Monday, 20 August 2012

Gas Mask

                             Gas Mask
by Stormm

Mano has a gas mask on.

Before him his grinder, lid on it's back off over to the left.

Full of green finely ground buds,

jammed between it's sharp silver-spiked circular reflective body,

lying atop flat light-brown wooden beams.

My Latino Bro picks up his bong from the table.

Legs slowly uncrossing he leans forward,

arching back away from walls of graffiti.

Attaches the bong to gas mask,

packing more weed fully into the bowl, then lights up.

He inhales this for a while, leans forward resting his head on the table.

Three minutes later he takes off the black mask and coughs,

but only during the third cycle of this ritual.

It's apparent Bro's deeply impacting memorable impressions

on most in the vicinity.

But some reactions, are more subtle than others.

Personally, I say let him do his thing until HE gets sick of it...

"He has to carry this whole kit around with him everywhere all day,"

cracks Gino, laughing at Latino who's indifferent ears are clearly not

shielded by the gas mask's straps.
Italian Guy says, "he's not getting any oxygen with that," "a buddy a

mine took a hit off a regular bong and just fell over, collapsing on his

face, and that's without the gas mask."

After Michael repeats the unconscious friend bong story,

for the second time minutes later, I start asking questions until he let's slip:

"The weed was f*cked up; it was kind of iffy, etc..."

Mano holds it down,

keeping all that smoke in while resting average,

neck length brunette hair and forehead against palm,

as his athletic right elbow supports our table.

Bro looks around smiling,

sees me rolling my skinny first joint of the day at 7:30 pm on a friday evening.

"Let's pitch in on a bigger spliff," he suggests?

"I have some Purple Kush."

Unfortunately I was pondering what next to write about,

mentally recapping my latest creative accomplishments,

plotting the next moves.

Having to honestly reply,

"no, I'm gonna chill and smoke this alone,

just meditate on situation and things..."

Michael's appalled.

I'm willing to bet he'll be talking about the boy with a gas mask bong,

for quite some time...

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Sunday, 12 August 2012


by Stormm

The brunette was busy, casually packing a suitcase in her Monaco suite.

Outside her window, right below lay the harbor,

a multitude of vessels occupy thick blankets of rich deep blue sea.

Some were merely docking,

but the majority are actively sailing out or about to set sail.

Scattered identical pieces of white dots sway,

bobbing toy ships fill bustling ports and seaways.

Hotels multiply along the edges of long,

winding mountain twists and curves.

Dutifully committed to the next assignment,

she was preparing to check out immediately.

The unassuming spy disguised as an airline hostess,

about to begin her final maiden voyage.

Here she stood, not quite but almost fully dressed in heels and skirt,

when there sounds an unexpected knock at the door.

Surprised, she momentarily freezes in place, quietly listening,

until sure there's no apparent danger outside.

Suddenly, a pregnant pause because then, rap rap rap.

This followed by an even longer period of silence,

until an eternal sixty seconds later, tap tap tap again.

Why was she growing so afraid to look?

There could be a simple explanation, yet every instinct urges her not to answer.

Tip toeing to the door's tiny peephole, growing nervously more alert,

as the knocking continues getting louder.

So why aren't there more noticeable signs of life in the hallway?

"Who is it?" she eventually sputteres.

"Room service," replies a bodiless entity.

"Go away, I'm not interested."

"Are you dressed?" inquires the raspy unknown voice."

"None of your business, go away.

"It's a welcome gift courtesy of the management."

"No thanks, wait, ah... just a minute."

She'd seen that freckled mulatto face before, but couldn't place where, why,

or should this knowledge be of immediate relevance?

Unless, oh no, dear god, of course.  But by now it would be much too late.

Her last thought was to return a similar response,

to the blinding flash of a serene smile.

A maid stands pulsing in the immaculate corridor,

like an enraptured angel of death.

By the second his slow motion falling white apron

impacts a white freshly carpeted hotel floor,

the first of several bombs grafted onto conditioned brain and wiry frame,

had already screamed detonate...

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Monday, 6 August 2012

Rosy's Short Story

                               Rosy's Short Story
by Stormm

Sticky 9 am call time and you could already feel it,

this was so going to be another very hot and sweaty,

much too grimy July 18 2012 hectic wednesday morning.

Complete with the usual suspects:

loud teeth grinding spine tingling construction noises;

both directions of narrow orange pylon lined single lane impatient streets,

accompanied by winding sidewalk ramp detours;

do not enter dead end road closed signs;

dust filled blocked off asphalt avenues savagely dug up;

busy vibrant lanes articulate blasts of menacing heavy metal machinery.

All playing their epic roles as bits of shiny gridlock,

blistering in the heart of a bubbling downtown Toronto.

We were shooting backwards,

so I chose to meet by the Sky Walk entrance on Front Street,

next to a Blue Piano.

I arrived 8:30 am took off my black pinstriped suit jacket,

sat and began performing the song's classically themed chorus

which I originally wrote for plucked strings, on this free temporary piano.

A small crowd gathered as I played while thinking how I had pictured

an epic shot of myself on a white grand piano, but this wasn't that piano.

Maybe we should at least film me playing the chorus, just in case ahh...?

During some improvising of original compositions,

I decided unfortunately it was maybe not.

So I stopped playing for my applauding audience wanting to hear more.

Maria, Jose and Pablo showed up just after nine,

we walked into Jay while picking out the first spot to shoot.

When we got back outside there was no Jay,

panicking I called his cell to learn he had made a wrong turn,

gone underground and crossed the street.

The boys were on time, were the girls gonna show?

Kanza made it first, Vanessa came last.

Make-up went well quickly so shooting commenced.

Those extra two hours I had factored into the schedule

brought us right back on time, but I had to crack that whip,

everything else must go down perfectly smooth.

I guess it did.

Note to self, if you're going to do a complex coordinated movement

on camera in a public space without a permit, try to rehearse it first.

After only a couple attempts and some rapid fire decisions, we got it right.

Vanessa smiled and asked, "do you do this often?" as the swap worked,

while walking off into the sunset, swinging hands together...

  Cast:  Stormm, Kanza Feris, Jay Park, Vanessa Tavares.

Crew:  Jose Rodriguez, Maria Gabby, Pablo Andrade-Carranza

Special Thanks: Le Ti Colibri & Tribal Eye African Gifts (Kensington Market)

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