Becoming; the foreskin

By Boris

My last year of primary school was a tumultuous one. It started with me transferring to a new school. A boarding school. A school tucked safely away in Kiserian’s shirt pocket. A school called St. Pats. My parents had decided I needed some ‘boarding school’ experience before I went to high school, which to me sounded like they telling me I was soft or something. Like there was the slightest chance that my sheltered existence of going to private day schools all my life hadn’t toughened me up. But I didn’t mind. I absolutely loved the idea of boarding school.

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The help

By Boris

I used to love the show ‘Fresh Prince of Bel Air’. Will Smith was sort of the big brother I never had. He was this funny charismatic guy who somehow always got his way with the ladies. In that respect I guess you can say Will Smith is the anti- Johnny Bravo.

Will and Geoffrey–the butler– always had this ongoing banter, making fun of everyone in the house. Uncle Phil had his girth, Hillary her ignorance and Carlton for being Carlton.Read More »


You know how you walk past someone in the street and then a little ways further down you stop and think, “Hold on for a cotton-picking minute. I think I know that guy.”? That’s how it was when I first saw Simon King. He had a round innocent face and a grey T shirt and dark jeans, with a bag slung over his shoulders. That day, I was running late to God knows where and I really couldn’t afford to turn back and run after him and say, “Say, si you’re Simon?” At the time, he had just moved from WordPress and onto a self hosted site:

So what I did was, I shot him a DM on Instagram to congratulate him because well, that’s the dream isn’t it? And then the other day I was caught between a deadline and hard place so I asked if he could come on as a guest. He did, and this is what he had to say…Read More »

Boris and the girl on the train

My lovely sister Krystine says she doesn’t like it when I’m reviewing books. She says those posts are usually boring and they come off as if I’m bragging over how much I read.

“Your posts have become a snooze fest,” she said.

Now, you’d expect that a painful ball would jump to my throat when she said that. You’d expect that I’d stand atop the dining table and raise my fist in protest and say she was being mighty unfair. Read More »


An old movie called Dead Poets Society kept me up last night. It’s the story about an eccentric poetry teacher who takes on a group of impressionable boys. But, in a sad twist, the boy that you will grow to love puts a bullet in his head, and it really puts the kibosh on the movie. It has a nice ending though, and before the credits roll you’ll want to stand on top of a table and say, “O captain My captain!”

In some ways I think I could make for a cool writing teacher. I’d wear a brown coat with candy in my pockets and bribe the students to participate. I’d give fun lectures and show these kids everything I know about writing, and eventually, they would fall in love with the art.

It’s a noble dream. But, of course, I know nothing about writing. And that’s a tragedy.

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The last gasp

The herculean task staring down at me right now is a story about a green mango. And I’m doing my best to ignore it, which is really how I deal with things that take too much of my daylight. But the other reason why I haven’t got around to the story is because I’ve had a bad start today. The universe is playing a dirty card.
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