The magpie’s song

Adorned by the brittleness of his aching spirit, the Magpie watches himself in the reflective stream and nods approvingly. His kins would be proud, if they could see him stretch out his nestled wings and glide inches above the water surface.

It is a good day. And it going to get better.

Victory is in the waddling stream, it is in the harvest of the trees rootling. It is in the squeals of the busy beavers. It is in his brother’s pea-sized eyes.

For years and years, his kind had been predated, and hunted down. He remembers his dear mate lying on the zenith of an Alpine mountain, try as he could, her small heart palpated and went silent before she thought of giving up. Stricken down by some hunter fellow. What woes trails the magpie’s life. Loneliness settled faster than the snowy blizzard that brewed on the day that the colours from his flamboyant feathers turned bland…until now.

He gripped the soil underneath his talon and pushed with all his little might. The time to mourn had come and gone. Today he smelt victory in the fields. He’d advocate it all day long

“Hello”, he yelled to the Robin

“Salute”, he tweeted to Frau Puffin

And then he settled on jenny’s windowsill and sang the most serene symphony she’s heard in a while.

When they asked him why he was so ecstatic with curiosity dripping from their lips, he winced and flipped and giggled and said, It’s going to be good day after all, as he pecked off the crust of jenny’s shepherd pie

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.

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.

a story

Tell us a story

I’ve dined too often with corpses, with loss, and macabre

there wouldn’t be grimacing gargoyles, or lustful vampires

not one of sentinel wars or wallowing oceans

and surely, oh surely no romantic outburst of uniting twin souls.

I’ve grown out of love with melancholic poetries and jazzy blues

don’t write me a song about fawns and a princess from far yonder

I don’t care for a mix-tape of political menace, activists and abolished law

I just couldn’t ask you for the pride and greed of institutional empires

Those long texts on Jing chi or mind soul connections bore me

The science of matter and covalent bonds are not teachable to me

tell us a story about you, flower child.

set a stage for challenges, uproars and laughters

bloom today with confidence, sehr brav

Liberate your soul with our attentive ears and receptive hearts

and then you will realise that you are everything

and you are nothing

You can let go

or you could hold on

You can just exist, in the ink of your story

You could be everything I imagined you to be

The Inn-keeper

Fellow Bloggers and beloved readers, I want to wish you all a merry Christmas and briefly thank you for what an awesome year this turned out to be.

While the story that I am inspired to post is not your traditional magical Christmas story, I hope you’ll enjoy it still. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll explain why.

For now, merry Christmas and a big Thank you to you all


She worked from dusk to dawn, Monday to Sunday, January to December.

She was the host of the best Inn in Calbury. From the moment she could a hold a broom, she was destined a care-taker to be. The whole town, young and old, sick and healthy, rich and poor found shelter in the inn .

Her rooms were neat and cozy. From basement to attic. It had beautiful ornaments and an aura of love. The best room there was Garrett, man could discover the entire city; night lights, river and Calbury’s castle.

Guests came from far and wide, willing to pay millions to lodge in garrett, yet the Inn-keeper never gave out the room. The key stayed around her neck, like a precious stone, or something far valuable

The inn-keeper would visit the room, twice in a year, On New year and Christmas day.

The inn-keeper was once a vibrant woman, her son was her companion and peace. She spent every waking minute with him, and he loved the inn as much as she. Garrett was his favourite room too. He’d stay there whenever it had no occupant.

Then one day, a grave tragedy occurred. He’d seen the giant Christmas tree light up in the city square on Christmas eve but wanted to watch the fireworks too, not confined behind the room’s window, so he climbed out the window and sat on the roof. When the fire works was over, 2 hours past midnight, the boy hurried down from the roof to wish all a merry Christmas, but his foot slipped on icy snow and down he fell, 6 meters hitting the hard cobble-stone below.

The devastated Inn-keeper trod the heavy snowfall, the clinic was closed, she had to visit the Doctor’s home.

“Leave me alone, it’s a holiday! if he’s meant to, he’ll wake up soon”

Then she took him to the priest so he could pray for her sleeping son.

New year’s day was the day the doctor told her there was no way to save the boy. So she took him to the garrett room, swaddled him tight and lit some candles as he slept.

No day was ever the same for the Inn-keeper without her son. She toiled day and night, January to December to cater to other’s need and readily love them. Except for those few hours on Christmas and New year’s day, she never took a break, not even for lunch.

Yes, no price could be placed where her precious boy laid in rest, even till this very day.

die Katze und der Hase

Once upon a time, in a totally real, not made up kingdom close to the Amazon,  all animals lived in harmony.

They broke bread together and partook in delightful feasts

The Emperor and highest in command is the Elephant

The  Musicians were the birds and crickets

The Hunters included the Hyenas, wild cats and sharks

The decorators were the graceful butterflies

On security details, they had the porcupine and hound

As their community grew, many animals who did not have a job found one that gave them much purpose and fulfillment

Even the Fox became the kingdom’s travelling salesperson.

The baby animals were trained by their parents and relatives as they would take over the role when their loved ones were too feeble to continue.

The young owls studied the act of philosophy and diplomacy from their grand father

Everything was perfect. Everyone kept busy, everyone except the cat and the rabbit.

No one really knows about their absence. After the  community’s wholesome breakfast, they simply disappeared until the same time, the next day.

The Dog  aka whistle-blower Joe became suspicious, hence, he approached the mighty Emperor;

‘Sir I have reason to suspect that the Cat and the Rabbit are cajoling with members of other communities,  they may even be spies my Emperor, think back to your earliest memory of them, I can’t  recall them as kids, or their parents, can you?’

The Elephants fussed.

‘You’re right loyal dog, They just appeared here,  as you know,  I never forget. We must arraign them in front of the magistrate’.

 


 

And so it happened that the following morning, the cat  and Rabbit were tossed  into jail.

‘Hear ye, Hear ye’. The  Magistrate, the giraffe announced pounding his heavy gavel.  ‘the defendants may appear before my court’

So the cat and the rabbit, bound  on  all  sides by two hefty rhinoceros guards  and hippo bailiffs appeared before the judge.

The judge raised a brow;

‘Ok, I’m gonna keep this simple coz lunch starts in 15 minutes and I gotta catch the sautéed pithy tendril before they run out. You two stand here accused  of spying on our community and stealing information about us’

‘What information?’ the Cat mocked;

‘Silence! do you understand these charges, have you anything to say?’

‘I have a question’, announced the rabbit meekly,

The whole court leaned it. The rabbit rarely spoke, except for the old owl, no one knows how he sounded like

‘Go ahead’ nudged the Giraffe

In his thready, squeaky voice, the Rabbit askd ‘why are there only wryms,  tiger snakes and crocs in the prison?’

The Giraffe shouted with austerity, “because they are baaaaaaad mother fuckers, and they’ll eat your cute hiney  for breakfast without blinking twice’

‘This is ridiculous’, objected the cat,  are you so curious about where I am? My aeipathy is laying at the vantage point of the hilliest rock where the sun hits just right and occasionally licking my sack, why? BECAUSE I HAVE NO JOB, is that a crime now?

‘Me too’, said the rabbit

The Giraffe looked at his watch and said. ‘I rule that you two are unguilty,  Lazy bigots. Now, get out of my courthouse and get a life!”


 

News got back the Emperor that two furry critters needed to secure a job

‘Well that’s easy, said the Elephant, they can be poets’

‘Sir the Seal has that,  his work is like Troubadour’, the Emperor’s secretary,  Swansil the Swan suggested

‘What about good distributors’

‘The Chimps Sir, they even deal with perfumes

‘They like to groom, how about a hair saloon?’

‘Sir, you send your wife to  Bear & Brothers™ for her coils, he’s excellent at it’.

‘Right right  then perhaps design?’

‘Fashion is the peacocks area of expertise’

Four hours of bantering later, the Emperor consulted with his council men. They made more suggestions, albeit there was really no free occupational sector available.

By the end of the day, every one had collapsed from exhaustion. Finally the Elephant called in the Cat and the Rabbit

‘Listen, we are tired! just tell us what it is you want to be, and you can resumer training for it’

They exchanged trepid glances; ‘well we don’t know’, said the rabbit

‘You have until tomorrow morning  to figure it out’.

 


 

The following day,  the Cat and Rabbit, arrived zestfully to the throne room

‘Have you arrived at a decision’, a doubtful Emperor scoffed;

‘We think you were on to something, We should be spies!’ said the cat

The Elephant’s eyes flung open, ‘You’re right…I did come up with that ‘

the swan  said matter-of-factly, ‘technically, the hound did….’

‘Silence! roared the Emperor, from this day onwards,  I decree that the cat and the Rabbit will visit new unexplored territories,  learn about it for as long as they deem fit, and report back to us’

After the decree, the Emperor called in the spies, ‘have you decided where you will start your mission ?’

The Rabbit cleared his throat, ‘there are these interesting race of upright walking creatures called  Humans.

“What makes them so special? asked the Emperor

the Cat said; “their strengths: they have a wide variety of resources we can steal and industrialise

Or weaponise even” added the Rabbit

‘And their weakness?’ said the Emperor

‘Glad you asked my Emperor,  smized the rabbit, they’ll consider any breathing thing as a pet. Together we will be unassailable’

And thus engendered the prodigious adventure of the Cat and the Rabbit in the Human household and the Kingdom flourished, or so they thought.

 


Hey friends. Today I thought I’d get a bit silly today. I recently visited my friend’s family and one of them wanted me to give them a bed time story. But, since they don’t speak English. I had to deliver it either in Magyar or Deutsch.

I couldn’t deliver. But I vowed to give them an original Alexandrian fable that I will completely translate to Deutsch in time.

Let me know what animals you liked, and the ones who think should have been featured, as well as the role they should have played in our euthopian society.

 

Indigo

A lady never pours her own glass,

but I do.

she strolls gracefully,

relishing every step her stilettoes mold in the dirt.

So different, from my favorite suede platform boots.

Ain’t I a genuine lady?

What matters to me and what matters to you

are as different as Van Gogh and Frida Kahlo,

but then again, our shared values

are more tricky to unravel.

Your heart receives all the love it gets

and acknowledges them.

Your heart reciprocates that stealthy energy.

You care— both for those who are deserving;

and for the lot who doesn’t.

And perhaps your greatest attribute is

you can filter humor from un-comical settings.

You’ve learned to trust.

I’ve learned the hard way to not pretend.

When I look at my reflection,

a perfectly sculpted shell is all I see,

ironic isn’t it?

that I am bare, naked in your eyes

yet you’re blindsided to who I am

because I am wound that way.

I don’t like to talk with people I don’t know

or with people I do know,

a shell.

I heard you had come,

come to save the beloved,

I should be beyond ecstatic

but I couldn’t care less.

Others would shut me out,

after all, that’s what I deserve for not being

exactly like them

but not you.

Instead, you took a crayon, traced my silhouette

and colored my cold heart indigo.

If I had a dream catcher

for every time I thanked you,

I’d be dreaming with the entire constellation

above my crown.

Image source: www.imprnt.com