Archive for March, 2012

The Special Guest

Yay! It’s Friday and i have a story ready! 🙂
This was oddly inspired by the game, Temple Run. I swear i had a set idea when i started writing last night but the plot changed on its own as i typed.
Anyway, enjoy!


It was a starry night and a big celebration. The community fire was higher than it had ever been in a long while. The smell of the herbs burnt in the fire enveloped the senses of those gathered. The steady ‘dum dum’ of the tribal drums could have been heard from miles away. Drummers, men, well muscled and sweaty from the exertion of beating instruments made from the hides of the strongest animals, grinned fiercely, eyes wild.
This wildness was only rivaled by the shrill ululation that came from the dancing women, responding to the beat with jingling waist movements, sweat dripping in rivulets from their skin, the colour of ebony. Thick, black hair, swung to and fro, the shells adorned on them, clicking, making music of their own. Their bare bosoms danced too, quaking at every stamp of the foot.
It was the maiden dance. The dance of the Upright Breast.
Around the fire, sat all the villagers, even the children; though a few of them were already nodding their heads to sleep’s call.
The Elder Fathers sat together, passing around a pipe and also a small cup that had been proffered to them by one of the married women, preparing the feast meal. The Elder Mothers sat, surrounded by children on the cusp of puberty. The yellow flames illuminated their faces, eyes bright, brown teeth visible. The younger men who were not part of the drumming, sat in cliques, admiring the maidens who danced to their pleasure. The laughed and pointed and called and drank.
Equally admiring the maidens were the married men, out of the corner of their eyes. Some of the maidens were going to be second wives after this day.

One of the married women, who were known by their covered breasts, came and whispered to one of the Elder Fathers. The Elder Father gestured for one of the young men. He whispered to him and the young man ran and whispered to one of the drummers.
The beat dwindled and the dancers took it as their cue to leave the makeshift stage that was around the fire.
Soon, the drumming stopped.
Hush fell.
All eyes turned.
The sound of soft singing came from beyond and everyone around the camp fire turned, staring.
The married women flanked an old woman.
Immediately they came into view, the people around the campfire stood in respect.
Gingerly, the Old Woman was led to a seat, higher than the rest where she sat down, relief flooding her face as she stretched her twig-like legs.
She turned around the campfire and smiled, revealing toothless gum.
She beckoned to one of the married women who came quickly and knelt at her feet. Few words were exchanged and with a nod, the married woman rose.
She walked to the section where the maidens sat, cooling off after their exhaustive dancing and picked five of them.
They rose immediately and followed her out.
The old woman waved a little at the drummers and the music began anew.
This time, it was a dance for all.
Children. Adolescents. Adults. Danced around the campfire, singing and humming, they did.
The Old Woman surveyed the festivity with hawk-like eyes that belied her age.
Soon, one of the maidens came out from the darkness where huts were gathered. She knelt down and spoke to the Old Woman. The Old Woman nodded and gave a signal.
The music changed.
The dancers sat down.
This was the Incoming Music.
Attention was drawn by the ululation of the chosen maidens as they came forward.
As they drew nearer, the night light revealed a figure who stood behind them, bemused.
He was a man, one whose likeness had never been seen before by the younger generation. They looked, awed at his appearance, as tall as a big tree.
The older generation who had seen his type before, gave him a cursory glance and went back to their discussion.
The strange man was seated next to the Old Woman who smiled at him, fingering the neckwear she had on subconsciously.
The old woman struggled and got up. The music ceased immediately. All attention was drawn to her.
Slowly, she spoke to them,gesturing at the strange man occasionally.
The strange man smiled; the look mild puzzlement etched on his pale, ivory skin. He had no idea what was being said.
The old woman finished and with an expansive wave of hand, the festivities continued.
Drinks flowed and food was passed to the various groups with crudely made bowls.
Two beautiful maidens were selected to look after the strange man. They ran their hands through his flaxen hair, taking turns to rub his chest, smiling demurely. They gazed into his eyes, marvelling at the colour. They thought he probably gazed so much at the skies, that his eyes adopted their blue colouring. He grinned at them, watching their curiosity with barely hidden amusement.
The herbal scent in the fire was getting to him. His head felt light. He felt invincible. A bowl of milky liquid was passed to him and he drank without hesitation.
The concoction was like heady wine. Cheekily, he grabbed one swinging breast of the maiden and playfully tweaked her nipple.
She shivered and her eyes quickly darted to the Old Woman.
The Old Woman nodded and without further ado, the maiden wrapped her hands around his head and drew it into her bosom.
Her skin smelled like honey and the faint musk of burnt wood.
He smiled as he heard her moan when he lapped on her breasts. The second maiden went behind him, hands working on his shoulders, lips and tongue, caressing his neck.
Suddenly, he stiffened and fell back, almost hitting the maiden in the process. The drink finally got to him.
The old woman raised a hand and the music stopped.
The two maidens ran back to their group.
The old woman spoke, pointing at the sleeping strange man.
The married women stood and walked to him, divesting him of the apparel he had been adorned with.
They stepped back and the young men came up and dragged him forward, to the foot of the Old Woman.
She stood up and a hush fell on the congregated group.
One of the Elder Fathers stood up and handed her a staff, his head bowed.
The Old Woman accepted.
She lifted the staff, revealing its sharp bottom end and with speed uncommon for her age, struck the strange man in the neck. Blood squirt like a fountain, some landing in the fire, causing it to sizzle.
She cackled and the whole village roared.
The music was back again.
The maidens took to the stage while the married men stood, dragging the dead strange man, who was going to be the main course in their feast.
The old woman gave them a command, pointing at the worn white neckwear she had and they nodded.
She watched them leave.
She had known the strange man was coming.
The bones on her neck had told her.
The bones gotten from the hips of men that looked exactly like the strange man, years ago, when she herself had been a suckling babe.
More were going to come.
The old woman knew they would eventually kill her people. She didn’t know when. She didn’t know if she’d be alive to see it.
One of the married women came to her, presenting a baby to her.
She touched the baby’s forehead, murmuring a blessing.
The mother smiled in appreciation as she took her baby back.
The Old Woman smiled. She smiled, even though her heart was troubled.
She was going to kill them before they killed her people; the people she had been given to guide when she had come of age to lead.

She was going to make sure they were eaten before they swallowed up her people.
It was only proper to do so.

Musings of a Psycho Somebody

Yes, Yes, stop feeling psychic with yaselves!
We know this is not a story! I’ve been busy…really busy. Too busy to pander to your osho-free needs of a good story. Shior.

Anyway, it’s that time of the month again.
I was cooking in the kitchen and suddenly, i remembered something hilarious that happened to me years ago. Mind you, it wasn’t hilarious then but my memories are like fine, old wine; better with age.
Anyway, yes.
You know there’s this survey that says “One in four people is a psycho/lunatic/cuckoo/ogbanje victim? Yes.
One day, I met that One in four people.
I was jehjehly coming back from college, walking to the bus stop. This boy stopped in front of me and said hi.
I hate being rude to people so I too said “Hello?”
“You look nice.”
I raised one eyebrow “Thank you?”
“What’s your name?”
At this point i was thinking, ‘Nna GTFOH make i pass’ but hey, I’m polite.
I said the first name that came to mind. “Ngozi”
“Oh what a beautiful name”

He was Somalian anyway…or he looked Somalian; curly hair, black shiny skin, big buttocks.
“Can i have your number?”
Hmm…Let me think “No.”
i walked around him and passed.
The dude followed me.
I entered the bus.
He entered the bus.
I felt “Hey, maybe he’s going the same way. Coincidence.”
For where!
I jumped down from the bus and took the second bus.
Dude did the same.
I was still thinking it was a conincidence.
I got down at my final stop.
Dude got down.
I turned.
“Are you following me?”
Dude smiled. “Yes. I want to know your house.”
Chineke. On top wetin?
I felt threatened i swear. My heart started beating fast mehn.
“Go away!” i said and started walking
This dude followed me.
My house has got two entrances.
I started walking fast. As in fast.
I wasn’t running yet.
The dude matched my speed.
I turned to him ” Dude if you don’t fucking back off i’d call the police!”
He smiled. “Call them”.
That’s when my soul told me “ChiChi, you don enter o”
I walking slowly…slowly. The dude was lured into a false sense of ‘She will take me to her house’ security.
Suddenly, i started running.
Dude did not expect it so i was able to move out of his line of sight before he started running.
Oh boy, the race wey i tear that day. Chi gurl was an animal mehn.
I ran like a bawse. B-)
Went home and started banging on the door.
“Open!! Open!!”
I was shouting o.
My sister opened the door and i jumped into the house and slammed the door shut.
I went to the kitchen and started looking through the window.
Saw the guy come and started pacing around. Trying to decide which house i entered into.
When he was tired, he left.
My sister was now asking me what was pursuing me.
“A dog. -_-”

After that day, “Hello girl”, ChiChi would cross the road and start walking fast.
Abeg o.
Jesus did not die for that kind of nonsense.
But let me not lie, the reason i ran was because he wasn’t fine -_-
If he was…hehehe…
I wee show him that POWER pass power. Psycho pass psycho.
They call me the Minister of Internal Affairs. *coughs* *dusts shoulder*
Don’t ask who they is, thanks.

Anyway, That’s all!
Hey if you have had any crazy experience with a psycho man or woman, share!!

The Abstract (2)

Again, random thoughts as I type.


She pushes, breathing hard.

His whore is in labour.

He grips her hand tightly, smiling into her face.

Come on now! Push! Don’t make me rip it out of you!

She screams in agony.

She screams in pain.

A thousand discordant voices rent the air.

She’s losing blood!

A nurse shouts into his ear.

He runs out of the room and comes back, priest in hand.

Save her!

How? The priest is baffled.

He brings out his katana and slices of his head!

Your blood!

More! The whore screams.

In frenzy, he rushes out again.

With him, back, more priests.

She needs the blood of the saints.

A doctor intones in a somber voice.

Here they are!

He slays them, their blood splattering on the birthing garment of his whore.

He watches the child crown from between her legs as blood drips down to her thighs.

It’s coming! The baby’s coming!

Suddenly overcome, the nurse undresses.

With unbridled lust she mounts the doctor.

Their moans of ecstasy, mingles with her pained cries.

The blood of the saints weep loudly for their master.

It is all too much for him.

His trouser tightens as his phallus thickens, and rips itself out of its cage.

He basks in the disharmony of the birthing chamber.

His whore, holds him by his phallus, screaming as she pushes his child into the world.

Her hand beats down on his red member.

He throws his head back and groans, black fluid flowing, as his seeds spill into her hands.

She gasps as her walls finally expel the child.



The nurse is back in her uniform.

Congratulations, you have a baby boy.

He smiles at the bundle in her arms.

My son.

He picks him up roughly from her arms and cradles him.

He touches his head and feels them.

His horns.


All complete.

He walks away without a backward glance at the screaming whore, demanding for her child.

He smiles at the child.

It is awake.

Pure red eyes look back at him.

It smiles too.

His child; dark-skinned at birth with his jet black, curly hair.

Behold, The Antichrist.

The Abstract (1)

Apologies for the silence. Been having horrible days. Stress. Pressure.
This isn’t a story. In fact, what this is, I have no idea. I read an interesting abstract post this morning and for reasons unknown, I’ve decided to write anything that comes to mind.
Warning: This post would make no sense.
Welcome to My Mind.

Welcome. You came. Kiss me. You know you want to.

His lips dissolve in mine.

Sweet. cloying.

He’s right.

His kisses are like honey.

I hate honey. Gives me a belly ache.


He pulls my hair. They leave my root and take a new life of their own.

They turn into little black snakes, entwined on his fingers.

I snatch them from him and bite their heads off.

They turn back into their harmless form: strands of hair.

His strong hands hold my jaw with brutal force and he stares into my brown eyes.

I stare back and stick my tongue out at him.

He sticks his out in reply and I pull it out of his mouth deftly, with unusual speed.

He smiles, blood slowly dripping from his mouth.

I throw his tongue into my mouth.

Chew. Swallow.

He shows me a new tongue, regenerating.


He bends his head and drops wet, bloodied kisses on my face.

I can feel them drip down my skin.

I cup his muscled buttocks and pinch playfully.

He stops smearing his liquid life on my cheeks and then proceeds to spread more, as he kisses down my neck.

I run my hand across my face and bring it up to my eyes.


I smile and lick my hand clean.

He stares into my eyes.

The door opens but he doesn’t hear it.

Do you love me?

I ask him.

He smiles. Of course. I’ve always done. I will. Forever.

I smile and hug him close, my chin on his shoulder.

My smile turns into a smirk as I stare at her.

She stares at us in disbelief.

Do you really love me?

I ask again, looking into her eyes.

More than life itself.

His voice is muffled but his message is loud enough to be heard.

I watch her eyes, water in horror and heartbreak.

She leaves but he still doesn’t hear the door as it slams.

Suddenly, he begins to melt in my arms.

Soon, I’m drenched in a pool of blood, hugging space.

I drop my hands back to my sides, throw my head back and laugh.

He said he loved his wife. But he belongs to me.

Every man belongs to me.

Take all. Give nothing back.

I am, after all, The Succubus.

Last Christmas

Hello! This post isn’t a new one, No Sir! This was a story I wrote as an entry for an online writing competition still going on at titled The Writer. If you’re on twitter, you can follow the hash tag #TheWriter for all the updates and interviews. Well, my story didn’t make the cut. Guess it wasn’t my best. Different from my usual perhaps! LOL at the title btw. It was originally titled This Christmas but as Keresimesi don pass na… *Weirdo shrug*

Enough of the endless prattling. Enjoy!



I’m suddenly thinking about bees; those fat yellow-black monsters I used to chase at my gran’s garden when I was still young, during the summer-y months of July and August. I wonder why I’m thinking about them. Maybe it’s because of how similar they sound to the clipper that shaved off my red locks of hair some weeks ago at this very place. Yes, it all started with thinking about hair. Hair to bees. It’s funny how my mind roams randomly. This salon is almost like a hive, with the eternal bzzzt of a dozen clippers, the soft, metallic chop chop of two dozens scissors and the innumerable murmurs of ‘Thanks’ and ‘Come back again’.
I close my eyes and I can almost feel the summer’s sun on my skin; almost smell the compost in the garden. My nose wrinkle instinctively at the memory. I never really liked that smell, especially when it was watered down with either the odd rain or gran’s watering hose.
My eyes snap open. I remember where I am, far away from the farm in both distance and years. The woman smiles at me. I wonder how long she has been here standing, watching me in my closed-eye musing. I smile sheepishly in apology and thanks, following her. Humming a carol tune along with the jukebox, we make our way to her office.
“Have a holly jolly Christmas…”
On our way, we pass several posters of multi-racial women with beautiful hair, smiling brilliantly at whatever camera lenses were capturing their images at that moment. I throw one raven-haired a cheeky grin and cackle in my head.

The Christmas song doesn’t leave my head even as I walk outside into the stinging cold, package I went to collect, in hand. I readjust my bright red scarf (Christmas spirit!) across my neck, singing softly as I walk down the street to the hospital.
“I don’t know if there’ll be snow…”
Well there isn’t! Back in Cumbria, houses would have been snowed in by now. Not here of course. All we have for now in London is the rain.
The blue and white NHS signpost welcomes me back and with surety, my feet walk unaided to the ICU. I go past a brightly adorned faux Christmas tree and several strips of green and red decorations; tell-tale signs of someone trying into infuse some cheer in the wards. Sadly, only the members of staff would get to enjoy its beauty; patients strapped to life-giving machines can’t, can they?
“Oh my have a holly jolly Christmas this year!” I whisper as I walk into her room, smiling.
I gently drop my bag, bringing out the early Christmas present. They had done a good job! I walk up to her bedside, bed springs squeaking as I lower my frame to sit.
She’s asleep, chest rising and falling in tandem to the beeping of the huge machine beside her bed.
My lovely angel.
A smile tugs at the side of my lips as I listen to her whistling breath. One genetic trait her father managed to smear on her ‘mini-mummy’ characteristics. My smile turns sad as I remember George.

He left.
He left me four years ago with a one-month old baby to care for all by myself. We were not married after all; no vows holding him down.
The weasel.
She was my bundle of joy, the bundle of joy I refused to abort for his selfish reasons.
I’m her mummy and her daddy; always have been, always will be.
I rub her bald head gently, feeling the tiny pricks of new hair growing. She used to have beautiful, shiny auburn hair, like her mama. Her illness changed that. It started with dizzy spells; then graduated to frightening seizures. Routine brain scans equalled a skinhead four-year old girl.
The brain scans would continue until the doctors are sure about what exactly is wrong with her. They’re confused.
Been a month already. I would not think about it; not now. Maybe in January, after Christmas.
Gently, I wear her the gift.
My gift of Love.
I can’t help smiling.
“Merry Christmas hun” I whisper, kissing her forehead. My tummy growls its protest at being left unattended to.
“Oh hush” I mutter as I get up, picking up my umbrella and wallet.

Windy rain.
I struggle to hold on to my umbrella but a sharp gust of wind snatches my partner away from me, twirling it in a dainty pirouette. My arms flail in protest.
A young man manages to grab on to it before it flies afar.
“Thanks!” I exclaim in gratitude.
His eyes travel across my face to my head and I watch his eyes widen in surprise. I had forgotten my hat. I see his face soften in pity and I can instantly tell what he’s thinking.
Bald head.
“Merry Christmas” he whispers and walks away.
I want to call out to him and correct him but I doubt he’d understand.
What better gift can a mother give her child?

“Mummy do you think there’s a chimney in the hospital?”
I looked up from my reading “Why baby?”
She coughed a little and I went to her side.
“Well dunno if Santa comes to hospitals.”
“Of course he does baby.”
She smiled.
“Mummy, do you think Santa can get me new hair?”
My eyes suddenly smarted.
I kissed her forehead.
“I’m sure he will”
She grinned in satisfaction, her hands playing with my hair.
“New hair as pretty as yours mummy.”

I’m her mummy, her daddy and her Santa.
Call me crazy if you will, but I made a wig for my baby with my hair. Unusual perhaps but then I’ve never been known to be ‘usual’ now have I?
I smile at his retreating back.
“Merry Christmas” I murmur.


That’s it!

Musings of an Introspective Somebody

From the title, you’ve probably guessed this is one of those posts that have no direction and look like rants even though they are not..i think. As usual, this post is being sponsored by a memory. I seem to have a lot of those.

Anyway, have you ever asked yourself this question: If my house was burning what would i first take out?
I have; a lot of times. The first time i asked was when there was a mini explosion near my house. An aerosol can or something. One second there was quiet, the next, BOOM. Mother was unfazed mehn. She just looked up briefly from her reading and went back. Chuck Norris’ older sister. As for me, that was when I started counting my worldly possessions. the only things I could count worth picking were the school books i paid for and the library books I’d pay for if returned in a bad condition. Sad no?

Thankfully, i haven’t been able to answer that question in a real life situation. But, something did happen once that was almost similar.
You see, one fateful morning, i was asleep, when I got woken up by a scream. My sister’s scream. A very chilling scream, asking for her mummy. She was downstairs. The speed at which I woke up ehn. The first thing i thought was “There is a snake in the house!!!” I think I was dreaming about snakes.

I jumped out of bed and my brain did some serious FBI agent style assessment of my surrounding. My room is on the first floor. I could jump out of the window because it is big enough. The little shrub below would break my fall. All these thoughts in seconds. Sharply, i picked up my laptop, put inside my school bag. Picked up my library card too. Took my bank cards and slipped into my pants. Slung the bag on my shoulders, pulled the curtain apart, opened the window and was set to do my James Bond ‘fly-out-of-the-window-and-look-unruffled’ jump.

I didn’t.
There was no snake.
It was just a pervert.
Apparently, my sister was using the toilet downstairs, the curtain was open, the light was on. She turned to get tissue and behold, a face was peering in through the window, watching her.
I just hissed and went back to bed…which she found insensitive as usual. I got a lot of “If it were you, you’d have screamed too!”
No, I wouldn’t have. I’d have either:
1. Shaken my bumbum at the voyeur.
2. Behave like I didn’t see him, get up, leave, rush to the door, open, see his face, stalk him, kill him.
3. Open the window suddenly and bruise his face.
Would I have screamed? No. No Sir.

Anyway, at least it wasn’t a snake.
I went back to sleep. So yeah, there ends that cool story.

Let’s play a game,  ‘Imagine This’. If something were to happen and you had to leave the house immediately, what are the first things you’d pick up? 😀

The Marshes

Yay! Something new! Wanted to try out something different, writing this. Hope you enjoy and do tell me what you think! 🙂


It is said that the marshes are alive and sometimes, can be heard. No one knows its history or why it came to be the human death trap that it is now. Many a person have lost their lives to its deceptive nature.
Non-locals of course.
Even Old Jim, the village idiot knows better than to traipse around the road that leads to the marshes after his nightly affair with the bottle…or bottles in his case.
This of course, was told to Master Jonathan Parker, a non-local and new occupant at Bricklow house.
“Oh I shan’t disparage yer good advice sire. I shall be sure to veer well away from them.” He told the store keeper as he collected his purchased goods and shillings in change.
“Make sure yer don’.” The keeper said gruffly.
Master Parker lifted his beaver top hat briefly, and ventured out into the rain while Old Joe watched him thoughtfully.
A gentleman must always keep his word. Of course, he didn’t believe in the stories one bit.
“A learned man, I am. I shan’t be caught believing an old maid’s tale.” He murmured to himself as he gingerly walked, ‘brella in hand.
It was almost dark.
The warning to Master Parker is indeed, quite necessary. It would have been negligence on Old Joe’s part. For you see, Master Parker’s house is situated just a walking distance from these marshes. No one had lived in the house for years on the account if this terrible location.
But Master Parker, oh so nouveaux, modern!
“Pish posh!” He had said to the local housing agent who suggested another house for his abode.
“I’m quite able to take care of myself sire, never you mind!” With a shrug and several signatures later, Master Parker owned it.
He whistled a jaunty tune as he walked on home with his groceries.

Master Parker, a bachelor wasn’t in Devonshire for a holiday, oh no! Quite contrary to what he told the local agent. He had come for refuge. Being mixed up surreptitiously with gentlemen of ill repute meant he had to exit the city for a little while. The gendarmes did not take kindly to the pilfering that went on at the newly opened East India Quay docks. Because of his links with the illegal tradesmen, his name had come up in the list. Thanks to a tip, he was able to take the next coach out of the city before the hand of the law fell on him.
“Lay low till everything is blown over, my love” his mistress had whispered quickly as she tiptoed to brush her lips against his before he left.
All these, of course, were Master Parker’s secrets. As far as the locals were concerned, he was just another affluent city lad.
He quite frankly enjoyed the way the ladies looked at him here in the village, as he tipped his hat in greeting. Of course, they are no match for his conquests in the city but women are women are women. He did quite like the look of the scullery maids that came to cook for him weekly. Maybe if predisposed, he could convince her to take a different kind of cooking. His skills, after all were quite legendary in the brothels he frequented.
The men, he noticed, looked enviously at his immaculate clothing; cravats, neck ties, colourful breeches.  Although he had rushed out of the city in a hurry, his wench had slipped a wad of notes into his coat. He had done a little shopping out-of-town. The clothes he had now were by no means any match for what he had ensconced in his drawers in the city. These town fools couldn’t tell the difference and it was just alright by him.
All in all, Master Parker, was seen as a gentleman here. He could not disabuse them of that notion.

Of the habits that came with him from the city asides his smoking from a fancy pipe, was his nocturnal habit. Sometimes, falling asleep come quite hard to him. Unless it was after a very vigorous night action. Of course. In the city, there had been different establishments that stayed open all night. This is where this town had failed. There were no suitable places for a man of his station to go to. Well, discounting the church which seemed to be open all the time. These lots, sadly, have not discovered the fine arts of gambling or night games. The only place where the spirits didn’t taste like diluted piss in the town closed early, every day. What kind of pub did that!
Frankly speaking, Master Parker couldn’t wait to shake the dust of Devonshire off his shoes.
Good riddance!
For the lack of these sorely missed entertainments, Master Parker took to long night walks.
“To clear my head” he had said in the most austere of tones to the butcher who once saw him.
“Strange fellow he be, that Master Parker. Fancy clothes. Even at night.” The butcher had said to his wife later that night when their course of gossip got to the subject of Jonathan Parker.

On one of such nights, he threw on huge coat, his boots and left the house. He didn’t have to check his gold-plated timepiece to know that it was well past midnight.
He breathed in the cold damp air. Without a thought for destination, he allowed his feet to take the lead. The moon shone brightly, illuminating his way. He affected the air of a worldly man. Humming a soft tune that had been the rage in the city, he found his legs were merely retracing his well-known travelled routes.
Drinking house.
Well, almost home.
He found himself taking the route that led him to the marshes.
He stopped.
“Let it not be said that Jonathan Parker has turned lily-livered!” he murmured.
Smiling roguishly, he walked on.
He cleared his throat and sang:
                        “Oh, lovely Mary Donnelly, my joy, my only best!
                            If fifty girls were round you, I’d hardly see the rest;
                                Be what it may the time o’ day, the place be where it will,
                              Sweet looks o’ Mary Donnelly, they bloom before me still.”

He had a powerful tenor voice which he was proud of. Hearing it in the still, calm, night thrilled him.

                         “Her eyes like mountain water that’s flowing on a rock,
                     How clear they are, how dark they are! they give me many a shock;
                           Red rowans warm in sunshine and wetted with a show’r,
                         Could ne’er express the charming lip that has me in its pow’r.”

“Quite a powerful voice you have there, Sir.” a voice said, bringing him to an abrupt halt.
He turned, looking for the source of the voice.
Just a little down the road, stood a woman. She drew closer.
“Please Sir. Do sing!”
“An evening to you, fair lady” He sketched a little bow.
She giggled and curtsied.
“Not a safe time for a lady to be on the road, alone” he said, smoothly smiling.
“And it’s safe for you I suppose? Oh hush Sir!” she laughed, as she pulled her shawl closer to her shoulders.
He liked her.
“May I escort you home, lest you’d be prone to attack”
She smiled prettily and his heart thumped in his chest.
“Would you sing for me Sir? Would you sing when we get home”
“Of course! Any song you like!” He knelt down on the wet road, took her hands and kissed them.
He never noticed their coldness in his fervour to please.
He rose and she pointed.
“Home’s that way.”
He was puzzled.
“But…that’s the Mar….”
She looked at him, a small smile playing on her lips “Yes?”
He shook his head, clearing the confusion from his eyes.
“Nothing! Let’s get you home!” He daintily took her arm in his, and side by side, they walked home.
If you can call Death home.
For what Master Jonathan Parker saw, was a long road that lead to a house. A road that was the Marshes, few minutes ago.
He of course thought he was just delusional. He couldn’t scare away this beautiful damsel with his rambling about the Marshes.
For all he knew, they did not exist.
And soon, he did not exist.

The locals knew.
The Marshes had claimed Master Parker.
Why else would they have found his beaver top hat and coat, cast carelessly on the muddy road?
The housing agent was contacted.
He sent a telegraph to the name the late Master Parker had scribbled as next of kin.

‘Dear Miss Penelope. stop. I’m saddened to say that Master Jonathan Parker is no more. stop. Drowned in an unfortunate incident. The Marshes. stop. Body not recovered. stop. My condolences. stop. Master Phillip. stop. Agent. stop.’


Hope you enjoyed that! 🙂

Photographic Intents II

Again, another picture moment.



‘Attack Iran’


‘Slumbering Succubus’


Now about the picture, Attack Iran. I saw that at a bus stop and asides from taking a picture, I was fascinated albeit morbidly, with the whole idea behind the poster. For those who can’t see it properly, the bombs falling on the Iranian family is labelled ‘US’.
Now, I’m not politically savvy so I won’t go into supporting or condemning.
BUT, Peace via War?
Who’s really the bad guy?
Your contribution would be valued!

Shalom and have a Happy Shabbat! 🙂

Photographic Intents

I know it has been a little quiet here and all. Been busy living a life. Lol ok that was a joke. 😦
Haven’t had time for recreational writing or even editing the stories I’ve gotten from people.
I did promise some time ago to post some pictures I took out of boredom. All done with mobile phones mind you.
Well, here they are!
P.s.: I’m not even worthy to be called an amateur. These are just…stuff.
I’m no good at being deep so I won’t bother saying shit that would boggle the mind like Ekwem ( :p ). Let the pictures speak.
Anyhow! Enough talking!

This one, I titled The Traveller.




Dance like M.J

And the last one….

There you have them!
Half are as recent as two years ago. Half, this year.
I know, I did a lot if tinkering with effects.
Do tell me what you think anyway!

%d bloggers like this: