#marginwriter

[lampshadewriter]

😂😂😂 Why am I always so excited when I learn something new. Last week it was catfish, today's it's Mansplaining.

@leonardo_michaelangelo2 stop Lensplaining 😂

[lampshadewriter]

Poem - War-torn Tent Nation

For the people of Congo

War-torn tent nation 

A nation of displaced people living in tents ravaged by war.

A nation of people whose homes are nothing but mere plastic canvas. Canvases that are painted with blood, tears, fear and the strokes of hunger.  

A nation of makeshift tent cities - no food, no water, no electricity, no proper medical care. 

A nation of people trapped in a world of horror, running to and from the journey destined to sorrow. 

A nation of men, women and children who may never live out their true potential. They run for their lives with their homes on their backs. Nothing can be left behind because life has a chance to see tomorrow. Pots, pans, bed, clothes and some sentimental family memorabilia. The goats, the sheep, the dogs, the cats. Everything must journey to where life will reset. 

A nation of people who live generation to generation in conditions that are unimaginable to the rest of the world. 

A nation of people who have never experienced peace, and continue to endure the harsh thrust of their generational trauma. This nation of people understands that the scars of war are not only physical, but also emotional, and every day of their lives they grapple with the trauma and the uncertainty that accompany their displacement.  

A nation of people who define courage, strength and resilience and through the thump of their feet on the ground, unwilling to give up their fate to the sounds of booms and blasts. 

A nation of people who are afraid, yet still their bravery is paramount in the way they live and care for each other. 

A nation of people stands on a mountain of wealth enriched with the most precious minerals, starved because of greed, politics and military oppression. 

War-torn tent nation, A nation of displaced people living in tents ravaged by war.

[lampshadewriter]

Suspicious Brew

I settled down at the table and spotted a suitcase tucked away by my feet, crammed into the corner beneath the table. It didn’t strike me as odd at first; I figured someone must have been sitting there and stepped away for a moment. I waved over to the waiter and asked, "Is someone sitting here?" "No, sir," he replied, "you're our second customer since we opened forty-five minutes ago." I glanced at the suitcase and then at the waiter but didn’t mention it. I thought I’d just let him know if it was still there when I was ready to leave. "What can I get you this morning?" "I'll have a cup of coffee, thanks." I usually brew my coffee at home, but today I decided to treat myself after an early morning stroll. It was 6 AM on a Saturday, and I knew the usual crowd would be rolling in soon. Typically, it’s a group of retired guys chatting about the weather, farming, and politics. I shifted my legs under the table, and my feet brushed against the suitcase. An odd squeaky noise came from beneath the table, piquing my curiosity. The suitcase was gray, one of those old-school fabric ones. The straps looked like leather, wrapping around the suitcase, giving it a vintage vibe. It was clear the suitcase had seen better days; the fabric was worn, and a layer of dirt made it look even worse. I leaned in closer to check for a name tag near the zipper, but it was just as worn out. The zipper was broken, leaving gaps in the lining, and I noticed one of the wheels was missing. I couldn’t help but wonder if the others were gone too. "Here’s your coffee, sir," the waiter said, startling me and making my heart race. I felt like a kid caught doing something wrong. I bumped my head on the table as I quickly pulled back from staring at the suitcase, embarrassment washing over me as I tried to play it cool.

A soft giggle left my mouth as I quickly thought of the awful sound of my heading connecting with the table. 

“Thanks,” I said with a smile, trying to keep things light.

“Are you okay?” the waiter asked.

I really wished he ignored my head bumping the table. What is an old man my age doing with his head under a table in a restaurant, anyway?

“Yes, I’m fine,” I replied, attempting to brush off the possibility of a bruise later.

I tried to play it cool, glancing down at the table while saying, “Thank you, thank you.”

“Is there anything else I can get you?”

Still staring at my coffee, watching the steam rise, I said, “No, just the coffee is perfect.”

The waiter walked away, and I heard the restaurant door swing open as a group of men came in. I turned to see if I recognized any of them, but they quickly made their way to the far corner to get the seat by the window. 

I turned back and glanced at the suitcase. I grinned, sighed, and muttered, “Damn you.”

My fingers barely grazed the coffee cup when I heard what sounded like a baby mumbling as it woke up. I glanced around, but there was no one in the café with a stroller. I figured I must be imagining things. I turned back to my coffee and took a sip. The rich aroma and incredible flavour exploded in my mouth. There’s nothing quite like a great cup of coffee on a Saturday morning. Then I heard that sound again, and as I turned, I noticed a rattling noise coming from the suitcase nearby. I tilted my head, still holding my coffee, and stared intently at the suitcase. The rattling grew louder, and it shook even more. My first thought was that someone had left a puppy in there. My hand trembled slightly as I clutched the coffee cup. I scanned the room for the waiter, but he was busy taking an order. I needed to get his attention because I was anxious about what might be in that suitcase at my feet. I waved a little, not wanting to make a scene, but he was still focused on the register. A blonde girl and an Indian guy shot me a quick smile, probably thinking I was just greeting them. I quickly turned back as the rattling intensified. I noticed the broken zipper and thought maybe I could peek inside. “What if something jumps out at me?” I wondered. My mind was still stuck on the idea of a little puppy trapped inside, trying to escape. I leaned down closer to the table, remembering the spot where I had bumped my head earlier, and shuffled to avoid hitting it again. My right hand reached down, and my fingers started to fiddle with the zipper.

The suitcase rattled loudly, making me jump and spill my coffee all over the table. I let out a heavy sigh and tried again to grab the zipper. My fingers found the cold zipper pull, and I yanked it, but it felt like it was stuck. The suitcase continued to shake, and I could hear a muffled sound coming from inside. I figured I should hurry before the poor puppy suffocated. It had a double zipper, and I managed to get one side halfway open. I struggled to get under the table, pulling the suitcase closer to me. My head was completely under the table when I finally grabbed one of the leather straps and pulled it toward me. I could hear heavy breathing now and listened intently, trying to plan my next move. “What if it bites me when I open it?” A wave of fear hit me, but I couldn’t back down. I had to rescue that puppy from the old suitcase.

“Would you like some more coffee?”

“Jesus Christ!” I yelled, banging my head on the table in shock. This time, I hit it even harder. I was having a tough time getting out from under the table. My hand pressed down on the suitcase, and I realized I might have squeezed the dog. I was half falling off my chair, and one wrong move would send me tumbling under the table again. It was so embarrassing to be found in this position twice, especially for an old guy like me. Getting out would take forever since I could barely move quickly.

“Help me up for goodness' sake!” I shouted. I didn’t mean to sound harsh, but I was struggling, my head was pounding, and I was barely holding myself up with one hand.

The waiter grabbed my shoulder to steady me, and I thought to myself that I was really stuck.

“Can the table move?” I asked, my voice strained as if I was on the brink of collapse.

“No, sir,” the waiter replied. Poor guy must have been wondering what on earth I was doing under the table, not just once but twice.

I noticed the table stand, and it was firmly anchored to the ground.

“Who on earth designs tables like this? Why would anyone anchor a table down?” I blurted out.

“I might need to help you out, sir,” the waiter suggested.

“You think so?” I shot back.

He tried to let me go, but I slipped from his grip. My frail old hand shook under my weight, and I firmly told him, “Don’t let me go, or I’ll end up face-first on the floor.”

I started to groan, feeling really uncomfortable. My right hip was starting to ache, and the hand resting on the table was going numb.

“Can we get some help over here?” the waiter yelled. His voice was loud and commanding, and I was sure the whole restaurant heard him.

“Can one of you gentlemen lend a hand?” he asked again, sounding more urgent this time. I heard footsteps approaching, and I felt a glimmer of hope. The suitcase rattled more violently, and a loud cry burst through the fabric and half-open zipper.

I exclaimed, “Oh my God!” as the group of men who came to help, along with the waiter and me, all shouted, “Is that a baby?”

[lampshadewriter]

Father, Sons and Holy Mother

Coming-of-age story

The Lampshade writer

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Book Summary:

Father, Sons, and Holy Mother is a deeply introspective coming-of-age novel that follows Dean, a sensitive, artistic teen quietly exploring the intricate layers of identity, masculinity, and belonging. Navigating adolescence in a household bound by tradition and expectation, Dean finds himself at a crossroads between staying true to who he is and not wanting to disrupt the fragile fabric of family dynamics.

At the heart of the story is a compelling portrait of fatherhood—imperfect, sometimes harsh, but laced with a quiet love that reveals itself in unexpected moments. As Dean silently battles internal questions about who he is and who he’s expected to be, his father, often misunderstood, becomes a complex figure of both confrontation and comfort.

Set against the backdrop of brotherhood, cultural expectations, and the longing for acceptance, Father, Sons, and Holy Mother is a stirring exploration of youth, identity, and the hope that love—even when unspoken—can be enough to hold a family together.

[lampshadewriter]

No Apology - For The War on Children 

No apologies will be accepted after the genocide 

No reconciliation proclamation will be accepted for the hollowed graves

No land recognition will be accepted for we watched the cities crumble, bodies bombed and babies die. 

The world was horrified, the world was outraged. But the powers that be stood complicit and defended the perpetrator saying “They have a right.”

120 countries voted in favour of a ceasefire,  14 countries voted against a ceasefire, while 45 countries abstained. And for every call to stop the war, the world superpower vetoed the call. Ceasefire, now, ceasefire now, ceasefire now we called. But that call didn’t start in the West, those calls started when the babies were bombed from incubators - their fragile bodies hit the ground, and in their innocent voice, before life left their souls, they cried ceasefire now. It is the call of the children whose parents wrote their names on their legs and on their arms, they whispered in their mother's ear, “Why don’t they cease fire now.” And so, those of us in the West heard the universal cry, and we took to the streets, ceasefire now. 

A land once lush and vibrant is now left desecrated and barren. No one came to the people's rescue despite the call for peace. 

A people long forgotten, whose lives no one remembered. They too had been bombed, but they rose up in solidarity. They say stop the bombing or else your ships will not get by, and in their defence of the children's cry, they too were bombed. The powers that be released their might with the rule of international immorality

 - war-.

In their strength and bravery, a country once ruled under apartheid, they too rose up in defence and took to the court of justice the plight of genocide. Their arguments weren't just assertions but filled with empirical facts. Let it be known to the court, that Bibi has committed, and is committing, acts of genocide.

They proved to the court how food, water and medical supplies had been denied. And with over 20,000 dead this genocide must stop. This is a war on children, in the once apartheid country cried. And even the use of a biblical ideology was used against the children’s plight. Bibi commanded his army to reign down the wrath of Amalek on every man, woman, and child “Now go and attack Amalek, and utterly destroy all that they have, and do not spare them. But kill both man and woman, infant and nursing child, ox and sheep, camel and donkey.” And with such a mighty command the people continued to hear the terrifying sounds of war: no food, no water, no medical care. The baby's journeyed through death and despair. 

No apologies will be accepted after the genocide 

No reconciliation proclamation will be accepted for the hallowed graves

No land recognition will be accepted, for we watched the cities crumble, bodies bombed and babies die. 

The Lampshade writer

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[lampshadewriter]

The Lampshade writer

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Thank you for visiting! You can buy books right here!

Hi everyone, I'm Gavin, the author and publisher of "From Suicide Kit to Liberating Liberty." I also write and publish "Father, Sons and Holy Mother." Both of these are coming-of-age novels for teens. You can find my other works on my website blog, Medium, and Wattpad.

[lampshadewriter]

[lampshadewriter]

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