Wednesday, July 20, 2011

Page 347

                                                            By Mory Keita

             I hate boring stuffs though I am a boring guy.
 Guess I should hate myself.
I got bored and picked up a book to read, 678 pages long, and well packed.
The story was typical, boy falling for girl. I like those stories.

The boy did everything boys do to get girls attention in romance novels.
You know how it rolls. It was a coup de foudre the first time they met.
Then on page 347, the girl died.

I closed the book and found the writer’s email.
I wrote to her,
“Dear Ms. J.
 I‘ve read part of your novel and thus far I have hated everything I liked about it. Your writing is lyrical, your plot is catchy but I could not get over page 347.

The death of the girl pained me a lot. The boy worked hard to get her love and finally when he got it, the girl died. I guess you tried to mimic somehow Romeo and Juliette but Shakespeare ‘Killed’ those two at the end of the play. You killed yours at the middle, right when the reader hopes pours like water from a fountain. I do not know why you killed the girl on page 347, maybe she will return to the boy in her ghostly form or reincarnate in another girl. That is all fine but I will never be able to finish your novel after the girl’s death on page 347.

 This is no criticism of your craft (you are actually the first author I have ever emailed) your story is good but you could have ‘killed’ the girl a bit later. You could have allowed the boys efforts to come to fruition.

Best regards,
                Mory ”

                Ms. J replied two days later (I did not think she would pay attention my email.)
                Dear Mory,
               I am glad you sent me this interesting email. Thank you for reading my novel.
Your inability to read past page 347 tells me a lot about you.  Hypothetically speaking, if you were the boy you would have been stuck there after her death. Your problem is not the book it about your emotional state…
                I leaned from reading a book something that I may have never learned about myself. Till this day I haven’t been able to read past page 347.


Monday, July 18, 2011

Cool Kids by Mory Keita

This is based on a true talk i had with a boy yesterday.

                 Cool Kids

The boy was no shit-talker, no Casanova, no regular boy
I met him alone, on the sidewalk, throwing stone at pigeons
I said, “What you doing here, Boy.”
“Why you care anyway? I am watching birds.”
“Boy,” I sat near him, “you’re no birdwatcher, and you’re a punk.”
“Shut up.  See what you have done. She is gone!”
The boy’s eyes were damp, his eyes fixed at his ex  going with the cool kids.
“That girl?” I said
“No stupid. Birds!”
“Your eyes say the girl. You look like you’ve seen an angel.”
“She is a bitch!” the boy said.
“You mean that bird that flew away.”
“No. her.” The boy said pointing at the girl, “they all leave me anyway.”
“The bird left you because you stoned him.”
“And she left me because I am a sucker.”
“Don’t say that boy. She is a six and you are a seven. “
“Don’t Bullshit me, tall guy. I am no fool.” The boy said angrily.
“I am dead serious boy. Tall guy is a fool, but he is no liar.”
“If I’m a seven and she’s a six, why she’s going with them?”
“Boy you got no ball. I mean guts.”
“And you got them?”
“That’s out of your league, boy.” I said. “That girl is a stupid bird. Forget her.”
“She’s no stupid bird. She is smart. She makes good choice. She left because I am a loser.
I got no swagger, no money, no cool sneaker and now no girl friend.”
I patted the boy. “Boy, you and I are alike. But I am no loser and you’re no uncool boy. I like you.”
The boy look at me like my brother does sometimes when  I advise him good.
“ Boy you’re a fool like me. Fools do not give up. I am tell you a story.”
“ how a story going to help to win her back.”
“ you will see.” I said. “Once upon a time there was an old fool living in Spain. He’s name, Don Quixote. He was an old fool, a knight when there was no knight. People told him he was mad and knight are all gone. But the old fool didn’t listen to their bullshit because he was no people man and had a dream. That’s boy.”
“ and what? How’s that going to help me.”
“ I don’t know boy. I read it from a book; A good story. You make  of it what you want.”
“What do you mean?” asked the boy.
“people thinks you’re no cool, you’re a loser, boy. “ I said. “But who are they to judge who‘s cool?”
“What do you mean?”
“Boy, you’re the coolest son-of-a bitch alive not because I say so because you should think so. You got something none of these cool kids does.  Trust yourself boy. Let the girl go. She is a bird amongst millions and all birds aren’t gray.”
I said no more word and left the boy as I found him.

I hope the boy found his way. He was a good boy. I liked him.


Thursday, July 7, 2011

Hell is a lonely place

 Charles Bukowski is the newest poet i have discovered. His poetry his eloquent and impregnated with passion. I particularly enjoy his poem, which i am posting for the day, Hell is a lonely place. I hope you enjoy each of its words as i do. The poetry is indeed sad but it's beauty is exquisite.

                                                       Hell is a lonely place
                                                                 By Charles Bukowski

he was 65, his wife was 66, had 
Alzheimer's disease. 

he had cancer of the 
there were 
operations, radiation 
which decayed the bones in his 
which then had to be 

daily he put his wife in 
rubber diapers 
like a 

unable to drive in his 
he had to take a taxi to 
the medical 
had difficulty speaking, 
had to 
write the directions 

on his last visit 
they informed him 
there would be another 
operation: a bit more 
cheek and a bit more 

when he returned 
he changed his wife's 
put on the tv 
dinners, watched the 
evening news 
then went to the bedroom, got the 
gun, put it to her 
temple, fired. 

she fell to the 
left, he sat upon the 
put the gun into his 
mouth, pulled the 

the shots didn't arouse 
the neighbors. 

the burning tv dinners 

somebody arrived, pushed 
the door open, saw 

the police arrived and 
went through their 
routine, found 
some items: 

a closed savings 
account and 
a checkbook with a 
balance of 
suicide, they 

in three weeks 
there were two 
new tenants: 
a computer engineer 
and his wife 
who studied 

they looked like another 
upwardly mobile