Afrosays to me

…random excerpts from my communions with the AfroMuse

A case for monsters November 11, 2011

Filed under: Spooky Fridays — afrosays @ 9:44 pm
Tags: , , , , , , ,
The goddess beckons to you.
She’s been in Castle Noir these past few weeks, speaking without saying words. Speaking still, and I have been listening alright.
These stories she asks me to share are for you, so that you know that she is, and forget her not.

Please bring your offerings still, or she will have my head.

I beat a gong alive. I beat a freak of a gong. Do you see that AfroSays?

A CASE FOR MONSTERS

Boo!

A spook is always judged.
The multitude of persons who come across stories of our not-so-pleasant encounters with the ones who are unfortunate enough to be undone by us make us out to be evil beings.
I, today, am here to set this right.
I am a city poltergeist, much the debonair kind. A fashionado in city speak. A well tailored suit rests quite dapperly on my ashen skin. My hair is properly combed and flicked back with two palm-fulls of sticky digestive juices and my fingernails are well trimmed. The confident musk that accompanies my eerie presence is good quality eau de Goblin. I think you shall find it easy to receive me for I project a semblance much like the best of you.
Unfortunately, there are not many like me given to the details of a good supernatural presentation; the appearance of most of my kind would cause your teeth to powder with chattering and your legs to warm with your wetness. This does not mean we are malevolent. Do not judge a book by its cover.
Monsters, imps, spirits, beings under the bed and in dark closets, bogeymen, ghosts, demons, spooks all, we are all souls like you. Just like you. It pains me buckets that you do not know; you do not see how you truly are. We are only without our interfaces, and these weak interfaces are the illusions that you worship. When they are gone, you’re one of us. Exactly as you are, as ugly as your deepest secrets.
I would ask you furthermore, what a human being is that does not live? An example would be a comatose human. What is his purpose? He has no place in your existence.
I would ask you again, furthermore, what the other beings in your ecosystem think of you? The cockroaches which you destroy, the mosquitoes which you poison, the rats which you eradicate, the bacteria and viruses which you decimate, the plants which your existence is pernicious to? Do you think they think of your existence as altruistic? You should know better.
I shall make my case so. Just as you are an absolute evil to lesser beings than you, we, as superior beings might not be held in high regard by your lot. Nightmares and the entire execution of horrific experiences are expedient to our kind.
Summarily, Our purpose is to terrorize and to fulfil purpose is righteous.
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Bizarre Entertainment September 9, 2011

Filed under: Spooky Fridays — afrosays @ 8:00 pm
Tags: , , ,


Yo darkBetty?
The gong sounds again. Not loud and harsh and discordant. But lilting notes of worlds unseen. if you would just.. Listen.


I AfroSays. Maniac. Laugh. Get it?


Get it.

Boo!


(Special thanks to @osizurunkle for the AfroSays Mascot, we love that retro graffiti)


———————————————
Demon Dance by darkBetty
———————————————

A hush has fallen over the audience, the lights have been dimmed. The bright beam of the floodlight illuminates the set on the stage- red background with potted plants aligning the edges.
As if from a distance, the drums pick up. It is a slow tempo.
Back stage, the actors rub their hands together or pace or do breathing exercises to ease the anxiety. It is a larger crowd than the last, they want to perform well.
She is standing in a corner, her forehead against the wall. She barely acknowledges the first group of dance-dramatists as they flock out to act out their scenes. The sounds of theatre drift to her and she smiles, slowly moving her head from side to side.
She is small. Her slim arms hang down both sides of her tiny frame, almost disappearing into the wall.
“Ten minutes.” Someone whispers to her.
She moves away from the wall. She has just black aso-oke wrapped around her, baring her bony shoulders and reaching just above her knees. Facing the long mirror, she reaches for the white paste and smears a healthy portion across one eye. She stares at herself in the mirror. Her eyes are large and dark; they look out of place on her long face.
She is no longer Wuraola Sekoni; she is Asake now. Asake, The One who summons the Spirits- the script says.
She wraps the white cloth around her head. From the front to the back, twists it and brings it back forward, knotting it and tucking it in. She is ready.
The returning actors unconsciously leave a wide berth around her as they fill the back room once again.
She walks slowly into the lights; leaving the normalcy that is her to a realm she can only achieve on the stage.
The drummers pick up the tempo.
She moves to stage-center; looks up to some point just above every head in the hall then smiles an evil smile. They were ready.
She starts to move from side to side. Then flinging her hands to her sides, she turns her head up to the bright lights.
But she doesn’t see the bright lights; she sees a dark sky. She is no longer in the auditorium, she feels the wet grass underneath her feet instead and the cool night breeze whirl around her. They are ready.
She opens her mouth then lets loose a piercing scream. “Cooooome!”
The voice is too large to be coming from such a small person and it does not, because she is no longer small. She is no longer a person. She has no body there. She is one of the spirits, bidding her sisters come.
“Coooome! From the far East, come! I beckon thee of the West! Come to me, my Northern One! Do not be far behind, ye South!”
And they come.
She is moving faster now. And as they come to merge their spirits with hers, her hands lift and her head is flung farther back.
“Aaaaaaah! Welcome!” She shrieks into the heavens. “Welcooome!” Her chest heaves and shudders ravage her. Tingles run from the tips of her fingers to the bottom of her spine.
“She is an evil child.” Her grandmother used to say when she was but a child. She would look into those big eyes then announce it to the consternation of her mother. The grandmother had seen it.
Her sisters were always there, waiting. It was this way she got to be one with them. In front of an unsuspecting audience. She was born for this- to be one with them. On this altar, they perform the ritual of their communion; their little dance of union.
Her breathing slows and the drums quiet as if of their own accord.
Her head falls to her chest and she poses there, quiet for a few moments. Letting her soul seep back into her body through her nostrils.
Then Wuraola Sekoni walks off the stage amidst loud applause.


———————————————
The Tale of Superific Majestic Fantabula by AfroSays
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My hat is long and filled with a thousand tricks. Its length is ridiculous. It is striped with all the colours of the rainbow plus black. It’s a funny one, my hat.
I am a magician.
So you can guess how I look.
No you can’t. I’ve pulled together quite a redoubtable assortment you see? I made my collage-patched pants into a superific fitting shirt. It’s the colour of fireworks.
You guessed right! My shirt has been cleverly re-constructed to offer the service of fitting pants. I have nice colourful, mis-matched buttons on my bulge. A zip should be there but I created the most beautiful earrings out of them. I am fashionado fantabula! Perceive the sheer awesome-ity of my brilliance!
I smell like adverbs.
That’s what they always tell me, “Mr Fanta, you smell like adverbs”.
I don’t know what adverbs smell like you see but I guess that they smell like me.
I have a happy soul. Sanguine and altogether merry like my outfit and this soul is what I’m called to share every time someone wants to see my magic. “Fantastic Mr. Fanta” they’d say, “Show us some magic, would you kind sir?”
And who am I to refuse?
And did I tell you about my bag of tricks? I leave it at home. A real magician needs no tricks.
Magic. Is. The. Superific!
My hat? Oh! It’s for the kids! Today I was walking on Brightsburg road, singing my merry song, when a happy couple – a farmer and his wife – happened upon me. They observed me with a curious awe and called on me.
“Kind magician, sir? Traveling Kind Magician Sir?”
I granted them audience. My smile touched my ears and my forehead touched my sandals and my hat adjusted itself to the back of my head as I bowed to greet them.
“Hullos!”
“Good weather?”
“Yes, happy people! Good weather it is! Aye! And how may I help you on this Sunny day?”
“Our little John, we are having a birthday partay for him today. Would you be so kind as to share some of your tricks with our John and his friends? We have food aplenty and a place for you to stay the night”
I sprang to straight body!
“Yeeeeehhhhhssss! Mr Farmer and his wife, let us go!”
I took them both in each arm and we walked merrily to their cute little cottage. I had some fresh bread, milk and eggs and my hat had some too. They found it curious. Farmer whispered to his wife, “Maybe he stores some food there too”, I laughed. “My hat lives too, like you and I. Shall we partake of the partay?”
John and his friends played outside in the sun – hopscotch, cakery and so so. I called them together.
“Hulloooooooos!”
A horde of calfs stampeded in delight. They came as one, John and his friends.
“Want to see any tricks”
“Aye! Merry Magician sir!”
“Call me Mr. Fanta, I loved to be called so”
“Aye! Mr Fanta sir!”
“I have a thousand tricks and ten thousand magicks but I have a favorite for little kids. Want to see?”
“Yehhhhhsss! Show us kind sir!” “Magick us Mr. Fanta!” “Share your tricks Mr. Fanta!”
“Do as I tell you. DO SO OR NO TRICKS! NO MAGICK!”
“We shall obey your instructions, kind sir!”
“Hold your tongue out! Hold it to your lips, with both hands”
I showed them how and then they followed. Slowly at first, but eventually they all did.
“Unhold it now”
They could not. I pointed at them all and laughed. Some started crying; they sounded funny. A few ran around with both hands attached to their tongue, obviously frustrated at my mild joke.
Some stayed. Curious.
“Do you want me to help you unhold your tongue?”
They all nodded. None of them held at heart their good spirits from earlier. Why didn’t they get my joke?
“Mr. Superific Majestic Fantabula shall perform the grandest trick ever! Just for kids!”
The top of my hat opened and sunlight flew in several directions as two big pairs of milk-dripping scissors floated out. Fast. Sharp.
“UNHOLD!”
The scissors chased down John and all his buddies. Quickly and helped them. It was a grand trick and I cannot fathom for the life of me why John and all his friends were cross. They ran all over the bright red and green in random see-saws, wailing.
I had other tricks to share. I would make them delirious with gladness.
“Hulloooooooos!” I called out to Farmer and his overly excited wife at the mouth of their cute cottage. She was crying at the beauty of my creation. His mouth hung open.
“Join me please, let’s get the calves together, I have 998 more tricks, we have just begun this partay!”
Out of my hat floated 998 milk dripping needles. I smiled.
“This, Sir Farmer and Madame Farmette, is not just for kids.”
 

The Other Place July 22, 2011

Filed under: Spooky Fridays,The Trench — afrosays @ 10:17 pm
Tags: ,


I AfroSays, I bid you, welcome a brother.
His thoughts resound in my ears on dark days. I keep them archived.
Would you?


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.


Reflect.

Boo!


———————————————
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.


CLUES

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.


CLUES

Identity fights the power of personalities in the light of the sometimes unwelcome truth of who we really are.


PLEASE DO LEAVE A COMMENT. REAL FEEDBACK ON HOW THE STORY RELATES TO REAL LIFE. COMMENTS SUCH AS “DEEP” OR ANY OF ITS SYNONYMS ARE ONLY STATING THE OBVIOUS, KINDLY SHARE WHAT YOU REALLY THINK (EVEN IF IT’S THAT THE MESSAGE IS UNCLEAR) SO WE CAN ALL COMPARE IDEAS. THANK YOU.


FIND THE ART OF QURR HERE

 

Monsters July 8, 2011

Filed under: Spooky Fridays,The Trench — afrosays @ 10:55 pm
Tags: , , ,


You don’t know what you are till you come under the moon. Fur and fangs? Scales and a tail? Spidery legs and spiny hair? Come under our spell.
For what you see is not reality. Open your eyes. Open your mind. Come alive.


Fear the revelation!

Boo!


———————————————
Children of the moon
———————————————

A roar goes out in the night.

The wind carries the ferocity of it from the mountain. It washes down the layers of confused rock that the mountain consists of, down through the hardy, suffering shrubs scattered around the big foundational stones in ugly bunches, through the tall cracking grasses spread over the horizon, bent and begging, the roar makes its way to the mud burrows.

It doesn’t stop.

The roar not losing any of its wildness, sweeps over the burrows seeking out adits where it may deliver its message. It menaces through the cold night, borne by a frosty blue breeze, diving into pits and telling.

Heed the call.

And the beasts arise. A hand, then another, then another, then another, gripping the mouths of the slimy holes they make home. Intoxicated with the gases of the swamp, their yellow eyes glow like cursed orbs in the darkness from which they emerge. They draw themselves out, a horrible mass of black fur and limbs, wailing to the moon.

The night sky has been punctured by the first cry. The second one. The third. The thousandth. Innumerable cries, the same vote of devotion. It is time for prayer, the priest has called.

The children of the moon emerge from their homes as one nation. Slowly. Their glazed eyes find the mountain and their fangs are bared in supplication, their hands are lifted in anticipation, of a miracle. They worship as they meditate on the fire burning atop the mountain. A sacrifice.

The priest leads with freakish song after song and they clap their hands on and on into the night, bringing the swamp to life. They pray to the moon, that the sun would never have their night.

A prayer unnecessary.

They dance and worship, their tongues clicking with the roofs of their mouth. Some of them are lost to an ecstasy, the others watch in awe. There are others again who just watch, laughing at the madness of it all, their laughter hidden in the night, blended with the choruses.

And when the fire begins to lose its power to the great fire in the sky, they all run to hide. They all run back to the burrows, back to holes from which they climbed out and bury themselves deep inside.


CLUES

Remember the communal village church. The tall tower. It holds a bell that summons all and sundry to service.


———————————————
Filthy
———————————————

The black feathers rushed at me from the stained sky.

It was at first a pair, then three, then the whole black cloud of them, cawing a multiplied melee, which grew painful as it grew louder. Nearer. I blocked my ears and crumbled to my knees and yellow tears began to fall. Mine.

I had to block out their punishment as best as I could, but the agony was winning. It coursed through every receptor in my brain, killing my other senses and taking authority. My hands felt wet with blood pouring from my ears.

Soon most of my being was alive only to the foul smelling robe of black feathers and piercing sound needles that surrounded me. I could not take it anymore.

I gave up.

I backed out of the river, the ends of my own feathers dripping wet. I was not far in yet but I could not go in further. Not with this pain.

They glided above the water and escorted me to the bank, how they hated water! They would hurt me on dry land. I knew. I had known before I’d left my flock and tried to wash myself, only to see what being clean felt like.

The daemons tore at me baring venomous claws and fangs with a righteousness; my brothers, my sisters, my friends, my enemies, strangers.

They hurt me in indignant unison, only because I’d tried to be cleaner, to be different. I lay in the bloody mud smiling at the new white clean feathers among the ones I had never washed forever.

“Fuck the flock!”


CLUES

The man maverick and the vengeful society.

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*Of Visions and Visitors
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