“Stoned” by McFrankline

And the Philistines stood on a mountain on the one side, and Israel stood on a mountain on the other side: and there was a valley between them.And there went out a champion out of the camp of the Philistines, named Goliath, of Gath, whose height was six cubits and a span.And he had a helmet of brass upon his head, and he was armed with a coat of mail; and the weight of the coat was five thousand shekels of brass.

Would you please cut out the crap already?  Why do they always make a big deal of my size? You should have seen some of my brothers and ancestors;they make me look like David. Metaphorically speaking, of course. After all, I am Nephilim.

And he stood and cried unto the armies of Israel, and said unto them, why are ye come out to set your battle in array? Are not I a Philistine, and ye servants to Saul? Choose you a man for you, and let him come down to me.If he be able to fight with me, and to kill me, then will we be your servants: but if I prevail against him, and kill him, then shall ye be our servants, and serve us.

Technically this was just a bluff, that bastard King Achish put me up to this. At first he wanted me to charge down directly waving my 37 pound spear at a horde of angry looking Israelis whose God I had been blaspheming these past few days. Do I look crazy? I’m not even a bloody Philistine; I just needed the money badly. I had a wife and two concubines waiting back at Raphaim city of Bashan. And so I took the easy way out. All I had to do was stand on the hill, well out of reach of those flaming arrows, behind the safety of this moronic shield bearer and challenge them to single combat. After all I was 9ft tall and evil looking, how was I supposed to know that little imp was going to show up?

And David spake to the men that stood by him, saying, what shall be done to the man that killeth this Philistine, and taketh away the reproach from Israel? For who is this uncircumcised Philistine, that he should defy the armies of the living God?

Hey, Hold it right there. Why are you taking this thing personal? I haven’t insulted anyone here, lets leave my manhood out of this………

And Saul said to David, Thou art not able to go against this Philistine to fight with him: for thou art but a youth, and he a man of war from his youth.

Why didn’t he fucking listen? What happened to” Children, obey thy parents in the lord, for this is right”? Oh wait, that was in the New Testament………….

And he took his staff in his hand, and chose him five smooth stones out of the brook, and put them in a shepherd’s bag which he had, even inascrip; and his sling was in his hand: and he drew near to the Philistine.

And the Philistine came on and drew near unto David; and the man that bare the shield went before him.

Pay close attention. Even though I was pissed at the little rascal for underestimating me so much, I always kept my shield bearer in front of me. Those bastards were expendable, and I wasn’t taking any chance with this little brat. He could be a highly trained Mossad agent……

And when the Philistine looked about, and saw David, he disdained him: for he was but a youth, and ruddy, and of a fair countenance.

Would you watch it? I said I have a wife and two concubines; I would not be mistaken for a homosexual just because someone wanted to be a little passionate in their description

And it came to pass, when the Philistine arose, and came, and drew nigh to meet David, that David hastened, and ran toward the army to meet the Philistine.

This boy is beginning to freak me out. Look at how he’s charging at me recklessly. What the fuck? Is he high on some Israeli shit? My shield bearer also freaked out, he’s left me completely unguarded, Oh my fucking gosh, I’m going to be feathered by this Israeli Archers…….

And David put his hand in his bag, and took thence a stone, and slang it, and smote the Philistine in his forehead, that the stone sunk into his forehead; and he fell upon his face to the earth.

HOLY FUCK, the Pope Must hear this………………………………….


Tiger by ‘Nymous



Oh they’re up!


Opens eyes


Maybe not… it’s probably that boy going to do his thing in the bathroom again

Unusually late for him… he normally does it as soon as they’ve all gone to sleep



Oh! A mouse… Should I get it? Oh it’s gone


I saw him once… the boy. Not the mouse.

I know I’m not supposed to go into the house but how was I supposed to know he had skipped school that day

He was doing it on the lower bunk where his brother sleeps

He hit me




That was quick. He probably went to pee. Darkness inside, but I can still see.

Tiger pees a lot.

But not inside the house.


So yes… In the afternoons when they are all gone, and the girl; the one who stays home cleaning all day and falls asleep watching TV with the door open.

Yes, when she falls asleep with the door open, I sneak in

The girl, the one that goes to school. The fat one… yes she keeps the chocolate under her bed.


No one knows.

But I know.

Yes Tiger knows.


She doesn’t tell. She thinks the boy, the one who does his thing in the bathroom every night and in the lower bunk on weekends takes them.

Tiger is happy to let the fat girl think that.

Tiger likes the chocolate.

Tiger knows


*Closes Eyes*



Tiger doesn’t care. Tiger is not for catching mice





Tiger is easily spooked by my own snoring.

That’s why tiger doesn’t sleep much at night when it’s all quiet

Tiger sleeps by day after I have eaten the fat girl’s chocolate


*Opens Eyes*

No click to turn on the lights

But I can see.

Tiger can see


The man, the one who feeds Tiger in the evening

The man, the one who feeds the girl who cleans and cooks in the dead of the night

He’s coming out


Out of his room

He likes feeding the girl.

Since the woman moved out


The woman that brought Tiger home

She doesn’t live here any more




He’s in. I can see them through the curtains.

Tiger doesn’t need the lights on to see.

He’ll be done in 10 minutes.



The man is sneaking back into his room.

The fat girl is peeking out of her room.

She thinks she knows.

She doesn’t know the man only feeds the girl who cooks and cleans





Tiger can smell the boy.

Not the boy who who does his thing in the bathroom every night and in the lower bunk on weekends.

No not that boy who just went to pee an hour ago.

Not that boy who tried to feed me with what the man uses to feed the girl who cleans the house

The boy who lives in the next house.


Where one of Tiger’s boyfriend’s lives

Yes that boy. I can smell him


He’s climbing the wall.

Like he does almost every night.


Tiger is thirsty.

Tiger doesn’t really care what the humans do.

She has to pee again



‘Untitled’ by Pankaj Singh

Dogs, they barked differently tonight.  It wasn’t the usual wrangling over morsels strewn around the garbage dump standing by the lone rustic light pole across the street. It was something else, like something sinister lurked.

He didn’t give a damn. Rest, was important.  The imaginary pen in his mind scribbled an imaginary note reminding to wear ear plugs to bed hereon. Poor dogs couldn’t be blamed.

Sleepy eyed, he tumbled through the darkness of his cozy living room.  The cozy living room on whose floor he slept every night. His hand slithered across the wall, fumbling for the light switch – was it third from the left or right? He never did remember, he never did get it right at first attempt.

His eyes strained against the bright light as he reached for the half-filled bottle of water by the kitchen window. Menacing, guttural noises rose and fell outside. He peered through the window; beyond his unkempt garden, across the street and saw him.

A haggard old man in a grimy winter coat with frazzled remnants of fur stood aimlessly staring at the garbage dump. The street light flickered over his disheveled bowler hat.  Absent to the feral gnashing of sets of teeth around him, the old man appeared disoriented.  If not for a feeling of something familiar about him, he could have easily been mistaken for an ageing tramp.

“Hey!” he called out to the old man, flinging open the door. “Come in!”

The dogs were ready to pounce as he trudged to the boy waiting at the door.  A few seconds later, they stopped following him. The kind boy who fed them every night from his garden seemed to know this strange man.

Apples, beer and milk were all he could offer. The old man chose beer. The boy observed the wrinkled face as the old man gulped gluttonously; a dense mat of greying beard clung to his jaws, far-away eyes blue and squint bordered by boomerang shaped brows, a sharp nose with a dented ridge and fender like nostrils. An eluding familiarity made itself evident…. He tipped his empty beer mug in want of a refill.

Then, it struck him.

“You’re Karma!” he exclaimed, “Aren’t you?”

It was difficult to say where he was looking. But he nodded, “How do you know?”

“I’ve seen a lot of you…”


He tossed a can of beer into his wrinkly fingers. “Figuratively,”


“You look the part,”

“I’m Karma…  The agent of justice, the harbinger of providence, the the…urm” he staggered.

“I know who you are,” he cut him short, opening himself a beer can “Alright?”

Old man Karma simply shrugged,

“So, tell me… What’s ‘karma’ all about?”

“What goes around comes around, haven’t you heard?”

“That makes no sense,” he dismissed, “At all,”

“Well there’s good Karma – Your good deeds come back to do you good at an opportune moment,” he spoke gruffly, like an aging professor addressing his students.

“Opportune moment?”

“Yes, which I decide.” Came the reply. “ Then there’s bad Karma… opposite of ‘Good Karma’”

“So when a plane crash or a calamity at a particular location kills hordes of people…is that you at work? Is that a shortcut you employ to deliver Bad Karma all at once, like how we send bulk mails?”

“I don’t send bulk mails,” he dismissed with a wave of his wrinkled arm, “Besides, that’s not bad Karma,”

“Why, that can’t be Good Karma!”

“It’s not Good Karma either.”

It perplexed him, “Then?”

“‘Unfortunate Karma’. Not many know about it.”

“What’s the theory behind this ‘Unfortunate Karma’, is there one at all?”

“There is,” he explained, “Shit happens,”

The boy opened another can and swigged aggravatedly, “But man, Karma… tell me, are you doing alright man? I mean look at you, you look so worn and done with whatever you’re doing.  You don’t look too well… I just know something’s wrong. I am a firsthand witness to this… I’ve been a decent human being all my life, yet, i see so much shit coming my way even when I know I don’t deserve it…” He paused, “What ever happened to good Karma?”

The old man’s heavy head slowly lifted to gaze up at him.  And for the first the time, the boy saw intent in those blue, squint eyes. There was a tiny bit of something else… was it disappointment? The shoulders arched and dropped emphatically, like a school boy admitting mistakes.

His hand slid to the underside of his winter coat, reaching at something concealed at the waist line.

“Well, son…” he shrugged again, “There have been… misfires lately,” his eyes dropped remorsefully and at the same time urged the boy to look at something. His hands gingerly moved the weather coat at his waist to reveal an object.

‘That’s a fucking gun!” the boy exclaimed, ready to throw himself behind the refrigerator for cover. “What’s up with you, man?”

It looked more of a toy gun as old man Karma placed it on the dining table, next to the three emptied beer cans. “See?” he grinned, “It’s not the gun you thought it was.”

The boy breathed in relief, “What misfires were you talking about?”

“This,” he lifted up the barrel of the gun and spun it deftly, like a cowboy action hero, “Is a Karma gun.” He said, snatching it to stop as he said it.

“What the…”

“I know, I know. Bows and arrows, Magical reindeer and flying sleighs. Cupid and Santa got the fancy stuff. God screwed me on the deal.”

The boy gulped, silently attempting to regain composure, “And?”

“I use this Gun to send the good and bad Karmas to earthlings,” he held the gun upturned in his palm, urging the boy to take a look. The boy peered down nervously. He saw a small, broken knob diagonally above the trigger. It seemed to have had intricate designs on it. Three calibrations were marked above it: ‘good Karma’, ‘Bad Karma’ and ‘Apocalypse”.  The boy couldn’t tell which of the three calibrations the knob was pointing at.

Karma spoke, “You see, I seemed to have broken the knob while I was…” he paused to recollect his thoughts, “I don’t seem to remember,” He scratched the back of his head. “But the problem here is that the darned knob is jammed… and I don’t really know what kind of Karma I’ve been shooting at you.”

“Great!” the boy arched up his eye brows and clapped in mock excitement. “Is that what you meant when you mentioned ‘misfires’?”

He nodded resentfully, “And there’s nothing I can do about it… I can’t tell god I need a new gun. He’ll have me flogged, the old fellow.” He shuddered; a hint of loathing became evident.

The boy stroked his chin, realizing he needed a shave and that the floor felt like ice below his bare feet, the skin on his bare arms had risen like bread. “Let me try and fix that!”

“What, how?” he handed the gun to the boy, looking dazed.

“There’s a method to everything,” he traced the outline of the broken knob, the impressions of the intricate carvings felt delicate against his thumb. It refused to shift as he gradually exerted pressure sideways. A cranking, straining noise indicated the old man shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

“This needs some tools,” he said, reaching into the refrigerator to bring out to pull out a thin edged screw driver. After holding the gun pinned hard against the floor, he poked at the joint of the knob, trying to pry it loose- it wouldn’t give way – he jabbed at the joint harder, and harder.

“This won’t work,” he said, standing up. “Perhaps, something harder?” He asked Karma who nodded agreement.

the refrigerator door was flung open and a hammer taken out.

One…two…three smacks. The gun spun and crashed against the floor. The knob, still remained jammed. his breath had swelled. “Man, what is this thing made of?” he gulped.

“God metal.”

“Crap,” he cursed, “I’m going to give it one last try.” He heaved the hammer above his head dramatically, held the position for a second, gathered every ounce of energy left in him. His grip tightened.


The kitchen walls vibrated with the sound of metal crashing down on metal. A tear shaped bead of sweat hung vulnerably at the tip of his nose, “Man, this god metal echos funnily.” He breathed hard.

“Look! It’s working!” Karma held the gun in his arm and moved the knob back and forth to demonstrate

“Good god!” the boy was overjoyed, “Now we can set things right in my life.”

“Yes, now quickly… stand directly in line with the barrel and close your eyes.”

“Alright!” he said, moving into position, “Shoot me,”

“Wait a minute.”


“The knob just fell off.” Old man Karma pointed at a glimmering chip of metal in his lap, resting on the folds of his weather coat. “You struck too hard boy…”

The boy winced; an avalanche of thoughts stormed his mind, eventually reaching a certain sense resolve. The eyes formed horizontal slits of contempt. “Screw it!” he spat, jaws clenched. “Shoot me.”

“What? Wait! I don’t know what I set it to… this could be a mistake! I could be sending you a lot more of bad Karma to your already bad situation…it could mean a disease, or an accident… even gruesome, instant death!” his eyes were wide with cross-eyed consternation.

“Screw it,” he hissed again, “I have nothing to lose.”

“Are you sure? Are you willing to take this leap of faith?” His tone had suddenly calmed to a solemn mutter.

The boy simply nodded his head. The air outside felt ominously calm, the dogs had fallen silent. Karma brought down his eyelids… darkness.


The Karma gun’s shot lasted less than a second; the sound of a wet balloon splat against hard tarmac. Then nothing.


The old man felt a deathly calm around him as he opened his eyes gradually. It was all a blur. He rubbed his eyes to break the blurry vision.

Still standing, the boy smiled sheepishly. “I’m alive. I feel different… different in a good way… it’s a warm feeling…You shot me with good Karma!!” he exclaimed, slapping his chest in jubilation.

Karma breathed a sigh of relief, “That was dangerous,” he shook his head.

“I’m happy!” the boy exclaimed. “But what next? I see all good things happening to me here on? Like I get lucky or something? Or will I get back everything I’ve lost so far?” he popped questions excitedly.

“Ha ha!” he laughed, “ Yes son, you’re going to…” they heard a rumble, just across the street. It stopped. A dog barked and fell silent.

“What was that?” Karma asked.

“Dunno, screw that. Answer my questions!” he prodded.

“Oh well, the good things in life…..” another rumble, this time loud and dense.

“My my,” Karma whispered.

“What?” the boy asked as the earth began to tremble. An empty beer can on the table rolled to the floor. The refrigerator shook minutely.

“What the fuck, man?” the boy cried, “ What’s happening?”

“Goodness me…” the old man was muttering to himself. “The knob was turned at apocalypse,”  a wave of terror spread through his body.

“What’s going to happen now?” the boy asked, confused, “Apocalypse means the beginning of the end… is it the beginning of the end of me? Why is the earth shaking then?”

“It’s the beginning of the end of the world…” his breath dropped with each sentence.

“What? Why was that in your gun?”

“God couldn’t fit it in cupid’s bow… nor in Santa’s sleigh… his immediate choice was me.”

“What does that mean? The world’s going to end?” a loud thunder broke out, strobes of blue light flickered sinisterly.

“No,” he said, “Look out the window.”

The boy glanced at the kitchen window, the lights went out. With only flashes of lightning for illumination, he walked cautiously across the shaking kitchen floor.

He saw strong winds blowing through the neighborhood, sheets of paper and plastic from the dumpster swirled in the invisible air currents. The dogs had vanished. But he could still hear them bark from somewhere, hidden out of sight.

Then, a few yards across the street he saw a silhouette… of somebody thin and frail. A brief flash of light revealed the figure to belong to an ancient looking man; he wore a tweed coat and thin pants. A radium, glow-in-the-dark tie fluttered across his chest. Barefooted, he was light on his feet, moving quickly towards the boy’s home- almost floating. As he walked, he made little adjustments in his pants; like he was trying to achieve the perfect shirt tuck-in. something about him seemed extremely awkward. Weather it was the uncharacteristic deftness or his mere presence outside the house, the boy couldn’t tell… something was awkward.

The boy turned back, “There’s a freaky, old man walking towards my door. You want to tell me what the fuck is happening?” he demanded.

Karma had begun to gasp for breath, his body convulsing in ripples, “The world is not going to end…. It’s god outside… he’s coming to review my decision. He’s going to demand explanations… I’ll have to justify my decision to end the world before he approves and forwards to the concerned department…” he stammered, he looked to be staring at a gory death, “ And I don’t have a reason to give to him… he’s going to smite me… he’s going to punish me to death… oh my.. the tortures!”

knock knock.

“Man, karma, relax…” the boy said,” I’ll prevent that… now let me get that door. Alright?” he consoled without asking for a reply. Turning around, he walked to the door.


“Howdy, I’m god,” said the ancient man- sprightly in his demeanor. The light flickers had become more intense. Recreating an electric light show in night sky.

“Nice to meet you Sir God,” the boy said, smiling his best smile. “I’m your creation.”

God merely smiled with curt nod of his coconut shaped head. “Would you be so kind as to lead me to the man you have in your kitchen?” he asked.

“Sure,” the boy said. A plan had begun to form in his head as he lead god to the kitchen table.

Karma was not on his chair. The boy’s eyes scanned the room in search of him.

And then, under the table he saw a dark figure cowering against the wall. Karma was shivering uncontrollably. The light flickers and the thunderous noises only seemed to frighten him more.


“You! Karma?” god called out, “Is that you Bitch?”




Shitimscrewedphobia: The fear of being found guilty for a crime you know you could’ve prevented eg. Fear of mentioning Michael’s name whilst making love to Thomas


I’m here to tell you a story. I sincerely don’t give 2 shitsicles if your sinning ass judges me, but just so you know, I hail from a land of many cats, and cats are believed to have nine lives. And if you judge me, I’ll curse you. You can curse me back, but I got 8 lives more. So there!

It was past 12am. Disgruntled and sleepy as I waited for my no-car-having, ass-shaving, I’m-going-to-eat-cashew-nuts-eventhough-it-makes-me-shit-in-my-pants cousin to complete her bout of throwing up so I could get her home safely.

I must’ve been frowning like a sexually starved hog. ‘someone doesn’t look too happy to be here’

I turned to see who it was. He was tall and skinny, with hair so dark and shapely trimmed he looked like he’d been hand sketched. He was in a shirt with 2 buttons off and I couldn’t get my eyes of him.

That is how I met Jason. We bonded easily, he had bushels of humor packed up in his system, he could balance 3 pebbles on his tongue, and damn! The sex was good.

The only problem was Jason wasn’t single, and neither was I.

We were both entangled in relationships we choose not to talk about. I can’t talk for Jason, but my religious ass couldn’t stand my obvious sin. I was a good Christian girl (go ahead, roll your eyes) but it was one thing to be cheating and a whole new level to be thinking about the firmness of another’s butt whiles kissing another. My conscience wouldn’t let me rest.

I wanted Jason. Not just physically, but spiritually too (slit your wrist if you just rolled your eyes)

You know what I mean; I wanted to be with him on a much deeper level, past the physical.

I needed to know if I wanted to be with Jason because the two dimples just above his butt intrigued me or because I found it cute that he talked in his sleep. Because I was lonely or because his success greatly pleased me and his mind dazed me….

The Alter (by CelsyM)


How do you tell a man, you are not the one he thinks he loves? How do you contradict everything he believes in without changing his world? How do you break his bond without breaking his heart?

I’m sitting at the window booth at Sunny Side Cafe with these questions running through my mind. A man loves me, but not me. He met me at a function two months ago; he met a happy, impulsive and sexy girl. He fell madly in love. But that wasn’t me; I am not always happy, hardly impulsive and far from sexy. He didn’t really meet me. He is not really in love with me.

He met Sam, the other me. Sam was the girl at the party that night; in that skimpy thing she called a dress. Sam was the one smoking sheesha for the first time yet mastering it like a chimney with smoke. Sam was the one dancing with him, slowly and teasingly, making him yearn for her.

She was the one who gave him memories in bed.

The one who brought sunshine into his life for 3 days and left. That was Sam.

I have continued this charade for 2 long months. I am not Sam. I am the girl who hardly goes out; I am the girl who finds comfort in a good novel and a hot cup of chocolate. I am the girl who loves grapes because they remind me of a lover’s kisses. I am the girl who wishes on a full moon and expect them to come true.

I am the girl trapped in Sam’s world.

A perfect man loves me, but not the real me. Yes, he seems perfect, thoughtful, caring and loving but this is not my life.


“chains though made of gold are still chains”.


I do not love this man.

I sit in this booth waiting his arrival. Today he must know the truth. I am not the “one” he loves.

Bedlam (By The1theycall_E)


I shuffled my furry bunny slippers along. I always wore bunny slippers.


I haven’t the foggiest idea why I always wore bunny slippers.


Interestingly enough, a synonym for bunny shoes would be”rabbit’s foot” and they say a rabbit’s foot brings good luck.I guess being a synonym would mean I’m “like” lucky huh?


I’d say I’m a fairly lucky guy, not Irish lucky, not lotto lucky, probably not even “get-a-yes-or-no-question-correct-by-accident” lucky, but I did get to wear flowing robes and rabbit shoes eternally, &jackets reserved for the vainest “I’m-so-awesome-I-want-to-love-and-hug-myself” sort when my mood called for it.


I was on drugs, my pusher said it was cos I was weak & needed an escape but then my pusher wasn’t your run of the mill “pay-me-now-or-cold-turkey-&-die” variety. The drugs were actually free, he even let me wrestle him for an extra dose this one time. We were cool.


But I haven’t the foggiest idea why I was even on drugs.


I haven’t the foggiest idea about much of anything lately. Least of all being why I’m sitting at this dinner table staring blandly at a bowl of what I suspect might be alphabet soup. I don’t have any cutlery or clue why I don’t have cutlery, but even greater than my uncertainty is my nonchalance, I stir the quotes in my broth, no one tells me I can’t play with my food. No one tells me what I can and can’t do in this place… As long as I’m in this place…


No one can tell me anything.


There are more voices in my head than existin all of Bedlam. I’m dead sure of this.I form familiar sentences in my soup… & then I push it away, I’ll be damned if anyone, least of all myself, is going to get me to eat my own words… not you, not you, not you…


That’s when it hits me… the reason no one tells me anything, the reason no one can…is because no one’s there. I spent so much time in my own head, by myself that I didn’t realize no one is there, not at the table, not fastening my straitjacket.


Not keeping an eye on the exit.


I find the exits, I’ve actually been here for years, planning my escape and I didn’t think to check the front door first?That’s just insane. What kind of drugs was I on?


But then they always did say the gates of Bedlam were cast from the hardest irony…..

‘Sup G?

When I was little, my dad used to say our house was a potter’s house. And the creator had molded each of us with different elements. My brother was the writer, my sister; singer and I drew.

My brother kept a diary under his wardrobe. I knew I was infringing on his privacy, but once I took a sneak, I couldn’t stop reading. He started one of his entries with the phrase, “troubles don’t come in singles, they come in battalions” I remember 12 year old me scanning through a dictionary trying to find out what battalion meant.


But the path to maturity had taught me better what battalion was more than an oxford dictionary ever could.

It had been a difficult week. I flunked a paper, I twisted my ankle, my cousin got arrested for being at the wrong place at the wrong time and I had to settle his bail from hard-pressed cash,  I met someone who reminded me so much of my mum and sadness engulfed me like a blanket of cloudy rains. I wanted to sit God down and have a stern chat with him.


I had a lot of questions for him and I needed the answers asap. From the obvious whys to the unbelievable ‘‘the fuck’s?” to the distinct “you’re shitting me aren’t you?” To the murky ‘‘for real tho’s?”


Me and him needed to have a long chat.


My eyes were burning. I’d been staring at the screen for less than 3 hours, but this LCD wanted to show the membranes that line my eyelids who the real boss was. I told myself I was going to shut down in 30 minutes but the machine had ideas of it’s own.

My screen went blank. There was no panic. This had happened before, all I needed to do was restart my machine. I unplugged the charger from the system and replugged it, in an attempt to reboot it. But it wouldn’t start. I tried again; nothing. My heart started racing in an unfamiliar pattern. I replugged it again. That was when I realized each time I plugged the charger in, the charger’s light would go off.

I paused for a minute, hoping the charger had feelings, and was just bored sick so in attempt to rejuvenate its system, its light was playing hide and seek with me.


And after 26 frustrating tries, the light would go off as soon as I plugged the charger in. And the laptop still wouldn’t come on. A sinking feeling set in. I knew what this meant. I just didn’t want to accept it. The laptop had somehow overheated, and the power section of the motherboard was frayed.

This was the worst that could happen to the machine. Anything but my motherboard!


I turned it upside down and opened the windows, hoping that the day’s breeze carried a potion of magic in them. I tried again afer 10 minutes. Still


I decided to get the rest I needed, hopefully, it would work when I woke up.

Pointless mission. I couldn’t sleep to save an ant’s life. After an hour and a half of tossing and turning, I decided to try again.


I felt as if I would be asking too much of God if I asked him to resurrect my motherboard to life. You know? He’s not a magician. But I couldn’t help it.

Miracles do exist, don’t they?

The girl who stretches her neck in the exams room said a woman at her church gave a testimony about how God made it possible for her to blend tomatoes when there was no electricity.

So really, resurrecting a mother board shouldn’t be that hard right?


I plugged it in again. The psychoanalysis I just performed on God must work.