A man reclined in his aged, checkered armchair, gazing into the flickering fire that burned before him in his well kept brick fireplace. The piercing eyes of his father’s portrait gazed disapprovingly at him from it’s shimmering golden frame above the fireplace. The man held his pipe aloft in his hand, bringing it to his mouth every once in awhile to smoke as he listened to the rhythmic patter of the rain on his window and the spontaneous crackling of his fire.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

A look of confusion crept on the man’s face as he heard the knocking coming from his door. He was not expecting any visitors at this hour.

He heaved himself out of his chair and hastily attempted to make himself appear more presentable - brushing his pants down and smoothing out his cropped brown hair. As he peered through the peephole of his door, his mouth twisted into a grin.

“Oliver!” he laughed as he opened the door. “It’s been a long time old friend!”

A tall, dark figure entered the house, shaking the man’s hand as he towered over him.

“Yes,” the man’s voice rumbled like thunder. “It has been a long time, my dear friend.”

“I wish you had warned me that you were coming! I would’ve tried to clean up a bit around here!” the man laughed. “Now give me your coat before you drown my carpet!” he said, reached for his long black trench coat. Oliver flinched and pulled away.

“If it is alright with you, I would like to keep it on for now. I am still quite cold,” he said. “Besides, I was only outside for a moment, I am barely wet.”

“In that case, if you are cold, let us sit in front of the fire,” said the man, beckoning Oliver to follow his lead to the two armchairs resting in front of the fireplace.

As Oliver followed the man who had his back turned to him, he pushed back the side of his trench coat, letting a long, sharpened knife glimmer in the light of the fire. His hand flexed over the handle, clenching and unclenching. His calculating, piercing eyes fixed on the back of the man. As the man approached his chair and began to turn around to sit, Oliver quickly covered the knife under his coat to avoid the man noticing it.

However, the man paused before he sat down.

“I think I’ll put the kettle on,” he said.

“That sounds like a wonderful idea,” said Oliver.

The man strode off around the corner into the kitchen. Oliver stretched his hands out towards the fire to try to warm them, but they were shaking violently. As the man re-entered the room, Oliver quickly withdrew from the fire to avoid the man from seeing the state of his hands.

“Some weather we’re having, huh?” the man said as he sat down.

“Yeah, it’s been raining cats and dogs for days now,” Oliver responded.

A flash of lightning filled the room, followed shortly by a quick burst of roaring thunder, then silence.

“So,” the man continued, trying to strike up a real conversation, “what brings you here today?”

“I was just walking by and I thought it might be nice to see an old friend,” he responded.

“Yes, it has been quite some time, hasn’t it?” said the man, gazing into the fire trance-like. Images of the flames danced in his wide rim glasses.

“Are you alright?” Oliver asked after a few moments of silence.

“Oh, excuse me!” the man responded, shaken from whatever deep thought he had been in while gazing into the fire. “I haven’t quite been myself lately,” he said, chuckling to himself.

The rain seemed to pick up, pounding on the windows of the man’s home. The man stared at Oliver, eyeing his coat.

“Are you sure you would not be more comfortable taking it off?” he asked.

“No, I’m alright with it on,” Oliver responded. Again, silence.

“Have you heard about Jamie?” the man asked finally. Oliver’s face looked nervous for a moment, but he quickly returned to neutral.

“Yes, quite terrible to see someone die so young. You were pretty close to him, right?” Oliver asked.

“Yes,” he said. “We all were.”

The room was filled with the sound of the storm outside.

“You know,” he said, breaking the silence, “the police are beginning to suspect that it was a murder.” His eyes darted from the fire to look into Oliver’s. “Strange, huh?”

“Yes,” Oliver responded, unfaltering. “Very strange.”

“But, we should be used to it by now, shouldn’t we? Afterall, it’s not like this is the first time something like this has happened to us.” The man got up now, but rather than approaching Oliver, he loomed over the fire to stare at it again, his arms resting behind him.

“What do you mean?” Oliver asked. A bead of sweat dripped down his face and onto his coat.

“Well, remember last month? When Rebecca went missing?” he asked.

“Ah, yes. They found her a few days ago, didn’t they? Dead in the river?”

“Also strange, isn’t it? Another one of our close friends, dead?”

“Yes, strange.”

“And get this - the police are also beginning to suspect she was murdered, almost like there is a pattern,” he said. He looked back over at Oliver with a piercing look. Oliver looked away into the fire. “Not only that, but Peter and Tabitha are missing now, which makes everyone in our group of friends dead or missing,” he said. He paused. “Besides us of course.”

“Yes, I agree, it is very unusual. Do you think we have a serial killer on our hands?” Oliver asked, now dripping sweat.

“Possibly, but you know what’s unusual about that?”

“What?”

“The police have found evidence suggesting each person was killed in their houses, with no signs of forced entry. Almost as if they let the killer in - like they were an old friend.”

“What can I say, the situation is very strange, I’ve never heard of anything like it, especially around here.”

Thunder rumbled, and Oliver’s sweaty and slippery hands began to hover over where the knife was hidden as the man looked back into the fire.

“You know,” he began, now starting to smile a bit, “it’s not like these are the only missing and murdered people in the city though. Just last week, someone down the street went missing. The police still haven’t found him, or his body.”

There was another long silence.

“Wait, Peter?” Oliver suddenly asked, confused.

“What about him?” he asked.

“You said earlier that he went missing.”

“Yes, quite sad.”

“Well, I haven’t seen anything in the papers about it,” Oliver said. The man was silent. “In fact, I saw him only this morning, on my way to work.”

Suddenly, the kettle began to whistle out of control. The noise it blasted echoed across the room, and the two jumped slightly from where they were, startled. The man looked away from Oliver, his back now facing him.

Oliver leapt from his seat, now brandishing the knife in his hand and lunged at the man. However, he was slow, and loud. The man spun around and grabbed the fireplace poker that was laying next to him. He thrust it forward, sending it right through Oliver, stopping him in his tracks.

“Quite strange, isn’t?” the man asked him. “That all of our old friends go missing or are dead? Almost like one of us were involved.” He slid the fireplace poker out of Oliver, and he collapsed to the ground, making a loud thud. “I have made quite the collection now, haven’t I?” he now said, mostly to himself as Oliver bled out on the ground.

Oliver seemed to try to say something, but all that came out were shakey gasps. The man strode over to the kitchen and removed the kettle from the fire. It was then he noticed that the storm outside had stopped. There was complete silence for the first time that night.

He sighed before walking back to the living room where Oliver was now laying dead. A smile briefly displayed on his face as he realized the irony in that. He looked back at Oliver. His face was twisted in fear and sadness.

“Now, don’t look so sad!” the man said, now approaching the body. “I have lots of friends in here for you!” He heaved the man up by his arms and dragged him across the room, leaving a trail of blood.

He yanked open the coat closet door as he said, “I sure am lucky you didn’t want to put your coat away.” He laughed at this for a few moments in a chilling, cackling laugh that echoed throughout the house.

My eyes hurt as the brightness of the room filled the closet. My eyes had adjusted to the minimal light that leaked through the shafts. The man tossed Oliver into the closet beside me, then stared at me. I tried to say something but he had duct taped my mouth shut.

“How are you today?” he asked me with a malicious grin plastered on his face. He closed the door again, leaving me in a world of darkness, death, and stench once again. As I tilted my head upwards to where the sky would be if I could see it, I wished he would just kill me already.

i was made with care

and handed to my owner

sometimes she remembers

to place me on her wrist

other times I think she

forgets that I’m hers

*sighs* er, quite strange

how can she forget ’bout me

her beaded bracelet surely~

i just don’t understand it

at this rate I feel like maybe

i need to take another role

perhaps i can switch to

becoming what she needs

to tie her braids, or hair

whichever suits her really

as long as she remembers me

c’mon, i am made of beads

*clears throat* oh here she comes

oh~ she remembered to grab her

black hair tie— uh, that’s it I will

have a little chat with the hair tie

when they get back from the store-

*gasps*, never mind she’s picked me up

#shellbracelet ©

sunday. 20th October. 2019

The old house stood strong as it had done for so many years protecting the family that lived within it’s walls. The House had watched the children be born within its walls, watched them grow up, and with great saddness watched them move away. That saddness was nothing compared to the day that the two remaining occupants decided that the house was to large for them, that they needed to sell the house and buy something smaller. The quiet house grieved in silence as it watched the family it had been so loyal to, so protective of, walk out of it’s front door for the last time.

OH AFRICA MY FATHERLAND!

Like a big whale flown to the shore,

Everyone cuts the meat and leave the carcass to rot.

Its smell diffuses and causes illness for others.

Importing everything, never ready to appreciate the fertile soil.

Oh Africa! Having but always in want.

When your bones are weary,

When confusion rises in your head,

You kill your fellow Africans for your fall as a bad workman quarrels with his tools.

Your kindred troop everywhere, home’s no more homely.

Living in illusion, vultures peck you.

With such “Okpolo” eyes, you claim to know.

Your plans and re plans are unending.

Always a giant in your dreams.

The Gargantuans among you put on “ big Agbada” but not covering shame.

Yes, they put on “Agbada” on top of coats as copycats they are.

You imitate the West till you forget your name.

You tell the history of others till you forget your origin.

Your leaders do not bother to play away match, a modern indirect rule.

The hospitals within are for the poor masses.

Your learning centers are falling “yaga yaga”, educated illiterates breed.

Who has bewitched you never to know when you’re falling?

Would you ever rise again?

Oh Africa!

Your children are escaping, thousands of them perish in the sea.

Millions of them sell their bodies for wealth.

Self made slaves!

Like a male dog, their fathers care not.

Father of too many, your children’s names are off your head.

Your pot is burning, burning “ yigi yigi yigi”

Your children cry for the blazing sun, while you sit on the “agara” like an old Pa.

Your pot is burning, but why would you worry?

Your food has been cooked in another pot.

Oh Africa!

How long would you hide the bread of the children?

Oh! Fatherland.

My waterbottle is lost,

Do you know how much that costs?!

When I'm thirsty, I can't take a sip.

My poor, chapped lip!!

It could have wandered all the way to Hollywood,

Hoping to find where Kim Kardashian once had stood..

Or maybe it went to Paris,

Tracking down a terrorist!!

I hope my waterbottle isn't broken,

And I definitely hope it's not smokin'.

Prehaps it's still at my school.

That would make me look like a fool..

It better not be in China today!

That would make such a delay.

Somebody told me it was in the Pacific Ocean,

finding it's last ingredient for a potion!!!

Wherever it might be today,

I've got only one sad thing to say,

My waterbottle is not coming back,

Because losing things is my biggest knack.

my edges are worn -

copper and dull.

my words are small.

my world is dark.

perhaps one day

i will see the light.

but not today.

not on this night.

A small pink rabbit, sitting on my bed.

White floppy ears and an unstable head.

Tucked into a blanket, of Whinny the Pooh,

looking at stuffed animals thinking I'm no better than you.

Sitting on a bed of twin size,

sometimes herself, or in a desgise.

Bow coming undone,

from all her fun.

Is kept in bed, when not in a game or scene,

backing down from the humans, always so mean.

Does she feel lonely, or maybe controled,

but helplessly sitting there, for the future to unfold.

Every night, so very long,

a little girl comes, to sing her song.

She may curl up against her beloved Cuddles,

before slipping into into dreams, and her own befudles.

Than the girl leaves again, leaving Cuddles to her own mind,

though the rabbit will promise that the girl is kind.

She knows that the day is soon,

when a girl with plushies is considered a befoon.

The rabbit knows this semi-good life will draw to a close,

her big brown eyes, and little pink nose.

Put in a garbage can, and driven far away

to where the now-big-girl won't come to play.

In an office one day Armugam mentioned.

Every 3 days I buy one pen. Don't know where it disappears.

Pruthvi Raj: Your's also disappears like that?

Yes

Venu Gopal: Everybody's goes like that?

Yes

In my purse always so many pens will be there.

Ananth said,

In our Tumkur office also one Aparna used to have like many pens like this. She used to take a pen from somebody and used to forget to give back. Sometimes she used to come and distribute off to all telling my pens have got children.

Everybody laughed.

Venu Gopal: In Tenali Rama's house vessels gave birth to children it seems. In my purse pen gives birth to offsprings. What shall I do with so many children? All of you get these pens distributed. When cats or dogs give birth to many babies at a stretch, all will be given to others. In the same way like this, this is the third time I am distributing the pens.

You hung me on your vanity,

Beside your brush and lace,

I see you every morning,

When I become your face.

My edges are made of plastic,

To hide my too-sharp ends,

I have no choice but to see you,

So we might as well be friends.

I help you with your makeup,

I tell you not to wear white,

When the camera tells you you're ugly,

I say you look alright.

I know you see things like me,

Throughout your busy day,

I don't mind; I just wait here,

To make sure you get home okay.

Sometimes you look at me and weep,

And I can't figure out why.

I see every part of you, you see,

And I would never lie.

You say your eyes are too dull,

You claim your nose is askew,

You tell me your face is too ugly,

For anyone to love you.

But you don't see what I see;

I see eyes that are full of life,

With a deft nose, and a strong face,

Able to overcome any strife.

But even though I see your face,

Each morning and every night,

You don't believe that you're beautiful,

And you don't think that I'm right.

So you bring your fist up to my face,

And you splinter it through my heart,

Your fist is bloody, but you raise it again,

Determined to tear me apart.

I now lay broken on your floor,

Beside your brush, beside your lace,

The last thing I think, before falling asleep,

Is I'm glad to have been your face.