Category Archives: My Projections of Reality

The Witch’s Son

He found the boy huddled in the battered wooden closet, trembling at the sight of naked steel he held in his hand.

‘What is your name, boy?’ Juan asked of the boy. Bare-chested, with only a pair of patched-up breeches clasped around his thin waist, the boy looked not more than ten years of age.

Terrified, the boy opened his mouth, but no words came; his eyes still lingering on the long sword Juan wielded. All that managed to come out was the doomed sound of a hunted animal. Juan sighed and sheathing his sword, squatted besides the boy. “What is your name, son?” He reiterated.

The boy’s lips quivered, ’H..Henry, m’lord.’

“Ah, that is quite the regal name you bear, Henry.” Juan smiled kindly.

Henry responded with a sniff; the terror in his eyes had somewhat waned. The smile never left Juan’s face – it was a smile of persuasion, a smile to put the boy at ease. After several moments of silence, mustering his courage, the boy finally spoke.

‘Are you one of them?’

Juan who had been looking around at the shabby room, fixated his attention back on the boy. His stoic eyes stared into the innocent eyes of the child. ‘Yes,’ he replied tersely.

‘I saw it. She forbade me, but I still saw it,’ the boy said, his words echoing a strange detachment.

Juan said nothing.

‘They dragged her out and tied her to the pole. And then they set fire on it. She burnt and they laughed. A witch, they said, she was. A witch,’ the boy uttered in a hollow voice. ‘She had asked me to hide in the cabinet and not come out. But I wanted to see. And so I sneaked out and saw what they did to her. She forbade me, but I still saw it.’

The boy’s eyes held no emotion, neither of grief nor of fear; his countenance indifferent, except for a lone tear that streaked down his sunken cheek. Never had Juan seen such a pitiful, defeated existence. It was as if the boy knew what treachery fate had played with him.

Juan hesitated. He knew what he must do. Vermin cannot be allowed to live, he remembered the edict that was stamped on his mind. Yet he hesitated. He would have gladly slit the throat of a sorcerer, but this was just a boy.

Silence reigned for a while.

‘Do it,’ the boy whispered.

Juan was shaken out of his preoccupation.

‘Do it,’ he repeated; the boy no longer slurred his words, a curious boldness had swept across his frame.

Juan understood and unsheathed his sword.

 The boy was the witch’s son, after all.

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a john doe.

he lurked somewhere behind in their shadows.
unknown. unnoticed. unheard of.
for many, he had just been a stepping stone. a drab rock, fit only for them to stomp on.
for some, he had just been a catalyst. a pitiful substance that never changed itself, yet changed their lives.
for some, he had just been an abandoned puppy. a pathetic, lost creature who was  petted and stroked and fondled for some time until forgotten again.
for a few, he had just been an object of ridicule. a whimpering lowlife, a prey that always managed to get caught on the hook.
for a few, he simply did not exist. avoided, maybe. a void, definitely.

a silhouette. a fleeting shadow. a forgotten face.
that is all he was.

in life.

and.
in death.

a john doe, eik laawaris laash.

 

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At Crossroads

“I cannot be fixed. I … am too … broken for that to happen.”

He was curled up at a crossroads; his hands tightly wound around his torso, his grimy face angled downwards in a pitiful self-embrace.

“Look at me. Look at me!” She urged, as she knelt beside him. She grabbed at his hands and tried to pull him up. He would not budge: like a stubborn rock that refuses to yield to sea and erode.

“I can hear it. I can hear its pounding footsteps all the time. It is out there. Always out there to take me back in its clutches,” he let go of his shoulders that he had fiercely hugged a moment before; and placed his hands over his ears to shut out the noisy approach of his predator.

She looked anxiously at the road that led to south and began pulling at him again. Her repeated attempts finally succeeded in dragging him up from the fetal position he had succumbed to in some forgotten instinct of protection and safe harbor.

His limbs in disarray, his eyes shut, he whimpered. She took his hands in hers; and leaned forward.

“It is called the Past for a reason. It has gone, happened, been done with. It is upon you whether you allow It to revisit or not. For it would be always out there: hungry, desperate for that moment of weakness when you would slip and roll back into its embrace.”

He opened his eyes feebly; and looked at the kind eyes that stared back at him.

“This is where you decide which road you want to take,” she whispered.

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“Who are you? and why would you want to help me?” he asked.

She smiled kindly.

“Time is there to help heal every wound.”

And then, she pointed towards the road that twisted into the north; a white direction sign was perched in the asphalt with the word ‘Future’ emblazoned upon it.

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The Crowing Rooster

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Time for the daily skirmish had come.

The early hours of dawn. Two warring parties. The Sun and its hues. The Moon and its darkness.

Night fought to extend its hold, whilst the Day fought to curtail its hold. The sky became a battleground: a bone of contention between the sworn enemies.

One was a harbinger of light, other of shadows. One enticed slumber, other toil. One sought for to expose, other embraced to hide.

The battle begun with a sneak attack: a purple streak from the Sun slowly crept over Night’s visage, botching its void with color. Night ambushed, taken by surprise, stood its ground and purple’s progress was halted. But, then – what master has only one card up his sleeve?

Whilst Night tried to stave off purple’s ambush – streaks of yellow and orange surrounded it and isolated the Moon from its  vassals: the Stars.

It was not long before Night was completely beleaguered: its defeat absolute.

And so somewhere, below amid the mortals, a rooster clambered on a roof and crowed.

A lament, maybe. A war cry of triumph, maybe.

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Resentment

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It was a tightly shut box; the dusty tape binding its upper flaps stubborn, taut. It was not huge;  as it was to be placed in the hollow of his chest. Its contents, mysterious, unknown,  rattled slightly while being placed; the sound almost blasphemous in the surrounding emptiness.

Not surprisingly, the box was a snug fit; it seemed as if it had been especially crafted to ford the void in his chest.

What did it hold? What was its story?

Once upon a time, it was an iota of ill-will in the depths of his heart; a meager existence, ignored, not worthy of any attention.

Soon it adopted the role of a seemingly unimportant domino that sets off an entire cascade of dominoes tumbling down – slowly, and slowly, it gnawed upon the flesh, feasting on it, living off it.

Something that had been anything but significant did not take long to became monstrous: an upwelling of resentment and hatred, determined to destroy everything that did not appease its twisted wishes.

Oh, but it was sly. The iota. That is why it boxed itself.

And, so as ill-will grew, the tension increased and increased, until the time came, when its threshold was approached.

Something snapped.

The wave of resentment blasted out of the box, terrifying, vindictive.

Rage. Madness. Carnage.

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Checkmate

The pieces were set, the war lost. The black King stood tall, almost alike the warriors of the old, awaiting the swinging sword that had already butchered one of his loyal Pawns. His Bishop knelt beside him, praying feverishly for the soul of his master; but then again, death to him was just another inevitable holy journey – a journey to afterlife. The Black Knight, in manacles, gritted his teeth, bile of defeat coursing through his throat, seeped through the cracks in his teeth. The Pawns waited in fear, bewildered, afraid of their fate – as they were but foot soldiers, mere minions in an ugly battle.


And looming above them all, stood the white Queen, deadly, vengeful, almost otherworldly in the wake of her triumph.

Yet despite the fact that he was checkmated, the black King was not about to go down without fighting … and so, bracing himself, he raised his sword last time for an honorable defeat!

 

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