don’t ever stop moving… once you lose momentum it’s so hard to get going again. so even if you have to slow down because you have too much work, or not enough energy or resources, don’t stop moving. slow down when necessary. but keep moving.
“I am afraid,” she spoke the truth back to herself hoping that someone would hear her and tell her it was a lie. But she was alone in the room. Just her and her fears and a glimpse of a fearless self struggling to breathe. The fearless self cowered in the corner waiting to be rescued. A little light blinking where its heart beat. Waiting for her to wake up to that fact that she needed to fight her fears with fearlessness. She couldn’t remember ever being fearless, so she didn’t do anything. She found herself a corner, laid down and waited to be rescued.
It didn’t survive long, her fearless self. It whimpered and faded into the darkness as she closed her eyes and let her fears merge into her. When she opened her eyes, it was dark. She drowned.
a shapeshifter shifts
to not shift is to die
but not dying is pain
that’s why it hurts
was too lazy to write something new… found this unfinished story from 2012. unedited (eek!). i’m sharing the first 495 (of 2580) words.
should i finish it, na?
Chop. Chop. Chop. Went the knives on that cold June night. The tongues were sharper than the blades that chopped onions, potatoes, carrots, pumpkins.
It was the night before the burial of Ous’ Mapaseka. It was the night vigil and the neighbourhood women had come to help the family prepare for the burial the next day. They stood around a table heavily laden with all sorts of veggies. A fire was to the side; a trifoot gigantic pot cooked a stew from the freshly slaughtered cow. Another giant pot boiled samp. The women watched over them. The work flowed and the conversation was thrilling.
“I heard it was the three letters,” said one woman, gesturing with her three figures.
“Apparently,” started another.
“Allegedly, tsala,” yet another quipped mischievously.
“I-delivery ifike ngohubby.”
The ohhs, grimaces and winces that followed showed much disapproval. The disgust propelled the hands to chop even faster. One of the women, a cousin of the very late Mapaseka sucked her teeth in disgust. She had hardly spoken since arriving and joining the chopping squad. The neighbourhood women didn’t know her so they paid her no mind. The gossip swirled. The hands chopped faster. There was a momentary silence as each woman wondered what kind of diseases their own husbands possibly delivered to them.
Ous’ Mapaseka’s cousin clucked her tongue and sucked her teeth. Shaking her head, her unuttered disgust seemed to support the neighbourhood women’s disapproval. They hmm’d, hawu’d, rha’d and exclaimed in sisterly unison.
Ous’ Mapaseka’s cousin didn’t say a word. She wasn’t going to. She knew a lot more than what the village grapevine guessed. She wasn’t going to say a word. She shook her head as if to communicate to the other women that they were not going to get a word out of her. But the other women took it to mean that she disapproved of the way that Ous’ Mapaseka’s life had turned out. The chop squad sisterhood was in solidarity with poor Ous’ Mapaseka.
Ous’ Mapaseka was a true nineties lady. Born in the eighties and raised the roof in the nineties as she would say. Even in the two thousands she would rock a kangol hat and pepe jeans tightly squeezed with a belt around her tiny waist. She always looked even hipper than the hippest of hip. The daughter of a priest. You know what they say about the children of a priest. Wilder than any child raised by a shebeen queen. But Ous Mapaseka did mend her ways. This is why her death was of such interest to the entire neighbourhood. It fired up the village grapevine. More neighbourhood women had showed up to lend a hand and help the family mourn. Well, they wanted to confirm the various bits and pieces of rumours they had heard in the week since Ous’ Mapaseka’s death. And there were so many contradictory pieces of information about the demise of the very lovely Ous Mapaseka…
- where the hell was Ghost?
- where the hell are Bran and Rickon?
- where the hell is Gendry?
- why the hell is Daenerys always surrounded by hordes every last ep of season?
- what the hell happened to Catelyn Stark’s resurrection as Lady Stoneheart?
- the last ep made me a Cersei fan. hayi shem, she is a badass bitch. and she go make ’em sparrows pay. and errbody who ever, ever, messed with her. man, forget Daenerys, she’s been coming for Westeros since forever, there’ll be nothing left to fight for. let Daenerys stay there with her hordes. the white walkers are coming biatch!