All alone and

abandoned,

Al announced

at an apparitioned

angel,

“Aye am assuredly

ascended,

alighted and among

asses alike.

An accursed absence.”

Angel acknowledged, amused,

“Almost. An adult

accused, and awarded

as aforethought.

Apparently, an

ally assisted

afterlife aborts

all achieveable

anguish.”

Al, astonished and

appreciative,

“Angel, almighty

acclaimed -

Appears Arty

aimed accurately.”

I am writing you from the small village somewhere in Africa. As I have heard, after devastating fire that almost destroy famous Notre-Dame cathedral a lot of money has been collected. Enough to build several more churches. We here feel that some of that huge sum should be converted to construct us here copy of Notre-Dame. Our hunger, thirst and unprecedented poverty could be endured much much easier if such cultural monument would stand in front of us all. Not to mention the shade that can provide. There we can grow some plants to avoid torrid sun. Also no need for our countrymen to drift away to Europe to see with their own eyes this fantastic building. Many had left our village, but only few have managed to visit it. The erection of this fine cathedral here should both save them trouble of that journey and you of receiving, nourishing and feeding them.

The copy of Notre-Dame shouldn`t cost much. We will be thankful for cheap material, prone to collapse so that fallen structure would put us all out of our misery. Empty bellies are less difficult to last in close vicinity of man-made praise both to God and humanity. Gazing at its lovely carvings and looking across its fabulous facade and apse, together with central spire will make sickness and fear in eyes of our children to go away and our trouble small and insignificant.

Sincerely yours,

Bramqundacko Mbamavanko

Poor African village.

I`m sorry for delay of mine letter. Nearest Post Office is in Cairo, miles away. So I had to wait for postman, which comes by every three months. I paid him with our last goat. This poor creature should be consider first martyr of Africa`s Notre-Dame. In the same rank as St. Dannie or St. Genevieve (sorry about bad spelling, our teacher was beaten by the snake, then one limb eaten by hyena and on the rest of his poor body feasted by lions and vultures). He has watched wildlife on BBC. On TV no harm are done to any white European by local predators, so he was sure that nothing bad would happen to his sorry figure. Well, he ought to stay back home and enjoy African nature via television, not viewing it up-close and personal.

Before that we killed our dog to provide writing material out of its poor body. There aren`t any shops around here and subsequently we haven`t got any store credit. The Lidl are in negotiations with our village elderly, so we anxiously await any good news. If you choose to erect copy of Notre-Dame here, that will provoke (again sorry of unadequent English) and instigate them to put our village on their world map. One large construction site and only their store in any vicinity is the dream come through for such capitalist.

P.S. Because UK is leaving EU we would like to trade with any of them. There is no EU here, this is EU free-zone just the way they enjoy it. We could offer them poor diet, so if any of them want to lose some weight this is ideal for such activities.

Whenever I was cold,

Sad, hungry, feeling alone,

You would wrap me

In your big winter coat

And in your comforting embrace,

I was always warm

When I was a child, I visited my uncle and aunt during the summer holidays. The three of us, my younger sister, cousin and I spent our days building forts with bedsheets, playing miniature cricket with a ping-pong ball, watching cartoons on the black-white TV or eating juicy mangoes. I lived in Mumbai, but pretty far from the sea. My uncle’s home, on the other hand, was close to the beach and all the attractions. We would wait for my uncle and aunt to return from work and once they were energized on a cuppa hot, cardamom tea and samosas, we would create a ruckus until one of them agreed to take us to the beach. No matter how tired they were or the day they had had, they would be willing to take us there. We would pick up our beach toys and walk to Dadar Chowpatty. My uncle would spread a hand towel on the sand and settle down with another cup of tea and some roasted corn. The three of us children would run to the water, jumping and splashing around, getting entangled in the sea moss and other debris which would be inevitably floating around. We would watch the sunset and exchange notes on the colors we saw that day. We would then walk back to where my uncle sat and begin building sandcastles, still in wet clothes, the gentle summer breeze drying them faster than any machine. Of course, most of the time we would just throw sand at each other and try to bury one of us in there. The wet, heavy sand with the smell of the sea entrenched in every particle felt like a security blanket. There was a Ferris wheel with lights on it nearby but we didn’t care about it or any of the other jazzy attractions. Sometimes bubbles would drift out of nowhere. We never did find the source.

When it was time to go, we would make a quick stop at the local street food vendor and gobble up some Pani Pooris, puffs filled with chickpeas and soaked in a sweet and spicy sauce. We would then walk back home, brimming with joy, the taste of Pani Poori lingering on our tongues, not a worry in the world.

I have never felt more unfettered, untethered than I felt during those endless summer days. I wish I could experience that freedom, that joy of being carefree again.

That’s my desire, to be as free as a child. And if paradise exists, this would be my paradise.

Through perfectly perpendicular threadlike strands, I can see her profile, plainly, despite the distance, in the haze of my own reflection. Never as close as I desire, but close enough to recognize, her comfortability unnerves me and simultaneously causes a yearning of discovery that lures my focus away from the handsome faceless man sitting across from me. Steam rises off the porcelain, while his demitasse intentionally agitates the espresso atop the ordinary white cloth speaking words I struggle to hear. With him and nowhere, I am irrelevant, hidden under the luminous gaze of high hats above me, juxtapose to her likeness. Waiters continuously whisk by us, coming and going balancing trays and checks, all of them faceless too, unwittingly, except for her.

"So what exactly do you do? Did you say you are in sales or marketing?"

This I hear him say, and begin to answer mechanically, again, in her shadow, sure that the first time I tried to explain the details of my employment he was also somewhere else, drifting down the Mississippi, far off, while I, feeling raftless and submerged, was thankful to let a few words swim, in defiance of the obvious heavy current where I hide deep below the water's surface, unreachable between the boulders.

Painfully repelled, and visually drawn, it is her hair that most enthralls me, more than her china doll face, straight, shy shoulder length, each and every strand, all 100,000 follicles, caress her head proudly, uniformly, as if they were just effortlessly combed 1,000 times. The diamonds on her ears sparkle though valueless in comparison to the color of blond, too light for yellow gold it is more genuine, platinum. It is hard to imagine the wind has ever found and penetrated her peerless imperturbable coiffure, although I am sure she could find the wind, at will, and confront its force effortlessly should she desire. If she recognized me, would she laugh unmercifully as I crawl, head down, unable to finish a simple sentence?

Far away from him, farther from me, I long to touch her, permission granted, missing every opportunity, arrested, with only myself to blame. Perhaps if I move just so, a little to the right, or rather left; I don't know. Sighted, I am blind, because it is what cannot be seen under the platinum responsible for consuming all my sensibilities, causing moments when I cannot validate if I have ever really seen her, or if she is just a phantasm, even though she does pass in front of me every time a mirror is in view.

He tried to get up and run, but she used her power to pin him to the ground.

His body lay on the floor still and lifeless.

She had crushed all of his bones.

He was certainly not the first... he would not be the last.

#EIDOLON.©

27/10/2019, sunday.

In the dream, thousands of moons were there like stars and all were going around me rather than the sun. I had become Saturn. I was trying to catch moons. Sun was observing me and the moons with awe. He was stunned to see this rare scene in the universe. I was enjoying the moons going around me. Sun was envying. But I was enjoying and was telling,

If you envy what can I do? By envying if you put off the candle of mine, your face only becomes dull.

Like this I went around myself with moons, only to fall down from the cot.

Misunderstood by others

Shunned by a society

I can't begin to understand

Tossed aside like yesterday's trash

The sensation of being alone

Ever prevalent, like a wound

Burning in searing pain

The trial never seems to end

I struggle and struggle,

Only to fail again

A jagged puzzle piece that doesn't fit

Into such a perfect image

All I want, is a place of my own,

One to belong, and finally

Feel at home