Guitar boy

Been awhile since I was, bitten, possessed, with the insane desire that makes me race for the nearest laptop, tongue hanging out in glee, foamy spittle flying out my mouth, to put down words in a story. Been writing boring stuff for work though. But yesterday as I heard the strings from Victor Uwaifo while bumping down a, well, bumpy road in a rickety rickshaw keke that had long outlived its shock absorber, I was stung. Make of it what you will, but this is a story about music, and it’s power.

www.aljanusi.wordpress.com Guitar boy
For Sir Victor Uwaifo, Living Legend

Now playing: Guitar boy – Sir Victor Uwaifo

____________________________________

Benin City, Old Bendel State

November 23, 1972

 

 

“Guitar boy! Guitar boy

If you see mammywata, never, never run away eeeh ehh..”

His slim fingers raced down the strings as if of their own accord, they were long and thin, those fingers, as if starved of the very life with which they coursed along the neck of the guitar, weaving magic. The nails were cut short, just before the hard pads, which thumped down on the frets, moving from key to key as he strummed the six stringed acoustic. As his fingers slid down the guitar, punctuating the rhythm, it seemed as though, almost imperceptibly, that smoke curled from the strings, a mere shadow perhaps, but tendrils wafting out from beneath the bowed head of the player, and on to the audience.

Continue reading “Guitar boy”

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War

It is easy to ignore what happens around us, in the spiritual. We live on this earth so surrounded by desires and commitments, so overwhelmed by cares of this world, we pay no attention to the war that happens around us, a war that would not stop until the end; until the end of all things. We were born into this war, and it is wise we pay attention, or we would not survive it.

#OST: Linkin Park – Wastelands

____________________________

WAR

The night was dark and the wind howled around the treetops, swaying them beneath the starless sky. The scent of danger lay thickly upon the air, a pungent smell easily detected by the more visceral senses, and on the ground and within the branches, creatures hid in nests and burrows, and even the serpentine and nocturnal slithered and crouched deep away from sight.

The dark shapes streaked through the clouds, crackling through the air with lightening in their wake, nebulous forms as of thundery dark and winding clouds, they twisted about each other, moving through the air heading for the forest below. Spiraling around each other, the dark clouds spun in the night, winding tighter and tighter as though to drill into the earth. Sparrows cried in the night, bats shrieked and owls hooted, a cacophony of calls and wails as the forest protesting the intrusion. The shapes tore through the forest canopy with the sound of rushing wings and slammed into a clearing at three distinct spots. Instantly all went silent as the dark shapes resolved into the forms of three women. Continue reading “War”

Steeplechases

Hello..is it working?
Okay.
When you hear this, you may think I’m crazy, but I assure you I am of sane mind and function. The events of the night I am about to narrate, actually did happen and while a majority of the world is yet unaware, those that do know, know. For listening to this you might be hunted and killed, but you have to know, you have to know the truth.

My name is Dare, and I’m the AntiChrist.

Wait! Hold it for a minute. Hear me out. Let me explain.

I was born Twenty-two years ago, in a normal hospital here in Port-harcourt. My schooling was normal, my parents were normal, my friends were normal. I lost my virginity to an older girl when I was Nineteen, like any other person. I have never exhibited any special powers or anything. In fact, I was a B student in school. I have never led people or stole or worshipped a graven image. I do not lie unnecessarily, my cGPA is 3.52 and I don’t even know how to play Fifa ’12!
I’m just a normal guy, my name is Dare and yet they say I’m the AntiChrist.

It’s painful.

I didn’t know anything about this until last night. In fact, as I was strolling from Nne Nkechi’s place where I went to buy matches, I had no thoughts in my head asides from using the fish in my fridge to cook beans, eat and sleep. At the moment this started, I think I had just started contemplating what to wear to church. Church!

So there I was, walking down Deiffre road when the man jumped out of the shadows in front of me. My first instinct was that he was there to rob me, which was crazy because, late at night though it was, I wasn’t exactly on a deserted street and I’m not exactly some short, skinny guy. So I stepped back and made as if I wanted to fight, while readying my lungs to scream my ass out if I saw a knife or a gun.

The man just advanced, muttering something under his breath. Then he brought out something from under his shirt. I sucked in a deep breath. It was the most wicked looking wooden stake I have ever seen. And I have seen many in movies. Black wood with what looked like the reddish tint of blood on the point, and all across the shaft were markings and carvings of ancient Enochian sigils.

Adrenaline pumped through my body, and my instincts urged me to run. I took off as fast as I could. Oddly in all this I didn’t scream and I could hear the man’s mutterings quite clearly:

“Il nomine Patris, et Filio, et Spiritus Sancti..”

Oh shit! Oh shit! Oh shit! was the thought running through my mind. What sort of bizzare dream is this? I kept running. I darted behind a shop and ran down a sort of alley till I got to a fence. I vaulted the fence into the compound. Sprinted past the parked cars to the other side where I climbed the fence again into a dark street. No one was there. The street looked empty. Maybe they’ve gone, I thought. I turned to my right and started jogging.

All in my mind. It’s all in my mind, I kept telling my self. This is just a malaria dream.

The bullet whizzed past me, missing my head by the width of a mosquito’s thigh. The car had come out of nowhere, speeding behind me with it’s headlights off and it’s engines muffled. I ran faster, the bullets slamming into the sand inches behind my footfalls. Couldn’t anyone else see this?!!! The car was closing in. Soon my pursuers would be on me. There would be no escape. They would kill me! There was an open gutter filled with stagnant water and mucor to my side.

I dived in.

The car passed by in a flurry of screeching brakes. Before the driver or shooter could come out, I had scrambled to my feet, body smelling and dripping with various forms of yuckiness, and started to run as fast as I could through ankle-length water.

Wait! You think this is just a story? You think I’m just saying something to entertain you? This men were out to kill me! Kill me!!! What did I do? I had never killed anyone. Never had sex with another man’s girl, at least not that I knew of. Never blocked anyone on Twitter! I don’t hate on 2go users! I’m a nice guy! Why me?

I don’t know why or how they stopped chasing me, but after a while I turned back, still sloshing through the gutter, and they were gone. I was too scared to go home. Too scared to do anything in fact. My BlackBerry was gone, drowning somewhere in the gutter, but my Nokia was still good to go. So I called Anita.

I remember my words clearly.

“Baby, please I need your help..” I was shivering under a signpost that said ‘Loveworld; giving your life a meaning’ “Baby, I’m at Christ Embassy..please come pick me..”

Anita was not my girlfriend, but she could have been if she was not four years older than me. But age is just a number. A simple number.

In minutes Anita was there, her silver Nissan Primera coasted to a stop with me standing beside the driver’s window. The window slid down and a shiny black pistol came out. I was so petrified, I could scarcely breathe. Blood drained from my face and my legs turned to jelly. Anita too?? Anita fired the pistol and for a second I stood still and breathless till she screamed, “Get in!” and I realised the shot was not for me. Then I saw the man crumple to the ground behind me. It was the same guy from before. The one with the stake.

Oh my god! What’s going on??

I sprinted to the other side of the car and jumped in my heart beating faster than the konga drum during a Kenyan marriage. Anita gunned the Primera and we sped down the road.

“What is going on?” I wailed.
“I’m sorry your Majesty,” she replied.
“What???”

I sat shocked and numb while Anita explained that I was the AntiChrist, the one prophesied for millennia. She and others since my childhood had watched over me till the day I would be ready. For some reason, they had not been around tonight which was why the Forces of the Light had used the opportunity to try to kill me. While she was explaining all these, she was driving with one hand and firing bullet after bullet, from an Uzi submachine gun, at unseen men in the shadows.

Me, Dare, the AntiChrist.

It cannot be.

I’m a nice guy. I’m an average Joe. I barely speak Yoruba. I read Physics in school for Pete’s sake! I wear jeans, I don’t sag and I have a simple low cut.

We were speeding down Aba road. The plan according to Anita was to gat me out of the city and then we’ll find a roundabout course to either Calabar or Benin. When I asked why those cities, she just smiled. Suddenly, a Stinger rocket whined out of nowhere and slammed into the driver’s side of the Primera, lifting the car on its side and slamming it into a bus parked on the side of the road. I screamed as loud as I could, and somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I realised lightening flashed.

When the world finally stopped spinning, Anita was dead and the air was steamy and reeking of blood. I don’t know how I managed to extricate myself from the mass of tangled and tortured metal and get a bicycle, but the next thing I knew I was cycling down the road at speeds I didn’t know bicycles were capable of. The adrenaline pumped fast and I had only one thought in my head; get to a radio station and air my story.

The crash had happened around Garrison bus stop and I knew if I pedalled flat out, I would reach Forces avenue in time. In time for what? I didn’t know.

Somehow, with bullets flying and cars chasing me, I managed to ride through the open gates of Rhythm 93.7 while leaving a trail of exploding cars in my wake. I don’t know how. When I dropped the bicycle with the burnt tires on the floor, tears were streaming down my face, my clothes were torn, bloody, coated green with algae and I was as smelly as a pig with a severe case of diarrhoea. It was 1:00 AM and I had no idea who would be awake to listen to me at this time, but I had to try. I think it was the presence of the Uzi in my hand, for I had carried Anita’s gun, that got me the attention I needed. The guards all seemed to flee, and the technicians to obey, once I looked in their direction. That’s how come I’m here now, talking to you. This is live and I’m sure there’ll be a Youtube podcast of this too.

I can see the Police outside the window. In moments they’ll be storming into the studio with guns drawn. They want to come and arrest me! I mean, me??? No one believes me! You guys have to. I’m innocent in all this. I’m a victim!

I’m Dare, I’m the Anti….

**************

The doors slammed open into hell. Veteran Inspector Dickson who led the team of Mobile Police officers was shocked at the spectacle he beheld. The room looked to be on fire, with yellow tongues of flame licking at the walls, but curiously not burning anything. A hundred voices echoed all about the studio in sibilant whispers, though only one figure stood in the centre behind the microphone. The ‘man’ who was broadcasting the message was glowing red! He had horns growing from his head and scales on his body!

The Inspector made his decision quickly.

“Fire!” he yelled as he pulled his trigger.

The creature twisted in the air and slammed into the Inspector, wrenching the Tariq pistol out of his hands and tossing him into the wall. His tail whipped around, it had a tail, and smacked the Sergeant in his neck, causing the burly man to pass out instantly.

Dickson watched in paralytic shock from his place on the floor as the AntiChrist levelled the entire squad of twelve officers in less than twenty seconds leaving them in a mangled heap of broken bones and torn muscles.

Then it turned to him, it’s greenish-yellow eyes bulging and angry, and it spoke in a voice that was surprisingly small:

“Help me,” it pleaded. “I’m just Dare…”

Disclaimer
*I reserve no pity or sympathy for the AntiChrist or any of the minions of the Devil. None are innocent.
*The title of this tale has almost no significance to the story.
*This story has NO basis in actual fact.
*I wrote this on a Sunday morning. (I have no idea of the significance of this)
*I have only known one Dare and this bears no resemblance to him in any way.
*I really have never blocked anyone on Twitter.

NB
‘Minions of the Devil’ includes, Jake, Edward Cullen, Vampire Bill, whats-her-name from Underworld etc..
And yeah, it’ll be weird having an AntiChrist who says ‘In fact’ every five seconds.

Follow on Twitter @janus_aneni

Peace.

Midnight Dance

Moonlight bathed the hidden grove in a swathe of silvery light. The rays from the Night’s Candle sifted through the branches of the tall forbidding trees to reflect off the fallen leaves on the forest floor, bathing the surrounding in a sort of eerie glow. It was fitting. For the events that were to occur that night were unlike any before, but the final participants of these actions were as yet unaware. In fact, they were very unaware of anything else at that moment. Anything asides, of course, their own bodies.

The figures writhed in mindless ecstasy, their bodies merged as one as their muscles thrashed and twisted searching for higher plateaus of pleasure. The man grabbed her waist and pulled her even closer, burying his face in her bosom while his pelvis rocked back and forth violently, seeking to immerse himself as deeply as possible. The acolyte girl murmured in a curious mix of pleasure and pain, her sounds muted, yet loud, as she threw her head back and surrendered to the endless savaging.

Around them, watching on wooden stools made of the strongest iroko, sat quiet men, whose faces bore lines of wisdom and age, and whose eyes shone in fevered excitement. All except one. They were twelve in number and he was the true reason why they were all gathered for this ceremony.

Clouds gathered and the grove slowly became darker. The bodies continued to move, naked black skin pounding against black flesh. The sounds were unmistakable and with the old men who sat watching in languid silence, there was more than one with a slight stirring of the groin.

The spirits should not be trifled with.

The Otumokpo, he was the one whose countenance did not shift, brought out a tiny drum from the folds of his George robes and began to beat a soft cadence. The leather skin of the sekere drum vibrated with the tension and the ancient beads woven around it shook with a strange intensity. A slight breeze picked up, shaking up the leaves and whipping around the ankles of the old men as the ancient rhythm of the ritual chant rolled with each strike of the sekere. As one the old men tightened their wrappers around their body to ward off the chill, their gazes fixed on the ritual before them.

The girl had begun to moan. A soft sound at first but gradually rising in intensity. The man grunted, his entire being pulsating with an excitement and a desire he knew was not his own.
“It has begun,” hissed the Otumokpo in a voice that could not be heard.

The forest is old. The leaves remain green and the black sands are soaked in the blood of the spirits.
The land is old. The air is pure and the winds are thick with the words of the ancestors.

Whatever it was in the green liquid he had sipped from the black calabash beneath the coconut tree at the home of the Changa Priestess, it has taken possession of his body. All these the man thought while he watched his body tear away at the acolyte whose screams has taken on an infernal snarl. The winds whipped up in intensity and lightening flashed.

INCANTATION
Seven rings of Odumu, the nine dogs who roam the land, the yards of black cloth would never be sewn, and to the magic, new souls we bind.

The gods are never mocked

A shriek arose from the mouth of the acolyte and she pointed to the sky and screamed. A shrill scream it was, piercing and loud. The bats in the trees took off in fright and the owl of Sambiana, that does not make a sound, hooted in surprise. A figure leapt from the tops of the trees. The old men scattered, each tripping over his stool in his haste to escape.
Half monkey, half beast, the figure tore at each man with amazing speed, severing his limbs from his body till the blood flowed red and the forest floor was soaked in the life of the sacrifices. Eleven sacrifices. The Otumokpo remained, his fingers still caressing the sekere drum, the rhythm of the chant constant as the beast turned to circle the man and the acolyte.

Lightening flashes and for a second, the grove was lit. The bodies of the eleven lay strewn about in a rough semi-circle and circling the Otumokpo, the man and the acolyte was a fearsome beast, with eyes as black as night and teeth that glistened red. It was like a black dog but with the tail of a cat and the limbs of a monkey.
The Garinja. Messenger of the Spirits. Harbinger of death. The dealer.

The man stared, his organ now as limp as the plantain when fried in too much oil. The beast circled closer. The acolyte clutched at his arm, the pleasures of the past few moments all but vanished from their minds and their thoughts filled with nothing else except the pure terror that comes with certain death.
The old men, princes of the land. Patriachs of the purest bloodlines, now dead and bleeding all over their expensive ankara and George robes. Sacrifices.

The Otumokpo could remember how this all began. When the deaths started in the village, he had appeared before the council in his white robes and with his staff rattling.
“Four days! Four days!” he had cried in a shrill voice, and they had believed him. A young man and women to the sacrificed in the Somba forest, before the eyes of the Spirits and in the presence of the dark Ones. A representative of the eldest families to oversee the ritual. Eleven old men. The true sacrifices. Blood.

INCANTATION
Blood and air, of the baboon and the cry of the jackal, the seas rise and confuse the bufoon, the stars light the way, the kolanut is not shared but struck, the rocks path in a way and water is all.

The beast, the garinja, lets out a bloodcurdling yell and rushes for the man and the acolyte. His speed is a blur, as fast as a thought, but in seconds it is over. The garinja is on the floor, torn in pieces and the Otumokpo stares in wonder, his fingers frozen above the sekere.

But Man is higher that the Forces and his actions shape the world.

The smell of blood is in the air and the sacred grove is fouled by the stench of it. The Otumokpo adds to that stench when his bowels give way as the man turns towards him.
“No, no..” he murmurs. It was not supposed to be this way.
It is over in seconds and the sekere drum is buried deep within the chest of the old priest. The Otumokpo is dead and as his heart gives way, its last tremors ignite a slight percussion and stir the beads of the sekere.

The clouds part and the rain begins to fall in fat drops of warm wetness. Only the acolyte remains, naked and trembling among the leaves of the forest floor. Her black skin is spotted with splotches of the Otumokpo’s blood as he was killed. Her full breasts heave up and down in fright as the rain falls upon them, and her dark nipples stay taut with the excitement of danger and the scent of death.
The man stares at her, his black eyes now flecked with red slashes. They rove around her body, taking in every line and every mound. His organ hardens quickly and he advances.

DISCLAIMER
*The titles, places, incantations and whatnot are not real oh..and regrettably a mere figment of this writer’s warped imagination.
*I do not dabble in the juju oh! Though I have a fetish for the fetish.. -___-

NOTE
Would use this medium to appreciate all those who helped out with celebrating my birthday last week. Promise, Sunshine, Jerry, Jazzy, Lambert, Ebere, Nolly, Eric, Ujente, Obire, Ikenna, Blehbleh, Justice, Chadni, King, Tchyoma, Onyeka, Motunrayo, Vincent, Explosive and the rest of you too numerous to mention. Really amazed I could pull off that crowd in six short months. Thank you..

Follow on Twitter @Janus_aneni

Peace.

The Last Friday

So..Tangles! is over. ( ._.)
It’s really sad for me you know, ending a series and all, but ten episodes and about twenty weeks takes its toll. Anyway, was looking through my old blog and I saw a post I wrote for Friday the 13th in April. It didn’t get quite the publicity so I decided to post again.
Especially since the world ends on Friday..

So uhm..sit back, do what you usually do, and uhm..enjoy!

In case you’ll prefer reading the original, here’s the link..
The Last Friday

The Last Friday..
#np Skin to bone – Linkin Park

I never really believed in ghost stories. I had heard them since I was a little kid, but I knew the truth. Those tales were just a bunch of crap to scare children with. And I wasn’t about to let myself get scared. So even when Mum died three hours after her twin sister, my friend Femi keeps waking up in places he couldn’t have been able to enter, and Dad gets those phone calls from his dead best friend every New Year, I still wouldn’t believe in ghost stories.
That is, until today.

When I woke this morning, everything was normal. My alarm rang on time, the sun rose perfectly and the birds outside were chirping the usual song. My phone notification light was blinking, so I checked the messages: same old, Friday the 13th spoofs. As I swung my feet over the bed to the floor, I woke again. My alarm rang. As I looked out the window, the sun rose and the birds started chirping. Everything was the same. Picking up my phone, I read the messages. The same. Chalking it up as de-javu, I threw off my clothes and walked into the bathroom. Nothing was going to foul up my day.

If only I knew how wrong I was.

Friday has my most lax timetable, so I took my time preparing for class. After an easy shower, I turned on the stereo; time to psych myself for the day ahead. It was while I brushed my teeth, the metal sounds from Linkin Park setting the theme for my day, that I felt the chill. In all the movies, when a ghost is about to appear, everywhere fogs up and the hero’s breath curls out of his mouth in mists. Not in real life.
Without warning my lungs suddenly felt dry, like an icy hand was squeezing the life out of my chest. I would have screamed but I had no breath to. Stumbling out of the bathroom into my room in search of an inhaler, I heard a voice.

“Janus..”
“Ja..nus..”

The voice seemed to rise and fall in a sibilant whisper. All else was silent, the sounds of the birds and Linkin Park all muted to the background. All I could hear was that scary voice and the slow thumping of my beating heart. Then as quickly as it had started, it ended. The hand seemed to lose its grip on my heart, and I fell to the floor right in front of the speakers, as Linkin Park blasted out, “Easier to run”. Heart pumping wildly, I picked myself from the floor and grabbed my inhaler. As I inhaled deeply, the cool air giving life to my lungs, I thought to myself: “It was just an attack, it was just an attack..” I had no idea how true those words would prove.

In the back of the shuttle bus on my way to class, I kept replaying the mornings events in my head. I could not help the feeling that I was being warned. But by whom, and for what? My phone beeped. It was another Friday the 13th broadcast. This one however had a most sinister twist to it. Apparently, every Friday the 13th, a 2nd born and 13th grandchild in any family was claimed by the Devil. Usually, broadcast messages are not specific, but it was not only the specificity of this message that got my attention. I am the 2nd born of my parents! Though, I am the 11th grandchild; my father’s parents had only 12 grandchildren. Breathing a sigh of relief that somebody invented family planning, I deleted the message and relaxed for the first time since I stepped out of bed. At the most, Friday the 13th was a day of bad luck, and the worst was over, the day couldn’t get any worse. I closed my eyes.

The sound of screeching tires snapped me out of my reverie. Throwing my eyes wide open, I stared out through the windscreen. Right in front of the shuttle, a truck carrying iron rods and building materials suddenly lost control. Brakes squealing, the vehicle smashed into a drain at the side of the road, spewing bricks, wood, nails and rods into the road. The driver of the shuttle, swerved to avoid the still skidding truck, but was too late to dodge the contents. The bus rode over a bed of nails and the tires exploded, dragging the vehicle into a spin before crashing into a signpost. The windscreens exploded, showering glass everywhere while the passengers screamed and struggled to get off the bus. And then suddenly, like before, all went quiet and my heart ceased to beat. In the window was a face. She was young, and pale green. Her hair seemed to wave in the breeze, thin tendrils that crossed her face and reached down to her neck. Her eyes were holes; lid-less sockets that seemed to beckon me into the darkness behind. As I stared in disbelief, blood rushing down the side of my head, the ghostly apparition disappeared and my heart started to beat again.

The whole Friday the 13th thing has got to be a joke. There is no way a trail of bad luck could just be following someone; could just be following me. It just had to be coincidence. Those were the thoughts in my mind as I walked out of the Emergency Room at the Health Centre, a gigantic bandage wrapped around my head. Nevertheless, I could still see the face of that girl, her hollow sockets which had stared and stared at me, the face contorted like she wanted to scream at me, but she had no tongue, no voice. I shivered.

It was raining outside. The dark clouds covered the sky, angry and foreboding, unleashing torrent upon torrent of angry rainfall. I stood beneath the porch, my hand resting on the wet wall, contemplating whether to brave the weather and try to get a taxi to take me home. Then a taxi drove up, releasing its passengers. Seeing my chance, I made to dash through the rain when suddenly, a large rat jumped out of the hedge in front of me. The shock caused me to reel back. The rat saved my life. With a flash of white light, lightening sizzled down from the skies, striking the very spot I would have been standing. The electricity crackled the air, the current rushing up the wall where I rested my hand, the force tossing me 3ft into the air. As I landed on the floor, there was a dull thud beside me, and right in front of my eyes were the charred remains of the rat that saved my life. I screamed. As I blacked out, I could hear the rumbling echoes of clashing thunder.

I woke up in my room.

My friend had brought me home in his Mum’s car. The storm had subsided now and he had to return the vehicle. He put on the TV and promised to come back immediately. So I lay on the bed, covered in bruises and bandages, wondering how my day had deteriorated so badly. The morning had been perfect, how could everything have gone so wrong? As I sobbed softly, I decided to call my Dad. He always knew what to do. He picked almost immediately, and I told him everything that had happened since I woke.
“Why is this happening to me Dad? Why me? I’m not even the 13th grandchild!”
Even as I said those words, my mouth froze in mid-scream. For, right there on TV was the girl who I had seen, the one who had called to me. It was a ‘Missing Persons’ report. She had been missing since January; January 13, and there was a reward for whoever found her. But no one would ever find her, ’cause she was dead. And I knew how. I tried to stifle a sob. And then I heard my Dad’s voice on the phone:
“..technically, you are the 13th grandchild, two of your cousins died before you could know them..”

I heard a loud crack, but I didn’t look up. My eyes were fixed on the TV but I knew what had happened. The ceiling fan had loosened from its place and the blades were falling and spinning out of control, spinning in their deadly cycle, aiming for my head.
On the screen, the girl was smiling. Dead and smiling. Dead..

I woke again. The alarm rang, the sun rose, the birds chirped..

“Ja..nus..”

Uhm..c’est fini!

Disclaimer
*I have no knowledge of any such Friday the 13th prophecy. Nevertheless, we know the world would end on Friday!( ˘˘̯)

Hope you had fun! Leave your comments and follow on twitter @Janus_aneni and do subscribe to le blog!
Merci!

Peace.

Death Chronicles: Episode II

This is the second installation in the Death series, and I think this is the post that would determine how far we go with this. Today, I wrote a bit different from what I normally will, maybe the fantasies got a  little too dark this time. Anyway, if you’re less than 18, or you are squemish, or you abhore sex in writing. do not proceed.

That said…

*inserts track: Outside – the Weeknd*

She walked out onto the moon-lit terrace. The night was quiet and the reflections of the moonlight upon the ripples of the swimming pool washed over her, giving her body a certain ethereal quality. The girl dropped her towel to the floor and looked around. She couldn’t see anyone, but the shadows around the pool were extensive and she had the feeling she was being watched.

Suddenly, a cool breeze blew, the ciold air tousling her long hair and carressing her skin. Her bare nipples hardened slightly as goose-pimples crept across her skin. Shivering a little, she stepped to the edge of the pool and raised her hands to stretch. The movement accentuated her perfect C-cup breasts and an hourglass figure made for the gods. She was naked. Pausing for a second, she execiuted a perfect dive and knifed into the water.

He watched her swim, secure in the shadows cast by the hedge. He smiled to himself/, she had sensed his presence, but she could not be sure. My God, she was beautiful! Her dark skin was flawless, from the perfect breasts amd raised nipples to her long smooth legs. Her face was oval with big brown eyes and full lips that would melt lusciously in a warm kiss. She was perfect. Too perfect. He got up from the deck chair he had been sitting in, and walked to the pool.

Her perfect form cut through the pool, her hands slicing up the water as she swam free-style. Behind her, she heard a splash as some one entered the pool. Aha! He had been up to one of his weird tricks again, thinking to surprise her. She smiled to herself, nothing could shock her again, especially not after the voices she had been hearing of late. Coming to a stop, she turned and faced her naked lover as he waded closer to her.

“My love…” he murmured.

“I missed u so,” she meant to say, but he had grabbed her hair and pulling her to him, kissed her almost savagely. Equally fiercely, she kissed him back, holding his head tight agaist her, her fingers digging into his scalp.

Pushing her against the side of the pool, he kissed her even deeper. Arching her neck backward, he kissed her neck and bit her shoulder as one hand came up to cup her breasts and squeeze her nipple. The girl moaned slightly and held him tight against, her hands pushing down his back to squeeze his firm buttocks. The water lapped about their glistening bodies, giving no evidence of their passion asides a splash now and then.

Running his hands along her body, he slid one hand below her belly and cupping her, he slipped two fingers into her wetness. The girl moaned again. He stroked her then, his fingers pushing against the core that was her pleasure; light and deep, soft and hard, until she was trembling in his arms. Lifting her leg, for there was no time now; his need was throibbing and aching, he buried his face in her breasts and thrust himself deep into her. she let out a cry that caould have been a sigh of pleasure, and hooking her other leg around him, she clawed his back and forced him deeper.

“Yes…” she moaned.

A cloud passed over the moon and the terrace was thrown into darkness. In a corner of the hedge were the man had been sitting, a pair of eyes flashed and a cold chill rippled through the water.

But the couple was oblivious of the cold. The man closed his eyes and threw his head back. Thrusting harder, he could feel his need welling up. Already she was beginning to spasm and buck, her body vibrating even more than usual. Back and forth he moved, pounding her, his pelvis grinding against hers in an impossible cycle.

Suddenly she convulsed violently, the walls of her vagina gripping him tight. Groaning with pleasure, he thrust as deep as he could into her, and exploded, spewing himself into her belly. And her hands and leg slipped from his back as she went limp in his arms. The clouds had darkened and lightening flashed across the sky. Breathing heavily, as his body jerked in spasms, he drew her c lose to him and kissed her still lips.

“Oh baby..” he groaned. There was no reply, her arms just flailed uselessly in the water.

Then he opened his eyes, and looked into her face. it was frozen. Her eyes had rolled back into her head exposing only the whites, and her lips stayed slightly apart as though she wanted to say something, buit the words would not come out. Starring in disbelief, he pushed her hair back and called her name. She just stayed there, limp in his arms; no breath, no pulse, and her body was beginning to get cold and clammy.

Suddenly, thunder rumbles and the skies let loose with a torrent of rain. The rain splashed into the pool, bathing the man and his dead lover. And over the howl of the wind and the sound of splashing water, a low laugh danced upon the air.

Then he remebered; he was still inside her.

Disclaimer

  • I do not engage nor appreciate necrophilia (and yes, that is a huge word…)
  • I have not had pool sex…yet (apply within)
  • These posts are not for you sick-minded freaks to start killing people oh!

Lol…ff me on twitter @janus_aneni

Peace.

Death Chronicles: Episode 1

Lovely Friday to y’all! How’s it hanging? I promised sex earlier, well 

Anyway, been thinking alot about Death these days, as usual, and how ineveitable it is. When one’s time comes, there is just about nothing you can do to about it (Watch Final Destination 1-4 or Karanja pt 1). So this series would be chronicling a lot about Death and well, people. So for the squeamish, I’m sorry, and for the rest of you dark-hearted souls, Mors expectat..Death awaits…

*inserts track: Dustbowl dance – Mumford and sons*

 It was still early when I heard the first whispers. It had been storming outside my window, wind and rain clashing relentlessly against the louvres. In the sky, lightening flashed followed by the incessant rumbles of thunder. I couldn’t sleep. Each time I managed to close my eyes, I was startled awake by the clash of wind and cloud. So I got up and decided to fix myself a snack.The storm had probably knocked out the powerlines, and the entire house was in darkness. As I walked down the narrow corridor to the kitchen, I felt a slight chill. I would have thought nothing of it if, at that moment, I hadn’t heard the whispers. Low and sibilant, the voices rose and fell, like the sound of invisible beings conversing in low tones. As suddenly as it had come, the sounds ended. I ignored it, it was probably the wind whistling through a crack in a window sill.

I opened the fridge and took out a pack of juice and some cookies. I might as well ride out the storm in style. I trudged back to my room, no whispers this time. Shutting the door, I grabbed a novel and settled by candle-light with the snack on a stool beside me. I was going to read till the storm stopped or till my snacks were through. So, lying comfortably on my bed, I opened the Puzo, and began to read.

Soon, I was asleep.

The candle burned on, flame upon wick melting the wax into vapour that coursed through my nostrils, sinking me deeper into sleep. And I rolled and turned and the candle burned on. Suddenly, a window blew open in the kitchen, the draft of wind whipping through the flat, filling every corner until, light as a whisper, it blew into my room and rustled the curtains. As I murmured in sleep and slept on, the edge of a curtain caught neatly upon the flame and slowly, the flames began to eat up through the light material, and the room went ablaze. And somewhere in the dark recesses, a pair of eyes glinted and voice cackled softly.

And I dreamt, in my dream, I strolled down a quiet boulevard on a misty morning. While I walked, the mist disappeared into a clear blue sky. Then the trees began to wither as the sun came out. And the sun shone ever so mightily, and the heat bore on me. So hot was the sun that I raised my arm to shield my face, but the sun beat on, hotter and hotter, till I exclaimed in pain:
“My arm..”

And I woke up, into hell…

My room was burning, every corner; everywhere was wreathed in dancing flames. The curtains were all gone, the rug was on fire, and my bookshelves were all ablaze. While I stared in disbelief, still lying on my bed, I felt the pain in my arm and glanced down. The sleeve of my shirt was burning! Tearing off my clothes, I shook the shirt into the inferno that was my room and stood upon my bed, all too conscious of the smell of burning meat that traced my every move.

There was no place to move to. The fire had engulfed everything. Already, the flames were beginning to lick the edge of my bed. Slowly, the mattress was beginning to burn. Already it was too hot to even stand on, and smoke was beginning to issue through the seams. Tears streamed down my face, as I saw my last moments. Muttering a prayer to the Creator, for my soul. I stared through the fire, calculating my distance to the closed door. Maybe, maybe I could reach it in time.

Suddenly, the louvres blew open and the burglary proofing loosened from the wall and fell. Screaming, I crouched and covered my head as shrapnel and glass showered everywhere. The heat from the room must have caused the glass to expand or something, hence the explosion. Never had I been more thankful that the burglary proofing was not secure and had dislodged so easily. Wind howled into the room, pushing the flames away from the window and towards the door. For a moment, there was almost no fire, then I noticed it was still raining.

With the roar of a wounded savage beast, the fire rolled back, and now being fed with fresh oxygen, the flame crackled and leapt hungrily towards me. I knew now that there was no hope, no other option than that which fate had just provided. Taking two steps back, I shut aside all emotion, then sprang forward and leapt clear of the lapping flames and straight through the window, into the stormy night. As I flew in the air, I could distinctly hear a voice laugh behind me.

Then I remembered, my flat was on the third floor.

I see you…

Disclaimer

  • None

 

ff on twitter @janus_aneni

Peace.