Omolola

“You people?” Omolola snapped as the cold energy radiating from her palms enveloped the air. “What you mean ‘you’ people?”

“Breathe,” Oshun pleaded. “He meant no harm.”

“Bullshit!” Omolola cried as the icy blue aura ripped through her forearms, causing pain she was too enraged to acknowledge. “I dare him to say it again!”

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A real man would…

subway2 copy

He remembered quietly leaving his seat, pretending the next stop was his. He remembered wanting to be subtle. Not wanting it to seem to the young mother as if he was offering his seat her. He didn’t want the attention. Especially since the young mother’s husband -or boyfriend- called out all men on the train for not giving his wife and daughter their seat. Didn’t want it to seem he gave up the seat on account of the guy.

He left the conference room.

He wanted to speak freely.

Nosey coworkers lurking.

“Is it a man’s responsibility?” He asked Marcey over the phone.

How old’s the child?” Marcey asked.

“About five,” He replied.

Hmmmm… I’d give them the seat,” Marcey declared.

He clasped his eyes.

“Hold on a sec,” He lowered his phone and walked further up the hall.

He was hungry and felt a headache forming.

He hadn’t gotten a break since he sat down to log into his desktop. It was the day of the Christmas party. He wondered how the hell he got caught up in coordinating the event. Especially before he drank his morning coffee. Sure, it was nice to be away from his work, even though he knew dam well it was all piling up as he decorated the cheese and cracker tray. But being away from his desk didn’t mean he was away from hard labor. All so his coworkers could show up, eat, and leave him and a few others to clean up the mess.

He yawned.

He was just cranky. And tired from the six miles he ran that morning. From the Wing Chun class the night prior. And he was even crankier and more tired on the train. He needed the seat, but he gave it up to the woman and child anyway.

“I don’t know that I would,” He told Marcey. “Is that bad? I guess if the kid can’t stand on their own. What do you think?”

What do you think?” Marcey asked.

“I don’t know,” He replied. “The woman’s guy declared men should stand for mothers.”

Okay,” Marcey said.

“Makes sense right?” He said “Women have the children. Its the least a man can do.”

I guess.” Marcey sounded uncertain. “Eat anything?”

“I’ll eat something at the party,” He replied.

“Okay dear… Talk later?” Marcey said .

“Sure, talk later,” He ended the call.

He wondered…  Does or should a real man give up his seat for a woman with a child? A woman with child? An older woman. He would. He should. As long as he could. But is that something he should do as a man? Or is it a societal construct weaved into basic human decency. Or was he thinking too much?

He rejoined his coworkers in the conference room.

More work to be done. An hour until party time. He decided he’d have to ponder the idea of what it meant to be a man later. After coffee. Whence cleaned up after his adult coworkers.

 

 

 

Fiction Under 500 #2

He quietly shut Marcey’s door before proceeding downstairs to the kitchen with his laptop.

His woman was tired. She had a long day. Was referring to Marcey as his woman sexist? He thought before quickly digressing the thought.

He opened his word processor…

“Just write whatever,” He urged himself before he started typing. “Something about a guy approaching a bright cavern.”


He approached the large, illuminated cavern but paused before crossing into the light.

He wanted to return. To reverse through the darkness and hopefully to his dog and his cool apartment. And his rare 32 bit game system where he started, but never finished, several classic role playing games.

The light was warm. Inviting. Intoxicating. He felt himself being drawn into it.

“You seem troubled,” His guide’s voice said.

“I change my mind,” He said.

His winged Guide revealed itself in the darkness. A silhouette with wings with only his bright, blue green piercing the darkness.

Guide only revealed himself to nag or chastise.

“Nothing back there for you,” His Guide said.

He reached his hand into the light.

His hand disappeared before the light quickly spread up his arm and to his face. He could feel himself disappearing. Assimilating into the light.

He used all his strength he could must to free his arm from the light.

He managed to free himself, but it felt as if a piece of remained within the white void.

“What happens in the white place?” He asked.

“I don’t know,” His guide replied. “Guides aren’t allowed to cross.”

“Why don’t you know?” I asked.

No answer from the guide. Even after several seconds of silence no answer.

He was disappointed. And annoyed.

“We’ve been traveling for centuries,” He said.

“Minutes,” Guide answered.

“What?” He asked, flabbergasted by Guide’s reply.

“You’ve only been here minutes,” Guide said.

“Impossible,” He said. “What about… the…”

He lost his train of thought. He knew he had something important to say. Something important to remember about where they were and how far they travelled.

He took a step back from the light.

“No,” He said as he staggered away from the light. “Can’t.”

“The longer you wait, the more you’ll fade,” Guide said. “You’ll cease to exist.”

“I’ll take my chances,” He said.

“You won’t make it in time,” Guide warned. “You wo-”

Guide’s voice vanished. And so did its winged silhouette and glowing green eyes. And so did the illuminated cavern.

Everything vanished. Everything including a piece of himself that was taken by the white void. He could see that he was still whole but didn’t at all feel like he was.

And he was alone, once again, in the dark cavern.

Those video games better be worth it, he thought. He wasn’t ready to travel back since he felt his existence starting to fade, but what other choice did he have. The guide got him there, and he wasn’t confident he had the strength of aptitude to find a way back to his dog, cool apartment, and video games. And Chinese food. He’d miss Chinese too much.

“I’m sorry,” He called out to the guide and he started to head back in the direction from whence he came.

 

 

 

Fiction Under 500 #1

He had no idea where the story was going. Or what it was going to be about. Or whether it was going to be good. Or readable. But he was going to write it before he reached work.  He needed to write it. 

He entered crowded train. Took first available seat. Drew his notebook.

No pre-planned characters or plots. No direction in mind. He was just gonna make up shit as he went along. Should be interesting, he thought. 

He penned his first words.

Train pulled into station. Dozens squeezed themselves into packed train. A dozen stops until work.

He looked forward to reading whatever literary chaos ended up on his notepad.

Five hundred words or less, he thought. Here we go….


She mashed her heel into its chest. Used the leverage to remove her devine spear from the Demon’s belly.

She could hear the Scale Lord’s breaths. Shallow but still in existence. Gargantuan body rising and falling beneath her heel. Long, shattered wings flapping wildly as if trying to escape the demon’s expiring body.

She exhaled.

Cold smoky breath.

Her childhood spent preparing to avert the prophecy. One more strike to the heart and she will defeat fate. She can return home to her love. One more strike and she’s free of her cosmic shackles.

“Prophecy’s false,” She said. “I’m alive.”

The Scale Lord cackled. Coughed. Spat a purple oily substance at her feet.

“The battle’s won,” The Scale Lord replied. “Long ago.. its won.”

She drew her sickle. Beheaded Scale Lord before it could further speak.

She staggered off the Scale Lord’s corpse. Collapsed to her knees.

“Thank you, Ele’ees,” She said, praising her goddess.

The Scale Lord’s body quickly deteriorated to dust.

Its done.

Daylight through the window. Warmth of the sunrise through the prison bars and cracks in the stone walls. Birds chirping.

Ele’ees gave her strength. Weapons. The will to defeat the prophecy. Proof that divine power existed. That the universe was fair. That mortals like her can shed their cosmic shackles. Live the way they choose. She would spend the rest of her days praising her Goddess. Spreading her gospel. Loving Alex.

She walked to the shattered stain-glass window.

She  bathed in spreading sunlight. Inhaled the smell of grass. Goosebumps from the clean air breeze on her skin.

I’m going home, she thought. There was plenty of sunlight and grass home.  I’m going home to see him, she thought. To murder him… and everyone in my vil-… 

She felt rage. Felt joy. Felt bloodlust.

None were her thoughts. Her feelings.

“Isn’t me,” She tried to convince herself.

“But it is,” Scale Lord replied.

Power… she thought. Tried to chase the evil thoughts away but couldn’t. Felt like her own mind being silenced. Crushed. Replaced by another voice. Kill them all, she thought. Fuck the gods…

Skin tingling.

She rolled up her sleeve.

“I told you,” The Scale Lord said. “The battle was already won.”

She drew her spear. Twirled around the room looking for the owner of the voice.

She checked her arm.

Black scales. Up her arms and across her collar bone. She felt organs shifting. Expanding. Transforming.

“No… Alex,” She cried.

She cried so hard she was blind.

“Alex… I failed” She said as she released her spear. “I’m sor-”

She jerked forward. Landed on all fours.

They tore through her flesh. Her shoulder blades. Large black wings.

Such pain.

She cried. Tears of pain. Tears of sadness. Tears of laughter.

No escaping fate, she thought. Prophecy prevailed as it should. She embraced what she’s meant to become… The Queen of Scale. World devourer. Her true self.

“Alex… I’m coming home,” She said with a smirk.


Odd story, he thought.

He reached his stop.

He wondered why all of his endings were tragic and hopeless. Was that him? Was that a reflection of his soul? Was he the Scale Lord of his own lore? Or was he just a strange, odd, awkward son of a bitch?

He put his notebook away and exited the train car.

Probably the latter, he concluded. Strange, odd, awkward… Maybe a little broody.

 

 

 

 

Catch’A’Mon: Gotta Enslave ’em All

He poured himself a cup of coffee. Took a seat at the table opposite Marcey.

“Talked to my cousin the other day,” He said as he sipped his coffee. “Insightful conversation.”

“What you talk about?” Marcey asked.

“Well… insightful shit of course,” He replied.


The other day…. 

“Got that new Creature Hunters game,” He said.

“Squad based game where you capture and kill monsters?” I asked. 

“No capture,” He replied. “Just kill” 

“Oh…dude,” I said. “That’s some savage shit.”

“Huh?” He asked.

“Imagine you having date night with ya girl. Eating a dinner box and watching a flick. Just chillin,” I said. “Suddenly a squad rolls up. Shoots you in the face with a freaking crossbow. Then deep fries ya lady with a flamethrower.”

“What?” He replied.  

“Creature hunters… from the perspective of the creature,” I said.

“Oh… shit,” He said. “I see.” 

“Catch’a’mons worse!” I said.

“How worse?” He asked.

“Imagine… You playing an intense game of handball with the homeys,” I said. 

“I like handball,” He said.

“Me too!” I said. “You on the court racking up aces. Setting records. Speed and accuracy is at a whole ‘nother level.”

“Okay…” He said.

“You at point game. Some dude rolls up and zaps you with something.” I said, looking over my shoulder to make sure nobody was watching me. “You open your eyes. You’re in a white void. Alone and no place to go.”

“Trapped?” He asked.

Inside a cage no bigger than a bocce ball,” I replied. 

“Damn,” He said. “Crazy ass pocket dimensions.”

“Word,” I said. “That’s not even the worst part.”

“No?” He asked.

“Nope,” I replied. “Crazy part’s when they let you out.”

“That’s crazy?” He said.   

“Crazy like cat shit,” I said. “You come out looking around confused as hell. Realize quickly you’re a ways from home.”

“On some transantlatic slave trade shit,” He said. 

“Indeed. And they only let you out to fight other abductees,” I said. “Your opponents leave their catch’em balls looking lost like you. But you have to fight. Its fight or return to the void.”

“Tragic,” He said.  

“Word… Then they force y’all to scrap til someone’s unconscious… And win, lose, or draw,” I leaned in to whisper. “Yo ass end up right back in that pocket dimension.”

“Bruh,” He said.  

“I know,” I said. “I’m buggin.”

“Nah you good,” He said. “Shit’s kinda funny.”

“Nothing funny about kidnapping, slavery and exploitation, bruh,” I said. ”Nothing funny at all.” 

He sighed.


He stirred his coffee while returning Marcey’s befuddled stare.

“What?” He asked.

“Ummm…” Marcey replied. “Where and when did this conversation take place?”

“Yesterday,” He replied. “Earth… Not sure which earth or which version of me. But the conversation took place yesterday.”

“I see,” Marcey said.

Urban Fiction…. Wow

“Urban Fiction” is fascinating.
 
Currently reading an excerpt from “A Gangsta A$$ Love Story: Pt 1.”
 
The sample chapter ended on a cliffhanger.
 
“See you in hell, muthafucka,” a deep baritone voice promised as the intruder placed the gun on the back of Beast’s head and pulled the trigger.
 
Dang.
 
“Beast” just spent the entire first chapter in an intense lovemaking session with his main squeeze, “Heaven”.
(Love the names by the way)
 
The lovemaking was so intense that Beast didn’t notice when Heaven took two bullets to the back. Damn heroic, Mr. Beast. Protect your black woman.
 
“Beast continued to plow into Heaven until a pillow exploded beside his head.”
 
Beast actually flipped Heaven over and took several bullets to his back, shielding her from further harm.
 
Wow.

Not special.

He wasn’t special. Never was. Likely never will be special. If he had known he was an infinitesimal, insignificant speck in the universe he would have worked harder in High School. Taken more risks. Focused more on refining a skill rather than relying on a superpower he never really had.

He pinched himself.

Had to stay awake. Had to finish another chapter. He wasn’t special. He didn’t have the ability to warp reality or bend it to his will. Didn’t have telepathic or mind possession powers to make someone else finish his work for him.

“One more chapter,” He willed himself.

He saw a gift in realizing he wasn’t special. That the world nor people on his social media friends list weren’t looking for him. Weren’t waiting for him. That people weren’t aware he existed.

He went upstairs looking for Marcey.

Marcey was in her room. In her bed. Taking a practice exam.

“Hey,” He said to Marcey. “About to sleep?”

“Yeah,” She replied. “A little tired.”

Marcey’s big test was tomorrow. He understood if she chose to sleep an hour earlier than she said she would. He was -selfishly- disappointed. But he understood. Sleeping was the responsible thing to do the night before an important exam. Not drinking wine and watching superhero shows.

“Alright, cool,” He said. “Sleep well.”

“Have any tape?” Marcey asked.

“Sadly… no,” He replied.

“There’s a draft coming from the window,” Marcey said.

“I feel it,” He replied.

Marcey sighed. Looked disappointed.

“I’ll check my room,” He said, though certain he didn’t own any tape.

“Thanks,” Marcey said. “Well, good night.”

“Night,” He said before leaving Marcey’s room.

He wasn’t special. If he was, he’d have the superpower to regulate the weather and temperature in her room. Or… At least own a roll of tape.

 

Super-serum or Cybersuit?

Image result for Supersuit sketch

Hungry. Stomach sticking to the back of his spine hungry. He felt the if I don’t get food in my system soon I’m going to collapse kind of hungry.

The car emptied. Several seats were available.

He approached a seat. Removed his backpack. Pulled back at the last second. Remained standing.

He wanted the seat. In some ways he felt he needed a seat. Deserved a seat. But sitting down would be a terrible idea. He’d fall asleep the moment his ass hit the cushion. He’d slip into a coma the instant his head tilted back or his temple hit the window.  He’d Oversleep. Miss his stop. Be forced to wait another twelve minutes for a train. Bad idea to sit.

“Super serum or Cybernetic suit?” He asked himself in a whisper.

Super serum, he thought. Cyber suits would be too much to lug around on his commute. And he imagined a man with super serum couldn’t/wouldn’t suffer from extreme tiredness and hunger. And a super serum recipient could hold their pee much longer than the average man. Super serum it is, he thought.

He took a seat. Rested his head against the window.

 

 

Applications are a drag. (Thank goodness the apocalypse is coming).

14419932-doodle-style-global-apocalypse-with-mushroom-cloud-sketch-in-vector-format

He knew they made the application process mind-numbing-ly long and tedious on purpose. It was to scare away unqualified applicants and people who did not truly give a flying shit about working there. People like him. Unqualified. Not unqualified because they could not do the work. Unqualified because they didn’t give a shit about doing the work.

He squirmed in his seat.

It’d been an hour but it felt like longer.

Why the hell would they ask him to input his full job history and upload his resume. Seemed redundant to him considering everything they needed and asked for was included on his resume. What a drag, he thought.

“What?” Marcey asked him.

“Boring,” He replied. “And a waste of time.”

“Everything bores you.”

“Just this… this  worthless piece of shit process.”

“Well, its the process.”

He wondered why Marcey put up with his impatience. His immaturity. His stubbornness. His questionable attention span.

He completed his work history and saved his progress before moving onto the next section.

Training and Education. 

He took a deep breath.

Almost complete. Or so he believed. Or so he hoped.

He finished his wine.

If she could put up with him and his attitude for years then he could put up with filling out a single stupid application for a night. It was only fair. Though, the idea of sacrificing the few waking hours he had to himself to complete some stupid application for a job he didn’t want anyway filled him with dread. So much dread. Feelings threatened to cripple the application process.

“Shit.” He sank in his chair.

“Language,” Marcey warned.

“Browser froze.” He tried returning to the previous form. “Didn’t save nothing.”

“Oh man,” She replied. “Do it over.”

“Can’t,” He panicked. “Won’t let me.”

His blood started to boil

A whole hour of his life, potentially wasted. There was no way in hades he would waste another doing another application.

“No way,” He said. “I’ll wait til it thaws.”

“What?” Marcey asked.

“Thaws… Unfreezes,” He replied.

Marcey shook her head. “Strange man.”

He threw his head back against his chair.

“Could have been halfway done with a new one,” Marcey said.

Of course, Marcey was correct. He could have halfway completed another application in the time he was waiting for the window to unfreeze.

“Damn.” He closed the browser.

“That computer is trash,” Marcey said.

He restarted his trash portable laptop.

“So stupid,” He said to himself.

“Sorry, babe,” Marcey said.

“Didn’t want to start over.”

He was furious but kept how he felt to himself.

He restarted the browser.

None of that nine to five plantation bullcrap was going to matter soon anyway. He planned to be self employed. No more putting in stupid applications and begging people for work. He’d rather be homeless or die than to spend the little youth he had left than taking peoples orders. And those horrible commutes… If he wasn’t so afraid of Marcey, he’d pound his fist on the table in disgust.

He entered his username and password.  Logged into the job site. Returned to the application.

A newsfeed window popped up on the bottom corner of his screen. Something about a conflict. Threats of nuclear war.

Soon that nine to five torture wasn’t going to matter. The direction the world was heading, the apocalypse was going to wipe out everything anyway. And only people like him were going to survive. People who understood how fragile and volatile the illusion of living a responsible adult life really was. One nuke. One meteor collision. One caldera eruption. One viral or zombie outbreak away from total anarchy. From wiping away the illusion. Christ will return Oh… he thought in his best Yoruba accent. The thought of judgment day and the impending doom filled him with joy. After the application he’d search Amazon for early Black Friday deals on survival gear and a crossbow.

His application loaded. Everything he’d input…. was…. there.

No survival gear or crossbow shopping now, he thought. The apocalypse would have to wait until after his interview. Marcey tweaked his resume. He was confident there would be an interview in the coming weeks.

“Hey.” He scrolled through his application. “Looks like it saved.”

“Great,” Marcey said.

“Yeah,” He replied. “All there.”

Marcey blew him a kiss.

“Thanks,” He said.

He wondered why she put up with him. But knew why he was able to be an adult and put up with another job application…. For her. Marcey was all the reason he needed.

 

 

Sorry for not caring, Marcey.

He scoffed.

Marcey thought he had a problem. A big problem. He agreed with her assessment. Just not her solution.

The coffee warmed his belly and gave him an instant jolt of energy.

“I love you too,” He said to Marcey. “And I understand your concerns.”

He would probably need another cup after his conversation with Marcey, he thought. Another cup would make sense especially since he had a full eight hours of packing old files and office junk into boxes. And checking his official statement of work to see if mover and janitor was included in his job description.

“I just want you to have money,” Marcey said.

He cut his eyes.

There she goes again, he thought. If only she had to deal with what he had to deal with for eight hours a day. On a daily basis.

“They’re gonna fire you,” Marcey said.

“You’re more anxious than I am,” He said.

“And that’s the problem,” Marcel said.

“Sorry, I just don’t care,” He replied. “I can’t anymore. Just too tired to care.”

He was truly sorry. Just being honest with her. He didn’t care nearly as much about his job as she did. Marcey was afraid he would end up broke and unhappy. Funny… He worked a full nine to five gig and he was still broke and unhappy. He was more afraid and sad about the time he was losing working a meaningless job. Photocopying and mailing packages wasn’t exactly worth his precious time on the earth. He thought Marcey  was only concerned over whether he would pay bills and that concerned him the most. It concerned him even more than getting fired for being late. Yet again.

“You’re always late to work,” Marcey said. “If you were my employee I’d fire you.”

“Bet you would,” He replied.

“Try to be on time,” Marcey replied. “Please?”

“Okay,” He said.

“Force yourself to care,” Marcey insisted.

“Fine,” He replied. “I’ll do better next week.”

Doing better at a place -his nine to five- he couldn’t possibly care less about was a lot in which to ask. A insurmountable request to fulfill.

But Marcey was giving him those sad eyes. Not bossy or threatening eyes like when he forgot to clean egg of the stove or refill the water jug. Genuinely sad, concerned, caring eyes. Those eyes were trouble. The most damning of all the eyes.

The eyes he could neither ignore or defy.

He cut his eyes. Again.

That time he cut his eyes at himself for submitting to her sad eyes yet again.

“I’ll set my alarm earlier,” He said.

“Good,” Marcey said.

“Good,” He said.

And he set his alarm at that very moment.

He would set the alarm an hour early before he forgot or lost interest, he thought.