This is my attempt at writing
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What makes you laugh?
I’ve written a satirical post on climate change that might interest someone looking for a laugh.
Read A Reality Deferred
Preview:
And so considering that my life is being used to measure the degree of change, taking place in this country, it makes sense that I should create a satirical Post entitled the war on climate change.
Climate change is a bad thing places that are supposed to be warm, becoming cold, and places that are supposed to be cold melting
“It’s not you it’s me” seems appropriate.
I love to help other people succeed although, in my later years, less often than before. Let’s just say college drove me into self preservation mode and I haven’t been the same since.
I see it. The children resisting any form of authority that stands in front of them, the women desperate for attention, the politicians that have stressed themselves beyond reason.
I see where a quarter of humanity tried and failed. They all need help because in one way or another they cannot help themselves.
Should I speak to them and ask for forgiveness for having the courage to turn away from their example? Or should I laugh in their faces for living life so immaturely? The latter seems like more fun but what I don’t do is try to change them.
Let a sleeping dog lie. Be thankful you’re not one of them.
What motivates us are the knowns like who our parents are and the direction our ancestors are going. The obligations we invite based on mistakes we’ve made. The weather.
Know what direction we have to go in so we don’t waste time trying to motivate others- unless it’s by example. But never by using motivational speech at the cost of our own lives.
The surprise that overtook me at the news of Mr. Toriyama’s death was beyond explanation. I felt a disdain for my relationship with the living, I felt the curtain I hid behind had fallen.
Is still haven’t properly mourned his death. My attachment to Vegeta, one of the main characters of the series, won’t let me.
Akira Toriyama was more than a man, he was a symbol that represented anger in a way that we as kids never had. He helped us channel our emotions and find joy on the other side. What was taken from us was restored by Mr. Toriyama. No wonder so many black men gravitated towards his legacy with such deep respect and understanding.
I’ll never forget how many of his characters filled me with terror. They all seemed to be invincible, like cell or cold hearted like the androids or completely void of empathy like my favorite character Boo. The world of dragon ball constantly burned with the threat of complete destruction of the planet earth and there were the Z fighters, ready to stand up for themselves no matter what.
They inspired us all to be courageous. Characters like Yamcha and Krillin were brave. Even when they had no chance at winning we watched them fight to their death.
Yajirobe inspired us to have compassion and Shinron was true father of the series.
I cant pretend that the death of Mr. Toriyama is what has overtaken me because it’s not. It’s knowing that a life as great as his own has come to rest. How often are great stories ever told?
While scrolling through X I found these pictures with the caption, “choose one”.
One is a beef and broccoli plate and the other is beans and rice with a side of chicken.
Fair to say a choice is impossible.
I mean both “choices” are what your momma would serve on a Saturday night after a forty hour work week. Right after that overtime check arrived the day before.
Yall might eat one of these plates and go to the movies afterwards.
These those plates that you might get to stay up late just to let the food digest.
There is no seconds. This that meal you eat until all the food in the kitchen is gone.
There is no choice here because they go hand in hand. They’re two sides of the same phenomenon. Either that plate gone come out right or it’s gone come out better!
You think my momma ain’t gone hesitate to chop up them sausage? You think she not gone get that big bag of broccoli?
You think them greens not gonna be seasoned to perfection?
Mr. Wong gone hold it down and best believe my momma gone stand beside him!
Who’s trying to cause chaos be splitting my heart in two? Don’t you know these two support each other?
That white sauce?
Them beans on top of that rice?
That fried chicken?
Nah, somebody playing with the forces of nature in this one.
Somebody trying to throw off the balance. Because there can be no choice here unless the choice is both of them!
I’m in bed smelling shit coming from my kids diaper. The most important thing is that I clean it but while I do so I start a love video. I need to vent. The kitchen is a mess, there are dishes from Na’tiesha’s lunch on the table. The canned soda is laying on the floor in the living room. The clothes that she wore are sprawled through out the area and she is curled up in the bed. She doesn’t care that I I’m going to have to clean or that the kids are playing with open cans. The mess she’s left is disrespectful and it’s the third time this week that I’ve been so upset that I’ve had to mentally abandon our relationship and talk to her like she is someone on the street.
I raise my spirits by turning the insult into a YouTube video. While I clean I record the conclusions I’m coming to. This is not my girlfriend. This is not the life I was building.
While I clean Nathaniel throws toys in my path reminding me not to take myself so seriously. He wants me to understand the reason that they cry and there’s no way I can convince myself to do that. I have to abandon this apartment it’s my time and that’s what my body is telling me to do. My mind is telling me that if I don’t get out of this girls way I’m going to end up getting hurt. I say out loud over and over again that’s it’s time for me to leave. I keep saying it until I have the heart to end the video.
I’m leaving.
During the video Nathaniel says to me that Eliot is stuck. And he is. He’s between two parents, one that gives him breast milk and the other that disciplines him.
Describe a phase in life that was difficult to say goodbye to.
Sugar.
It’s nasty demon, the way it haunts your mouth betraying you as the speaker. The way it rises and forms excitement. It’s worthless.
When you have the sunshine who needs sugar.
I resented sugar for so long and imagined it would leave. It didn’t. Instead it’s found existence in the cabinets of my neighbors. I’m surrounded! So I offer to carry it as this is my best course of action. Let it die in the front lines of a greater war. Flour! A replacement. Where one was a home filled with light the other was a dark cavernous place on the floor. Sugar was there when I had my first tooth pulled. Sugar didn’t care about me and if it did it rotor keep taking my teeth!
JB flicked on the aging television in his office, the flickering light casting eerie shadows against the faded wallpaper. Seeking a distraction from his cluttered desk and Ez’s unsettling story, he settled for the mindless comfort of an old action flick. As the screen flared to life…
The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the vast Wyoming sky in a canvas of fiery oranges and deep purples. Ethan, my ten-year-old, sat perched on the top rail of the fence, chin resting on his knees, mesmerized by the spectacle. His younger brother, Liam, barely six, was bouncing restlessly next to him, his blue eyes already drooping with tiredness.
Their father, John, finished hosing down the horses, the water catching the fading sunlight in fleeting rainbows. He walked over to the boys, a calloused hand ruffling Ethan’s hair. “Sun’s puttin’ on a show tonight, ain’t it?”
Ethan just nodded, his gaze still fixed on the horizon. John chuckled and turned to Liam. “Looks like someone’s ready for bed.”
Liam, ever the drama queen, threw his arms around John’s leg. “Just five more minutes, Dad? Please?”
John scooped him up easily, his broad shoulders barely registering the extra weight. “Nope, little man. Time for cowboys to get their beauty sleep.” He winked at Ethan. “You comin’ inside too, son?”
Ethan finally tore his eyes away from the sky, a thoughtful frown etched on his face. “Just a little longer, Pa. I want to watch the last bit.”
John nodded, understanding the hold the vastness of the prairie held on his quieter son. “Alright, but don’t be too long. Mama’s got your favorite apple pie waitin’.”
John disappeared into the house with Liam, leaving Ethan alone with the dying light. The silence was broken only by the chirping of crickets and the occasional moo from the distant herd. Ethan closed his eyes, letting the peace of the ranch wash over him.
He could almost feel the years of family memories etched into the very landscape: his first horseback ride with Dad, teaching Liam how to catch fireflies with Mama, the countless days spent chasing after playful calves. This land, this life, it was in his blood, as much a part of him as the color of his hair or the freckle dusting his nose.
A gentle hand touched his shoulder. He opened his eyes to see his mother, Sarah, her kind face etched with worry lines softened by the setting sun. “The stars are starting to come out, Ethan. Beautiful, aren’t they?”
He nodded, unable to form words. Sarah sat beside him on the fence, their shoulders brushing. “You know, your father used to sit right here, just like you, when he was your age.”
Ethan looked up at her, his eyes wide. He couldn’t imagine his father ever being young. “Really?”
Sarah smiled. “Oh, yes. He’d watch the sunset and dream of all the adventures he’d have on this ranch someday. And look at him now, building a life he loves, with us by his side.”
Ethan looked back at the sky, the last embers of the sun fading into twilight. He knew, in that moment, that he wouldn’t trade this life, this family, for anything. The ranch was in his heart, just as the setting sun painted the sky in a promise of a new dawn.
JB lumbered back towards his office, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. The remnants of Ezekial’s outlandish story still echoed in his head – talking rabbits and visions of fire? He knew his best friend had a flair for the dramatic, but this was on another level.
He pushed open his office door and was greeted by the warm, honeyed voice of Thandiwe, his receptionist and surprisingly skilled investigative reporter in her own right. “Mr. Brown, good afternoon! Did you have a productive lunch with Mr. Jones?”
Her sleek, coiled braids framed her face, highlighting her bright, intelligent eyes that always seemed to hold a hint of amusement. JB managed a half-hearted chuckle. “Ez is full of… interesting stories these days, Thandiwe.”
“Oh?” Thandiwe leaned forward, her interest piqued. “Do tell.”
JB relayed the bizarre encounter, Thandiwe listening with rapt attention. As he finished, she let out a low whistle. “Sounds like your friend is in the thick of something serious, Mr. Brown.”
“Or completely bonkers,” JB muttered, slumping into his worn leather chair. He threw his keys on the desk with a clatter, momentarily distracted by the pile of paperwork that awaited his attention.
“Well,” Thandiwe said, her voice laced with a hint of mischief, “perhaps a touch of both. But knowing Mr. Jones, there’s bound to be a story in there somewhere.”
JB huffed, picking up the top document. It was a stack of expense reports—numbers blurred on the page, swimming before his eyes. Thandiwe must have sensed his disinterest, for she gently said, “Would you like some help with those, Mr. Brown? Give your mind a rest?”
“I can manage,” he grumbled, then relented. “But only if you promise not to laugh at my expense if I need a calculator.”
A smile spread across Thandiwe’s face, and JB felt a surge of gratitude. Thandiwe wasn’t just an assistant– she was a lifeline, keeping him organized and sane amidst the daily chaos.
As they tackled the reports, JB’s mind continued to wander. What if there was truth hidden within Ez’s wild tale? Thandiwe was no stranger to the darker sides of the city; her reporting often led her down paths others ignored. Perhaps she could help make sense of it all.
Here’s a breakdown of the descriptions of the papers he has to sign:
Let me know if you’d like JB or Ezekiel’s story to continue!
The Inkwell Collective wasn’t just a newspaper; it was a monolith, a granite titan of truth-telling that dominated the Southern African media landscape. Its imposing headquarters, a steel and glass monument, mirrored the company’s power and reach. Inside, the air vibrated with the controlled hum of a well-oiled machine, each department a cog in the relentless pursuit of news.
Ezekiel, a tenured member of the reporting elite, moved through this corporate jungle with the grace of a panther. He wasn’t just a cog; he was a finely tuned engine, his investigative prowess legendary. His name on a byline was a guarantee of meticulously researched, impactful journalism. His exposés had brought down empires, corporations, and even governments. The comfortable life he enjoyed, complete with his sleek blue Corvette, was a direct result of the weight he carried within the Collective.
However, unlike his colleagues, driven by ambition and competition, Ezekiel felt a restlessness stirring within. He was a master of the tangible, the concrete; his stories yielded real-world impact. Yet, the recent encounter with Nyota and the whispers of a different destiny had planted a seed of curiosity. Could a man who reveled in the power of the Collective find meaning in the unknown?
This internal conflict wasn’t visible on the surface. Ezekiel remained the unflappable professional, the mentor, the voice of reason in the newsroom’s cacophony. He navigated the corporate maze with practiced ease, his every step calculated, his every word measured. But the questions lingered, gnawing at the edges of his certainty.
Would he remain the loyal soldier of the Collective, content with shaping the world through established means, or would he take a chance on the whispers of the extraordinary? The answer, like the next headline, remained unwritten. But one thing was certain: Ezekiel Jones, the man of reason and impact, was about to embark on a journey that would challenge the very foundations of his identity. The Inkwell Collective, though a titan of truth, might not be prepared for the story he was about to write, a story that would transcend the confines of its corporate structure and etch itself onto the tapestry of his destiny.
The aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the air as Ezekiel entered the bustling newsroom. Sunlight streamed through the large windows, illuminating the sea of desks and the rhythmic clatter of keyboards. He spotted JB at his usual corner, a half-eaten donut precariously balanced on a pile of paperwork.
“Morning, Ez,” JB rumbled, his voice a comforting baritone. “Got a wild lead for you today?”
Ezekiel chuckled, grabbing a mug of coffee. “Not quite. Just wrapping up some interviews. Did you hear about the warehouse fire last night?”
JB’s brow furrowed. “Heard it was pretty bad. Any casualties?”
“Thankfully, no. But the reports are… odd. Witnesses claim seeing… shadows moving in the flames.”
JB snorted. “Sounds like someone’s been reading too many ghost stories.”
Ezekiel grinned. “Maybe. But the fire chief mentioned some strange footprints too. Big, like bear claws.”
JB raised an eyebrow. “Intriguing. Think there’s a story there?”
“There’s always a story, JB,” Ezekiel winked. “But first, gotta finish these interviews. You up for lunch later? Got something… interesting to share.”
JB’s eyes gleamed with curiosity. “Always. Just don’t expect me to believe in talking rabbits or phantom zombies.”
“We’ll see,” Ezekiel replied, a cryptic smile playing on his lips.
Later, in JB’s cluttered office, Ezekiel recounted his bizarre encounter with Akilah, the talking rabbit, and the dream-like visions of the city in flames. He spoke with his usual factual tone, painting a vivid picture without embellishments. JB listened intently, his gruff expression unreadable.
“So, you’re saying you were offered a chance to… rewrite your destiny?” JB finally spoke, his voice low.
“Something like that,” Ezekiel admitted. “It sounds crazy, I know.”
“Maybe,” JB conceded, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “But you always were one for chasing the unusual. Remember that time with the circus elephant?”
Ezekiel laughed. “How could I forget? Almost got trampled trying to get that interview.”
“See? You always find your story,” JB said with a wink. “But this, Ez… this feels different. Bigger.”
Ezekiel’s phone buzzed mid-sentence, interrupting his animated explanation of the “phantom zombie” sighting to JB. A glance at the screen sent a jolt through him. It was Clara, her name displayed like a beacon in the sea of ordinary contacts. Clara, with her sun-kissed hair and eyes that held the sparkle of a mischievous mermaid, the woman who made his heart stutter even over the phone.
He excused himself, stepping out onto the fire escape for privacy. The city stretched before him, bathed in the golden light of the setting sun, a stark contrast to the turmoil brewing inside him. Taking a deep breath, he answered.
“Hello, Clara,” he said, his voice betraying none of the nervous anticipation churning in his stomach.
“Ezekiel,” her voice, light and melodic, danced through the receiver. “Just checking in on the intrepid reporter. Any juicy scoops brewing in the land of yesterday’s news?”
He chuckled, the sound tinged with a self-deprecating edge. “Nothing too exciting, just the usual suspects – council meetings and disgruntled pigeons.”
There was a beat of silence, then a soft laugh from Clara. “Disgruntled pigeons? You do have a way with words, Mr. Jones.”
The warmth in her voice sent a shiver down his spine. “So, what about you, Miss…?”
“Ventura,” she supplied, the playful smile practically audible through the phone. “Busy conquering the art world, one masterpiece at a time.”
He could almost picture her, surrounded by vibrant canvases and brushes, her fiery spirit radiating through the room. “That sounds… inspiring,” he stammered, surprised by his own boldness.
“It is,” she agreed, a playful lilt in her voice. “But even art needs a break sometimes. Tell me, what are you doing tonight?”
His heart hammered in his chest. Was she asking him out? “Uh, just the usual,” he mumbled, “dinner, maybe catch up on some reading…”
“Sounds… dull,” she interrupted, her voice teasing. “How about you ditch the routine and join me for a rooftop dinner? Breathtaking views, twinkling lights, and maybe even some stargazing, if the clouds cooperate.”
The offer hung in the air, both tempting and terrifying. Ezekiel glanced back at JB, their conversation paused, JB’s gaze curiously searching. This was his chance, a chance to step outside his comfort zone, to bridge the gap between him, the ordinary reporter, and Clara, the woman who shimmered with an otherworldly allure.
“I… I’d love to,” he finally managed, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Excellent!” came her reply, laced with genuine enthusiasm. “Meet me at the rooftop bar on 5th Avenue, 8 pm sharp. Don’t be late, Mr. Jones, or the city lights might just have to find a new admirer.”
With a wink through the phone, she was gone. Ezekiel stood there, the phone clutched in his hand, the city lights suddenly dazzling, reflecting the whirlwind of emotions within him. He could picture her there, amidst the twinkling cityscape, her smile as captivating as the starry expanse above. Tonight, he wasn’t just a reporter chasing stories; he was a man taking a chance, and maybe, just maybe, finding a new story unfolding in his own heart.
As he rejoined JB, a newfound energy crackled in his eyes. The “phantom zombie” sightings could wait. Tonight, he had a date with destiny, and she was waiting under the city lights. But would it be the beginning of a beautiful romance or just another chapter in his extraordinary life? Only time, and the twinkling stars above, would tell.
Ezekiel nodded, a sense of foreboding settling in his stomach. “It does, doesn’t it?”
“So, what do you plan to do?”
Ezekiel looked out the window, the bustling city seeming to blur. “I don’t know, JB. But I have a feeling this is just the beginning.”
As they continued their conversation, Ms. Kensington knocked on the door, her sharp gaze landing on Ezekiel.
“Mr. Jones,” she said, her voice laced with subtle concern. “Your next interviewee is waiting.”
Ezekiel nodded, a flicker of doubt crossing his mind. Was he chasing a rabbit hole, a figment of his imagination? Or was this the first step towards a destiny he never knew he had?
The answer, like the city outside his window, remained shrouded in the haze of uncertainty. But one thing was clear: Ezekiel Jones, the responsible reporter, was about to embark on a journey that would challenge his very perception of reality, and the fate of his ordinary life hung precariously in the balance.
This is just the beginning. Where will Ezekiel’s journey take him next? Will he embrace the unknown, or will he retreat to the comfort of his predictable life? The story unfolds, waiting to be written…
n2creation 