B is for What a Man Sews

 Now:

“I need a favour.”

He stayed silent. With these four words this new world had ceased to exist. He had felt the air punched out of him and he was fourteen again.

“Tailz? Tailz! You hearing me?”  the voice faded into the past…

Then:

They say fairy tales weren’t real but here he was, like the miller’s daughter, up all night, sewing with an impossible deadline for the king of drug lords. If he succeeded, he would be paid handsomely; if not, he would surely die. And like the story… he was a girl. Not gay, but a girl since he chose Home Economics instead of brawny woodwork and T.D.

And the fools never let him forget it. Fools. They were all spectacularly visionless. It was the truth. Of course the other truth was that it was close to the unholy hour of two and he was still cutting and sewing and ironing logos so as to make his employer’s team, become police and coast guard protectors instead of what they really were… organized. He chuckled to himself. Their old contact had found religion and confessed [a portion of] his sins, leaving the gang the problem of finding suitable para military wear. But now… now they had found a talent who preferred swatches of fabric to bullets and… backsideishness. No vision they had. Not like him; no he would use this life then leave it for fashion school. He would be THE DESIGNER. And it really wasn’t that hard to get out since he was merely a contracted employee in an otherwise cut throat organization. The Gangster Tailor or “Tailz” they called him. He was neither drug mule nor gunslinger; the only Gaza he acknowledged was half way around the globe.

His mother prayed for him earnestly, but he knew enough Bible to know that “a man’s hunger drives him on”. Even she had to admit that.

And he was hungry….

And the money didn’t hurt.

And he sewed through 15 and 16; and he sewed all through fifth and sixth form. He sewed all night right up to the point the torn envelope spat out that golden word… “accepted”. Then he sewed no more. he would design a new life starting now.

But as the phone rang years later, he realized that like the miller’s daughter, Rumpelstiltskin’s ghost will never let him go. The threads were too tight now. only a sharp blade would cut him loose… but not without fraying the seams.

“I need a favour...”

What a Man Sews

An UNKNOWN story

© Tracy J H

Feb 03:2012

B is for god fest

Christ in the mirror, Durga on the dash, Buddha in the player.

Thomas couldn’t help but be impressed by the… religiosity of his taxi driver.

And you needed it on this road; where demons swerve in and out lanes, pitchforks replaced by cell phones and manicured nails. The devil is truly in the details. But that’s okay. The gods were in the car. Thomas wondered how this process worked.

Did they split responsibility?

“Ok I’ll take the road up.”

“Yes, I’ll take the road down.”

“I’ll take the road less traveled.”

Of course you would Buddha, of course.

“Dis eh my car nah. I wukin’ it for somebody.” 

The driver said, shaking Thomas from his thoughts and making him an unwitting participant to an otherwise one-sided conversation 

“When I come in ah does put pu meh lil um, icon an ting nah.”

So the gods were by invitation only. Each man chauffeured his own deity. Thomas had once heard about carrying your own cross but this seemed too much..

Thomas pondered the merits of perhaps creating his own religion; with an all encompassing deity who truly couldn’t care less. And it would be called BABS – the Blessed Assurance of Bull Sh- well... yeah. BABS has that nice maternal ring to it. Instead of the traditional homes of worship, all its wayward and oft times left behind children could simply say, “Ah going by Tanty BABS!” of course that would make her followers BABSTERS. And there’d be a lot of BAB-BLING; which in turn could be the tribute brought to BABS.

“Well people does just feel safer wit’ religious people eh.” Mr. Poly-Religious belted out. “Look when I doin’ meh lil private wuk an ting, an’ I pull up wit’ meh slow gospel music so, people does feel cool. Doh mind if it eh dem god or even if dey ha’ one, ah find dey does be more polite.”

“Mm.” Thomas continued to listen. 

He doubted that. More than likely his passengers just didn’t want to argue. This country was filled with silent confrontationalists and loud agree-ers. We believe… what we want… to believe. “Agree-ers” – that wasn’t a word? Was it? BABS put a tongue! Take your place in this god fest and bring some sense to the table. Though if this driver’s multi-god devotion was anything to go by, BABS would have a hell of a problem breaking through. The market was already saturated.

“To tell you d trut’ eh” He whispered over his shoulder, “me eh all dat religious nah, but I believe it ha’ something out dey.”

“Mm.” Thomas… continued… to doubt.

god-fest

tracy j h

© 05:18:2011

 

B is For Confessions (of a Dickhead)

As the car sped violently down the highway, it hit him that he had lived in the land of the celibate for so long, he had forgotten that his penis had, well, a voice. And apparently opinions. This carnal revival left much to be desired. For while knowledge is considerable power, what actions lay waiting for him to take?

The truth lay in his hands. And with that truth, the responsibility to make penis feel like part of the family again.

Head Heart Feet and Soul. These no longer were the only instruments of light and right but so was he… or it. Yes, he was male, surely it must be too. It’s… His opinions on the matter assured this. No longer did the devil lay hidden in his pants to be crushed under foot (the very idea sent the now thoughtful master into shivers) but he… it… he had as much truth to say as the rest of the saints. “Saint”, a snicker rose from the master as the highway winds leapt up his face, patting him ever so gently on the head. A saint. Yes, Saint Phallus of The L’groin Territories. He quickly regained composure. No need for everyone to think him mad at the point of his revelations.

But still…

But. Still…

Maybe it was the realization that Phallus was not living up to some misguided hedonist potential… whatever. The end result was the same. He should’ve asked her to stay. He truly should have said, “stay”…

Confessions of a Dickhead

An UNKNOWN story

© Tracy J H

Jan 06:2012

B is for Much Water

“And John was also baptizing in Aenon near Salim, because there was much water there…” St. John 3:23

Don’t envy. Neither in jest or in actuality…. Don’t envy. The world is still big enough to fit your dream.

The above chapter tells how both Jesus and St. John were baptizing in the same area. They could have done this because there was “much water”. As I read that it hit me that, as convoluted as the planet seems [and altogether hopeless some days], there is stil a place for you.

We don’t usually see it because we’re busy, rushing round like ants; trying to FIGHT our way into a space… even at the expense of others. Because THAT SPACE…. THAT SPACE YOU’RE OCCUPYING is exactly where I need to be. But it isn’t… actually. You need to be where you belong because there is still much water – the talent pool isn’t all filled up.

There is still a space for YOUR art.

There is still a space for YOUR writing.

There is still a space for YOUR music.

There is [more than enough] space for you.

The End. I have spoken [thunder rolls]

Pax

B is for Special Announcment

We interrupt life as you know it for this special announcement. 

Me Tarzan is here. It is the second blog on the B is for Stealing Network.

A space/forum for all my [and possibly your] hypotheses to grow.

That means, B IS FOR STEALING can now become wholly (holy) and solely creative portal.

Enjoy.

Pax. And HAPPY NEW YEAR ALL!

tracy j h