Redolence of Borke micro fiction

Disclaimer: horribly gory you may find it but original flash fiction.

The smells, it’s always the smells.

Infinite yet infinitesimally small, tiny, fragmented, dissected, deciphered, desirous dereliction.

Smells of humans, each human smells different.

It is smells of humans which when match we marry, befriend and love.

Smells of dogs- my pet dog and the street cur.

Smells of newborn kittens, humans, lions, kangaroos and tortoises.

Smells of new rain, hitting the parched lands, melting in grass, dew drops.

Then there was the smell of my house, my freshly painted bars.

Can we not know if a human is an offender through his smells.

The answer is no, we cannot, precisely since the world is never taught to know the smell of trust, anger, contempt, constricted connivance.

Had we learnt it, the world would be much simpler and humans more alert of what they desire and what they think, like when I met the child before she was swept away in the floods right through the hill cliff, flowing with water like dirt, dumped on the pool beneath the fall mashed up, fed upon by the hoax hyenas.

Like the day I met the man on the street who followed me to the store, sniffing me all the way trying to abduct me, a lair of booby traps lying in the ends and I was all by myself to use the means, to walk the means.

I had then not had to fight the battle in my mind to win it on him- my mind was my only friend to guide me through, make a curve of your right hand, hold the man’s head, punch his nose using your right elbow, poke his nose with the pen dangling from a wire at the end of the stalk, heel his balls till he shrieks like a monster in pain, pull him over the left shoulder, drop him on the ground but do not thud him down, pulsate his neck and prick the pin into the point- the kiss of death.

Slowly pulling over, resting the back against the shelf as sweat beads travel down the bridge of my nose, dripping from a molehill of a mountain.

The body twisted, turned, tossed, constricted, contrived, eye balls bulged out, the final bow formed.

“It’s tetanus. A man is dying from tetanus. Help.”

The boy screamed as he ran to the counter, soon more men came, gathered around him.

My eyes followed his mouth which clenched and locked, the jaws were no longer moving. But I waited for what came slowly, the white foam with a tinge of red like a streak of vermillion. The man would live but tied to bed for long.

Alas! Had all been taught to sniff like the man.

Whispers, clippers, no one knew the man would have torn me to shards, biting out every bit of flesh sticking to the bones. Like the sharks, his teeth would tear me into a meal.

He tore my cousin as I hid in fear.

I cowered then as she recovered and escaped to the Iceland.

She lives happily in Philadelphia with a man she loves and a child.

I am not her.

I do not run.

I do not feign, the world is beautiful

Since this world cannot be sans the thorns.

No one knew even then, no one knows even now.

The merest kiss of Holy, scrumptious death.

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Micro fiction

Love, referrals of fight or peace?

Furious shots, ice cream dollops, lovely renegades.

Do you think I loved you? Hell, yes I did. The sweet, sour, lime, butter melting on cherries,

the icy toppings, love was grand or evil. A way to deliverance or trapped doors from which there is no

respite. The love kissed, the molten saliva, the smell was same for his and my saliva. Well, I had thought it

might differ, but no, it didn’t. I was wrong like any other time when I fancy it won’t rain and don’t carry the

umbrella or when I try to walk on the rail on my pointy heels or when I smell the flowers sneezing out,

forgetting my allergy all the way. Now the world believes in love so strongly that an answer to an

unrequited love is always a love again.

Hell, yeah, beholding out of heavens when the master said about one man and one woman, he must have

known, only one to know what I felt or many others did while being burnt on stakes, murdered in cold blood.

The love ruled and the love alone can fill the gap lovelessness can create but which stuff says I have to

love again, the man with the Java scripted name, was he not enough? If enough not he is, to fill the hole,

enough is not the fact that he hides behind a pole, only too obvious he doesn’t love me, but then loving

him has given me strength like no other duck, rooster or goat or fish even when love was just a name.

Love that is now, is love for ever since it was not my destination ever, it was a platform for me to rest a

bit, a way to ope my eyes and see the world more, but as long as he lives, faded memories are just words

of madness spoken by the philandering world which knows not the fact that love once can alone fill a gap,

unrequited or requited doesn’t matter for those who have lives of their own and peace in the end…peace

by the mountain, peace by the chants.

The all soothing, benumbing love is not up for complaints. It is to believe that if there is a few that can be

called close to God it might be love of good sort. The good sort familiarised and plagiarised by the world

is what makes it a chance to live beyond the name of Christ, as they say for fri-ends or if-ends.

The love whose definition is not circumscribed by the dictionaries of the world or even by the most

ordinarily sophisticated machinery Go-ogle.

Sometimes, we live to fend ourselves and fend for others, on other times, we are fended by others. The

History of love is bloodied and blood shed creates fears, specifying clear proclivity to lust perhaps. Love

has been murdered long. Do we take it as a sign to live loveless or love beyond the bounds of lust called

love lust confused as lust by the unholy and love by the holy barely seeing they are none in each other’s

existence.

The trochety hockety drokety willisome wily wey woe will wonder wounded worthy wings wistful whisking wreath wrung wrought wondrous winds.