Conversations #1: Scientificity of the Spiritual

"The danger is not in the evil that lurks behind the shadows. The danger is, in fact, not knowing what seeks to harm you."

The professor's statement made Jonathan a little uneasy. All his life, he had heard about cultures and religions around the world that believed in the existence of an immaterial realm within the material one. A realm denizened by beings of superior power and intellect. A realm where the fates of men were determined. Jonathan knew of mythologies which tell of evil beings which slither unseen through human affairs; causing harm and wreaking havoc without restraint and human recognition. He thought they were all inane, nonsensical, based on primitive perceptions and ancient unscientific ideology. But for Professor Adam, a maven in the world of science, to push away science and affirm the existence of a spiritual world, Jonathan did not know what to believe anymore.

"Professor, are you saying that the science which you and I know of is false, and the forces of this spiritual world you allege to exist are the determinants of the natural events that take place within this world?" Paul, one of the six students asked. 

They were having a conversation with Professor Adam in his office. It had sparked off from the topic of the law of vibration. This was the 5th session of academic arguments Professor Adam was having with those same students; although Jonathan was a new face to the clique.

"What is your name again? I keep forgetting." The Professor calmly asked.

"It's Paul, sir." 

"Ah, yes, Paul. Can you define a system for me, Paul?" 

The young man quizzically looked to his left at Jonathan and turned back to face the Professor. He thought the Professor was trying to prevaricate.

"Uhm, a system is a set of connected things which work together to form a whole."

"Well done! Now, isn't your body comprised of systems?" Asked the Professor. A slight smile pushed his grey moustache upwards. His face seemed to smoothen as he spoke. 

Paul nodded his head in agreement.

"Your respiratory system works on its own, but contributes and connects to your muscular system which also connects to the nervous system, and so on. Likewise, the entire universe comprises of multifarious systems, connected to each other at certain points. All these systems are necessary for the universe to exist. From the system of energy conversion to the system of life formation, all these are connected to each other. Now, because certain individuals do not recognise the fact that not all of these systems are known to them, they conjecture no other sytem exists apart from the ones they are cognizant of. Therefore, the elements of modern science known to you and I are not false, but are only a component of larger elements within a system of infinite systems. 

At this time the Professor's front teeth were visible from his smile. It was apparent that he was enjoying his monologue. The room remained quiet for a short while until the Professor arose from his chair.

"I really enjoyed this conversation, and I implore you, always think beyond the purview of established laws of logic; for is it not by thinking beyond them that men of science created more laws?"

All the students also stood up to leave the Professor's office. 

When Souls Become Demonic

"Control your soul Mr Right! Lest it escapes a second time."

Mr Right strengthened his spirit. His muscular constrictions, visible to any observer, reflected the battle he was fighting within himself. He moaned in pain as his soul clawed to escape its shell.

"Hurry Doctor! My spirit weakens with every passing moment," Mr Right said, clenching his fists.

"The potion is almost ready," the Doctor responded.

Mr Right's moans escalated into screams. It was apparent that his soul was winning. It was only a matter of time before it slid out from Mr Right's body.

"In the name of the almighty, I infuse the power of Elohim into this vial. With the authority of the Lord of hosts, I command your soul to be bound to your body!" With that monologue, the Doctor forced the liquid into Mr Right's mouth.

One long, loud scream erupted from Mr Right's mouth, like a burst of molten magma from a volcano. In just a few moments, the battle was over. Mr Right collapsed into relaxing unconsciousness almost immediately.


"Thank you Lord, for another victory." The Doctor muttered, as he bowed his head.

"Doctor, this is the 16th case of soul snatching we have treated in just eight days. We need to inform the Reverends that the search for a permanent panacea must be expedited," said the Doctor's apprentice, who had been in the chamber all the while.

"I am sure the Reverends are aware of the precariousness of the situation that is upon us all. You have to understand that this is a most delicate and unusual case we face. We do not battle demons, no no no, we battle the souls of men, acting like demons. We do not know how this came to be. Lucifer must have found a way to infuse a daemon element into the souls of men. But, we should let the Reverends consult with Jehovah to find a soulution. Apart from that, we will just have to continue binding souls."

"But Doctor, can't we just destroy or contain the escaped souls somewhere more secure?"

"Men fall into apythanatosis when their souls are absent within them. Their lives fade away as they continue to be in that state. That is why it is necessary to bind the souls within them, even if the souls always find ways to escape."

"Then it means -"

"You ask too many questions boy! Go and fetch more olive oil for the potion."

"Yes Doctor."

Falling: Chapter 1a

Check out the Prologue at: http://fantasticshortstoriesonline.blogspot.com/2013/04/falling-prologue.html

                          CHAPTER ONE: AN INTRODUCTION TO A NEW WORLD

History is the term used to refer to all past events. The word has evolved from being a mere collection of the past to being a collection of significant past events. From the birth and death of the Pharaoh of ancient Egypt, to the one second mechanical process within the revolver which vomited the 2-inch spear, ending the life of President Abraham Lincoln.

But, how would an audience feel if they are told that the most significant events in the history of mankind and the universe in entirety, are not recorded in the great books of public knowledge?

Yes, wars of gargantuan importance have erupted and ended throughout history; but unknown wars of even greater significance have taken place. Scientific inventions and ground-breaking theories were created by great minds such as Albert Einstein and Isaac Newton; yet there have been greater scientific accomplishments in history that the world knows not about.

There is an academia, operating within the shadows of the pseudo academia which we are cognizant of. This academia has been known only to the enlightened - a term which shall be explained in due course.
The peculiarity of this secret academia is not in its proficiently structured secrecy, but rather in its basis for existence. 'Spirituale est clavem'  is a Latin statement which transliterates to 'the spiritual is the key'. This statement is the foundation of the entire academia. It means that whatever is known to us is merely half of what there is to know. Human beings do not inhabit this world alone, they do so with plants and animals; but these three types of organisms are not the sole denizens of the planet earth ... or the universe for that matter.

There are beings which live amongst us; some invisible to the eyes, others visible but disguised. There are unnatural elements which play large roles in the actuation of natural scientific activities and processes, but are expurgated from the formula books due to its inexplicability.
The world of ano-science brings those complex elements of life in order to fully explain life itself. The word prefix 'ano' is an adoption of the Greek word for superior which is 'anoteros'. It is called superior science because it is believed that normal human science, or meio-science with 'meio' being an adoption of Greek 'meiosi' meaning inferior, only explains the world as it is seen. What happens to the part of the world that remains unseen, yet exists?

At this point, it would be appropriate for members of an audience to brace themselves, open their minds, and pause their mutterings as they shall be plunged headfirst into a world of convoluted elucidation, scientific dicoveries, and of course lest it be forgotten, the burnt pages of history.

*********************************************************************************************************************************************


His name was Von Wielder. He was a German who made his mark on the world of science. But before there is a procession into the professional life of this great man, his personal life must be encroached on from the onset; and where better to begin from than the womb of his mother.

In the year 1956, there was a conception in the  Mitgefuhl clinic in Bavaria. A healthy 7-pound baby was held in the arms of Mrs Wielder, with cries being produced from its vocal chords. Mrs Wielder was very happy because she finally had her fifth and final child in her arms. She looked into his eyes and said, "I shall call you my little Von".
At that moment, Von had acquired the name with which he would be referred to by millions.

When Von Wielder began to devolop physically and cognitively, he excited the awe of everyone around him. He was a precocious child who uttered his first word just six months after his birth. Perhaps his most remarkable juvenile trait was his ability to unmistakeably play Beethoven's Piano Concerto No. 5 Emperor, at the age of five.
His piano teacher, which he persuaded his parents to employ was bewildered as the toddler protege whom he taught only level one basics to, played the piano that summer evening. When Von was asked how he learned to play the piano so well, he reponded with, "I hear it on radio everyday, so I tried to use what Mr Velch taught me, and play it."


Von grew up to become a handsome man with an abnormally large brain, figuratively connoting that is. His elementary and secondary education was marked by a procession of frequent double promotions, leading him to the foot of the University of Edinburgh; an academy which disseminated foundations of knowledge to some great historic minds, including the meio-naturalist known as Charles Darwin.
At the university, he was introduced into the world of biology which seemed to amaze him thoroughly. He was particularly attracted to marine biology.

Finally, the main point has been reached. An introduction has been made, and now a sequential course of events which took place in the university and led to the rooftop jump must be enumerated in literary form.

"The Dean would like to see you now Master Von." The receptionist announced. Von Wielder marvelled at the alacrity with which he was being attended to. He usually enjoyed the way he was treated at the university; it was as though he always had on a royalty indicative regalia which was visible to all except himself.

The Dean had summoned him ten minutes ago for reasons he was not aware of. It was quite unusual for Dean Warlington to send for him on a weekend.

Von gently pushed the door open and slid into the office. A magnificent room the office was. Decorative wares of fine quality hung, laid, and stood across the corners and walls of the place. The large soft carpet which covered the floor was attractively designed and added greatly to the artistic aura of the room.
Behind the dean's desk, hung on the wall, coruscated an excellently painted facsimile of Rembrandt Harmenszoon van Rijn's 1692 painting titled 'The Nightwatch'. It was evident that Dean Warlington was a conneiseur of artworks.

"Good evening sir."

"Ah, Master Von, it is a delight that you are here. You must forgive me for pulling you out of your chambers at this time of the week." Dean Warlington was a very polite man. His short stature, coupled with the long nose which his circular spectacles rested upon, gave him a most comical look. When he spoke, his bushy moustache moved along like a shrub being perturbed by a lurking tiger stalking its prey.
The way he called Von was also a trigger of laughter. The emphasis which he placed on the 'V' produced a sound that that of an ignited car engine.

"There is no offense to be pardonned sir. I presume whatever you wish to discuss of great importance."

"Oh yes, yes, of course." Dean Warlington scratched his head and verbigerated the words "of course" whilst attempting to remember what he intended to tell Von.

"Aha!" The Dean yelled rather loudly. His old mind had just produced the information he frisked for.

"Master Von, are you au fait with the organization called Jonathan Hawkings Institute of Marine Biology and Research?"

"Indeed sir; it is a large American research institute owned by multi-millionaire Jonathan Hawkings."

"Capital Master Von! So you of course know of the institute's international reputation as one of the top in the world."

"Yes sir."

"Good; now here is the status quo. I recieved a request from the institute yesterday, and due to my hesternal incommodiousness, I could not communicate it to you immediately. The request is with regards to you, Master Von. The institute asked me to send you specifically to undertake a new research of a most delicate nature. They say that they require only the brightest minds, and thus, you. Your essay submitted under the Haut monde Science Competition got you the institute's attention. So Master Von, what is your response."

Von Wielder held his chin between his thumbs and index finger, as he pondered briefly upon the situation. He had always been tired of the small researches he had been helping his professors and other meagre institutions of extraneous origins; he knew that he wanted to begin a major research, and this could be it. Yet, he felt that this was not big enough for him.

"What is the intended timeframe for the study?"

"One year, four months," the Dean replied.

Von sat silently for a few seconds and then, "Yes sir, I shall partake in the research."

That was the first major decision which set Von Wielder on the path to his fall.
Decisions are tricky things. A future is unknown, but the outcome of certain decisions lead to that same future. It is said that the future is permanent, and that everything has been predestined to happen even before the elements involved came to be. The only thing that changes the path to the future is the decisions humans make.

Falling: Prologue

My hairs fly backwards and sway as if they seek to detach themselves to seek protection. The breeze blow into my eyes with so much force that I have to shut them halfway in order to regulate the inflow.

I look down and gaze at the several people watching me as I spear towards the ground, to my demise. 0.24 seconds ago I had jumped off the rooftop of the Royce Penton 41 storey hotel building.

Businessmen and women paused their journeys to yell in horror as they are about to witness an unavoidable event. I say unavoidable because 10 seconds ago my decision to jump off was avoidable. This outcome was just one out of the plethora of possibilities that could have effectuated while I was still on the roof.

My name is Professor Von Wilder, and my body is currently adhering to the law of gravity.

0.39 seconds and I'm still air-borne. My patience diminishes by the millisecond. I have often heard the statement 'at the sight of death your whole life flashes before your eyes', yet I wonder why no flash has crept into my mind. Perhaps I should voluntarily actuate an episode of reminiscences before my brain splatters and releases the memories into the sewers below.

My thought abruptly wanders to the phenomenon of having all these thoughts in two seconds. The brain is an amazing element of life. An element whose capabilities a majority of humans know very little about. The speed at which I have trained my brain to compute data would cause me to receive accolades from the greatest institutions of the scientific academia.

It is for this reason that I possess the preternatural ability to think a lot quicker than the average human.

I must be forgiven if my narration switches to the third person; it is a product of my great predilection for the theatre.This is my story, and within it are the events which led to this aerial outcome.

The Reverends

The protagonist of this story is one of the main characters of my main novel. This is like 'Journals of Maynard Ray: Origins of Reverend Charles Augustus'. I shall also occasionally submit short origin stories of other characters.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Screams of grief and terror pervaded the halls. The ululations tore through my soul like a sharp scythe. The grimy walls stained with the blood of innocents, added to the intense melancholy that was already able to fill one's heart with years worth of trauma. If my mind were weak, it is definite that I would have fallen into unconsciousness at that instant.

As I walked down the path, past the cells which were inhabited by either corpses, or living people; people whose only feature which distinguished them from the cadavers was their heartbeats.
Wounds of unimaginable depth and width flashed across their tortured bodies. Some of their faces had been slashed beyond recognition. Eyes veiled by the swollen flesh above and beneath them; lips torn to almost resemble an origami; breasts of women bearing scratches and scars of recent torture. Scars upon scars until the whole body had become one single scar.

I tried hard to avert my attention from the inhumanity that surrounded me. But alas, the emotions of man do not allow one to simply ignore pitiable reality. My brain demanded inattention, but my soul wanted the opposite. I turned my head left, and beheld a little boy who seemed, from his height and facial features, to be of age six or seven. His complete nakedness revealed a body which was covered in protruding signatures left by whips and canes. No part of his body was left without a mark for him to remember the stories which they narrated.
The young lad was asleep - or at least he seemed to be. Perhaps it was merely my hope that incited the illusion of functional lungs causing the slow protrusion and constriction of his small chest.

I walked past.

Another scene struck me as my eyes turned to gaze at another cell. A woman held a baby in her arms. She was breast-feeding the child from the motherly protrusion of her chest. I wondered how her mammary gland was still able to produce the life-giving liquid which the infant sucked without restraint. I pitied the woman. Her bony figure, lacking of flesh, was being further depleted for the sustenance of the infant. There was no replenishment for her. She would continue to dispense her life until there was no more life left to give. Yet, there she was, still giving life, when she was aware of the future outcome. Such is the intensity of a mother's love for her child.

I walked past.

I had finally arrived at my destination. The ritual ground of the priests. A large concrete alter stood in the middle of the place; a representation of the countless lives that have been taken within the confines of the temple. The hieroglyphs engraved upon the walls portrayed the ancientness of the temple. The ceiling above was embellished with frescoes of symbols, astrological representations, and devilish depictions. The entire temple was drenched in Mephistophelian ambiance.

It is a belief that animals are blessed with a sixth sense; the ability to sense dangers of supernatural ilk. I suppose that it was due to this gift that I had observed the complete absenteeism of animal life within the temple's vicinity.

The priest walked out from a door-less entrance which led to the inner sanctum of the temple. Until then I thought the opening was merely a rectangular dark painting. It was as dark as the shadows of the night time.

The priest himself wore a dark garment held at the waist by a crudely made rope. Until he came closer to me, my myopia did not permit me to observe his face clearly.

"Reverend, I see your admiration of the temple is still ongoing." A pang of anger flushed through my bones. Admiration for such a horrible place? A person would be completely insane to consider such a place as that to be an object of positive commentary.

I kept silent.

"High priest Mijah has been preoccupied by more important matters. It is for this reason that he cannot see you at this moment." I expected such a response from the priests of Jdaimin. They had a history of not revealing their high priest to anyone of extraneous origin. I was not leaving that temple without delivering my message to the high priest.

"Yes of course. But before I take my leave, please send my regards to the high priest on behalf of the Lucem."

The priest instantly raised his head. It was then that I saw his face. Scratches and blemishes laid out like the satellite view of China's road network. His eyes were as dark as his garment. I could see that the priest had a lot of demons inside of him.
From my experience with demons, it had become a fact that they do not like threats.

"You dare threaten the high priest?"

"I do not threaten the high priest. I only come bearing a message from the Lucem."

"You Lucem reverends think you possess a superiority over us. But you deceive yourselves." The statement was more from the demons than from the priest.

"That's not what our victories of 423 battles this century alone has to say."

That statement infuriated the priest beyond retention. He sprang with incredible speed at me. I quickly drew my ever-prepared weapon from my coat and sprinkled some holy oil on the priest's face; all the while being airborne from a front flip. One of the lucem's golden rules from the bible was 'tu non pugnabit', meaning 'thou shall not fight'. It was believed that one who attacks another or stops another from slapping his cheek has fought, and thereby sinned. But it was believed that one who avoids attacking another has not fought. Therefore, all lucem reverends were trained in the defensive art of vitatio, which strictly involves the avoidance of attacks. It was because people possessed by powerful demons can often get physically aggressive; thus, a reverend has to be physically evasive to complete an exorcism unhurt.

The priest groaned in pain as he fell to the floor. The eloh element within the holy oil had burned the demons within him; and according to the law of spiritual possession, a possessed person physically feels pain along with the inhabiting demon when an anti-daimin eloh element such as holy water, interacts with the possessed.

While the priest held his face and writhed, I helped myself into the inner sanctum.

"I am sorry for the terrible reception you received from my subordinate reverend. His blood can occassionally heat up beyond his ability to curb it." The voice of the high priest was startlingly soft and warm; although unusuallly loud.

He emanated from his chambers wearing a long red cloak, held tight at the waist with the usual locally made rope. The man's face was hidden with a metal mask, which was the amplifier of his voice. His hair excluded even a single strand of dark hair. The wrinkles on his neck also bore light to his old age.

"High priest Mijah, I have been sent to you by the lucem."

"Nonsense, reverend. One does not simply waive pleasantries for a discussion of disheartening significance." The unusually polite high priest hovered over to a platform on which sat a metal tray. Wooden Jugs, and cups laid atop the tray. "Would you like some wine reverend?"

"No thank you," I replied. I watched him pour a red substance from one of the jugs into a cup. I wondered if it was truly wine he offered, or just a trick to get me to drink blood.

"Ah! You reverends and your abhorrence of wine. I cannot imagine how lack-luster your social events are without the scintillating stimulation of some wine." The high priest sipped from the cup as he hovered to his throne.

"Reverends do not live on luxuries such as wine." I said.

"But you know, reverend, you only live once. And why live in misery."

"Not everyone is meant to enjoy the physical provisions of life. Some people have to forfeit them in order to keep those provisions unadulterated."

"Wise philosophy; but do you think you can handle the weighty costs of undertaking such a task?" The high priest's tone abruptly descended from cordiality to a slightly hostile seriousness.

"I am only one grain compared to the weight of the heap of sand balancing the success of the task. Before me there were many, and after me there shall be many."

"You are right; before you there were many. But don't be so certain that there will be many after you. You have seen it. You have seen the world. You have seen the children. The daimin force has taken over. Your victory is only visible as unnoticeable patches upon the large cloth of war."
I had not planned to stay at the temple that long. Now it was obvious that the atmosphere was getting tense. I had to deliver my message and return.

"High priest, I did not come here for a confrontation. My presence here is merely to tell you, from the lucem, that your temple is the next target in the war. So, be prepared."

"You know, there is only one thing I admire in the lucem's modus operandi. It is that you are honourable enemies. You announce your intentions before you strike. But that does not seem like an efficient tactic now does it?"

"It isn't a battle tactic. It's just a law which we must uphold."

"You reverends and your benign laws."

"I bid you goodbye high priest."

"Farewell to you too. And I hope that someday we shall meet again."

I exited the inner sanctum and found the priest sitting in a circle drawn on the floor, and reciting incantations. I still thought it funny how Jdaimin recite spells to manipulate a certain power while reverends just rebuke in the name of Elohim to neutralize all forms of attacks. It is similar to a scene from a movie I watched as a child, in which a martial arts henchman showed off his martial art skills by back flipping and doing stances. The protagonist waited for him to finish his nonsense and then he pulled out a gun and shot him.

Well, This is Awkward

Her eyes penetrated mine. A cold tingling feeling shot through my veins. I would not let her intimidate me; neither would I let her seem me intimidated.
I dilated my pupils, made my hand into a fist, comstricted my biceps and pulled my smile into a frown. The situation was no longer cordial. Hostility had been summoned. Hostility must be showed.

The girl flinched for a moment, at the sight of my physical change. Her stare of fright was the sort of stare one gives when they watch a lion trudging towards them.

In her mind I was sure she was thinking the same thing I thought - she shan't show her intimidation.

She widened her eyes and scattered her hair. She looked like Medusa, one of the gorgons of Greek mythology.

I stepped backwards in terror of what I beheld.

The sound of the anticipated could be heard from a distance. It was approaching quickly. I turned away from the girl, and I looked in the direction of the sound. Everyone else was waiting for it. Everyone else was ready to fight when it came. For in this cruel world, everyone has to fight for their prize.

At its arrival, I ran forward, but was dragged backwards by the shirt. I turned back and saw that it was she that held me. She jumped up with great agility and performed a front flip over me. As she landed in fron to me, I grabbed her by the waist and pulled her to me. She spun around like a ballerina performing on stage. Her hair cutting through the air like a tornado.

Her hands fell on my shoulders for support. Her eyes met mine and she stared for two seconds. Suddenly, she used her forehead to hot my nose. I let her go in order to attend to my pain. She attempted to run away, but pain never keeps me handicapped. I threw my foot in front of her legs and she fell to the ground. She had landed on her palms. It was evident that she was a well trained fighter. She pushed her self to a standing position, and turned around with the back of her hand aiming for my cheek.

I hyper extended backwards and returned to my previous position after her hand had missed me.

She was about to kick my groin when I yelled, "Wait!".

She paused.

"The bus has left."

She dropped her leg to the ground and turned to where the bus had been. Iw wasn't there anymore.

We had been fighting for a seat in a bus which others entered and left in.

"Well, this is awkward."

The Journals of Maynard Ray: Dream Casters

A dream, is a fabrication of the mind to decieve the dreamer of its reality. Reality is the state whereby elements of life are actually present.

Most times, the mind adopts too many fictitious elements that make dreams evidently unrealistic. But when dreams portray a substantial amount of reality and indistinct amounts of unreality, how then is an individual able to distinguish between what is real and what is unreal?

A dream caster is one who infuses one's mind with unrealistic elements which will seem very real to the individual. A victim of a dream caster's hoax falls into a deep state of unconsciousness, only to be broken if the dreamer is able to discern the path to their freedom which lies in the dream world.

Dream casters employ the use of magic, which as I have mentioned in my previous journal, is a manipulation of the powers of the dark. The process of casting the dream is called Oneirication (from the greek word 'Oneiro' meaning 'dream'). The process involves a predominance of scientific explicabilities. Firstly, the DMT of the targeted individual is acquired (DMT lies in the blood). Then, the dream caster summons a dream demon which 'scans' the essence of the blood and travels to the individual. The demon creates a link between the target and the dream caster. I also aforementioned in one of my previous journals that the creation of a link between two humans through a demon is termed daimosyndesmosis (from the Greek words 'daimos' meaning demon, and 'syndesmos' meaning link)

The demon fetches memories form the target's mind and sends tham to the dream caster's mind. The dream caster formulates a dream by piecing together memories, places, and elements that comprises the target's life experience and knowledge. 

The dream caster sends the fabricated world to the demon, which then places it in the dreamer's mind. The dream demon also secretly inhabits the dreamer's mind. The spell can only be broken through an exorcism, or by the dreamer defeating the demon in his dream. However, only people with powerful minds are able to defeat a dream demon in a dream world. People with even more powerful minds are impervious to oneirication.

Dream casters can be found in all countries of the world. They are however prevalent in the Caribbean regions, especially in Haiti, Barbados, Jamaica and Dominican Republic. Non-Caribbean countries with high populations of dream casters are India, Thailand, Ethiopia and Ghana. 

***
Edward closed the journal and exclaimed, "Well then, I think we need an exorcist." He brushed his hair with his hands in despair as he stared at the sleeping lady.

"We are in the middle of the desert, where the hell would we find one?!" Allen felt frustrated; she was tired and annoyed at having to carry an unconscious woman - who she disliked - through the desert. She had thought of dumping her there and returning later on for a retrieval if any help was found. But that would be inhuman of her.

When the Lights Go Off

Darkness is what remains when light vanishes. Light is what is, when darkness isn't. What lurks under the light is visible to the eyes. What lurks in the darkness is not visible, but our eyes deceive us by creating fabrications and, with the help of the brain, convincing you of their reality.

We are often afraid of what we cannot see; yet we are afraid of what we see when the lights go off.

When the lights go off, our pupils dilate to allow the entry of the little light available. At that time, your eyes begin to wander through your imaginations. Your eyes begin to construct figures in the darkness. For a moment you freeze. Your muscles constrict, your heart palpitates, your adrenalin rushes, and your hairs stand on end.

Soon, you realise that the figure is merely a trick orchestrated by your eyes in conjunction with your brain. The figure then withers into nothingness, and all you can see again is plain darkness. You relax and heave a sigh of relief.

You look towards a different direction. Your eyes settle on a physical object. Your eyes embellish the object with features of a fearful nature. Again your brain gets involved in the trick and incites you to believe that you are gazing at a physical anomaly. Long arms moving with the direction of the cool night breeze; legs swaying to and fro, towards you and away from you repeatedly. You squeal in horror at the sight you behold.

The breeze dies and the hung clothes stop moving. You come to the realisation that you have been fooled a second time. 

The lights suddenly come on and you look around. Reality is definite when the lights come on. What you see is what was there. What you don't see was never there.

Plight of a Widow

Tears no longer trickled from my eyes. I had finished up my reservoir of tears. I laid there on the ground, with my face in the soil, and my hands tearing up the grass from their roots. The ants crawled over me, and I lifted up my face to watch them scatter at the sight of my mutilated face...the face of a widow in mourning.

I wasn't mourning because my husband had just died. I was mourning because I had been accused of killing him. They had shaved all my hair. My fine, silky dark hair...they shaved it all.

I was a witch, was what they said. My husband's family called me a witch to my face.

Thea whole dilemma started when we got married and I could not bear a child for him. One year later, I became the topic of village gossips. In the soceity I lived in, my inability to get pregnant earned me the title of an 'Ira' which means 'the one who chases away infants'. At the orders of their parents, children of the village ran away from me. I became the equivalent of a monster from the forest.

After much persuasion by his mother to marry another wife, my hisband agreed. He was to get married the week after he developed a sudden illness and passed on to the realm of the spirits.

My life then became a bed of terror. I was insulted, beaten, maltreated and humiliated based on the accusation that I killed my husband out of jealousy of his impending second marriage. The villagers went as far as to bring back the old traditions just to see me suffer.

My husband's corpse was bathed, and the water from the bath was given to me to drink. They said it was to prove my innocence. But even after drinking and staying alive, they did not halt their persecutions. They chased me out of my house and threw me into the bushes to fend for myself in the wild.

Ah! God! So this is how it ends. Years ago I was happy, beautiful, loved and wanted by all. Now I am an outcast. God why?! Why did you not give me a child? Why did you let my husband die? Why did you let me suffer all this?

It wouldall be over soon. Even the ants did not console me. They kept piercing my suffered sking with their mandibles. It was painful, but why should I have thrown them off? My life was already one excruciating pain. I laid there on the ground with the dagger beside me. I turned my body over on my back and stared at the sky. Even the sun hid from me behind the clouds. It could not bear to see my wounds and my pain.

I grabbed the dagger and lifted it up above my chest. That was the only pleasure I had in a long time. Seeing the end to my pain right in front of my eyes caused me to cry.

A short scream was the last thing my mouth produced before I slid away from life.

Now I am a spirit. But I regret taking my life and taking the life of the child that was in my womb. As a spirit I can now see everything. I can see the little hand of my baby boy, lifeless, without support. He hadn't the chance to see the offerings of life.

Now my wailing has passed on to the afterlife.

The Adventures of Maynard Ray

A crude excerpt from the novel I'm writing
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"That is impossible."
"Dear boy, from what this world has revealed to me I no more think of the possibility of impossibility existing."

"Surely you do not affirm that folklore and fairytales have elements of truth in them?"
"Most are true."

"By Jove, you're mad!"
"If knowledge is madness then I refuse therapy."

"Professor Maynard I implore you to reconsider your statement."
"Why reconsider something rigid?"

"Perhaps you could make it more plausible."
"Plausibility is a subject which contexts itself in mere fabrications; my statement is no fabrication."

"You do realize that you would definitely face the gallows if this paper containing your statement is given to the court."
"I would rather die than live on a testimony without veracity."

"Professor Maynard please consider your reputaion in the scientific academia, consider the indelible dent which your name will suffer for many years."
"What is social reputaion compared to my vast knowledge of the unknown?"

"Consider your family."
"They can travel out of the country."

"Consider your professional achievements."
"They are but dust compared to my achievements in the realm of the supernatural."

"Very well Mr Maynard, you have obstinately made your decision, yet I will do well to intercede for you as best as I can."
"Boy, do what you may but I know that my death awaits me."

Inspector Charles took one last gaze at the old man. He never imagined that Professor Maynard Ray - a man who broke grounds in the scientific world, the owner of hundreds of patents - would be in this state.

Snake in the Pot

I initially wrote this humorous story when I was 11. This is just an intellectually superior  modification of it. This is the first chapter of the whole story. I hope you enjoy it :)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Owodu village is a land of prosperity and agricultural prolificacy. It is the second richest village among the seven villages that make up the Owo kingdom.
The village of Owodu is prominent for its preternaturally portly cattle. In this land of green - it is called he land of green because of the pure green grass that spreads across the whole village - an average cow weighs six sacks of rock. This is fascinating because in the other villages, an average cow weighs just two sacks of rock.
It is no wonder that the owners of these animals are all wealthy. Just the sale of one of the cows is enough to reap huge profits.

However, let us not get side-tracked by these wonderfully plump creatures, which would look so mouth watering on a flat wooden plate; already grilled and ready to be masticated by eager teeth awaited by the tongue to slobber all over it and feel it's gravy splattered flavor. To caress its fleshy features with all fervency induced by the sight of its lip-smacking beauty.

...let us not get side-tracked, again.

Within this village, there stands a building. This building is regarded as the palace of the king - who must be referred to as the Igwe. In front of this grand palace is a stone effigy of the Igwe - a sight which must be gazed at with mesmerization.

From the firm muscular limbs to the visibly well-built emerged abdominal muscles standing below large chests of the finest quality. The statue's head is finely shaped and portrays a handsome young man laced with the facial expression of one who has all the wisdom in the world.

Now for the real spectacle, we go into the palace to see the king himself. Walking through the majestic hallway, one can only pause occasionally to view the many portraits of past Igwes which hang on the walls. These paintings were created by only the finest painters of the kingdom. This is the reason why all of the paintings are magnificently detailed and impeccable.
However, as one reaches the last portraits in the hall, one cannot but notice the diminishing of handsomeness of the Igwes in the paintings. The more one advances, the more the kings become uglier.

Now we arrive at the royal council room where the Igwe and the six Chiefs come to discuss matters of the utmost importance. This is the place where decisions are made for the good of the village.
I cannot help but notice the sight I behold, which is in disparity with the sculpture we saw outside the palace. Instead of the handsome, muscular and well-built man that the sculpture portrayed, I see a thin, almost sickly, ugly man sitting on the throne which belongs to the Igwe of Owodu. In fact, this is the ugliest man I have ever seen in my entire life.
However, he is still the Igwe; and he deserves to be treated and thought about with respect.
Is that a mole beside his lower lip?
Oh, right, respect...respect.

Luck is with us; the council has gathered once again to discuss matters of high magnitude. Let us eavesdrop a little, to hear what the leaders of Owodu are deliberating.

"Oro, how can you say that? eh? How can you say that the men who are married to women with big buttocks should pay higher taxes?"

"Yes! That is how it should be. Buttocks have always been a fancy of men of this village. It is also a known fact that big buttocks bring good luck to families and the village at large. So this means that men who have wives with big behinds would be wealthier than those who have wives with small buttocks"

A burst of murmurs made up of rebukes and acquiesces fill the council room.

Finally, the Igwe clears his throat. The whole room instantly becomes silent; for when the Igwe clears his throat, no one dares to speak.

"My chiefs, I have listened carefully to what you have argued. I think of it as a very good idea which will be beneficial to the growth of our economy. Women with bigger breasts should-"

"Buttocks Igwe...we are speaking about buttocks" Corrected Chief Obu.

"Oh yes, buttocks. I think the size of a woman's buttocks should determine how much her husband pays as tax"

All the Chiefs instantaneously rise to their feet when the end of the Igwe’s monologue was apparent.

“Your word is law, Igwe” They say with synchronization of an almost melodious tune. They take their seat after this action.

We have just seen a spectacle that very few people get to witness – the creation of a law. This is only an exemplar of the kinds of society-building oriented decisions being deliberated within the confines of the royal council room, once a week.

Suddenly, a large woman bursts into the room. She gripped her wrapper to prevent it from falling off while she scuttled in a most ungraceful manner. The extra fat that mustered behind her arms keep flapping up and down with every step taken by her fat legs.

The clothes worn by this woman, bears unique embroidery and adorned with fine accessories that only the Igwe’s wives wear. This strange pig-resembling woman is obviously one off the King’s thirty-seven wives – each called ‘Lolo’.

One may think that having 37 wives is excessive. But there would be a change of mind if one knows that this Igwe has the lowest number of wives in the history of royalty in the village of Owodu. It is no wonder the man is emaciated. How can one try to maintain such number of wives without draining himself of body nutrients and sufficient replenishment?

We go back to the current situation.

“What is wrong with you woman?” The Igwe yells in rage, “Can’t you see that I am in a council meeting?”

“My King, my King oh!” The woman bellows as she falls to the floor, at the foot of the King’s throne. The awfully round woman gasps for air, as she has obviously run a great distance.

“Why are you so wheezing like this? Where did you run from?” asks the Igwe.

“Igwe, I rode down here in a royal caravan from the royal household quarters”

“If you rode in a caravan, then why are you panting like a dog that has just run a kilometer without rest?”

“Ah my King, I had to run from the entrance of the palace to this place. It is not an easy feat”

Okay, I do not pity the lolo for her tiredness; I pity her because a person who thinks running half a mile is strenuous needs to sit down and think about her life. For God’s sake, she looks like a beaver soaked in water. I am sure that the council room is now slippery from the sweat dripping from her cow-like body.

The Igwe hisses and shrugs his shoulders in irascibility.

“Then what is so important that made you turn the floor of my council room into a river of salty perspiration?”

“My King, there is trouble. There is fire on the mountain; there is a snake in the pot; there is-“

“Is that a problem at all?” interrupts the King. “If there is fire on Ogede mountain, then the fire watchers will take care of it. Besides, I don’t see how a fire on the mountain can harm us; for it is far away from the village. As for the snake in the pot, what you should do is to fill the pot with water and put it on fire. When the water begins to boil, you should cut some pepper, tomato, onion and leaves into the pot. Make sure you don’t put too much curry or else the texture of the meat will lose its delicacy. At the end of it all, you will be left with a delicious meal of snake pepper soup”

All this while, everyone had a quizzical look on their faces. They obviously thought of how stupid the Igwe is…respect, respect.

“Igwe, I think what your wife means is that there is a massive problem. I think the mountain on fire, and the potted snake, are just figures of speech” Chief Obu corrects.

“Who are you to tell me what my wife means to say?” The Igwe says.

“Actually my King, Chief Obu is right” The Lolo defends.

“Oh, then what is the actual problem?” The Igwe asks, in a tone slightly smeared with shame at his humiliation.

“My King, your son, the Prince, has not recovered from the illness which struck him yesterday. In fact, his condition has worsened”

“And what has the medicine man said about it?” The King inquires.

“He says there is nothing he can do; and that there is a spiritual force thwarting the effects of his medicines”

“Hmm, spiritual force right? Then this means the Chief Priest has to be summoned” the Igwe says, “Chibuzor!” The Igwe calls out for the royal messenger.

“Igwe” The athletic young man responds. He had been where he always is whenever the meeting went on – standing behind the Igwe’s throne.

“How did you get here so fast?” queries the Igwe with a puzzled look on his face.

“Your Highness, I have always been behind you in this room” replies the messenger.

“Always?” Asks the Igwe

“Yes, your Highness, always” The man confirms.

“Oh yes, well, take the summoning staff and show it to the Chief Priest, so he may come immediately and resolve the problem at hand”

“Yes your Highness” The messenger acquiesces. In a second, the young man was is out of the palace; running at such extraordinary speed.

“You are all dismissed. You will be sent for once the Chief Priest arrives” The Igwe declares.

“Igwe” the word is voiced out by everyone in the room.

Soon, everyone except the King is out of the palace. The King heaves a sigh of relief and then exudes a series of loud gruffly farts from the royal buttocks.

“Finally!” The King exclaims. Suddenly, the King’s eyes brighten as if he has just made an important realization. He stretches his neck over the throne, obviously to see if there was anyone there. He is completely alone.

The King was apparently thinking of how many times the royal messenger stood quietly behind his throne, listening the reverberations made by the royal farts. All this time he assumed he was alone; there was always someone with him in the room.