Category: short story


The Mortician


I sat in my inner office, biting on the sorry end of a pencil as I stared intently at a document. Figures swam in my eyes and I sighed. We were barely managing to stay afloat from the state of the account books. I dropped the pencil and removed my glasses, rubbing my eyes laboriously.
I really shouldn’t have given Patty a day off. Patty, my able assistant and Saviour on days like this when my brain refused to cooperate with me.
I sighed again, closing the file and keeping it for later when I heard a chime at the outside entrance signifying that someone had entered into my small establishment. I stood quickly, tucking my shirt in and straightening my tie, I walked out of my office to receive a customer.

A tall but somewhat diminished man stood, unsure of himself looking at the empty front desk where Patty should have been. He didn’t notice my silent entrance. I cleared my throat to get his attention and when he turned, I took in his appearance. His clothes hung off him loosely as if it unsure whether to mould to his skin or not; decrepit clothes of dull greys and browns. He sported a buzz-cut, dark hair greying at corners, his face rugged and bearded. His hands fascinated me; huge, callused things that spoke volumes about his menial type of job. His dark eyes were flinty, piercing mine when i looked at them. I dropped my eyes quickly. From my examination, he wasn’t a rich man.
I sighed inwardly. How was I going to get ahead if I could only net these sort of people?
I put on a bright smile and presented my hand to be shaken. he stared at it and ignored it.
I swallowed my slight irritation.
“Hello and welcome to Dante’s Mortuary ” I said affecting good cheer. His eyes roved the front office as I spoke to him.
“Is this a mortician’s place?” he asked in a dry voice that sounded like gravel pieces grated themselves somewhere in his larynx. I smiled at the question.
I got it a lot because of the bright and tasteful décor of the office. People always expect something dark and grey when they hear the word ‘Mortician’ and so being thrust into a vibrant office always threw them off.
“Yes it is and I am the man in charge” I added helpfully.
I felt his eyes go over me and I bore his examination with good grace. A few seconds passed and he didn’t say anything.
“So…” I started “You need my services?”
He nodded. “Are you good?”
I smiled unsure of how to answer. “Yes Sir. I can assure you I am excellent at my job. I would want to show you my past works but I’m sure they’re rotting in the grave right now”
I flashed him a brilliant smile which he answered with an impassive look. My smile died. Poor taste in joke?
“Well…I am good” I finished limply, suddenly unsure of how to continue the conversation.
“She was a beautiful woman.” he whispered, eyes far away. His eyes focused back on me. “I want to make sure she looks good. Good for viewing”
I nodded sagely. “Of course Sir.”
“Money is no object” he added and I reappraised him, curiously. Well! I grinned.
“Of course Sir. We give our clients expert services which they can testify to. Or not.”
“She was very beautiful” he whispered, eyes faraway again.

We stood there in silence, him arms by his sides distant; me, arms folded primly behind me, twisting my toes in my shoes with growing impatience.
Suddenly his attention returned. “She was a looker. She must look that way. Make sure of that.” he said sharply as if rebuking me and I snapped to attention.
“Of course Sir! May I inquire her name and when she died?” I asked.
He stared at me for a second too long, making me suddenly uncomfortable.
“Her name was…is Martha”
He smiled small. “I’ll fill out the necessary documents when I bring her.”
He turned to leave then stopped just at the door.
“As to when she died…” he paused, licking his lips. “It would be as soon as I get home” he whispered.
Without a backwards glance, left my office.
It took me several seconds for the import of his words to reach me. I gasped, swallowing hard. My mind was in turmoil.
“Maybe I heard wrongly” I whispered remembering he had said money was no object.
I needed funds. Badly.
I swallowed and walked back into my inner office.
“Maybe I heard wrongly”

He was right, she was a beautiful woman.
I stared at her lovely face slightly marred by death, fingers stroking her full dark hair. Her eyes were closed, thankfully.
Sometimes they were brought in with their eyes open. The emptiness usually made me shudder. It didn’t help that I enjoyed working on them late at night when there was quiet.
“What a pity” I whispered. “What a beautiful loss…”
“Maybe you heard wrongly?” a voice asked.
I jumped, startled.
I was alone. I laughed softly running my fingers through my hair. Fatigue.
“Or maybe you heard me wrongly?”
I jumped again, eyes glancing widely. “Who..what?”
My eyes fell on her face and watched in horror as her stiff lips stretched into a smile.
“Ah… Now you hear me… But you heard him wrongly…right?” the feminine voice drawled into my ear.
My legs shook and I stumbled, voiding my bowel on my trousers.
“Let’s make sure you really heard wrongly… Let’s make sure…”
A tug; sharp blooming pain.
I screamed.

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

Patty walked into the office the next morning and dropped her bags on her desk.
“Harry! Morning!” she called out.
She got no answer.
She frowned and walked into his office. She had noticed the lights on. Odd in itself, it meant he was in.
His office was empty.
“Ah. He’s working then”
She walked to the door opposite his office and knocked. “Hey Harry! I’m in!”
Silence greeted her.
Frowning she opened the door and walked in.
The smell hit her before the sight did.
Her eyes widened and she gagged, choking on a scream.
Harry was splayed on the floor, scalpel clutched in one bloodied hand, his ears clutched in the other.
On a slab, the unsmiling face of a beautifully dead woman.

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.

Mameh


Hey!
Today’s post is courtesy of yours truly and a deviation from the norm.
Enjoy!

MAMEH

I suddenly remember the little oval scar at my mum’s shoulder. I remember it dark, larvae-like, and memories of how fascinated I had been as a child, of that little oddity makes me smile. When Mameh tied her wrapper to her chest, I’d climb in her laps and sit down, my little hands straying to the scar. I would prod it, pinch it, even attempt to open it which made my mum laugh even though it hurt her. She’d prise my fingers away and tell me to stop touching.

I never could bring myself to ask her the question, intent on discovering for myself the secret of the atypical scar.
One day, I couldn’t hold it in any longer and with the seriousness only a six year old child could muster, I blurted out the question. “Mameh what happened here?”
I remember the small smile that tugged at the corner of her dark, full lips as she  removed my prying fingers for the umpteenth time.
“A nail entered into my back” she said simply and I remember how wide my eyes had gone. I didn’t ask the obvious questions of “How or When?” even though I was burning to.
I was that kind of child.
All I did was absorb this new piece of information in silence as my mind tried to picture the nail Papa had once shown me during one of his DIY repairs, doing the damage.

After minutes of ruminating, my little mind got tired.
“Did it hurt?” I asked finally.
“Of course!” she exclaimed, laughing at the memory as her fingers played with my tough black hair that seemed to tangle at the slightest opportunity.
“Very bad?” I asked again.
“Very bad. It bled a lot.”
Again, I absorbed this new piece of information. The idea of blood gushing out like a fountain I had seen at the amusement park Mameh took me to once made me smile. Again, I had been that kind of child; fascinated with the bizarre.
I inferred at that moment that my mum had cried when she had that injury. I suddenly giggled and my mum looked at me in askance.
I was wondering what her face must have been like when she cried. Did she have catarrh dripping down her nose like I did when I cried as I begged Papa to take me with him on his journey to Yola or when Mameh put vegetables in front of me and forced me to eat the vile greenies?
“You cried mummy!”

Note, this hadn’t been a question. Was it the excitement in my voice or the look of absolute triumph in my fce? She laughed long and hard! I remember her laugh now; unrestrained and full, as if coming from the very pits of her rotund stomach. Her breasts would jiggle against me with the force of exhalation like it did that day.
“No o! I did not cry! Big girls don’t cry!”
Now, I laughed too. She was obviously lying. I didn’t know how I knew this. I just did. It was the glint in her eyes; the glint she had whenever she wanted me to help her ask Papa for money. I was an astute child; Mameh always said I had an uncanny way of ‘knowing’ things. She’d later chide my ‘knowing’ as I got older. “Ask questions! Don’t assume!” Not that I ever see the need to; my assumptions are always right.

My fascination with her scar lessened as I got older. In fact, up until now, I hadn’t thought about that oval scar in years.

I stare at her impassive face now and suddenly, the urge to feel that little mark fills my head. I lick my lips, fighting for control of my fingers. I fight the urge to stretch my hand and push the starched white shirt they’ve put on her and feel her scar like a doctor feels for a tumour. It had been our bonding point.
I giggle as hysteria tries to take chunks out of my mind and I feel my elder brother’s worried stare beside me.
I smile at him. ‘I am fine’ my smile says even though my eyes tell a different story.
I stroke her cool face, marvelling at the mortician’s skills in making her look presentable. She looks almost…alive.
For a second, I thought I saw her lips twitch, the beginning of a smile. I blink quickly and it’s gone.
It is when I feel my brother’s arms around that I realise I had been in tears.
“Big girl don’t cry” I whisper to the woman I loved since the day I ‘knew’ her. “But I am not a big girl… I still want my mummy…”

I hold her hands for a second and feeling the insistent tug from my brother, I decide to move away from the casket, making space for other viewers.
A small song she used to sing comes unbidden to my head and I murmur softly.

“Good night. Good night.
Close your eyes, Keep them safe.
For soon will be morning…”

My voice threatens to break as emotions well up in me, clogging my throat.  I cannot complete the song.
“And you would need them healthy then…” my brother murmurs, finishing the song.
I smile up at him.
“ I’m fine” I tell him again, trembling smile in place.
He pulls me into his arms and hugs  me tight as sudden powerful sobs rack my body.
He murmurs the song over and over again to me, rocking me like a child; just like the way Mameh did when she sang the song to us as children.

Quarter Past 11


Hey!
I worked on a watercolour painting on Wednesday so today, decided to try writing a story based on the painting. Picture’s in B/W cos my paint strokes are terrible and they look better this way!
Enjoy!

Quarter Past 11

IMG_20130306_172704-1_Logan

She did not mean to stay out this late.

There had been wine, music, food; she had lost track of time. She had promised she’d be home before 11. It was quarter past 11!

Harried, she walked out into the rain, cursing as she rifled through her bag for her little umbrella. The rain in savage glee increased, mercilessly lashing at her for her tardiness, plastering her clothes to her skin as she finally found and opened her umbrella.

Shivering and with alacrity, she ran, deciding to use the shorter route home. Normally she’d have been wary of using the bush path at night but between her irrational fear of large expanse of trees and the thunderous rage that would be her father when she got home, she decided to let the Devil take the hindmost and leg it.

Thankful for the flat shoes she wore, she ran until she was swallowed in by the trees.

Despite the fact that she was late, she unconsciously slowed to a walk as she traversed the narrow path. Gently, as if the slightest breaking of a twig would unsettle the atmosphere, she crept through.

Suddenly, she stopped. Her ears cocked and she turned around to stare at the gathering darkness behind her. Her heart hit her ribcage hard, as if begging to be let out. Fear of he father forgotten, she began to wonder if taking this particular route wasn’t a foolhardy thing to do.

She walked faster, stopping momentarily to stare quickly behind her. She didn’t even have any light and her phone was dead.

Only the stay rays of the moonlight that managed to penetrate though the dense foliage lighted her path and they did so badly.

There!

She heard it again.

She stopped as her blood roared in her ears raging like lions in a burning cage.

Footsteps. She was not mistaken.

Basic instincts screamed at her and she obeyed without thinking; she ran.

Her hands shook as she held the umbrella, panting as her feet slapped wet earth with dull thwacks.

Almost out of the bushes, she laughed shakily in triumph and exhilaration.

She heard no footsteps. She stopped to take deep breaths. What if she had imagined the footsteps?

She laughed and shook her head, walking at a normal pace, her ears still listening for sudden movements.

As she walked, she realised how heavy her limbs were;  almost as if she was carrying a heavy load on her back.

She blamed it on her unfit body and mentally promised to run more.

“Who’rrree you?”

A small voice suddenly asked, close behind.

She shrieked and turned about panicked. She saw no one.

“Who…who’s there?” She called out, eyes wide as clammy hands tightened their grip on her umbrella.

“How ccccould yooou not noticccce?” The small voice whispered into her ear. “You’ve beeeeen carrying me on your baaaack sincccce you walked intoooo myyyy forrressst…”

A cold tongue licked her ear.

Blood curdling scream.

Akuko Ilu


Hey!
Today, we’re doing something different (again!).
So PM brought two hilarious and interesting posts to my attention and they were stories made entirely with clichéd idioms.
Check out the stories http://thisismycorn.wordpress.com/2013/02/13/cliche-touche/ and http://thisismycorn.wordpress.com/2013/02/20/the-show-must-go-on-chapter-2/
We decided I could give it a Nigerian spin so I decided to try it out with Igbo proverbs.
You are permitted to read this in Pete Edochie’s voice. Lol
Enjoy!

AKUKO ILU

Okoro woke up that morning thinking all was well in the land of the living. What he did not know was that trouble had come to break kolanut with him early in the morning.
When he heard the voice of his troublesome wife Njideka screaming his name, he knew that Ekete had revealed its buttocks in the market place.

He jumped up, tying his wrapper hastily, getting ready to face his wife; after all, the tortoise said that it always travelled with its musical instrument in case it met other musicians.

She barged into the room and with one look at her face, Okoro knew he was going to eat headache for breakfast.

He made to carry his cutlass, in a bid to escape to the farm on the pretext that he had to look for the black goat in the day time before night came but his wife had decided that morning that it was the head that disturbed the wasp that the wasp would sting.

She held on to his wrapper and screamed at him but Okoro kept his peace, seeing as it took only a matchstick to start a bush fire.

She was asking for her usual; Ego this. Ego that.

He laughed and shook his head at her. His wife was like a chicken and the chicken he was carrying on his head did not know that the road was long. Didn’t she know that present situations have taken the form of a coconut?

Ah, but he could blame no one but himself. What a young man could not see standing on top a tall Iroko tree, the experienced aged man already observed squatting on the grass mat. He had been warned by his parents not to marry Njideka but he refused and true to form, the stubborn fly followed a corpse into the grave.

He sighed.
He had to try settling her with tact because the tsetse fly perched on the scrotum had to be chased away with extreme care. Although he was physically stronger than his wife, the man who woke in the morning and found himself being pursued by a chicken ran for his life for he didn’t know whether the chicken had grown teeth overnight.

His friends always mocked his inability to handle his  irascible wife; what they called his weakness but he never minded them. Only the man who ate palm kernel in the morning understood the language of famine. Moreover, Wisdom is like a goat skin bag, every man carries his own. This was the way he chose to carry his!

He gently told her to be patient because there was no road close at hand that led to Onitsha. He tried to complain about her manners and she reminded him that it was only when a young man lacked money that he complained his wife’s manners were not good.

He laughed at her blaming poverty for her manners. Would she be any better if it were different? If the bird who had not perched on a tree gives off twenty excretions, when it finally perches on a tree, how many excretions would it give off?

She claimed she was a good person and he laughed and told her it was impossible because Dinta had not reported the lack of excrement in the forest.

After her clamouring, she began to cry, throwing herself on the floor of their room. He sighed and sat down.

She and her impossible demands.

He drew nearer to her and held her close because an adult does not sit and watch while the she-goat suffers the pain of childbirth tied to a post. He wiped her tears and told her that he could be like the rich husbands of her friends who waste money. He was only trying to count his teeth with his tongue. If he wanted to swallow a mango seed, wouldn’t he first of all calculate the diameter of his anus? He could only do the best he could.

Things would get better soon, he assured her.

She grumbled in her usual fashion but nodded and he smiled at her but in his mind, he knew she would still repeat her tantrums the next day.

After all, isn’t the yam thief carving tools to dig for yam in his mind even when you are giving him advice?

She would try again tomorrow, he knew; but for now, he was free.

Stakes


Hey!
Dionysus is here to take us all on a ride.
Sit tight!
————————————————————-

STAKES

Tell me what it means to die, for I cannot tell if I am alive. The wind glides through the hair on my skin and massages my pores.
The streets are never quiet; vehicles always screaming at the top of their lungs.
I smell the litter of waste and I taste the numbness of my soul. I got my last cash and I’m going in for a gamble.
Life is all about choices …or is it?
Is life not better if there was no such thing as having to choose? In between the alternatives, I see no light, no breath of fresh air.
Both paths ultimately lead to my misery
I change my last cash to coins and I am ready for my last encounter with ‘Chance’.
I see 3 slot machines right in front of me. Written on the first one..‘FAME WITH PAIN’..
Written on the second one.. ‘ALONE WITH PLEASURE’..
Written on the third one.. ‘PERFECTLY MEDIOCRE’..
I look at the 3 options and a plethora of thoughts flood my head. I look at the coins in my hand and not only do I have to make this difficult decision, I also have to gamble. This means that even after I choose to follow 1 out of these 3 fucked up choices, I am not still sure of getting there.
I insert a chip into ‘FAME WITH PAIN’.. I pull the lever and the apparatus in the machine starts to roll.
The first one shows a bag of money, the second one shows legs and red high heels, the third one shows a skull with two bones underneath..
5 coins left.. I insert another coin inside FAME WITH PAIN, Yacht/ Yacht / Cuban Cigar..
4 coins left.. I tell myself maybe FAME WITH PAIN isn’t for me or is it? What if I had more coins and kept playing? I used to have a lot more coins before but I gambled and lost it all. What if I just focused all my coins on 1 machine instead? Would I have gotten it? I guess I will never know
I insert a coin into ALONE WITH PLEASURE.. The apparatus rolls and the first thing that comes up is a Book. The second thing that shows is XXX. The third thing that shows is Drugs.
3 coins left… Damn.. I try again with ALONE WITH PLEASURE.. Facebook / Headphones / Food
I’m running out of coins and I’m getting anxious.
I wasn’t this anxious and restless when I had 6 coins.
I feel uneasy and tense, like karma is against me.
I feel I should take my last 2 coins and fade away into oblivion but again, that voice keeps telling me, “THis is the One, This is the One”..
PERFECTLY MEDIOCRE is the last machine I am left with and another voice tells me “Do I really want this”.
Still another voice tells me “If you don’t try, you can never win”.
Why should I try to be something less than the nothing that I am?
Fuck it..
*Inserts Coin into PERFECTLY MEDIOCRE*
Office / Marriage / School
*Inserts Last Coin into PERFECTLY MEDIOCRE*
Golf / Golf / Television
NO! I’m out of coins!.. I don’t fit into FAME WITH PAIN, neither do I fit in to ALONE WITH PLEASURE OR PERFECTLY MEDIOCRE.. I’m lost, an outcast, ostracized..
 NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!..
But wait…. I look at the casino and then a sudden flash of truth hits me right in the middle of my forehead; An epiphany!
I see the slot machines standing on the Casino floor. I see other people gambling. I see them smiling even though I cannot hear what they are saying. I am alone, no one notices me.
I see all these things and they exist in this big nothingness inside the casino. The people are there because of the big nothing that surrounds the place.
I am nothing therefore I am bigger than something.
I live underground and like a thief, I come out only when I need something from society. When I’m done, I go back underground, to my state of nothingness.
I smash the 3 slot machines with my fist and everybody pauses to offer me ‘the stare’.
Ever done something bad and then people stand still and look at you without blinking? What is the aim of that?
Am I meant to feel threatened by your glance?
I zip down and start peeing on the slot machines and they start to look away as if in shame before security comes to throw me out.
As I sit on the floor outside the casino, I realise something very profound. All those people who saw me break the slot machines and pee on them, what do you think they’d talk about when they leave the casino?
I stimulate their boring lives.
I’d be that ‘crazy guy that peed on the floor’ and they would all label me crazy but deep down inside, covered under layers and layers of repression, they all wished they were as free as me to do what I just did.
I am not free but they think I am.
I ain’t crazy but they think I am.
I am a slave.
I am a slave to nothing.
They are a slave to something.
Nothing holds me captive and whatever I do, I feel the need to retreat back to nothing.
I am indebted to nothing like Stockholm syndrome.
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Interesting read for me.
Now a question. If you ad to choose between Fame/Pain, Alone/Pleasure and Perfectly Mediocre, what would you go for and why?
Let’s here it!
And a big thank you to Dionysus as always!

We’d be back on Friday with a story from yours truly, ME!
He He He.

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.

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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.

O’er the Hills


O’er the Hills

The bell tolled low at the hilltop and slowly, the voices of the monks rose to the heavens in rolling waves from the monastery. They echoed over the hill and down the valley, tumbling through the rushes. The wind sighed, playing an accompaniment with the blades of overgrown grasses beating against each other softly; a susurrus of murmured hallelujahs.
The skies wept softly, joining in the instrumental as the pitter-patter of raindrops tickled the aural senses.

She stood there at the foot of the hill, red hair matted on her pale face, dull grey cloths moulded to her lithe frame, drenched in the rain; listening. Her nostrils widened, taking in the smell of the rich, damp earth. Her hands crept to her throat, eyes wide with wonder and shiny as they quivered with unshed tears. She swallowed soundlessly as the melodic humming washed over her.
Unthinking, she pushed one foot in front of the other, walking. Her bare feet dug into the wet ground, wet clomps of soil finding refuge in the spaces between her toes and in her toenails.
She trekked up the hill; stumbling but kept going, not saying a word, as if any sound from her would break the lightly woven magic.
Like a mage, without no gifts; the voices, her guiding star to where her musical Messiah would lay.
She knew no fatigue, her body knew no weariness. The sweet sounding harmony nourishing her limbs with strength when she faltered.

Suddenly, she panicked.
The nearer she walked to the monastery, the fainter the music got.
Her heart knocked in her chest hard.
She ran; her hands flailing as if trying to urge the singers to carry on, urging the music to stay.

She finally got to the old monastery and stood in front of the old wooden door, breathing hard.
The music had stopped.
She choked on a sob, her lips trembling as she struggled to contain herself.  With shaking hands, she pushed at the wooden doors until they opened, a dark womb letting her in. She walked into the gloomy chapel, feet taking care to walk carefully, as if the slightest noise could…what?

It was empty.

Her vivid green eyes suddenly went wide.

Where…?

She let out a single gasp.
Her pale face turned sickly white and like a lone wilting rose, she swayed on her feet and ungracefully, fell, a crumpled heap of the dull and the damp.
Her ears picked up faint footsteps and she tried in vain to get up, to see them.
They came into her view, brown hooded figures, making a circle around her.
She stretched a hand weakly, help? a command to continue?
She stopped short.

Bones.
They had bones where flesh should be, peeking from beneath their robes.
Her thin mouth rounded in a feeble ‘O’.

Suddenly the singing began again.
She sighed and slowly, her eyes flickered to a close, eyelashes kissing each other.

One of the figures carried her gently and slowly, they all walked, disappearing like the early morning mist after the first rays of sunshine. Their music trembled faintly in the air after they had gone, like a whispered goodbye to a lover before it too, disappeared.

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

Never go up the hill, the locals would caution their wide-eyed children.
‘Beware the music’, they would say in hushed tones. ‘Beware the hill, the snatcher of souls’.

The hill calls; the hill beckons.

Resist it…

Resist the music…

———————————————————————————————————————————————-

This was written under the influence of this ——> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FKtBpuLrI2s

Listen and be calmed.

Have a lovely day.

Day 24 – The Bold Chicken


Hello! It’s a beautiful Monday morning! Kidding. -_-.
It’s a gloomy Monday and what better to boost moods than a story? Yes, I have a story!
Silly-ish! Enoy!

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THE BOLD CHICKEN

Obinna woke up and for a second he had no idea what day it was.
Then he remembered…and grinned. One looking at him would have described his smile as almost feral, yellow teeth glistening dully between dry, cracked lips.
“Today na today!” he murmured as he got out of bed – an old mattress, soft with age.
He yawned, stretching his arms as far as they could go up his head- which wasn’t far, considering his short stature.
‘Small stout’ his friends would call him in jest.

He walked over to the black polythene bad near his bed and after a search, punctuated by his yawning, brought out a white singlet which he donned quickly and left the room. He walked into a sparsely furnished and dark living room and peered closely at an unremarkable clock on the wall. Muttering and pointing, his face was scrunched up in concentration.
“Aha!” he whispered at last, smiling in satisfaction, as if he had just deciphered a particularly difficult code.
“It is thirty past six” he murmured, thirty pronounced ‘taati’.
With another smile, he left and walked into what seemed to be a kitchen. He scurried around in the darkness and came out triumphant with a knife and a bowl.
“Jezas good morning Sir” he sang softly under his breath as he used a key he must have retrieved from the living room to open the door. He walked back in to drop out and came out a few second later, picked the bowl with the knife and walked outside into the morning.
He took a deep breath and smiled, remembering his village. It almost smelled the same, thanks to the grassy pasture his Master and his wife had grown around the compound.
With a spring in his step, he walked to the back of the house, whistling a Christmas tune under his breath.
He got out a stool from a corner and placed it beside the gutter.
He brought the knife and with flourish, swiped it on the cemented ground.
He grinned, part excited about the crisp sound the metal made as it came in contact with the ground.
“Anyi ga eri sha sha! All correct Sah!” he said excitedly, shaking his shoulders in glee. “We will eat prenty!”
He swiped the knife a few more times, and testing its blade with his fingers, he decided it was sharp enough.
He got off the stool, knife on hand and walked till he got to a metal cage where cluckings were heard.
A hen poked its head out of the bars of its cage and Obinna gestured to it.
“Today na today!” he jumped up and broke into a dance, wriggling his waist as he made stabbing gestures to the floor.
“You willi dah-co-rate our prate today” he chortled.
The hen stared at him calmly, head twitching every few seconds.
“Anyi ga eri gwo gwo! All correct Sah!” he mock saluted at his poultry audience and burst into gales of laughter.
“When I serve Oga and Madam food today, I will sarut like dis and say All correct Sah!” he told the hen.
He cradled the knife under his armpit and opened the cage.
As he reached inside to grab the hen, it flew into his face, causing him to shriek in surprise, dropping back and allowing the hen escape.
“Chimo!” he shouted, and gave pursuit, knife in hand, swearing oaths on how he was going to kill it mercilessly.
The hen eluded him, managing to slip from his fingers every time he tried to grab a hold of its feathers.
“I che n’inwa anya! You think you’re bold ookwa ya!” he muttered furiously, trying to herd the taciturn hen to the back of the house.
It made for the front gate and his eyes widened in realisation and horror.
There was a gape just at the base of the gate where the hen could slip through. He had been told to fix it since by his Master but had postponed it due to laziness.
True to word, the hen shimmied through the opening, and Obinna caught it- ALMOST!
The hen disappeared and he heard its triumphant clucking as it ran its merry way off.
Tears came unbidden to his eyes add he imagined the reaction of his Master when he’d wake up later to find out that the Christmas chicken he had bought -quite expensively, as he boasted to his wife- had just run away.
Even more sorrowful, the fact that for the first time in many years, he won’t be eating chicken on Christmas day.

——————————————————————————————-

Eshinshin carry pomo!
Lol dunno why I felt the need to type that!
How is everyone enjoying their holiday? Good?
Well I’ve got no holiday. Got work today. Yes, My boss is a Grinch but hey! Free lunch!
\(^.^)/
You have a lovely day and be safe!!!


Hey.
Today’s post is by someone who would rather remain anonymous.
Do enjoy!

———————————————————————–

RIVER

I read my uncle’s stories. Not Uncle Jonah, Uncle Joseph.
It gets confusing sometimes to differentiate
them in my head; all the twins I know look and think alike, even though mother says Jonah and
Joseph were as different as night and day. Mother has a folder of his stories and drawings, most of
them are from his twenties. All his teenage fiction is lost now, gone with the wind. There’s also his
diary from 2001, the one which mother took in 2002 and kept. I think I’ve read that from cover to
cover many times. Then he didn’t use so many big words and there was happier then. In one of the
pages he actually called mom and grandma hags.

Mother doesn’t talk about my Uncles Jo any more.
She doesn’t talk much, about anything. I’ve seen videos of her from younger when she wore really
small shorts and rode horses on the beach and seemed to constantly laugh at every little thing. She
isn’t that person any more. She misses them though, in her own way. The family portrait from when
they were younger doesn’t have any dust on it, unlike most things in this house.
I was tiny the last time I saw Uncle Jo, a baby really so I don’t really remember much about him.
But I know him.
I know he used to hate people shortening his name. There’s a day here, March 14, when
he got really angry because he introduced himself to a girl and she asked if she could call him Jo. He
was angry about it, his name was just two syllables, two phonetic sounds and she wanted to shorten
it to one.
People shortened his name a lot Joey, Joe, Jo, Jay; some even shortened his surname. He
felt shortening a name was robbing it of its power. Joseph meant beloved, everything else meant
nothing. He wrote that he felt guilty after, she really didn’t mean anything by that. And he’d taken
out his frustrations on her. Uncle Ed used to do that a lot, feel guilty because he stood up for himself.
I think he was a coward or too sensitive, most times a mixture of both.

I know uncle Jo felt under pressure, much like I feel. It’s a different kind of pressure from the one I
feel but at least the effect is the same. Pressure not to disappoint. Constant anxiety, its like this
physical thing, your heart in your mouth, sweaty armpits and hours trying not to rationalize the things
you’ve done, looking for mistakes in them.
Mine is from being the only child mother has. Her greatest legacy. Mother is a very hands-on person in her life. And she believes in results, that the work should be done in secret and the results presented like a magician’s show, so it appears effortless,
apparently plucked out of thin air. She is that way with her work. And she is that way with me.
At home I can be petulant and sad and needy and whiny, at home I’m allowed to have emotions. But
outside, in the company of strangers I’m only allowed one; serenity.
Smile to older strangers, walk slowly at the buffet table, even though I can people taking second and third helpings, eating my
plate covered with small clumps of remnant food scraped from the edges of the serving trolleys with
a demure happy smile.
The happy child.
Uncle Joe was the good middle child. Every other role was taken, stuck-up first born, sadist spoilt last born. Mom and his brother fought constantly for
grandma’s attention and in all the noise, his own rebellions seemed small, a welcome relief. So he
stopped trying and started writing and drawing; eventually he had to choose. He chose drawing and
dropped the diaries.

The pressure is pretty bad on most days but I think I have it better than he did.
I’m not being ignored by mother at least not as badly as he was.
I wish I could write like he did. But I’m already in my teens and the gift hasn’t been passed down.
Maybe his was like a disease that snuck into his body undetected because of all the activity that
puberty brought on, and when everything settled, his Immune system worked through and found it
and neutralized it. Or maybe he gave up one medium of expression for another.
His pictures are beautiful. They are of dark things, but beautiful none the less.

There’s this particular one, inspired by this song he loves. It’s a girl on a bridge, leaning forward and looking over, at a much smaller
reflection of herself, rippling in the dark still river. The girl in the water is not looking back at her, instead she is looking at her hands, which are cupped together holding a dandelion. She is smiling, happy and oblivious to black murky water that surrounds her. The girl on the bridge is leaning so far
out that its certain she’ll fall.
The girl in the water looked like mom and the girl on the bridge had Uncle Jo’s hair. When mother first saw it, she stood there, in the gallery full of white walls and stared at it as her tears fell.
I cried too.
I don’t know why.
Maybe because the girl in the water was already so happy she didn’t care about the girl on the bridge. Perhaps it was because I knew only a truly sad
person could create something like that. Something so ominous an yet so simple. Or maybe I just felt
jealous and somewhat protective of the girl in the water; she was happy, but her happiness was
dependent on the girl on the bridge, if the girl on the bridge walked away, she would just cease to
exist.
You are the girl on the bridge, leaning out too far, hoping to catch a glimpse of a part of you that is
truly happy and oblivious to everything around her. Drifting away slowly, cradling what remains of
your innocence in her palms.
You will fall.
Because
That’s the only way you become the girl in the water.
Uncle Jo fell.
And his paintings and stories took on a life of their own.
I’ve been leaning over, reluctantly, looking for her. But so far, all I have seen is myself.

————————————————————————————–

*Sigh* 🙂
Jana..

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