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“Mother once told me of the great Shaka, uniter of peoples. A great warrior who fought the white-hats for our land. However, Shaka is long dead. Mother is long dead. Those who I’ve held dear are dead.” Nomzamo looked up beyond the canopy of the trees to the evening sun.

“Intulo has tried to tell you this, Nomzamo. Why don’t you listen to Intulo?” Intulo’s tongue stretched out of his mouth not quite reaching his upper cheek.

“What are you doing, Intulo?” Nomzamo chuckled.


“I’ve ssseen other lizards lick their eyes, I’d like to think it’s most pleasant, but I haven’t been able to pull it off for thousands of years.”

“Perhaps, you ran too fast Intulo. Not only did it dry out your eyes, your throat muscles contracted so as to keep your tongue entrapped.” Nomzamo looked at the dirt, and hopped off the log she was sitting on.  “Then, maybe Shaka could have been immortal. Gotten rid of the white-hats once and for all.”

Nomzamo walked amongst the trees the beads of her skirt swaying a little as the wind passed. Intulo careened to keep up with her.

“Intulo think you praise this Shaka too much. One immortal man does not change the world in this way. Intulo has seen it. Lunwaba visited a class of men.”

“Where are these men, Intulo? I have seen a white-hat die. For surely it is not them.”

Intulo hiss-laughed at the proposition, “When I say “class of men”, Intulo means something much different than a “race of men”, like those of the white-hat. These men, are in shape only, that is on this world. They come from Endaweni Emnyama, the Land of Shadow.”

“The Land of Shadow? Intulo. I would like to hear what kind of place this is.”

“It is home to a struggle between the forces of Evil, and the forces of the Sky, though it is closer to the Evil and shares many properties.”

“Have you been to this Land, Intulo?”

“Before, yes. Though, I don’t like to admit it.” Intulo’s stomach growled. Intulo caressed his blue scaley stomach, but smiled in a way that made Nomzamo shiver down her spine. “Intulo is hungry. When is dinner?”

“Intulo will have to work for dinner. You do not make it easy on me, making me take care of you like you don’t have powers from the Sky.”

“Intulo told you, temporarily...” Intulo waved his hands in the air stalling for time. “Divorced.”

“I told you, it didn’t sound as consensual as you made it out to be, and then you tackled a bushpig. I was hoping to get you to do it again. Intulo isn’t the only one who gets hungry.”

“But, Intulo is the most important who gets hungry to Intulo.” Intulo pouted his blue lips showing the yellow seam of the interior of his mouth. Nomzamo, pouting a little herself, stopped dead in her tracks and popped Intulo on the nose. Intulo instantly put up his clawed hands in defence. “What was that for?”, came the muffled reply.

“Being selfish Intulo. I can only expect you’ve been sent to be reformed so you can be given back your powers. I’ll be the first to congratulate you in finding the best teacher in all of the Land. Now I suggest you find out from your lizard brethren where we might find a meal. I will ready the spear.”

Intulo’s form began to compress and rearrange itself into the form of an agama. This started in his legs shifting his bipedal form down closer to ground level, followed quickly by the arms. The head and body were affected near instantaneously. By the time he looked like a regular reptile, his coloration and scale density would shift into two or three distinct patterns before settling into his new form. The lizard flicked his tongue out at Nomzamo before scurrying off into the trees.

The call of a whistling duck announced the beginning of Nomzamo’s time alone. The sound of a drum began to echo through the woods. Nomzamo began to flex in time with the beat. Another drum began to accompany the music, and Nomzamo began to step in time with the beats. Before long, the drums were many, and the constant movement from Nomzamo had gotten her blood pumping. Thats when the singing began, Nomzamo was soon dragged this way and that by the music of the Hundred Voices. They sang of the beginning of The Great Hunt, and wished Nomzamo luck on her endeavor. Nomzamo ran up and down logs, gyrated utop rocks, and shook her chest at butterflies. However, as Nomzamo thrust her spear into the air a final time, the music died down, and the Hundred Voices grew quiet. What remained was the constant beat of the drum moving Nomzamo forward as she saw the blue agamas in the distance.

Nomzamo followed a group of between two to three dozen blue-headed, orange-backed, yellow-tailed tree lizards as they scampered through the trees, down and around branches and roots, until they reached the banks of a stream, and their fleetness of foot seemed to abandon them.

Downstream there lay an ostridge on her side in an obviously pained state. The drum beat in the back of Nomzamo’s head leading her to close in on the ostridge. The coarse raspiness of the bird’s breathing couldn’t penetrate into Nomzamo’s mind, and when the time came Nomzamo pulled back her hand. The spear penetrated the side of the feathered body, and at first there was great panicked movement. However, it made it less than a meter away before falling again, this time indefinitely.

Nomzamo retrieved her spear and wiped it off in the grass. Intulo had changed back while Nomzamo was focused on the kill. His lizard followers were waiting curious to their reward. Intulo went to the rear of the hen as Nomzamo retrieved her smaller blade. She made sure that the blood drained properly while trying to ignore the fact that Intulo seemed to be diving into the back side of the hen. Intulo, eventually covered in blood due to the rending from his claws, came up with an egg. He took it to the bated consortium and broke it for them, letting the reptiles lick at, and consume the yolk. Intulo came back to the body licking his claws, as the agama consumed what they wanted and dispersed.

“You could use a more… precise method of extraction, Intulo.” Nomzamo wasn’t exactly sure if she should critique her spiritual companion when he was in his current, gore-covered state.

“You can be as precise as you want.” Intulo looked tired, and a little ashamed when he somewhat asked, “I need you to do the thing for me.”

Nomzamo grimaced, but nodded. She drug the ostridge further from the creek and then began to gather wood. Nomzamo hummed to herself as she did. It wasn’t quite dark yet by the time she’d gotten it lit. She then prepared the ostridge. She stuck her blade in near the keel and cut all the way back multiple times to expose the organs. One by one, Nomzamo extracted the major organs: liver, heart, kidneys, digestive parts. These were all burned individually, with a small saying on the part of Nomzamo, “To Intulo, My most helpful guide.”

Nomzamo knew the offering had worked, because the smoke had no smell, and Intulo visibly puffed up as the offerings were given. By the end, Nomzamo could have sworn that Intulo was an inch taller than he had been before. With Nomzamo’s offerings complete, Intulo pitched in to help cook a meal for his handy companion. Nomzamo honestly wasn’t sure the Intulo actually found the things he contributed to mealtime, but he would disappear for minutes at a time, and then return with vegetables wrapped in strange leaves and bury them close to the fire.

When the meat was done, Intulo dug up the vegetables revealing some tubers and beans, now tender to the touch of Nomzamo’s flame-cleaned blade.  Nomzamo ate all she could, and Intulo went to wrapping up the hen’s meat in the strange leafs he obviously was in no short supply of. There were some things that Nomzamo felt comfortable asking Intulo about, the strange things that the pseudo-deity said or did, but when it came to the things she’d rather not do without, as Intulo seemed the most fickle of his kind that Nomzamo knew about, she refrained.

Nomzamo and Intulo sat for a little while in silence, before she got tired and curled up in the crook of tree roots. Intulo ascended the branches and hung from his orange and blue tail. Nomzamo was almost comfortable when Intulo smacked his lips before speaking, “What do you want to do Nomzamo?”

“Sleep.” Nomzamo replied as she turned her body a little to have the roots around her hug her tailbone.

“Not right now.” Intulo insisted, “Think bigger.”

“I don’t know Intulo. I can’t bring back my family.”

“No,” Intulo sighed, “You can’t.”

“I’d like to find the white-hats who killed them came to justice.”

“Find it?”


Intulo let his tongue slip out of his mouth and let it dangle before unsuccessfully seeing if it had stretched enough to lick his eye. “What if you could do something about that, bringing them to justice. Would you want to do that?”

“I wouldn’t object to it, but it sounds like a little much Intulo. There are many white-hats, and I don’t have any way to know which ones are which.”

“I’ll help you Nomzamo, but you’ll have to trust me that this is part of the plan.”

“The plan?”

“The Sky has a plan, for everyone, and you’re apart of my redemption. You know that right? I am in your debt.”

“When do I get to collect?” Nomzamo playfully inquired.

“If you do this with me, hopefully, by the end we will both be satisfied.”

“You’re being vague Intulo.”

Intlo laughed, “I know. It’s something that I’m proud of. It takes a lot of work for a spirit like me to disguise his words. Many of us can’t tell lies.”

“That sounds like a great place, no lies, no white-hats. Are there any wars?”

“Only one,” Intulo replied. “And, it’s the longest war that’s ever been waged.” Intulo had a smile cross his blue lips, revealing his yellow gums. “But, I remember it being nice. The war is only some places, and the plane is vast.”

“Can we go there someday? After you’re forgiven?”

“Sure, Nomzamo. If you’re keen, we’ll start tomorrow.”

“Are you telling me we’ve been amongst the trees for two weeks, and we’re just now starting?”

“Only in earnest.” Intulo breathed heavily and scratched himself behind the ear. Nomzamo had almost decided he was going to be quiet, and shut her eyes before he started again, “Can I ask you a person question?”

“Go ahead, Lizard.” Her tone started Intulo who opened his eyes wide.

“How long has it been since your blood day?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Nomzamo asked rather calmly, if not sleepily.

“It would be too dangerous to start on that kind of day. Human physiological concerns.”

“What’s physiological?”

“It’s a type of magic. Don’t let it bother you, just answer the question.”

“It was before we came into the woods, but we should be fine.”

“I’m sure it will be. Thank you for answering. Lala Kahle, Nomzamo.”

“Lala Kahle, Intulo.” Nomzamo closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep.

In her dream, there was a rocky, gray land devoid of life. There didn’t seem to be a sky above, or else it was the blackest night Nomzamo had ever seen. There did seem to be clouds, but it confused Nomzamo how she could see everything so clearly, when it was so dark. From over a hill, Nomzamo heard a snarl. She quickly mounted the hill, and dropped to her belly to see where the noise had come from. She saw an encampment, with wooden stakes as their border the tiny village had two huts. There was a great fire burning in the middle, and near thirty people huddled around, most wielding spears pointing out.

The great beast looked to be almost two meters from paw to shoulder, and nearly four and a quarter meters long. The black furred animal had gashes all over it’s pelt. Some led to still-open wounds, where Nomzamo could see the muscles contracting. The massive thing looked to Nomzamo almost like a jackal. It snarled as it was standing at the small entrance into the tiny village. It’s black lips gave way to pink gums and tusk-like fangs. It’s ears stood up rigid, except that the left one was marred, looking to have the tip bitten off. A scar adorned his left eye, though the ocular orb seemed undamaged. Nomzamo couldn’t see the other side, as her outlook only gave her a bit of the picture.

She felt like she laid there for hours, enthralled by this otherworldly standoff. The fact that people lived in such a place was mysterious to Nomzamo, as they didn’t seem to have any of the same natural life-giving ingredients that kept her alive. Nomzamo observed the rough dry earth, and wondered if there was ever rain here.

Suddenly, one of the men got brave enough to rush the black jackal, though Nomzamo was convinced that if this was a jackal it was the most muscular jackal she’d seen, even when comparing that it’s massive size was obviously in favor of that conclusion. The speed at which the hulk moved was so concerning to Nomzamo that she fell half-way down the hill again, before regaining her composure and getting back to her viewpoint. As she was climbing, she heard the shrill screams of a man. Nomzamo mounted the hill and saw a body being swung left and right in the beast’s mighty jaws. The cries slowly stopped, as the new sound of crunching bone echoed across the arid land. When the last whimper from the man had stopped the black jackal dropped the body. What followed was a cheerful yipping noise, not to be drowned out by a woman in the tiny village that began to moan in anguish. The giant black creature then did, what Nomzamo compared to, a dance. After shuffling his feet left and right, the beast put his front two paws on the highest of the pointed stakes and then let himself urinate at the base of the encampment.

This act was met with groans of the occupants, and then a group of ten men and women who saw this as their opening. The face of joy that Nomzamo witnessed on the black jackal’s face was interrupted when a spear entered his thigh.   Out of the corner of his eye he saw the pack of them, and unflinchingly rolled over snapping the spear off and crushing the thrower in the process. The ooze of the life-fluid onto the beast’s fur churned Nomzamo’s stomach, and she could scarce believe that anything in this land acted predator to such a force.

The fur-covered gargantuan bared his teeth and bull-rushed the center mass of the tiny village’s main contingent, knocking many of them into the main fire, but not without injury of his own. He turned tail, accidentally letting his rear graze the pyre, but was met with the rest of the group that had moved to attack earlier. Two men threw their spears, and then ran behind the barricade while a group of five women bravely sacrificed themselves in a tight formation that got more solid blows into the beast. One of the women had planted her spear perfectly. This suspended the beast over her for a split second, before she was swatted away by his paw. A little more momentum and the shaft snapped.

Nomzamo then noticed a little girl, around seven, dancing around the fire. While the adults screamed, wept, and were torn apart, the girl joyfully skipped and spun around in the wide circle of burning wood. Eventually, there were no adults to speak of left standing, though a few were grievously injured and crying out in pain. Nomzamo got closer to the scene of the gore. One man in particular was yelling in a language Nomzamo didn’t recognize, but both of his legs seemed to be broken, and one of his arm bones protruded from his skin.

The beast went from person to person ripping out the throats of the fallen, and stepped over this man. He lowered his jowls to the man’s face. The beast pressed his teeth against the sides of the man’s neck until the man could no longer bear the combined pains, and passed out. It was after the sickening crunch and gloopy sounds of falling blood, that the valley seemed silent for all but the beast’s breathing, and a low humming from the little girl dancing at the fire. Wondering what sort of girl could be so calm, Nomzamo edged closer.

The beast entered the tiny village, walking raggedly, and bleeding from his many wounds. The girl stopped moving around the fire, but her body was in constant motion, as she approached the beast. She made a ‘coo’ at the black jackal as she reached up to begin to remove spear fragments. After every removal, the little girl gave the wounds a small kiss, and Nomzamo could see previously bleeding wounds immediately staunched. The gargantuan winced when the weapons were removed, and eventually had to lay down for the girl to reach the injuries. Nomzamo was too curious for her own good, and had gotten relatively close at this point.

The black giant sniffed the air, and began to rise, however the little girl put her hand on the black fur, and rose to face Nomzamo. Nomzamo met eyes with the girl, and began to flee back up the hill where she had previously been watching from. As she turned behind to see if the girl had followed, she ran into a small figure, knocking it over, and getting tangled up into it.

She struggled against the figure, as when they were both on the ground they began to grapple. The figure was curiously strong for it’s size, and as Nomzamo lost, she saw the blood-flecked grubby face of a small girl. Her skin was a strange hue that Nomzamo had not seen before, as Nomzamo struggled against the pin the girl examined Nomzamo, and eventually started to lower her head. The girl opened her mouth and drew closer to Nomzamo’s face. The girl’s teeth got visibly closer and closer to Nomzamo’s right eye, and reflexively Nomzamo closed her eyes. She could feel the hot breath of the girl on her eyelid, and felt the girl reposition the pin, freeing up one of her hands. Nomzamo beat at her attacker, but the girl took her fingers and spread Nomzamo’s eyelid opening up Nomzamo’s vision to a descending oval of darkness.

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Bringing about change is like trying to spin the world the other way

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The Circle of Colors

Some people remember past events when they smell a certain food or perfume. Some associate memories with the songs they played over and over again. Others remember their lives as a series of colors.

Grey is the foggy sky at 5:00 in the morning, when you’re racing to the airport. Grey is the road rushing past while your eyes grow tired. Grey is the skid marks left on the ground by your car, in a hurry to get to where it's going. Grey is the mist, the essence of nothing, though still you can see it. Grey is the color of muted hope.

Blue is the winter sky, whether you’re below it or flying through it. Blue is the sea dancing under the horizon, laughing at you and your fear of flying. Blue is your mother’s eyes when she looks at you and you know everything is going to be fine. Blue is the shade of your dreams when you finally fall asleep. Blue is the color of serenity.

Yellow is the heat of a morning frying under the loving gaze of an over eager sun. Yellow is the  sand under your feet when you finally trudge off the dusty tarmac. Yellow is the flash of taxis rushing around you, calling your name as they taunt you with the promise of shade. Yellow is the color of bright stress and barely concealed panic.

Green is the moss growing under the shed door. Green is palm leaves, cut free and sent flying to land at your feet. Green is fresh salad, chopped mint, and baby snakes. Green is the lawn after the first of the monsoon rains. Green is the jungle that starts growing into your gates when you forget to hack it back. Green is caterpillars, parakeets, and monopoly money. Green is the color of beginning again.

Orange is ripening coconuts that drive you mad because they’re not what you imagined. Orange is muddy clay that oozes into your flip-flops during the best monsoon rain. Orange is dahl that’s had far too much tomato sauce added to it. Orange is the wall after it's been painted in the dark, because the power went out. Orange is mango juice and butter chicken. Orange is the color of change.

Pink is the best flowers to bloom after a barely chilled winter. Pink is roads, houses, and cars after they’ve been liberally splashed with powder and paint. Pink is the horizon just as afternoon reaches down to hug the evening. Pink is a dusky sunset, watched through the tint of a child’s sunglasses. Pink is a light sunburn after the best of beach days. Pink is the color of contentment.

White is envelopes and papers covered in words. White is the ticket that tells you when you’ll be leaving. White is a reflection so drained of color that you wonder if you’re a ghost yet. White is the plane that whisks you back across the sky. White is the color of wondering why.

Grey is a foggy sky at 5:00 in the morning, when you’re trundling away from the airport. Grey is the road slipping past while you slowly awake from your slumberous dreams. Grey is the skid marks left on the ground by other cars as they speed past. Grey is the mist, the essence of everything, though few can see it. Grey is the color of tomorrow.

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there there

there there

i opened my eyes and found myself on my back, looking up at her as long hair drifted across my face. there were sparse rays of light throughout the room.

“where are we going?” I asked quietly.

she supported herself with her arms pinned against mine, holding me to the ground. with the only source of light being the moon at her back, i couldn’t make out her face.

“where we always go” she replied.

behind her were three open windows with sheer curtains moving in response to the wind. her hair flowed with them in perfect parallel.

“why won’t you just reveal yourself?” i questioned.

she looked away and pushed herself off of me. standing up, she glided to the windows and put her foot on the ledge. i could hear her begin to whimper.

“because you aren’t ready. you can’t handle it yet” she answered.

i sat up and brought my knees to my chest. i could smell salt in the air. i looked from side to side and noticed i was wearing a wool hat that covered my ears. i smiled to myself and looked up.

“fair enough. are you ready to go?” i asked as i brought myself to my feet.

i walked over slowly, took her hand and looked out at the water. seven to eight stories up with nothing but water visible underneath. we leaned forward and gazed down & at each other. even with the moon illuminating the surroundings, she was still only an unintelligible figure.

“you can make it” she assured me.

as we stepped off the ledge simultaneously, we fell upwards and away.

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The Depressed Waitress

Her eyes move quickly across the room, though, she hardly looks up, from the coffee cups, the billfolds, the floorboards she treads from the counter to my table. Her arms are thin, her elbows and fingers raw with eczema. She wears a pinafore with sneakers. She is beautiful in sneakers. If she speaks one foot will hide behind the other, like an infant behind a mother. Her nails are black and her hair is ash and carbon. She bites her bottom lip when she is thinking. She smells the bag of coffee beans when she thinks no one is looking. Her stockings are always black. Her makeup is always thin and wispy. And her freckles, thankfully, she never manages to hide them. Her hands are worried. Her shoulders are heavy. Her voice is hushed and running through long grass. What are you reading today? she always asks. I smile and show her the cover. One foot hides behind the other. Who reads Hermann Hesse? she asks. Someone wanting to impress, let's say, girls with Latin tattooed on their wrist. A laugh escapes her petite anatomy, sudden like a firecracker.

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One Chance

In a city of seven million, what were the chances that you and I would meet again?

It was a question I found myself asking on the night bus home. I even tried doing the calculations to soothe my head- but would it be as simple as 1:7 million? Or would it be double, or half? And what about all the other factors to be taken into account? I’m no mathematician, but the outlook wasn’t good.

I had been working some kind of introductions evening at the Museum of London that night, pouring champagne for pre-drunk and overexcited young lawyers (or something along those lines) whose firm were so kindly throwing them a welcome party to celebrate the life of alternating hard work and hedonism that surely lay ahead. Luckily, I was on the “early” shift, so at 12 I promptly put down my bottle of Moët, signed out and left my poor colleagues to deal with the dirty entrails of the night.

A cool rain was falling when I got outside, mixing with the city smog and dusting the streetlamps gold. I walked a little way until I found an overhanging roof offering just enough space to light the cigarette I had been gasping for all evening. The smoke rose slowly through the drizzle to the grey, cloudy sky, as if it were going home.

The circle line ran until 12.30, so I took one of the last trains eastbound from Barbican. The carriage was empty but for one navy-suited man who sat staring at a single page of the Evening Standard until I got off at Embankment. Only the lost and lonely wander between midnight and 4am. The sleepers are already sleeping, the drinkers still drinking. The few of us that remain aren’t headed anywhere.

I certainly wasn’t in any hurry to get home; only desperate to be free.

I came out of the station and past Charing Cross to find that I had just missed a bus, and the next wouldn’t arrive for at least 40 minutes. But it was of no bother to me: like I say, time moves differently during these strange hours.

There was an all-night cafe around the corner from the bus stop, where I often found myself after long shifts, so I entered the familiar womb of fluorescent lighting and paid for a cup of tea and somewhere slightly warmer to sit, along the front window. Outside, the rain continued to fall, drumming a pleasing plush-plush rhythm into the pavement.

In a matter of hours the cafe would be flooded with drunken revellers (and a couple of heartbroken sods) ordering chips and talking loudly about their love for life. (I knew, for I had been one of those people myself.) For now, though, it was almost silent: only the hum of the dormant deep-fat frier, the dull beat of the rain outside, an occasional crackle from the overhead lighting, and somewhere - at the back of my head - a metallic, percussive sound. I looked around, recognising worn-out faces of those coming off or about to start night shifts, either half-asleep or half-alive.

Then, you.

The rain had settled like dew across your hair, despite the umbrella chucked under the table, and droplets hung, glistening, on the host of silver bracelets furnishing your bare wrists, which crashed together as you scribbled intently in black ink on a wide sheet of paper.

Thus the symphony of scattered sounds was complete.

I thought about how, were I an entirely different person, I might go over and sit down across from you, ask what you were working on, and see if your eyes shone illuminate gold as I imagined they must. Time would slip by and I’d offer you another coffee and we’d stay, talking, or maybe quiet, until dawn; two strangers finding peace in an unforgiving city.

The fantasy disintegrated as I heard the screech of a chair across the floor. Sketchbook under one arm, canvas bag slung across the other, you walked slowly to the door, paused- as if to measure quite how badly you had damaged the silence- then turned, to look at me.

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I got a call at work. It was busy and cold. I didn’t hear the message until I got off work. Dad wrecked his bike. He’s in the hospital. I took vacation days and went up to LA. He had been going into a turn and hit some gravel. Lost control of the Harley and slipped out. Woke up in UCLA Medical. I spent a week up in LA taking care of him. Cooking and cleaning. Watching Kurosawa movies.

When I got back I told my wife I wanted a motorcycle and she was understandably confused. I fellow at work had an old Yamaha he was trying to get rid of. An ‘82 XJ-550. All I had to do was pick it up and he’d let me take it for free. I spent the next 8 months creeping around my neighborhood on the thing, riding in to work. I finally got my license and secretly bought  a brand new Triumph Thruxton.

Called up my buddy McInnes. “Toothless” Nick McInnes from Vancouver, WA whom I’d met in Mechanic’s school in Pensacola. I was waiting for a taxi at the base roundabout and he was wearing this Union-jack shirt with the sleeves cut off and tall boots. He stuck out and we’ve been in touch ever since.

We go riding up to Lake Henshaw. I’m loving it but it gets cold. Hypothermic. I think warm thoughts, nothing doing. I hit a 90 degree corner going too fast. I lay it down into the loamy embankment. He notices I’m gone and comes back finding me all fucked up. We manage to get the bike running and I get out of the mountains stuck in 4th gear. Drop it off at the shop and have to ride on the back of his ‘79 Honda CB-350 to my house. I’m mortified and try to leave as much space between him and me without falling off the back. At this point my wife doesn’t even know I have a new motorcycle, let alone that I wrecked it. I confess the entire thing as I clean out the wounds with iodine.

I still ride.

1 0 1

Who knows?


I was typing on my laptop when i could have sworn I saw something that looked like a huge spider, in the peripheral vision of my right eye; but when i whipped my head around, there was nothing there but a blank wall.

Then I returned to my laptop, and again, i could have sworn I saw something that looked like a spider, but when i whipped my head around, there was nothing there but the aforementioned wall. 

It vanished like a mirage; i’m not crazy, i swear….

So i said “F it!”, and i turned and commenced to stare at that wall, and stare…for forty-five straight, boring, frustrating minutes!

Suddenly, in my periheral vision, AGAIN, i see a spider-like shape, this time on my laptop screen, so, without hesitation, i snapped out my left hand, fisting it at the same time and whapped the hell out of the biggest spider you will ever see. 

Knocked the laptop off my desk, prolly wrecked it. Looked down at spider goo on my fist…, oh well…..

But i nailed that fucker, nailed him good. Mirage my ass.  

So i’ll leave you with this tidbit:

If you see something strange out of the corner of your eye, don’t dismiss it as an illusion, trust your peripheral vision. 

It just might only be the biggest spider that ever graced a wall - or it could be nothing, and you could just be crazy . Who knows? 


“Nailed that fucker”.  (I just like saying that…)

“Mirage my ass!”.     (That too…) 

I’m ill, right?  

4 0 4

I heard a joke today. “You know what they say at an atheist’s funeral? All dressed up and nowhere to go.” I should have been mad but I wasn’t. I can’t ignore that this joke has a point, a truth. Why should an atheist dress up for their own funeral? I don’t have statistics but logically, since it’s a hell of a lot cheaper, I think most would opt for cremation. And atheists, like anyone, want to be respectable and have family obligations. But about that subsection of atheists who don’t give two fucks—why aren’t there more funerals where the body in the coffin is in a clown suit? At least something comfortable. I’m sure this has happened. If I didn’t think I was going anywhere I wouldn’t put on a suit to get there.

As an agnostic, I guess it’s like getting a party invite without a dress code. I’d feel really stupid wearing a pantsuit if my final destination was a swimming pool. Maybe I’ll layer up. Swimsuit on the bottom, jeans and a t-shirt on top of that, and then maybe a dress or a pantsuit. But what if, in the shuffle of Being, it turns out these clothes are permanently fused with my body just like my skin and bones. What if I turn out to be an Angel of the Lord and I have on my swimsuit-t-shirt-and-jeans-pantsuit combo I can’t change out of? Who’s going to think I’m God’s messenger then?

I think being mildly too warm for eternity because of postmortem fashion decisions would be worse than burning in Hell.

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Bee Stings

Holy shit.

Don't move.

It's on my arm.

Yellow and black and full of menace.

It's exploring. Trying to figure where to sting me.

I am afraid.

I fear the pointy end.

I would sweep it away with a flick of my wrist, but I'm froze in place.

To wrest my body free of the paralysis that has taken hold, I must think.


What is there to fear?

The stinger. It sharp, nasty stinger. Look at it. Waggling its abdomen. Waving its stinger. Rattling its saber.

I fear the pain. My skin trembles at the thought.

Why do I fear pain?

Because it hurts.

But I have experienced pain before...

And I do not wish to experience it again. I have experienced enough. Cuts, bruises, breaks and sprains. Heartbreak, heartache, depression and emptiness.

What is a sting compared to that?

...Nothing, I suppose.

After what I've been through, what is there to fear?

The pain will not last. I will forget it within the minute. It will leave no lasting scar. No painful memory. It will not leave me with an illness, nor a disease, or as an emotional wreck.

What is there to fear?

Nothing. What discomfort it visits upon me is only temporary. A fleeting moment of pain.


Fear looses it's grip on me. I have movement once again.

But I do not swipe the bee away.

Instead, I watch it.


I am brave. I am unconcerned. 

It is a bee and I am a human.

I will survive.


You're only power is fear.

Go ahead and sting me.


by Daniel Prior