Jomul7

October 21st 2012

LAST SESSION IN COURSE

It was 10:05 pm. The weather was supposedly warm for tonight, not that I would care. My temperature was definitively high at this point. Her last text said: “I’m on my way”. I had asked my favorite nurse, Aimee to put the sign up: “DO NOT DISTURB BETWEEN 10 PM AND 4 AM” at the door. I was lucky that I had her as a nurse tonight. I don’t think nurse Carmen would have been as understanding. The Tv was on like always, but I wasn’t watching. I was gazing at the city lights outside. The first few days here, I couldn’t have enough of the view, but now it seemed the lights had stopped glittering and were simply cold and distant like everything else. Except for Arielle.

She didn’t knock, but simply came in. She was wearing her pleated blue and grey dress and a white shirt. She had her hair tied in a bun which made her eyes look bigger than normal. Something about her face looked different. She had put on some make up, I couldn’t believe it. It was barely noticeable, but it made her look older. I smiled and she smiled too. Her smile always changed her like sunlight in a dark night and all I would want is to curl under it. I didn’t know what to say, she didn’t either and we were content to leave words aside. She put her bag in the chair next to my bed and stood near me as we dived in each other’s eyes.

I flicked the covers aside with a sense of theatricality that made her smile. I was dressed in my usual hospital attire, a thin and loose gown, an IV line delivering hopelessly antibiotics to my body and lines monitoring my heart rhythm. Other than that, the cold that I felt didn’t stop me from rising and poking under that gown. I swallowed hard as she lifted the gown and took me inside her. Her thighs were slightly warmer than mine. Our lips were slightly parted as she started to rise and fall on me while my hands closed around her breasts.

For a few minutes that lasted a lifetime, I forgot medical procedures, examinations, blood work… until I heard nurse Aimee’s voice at the door.

“Are you ok in there? Your heart rate is in the 150’s. Can I come in?”

“NO! I mean no. I’m ok. I was just…turning in bed. I’m ok. I just need to be left alone.

“ok, but make sure to call if you need anything.”

“I will.”

Arielle resumed her rise and fall. Our muffled moaning did a full rotation of Earth and galaxies, moved starts into a sing along, round and round; enveloped the spine of a breeze at night and came and left like waves crashing on a beach. We were gods awaken from slumber, neither moth nor flame, neither leaf nor hurricane, slurping on rich, earthy bliss. 3 minutes and 30 seconds: a small and sweet death for these chimerical lives. We were forever young gods living eternally now.

She gently rested herself on my chest, as we listened to each other’s heartbeats slowing down, tears falling down our cheeks. The she got off, tenderly wiped me down and went into the bathroom. Few minutes later, she managed to collect some of who she was back. We looked at each other one last time and then she left.

I turned off the tv, the lights and wished to grab the switch off for the city lights, but all I had to do now was to wait.

Four months of texting back and forth, of yes and no, of hope and abyss to finally find myself sitting at the bottom of my soul, watching one bubble after another go up to the surface. Four months after learning that surgery was too risky and the only thing was to wait and get comfortable. Dad and mom ran up and down, moved their mouths, emptied their pockets and their eyes even after I said “I’m fine. Just make sure the music selection at my funeral moves feet and not souls.” Mom didn’t get it and her hand printed itself on my cheek, then her lips while she said she was sorry.

I didn’t expect that having a good timeline for one’s departure could turn moments into miniature movies and chase away sleep like an intruder in one’s home. I was alive and was waiting for death’s soft embrace. I was alive and for those 3 minutes and 30 seconds, I was alive inside Ariel and I had a short briefing with God on relocating paradise.

My last two months, I encouraged family members and friends to bring their movie nights, game nights and laughter days to me. Their tears could come before or after that, but the only food and water I cared about was their laughter and acting normal.

So on my last day, I surprised my mom by asking her to get me my favorite drink: A strawberry milkshake and while she was gone, like everyone else, I closed my eyes to rest a little while.

Posted at 7:26pm and tagged with: short story, spilledinkprose, prose, creative writing, I might delete this after awhile, sex, death, love, sickness, disease, personal,.

August 29th 2012

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I am going to find Fate and bind her (Part III)

I walked up the stairs leading to the door, my legs carrying me despite me, I wish to run away, but couldn’t. Mrs. Swing was already quirky as it is and now she happens to be Fate that I was supposed to take control of to make sure that no harm happens to my father. Before I knocked, I turned around.

“Hey sir?”

“Yes? You don’t want to do it anymore?”

“Yes, I mean no. I do want to do it, but I have one question for you”

“Go ahead.”

“What’s your name?”

“You really don’t remember do you?”

“How could I? We have never met.”

He shook his head and said: “My name is Frank. Now go on and do what you came for. I will be here waiting.”

“You are not coming in with me?”

“No, I’m not. This is all you from now on, and let’s just say that I rather not meet her.”

He must be afraid and who in their right mind wouldn’t be? So I knocked three times and waited. She came to the door. Last time I saw her, she was walking past our eyes with a black umbrella over her head, she always had that umbrella with her. Everything she had on was black, but it was the sort of dark clothes that let light bounce off them, they were dark and so imposing. She had dark gloves, a dark dress that went below her knees, dark high heels that she walked in as if she was born in them. She seemed a different age to everyone. People ranged her age from 20’s to 50’s, and to me right now, she seemed in her 30’s. Her pale skin contrasted sharply against her dark allure and softened her air of authority. She had deep blue eyes that one could drown if you were not careful. The shadow of a smile lingered about her face and her hair which was always hidden in a beautiful dark scarf was out and arrived at her waist. I was stunned and didn’t breathe for a few seconds.

“Yes?”

The music in her voice finally broke the enchantment I had fallen into. It also seemed strangely familiar. She looked past my shoulder and waved at Frank.

“Hey, Frank? You are not coming in?”

“Hey, Mrs. Swing. Maybe another day, yeah maybe another day.”

“Ok, my door is always open you know”

“I know but thanks no thanks.”

She stepped aside to let me in.

“Come in, child. I have been waiting for you.”

I went in and looked one last time at Frank who seemed to shake his head slowly and sadly. Her door closed with a little squeak while I took in everything I saw in the living room. The room seemed a lot more spacious than you would have thought. On the right was a hallway, then a wall with lots of portraits, and a revolving stairs leading to the rooms upstairs. On my left, was a living room set surrounding a chimney where fire cracked and hissed gently. Large windows let moonlight in as it played shadows on the wooden floor.

“Would you like something to drink? Water? Juice? Tea? Alcohol?”

“Alcohol? No, I’m not old enough to drink.”

“I know and I wanted to make sure you knew that” and then she let out a laughter and it seemed as if the whole room joined in her laughter.

“So what will it be then?”

“Orange juice if you don’t mind.”

“Sure. Go ahead and have a seat. You can leave your backpack in that closet by the door if you would like. You are safe here. I will be right back with your juice.”

I went to sit and kept the backpack with me. This whole thing did have an air of déjà vu, but I could swear that this was my first time in this house.

She returned with two glass of orange juice and sat down across me, her manners slow and refined. We stayed silent for a moment that seemed like eternity.

“I was wondering when you would return you know? I was really started to get worried that you might not show up and that I would have start over again.”

“What do you mean? I don’t understand.”

She waved my concern away and let silence return between us.

“You really don’t remember, do you?”

“Remember what? Why is everybody keeps asking if I do?”

I got worried that I yelled at her, but she didn’t bat one eyelash, she simply kept looking at me, to make sure I was sincere. She got up and asked me to follow her. She opened the door next to the chimney, turned on the light and started going down the stairs. I stood there at the door and I remembered having been here at this moment. My heart was at full gallop and a voice inside my heard were screaming: don’t go! Don’t go! Mrs. Swing turned around and asked if I was coming. This was a mistake. I shouldn’t be here, but I had come this far and there was no way out. If she was Fate, I had no other choice than to follow her until I found the opportunity. So I swallowed hard and rejoined her at the bottom of the stairs. Once again I was mesmerized by what I saw. The basement was really spacious but was occupied by a single object. It was a complex and vast machinery that weaved thousands and thousands of lines vertically and horizontally. It occupied at least 200 feet and it was made of a fine type of brown wood. It smelled ancient and you could hear a gentle hum as the strands went through the wheels. Come to think of it, it was like a chorus of voices that were competing to be heard until they merged into one voice when the strands went by the wheel. At the far end, there seemed to be an old man sitting on a chair, his face covered by white hair as his hands ran through the strands. I knew him. I mean, I felt like I knew him, but I don’t know from where. I looked at Mrs. Swing as if to ask if I could go and she said yes with her eyes. I walked and the distance seemed to have tripled and I was never going to get to where he was.
When I finally got to where he was and saw him hunched over the strands, I remembered everything:

I was the slave of Fate. I was the old man working endlessly at her workshop in exchange for the eternal safety of my father. I made sure that none of the lives that every strand represented would get tangled up. Overtime I would come up with a little mechanism that could do my work while I escaped. Once I left the house, I always ended up returning to that time when my father was about to leave and I was desperate to find a way to ensure his safety. No harm never befell to my father because he remained in that time capsule where he was happy with his entire family except for me. I was never born and he remained happy forever while I toiled in Fate’s workshop.

I approached the old man only to see him disappear in smokes. I put down my backpack and sat where he was. I ran my fingers over the crossed bars that marked all my attempts over the years. I felt her hands over my shoulders massaging my back. I looked up to her and I had to move my white hair out of the way.

“You knew all along that I was going to come back?”

“Yes, darling, I wouldn’t be Fate if I didn’t know and besides you always leave behind your backpack. I don’t know why.”

I looked over the corner and noticed the cobwebs that surrounded the bag I had brought with me. I had found Fate and she has never let me go, but here I was smiling as I thought of my next escape.

Posted at 12:51pm and tagged with: spilled ink, prose, short story, fiction, creative writing, fate, destiny, magical realism, rejectscorner,.

August 28th 2012

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I am going to find Fate and bind her (part II)

She had told me to return in two weeks, enough time for her to make the arrangements necessary. And for two weeks, each day decided to stretch itself into infinity and test my reason. My aunt had told me to come ready for a long journey in which more than likely I may never return and if I didn’t show up on time, she would understand and would be glad to never bring it up ever again. I promised that even if the sky was to fall on that day, I will be there on time. On july 10^th, I left my family. My father’s birthday was a month away and the plan was for to have dealt with Fate before then. In my bag, I had a pocket size notebook, a knife, a red and black pen, a water bottle, three underwears, and a lunch bag made of oranges, chicken and fried potatoes. Before leaving the house, I had slipped an adieu note next to each one of my family member, and while I was about to get out of my parents bedroom. My father had sat up in bed, looked right at me and for a moment, I froze in place, sweating and thinking that I was done, but he mumbled and said about me going to bed and then he fell back to sleep, the house gently rocked by his snoring. I ran all the way to my aunt’s house, my heart on my heels, refusing to look or turn back. This is what I wanted.

When I got to her door, I knocked and rang the bell for five minutes before she opened it up. She looked me up and down and asked me what time is it. I didn’t have a watch, but I was sure that I was on time because I had left the house ten minutes earlier than I usually did. She looked at her watch and said: “It’s ten past midnight. You are late and this is not happening anymore. Go home, child.” She was about to shut the door on me when I slid my foot in there only to regret I when I felt the pain but I held on and said: “I left the house on time and I’m sure if you didn’t take too long to answer the door, I would have been on time.”

“take your foot off, I need to return to bed.”

“LISTEN, PLEASE! I will owe you for the rest of my life! Whatever it is, just name it!”

She paused for a second and the same gleam I saw last time went by her eyes. She finally opened the door.

“You might not have a whole lot of life left when you return.”

I followed her in the kitchen as she introduced me to someone who had his back to me.

“Look what the wind blew by”

The man turned around, his coat had seen better days, and his white shirt found it a challenge to remain white and his brown pants grabbed his waist properly but flopped about his legs. Yet you could tell by how he held himself that this outfit was his best. He was in his forties, a creepy smile creased his face permanently, and he missed the last finger on both hands and I couldn’t get my eyes off his hands even as he extended his right hand to greet me. I was too polite to refuse it.

“so you’re the boy who thinks you want to find Fate?”

“Yes, sir.”

“oh”

He exchanged a look with my aunt then he asked:

“What’s the bag for?”

“Well, I was told that I was going for a long journey so I packed a few things. Is that problem?”

“No, just that we have been over this.”

“I’m sorry what?”

“Never mind, you can bring anything you want just remember that I won’t help you carry it.”

“No problem sir. I will be fine.”

“If there’s nothing else, we should be on our way.”

He looked at my aunt who looked at me as if to dissuade me for saying yes.

“You are not coming?” I asked

“No honey. I will be here waiting for you.”

And we left, we waved each other good bye and then I followed the stranger in silence. All of a sudden, I started asking myself if I was in my right mind to trust someone whose name I didn’t know to lead me like this. I mean my aunt wouldn’t let me leave with a dangerous man, but how well did she know this man? Maybe I should just go home and just forget about all this. I kept looking right and left, but the streets were unusually quiet in this warm night. I wasn’t usually allowed to be out at this time of the night, and I have always thought that I was missing something. We met a homeless man, buried under thick blankets, lying on a cardboard and as I passed him by, he let out: “Damn fools!” and he kept repeating it even as we got further away. My guide had ignored him completely and I was going to ask what he thought of what just happened, but I changed my mind when I looked at his hands again. I wondered if he lost his fingers on one of those adventures at sea with my aunt. I also wondered what he must have done to the person who had caused him to lose his fingers. I barely could control my tongue from trying to tug at him and get him to tell me all these things.

We stopped in front of a house which I recognized as the house of the Mrs. Swing. She was the most popular seamstress in town. There was no celebration or official event if the guests didn’t wear her clothes. She was such in high demand that orders came from all over the world, but for some unknown reason, she only owned this house and worked by herself. What set her apart from the rest of seamstresses was not only her ability to take one look at you and know all your measurements to the dot but also her perception in creating a piece of cloth that not only fit your personality but also the season of your life. If you passed the interview, only then you could pass your command, write her a check and expect the delivery at your door. You were not to ask to see what material she used or how long it took. More than one customer was not pleased with this order of things, but once they put on the clothes, however eccentric it looked at first, it fitted them perfectly like a second skin. Our town wasn’t the best in our country, but we always felt special that we could point out to her house as proof that we may not have the glamour of big cities, but we could challenge any city when it came to our fashion sense. So given the clothes of my guide, I thought he wanted to upgrade his style and I didn’t blame him.

“We have arrived, son. Here lives Fate.”

“What? Are you sure? Mrs. Swing is Fate?”

“Yes she’s always been and she always will be. So go on now and knock, I will wait here for you to go in.”

A suivre…

Posted at 10:35pm and tagged with: prose, spilled ink, rejectscorner, magical realism, short story, creative writing, fate, destiny,.

August 21st 2012

3 notes

I am going to find Fate and bind her

He had been swallowed by the road and the sun and the air. He left a cellphone in my hand there was no other number other than his number stored in it and it didn’t matter because I knew it by hear anyways: 2255031487. I wrote it in my hand, graved it at the corner of the dinner table, and wrote it on the wall of my bedroom. Last time father left, I lost weight, I cried oceans and rivers, I was force bathed by mother after refusing for two days. My siblings mocked my sensibility, but they didn’t know what I know, they just couldn’t, wouldn’t understand that his shadow seemed to have gone ahead of him to make sure he doesn’t return like our neighbor’s dad. They never told us or anyone what happened to him, whether it was a ferocious animal or thunder out and about, not discriminating about its prey and striking down whoever was in its way; was it the Devil, jealous of their happiness, who stroke a bargain with God about ripping their father out of their lives? It didn’t matter. One look at my friend’s eyes and his loss would gather in stagnant pools inside you.

Father returned one month later, I was now his shadow wherever he went. Waiting at the door for him to come out, sitting next to him while he ate, drank, laughed. He kicked me in my rear end more than once for following him and even the street dogs took pity on me on that day. I know what I know. You have to keep your friends close but your enemies closer so it was time for me to find Fate and bind her forever or as long as I breathe. I shared my plan with my witch of an aunt who had dove eyes, gentle smile, barren belly, green hands and expert hands in the kitchen. Her meals were so fine that it was rumoured that even the devil lined to have a taste to them when everyone was asleep. For me, witch or no witch, she was going to tell how to find and bind Fate so my father may live endless days before me. She laughed at me and said: Child, you don’t know what you are asking for, you want to be king of kings, decides who lives and dies, control the rain and the sunshine and all that for a father who doesn’t care for you? Get out of my sight, you are wasting my time. Tell your mother she still owes me, now go on and leave.” I stood outside her door for a moment, trying to pierce her with my eyes. She felt my gaze.

“Child, you can’t do nothing to me. You might be powerful, but my love for you is stronger. Go play with someone your age.”

I took off, ran off, flew off, a smile creasing my face, she had FELT it: I had powers. I was going to find Fate and bind her. So I returned every day. I will see to it that my father was safe and sound then go to my aunt and with this help and that smile, I hope to open her heart and receive more words, more jewels. On the last day of my thirteenth’s birthday, she did. Smoking in front of her house, she stitched up for me a patch of her past when she was young, wild and loose and she used to know the paths that led underground and in that world above us. Mesmerized, she told tales of folly, love, riches, strength and power and for a moment, she was transformed before my very eyes. My aunt was not a witch, she was a pirate. She has had enough adventures to fill our local library and more. She finished her tale by telling me that there might be a way to find Fate, but danger lurked in my path and I will end up losing more than a limb in this adventure. I told her not worry because the gain was worth more than the loss. A cruel gleam went by her eyes and disturbed the gentleness of her face for a moment. “We shall see.”

A suivre…

Posted at 3:00pm and tagged with: short story, prose, spilled ink, rejectscorner, father and son, son, childhood, Fate,.

March 17th 2012

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Is it love or voodoo?

He just didn’t have a chance. Everyone could tell, except him. Well everyone was wrong too, except him. It wasn’t just because his mother as well as all the women in her family thought she was a witch. It wasn’t either because his father was a successful businessman and owned a couple of alimentary product stores while her father was a talented mechanic who barely made ends meet. It was much more simple that. Kimia Matumboli Jr was plain while Malaika was beautiful. Kimia was very much aware of his physical limitations while Malaika was very much aware of her social limitations, but Kimia had only eyes for Malaika. Kimia first saw her when he was in 9th grade at Tanga Malamu high school. she was sitting right in front of him and anytime the wind blew, he could smell her. Instructor’s reports to his parents always said: “Very smart but daydreams in class, needs to apply himself at school”. Despite the fact that he was in the top 5 of his class, his father Matumboli the First, tried to interrogate him the way he always did. He would be calm at first and then gradually inflame himself into a rage until he had to go grab a belt to release his anger by giving the person a good beating. Luckily his wife intervened most of the time to diffuse him by pulling his attention to other priorities: his health, his cigarettes, his beer, his food, etc.

Read the rest here.

Part II of the story is here.

Posted at 2:04am and tagged with: short story, creative writing, personal,.

March 7th 2012

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Our love was sweet and sour. we met around a sweet and sour chicken noodles plates. She was sweet. I was sour. By sweet, I mean she had a sweet tooth. For me, like you might have guessed. By sour, I mean I was under the weather. Feeling pulled down slowly by this gray weather. This was our 5th month together. We were not a couple. We were not lovers. We were something. We liked being something. No names. No strings. No baggage. Just something. We liked being this ambiguous indeterminate thing that loosely kept us free and yet connected at the same time. Just this moment. These two warm of sweet and sour chicken noodle plates. Our hands tied together. We just couldn’t take our eyes off each other…