Yes I fancy those children, the way their imagination works is fascinating. He chases butterflies calling them magical fairies yet he releases them when they fall under his mercy. She cries on the crumbs of her crackers and calls them falling angels from the sky. She imagines the rain drops as soldiers being sent down to rest after a battle, so she dances under love trying to collect them on her skin to live in her.
He lays down to count the stars and says I’ll go there one day to play with them and perhaps shine like they do. She sneaks on her toes into my library; which she thinks is forbidden, to learn the secrets of life of course. They fear our cook; from her broad face that they compare with stone. They say she eats children and cook them.
I laugh at these scenes which they make. I only wish that the last one was not true. Yes, my angels are stars now in a far fairyland guiding soldiers to the secrets of life, that’s what I like to think.
I still have a black and white picture … It is clearer this way, I get to see his true face and kiss those wrinkles; caused by his overdosed smiles. His true face … I can see it in his soul through those charming eyes.
He looked at me, and with one look he elicited my soul out so forcibly as if he called it forth and it obeyed … I felt like a lab rat, he was testing his control on me.
The best reason to hate him is that he made me smile once. His smile, on the other hand, is innocent and the most deceiving.
I remember the first time we had a connection … Our souls bonded and we had access to each other’s thoughts. We come from different tribes he and I, I come from the “Qatala”; the most deadliest and cruelest creatures. He is what you call a common, but he is unique.
We can never be together, we are different like water and fire. He is the symbol of Love and I am the symbol of Hate and chaos will fall on us like rain if the two mix. He has special powers of forcing his love into the coldest and he kills with kindness which I think is pathetic. His purity teases me, I hate the way he treats me, it makes me weak.
I see him sometimes, I avoid looking in those eyes, they have their way to make me feel like a human again and I resent it.
I am sure that he saw the darkness in my eyes and now sees me as one of his charity works … That light in your light soul has no cure for my black spirit. I see him sometimes doing the “Gaith” dance; it brings fortune to the poor ones, I see him juggling planets like they’re nothing too. I see him painting souls with feelings and it was disgusting, I see him riding the “Mumit” for fun; Mumit is a beast that can tear you in parts with one move. I also see him bringing life with a snap of a finger; bringing memories into thin air for people to see, and when I see him I see myself in chains too.
Sometimes I see him as an amusement; a clown. Sometimes I feel that he has my heart in his bare hands and it bleeds when he closes his fist; a master. I am the child of the desert and the sea and I shall return into dust when the sun rises from the west. My end, however, feels nearer when I see the threat in the heart of that child like man. I hope he never becomes my enemy, for he has great power on me. I hope he never becomes my lover, for he is such a distraction. I hope he stays nothing, that worthless half human.
I was having a horrible nightmare about a mad clown who slashed his victim’s mouth from ear to ear … He said she has never smiled before and she needed it. I was woken up by the temperature in the room … It was so cold that my feet almost went blue. I woke up breathing out vapour as if it’s winter … On the edge of my bed there sits a grey troubled soul … He was a figure which took a man’s form with his head looking down.
I tried to talk with him and ask what was wrong. Yes, to talk, “Making contact” is a sentence I hate in horror movies. As if they are not like us … They feel and think. Yes they are beyond in another world under ours but they are around too. He took a look at me and faded into thin air. I wished to see him again … What was his name? Why is he in misery? I want to be a good friend and listen … Or am I in love?
I have always been curious and drawn to mystery. We shared a room together anyway, yes just because I own a piece of land on paper that doesn’t make it mine. They were here before us and we took over their world … This was his room before it was mine and he is kind enough to share it. Sometimes I see his diary next to my pillow, a language I can not understand. It looks Arabic but somehow in reverse, I’m not sure.
He’s not the only one I see, but he is the only one who is grey. I always wonder if the ones living in homes with us are different than those who live in seas, remains and near the graves. I have met some unpleasant creatures; half a goat, impossible to catch, their children, the deformed one who has a story of his own.
He, on the other hand, is more closer to my heart. He has a story that I want and he left me all alone. I am going on a mission to the ancient world beneath ours, of course I have to take permission from their king to get in and out. I shall make a deal with the witch who lives next door, I have a book that she wants and she knows how to summon kings and the retinue, she is well connected.
I wonder if the king will allow me to come back again if I knew too much … Will I find him? Will he tell me his story? Will my journey be unexpected and deadly? I must take this adventure even if I have to travel by spirit and leave my rotten body on this bed of mine. It is worth all the trouble. You will not understand … Not until the veil is removed; a curse yet a blessing. Our existence is metaphysical and beyond the human mind’s limitations, that is what you normal people need to know. Till then, see you …. Maybe.
He was standing there waiting for her, searching for her face in those blurred faces. He caught her at last and she from under her shades has caught his eyes whose patience was wearing thin and that overwhelmed her as she smiled out of true happiness. That smile of hers made his lips wave back with hope but her smile soon had faded into deep sadness due to the clarity of the situation; he can’t be hers and that made her furious. His smile faded too like sunset when her two seconds smile was gone.
His eyes followed the confusing movements of her lips and that left him thinking with mixed emotions. “What is it he wants? … Looking at me with those puppy eyes … The fool thinks I would fall for such an innocent look.” He evoked her emotions with his playfulness and that has offended her most. She refuses to submit to any kind of power and him trying to do so without even trying made her hate him most. “That smile has slipped my face”.
For reasons she does not know and can not understand, she envied him. “The way he looked through me made me feel naked and exposed as if he can see my soul through transparent glass and that scares me most.” “Does he look at all women that way? Of coarse he does, he lied to me without saying a word!” She forces on a face of apathy but sadness breaks through like the truth and light would find their way through the cracks. “Every time I see him I stand straight pulling myself together … It’s stupid and pathetic.” She wasn’t all together! She’s a paradox in a human form.
“We just can’t be together so let me be …” She is grey and he is spring, she is darkness and he is light, he is hope and she is despair, he is the dream and she is a nightmare, he is whole and she is incomplete, he is strong and she is broken, he is very alive and she is dead, he is loved and she is a stranger. “It just doesn’t make sense.”
What can she do but to avoid looking into his deep eyes for they only made her feel pain, for they are one of her new fears and impossible desires. The quiet ones … Who are they but over thinkers? They would make great writers too, since they’re bad talkers. Here’s a little secret; they are not quiet at all their emotions are screaming inside shaking them and choking their throats as they ignore by trying to look calm and together.
What an old lady from hell! She is picking up pieces of earth like she’s picking up flowers and she is scooping out crumbled street like she would scoop vanilla ice cream! She is running after me … Picking, throwing, scooping and throwing …
AAAh! The gravity is trying to squish my spine! I must fight back … I will look up to the sky to hold my head high with all the power I have left …
Wait, what is that heavy weight burdening my shoulders? That weight took a form of a green old skinny man who is clutching on my back and piercing my skin with his long dirty nails. If I give in she will win and if I kept my pride I will break.
Lemons are rolling towards me … What would I do with lemons? “Make lemonade.” she said as she laughed in mockery. Home is where I want to be; where I can cry alone. “Turn me into a bird!” At last! I am free to fly back to my golden cage.
I tried to run away from my own life but I’m still here trying to keep up. The younger me is much braver than I. If only she were here to guide me through. Five cups, who are nine years old today, are my only childhood friends who are left. I look at them as I grow bitter and think … Where have you gone? I’m lost without you.
“Am I next?” I thought as I walked by a cemetry in Turkey. They were people like me, I am no god. Will I die? That is out of question. What about my pitiful misdeeds … will I carry their heavy weight on my chest? Will they fit in my grave? In the darkness lays green. Who is that man standing before me? Why do I feel pulled and submissive?
Fear of death is suddenly clear and planted. Stranger, Are you reading my thoughts?! Stop shuffling them on your poker table. I am only grey fading to white. As the healing illness runs through my veins I can hear his only loud thought – “You are next.”
Through all of these tables, I sat on that one. This chair is the oldest, so it is the wisest. Dear chair, I wonder how many stories have you carried? How much have you suffered and endured to get these wounds on that torn skin of yours? I love the wrinkles on your face, it complements your grey hair. Oh here comes the Asian waiter who greets me with a smile that never gets old. Oh, the way that six-fingered virtuoso showers my cake with chocolate exhilarates me.
What I love about cafes is that the people change everyday but it’s almost the same. That leaning tower of Pisa is all over his lady whom he loves deeply and as she sips the goodness of life he recites poetry to the beauty of her eyes. The old man secludes himself in the corner and has a glass of warm milk. The vulgar man who mistreats my friend is always here in different vessels. The boys who come in with rolling eyes examine the place as if it were a crime scene.
What if I opened my third eye? Would I see their real stories? Their secrets perhaps? Is there a murderer? A thief? If only it were true … I bit most of them are calculus teachers. What is that on the front page? A new bomb has exploded on the east side? Rich, please bring me today’s newspaper … Never mind I’ll get it myself. I pulled out the rolled one thirsty for fresh news and before I knew it a gun fell on the ground with a bang that scattered them like cockroaches. My favourite cafe is now closed for investigation.
If only he hadn’t dropped the note … John Sevefaro; a respected man and a brain cancer charity founder is not what he seems. John , who is married to Katy Witherspoon, is the owner of the new science laboratory in town. They had three children together; Mary, Joseph and Noah in close ages from seven to ten. Ten and a half as Noah always said proudly. Katy is an art teacher in her children’s primary school and is loved by her other ninety three children.
Everyday she dives into waves of admiration by the parents and love from her students. They were both quite a couple; wonder makers. She would create Art pieces from nothing and he creates green paper to feed the eyes of his wife.
One day as the mother and her three little slaves were getting up to go to school, Katy felt sick and passed the duty to drop off the children to the husband. He was complaining at the door about being late since the ways are too different and the nice nosy neighbour has heard him so she offered to take them to school on her way to work.
They singed in the car together and she offered them candy and sugar treats, they were happy and that cheered her up after the divorce of hers. Seven hours had passed, so Katy called on the husband to ask him about the kids, were they polite? Does she need to punish them with face slaps? Her curiosity was boiling till he picked up the phone to tell her about the lucky day he had.
She went to the neighbour’s house to see if she brought them back but the old lady is gone and instead there was a paper on the door. Katy took the paper; it was a printed letter – ” I took your three children to an old friend of mine, they look beautiful in red; those angels. We told them that they have been chosen to sacrifice themselves to god. If only you saw the innocent looks on their faces! They were so happy as we tied them up from their legs. It was painless I assure you, we drugged them first then we murdered them. I threw the bones to stray dogs, made a wig out of your daughter’s beautiful shiny hair and we kept the tender meat in plastic boxes for us to cook and eat later. Love, Sandra.”
Katy choked and shook in fear then lost her ability to speak as she waited in shock helplessly for her husband who was really late. He came in finally with a smile of satisfaction on his face, he hanged his jacket and a little note fell out. She couldn’t speak … What would she say? She quietly picked up the note to read it and it had red stains and a meat cooking recipe. This morning she knew too little and this evening little did she know.
Words are sculptured from stones and emotions are expressed from roses, yet the meaning is lost in the falling rivers of hell. How can I tell the long night about my nothings? Shall I sing and be heard through the broken lock? What a rusty voice … I have been silenced for a long time by the scratches in the walls.
The crying child inside my eyes, whose wrists are suffocating from chains, can be heard and so is the old broken lady who is melting in the boiling blood in vain. My hollow soul splashes in grey and as it rains sorrows I choose to feel nothing. How can I write about nightmares that begin with a creak?
How can I tell stories about the evil eye watching me through that keyhole like a circus freak? Dark smoke flows in the pupils of my eyes staring back at me in that mirror which draws me into my fading self. Pain peaks, pain smoothly slips on his toes through the cracks like a diamond thief. My demons are playing music in the ruins and it’s keeping me tamed as heat escapes along with those frozen emotions whom I blame.
I hear crashes waking up the sleep and I see flying ashes making screaming faces at me. The numbers are escaping the clock running away towards infinity and the shadows whom I used to hunt are haunting me. The sky made firestorms of insanity which are ripping my house up and breaking it down. I stood alone and wept until the Phoenix emerged and gave perfervid love to my beginning.