Journey Of A Debut Novelist (Part III) 

Hard to describe.  December was a rough month for creativity.  I fell into a rut and neglected my writing (and this blog).  All of the negativity seemed to compound during the final weeks, and 2016 wouldn’t leave without one final surprise. I lost someone very dear to me on December 28th, 2016. But I know she would have wanted to see me become a published author.  All I can think about is the time I have wasted on things that aren’t important.  Time is the most expensive kind of currency. We can’t get that back. I’ve mourned her, and will continue to mourn her throughout the year. With that being said, I must get back to work. 
Word Count: 28,586

Word Goal:  90K 

Frustration Level: Painfully Motivated 

Saints Notes: R.I.P Minister Maria “Patsy” Henry. 

Situational Vol. 1

Situational Vol. 1

Situational posts are short stories that randomly pop in my head when I am out and about.  Some of these ideas are gonna be really out there… while others might be a bit more grounded. But all of them hopefully you’ll find interesting.  Enjoy

Saints 

“This One Time After Work”

Juan Vargas’ tyrannical reign over the office would put any despot to shame.  He had a way of tearing you down, bit by bit, piece by piece.  His talent was uncanny, he could disassemble whatever sense of pride one thought they had in a matter of minutes. The new hires always mistook him for a kind person, his charm had the desired disarming effect. But after a few days of chumming, the mask erodes, revealing a man of much less substance. A stout man who was unusually proud, his belly pertruded over his waist line, turning his shirt and tie into some kind of stopgate. 

His suit pants were pulled rather high over his waistline (or as far as they could go). His red ‘power tie’ and black suit were drowned out by his pronounced waddle and heavy breathing. He reeked of cigarettes and morning breath and his laugh was overtly obnoxious.  He had a bad habit of laughing at his own jokes, almost as if it were a cue for his subordinates to do the same.  I hated the way he loomed over me in particular. Most times he wouldn’t say anything, but I could tell that was only because he didn’t have anything critical to say.  I hated the man. With every part of my soul. I wouldn’t piss on him if he was on fire. 

 But today.. the universe wanted to reward me. After another shitty day of reprimanding and condescending, I had the honor (the privilege, luck, blessing etc.,) of running into the ever proud Juan Vargas on perhaps the lowest moment of his life.

I was the last to leave the office, I had a mountain of backed up work to do and not enough time to do it.  After beating my head against the perverberial wall, I still found myself drowning in an endless stream of obituary paper work.  I’m not going to get into specifics about my job, but let’s just say it’s boring and it pays the bills. I get a cubicle, a desk neighbor who keeps relatively to herself, and an hour lunch that becomes the days saving grace.  Anyway, the office is pretty much empty.  I’m ready to throw in the towel.  As I’m packing my bags, I hear a thump from one of the walls in the vacant conference room.  Suddenly it gets quiet.  Deathly quiet. I can hear faint panting, like someone quietly trying to catch their breath. First I pay it no mind, it maybe a cleaning crew or something. Then it happens AGAIN.  “Hello?”

I carefully stand up, suddenly alert to every bit of movement in that office.  Not sure why I felt threatened, but I did.  First few steps I took towards the conference room I spent desperately trying to talk myself out of going. I pleaded with my curious self. Every far fetched scenario of me some how not making it back from checking that room played over and over again in my mind. Halfway there, I heard another thump and I quickened my pace. Didn’t give myself time to think this descision through. I’m at the door, and I’m checking to see what’s inside. 

And man was it worth it!  Vargas was sitting in one of the twelve lush leather office chairs with this pants undone. He was unconscious, leaning over towards his right. I’m not sure what was stopping him from falling over. But it was glorious! His forehead glistened as strands of his froppy hair stuck to his head.

Immediately go for my phone.  Moments like this are why they invented camera phones! I go crazy and take like ten pictures. And I got creative too.  I was coming up with angles you wouldn’t even believe! After I had enough pictures on my phone, the thought dawned on me that his life could actually be in danger. And I didn’t want to be the guy that’s  getting bothered by police because this asshole died. So I nudge him. 

It took a couple of tries but eventually he comes too. “W-what… Joeseph?!” I’m quite sure I was the LAST person he expected to see. And for good reason. The first question was obvious, and it was pretty clear that wasn’t going to get a straight answer, but I just figured I’d ask just for the record.  “What happened?” Vargas notices his pants are undone and quickly adjust.  “Look, I didn’t know anyone was still at the office.” He said. He adjusted his shirt accordingly, somehow convincing himself there was a way he could look dignified in this situation. 

“Listen to me. You don’t know what you saw here, not a word of about this to anyone!”  Would you believe this guy had to nerve to point his finger in my face? Full on teacher student, father son shit.

“Juan, I don’t think you understand what’s going on here.” 

He quickly reigned himself back in, realizes that I wasn’t a scared little pussy. I had every intention of milking this.  “Tell me what happened, and these pictures I have on my phone get deleted.”  Vargas took a deep breath. He buttoned up the rest of his shirt (except for the top button) and fixed his hair a little bit. He stood up, reminding me how short he was.  “Delete those pictures Joeseph and I’ll forget this.” 

“How are you in any place to say that to me?” 

He took a step towards me, I cautiously took a step back.  “Juan, we’re gonna talk about my future at this comp-” Vargas lounged at me, tackling me to the floor. He went for my phone in a mad scrambled, climbing over me to get to it.  Just as he gets past me, I grab his foot, preventing him for going any further. He then kicks me square in the face and crawls towards my phone. Now in my defense, it wasn’t the pain of the kick that hurt me. It was the fact that this man kicked me at all! We’re actually having a full on fist fight!  I get up and tackle him just he reaches for my phone (which is now under the door way of the conference room). I spear him into the adjacent wall, actually making an indentation. This fat piece of shit knees me in my lower chest, then throws me on the ground. Standing over me, he puts his knee on my stomach and his then his hands around my throat.  His grip is ironclad. I can literately feel my throat closing up.  A struggle for a bit, scratching at his eyes and face. I feel my body getting weaker. But I’m not going to go down as the guy who got killed by Juan Vargas. He already has ruined so much of my life, I refused to give him the power to end it. 

My second wind kicks in, I successfully flip him off of me.  I quickly get to my feet and kick him right in the face (payback bitch). He flies backwards, drawing blood from either his upper lip or his nose.  I grabbed my throat, trying to catch my breath. But I quickly regain my focus.  I kick him again, this time putting a little more torque into it, landing one square in the middle of his oversized belly. I hear a popping noise but that doesn’t stop me from giving him another one. He curls up on the floor in a fetal position, holding clutching his stomach. 

“You’re not making it out of this office alive!!” He screamed in between coughs.  I try to kick him again, for good measure, but he catches it. This guy was every bit of the super villain I thought he was! We struggle for a bit more, me trying to take my leg back and him trying to rip it off. We eventually run into someone’s desk, knocking some stuff over. I take a swing  and connect, but it doesn’t effect him much. He pulled me towards him again and goes for my throat. 

This guy was a lot stronger than he looked. And on top of that he was heavy. Regardless, I wasn’t some prized fighter myself, but I was proud at how long I’ve lasted so far. I swing again, this time connecting right on this nose. The blow stuns him, I look to hit again but my arms feel like spaghetti at this point.  I miss badly, almost falling over. Vargas is leaking blood, covering up his face with one of his hands. He screams something at me in Spanish, but even if I spoke the language, I’m sure I wouldn’t have understood what he said.  He spit in my direction, blood sprayed all over my face. I wiped it off and rested on the nearest desk, a feeling bit of relief washed over me. 

Vargas was out of breathe, He looked as if he were about to pass out.  “What do you want Joeseph,” he eventually said.  I didnt quite have an answer for him.  “I want a raise,” I said, gasping for air.  Vargas was still clutching his stomach, not worried about the steady drops of blood falling out of his nose. His smashed upper lip seemed to blur with this thick moustache. Sticky dark red over chunks of skin and hair made this ugly man unbearable to look at. 

“You’re not getting a raise. You’re a worthless nobody! You think you’re unnoticed at that desk? You’re there for a reason! You don’t have what it takes to be somebody who matters! This is you’re ceiling! And I’ll be damned if a piece of shit like you makes demands of me! I don’t care what you saw here, you will never move in this company! You would be shoveling shit in New Mexico if I had had my way! You should be grateful! I gave you purpose! I gave you a reason to exist! And this is how you thank me?!” Yep. Vargas continued his Shakespearean monologue until I threw a a stapler at him. Enraged, he charged at me again, only this time I grabbed a pair of scissors. He tackles me over another desk and we both hit the floor. We’re rolling around, punching and choking one another. Vargas’ white Button down shirt is covered in spots of blood. I’m bleeding too, but I don’t look nearly as bad as he does. Then the moment of truth happened.  Moments like these are rare in life, but when they happen, it’s like a whole new level of living opens up. As if you were living in this sedated half existence, and all it takes is one true act of passion to wake you up. And you may think Passion is a weird word to describe this, but I think it’s the only word that’s comes close. Passion. I took those scissors and I Jammed them into Vargas’ chest. They jutted as soon as he hit him, releasing a curling scream from his mouth. He looked at me with shock and dismay, I feel like he knew this was going to be the end. I pulled the scissors out, sitting firmly on top of his and then brought them down again, this time hitting around his collar bone area. The blood was really starting  to flow now, but this fucker was still alive. I stabbed him again, he grabbed my hand trying to pull the scissors out of his chest, so I punched him in the mouth. A few more stabs, and it was over. The scariest part was, it didn’t feel like I doing this to a person. The way those scissors went through him, was as if I were stabbing some castaway coach cushion on the street corner next to the garbage. I stood up and looked down at my work. A sense of pride washed over me. How many people would kill (no pun intended) to be in my position? I never did find out what he was doing in the conference room. But luckily for me, I wasn’t pressed to.  I left everything I owned in my shitty apartment, booked a flight to China and never looked back. Roast in Peace Vargas, I hope you’re looking up from that fiery pit with all kinds of envy. Hope you enjoy the show you fat fuck. 

Excerpt from . (Period) 

Excerpt from . (Period) 

    Here is it! An excerpt from My debut Novel . (Period)

I’ll be posting excerpts every now and then, I’m always looking for feedback. Let me know how I’m doing! 

-Saints 

    Mr. Sage had a surprisingly tentative look on his face, stroking his beard as if he wanted to ask another question. Myles stood his ground, waiting for the Q & A (or maybe the better word would’ve been interrogation) to continue before the class bell went off. Every student quickly packed their things into their backpacks as Mr. Sage yelled an assignment over the bustling movement of thirty or so students. “Exit projects are due, You won’t graduate without one!” Myles, relived his assignment was over, walked up to his desk and fumbled with a few papers. “I didn’t mean to put you on the spot like that,” he heard Denise say as she approached him. She had a calming air about her, hard to believe this was the same girl from twenty seconds ago. “You had some good points,” he quickly said back to her. She smiled, grabbed her book bag and left he classroom. Mr. Sage was still staring at Myles. “You seem like you’re really into this,” he said. Myles didn’t know how to respond to that. 

“Well… Yeah. How could you not be?”

Mr. Sage was a old tired man. He would lurch about the corridors of the school, you could hear him coming from the sound of his road weary shoes dragging on the hallway floors. His wardrobe consisted of maybe three button up shirts and two pairs of worn out khakis, one a navy blue and the other a tired beige. His deep white beard aged him about twenty years and his clunky horn rimed glasses covered the rest of his face. Nothing ever got his attention, but the fact that he noticed Myles said a lot more than what words could express. Myles sensed he wanted to say more, he momentarily stopped packing his bag. “I’m sponsoring a summer youth program meant to reach out to kids your age and educate them about the political process.” Mr. Sage seemed as if he were choosing his words carefully. “I want you to be a part of that,” he finally added after what seemed to be a dramatic pause. Myles, a bit surprised, didn’t know how to respond. “Uh, this summer is my last before college. I don’t want to lie to you and commit to something that I can’t.” Myles felt the answer was adequate but Mr. Sage seemed undeterred. “It’ll be fun for you, it’ll also look good on your resume. What college are you going to anyway?” Myles hadn’t made his mind about that yet, but he didn’t want Mr. Sage asking questions about it. “Umm I got accepted into Howard University,” Myles said, expecting the statement to come off as a rebuke. “Well that’s a darn good school,” Mr. Sage said. “And it’s suitable that it’s in D.C.” Myles nodded in agreement, but was still unsure of what Mr. Sage was getting at. “You know what you want to study out there?” Myles hadn’t given this any thought. “…honestly? I have no idea.” Mr. Sage laughed, a sight in which Myles would’ve bet every penny he had saved towards his tuition that he would never see. “Good, good. Trust me that’s normal to feel that way. You’re about to have the greatest time of your life. Man I wish I appreciated those college years a little more…” Mr. Sage’s voice dragged off into a distant memory Myles did not want him to share. “Well I gotta get to lunch now, thanks for the talk Mr. Sage.” Myles dragged his book bag, threw on one strap over his shoulder and went for the door. “Just think about what I said at least, okay?” The concerned parentage tone Mr. Sage in his voice had a soothing quality. Something about it promoted a confidence in Myles that left him feeling a bit inspired. 

“Yeah I will!” Myles screamed as he exited the class room. The hall way was still rather crowded with students making their way towards the cafeteria. They lingered in groups, talking to one another all while on their cell phones. Myles couldn’t relate to it, the social media craze that’s suddenly gripped the youth of the today, he didn’t understand the way they used it. Facebook and Twitter are saturated with Ill-informed post about half truths in society. It’s become a huge propaganda wheel, a manufacturing safe haven met to edify even the most ridiculous of opinions. How is one supposed to exist in a world that doesn’t value objectiveness? Maybe Myles was thinking like a man Twenty Years his senior. Maybe he was over analyzing something that really was meant to be simple. None of that offered a good enough reason for him. He pushed his way through the crowded hallway until he got to the staircase. After running down a few flights, he quickly dipped into the second floor bathroom, which to no ones surprise was empty. Folklore dominated this school, and the second floor bathroom was supposedly where the school’s addicts would come for asylum. It was the last of the bathrooms to be re-modeled. It still showcased years of graffiti on each of the stall doors, featuring signatures from people as far back as the class of ’97. The sinks still required human hands to actually turn the knobs and there were never any paper towels available. The bathroom mirror was cloudy, but one could tell the janitorial staff did its best to make it look clean. Random puddles scattered about from various leaks made the room look more disgusting than what it really was. To Myles, this was a moment of peace. He splashed his face with a hand full a tap water, rubbing around his forehead and then temples as He glanced into the mirror.  He was tall but it never looked that way in his reflection when he was by himself. His kept mini-Afro was a homage to a time when revolutionary minds like his were actually appreciated. His faded sides paid tribute the new generation, his own mark of being a ‘kid’ in a world that was afraid of him. 

         The water slid down his dark skin, resting on the collar of the white Ali graphic t-shirt he just got in the mail yesterday. He looked at the iconic picture of the boxing great jogging on an unassuming road. The vantage was behind Ali. He was half way down a winding road, headed to greatness one could only assume. That message resonated with Myles in ways people could never understand. This was Ali, the greatest boxer (athlete?) of all time, putting in the basic tenements of his work ethics. ‘They don’t need to see how hard you workin’, Myles heard the quote in the Boxers iconic drawl. He wanted the quote to be printed on the back of the t-shirt, but that would’ve cost too much money. 

        Myles took a deep breath and then exhaled. He felt his cell phone buzzing in his pocket. He reached for it, already half knowing who it was. A picture of an Hispanic girl with long beautiful hair popped up along with the name ‘Angela’. He answered after the third ring.

Journey of a Debut Novelist (Part II) 

Journey of a Debut Novelist (Part II) 

My characters surprised me this week.  My main character got into a conflict that wasn’t foreseen in my initial outlines. It’s odd how that happens, but I have to let him react accordingly. It may change his character, but life isn’t perfect and this story HAS TO be reflective of that more than anything else. Characters have to be complex. No one is one hundred percent good and no one is one hundred percent bad. With that being said… here are some stats. 

Word Goal: Approximately 90K

Current Word Count: 28,031 

Frustration level: Notch below Mild 
Slow and steady wins the race. Deadlines are of the Devil, and I rebuke you Satan! 
Writers Notes: 

I like the rhythm I’m currently in.  Interested to see where this latest detour will lead my characters. 
-Saints 

Saints Boro Presents: Thinkers Thursday’s 

Saints Boro Presents: Thinkers Thursday’s 

‘Thinkers Thursday’s is going be my weekly foray into the serious taboo topics that effect us that have nothing to do with writing  (Like Politics *cough* *cough*).

I feel this segment is needed, especially in today’s day and age.  It is astounding the amount of ignorance one can consume over the span of a day. Social media is littered with all kinds of memes and satirical websites that people actually take for facts.  This is me doing my part to challenge minds and promote growth.

THIS WEEKS TOPIC ON THINKERS THURSDAYS:  The Presidential Election


Get the groans out now… we’re going….

This was the frontpage of one of the biggest newspapers in New York City the day after the election.  It isn’t as prestigious as say the New York Times, but it works when you’re on the train and you need an excuse to ignore the morning parade of hobos begging for money with practiced routines and monologues. (Once saw a guy three days in a row telling people on the train he hadn’t eaten in three whole days… when two of those days I actually bought him a meal and sat through him thanking me with the SAME EXACT SPEECH, tears and all. This link is to clear up any and all confusion about just how bad things can get on a NYC subway ride.)

Now I understand propaganda. I understand that there are political agendas that exist solely to soil a politicians character. I understand that there are reasonable people on both sides of the aisle. But what I don’t understand, is when people ignore the facts. (Yes.. there are facts in politics.) Voting records are indelible. Transcripts from court cases are indelible. Interviews on news outlets, quotes from publications and speeches from whatever candidate you fancy, are the closest thing we will get to facts from a politician. 

With that being said 
WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED ON NOVEMEMBER 8th, 2016?!?!?!?!?!?!??? 

And this isn’t a Democrat/Republican thing. As a registered Democrat I proudly voted Republican whenever the race called for it in the past. I don’t support candidates simply out of party loyalty, I embrace the candidate who understands bigger picture. 
But again 
WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED ON NOVEMBER 8th, 2016???????!!!?!?!?!

(Stay calm Saints) *deep breath* Okay… okay. And I’m not a fan of Hillary Clinton.  I believe that throughout American history, the hallmark of past presidency has and will always be their effect on social issues. The ones who address and begin the process of fixing the greatest social issues of their time… are the ones who are remembered. Clinton, despite what some bleeding heart liberals would argue, wasn’t going to be that candidate for us. (And also that depends on what you think the greatest social issue in our country currently is, another talk).

The world looked on in horror as we elected a guy who doesn’t know the first thing about the political process into the most powerful office IN THE WORLD. Before the wave of right wingers leave essays in the comment section about how he going to “Make America Great Again”, let’s do some objective reading, understand I am not flat out bashing Donald Trump.  I am flat out bashing this country’s political process.  Now Let’s see how the world reacted on November 9th, 2016

*Awkward Silence*


As Charlemagne Tha God put it “This is like when Biff got the Sports Almanac in Back to the Future.” Yeah buddy… most certainly is.


Isn’t he the closest thing we have in Real Life to Lex Luthor? 

But Y’all don’t hear me tho *Young Hov Voice* 
I think I’ve made my point. Regardless on how you identify political, there has been a comical reaction to ‘President-Elect Donald Trump’. The mis-education of the American people is to blame. Below are a few things that Donald Trump ran on that might be a little different after he takes office. 

The Wall

Special Prosecutor for Hillary Clinton 

Donald Trump on Obamacare 

For someone who isn’t a “politician” he sure has mastered the empty promise bit. Anyway, point is this… all of these people who voted for him based on those things are going to be disappointed. Even more so…. they are going to be completely ignored. It’s only a matter of time before Trump starts to roll out his true agenda (and God only knows what that is). Common sense should always prevail. I don’t know how people expect a self serving egomaniac to suddenly start caring about everyone else. Trump is going to be sworn in as President January 20th, 2017. My guess… we’re about to see Democracy at its worst. 

-A concerned American who doesn’t understand what is going on anymore, 

Saints Boro

Who is Saints Boro? 

Who is Saints Boro? 

          Clichés abound! The writers curse apparently.  Would it be so far-fetched if Saints was a tortured soul? Gripped by a vice that takes a lifetime to temper, but one fateful night to reconcile.  A few short days of mourning, and memories from friends and family too busy to see the affliction while you were still here.  So many great writers were self destruction. So many were victims of their own wildly over productive minds. All of them had flaws that defined them.  Would it be arrogant for me to assume that I was cut from the same cloth? Or should I be disappointed if I found out that I wasn’t. A blessing maybe? A question too complex for an introduction I presume. 

         But I have always thought of a writers demons as their muses. In a twisted dark way, writers write about what intrigues them the most.  They spend hours pouring over something they  either fear or do not fully understand.  Then they go on the journey. It’s why writers value their “alone time”. It is why most you mistake us for being recluses.  It is not true. We see people as their true selfs. Every façade fades away like efferfenscene.  All that is left is the pain that drives people, and in their pain lies the nature of every story. The pain. The naked self, the self that we hide from the world. The self that no one ever sees.  We, the writers, see them all.  And they are just repulsive as you assume. 

        Saints is the ultimate seeker of those inner selfs.  And as filthy as they may be, as rag tag and war torn as they may seem, I find them fascinating.  The smallest things can lead to trauma. The most insignificant of exchanges could snow ball into someone’s life purpose.  It could be that embarrassing moment as kid that many people witnessed but no one thought twice about. That defining moment could be what drives someone to become a star! Or some neighborhood rival who was better then you at something, let’s say basketball, motivated you to becoming an NBA player.  I call them “The Dreamers”. 

         But what fascinates me more than that are people who do not have those kind of experiences.  People who crawl through life with a hole in their hearts, unable to find a defining purpose. They wake up, they go to work and take care of their families, take the occasional vacation, and then repeat. Nothing shakes them out of the routine.  Nothing makes them want more. It is just… life as usual. Blithely excepting whatever life has for them, and never questioning if that was the sum of their existence. I call them “The Livers”.

       And then there’s Saints.  Story teller of both Dreamers and Livers.  It’s my life’s work to bring these stories to the masses. Tales of both tragedy and inspiration, with the sole purpose of progressing ourselves along. I want people to read my stories and walk away feeling like anything is possible, for better or for worse. 

With Regards

Saints Boro, the ‘true self’ whisperer.