LA-based musician/composer/producer into all things creative (graphic design, photography, filmmaking, writing, etc., etc.). Sci-fi head.
The consumption of knowledge through the written word is my daily practice.
Oh yes... I am a Blerd.
Akil’s snarky comeback was rudely interrupted as another right cross slammed into his jaw. The men beating him nearly senseless chuckled as they pummeled him with repeated punches, kicks and profanities “Get up motherfucker! Not so funny now are you, bitch?” said the largest of the group. “Yeah homey!” said another sarcastically as he pulled Akil up by his long dreadlocks, “We’re just getting started here.” The third man then landed a solid kick to the kid’s midsection causing him to reflexively double over in pain and gasp for air. All this because the 23-year-old found it exceedingly difficult to simply walk away when confronted by an asshole (or three) on the street. He did, additionally, since childhood, have a thing about being made fun of, and the men now violently accosting him, apparently found his disheveled manner of dress especially humorous on this particular cold and soggy San Francisco evening. Akil, slight in build but stubborn in attitude, did his level best to fend off the three much larger attackers, but to little avail. What felt like a brutal, half an hour-long ass-kicking (but in reality, was like, seven minutes) eventually came to a painful end as his assailants seemed to grow bored and threw him headlong unto a wet, smelly, decomposing trash heap in the dark alley where they had just pummeled him. Lying flat on his stomach, he could hear their laughter slowly fade as they walked away giving each other congratulatory high-fives, satisfied that they had sufficiently silenced the mouthy young punk. As Akil attempted to stand and steady himself, he fell forward to his knees clutching his stomach which had just been used as a heavy bag. Just then, something caught his eye when he noticed a glistening object in his peripheral vision. He spotted what looked like a small black, antique-looking notebook, the water droplets sparkling from the light coming from above the back door of one of the alley’s businesses. What caught his attention was the fact that in the dark and dirty alley, the notebook stood out as it was in uncharacteristically pristine condition. He picked it up, briefly inspected it, shrugged, and shoved it in his pocket as he staggered home.
Man From A Small Green Planet
Elias Haden Tyson begins this day like most others… he wakes early and goes about his rigid morning ritual; brush teeth, shave, one hundred push-ups, one hundred crunches followed by breakfast, and a steaming hot cup of synthesized coffee, black.