There are truths I can't tell you.

And there are lies

that make me look good.

It's all messy inbetween.

You probably know me,

some deep dishes that surrounds my story.

But there are chapters missing...

Don't be quick to conclude

on what stays hidden.

I can pretend to smile in real time,

although the cannon ball of tears sheltered behind my smile

could be traced back to the missing chapters locked away

in my mind.

We all have a unit for this mind-drive.

A storage of thousands of memories

that must never see the light.

I would tell you mine if it was healthy.

The good stuff could come in handy.

The level of trust that we both need

takes a minute to build

and a nanosecond to destroy.

This not an excuse to devour what we have,

neither is it a loophole to be unfaithful.

I hope we can thrive

irrespective of the complications that may arise.

It takes one to agree,

and two to disagree.

Lets meet as one,

and never two.

Ripples,

on the water—

shadows, darkness, peaks—

Coming to the waiting shore,

this time of day,

as tides rise.

Gritty-cold, biting-air,

moving in steady portions—

less like an army-marching,

more like a flame-smothered.

Grey-green, sober waves—

an ever-lasting pattern.

Kissin’ rocks & wet-soaked sand,

measured in fractal lines:

Yard-by-yard. Foot-by-foot. Inch-by-inch.

Ever closer to infinity’s reach—

yet ever farther

from Truth.

Copyright 2020

On the news, the Pope turns

another bird into a bishop. A waste of song,

if you ask me. Still, as much as I hate

the holy, I can’t help but want to serve

as the portal for your transcendence,

my stomach your altar, my bloody

fingers your cupped wine. I wish

I could love you without the worship.

Why do I want to be your church,

your prayer? You could burn

all my toed pews and I’d just stand there,

flightless but fearless, an unevolved

emperor penguin. Blame

my upbringing—these zealous compulsions,

this easy surrender. Maybe I should be

angrier at how, when you say

I love you, I genuflect,

how all the fun facts I know

live in trinities. One: making bread

into body is called transubstantiation.

Two: according to hymns,

God can raise you up

on eagle’s wings. Three:

even at his most powerful,

Francis only has one lung.

This means nothing much, except

that we might be able to

watch him whimper

when the day of judgment comes—

it will be harder for him to run.

It's the drool that seeps between your neck and collarbone and gets your shirt wet, signaling to everyone around you that you just woke up. It's the chaffing underwear against your thighs that tear your skin more, making you hate your reaction every time someone attractive walks past. It's the black ghosts that appear under your arms and around your collar right before a big presentation. It reddens your cheeks and the tips of your ears and makes your shoes suddenly exciting. It's the sting on your lips after you've subconsciously torn off too much skin and the crimson hue that stays in the patch you've exposed. It's the little smile to keep from crying, the pulling your hair out of your face so you have an excuse to look away, the little shuffle you do like you have to pee to signal that you urgently have to leave. It's the sigh as you lean dramatically against a wall, the climax of the red cheeks, the humidity that floods your eyes once you're finally alone. Your hands cover your face, the heat throughout your entire body goes from 100 degrees to 1000, and the humidity threatens to spill down your cheeks and show everyone you've been crying, which would add one more embarrassment on top of what just happened.

I don't think I can say this enough.

No matter how many times it's repeated.

That's what makes it feel like words

are never enough.

If it isn't repeated,

we quickly forget

it was ever said.

I could place it on my reminder,

and still forget its power.

I can be lost in a crazy traffic

waiting for the words to be active,

but as the hours keep counting

it all washes away leaving me empty.

I'm sure you know the words I speak of.

You can feel it knocking on the taste of your lips.

Salivating, as your ears are waiting for me to say it.

Before I do,

lets take a moment...

Picture my heart

singing to you.

Don't be naughty,

listen,

while you do...

I wrap my big arms around you

the temperature difference

between our bodies goes positive.

You can observe my lips slowly moving towards your ears.

You know the words I want to whisper,

It travels on my breath

to your ear canal,

slowly colliding with your eardrum.

As the process completes,

you vibrate to it rhythm.

Incase you've forgotten,

let me remind you, that,

"I love you".

We sat criss cross on the floor of his bedroom. Across from him I watch him drop his pen and look up abruptly. Creasing my eyebrows I meet his gaze.

“I love the rain.” He declares.

I roll my eyes looking back to my homework. “So does everyone. Next you're gonna say you’ve always had an adoration for sunsets. I’ve seen that movie 37 times.”

“No I mean it.” His eyes get wide now and his hands land square on both my shoulders. “I’ll buy a house one day. I’ll have a skylight window in my bedroom directly over my bed so I can watch the rain coat the glass at night. Actually scratch that, I want a hole. A hole in the ceiling so when it rains the water will just-” And then he uses his outstretched arm to palm himself in the face.

I giggle but he isn’t joking. I realize this is a side of him I haven’t seen and so I put my pencil down and search his expression. He wants me to take this seriously. Separate from his usual rambling and playful conversation while we work. So I fix my countenance and nod solemn.

Suddenly he looks nervous, unsure. He opens his mouth and then shakes his head softly closing it again.

“What?” I say breaking his silence.

“I try not to presume what heaven will be like. But I don’t think it’s wrong for me to think about things that God loves being there, that makes sense doesn’t it?”

“I guess so.” I say this slowly wondering where he’s about to take this.

"When I pray." He begins. "Sometimes I've asked if it be his will that I could have a rain room."

The corners of my mouth want to curl up at the childish honesty of his words but I stay straight and serious so he'll keep talking.

"What's that mean?" I prod.

"I want a room, an empty room where it just rains. A pouring constant sweet rain that echoes for miles contained in one room." He's smiling now. His voice has risen a bit louder filling up the room with theatricality. "And well it's eternity isn't it? I could literally spend a thousand years in the rain room. People would ask like, hey where's josh? And you can just tell them that I've been standing in a torrential downpour for the last century, that I'll be back sometime soon. I couldn't get pneumonia because this rain wouldn't have the capacity to do anything but give glory to the father. No wrinkly fingers, no slipping, no runny nose. That's what I want, a rain room. A room that's raining forever and ever."

And as he wound down I just stared at him. It was one of those moments where I knew I'd remember the conversation forever. That one day as I went about my day this would come back to me and I'd get sent right back to Joshua's bedroom floor in the middle of November. I knew that night I would pray that Josh would get a beautiful rain room. One that fulfilled and exceeded his wildest dreams.

"You love the rain." I conceded sorry that I ever questioned something so sacred to him.

"Damn right." He said and went right back to fielding with a math problem as if he didn't just blow my mind. I wasn't sure why this little peek of him changed my perception so abruptly but hey, I wasn't complaining.

Looking back now that he's been gone 7 months and 4 days. I know he's got a rain room somewhere. I know it was beyond his wildest dreams. The tears still come when I recall the boyish smile sitting criss cross on his bedroom floor. The one who had no idea what would come to pass 3 weeks later. I still can't look at the photos. I can't not rush to my phone every time it dings the ringtone that used to be his frequent replies. And when people ask me about him, there's a whole life of stories I could tell them. A boy who loved with reckless abandon. Who stopped at nothing to make the shy kid in the room feel included. Who told bedtime stories like no one you'd ever met. But I always say the same thing with the same guarded grin, Joshua loved the rain.

Hi Guy’s, been a while since I put finger to keyboard and produced another amazing load of blurb using only the 26 letters of the alphabetty spagetty. You will have to excuse any spelling mistakes as the alphabetty spagetty in our local store was on special offer and I’m guessing from the mistakes in the text so far means there is a few letters missing from the kan (see what I did there?)

Anyway, the reason for me tinkering on the old laptop keyboard is to inform you that I have not died or anything, it’s just that I’m not finding the recent prompts igniting the old brain cells. Are you finding this also? I see a few of my dear old pals are not posting much either and it cannot be all down to Covid 19, online abuse or a broken pencil!

“Well post a prompt of your own then” I hear you say, what do you think I am, stupid? (Don’t answer that!)

I’ve been toying with the idea, (along with a certain amount of prompting from my peers) of changing my name, by deed poll you understand along with the usual extortionate fee.

For some time now, everyone that knows me, friends, family, acquaintancies, work colleagues etc are convinced my surname is Kent! No, I kid you not and for all those doubting that anyone could see me as a Kent and not a Race; I’ll give you an example.

I attended a christening recently and was rather late getting to the church and the ceremony had already begun. It was my first attendance of a christening as I have not been christened myself, I was exorcised or so my dad said and for years I thought my name was “Bloody Hell” as that was all my dad ever said when he looked at me.

So I walk into the church and that flipping oak door always creeks open which causes everyone to turn round and glare at you and when you shut it those bleeding iron latches always make a humongous clang which causes the relatives to hiss a shhhhhh at you which does not help ones blood pressure either. As I turned to face the crowd who were sat in their pews, they were all staring at me which is why I am undecided as to whether to change my name or not as they all said in unison “OHHH Julian he’s a Kent” and always late. I swear I even saw the baby’s mouth move also!

I mused the idea for a while before taking a seat in the only space left in the church which luckily was right on the front bench next to the Mother and Father of the very baby that was being christened. I nudged them sideways, took my seat and looked up at the vicar. He had the baby in his arms and then dunked it’s head into what looked very much like a stone planter I have in my garden at home. Three times he did it then held the snivelling baby up in the air. How was I to know he wasn’t offering the baby up to anyone else who fancied a go at dunking it in the font? I took him up on the offer and only got to two dunks before I was escorted out of the church to the chorus of Julian, he a Kent. Anyway, I managed to explain my mistake and I’m allowed to see the said child once every ten years which under the circumstances suits me also.

So, what do you think should I remain as Julian Race or go with the popular vote of Julian Heeza Kent? Answers on a hymn sheet to Reverend Julian Race, St Pamphlets, Beelzebub W1.

“Am I pretty?”

“You’re tolerable. Personally I’d lose the dead-mothers-of-anime haircut and maybe cover those soulless corpse eyes with contacts. Acne appears to be an uphill battle for you if that hill was 100% vertical. Speaking of vertical, you’re a bit vertically, ehem, challenged. Horizontally too. Here I thought only cats were supposed to have whiskers. You need to wax that, girl. Maybe you’d draw more compliments if you didn’t dress younger than my six-year-old cousin. Your complexion is so pasty it would blind the sun. And as for the muffin-top, I’d say you had more rolls than the Michelin Man, or more rolls than a bakery, but those would be too unoriginal. So I’ll just say, you got more roles than Hollywood. Bruh.”

“...so is that a no?”

#fiction

To be happy,

sad times there'll be.

Long scary nights,

rotten sour days,

that's life.

Beauty with pain.

For we are planted with doubts,

rigged with uncertainties.

The only way out,

You hold me,

I hold you.

Like the green lantern,

we devour the unholy,

strike disasters,

come out standing.

We have each other.

We have everything.

Its you and I,

now and forever.

Riding the storm,

like lightning and thunder.

Into the Anya-verse presents: A crime in Hollywood

PODCAST

"Hello everyone, its your favorite host Jimmy Jam. The original Jay Jay, interstellar J-squared. Coming to you from the land of 'J' wept. To your bread I then slept.

Jimmy Jam O Jimmy Jam.

You can always get your Jam on me, cause I'm Jimmy in every spread.

Hmm!

Do take a bite, feel me like a crunch in Jazz. I hit your soul with Sax...

All day and All night.

Groove to Jimmy! Groove to my Jam.

Jimmy Jam in the house everybody!!!"

"Joining the Jam today is a spooky scientist from MC-Squared Laboratory. Let me here you make some noise for Professor Dailyflower."

"Thank you for having me."

"So Prof D, can I call you Prof D?"

"It sounds good to me."

"Prof D its no news that our very own starwild actress Anya Taylor Joy is currently battling a dude whom unfailingly fell in love with her brilliance in the role she played as Beth Harmon in the Netflix series, "The Queen's Gambit"."

"Yeah! I mean two weeks in court, who would have thought it would last this long."

"I know right! One thing that keeps bugging me is, who is this guy? In the court manuscript no one seems to mention his name. Why is that?"

"Ok! I guess because he's not a person with a list of achievements that sets the media on fire. His name is Adedoyin

AH! THEY! DOE! YIN!

He's an undergrad Idustrial chemist from University of Lagos, Nigeria. He's Nigerian, he's a lazy writer and once thought he would be a soccer star."

"Thanks Prof. Inotherwords he's just a dude."

"Yeah! You could say that."

"His he a man of mystery or someone stuck in a conspiracy theory?"

"Well we are in the Anya-verse. There are one thousand Anya-verse, and in every verse he as tried to win Anya's heart, he failed nine hundred and ninety nine times."

"Wow! Nine hundred and ninety nine times. That's huge, so he's probably going to lose her again?"

"The odds are not in his favor. We definitely can agree with that. He might do something different this time."

"Are you rooting for him Prof D?"

"Uh! No! No! But as a scientist, I'm compelled to see a change in the result. If he does win her heart, it would be a good thing.

Going back to your question earlier. Mystery or conspiracy? He could be both, I mean there's a theory spreading that he was a man who died never falling in love with anyone. So, his ghost roam around the surface of the Earth until he falls in love. In this case its Anya."

"What will happen if she did fall in love with him?"

"This is definitely the fun part. If he finds love, he'll move on from this world to the afterlife."

"What! Its not a princess and the frog kind of situation. Where he becomes whole again. That's too sad. What will Anya do when he leaves? She would be heart broken. Its like Romeo and Juliet, only worse."

"I guess Romeo and Juliet is worse, because they both die in the end."

"Oh! Ok! Sorry Prof D, I must have missed that in my four years as an undergrad..."

"Yeah! No Problem Jimmy. Its ok!"

"Give it up for Professor Dailyflower... I'm still your favorite host, The original Jay Jay, interstellar J-squared. Coming to you from the land of J wept. To your bread I then slept.

Jimmy Jam!!! Don't go anywhere people, we'll be back after we pay some bills."

_____________________________________________________________________

Aliens. Every one of them.

With their green, lopsided hair, blue lips and too-tight pants. I met a man early on, who had chains hanging from the massive holes in his earlobes. Another woman had chains hanging from the door-knocker-looking ring in her nose. They attached to a black velvet choker. It sorta’ reminded me of the bridle of a horse, but I didn’t dare say anything.

This is not my time, after all. I’m the odd woman out here.

I’ll admit it’s a bit breathtaking, this future with its glass towers that scrape the sky and its automobiles that no longer look like automobiles--rather resemble some sort of spacecraft on wheels. When I first set foot out of the lab, they warned me to brace myself, that the world had changed a lot from when I was initially frozen in 1952. And that went without saying. But I had no idea it had changed this much.

Not that I’m complaining. The farther advanced the better. I was never content with my own time anyway. When the esteemed Dr. Ronald Haloran of Haloran Engineering began his highly-publicized experiments regarding cryogenic stasis—better known as suspended animation—I was among the first to volunteer as a lab rat. My mother had just passed, rendering me an orphan. As an only child I had no siblings to stick around for. And at thirty-five I was virtually an old maid, unwed and childless. The eyes of my era saw me as a pitiable creature, a good decade beyond her prime. It was my hope that with time would come progress; that I would find greater solace and acceptance in the arms of the future.

So I signed my life away, and put my fate in the hands of a man I barely knew. At thirty-five you’d think I’d have better sense than that. I was always scolded for my irrationality, and that’s probably why.

“Yo!” I look up to see a young man walking toward me. Another alien. An illuminated rectangle rests in his hands. Most people carry them nowadays. I’ve yet to find an opportunity to ask what they are, but they must be something special, because everyone I’ve met seems quite enamored by them. “Uh, you look kinna’ lost, bruh. Need any, like, directions or anything?”

“Oh, yes, thank you,” I smile warmly. “Do you have any idea where 412 Grenadine is?”

“Uhhh, that’s real specific-like. Can you be more broad, Ma’am?”

“East side? I used to live in an apartment there. The building itself was painted a sickly shade of pink.”

“Oh, yeah. That way,” the man pointed. “Though I think they...tore that place down when I was little. Can’t remember so good.”

“Yeah, I remember when it had that fire in ’49. They almost condemned it then. I’m amazed it held out as long as it did.”

“Uh,” the guy narrowed his bleary eyes. “How...old are you? You look, like, twenty-something.”

“I...” my voice caught. “I guess I don’t really know how to answer that. Biologically I suppose I’m still thirty-five.”

“Biologically? Yo, are you a vampire?”

“No. I’m an experiment.”

“Oh! So you’re more like Frankenstein’s monster. Cool. Cool.”

“I was cryogenically frozen. Do you know what that is?”

“Yeah. I think they did that on Cowboy Bebop.”

“They did that with me. In real life.”

“Woahhh. What year are you from?”

“Fifty-two.”

“Can I get a selfie with you? Lady, you’re like a living artifact!”

“Your grandmother was probably alive in nineteen-fifty-two. I wouldn’t exactly call us artifacts.”

“Yeah, but my gramma’s my gramma. You’re...kinda’ hot. Wait,” he paused, his forehead gathering as he attempted to think. It looked like he was quite unpracticed at that. “Dude, I just called someone my gramma’s age hot. Ewww...”

“What’s a selfie, by the way? I’ll gladly agree so long as it’s not vulgar.”

“Nah, man. I just hold my phone out like this, flip the camera to us, and take a pic.”

“Is that what the rectangular bar is? A phone?”

“Yeah. Duuude...you don’t know what a phone is? You got so much to learn. I think you’re gonna’ love it here.”

I laughed a bit.

“I already do.”

#fiction