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Head of The Table Year of The Sparrow
13th October 2004, the day his jail time turned on him, what he mirrored as a paradise far from the world’s troubles…no rent burdens, no food bills, no power outs, what else could he want…but that was the thing he had everything and what the devil won’t give he takes, and he doesn’t ask. The annual Year of the Sparrow, a once in every decade celebration where the red necked spawns gather from the deep forested coast of West Netherlands descending the unbelievable 100km mile migration over the sea and the scorching deserts to eventually make their conspicuous landing in the mid-October for the end result of the past ten-year erosion period. After the rivers end up reducing as the daunting dry times near specks of magnesium mixed with slight ammonia sparkling crystals are left behind and clamping year-after-year they eventually form lumps of irresistible salt nutrients. A risk worth 100km journey, but if one was a sparrow, they would do the same it’s like an invitation to the Queen and
Head of The Table Bad news
Sky blue gnome around a hand size tall, red hard covered historical 1000 paged book titled, “The Last of Man” some inches from the gnome. A little further, well wooden picture framed memory one wore a red shady flowered linen dress, on her lap her offspring in a ninety’s outgrown thin grey pajamas showcasing her God gifted gums a year old her teeth yet to sprout. Clamping her shoulders on both sides hands held gently like handling a bubble, growing upwards the manlike features emerge biceps, triceps, the thick neck muscles, all grow to the man like big sized jaw its beard shaved to a small smart gage, to the huge pearl eyes between the extended nose up to the bald head its veins visible from the earlobes to the fore head, zoom out this picture… meet Mrs. Mariam Gunner- the one in red-, first born child Gideon Gunner-the young toddler-, and lastly the army muscled husband and father Mr. Joe Gunner…the picture encased the whole Gunner family. These three objects populated the wide 12-i
Head of The Table Burst the bubble
Tamarind blue skies, the milk white teeth glued to the reddish gums, his mischievous chuckle was addictive and contagious, the mere thought made him chuckle, the tiny fingers with a despicable tight grasp, the mere fragments of the facial features, his jawlines, those bat-like ears, the moist curly hair, his dark brown skin complexion, only when he closed his eyes could he paint what he thought was the memory. In the dark vacuum of his will, he placed the ears, glued all eyes, mouth and nose, here he unleashed his artistic potential and painted all to one picture, one who he named his heir, one he thought to be his son. But now, this very son he pictured, the 1-year-old child he saw, carrying his genes, his blood in his, all of that was going to dust. Like an eraser erasing lines drawn by pencils whether thick or thin, it somehow removes the evidence that it actually existed and no matter how hard what’s erased can’t be undone similar to the impending doom awaiting his son. Cobra’s f
Head of The Table Counter attack
Tarnished silver backboards crafted, bruised and a monument of history of the prison fights ever recorded, permanent blood stains splattered the near foot length structure, workers were fed-up of cleaning up of the miscreants in orange bickering and throwing fists like amateurs fighting over an ice-cream cone, if the numbskulls want to fight let the a**holes fight the warden was filled up anyway. As much as the backboards had seen the chefs had seen as much from smuggling drugs, poisoning certain inmates, favoring the privileged, any smuggle to sudden deaths the chefs were always in the mix. So apart from wearing their feminine black threaded hairnets splattering lump sum abominations of mixed ingredients of God knows what, they were also criminals in their own nature. The question still lies… is there any single living organism in this God forsaken penitentiary who doesn’t have their hands dirty well what about the wardens they must be t clean they are after all the law enforcement
Head of The Table Man your positions
Ville de I ’amour…translation the city of love and what better place for this love extravaganza than the hometown of Paris, France. Kissing under the Eiffel tower, cuddling on the c shaped curved benches, late night coffees with one’s fiancé in heavy jackets with matching mitten like gloves making hysterical jokes laughing as much…yes no better place than France. Similar to France there is no better place to experience man’s physical dominance, man’s sins shaded in the light for all to see, only one place brings this dark side of society in the light, Madagascar State Prison. A modified poker game table, two normal sized table joined together and four mean seating opposite of each other, and the card master the main player of this poker field runs over the cards doing crazy magic tricks like Pick a card then being all psychic and guessing the card but getting it wrong 90% of the time. After a bizarre comedy session, the real game begins, each inmate stacks their bet money in dollars
Head of The Table Passionate Chef
Robert Paquise, full Mexican mother from Puerto Rico and father from central Mexico, back in the nineties he had his own local food channel where he expressed his passion for the cuisines of his hometown from spaghetti delicacies, meatball stews and taco admirable his kitchen was more important than his whole 100,000$ mansion with the kitchen catering the biggest share. His passion in the kitchen and his unsatisfactory ambition to master every recipe and recreate his own made him a figure in the cooking industry besides big names from America like Pamela and Rodgers. After a decade in the film and cooking industry his passion grew weary and refigured his dream of cooking and into acting. An experience in front of the camera advantaged him and made his dream more achievable statistically…all those lines, the torture stunts this was no kitchen work he figured later on. Used to kitchen work the recipes and all, the acting thing just wasn’t his flavor after two flop solo movies Robert lo
Head of The Table Kneel and Pray
Stained glass patterned a male like image, glued and held by calms which was just lead and a rigid frame, blue pieces represented the sky, brown represented the man’s beard while light brown and black stood for the skin and the hair, an additional creamy white glass fractures represented the eyes, artistically brought together voila! Within the concave shaped gap in the wall and well located for the sun’s reflection the very presence of Saint Francis the Third filled the manyatta architectural structured Holy place for the Lord the Francis Deliverance Church, named after the saint himself. Though few knew of the saint stories circulated passed from a generation to the next via stories, nearly unrecognizable ages ago pictures, and various physical objects like a rosary with black beads but the third stained in red which was said to be the saint’s blood after he refused to deny his faith and a wooden cross which was said to be the saint’s used to stand for his faith and which he never
Head of The Table Tears of a son
“Mother where is father?”, tears followed afterwards a scenario that played its scene over the past decade or so, she never had enough in her to tell her son who his father really was, from birth he had blurry images off a man in a beard and the hefty manly laughter… a birthday later the picture grew more vivid, bulging eyes, short hair, big ears, brown hairy skin till that was it, electrocute his brain to a crisp that’s all he could figure out. Day after day in class he saw kids with a gender with no breasts, tall and intimidating, jawlines different and voices heavier, only later he realized that he was from that very gender, his reflection was the minor self of his much older version… problem was he never met him, well technically he had not met him since he grew weary of his senses and made use of his IQ to match colors and draw shapes. The boy grew emotionally hungry, the presence of his father figure was a key stone in shaping his sense the manly way, every Saturday night he se