Toy soldiers

We often forget that soldiers are sons and daughters of a mother and a father. We forget that they are someone’s child. War to me is simply and excuse to shed blood. Let’s just not forget whose blood it is.



It was the third hour of midnight when the eeriness of the wolves’ cry had become soothing. They tiptoed passed the sleepy eyes of the once menacing woods. The obnoxious moon simply watched. They snuck into the skeleton of a once proud structure. It was almost time to play the game.

Little Ricky was afraid. It had much to do with the fact that he was the youngest. It had more to do with the fact that he may only play the game once.  The boys laid their backpack on the nude soil that already showed signs of swallowing the old house. In their bags, they pulled out metal death. The game was about to begin.

They dipped their small hands in the can of fresh painting, without saying a word. They were so focused, and their thoughts were so loud. Each reciting the future as it’s supposed to happen. Each knowing well that it might not happen at all. They painted their faces with dark stripes, each line a stronger conviction. It was time!

Little Ricky was five. Him and the other boys circled around Michael, who in contrast was ten. A foggy cloud followed after every word he spoke. It was cold. The rules were simple. Everyone knew them; it wasn’t rocket science after all. They plagued their minds ever since they knew about the game. The first rule was this, “last man standing wins”. The second and last rule, at the moment, was the most frightening of them all.

They waited, uncomfortably, while the boy talked- irrelevant wordage. Michael was afraid. He scouted the ruins for a vintage point because he too was aware of the rules. The second rule was this, “as soon as the oldest was done with the introduction, they had 10 seconds to find cover and begin” His words became like tiny grains of sand of an hour glass, until the last grain dropped. Little Ricky ran, his heart first, the death bringer dragging behind. He found a huge pillar, and hugged it with every inch of his body.

Short, muffled silence, then bullets rained from hell, whispering profanity as they went by. He felt the heat coming out of his agitated body, and sweat pored out just as fast as his tears. He quickly peeked and saw the bullets ravage another boy not too far from him, his blood running away from his empty body. Now it was horror creeping into his chest. He lifted the gun, and blind fired, the recoil knocking him away. He quickly ran back, leaving the weapon behind. He heard screaming. Screaming! Loud, tear jerking screams. The he heard some more, and realized that he was not having fun. But the crepitating bullets crept closer slowly nibbling away the pillar he once thought safe. He plugged his ears with his small hands, trying to keep the demons away.

Then he remembered, his hands quickly fiddling about, looking for something. He was trembling all over, making it all the more difficult to reach in his pocket. Making it all the more difficult to realize his enemies desperately changing cover. Then he felt the roundness of the metal in his pocket, and pulled it out. A grenade, He had brought a bomb, A heavy round metal that he held with two hands. He felt the bullets wining over his sanity and he swore he heard footsteps among the chaos. So he got up and pulled the pin.

The grenade flew, and then dove; it rolled, and stopped. The guns bowed and paused their singing. Kaboom! said the dot on the floor with a trillion exclamation points. The old house shook, vomiting rubbles when it stopped.

A small struggle, and little Ricky pushed the small fragments of concrete off him. He was grey, dusty grey. He looked around him, and listened. He heard nothing, he saw plenty. Millions of small body parts scrambled all over, blood red contrasting with the grayish-green concrete. Little Ricky looked around once more. He realized that he was alone. He reached over and grabbed his gun; he got up, shook the dirt off him, lifted the weapon in the air and screamed “I win!”

You are…

so many time we forget about those that care for us the most. The ones that push us or show us the right way without ever lifting a finger; the ones that inspire us by just being themselves. So many time we ( I) forget what they mean to us (me). This poem is dedicated to them ————>

I am

I am…

Incomplete like an abstract puzzle

I am…

A whisper like their quiet muzzle

I am…

Boredom like tick……tock……..tick…………tock

I am…

Empty like the writer’s block

I am….

Lonely like the moon in the sky

I am…

Sorry like the coward’s lie


I am all this without you!

55 fiction entry

this is my 55 fiction entry for a contest that The colors Magazine organized. It was fun participating!


I can’t keep my cool in my cubicle. Gary calls me the goofy geek. Donna says I’m her dubious devil. Patrick’s our peaceful prankster. Selena is so serious! From start to finish, I find frustration, fun, fatigued faces, friends and foes. But at the end of the day, I’m a stranger at home.


I held your heart in the cup of my hands. I counted its every palpitation. Remember? You left it asleep on an empty pillow next to me. Once, you left it in the kitchen where you sang, then in the bathroom where you cried. I know you remember when I stayed up, those long cold nights, when it couldn’t sleep. Do you remember that time when you had to go out of town? I cried so hard. I was cut so deep, and you were so touched that you told me that you would leave it there with me. You remember? I know you do, so tell me…why should you EVER take it away?

Fathers’ menopause

I am tempted to follow her pain outside to cheer her up. I am tempted to pick her up when she falls down, but she says, “Daddy, I’m fine. I can take care of myself.”
So I leave her to the city, the source of all evil. I leave her to her boyfriends, their blatant lies, and her fiancé. I leave her to the pervs, the stalkers, the sex offenders that infest the streets where she walks.
I let her go. She will be fine; she told me. And it’s ok because she can take care of herself.

Lucky people

She sat there on the sand, on the beach where she dragged me. She was crying, her eyes to the ground, her fingers drawing sad “smileys”. She started. She told me everything that was wrong in her life. Everything!
And as I hugged her and caressed her soft black hair, I thought of the many, many people that would make me cry like a baby if they had ever told me everything!

you may be excused!

Excuses, I have so many excuses. So many reasons why I procrastinate, or why I don’t do what I’m supposed to. For me it’s almost an illness. The weird thing is that I know that finding an excuse not to do something will only hurt me in the future, but I still do it. For instance, I am supposed to be finishing a story for a contest that I’m entering, but my excuse is that I’m not inspired yet.
I have too many excuses, and I have taken so little risks. 40 years from now, I don’t want to look back with regret because I had too many excuses.


“Excuses, she yelled, excuses”
– But they’ve strangled all my muses!
“Excuses, she yelled…they’re all excuses!”

– But I’m not lying,
I never have time to see,
Too busy dreaming
Never have time for me
Tomorrow is way too pressing.
I never have time to eat,
I’m always hungry for more
And walking is a feat
If you’ve never done it before
It’s never what is
Because it’s always what if
You See, there was never a time to seize!
Umm… But what if?
What if life was never ending?

“Would you write me then?” she said,
Lying motionless in her death bed
-But my muses!
“Excuses, she whispered, excuses”
Soon I’ll borrow the casket that she uses.

Sex sells, gore sells…Stupid stuff sells?

I stumbled upon an article on written by Daniel Lyons about the popularity of twitter. Let me start of by saying that I don’t completely agree with him on everything. For instance, he said that “The genius of Twitter is that it manages to be even stupider than TV. It’s so stupid that it’s brilliant.” I don’t know what channel this guy watches at home, probably cartoon because TV is as “stupid” as the content the viewer “decides” to watch. One of my favorite channels is the travel channel and let me say that it is anything but stupid. The same goes for Twitter as he himself acknowledges.
The reason why this article caught my attention, however, is that “shift happens”. Shift happens in technology, it happens in trends and interests. I never understood myself the popularity of twitter, but one word alone changed that, “micro blogging.” Here are a couple of reasons why it is the reason twitter is so popular, in my opinion.
I believe that some of the reasons why people don’t blog are because: a. they don’t have the time. B. they can’t or won’t put in the effort to attract traffic. C. They claim that they don’t have a talent for writing. With twitter you don’t need that much time or effort, and you don’t have to be a ‘writer’. You can share whatever information you want in just a couple of lines. That is simply the tip of the iceberg as there are so many other reasons why people are attracted to it.
What I do agree with the author is that stupid does sell. My generation is attracted to the easy and the provocative. Our TV shows are being replaced by reality shows with pointless objectives; just let the ratings tell the story. The same goes with some talk shows, or “gossip shows”. We are redefining entertainment; it is now an activity that requires little use of the brain. Look at YouTube, the videos that get the most views are not always the most instructive.
Companies are realizing that change, and so there is now more and more products out there to help make things increasingly easy; the question is where does it stop? For those who are looking for the next best thing, it probably won’t be your first idea that makes it; it could as well be the one you imagine would have less success. It’s very hard to tell which new product will be an instant trend, but to investors out there who are undecided, one thing is certain, stupid sells.

you either don’t know how to succeed, or you choose not to succeed!

the problem with being alone

We are social beings above all. I have realized that no matter how much we believe that we could do it on our own, we can’t. Some People say “well I don’t care what others say” but, in fact, they do. Some individual need support, encouragements, and compliments to be motivated, some need the exact opposite.

My point is that we can’t make it on our own. Perhaps the best skill one needs to develop in life to be “successful” is “people skills” and the ability to network efficiently. And if you are not that person then cherish the relationship that you already have, the ones that “matter”. There is a warm feeling in knowing that others care, it makes one feel a little less of an outcast.

The outcast

He sinks where you rise

He’s wise when he thinks

Would you believe that

There is a jail in heaven

And a heaven in hell

You wouldn’t know that

He dwells within him

It’s a grim story when he fails

He is misunderstood and misunderstands

And he built a bridge with his own hands

It doesn’t hold “good”

So he crossed his heart

And vowed to never cross it

You can’t build with a hatchet

Or attract people with a magnet

He said he could make up the time

If he could go back in time

So he bought the last hour glass

And hoped that it would last

But he laid in the same lies

And lived the same life

So he started crying heavy tears

And tear down his dreams and cried

That the world wasn’t fair

No it wasn’t a fairy tale

Instead it was as plain as his pain

As lame as his aim

For he made the wrong choices

Chose to fly but didn’t make it

He kept his secrets locked in a locket

His identity in his pocket

T’il he lost it

And found out

That he, himself was lost and found

In the darkest time the light shines the brightest

He had found his calling while phoning a friend

Who told him that he could rescue himself

By saving others

That he could hear without listening

But to listen meant to give ear

Said he had a life to live

So he should live life

See life is hard when you don’t have the right people around you

Yea you, the table has turned on you

How I create my paintings.

You want to know how I create them?…what inspires me?  Isn’t it obvious through my paintings? Rhetorical question, he thought as he lowered his head listening to the lady’s reply.  No, I’m inspired by concepts, by life and, of course, by Death itself, he enumerated interrupting the disappointed reporter. He hurried to the next one by calling his name aloud and searching for a “John”-like face in the crowd. “John” he repeated as the gentleman stood up and introduced himself.

He hated press conferences. It was becoming a routine; different façade of the same questions. The critics were the same. “Yet another masterpiece!” He read it so many times in their boring headlines. The word masterpiece should be banished as too much cliché, he thought as the magazines vanished timidly in his cozy fireplace.

“Let me first say that I’m a fan of your work, said a humbled John, and I’ve notice that you use a wide variety of texture materials in your painting; can you elaborate on that for us?”

“Do you also want me to explain every stroke, every emotion and meaning that goes into my work? Is that what you want john? He stormed

“No, I…”

“Well I’ll show you, I don’t mind, I’ll show you!”

It’s been a couple of weeks since the incident. The media called it “a meltdown”, “a stroke of age”, “ looney old phooey”, and the prints went one. He had never been more discussed in his career. The gallery was packed that day, the journalists and their likes having settled in the very front for an exclusive take on the mastermind behind the painter’s work.

The gallery was freshly renovated to celebrate his own creations and that of many famous artists. The whole room was lit up by long rectangular acrylic lights that emitted a bright yet smooth bluish white glow. The walls were beige with regular size chinese letters written all over. Amazing, considering the fact that it was the entire novel of the late Lao Bei Fong. This alone set a calm, soothing atmosphere.

The painter walked in carrying his tools. He was rather serious and unimpressed by the commotion that started once he got in the room. He stood in front of a gold painting frame with a faded dark canvas, just as he had asked for. The frame was already attached to the wall where it will remain.

He stood quietly starring at the empty frame. A nervous young man provided him with a small stool. He didn’t bother to thank him; he waited until he left and got on. He started from the top, on the dark background. The room choked on its own silence. Occasionally, an uncomfortable noise would escape, but for the most part all was quiet. The painter was focused; he could do this in his sleep. He wasn’t quiet because he was concentrating; he was quiet because he was mad. Angry that he should break his “masterpiece” into step by step instructions so that people could fully understand him. He was upset that he was the puppet of his own show, like an entertainer on stage. And mostly offended that people don’t take the time to dissect his art and appreciate its meaning before tumbling at his door for an interpretation.

He used different materials to create a popping out effects. He was drawing a night shot of a busy wide street viewed from above. Part of a tall glass building was visible on the left corner to create the allusion of height.

The faces in the room were either amazed at time, tired, or indifferent. The painter looked at his work, looked at his dirty hands and considered the energy he had just wasted. He turned back and looked at the crowd.

Everyone got up from their seats and the room roared witch excitement and cheers.

“Be quiet!” he urged. I’m not done! He said leaning forward with a dumb expression on his face.”This is only the background!” Faced with this blatant ignorance he thought of leaving. “This painting has no meaning, he said pointing to what he had just done; it means nothing! Not to me at least! What does this mean to you? The room remained quiet.

He hurried over to his audience, found a boy around five year old and grabbed him by the neck. Everyone held their breath in shock. He lifted him off the ground, his hands and legs dangling about. A few people thinking he had lost his mind, tried to come close enough to help the boy. “Stand back” he yelled. He approached his painting, the poor boy now red trying helplessly to free himself. The Painter now directly in front of the canvas leaned slightly back and using the momentum and his body strength slammed the boy into the painting. The boy was captured perfectly in the painting, his horrified face, his eyes embedded with fear, his hands and legs reaching. The painting had now become a terrified boy falling from the top of a building onto a busy wide street. It was madly realistic!

The room stood petrified. The painter took his tools and disappeared as the door closed behind him.


“Come see! Hurry! Come see!” shouted the skinny boy to his friend, panting and puffing, “you have got to see her!” “Who?” said the chubby boy as he hurried behind his friend. “It must have been thirty minutes ago,” he explained, as he kept on walking, “I was just on the swing and there she was. “She was crying, so I decided to ask her what was wrong…”

By the time the two boys got to her at least a dozen people had surrounded her, curious yet amazed at what they were witnessing. To them it was more than just a sunny ordinary day at the park; this strange girl had caught their attention.

She was a heathy yet thin girl, probably around thirteen years old. She was tall for her age. Her straight blond hair covered her face and fell down all the way to her back. She was wearing a baby blue with white flower print dress that barely covered her knees. Her bare toes cringed with pain. She was sitting on the ground, near a grey bench, her head on her knees, and cuddled up on herself. She was crying.

“… I tapped her on the back to get her attention,” resumed the scrawny boy, but she didn’t even lift her head.” “I tried to gently shake her, but she wouldn’t move! I tried again, but she wouldn’t budge! It was as if I was trying to push a brick wall!” “Wow!” exclaimed the heavy boy as he looked towards the strange girl. “So I ran to my dad,” continued the skinny boy, “and told him the story.”

“I knew he wouldn’t believe me, so I dragged him against his will. He wanted to leave her alone, but I insisted. He tried talking to her, but she said nothing. So to prove my point, I put my hands on her shoulder and leaned my body on her so that I can use all of my strength to push her. Nothing happened. My dad was shocked at what I was doing, I could tell. He firmly grabbed me and severely told me to stop, but curiosity had already gotten the better of him. He looked around to make sure that no one was looking and he hesitated. He extended his arms and gently tried to shake the blond girl. He quickly pulled his hands and gasped when he realized that he couldn’t move her.” “She’s unmovable!” concluded the skinny boy, “try for yourself!”


A multitude of unsatisfied eyes gawked at the mysterious girl. One after another, the witnesses approached her to challenge the myth of the unmovable girl only to be left in awe. A mutter rose among them and fluttered as opinions intermingled with shrieks and laughter.

“She’s prolly a robot,” said an old filthy-looking man

“No,” replied the lady next to him, “she feels like a human”

“It’s technology! Don’t you know anything! Well, I’ve seen it all!” said the old man and he walked away.

The crowd grew bigger and bigger as the local news staff was getting ready to broadcast this amazing story. News reporter Tara Biggs spotted a nice young man, overly excited and sweating heavily; she snatched him for a few questions.

“Hi, I’m with the local news, channel 6; I…”

“I have never seen anything like this! She is beyond this world!”

“Tell me, what makes her so remarkable?”

“Ya can’t move her.”


“Ya can’t move her!…We’ve tried everything!”

“What do you mean?”

“My buddy Sean tried to launch himself at her, but he ended up hurting himself.  We even made the biggest human train to try and push her, but…”

A horrible scream ripped through the silent murmur of the crowd. Then a sudden rumbling noise as the crowd spread away from the little girl. As they ran, some tumbled, some clenched to others, some carried others, and others were stepped on. The reason: the girl stood up.

She looked around a bit confused and still sniffling, barely opening her eyes as if her eyelids were too heavy. She wiped her last tears on her sleeve, sniffled, and stared back at them. Everyone was on full alert.

Tara Biggs made her way through the crowd, caught in her own dilemma, her fears or this unique career opportunity. She chose her career. Keeping a safe distant, she screamed at the little girl, “Can you speak at all?”

She nodded her head shyly, still not understanding what was going on around her.

“Why were you crying?” continued the reporter

“Well, she hesitated, my…

“Why can’t you move?” screamed a random voice in the crowd

“I can move!” said the little girl,excitedly, as she took a step forward.

Tara bravely walked all the way up to the little girl as the crowd watched her closely.  As she bent down to her level to talk to her, she put her hand on her shoulder. It was then that she noticed a strange stiffness about the blond girl who looked at her waiting to hear what she was going to say. Instead she turned around to face her camera crew and signaled them with a waive of the hand to come to her. It was as if she was talking to the whole crowd because everyone started walking towards her.

The crowd animated itself around the girl. There were probing questions, there was excitement, but as soon as there was a sense of security, the pushing started anew. The little girl stood still as they tried.

“Good afternoon, everyone. I’m Tara Biggs. It is the 10th of July. I’m standing in Hampston Park, where we may have found the most peculiar girl.

Around 4:30 this afternoon, we received a call at the station about a girl that was described as ‘unmovable’! Yes, that’s right folks, unmovable! We are now…”

The sound of a roaring bulldozer caught the attention of everyone as they kept quiet for a moment. Soon after the mumbling rose again as they came to realize what the old farmer was about to attempt. Once again questions intermingled with opinions, worries, and excitement

“Is he crazy? I think he’s crazy!”

“Do you think it’ll push her…or even kill her?”

“Ha ha ! He brought his bulldozer. Farmer Joe, you son of a gun!”

The crowd parted to let the bulldozer pass. The little girl stood still as the metallic monster came closer and closer.

Some were opposed, but mostly everyone wanted to see the outcome of the girl versus the bulldozer. The setting was that of a faceoff. The strange girl watched as the bulldozer advanced slowly toward her. Only when it was a couple of inches away did she scream, “Stop!”

The heavy tractor came to a full stop with a loud noise and dust filled the air. The blond girl was visibly upset. Warm tears ran down from her green eyes. She waited until the dust had settled then she spoke with a kind of emotion that transcended her age, her being.

“Why can’t a pretty flower be pretty along side of a road? Why should you cut it into a bouquet? Why can’t a majestic lion be majestic in the savanna? Why should he furnish your zoo? Tell me! Why? If it’s SO beautiful should you exploit its essence?”

She cooled down a bit, sniffled, and calmly said, “And… even though I transgress your reality, your laws and your common sense, why can’t I just be… unmovable?

personality check

I tend to change the way I act around certain people. When I’m with some friends I act a certain way, I act differently with others, so much that they would describe me completely different then the others. For instance some people might describe me as funny, others as quiet, some as outgoing, and others as shy. The reason is that I tend to appeal to the person with which I’m speaking to. Not a bad thing, but when exaggerate it becomes a case of insecurity. I need to appeal to others while staying true to who I am.

Who are you Chameleon?

The Chameleon addressing the flowers said: Ladies! I am yellow! I am green! I am blue! I am red! I am black! I am white! For everything I am, I am not!

and the Rose said:…then what are you not?

the Chameleon, thoughtful, replied: what I…am

and the Rose said: well if you are not you then…

my stomach has a story

My stomach has a story,

He’s shy, so he tickles my spine,

He tried, but he finally resigned

To his fate;

It’s too late.

My feet have a story to tell;

They walked on the sun.

They’re short so they always run.

My heart has a story to tell.

It pumps bitterness all through my veins.

And fear as it tied up with chains.

And my eyes, well why do I see

If Misery is reality?

I cry just to quench my thirst,

And my mouth has a story

But if it opens then air comes in first,

And my stomach pops,

And my heart stops.

My stomach has a story to tell

You’d cry if you ever felt it

But it’s scenic so it’s probably fitted

…Well, I have a story,

I’m shy, so I cuddle with death

I shiver…I can feel his breath

*Dedicated to the children suffering and dying in Darfur. sign the petition

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