 
Bismillah

By Khaleel Jooste

Copyright Khaleel Jooste 2018

Smashwords Edition License Notes:

This free e-book may be copied, distributed, reposted, reprinted and shared, provided it appears in its entirety without alteration, and the reader is not charged to access it.

Other books by Khaleel Jooste

Thank You Allah – Purpose

<https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/764583>

Christmas

<https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/609544>

You are the Love of my Life

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/440403

You are the Love of my Life

<https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/820850>

Whisperers

<https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/414163>

I seek protection from Satan the outcast and I begin in the name of

Allah,

The Most Gracious, The Most Merciful.

Ayat Al-Kursi (The verse of the Throne)

Allah - there is no deity except Him, the Ever-Living, the Sustainer of all existence. Neither drowsiness overtakes Him nor sleep. To Him belongs whatever is in the heavens and whatever is on the earth. Who is it that can intercede with Him except by His permission? He knows what is presently before them and what will be after them, and they encompass not a thing of His knowledge except for what He wills. His throne extends over the heavens and the earth, and their preservation tires Him not. And He is the Most High, the Most Great.

Surah Al- Baqarah (The Cow) 2:255

As Allah wills
For Miguel

Salaam, Khaleel
Jabir (May Allah be pleased with him) reported:

I heard the Messenger of Allah (ﷺ) saying, "If a person mentions the Name of Allah upon entering his house or eating, Satan says, addressing his followers: 'You will find nowhere to spend the night and no dinner.' But if he enters without mentioning the Name of Allah, Satan says (to his followers); 'You have found (a place) to spend the night in, and if he does not mention the Name of Allah at the time of eating, Satan says: 'You have found (a place) to spend the night in as well as food."'

[Muslim].
Company

#NotAlone

#NowThatIFoundYou

"I'm glad we are past those," says the girl as they sit down on a patch of orange-green grass. They had just crossed the purple murky lands.

"It is breathtaking, but I do not like the darkness. Those dark patches where it was very purple. I don't like not seeing what is going on around me." She breathes in deeply.

"There is nothing to be scared of here, pretty. I am sure we are perfectly safe." He sits down opposite her and closes his eyes.

She admires him.

"I am sure you are right, but still. This is just how I am. I know it is irrational, but I am just like that." She wipes some dirt off her pink sneakers.

He smiles at her. He found her to be the most curious thing he has ever had the happy delight to be acquainted with; curious because she seems fearless. No, curious because she is fearless, yet she is still human, fearing the dark. It is always wise to fear the dark, because it makes you cautious, alert, you know to take the necessary supplies with, whatever those supplies might be. Being a man of the woods, he knows this well. The dark harbors many things.

"It is silly, right?" She sits up and faces him.

He takes in her curious gaze.

He thinks he has met his soul mate. Finally. In this moment, this dawns on him.

"Well, say something." The pretty girl eyes him through slit eyes.

He smiles.

"It is not silly, pretty, you are wise to fear the dark."

His words comfort her. It gives her some reassurance.

They both look up at the clouds in the sky. They were much more than before. Lots of rosy pink fluffy puffs that seemed to float just above them. For the first time, they both notice that the blue grey skies were actually very barren. These clouds were only directly above them.

They take in each other's realization.

She is the first to say.

"Strange that these seem to be following us, right?" She stares at the clouds quick, then at him.

He stares up too, then meets her pretty eyes.

"Not strange, rather remarkable, don't you agree. It is like it is shading us, protecting us." He stares back at the clouds.

"You're right." She sounds more excited. "This place is really special. However were we so lucky to end up here?" She gets up and stretches her legs.

"I can't remember really. All I know is, I opened my eyes and I was here. Not afraid, just in awe."

"Yes, I agree."

She takes in their surroundings. Beyond the murky lands, lay the wooded area where they spent most of their time together. It is many trees, wild plants and long green grass. Beyond that were high mountains that seemed to stretch deep into the horizon. Where they were now, the ground was mostly flat and open, with patches of huge boulders; smooth brown rocks. It was a prelude to the more rocky terrain that led up to the two peaks they were headed for. From here the peaks looked much closer. They could see it more clearly. The tips seem to have a different color than the rest of the sides. It looked to be a similar green and purple as the murky lands.

She admires him curiously, then asks.

"Do you think we are on another planet? Or is it perhaps just..." she doesn't finish. What she wanted to say didn't make sense.

"A dream, you mean to say, pretty?" He too, felt it strange to think that this could be a dream.

She nods, but almost immediately.

"It just can't be a dream. It just can't be. How can we both be having the same dream?"

He didn't know what to say.

"Or more..."

She didn't dare to say what was on her mind.

But he knew.

He closes the distance between them and faces her. Almost touching her with his hand, but cautions himself not too. He realizes he wondered the same.

"I am real, pretty. Honestly. You are not imagining me here, with you. This is real. Really."

She faces him and smiles. Sighs assuredly.

"You better be real. I am not one for imaginary friends. That's just sad."

He laughs.

"It is. Sadly, pretty."

They stare at the two peaks. There was something alluring about it. It was as if the peaks were beckoning them to come. It was whispering to them. How the mountains would have a voice they didn't question. Rather, what did it want to tell them?

"Ready?" She tugs at her immaculate white dress.

He smiles.

She was definitely a dream come to life.

"Ready, pretty."

As they head off, it flaps its wings hard once and glides above the pink clouds. If they were to look closely, they would only be able to see the tips of its feathers protruding from the empty sides of the fluffy masses. But it was there.

Watching.
ك

"Bismillah. O Allah! I ask Thee for good both when entering and when going out; in the name of Allah we have entered, and in the name of Allah we have gone out, and in Allah do we trust."

Maryam and Peter-John close the door behind them and walk down the passage to the living room.

"Salaam alaykum, Mê." Maryam gives her aunt a hug.

"Salaam, salaam," says Peter-John with a smile as he tries to establish eye contact with the woman. She says "Wa'salaam" but does not look Peter-John in the eye.

Maryam gestures for Peter-John to have a seat.

"Supper will be served soon. Would you like something to drink?" She glances through the veranda door, pauses for a second, says something under her breathe and turns to face Peter-John.

"Just some water, thanks, M." Peter-John observes her eyes.

"They are gone now, aren't they?"

Maryam smiles and nods her head in agreement.

"How did you know? Bismillah."

Peter-John takes the glass of water from her and says bismillah too and takes three sips of water and puts the glass down on the table. He sits back and gives her question some thought.

"I have super powers." With slit eyes his scans the room. "I see them." He sits up more on the couch and continues to fool about. He rests a penetrating look on Maryam's aunt who was sitting in the corner.

She imitates his slit eyes and returns his penetrating gaze.

They both laugh.

"It is your eyes, M. They were bloodshot when we were outside. Most especially in the mall and more so when we got into the cab. It hurt my eyes to look at yours. I don't know why I am like that." He rubs his eyes.

Maryam shakes her head. "There were a few in the cab with us. They were accompanying the driver. He was definitely not very sober. We should be more careful next time. Perhaps avoid cabs all together."

"But how will we get around?"

"You can ask Drew for his car. It is doing no one any good just standing there while he is gone."

Peter-John's face lights up and a smile comes to his face and eyes. "I never thought about that. I'm sure it won't be a problem. I'll ask him first though. Brilliant idea, M."

He says bismillah and takes another three sips of the water.

"Another way I know they are gone, is that I feel unburdened. It only happens when I come into your house." Peter-John sits back and relaxes. He breathes deeply and lets the breath out slowly.

Maryam smiles and sits back on the single seater. "It is peaceful here."

They both sit quietly for a moment.

The silence is disturbed by Maryam's aunt who says that supper is ready and they should join everyone at the table.

ي

"With Allah's name and upon the blessings granted by Allah do we eat," says Maryam as she passes a plate to Peter-John. "There is a fork and a knife for you. I eat with my fingers."

Peter-John takes the plate from her. "Thanks. I think I will try to eat with my fingers too. All this is best eaten with your hands anyway. I see you guys got all my favorites here. Tortillas, tacos, nachos, my my my." He smacks his lips together. "Baked enchiladas and fried empanadas, mmmmh. What filling?"

Maryam takes in his appreciation. "Hatch green chile enchiladas and tender shredded beef empanadas. I made the masa myself." She smiles as she scoops some soup into a bowl.

"Even that soup looks great. Is it tomato soup with masa balls? He eyes her soup. "This chili con carne has got my name on it though." He takes a taco and scoops some of the chili on it, tops that with some of the grilled Mexican street corn salad, pickled red onions and the creamy guacamole. He folds it and with "Bismillah" he takes a big bite. "Scrumptious."

"Yes. The masa is a mixture of tortillas and sweet potato. I added some cayenne pepper just for a bit of a kick."

Peter-John nods his head as he takes another bite of the topped taco. "This Escabeche de Cebolla is on another level; lots of homey flavors." He scoops a bit more of the pickled onion onto the last of the topped taco.

"We spiced it up a bit; added bay leaves, peppercorns, pimento and some cumin seeds. Know it's not exactly Mexican, but we like to make it our own too." She smiles as she puts a spoon of the soup to her mouth.

"It tastes great. Lita has got some competition." He smiles at Maryam's aunt as she tops the rice on her plate with some of the chili con carne. She gestures for him to take some of the shredded beef with lime and fresh avocado. "Bismillah."

Peter-John takes a tortilla, fills it with the shredded beef, adds some of the pickled onion and a bit of the spicy salsa and wraps it up tightly. He dips it into the guacamole and with "Bismillah" takes a big bite.

"Who is Lita? Your sister?" Asks Maryam's younger brother, Mikaeel, as he bites into his grilled corn cob.

"No, she is my beloved grandmother on my father's side. Lita is short for Abuelita. It means little grandmother. My dad is Mexican you see."

"That explains why you look the way you do. You don't look exactly like a white American boy. You have a tannish-olivish skin color. That with your dark eyes and brown, darkish-reddish hair gives you an almost American native appearance."

"Reddish hair?" Asks Peter-John confused. "You must be imagining things."

Maryam smiles as she takes an empanada, scoops some guacamole onto the tip and takes a bite.

"I'm sure it is red, especially in the sun. Not red red, more fun mahogany red."

"If you say so. My ancestors on my mom's side are Apache, so it can be either of the two blood lines that has me looking the way I do. I'm a half breed if ever there was such a thing."

"Don't say that," says Maryam's eldest brother, Ibrahim. "Allah made you like that, so that you may know these people and in order to be a sign for the people."

"Me a sign for the people?" Peter-John ponders this for a second. He takes some of the enchilada and tops it with salsa, before putting a bit of it into his mouth using the thumb, index and middle finger of his right hand.

"Not too sure what kind of sign I can be to anyone. Just another kid from California trying to make it big," he scoffs. "This chili enchiladas are delicious. Finger licking good." He licks his fingers as he eyes the spread for what he will have next.

"It is sunnah to lick the fingers," says Maryam. She takes a nacho and scoops some of the chili con carne onto it and takes a small bite.

"I do enjoy eating with my fingers," says Peter-John as he takes another bite of his enchiladas.

Maryam watches him as he skillfully uses only three fingers of his right hand to put food into his mouth.

"Many people can't do what you are doing right now. Look at these two here, eating with all five fingers, my aunt there using a fork and a knife." She smiles at her aunt. Her aunt puts her fork down and takes a sip of her almond rice drink.

"That horchata looks smooth and refreshing." Peter-John wipes his hands with a napkin and gestures with his glass for some.

"Bismillah," says Maryam as she fills his glass for him.

"Slightly roasted the almonds just for a smoky taste. Not as luxurious as the texture you get with the coconut, but I like it like this."

Peter-John takes a sip. "It's smooth, creamy and nutty. Cool."

He puts his glass down and takes a nacho and dips it into the guacamole.

"Are you sure the reason they ate with the fingers is not because they didn't have knives and forks back in the day?" Asks Peter-John curiously. He starts to fill another taco with some of the shredded beef.

"Actually, no." This was Mikaeel. "At the time of the prophet, sallallahu alaihi wasallam, civilization was very advanced. The Arabian Peninsula and Persia were amongst the most sophisticated and highly cultured of the era."

Peter-John nods his head.

"So why did the prophet, peace be with him, eat with three fingers then? Peter-John takes another sip of the rice drink.

Ibrahim clears his throat. "Scientifically, it is proven that the hand to mouth action causes enzymes to form in the mouth. This aids with the digestion of the food. So this can be a reason. Divine inspiration."

"It is also just very practical really. If the food is too hot to grasp with the fingers, it will be too hot to put into your mouth. With a fork it is not as easy to determine the temperature of the food and chances are you'll scald your mouth," adds Mikaeel.

"And blowing your food is really not advised. Unhygienic," says Maryam as she takes a sip of her rice drink. She takes a cinnamon stick and dips it into the white cream and puts the covered stick into her mouth.

"All sounds very interesting. Cool."

Peter-John takes another empanada, tops it with the pickled onion and bites into it.

"Save some room for dessert." Laughs Maryam's aunt as she gets up from her chair.

"Dessert too," says Peter-John, hiding his full mouth with the back of his hand. "You're really spoiling me tonight. Cool. I really appreciate it. Muchas gracias."

"Anytime...amigo," says Mikaeel. He seems to be very fond of Peter-John. They all were.

That was the whole reason for the Mexican theme, to celebrate the roots of their friend.

Maryam's aunt returns with many delicious treats and passes it along the table. "We have some lovely apple pie tacos, topped with whipped cream and caramel sauce, some nice candied sweet potato..."

"Camotes Enmielado, " says Peter-John as he licks his lips, 'and are those fried churros with chocolate in the middle?" He wipes his hands and eagerly waits for the desserts to be passed along to him.

"Spicy chocolate, yes," says Maryam pleased.

"Please do enjoy them. Bismillah."

"I most certainly do not need an invitation to sink my teeth into something sweet. Yummy, it all looks delectable. Pity Lita is in Santa Fe. She would have loved your hospitality."

"Do you see her often, your grandmother I mean?" Asks Maryam's aunt. She takes her seat and pours herself some spiced tea.

Peter-John takes the candied sweet potato, dishes a generous helping into his plate and slowly starts eating it with a spoon.

"When I was younger, we saw her a lot, but not so much anymore. With everything going on here with this wall and all, Lita has become scared. She has been praying to the Lady much more than before and she has asked that we all move to Mexico."

"Lady?" Asks Ibrahim curiously.

"Mother Mary. Lita is a devout Catholic. She is never without her rosary. Even when she is watching tv. You don't dare disturb her then. I remember her shouting "Ahorita no, ya va a empezar mi telenovela" this while clutching her rosary and praying for her heroine to see the truth about her husband cheating on her. She really believed that the shows were real. At least to me it seemed that way.

"What does it mean? What she said to you?" Asks Mikaeel.

"Oh," Peter-John scoffs, "sorry, it means 'not now, my soap opera is beginning.'" Peter-John laughs more.

He polishes off the sweet potato dessert on his plate with a smack of his lips. "This was really awesome. Thank you. I'll try some of those crunchy churros now."

He puts two churros on his plate and takes a bite into one.

"Come to think of it, I have noticed a lot of things you told me in those telenovelas. They always have the checkered floors and red carpets covering those floors and people are always calling upon Mary or some other deity besides God to aid them," He stares at Maryam, "more than that, the shows really influence the way people behave and it is sad to see that the actors are always the same. It really seems to be that they have them under control, most portraying this immoral behavior."

"This plot is all over the show. Not just on American TV, but even the Latin world."

"It is a global agenda. The plot is not against Americans, it is against all of mankind. The belly of the beast is merely Hollywood. Since their influence runs deep, everything is conjured up here and the spell is cast globally. It really is sinister and disturbing."

Maryam looks at her aunt that gives her a concerned look.

"Sorry, Mê. We'll talk about this some other time, Peter-John. Let's not spoil our meal with such unpleasantness. How are the churros?"

Peter-John nods his head in agreement.

"They're out of this world. This chocolate is really amazing."

"I added some chili powder, only a little, some cardamom and cinnamon, a bit of coarse black pepper, but it takes great care to get the balance right. You do not want the chocolate to become too overpowered by the spices and you definitely don't want it to become a fiery molten concoction. The chocolate should always remain the center of attraction so to say."

"I think you have the balance exactly right. It's crunchy wholesomeness with molten chocolaty spicy hominess. It's like something from heaven."

"There is more truth to your words than you think," says Maryam's aunt. "Indian cooks have always seen cooking not only as a means to satisfy and indulge healthy appetites, but also as a healing to the body, by incorporating various spices into the food they make. Our family is no different."

Peter-John takes an apple pie taco and listens to her intently as he bites into it.

"The cocoa for instance boosts heart health, both lowering cholesterol and blood pressure, while keeping your heart arteries healthy too. The chili keeps your blood vessels healthy and it boosts your metabolism. Cardamom fights inflammation, also lowers blood pressure and prevents cancer from spreading. Sweet cinnamon helps with inflammation, protects against conditions affecting the brain, like Alzheimer's disease and it even helps lower blood sugar. So you see, something divine definitely had a hand in creating them."

Peter-John nods in agreement.

"And of course we believe it was Allah who made them and in these are signs of His existence for people who ponder, "says Maryam as she takes a girly bite from her churro.

"It is all very interesting and very thought provoking. I do agree that it must be something with great intelligence that created all of this. It can't all be some gigantic fluke, an accident, a great coincidence."

Ibrahim looks at Peter-John intently.

"Does this mean you are a believer?"

All of them look at Peter-John curiously.

Peter-John looks at Maryam's aunt as he answers. "I have been reading the Qur'an and all the things M has given me. At the moment, I am not sure what I am experiencing, but something definitely is taking place in my life."

He faces Ibrahim, then Maryam.

"I am reminded of something Lita always said." He clears his throat. "Ya casate y dame nietos, o que ¿voy a ser la unica de mis amigas que no tiene nietos?"

He smiles.

"That means get married and give me grandchildren already! Am I going to be the only one of my friends with no grandkids?" He laughs.

They look at Peter-John amused.

"It is just, I need to be sure before I am going to commit to something so life changing, you know. I need to be sure of what I am getting myself into."

"We understand. It is a big decision to make."

"Yip, but I can say that so far I have only seen good things and am only reminded of good when I am with you all, and especially with Maryam here. She has been a real inspiration to me. If anything, I definitely make sense of many things because of her."

"Maryam? An inspiration?" Mikaeel coughs loudly. "I think that horchata went to your head. Crazy this one. You better watch out her crazy disease is infectious." Mikaeel ducks as Maryam swings her hand at him.

"You better be careful I don't give you a head ache!" Smirks Maryam jokingly. She laughs.

"Be careful with both of these two," says Ibrahim. "Definitely more than a few screws loose."

He rolls his hand with index finger pointing to his head as he rolls his eyes.

They all laugh.

Maryam's aunt gets up and starts clearing the table.

"All praise if for Allah Who provided us with a meal to eat, water to drink and made us Muslims."

"Aameen," says the boys as Maryam attempts to hit them both with her napkin.

Peter-John looks at them fondly.

"Muchas gracias for the lovely food and your hospitality. It means a lot to me. May Allah reward you greatly."

"You are welcome, " says Maryam's aunt.

"Cool, "says Peter-John. "I hope there will be many more invitations." He jokes.

ع

"The meal was really special you guys, I really appreciate it. Muchas gracias. May the Lord truly bless you and your family." Peter-John sits back on the couch and closes his eyes for a second.

Maryam, and her aunt were seated on the couch opposite him, while Ibrahim and Mikaeel sat on the couches to Peter-John's left and right. A flat, rectangular table was in the center of the room. Lovely pastries and butter biscuits lay in tempting wait for any with eyes to see. A pot of spiced tea filled the room with sweet smells.

"You are welcome and thank you for your kind words," says Maryam's aunt.

She pours herself some tea, stirs in some honey and sits back.

"Such a nice treat, honey," says Peter-John as he stares at Maryam's aunt enjoying her tea. "It is amazing to me that bees can go around collecting nectar and carry it all to their hives and make this delicious thing. The whole process is fascinating to me. And reading the books M gave me, just made me ponder the bees even more." He pours himself some tea too and adds a generous helping of the golden honey.

"What in particular got you pondering?" Maryam was relaxed. Her face much less strained than when they came home. Peter-John notices this and smiles contently.

"Just that they are constantly praising God and that is why they are able to make this sweet treat, no matter if they had bitter nectar to work with. I just find it fascinating and of course I believe that they were created to do this. It is no mere accident." He takes a butter biscuit and takes a small bite of it.

The rest all listens to him.

"You know, reflecting on my past, all the things I have encountered and experienced, all of it speaks of something divine that had a hand in it all. Whether the experiences were good or bad, I feel it was not all just because of the decisions I made. A lot of it seems like it was supposed to have happened." He bites into his biscuit. He savors the piece in his mouth.

"These biscuits just melt away, so mouthwatering. I love them." He takes another bite. "I am not sure what to make of it all; this. Are our lives really only roles that we play? One part of me wants to say yes, another part of me wants to say no."

"This truly is all only Allah's love story. We are mere characters in His play. We can improvise and play our roles as we see fit, that is our free will, but what is meant to be, will be. He is the Great Playwright, the Great Director, we mere mortals can never compare to His Genius, we can scarcely begin to comprehend Him." Mikaeel spoke with admiration. He sits up on the couch and waits excitedly for Peter-John to say more.

"You're words speak to me. I must say that in spite of my own reservations, I do agree. I even feel strangers that come across our paths are not by mere coincidence, they were meant to engage with us, even if only for a few seconds. They came with a purpose. God must have sent them." Peter-John takes a long sip of his tea.

"So true!" Shouts Ibrahim. He realizes that he was a bit loud. He scoffs softly as his eyes rolls off his aunt's surprised look.

"Allah sends these people to test us, to see how we treat them, or what judgment we pass regarding them within ourselves. He sees into our hearts. He hears even the whispers of our souls." Ibrahim ponders his own words.

"That's deep," says Peter-John. "To think that some stranger actually comes to us with lessons is something profound. It really is only some of us that can see the reality. That too must only be by the Grace of the One Who sent them." Peter-John wipes his hands with a napkin and sits back.

"Alhamdulilah, Subhan'Allah, Allahu Akbar. There truly is only one God worthy of worship and He is Allah, the Best of those that guides, the Best of those that help. He uses whom He wills to bring us revelations, whether the people be good or bad, He is in control of them all."

"Perhaps the homeless man on your path who asked you for a quarter, was not even a man, but rather an angel put there by Him to see what you would do. Whether you had a quarter to spare or not, it all boiled down to your character, to how you treated the one who asked." Maryam was enjoying the conversation a lot. It brought happiness to her to speak of Allah and more so because Peter-John was the instigator.

"It really makes you think. If you carefully consider it, if a mere stranger comes with lessons, what about someone who is in your life on a daily basis? Surely there must be significance to them being in your presence every day." Peter-John stretches his arms towards his back and cracks his neck.

Maryam's aunt shakes her head.

"That is not good for your neck, the cracking. You are damaging the cartilage every time you do that." She pours herself more tea.

"There is no real proof of that, Mê" says Ibrahim with a smile. "He cracks his neck too. It does bring such relief and a feeling of happiness." He smiles contently.

"We'll see who complains of osteoporosis before they have even had a chance to reach their prime," smirks Maryam's aunt.

"Don't be so negative, Mê." Ibrahim winks.

"Perhaps you, now, are guidance from Him," says Peter-John.

"Perhaps," says Ibrahim. He squints and stares his aunt up and down. They all smile and sit in silence for a while.

"If life is really a test, then surely we must have certificates, degrees and stuff?"

Mikaeel laughs encouragingly. "Yip! Some of us even sit with doctorates," he rolls his eyes about the room.

"Amazing really. The ones that are tested the most and pass, I presume," Peter-John removes his glasses and cleans them with his shirt.

"True." Mikaeel pours himself some water. 'Bismillah." He takes three sips.

"The evidence of tests passed is in the development of the character, the increase in goodness in a person's personality. That is the outcome of tests passed. Our growth and increase in awareness of Him." Maryam stares out the patio door into the darkness. Shrugs and focusses on Peter-John again.

"That is ultimately the only goal of this life, to know God, to know Allah. He created us solely so that He could be known. That is the only goal, the only success."

"And here I thought success was to become rich and famous. Why you wanna go and spoil my dreams like that?" Ibrahim winks at Maryam.

"Go back to sleep then and keep on dreaming. Hope you are your own boss in your dreams at least." Maryam laughs.

"Ouch!" Says Mikaeel. He laughs. "With family like this..."

"You'll hear the cold hard truth I'm sure you are about to say..." Maryam stares at him with slit eyes.

Peter-John giggles. "You lot crack me up."

"I told you these two have some screws loose." Ibrahim shakes his head.

"But it really is incredible that He created us only so that He Himself could be known. And on top of that He hides Himself from us. I really wonder about this. Wouldn't it have been easier if He just showed Himself to us?"

They sit in silence before Maryam says. "I think that is part of the reason; to get to know Him without seeing Him. To believe in Him so deeply that He manifests to you. Almost like bringing a distorted picture into focus. The more you focus on it, the clearer the picture becomes, until it is crystal clear."

"And then everyone thinks you are off your rocker 'cause you are seeing things, like some of us." Mikaeel laughs.

"That's not funny." Maryam growls.

"Just kidding, sis. Lighten up." He gives her a peace sign and puts his hand to his heart.

Maryam stares out to the fence and ignores him.

"I think it is time for me to go home. It really is getting dark out there."

"You're right," says Maryam, "lots of things come out to play when it is dark. You don't even want to know."

"That sounds cheerful," says Peter-John.

"The gift of seeing things, you see." She squints at Mikaeel.

He sticks out his tongue amusingly.

"But Allah will protect you. Just trust Him." Maryam gets up and heads to the main door.
Earlier
ت

What is so special about this ape that's got the Lady so unraveled?

They both stare at Peter-John as he and Maryam gets into the cab.

The one on the left of the taxi driver gives the one sitting next to Peter-John a disapproving look.

If Lady Bri were to hear you utter such disdain, you would be fodder.

The other remains composed. She is overcome with fear that is for sure.

Still. It is improper. He moves closer to Peter-John.

I fear your loyalty is improper. He touches the cab driver's head and closes his eyes.

We will see whom it is that will be remembered when the throne is presented; those that are left. He moves to face Peter-John from the front. Not sure what it is, but apparently he has the gift.

He lets go of the cab driver's head and slowly opens his eyes. What gift? He doesn't look any different than the rest of them, very boringly ordinary really.

Only our Lady knows for sure. I'm more interested in the Seer. She is staring straight at us. He moves away from Peter-John and more towards Maryam who was sitting by the rear left passenger door. Disrespectful baboon!

We should teach her a lesson. He moves away from the cab driver and moves closer to Maryam and stares at her more intently.

Maryam's eyes go very red and she mutters inaudibly under her breath.

Working Qur'an against us.

Let's see if we can give her a scare.

They both stare at her and try to touch her head. Maryam closes her eyes and her lips move faster.

They are both unable to lay a hand on her head. She was wearing a powder blue chiffon scarf. It covered both her head and shoulders.

She is strong. But she will fall.

They focus their gaze on Peter-John.

Perhaps he will be her reason.

The one that was next to the cab driver takes a position behind Peter-John and puts his hand over Peter-John's head. He doesn't touch him though.

Maryam's lips move faster.

Peter-John notices her stare past him.

He pulls his hoodie tighter across his head. He puts his right hand into his right pocket and squeezes something. He also says something under his breath.

The one behind him gives up and moves back to the front of the cab.

He believes.

They stare at each other and then at Peter-John again.

What does this mean? He sits back and watches Maryam.

The one in front puts his hand to the cab driver's head and breathes deeply.

We wait.

ه

Maryam and Peter-John get out of the cab. The two dark figures that were in the cab with them get out too.

They all walk towards the gate of the house, Maryam does so with haste. The one that sat next to the cab driver stares at the driver and gives him a sinister look.

Peter-John stares at the cab as it swerves across the road and disappears around the corner. "That dude needs to take it easy. Reckless." He shakes his head.

Maryam says nothing, just opens the gate and rushes down the pathway and floats up the stairs fast; the one that sat next to Peter-John for most of the way rushes after her.

Peter-John closes the gate behind him, turns and rushes to catch up with Maryam. He gives her a worried look as she opens the door.

"Bismillah. O Allah! I ask Thee for good both when entering and when going out; in the name of Allah we have entered, and in the name of Allah we have gone out, and in Allah do we trust."

Just as the dark figure wants to enter the house, the door closes in his face.

The door is shut.

This voice comes from the fence. A group was gathered there watching the house.

How did you manage to get past the gate? We never get that far.

Slowly he descends the stairs and goes to join his cab companion at the gate.

Dumb luck I guess. He smirks.

The dark matter around him starts to move more around his body. He stares back at the house.

The place is sealed. This one was dressed in a silver silk shirt and pants. He had something that covered his face. Only his red eyes were visible.

There is nothing you can do to penetrate it.

He turns and joins his companions further along the fence.

If you cannot defeat the defenses, why do you stay here? This was the one that sat next to Peter-John. The matter around his body also starts to move and swirl more around his body. The color goes between black and gray.

We fear death. Our lord is not to be disappointed. He wants her.

The Seer is strong. She will not be easily... swayed.

He turns and faces the house again. The dark matter moves around his body as if a gentle wind was directing it to envelop his body.

But she will crack. Then we will strike back.

And our victory will be for Lady Bri. She will honor us with the throne.

The group by the fence all focuses their attention on the two by the gate.

Victory will be for our lord alone.

You have no claim here.

The dark matter around the two at the gate starts to move faster, twisting and contorting around their bodies more. Their eyes also glow redder than before. They turn and face the group.

Victory is for Lady Bri.

The dark matter spins around their bodies so much so that you are not able to see their physical shapes anymore, only the red glow of their eyes in the midst of the swirling darkness.

One by one the companions of the group start disappearing.

You are of them, says the one who spoke to them first.

He too disappears.

The two turn and focus on the house.

م

"With Allah's name and upon the blessings granted by Allah do we eat," says Maryam as she passes a plate to Peter-John. "There is a fork and a knife for you. I eat with my fingers."

The winged being steps closer to the table, gently flaps its wings and starts to ascend into the air. It comes to a slow hover when it was directly above the table, a few feet above them all. It holds the vessel in its right hand, ready to pour.

Peter-John takes the plate from her. The being pours a golden liquid into the plate. The liquid lines his plate and then seals. The being continues to pour the liquid into all of their plates just as they are about to dish their food. It pours the liquid into their glasses as well. It then puts the vessel away between the lower wings of its body. The being seemed to have at least six pairs of wings, all white. With its right hand it reaches between the pair of wings to the top. It removes a golden threaded satchel. It grasps it in its left hand and starts taking some of the contents out with its right hand. As Peter-John takes a taco and scoops some of the chili on it and tops that with some of the grilled Mexican street corn salad, pickled red onions and the creamy guacamole, the being gently places some of the contents it took from the bag on top of it. It had a very light appearance and sort of floated above the creamy guacamole. Soon as Peter-John folds the taco and says "Bismillah", it glows slightly and seems to envelop the taco. Peter-John bites into the taco with a big bite. The glowing essence lights up his face and mouth and seems to start radiating through his body.

"Yes. The masa is a mixture of tortillas and sweet potato. I added some cayenne pepper just for a bit of a kick."

Peter-John nods his head as he takes another bite of the topped taco. "This Escabeche de Cebolla is on another level; lots of homey flavors." He scoops a bit more of the pickled onion onto the last of the topped taco.

The winged being keeps putting some of the contests of the golden threaded satchel onto his food. The more Peter-John eats of it, the more his body radiates. The essence seems to be nourishing him from within. But not nourishment of a physical nature, more like it was enriching his very being. His soul. The being moves about the table and adds the contents of the bag to the food of each of those that were seated at the table.

"We spiced it up a bit; added bay leaves, peppercorns, pimento and some cumin seeds. Know it's not exactly Mexican, but we like to make it our own too." She smiles as she puts a spoon of the soup to her mouth. Just as the spoon was about to enter her mouth, the being takes a silvery speck and drops it into her spoon. This changes the color of the soup as it enters her mouth. It soothes her from the inside and brings a smile to her face. She savors the soup in her mouth and eagerly takes another spoon of the soup, unknowingly seeking to have the same feeling she just experienced. The being however does not drop another speck into her spoon. It moves towards Maryam's aunt and waits.

"It tastes great. Lita has got some competition." He smiles at Maryam's aunt as she tops the rice on her plate with some of the chili con carne. The being sprinkles golden dust onto the chili and places a round glowing red bean next to her rice on the plate.

As she gestures for Peter-John to take some of the shredded beef, with "Bismillah" she unknowingly scoops the red bean with rice and chili up with her fork and puts it into her mouth. The bean dissolves and a pinkish glow radiates from her body. This relaxes her and leaves her feeling comforted. She takes another fork full of her tasty meal, unknowingly seeking for the same comfort she just felt.

The being moves from Maryam's aunt to her brothers, sprinkling golden dust in various proportions onto their plates. It then moves back to Peter-John and waits.

Peter-John takes a tortilla, fills it with the shredded beef, adds some of the pickled onion and a bit of the spicy salsa and wraps it up tightly. He dips it into the guacamole and with "Bismillah" takes a big bite. Just as he bites, the being takes a golden thread out of the satchel and places it on top of the guacamole. More and more light seems to emanate from Peter-John. It seems to be a direct result from the things the being was putting into their food. The being places the satchel back in between its top wings and hovers into the air and disappears. Looking down upon the table, it looked like a golden cloak was about all of them seated at the table. They all continue enjoying their meal, unaware of what was going on around them.

They all laugh.

Maryam's aunt gets up and starts clearing the table.

"All praise if for Allah Who provided us with a meal to eat, water to drink and made us Muslims."

"Aameen," says the boys as Maryam attempts to hit them both with her napkin.

Peter-John looks at them fondly.

"Muchas gracias for the lovely food and your hospitality. It means a lot to me. May Allah reward you greatly."

"You are welcome, " says Maryam's aunt.

"Cool, "says Peter-John. "I hope there will be many more invitations." He jokes.

ع

As they were gathered in the lounge, more and more of the winged beings entered the room. Some of them had two wings, others four, the ones with four were the most, but some had eight pairs and the largest of them had six. They formed a circle around them and started enveloping them from above, spreading their wings over them.

"I told you these two have some screws loose." Ibrahim shakes his head.

"But it really is incredible that He created us only so that He Himself could be known. And on top of that He hides Himself from us. I really wonder about this. Wouldn't it have been easier if He just showed Himself to us?"

They sit in silence before Maryam says. "I think that is part of the reason; to get to know Him without seeing Him. To believe in Him so deeply that He manifests to you. Almost like bringing a distorted picture into focus. The more you focus on it, the clearer the picture becomes, until it is crystal clear."

Soon as Maryam says this, the largest of the beings takes a vessel from beneath his wings and pours it over all of their heads. It disappears but as if it sinks into their skulls.

"And then everyone thinks you are off your rocker 'cause you are seeing things, like some of us." Mikaeel laughs.

"That's not funny." Maryam growls.

"Just kidding, sis. Lighten up." He gives her a peace sign and puts his hand to his heart.

Maryam stares out to the fence and ignores him.

The two dark figures were standing at the gate. Waiting.

"I think it is time for me to go home. It really is getting dark out there."

"You're right," says Maryam, "lots of things come out to play when it is dark. You don't even want to know."

"That sounds cheerful," says Peter-John.

"The gift of seeing things, you see." She squints at Mikaeel.

He sticks out his tongue amusingly.

"But Allah will protect you. Just trust Him." Maryam gets up and heads to the main door.

The beings all have their wings outstretched and the people in the lounge were shaded by the shadow of the wings. Looking from above, you could barely see Maryam them, only the white feathers of the white beings' wings all interlaced giving the appearance of one gigantic feathery shield.

The two dark beings that came with Maryam and Peter-John with the cab stares at the brilliant white light that was starting to come from the house.

Soon more and more of the white beings come flying towards the house and they all start spreading their wings over the house. An enormous chain forms and it leads from the house and disappears into heavens above.

"We better move," says the bigger of the two. They ascend into the sky, looking down upon the house.

A darkness was about the neighborhood that could not be illuminated by the street lights nor the lights coming from the houses, but looking down upon Maryam them's house it was as if a giant bright star fell down to earth and it was glowing brightly in the darkness.

The two dark creatures boil with anger.

They would not be able to come near the house, let alone penetrate its walls. They watch as Peter-John leaves the house, as Maryam and her two brothers bids him "Salaams" and waves goodbye from the porch.

When Peter-John closes the gate behind him, he turns and waves goodbye as a cab pools up in front of the house and he gets in.

The two dark beings disappear in a mist of dark matter.

As Maryam and her brothers turn to go back into the house, the beings, carrying books, which were standing to the left of each of them, appear for a brief moment.

The ink written in the books vanish and all traces of it were gone. The beings hold their pens ready to write again. They fade into the light as Maryam and her brothers enter the house.
Attack

#DarkHorse

Peter-John gets into the cab and it heads down the street.

As they cross a green traffic light, the cab driver screams and swerves to the side of the road.

A station wagon jumped the stop light and almost drove straight into the cab.

"That was close," says Peter-John on edge.

"He must be drunk. These DUIs..." the cab driver drifts off. He sits up more in his seat and turns down the radio.

As they approach a four way stop, cars start swerving in front of the cab.

"What's going on up ahead? Why are they all swerving in front of you?"

"Must not be my lucky day." The cab driver eyes Peter-John in the rear view mirror.

Peter-John makes eye contact in the mirror quick, but then focuses on the road ahead.

"What's happening up ahead.

As they cross the four way stop, more and more cars swerve in front of them.

Two cars run into each other in twist right in front of the cab.

The driver swerves to the side and doesn't stop the car.

Peter-John looks at the driver of the silver Fiat and their eyes meet for a split second.

A uncomfortable shiver moves through his body for the time that he stares in to the man's bewildered eyes. They were bloodshot.

The cab moves further down the street.

"They must all be drunk. That one looked completely possessed by the spirits. Liquor is an evil."

The cab driver glances at Peter-John quick.

"Don't worry. I will get you home safely. No harm comes to any who gets into my chariot. You rest and enjoy the journey. We still have a bit to go."

He focuses on the road ahead.

"Looks like there are more reckless drivers further down this way, I'll right go around.

Just as he takes a right, a motorcycle always runs head on into the cab. The cab driver slams hard on the breaks and the cab skids slightly, but stops almost immediately. The motorcycle swerves past and then comes to a standstill a few feet away.

The rider takes of his helmet and stares at the cab driver and then focuses on Peter-John.

Peter-John experiences the same unnerving feeling he felt when he stared at the Fiat driver.

What was going on?

The rider shakes his head and then looks about as if confused. He gets off his bike and pushes it to the side of the road.

The cab driver opens his window.

"Lay of the drugs, sonny. You better get off the road if you gonna be ridin' like a lunatic!"

The guy gives him a cold stare and then sits back down on the pavement.

He puts his head into his hands and just stays like that for a while.

The cab driver shakes his head and drives further.

"We better get you home. I think you're my last call for the day. Too many weird people on the streets tonight and it is still a few weeks till Halloween. Don't wanna see what's gonna happen when they let all those monsters loose."

"We best all pray for this place. We're in the middle of a storm and we all to dumbed down to notice. May God help us."

Peter-John stares at the cab driver and ponders his words.

May God help us.
The Book

#Journals

#SwopItOut

ص

It is has been quiet since Drew left. I do miss him a lot. He has become like a brother to me. In spite of the things that happened, he was good company. He really is a kind soul. It just takes getting to know him.

He will be glad to know that the marble that kept him up late at night has finally stopped bouncing on the floor of the apartment above. Come to think of it, it stopped as soon as Drew left. I wonder if it isn't somehow connected... Drew did say it felt like they were after him. I am not sure who they were though. But I am convinced he meant they.

The ever elusive, ever present they.

Crazy what they have been up to lately. They really did a number on Kanye. The dude is really gone. And everyone in the industry has been saying it too. All I wonder is, what about the children? Are they in it from birth or are they in it since they were conceived in the womb? It really is very disturbing. Hearing that someone has undergone a sex change while they were in the womb is very disturbing. My phrasing isn't quite right.

What it really is is that a child, a fetus, without any choice in the matter has been forced to undergo a sex change. And their lives are owned from conception.

I don't tell her these things, but it is these things that make me wonder about God. If we are only touched by evil because of the evil we sent forth, then what could these poor children have done for them to be touched by this evil? I wonder about this and grapple with it. Perhaps it isn't true?

Perhaps this is false information that we are being given as part of the Truthers movement. It is hard to distinguish who is in the Truth movement as pawns of the enemy and who is really of the truthful.

Nevertheless, it is discomforting to hear that fetuses are being operated on. May God help those children, if it is true.

Can it really be true that many celebrities are not the gender we are told they are? Is the lie really so deep that we can never really know if our favorite male actor is actually a female and that the female is actually a male? What about these new actors that 'identify' as non-binary and are called other complicated names that I can't even write. They look female but at the same time look male and behave with behavior in between. It is complicated to grow up in this day and age. There used to be only straight and you lived in hiding or were beaten into a man if you were cheerful. Now there's a whole lot more. The minds of children are really being messed with on such a grand scale, that I wonder if they will ever manage to find their way out.

Technology is now so easily accessible and children grow up with this in their face right from their first step.

It saddens me.

It angers me.

All I see though is that Islam is the reality. All these drastic changes to the human creation all conforms to the promise of Satan to Allah as it appears in the Quran, that he will change the creation of Allah. He will turn man into woman and woman into man. That will be one of his big goals. And as I see it happening, he is true to his promise and quite successful at it too.

More evidence of the reality of Islam is that the Baphomet, this idol, half male, half female, is in actual fact a mockery of Mohammad, Mogamet, Allah's beloved and Prophet. That is not the only evidence of him being mocked on a grand scale, even that No Mohammad No Mecca drink mocks him and no one even knows it. Why would Mohammad and Islam be so attacked if it was not true? It doesn't make sense to me that Islam is the enemy, while other religions have committed atrocities against humankind, and, all this in the name of God.

Only explanation is that the enemy, Satan, sits behind these attacks. That is the only thing that makes sense.

Does that mean then that I believe?

Some part of me wants to say yes, and another part of me wants to say no. If only I could get a sign; some real proof, real evidence. Then I would surely embrace Islam with open arms.

But I have had no sign yet. But I am hopeful.

I find it sad to hear that boys were castrated before puberty and this only so that their voices wouldn't mature and deepen; all for entertainment purposes. How can anyone be so cruel to take something from a young child, just for their own pleasure or to make money? Have we really no conscience? Have we really lost our humanity that we will do such things? What is worse is those who know it and yet allow it.

And what does a child know to know that it doesn't want to have children so it is ok for them to do such a thing. It is the same with children insisting on sex changes; what do they know? It is sick and twisted and someone needs to step up and protect these children from themselves. Protect them from the whisperings of the enemy that makes them believe these things. Taking hormone suppressors to stop the onset of puberty.

The enemy is suppressing us so much so that we believe we are in the wrong body, turning us inside out. It is depressing.

Who will be brave enough to take a stand and speak against these things? Publicly? I don't know. I am not that person. I am just a coward. Too scared of what people might think.

But thinking about it, what does it really matter what people think? I am alone anyway. I have no one anyway. What does it really matter what a stranger thinks of you?

It makes one wonder. It makes me wonder.

What does it even matter what your friends think? If they are your true friends, they would support you, isn't that so? It does not necessarily mean they have to agree with you, but they wouldn't abandon you for speaking up for what you believe. If they do, they really are not your friends. So in the end, what does it matter?

Shouldn't we concern ourselves with what God thinks, rather than what people think? Most people know nothing anyway and we are all just trying to figure out this life. Those who claim to know everything are merely fooling themselves, because only God knows everything.

How can we trust anything that is being said to us? Can we ever believe the government? The government is not even in control of itself, so how can we trust that they have our best interests at heart?

What about the media? All of them owned by a secretive select few. How can we trust any of it? Have we ever wondered why they are so willing to give free televisions and free cable to have us all connected? There must be a reason behind it. I heard that in South Africa they even had televisions brought into the public schools when Princess Diana and Prince Charles got married, so that everyone could see the wedding. To see the wedding? Or to distract?

It must be to have some sort of influence on us. I mean, why go to all this trouble to have children watch a wedding? We must question these things.

Why is there such an attack on media that is contrary to the mainstream media? Why are they calling that fake news? Why concern yourself with what others say, if you are truthful? As soon as some individual is heralded as a hero by mainstream media and gets to walk among the leaders of the world, you have to question the motives behind it. It can never be any good.

A lot of fake realities are created in order to bring us all to a certain belief. Is the Taliban real? Yes, they are real. What I mean is, are they really who they say they are, or were they created with a specific agenda? And created by those closest to us.

Britney has long said that we should "be wary of others, the ones closest to you, the poison they feed you and the voodoo that they do". They is yet so hard to define, what did she mean? Did she mean they as in them, the others? Or they as in these people creating these fake realities to feed us their poison? I think she means both, because they work together. It is as the Quran says, the Jinn and men work together to plot their plots and bring about their false beliefs and raise up their false Messiah.

It is like I said before, awards are not given to those deserving of them, so too they are given in aid of false realities, or circumstances formed from disturbing situations that they created. And no one is the wiser.

As far as the world is concerned, the Taliban stopped girls from attending school and as a result they see that Islam is against the education of women. No matter how you wish to see it, the plot is clear. It is yet again, against Islam.

I know for a fact this is false, because she is more educated than any person I have met in my life. If Islam was against educating women, how could she be so knowledgeable? She continues to inspire me.

She doesn't know it, but she is my muse.

The Taliban is but one example of a 'fake' group that was created to do a number on all of us. Same as the twin tower attacks, same as the Boston marathon, same as Manchester, same as what they did to President Kennedy. They bring you to their point of view or destroy you if you are against their point of view. If you are vocal, you will be silenced.

The higher your status, the greater your influence, the quicker they deal with your rebellion. Look at Kanye.

But should we fear them or should we fear God? Should we not speak against injustice even if it is against ourselves? Will He not question us if we knew the truth and stood idly by?

Or should we concern ourselves with our own lives and leave the rest for God? I don't think God would want that. What I would think He would want was for us is to better ourselves yes and practice what we belief and then go and strive in His way. If He exists, He is in control of everything yes, but I think He would expect something from us. From what I have seen in the Quran, He tells us to rise up. To fight for Him.

Why are we not fighting?

I confuse myself. Here I sit and speak so strongly for the existence and cause of God, but I cannot convince myself that I truly believe that He exists.

Have I not seen enough truth to convince myself?

What sign is it that I am looking for?

I just wonder.

I miss Drew.

Does he perhaps have some answer? Some clue?
Clues

#RightHere

"I am surprised they let me in," says Peter-John as he sits down, "usually they don't allow visitors in places like this."

"Into cuckoo's nests you mean?" Jokes Drew as he opens the parcel Peter-John brought him. "Mi casa es su casa, amigo. You know you're always welcome."

Drew takes out a packet of sour patch kids, tears it open and pops some of the candy into his mouth. "Been cravin' these like crazy. How'd ya know?"

Peter-John was taking in the surroundings. Beautiful trees surrounded the patch of grass and there was a small water fountain more to the center. They were seated on a bench near the back entrance to the main hall. It was cool and sunny outside.

"Thanks for your hospitality, but I don't think I can ever make myself at home here. It is a bit airy." He focuses on Drew. "You look different? Have you been neglecting yourself?" He lifts Drew's cap slightly off his head.

"See your dark roots are showing again? Does that mean you are over the blonde phase? Traded the buzz cut for this messy mop of hair?"

"What's with the insults, bro? I am a mess as it is."

"Who would I be if I didn't give it to you straight? You know you can always count on the truth from me. At least you seem well fed. Not as emaciated as when I saw you last."

"The food is terrible, but it's either eat or suffer withdrawal. It doesn't make up for it, but it does help a bit." Drew sighs. He opens the packet of Swedish Fish, takes one out and bites the candy fish's head off and stares at its red body. "Love me some Swedish-ishy fish, thanks man."

"Cool. You know I always got your back, amigo." Peter-John puts down his hoodie and cleans his spectacles. "What else can you tell me? Will you be coming home soon?"

Drew takes a handful of the candy and sits back on the bench.

"Not sure, bro. I might be here for a while. They want me to attend more group therapy to aid in my recovery. Addicts aiding addicts."

"How has that been going for you?"

Drew shakes his head. He pulls the Bulls cap tighter on his head and sighs.

"It's been, I don't know, weird." He looks up quick, makes eye contact with Peter-John, then looks away. He slumps his shoulders. His grey sweat top and pants looked several sizes too big for him.

"What you mean," asks Peter-John. He sits up on the bench; props his spectacles up more.

"Just weird." Drew avoids eye contact and rather focuses on the buckeyes in the distance. "A lot of the stuff is just bits and pieces. Everything is jumbled up. It drives me crazy." He looks swiftly in Peter-John's direction then down again. He slumps more.

Peter-John doesn't say anything. He tries hard to read Drew's face. It wasn't easy. His expression was a blank stare. The usual creases on his forehead were gone. The prominent spaghetti veins in his neck when he was excited or angry were gone too.

"Take that incident with Taylor. I can barely even remember that. All I know is that she is upset with me and I have no idea why. I remember I wore a blue suit and tan penny loafers, but that is it. Why was I there and how did I get there? I have no idea."

Peter-John frowns.

"That was gonna be Taylor's one chance to get the media to pay attention to her and well..."

"I distracted them and ruined ever'thin'," Drew bites his bottom lip hard.

"You can't help that you are famous, bro. Don't be so hard on yourself." Peter-John puts his hand on Drew's right shoulder and squeezes it slightly. He then puts his hands back into his letterman's pockets.

"It bothers me, bro. Why was I there and why specifically that moment when she was gonna go public like that? It took so much courage for her to do that and I ruined ever'thin'. I am such a douchebag. Geeze." He puts his head in his hands.

Peter-John stares off into the distance.

"That is not the only thing that gets to me. There are lots more I don't remember. It is all so hazy. It is like I wasn't there when I did those things. Does that make sense to you?"

"The drugs do that to you, bro. It is one of the side effects." Peter-John tries to be supportive.

"Guess you're right." He sighs. "I'm so sorry. That is what is hard and weird. I feel sorry about what I did, but I am not exactly sure what I did. Will Taylor ever forgive me?"

Peter-John sighs too. He wanted to say something, but thought it best to keep quiet. Last he saw Taylor, she was ready to kill Drew. He ruined everything for her that day. So she said. People were there to listen to her, but soon as Drew stepped out into the open, they all went mad. Guess news about every young girl's crush is more important than educating yourself about the reality of the society we live in.

"Thing is, it is only those moments where something really life changing was going to happen that I do not remember. I remember casual chats and moments of little consequence, but nothing of importance."

"Was I there when the fire took place? What happened to Kimberly? Is she ok?"

"Dude, that was two years ago. You and Kimberly were in another production last year. It all went well. Don't you remember? It was a raving success. Kimberly's solo was the talk of the town."

Drew looks at Peter-John confused. "What are you talking about? Two years ago?" His face remains unanimated.

"Yes. That is long forgotten. Kimberly redeemed herself and all talk of the fire is history. That girl sure is special. Or should I say woman. She's on another level. And so..."

"Ahwesome," says Drew casually. "She's just ahwesome." He drifts off into thought.

"True. And blind. One would never guess it to be true."

"No, one would never say she is blind. To me it always felt like she really sees me. It is somewhat unnervin' and liberatin' at the same time. I really can't believe the fire was two years ago. And there was another production?"

Peter-John looks at Drew concerned. "Do you really not remember? You all wore that purple for the finale? I saw you take Kimberly to the stage. There was a commotion caused by Maria. She wanted to shine. You told her to back off."

Drew looks Peter-John in the eyes. "Really? It just can't be. I mean, I believe you, but I don't remember any of it. How is it possible? Surely I wasn't high when I went on stage?"

"I honestly can't say, bro. You were on and off back then. Lots of mood swings. At one point I swore you were bipolar at least. I'm sorry."

"No need, bro. I am the one who should apologize. I made your life a living hell. I am so sorry." Drew looks Peter-John in the eyes and holds his dark eyes for a while. Behind the glasses, his eyes appeared like big shiny marbles. There was a special light to them, a kindness.

Drew smiles and reaches out his right hand and takes hold of Peter-John's left shoulder. "It is really good to see you, Peter-John. You don't know how much I have missed you."

Peter-John smiles and scoffs.

"Shame, can't say the same. I finally have some peace and quiet. The flat is once again my tranquil retreat away from the chaotic concrete jungle." He winks at Drew.

"Ouch!" He let's go of Peter-John's shoulder, forms a fist, and hits him hard.

"Violence won't solve anything, bro." Peter-John rubs his shoulder. His attention is averted to the door by a stout man staring at them from the door of the main hall.

It made Peter-John uneasy.

"I miss you too, Drew. The flat is... not the same." He gets up from the bench and stretches his legs.

Drew does the same.

"Let's take a walk. It will do me good. You're not ready to leave are you?" Drew was uneasy.

"No, not just yet. Come on."

The man at the door comes outside and stands on the concrete slab to the back of the hall, lights a cigarette and keeps staring at them.

"So, what else can you tell me?" Peter-John tries his best to ignore the man.

Drew frowns and for the first time, there is some animation in his face. There was some semblance of the Drew Peter-John resonated with.

"I met a few new people. Guess you can say we've become friends. Not sure if the friendships will go beyond these walls though."

They walk along the path that leads to the trees. The breeze was pleasant and cool. The cheerful chirping of birds was a welcome comfort.

"The one is really far gone. I don't know if there is help for his problem. Addiction is really a deeply entrenched condition. It anchors in the brain and hooks firmly to those parts of you that are weak. In need of pleasure. It will make you do anything just to get that bit of pleasure."

Peter-John turns and looks Drew in the eyes questioningly.

"This guy is addicted to gambling. He rarely wins anything, but some part of him finds joy just knowing he stands a chance. That is his high. For as long as the result is aloof, he is in a state of ecstasy. Soon as he knows the outcome, the high subsides and he hits the ground hard. Only the thrill of doing it again, motivates him from going into a complete depression."

Drew sighs.

"Whenever I see him, the first thing he says to me is that he dreamt of the Lotto numbers. He just needs some money to play just one line. His dream was just too vivid for it not to be a sign. God was showing him the numbers and he would be a fool if he didn't make the best of his vision. So he believes." Drew scoffs. "He has these dreams every week and he never wins. Still, he never loses any enthusiasm." There was sadness in Drew's voice. He could see the hamster in his mind's eye, in the running wheel, super excited, legs superfast, wheel spinning like crazy, but staying in one place. Never moving forward, only left exhausted after its legs gave in.

"It is sort of annoying to run into him. It is sad to see someone so fixated on something and be oblivious to everyone and everything around them. His family comes to visit him, and all I hear him talk about is the lotto and what he was going to buy for them once his ship comes in. They wouldn't have to work again and they can spend lots of time together. Can't he see that they are together now and that he is wasting the precious moments?"

Drew shakes his head.

"It sounds depressing," says Peter-John, "can't be healthy to be around people like that."

"True." Drew purses his lips. He ponders a bit.

"Must be like what it was with me. I remember what I did to your place." He swallows hard and clenches his jaw.

"You sure did make a mess of a perfectly comfortable couch. Took me forever to get the right one and you managed to wreck it good." Peter-John shakes his head. "But it is just a couch. Forget about it, bro. I forgive you. Don't beat yourself up about it. Cool?"

Drew takes in Peter-John's smiling face, the kind eyes. In this light, his face had a bright glow. Traces of dark reddish brown streaks were highlighted in the waves of his hair.

"You're a good friend, Peter-John."

"You're a good friend too, Drew. Don't doubt that for a second."

They continue walking down the pathway past the trees. The stout man flicks his cigarette butt into the air and heads back into the main hall door.

#Believe

"I remember what it was like with me. I'm still an addict if truth be told. It is just now something else. Food."

Florian checks his phone. The signal was scrambled. He sighs relieved.

"Two years since I took my last drag, I had a dream that I lit one up. I was so angry with myself in the dream. Why did I have to take that drag is all I kept saying to myself. That was all I did, take a drag, but it was like a big failure to me. A few months later, I dreamt I bought a whole packet and this time I smoked a whole cigarette. I had the same disappointment in myself as I did with that drag."

Florian laughs loudly.

"But that was nothing compared to the dream of the red wine. I remember this dream where Drew and I went to a very weird restaurant. The tables all spiraled up into the air and we got a seat right at the top. Red wine was flowing like a river from the top, all along the spiraling tables. It was like water flowing down a slippery slide, but instead of water, it was wine. The impression I got from the dream was that I was going to slip, once I take a sip. I would spiral all the way from the top and hit the ground hard. It was such a powerful dream, but disturbing at the same time."

"Then I dreamt that a bunch of us went to the theatre. We were all in the garden at the back. A bunch of weird girls joined us; tipsy, all of them; throwing wine all over themselves. A small drop of wine hit me straight in the mouth. I was so angry that I swallowed. The same feeling of complete failure overtook me. It was not by choice that the drink, even if just a drop, went into my mouth, but I was ashamed."

"There's a lot I can tell you about all of this."

Florian stares through the glass window of the oven and smiles pleased. "It's rising nicely, should be done any time now." He lowers the temperature of the gas stove by a few degrees and turns to face Pete-John.

"Addiction is not a joke, PJ. I can tell you that with all honesty." He wipes his hands on the chef's apron he was wearing. He takes a few bell peppers from the fridge and starts chopping them on the wooden bread board. "From my experience though, is that all addiction has a root cause."

"What do you mean?" Asks Peter-John. He gets up on the counter to the right, facing Forian.

Florian, finishes dicing the red pepper, and as he starts with the hatch green chili, he says. "I mean, there is usually, somethin', some problem that makes you want to get somethin' to help you feel better, or in some way escape the problem. I am not sayin' all addicts have this same reason, some just did drugs and got addicted, but a lot has got serious problems that they are incapable of dealin' with and they turn to drugs and alcohol for relief. If these are not available, then there is food." Florian takes a piece of the hatch chile and puts it into his mouth, chewing it slowly.

"I understand," says Peter-John. "So what you are saying, if they were perhaps helped with the root cause, they might become sober and not want to turn to their fix again?" Peter-John also puts a hatch chile into his mouth. "These have a bit of heat to them. Nice."

"Yip. Not quite like jalapenos, but heat enough." Florian puts all the peppers into a bowl and rinses the bread board. He places it into the drying rack and checks the oven again. Satisfied, he turns and faces Peter-John. "If they can deal with the problem, then yes, they will definitely become sober and not need to go to the drugs anymore. But it will be a life long struggle. If anythin' triggers the cause, the same pattern of behavior will be repeated."

He ponders a bit.

"And more than that, the addiction will always have some traces that remain. Or that is what it is like with me. I walk past people smokin' and sometimes find myself inhalin' the secondhand smoke. I suddenly feel my body craving it. There is a subtle tinge in my chest. If I was not in the right space of mind, I would easily want to smoke. I mean it has now been, what, three years since I stopped smokin' and still, it is like this. Let me not even talk about the drink."

Florian removes his apron and straightens his shirt, tucking it into his cargo pants. He was wearing slippers.

"What do you mean?" Peter-John was curious. It was like he was taking mental notes. He pushes his glasses back.

"Man," he laughs, "I see a drink add and I want to have a drink. The thirst inside me is triggered. It is worse when I smell alcohol. I want to have it, though I myself do not necessarily want to have a drink. It is the addicted part of the body cravin' the fix. I do not know how else to put it." He takes a deep breath, sighs and smiles at Peter-John. "It's a very intricate thing, addiction. Much more than meets the eye."

Peter-John stares at the black smoke stain on the ceiling of the kitchen. That was a result of Florian making a fire right in the kitchen when there was no electricity in the house. He ponders this. Florian was convinced that they were messing with him. They were messing around with his technology; the laptop, internet connection, phones, even the television; he was convinced they were messing around with the smart meter in the house too; switching off his power. They wanted him to go mad, he was convinced of this. That is why he got the gas stove. It was easier for him. Peter-John looks at Florian as he takes the pie from the oven. The delicious smell that hovered in the kitchen was now more evident. Whatever was in that pie smelled delicious. Florian was an excellent cook. A natural. He never had any formal cooking classes.

The cooking was just a hobby and as he has said in the past, a means of unwinding, a healthy-unhealthy therapy session; healthy in that he did not turn to damaging alternatives, unhealthy in that he indulged in his own cooking.

Peter-John ponders something and says. "Do you think any of it can be related to magic?"

Florian places the pie on the wooden board and stares at Peter-John curiously. "Addiction you mean?"

"Yes." Peter-John takes in Florian's face. What he said definitely started many thought processes in Florian's mind.

"I never thought about it," says Florian. He looks Peter-John in the eye. "Why do you ask?" He was intrigued.

Peter-John rubs his chin and tugs at his glasses. He sighs.

"I don't want you to get all... excited, ok... Please, bro. Just stay calm." He looks at Florian imploringly. Florian stares at him and understood.

"I won't go all crazy, PJ. Promise." He scoffs.

"Please, Flo. Just stay calm."

Florian breathes in deep and shakes his head in agreement.

Peter-John starts slowly. "I have been watching this vlog by this lady that says she was a witch and also part of this satanic ritual abuse. She says she was abused from as young as a few months old." Peter-John sighs and swallows hard. "Anyway, she says that a sign of witchcraft being done on a person is that they eat a lot of food and they can't explain why. There is just this non-stop need to stuff your face and though you are satisfied, you still continue to stuff yourself silly."

Peter-John tries to observe what affect this information has on Florian.

Florian was silent. Only the swift movements of his eyes made it clear that he was thinking very deeply. After several minutes, he breaks his silence.

"You know, PJ. You could be absolutely right." He shakes his head. "Perhaps all addictions has some root in magic. I never wanted to believe it, but there are just too many things going for one to not want to consider the possibility." He gets on the counter next to Peter-John.

"You know, I used to think the secret government was spyin' on me, because of what I have been writin'. I was convinced they were listenin' in on our conversations; I say was, I mean am convinced, I do not think it has stopped, but perhaps the stuff I have been doin' has made a bit of a difference; like the scrambler, and that. But I mean listenin' to us on the microphones on our laptops or cellphones, or even the undetected microphones they install in our cable units or so, watchin' us on our cameras. We make it easy for them by buyin' these technologies. And believe me, I still think they are. But I am convinced it is much more than this."

"What do you mean," asks Peter-John carefully. If he was not selective of his words, Florian could go off again, raving about his privacy and freedom of speech being violated by the government that is supposed to protect it.

"I mean, perhaps it is magic and perhaps it is even, the others."

Florian makes eye-contact with Peter-John and doesn't flinch. "PJ, I am convinced that they exist. They, together with the secret government work against those that are awake. If they can't get you back to sleep, then they make sure you appear as a ravin' suicidal lunatic. Bipolar, as they now say Kanye is, or at worst you are schizophrenic or suffer from DID. Don't forget Mariah too. All these people can't all conveniently be sufferin' from the same disorder. There is more to it. But those are celebrities, I am talkin' of your everyday Joe, if you talk about this stuff, they make sure you are exposed as bein' crazy."

Peter-John nods his head. He considers something, and, hesitantly says. "This lady even says that another sign of magic is that you start having problems with your technology: your pc keeps crashing, your phone switches on and off for no reason, keys on your phone just stop working. Not to mention your cable skipping channels as it wants.

"Volume going louder and softer without you pressin' the dial or remote, your car windows goin' up and down like some malfunction." Florian was definitely buying into what Peter-John was saying. He was convinced it was true. "I'm tellin' you, this is real PJ. Whoever that lady is, she must be tellin' the truth. I have had similar experiences, but I was only focused on people physically doin' things. I never considered that it might be magic, or that it might even be them. The they."

"The ever elusive they. Darned if you believe they exist and doomed if you believe they don't."

"Tell me about it. Freakin' run this world and we don't see nothin'." Florian takes a few plates from the cupboard to his right. Gets off the counter and heads to the lounge.

"Muggles, they don't see nothing."

"Too true. There is much more to those books. It's detailin' the secret world of the witches and wizards that rule our world, but dare to say anythin' and your toast."

"You're damned if you do, damned if you don't." Peter-John helps Florian to set the table.

Florian places the pie and salads on the table.

"I'll rather go down fightin' bro. Call me crazy and mess with me, but I won't stop. As God is my witness, I will never stop."

"Seems Griffin's patriotism has had a profound impact on you. Soon you'll be wearing suspenders too."

Florian gives Peter-John's words some serious thought. "Come to think of it, Griffin said something really troubling." Florian goes to the window and just stares out at the sky for a while.

"What? Are they gonna bomb us soon?" Peter-John goes and stands next to Florian.

Florian turns his head slowly and takes in Peter-John's questioning gaze. He sighs.

"Well, they have stocked up the bunker. They believe that we're going down soon. They have read the signs and all point to day zero approaching fast."

"What signs exactly?"

Florian shakes his head and stares out the window.

"He mentioned a few things, but it's all really out there..." He trails off.

"Like?" Asks Peter-John.

"Well, first he mentioned all these music videos and movies. One video shows us Americans becomin' refugees after these bomb attacks, a spin on how we would feel if we were the refugees, and how we would want to be treated. He believes it is indirectly tellin' us that that is indeed goin' to be what happens. To those who survive at least. Then he ties Mariah's Dead Sea ad with Sodom and Gomorrah and her new song 'GTFO' directly tellin' us to get the f out. And now 'With You' with Los Angeles as a back drop. Same as she said to SHUTDOWN Disney land. He says even Britney hinted at New York New York with a short skit. Voices in the midst of all the chaos and distraction tryin' their best to get our attention. Few have ears to hear what they are tryin' to tell us. So Griffin says."

"What do you make of it all?" Florian turns with a sigh.

"All I can say is that Britney is a fighter and she did try to warn us before. I don't think any part of her has given up, so anything even remotely relating to these things from her should be considered carefully. They can never truly say exactly what goes on or they end up like Kanye. But try they do."

"It's all just very sad. But I guess, it all boils down to God in the end. Ultimately He is the one that is in control. I mean, He is the one that destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah, so if that is our fate, it must be because of our disbelief in Him. I am sure He can forgive our sins, but if we refuse to believe in Him, then what else can be done." Florian sighs again and smiles. "But fight, I will fight. Love is our most powerful weapon. Let's see if we can get our American brothers and sisters to listen."

Peter-John looks at Florian admiringly. Florian seems to have lost a lot of weight. He wasn't as agitated as a few months ago and he had a renewed freshness about his face. He was happy for him. Things must be going better.

Florian's words also made him wonder.

Am I a fighter?

#Journals

#TheBook

ق

It was great to see Drew and Flo. Don't know how we ended up talking about addiction but it was interesting and informative to learn what their personal experiences have been like. As always, I mostly listened, because I need time to process and think about what I have heard and come to my own opinions regarding it all.

From my own experience I find that change is the biggest hurdle. No matter how much help you get or how many rehabs you go to, if you within yourself do not want to change, you will not take the steps necessary to make a committed effort to actually change.

To define what is meant by change is a bit broad, but I will do my best to try and explain. Not sure if what I write will ever be read by anyone, but perhaps it will bring me some solace just to write it down. Perhaps it will effect change within myself. I too am struggling, that is for sure. I try to be strong around my friends, but I am struggling a lot. I am struggling against this change. Perhaps writing it down now, will have the necessary cathartic effect to unlocking the chains that are keeping me from making this change.

Well, let me try and explain. Sounds silly to write this, but as I say, maybe it is for myself.

Let me try and define this change.

What I really want to say is a change in behavior, a change in attitude. It is almost like a rewiring that needs to take place. But that is just it. How do you rewire your brain?

As I reflect on my childhood, I see that I taught myself to react in a certain way. Taught does not sound correct, but that is the word that should be used. Whether I responded in a certain way or reacted in a certain way, it remains teaching the brain to do something very specific. I taught my brain to respond to certain events in a very specific way.

I will have to make examples if this is going to make sense to even me. As I write this, I am sensing a part of me that is apprehensive to carry on. Some part of me is also constantly saying this is a waste of time. I have learnt to pay attention to these 'voices' within myself. What I learnt from her, my muse, is that I do have my own little voice that whispers to myself. This voice belongs to what I will say is my animalistic self. The part of me that wants food and water, that part of me that drives my libido, the part of me that wants comfort and security. Also the part of me that wants me to get my way. My ego. And in my case, my fragile ego. Yes, my own voice definitely does not like what I am doing, because it is the one that does not want this change. It is comfortable and has become complacent. It does not like that I want to do things differently now. And it is fighting within me with myself with the ferocity that I can only describe as a hungry lion whose territory is being invaded. It is not happy. It is fighting change.

Then there is the other voice, the one that is breaking me down, saying to me that I am wasting my time writing this down. It is telling me that no one cares to read what a nobody like you has to say. It is belittling me. If not belittling me, then it is praising me. Stroking my ego to believe that I am great just as I am and there is no need to change. I know best. I know better than the rest. I do not need to change. They need to change. This voice is a soft whisper, but it is subtle and it can be loud, if you are not aware. You will start to think it is yourself. I have learnt a bit. I still get entrapped, but I admit that I am aware that it is not me.

I could not discern it clearly, especially while I was busy with the gardening and when I was involved in what believers call sin. Me being on the fence about it all... No. On the fence is not quite correct. I would rather say I just really doubt. Like I said, I want a sign. But anyway, while doing things that clouded my mind, it was difficult to discern this voice. But now, I am able to at least identify two voices, soft whispers, whisperers.

My own whisperer from within myself and another whisperer from I do not know where. It is really hard to say because no one can clearly say.

But she says these voices are there to drive us towards evil. It wants us to keep persisting in doing what is easy and it definitely does not want us to tell it what to do. It wants to keep telling us, what we must do. It is constantly fighting against change.

I take for example the following. Something I taught myself, my fear of rejection. This is something I taught myself. I taught myself to behave in a certain manner, to avoid being rejected. This all stems from being rejected. This is a bit hard to write down, but I will do my best.

Growing up, I was only with my own people ever. What are my people even? I can't properly define it because I am so mixed. I mean I am of mixed heritage. Dad's side of the family is Mexican, while mom's side is White American and Apache, the white Americans being settlers from Europe. I am not even exactly sure, but I think they were English. Anyway, now you get me. I have always looked a bit ambiguous. I can say that while growing up with Dad, I was always around Mexicans and they treated me like I was some white boy. They didn't want me to be part of their clicks, didn't want me to play with them. It was not easy, because I was of them, but also not really like them. Only a person who is mixed can truly understand and also only if you were ridiculed, like I was. Here again my little voice is speaking to me. I am quite aware of it.

Trying to remind me that you did the best you could at the time and no need to try and change now. Others must accept that they don't know what you went through. I hear this voice and I want to tell it now to stop. Just stop.

Yes, I was ridiculed and made to feel that something was wrong with me, this when I was with the Mexicans, but also while I was in the schools here in California. If you could look past my brown-red hair, my dark eyes and my tan, you would say I am white. But soon as you saw my dad and even mom, you would know I couldn't be white. So even here I was treated different. I just wanted to fit in. So fitting in, meant blending in. Not standing out. This took the form of not wearing clothes that are different, to put it simply. But not standing out has many aspects, many facets. One, your voice. It should not sound different or strange. So you either keep quiet, or you learn to speak like the group you want to be part of. If you cannot change your voice, then you keep your mouth shut. I chose the latter, I kept quiet. I do not like the sound of my own voice. I also thus taught myself that others do not like the sound of my voice. Two, you never disagree with what anyone else has to say, even if you didn't like what they were saying or like what you got yourself into by not disagreeing. You just go with the flow, even if the flow took you into danger, you just wanted to fit in, so you do not disagree and deal with the trouble that comes. You make peace with the consequences of your decision to agree.

Three, you have no opinions of your own. No, let me rephrase that. You do not voice your own opinions. So it ties with one and two, I kept quiet and I didn't disagree. So, your opinions are never heard, so you do not stand out if they were to be different, and in most cases they were.

Need I mention that this only left me frustrated and sad? But there is that voice again, seeking some sympathy. I do not want to feed it anymore. It does not deserve to be fed anymore. It can starve for all I care.

I do not want sympathy. That is just it. I just want to change. That is perhaps why I rather write it down for myself and not say it to others, because they will think I am just wanting attention, just want them to feel sorry for me, when it is not so. The more one tries to explain something, the more one gets misunderstood. That is what I have learnt and this is what I am saying. You are alone in this. I am alone in this. Only I know what is going on with me. And I alone must get myself out of it. I must fight against myself, by myself.

The voice keeps making me lose my focus. That is what I have learnt as well. It wants to keep distracting you from focusing on what you want to do to embark on the path of change and if you are on the road of change, it will come with twists and turns and blind spots just to get you to swerve off track or take a wrong turn if it can't manage to get you to make a complete u-turn.

Anyway, four, you never complain. I mean, I never complained. If you complain, you are against the norm, so you stand out. Remember, I do not want to stand out. So I did not complain. Even if I had to go through unpleasant things, or endure things I did not like, I didn't stand out at least. But it definitely left me feeling uncomfortable, left me feeling sad, left me feeling utterly alone. If I could go back to my childhood, I would tell that boy not to care so much what others think, because here I am, alone anyway. What did it help me? To say I am alone is wrong. I have Drew, I have Flo and Justin. Heck I even have Madison and I have her. What I mean is, none of those people from way back then are here now. None of them stuck around. Now that I also think of it, how could anyone really stick around? They didn't know me. They didn't really get to know me, because I didn't really let any of them in, did I? If I followed through on one to four, how could anyone really get to know who I was? I rejected myself. So they rejected me. Isn't that a fair statement? Isn't that a fair conclusion?

I don't want to feel sorry for myself and I refuse to feel sorry for myself. This is not about feeling sorry for myself. This is about finding the core and finding the courage to change, finding the courage to finally stand out. To be seen and to be seen as different and to accept that it is okay to be different.

It is hard though. The self wants nothing to do with it.

Note to self, perhaps I must use pseudo names for my friends in case someone reads this. I wouldn't want people to know their stuff. But who knows, perhaps they would even support this... What is this? A story? A book? Is it my journal or a piece of journalism? I am not sure as yet.

All I can say is that it feels good to write. That much is true. I feel happy when I write. Maybe I am like that guy from The Great Gatsby movie, writing that book while he is in the loony bin. Was Gatsby ever real, or was Gatsby only a figment of his imagination? That part is never quite clear to me. Just like perhaps you are not real?

Breath in.

Lately I have been doing these breathing exercises, most especially when I enter these moments where I feel uncomfortable and I feel I will not be in control. The breathing sort of helps me to remain calmer at least. Why will I not be in control?

That is the learnt behavior I am trying to describe. It is not easy at all. Or the self is fighting that I go there.

Breathe out.

Because I taught myself not to speak up, it now becomes difficult to want to speak up. Firstly, my voice literally becomes heavy. It is heavy to project the words. It sounds silly, but that is the only way I can describe it.

My voice is heavy and shaky and I literally need to force it to have some volume, otherwise it all comes out as a series of mumbles. Needless to say this results in the words being forced out and sounding like a scream. I sound out of control and I feel out of control.

Breathe in.

That is just my voice. Physically I start trembling. Yes. I start sweating from all pores. I feel hot. I start itching. My heart beats faster and my chest goes tight.

It is unnerving and uncomfortable. I feel sad and vulnerable and it all projects from me as anger, though I am not angry. If I am, it is not only anger and if it is only anger, then it is because of the way I am feeling. It is hard to explain. All is just masked as anger. But I know I am not only angry.

Breathe out.

I know that at any moment during this, I might indeed be angry and that anger is because of the way I am reacting and because I am angry that I am the way I am. So in essence it is a concoction of anger mingled with whatever other emotion I am experiencing. Whether that be sadness, anxiety, fear or whether it is merely a feeling of vulnerability or fear of being seen for who I am. I am so confused about it all. But I know that I feel out of control. I start behaving in a manner that I would not normally behave around people, I would talk in a way I would never speak in decent company or any company, and yet, I do it in front of people and in company of those closest and yes, dearest to me, because in essence I want them to know all of me and I feel comfortable enough to let myself become so vulnerable in front of them, I trust them in that moment to let myself be seen, but because it all erupts in this cloud of anger, it is wrongly interpreted, it is misunderstood.

So I am misunderstood and what was it all for? Also, I just feel really bad that, yes, I am behaving like this towards the ones that love me the most. They do not deserve to bear the brunt of this behavior. No. They don't.

Breathe in.

Thinking about anger, I think of what she says: that when we are angry, we are indeed not in control of ourselves. She says that whenever a human being is angry, they are no longer in control of themselves, but the devil himself is in control of the person. It makes me wonder. Is it fair to blame your inappropriate behavior on some devil that you can't see? I struggle to accept that. We are solely responsible for what we do and say. We cannot blame something else for what we do. But then, why do I feel so out of control, like it is literally not me? She says even if it is only a prompting to say or do things in anger, it is the control he exerts over us at that point in time, so in fairness it is you doing it, but he is prompting you to do it, whispering; whisperers. It keeps coming back to this voice, doesn't it?

Breathe out.

But back to the wiring of the brain, which is what this is all about. How does one go about it? I am not sure what to say. It is not easy to empty a cup that is already full or change the foundation of a house that is already built. So what then?

I remember that Omar mentioned something to me during one of the few times that he agreed to meet with me. He said that I must stop with what I was busy with, the gardening, and that I should picture a different version of myself and try to make that version of myself the ideal. What he was saying was that I should literally draw a picture of myself and give the picture the attributes and characteristics I would like to have. This picture should then be kept in a place where I could see it every day, so that my mind could get used to it and that it would settle into my subconscious.

This is the picture. I am not an artist, but I tried. It does sort of resemble me, I think. A voice kept saying that I am really being stupid to think that drawing a picture of myself was going to help me to change. What does a person like Omar know? He is plain crazy and that is because of his history and he wants attention because he is an orphan. This voice couldn't be more wrong. Omar has been instrumental in me finally getting myself free from wanting to numb myself. The dude wants his privacy though. I must definitely find a pseudo name for him. Maybe, Fighter. That suits him.

Breathe in.

Anyway, as you can see, I would like to smile more. That is something I have been really struggling with. People in the past have avoided me merely because of my sour face. They just think I am constantly angry or in a foul mood or I am an unpleasant person. A few even confessed and said I thought I was better than them, hence this face of do not come near me. I am perplexed by the things my face said to people and most of it is so far from the reality. If anything, I would have liked if people would feel free and comfortable to come and talk to me and a mixed nothing like me, can't be thinking I am better than anyone else. I am not. She says anyway that people should judge others by character and piety and not by skin color, heritage or affluence.

Based on that, I should be low on the scale of being better than others, because my character is so bad and I am not a pious person. I mean, I don't even believe. Do I?

Breathe out.

I have been doing something to help rewire my brain or effect this change that I want to implement and make permanent. That is to smile. I smile just writing that down, because it all seems so silly.

There is that voice again. Even when I smile, the voice is telling me you look like an idiot. Your smile isn't real so who do you think you are fooling. And part of what the voice is saying is true. The smile is most of the time not real. Because it is not real. But what I find is that while this fake smile is on my face, I tend to laugh within myself at the fake smile and this causes a genuine smile to come to my face and then I smile at this genuine smile, because the fake smile made me smile. So in the end, my eyes smile too and that is key to anything from the face. The eyes must agree. And this also is how one can tell if a celebrity is really smiling or not. We Americans really do have these really brilliant enamel smiles with our perfect teeth, but a lot of the times our eyes give us away. I am still haunted by Mariah saying 'smiling' and her eyes just looked scared and when she said 'awe smiling', like she was zapped or something because she didn't smile. Is she really under mind control like Florian and the rest say? Same like the rest. MK Ultra that is the glue to keeping everything together in Hollywood and the matrix?

Shame man.

Breathe in.

There is no denying that MK Ultra was real. Question is, did they really stop? Florian and the rest are convinced they didn't stop and the technique has merely been perfected. Can one take comfort in the fact that at least the victims are less tortured now? I can't take comfort in knowing that someone is not in control of their body and what it does. It makes me sad to think that, for instance, my favorite singer said something that influenced me greatly and that statement they said was something they said involuntarily and they were programmed to say it. It really takes it all away. Not to mention that your favorite actress took off her clothes and posed for a magazine, but they were not in control of getting undressed nor standing in front of the camera. It really is all very disheartening.

It makes one wonder. Miley was doing all sort of crazy stuff on stage and then her dad goes and says the devil came and ruined his family. What do these people mean and what was Miley thinking? Was she even thinking? Or is it just as they say, it is all Walt Disney. Mickey Mouse club. All factions of the CIA mind control program. Is it then true that Mariah was saying shut it down? Even Nickelodeon's Amanda Bynes saying "I was just a vessel". Vessel for what?

Will we ever know the truth?

Breathe out.

Any way. I am trying to change. I am trying to smile. All of it is a work in progress.

I wonder.

Strange that Queen sings 'Bismillah' in Bohemian Rhapsody. The devil won't let go. 'Bismillah, let me go'. What was that all about? Is it all real?

I wonder.

Bismillah.

I forgot to mention that there was a series of very bizarre accidents as I headed home last night. Weird really. It also felt like the people were all staring at me for some reason.

It really freaked me out.

The cab driver kept saying they were "possessed" or "under the influence of spirits". This spirits I am sure he meant liquor, but it was like he was implying the liquor allows something sinister in.

Can it all be real?

I really wonder.

Now that I think of it, Miguel did mention something to me the last time we spoke.

I can't remember exactly what he said, but it was related to all this.

But I was too "distracted" to really absorb what he was saying.

Crazy as it sounds, I think I should give him a call.

Man, it has been so long.

Does it really matter?

I wonder.

Bismillah.
Uncertain

#TheFuture

#Mexico

#Hermosa

#SkyWalker

"Está hablando a la casa de la Familia Rodríguez. No estamos disponibles en este momento, por favor deje su nombre y número después del sonido y nos comunicaremos con usted más tarde. Si es Pablo te estamos esperando, ese"

You have reached the Rodriguez residence, we are not available at the moment, please leave your name and number after the beep and we will get back to you. If this is Pablo, we are still waiting, ese.

Beep

Peter-John hesitates. He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly.

Maybe this wasn't such a good idea.

What would it help?

He closes his eyes.

Breathe in.

He breathes in for five seconds, holds his breath for five seconds, then breathes out for five seconds.

Slowly he opens his eyes.

It is time.

He clears his throat.

"Hello... It's me, Peter-John. I just wanted..."

There is a sudden noise on the other end and then.

"Juan-Pedro!"

Peter-John!

Peter-John's face tenses up and he clenches his fist.

"Juan-Pedro, ¿de verdad eres tú?"

Peter-John, is it really you?

"Miguel?"

"Soy yo, hombre. Juan-Pedro, ¿de verdad eres tú?"

It's me, hombre. Peter-John, is it really you, ese?

Peter-John turns in the dark room and stares at the blank wall.

"It's me, Miguel."

"Leoncito ¡nunca pensé que volvería a escuchar tu voz ese! ¿Cuánto tiempo ha pasado? ¿cinco años?"

Little Lion, I never thought I'd hear your voice again, ese? It's been what? Five years?

"Yes, five years. It always comes to five doesn't it?"

"¿Todavía estás en la 5ª época? ¿Todavía buscas las Misteriosas Ciudades de Oro? Mendoza escapó con todo el oro, ese. La época dorada no dejó ningún tesoro para nosotros, ese."

Still on about the 5th age are you? Still looking for those Mysterious Cities of Gold? Mendoza ran off with all the gold, ese. The golden age is not yielding any treasures for us, ese.

Peter-John laughs softly.

"Maybe you're digging in the wrong place, Miguel." He laughs more.

Miguel laughs too.

"Ha pasado mucho tiempo, Leoncito. Mucho tiempo."

It's been too long, Little Lion. Much too long.

Peter-John stares and the wall and doesn't say anything.

"Mi abuelita no ha dejado de preguntar por su hijo. Te extraña, ese."

Abuelita hasn't stopped asking about her son. She misses you, ese.

Peter-John closes his eyes and clenches his fist. He steps towards the wall and presses his fist against it, pressing down hard as he puts the phone to his forehead.

"Pero nadie te extraña más que yo, Leoncito."

No one misses you more than me though, Little Lion.

"I... I miss you too, Miguel." Peter-John swallows hard and breathes in deep.

"Ya estaba obligándome a mi mismo a olvidar..."

I started reminding myself to forget...

Peter-John breathes out.

"I don't blame you, Miguel."

"Pero no puedo, ese. ¿Cómo podría olvidarme de ti, Leoncito?

But I couldn't, ese. How can I ever forget you, Little Lion?

"We're blood brothers."

"¡Es correcto, ese!"

You got that right, ese!

"It really is good to hear your voice. I thought you guys would be out?"

"Las cosas han cambiado, Leoncito. Sólo Dios sabe lo que pasará. Abuelita ha estado rece y rece el rosario. La viejita está especialmente preocupada por ti que andas en L.A. Yo le digo que no se preocupe, pero no me hace caso".

Things have changed, Little Lion. Only God knows what's going to happen. Abuelita has been praying the rosary nonstop. She is especially worried about you staying there in LA. I told her not to worry, but she doesn't want to hear a thing."

Peter-John relaxes his hand and turns to face the couch.

"Things are okay here, she doesn't need to worry."

"¿Por cuánto tiempo, Leoncito? Aquí pronto va a pasar algo grave. Algo malo."

For how long, Little Lion? We are on the verge of something big. Something bad.

Peter-John sinks into the couch and gives Miguel's words some thought.

"¿Qué tal si ese muro se construye?, ¿Qué piensas que pudiera pasar?, ¿De verdad estarás sano y salvo en LA?"

What if this wall does go up? What do you think is going to start happening? Do you think you will be safe in LA?

Peter-John doesn't say a thing.

"La abuelita es como una profetiza del juicio final y dice que la ira de Dios vendrá y nos llevará si no paramos con todo esto. Tú conoces como es la viejita, Leoncito."

Abuelita has been a doomsday prophetess saying that the wrath of God will come down upon us if we do not stop with this. You know how she is, Little Lion.

"Well, Lita isn't alone."

"No me digas que ya crees en Dios, Leoncito."

Don't tell me you have started believing in God, Little Lion?

Peter-John scoffs.

"What if I did?"

"Pues eso me haría muy feliz, Leoncito. Sin Dios, estamos perdidos."

That would make me very happy to hear, Little Lion. Without God, we are lost.

Peter-John swallows hard.

"I don't know what I believe, Miguel. I want to believe, but..."

"¿Todavía esperas una prueba? ¿Una señal?

You are still waiting for proof? Your sign?

"Something like that..."

"Pues espero que tengas lo que estás buscando pronto, ese."

I hope you get what you are looking for, soon, ese.

There is a short silence.

Peter-John lies back on the couch and stares at the wall with his head upside down.

"Leoncito, estoy feliz de escuchar tu voz, ese. No sabes como ha sido la vida sin ti."

Little Lion, I am happy to hear your voice, ese. You don't know how life has been without you."

Peter-John sighs.

"Ni el sol nos calienta. Solamente teniéndote acá nos sentiríamos mejor. Sin tía, estamos inclompletos."

It's like there is sunshine all around us, but no warmth. Only your kind soul can kindle it. Without you, we are incomplete.

These words hit Peter-John hard in his chest.

He clenches his right fist and puts the phone to his forehead.

"Yo siempre tenía sueños a color, muchos colores, ese. Pero cuando te fuiste, empecé a soñar en blanco y negro y finalmente, dejé de soñar completamente."

I always had kaleidoscope dreams, ese. But when you left, everything went pale, black and white, till finally, I stopped dreaming entirely.

Peter-John fights back the tears swelling up in his eyes.

"Es como si una parte de mi se me perdió, Leoncito."

It is like a part of me is literally missing, Little Lion.

Peter-John closes his eyes and slowly the tears trickle down his cheeks.

He swallows hard.

After a short pause, he opens his eyes and speaks.

"I feel the same, Miguel."

"Pues regresate a la casa, ese."

Then come home, ese.

"No puedo vivir así, Miguel. No puedo vivir partido en dos."

I can't live like that, Miguel. I can't live torn in two anymore.

Miguel sighs.

"Frente al amor y la muerte no sirve de nada ser fuerte."

Face love head on because death has no strength.

Peter-John sighs and smiles to himself. He wipes the tears from his cheeks.

"El amor no se puede frenar, ¿verdad?"

Love can't be stopped, right?

"La pura verdad, Leoncito. Muy cierto."

Too true, Little Lion. Too true.

The Past

#Kneedeep

#YouAreTheLoveOfMyLife

1983

"Why do I always have to wait to eat when I get home?" Barked the round man. It was Ben's father, James.

He takes a can of Bud Light, opens it up, beer splashes on the table. He grasps it with his left hand and gulps it down in one go. He crushes the can and tosses it into a corner of the room.

"Where's my food, woman!" He shouts as he opens another can of beer.

Ben watches his mother as she nervously puts the food in front of his father. She made roast chicken and vegetables, corn bread, several salads and a pumpkin pie with homemade custard for dessert.

"The chicken looks burnt. I told you many times before to stop burnin' the bl@@dy food. When are you goin' to get that into your thick skull?" He takes a leg and thigh and tosses it on his plate. "There's broccoli in this. I told you never to serve me this crap!" He slides the roast vegetables towards her. The bowl hits her plate and it almost slides off the table.

"It's for Ben, dear. He likes it. And the chicken is just marinated and looks burnt, but it isn't." She swallows hard.

"Shut your trap!" He tosses a few pieces of corn bread onto his plate and glares at her.

She says nothing as she dishes some food for Ben.

"You do not need to give him so much food. He can starve a bit, so he can learn the value of a hard earned meal. I'm tired of seein' him stuff his face with food bought with my money." He swallows down the beer. Crushes the can and tosses it into the corner of the room.

"He doesn't eat much, dear. He's just a baby." She dishes some food for herself.

"You baby him. Period. He is big enough to start helpin' outside." James takes the chicken leg and takes a big bite out of it.

"Won't you say grace first, my love. Please." She puts her hands together. Ben does the same.

He tosses the half eaten drumstick back onto his plate and screams. "Why the hell should I say grace?" Foam formed at the corner of his mouth.

"I told you before, woman, that I work to put food on this b@@dy table! No God provided it for me! Only my own hard work. I plough the lands and reap the harvest. Me alone!"

"But God provided all of it for you, my love. We must give thanks, dear. Please," she says scared.

He gets up from his chair, cracks his neck, and then faces her, pointing at her with his right index finger. "Now you listen to me, you ungrateful woman! I worked hard for everythin' we have on this farm. Me and me alone. I had no help. No one provided nothin' for me. I broke my back gettin' all of this for us." He gulps down the Bud Light he was holding in his left hand. He slams the empty can into the table; flat, tosses it in her direction. It just misses her head and bounces on the floor.

"If anyone deserves to be thanked, it is me! Do you hear me!" He opens another can of beer. "That is the last time I hear of any talk of sayin' grace at this table! Do I make myself clear!" He shouts.

Ben nearly jumped from his chair with fright. If it wasn't for his mother's calm composure, he would have run away. He looks at his mother, she was praying in spite of what he was saying. He decides to pray silently to himself as well.

The round man sits back down, grabs the half eaten chicken leg and gluttonously bites the remaining meat on it off and swallows it down. He grabs the thigh with his left hand and bites into it, he chews it slightly before he grabs a piece of corn bread in his right hand and bites into it too. Sweat was pouring down his red face. His eyes were red. The shirt he was wearing was covered in dirt and was wet around the neck and armpits from his profuse sweat.

He polishes off the food that was in his plate and takes more chicken and corn bread. He eats it fast with both hands, washing it all down with big gulps of his beer.

He burps loudly and gets up from the table.

"That's the last time you burn my food. Next time, I will not be so unforgivin'." He shoves his plate forward and leaves the table.

Ben and his mother remain seated and slowly eat their food.

"You eat your food, Ben. Remember your vegetables." She dishes more vegetables into his plate. "Do you want more corn bread?" She gives him another piece.

"Thank you, Mommy. It is very nice." He smiles as he bites into the corn bread. He stares at his mom.

"Why are you not eatin', Mommy. Please eat," says Ben concerned.

"Mommy is not very hungry, is all, my love." She rubs his cheek with her right hand. 'Don't worry about me. You just eat your food."

Ben continues to eat.

"May I have sum of the pum'in' pie if I eat all my veg'tables, Mommy?" He smiles.

"Of course, dear. As much you like." She smiles too. She cuts a piece of the pie and puts it into a small bowl. She pours some custard on top of it and puts it next to Ben's plate.

"I made it special today. The crust is a bit crispier and I added a bit of cardamom and pimento."

"What's cardmom and pee mento?" He takes a last bite of his chicken and bites into his corn bread.

"Just things to make the pie taste nice, my love. They are both spice." She puts a piece of carrot and a piece of potato onto her fork and slowly nibbles on it.

"Remember to chew, my love."

"Yes, Mommy," says Ben as he puts the last of his vegetables into his mouth. He moves the plate out of the way and eagerly pulls the bowl with the pumpkin pie and custard towards him. He says "Thank you, Lord" as he scoops a bit up with a spoon and puts it into his mouth.

"God is good to us. Thank you, indeed."

Slowly she eats the rest of her food.

"Mommy, why is Dad always angry?" Ben puts down his spoon and looks at his mother enquiringly. His eyes were bright brown.

"It is the farm, my love, it takes a lot out of him. That's all." Ben's mom lies.

Ben keeps his focus on her for a while. Her face was white as a sheet because of the large amount of make up on her face, cheeks were slightly red, matching the red lipstick and her blonde hair was short and wavy above her head. She used lots of hairspray to keep it in place. Today, she wore a nice dress. He thought his mom was a very pretty woman.

"You look pretty, Mommy," Ben smiles, picks up his spoon and takes another bite of his pumpkin pie.

Ben's mom puts her hand to her hair. "Thank you, Ben dear. Mommy appreciates it." She looks at her reflection in the mirror opposite her against the wall. She puts her hand to her left cheek bone. She cringes slightly. She looks in the direction of the lounge. He husband was watching football. He would probably fall asleep in front of the television soon.

"Mommy wants to show you somethin' in the barn. Finish your dessert." She gets up from her chair and starts clearing the table.

"Is it a surprise, Mommy?" Asks Ben excitedly as he quickly eats the last few spoons of the pumpkin pie.

"Sort of," says his mom with a smile, "come help mommy." She takes the leftover food to the kitchen. Ben follows with the empty plates. He takes a while struggling to keep the plates balanced in his hands.

"Thank you, my boy. Wash your hands quick, then we can go."

Ben runs up the stairs quick.

His mother peeks into the lounge. The tv was loud, but her husband was fast asleep with a beer can balanced on his stomach. She takes the can and puts it down onto the coffee table. She increases the volume of the tv slightly and then heads back out of the lounge.

Ben comes sprinting down the stairs excitedly.

"Come, Mommy, let's go." He opens the mesh screen door and holds it open for his mother.

"Real gentleman. Thank you." She kisses his forehead.

He smiles proudly. He closes the screen door and is short on his mom's heels.

"Don't tell your dad about what I am goin' to show you now, ok. It is our secret."

Ben shakes his head. "I understand, Mommy." He gestures zipping his mouth and throws away the imaginary key.

"Good." His mother opens the barn door and they both step inside. His mom lights the gas lantern and makes sure to put the crossbar in its place. No one could enter the barn from the outside.

Ben trails his mother as she makes her way to the small trap door that was towards the side of the barn, usually hidden under many bails of straw. She hands Ben the lantern. He finds his balance and holds the lantern high with both his. His dark eyes were bright with excitement.

His mom descends the wooden staircase. "You wait for mommy there, Ben. Mommy won't be long."

Ben tries to lower the lantern into the hole to help his mom to see. He looks about the dark barn. It always scared him to be here by himself and especially without any light. He always got the feeling that something was in the barn with him. He couldn't be sure what it was, but he was sure it was there. He believed it must be aliens. He didn't tell his parents any of this. He didn't want his mom to be burdened more than she was. Ben was barely seven years old, but he already intuitively knew that his mother was struggling a lot. She never said anything to him, but he could sense it. He also guessed that is why his mom wore such a lot make up. She was trying to hide something from him.

"Mind," says his mom to his surprise. She appeared from the darkness and ascended the stair case. She was holding something in her right hand. Before she steps out into the barn, she hands it to Ben

He places the lantern on the barn floor and carefully takes the wooden box from his mother. He steps a bit back as his mother climbs out.

"Come, let's sit over here." She gestures with her hand to the beam that stretched from the back of the barn wall to the side wall.

Ben places the wooden box on the beam as he struggles to get onto it. He could barely hide his excitement.

"His mom takes the wooden box and slowly opens it up. Whatever was inside was covered by a cloth with strange markings on it. Ben was not sure what it was. The markings were stitched into the cloth. His mom removes it and hands him the cloth. It was soft silk. He inspects it closely. The strange markings were made with golden yarn. The cloth itself was very white, almost too white. He folds it into his lap and stares excitedly at the thing his mom was holding in her hand.

It was a silver sphere. It was very smooth and you could clearly see your reflection in it.

"Mommy found this in here a few days ago. It was wrapped in that cloth and left next to the open trap door. Someone left it here.

"Who, Mommy?" Asks Ben. He could barely take his eyes off the shiny, silver object.

"I have no idea, my dear. Mommy is also not sure what it does. I think somethin' is inside it though."

"Would you like to hold it? I think it is meant for you." His mom looks at him encouragingly.

"For me? Who would leave it for me? And why, Mommy?"

"Because you are special." She kisses his forehead, then the top of his head.

"Go ahead, take it."

Hesitantly, Ben takes it from her. It was lighter than he expected. It almost felt like water in his hands; water that was formed into this egg-shape. He liked the feeling.

"It feels weird, but nice. What does it do you think, Mommy?" He takes the object into both his hands carefully and inspects it from up close.

His mom shrugs and says nothing.

Suddenly, there was a loud bang at the door. "Open this bl@@dy door or I'll break it down and you'll regret it more than leavin' me by myself in the house!" It was Ben's dad.

Ben and his mother both got a fright. The sphere slips from Ben's tiny hands and lands on some straw on the barn floor. Panicking, he jumps off the beam and goes to pick it up.

His dad started hitting the barn door with an axe. He made a hole near the latch and reached inside to remove the beam preventing the doors from opening up. With a bit of a struggle, he manages to remove the beam and kicks the barn door open.

"Bl@@dy, woman! You will regret this!" he storms into the barn.

Ben grabs the sphere quickly. Suddenly a bright light comes from it. It was as if the light was on the surface of it and not from the inside of the sphere. It shone brightly through Ben's fingers. It also made his hair and eyes appear golden too.

Just as he was about to let go of the sphere, something stepped in between him and his fast approaching father. He let the sphere fall to the ground. He saw the figure disappear soon as the light went dark again. His father was lying unconscious on the ground.

Ben stares at his mother confused.

"What just happened, Mommy?"

His mom's eyes were bewildered. She didn't know what to say or think. All she knew was that they had to get out of the barn quick. She picks up the silver sphere hesitantly, takes the silk cloth from Ben, wraps it around the sphere and puts it back into the box. She makes her way down into the room below, Ben lowering the lantern into the hole for some light for her.

Soon she is back up the stairs and takes the lantern from Ben in her left hand. With her right hand she takes Ben's hand and they leave the barn.

Ben stares at his unconscious father.

Did he pass out?

Did something hit him?

What was that thing?

An alien?

Ben was not going to be able to sleep tonight.
Veiled
س

#Kneedeep

1983

"Why do I always have to wait to eat when I get home?" Barked the round man. It was Ben's father, James.

He takes a can of Bud Light, opens it up, beer splashes on the table. He grasps it with his left hand and gulps it down in one go. He crushes the can and tosses it into a corner of the room.

"Where's my food, woman!" He shouts as he opens another can of beer.

The dark figure standing next to him keeps grasping the beer in his hand and as he puts it to his mouth, slimy goo drops into the can as Ben's father swallows it down. The more he drinks the beer, more of this slimy goo falls into the can.

Ben watches his mother as she nervously puts the food in front of his father. She made lovely roast chicken and vegetables, delicious corn bread, several healthy salads and a mouthwatering pumpkin pie with homemade custard for dessert.

A winged being comes and sprinkles golden dust over the food. The golden dust forms a thick layer. If you were able to see it with your naked eye, it would seem as if the food was swelling with goodness and nourishment.

"The chicken looks burnt. I told you many times before to stop burnin' the bl@@dy food. When are you goin' to get that into your thick skull?" He takes a leg and thigh and tosses it onto his plate.

As it falls onto his plate, the dark figure scoops away the golden dust and swallows it. With every scoop, scales from his body falls into James's plate. As his cloak moves, slithery things resembling worms, drops from the inside of his cloak onto the plate as well. It slithers into the meat and seems to start eating the meat from the inside out.

"There's broccoli in this! I told you never to serve me this crap!" He slides the roasted vegetables towards her. The bowl hits her plate and it almost slides off the table.

"It's for Ben, dear. He likes it. And the chicken is just marinated and looks burnt, but it isn't." She swallows hard.

"Shut your trap!" He tosses a few slices of corn bread onto his plate and glares at her.

She says nothing as she dishes some food for Ben.

The winged being places three small, golden, leaf-like pieces on top of Ben's corn bread, a golden garnish of sorts. It was sure to enrich Ben if he was to eat his cornbread. He then pours a golden liquid over his vegetables, making sure it was submerged in it. If there was ever a time to eat his vegetables, now would be the time. It was immersed in goodness, soaked in merciful kindness.

"You do not need to give him so much food. He can starve a bit, so he can learn the value of a hard earned meal. I'm tired of seein' him stuff his face with food bought with my money." He swallows down the beer. He swallows down more of the slimy goo. The dark figure kept grasping the beer can as soon as James grasped the beer in his left hand. James crushes the can and tosses it into the corner of the room.

"He doesn't eat much, dear. He's just a baby." She dishes some food for herself.

The winged being drops a few golden specks over her food. It also drops three bright green balls resembling peas into her plate as well. Into her water, it pours a golden liquid from a golden cup.

"You baby him. Period. He is big enough to start helpin' outside." James takes the chicken leg and takes a big bite out of it. As he chews it, the slithery worm things creep into his mouth and he swallows them down. Whatever energy the man had was slowly being drained out of him and he was left hungrier than he was before he started eating. He eats more but it does not fill him.

"Won't you say grace first, my love. Please." She puts her hands together. Ben does the same.

He tosses the half eaten drumstick back onto his plate and screams. "Why the hell should I say grace!?" Foam formed at the corner of his mouth. "I told you before, woman, that I work to put food on this bl@@dy table! No God provided it for me! Only my own hard work. I plough the lands and reap the harvest. Me alone!"

As he says that, the dark being takes the last of the golden specks on his plate and consumes it. Ben's father's food was now covered with dry scales from the things body and the writhing slithering worms from the inside of its cloak.

"But God provided all of it for you, my love. We must give thanks, dear. Please," she says scared.

He gets up from his chair, cracks his neck, and then faces her, pointing at her with his right index finger. "Now you listen to me, you ungrateful woman! I worked hard for everythin' we have on this farm. Me and me alone. I had no help. No one provided nothin' for me. I broke my back gettin' all of this for us." He gulps down the Bud Light he was holding in his left hand. He slams the empty can into the table; flat, tosses it in her direction. It just misses her head and bounces on the floor.

"If anyone deserves to be thanked, it is me! Do you hear me!" He opens another can of beer. "That is the last time I hear of any talk of sayin' grace at this table! Do I make myself clear!" He shouts.

Ben nearly jumped from his chair with fright. If it wasn't for his mother's calm composure, he would have run away. He looks at his mother, she was praying in spite of what he was saying. He decides to pray silently to himself as well.

Another white winged being appears above their heads, hovering. It pours something from a vessel over their heads. Whatever it was pouring disappears but as if it sinks into their skulls.

The round man sits back down, grabs the half eaten chicken leg and gluttonously bites the remaining meat on it off and swallows it down, slithering worms entering his body. He grabs the thigh with his left hand and bites into it, he chews it slightly before he grabs a piece of corn bread in his right hand and bites into it too. With each bite he bites half a worm from the chicken and another from the corn bread. It immediately doubles in size in his mouth. Sweat was pouring down his red face. His eyes were red. The shirt he was wearing was covered in dirt and was wet around the neck and armpits from his profuse sweat.

He polishes off the food that was in his plate and takes more chicken and corn bread. The dark being makes sure to scoop the golden layer of sprinkles away; eating it himself. James eats fast with both hands, washing it all down with big gulps of his beer. Most of the scales from the dark figure as well as the slithery worms were no longer in his plate. He consumed it all.

He burps loudly and gets up from the table.

"That's the last time you burn my food. Next time, I will not be so unforgivin'." He shoves his plate forward and leaves the table.

The dark figure moves to Ben and tries to remove the golden leaves from his corn bread. He is however blocked from coming near Ben by a small winged creature that was standing in front of Ben on the table. A white bright light was radiating from its body. This light was similar to the light coming from the winged being pouring the golden liquid over their food.

Ben and his mother remain seated and slowly eat their food.

"You eat your food, Ben. Remember your vegetables." She dishes more vegetables into his plate. "Do you want more corn bread?" She gives him another piece.

The winged being pours more golden specks onto it.

"Thank you, Mommy. It is very nice." He smiles as he bites into the corn bread. He stares at his mom.

The white being puts the vessel away and disappears into the air.

The small winged being keeps his place in front of Ben as he reaches for his pumpkin pie. He says "Thank you, Lord" as he scoops a bit up with a spoon and puts it into his mouth.

"God is good to us. Thank you, indeed."

Slowly she eats the rest of her food.

The dark being gives up that he will be able to get to their food and steal away what was placed on it by the winged being.

He drifts away from them into the lounge.

#They

He enters the room.

Cautiously.

The sliding door closes behind him. He hears it lock. Softly. He wipes the sweat from his forehead and walks towards the desk hovering in the middle of the room. The lights were dim, only the blue hue underneath the desk.

He straightens his shirt; it was silk, grey; his pants white.

He waits.

Every minute that passes feels like an eternity.

He looks at his wrist.

The pin moves from left to right, then stops in the center. It opens. A small ball floats from it. He takes it and puts it in his mouth. His jaw seems to relax.

He waits.

More sweat runs from his forehead. He wipes it off with his sleeve. He looks at his wrist again. The pin moves from right to left and a piece of gel like liquid drifts into the air.

He grabs it quick and rubs it into his face.

If he should perspire, she would know that something was wrong.

He looks at his reflection in the desk.

Eyes clear, tan skin damp. He strokes his fingers across his blonde-dark hair.

He tries to relax his face. The wrinkles across his forehead would be a dead giveaway. The thick lines below his eyes too.

He tenses more.

He waits.

The floor makes a light buzzing noise. He looks to his left. The floor opens. Yellow bright light fills the room, and then it goes dark again; only the blue hue beneath the desk.

He listens.

She is here.

He straightens up and puts his arms to his back. Broad chest pushed out. Jaw tight. He looks straight ahead.

He hears the soft step of her stiletto heels. She was behind him.

He tries his best to remain calm.

She touches his broad shoulder; squeezes the muscle lightly. He doesn't move. His face goes red; a thick vein forms between his eyebrows. He does his best to remain calm. Removing all emotion from his face as she leans in and whispers in his hear.

"Particulier."

Peculiar.

She runs her finger across his temple, slowly down his cheek and stops at the bottom of his square chin; takes it in her hand.

His face reddens more. Dark veins all across his tan skin. Tears fill his eyes; jaw muscles twitch

uncontrollable.

"Très particulier."

Very peculiar.

Her voice low. Seductive.

She lets go of his chin and walks to the opposite side of the desk; swaying her hips with every deliberate step she takes.

She is dressed in a white pants and a silky white top, her red hair in a French twist. The few loose strands bounce lightly against her face as she paces back and forth. She glances his way, but it's mostly as if he was not there; her tan skin glittering in the blue hue coming from beneath the desk.

She stops pacing and stares at him with dagger eyes.

"Je suis sûr que j'ai senti un rat."

I'm sure I smelled a rat.

Her voice soft; gentle. The words dragged out. Her eyes narrow more as she resumes pacing.

"Je vous demande, avons-nous des rats?"

I ask you, do we have rats?

She stops pacing and faces him expectantly; green eyes penetrating his; it turns slightly yellow around the pupils.

He cringes; tries hard not to slump his shoulders. He wants to put his hands to his head, but manages to keep them to his back.

He utters slowly.

"Non, non...ma... reine..."

No, no... my queen...

He bites his lower lip; veins dark and thick in his neck. A trickle of sweat along his twitching temple.

She looks away.

He sighs. Breathes deeply.

His face relaxes. The veins disappear.

She starts her pacing again. This time she moves faster. Her movements graceful, it appears as if she's floating.

"Non... ma reine."

No... my queen.

She turns, glances at him quickly, then looks away and continues her fast pacing.

"Non ma reine... Non ma reine..."

No my queen... no my queen.

She sways her hips and turns again. Her red hair more in her face; eyes appear darker than before; small lines below her lower lids. The blue light gives them a silvery-white, purplish appearance.

She moves closer to the desk and stops.

Shouts.

"Menteur!!!"

Liar!!!

The word echoes through the room.

Veins appear in his neck and face again.

"Menteur..."

Liar...

Almost a whisper.

His tan skin turns blue.

She turns and resumes pacing.

He gasps for air. His skin its light brown again. The veins disappear. He swallows hard.

She stops her pacing and walks to his side of the desk slowly. Her hair short on her head; white-blonde and silver streaks form at her temples. Tan skin more a lily white. White dress floats about her as if lifted by a gentle breeze. With every step she gives, he slowly sinks to the ground, till he is on his knees.

She puts her hand in the air. Her pupils go slightly red. He twists on the floor till he faces her directly, his face upwards in an awkward position.

"Du wagst es, mich zu belügen?"

You dare to lie to me?

Her voice cold.

Invasive.

Her green eyes brighter, the pupils normal, but the yellow around them returns.

He tries to speak.

"Speichern Sie Ihre Zunge bevor ich ihn an die Schweine."

Save your tongue before I feed it to the swine.

She starts pacing again, her dress floating about her.

Shakes her head as if she is having a conversation with herself.

He looks to the floor, seems to have trouble breathing, his breathes deep and long.

She walks to the desk. The white dress becomes a black skirt and wraps tightly around her body and forms a slit at her hips. Her hair grows longer and drapes across her chest. Flowers start growing from the hem of the skirt; they seem to flower with every step she takes. A few intertwine with her thick, dark curls. Her eyes more brown; the green only here and there. The yellow around the pupils disappear and turns more black.

Her skin like golden honey.

She taps on the desk.

A small round sphere starts floating above the surface; more towards the center.

He breathes heavier.

She cups the sphere in her right hand and slowly walks towards him, stares at the sphere, then at him. The flowers all become dark, red lilies, they seem to kiss her face. Her eyes soft. The purplish lines beneath her lids disappear.

A smile plays across her face. Teeth white.

She starts.

"Shuuu... shuuu..." she gently caresses his cheek with her left hand. A lily grows along her arm. It flowers in front of his face. Stigmata large. They seem to peer into his eyes.

"Déjalo ir. Shuuu."

Let it go. Shuuu.

"Mi... reina."

My... queen.

The words come out slow. It is difficult to say them.

"Shuuuuuu." She puts her finger to her lips.

She lets go of the sphere. It floats above his head. She stands back. The playful smile gone. Her face suddenly emotionless. The flowers close and all disappear; more like they wilted quick and turned to nothing. A tight, black corset forms around her bosom.

Dagger eyes return.

"La deslealtad no será tolerada. Tú, mi amor, debe saber mejor..."

Disloyalty shall not be tolerated. You, my love, should know better...

Her eyes suddenly soft.

Her expression like she was concerned.

Her hair more curls, loose honey streaks.

"Usted tiene una cara tan guapo. Mi hermosa... Lástima..."

You do have such a handsome face. My beautiful... Pity...

Soft. The words brittle. Her voice cold.

She walks to where she entered the room. Honey thighs and long legs disappear as the slit in her dress closes and her white pants returns. The black corset opens up like butterfly wings and wraps snow white fur around her torso. Her white hair, one thick braid, twists around her head like a crown; eyes a bright, red hazel; the yellow returns around the pupils. Her skin, milky white.

The floor opens.

The bright light fills the room.

She steps into the light and turns.

Speaks in his head.

Bring me the Mexican.

Next time, I might do worse.

Do not fail me... again.

Не ... провал ... мне

Do not... fail... me...

The light disappears and the floor closes.

Agonizing screams fill the room and bounces off the walls.

Then silence.

The blue sphere floats to the center of the table and disappears.

#Hermosa

Written by Mariah Carey, Miguel Pimentel, Nathan Perez, Brook Davis, Mac Robinson, Brian Keith Warfield

Performed by Mariah Carey & Miguel Pimentel

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fOI6cp4Lls4

As Allah wills

