Happy Thanksgiving 2015

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¡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.