too much about it after she died. all she was ever asking of me was to follow my dreams and the truth of the matter is that only now has that become abundantly clear. i miss her. with that said, heres to new adventures. on a lighter note i think this post makes foolish story hour a real blog and thus crazyfool an actual blogger. how'd that happen? ... and thats the end of that story.

something from the notebook

ive been persuaded to begin posting from the notebook and there is no better way to start such posts than this sketch; a self portrait. the sketch, at its core, resembles my constant struggle between good and evil. ultimately, it ended up a painting (acrylic on canvas for those who care). i may post a photograph of the painting at a later date. for now this is the first thing from the notebook and there will be more to come. ... and thats the end of that story.

fff#47

here it is... 400 words including dirt, hurt, curt, flirt, and an orange. i also wrote this with a little special twist for the few who will understand each and every referenece. consider this a shout out to the boys of 3 canal and anyone who can see the rain. enjoy.

pay dirt! after what seemed like lifetimes of searching, i finally discovered the location of last piece of the trinity. the truth was i had spent only a short while looking for the trinity but the thirst its presence created in my life proved greater than expected and consumed my world. the people in the village had asked me not to go; some wanted to make the journey together, but i knew the trip was mine alone. i had to be very curt with my family to convince them that i needed to complete this mission not just for me but for the millions (the tens of millions). it was eight at night when i sang a song for billy as he fell asleep and five, five, five in the morning as i ran out the door.

i knew the journey would be damn near impossible, but this was an emergency and i’m a survivor; like the sun in the morning it was my turn to rise up. i had been faced with many a grave situation in my time but none quite as dangerous as this. a constant flirt with danger, i felt oddly like i was in my element as i crossed the borderline and started the climb over the mountain. it was half way up the mountain when i got hurt but there was no time to send for the doctor or turn back; the trinity was near completion. all i could do at this point was rub some salt on my skin and hope the wound wouldn’t become infected.

as i made my way down the other side of the mountain i found a small orange grove not a hundred meters from the blue, blue sea. i grabbed an orange from one of the trees and sat as i pondered how to continue my journey. i needed a boat. i had to build one. a couple of orange trees and some conveniently located vines later a boat was created. i paddled furiously through the water; the last piece of the trinity was close now and i could feel it. piti, pata, piti, pata; my makeshift oar went through the water faster and faster. i floated over the spot where the final third was located and dived deep in the blue sea. when i surfaced i had found it. the trinity was complete: peace, love and possibility.

...and thats the end of that story.

fff#46

here it is. although i feel like im wasting a great starter. this is not my best effort but i wanted to submit something. i didn't even edit this one so go easy on me. thanks. i had never seen one before except on television… in the early hours of the morning when the weed and my insomnia had left me in a delirious state of consciousness. ironically my first interaction with this thing has happened in exactly the same state of mind. this thing had somehow found its way into my studio apartment and was a mere two feet from my face. i had passed out on the futon again and at some point this beast had wandered through my front door. in retrospect, i knew i should’ve locked the door. the hot musky smell of wet dog had filled the apartment and i immediately understood why i was laying in a pool of my own sweat. heavy breathing trumped the sound of the television and I found myself breathingin time with the beast. the glow from the television had begun to provide a silhouette of the beast as my eyes came into focus. my mind told me it couldn’t be real and i found myself reaching out to touch what i was sure was just another hallucination. it wouldn’t be the first time my subconscious had got me into trouble. the beast was covered in a rough, wet, matted fur; just my luck to touch the place where the beast had evidently been chewing itself. with my touch the beast turned and rose to its feet, suddenly becoming aware of my presence. if only i could’ve kept my hands to myself. if only i could remember what the news report on tv said to do. play dead? it was worth a try. after a few minutes the laying still got to me, i slowly grabbed a joint i must had rolled before passing out and sparked it. the light got the beasts attention and in the moment that the smoke hit my lungs i felt a piercing at my sternum. the mixture of exhaled smoke and coughed up blood was a new sensation for me. and all of this simply because i didn’t lock my front door.

fff #43

thong gong bong wong & tongs

a gong goes off in my head as i collapse back into my bed of nothing leaving only a trail of smoke large enough to make a forest fire jealous. seconds roll by while i feel my throat stiffen and my eyes scream for mercy. the beautiful glass bong now sitting on the ground still spirals smoke from its barrel after firing four life threatening shots; two into you and two into me. as we lay in each other’s presence there is a sudden realization that you are no longer wearing your thong; the last piece of restricting clothing between us. i motivate myself enough to risk losing your smell and pull my eyes open and look into yours. your deep brown eyes pierce through my senses and into my soul where you resonate and ripple through my body. i edge closer but have to close my eyes again to breathe you in and remember that this is real. i edge closer. your touch makes me shiver and in the dark and i can concentrate on nothing but your heart beating in unison with mine. the bliss of the moment is almost too much to bear. euphoria.

the next morning i am turning the fried plantains with the tongs when you walk back into my life. i find myself reaching for words when your lips grab mine. this is when i realize you are colder than you were last night and not at all as soft. the clothing between us that was so restricting then is now comforting and provides enough of a wall that i don’t flashback to last night. “fried plantains,” i finally let spill from my mouth, realizing immediately that you have no intentions of eating them.

“i really gotta go,” you say, “last night was amazing, though.” making your way out of my arms and most likely out of my life. “call me sometime soon, yeah?”

i suddenly find myself thinking about how long i may wait to call, even though i know I never will.

“wait,” i spit out as you open the door. you turn and your eyes sink in one final time. “what’s your name?” i asked, turning away from your gaze to check the plantains.

“kaya. you can call me kaya. and what do i call you?”

turning back to look at the closed door and the emptiness, “wong.” i say, “call me wong”