Gratis Libre

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  • Deborah Akubudike

    A Letter to the Dust
    Dear Dust,
    A story I would share, the story in my mind; for the agony I cannot bear, is that I always find. 
    Read it out, read it well; I'm a voiceless song, a fireless hell:-

    T'was raining.
    Pregnant grey clouds buried hatred in their bosom and clapped with delight.
    For me was twice younger when my hands touched the cold master in fright.
    My fingers were frail, my lips were supple; my brown hair curled its tail as the shadow greased
    my bubble. Now all I do is mewl, for I have lost my words; the thorns in my heart etched my 
    bones.

    It is not raining anymore.
    But, I still see those pregnant grey storm clouds hanging in my heart; unmoving stones keeping my soul bowed.
    Now I am just an erstwhile glitteri, patched up with beauty, grinning sadly.
    A drop of water kisses my breast, I look up.
    This time it is not the rain, it is my tears. It pours down to the dust".
    Please Dust, accept my tears with kindness. Thanks.

    Yours sincerely,
    A Broken Voice

    Ninja

    Books//Textbooks//Notebooks//Scrapbooks...
    Confusion...
    I'm at judo class..... the bell rings.
    Pages littered everywhere, at me they stare. I stare back as I swing my sword back and forth, ready 
    for battle.
    I cut them...
    Yes, I cut them in bits with my sword like pumpkin leaves with a butcher's knife in preparation for
    melon soup.
    I lick my lips as the aroma of blood stings my nostrils.
    My eyeballs fall into the pot, I stir it arrogantly, onion water make my eyes water, I hiss.
    ......a ninja in the kitchen.
    With a back flip and a spin, I thrust my sword into the abdomen of my textbook as I watch its 
    content crawl down into the pot like maple syrup on an almond cake.

    Death's delicacy.

    I am scribbling notes like a toddler, tear my head open with the edge of my sword, and pour in the delicacy down to my spine as it envelopes my cerebrum//it's what I wished for though.
    I stare blankly at my scribbled notes like a tasteless meal. I had killed all the ingredients I knew, and turned the dead into a delicacy.

    I spat//I spat out my eyeballs and realized I was fighting backwards.
    The bell rang, judo class was over.

    I'd still be a Ninja.


    - THOUGHTS

    SHE:- You walked home alone. Without strength, you fought. I landed in darkness, stone 
    explanation for such?

    HER:- My pupils dilated 5mm; I fainted. Hell's my babysitter, t'is bitter. Lights were 
    around me, I couldn't see. I thought I was blind, then I figured twas my mind 
    playing tricks on me. You drove me to a ditch, and when I thought I could stitch  
    myself, you said, "no". I took three pills thrice, that's how far I could go. You 
    committed a sin.

    SHE:- Blame yourself, for your sin be upon you. I told you, "you fought without strength"
    yet you couldn't fight me. When the shadow falls in a ditch, it does not suffer. It's
    the corpse that is pictured in newspapers. I repeat, "Blame yourself". For you have
    limps, I have but a voice. I tell you, you do. We are but the puppet and its
    puppeteer.
    HER:- Wicked are you! You shall suffer..... no, I shall suffer. I shall forever regret thrice
    than you, for you shall surely escape.
    SHE:- You shall indeed suffer. Regret shall no more be your guest, but your roommate.
    For where you are, there he shall be also. I do not cry for me, I cry for you.
    HER:- I too. Let no man be like unto me, for there is no turning back.

    THE SKETCH
    Tears in paint boxes queued up at his feet; he's faint as he held his ego
    like a pen with his teeth (his arms are weak), drawing lines on blank
    space in bleak tunnels. He begins with his face.

    It was 12pm.
    He took two buttons from his shirt and carved out his eyes because they
    were hollow, wallowing in mire, darkened with guilt; underneath, his nose is built like a bridge. 
    Each line falls from his pen, he draws his arms without elbows.
    He is scared to stand so he crawls.
    He doesn't shade because he is afraid of the dark; he lost his voice, so he's dumb.
    He sneezed out curved lines to form his abdomen - he called himself, "the wreck". His only 
    consolation were the straight lines of his legs, pointing to the dust and, his brave feet that kissed 
    the earth - the only place he'll find solace; the grave.
    He stared at his sketch like a starved wretch, he forgot to draw his lips because he had always 
    forgotten what a smile looked like. He spat out a horizontal line blandly... that's enough.
    He sprang up to his feet to fold his neat truth, his pen splashed its ink on the eyes of his sketch, 
    staining it red.
    He glared at it...... now it's complete.

    It's 12am now.
    He stood at the border of the river, dropping the sketch into the clear water with a shudder, as he watched the waves engulf his masterpiece - himself, it swam to the bottom of the river. He smiled 
    and patted his chest; as the bubbles blew him a kiss, he 
    whispered to himself with a still soft voice, "Rest in peace".

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