STUNG

Right side of his face expanded like rising pizza dough. Dean Smith was stung by a Japanese Hornet on a Saturday while barbecuing in his back yard. Janet brought a bag of frozen beans and bottle of Benadryl. Dean thanked her and then pointed to the nest, which hung from a Sycamore branch 27 feet above the patio.

Damn, she said. It’s bigger than I thought. Thing’s the size of a laundry basket. Think we should? Should what? Destroy it, babe. I mean, look, your face. He took his eyes off the nest and poured Benadryl into a shot sized cup, and chugged it happy hour style—but ignored her question. Is the ice helping? She asked and reached to inspect him. But he leaned away defensively. Her shoulders hung. She turned and collected the garlic and onion powder from the grill, and headed inside. But not before one last suggestion.

Perhaps your shotgun can do the trick, she said. With one foot in the house and the other on the patio, she continued. And besides, you’re pretty good at shooting things down, no? He wiped his mouth with the inside of his wrist and tossed the plastic cup at her face. Have you always been this stupid? he said. Shoot the nest and then what, shoot the seven thousand chasing my ass down the block, too? She reversed her direction, both feet now back on the patio, and stepped toward him.

Alright, Dean. I have a better idea. What if you still shoot the nest, still wait for the seven thousand, but now, instead of killing thousands, gun down just those that are yours and I’ll gun down just those that aren’t. Or, should the Queen Bee sign papers, too? His shoulders hung. Asshole, she continued. Hope the Benadryl fails and your throat closes quickly. She rolled her eyes, scooped up the plastic cup, placed it in his hands, and entered the house. Dean wrestled with his thoughts realizing he’d now been stung twice, and a third possibly very soon.

Bag of Doritos

Broken inside like a bag of Doritos, as years of chipped corners burry themselves in hard to reach places, and the heart becomes as salty as the contents inside. Air fills the bag and hides what little is there and deceives the foolish, and becomes nothing more but a pit stop for aching stomachs—the cool ranch of life and the nacho cheese of despair. Dirty finger tips evident a life well lived! The bag is tipped, plucked, and shaken as the crumbs buried in the hard to reach places slide toward the opening and satisfies another—and nothing is wasted.

The Post Card

Dear Joel,

Before making a decision, both of you should visit the lake this Saturday.

Love, grandpa.

Round Valley, New Jersey was about three hours from Middletown, Connecticut. But if you by-pass the George Washington Bridge, and take 287 instead, the detour reduces the trip by 45 minutes. Angelica and I refused to speak the entire drive.

We had met at LSU during the Shaquille O’Neal days. And got married five years after he entered the NBA. She was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. And according to her, I was the most handsome. Yet, the concept of marriage always frightened me. All of my relatives—except one—were either single or divorced. My father abandoned my mother when I was eight years old. And the senior year of high school, my mother died in a car accident, never remarrying. I struggle at times, though, wondering which was worse: dying from a car accident or from a broken heart. As for my grandfather, he’s unique. He actually married and endured. Yet, his wife died, too. Which, really, has left him just as divorced as all the others.

When Angelica got pregnant, her family pressured her about marriage. Puerto Ricans looked down on daughters who have children out of wedlock. So, to soften the blow, I proposed without a ring, and married at City Hall. But, when Symphony turned two years old, and our careers began to prosper, we officially had a wedding ceremony—flower girls and all.

Angelica majored in Music Theory, and has been professor of music at Roosevelt High School since graduating college. Her salary ($105,000). As for me, I majored in Sports Therapy and currently work for the University of UConn under the basketball program. My salary ($130,000). Money has always been a source of contention. We bought our first home, but purchased too much. Last year, Angelica called the cops for the first time and I was arrested for domestic violence.

—

Pomme de Terre—which is French for potato—barked from the front porch, alerting his master we’d arrived. The dog only had three legs and blind in one eye. But, it was either that, or pay eighty a month for Slomin’s Shield. Too expensive, though, for an old man, living mostly off social security. We eased into the gravel driveway, grabbed our luggage from the trunk, and smiled pretentiously, as if neither of our hearts needed triage.

The dark clouds hinted rain as the wind swung a tire hanging from the tall Chestnut oak branches, which as a kid, was my favorite. My grandfather would push me until I fell dizzy, and then I’d ask to do it again. He was the best. His house sat perfectly at the foothills of Cushetunk Mountain, low enough to go fishing, but just above lake levels to avoid hurricane season floods. He’s lived at Round Valley 57 years. And 13 of those, alone. My grandmother died of congestive heart failure in 1989, and he deeply misses her. He opens the front door and steps out.

”Shut up Old mutt. You ain’t scarin’ nobody. Fool. Ya’ barkin’ the wrong direction, anyways”.

He sweeps the dog from his path with his right foot, and gingerly descends the steps to greet us. Overwhelmed with joy, he then signals with both hands to have us meet him halfway. We do. And exchange warm embraces.

“Jo-Jo my boy, so glad you made it. Hardly slept last night, thinking ‘bout you guys. And, Angelica, wow. Look at you. My gosh. You never disappoint. Lemme Guess…”, as he tugs on the sleeves of her red trench coat, “Louis Vuitton?”

“Thank you Mr. Saintvil. Too kind.”

“Goodness gracious. How many times must I tell you, It’s Norvin. Call me Norvin”. He grins. His eyes are filled with life.

“Alright. Will do, Mr. Saintvil”. Grandad catches her joke, laughs some more, and then hugs her again.

We continue exchanging pleasantries in the front yard for another 10 minutes, lightly discussing the weather, the Saturday traffic, and the new toll plaza the city recently added few miles from his exit. He then asks if we’re hungry and insists that we eat. In Haitian culture it is blasphemous to decline food after being offered. So, out of respect, but more so fear, we accept—even though we’d already eaten, hours earlier. He encourages us to step inside. But not Pomme de Terre. His shift isn’t over. And neither is his marriage. Granddad shuts the door, lowers the blinds, and illuminates the front porch with a bright tungsten light.

The end

Room Full of Empty

From where I’m positioned, a light bulb swings from a frayed electrical line from the ceiling. Next to me is a partially torn mattress drenched in gasoline. The room doesn’t have windows or doors. And my mouth tastes like blood. My name is Rasheed and I’m 32. I think.

My most recent solid memory is rain and then a sharp pain to the back of my neck. The Jordan 13’s on my feet look familiar. They’re my brother’s. I think. But the Rolex is a mystery. I hardly could afford rent in Brooklyn, so certainly the time piece can’t be mines. My shirt collar is ripped and spots of blood have stained the white sleeves. I frantically investigate the small room with my eyes. “Hey ! Can anybody hear me!” My voice box is cracked and I can hardly whisper. In addition, there’s also a sharp stabbing pain on the left side of my face, near my upper cheekbone.

I reach in my pocket and find a cell phone. It’s not mines. I don’t do Androids. Nevertheless, it’s unlocked. So I take a few selfies and study the results. My jaw drops. Well, not actually. Because it can’t. That stabbing pain earlier is a dislocated jaw bone. I then pinch the glass to magnify the pictures to study more. Black and blue bruises, and skin burns, invade my neck and Adam’s apple. My left eye is blackened, while both pupils are bloodshot. My bottom lip is busted and the blood dribbling down my chin is dry rotted like 5 day old icing on a pound cake.

“What the hell is going on?”, I thought.

I drop the phone, stand to my feet, and walk the room. The floor is sticky like spilled cool-aid. I proceed to sweep my hands across the cold and sweaty walls, and search for secret exits, handles, or buttons, or anything not so obvious, but should be. Negative. The room is a dead end. So I punch the walls with incredible force, repeatedly. I fracture two outer knuckles on my right hand and the pain drops me to my knees. I whimper with whatever air was left in my lungs.

After 27 minutes of stillness, the pain from not knowing I’ll escape, swallows whole, the pain of endless broken bones. I cannot die here. I cannot! I grab the phone again rejuvenated. And attempt a call. But the phone signal is obsolete. So next, I decide to skim through the phone’s call history: 32 missed calls—4 of which, are as recent as two hours ago—and all from the same number. But a number I don’t know. And even if I knew it, the phone’s battery is now at 2%, and ready to die. Like me. I walk to the mattress, lower my body slowly, and lay down with my face once more pointed at the light bulb with its frayed electrical line that hangs from the ceiling. I then place the phone over my heart, shut my eyes, and embrace the tears that purifies my sins.

But two minutes later, the phone suddenly chimes. It’s a text. And from the unknown number, who earlier, had called 32 times. After reading the text, I rise to my feet. The message was direct:

“you’re over thinking it. Slow down”.

I try to reply, but the phone dies in my hands and the screen goes black. I smile. Because I now know freedom isn’t far away. I think.

Written By: Steeve Saintvil

Life on the Line

In 1994, my brother Ruddy put his life on the line against three teenagers in Warninco Park looking to steal our bikes. He was nine years old. Roselle, New Jersey had a reputation for being rough and the youth made sure to remind you. In those days, the anti-bully movement, was movement of the feet—run fast and hard. But, on that day, only thing getting ready to run was a fade.

While my brother and I were shooting hoops, three teenage boys joined us. But what had appeared as innocent, quickly turned into monkey in the middle, and with our basketball as the prize. After 20 minutes of pleading, and then seeing what was coming next, I turned to my brother and said, “Grab your bike and forget ‘bout the ball. We’re going home”. But doing this was like poking a stick into a hornets nest. The teenagers grew more aggressive, and now our bikes became the prize, instead.

As we pedaled through uneven grass and mulch, they ran after us. We built some distance, but not enough. One of the three grabbed Ruddy’s bicycle frame and lifted the rear wheel off of the ground. My brother was now pedaling mid air. So, I bust a U-turn, slide off my bike, and step to Debo. But only to negotiate. I’m a peace maker. “We don’t want no problems bro. Just wanna go home. That’s it”, I said. Laughter. That’s what they gave me. Just laughter. And returned their focus back to Ruddy.

Suddenly, however, I see my brother eject himself from his bike, squares his feet, curl his fingers, ball both hands, and raise them eye level. He then says, “Knuckle up. You bitch ass nigga”. But, really, it’s not what he says, at all. Just seems fitting to me at this point of the account. And would’ve been dope, though, if he had. Yet, not as dope as total silence. Ruddy was done with talking. My brother instantly realized a new power. The less I speak, the louder I become. And my bullies shrink. It’s exactly what they did.

“Oh, shit. Little man got heart”, said one of the cowards.

At the end, we left in peace and with our bikes. My brother taught me a great lesson that day. That when you put your life on the line, you soon find not many really want the problems that come with it! They just pretend.

Don’t Drive High

I saw an interesting billboard yesterday in Arizona. It read, “If you are high, don’t drive”. Now, on the surface that seems like solid advice—driving impaired needs no explanation. Yet, as the billboard entered my review, I then thought, “Wait. Reading impaired is also impossible”. Which then means the billboard only is useful to those who are sober. But then that’s like offering dentures to people with full sets of teeth. The message actually looses its bite.

Moreover, if the warning is to avoid driving altogether, why glue the information 60 feet in the air, along highway such and such, in the middle of the Navajo Dessert, where now, in order to see the Ad, technically requires driving—the very thing the Ad says not to do. I laughed. And then concluded that the billboard was just as impaired as the people it intended to target.

THREE HEAVENS

If there’s three heavens, one of those must be for kids, cause ain’t no way I’m spending eternity with mines, on the same floor.

TRAFFIC LIGHT

People sometimes leave me hanging.

People sometimes run through me.

People say I slow them down.

But then others say I rush them.

People stare annoyed, waiting until I change.

Yet, to others, I’m oblivious.

That is, until I stop them again.

I’ve saved many, but seen some close calls.

I’ve also had beefs, even took some to court.

To those distant I’m hard to understand.

But to those near I’m clear as day.

I’ve seen many cry alone late at night.

Then hours later laughing during the day.

Others even piss on me, but the rain washes it off.

Push my buttons and I might just react.

But most times I stand still as people walk away.

I’ve realized, through the years, blacking out isn’t so good. So, instead, I’m filled with light 24/7.

Now, to some this describes a traffic light.

But if you look closely it describes my life.

INxiety

I find vision interesting. Because it is the window to the soul. What a person can see, matters a lot. To appreciate Mount Everest requires sight. To appreciate LeBron or a child’s painting requires the same. In fact, we value vision so much, that we allow even doctors to laser our eyeballs. Then there’s contact lenses. Just putting them on is interesting. And then there’s eye glasses—a million dollar industry. Lens Crafters, pretty much does what its name says, craft lenses. Simple. And each Saturday people line their doors, and do so, all in the name of VISION! People have a strong desire to see.

But, what happens when vision is lost inwardly? The answer is simple: anxiety. Or, in this case, INxiety. A condition where the spirit cannot properly see—causing life to appear blurry. And sadly, there’s no PPO for spiritual glaucoma. And, to put it into context, spiritual blindness, is just as dangerous, as the DMV granting licenses, to people unable to recite line 7 :

F - E - L - O - P - Z - D

And if the person who can’t read line 7 is a danger to society, what’s the difference then with the person who can’t read inwardly? Reality is, people all around us are constantly ready to crash out. They have a strong desire to see, but yet can’t. However, if they had people able to “craft” spiritual lenses on their behalf, they would enjoy all the colors life provides. After all, the heart is a “deep ocean”, the Proverb says, “but a person with great understanding can pull from it”.

In other words, anxiety is first solved, not by pills, although pills have its place, but instead, by talking with someone in high regard. Typically, such a person, at one time or another, should had been as blind as you! Or else, the talk reduces to the blind leading the blind.

Smile Sister

My sister had a chip tooth.

possibly from curse words.

Although it’s fixed now,

still get on people nerves.

A fire cracker, but I still love her though.

Despite burning my face about 30 years ago.

I cried. She hugged me. And so I never told.

The chic hasn’t hugged me since and I’m 43 years old.

Speaking of pain, she also attended Rutgers.

Had a sick mother, not to mention, 2 brothers.

Plus no wings but still graduated with flying colors.

Time passed. Got married. Became pregnant.

Water broke. Old Post Road. Boston Market.

Drove to the hospital. Almost flipped. And then I parked it.

Few hours later birth to a boy and I loved it.

And that’s only a slice of her story. I Left out her career and power lifting after 40.

So at the end God deserves the Glory! Smile my sister because He will never leave you lonely.

Apples are for those Below

Got divorced.

Slept on my sister’s couch.

Could’ve called her a bitch. Didn’t.

Held that in my mouth.

Tears when I lost my daughter.

Society thinks men don’t desire to be fathers.

Six figure income dwindled to zero. All of a sudden the marriage has a problem.

But not in the Lexus. You sung so much could’ve dropped an album.

I cooked you eggs, bacon, and grits. The marriage was lit.

Yup I couldn’t catch fashion. Yet today it’s you throwing a fit.

We reap what we sow—three baby daddies. Thought it’d be sweet, until it’s you who caught cavities.

Then my best friend from high school betrayed me. A tragedy.

Left a knife in my back. Now, when I stand up, I’m special, like a Katt Williams comedy.

Supposedly, apple trees, don’t eat apples. They drink water. The apples are for those below—the good friends. Or those who grow colder.

Unsubscribe Me

I’ve gotten numerous emails with the option to subscribe or unsubscribe. The infamous “click here, if yes”, button. The method, though, is funny to me. Because in the 1990’s—long before the internet—testosterone charged boys did the same. Whenever they liked a girl, they’d reach for paper and publish perhaps, one of the most unromantic lines in literary history:

“Keisha, would you go with me?”

Nevertheless, those Romeo’s were marketing geniuses. They’d even add intricate graphs to their letters—empty squares revealing the word “yes”, and then, other squares, right beside those, with the letters “N-O”. To those who are Generation Alpha you wouldn’t understand.

Yet, what do squares and subs and liking a girl, say about faith in God? It says everything. If a person doesn’t know their worth, they’ll likely subscribe to anything, and then realize later, that unsubscribing, is damn hard. Furthermore, the words “will you go with me” is interesting in this setting. Because really, will you go, is all that God cares about. But then so does the Devil. Therefore, unsubscribe from the notion that your life is basic. It is far from it. 24/7 there is a war over who gets to you first.

Love You to the Moon & Back

The moon is slowly drifting away from Earth at a rate of about 1.5 inches per year. This means by the time I’m 70, that’s 40 inches. Impressive. But what’s more impressive is the guy whose job it is, to fly to the moon with a measuring tape, and the guy whose job it is, to hold it, on the other end, in Houston. But that’s beside the point. The fact is things move apart.

So what does that say about life? It says a lot. For starters, failed relationships are a moon. Somewhere the person looses their gravitational pull by taking another for granted. Now, while 1.5 inches seems harmless, it isn’t. Just picture Earth without a moon. Likewise, picture you without God. Or worse, you without the people he gave. It’s jarring to the eyes. So, here’s what to do, instead. Love intentionally. Embrace those drifting towards you and ignore the ones who aren’t. And you’ll be fine.

Deer Lord

Last night I saw no less than three dead deers on highway 80, between Indiana and Iowa. But this is normal in the fall, as deers migrate to avoid snowy weather. Ohio alone has over 500,000 of them. So for truckers driving nights, being alert is paramount. Furthermore, deers have adapted to low-light, which means at night they see much better. That is, until light from a vehicle hits them. The result is blindness. Hence, the old saying, “stuck like a deer in the head lights”. This is when a person is unable to process life because of a shock or fear.

But should this be normal? The answer is no. Unlike deers, we should never adapt to low light. In other words, not knowing who we are in Christ. Yes, life happens. This is true. However, there are particular guarantees in God that reduces, if not eliminates, our initial response to freeze. While our souls might indeed “thirst for the Lord, as the deer thirst for the waters”, according to the Psalms, seems to me, getting to the waters safely is just as important. What worry is to us, are what headlights are to deers.

Only Thing Fair in Life is Milk

My favorite brand of milk is Fair Life. The taste is delicious. They have chocolate, strawberry, and protein options. Not to mention, the light blue colored bottles labeled 2% and the red ones labeled “whole”. Which, by the way, I never understood. In “milk math” 2% stands for the TOTAL WEIGHT in fat, but not actually the “amount” of fat the bottle has. In other words, ten pounds of pennies isn’t also ten dollars of income. Nevertheless, the point is, Fair Life is good.

However, can having a fair life extend beyond just milk? It depends. What do people say having a fair life is?Is it a luxury car, yacht, lots of money, good health, many friends, good food, zero taxes, family, short lines at the DMV, no enemies, unlimited sunshine, no Trump in office, or perhaps the opposite? Do you see the point, though?

If having a fair life means intercourse with the things we strongly desire, joy will always be promiscuous. Instead, A fair life is about contentment (and not to be confused with complacent). And then making sure the total weight in you, concerning it, exceeds 2%—going from blue to red, making life “whole”. Yes, I know. Contentment isn’t easy. But who said life was fair?

Having Differences

A good friend produces benefits for the person across from them. But when a friendship has a dark cloud, both parties suffer, and instead, the umbrella becomes the prize. This is the heart of every argument. A lesser item deceptively appearing more valuable than the people it divides. I know this too well.

Nevertheless, how do we solve this? I’d say, first, start with yourself. Have I been a good friend. If so, great. Now, flip the coin. Has my friend also been good to me? The point is without value nothing is repairable. The relationship is as good as dead.

Avoiding Marital Abuse

I never knew marriage could create countless definitions for one-ness. To some it’s sharing the last slice of pizza. To others it’s the last slice, but never the last brownie. And finally there’s those who don’t share at all. Nevertheless, each group believes that their version of one-ness excels. But does it really?

To me marriage more reassembles the NFL and when teams dispute 4th and inches. A system settles the argument: the chains. However, both teams must agree that the chains rule. Or else, one team will request a garden hose, while the other, PVC pipping. Today this is the problem with one-ness, two people NOT agreeing on a standard grounded in truth, and where, neither side suffers abuse.

For Christians this is Christ! Rejecting him is like rejecting the chains. And is exactly what led to my own divorce. My ex-wife chose materialism (PVC Pipping) to measure what one-ness means to her. And elsewhere, I used a garden hose, missing the mark, as well. The point is any time a spouse chooses “self” over “other”, this promotes marital abuse. After all, it’s the person who “refreshes others”, the proverb says, “who will themselves be refreshed”.

Backstabbers

Betrayal hurts more than any other pain a person can feel. It is a spiritual laceration sutures can’t stitch. Uneasy thoughts hijack the mind while the previously trusted is exposed. He or she gambles the gift that you are, even after recently dipping bread at your side.

This happened recently. My best friend of twenty years lied. And when confronted, lied even more. Here’s a secret though: backstabbers don’t desire to necessarily stab. If so, they’d stab openly. Instead, a war rages inside. Extending the metaphor of Jesus and Judas, a back stabber is torn between two things: 30 pieces of shekels—symbolizing temporary pleasures—and Jesus, the ruler of all things. And so it begs the question: why do people routinely loose sight of valuable relationships?

After all, a good relationship is like a tax break, hard to find. Moreover, its victims become “more unyielding” than a fortified city, says the proverb. So, the victims must now heal from two places. First, from the strike, and then also, from un-forgiveness.

Stamina for Difficult Days

Another layer to suffering is stamina. If you’ve ever jogged before, but didn’t train, you know exactly the feeling I’m referring to. Gradually both your legs become noodle, throat feels like sand paper, and lungs feel like a flat tire. Likewise, life is the ability to place one step after the other without crashing to the floor. But achieving this requires incredible stamina.

Here’s another way this can be explained. Let’s say you are shopping in Florida for your first home, and the real estate agent says to you, all the houses you see today are hurricane proof, so if a hurricane lands, the wind, rain, and flood will change route, skip your house, and smash into your neighbor’s, instead. Would you believe them? Obviously you wouldn’t. The concept of a hurricane deterrent doesn’t exist.

Instead, what matters most is the build. If a house is built poorly, the stamina to endure a storm will show. But if the house is built skillfully, the opposite is just as true. And so, life isn’t about storms or long races, in as much as, it is about learning what stamina looks like. When the mind is built with intent, your ability to endure under the most pressing conditions, increases! However, achieving this starts by agreeing that every storm has purpose, and that every race is specific.

Ultimately, God is interested in the quality of your stamina, and He will continue to train you until there isn’t a storm or a race you can’t out perform!

Suffer Successfully

What I dislike about suffering is the lie surrounding it, that life with God gets easier. But it is actually the complete opposite. The believer’s life is hard, filled with incredible challenges, and stressful. Yet, despite that, suffering has its place and is not necessarily an accident, but rather, God’s design.

The key to suffering then is to view it from all angles, like a magician does when doing a trick. To the magician the trick performed is simple, but to the audience, the act is extremely complex. This is because the audience views the performance from a fixed position, while, on the other hand, the magician knows the end from the beginning. To a magician, a handkerchief isn't why the rabbit disappears, instead it’s the second hole, inside the hat, that adds to the suspense.

Likewise, suffering is more than what just meets the eye. Our lives are a confluence of events colliding at just the right time, which, when handled correctly, produces standing ovations, and brings order to what earlier, was chaos. Suffering successfully is the art of addressing our fixed positions and becoming motivated enough to change them with each new hardship !