till death do us consolidate


“Drop that!”

A shot reverberated across the tensed chamber, the walls and granite floor rippling in contradictory effects. Plaster filtered down through the air like strewn confetti that caught and glinted off the sun that shone through the enormous stained glass windows, shot off the ground and littered across the reposed bodies of those fearing for their precious lives; hands covered faces as various films of expressions rolled across it.

The consequent silence reproved the chamber for any further noise than those of the gunman and his wife now glaring at each other from across a distance. The omnipresent silence silently degusted upon the hush that spread like hot oil, affecting all that breathed within the steel enforced concrete confines.

The bulge-eyed guard that took it upon himself to save the innocent people from the lunatic wielding an impressive Smith & Wesson 500 Magnum dropped his own gun and fell to the floor with a pathetic yelp.

“Thomas? Thomas, drop your weapon and come out slowly with your arms raised. No one needs to die today; do you hear me? God damn it, Thomas, do you understand what I am telling you?”

Thomas drew a deep breath, exhaled, and drew upon the archaic puissance this one moment brought, filling his arteries and head with cantankerous strength. He directed the gun at his wife and implored her with his tear-brimmed eyes. His soulful gaze slid down to the Taurus 605B2 Revolver she had aimed at his face, her confident stance that of Aphrodite, her eyebrows aloft while deep blue eyes dared him to shoot her.  

“I won’t let you leave me,” he said, his voice aquiver with conflicting emotions.

She said nothing, and captivated his eyes with her own amused glare.

She was so damn beautiful. Her olive skin was flawless, her hair dark and lustrous in effective contrast, her face innocent yet ruthless, her body voluptuous in all the right places – and her legs. Oh, sweet mother of man, her legs.

“Can I say some-” bang!

A plangent silence befell the group of people when the man who tried to speak got his head blown away. Crimson patterns stained the far wall and dripped off the smoothed surface, but no one screamed. No one dared move or even utter a prayer to their respective gods.

Thomas’s wife looked down at the headless body sprawled in the last position it will ever occupy, a smile flickering along the sleek lines of her full, red lips. Her hungry eyes shot up towards her husband, reeling him towards her.

“How can I ever leave you when I love you so? How can I leave when the madman I fell in love with has returned to me?” she asked him, her voice broken, and he ran into her embrace. He buried his tear-stained face in her bosom and engulfed her frail body with his masculine arms, pulling her into him. They kissed each other hard and long, oblivious of the onlookers that looked up to them in obvious derision. The two nuptial lovers could not keep their hands off one another as their fiery love consumed all intelligence and condensed it into that of animalistic need.

“Thomas, I know you can hear me. Surrender now or bear the consequences,” the noisy, forever alone cop screamed in aid of his megaphone.

The mechanically altered voice jolted the lovers back to reality, their eyes still glazed with sexual hunger as they reluctantly parted lips. They grinned at each other. The wife threw her head back and laughed aloud.

She pointed towards the reinforced glass doors of the bank that exited onto the street where a dozen police cars already stood in wait, guns at the ready, rotating roof lights glaring at the midday sun, and witnesses clustered in feigned horror-stricken groups, finally having something to watch than looking upon their own colourless lives.

“That bag on the floor next to the doors. I brought your M-16, love. I thought you might need it when my sister woke me up this morning. Man I hate that bitch. Never let me go again, do you understand me?”

Thomas smiled and kissed his wife hard. He let her go and strode towards the doors.

“Let’s kill some cops, shall we,” he said menacingly.   



wallpaper_Last_Hope_2560x1600Life consists of moments. Fleeting moments that steers your life as you go. Moments that forces you into decisions made by perfunctory reactions or quick, life altering ones. Ideal. The word describing the day I had yesterday. Not perfect, but ideally so. Got up at ten that morning while the ladies sang it away in church, and I suddenly had this urge to tidy my bedroom. It never happens. I remade my bed with a new duvet set, left my desk in disarray (I can’t find anything when I tidy my desk), left my scatter cushions on the floor, for they are called ‘scatter’ cushions for a reason. Opened the curtains (When open, stays open for some time until I close it again. When drawn, stays closed for some time before I open it again). Otherwise spotlessly clean. When the ladies returned home from church, they decided that I should help with preparing the Sunday meal, some new chicken dish they wanted to try out. So I peeled potatoes and chopped it, chopped spring onions, chopped mini cucumbers, chopped mushrooms all the while asking questions about preparing the chicken and flaking it afterwards. We layered the dish with rice and chicken and broccoli and the mixed ingredients with some sauce, and lastly I topped it with lots of cheese. Giving a helping hand does not necessarily aid much with the fact of my dislike in preparing food. I hate it. I don’t even butter bread. I will give it a try, though. However, I’m very good with making coffee. Will serve it all day long. So after we popped the dish in the oven to bake or whatever, we went swimming accompanied by glasses of chattering wine. The ideal time for a swim and drink while we waited on the food. Ma’s daughter-in-law brought the kids for a swim too, so the whole day was filled with laughter and giggles and wet and whatnot. Me and In-law chatted for a while. She’s very religious, obsessively so. But enough of that fact, though, before it starts something that should rather stay. After they’ve gone, we served the dish and rented a movie. The chicken came out great, so we congratulated each other for a dish well prepared. I felt like singing, then. The day really had me tired, though, all three of us. The ladies went to bed at about nine, and I crept into bed at about half past ten. The first in a very, very long time. Tonight would probably see me awake again and morning shall greet me as an old friend. I don’t wanna boast about the day, just that it was a great one and something great should be shared. Moments that led to this post. Moments well spent. Another one was when a good friend of mine took me to his Aunt’s house where I received the opportunity to meet his mother. They were great people, the kind you wanna be around when times get tough or you wanted someone to chat to. Like a force. The first impression was a good impression. My friend – I would have thought involuntarily – actually got me scared shitless of meeting his mother, but the picture I had painted in my mind was so different from the one I got meeting her. She was sweet and kind, strongly opinionated and spoke her mind, otherwise motherly and intelligent company. She has this mane of black hair with strings of gray in between, which made her stunningly beautiful; the artistic type with the duffel bag and hair tied back with a hairband. We ate a big lunch or dinner that day, I cannot by the life of me remember the exact time of day; I chatted with the aunt about embroidery and she showed me the cool stuff she’s made; told me about some people getting together at some place to play various instruments and asked me to come along the next time she’s going. I never got the chance to join. But one day will see me. We all sat outside after dinner, played with the tiresome doggy, chatted. I felt like I belong. Stuff or memories made my moments such as these should not be kept on the sideline. It should be part of your life, to remember, to think ahead with that memories as guide; days like that would find its way back to the present, where the experience thereof would leave you with a sense of awe, belonging, love, friendship, binding. Moments like these that make life great. . .

That is all . . .



Remembering a great fire, yes, indeed. Second and topmost floor, first hallway off the main stairs, apartment 21B. I remember it well. The door was an off-white color, yes, with rusted hinges and a faulty lock. Otherwise intact, right? Smoke billowed from under the door into the hallway, spilling down the stairs in solemn density, obscuring every tacky surface you would expect from a low-income apartment complex. It was four o’clock in the morning; your timing was near perfect. No one would have noticed until much later, until much too late. It was everywhere, was it not? The fire, I mean. Yes, it must have been, for I was there too. Although groggy, my memory seems coherent enough to make some sense. Great, orange tongues licked at your furniture in hungry destruction, bordered on only mild agitation for time allowed it to graze. It swallowed your heavy curtains as if drinking from a tap, for heaven’s sake. Yet, it found the courtesy to paint the walls a new shade of black. Must have been some kind of personal humor? The smoke, now that was interesting. It never came down to greet you as an old friend, as I expected, but churned across the ceiling like a massive ocean of soot. It only waded down to meet the floor when it reached the foyer, pushing itself out from under the door. Had you figured that one out yet? I thought not. I saw that Fire’s prowess astounded you beyond the point of no return, a return you were not willing to make. Am I right? Yes. You sat in the middle of the living room, your stare fixated on Fire’s mesmeric abundance. Like a fool. The intense heat singed the fine hairs on your arms, legs, neck, and you contemplated whether Fate understood your interference. You took control of your own destiny and showed it what you were capable of, without its help, of course. I mean, Chance or Fate is mere words to describe the outcome of conscious choice predated by previous actions, thus completing a designed series of events. Am I right . . . or wrong? Right? Wrong? No, wait, call me a fatalist, but the future is inevitable, my friend, no matter what choices you make to try to change that. Your fate was sealed the moment you were born. You started the fire, you decided to sit in the middle of the living room amidst it all, you decided on the outcome of your future, although the outcome was not yours to create. Just as your wife chose hers. Just as the doctors decided to end your daughter’s suffering from cancer before everything started to fall apart. The very beginning on the sequence of tragic events that would end with your inevitable future. Except, you and me both never imagined a liberator to arrive in time to come and change your predetermined quest, have we? That is understandable, at most. I get it. Inevitable. Your wife and child. I know how much you loved them, man. Hell, I have never seen such a love in my entire life, to be honest. I also understood why you wanted to end by the means of fire. Fire is what consumes a soul when loving so deeply, am I right? There was something symbolic you wanted to prove in memory of their existence, yes? I get that too, you sneaky bastard. In all the years of life on earth, misery has never acclimated to the weak of heart. We all know that. It never showed signs of remorse to the ones who could give their heart away as freely as you would give a sucker to a child. Yet, there you were, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the living room, rocking your torso back and forth with the gleam of firelight caught upon the surface of your tears, a flickering smile dangling from the corners of your lips, the strongest man I have ever met. Up until the world around you exploded with fragments of shimmering glass. I knew that you were so absorbed within your grief, the wanting and the expectation of seeing your beloved wife and daughter again that you did not at once notice the fiery bird swooping in from outside, its beady eyes fixated on you, its feathery body completely engulfed with fire of many a shade. In comparison with the bird, the fire you instigated looked like the shadow a big tree would make on a lovely, sunny day. Yes, it did. Magically, it started to feel like a protective shadow too. Instead of scorching hot tongues of fury, the flames quickly spread over the carpet, engulfed you, and tickled rather than burned. I remember the feeling. It came as a surprise. A surprise. I recall the glowing orange colors turning into a light blue hue with white sparks flying off its whipping ends as the big bird called out in . . . was it alarm or confusion? A spectacular entrance for our intervening friend, nonetheless. Not even Inevitability saw that coming, did it? Did it? No, it did not. The future, your predetermined future you created, screamed at us, at the bird, in raging fury. It wanted us so badly. I felt its rage burning although not fatally so. The bird was there. It was there and it was protecting us, do you remember? Like an angel, but without the glitter. It swooped around the room in wide arches; spread its enormous wings even wider before it settled its huge form over every exposed surface, dousing the blue flames with its own, before everything disappeared in a great flash of white light. . . When I came to, there were ashes everywhere. Someone was knocking on the front door. No, more like pounding with enormous fists or hammers, screaming your name. That must have been the crazy Landlord. Must have been, yes. I saw you lying on the floor, covered with ashes and debris. All your furniture was gone, unfortunately. That was your own doing, of course. I have no sympathy in that regard, idiot; however, you survived. Uhuh, you did. You were the lucky one who made it. Only luck could have interrupted the inescapable consequence of the expected. Luck is chance. Chance is fate. I saw the realization in your eyes when you rose from the ashes, probably light-headed what with all that was happening, probably irritated with the hammering on the front door, as well. Just a little bit, maybe. In the end, you knowing as well as I, that fate has a way of sneaking up on you when you least expect it, erasing what was, opening a door to what is, and perhaps constitute to the wellbeing of its occupants in the meantime. It cares for the beginning of something new even though you cannot see that. It cares for ends too. Fate is I, friend, and your denial made it my belief. The Phoenix broke that bout of confusion, yes. Why? I could think of only one reason, friend. Because she loved you. I recognized her, and I know you did too. We owe it to the woman, man. It is not your time yet. She was not part of the design but she made herself fit for long enough to save you. Yes, okay, I will stop talking. Put on some clothes and think of an excuse to explain this mess. Go on, live your life.