Kreative Korner

  Unlike his peers in the community, Jon was a diligent, polite, and quiet teen; or so his neighbors thought. He would always lament the fact that he was not quiet, secretive or sneaky, but would only provide information about his life on a need-to-know basis. For the most part, he kept his private and school life private and separated from his home life. A middle child of five, Jon found it easy to bury himself under whatever was happening around him, camouflaging to hide in plain sight. Little did he know that this would make him stand out against all odds.   Jon was not a towering teen. He had the height of a grade nine student, with the confidence of a wealthy bachelor, all while still remaining grounded. His eyes were the sweetest enigma, which contradicted his often stern appearance, which added a few years to his age, and made whichever age he stated he was, sound believable. He boasted an athletic frame with gentle hands, and feet resembling those of a football player....

The morning unusually crept up on the Jonesville community, much to the surprise of the more perceptive residents. Tom, one such resident who realized the phenomenon, was already up prepping for his usual Saturday routine, that involved early morning meditations, just before munching down on a full morning of the English Premier League. He got himself groomed, made breakfast, found the channel, and was settling fine. The winds had pried the windows open, chilling his one room studio as if he had an industrial air conditioning unit, that also heightened the scent of grounded coffee that permeated the air. The plastic diamonds on his chandelier danced as if they were being conducted by the winds, which fixated Tom’s head in its direction, marveling at the object’s talent.   Another gale of wind had swooped in before Tom decided to check on the weather outside, as he couldn’t recall the expectancy of rain. The skies were upset. They were no longer blue and quirky, but gray and engulfe...

  Embarking on the decision on becoming a ‘bunna man’, must be one that has been completely contemplated of the risks, and trust me they are many. As my experiences blossom and brought forth every climax which is the fruit of my labor, there arises  the  risk of  negative exter nalities. Being a Bunna Man is one thing. However, being the Bunna Man of a female whose partner is a gangster or her father or grandfather is an area don, was apparently a risk I enjoyed meddling with. Have you ever heard the phrase “don’t trust a pretty face?” Well, if you have not, take it from me. If she’s too pretty, run, she a problem! So there I was, minding my own business on public transportation one night heading home from school. As the responsible student leader I was, I attempted to guide and mold a few younger boys, as an older woman caught their eyes, however, they were too shy to cease the opportunity. In trying to be a good role model for the boys, I sat beside the lady and wa...