SWDD #9 (Part II): Kylo Ren

So on December 18th, a little movie came out called Star Wars The Force Awakens....AND IT WAS AMAZING. There were some errors that I had a problem with, but overall, Finn, Rey, Poe Dameron, and BB-8 are leads that I can happily rally behind. The film had great characters, a healthy balance between nostalgia and innovation, and great action set pieces. I have seen it twice so far, and hope to see it again.

The Force Awakens (as does the franchise)
Image credit: Lucasfilms

Back in September, I wrote the first part of Kylo Ren's SWDD, and talked about how Ren considered his work and efforts to be unfinished. Both he and the First Order viewed themselves as finalizers of the Empire's work (though this is only mentioned briefly in the film, it is expanded upon in the comic book and novelization tie-ins). Having watched the film, there is another biblical lesson that can be gleaned from his expanding arc. Expect full spoilers to be divulged in the post below.

Kylo Ren flanked by Captain Phasma (left) and General Hux (right)
Image credit: Lucasfilms

It was a shock to see that Kylo "Ben Solo" Ren was the son of Han Solo and Princess Leia. Equally surprising was the fact that he destroyed Luke's attempts to rebuild the Jedi Order. Ren seemed like a character that was distant from the protagonists and the fact that such a personal relation could cause so much damage was horrendous (though I guess not necessarily all that surprising in retrospect of the previous Star Wars films). After Han Solo meets Leia after a hiatus of no contact, Leia urges Han to save their son and activate any light that is still left within. Though Han is reluctant, right before the film's climax, Han attempts to reason with Ren, telling Ren that he (Ren) has a choice to neglect the corrupted teachings of Supreme Leader Snoke and to join the light again.

Kylo Ren showcasing the breadth and scope of his powers
Image credit: Lucasfilms

Ren initially dismisses Han's remarks, repeatedly berating "your son is dead!" However, at Han's request, Ren removes his helmet and breaks down to his father. Ren exclaims that he "knows what he (Ren) has to do" (i.e. give up ways of the dark side to rejoin the light) yet he doubts that he has the strength to do so. For Ren, it seems almost easier to hold on to what has corrupted him; the dark side. It is harder for him to (ironically) turn back to the light side and abandon evil. Having been entrenched in the dark side for so long, Ren no longer feels "empowered by it" (as Snoke initially told him), rather, he feels enslaved to it, and drained by it. Han touchingly offers Ren to abandon Snoke once and for all, and to return home. And Ren agrees. He drops his helmet, pulls out his cross-guarded lightsaber, and hands it to Han as a token of surrender. Han grips the saber, but Ren still grips the weapon fiercely. It was one of the most tense moments in the movie. The whole time, Ren is having an inner battle with himself. It seems like such a simple task to simply give the weapon to Han, yet Ren is still so attached to it. Yet it seems like there is hope for Ren. And at the last second, as the lighting for the scene gets darker, Ren activates his lightsaber and impales his father through the chest, rasping a cold "thank you" before letting his (Han's) father's carcass fall.

The new face of evil
Image credit: Lucasfilms

This scene reminds me of two stories. The first is in The Lord of the Rings The Fellowship of the Ring, where Gandalf sternly tells Bilbo to drop the Ring. Bilbo manages to do so, but not without struggle. That much, the Ring was so enticing and had such power over Bilbo. The second story is that of Judas Iscariot. Having betrayed Jesus to the Pharisees, rather than repent Judas decided to hang himself and commit suicide. In the same way, Kylo Ren had an opportunity to walk away from evil (and in Judas' case, sin) for good. Instead, he succumbed to the dark side's enticing power, and sealed his fate by killing his father. Ren was so close! Yet that much, the dark side had a grip on Ren's life. And as a result of Ren's mistake, he ended up killing his father and wounding Finn. Ironically, in the film's novelization, it explains how Ren initially thought that killing Han Solo would empower him, yet instead, he only felt "weakened."

The fallen son
Image credit: Lucasfilms

In the same way, I felt like Ren. The allure of sin seems so enticing. I do not believe that I have the strength to "do what I need to do" which is turn to Jesus. Instead, I wish to keep on fighting the darkness on my own. Though at some points in my life it seems as though I may be victorious, I eventually get overcome by sin. And even after indulging in a sinful act, I only feel weakened. I repeated this cycle of "Sin, Repent, Sin, Repent" for many years, until this year actually. God moved my heart to realize my crucial mistake: that by my own strength, I am powerless against the forces of this world. Instead, I need to acknowledge that I am weak and that it is only God who is strong enough to save me. For so long, I was trying to save myself and it never worked. Thus Romans 10:13 rings so true for me: "Everyone who calls on the name of the Lord will be saved" (NIV). It is not by my name that I can save myself. It is only on the name of Jesus that I can be saved (and how fitting that is given that Christmas was yesterday).

Though there are two more movies to go with Ren's character (I am assuming), I expect that Kylo Ren will continue to grow and develop. I hope to write more SWDDs based off of his character. I hope you enjoyed this one. Be on the lookout for some new ones in the future!

A Post-script: I got Star Wars The Black Series 6 Inch Captain Phasma for Christmas (thank you Appa!), in addition to the Star Wars The Black Series 6 Inch Shock Trooper which is a Walmart exclusive. I wanted to write a SWDD on Phasma, but *SPOILER ALERT* her character was so underutilized in the film. I hope this changes for Episode VIII. Now, all I want are Star Wars The Black Series 6 Inch Jango Fett and Star Wars The Black Series 6 Inch First Order Flametrooper. (Sigh) the struggles of being a toy articulated action figure collector.

The Black Series Captain Phasma

Merry Christmas 2015

Photo credit: http://africachristian.org/wp-content/uploads/2012/12/Christmas-heading-1024x512.jpg

Merry Christmas! Or in other words:

Photo credit:http://heritageacademy.hfcus.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/07/Happy-Birthday-Jesus.jpg

I want to wish everyone a very Merry Christmas. On this day, Jesus Christ our Savior was born. On this day, God sent his son to become a human being to live and dwell among us. On this day, the death of evil was sealed. I am reminded now of John 1:1, which reads "In the beginning there was the word, and the word was God and the word was with God" (NIV). Later, in John 1:14, it states "The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. We have seen his glory, the glory of the one and only Son, who came from the Father, full of grace and truth" (NIV). This same word that was in there in the beginning has come to Earth to save me, an unworthy sinner. On this day, let us celebrate the gift of God's son!

Civilized Zombies

I will give you a little bit of context for this poem. I am describing my time walking through this place:

It is a Korean marketplace, filled with everything from fresh produce, heavenly pastries, and live aquatic life. Hope you enjoy this!

As soon as my mother’s eyes look away, I reach for my freedom,

It comes in a rusty cart, with 3 working wheels, and some coupons tacked on,

Yet I could not have wished for a better steed

Despite its modest speed, its company is all I need to succeed

As I propel myself into the sliding glass doors before me

Gripping the handlebars, my 12 inch legs make quick flutter kicks, and the tires follow my lead,

They awake from their slumber, and squeak angrily,

Yet despite their stubbornness, I avoid the stampede,

Of hands and fingers that reach for,

What has been grown on God’s green Earth

Customers hold their spoils in plastic bags,

They plop them on bouncing bowls to determine who stays and who goes,

Here in this mart, you can’t tell friend from foe,

Killer deals become reality, if you accidentally steal their tomato

Because I guess $.29 for bananas is enough to make a fuss,

While $2 for almonds can make people go nuts,

All produce lies dormant, surely a degradation of God’s creation

They refuse my efforts to help them escape, they lie waiting to be taken,

Even if I was a Jedi I couldn’t help them…no force would help them awaken

Yet as I push my cart forward, it is in a watery graveyard that I find life,

Price markers are tombstones, telling how much I need to pay per pound to satisfy my appetite  

Though I can choose what carcass I want to buy

The deceased don’t have a say in how they are presented,

Apparently their requests for cremation are lost in translation,

Bodies are heaped on top of each other like a sundae, ice-cream formation,

In death there is no separation by race, creed, or nation, as the mollusks are lumped with the crustaceans,

And slippery eels lie lifeless next to red snappers and octopi,

Lobsters foam at the mouth and blue crabs wonder what time they are to die,

The lucky flounders protect themselves in crowded tanks,

But they are no match for the butcher’s hands,

Giant claws that scoops their struggling bodies out,

As stainless knives slam down on scaly necks,

While their friends watch in horror, not wanting to be next,

And as my heart tears at this sanguine killing spree,

A scream rips through exclaiming “Sushi! Buy one get one free!”

And with that, my sympathy immediately leaves me

After feasting on the corpses of the dead, I stand in line with fellow competitors,

Though I do not understand them, they were sojourners with me in this adventure,

Because even as they speak in different characters,

We all ended up at the same register 

Happy Thanksgiving 2015

Photo Credit: http://thesovereigninvestorcom.c.presscdn.com/

¡Feliz Día de Acción de Gracias (o Día de Pavo)!

I want to wish everyone a Happy Thanksgiving!  As on this day I reflect on the goodness of God, I am reminded that the time for thanksgiving should not just be reserved to today, but it should be an incumbent part of my daily life. 1 Thessalonians 5:16-16 states "Always be joyful. Never stop praying. Be thankful in all circumstances, for this is God’s will for you who belong to Christ Jesus" (NLT). Let us always be thankful to God, no matter the circumstances of our lives.

Disappointment

is what this poem is...just kidding (at least I hope so). I will expand upon this soon. Consider this part 1...


The cerebral layers of my mind are aged
Its grey matter deteriorates, repercussions of war that was waged,
Deep within the battlefield of my brain,
Looking around at the aftermath, efforts to find survivors are vain
Dreams deferred lie broken, robbed of all their vibrant Hughes (hues)
Expectations lie shattered, their shards pierce, cut, and bruise
Yes, my mind is a battlefield
My brain, serving as a stage for both expectation and reality,
Though both once grew up together, living peacefully in neutrality,
Now, brutal battles break peace and shatter tranquility,
Lucid dreams that once soared, fly no more,
They sink down to the floor, simply another casualty of this war…
Though they occupy the same place, the can’t meet face to face
Both come from different worlds…
Expectation resides in my imaginary castles and makes its bed amongst the stars
Reality sleeps on cracked and brackish pavement, sustained by the venomous exhaust from cars
Like Cain and Abel, as soon as I wake they offer me their first fruits
Depending on which I take, my day can take on two different moods
With expectation, I can peruse and live out my fantasies,
Yet when I see reality, I realize that all I imagined was a fallacy
That the world’s physicality cannot beat the pristine images of my mind,
I then realize that my expectations are unreasonable; I have been blind
Yet reality’s present company keeps my lofty dreams locked away,
Their flesh deteriorates, and I see that nothing gold can stay
So when expectations prove too grand, and my present realities do not reflect perfection,
It is not sadness or anger that I feel; instead I been infected
By a new type of feeling that numbs my veins like poison
Rooted in the failures of expectations and reality, is disappointment

Berwyn Battles

I must apologize one more for my lack of posting. My only alibis are two words: COLLEGE APPLICATIONS! Haha but they are not all bad. They are requiring me to look deep within myself and analyze myself critically so for that, I thank all of the Universities. Way back in 2014, I submitted a piece to a writing contest sponsored by the American Writers Museum. More info can be found here. Writers such as Gwendolyn Brooks, Lorraine Hansberry, Studs Terkel, and Richard Wright all used their own unique life experiences and neighborhoods as the backdrops for their literary works. The contest, in turn, wanted to give students a venue to craft poems, essays, and fiction based on their neighborhoods. I submitted a piece entitled Berwyn Battles. I was confident and proud of my piece, but also knew that there were a lot of other great student writers in Chicago who came from much more interesting neighborhoods than my own (relatively speaking). In short, I was not expecting to win. This contest served as a way for me to continue my "musings." Yet on January 19th, 2015, I received an email and confirmation stating that my piece had won the Special Rutledge 2015 Award and that it would be published The Great Lakes Review, a prolific writing magazine! I was (and still am!) so elated and ecstatic! Finally, just a week or two ago, the hard copy of the magazine came in! 

The Front Cover!

I would like to thank the American Writers Museum as well as the Rutledge Writing Contest for this tremendous honor. Please support both groups by purchasing copies of the magazine here. My poem that I submitted is below. My inspiration for this piece can be found here (where I am quoted!). 



“This is Berwyn.”
Shot fired, feet racing, arms pounding, eyes raising
“Doors open on the right at Berwyn.”
Ready….Set….Go!

The hinges of the door crepitate like broken legs
The traveler, previously glued to his 16G screen of light, transforms into an Olympic athlete and leaps off the worn iron cage
Racing down Spaulding Street to get to his home, his feet stomp the ground with apprehension, hoping to reach the finish line before night falls
Emerald blades fall from the towering bodies of bark and tickle his loosely tied Jordan Retro 99’s 
Salty perspiration drips from his face and falls on to the scarred ground
His tongue screeches for water after the first checkpoint, but he pounds his thirst to submission
Eyes locked in like a lion upon its prey, his sights are on the prize:
A home of comfort, and a life of privilege 
A warm meal, and an overflowing fridge
Yet a life of this kind comes at a cost
Requiring to sap life out of those who have lost
For while he runs for the gold, he sees those who have been disqualified from the competition
Images flash across his mind of what resides in South side of the track
He sees those whose legs have been broken by the yoke of injustice
Those strategically sprawled along the field, their faces tuned to the perfect sound of hunger and hopelessness
They were once golden like him, yet have fallen victim to temptation, debt, and homelessness
Their sins rust their pristine and shine
Their decaying composition giving them an unfavorable disposition in the eyes of the privileged
But he has the chance to break the trance of subtle submission
To make it his mission to aid the poor and destitute and not turn the other cheek
To stand up tall rather than be meek

Yet he keeps on running…
Feet sinking into the steps of those before him, not breaking new ground

He slows to a sprint as he surveys the area before him
The track becomes more familiar, as the rocky pavement revamps into a silky pasture of sod and earth
Wiping the sweat from his brow, he vaults over the last moral hurdle: a misshapen and amorphous frame of a figure holding a cup, hoping for change
The athlete breathes a sigh of relief, letting the cool air caress his face
As he examines what he calls home…

The apartment complexes stack together tightly like teeth after they have been fixed by braces
Each one balancing windows, doors, and secret entrances like a towering fortress of Jenga blocks
Weeds permeate the coarse grass, segregating the dandelion majority from the daisy minority
Each plant must fight for a share of rain and ground
Streaks of grey, red, black, and white all line up without a sound
Lying dormant and sardonically mocking those who have no parking
But the serene peace is shattered by deafening barking
Emerging from the lips of battle-worn canines, their snouts looking for blood and their teeth ready for war
But they shift into famished hounds, drawn to the aura of food
Other runners waving hi, attempting to burn off the chunks of Jimmy Johns, Philly Steaks, and McDonalds that cling to them like a fishing hooks
The owners of restaurants are filled to the brim with grease and “fresh ingredients” and who keep the heavenly smells confined to their buildings, not wanting to attract the rusted folk
The shriek of cicadas fill the air while squirrel, raccoon, possum, and rabbit scurry about
Smoke and gasoline permeate the air, sapping out any substance of cleanliness

Yet the runner breathes it all in and drinks up the world he sees
Feeling hydrated by comfort and invigorated by bliss
Yet his head spins with injustice as the leeches of sympathy latch to him
Sucking out the scales that cover his eyes and the melting the heart of stone
For though he has crossed the finish line, there are those who were left in the dust
Those who did not have the experience of safety
His condemnation turns into a tone of humiliation
And gives up the gold and his life of comfort, to help the fallen

40 Days and 40 Nights

The fleshy gears of my sockets creak open
Working past dry crust and pleasant dreams,
My residence seems serene as I look upon the scene,
That makes up my place of rest
I gain control of my fingers once more and weave them through the velvet that surrounds me
Elation and fascination springs from the core of my bunk, as my blanket peppers me with silk kisses
I express my thanks to the brave warrior who protects me from the cold
This comforting sensation has become my salvation as it urges me to rest for a longer duration
But the icy winds are backed up by another friend,
And my eyes immediately sense,
That a much more sinister plot is about to commence
For the tarp is pulled over and my peace is shattered
The composed atmosphere becomes scattered,
As I see the solid screen of light reading 5:29
Only a minute more before show time
Only a minute before I must rise and shine,
A minute more before life takes what is mine

As it takes my rest and my alluring covers,
And casts them aside
What if, I don’t want to get up?
I cry to the Lord, saying “I do not want your cup!”
For the pleasures of the world are much more enticing
Sleek, bold, and seductively inviting
They are much more popular and tailor to what my body craves
So yes, I don’t think I’ll get up…
But hear me my friends, for I succeed against other temptations
At least when it comes to eating unhealthy food, I have a stronger foundation
For it is only at my weakest when I eat oily wrapped morsels
On days that are hard, I justify my binging
I claim that I deserve my prize
Which consists of a double play, some candy, and cheese fries
I attempt to run past, but the succulent smells of high calorie food wafer in,
Barging in to my nostrils and searching the house, before implanting themselves upon my heart, releasing the lustful motives
I don’t mean to succumb,
It is just that, I am so glum
Their greasy features promise release
How can I possibly not indulge in the midst of defeat?
But the trials do not stop there,
For on days where life has become a sack of bricks crushing me down,
The idea of “giving up” seems much more sound
For as I write, my blood seeps into from my veins into the pen,
As the liquid life of my body becomes the ink in which I compose
No longer do I type on the keyboard, lightly stecattoing with the grace of a pianist
Instead, I hit random keys hoping some combo will make sense

Morals and desires clash, preparing for a bloody war
But I must rise above and push away,
Despite the alluring index finger of my cravings
So when you see me hear standing today,
Know that many battles were fought to arrive
And though delicacies of the world appear to save us from our selfish starvation,
It is best to persevere and retaliate, rather than give in to temptation 

Serpent

Smart and cunning
It manipulates and tricks its prey
Yet for all its knowledge
It is still hated and looked at in disgust

The Empty Stands

After this post, it will be back to fresh new content (though I doubt that I will be able to post as frequently as I have with these pieces). This short-short story was one that I wrote in 8th grade. 


“Nice job, Jake!” 
Jake turned his head to see someone from the stands wave and holler excitedly. He grumbled and walked away. One of his friends jumped off from the stands and walked over to him.
“You did really well back there,” he said.
“Oh thanks,” mumbled Jake shrugging off his comrade’s hand. 
“You okay?” he asked. “I mean I know you’re sad about… you know…”
“Yeah, thanks,” Jake cut in curtly and walked away.
He got to the bus stop and waited impatiently. He fought back the urge to cry, gripping the bench. Five months. Five whole months since that tragic news Why did that have to happen? He missed seeing his dad telling him “Good game, son!” He missed his mom pampering him with hugs, even though at the time he would push her away.
“I should have gotten over this,” Jake muttered angrily. “It’s stupid to cry about this.” But then again it wasn’t. He now worried about his future.
“Hey!” Jake heard someone yell.  He turned his head and saw his 12-year-old sister.
“What?” Jake asked, annoyed yet pleased at the same time to see her.
“What’s wrong?”  
“Whenever I look up to the stands, I have to get used to not seeing their faces,” he said, standing up.  “Now, winning isn’t as fun as it used to be when they were around to cheer me on.”  
At that moment a beat-up Saturn drove up to the sidewalk. The window rolled down to reveal a woman’s face. They both groaned. Their aunt was a kind person but it was just that... well, she never kept in touch. She might have had some sort of disagreement with their mom in the past, so the pair never knew she was alive until now. She never had kids, so for her it was a bit hard to talk or communicate. 
“I got a surprise for you Jake,” Aunt Leah said excitedly, turning the ignition and speeding away.
“What about me?” Tina pouted. Jake snorted. That was his sister always thinking of herself. It was one of the things he loved about her.
“I’ll get you something, Tina, my dear,” she said “but I just want to give Jake a gift for winning some of his football games!” 
“If you really wanted to give my brother a gift you should come to one of his games,” Tina scolded looking out the window. The light turned green. Their aunt drove away. 
“You will love it, Jake. I guarantee you that,” their aunt said happily. 
They finally arrived at the house. Their aunt briskly walked into the house and rushed into the bedroom.
Their aunt squealed while lifting the tarp off a brand new Xbox 360. Jason sat there dumbfounded. 
“I knew you would love it!” Aunt Leah shrieked. She quickly brought over a cardboard box. 
“So here are controllers so when your friends come over, you can all play,” she said 
“Next are the games,” she said “now I didn’t exactly know what kind of games a fourteen-year-old would play so I got these,” their aunt said pulling out two games.
“If you don’t like them feel free to return them,” their aunt said placing the two games next to the controllers. “And here we have…“and so she began. 
“STOP!” roared Jake. 
His aunt was so shocked she fell backwards and landed on the Xbox 360. Even Tina seemed taken aback, and she had been known to withstand tornados.  
“So you don’t want the Xbox,” Aunt Leah replied sounding a bit annoyed.
“No, no, I love it,” Jake said quickly. “I’ll play it, but I would really like you to come to one of my games. Cheer me on, you know,” Jake said. 
“Fine, whatever,” she said throwing her arms up in the air. 
Jake headed down to the basement. Whenever Jake went down here he felt as if his parents were there with him. He sat down in his father’s rocking chair. Then Jake noticed something under his old bed.  Curious he went down to pick it up. It turns out that they were two handcrafted wooden boxes. Jake opened one of the little boxes. Inside it looked as though there were thousands of pieces of paper, cards, and objects.  There was so much it was hard to believe the little box would hold so much.  He opened them.  Tina came down to the basement to investigate.
 Jake picked up a piece of battered paper. ”Be strong and courageous.  Do not be terrified…” Jake and Tina both looked at each other and began to laugh. 
“Remember when he wrote that?” Tina laughed.
“How could I forget,” Jake chuckled, “I can’t believe he still kept this after all these years.” They both smiled and looked back on that fateful day.
Outside there was a severe thunderstorm. The power was off and Jake was 12 at the time and Tina was 10. “Daddy, I’m scared,” Tina had mumbled huddling in her blanket. The thunder boomed again, and it nearly shook the whole house. Smiling, Jake’s dad grabbed a piece of paper and wrote those words. “Now darling,” he had said bending down and placing his hand on her. He beckoned for Jake to come over. “Whenever you’re scared I want you to think of these words.” he said stroking her hair and giving Jake pat on the back. “Okay daddy,” they both responded with confidence. “Remember: don’t worry about your life or your future or what will happen to you. Your mother and I will always be here for you both whether in body or in spirit.”
 The dynamic duo glanced at each other; their frowning faces transforming into half-hearted smiles. 
“I guess it’s a start,” Tina said breaking the spell.
“Hopefully,” Jake said, nodding his head.

A Feast for the Heart (Chapter 2): Heartfelt Honesty

Hopefully, I will have the opportunity to get back to this. I have quite a few other projects that I want to complete first, but I do want to complete this story.


“Joshua,” another official exclaimed, shooting carping look towards Edgar, “a servant cannot hardly...” 

“King Joshua,” the king corrected. The official flashed a look of momentary annoyance before bowing again and uttering a note of apology. “Furthermore,” the king continued, “since I am the king, this gives me the right to grant certain privileges and I wish to use that power now and have this servant sit with us. Is that problem, Volstagg?”

Volstagg did not reply. The other officials nodded their heads in silent agreement. 

“Excellent,” the king said before kindly beckoning Edgar to take part in the meal. 

“Now why don’t you tell me your name?” 

Edgar reluctantly sat down, not wishing to incur the wrath of yet another official, yet also unwilling to disobey the king.

“It’s Edgar. Edgar sir,” he said.

“A wonderful name,” the king exclaimed, “and you did say you are from House 1313, correct?”

“Yes sir,” Edgar declared.

“How is it? Is it like my officials always say: bad-smelling, lazy and grouchy people, spawn house of drunkards and gluttons, an over-resourced place that wastes time and money?” the king tested with a slight tone of amusement.

Edgar thought of his house. It was the place where he had been assigned to since birth. It was a place he both loved and always complained about. He loved his friends. But he and they all complained of the smell, the location, the sleepless nights, and the anger that had all accompanied the fishing and marine life trade. Yet had he ever given thanks to the people who were willing to sacrifice things for him despite their fatigue? Did he ever acknowledge the fact that even though they were the poorest of all the 1400 houses and yet the people were humble, hardworking, and always willing to do good and faithful work.

No he did not. He had been feeding into the same lie the officials had put into his house. Now this king was also being fed with false information.

“His silence and surprise clearly displays that such claims are the truth,” Volstagg said, crunching on the grilled crawfish. “Now please, don’t waste your time with such people; enjoy and let’s continue.”

“Actually,” Edgar snapped, in a tone that was a bit more forceful than he meant, “my people are bad-smelling, and can be grouchy at times. We have to work 18 hours a day to make sure that the fresh seafood is ready. We are not rich. We are not even from the same cultures. Many have immigrated here from other countries. Some see us as a melting pot of all that is low in our world. But I see us as a mosaic where individual stands of color are distinct and together their sum adds a complexity and texture that no single color can generate. We are connected and bound together by our hardship and our labor. Yet we are still willing to serve one another even when our days are long and hard. We...”

Edgar would have liked to continued but he stopped himself mid-sentence. He already knew he had probably said too much. The look of anger in one official’s face said: You are doomed, boy! If he was lucky, he would be fired and thrown into the streets. At worst, he could be tortured to death, have all of his possessions destroyed, see his friends killed, and have his family watch him suffer. His imagination spun scenarios where the consequences were dire and horrifying.

A new hostile air filled the room, working its way into the voices and exclamations of the officials. Volstagg opened his mouth but the king silenced him.

“Do you know why I have the “king’s banquet” every year?” the king asked. “It is because I believe that a ruler must first serve his people. They are the ones he is asked to lead. For a while, the connection between the king and the people has been lost. But you, Edgar, have reminded me why we must connect.”

Edgar could not believe what he was hearing. He looked again into the eyes of young King Joshua. Though they reflected a rash and inexperienced boy who would undoubtedly make mistakes, they also beamed with compassion. May be the future could still burn bright. 

“I think, Edgar, I would like to hear more. Sit. Your king is listening.” 

With that one invitation, hope sprang to life. 

A Feast for the Heart (Chapter 1): No Small Surprise

This is the first of a two chapter short story that I wrote during my early high school years (I'm still on the nostalgic motif of digging up old school work and posting it). It has been slightly updated, and an abridged version was even published in my school newspaper. Enjoy!

“Do you think you people have all day? You don’t! Where’s my main man? C’mon people! On the double! This meal has to be perfect! If you don’t hurry up, one random person of my choosing will be in charge of disposing the garbage after shrimp day!” 

The voice blared across the ancient speakers and resounded between the stacks of modern porcelain plates. Waiters, servants, and chefs were bustling around the expansive kitchen like bees in a hive, carrying scalding pots of liquid or carcasses of lobster, squid, and shark. All the pieces were in order. The man of the hour, however, was nowhere to be found...

The unseen entity, quickly seeing that the victim had not stepped forth, proceeded to roar across the hall again, doubling the amount of ferocity and volume that had preceded the first roar.

“EDGAR! If you don’t get your good-for-nothing-shrimp carcass down here in 2 seconds, you’ll be cleaning fish tanks with nothing but a toothbrush and some hand sanitizer!” 

A pocket-sized man emerged from the crevices of the main kitchen. He was dwarfish in size and could have been classified as a tall child or a condensed adult. His white vest had a splotch of red on the collar and his hair was stringy, long, unkempt, and uneven, like a ball of overcooked spaghetti.  He quickly put on a hat and hid the tangled mess.

Edgar strode forward, his hands gripping the handle of the steel cart that he was pushing. The tires squealed and squawked as the cart rolled down the narrow hallway, as though resisting Edgar’s push, agreeing with him that volunteering to bring the king’s meal down was a bad idea. 

“What were you thinking?” muttered Edgar angrily to himself, lifting up the platinum lid of the gold tray, peering in to make sure the contents were there, as if someone would have dared risk the king’s anger by leaving something out. 

Smoke steamed up, providing a thin layer of mist over Edgar’s glasses but from what he could see, everything looked...alright. The lobster was pasted with a clear vibrant ruby hue, blanketed by buttery and oil-glossed noodles. 

“This all looks so good...” Edgar said to himself with a sigh of relief. “But if that’s true,” said a little voice in his head, “why are you so nervous?”

“It better be good,” a voice said from behind Edgar. Edgar spun around, swerving the cart and almost knocking down the assailant who had startled him.

“Oh...it’s just you Quackenbush,” Edgar said, adding a layer of confidence in his voice while inside sighing with relief. 

Quackenbush frowned, his face forming a mirror image of that of a squashed cockroach. “Of course it’s me,” he snapped in an irritated tone, “who else would they put in charge of organizing the King’s annual banquet?” 

“Right right...just you, of course,” mumbled Edgar, trying to layer as much sarcasm in his voice as possible. Quackenbush smiled and puffed out his chest in happiness, this time his appearance changing into that of an upside down giraffe. 

“Don’t you forget it,” he said after a long pause, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping his eyes. “Now, hurry up! I can’t let one incompetent fool make me look bad on the day of my promotion!”

“You don’t need me for that to happen,” Edgar slurred under his breath. 

“What was that?” Quackenbush snapped, plastering his face adjacent to Edgar, so Edgar could see how the facial features worked in unison to create the personification of a squashed cockroach.

“Nothing,” Edgar said, adjusting his bowtie and re tying his laces. 

Quackenbush stepped back, pulling out a handkerchief and dabbing at the beads of sweat that had formed due to the heat of the meal. 

“Our house rarely gets called to give the king’s meal,” he grouched, “so you better not disappoint.” 

With that, he strode off, continuing to bark at the other waiters about how the marlins needed more seasoning or that the fruit salad required three full Rapoza mangoes instead of seven. 

Edgar was able to make it to the far end of the hallway without any other major mishaps or interruptions. He felt powerful, being able to curtly address his fellow waiters by showing how important the task of delivering the king’s food was and brush past the security sectors without waiting for the lines. He felt in control, the dominance seeping out through him and plastering all of his actions. Before he opened the door that would take him to the heavenly palace of the king, he turned around and stared at the greasy and bustling room. 

House 1313. The smallest of the houses, right by the sea, known for its marine cuisine... these were the banal descriptions of the home that had served him faithfully for many years. 

I should be grateful, Edgar thought to himself. I mean, how many houses can say that they had served the king? Ever since the great divide, spots for becoming officials had decreased. No wonder Quackenbush was envious of him...

“Halt!” 

The cart skidded to a sudden stop, knocking the gold silverware and the platinum napkins onto the floor. Edgar looked up to see a Stoic, misshapen, and yet amorphous frame of a figure, with the only identifiable thing being a muddled ruby crest that identified him with the king’s elite guard. 

“I am so sorry...” Edgar exclaimed swooping down to the floor and fumbling with the fallen napkins and silverware, cursing to himself that he had not put them in his pockets. “I just didn’t see you there.”

Stoic’s bumbling mass of muscle congealed into a solid form towering several feet above the Edgar, and after sizing Edgar up and down, Stoic smirked and said“Don’t mess up in there” before pointing to the room that would take him to the king’s dining hall. 

Edgar quietly entered into the hall, taking extra care not to creak the door as he closed it. His efforts were futile, and the wood scraped against the stone floors of the castle. Edgar winced but congratulated himself on at least making the effort to be courteous. His eyes then scanned the room. It was smaller and less extravagant than he expected, with no gold statues or colorful paintings decorating the walls. There was only one dull-colored portrait of King Arch, the previous king who had fallen in battle. 

“Ahem,” a gruff voice said, “Are you not here to serve us dinner?”

Clearly defined by their bright garments, silver rings, lavish swords that hung beside their leather belts, puffy faces, and bulging bellies, were the officials. Known to speak too much and act to little, they were treated begrudgingly with respect and munificence. There was another man next to the officials; a scrawny and young boy, no doubt, perhaps not even the age of 18. He had scruffy hair and a face that radiated an authority and power that did not match up to his more modest physique. He must just be the spoiled brat of an official, thought Edgar.

“Of course. Right away, sir.” Edgar murmured in response to the official, “but the king isn’t here yet…shouldn’t we wait for him?”

“How dare you!” the official snapped. “You speak out of your place! I should have you fired! Killed! Tortured! Mutilated! Destroyed! You are an abomination to society, you are...”

“Relax Cramer,” the spirited boy said stifling a hidden smile, “I don’t have the appearance of a king so naturally this servant would not know of my status.”

Edgar bowed swiftly to the “newly named” king, spluttering nervously and barely catching his breath. “I’m sorry your majesty, I just didn’t...” 

“It is fine,” the king said with a tone that indicated true understanding. “Now please, sit down with us and tell us more about what makes House 1313 so great.”

A Suitor's Change of Heart

Well, school OFFICIALLY started a day ago, so in honor of that, I want to post one of the very first pieces of writing that I ever wrote for high school. At the time of this post, this piece is 4 years old! Originally titled Eurymakhos' Soliloquy, this is a piece that I wrote for an Odyssey unit that I did for my Honors English I class. This soliloquy is written from the perspective of Eurymakhos, the second-in-command of the suitors after the head suitor Antínoös was killed by Odysseus. I was bound by the canon of The Odyssey, so unfortunately the deep reflections that Eurymakhos goes through do not change his outcome (i.e. getting brutally murdered by Odysseus) but similar to Scar's Soliloquy, it enabled me to write from the perspective of the villain (as a way to humanize the antagonist) before he meets his grisly and macabre end. 


Who is this man? This man before me?
Sprung up out of the ground as though he is a tree…
Claiming boldly that he is that Odysseus.
His intent to murder seems quite serious.
He struck my comrade down so easily, that fellow Antínoös,
As though help aided him from above, in the form of Lord Zeus.
But look! He’s staring at me now!
Determined to stick an arrow in my gullet, and having my lover Melántho clean my corpse.
His actions are... understandable.
This outcome was not unforeseeable.
Slaying his goats, killing his swine…
Plundering his house, drinking his wine
Should vengeance not have been expected?
If Ithaca’s finest had conspired to ruin him?
I never believed that Odysseus would come home.
I assumed him lost or killed, maybe went to Rome
But yet here he is…standing before me,
With his son beside him, ready to kill.
I never meant to have my life end in blood.
I am the oldest, the first of a new brood.
Why did I live my life so recklessly?
During this period of 20 years,
I could have been the voice of reason and clarity.
Now it is too late, and death is at my door.
Here comes Odysseus...
I am not ready to die.
Losing to a beggar, hitting someone with a stool,
My pride and honor has been lost
In these last moments of my life, how can I reclaim it?
I cannot part from this world in such shame.
See now he has aimed his bow, choosing a target,
My chance is gone…But wait… a new thought has dawned!
Oh Odysseus come here and see!
A soul willing to meet a just reward.
I may die and it is all well deserved.
But if I kiss fate with courage,
Muses will sing of my just death.
But ha! Who cares a thing for honor these days?
I lost it long ago, when I squandered his livestock and seduced his maids.
There might still be an escape!
Is this my sword which I see before me? Right here at my belt?
Ready to be drawn, my own deliverance at hand?
This blade can bring about the end as quick as it began.
Wretched soul that I am, I’m sure to land on Hades’ shore.
But why not make Odysseus fight a little, and let him earn his kill.
To end my life, he needs to be a man of great skill
So farewell Eurymakhos, you have had a good run!
Fight with all you have and don’t stop, till you’re done!

SWDD #8 (Part 1): Kylo Ren

This past Friday (September 4th) was Force Friday, the NATIONAL unveiling of all Star Wars Episode VII The Force Awakens merchandise/action figures. Being the true fan that I was, I dragged my brother out at the crack of dawn (5:45) to camp out at the nearest Target/Toys R Us to help get my hands on two coveted items: Star Wars The Black Series 6 Inch Kylo Ren and Star Wars The Black Series 6 Inch First Order Stormtrooper. Initially I was worried, because I had heard stories of the night before about people trampling over each other to get the new merchandise. However, my plan, devotion, and lack of sleep worked better than I thought, I was able to secure the two gems without any sort of scuffle or skirmish (now all I want is the Star Wars The Black Series 6 Inch Captain Phasma)

The Black Series Kylo Ren and First Order Stormtrooper

Though I am an avid collector of Marvel Legends, Marvel Select, DC Collectibles, Transformers, and Star Wars The Black Series, I have never been able to secure "First Editions" of rare products, so to speak. So getting these figures is an accomplishment for me. Thus, to celebrate, I have decided to do a new Star Wars Daily Devotional based off of the primary baddie of Star Wars Episode VII, Kylo Ren. Now the movie does not come out till December 18th, and Lucasfilms has been pretty good in terms of keeping spoilers and details about Kylo under wraps. Most of the elements below have been taken from official sites, so the backstory here will be somewhat vague and general. Once the films comes out in December, I intend to watch it and release a more thorough part 2 for this character.

Kylo Ren, the fierce enforcer of the First Order
Image credit: Lucasfilms

Kylo Ren is a member of the Knights of Ren, a shadowy organization that was formed years after the Battle of Endor. The Knights of Ren existed were similar to the Sith in the sense that members of the Sith would receive the surname "Darth" (i.e. Darth Maul, Darth Tyranus, Darth Sidious, Darth Vader, etc.) and thus, members of the Knights of Ren would receive the surname of "Ren." Kylo Ren fashioned his own twisted lightsaber with a crossguard, and allied with Supreme Leader Snoke of the First Order, with the intent of crushing the Resistance (the remnants of the Rebel Alliance) and the last members of the Jedi. The First Order was founded to be the successor to the Empire (which was created by the Emperor and Darth Vader). Members of the First Order saw the works of the Empire not as failures, but rather as unfulfilled endeavors. Members of the First Order view themselves as the beneficiaries of what came before and wish to finish what the Empire started. For example, now the First Order has a superweapon that can threaten entire star systems, compared to the Empire's Death Star, which threatened planets.

Adam Driver as Kylo Ren in Star Wars Episode VII The Force Awakens
Image credit: Lucasfilms

Kylo Ren is the perfect physical manifestation of the First Order's mission statement. Ren's armor, mask, speech pattern, and distinct (yet still menacing) lightsaber are all meant to pay homage to Darth Vader. Ren sees Vader's work simply as unfulfilled and in every area, is trying to complete what Vader could not. Everything of and on Ren has been upgraded and magnified, when compared to Vader. Ren's crossguard saber funnels and emits a constant stream of static electricity, rather than solidifying into a solid, crimson blade. This quality is indicative of his ragged and aggressive fighting style. His mask, though distinguishable and noticeable, is shrouded by a dark hood, providing a dichotomy that gives light to his physically intimidating qualities, while also promising viewers that there are unseen dangers to him as well. In every way, Kylo Ren represents a "more complete" work than Darth Vader and an accumulation of both the Empire and the First Order's mission statements

Seeing Ren's fierce obsession with Darth Vader and his desire to be a "more complete" First Order enforcer reminded me of Philippians 1:6 which states "being confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus" (NIV). Now the "good work" that I want completed in me is not to be a Sith Lord or brutal enforcer, but rather to be Christ-like. I should have confidence and hope in the fact that Jesus has been working within me even before I was conceived in my mother's womb and till the day he returns, he will continue to mold me and transform me. In turn, I should strive daily in my actions to be like Christ. Being a sinner and one who is of lustful flesh, I will always fall short, but I should repent, and still strive to pursue and hold on to the truth that is Jesus Christ. 2 Corinthians 3:18 also confirms this, stating "And we all, who with unveiled faces contemplate the Lord’s glory, are being transformed into his image with ever-increasing glory, which comes from the Lord, who is the Spirit" (NIV). So while Kylo Ren's "passions" are misplaced and are bent on evil, I can be (cautiously) inspired by his devotion, and strive to be passionate for Jesus and seek to imitate and contemplate Jesus' glory.

I hope you enjoyed this unexpected installment of the SWDD series. Check back in December for part 2 where I will expand more on Kylo Ren's character after seeing Episode VII.

Poem of Experience: Dark Liberation

Sorry that I have not posted in a while...this installment of the Poems of Innocence and Experience took longer to write than I initially thought. Alas, it is finished! I probably won't make another set of these for a few months...but I have an idea of where I want to go with the third outing.


Specks dance around circles of light
They are encased in a dance floor that points up to the sky
Flying up in the air, they are lifted by their partners 
Caught in a tango with the tempo on the outside

The circular border allows for free motions,
As the draft spins the specks, twirling them around 
Extending its hand in invitation as a new song begins
A slower movement keeps the actions on the ground

Yet while the specks dance, the light strains
It’s lone rebel, fighting against the night
Its rays shield the speck’s dance from becoming too intimate
Nothing can be seen, no victory is in sight

The horde of night beckons the light to fade
It attempts to wrap it with its dim arms, to hug it within its embrace
The light pushes back and holds tight but knows that it’s only a matter of time,
Before the battery dies and it succumbs to the night’s might

Yet others join in the war against black
Family members materialize from lumps of shade
Though shocked, they come ready to brawl 
Arsenals ready, they come with no first aid 

Cylindrical torches beat away bits like hammers
Double-A batteries streak across chests like packs of ammo,
They wield wax candles like daggers,
Cutting up the night, making it bleed shadows

These additional reinforcements illuminate pockets of the house
The striking of matches is a battle cry for the light
Aromas of wax soothe the fighting members,
But left behind is one individual not joining in the fight

I…stare empty at the chaos 
My lunar sockets contain white moons 
They gaze to search for what is lost 
Scanning throughout the foreign room

Yet though my eyes search, my mind sleeps
My legs lie unmoving, crossed comfortably 
I want to wrap around darkness like a cloak,
To break my Earthly duties and walk freely

Pencils lie dormant, needing to be lead
Empty sheets are ravenous for graphite, waiting to be filled
Books sleep on their spines waiting to be read
A sea of pearly trees have been killed 

So I leave behind my assignments as a sacrifice to the night
Thankful that because of its intrusion I can unwind
Oh how easy it is to submit to the overflow of my heart 
Rather than fight against the current do what is right 

I am drawn to what the darkness offers 
For night is young, while the morning is old
It promises release from my pain, for in the day, I suffer
I can’t be myself in the light, yet at night I can be bold 

Yet I know this is my nature speaking
For since the beginning my flesh has craved to hide
So while the night’s temporary release is appealing 
It is my identity as God’s child where I must abide

So I pick up my light and shine it throughout the house
Knowing daily I must illuminate my heart to reveal the evil within me
So while I want to hold tight to what is easy
When I surrender all, I am the most free 

So I stare once more at the specks,
None stir; their time has come to an end
So when the light returns, it will no longer make me mad 
Instead, it is an invitation for me to dance