I AfroSays, I bid you, welcome a brother.
His thoughts resound in my ears on dark days. I keep them archived.
I Qurr! I beat the gong – that wails in the darkest eerie nights – at the place between the soul and mortality.I play a sound that no other human but you can hear; only you know where the shoe hurts. Listen.
The Summons by Qurr
On the path of a soul’s summon it is warm, pleasant and darkly comforting. Sweet fresh blood and sparks of neural twinkle, it was just what we needed as we waited. A waft of a breeze carrying her soul’s scent drifted towards me and the other diremons. We all could smell her fear and it excited us immensely. We bared our fangs in anticipation, our bellies lurching in sheer pleasure. This was our moment. She finally stood before us, and Pulse – her soul guardian – towered high right behind her, bearing her chronicles in his giant hands. Her pupils, the core of her eyes – with their deathly grey spectral outline – glittered in the dark. Streams of regret bridged the gap behind her eyes and between her ears as she sobbed softly. Her life would never be the same after this summon. By the time we’re done with her she would wish she had rather died.
“Frostbite”, a diremon growled, calling me. I looked to my right and saw them. Adverse sentinels bearing Origin’s intersecting maps. Pulse handed over her chronicles to the sentinels and stepped aside in all fairness. I chuckled at their idiocy as the maps were laid because I had been over those maps and her chronicles before the summons. There was no way they could be arranged to save her – it was like a jigsaw with missing pieces and her chronicles never, ever overlapped with the map spaces. She had never had the time or energy for that. The sentinels began to spin Origin’s map while Pulse kept inserting volumes of the chronicles, looking for an intersection of the map spaces and all the words, thoughts and actions she had ever had. For me I didn’t wait to begin the feast. I leapt at her to knock her down but she bent and rolled herself up like a ball. Nevertheless I got a generous mound of her neck. The other diremons joined as she fell apart. It was the beginning of the end for her. Pulse blinked and a tear dropped from his eye. She was trying to say something, so I ripped out her throat, dragging away the entrails with part of her lower jaw. Her lips parted anyway.
“My words and deeds have condemned me, and only the mercies of Origin can rescue me”, she said. At that moment, a new volume appeared in her chronicles and fit snugly into the map spaces. Simultaneously, two things happened: power surged into her as she rose up whole and shining like Pulse, and I and the other diremons experienced horror beyond our imagination. Between her and Pulse, this is definitely our end.
Why do people suffer? Whatever the reasons, when we suffer can our own words, deeds and thoughts ever really save us? If not, why not?
Freak Theater by AfroSays
There is no blood as her knives carve lines around my face. No anesthesia too. I feel pain, yes! I deserve to. And this old witch doctor, with her tall, over-bright lantern, she speaks bitter words as she administers her sorcery-surgery. We’re backstage, in my changing room. I am entertainment – a freak, a clown, a showman at the Theatre of Facades and Alter-Egos.
One day, I wore a mask, and I thought it quite clever so I began to wear it all the time because it changed how the world saw me. I became so impressed by the power of the mask that I stopped taking it off. Now it is stuck to my face. I had to get it off, so I called for the old lady’s magic lantern and spirit knives. It would be a night of living pain but if I don’t get this mask off, the mask would become my face.
I have seen many sad cases like mine, but in this city of masks, there are many other curious cases. There are some who’ve got half a mask and half a face, their masks have become part of who they are. There are others who, when they take off their masks, find their faces missing.
The witch doctor speaks on. Her words are painful but I know she is right, the mask must not become my life. But oh! Her tongue bears the keenest knives.
And as I bear her words, the mask falls into my hands. I can see myself again.
Identity fights the power of personalities in the light of the sometimes unwelcome truth of who we really are.
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FIND THE ART OF QURR HERE