Category: flash fiction


Ma Sullivan


She sidled up to the front aisle and sat down, her thinning grey hair covered haphazardly with a scarf. It did not stop stubborn wisps of hair bent on freedom from escaping. She sat and waited for the remaining seats to be filled up apprehensively. Her calloused hands gripped the clutch of her favourite bag and she rubbed the filigree design with her thumb feeling every bump; a habit she was wont to do when extremely nervous.
The room to be viewed was still empty of people, the only occupant, a big metal chair She stared at it, as if concentrating trying to pry it secrets out. Soon, it would be taking the only thing she had left away from her. Her lips dried and she licked them reflexively. She heard movements behind her and knew the pew had begun to fill up.
She did not turn back, avoiding to see the faces.
It wasn’t shame or fear.
No. Ma Sullivan knew no shame.
She just did not want to explain her presence; or offer apologies she knew would be ineffectual.
So she sat there, hair tucked haphazardly in her scarf, back ramrod straight, staring right ahead.
Quite a number of people wanted front seats, and as she made way for them, they saw her and gasped.
She did not avert her eyes; No Sir!
She looked them straight in the eyes, taking in the ill-disguised look of disgust on their faces without a twitch of her facial muscles in reaction. They always dropped their eyes first, shuffling past her. She heard them whisper amongst themselves and pass her name around.
She heard the murmurings behind her but refused to answer them; she had every right to be here.

Soon, the lights dimmed and the main stage area lit up, distracting them.
Guards came in and walked to the chair, checking the straps and bolts. When they were done, one of the officials gave a speech.
She did not listen. She tuned them out.
She came for one thing only.
Soon, they brought him out.
She stared at him as they pulled him to the chair and strapped him. Ignoring the bondage, she stared fixedly at his face.
He had grown softer around the edges. His eyes looked rheumy. He looked older than ever.
His once full head of hair was shaved completely bald and looking like that, sitting there, she could not help but be reminded of his father.
His father had once sat on just the same chair.
She had watched her younger son sit on the same chair.
Now, it was his turn.
As if feeling a stare, his weak eyes looked to the audience and seeing his mother, there was a sudden light in his eyes.
Not one of happiness; of anger, of resentment.
He sneered at her.
She watched him impassively, unprovoked. Seeing as he couldn’t rile her up, his swore at her, red in the face.
Unfeeling bitch.
Like she hadn’t heard that one before.
Was this his way to finally get the attention he always craved from her?
Well, he got in. She was there watching.
He flipped her a middle finger before he got completely immobilised and smiled at the little frown thst crawled up her eyebrows.
The bitch wasn’t carved out of stone then!

Soon the ceremony, as she dubbed it started.
The official stated his name; stated his crimes.
Ma Sullivan did not flinch as the list of murders her son had committed rolled out.
Murders against women her age; women that looked like her
Murders meant for her.
He had had her face in mind every time he strangled them; he said so in court.
His real victim was her but since he could not get her, they had to do.
No, he wasn’t molested ss a child.
But the fucking bitch was made of stone, all my life!
She sat stoic then, listening in the court room.
She was doing the same now; sitting there, stoic.

Soon it was show time,
They fixed the cap on his head and there he sat, looking as stupid as his brother had looked with that cap on his head; as stupid as his father had looked too, seated right there.

They killed him.

The others gasped as the electric currents fried him. She said nothing, merely watching her son’s jerking body as his brains fried.
It almost reminded her of his birth; the light flickering in the dinghy backroom of a motel. The smell of death and decay that she had been unconcerned about.
She wondered for a second if his electrocution had hurt as much as she did, pushing him out of her
It would have been fitting if it did.
Come in screaming, leave screaming.
It didn’t matter now anyway.
He was dead.
When he had been confirmed dead, she watched them roll out his dead body.

The show was over.
The murmurings began again.
How could she come to watch?
How could she bear it?
Just what kind of a woman was she?

She said nothing, walking out of the stifling room to the open air, grateful for the gulps of fresh air.
She made a beeline to her car and when she was safely inside, she rested her head on the steering wheel.
Tears coursed down her cheeks and she did nothing to wipe them away.
Where had she gone wrong?
Why did they all end up the way they did?
The media touted her as evil. ‘Matriarch of the Evil Sullivan”
It did not matter that she never participated in their crimes; or that she had kicked all three of them out of her house before they had gone on a bend.

Could she have stopped it?
She had failed.
As a wife; she married a lazy psycho, a lunatic.
As a mother; she was too busy to love them. She herself never received any love from her mother.She had worked hard to provide money for anything they wanted.
Why hadn’t they been enough?
Her lunatic mistake of a husband then bred them for evil.
As a human; she had been too afraid to stop them.
She kicked them out instead.
She had been a coward.

She swallowed a sob and decided on what she would do.
She would absorb all the blame; from the families of the victims, from the general populace.
She would absorb them all.
Then she would take it with her to a place where she knew she belonged.
To hell.

————————————————-

If this doesn’t make sense, welcome to the club. Didn’t make sense to me either.
Reading a book titled Talking to serial killers and this is the result of a half-formed idea.
Are people born evil? Or is it solely on upbringing?

Let’s think about that.

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Undeparted


“Susan Okpara is dead”

We sat shocked in the assembly hall, our minds trying to assimilate what we just heard.
Susan? Our Susan?
Susan the Head Girl. Susan the M.B.G. in Princess High.
Some of us did not believe it.
We refused to believe, even as we sat on the pews at her funeral, watching her covered coffin as a Bishop spoke about Life and Death.
It still did not…no… would not hit us as we watched her being laid into the ground.
We refused to let it hit us as her coffin was covered with sand, as we took handfuls from a mound; we knew we were just going through a ceremony.
The box is empty.
It had to be.
Susan is not inside.
She couldn’t be!

Susan Okpara is not dead.

Simple.

“Susan is not dead” Mr Ikon said authoritatively when we resumed the next week.
He glared at us, daring us to argue but no one was ready to.
He was her prized pupil.
Mr Ikon walked to her desk and pointed, finger trembling as he tried to control the tremor in his voice.
“Susan is not dead. She is here with us, sitting right here. We cannot treat her as dead”

That was how it begun.

We were willing to go along with it.

Susan wasn’t dead.

Her desk remained there for her.
We stuffed her assignment into them.
It didn’t matter to us that it was soon overflowing with papers.
We packed them neatly, writing her name on each one and storing in her metal locker.

Her name remained on the register and I personally signed her in every morning.

We reserved a seat for her for school trips.

She was the prom queen and her crown was put on her seat.

It was graduation day and for the first time, we forgot about Susan.

“Everybody come together. Now smile. Say cheese”

We smiled as the flash blinded our eyes for three second

Two weeks later, my graduation pictures came.
I smiled as I looked through them.
The last was the panoramic view of all the graduating students.
I smiled as I identified everyone.

My eyes glanced over myself…and stopped.

My heart stopped.

Then redoubled.

I closed my eyes.

I opened them, blinking rapidly.

I looked back at the picture,

No, i was not mistaken.

Behind me, Susan stood in her school uniform.

Her skin seemed translucent; faded.

Lips stretched wide into a smile that didn’t reach her cold, dead eyes that glared out at the camera.

My hands shook, my breathing coming in gasps.

I looked at her hands.

They held my shoulders.

No, not held.

They clawed at my shoulders as if trying to rip my arms out of their sockets.

A whimper escaped from me.
The photograph fluttered away from my hand and dropped on the bed.

Sweat rolled off my brows and I brought out my phone, shakily trying to dial Lola’s number.

Just at that moment, I felt it.

I felt a hand pull on my shoulders.

I turned violently, jumping off the bed, eyes wide with terror.

No one was there.

My throat clogged as I picked my phone quickly and dashed for the toilet.

“Oh God” I whimpered as I locked myself in.

I sat down on the toilet lid, fingers slipping off my keypad as I tried to get Lola’s number from my phone book.

I wiped my hand rapidly on my thighs, trying to control my breathing as sweat into my eyes,  listening to the phone ring.

I licked my dry lips anxiously.

“Hello! Oh my God Feng was just about to call you! Did you hear what happened? Mr Ikon is dead!!”

My brain slowed to a crawl.

“Hello? Feng? Feng? What is it? You crying? ‘Cause of Mr Ikon? No? Feng what happened!?”

I took a deep breath.

“L..Lola…”

“Yes? Talk!”

“L..Lola..Susan…”

“Huh?”

“SUSAN IS NOT DEAD!”

As I spoke frantically to her, I felt it again.

Hands gripping the back of my neck.

I screamed, phone dropping off my trembling hands and clattering to the floor.

“Why didn’t you people let me die?”

—————————————————————————

Hey!
So, this was first scribbled after i finished watching an anime, Another. Served as an inspiration for this story and if you watch it, you’d know why.
I’d recommend to fans of animation. Yes, it is Japanese but hey, I think the Japanese tell the best horror stories.

That being said, hope you have a lovely weekend and Eid Mubarak to my Muslim readers!

Jana!

The Final Trick


“20 minutes Tyler!”

I can hear the crowd roar with approval from the dressing room backstage.
I smile a little, swiveling my turning chair until I’m facing the huge mirror that covers almost half the wall in the ‘common room’ as it is called by everyone. I watch life pass by behind me.
Chorus girls dressing; one trying to pin a tassel to her dark nipple. I watch the curtains leading to the center-stage part a little, allowing the stage light to filter through, before it falls back into place.
Yells of encouragement, of laughter. I sit in front of the mirror and watch in fascination as painted-on faces come into view.
One girl notices me and suddenly her face is lit up with a beaming smile. She whispers quickly to another girl standing nearby and they both turn and look at me.
They make to approach me but suddenly are  turned away when they hear their cue to partake in the spotlight.
Their turn on the big stage.
They wave and the cheekier of the two girls blows a kiss at me. I make a catching motion and place it on my lips, smiling slightly as she blushes red and hurries off.

“Tyler! You shouldn’t be here! Your dressing room. You would be next”

My manager.
Without a word to him, I do as he demands, walking away from the hubbub of the changing rooms of the other side acts to the quietness of mine.
Main act of the night.
Star.
Alone.
My manager hovers behind me like an annoying bee with me playing the flower.
He is nervous; his fingers twisting at a piece of paper, the pamphlet for tonight’s show.
He is talking to me.
“This would be the biggest! The biggest show ever! We are making millions!”
I tune him out.
I sit on my ‘throne’ and face an even bigger mirror.
What is it with mirrors in this place anyway? It seems like everywhere I turn, there is another me, staring out with lost, brown eyes.
Lost.
I watch him talk, bulbous nose moving with every enunciation. He notices my absent-mindedness and sighs dramatically. I almost chuckle at the comical way his already huge girth expands as he takes a deep breath.
I wonder he has a baby hippo nesting somewhere within his voluminous white jacket.
I remember when he was slimmer, hungrier.
I remember when he first met me.
‘Do you want to be a star?’ he had asked me then. I remember looking at dark, shifty eyes and wondering just how he was going to pull that piece of magical trick off. I remember shrugging my shoulder and nodding noncommittally. I did what I did because I enjoyed it, not because of stardom but I figured that too wasn’t bad. Stardom meant I shared my art with a wider audience an of course, better funding. Maybe even one day affording a new suit and not the hand-me-downs I picked up from charity stores.
He was true to his word.
He made me a star.
But he sure did reap the benefit later, if his weight is anything to go by.
I raise one hand to silence him mid prattle.
“It’s just another show Donny. Relax.” I murmur, a small sigh escaping my thin lips.
I have finally responded and he grabs this opportunity before I shut down.
“Just another show? THE QUEEN IS OUT THERE! Dignitaries! This is IT! IT I TELL YOU!” He walks about, guts heaving, hands flailing.

“Yea yea…” I stare at my reflection intently.
I’m not sure what I’m looking for; maybe glimpses of the ten year old boy who stared in amazement at the street urchin’s hands as he made the cards he held up disappear.
I can still remember his toothy grin, his croaky voice that asked me to pick a card. “Go on” he had cajoled and i picked a card.
I remember his cackling laughter at my stare of wonder when he had produced exactly the card I had picked up.
“Another!” I cried out in excitement; that pure, unadulterated excitement.
I am looking for glimpses of the boy who went home and proudly announced to his father that he was going to be a Magician.
‘Stop talking nonsense and get your hands ready for kneading’ my dad had replied shortly to me.
A baker he was, and a baker he was determined to make out of me. To my father, baking was in the Hughes blood and he was ready to knead me into what he was by all means.
I wonder where the boy who went back to that street urchin, begging him to teach him the tricks of his trade is.
What happened to him?
Would I ever feel that way again?
Would I ever feel that rush of excitement and sense of adventure I felt when I finally left home in the middle of the night, leaving to seek my fortunes as an entertainer? That freedom; that belief.
I look hard at myself and I cannot find him.

“Are you even listening to me!”
Donny’s voice breaks into my contemplation and I sigh, exasperated. I turn to him.
“Where did I go to?”
He looks puzzled. “Tyler, you’re here…I don’-”
I shush him. “Do you remember the Canon show?” I whisper.
H frowns, knowing where I was leading to.
“Not today of all days” he mutters to himself as he walks to the drawers, rummaging them, pointedly ignoring my question.
“Remember the way the small crowd cheered? How you lifted me up and called me a genius” I whispers, more to myself.
“Ah!” he calls out, securing a packet of Bupropion. He fetches me a glass of crystal clear water and proffers the two small tablets to me.
“You’re not spazzing out on me today of all days Tyler. No.”
I ignore the tablets in his hands and rest my chin on my steepled fingers back to gazing at myself.
“I don’t need those”
He looks aggrieved and I suddenly feel a little pang of guilt. I sigh, my face softening to accommodate a smile.
“Fine. I’ll take it. Just shoo. You’re a mother hen”
His smile comes back and dropping the tablets in my hands he holds my head and plants a wet kiss Donny-style on my forehead.
“We’ve made it!” He laughs and walks off. I can hear him scream at my makeup team to get to work.
When I’m sure he is out of sights, I get up and dump the antidepressant pills in a bin.
I’d do without them.

Soon, I am on stage and I feel rather than see Donny give me a thumbs up. I hear my wife’s laughter as she claps.
I smile to myself.
She believes I do not  know about her and Donny. Better off that way isn’t it?
A tic pulls at my eyebrow and quickly banishing thoughts, I wear my mask; full wattage smile. All suave.
I can barely make out the said dignitaries in the audience, the spotlight cast on me, turning them into mere shadows with voices.
Alone.
I wait for the rush I get from the applause and cheers but nothing hits me.
It is all noise.
Alone and Empty.
Like an automaton, I go through my practiced routines with such dexterity, I could have been doing them blindfolded.
After the thunderous applause that signals the end of my last performance, I clear my throat.
As if on cue, there is a hush.

I smile.
Not the mask; not the full wattage smile.
I smile; small, sad.
“Now, for my final trick” I murmur.
I hear the buzz of excitement in the audience; i also hear Donny’s voice demanding to know ‘What the hell he’s doing!’ from someone.
I do not turn.
I pick up a sword, one of the props and slowly twirl it like a baton in the air. The silent anticipation is so thick, I could have cut it with a bread knife.
“I’m done” I whisper and without thinking, I drive the sharp point of the sword into my neck.
I bite my lips at the pain, my eardrums able to pick out the gasps and claps over the pounding of blood.
They cannot see my blood, carefully absorbed by the black cloak I have on.
I suddenly realize they are waiting… for the illusion to be revealed; for the magic.
My knees buckle and I crumple to the floor.
Dimly, I hear the first real screams of fear.
Ah…
Shouts assault my ears and I feel arms around me, trying to save me.
I finally see him; the young boy who did Magic because he loved it. He extends a hand to me.
Slowly, I reach out and take it. I feel his small, familiar palm squeeze mine. I try to return the gesture.
Finally.
Finally.

——————————————————–

Hey everyone!
This was a half-finished tale hidden somewhere and decided to stay up (currently 3.23am) to finish it up and ready to post.
I do hope you liked it.
There was some sort of message I wanted to pass across when I started writing this initially; I cannot remember what now but I’m hoping i unconsciously included it in the story so let me know if you see it.

That being said, I hope you all have a lovely weekend.
Jana!

Requiem


I

The receptionist tries a little chitchat with the stranger.
“So how long you gonna be town for, Mr. L?” she asks, smiling shyly at him.
“Just for the night, my pretty lady” he answers, smiling. “A show…of some sort.”
She blushes, fluttering her curled, auburn lashes. “Oh great!” she enthuses. “You part of the new performing act in town? We hardly have any shows here!”
He smiles warmly, cupping her cheek suddenly, planting a soft kiss on a lovely cheek.
“Oh you’d see tonight. And I hope you my pretty lady, would participate!”
She simpers, muffling her giggle with dainty hands, her eyes watching his lithe form leave to his room with interest.

II

Her doorbell rings insistently, waking her up from fitful sleep. Cursing, she opens bleary eyes and stares at the digital clock, glowing green.
3.30am.
“What the…”
She groans, flopping back on the bed. Her eyes slowly close when the doorbell rings again, longer this time, as if whoever is at the door is leaning on the  buzzer.
She jumps up, kicking at her duvet angrily.
It has to be her sister. The good for nothing wastrel who does nothing but party every night since she came to stay at hers. She has probably forgotten her key.
She grumbles all the way downstairs, switching on the light and with sleepy-eyed fury, draws the bolt off and yanks the door open.
“You better have a fucki…”
She stops.
There is no one at the door.
Her eyebrows scrunched in confusion, eyes still glazed with sleep.
“For fuck’s sake!”
She slams the door shut and cursing under her breath, she walks back up the stairs.
The bulb suddenly flickers, and as if snuffed, goes off, plunging her into darkness.
“Oh come on!” she groans, adding expletives for good measures when she blindly stubs a toe. Gingerly, she traces her way up the dark stairs, holding onto the handrails as guide.
When her feet get to the top, she suddenly feels cold hands grip her ankles.
Incomprehension shocks her to silence for seconds.
At the first pull, she regains her voice.
And screams.
She screams as she is dragged her down the stairs.
She screams as she falls, her head hitting every step like a bouncing ball before unconsciousness takes her out.
The light flickers on seconds later.
A trail of blood is smeared down the stairs.

III 

He stands bleary-eyed, holding on to his flaccid penis as he releases his waters of mankind as he tends to call it.
‘More beer than water’ he muses to himself.
Friday night, time to get wasted.
Inebriated by the alcohol, he is barely moved by the stink of the urinal.
As he is about to give himself a firm shake before zipping up, the light of the stall goes off and he curses, words slurred.
Suddenly, he feels cold, clammy hands prise his hand away from him member and grab his balls.
He squeaks in fright, the pain at being violated momentarily rendering him sober.
A scream of terror tears itself out of his throat as the strong, unyielding hand drag him, as if trying to force his body into the small toilet, slamming his head repeatedly on porcelain till they lose their virgin whiteness, crimson red with blood.
His body slides down to the urine stained floor.
The lights come back on.
A man walks in and opens a stall.
“WHAT THE FUCK!”

IV

She squats unceremoniously on the toilet seat and lets out a string of piss.
Her headphone blasts music into her ears and she bobs her head, feet tapping tot he beat.
Suddenly, she feels something cold and long slither into her vagina, forcing its way in.
Her eyes widen as she tries to stand.
She is pulled back to the seat.
She screams as she continues to sink further into the toilet bowl, eyes shiny with tears and unbelief.
She screams in pain when she feels her inside being dragged out.
As if pushed away by an invisible force, she falls, kneeling, her head smacking the tile floor.
Drops of blood streak down the toilet bowl, on the floor.
The light illuminates the drops of blood drops making crisscross skid marks down her pale thighs, her womb still pulsing warmly between her legs.
Her headphones continue blasting their music, unaware.

V

Jeremy is shoved out of bed and dragged into the kitchen.
A meat cleaver is forcefully thrust his hands.
He screams, hoping to wake someone up as invisible hand drag him up the stairs.
He realises what is about to happen seconds too late.
He plunges the cleaver repeatedly into his big brother’s chest and throat.
His prepubescent voice, hoarse, continues to scream, unable to stop.

VI

You would next.
You would scream.
But nobody would hear you.
NOBODY would hear you.
This is your Requiem.

 

VII

Mr. L’s lips are stretched at the edges into a smile, naked on his bed in his motel room, his thick , long member, black as night and visibly throbbing, contrasting with the pale hue that is the rest of his body. He fiddles with the chain on his neck, eyes closed as his body trembles slightly.

“Scream my little ones” he murmurs throatily, licking his dry lips. “Scream!”
He groans, cocking his head to the side, as if listening to the finest aria from an orchestra, a deep hum rumbling in his chest, building.
His hair crackles with electricity, standing at their ends.
The bed shakes as his body increases its vibrating intensity.
“Scream!” he murmurs louder, almost orgasmic.
He throws his head back and bares his teeth at the ceiling, hands squeezing his chain tight, body frozen.
As the music in his head builds up to a crescendo, he ejaculates.
His semen, black like stale blood runs down his thighs and he sighs, the look of serenity creeping into his face, opening dark eyes tinged red.
He belches, sulphurous smoke escaping from his nostrils.
“Wonderful!”
He laughs, teeth gleaming. “Wonderful! It’s been a wonderful show, Ladies and Gentlemen!”

 

VIII

An old truck coughs up smoke as it struggles to fire up its engine early in the morning.
After a few tries, the truck roars dully to life.
Whistling, a stranger pulls out of the parking lot of a motel, whistling under his breath.
He waves out of the car to no one in particular as he gets on the road.
“Where shall we perform next, Ladies and Gentlemen?” he murmurs.

IX

He turns to you and smiles knowingly.
He winks.

 

X

You would next.
You would scream.
But nobody would hear you.
NOBODY would hear you.
This is your Requiem.

 

——————————————————————————-

When I wrote this at first, I had no idea who the man was but when I finished, I realised it could be no other than Mr. L.
Always wanted bring in a character from an old story into a different one.
Ah, if you have no idea who Mr L is, phantompages.wordpress.com/2012/06/01/ldiablo/‎ 

Ah yes, before I leave.
Phantompages is going to be 2 on Sunday! Yaay!
Umm… no idea about what I’d do YET but hey, keep your eyes peeled.
Oh and subscribe if you haven’t.

What else?
Have a lovely weekend!
Jana!


“You don’t belong here” he stuttered angrily, wisps of sparse white hair waning as he shook his bony index finger in my face. I could smell the lingering odour of his hotdog lunch on them and wrinkling my nose, I moved his offending finger away from, making sure he noticed me wiping my hand on my trousers.
I chortled in my head at the hue of anger on his pudgy face, his walrus nose visibly flaring as his thin lips quivered
I stepped back.
“Well Mr Smibly” I said calmly, “I belong here just as much as you do. And there is nothing you can do about it”
I smiled sweetly at him and walked away, sitting at a corner where I knew he would be able to see me. I wanted my black ass clearly in his sight.
The racist cunt.

———
He took a deep drag and blew puffs of cigarette smoke into her face. He knew she hated it whenever he did that, which was the main reason why he did it anyway.
She’d complain but would never leave.
That was the nature of their friendship.
“What is love?” he said, repeating her question.
“Love is that special moment spent in between the legs of a street tart at night in Camden. That is love.”
She huffed in irritation.
She always huffed but never went away.
“Seriously! Just talk!” she said in her whiny voice.
He quite liked her voice; even more so when she was moaning in pleasure. It always made him giggle but she never noticed, too caught up in her ecstasy.
Love. What was love?
“Look, let’s forget love ok?”
He blew another into her face and laughed wildly at his antics and her deepening frown.
“Oh come onnn” he cajoled and she smiled a little, her hand subconsciously rubbing her unobvious baby bump.
How was she supposed to get him to love anything but himself?

———-

She smiled at him.
“So… I am going to ask you out” he said rather ceremoniously.
“For breakfast?” A small smile played on her lips.
“Yes, breakfast. Then I’ll ask you out.”
“For lunch?”
“Yes, lunch. Then I’ll ask you out.”
“For dinner?”
She was clearly enjoying herself.
“Yes. dinner. Then I’ll ask you out.”
“For…”
“Stuck?” he asked, an eyebrow raised.
She laughed. “Indeed. I am!”
He grinned and held her hands
“I’ll ask you out to he my girlfriend”
She raised an eyebrow imperiously. “Why?”
He shrugged. “I have no idea”
She burst into a fit of laughter, shaking her head.
“My, aren’t you a charmer…”
“So…?”
She nodded. “Sure”
A sly look crept into his eyes. “Why?”
“Why?”
“Yes, why?”
Imitating him, she shrugged.
“I have no idea”

————–

So, decided to put this up instead of wait till Monday
Wrote these one day on the train and left somewhere in an obscure folder.
Writing it made me smile. Lol.
Oh and a private wink to whom it may concern. 😉

Have a lovely weekend… nah just kidding. 😛
Jana!


Video-Game-Fallout-2459

The world ended and we didn’t notice.

It wasn’t as the prophets had said; with trumpeting blasts and floating bodies in the skies, raptured.

If it had ended that way,  wouldn’t we have been better off?

Our world fell apart around our ears and we never noticed.

Earthquakes, droughts, famine and we never noticed.

It wasn’t happening to us; We forgot about it.

The Earth sagged in fatigue and yawned.

Her gaping mouth swallowed remote cities.

Sinkholes. Floods.

Japan was far away.  Apparently, ChristChurch wasn’t even a name of a church!

It didn’t matter anyway because they were far away.

Wars intensified;  tribal, religious.

We sat in our moral couches, condemning acts of violence;

Forgetting everything the next day.

It didn’t matter. What is Yemen anyway? An Asian cuisine?

The Earth’s knee got weak and she shook, unsteady.

Buildings collapsed in China; In Bangladesh.

They’re populous. They’d get by. Life moves on.

We woke up to news of tornadoes and tsunamis.

We did our Samaritan duties and donated.

We thank whatever deity we wanted for our safety.

We forgot about it.

The Earth was weak and her waters were poisoned.

Some drank and died inside; moral decadence

School shootings; Drive-by shootings; Cinema hall shootings.

We watched on tv, from the safety of our homes,

The wide, deranged eyes of the deadened.

Their frothing mouths as they spewed hate.

We blamed it on Something; Race. Religion. Video Games.

We forgot about it.

Then it came to our streets.

Our neighbor was shot by a man who didn’t like Pakistanis.

We were shocked.

The next day saw revenge butcherings in broad daylight light.

We stood outside for the first time and gazed at ourselves in dismay.

“Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

The ceremony of innocence is drowned”

The world ended a long time ago and we never noticed.

We hid our heads in sand, believing ourselves to be safe.

The Earth died and is decaying.

She falls apart piece by piece and more cities disappear.

The wonders of our modern worlds are going.

The Leaning Tower at Pisa finally fell.

The Pyramids disappeared.

Whatever happened to our Lady Liberty?

The World ended long ago; how come we never noticed?

The Earth is dead and with her, we die.

Now, we wait for our turn on the guillotine.

“Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

The ceremony of innocence is drowned”

*********************************

(Image culled from The Princess In Another Castle)

—————————————–

This strayed into my head some hours ago, due to recent events.
Decided to write as the words came so pardon the rambling.
I’ve always loved the poem The Second Coming by WB Yeats so couldn’t resist throwing it in.
Wanna know something funny?
I think the World ended a long time ago.

 

Brother’s Keeper


I wrote this some time last year and for some odd reason, sat on it.
Today, decided to serve it up!
Enjoy!

BROTHER’S KEEPER

Smack Smack Smack
I wish she’d stop chewing for a second, though i can’t help watching her jaws in morbid fascination as they crunch hard on the piece of bright pink gum lodged between her teeth.
Smack Smack Smack.
I extend my observation to her.
Fingers drumming on the table, nails bitten to ugly stubs coated with old black varnish. I can hear her foot beating a staccato on the terrazzo floor of the coffee shop, scuffed trainers probably dancing to the beat only their  owner can hear.
Her bottle-black shoulder-length hair hangs wet and lanky with grease; she’d stop her drumming on the table once in a while to flick the dirty matt around an ear. Staring at the purple, blue blotches on her skin, I wonder where the porcelain complexion I used to admire long ago went to.
Her worn leather jacket sleeves aren’t long enough to hide the scratches and the needle marks that blazed trails up her arms. I wonder why she bothers hiding it from me. I mean, everything else gives her away for what she is.
A tattoo peeks momentarily from her dirty grey shirt, across her chest before disappearing. Her grey eyes look like they belong in the sockets of someone older by decades.
Her thin, cracked, bloodless lips fire on; chewing horridly.

Smack Smack Smack.
She is the poster child for Decay.
An unlit thin cigarette is cradled in the crook of her ear and her hand keeps straying to the poison tube, fiddling with it.
There is a no smoking policy here so she can’t light up.
Thank goodness
She takes the unlit cig stick and shoves it in her mouth.
I watch in disgusted fascination as she replaces the vacant space on her ear with the sticky chewing gum, making sure it’s glued on properly.

I’ve seen enough.
Best make this snappy then.
“So…” I begin, licking my lips anxiously.
“Cut to the chase. Got the cash?” she says, finger back to their drumming. If only she’d hold on to the bloody cup and stop the noise.
I purse my lips in slight disapproval, sausage fingers tightening on the coffee-filled Styrofoam cup I cradled more for comfort than as beverage.
“No need to be so rude about that.” I start slowly. “Whatever happened to what I gave you weeks ago?”
Her eyes takes a nasty glint and immediately, I drop my cup, raising my hands up in surrender.
“Just asking…”
She eyes me, tongue rolling the cigarette stick in her mouth. “I used the money you gave me earlier wisely. Dun go thinking I blew it on drugs and shit. Paid some of my dues init!”
She glares at me, waiting for the smallest sign of my doubt.
Keeping a blank face, I nod my head. Dues to her suppliers more like.
Seeing I am raising no arguments, she smiles, revealing brown teeth…and a cavity I am sure hadn’t been there when we last spoke.
I sigh, sagging visibly on my seat.
These meetings are always painful. Who’d have believed my older sister would end up this way?
She had been the star of the family.
The perfect one; while I was the clumsy one, unusually big for my age.
Cruel, beautiful Angie.
She had been loved.
So had I, of course but my parent’s doting on her had bordered on reverencing.
Mum would not hear my complaints about her meanness when we were children. She’d look beautifully sad, denying my every accusation. It was incredible to watch sometimes. Heck, I almost even believed her!
She was that good an actress.

Sadly, I loved her.
She was mean yes, but I loved her. I wanted to be like her; to have her smile at me truly, not the smiles she wore when she threw her mean jibes at me. I wanted her to acknowledge me for once. Was that too much to ask?
I guess she had been OK…until our parents died in a freak car accident. She had been 18 then, an adult. I was still 12.
We had moved in with our middle-aged spinster of an aunt, a strict Catholic; that attribute doing nothing but fuel Angie’s rebellious nature.
Maybe that had been her way of coming to terms with what happened to us; the boys, the alcohol. I took solace in food. I somehow managed to survive the trauma; Angie didn’t.
One of her boyfriends introduced her to the white stuff. She went on the deep end and never came out.
Sigh
“What exactly do you need this money for now?” I ask carefully, bringing myself back to the present.
Keeping my tone respectful is the only way to get her to respond like a civilised being. She’s always been the volatile one. Every little question is a slight to her honour; an implied insult.
“What you mean? Have to fix up my house init?” she spits back at me.
“But you live in a council flat…oh.” I realise too late what I have done.
Her lips go thinner, nose flaring.
She leans in menacingly and I instinctively lean back. “You think i like collecting handouts from you?!”
‘Yes, you fucking bitch!’ In my head of course…
“…Just getting myself settled. Written a new poem. Gonna sell it if the cunting bastards take my work then I’ll be fucking rich and you can shove that money up your fat ass!”
I cringe slightly at her raised voice, glancing apologetically at other diners giving us side glances.
“I’m just asking…”I mutter weakly, trying to placate her.
“Then fucking shut up fattie! I’m the only family you got. You can go on workin’ in tha fancy law firm of yours but ya know dey gonn fire you if dey find out bout me. So be a good bitch and give me DA MONEY!
She slams her hand hard on the table and I jump, startled.
Oh dear; She needs her fix.
Her hands are shaking, a nervous tick doing a tap dance on her eyelids.

I take a deep breath.
Pounding headache.
I squeeze my temples.
She is right, sadly. She could easily get me to lose my job by just by turning up at the firm. I would not put it past her to do something like this out of spite one day. I bring out my bribe from the fold of my wallet and throw it on the table.
“Take the money. Take it and leave please” I whisper, suddenly weary.
“Took you long enough”she mutters, counting the wad of twenties i dropped.
“This is gonna be enough for now. I’ll come over if i need more.”
She gets up and walks a few steps before returning.
She sits back and glares at me.
“You think you’re better than me because you helping me right? I might be a mess now, but i am still better than you, Fattie Katie!”
That hurts.
I hate that name.
“Still hiding pork ribs under your pillow, fattie? Still stuffing ya fucking mug like a pig you are?”
She cackles as my breath hitches, becoming laboured. I feel the discreet stares of other diners, ears tuned in to her tirade and I redden with shame.
“Look. I have given…”
“Shut up fat ass!” she screams and I bite my lips hard as I feel my eyes smart with tears.
She knows she’s hit a mark and with a grin of satisfaction, she gets out of her seat and leaves.
I blink back tears of frustration as I watch her cross the road even before the green man comes on, narrowly avoiding being hit by a car.
For a savage moment, I wish her dead. I wish a car would hit her, slamming her broken body onto a pavement, breaking her head and spilling her brain matter in a  gory display.
I bite my lips as she goes out of my line of sight.
I hate myself; I hate myself for being weak, succumbing to her threats but what can I do?
She’s got my by the proverbial balls.  The only reason I still have a job is because of my brains. People my size are apparently not ‘good for the firm’s image’. Any slight upset, and it’s a good bye.
I hate myself for supporting her habits but I can’t let her just…starve or be a hooker…
I grimace as I taste the coffee left in my cup; tepid.
It is time to leave and I try to heave my bulky self off the seat. My seat groans loudly in protest and one or two people look my way, watching my struggle to remain ‘dignified’.
I hear a soft snigger.
‘Laugh why don’t you? Bastards!’
They’ve always laughed, haven’t they?
The whole world laughs at fucking Kate, don’t they?
I smile grimly as I finally manage to stand.

My hands quickly search my bag as I leave and I am comforted by the feel of the jumbo potato chips pack in there.
Sometimes, I wonder who got the better deal, between my sister and I.
Who would die first?
Angie and her drug problems?
Or me and my addiction to food?

The End.

—————————————————————————–

One question on my mind, how far can we go for family?
Honestly, tell me.
And comment on the story!
Hope you all have a lovely weekend break!
Jana.

Eidolon


Hey guys!

Today, I bring to you a writing experiment of some sort.
This piece is going to be read in an unusual way:
First you read straight down, and you continue the story by reading from the bottom to the top!
Quirky eh?

=========================================================================================

EIDOLON

It was

Pain to move;

His body hurt,

They had held him down for too long.

For now;

He had managed to free himself from his demons.

“I need to move on”

He tried to rise on shaky legs.

Shivering like fingers stroking his spine,

He got up.

He reminded himself.

“It’s just a dream”

“Brand him! Brand him! Brand my name on him!”

Burning pincers.

Poke. Poke.

Shrieks of anguish.

More pain lanced his body.

He stumbled as his hands stretched to find a hold.

“Mine!” A voice had cried.

Bad Dream.

Flashes of light behind his eyes.

He woke up in pain.

He woke up scarred.

 Fin.

==============================================================================

Make sense?
Hehe!

On Africa


Hey!
So, I wrote this last year but wasn’t sure of the right time (and place) to put it up but seeing as it’s a Monday, (and I love it when we think on Monday), I decided to proverbially FUCK IT and post it up here and today!
These are two stories which are allegories based on Africa and the African mentality.
Enjoy!

ON AFRICA

The Leader nodded his head. “This is great!” he said as he commissioned his new project.
His followers nodded too.
“Great!” they echoed.
The people nodded reluctantly.
“Great.” they muttered.
They were after all afraid of the Leader and dared not oppose him.
Not after what happened to some of the so called rebels.
It was fine and great.

A child, unaccompanied by his parents walked past the gathering. He stopped and stared in amazement.
Thinking it was a joke, he burst into fits of giggles.
“No it’s not great Baba! It’s Shit!” he yelled, pointing at the project. “Big heap of Shit! Shit with ribbons but still Shit!”

The Leader was silent, embarrassed. He glared at his aides standing by his side, bemused and with alacrity, they moved towards the child.
“Go away from here! Get out! Are you mad?”
They kicked dust at him, chasing him around. Thinking it was a game, the child laughed as he ran in circles with the aides, chanting “Shit! Shit!”
The people tried to hide their amusement. Men bit their cheeks to stops smiles from blooming on their faces. Women covering their faces with their colourful wrappers, soft laughs muffled.
The mother of the child came and took the child away, afraid.
“Stupid child!” she said, slapping him and dragging him home by his ears.

Silence reigned and order was restored.
The Leader looked at the people and pointed at a man.
“I saw him laugh. Take him away”
The people were silent as the pleading man was dragged away by two of the aides.
Rubbing his hands, the Leader grinned and looked back at the project.
“This is great!” The Leader said again, his smile, daring anyone to argue.
No one did.

******************************

A mouse looked into a mirror.
“Surely, I’m as good as an elephant. I have a tail and I have four legs. Chichichichi
He had no tusks of ivory but that didn’t bother him.
“I have sharp teeth to make up for that. Chichichichi”
He had been told an old tale about an elephant’s fear for mice.
He believed it wholeheartedly and with confidence, he decided to let the elephant know who was boss.
“Na me be de baddest. Chichichichi”
He had 31 swags after all; a pulsing G.

And so the mouse went into the cage of the elephant.
He laughed to himself as he watched the ‘clumsy animal’ wave his trunk like an ‘imbecile’.
Chichichichi! Eysss! Big for nothing! Turn this side!”
The ‘clumsy’ elephant turned at the sound and like an ‘imbecile’ it traipsed around its cage, looking for the source of the voice he was sure he must have heard.
Not locating it, the elephant decided he imagined it and went about its business.
The mouse twitched in death, crumpled beneath one giant limb of the elephant.
Chichichichi…

———————————————————————–

So rather that explain what I meant with these stories, I would rather you did that!
Would appreciate it if you give me your understanding or input or whatever you got on these!
And I hope it gets you thinking!

On Wednesday. We got Dionysus in the house!!
Stick around!
Jana!

Te Amo


So it’s the 14th of February. Yada Yada.
Everyone seems to be writing bloody love letters! Lol.
Well, this isn’t a letter but decided to try out a short love story for you love junkies.

————————————————————————————————–

TE AMO

“I…I…”
“Shh…” He held her tight in his arms, burying his face in her hair and stroking her arm. “Say no more baby. I understand” he whispered into her ear softly, a small, sad smile on his lips.
She shook her head slowly, tears streaming down her face, dampening his singlet clad shoulder.
“I forgive you Ibukun” he murmured, kissing her ear to her neck and up to her forehead. “I forgive you because I love you. It hurt but baby,I cannot go on without you.” His voice cracked and her hands shaking, gripped his arm tight.
She choked on her sob, shaking, trying to get a word out of trembling lips but he held a finger against her lips, silencing her.
“Let’s forget it all. Don’t explain. You cheated but I want us to make peace ok?”
He kissed her softly, tasting salty tears on her lips. He licked them. “We’ll get through this. I promise.”
He stroked her hair again and suddenly pushed her on the bed roughly.
He smiled serenely at her jerking body; smiled as she cried, foaming at the mouth, the poison she had ingested making a short work of her system.
Her kohl-lined eyes rolled back and her nails dug into the sheets as her limbs thrashed on the bed.
He studied the transformation on his wife’s face with absolute fascination, arms folded.
He sat beside her and stroke her tangled weave as she tried to moan through the pain. “We’ll get through this”
Slowly, her thrashing reduced, her limbs losing energy to continue that frantic movements.
He stroked her hair as he watched her seize movement.
He watched her die.

His smile broadened and he arranged her neatly on the bed, taking time to divest her of her clothing. Satisfied with his work, he jumped off the bed and rummaged through his drawer till he found what he was looking for. Dropping the found item on the bed, he unbuckled his trousers, pulling them down and off. He threw his singlet off his slim frame.
He climbed back in bed and with reverence, mounted his wife of three months.
Marital consummation.
The word floated in his head and he barked in laughter as he exercised his rights.
“We’ll make a baby. The baby you always wanted, we’d make one. Maybe a girl that looks like you…”
He talked to her, stroking her face, feeling her body stiffen beneath him.
He rode her relentlessly.
“We’d be happy together. All of us. They’d grow up to be doctors and lawyers”
His breath hitched as he was about to release his seed.
“You’ll love me! You’ll love me because I love you! My love is big enough!”
He squeezed her tight as his body spasmed, ejaculating into her.

A beautific smile on his face and he laid beside her, suddenly exhausted.
He exhaled deeply, hands tapping blindly till he felt the object he had dropped on the bed earlier. His fingers found the cold butt of the pistol and he smiled as he lifted it up.
He held her hand and dropped a tiny kiss on her palm.
“I love you…”
He raised the barrel to his head, feeling slight shivers run down his spine when the cold steel met his skin.
“I love you…”

He pulled the trigger.

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