Prose, Uncategorized

A message from my sister…

(NOTE: The following story was told by my half sister, I’ve simply interpreted what she said – via my step mother – the scribe.)

*The Crystal of Love*

By Trinity Ballam-Smith

Chapter 1

One day there was a jungle girl named Ellie. She lived in an island named Hawaii. She was sooo happy there. One day (while trying to find some grapes) she spotted an elephant. She didn’t know that she could speak to animals. But when the elephan tried talking to her…Ellie listened.

They were very confused because they didn’t know they were sisters. They went to the elephant Cloud Princess and she said,

“Do you know that you two are actually sisters?” and she was amazed that the elephant princess had old her story.

She replied, “”Did you know, a long time ago King Rothbart turned me into an elephant because he was so angry. I didn’t let Rothbart go, so he strangled me and he took all my powers away. I only have one power left, and Rothbart doesn’t like me any more. he put me into a dungeon, but luckily I broke through.”

She paused momentarily, and continued.

“Rothbart takes all my powers away, and doesn’t gove me anything. So I moved into the Cloud Kingdom, and I needed to live all by my own.But luckily I had some animals to speak to me.”

Rothbart came every single day to check on the Cloud Princess, but eventually she fought back to get more powers. The world changed and all the trees were dark around her…and there was no pollution in the air. the Cloud Princess and stopped all the pollution.

Ellie (the Cloud Princess) said, “Bye-bye” to the Cloud Elephant, and ran off to find the Crystal of Love. She told them about a wand, and a ring of love, lying in the dark depths of despair. To find the Crystal of Love, Kindness, and Helpfulness you must go there.

“Remember,” she said.

“The Crystal of Love, is the more important than all the kindness in the world!”

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Reviews, Thoughts

Use what is yours, just because you can

This seems to be the general rule of post-modernism. Race and the gender have fallen away and they no longer determine what job we should have, what music we should listen, or how our beliefs should be structured. Nowadays its a blend of what ever you want. Although it also goes beyond this superficial conclusion.

We are living in a world of multiple realities. Events are happening everywhere all at once, and now we’re finally part of it.ย ย This quick ranting brings me to the topic of an authors whose fast becoming one of my favourites…Don Delilo.

underworld

He’s a post-modernist and a highly skilled writer. Currently I’m reading Underworld, which is a modern critique on American culture and the Cold War. It’s a book I (among many others) recommend. At times its a bit of a headache, simply because the prose is so incredible on every page.

PhilosopherPoet

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S.S.B

Chapter 17 (S.S.B.)

(For those who aren’t sure what S.S.B. is click on the Category Cloud – on the right hand side of the main window.)

Gregory was a very peculiar person, even by his own standards. He didn’t watch the football his friends did; he didn’t smoke the fags, or even drink the same beer. He had a habit of being different, and this seemed to excite him. He enjoyed being different. It was something he was good at. Insults and comments on his eccentricities only seemed to dampen everyone else’s mood.

Mr. Tweedle was perhaps a little too different from the rest of the crowd, and he would occasionally feel a few pangs of loneliness late at night when he lay in bed watching the fan. Although the flip side of some uncomfortable feelings was indeed some equally eccentric friends he could really count on. Peter was one of these people.

Peter worked in a video store about two blocks away. It was a small business venture that he’d begun as a teenager, and didn’t feel the need to stop. It was a corner shop with everything in it. Peter was a video junkie. He enjoyed films and fiction so much that he’d convinced the Manager to keep all the VHS tapes. He reckoned that a classic was worth looking at, even if you couldn’t use it.

Peter enjoyed the old films. They were a bench mark for the modern-day mish mash of computer generated people and special effects. He could list off actors, and his favorite lines. If you took out a video and had made a bad choice, he’d tell you why and sell off something lurking in the Bargain Bin. There was only one problem with Peter at the dirty video shop, around the block. He was Obsessive Compulsive.

Now that Gregory thought about it, this was most probably why the store was dusty and unkempt. He enjoyed him though, in small doses. If ever he drove past the store in the evening, Peter would still be there counting the films, and straightening the signs. He almost felt sorry for the guy. Some things just weren’t worth explaining to some.

PhilosopherPoet

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poetry, Prose

Between the leaves

For Melissa

If I were a gardener, then I tend my roses. They look after me each morning. I come down from my house to be in their company. I sit on my stoel there, a brown broken soul, and smell the earth. There’s no reluctance to do anything, nor obligation goading me in me greenhouse. I sit by the flowers and watch them. I lift a handful of earth, and smell the intricacies. I listen to the beetles, and the burble of the birds. It is five o’clock in the morning, and I sit in the half-light. The dusty power of a birth comes dripping around me like a doppelganger.

I am alive. I’m by my flowers, watching them grow. Sure the roses have their thorns, and my vegetables grow under the ground, and sunflowers turn their backs on me. It doesn’t bother me; even the grass I grow doesn’t feel green. They say that good work takes tending.

Thank you for your company. When I see you, my bones uncurl their coil. My foibles spill out of my mouth and awkward gestures. I’m thankful for the earthy company, and unsung songs that lay in the traces our voices. Your smile means that the moments are mellow, and that I speak to a person. It’s not a flower that grows in my greenhouse or a vegetable asleep in its bed.

Its person who comes up behind me, tickles my ear with a whisper, and slips a smooth arm around me.

PhilosopherPoet

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Prose

Almost a Goth

For Kyleigh

Come carve a tattoo in my back, she said. I looked at her through care cropped eyes and heads fucked full of dreaming. It only took a prick until she came at me and slowly seared the skin of my nails. Well, you see more to the point, that’s what I expected her to do…, at the time. I wanted to feel her snap and crawl out of a carnal flame, let out a snarl and plough my bones. She didn’t though, just looked and watched while she daintily flick fingered her cigarette, and puff-paused between breaths.

She smiled…clasped in a skull of a shirt, laced skin shoulders and Fuck Fear shoes. I liked it. Out of this metal chasm she crawled with her clothes arranged in creative shards. I watched her slow shrinking cigarette and galvanized eyes. She gave me a smile and breathed out a prayer. She said it was more like encouragement. It was the medication you see, she seemed to flee from facts and nestle in men. She’d rub their hands and grow their eyes into the ground.

Thanks, she said. Picking up a beer, she nibbled a bit and forgot to growl. I don’t know what it was that made her. Some soft stream of Mother Nature flowed through her bones. If you were to look, it flickered from time to time, poured out the children, and circled the self.

She played no game, not even self-conscious stutters. She was an element and a statue alive in savage stone. I watched her breath and the chest crescendo.

I gave her a whisper and slept in the creases.

PhilosopherPoet

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