2023-09-08 15:30:25
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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
Head of The Table Wish granted
The cry of a son, night after night sheering with grief for the deeds of his father, was it an accident was it not? It doesn’t matter, not anymore, the fun times of his father poisoned his lungs, corroded each cell day after day, and he the perpetrator, his own father was nowhere in sight, ghosted his entire family for what money, glory, power, a mistress? He lacked answers, answers for questions he pondered all those days he saw kids his age with two of opposite gender while he had one, questions that brought tears to his mother, brought him endless nights, he filled the gaps with his own but no… there was only one answer. On his hospital bed, he wished for one thing as his clock approached death time, “Where is my dad?”, he couldn’t ask his mother, the last memory he would curse was his mother’s tears because of his wish, so as he glared at his dripper, drop after drop he counted, “One, two… eleven, thirteen… forty two...” he had nothing else to do but to count till he fell asleep
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
