2023-07-04 01:21:53
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Head of The Table Backfire
What if he did forget? But what if he was murdered? No he forgot, no he was murdered, these mind tormenting disputes wrangled trying to get a favor amongst the jury. So amongst them was an argumentative dispute on the matter of what truly happened to the deceased Mr. Peter, and worse was the war inside them as this too was sparking a revolt, murder or forgetfulness, it is one not both, the voices argued. As the spectators too brewed within their midst, the judge scribbled some notes as he also was seen torn between the two convincing theories so only one way to find out. “Mr. Tim please present more evidence to the jury and to the court to acclaim to the terms of your allegations to the defendant. Because it seems both are possible so if you have witnesses too, please may they step in the witness dock.” The judge retorted steadily as he glared at the attorney addressed who was caught slightly in shock because he wasn’t expecting such a response. But now that he has been given the
Head of The Table The impossible
Odds doubled and worse, they were against him not with him, the first chance he was barely capable to keep up, it was the jury’s mercy and the judge’s side eye, that he was given the slight vacuum to refresh his allegations and make it more of his favor but instead…he made things worse much worse. The jury this time were convinced, the defendant was innocent, the judge though was doubtful of this he was certain the plaintiff’s attorney had evidence that just wasn’t convincing, remembering it was manipulated to be used against him so this time they had to go by the book. After five minutes of low tone discussion and the judge arranging his documents passed by the clerk, he banged the gauntlet twice till the spurt was silent and clearing his throat he raised his head and addressing the seated plaintiff and his attorney he opened up the court response.“Mr. Tim, it seems that perhaps the witnesses called upon are people who are unsure of themselves and are looking to get back to the de
Head of The Table Three stones
Tensed, just one week, he nearly lost it all, he was this close, this close! So get your shit together or you might as well kiss this case good bye and watch the court nail you instead of the tyrant. Pondering, his cigar was fading with every puff as it gave an ember glow, ashes of what it used to be, brown with a more gold touch from a far, the suit reconciled fashionably with his cigar’s texture and furnished outline, the black curved raised chair with grey like cushioned but cushions. Despite being a work day, he was not in the mood of going by the book, so he did what he does when his under pressure, tension, or is fixed under someone’s grip, which in his case he was under both so he had every right to do as he pleased to relieve this overwhelming mental baggage. He smoked one cigar till it was in ashes, the scent of smoke and it’s density filled the room, but still no idea, no thoughts, no tips on just how he could flip this sinking ship to his favor. So the inspector, Mr. Zod,
Head of The Table All or nothing
One died another grew in place, repeatedly day in and out, as the dawns and dusks elapsed so did the judgement of the case court near to see the length determination crosses to, to make his point in bold and seal the case having buried the defendant in his coffin. Just whose will power outgrows the other, if the defendant Goliath enough to stomp his plaintiff like a bug and finish it of with ease or will the giant slayer the plaintiff muscle his way and out wit the enemy in sight and bring death in a blistering swift maneuver. No more guessing, sure the suspense and tension is killing all in court but it’s time we got things by the book, the day finally dawned, July 20th, the day of reckoning. Quarter to 10, more accurately, 9:45 am, there and then the public entrance bust open flooding in the speculators of the awaited day for the case at hand in court. As press workers set their cameras at the edges of the far end of the walls of the court where they couldn’t interrupt the movement
Head of The Table Article 42B
From his father, to the father of his father and the father to the father of his father…since time memorial the curse was handed down, imprinted in their blood and from the generation to the next it was passed. Living in mud huts, some the more grassed thatched huts handed down from millennials, accustomed to the notion set from conception that this was their life this was what it will ever be, imprisoned in the heavy shackles of poverty, a curse inevitable to all of their kin. Life revolving around taking care of cattle, farming wild fruits and natural edible vegetables, marriage, circumcision, all summarize under one roof, tradition it was what they had that truly belonged to them. Tradition was their compass, their map, the line that defines actions as good or bad, the judgement to all those who defied the customs and which spoke of the consequences. Yet amidst this enriched traditional inhabitance was a man whose luck outshone the others in the community, lucky to be baptized in
Head of The Table Unpredictable fate
Teal blue, with a shady sky blue texture from a far it was more of teal than sky, nailed here his most prized possession which he held dear more than his family, to the far left nearing the edge, framed and an additional glass protector, his degree, bachelor of laws, visible signature from the minister of London to ascertain that he, holder of the degree, had completed his educational time frame and passed and a graduate of the University of Stamford. But this was only the beginning of his triumphant journey in the field of law, unsatisfied and eager to be more outstanding, he moved on to Manchester School of Law, where he proved yet again after four years that he was the stronger of the two. A hand distance from the first framed degree, another hang, the one from the school of law where he graduated and termed as the best lawyers in the law firm. Besides his fiery urge to climb the impossible steep mountains of law, he was into art, the more abstract kind of art to be precise. Some
Head of The Table It’s all family
Adopted from the ancient British law system, passed and instituted in almost every court located under the satellite, the symbol that represents justice, fairness it’s also implicated as, Lady Justice holding the Scales of Justice. It’s believed that this symbol unifies the court and ensures that every verdict passed across is truly by this symbol. But in some situations this scale is sometimes paused, held back, or muted if it’s preferable, and at that point the verdict may not be by the scales of justice but by that of man, selfish, greedy, and inconsiderate man. Unlike other court adjournments where there was no wig, this time the judge appeared with a wig, the bench wig it’s called, this meant business and in his black gown and white collar, this was no ordinary case, well not anymore. After the plaintiff, Mr. Zod Kong, and his attorney, Mr. Tim, implicated the act of article 42B, the court was in dilemma. They had come to a verdict that the defendant was innocent and the plainti
Head of The Table Warm welcome!
Three clear glass shatter proof shielded the equally circle windows on each side of the plane, three on each side, all could be seen, the sky blue as it was, clouds all puffy, dots of what could be assumed as houses, green everywhere were confirmed as the dense canopy thousands of kilometers below. Beige and cream decorated the inner walls, walking on brown fur carpet, four seats placed in two’s, one facing the other opposite sides one pair on the left another on the right, big dense white cushioned seats the more luxurious kind but not too classy just those comfy to give that comfortable feeling and absorb the stress. In between these seats, crafted to the wall of the soaring mechanical 4 passenger machine, hand craft furniture the more brown crystal but a little darker than the carpet, often acts as a hand rest for those fond of gazing through the window, it’s enticing connection with the décor of the wall made the space more peaceful, some positivity energy lingered monks may say.
Latest Chapter
Awake
This man who saved him, who made him the man he is from the immature boy he was boy, who made him be the living example of from rags to riches, at this moment he had the guts to brush this away and end his messiah without skipping a beat, without no hesitation, without remorse in his heart. But the countless death toll proved he had no heart, proved that yarn in his head had killed the man and made him the vessel of chaos and pain, the man died ages ago only demons floated inside his shell. Staring at him like his previous victims he increased the weight on his finger, the pressure on the trigger till eventually… “Click!”, is this broken, he wounded scanning the death tool in hand to confirm his suspicions. No bullets, the magazine was empty the echo sounded, but why, he wondered, he was lost by the turn of events like why threaten his sister with an unloaded gun, did he love her? Were they together? All these filled the gaps but still it couldn’t make the full sentence. As he tucked
Crossfire
“Faster.” He cursed, even with a HeadStart Brian managed to catchup to his men and out pass them, “You good for guns only, your feet are mere Pinocchio sticks.” He rebuked them highlighting the facts in comparison to the mahogany fragile softwood barks he assumed built Pinocchio. But he was right, upper wise, they had bulging muscles, chisel shapes, but down, their legs were low on stamina, speed and toughness, he now understood why women complained about the bed performance of men with mishandled, unmaintained, let loose legs “Pathetic!”, he cursed boosting himself onwards without the excuse of a team behind him. “Wait.” He paused, there was something odd, it took him ten minutes to notice the behavior, they were running in circles, the ten minutes he marked the direction he went and noticed the mushroom he passed moments ago, the dying tree he tripped on, the baby sticker one of his men dropped from his SMG, “Shit!” he cursed his men arriving at the same time he dawned this. “Let’s
The Barian Ghosts
The ghosts of the Barian ancestry they called the haunted abandoned chapel. Years ago, it was told of the story, carried from mouth to mouth on the man who was chased away from the house of whom they called the Messiah, how evil overpowered good. The month of giving, it was the month priests fattened themselves on the offerings of their congregation, “For charity.”, they preached though it was their bellies fundraised to meet their gluttonous needs. Amongst them was a believer, from his ancestors, the line of grand parents to the first man, he believed that this chapel was the house of the supreme being, “Father!”, he would pray every day, before dawn and hours after dusk he would recite. Barian he was named after his birth right ceremony, his parents were of the tradition and of the foreign religion, rich in spirit and wisdom but their richest was the grassed thatched dome rooftop, their cubical shelter they called home, and like true religionists they were satisfied. Barian like hi
Secrets unveiled
“Not much time… this condition may be permanent I’m afraid.”, the doctor dropped the disheartening news, “he may live with it but it will grow at a slow rate so maybe till his eighties will it be the size of a tumor.”, he concluded tying the note on his death receipt. His immature stupid decisions brought this condition, this unexplainable criticality, he recalled his struggles blinded by the love for his sister that he paid no attention to his own. In his initial hell life, when his sister was admitted amidst his scuffles and struggles for money, he attempted to rob the grocery saleswoman down the alley. He had planned everything knowing his sister’s bill was due the next day, he was aware of his victim’s behaviors, “First the fruits… then the wooden boards…” his scanning paused, “…Yes then the money.”, he gladdened his self, locked on the purse, its insides were unknown but it clinked with each swing. Starting his speed from far, he burst his left hand stretched as he neared his v
Blood is Thicker
“Who am I fighting for?” he questioned angrily, his brutal side took over, his left both hands roughly clutched on her bloodied white shirt, “I said who do I fight for!” he screeched this time colluding her with the wall, her spine was at its limit, her body enough of the brutality. As she gathered the last of her energy to answer the simple question, her last question, she recalled the ordeal, how her so called husband assaulted her beyond humane reasoning. “How will I tell him?” she tensed, after she gathered herself from her drowning self she called a cab, boarded, paid and with no instructions she told the driver, “Drive.”, in a light weak voice. “He will know eventually better I tell him myself.”, she reasoned, still healing on the sudden blunder she just did her thoughts were in a whirlpool of confusion, “But will he understand? I’m his wife he will have to.” She consoled herself again, “I’m more valuable than her sister.” She bragged amidst the torment, this courage braved her
Madman
“When will you be back?” she asked half conscious, “Soon.” He answered hesitantly, how could he answer something not even he knew the answer, a year, a decade, a day, he had no clue, al he knew was the only way out was through that door and once he was out, he was closing the one behind him till… well till forever he guessed. Forever was limited though, after a month or so she was released from hospital and like all alone women out there with tycoon brothers she was moved in the remote west of the island where few people lived the conditions unlike the rest of the island were dry, hot and desert like in some seasons. There with a built home courtesy of her brother, she began small growth development, visiting the upper region more warm than hot she ventured in the weaving sector, then gaining the skills the salon department within her lifespan of her youth she had enough skill to make her self-employed, an employed or an entrepreneur, she just had to choose. Ben and Brian took care o
Hostage care
He glared on the vast blue calm waters, the soft winds and gentle sun touches erased the reality, the previous night front seat row witnessing death juggle them like pins in a circus show. It was hectic, terrifying and self-enlightening, Brian became open that nature was the only thing he couldn’t control, at least the only thing he figured. After their escape from their death givers a near month at sea they were approaching the island’s shore, after conquering and wiping Ben’s power like it never existed, they docked welcomed by their remaining mercenaries who survived in one piece though some in crutches, walking sticks and wheelchairs. “Welcome home.”, he greeted, the second in command who was now first since his superior was blown courtesy of Mist’s giveaway gift. “Call this my home and I will end you.”, he hissed slapping the gestured hand cursing as he slithered by, followed by his remaining crew, the captain, and the disrespected mercenary left to feel the deep thorn of lookin
On Top Again
For his brother and himself he had to do it, he didn’t want to but did he have a choice? No, he didn’t, he wished it would have never come to this point. To the shackles again and this time heavier ones, tighter ones, this time maybe death can save them or relieve them at least. Like the game he normally played he stared at death again, it smiled at him, they smiled back because Ben knew how to pull the wire just at the right moment, and once again death failed to get him, a whisker close but not close enough for the death cheater. Mili seconds before Lee fired Ben clicked his detonator and just then the tables turned for the third time, and probably the last time. Underneath the doom weapons went off, the unlucky men at the top were the unfavored by the look. One detonated between two, the force blew their face clean off to atom pieces only their neck downwards was intact, another close to an unsuspecting culprit behind his back blowing half his back off melting it from his upper back
One Sided Loyalty
He cried for the third time, and history proved he rarely did. The body count was off the charts, first Ben’s committee ghosted a whole docking security guard, Eliz returned the favor but hers was more straight to the point. However, this time Ben’s tears weren’t of what happened but what was to come, what he knew if happened he will be dead both emotionally and physically. So let the wheel turn back, some playback on the betrayal saga, the fleeing, the death scenes, all of it. Ben disclosed to the knights, Mila broke down in the inside, Risa glare towards the fire summoned the deepest locked emotional valve he caved deep within, and there both the two brothers a tear flowed one on the right for one and another on the right for the other. But they were in the middle of a war, a war that will take more of their lives if they had a grieving season, they had to man up, soldier on, “Yes they died,” but grieving was the one thing the befallen bishops would want them not to do. With the ig