Of The The Thing In The Ceiling

Genre: Realistic Fiction

The sounds usually start when darkness comes, when I switch off the lantern and close my eyes to sleep. Night after night I lay awake listening to sounds in the darkness. It starts with a faint scratching noise as if a feral beast is marking its territory drawing lines that must not crossed except with those who have abandoned all hope. Then there’s the footsteps, footsteps; slow, cautious, and deliberate; pacing, as would a beast stalking prey. Finally comes the scurrying and squealing sounds of a chase….. I always reach for the lights at this point and flip on the switch for the bedside lamp, nothing happens, it is funny how for an instant I forget the lights have not been working ever since a storm took out power lines.

There is something otherworldly that lives in my ceiling, I hear it every night when I try to sleep “It’s only a rat” I whisper to myself. At least I hope it’s a rat and not the thing from paranormal activity….

Eventually sleep comes, the sandman takes me suddenly, pouncing, tumbling my restless mind away and down, spitting it out like a mangled rat in to a deep dark dreamless sleep.

Are they nocturnal animals, ghosts? Because when the sun comes up the sounds stop, without a trace…. I wake up in the morning and everything is exactly as I left it nothing to indicate the eventful nocturnal visitors. The ceiling looks pristine and white, freshly painted to cover the water stains left by the leaky roof from when it last rained. The brown stain looked somewhat like a cowboy riding a bull trying to lasso a sheep that looks suspiciously like an overgrown cat. Not many people could see this natural art, but then it’s not a precise art seeing figures in stains on the ceiling or shapes in clouds.

The met department just issued a flood alert, a tropical cyclone is coming, Dineo. Its curious how the most cyclones wind up with feminine names, guys it would appear don’t have scorn whose fury hell hath none.

A pet cat would be an interesting addition to the family, they catch rats, mice and stare at ghosts so that would be a win win situation, to deal with unexpected visitors… I need a hungry cat, a skinny one hungry for a meal, a fat cat does not chase rats, profound and simple.

The day always passes and I wonder where the times go, what happens to the time we discard into the past? Night always comes and with it, the sound.

I lay in my bed and I hear it scratching, nibbling away at important things in the woodwork of my ceiling structures. It has been growing the thing in the ceiling, I don’t know what it been eating but its footsteps are heavier and louder. What if it is expecting and soon there will be a rat infestation. The other day I think they invited friends for a sleep over, I could hear them scurrying around like twin toddlers on a sugar rush wreaking havoc and running amok. It was not a dream, a nightmare does not crawl along your leg in the dark while you are sleeping, neither does a ghost. There are rats in the ceiling, only rats and nothing more, except more rats if I let them.

I wake up in the morning, I look at the floor, and it’s got rat droppings that need sweeping. They chewed up my favourite bathroom rug, and doing unspeakable things on the sofa, they must go.

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I have been looking up ways of getting rid of rodents, they cannot burp so if you lace bait with bicarbonate of soda and they ingest it they get bloated and die, if you sprinkle some on the floor, it will stick on to their feet and when they lick it off, well, history. I even bought a rat trap, it looks like a book full of glue and then you leave it open, rats will walk on the glued surface and get stuck, seems simple enough, until you have to pry a rat off or stomp on it with cowboy boots.

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Lastly I bought some rat poison, the bottle says to mix with peanut butter, how do they even know rats even like peanut butter, but for the money they charged me they better know what they were talking about. I spent the whole day baiting every nook and cranny, tomorrow, its bye bye rats, if that does not work then its not rats I am dealing with its something else and might need to call…. an exorcist

I woke up in the morning and armed with a broom and my cowboy boots in search of rat causalities.  I wish I had a gun, but imagine trying to shoot one, not to mention the ricochet. There are tiny footprints on the places I dusted with the bicarbonate of soda.

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I will have to search for bodies no body wants a dead rodent decomposing in their house, I have seen this before its horrible. The only place left I haven’t checked is the attic, broom in one hand, and a flashlight I am going hunting. The rats are probably more scared of me than me of them but I fear the attic more, its dark and my imagination is ungovernable.

I found them, two dead rats in the attic after a bit of song and dance I managed to scoop them up and bury them in a shallow grave next to a rose bush in the garden; End of story, well not quiet the I also found a diary it has been around for almost century The Diary of a Freedom Fighter….

I lay in my bed and tonight there is only silence…..

The End

~B

BlogBattle Entry for this week prompt cowboy; Inspired by a literal rat in the ceiling while I was trying to sleep and Edgar Allan Poe’s The Raven and somewhat a continuation of the last story here….

 

Of Coffee On WashDay

If you were having coffee with me…… you would be in time to join me on my washday ritual. Washday for me comes every once in an assymetrical number of days, possibly weeks sometimes monthly there is no definite system, but usually the weekend before a week with events I want to look my best…… Happy Valentine’s day  ♥♥♥♥

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WashDay I circle it on my calendar in red over and over again and in case you are wondering, washday is not about laundry, it is a whole day dedicated to all things hair. I have twisted locks and you can tell by the length of my locks I am fanatic about it, you can call me Rasta B  

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First step is oil treatment or a conditioning mask, shampooing the hair makes it dry and brittle so first I pre-oil.

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After that the soap opera begins, detangling, anti-dandruff shampoo…. Lather, rinse and repeat until the hair foams freely and the rinse water runs clear. My eyes always wind up blood-red like I have been huffing paint; I have tried No More Tears Shampoo, but am not sure how much of it one must drink to stop the tears, though you start burping really cool bubbles. Sometimes when I run out of shampoo I use dish-washing liquid, and fabric softener as a conditioner. Some say it’s a terrible idea, some say its ok, all I know is it works except for an urge to want to wipe down dishes in the kitchen sink with my hair.

I am currently raving about a shampoo I bought from a street salesman. H e approached me while I was walking in town and said “Rasta Big Up, I promise if you buy this stuff you wont regret it” and since it cost only $1 I decided why not. He even gave me his number assuring me I would be placing a future order.

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I was a bit skeptical the bottle and label is unremarkable and the unscented gel shampoo smells is like detergent but I have to give it  a thumbs up a single palmful lathers up my entire hair and it doesnt dry it out. I think it has traces of conditioner and moisturiser in it. I’ll definitely be calling him up for my next fix.

If you were having coffee with me we would sit in the sun, and warm up after that soap opera affair as we wait for my hair to drip dry. One always hopes washday falls on a nice warm and sunny day.

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Next I section my hair into some sort of buns or is it bangs? I am not quite sure. Followed finally by retwisting all the new hair growth with beeswax; some oil and moisturiser.

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My hairdresser introduced me to this hair Ganjalizer Super Natural Herbal Hair Food. I suspect it has questionable legality issues seeing as the label claims it contains 100% Ganja also known as marijuana, cannabis, weed, herb, hemp…. People who sell it don’t display it and if you look like a plain clothed policeman undercover (i.e clean shaven; plain bald head) and ask for it they will tell you it’s out of stock.

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Ganjalizer

It does have the scent of marijuana and I think when you use it you might want to stay away from police sniffer dogs or areas where drug searches are conducted…. just to be safe. Common street myth is if you want your hair to grow luxuriously infusing marijuana seeds into your petroleum jelly and using that as hair food is the holy grail.

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If you were having coffee with me I would tell you about the acid test of successfully completed washday.

The Acid Test …. Walking downtown in an area where hairdressers and barbers are lined up on the pavement seeking out clients… If not a single one of them calls you and says “lets style or cut” or offer any service done on your hair then you know your hair is on point. Though sometimes just to fool you they might just call you…….

If you were having coffee with me I would ask you if a random hot person compliments you on your hair and then when you smiling and feeling yourself graciously trying to accept the compliment and then they suddenly say “By the way I am a hairdresser, here is my card call me sometime……” how genuine was the compliment they paid you or did they speak to you just to solicit for a potential client and would you call them?

Thanks for the visit do you have any hair routines and tips you might want to share? Have a happy heart day.

~B

Ps Some guys have washday too ☻☺☻

 

Of The Freedom Fighter’s Diary 

Genre: Historical Fiction


Preface


This Diary is a gift to Joshua Levi on day of his deliverance witnessed by Church and God on this 8th Sunday of January the year of our Lord 1889

Adore the Lord always
Sister in Christ

Val

Sunday 8 January 1888
GoT sAveD

jOSH

Monday 9 January 1888
My nEW nAmE IS JOSHUA

SIStEr VAL tEACH ME WrItE
Tuesday 10 January 1889
JEsUs sAVE

Wednesday 11  January  1888

JOSHUA JOSHUA JOSHUA JOSHUA JOSHUA JOSHUA  JOSHUA JOSHUA

Thursday 12 January 1888
VAL Is NICE

Friday 13.January 1888
THE QUICKs BrOWnE FOxs

Sat 14 January 1888
THE QUICK BrOWn FOx

Sunday 15 January 1888
SIN bAD

Monday 16 January 1888
THE QUICK BrOWn FOx  jUMP oVER LAZE DOGs

Tuesday 17 January 1888
THE QUICK BrOWn FOx  jUMPs oVER LAZy DOG

Wednesday 18 January 1888
I AdOrE God and sis VAL

19 January 1888
Sis VAL Cry I WrITE

Friday 20 January1888
I MAKEs VAL cry I sTop WriTe till beta

Monday 5 March 1888
I lEArninG MysELf

Tuesday 6 March 1888
My Christian nAme is JoshuA my other nAme cAn not spelled

Wednesday 7 March 1888

Fatha Bruno come give sweets

Sunday 25 March 1888

Fatha Bruno say Sin is Black and so are we till we are washed by the blood of Jesu. I must have invite others to be saved on Easter Service

Thursday 29 March

My Papa say must stop with white man crazy talk

Friday 30 March

Good Friday
For God so loved the world that he gave his only begot son

Sunday 1 April
Easter Sunday

fatha Bruno gave us communication

Papa say eating Jesu body and drink his blood witchcraft. Papa say The Man With No Knees come to our village and learn our ways we must learn theirs so tomorrow he send me his only son to learn.

Monday 2 April

Today is my first day at the Mission Society school. The missionaries come from far away to bring light to our darkness. To educate us from our savage way.

Today my father cry when I left the village he said Do not forget myself but how can I forget myself when I take myself everywhere I go.

My name is Joshua Levi and I am a student.

Friday  20 April 1888

I have been busy learning new and exciting things, I have not had time to write. I miss the village sometime.

Sister Valerie, she misses her home too, in England. She can’t wait until she goes back and that makes me sad and  I don’t know why.

Sunday 22 April 1888
Reverend Charles Helm visited the Mission Society Parish today. He brought gifts and medicines for the new clinic. He gave me my own mirror, a comb and a razor he said I must be groomed. Cleanliness is next to Godliness. We must strive to be like  God and learn his word and fear him,  that’s wisdom.

Monday 23 April 1888

I cut myself shaving. Rev Helm said he would teach me but he left early to go see King Lobengula.

Cleanliness is next to Godliness, sin is dirty and black.

No matter how many times I bath I can not wash away the sin I was born with.

My name is Joshua Levi and I am ashamed of my skin.

Tuesday 24 April 1888

Today is Sister Valerie’s birthday I said I did not have a present for her but she said the best present I can give her is to learn all I can and to spread The Word and be a teacher at the mission.

I wish I had a birthday too I don’t know when I was born my parents were uncivilized in the ways of the world.

Father Bruno told me dont need my old birthday I have a new one just like my new name I am no longer what I was. I was washed of my sins when I accepted Jesu as my personal saviour
My name is Joshua Levi and I was born on 8 January 1888

Wednesday 25 April

Rev Charles Helm says my grasp of English surpasses his expectations. If he closes his eyes he can almost imagine he is chatting with a carcass of Euopean descent.

A carcass a dead body of animal

A Caucasian is a white man.

The good reverend has asked me to go to my papa bearing gifts and supplies and tell him a company of miners want to be his friends they will give him vast wealth and power. Even King Lobengula is friends with them all he has to do is sign a simple treaty of agreement.
I am Joshua Levi and tomorrow I am going home.

Thursday 26 April 1888

The welcome I got is not the welcome I expected. My father said I have become a white man, I dress like him and I even talk like him.

“Son, you have forgotten yourself” that’s the last words he spoke directly to me. He refused the gifts, tore up the memorandum of agreement and spit on the bottle of skotch whiskie.

Malume said to me if I return to the missionaries my pa says I’ll be dead to him. But how can I not go When I go back I will be a teacher of a class of my own.

Friday 27 April 1888

Today I returned to the Mission Society.

I have informed Rev Helm of my father’s disposition. He says my father is a fool because only a fool refuses blessings.

“Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.”

I am Joshua Levi and I am the son of a fool.
Monday 30 April 1888

I am Joshua Levi and I am a teacher at the Mission Society school.
Monday 1 October 1888
“I am dying”

my father’s first words to me after five months of silence.

His hut smells like dung and herbals the sangoma says there’s nothing they can do.

“Do you accept Jesus as your personal saviour?”

Yes

“Take my father to the clinic”

He is given the miracle of penicillin

I am Joshua Levi and I just saved my father.

Tuesday 30 October 1888

Lobengula signed the Rudd Conscession with  Charles Rudd, James Rochfort Maguire and Francis Thompson, witnessed and translated  by Reverend Charles Helm

My father signed his trade memorandum with the BSAC

Tuesday 8 January 1889

I am one year old today I picked the name Joshua because I wanted to be a savior too, Joshua means Jesus in Greek. Levi is because they couldn’t pronounce my name

Ndzivalelano which means reconciliation.

Valerie is going back to England today, her year here is done, I’ll miss her but we are from two different worlds her and I.

I have just learnt that Rev Charles Helm misrepresented the contents of the concession but its a binding contract and this land is no longer ours, it was not mining rights alone we conceded it was All Our Rights .

John Smith Moffat says he will help us revoke it and fight for our freedom……

13 September 1890

“….the more of the world we inhabit the better it is for the human race…”

Cecil John Rhodes

The Pioneer Column raises The Union Jack on the kopje over looking Fort Salisbury

“Blessed are the meek…. They shall inherit the ashes, ashes, of dreams long dead”

I am Ndzivalelano and my bones won’t rest until what was mine is mine again

I am Ndzivalelano freedom fighter and war begins….

~the diary has no further entries only blank pages.
~B

This is a work of fiction, centered around key historic events in the history of Zimbabwe

Blogbattle entry

Of Coffee With Unexpected Things 

​If you were having coffee with me I would say “Hello February 🙌” because you see I am a February baby **hint hint**
Remember the last time we had coffee☕ in the rain ☔….  well it kept right on raining on and off; mostly on but it’s stopped for now, and out comes the sun☀ 

Although not before it managed to rain up a storm that felt pretty much like the end of the world as we know it, or a scene from Orson Welles’ War Of The World. 🌋There was lightning, ⚡there was deafening thunder, there was flooding, trees got uprooted, and the falling trees, just had to land on power lines, because when nature starts dishing out disaster it doesn’t go for half servings, so that pretty much took out the electricity for our neighbourhood. 

If you were having coffee with me I would tell you that Pastor Evan Mawarire of the #ThisFlag online movement returned back into the country after almost 6 months in self imposed exile in fear for his life, only to get arrested at the airport immediately upon return. When he left the country the judicial system had thrown out the state’s case of charging him with trying to subvert a constitutionally elected government on  a procedural technicality, not sure what they decided to charge him with this time and naturally social media is rife with speculation and conspiracy theories but that’s to be expected.
If you were having coffee with me,  I would tell you that the tea’s ready and when I say the tea’s ready, what I mean is that; the water has boiled and cups are in the kitchen cupboard, the spoons are over there… 

 The tea leaves are in the container for the powdered milk and if you take sugar, there is brown sugar in the old coffee jar. There’s powdered milk in the bottle for salad cream, just dont confuse it with salt, which is in the bottle for mayonnaise…. and there’s the bread 🍞 jam and peanut butter Help yourself. 😇😇

And I baked a cake 🎂 well it’s not ready it’s like you know that furniture you buy and it comes with a manual of how to assemble it in your house,  well there’s the cake. 

If you were having coffee with me, I would ask you, to “Guess what?” “What” you say.  I say “Guess” and you look at me with that eye that says you don’t like guessing games. OK fine I’ll tell you. The postman came to pay me a visit. He brought me a late Christmas card I guess that’s why they call it snail mail thank you Tara 🙂 it was unexpected…


I also got an unexpected email but that’s a story for another day. 
Thank you for dropping by have an awesome week. 

~B
PS Also something unexpected our house is haunted or a giant rat lives in the ceiling….. Spooky 🎃 

Of Words and Red Dresses

Guest Post: Leeanna Lazenby

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The Importance Of Words And Red Dresses

Late at night, I laze about in a red lace dress pretending to be a diva and often take a stroll through my Twitter feed to see the latest poetry written by my online acquaintances. Okay, I don’t really wear such a glamorous outfit at all times but I do appreciate reading the talented words of many phenomenal people… and perhaps I should appreciate red dresses more than what I actually do. You will understand why I say this in a moment.

First, I must mention that I am sometimes lucky enough to stumble across Twitterers (as my Mother likes to call us) who have travelled across oceans to meet each other. They record their love affair or journey of meeting up through an exchange of one hundred and forty characters. The funny thing is, we have all done it. Most of us who are part of this tight-knit poetic community have connected with people from across the world in an uncanny, unexpected way. I, personally, have been blessed to find companions all over the place but there is one particular agonizing story that I have been longing to release and share. I was originally going to give the following account via Twitter but prolonged making it public as I was afraid that it could potentially bring my friend harm. I am not sure that I will ever be able to describe her extraordinary light in true form but I was then offered the opportunity to guest feature on this blog.

For this, I am very thankful as I now have a beautiful space to dedicate something to my lost soul sister. Thank you. As you read her tale, please know that I think of her daily.

Once upon a time but not too long ago, I opened a poetry account on Twitter as a way of recording snippets of my creativity. Naturally, I began to network and follow other like-minded individuals.

One day, a girl sent me a message and we exchanged a few words. We started to correspond frequently and eventually switched to emailing so that we could have more elaborate conversations. She was from Egypt and I, London. We were the same age so we could easily talk about boys, celebrities, fashion and life plans but it became much deeper too. We had lengthy discussions about the Higgs Boson experiments, scientific theories and philosophical viewpoints. We were unbelievably similar in countless ways but incredibly different for one catastrophic reason. She was oppressed whereas I had my freedom.  I could make my own choices in life. I was able to work, study, socialise and have friends. She, on the other hand, was confined to being kept at home by her extremely strict parents. They tracked her phone, did not let her have a bank account and withheld her passport in case she tried to leave for a better life. She was subjected to countless physical beatings and verbal insults on many occasions. She was not even able to take a walk since the city in which she lived was suffering from rioting, protests and violence. There was a lot of division between the inhabitants so it was dangerous to go out alone. She wanted to be herself but she was treated as an outcast by her family as they did not understand her personality or attributes.

This resulted in us having to communicate in secret. Sometimes, I would not hear from her for weeks on end but she would Skype/email as soon as she was able to. Her family did not want her to have a friendship with a “westerner” in case I was secretly a male and even when she showed them my photograph, they did not trust her to be telling the truth. They told her that a poet would corrupt her. I was a sinner for being creative. She was a sinner for associating with me.

Over time, she gathered money by any method that she could and kept it hidden. At one point, she managed to have an anonymous poetry book published on Amazon and was earning money through advertising via the online edition of her masterpiece. Her words were magnificent. She wrote in extravagant detail about mermaids and sea creatures without any hints of the daily struggles that she had to put up with in her own reality. She was planning to fight for her emancipation and have the life that she deserved. She was going to flee.

But then it happened. She could not see a way out and she became depressed. Hope left her. We spoke every night on a messenger and I tried to raise her spirits or at least restore her faith but she could not cope with what she had to experience. She attempted suicide. Not once but six times. Yes, six. They put her on medication and locked her away for months. I heard nothing. I thought she was dead.

Then, one day, I received a message from her. She told me that she was okay and that she had been sectioned in a mental institution for the entire duration of her absence. They were releasing her on the condition that she carried on taking the pills. She agreed but I know that she probably never swallowed them. You see, there was never anything wrong with her. The people at fault were her family and those around her. She was a creative type in a life where expression was forbidden.

She used to tell me every day how a woman like her could never be free in her world. It was wrong for her to be filled with passion. Can you even begin to imagine what that would feel like? She could not write, she could not take a walk in the park, she could not do any of the simple things that I took for granted. The most basic thing that she longed for was to be able to wear a red dress because I had one on in my photograph. In fact, I had one on in all of my photographs. She used to imagine that she was going to buy one from the shopping mall and have a collection of vivid lipsticks to match. She would joke that we would, one day, walk around London together and be the “red pair” without having to worry about what anyone thought of us.

She ended her email to me by explaining that my messages had kept her balanced throughout many of her traumatic experiences. She said that she had read my poetry every day and cherished the stories that we had shared with each other in our emails. She was very thankful that I gave her a sense of “normality” because we had our companionship. Her final statement to me exclaimed that my words filled with support/friendship could not have a value put upon them and that it was those very words that saved her life.

This was over two years ago now and I have not had any correspondence with her since. I have tried contacting her but her phone is disconnected, her Twitter is deactivated, her Skype account is permanently offline and the emails bounce back. I do not know what happened to her but she made me promise that if ever she disappeared, I would tell her story and be the voice that she never had. I cannot do her justice with my words but all I can say is this:

“There is a girl, location unknown, who writes of magical creatures and believes in freedom. She is one of many that is misunderstood but despite her sufferings, she is a strong person. Her mind is filled with creativity whilst her tongue whispers stories from her hushed dreams. And somewhere, in the depths of her beautiful imagination, she walks freely… swaying elegantly in her sparkling red dress.

I am forever thankful for all of the lessons, laughter and wisdom that came from this remarkable girl. Who knew that a mere poem on a social media outlet would bring such a wonderful person in to my life. She enriched me with a friendship beyond description.

Thanks to our poetry, two girls from opposite lives were connected and intertwined in a way that seemed impossible. You never know the power that your words will bring.

After looking over this, I would like to add that she is unaware of the impact she has had on my life. She always spoke of being courageous and having strength. She used to tell me, in her own way, that anything is possible and we have to follow our dreams. I can attribute many leaps of faith to her friendship and I only hope that she is out there somewhere experiencing her own slice of freedom.

—–

By Leeanna Lazenby

(Poet with the parrot and the red dress collection.)

***Please note*** I am aware that her individual circumstances are not a reflection of life in Egypt in any particular way. You could be anywhere in the world and experience a very strict family/upbringing. The mention of where she lived was entirely for context to highlight how we connected despite the distance between us.

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Lady in Red

Bio:

“Leeanna is a lover of taking bits and bobs from her head, dreaming of poems and making them in to tiddly chunks of art. Put them all together and you may just have a picture of what’s going on up in there.”

Leeanna wants to say a big thanks to @Beatonm5 for the opportunity to write on his blog. Thank you!


Thank you Leeanna it has been a pleasure having you, and thank you for sharing your story, words alone are not important its also having someone, to take a moment to listen…. When I have a story to tell that’s all I ask for, a listener.

Leeanna and her parrot can be found on the Twitterverse, tweeting poetry  @24LoveHeart24

~B

 

Of Coffee In The Rain

 

Of Coffee In The Rain

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If you were having coffee with me, I hope you brought an umbrella because it’s been raining heavily in my neck of the woods, almost non-stop. They say it is the La Niña effect, so flooding is expected.

I love the rain, I love dancing in the rain, and I love the sound of rain drops falling,

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but now I wake up singing rain, rain go away come again another day cause it’s a little much too much, and I am running out of clothes to wear.

Rain Drop,

Drop Top,

How can my laundry dry when it rains non-stop?

If you were having coffee with me I would tell you I watch the lightning and count the heartbeats between the lightning flash and the thunder. I have a friend who giggles at the claps of thunder, she squeals in delight as the thunder peals across the sky and I; I am just happy to be alive.

Does it mean anything when it rains heavily at the beginning of the year? Well obviously it means the harvest is going to be bumper, after a couple of near droughts, it’s a welcome relief. But does it signify anything like the end of an era or the start of something new washing away the old and beginning afresh?…

If you were having coffee with me I would ask you, do you ever wonder if when people sing at the top of their voices “Open the floodgates of heaven” they could really be asking to be drowned? No? Just me then. But it’s been raining like someone opened the floodgates.

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What’s been happening in your neck of the woods? I saw America inaugurate their 45th president and said farewell to Obama, and over here we have had the same president since 1980, and he is a candidate for the next presidential elections in 2018; when Zim Decides. African presidents seem to have a penchant for lengthy terms in office, and staying in power against all the odds. The former president of Gambia Yahya Jammeh who lost the elections in December 2016 after 22 years in power refused to acknowledge the poll results causing a crisis situation for the past month even going so far as to declare a State of Emergency a few days ago, but after some intervention efforts he has finally decided to step down on a TV Broadcast saying “I believe in the importance of dialogue … I have decided today in good conscience to relinquish the mantle of this great nation

Maybe the rains do signify change….. RAIN

If you were having coffee with me I would introduce to you my next Guest Blogger Leeanna Lazenby she is a creative poet with a parrot and a collection of red dresses. You can find her on twitter, and her story features in my next post, so stay tuned.

Thank you for the visit I would walk you out but see, my shoes are muddy, cause of all the rain, there is a certain reluctance involved in putting on wet shoes let alone wet socks, so I’ll just wave you away, until next time.

~B

 

Of The Ghosts Of Hogwarts Past

Genre: Fan fiction

Of The Ghost of Hogwarts Past

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“Are you afraid of the dark?”

That is the question I ask first years on their first night at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Oh what fun it is to hear them squeal in fear as they run away from dear old me. No surprise at all because you see I am one of the ghosts that you could say haunt the halls of Hogwarts. I am mostly harmless and besides that, the whole school grounds have wards, spells and such that prevent malevolent beings from reeking just that malevolence. Dumbledore done did a right proper job at fixing them rest is soul. He too is here, not haunting corridors like us but in a painting in the headmaster’s office together with the rest of the past headmasters and mistresses of Hogwarts. When you go in there you can feel the weight of their disapproving eyes starring deep into your soul, judging you; it is downright creepy mind you. They don’t talk much, matter of fact, they don’t talk at all only sleep but it’s rumoured they counsel the current headmaster, but between you and me I think the new head is a bit batty, who wouldn’t be, everyone at Hogwarts is.

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You are a brave one aint ya? You haven’t run away like the rest of your little first year friends. Oh how great it must feel to be so curious as to seem brave, I could tell you stories that would make you never want to sleep again. Funny though I don’t remember what sleeping feels like. Ghosts don’t sleep. I have been a ghost for so long I don’t remember being alive but I am sure I was as curious as you, I guess that is why I am a ghost now. I dare say I have been a ghost longer than Moaning Myrtle, crying in one of them bathrooms up there somewhere; but Nearly Headless Nick he been dead much longer, head hanging all precarious like.

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Which house are you in? Your eyes are rather shifty and far too close together and you hold yourself with a certain, erm serpentine regard you must be in house Slytherin. I didn’t have a lot of smarts but I had heart, I was in House Hufflepuff. The boy who lived well he is certainly not a boy any longer, he is a man now, wife and three kids. I must say I always hoped that he would end up with that Hermione girl, but well Ginny Weasely, he could have done far worse, couldn’t he? Imagine if he had been charmed by Romilda Vane’s love portion. You wouldn’t know anything about portions would you?  Thats second year students classes. You haven’t even started class yet, have ya? Just you wait till you meet Mr Longbottom in Herbology Class

mandrakeOne never forgets their first Portions Class especially if you accidentally bite off a piece of baby mandrake root and swallow it, while trying to get it to stop screaming.They scream ever so loudly like tiny constipated babies; they are really bothersome little buggers and off to the sick ward I was rushed. Do you know who I met there? Of course you wouldn’t know, there is no one to tell ya, good thing I’m here ain’t it?

When I was sick as a dog….., ever seen a sick dog? Not a pretty sight I tell ya. This one time during the Care of Magical Creatures Class they made us take turns taking care of a sick dog that had been poisoned by Thorn. Thorn is a pure blood Elient. That just means he is a dragon of some royal line and once upon a time they could shapeshift into peoples like you and me, well mostly you since I am dearly departed.

Not so dearly departed as You-Know-Who must not be named. I met him once, before he was all evil bent on world domination and the like. He was house Slytherin, just like you. Eyes just like yours and curiosity, just like yours, you see here I am going with this? Evil walks and talks just like the next regular bloke until they start calling themselves Death Eaters. But when I met him he was just a little older than I was, we shared a room in the infirmary wing, when I was sick in hospital on account of the mandrake root.

We talked, he was still named Tom Riddle then and his name could be spoken. Tom had a fascination with the purity of one’s bloodlines, and immortality he didn’t want to die but then who does? He had a very morbid liking to that dragon, he probably fed it and although no one could prove it, all the owls that went missing, I can bet you the Quidditch World Cup Snitch that him and Thorn happened. You know why we was in hospital together, he didn’t do anything as silly as bite a screaming mandrake he was far too clever to make a mistake like that, instead he had drank the blood of the Elient, he didn’t tell anyone else though, only me so that I could witness.

The thing about Elient dragons is they do not die unless you kill them, they are infernal or is it eternal I forget, same difference though, nobody wants everlasting nightmares. He drank its blood and he fed it his which made it a part of him. Do you understand? They think they got rid of all them Horcruxes right?  But no one knew the very first one he did with no help from nobody, almost by instinct and I was witness to it. He said to me do you want to see something cool, I said yes, and out we went to the forbidden forest, we passed by Hagrid’s cabin while he slept like a rock, a giant hairy rock that snores.

He pulled off thorn that hung on a leather thong around Thorn’s massive neck and used it scratch a symbol on my hand, the Deathly Hallows. After that everything pretty much gets foggy. I remember him though, whispering to me as I died I guess, that “on the first night of the red moon after the Deathly hallows have been mastered but never used, a boy too curious for his own good will wander into this part of the Hogwarts and he will be a descendant of the Tom Marvolo Riddle bloodline and he will awaken Thorn the Elient and bring back Lord Voldermort.” I was compelled to haunt these grounds and to witness until such a time came to pass.

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“That night is tonight and that boy is you, Lord Voldemort will return and you are going to summon……….All is not well.

The End

~B

My BlogBattle entry this week. A  fan fiction story, if you are not PotterHead enough to figure out based on Harry Potter novels, I wasam a great fan of JK Rawling.

Photo credits: harrypotter.wikia.com

Of A Blessed Woman

A Guest Post 

I Am Blessed Woman by Raquel

I am a blessed woman,
not because am good,
but because am loved by the perfect  one.
The one who brings out the best in me.
He loved me in my imperfections and brought out the best in me.
He sets a stage before me and made me the star of it.
His love is so electrifying.
It brings out that which He has deposited in me, it flows like rivers of living Waters.
I am blessed not because I have all the riches in the world,
but am loved by the one who owns it all.
All I need do is ask.
Am blessed because I have a lover Whose name move mountains,
Whose words create things.
He is majestic, so powerful, second to none.
Nothing compares to Him.
Who can make come to pass when He commanded it not.
The seas bow before Him,
the storms obey His command,
the dead rise at the mention of His name,
Oh how blessed am l.
It is a celestial blessing,
a bless compared to none.
I love you lover of my soul JESUS.
I am a blessed woman because you made me.

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A guest post by the blessed Raquel who featured on my last coffee chat Mused by a stranger. Funny story she says she is a little shy to share anything about herself to strangers but I say watch this space……..

~B

 

 

Of Coffee With A Musing Stranger

Africa

If you were having coffee with me, I would smile and say hi thank you for joining me, would you prefer tea, coffee or plain boiled water. I would ask you if you had a favourite mug; its not weird at all right having a favourite mug?

What did you get up to this past week?

Lets see, some local celebrity couple had a bit of a meltdown, some say it was a publicity stunt, some say it was real. I wont even go into it because I think they got way too media attention maybe I should blog my own melt-down. Just that the internet never forgets nor sleep or eat or have coffee for that matter, and when a private moment goes viral… it goes so epic that everyone has their two cents to say about it.

Speaking about the internet our dear old Postal and Telecommunications Regulation Authority company; POTRAZ decided to set a floor price of making the internet 2 cents a megabyte to protect the telecoms industry. A move which would see our data prices going up and we already have expensive internet. Econet Wireless went and increased their data charges significantly and people took to the internet and social media to protest the high data costs.  Econet passed the buck to POTRAZ, in a loaded press statement hinting to the effect that the Regulator, the Ministry of IT and the government in general creating an uneven playing field and also trying to restrict low data use  of  the internet as it contributes to abuse of social media (but people have read in between the lines as The Government trying to limit freedom of speech on the internet, elections coming up next year…)and they have since reverted back to the old tariffs and POTRAZ has suspended its internet floor price (for now) and The Ministry has in return warned Econet not to dabble in politics and to stick to its core business mandate…

If you were having coffee with me I would tell you I have a dream that one day the internet will be as basic as the air we breathe, free. I would tell you I have new muse, a stranger and Guest Blogger  I met thanks to the internet. Hailing from Nigeria; Raquel 

Mused by a stranger ~ Words by Raquel
I have been mused, mused by a stranger.
Didn’t your mama tell you not to talk to strangers?
But the stranger talked to me first, and it would be rude to ignore.
I am being mused, mused by a stranger.
I did talk to the stranger, a stranger from a land strange to me.
Strange enough I did like talking to the stranger.
Me being mused by a stranger.
What will it be?
Will it be good, fantastic or interesting?
Or will it be bad, ugly sad and regretful
I got to take the chance, for this stranger has tickled my fancy
AM MUSED BY A STRANGER

Thank you Raquel in musing you I muse myself, you can catch more of Raquel in my next post

Thanks for visiting and have an awesome week ahead

~B

PS how much does your internet cost you?

Of The Flame Keeper’s Tale

Of The Flame Keeper’s Tale

The night was dark. The night would have been dark still had the moon shone bright and stars long since dead just the dreams wished upon them twinkled. The night was dark and the only light was from the dying embers of a once great bonfire.

“Gather around.” The old man spoke “Gather around and let us witness the dying of the fire, gather around and I will tell you one last story” he spoke, in a voice above a whisper but less than a shout yet it carried past, over and through you, it surrounded you. You drew closer as you would to the warmth of a fire or someone about to tell you a secret or maybe both, someone by the fireside telling you a story most rare.

He idly reaches into his pockets, pulls out a snuff box, polished bone that reflects a dull red in the embers. He tips it gently into his palm, takes a pinch of the snuff to his nose and snorts it deeply, first in one nostril and then the other. He sneezes three times and flicks the remainder into the embers and they burst into flames with an orange and faint blue glow. He begun to speak, as he tapped at the glowing embers rekindling them to a crackling warm blaze.

“Fire the most primal need of man, from the time we stole from the Goods, it has been a basic representation of our basic desires, hunger and need. Feeding greedily on everything we give and still taking more until it consumes us leaving nothing but cold ash and darkness.

I remember the day The Thief of Fire returned. It was a day of great jubilation when he brought the First Flame to our village, we called it liberty, we called it many names and we proclaimed it the Eternal Flame. As for The Thief, well we made him Chief. Remember when we would sit by the fire on nights quite unlike this and he would recount tales of how he found fire and tamed it, how he outsmarted Gods and stole their fire. Each time he told the tale, it grew taller than the last until no one knew exactly what the truth had been; but it didn’t matter. He spoke with such conviction that he believed himself and we believed in him.

I have never seen a dragon but he saw it, a fearsome fire breathing God that can burn you to a crisp and then swallow you up in one gulp. Looking it in the eye instantly blinds you and its ferocious roar will make you go deaf, and he faced it and stole from it, fire for us. We didn’t ask him to but he did it anyway, and well there was nothing else we could do but say, you are welcome. We made him Chief and looked up to him with almost God like adoration.

His homestead became the Royal House, and in the middle of it that’s where we lit the Eternal Flame. We took turns tending to the fire to make sure it never went out, we cooked for him cleaned for him and he in turn bestowed upon his wisdom and amusing tales each night while we sat round the fire. Some older folks much older folks than myself mumbled something about tyrants but one by one they got silenced or disappeared, no one noticed or we chose not to.

Life was great. A large barn was built at the Chief’s homestead we called it the Reserve Barn and everyone would collect firewood and store it there, safe from the elements. When you wanted some fire for you own use you would go to the Barn and get some wood and have it lit at the Eternal Flame then take it back to your household. It was perfectly simple but when you were done you had to extinguish it to preserve firewood. We chopped trees down and put them in the Reserve Barn because that way, or so we thought, when the trees ran out we would have an endless supply of wood, as it was trees we getting harder to find you had to journey a bit further each day.

They say perhaps we angered the Gods by stealing their fire and they sanctioned us by stopped the rain from falling and scattered the herds we used to hunt into the plains and made the trees stop growing, and turned the landscape into a desert but that was alright we had our barns.

You have young eyes I have seen much more than you, there was a time this land didn’t look quite as bleak, the were mighty trees that grew tall as giants and little streams trickling around them and if you threw a spear into the bush you would startle game to hunt, but now, your young eyes see are yet to see and mine have seen enough to know what comes, I long for the peace of endless sleep.

I have watched firewood became such a precious commodity that people became that people killed for it or died protecting. Guards were posted at the Royal Barn and it was always locked so no one could get in. The Chief told us that because the wood was “depleted” that each one could only get a ration of a single half piece of wood each day because of the wood shortage. It was barely enough and some of the villagers did not understand how this was possible since they had been bringing in cartloads each day, where had the wood gone? How come the Chief and his Council Of Elders enjoyed lavish bonfires each night? The Chief said he was entitled to it since he had after all fought Gods for it. Some young overzealous clansmen tried to challenge him to return the Royal Flame to the Gods so they could go and try their luck in getting it back but he said they were possessed by demons bent on sowing seeds of discontent into their village and had them exiled or executed same thing because they were never heard of again.
I have watched over this flame ever since the first day it was brought here, I have kept its secrets and I have seen it consume everything leaving nothing but ash, and today I managed to take a look in the Royal Barn there is no more wood left. This is the last of it. Tonight we sit by this fire and tell stories but tomorrow night, if nothing gets resolved the darkness comes. Tonight we witness the dying of the fire, sit with me and let’s watch embers turn to ash.” The last words were almost a whisper, he spoke them as he prodded at the embers again rekindling into flames. The night would have been silent, had it not been for the crackling of the fire.

The End
~B
This a blogbattle entry Themed: A Tall Tale. This is a work of fiction any resemblance to characters and incidences real, implied or imaginary is purely coincidental.