From time-to-time we often hear there is a need for change in the country. Someone calls in on a radio programme. Another person in your neighbourhood, maybe a friend, makes a comment about how the politicians are ‘wicked’ or ‘corrupt’. You know how it goes. Election time comes and the politicians begin campaigning with promises of ‘change’. Yet, somehow, after all of these calls and decisions made in hope of change things, today, seem so much like the same.
From election cycle to election cycle in countries around the world the calls of change are made. Outside of election time, committees and organization, local, regional and international, are created with the purpose of making some change in some place in this world. Where is the change?
I will list some questions for you. You can take the time to think about them when you have a chance. I have some responses but I will keep them to myself at least for now. Here they are:
- If the world is supposed to be such a loving place why is there so much poverty?
- If certain doctrines, religious and legal, label us all as created equal then why are we making a world that is not?
- Why is it that that in many parts of the world people have the right to live in poverty but are barred by lay from ending their lives?
- Is there really a way to end poverty?
- Is political correctness the way to conduct public discourse? Maybe there is room for the not-so-nice-talk.
- Are safe spaces necessary?
- Why is it important to have Black people represented at awards shows?
- Is atheism the answer? One may ask the answer to what?
- Do we need governments?
- What would the world look like without money?
It seems as though we have a lot of the wrong change in this world. People doing little things with little effect. Pocket change maybe?
The following story may or may not be very loosely based on true events, but is definitely fictional. Any similarities that may be found in characters’ names, personality traits, or their recollection of certain events to real names, personality traits, or recollection of actual certain events is completely coincidental. No metaphors were harmed in the production of this story.
The lunchtime period at secondary school was often host to a myriad of activities. Children would relax in park benches under the trees, watching with amusement as the monkeys, which lived in trees on the fringes of the schoolyard, chased their more naive peers away from their lunchboxes. They could also be found on the hard courts, matching their skills with each other at tennis or cricket, the latter of which was banned due to the likelihood of a ball slamming into one of the school hall’s windows. Read More…
Chloe exhaled, taking a moment to catch her breath. She then looked at her partner and asked, “did I get them now?” Read More…
A few minutes earlier …
“You sure this is the right thing to do?”
“Of course it is. By eliminating big-shots in another gang, I’m showing initiative and you’ll get recognition too for helping me.”
This was the mindset of one girl dressed from head to toe in black biker clothes. Dressed in a studded jacket, leather jeans, and ankle length boots, she would not look out of place in a generic action movie. As the sun set below the peaks of the towers in Stryker City, Read More…
“Rubber bands? Are you high?”
Jeff ignored his critic as he ripped open the bag and slipped his new elastic friends up his arm.
“No really, I’m all for hoarding away odd things, but you honestly dragged me out here for rubber bands? Not to train (God knows you need it), but rubber bands?”
“Oh you’ll see soon enough. In the right hands, rubber bands can be one of the most dangerous things in existence. Right after black holes and lemon drops.”
“How are lemon drops dangerous?”
“You ever try sucking one of those things while laughing? Could be the last thing you ever do,” he replied, then he clutched his throat and pretended to choke to death. Read More…
Panting, gasping, and struggling to hold air in his lungs, Mark kept on running. The fire in his legs had intensified to an unbearable pitch, and his sides felt like they had burst. Even his vision had blurred to a cacophony of trees, bushes and branches, as he bolted through the forest, paying little regard to his battered clothes, and the blood flowing from his innumerable cuts and bruises. Yet he ran on. It was a futile objective; Mark knew this all too well. This was not a situation that he was any stranger to, even now in the back of his mind Read More…