Category: writing


P.S.A + Rapunzel


So two years today, I was in front of my ragged Toshiba laptop finally registering for a blog after coming across stories from Terdoh and Toolsman’s blogs. A lot has changed since then; for one, I’m not using a Toshiba laptop anymore. Lol.
More importantly, I’ve improved immensely in my writing, If i might say so myself.
Most importantly, I’ve met a lot of interesting people that have all inspired, intrigued and also irritated me (Sometimes, all at once!) This is a thank you to everyone that has stuck with Phantompages; old and new comers. I’m grateful.

Readers, I thank you for the time you’ve spent reading my cravies and good and bad stories. For the constructive criticisms, I thank you. And for the love and adulation (Real and imaginary on my part), I thank you.

Writers, I thank you for the Messages and emails asking if I didn’t mind having your stories up here. I thank you for the help you’ve all rendered, keeping this blog alive.

Ah, as usual, special thanks to a couple of people (I could swear I gave these same set of people special thanks last year!): Eddie (For helping me handle the blog when I almost deleted and for being my close friend and Mother all rolled up in one!), Pemi, Ekwe, P.Mantis (Professional Asshole), and last but not the least, my Fire.

Blogging is a pain in the ass you know. And if there’s anything more painful than blogging, it’s being referred to as a Blogger.
I am a writer; I write. I will be an author one day, when my materials and good and ready to be published.

Umm.. run out of things to ‘say’. So, was running through my STORIES file and came across one I wrote for Achiva’s blog as part of a series. Made me chuckle so decided to brush it up more and put it up here.

Thank you once again for all the care and support.
Watashi wa minasan o aishite imasu!

RAPUNZEL

There lived a man and his greedy wife. They were very much in love but they had no child. The man did not leave her, despite the fact that his mother insisted he did so because his wife was a ‘useless woman who used abortion to scatter her womb’. He was in love and he would do anything for her. Of course, his mother didn’t approve and he could bet she has been ‘Casting and Binding’ sine they tied the knot as man and wife.

Beside them lived a Lagos big girl called ‘Aunty Dollars’. Aunty Dollars was notorious for her diabolical means of making money and bringing customers into her hair shop.
Aunty Dollars has this mango tree in her compound and her neighbors could see it. When Aunty Dollars went to Dubai for holiday, the man’s wife, greedy woman, decided she wanted the mango.
She cried and went to her husband.
“Honey I really want those mangoes at Aunty Dollars’ house”
The man was confused. “I can buy you any mango in the market my love. Must it be her own?”
“Yes! If you love me, you’ll get them for me”
The man was unsure of what to do.
His wife’s long throat increased the more time he wasted time. “I will die if I don’t eat Aunty Dollars’ mango o! I will just die here and you will bury me!” the woman wailed.
‘See me see wahala’ the man thought to himself. ‘On top mango again?’
The man tried to endure but the man eventually got tired of his wife’s nagging and deliberate bad cooking and decided to get her the mangoes.
With his heart in his mouth, he jumped fence into Aunty Dollars compound and got the mangoes.
He thought the matter had ended there with his wife.
For where!
The greed in the wife was something else. This woman started behaving like she was the Patroness Saint of Mangoes! She wanted more!
“Your mates are having children and you’re here looking for mangoes! Is it not thunder that will fire you Idiot!” he shouted one day in a rare display of anger.
He ate burnt, bottom-of-the-pot jollof rice and black dodo that night and with repentance in his heart and hunger in his stomach, he stole the mangoes.
Anything to keep his ‘darling’ wife happy; and keep his from purging his intestines out every night.

Until one day…
“Oho!” Aunty Dollars screamed at the base of the tree, cutlass in hand, catching her thieving neighbor unawares. He hadn’t known she had come back!
“Mr. Man! Aha! So you were the one stealing my mangoes ehn? You don die today!”
She sharpened the cutlass on the floor while the man, scared, stayed on the tree, mangoes in hand, pleading the blood of Jesus.
“Please” he begged. “It was the Devil! She sent me!”
“You will go and meet the Devil today. Ole!”
The man begged and begged, promising anything and everything.
Aunty Dollars, diabolical and crazy woman, thought about it and decided to take him up on his offer.
“Seeing as I haven’t been serviced in a while, I want you to sleep with me for a month” She smiled in satisfaction at the shock on the man’s face.
“B..but…But I am a married man!” he protested weakly.
“Oho! Now you remember you are married abi! A married man that steals mangoes abi! Oloshi! Do you want me to call the whole street to gather and burn you?”
The man begged for another bargain, anything but sleeping with her.
Truth is, it would have been easier if Aunty Dollarz was pretty but OH NO!
Aunty Dollars looked like the ugly twin sister of Eniola Badmus; a walking, breathing two bags of beans with legs.
How was he, a lean man, supposed to survive with such a heap of fat in bed? And what if she decided she wanted to ride him? Would cellotape glue his broken bones? Who would pay for his medical bills?
Oti o!
The man pleaded profusely but she was adamant.
“Neighbors o!!! Come o! Ole dey here! Bring tire!” she screeched, her fat buttocks quivering as she ran around her compound.
Fearing jungle justice, the man quickly apologized and agreed to her demands.
Without telling his wife, the man who climbed to steal mangoes, climbed to play his away matches in exchange for a month as was agreed. He would not admit to it but the sight of Aunty Dollarz’s ample mammary set his flag pole straight; compared to his wife’s lemon breasts.
Like a pulsing G, he scored (Proving his mother right that the problem wasn’t really from him). Before the month was over, Aunty Dollars became pregnant.
After nine months she gave birth to a beautiful girl with very light skin.
Thinking to give the girl an exotic name, she named her Rapunzel, after the fairy tale story. As the girl grew, Aunty Dollars noticed her hair was so long and black.
Aunty Dollars had an idea.

During this time, the prince of the land was going through hard times. He had spent his money on women in Saudi Arabia and his father had stopped his allowance permanently. As he was walking, contemplating on his life, he passed by Aunty Dollars’ house.
“Rapunzel! Open the door!” she shouted with impatience.
The Prince was amazed when he saw the beautiful girl that opened the door for the crazy woman everyone in Lagos knew. More so, he couldn’t believe how lovely and long her hair was. It was so long, it actually reached to her knees!
“Haaaaay! Asanwa baby! Obianuju!” he exclaimed to himself. “Erichaamichaaka!”
The Igbo blood in him sang and in his head, he devised a method to make himself rich.
After weeks of monitoring Aunty Dollars’ movement, he knew when she left the town and that was when he decided to strike.
He crept to the side of the house and knocked.
“Rapunzel. Beautiful egg of Life. Open the door please.”
Rapunzel, shocked to hear the voice of a man got curious and opened the door. When the prince entered, he viewed the beautiful Rapunzel and fell at her feet.
“My goddess! Is your name Maggi nne? Because you’re looking spicy!”
Rapunzel blushed.
“To tell you the truth, nne m, if i die now, I want to come back to this world as the dress you’re wearing just to feel your skin on mine AsweartoGod!”
He licked his index finger and touched the ground.
“Stawpeeeet” Rapunzel gushed, flicking her hair.
“Egovine! Tomato Jos! Omalicha! Rapun Rapun! You have stolen my heart, Please take it but give me the change of your love baby!”
Rapunzel, having never been washed like dirty boxers before blushed and fell in love with the prince.
“Am I really spicy?” she asked shyly.
“Yes baby m! You are o! You’re finger lickin’! So beautiful! Oh can I have a piece of your beautiful hair? To remind me of you every day!”
Rapunzel drank the zobo of Life and like a mumu she agreed and the prince chopped off her hair.
The next day, the prince sold it off as Brazilian hair to his vain sister. He smiled as he counted the money.
“Nna mehn! Lekwa correct business!”
And thus, the hairomance continued.

Rapunzel being a part-time mammy-water grew back the hair in no time and seeing this, the prince decided to open a saloon.
When Aunty Dollars came back from her trip, she was shocked to find out about how badly her business was faring. She enquired and found out that the Prince had opened his own hair salon.
Baffled, she went home to contemplate.
Rapunzel being a mumu in love couldn’t help telling her mother about the prince. She told her mother how they had planned their wedding already.
“Mummy he said he will give me the world!”
“The prince? That useless Emeka boy? That Igbo riff raff?”
“Mummy he is so great and romantic! He asks for a piece of my hair as a token of my affection. He’s sewing a shirt for himself made out of my hair. How cute!”
“So he cuts your hair! That explains it! Ori e o da!”
Rapunzel was confused and asked he mother what she meant.
“Idiot! He is just using you! He has opened a hair salon with your stupid hair!”
Rapunzel was shocked and hurt.
“It can’t be!”

She waited for the next time the Prince would come and she confronted him.
“Where’s the shirt of hair you’re sewing darling?”
“Ah My Akwa Ugo! My tailor is a mad man o! He hasn’t finished!”
Rapunzel smiled sweetly, her eyes hard. “Let’s go meet his now.”
“Now?” The Prince became nervous and Rapunzel knew her mother was right.
With anger, she threw the Prince out of her room window and the prince died.
Rapunzel also found out about how her mother was using her too to make money and she blamed her for the Prince’s death. Everyone knew Aunty Dollars’ reputation as a witch and she was arrested for murder.
Rapunzel decided to go into business for herself.

The neighbor, seeing the resemblance between him and Rapunzel one day added 2 and 2 to make 5. His Math was bad but he knew she was his daughter. His wife already had to children from him, both girls.
He told Rapunzel about her parentage and after DNA test proved him as her father, she moved in with him and handed over her business to him.

He later died, and somehow, along the line, her name changed from Rapunzel to Cinderella.

If you get what I just did there…

The End.

——————————————————————–

Have a lovely week people!

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!

The Painter


She smiled at him from across the pub and he gazed at her blankly for a second before breaking eye contact. He felt her gaze steadily on him  and he pointedly ignored her, focusing on his pint of lager.
Coming to an abrupt decision, he downed the beer in three large gulps and setting down the glass, he waved to the waiter and walked out of the pub to the car park. He had been passing by the unknown neighbourhood when the sudden need to drink drove him into the side pub; the sudden need to wash out the bad taste of the news his agent gave him more like.
“You have to do something or I’m afraid I’d have to drop you!”
He huffed now in irritation at the memory checking his pockets for his keys.
“I know who you are.” A female voice said behind him and he turned in surprise.
It was the woman in the pub.
His eyes narrowed and he turned back to his car as his fingers snagged his keyring up.
“And who am I?” He asked dryly as he opened the front door.
She walked closer to his side, a big grin on her face. “The Painter. Eugene De Croix”
His eyes narrowed further as her smile became wider.
“Former painter” he spat out gruffly manoeuvring himself into his seat.
“But a fantastic one!”
He made to shut the door but she stood in the way, holding the door.
He eyed her for a second, taking in her features with practiced eyes of one who observed human features for a living. She was unremarkable; a large forehead above wide set eyes and a hooked nose. Her only saving feature were her lips; small and full.
‘And not belonging to that face’ he mused sardonically to himself.
“What do you want?”
She hesitated suddenly unsure of herself.
“Well…Ummm… You’re a great painter. And I’ve studied your work. And I’m an art stude-”
“Do you want an autograph?” he interrupted rudely.
She bit her lip and his eyes strayed to them, tracing every curvature, mentally applying a vivid shade of red to them.
“I want you to paint a portrait of me.”
A cruel smile formed on his lips abd he snorted. “Ha! What?”
She stood straighter. “A painting. That is what I want.”
“Well Miss…”
“Schronberg”
“Miss Schronberg, yes. I do not receive painting commissions in parking lots. And even if I did,  certainly not from you or your type. You cannot afford me. And since you say you’re an Art student, you’d know I haven’t painted in the last three yea -”
“I know I know. But I do not think you do it for the money, your art.”
He laughed in derision. “Oh yea?”
“You don’t. Your paintings tell me that. And you have donated quite a lot of them. Don’t you miss painting? The thrill of producing something great like your ‘Selene on a Couch?’
He stared at her with renewed interest.
Could he…?
“Nah..” he murmured, shaking of his head an a short laugh as he dismissed her.
“Please Miss Scrotumberg. If you’d excuse me…”
Unoffended by the unconcealed insult, she refused to budge. “No.”
He snorted, amused by her defiance. “I would call the police, Miss.”
She smiled. “You wouldn’t. ”
“Oh yea?” He smiled.
She smiled back. “Oh yea!”
He huffed and suddenly his agent came to mind.
Another work…another work.
He stared at her again, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.
“Does anyone know you’re here” he asked suddenly and she frowned slightly at the awkward question.
“Umm..no. Don’t live around here. On a mini-sightseeing.”
He licked his lips.
“Fine. Jump in”
She broke into a wide grin.

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

He arranged her lips for her and walked back to his easel where a canvas was propped. He eyed the figure and dipping a wide brush into a paint pot, he smeared his paint medium on the half-finished canvas, total concentration as he brought her alive on the canvas.

Running dry of dark paint, he took his paint bowls and walked up to her. With unusual gentleness, he lifted her head and squeezed her neck, until tiny drops of dark blood oozed into his pot where he had made his precise incision earlier.
Her dead eyes gazed unseeing, a look of surprised permanently etched on her face.
He smiled briefly at her cold body, remembering how good it had felt to take her home; to sneak up behind her and with practiced movements, slash her throat.
She wanted to be painted after all and it had been a while he had employe his special medium.
Staring at her now, his hands began twitching again in excitement.
After his self-imposed hiatus because of  a murder investigation which resulted in him being questioned, it felt good to be back.Smiling and humming a little tune to himself, he walked back to his canvas, fresh paint in hand.

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

“It is fantastic to have you back Eugene! And you work, SPECTACULAR!”
He smiled indulgently at the overweight man who stood in front of his canvas, staring.
“This would sell. Ah I see you used your signature colour! The curves. The swirls. The contrast on the white canvas. SPECTACULAR!”

The spectacular rang in his head as he smiled, giddy with triumph.
Unable to contain his excitement, he took a late-evening walk, aimlessly meandering through streets and alleys.
“Hey boy. Fancy a fuck?” a voice whispered out of the gloom.
He turned and thinking quickly as a woman walked towards him. “Only if you allow me paint you after.”
“Whatever. Gonna be 30 bucks. Got a car?”
He smiled at her in the darkness.
His fingers twitched.
He licked his lips.

The End.

————————————————-

I always find it cheesy writing The End. Dunno why. Lol.
Have yourself 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!

Refuge


The abandoned house groans like an old woman as a nifty wind buffets the shack.
Window frames bang against window sills routinely at different corners of the house.
The swing hooked to the old oak tree at the backyard complains as the rusted metals holding the contraption rub against each other with the force of the wind.
The front door had fallen off at one point and so the house invites us inside to take refuge from the billowing elements.
The front door leads directly to a large, almost empty space that should be a living room.
Wallpapers peeled off, plaster fallen off the walls in patches like fairy dust.
It is almost empty, save for a rocking chair.
It does not move, even as stray children of the wind find their way into the abandoned shack of a house.
Somewhere within the house, an old grandfather clock booms the hour and as if on cue, the house is whipped into a frenzy.
Creaks.
Groans.
Moans pass through the walls and if one should press their ear to them, they’d swear they heard conversations.
The stairs squeak, as if someone of great bulk is climbing down.
The grandfather clock stops booming at twelve and suddenly, the rocking chair begins to move slowly.
Almost happily; like a dog that has sighted his master.
The stairs stop squeaking and the floorboards take over the squeak, almost sounding like footsteps that lead to the living room and eventually, to the rocking chair.
The chair rocks faster…
Faster…
FASTER!
Almost in a frenzy that if it were human, it would have been foaming at its lips with excitement.
A big crash and as if a weight had fallen on it, it stops.

A low  murmur, old crooning…
The empty rocking chair begins to move, as if controlled.

There is just one glass that has not fallen off a window frame in the house. The glass is in the living room. The rocking chair faces the windows.
Reflected on it, a fat woman sitting, staring at the naive soon-to-be-permanent-guests of the house; You and I.
Face, as black as night.
Hair, as white as snow.
Teeth, as red as blood.

She watches us as we run into the house to take refuge from the heavy rain that just began to fall.
“Wow! That was bloody sudden!” you mutter as you look around and sighting the chair, make for it.
You sit on it and invite me with open arms to sit on your lap.
Together, we sit, gazing at nothing.
We do not notice the reflection.
We only shiver a little; maybe from a chill.
Maybe because reflected, she just pulled us into herself.
One big hug.

Face, black as night.
Hair, white as snow.
Teeth, red as blood.

———————————————————————-

Another flow of random energy amassed as words.
I would settle down soon enough for  proper story.
Promise.


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.

 

Nekochan


Been too quiet here.
So, here’s something for today.

 

NEKOCHAN

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I can feel her weight on my chest as she protests angrily.

I ignore her for as long as i can, trying to find the fast disappearing trails of sleep i had been on.

A lost cause; i huff in disgust, slowly opening an eye to stare at her balefully.

She returns my look, glare for glare, her blue eyes piercing my grey ones.

Sighing in admission of defeat, i lift her off me and get up, stretching and grumbling all the way.

“You’re so annoying Shelley” i remark under my breath and she hisses in indignation.

Hmph.

She follows me as i leave the bed, walking into the threadbare kitchen.

“We’re broke you know” i whisper as i open the painfully empty fridge.

“Soon, we’d have nothing to eat but each other”

I smile grimly as I bring out the only jar of milk on the fridge. I sniff it.

A little off but it would do.

Getting two bowls, i pour us some milk, ignoring the blobs that come out of the can.

She sniffs in complaint and i sigh.

“Your old man is a loser, Shelley. Third month and no job. Running out of options here”

She shakes her head in disgust and daintily takes the proffered milk.

I smile, stroking her, feeling her relax under my palm.

“Your old man would soon start writing. You just wait. Forget journalism. I’d write a book, Shelley. A best seller. You’d be proud of me then, wouldn’t you?”

She huffs in disbelief and i smile sadly. Can’t blame her.

I’ve been saying the same thing for the past one year.

We eat in silence and when we done, i run water on the bowls. At least, I still have that.

I clean my wet hand on my shorts when I’m done and together we go into the living room.

She scampers immediately on top of my books on the table by the window sill, as if in reminder, ‘Start writing, bozo!’

I smile at my cat, carrying her away from the table.

“Not yet, you slave driver” i murmur, stroking her lazily.

“Don’t worry Shelley” I mutter sleepily, eyes heavy. “If we get kicked out, I’ll build you a lovely shoebox. Won’t be so bad… for you at least…you’d see…”

She shakes her head in exasperation, bemoaning in her feline lingo, what terrible owner she has. She scratches my chest spitefully and I wince momentarily snapped out of my sleep-induced fugue.

“Don’t swear at me Missy” I slur and slowly, my eyes drift to a close, my only companion and lover, curled in my lap.

———————————————————–

Yes, it is just a simple story.
No twists or turns- or death and doom. (  ..)
Neko is Cat in Japanese.

I’ll be a lot more present here, promise.
Anyway, do have a lovely weekend ahead!
Jana!

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.

Show Me


I ramble. You read.

SHOW ME

I wish I could see what you see; see what you saw.

I want to see what you wish you could  un-see; how deliciously defiling would it be?

Show me the good times, the bad times -especially the bad times- my pretty.

My mouth waters at the thought of your eyes brimming with tears.

I lick my lips at the thoughts of your eyes widened in horror.

Tell me! Show me!

I want to revel in the horror your eyes have feasted on.

Can I peel them back? Peel your eyes back and stare into them, I mean?

The eyes are windows to the soul.

I want to break your windows without a care in the world and crawl in like a thief.

Desecrate all you hold sacred; bring to light all you clench down tightly in the darkness.

I want to know what you had known; what you wish you didn’t know.

Don’t spare me, tell it all!

Can I lick your eyeballs?

Maybe…just maybe I could taste your memories.

I want to know.

I need to know.

Show me!

I do not care if remembering would break you down.

I do not care if it makes you scarred.

I do not care if remembering would DRIVE YOU MAD!

Or me mad?

Aren’t we all mad?

TELL ME!

SHOW ME!

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.

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