theCUXN - The Tale Of The Day Of BOLD - A Berrytale

Once upon a time in Southberry, a horrible four eyed monster named Monochrome held a deleterious reign over the once beautiful land and it’s once vibrant and unified young Southberries. The poor Berries had been surviving persistent waves of hellacious attacks at the hand of Monochromes Polyphonic Army. The once colorful people had such incredible heart that however defeated and beaten they were by the army they would proclaim wishfully in song the hope of the Day of Bold.
This day was promised one hundred years ago in a most magical prophecy. It was written that a single man would liberate the people and defeat the tyranny before repainting the world with the most beautiful colors. Monochrome thought the young people fools and scoffed at their wishful grasp to the ancient word. He laughed so loud at their song that the ground trembled so hard that all the color of the world fell to the ground and scattered - making it hard for the Berries to see or communicate with each other.

On a treacherous day, Mono walked up to rest his weight on the alarmingly short podium as the people gathered in Curve Square for the once a year Passing of Law hosted by the plump tyrant. A stale, stagnant gaseous concoction of machiavellian tactic, solitude and tariff stunk into the crowd as he began to speak.
“Amendment one:  Bills for all communications will be quadrupled. Amendment two:  The cost of all communication devices will be also quadrupled”. A piercingly loud reign of boos flew from the cheated population. Monochrome raised his voice as he spoke on, “Amendment three: All youth found holding gatherings of more than three will face the horrors of the polyphonic chair!" The final amendment read that the Prophecy of Bold would thenceforth be banned from Southberry and whosoever would dare make reference of it would suffer the glare of the Green Screen Beam.

Terror and hopelessness settled in the hearts of the berries. As it did, Lord Monochrome ordered his soldiers to throw canisters of Green screen beam into the crowd who, as a result, dispersed in every humanly possible direction coughing, kicking and screaming.
In the confusion of fleeing Berries a mother left a boy to be lost in the thickness of the Green Screen beam. The boy held tight to his fluffy companion, QWERTY, noticing how the smoke didn’t affect him in the slightest. Monochrome seized laughter when he saw the boy’s silhouette did not shadow that of the other terror struck berries. The boys arm, at that moment, was yanked by his relieved mother’s hand.

On walking the colorless paths that lead to the boys mothers’ humble home, he noticed his stuffed companion QWERTY was no longer with him. He thought desperately to try and recall the moment of separation. 
Meanwhile, one of Monochromes soldiers was clearing the hall of empty green beam canisters when he found what looked like a toy. The Soldier thought the miniature keyboard on the toy quite peculiar and thus returned it to Lord Monochrome whom he would examined the artifact rigorously by.
Once the boy set foot at home his mother finally let his now drenched in sweat hand to be at his own whim once more. Mother was tired, and all the boy could think of was QWERTY – poor lost and probably cold QWERTY. He tried to forget until the morning but by the time Mother fell asleep, his inexplicable bond with QWERTY had led him sneakily out the house and speedily on route to the great hall in search of his most favorite toy.

What is your name son? A soldier asked a little boy lurking the great hall alone at night. “My name is BOLD, I am looking for a toy of mine I may have dropped sir. Could you have by any chance seen it?”

The soldier, recalling the strange artifact he had found earlier that day, asked the boy - “Does it have a miniature keyboard on it young lad?” Yes, the boy replied with gleaming eyes. “Does it have a series of oddly shaped dots on back of its head?” Yes that’s QWERTY, The boy exclaimed. The soldier grabbed the boy firmly by the arm and said “you’re coming with me!”

The boy lagged violently behind the soldier's tight grip, through the streets and up the stairs inside great tower and into Monochromes chambers where QWERTY was perched on the tallest pedestal. Monochromes grimace deepened before he interrogated Bold using the agonizing Green Beam. The boys courage shone through after surviving waves and waves of green beam glare, he did not die. Instead monochrome quickly tired, and thought to continue his violent inquisition in the morrow. The boy, who was then locked in a small cage, began to fall asleep from the pain.
So close to, yet so far from QWERTY. His eyes grew heavy, as did the inevitability of the fate awaiting him.
This would have been so, if the most enchanted and impossible had not.
With one buckle and a shake, QWERTY flew gracefully from its pedestal and hovered above the ground magically toward BOLD's cage.  QWERTY synchronized the cages lock with his miniature keyboard and typed the letters b-l-a-c-k-b-e-r-r-y. The cage magically opened.

It is said that Monochrome died that morning of a heart attack when the soldier revealed the name of the boy who escaped. It is also possible he already knew the boy’s name before he slumbered, and died the next morning from natural causes. QWERTY would disagree.
Before noon, all the Berries knew of what Bold had done and could not help but burst with jubilee at the fulfillment of the Prophecy of Bold. Monochrome was gone forever and all the youth could finally live together - sharing, interacting and communicating freely; talking revolutions, setting trends and promoting smiling faces.
All is well said Bold. All but one thing – the color of Southberry was still missing from the walls and trees and everything once beautiful.
The Berries soon realized that after all of Monochromes earthquakes, the colors of the North had been shaken to the South and all the colors of the West had been shaken far into the east. One could not possibly travel those distances on foot.

When QWERTY heard this, his heart began to pulse a white glow and the oddly shaped dots on the back of his head formed came together to form what appeared to resemble the letter B .
All the colors of the world, from the South where the excitable youth dwell, the North that hosts the collectors and thinkers, and the East where swagger exudes to the west where the singers and arts men rest, flew magically into Qwerty. With a click and a scroll all the colors of the world were shared evenly across Southberry and the marvelous envisage that was this country was restored.

The Berries sang the Prophecy of the Day of Bold again and again until time was no more.

The End

Story by Lutho Mtyamde for Blackberry

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theRM - Distortion

Album Art Design for J-SEC (Just Separate Emotions Completely)

By theLVNGrmr

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theCOUCH - Let Her to Weave

She looked as good as the day. My fingers fondled about her from the tiny frolicles of her arm northbound until they found purpose in her hair. As my index finger became a hostage to a cornrow sheltered by a sheath of horse fiber, my fateful inquisition began. 
I don’t encourage a follow in my fingersteps as you too may have a page turner seized or worse yet, develop an obscene intrigue in the captivating and abandoning strand of contemplation that is the Brazilian weave.
I dared to ask how much it cost and the answer left me speechless - but type full. The reason why someone would want that extensive maintenance plan for the rest of one’s existence titled my vessel enough for what we have here.

In the 1970’s Martin Luther king led an incredibly prominent socio-political movement which played an incredible role in the revolution of the black society. Unlike his contemporary, Malcolm x, Martin Luther didn’t strive for black power. His dream was of equality and black consciousness. Consciousness, that is, of one’s self and the embracing of one’s true identity. This notion could be stretched far across the borders of race but Ill practice restraint. MLK wanted the black civilization to be proud of who they are and embrace their natural attributes.
Racism however and all the components therein had bestowed insistently upon the black community a self-inferiority complex.  The idea that white people are superior slowly began making and shaping their logic. 

Long and silky, shiny hair, and light skin resembling purest of pures. The grave deepens but I’ve dug enough as we've uncovered the two attributes of the white man that the black person, Martin Luther king and all the ‘black is beautiful’ chanters could never compete with - Beauty.

Correct me if I’m wrong but I think the average price for a hair peace is like five-hundred Doughnuts. Not much I thought until she told me she changes it every month. I popped up the calculator and punched in the holy trinity (Merlot, cigarettes and ice-cream). The calculator proposed that I could buy a 2009 and a corkscrew, fifteen twenties or rent an ice-cream truck for a day if I took the hair peace to cash crusaders. 
As my eyes left the green beam of the math tool and fixed on hers, I looked with a most contorted expression. How could a person ever live with themselves knowing that they have blasphemed against the holy trinity for a chance to prove that oppression is still ferociously in effect?



In the same era, protestors pertaining to the movement began to publicly object to the use of hair strengtheners, bleaches, skin whiteners and everything black people used to make themselves, well… white. We’re talking marches with Fists in the air, a cloud of afros and a floor of sneakers (Thus came about afro comb with fist on the top… I cannot account for the footwear however). They began to embrace their blackness and revolted any white culture transference they had undergone. Being black, became the bruise of an abused woman worn with litost and an exhibitionists flare. They needed not apply something to themselves to be beautiful or acceptable, their being was enough 

I am aware of our unique psychologies, face and humanity alike - making the act of hiding your own attributes to look like the other person as futile as standing still for a very long time. 
Today, almost all the black woman I come across boast a well lubricated peace of oppression on their heads. And if for some reason this additive isn’t available to them, life as they know it is in utter distress. An acquaintance of mine even said this, ‘god is unfair for giving us this hair!' 
A protest chant if you will - unfair for this hair! Unfair for this hair!

Now I’m not saying that all black woman should cast their weaves to sea and sport the perplexity cluster that is Khoi-San hair. Definitely not because the argument that goes against all that I have said is just as strong if not overwhelming. It calls itself Globalization - the inter-cultural exchange that has allowed Skhothanes the Italian Carvella and coloured people martial arts training. Without the possibility of borrowing from each other’s cultures we wouldn’t be much of a unified or interactive world. 
So you, yonder, contemplating your scalp. It’s quite alright.

My finger was rescued by my pulling wrist, whom I will now deem town hero in the city of Arm. I caught a glance of the stuff gated by her eyes and remember what gave her her genius - all that she could say without saying anything

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