The Giant

I’m sitting on a balcony, separated from a motor way by a field of corn. Long enough that the swaash of Autos sound like binaural beats in my ears. Today is one when the sun is extra shy, so she’s hidden behind the clouds. The howling wind is substantive proof that a storm is brewing in the distance.

I do not fear the trickle of rain or the cold that has trapped my waning breath. Through the gaps between the trees, I’m stifled by a horrific giant. He is twice the height of an oak with skin so pale, it’s almost cyanotic. The veins on his forehead are visible, like a helmet made from the thickest part of a black widow’s web.

His eyes are buggy and bulgy, and they’re resting heavily on me.

I’ve never felt so weak like I do now, felt the need to plead for a chance of redemption. My breath is faint. My voice wont give up more than a fragile moan. My heart is beating slower by the day as the giant draws nearer.

I can’t keep on living this way. I am barely surviving. Something has to change, and fast. I wish I could snap my fingers and sentence this giant to the edge of the earth. His brawny body struggling to balance against the weigh of gravity, so that he is suspended in astral Limbo

What delight that would be. I’d dance again with rekindled passion. My lungs would be inspired to sing an old song in a new tune. And I’d walk out of the battle camp holding his decapitated head as a laurel.

I would like that very much I would. Even the thought of it warms my heart and causes my lips to curve upward.

Yet he draws closer everyday to me.

I do have another theory, one that terrifies me more. I do not know from where my giant came, perhaps he was formed between crevices in a mountainous region. But what if, he is harmless. Perhaps his hideous features are just for me to welcome and accept. And his mission is to help me align perspectives. It wouldn’t do much good to treat him like an unapproachable vermin.

He may well be an ally. I couldn’t know.

It’s the more reason to surrender, rather than dig a moat and build a buttress. I want to believe that the clouds are tired of absorbing the precipitation and will consequently release the blizzard that propagates the giant’s footstep to me.

The worse he could do would be to obscure my stance, challenging me to find refined vision in a paler shade of umbra. Maybe then he would vanish, taking with him the manacles weighing on my limbs and leaving behind an aura, that strips every façade and laces my tongue with a dose of truth.

image courtesy: Pixabay.com

Monte Claire’s bay

The lighthouse illuminates past the waterbody bordered by a precipice pile of rock leading a trail of the harbour of Monte Claire’s bay. A plantation bordered the harbour on either side. Past the harbour was a grove of vegetative labyrinth around the trail. The trail ended in front of the lake where the water got deeper. One could see pebbles in the bottom reflect clearly in twilight.

No one knows what’s down there and no one has tried for a century. All who visit the bank threaded carefully even in high summer sun. More glorious than the black sea, the waves flowed in unison. Sea urchins from the far end of the water washed up to the shore. A delightful melting pot of invertebrate critters resided there.

Legend had it that a mermaid also existed in the lake, somewhere in the far Northeastern border. Even the most agile swimmer cannot escape the sea witch’s grip.

No one wandered into the territory of the sea witch lived to tell, and worse was for the naive unsuspecting holiday makers .


25. 05. 2008.

Two brothers, both in their 30’s visited the bay for a picnic, after which they went for a swim.

Arthur thrust his hand in the current and Philip was slapped across the face as a consequence. Noting his facial expression, Arthur dashed to the deep end of the water as his brother chased him. Few splashes were tossed around along with hearty laughs, but the fun disappeared and the waves silenced. Right then, something long and slippery wrapped around the elder’s ankle. He wiggled his foot, damn sea weed, he thought, but the more he wiggled, the tighter the grip became alarming the young man. His left limb was gradually obstructed.

He yelped and yowled, till Philip noticed something was amiss. Philip grabs Arthur’s hand and yanks desperately, but now streaks of blood escaped to the surface because Arthur’s limb was almost amputated. Philip tried desperately to save his brother but the “octupus claw” was stronger so Arthur drowned. More blood resurfaced.

Philip’s head bowed as a tear fell from the corner of his eye and touched the water. When he raised his head, twelve meters from him was a maiden so beautiful and alluring. Her golden flaxen hair reached into the water, her supple lips told of her innocent and her chest was humongous compared to the proportion of her lanky body. Philip’s grief was suddenly exchanged for enchantment. Without saying a word, she reached and cradled his face. They disappeared.


06.08.2015.

Abigial pondered under a coconut tree admiring the glistening surface of the lake. Seldom she glanced down and scribbled into her journal. It’s been a little over 2 months she broke up with her boyfriend. She thought she might be fine but it was increasingly harder to get up in the morning and prepare for work, try as she may. So her boss suggested she take her vacation early. He needed his top sale’s manager in tip top shape.

When she arrived home, she broke her piggy bank and checked her account before searching for a holiday spot. It must have been her lucky day too because the Island of Monte Claire had a discount, much unlike these Island destinations. she was paying next to nothing.

She raised her head again to glance at the water when she saw a striking figure in the lake looking at her. Without her glasses she couldn’t see well but it looked like a maiden with golden flaxen hair and juggers, the size of watermelon. In the blink of an eye, she disappeared.

Abigial felt her anxiety melt, for the first time since the break up and although she didn’t plan to, the circumstances was perfect for a swim. She dipped her toes in the water and started to untie her robes when she noticed a bottle float to shore. She picked the bottle and opened a paper stuffed inside. One word; HELP !!.

She immediately dived into the lake. She was tired of obsessing over her ex and somewhere here was an adventure she couldn’t turn down.

A page from my book

If you want it to be

Life can be both a blessing

and a lesson

But,

It is impossible to read a book

whose pages have never been opened.

some of mine has got sands between the pages

and others have shaggy dogged ears

because I scribbled words I couldn’t speak

and watered-down thoughts I couldn’t share

Crucifying oneself is the prince of bio-weapon

One sting, eternally addicting to the soul

Seemingly infectious it is too

that’s why I easily scare on my walk alone.

The song of my dreams is none but a cacophony,

a mixture of voices that drowns purpose

sometimes a ghost serenades me with incoherent karaoke

other times I’m enchanted by a siren’s song.

I scribbled dried blood on my sleeves

yet you’ll need a kaleidoscope of sorts to view my art

It is enough the way it is

because I was made for Earth’s treasure chest

The Road to Torture

She was a young sweet Bavarian virgin who had been moonwalking on clouds for a long time. Wearing unconventional boots that spread across the sky like a butterfly perching on a rainbow. She’d been riding on the waves of unorthodoxy. Certainly unlike others she was.

At first it was just blathering jokes. Slithering tongues and whatnot. Women at the lake, those gossipy analysing lots, addressing one another in satirical tone. “She always staring at me with her buggy eyes”. Another affirmed, “she stares a lot that one she does, you’d think she’s plotting something vengeful”. A little laugh here and joke there before they started on their way back home. But the birds sang to the whispering leaves of a weeping willow in the breasted forest and the wolves that nested beneath its roots chatted with the wild dogs. The dogs relayed to their owners. In a couple of days the town had formed a council.

“I hear she’s a kleptomaniac”. One said

“They say she’s a Parsel mouth”, said another.

Witch. Witch. Burn the Witch!”, they yelled in unison.

Our young sweet Bavarian girl took careful baby step on the gloomy road of torture. To a chamber where the executioner invited her to marvel at the edge of his chilling axe that bore the crest of early Christendom.

She was summoned before the council board and accused of sleeping with a nightmare-demon, among other grievous crimes, to which she confessed none.

The man with a black hood and a heavy axe vowed to be both her enemy and saviour wrapped nicely with a demented bow. She swore she hated him when he chopped off her tongue, but hatred consumed her when he crushes her joint and shove her into a sarcophagus. He said, “Your friend wants you to acknowledge your fate and curse your very soul”.

She screamed day after day and week after week. Even in the times she lost her voice, her breath panted on her behalf. For four months she was subjected to every kind of torture imaginable, including sitting on a spiky witches chair that had been exposed to heat. The young girl was dying , and much to the executioner’s rage, without a confession.

She was melting away. She didn’t look so young anymore, wasn’t so sweet either, more like a tattered condemned wench. The executioner got tired of waiting so he stripped her naked and flogged her so her will would be crushed. Then he made her walk in the market square wearing a bulky confession around her neck.

She walked through the rowdy market, only a faded ensemble of her former self, leaving footprints on the dirt as she headed towards the gallows. Death pecked her supple cheeks like they were destined to be lovers. It was no news that she didn’t belong to the universe dominated of humans.

No one who smiles different, or walks different does. In time, they would be escorted on deaths powerful wings to a place, where it didn’t matter so much to be different.

Moon river

How I love to hate the full moon.

The day I cease believing was when I start dying. Dying for a touch. Dying for a kiss. Dying close to your reach. Dying within you. And I remember sinking into bitumen, yelling out a language that I could not speak. I was wandering down the hallways of a light house, I thought I would see you. I would hear you. I could turn into you. Rummaging through wuthering heights. packaging together the ripe and the rotting. The jade and the purple. The insanes and the artefacts.

I bid you, fuel my abstract lucidity. Incoherent raspy words seep out of the pit of my black velveteen dreams. Forget the smoke of reality that fills the room and feeds my ego, I know that feeling of escaping into a void that only grows hollower. I see the full moon feeding off the crevices of my soul and forming dark version of me from it’s shadow. It brightens my heart yet send impulses down my spine. It is the part of me I wish to never confront

And once in a while my friend Intuition comes to visit. He borrows a hole in the middle of my forehead thats why I like to think i’m a unicorn baby, yet even at it’s strongest it cannot quench the sardonic flames of the moons strong pull. Once in every few hours I wail out in deep agony like a woman close to full cervical dilation in a labour ward.

Labels Labels. There isn’t just one for Heinz ketchup but one for you and one for me too. You name a personality, and as sure as the sky is blue, there is a label attached to it. So they termed me highly sensitive slash empath slash intuitive slash they ran out of labels and slashes. Pretty fancy terms for being the universe’s forced experimental guinea pig in a double-blind controlled experiment.

As sure as the day will end, I will not cave to my big bad bully. I will cry but I must be brave while crying. Perhaps this is my body’s attempt to feel something other than the rowdy noise of the grim reaper’s sharpened blade. But I’m half hoping my tears pool into a river that runs between twin valleys and snuffs out the moon silently as it rises above the alpines before it can claim my soul.

Pieces

Don’t you ever get weary of conjuring up chaos? of craving bits and pieces of Insanity? They have become as easy as the wishes that dwell in your thoughts.

it is the infallible thirst for peace that borrows a hole through your soul but life will happen regardless of what we choose;

No longer a stranger to failure for you have befriended the essence of cosmical madness

no longer threatened by the prophesies of imminent defeat.

The days of hiking down a steep hill, or swimming downstream, is expired

A little piece of you transforms into a gentle beast

a little piece of you floats with the wavy ocean that washes the faces of playing children.

Where did you go afterwards?

it takes a while to turn an orchid into marigold and a while longer to ignore the smell of your burning flesh.

And then the flames engulf your soothed skin and spits out a colour similar to lavender.

Like a thirst that could never be quenched latching onto spirit, so are you addicted to madness and the differences in between.

You are now a spool of blue poetic thread weaving itself around a brave zestful smile

You’d only just learnt that you are a soul that receives a body, and that forever and yesterday are one and the same.

Now that you have made peace with the turmoils brewing within you, what piece of you is willing to be shattered next?

Remember to make yourself whole

“Remember to make yourself whole again”,

That voice so dauntingly vivid says

Remember the trees that cast a shadow on you while you were wounded

Remember the spring that brought fresh water to your heels

Remember the face in the sky that day that looked like a beguiled doe

The Icicles that clung to the roof of a shack that was bastioned by the forest

Everything is just how you remember

It is as clear as a mirror in your mind

But it is in the other side of the mirror that you live

A upside down dimension that is tipping over

This is the reality where everything has changed

Where the sun peaks at midnight and sets at daybreak

Where ashes and splinters are the remains of the tree

The bones in the river lie waste at midday

The faces in the sky, how orgulous they’ve becomee

now that a forest fire has ravaged the botanical lush

Therefore you do not recognise your safe place

the twinkle in your eyes are one of oblivion

You cannot hear the wildlifes jolly prance

You cannot sense sand fall to the bottom of the hour glass

and your body withers along with the surrounding

“Remember to make yourself whole again”,

it’s merely a fleeting whisper now

but on the other side of the mirror there is nothing

No life

No trees

No shack

by now perhaps you’ve started to realise,

that you do not exist too.

Toxic People with Toxic hands

You lost your childhood somewhere at the corner of Cleveland avenue to toxic people with waddling hands. They sunk you deeper into the clouds.

You reappeared here. Waiting.

Waiting for poetry to be read. Waiting for the trees to bear fruits and the seams of summer to sprout at the stems of a sycamore tree. For some reason, that was where you were looking for yourself. For your ego.

That was where your spider senses were leading you. They said it was bad luck to yell your dreams out of the window at daytime. It was toxic even, but you already knew that.

You are not surprised by the storm. You have seen it brewing from a distance. It’s been getting stronger. More acidic like grapefruits being fermented to alcohol. This is how we are, you and me you see.

All your senses know the toxic hands grappling your shinbones. An endogenic heat spurring within you is begging to release your alcoholic nature, but when the night disguises the sun and the days turn bronze, all you are left with are;

Toxic people with toxic hands.

Nevertheless, you are still waiting. All summer-long, you stood still. You feel your torso sink further into the clouds of toxic hands. The trees bleed violet. Your senses melt. You forget the reason you were waiting in the first place because a woman with an oversized ears pointed at you as she poisoned your mind with a toxic snake.

You breath yourself back to stillness. It will be okay now. The sun will shine again at the end of autumn because they can’t take away twice what you’ve already lost once.

once upon a man

I once had you to look up to

you with your wits and cunning games

yet you reminded me of the gravity of failure

and overwhelmed me with volleys of helplessness

You once hugged me oh so tight

I’d boast of your unwavering and heroic stamina

then you threw me out in a stormy night

and waited for the hurricane to sweep me into oblivion

You once gazed in my eyes so fondly

Your emeralds comforted my hazels

before you wrestled me towards the district of cruelty

driving me future to the brink of insanity

You once took me by the hand

you held on like I was dopamine

now you serenade me with pain

with throat tightening, eye watering torture

How I love to loath your smell

the scent of testosterone tinted with evil

Your hold on me is not over

until my brain seeps out from a broken skull

I am a disaster with a beating heart

thrown to the gallows by my saviour

all the while waiting for me to confess

that he is the only thing that is keeping me alive

I am Chicken

The past week has been terrifying, exhilarating and oddly memorable. The events which were all except subtle started out with me preparing for an Interview. The journey from Pécs, Hungary to Rodewisch, Germany lasted 9 hours, not including rest stops and Highway tickets we needed for crossing a few borders.

Our destination was a sleepy little town in east Germany. By the time we arrived, the town was in it’s default quiet mood. Even mosquitoes managed to turn in for the night. Our hotel’s reception was only available by phone call and no restaurant was open.

It reminded me of a movie I saw a while back, Silent hill If I’m not mistaken. But really any film where people disappear in small cities and no one ever remembers their last seen location. I half expected a man with a chainsaw and a mask of human skin to stagger across the road behind us as we checked into the hotel. In my defence, I gotta stay sharp and ready.

But no wonder, I was all anxious. This was my first interview ever so I did what normal people do, deliberately conjure up a series of apocalyptic events in order to take the edge off. That is what people do right? if the town was eradicated, I wouldn’t have the face a panel of healthcare experts judging my intellect and character. Alas my horror fantasies remained only fantasies.

Although the interview went better than my subconscious played it out, I did something that is unlike me. I chickened out.

I know I’m not a big city girl. As it turns out, I’m no small town girl either. I couldn’t imagine spending no less than 4 years doing my residency there. Even a caged phoenix like myself needed to feel the bustle and grind of life saturating the air around me. Neither my desperation for the position nor the amazing hospital staff could convince me to call Rodewisch home.

Hence, it wasn’t even midweek yet and I was devastated. So my hubby rode the spontaneous wave and detoured to Prague on our way back. It was my second time in the city. The first time I was in Prague, I tried tandem-jumping. This time, we visited the Thrill park.

Everything about thrill park was horrific. I thought it was odd that my husband found the place because he scares easy but perhaps he knew it would help me cease whining about the Job.

By the end of our talk with the host, we were more scared than ever. She added that we could simply yell out a safe word, “I am chicken”, at any point during the experience that we couldn’t continue. What kept me on my toes was really the fear of the unknown and a rumor that more than 800 people had chickened out.

We then made our way into the dungeon in complete darkness.

It was adrenaline surging, gut wrenching and utterly horrific. We held onto each other like we were each other’s breathing machine. I laughed each time I freaked out which was probably not the reaction the host expected.

It was as though all my favourite horror movies came to life around me and I was the protagonist. I wasn’t fazed by the costumed people or the wax figures. However, a period did come when my stamina was tested. After a spook from a monster, a red light turned on to indicate a key inside a toilet bowl. Being a huge fan of the saw franchise, I appreciated the reference. However I wasn’t about to put my hand down there even if it was clean.

I just couldn’t. I was chicken.

My husband reached down there and found the key attached to a long chain that attached to the toilet. We felt our way around the prison bars and found the key hole. We soon continued our journey once again in darkness.

The exercise ended at the 24th minute with Jason pursuing us up a flight of stairs with a sputtering chainsaw.

In the end, I had an amazing week because I learnt a couple of things. Since the world didn’t end like I thought it would, I would recommend travellers visiting Prague to check the thrill park out and if brave enough, try tandem jumping too, because truth is, you never know what you’ll discover when you decide to wear your heart on your sleeve.

Inside the dungeon