The Men with Blue Eyes Returns!

MWBE - short

Some time ago I started a short story on this blog called The Men with Blue Eyes and I have decided to finish the story in my email list. The story is a short Sci-Fi Fantasy loosely based on another book of mine. It is about a group of angels called The Watchers who come to Earth to possess the bodies of men. Tina, a young attorney, claims her nephew was abducted by one of the blue-eyed men two years ago and that they are the cause of his murder. After seeing a therapist and taking medication, Tina has since lived a normal life. But when she spots an unidentified man at a local club and members of Tina’s former case come up missing, it forces her to revisit the traumatic life she had hoped to leave behind.

I hope to continue on with the story but have decided not to finish it on this blog but to finish it in my email list. If you like it, I may decide to turn it into something more but we won’t discuss that right now. Right now I am just writing it for fun. Let’s not cloud it with the talk of work lol.

If you are interested in reading more of this story, you may subscribe to my email list HERE to see what happens next! I will begin feeding the first few chapters next month. BUT if you subscribe now I’ll send you the first 4 chapters, revised and updated!

Advertisements

The Sound of Silence

download-11-4715b64e
Image Credit: Andrew Alexander, Unsplash

There’s a lot going on in the world right now so I sit here wondering what to write to you, bathed in solitude and fishing for a thought. Let the noisy silence of second hands and chirping birds lend me the inspiration needed to write. Let the calm of the rain suicide its face onto my windowsill, onto shingled rooftops, ripping puddles or perhaps it’ll just melt itself into the concrete. Have you ever just sat back and listened to silence? It is hypocritically noisy. I can hear the laughter of locust and the singing of birds as they intercourse themselves into the wind. This noisy wind. It whistles and shouts and spreads its hum across the troposphere just silent enough for us not to notice amidst the growling of car engines and groaning of electricity. If you listen closely enough you’ll hear angels sing. The language of angels is in the wind. Give me not the physical right now. Not the booming lyric of music, or the chatter of distraction. Give me focus and attention so I may snag a thought from the roaring voices of spirit and of memory hanging from the pictures on my wall. We are familiar with the sound of noise, but not the noise of silence. Not the tickle of an idea brushing past our thoughts or the seductive wooing of trees to wind. The giggling fabric against the windowsill. The peaceful lullabies of daylight. Indeed, nature has its way of suckering us out of quiet, but what a wonderful stillness.

Voice for Radio

vyfvev98dikkizi0xt7mvzl72ejkfbmt4t8yenimkbvvk0ktmf0xjctabnaljim9

They said she had a voice for radio. That her voice had been blessed. And that angels played on the strings of her vocal chords. That her mind had the ability to cough up words from other dimensions that she, danced on the streets of clouds. Somewhere in the storage rooms they said she danced somewhere beyond where beyond is. Maybe, they guessed, maybe the source of her strength is where the secret of the wind is. Maybe it’s where forever is. They said she had a voice for radio. What they didn’t know was that similes were first scattered to the four corners of the earth. Racing to the back room to see who would get to the bed first, or the floor, hardwood, chair, you see life for her ain’t been no crystal stair. Plastic bags with all her stuff they stared cause, she didn’t know what a home was. She had to tell them that though beautiful, this voice was first pregnant and had to go through labor pains before it gave birth.

Why I Write Truth

TextSwag-1465939350231

Because the world is a violent one

and screaming death a song

so routine is its lyrics

crooked notes twisted

and then dropped

like  lifeless bodies

a glass vase

shattering

crackling

like fire on the mountain

and no one seems to be

on the run

I write truth

because its better to spill ink

than blood

Last night

I heard angels mourn

their tears fell like hailstones

from the sky

they told me

another person died

I write truth

because light chose not to shine today

the sun looked down

and vowed that it was too dangerous

on the ground

I write truth

because the world is crying out

cause it ain’t safe no more

not like a piece of paper

and black ink

not safe like blue lines

and poetry

I write truth because

Maya ain’t here no more

and somebody’s got to tell that woman

she’s phenomenal

somebody’s got to sing that man

a song

that ain’t full of lyrics

that bleed

I write truth

because Langston told us

to bring him our heart melodies

that he may wrap them in a blue cloud cloth

away from the two ruff fingers

of the world

dear Langston

here is mine