The last time I danced with death, I stepped on his toes

Not many people can say that they’ve met death and lived to tell the tale, but I’ve done more than met him

I’ve talked with him, walked with him, even waltzed with him

You may think that death is more of a tango kind of guy, but trust me, he much prefers the waltz

Or that’s what he told me, anyway

Now that I think about it, maybe he was just saying that to get me to let my guard down

My story should be a warning to all: when you’re in the same room as death, you should never turn your back on him

No matter how charming he is, you must never let your guard down

Because that is all just a guise to get what he really wants: your heart

Not in a romantic sense, however it comes across, but in a literal sense

In order to remain the same age physically, death must consume someone’s heart once every thousand years

This can’t be just any random stranger’s heart, though,

it must be given to him willingly

Trusting death was the whole reason I got into this mess, and it’s fitting that the last thing I do on this earth, as I bleed out into the very paper I’m writing this message on, that I am trusting you, reader, to heed my warning and stay far, far away from death

There is no sure way to spot him in a crowd, because he is always changing his appearance

However, there is a way to defeat him once you are certain that it is really death you have come into contact with

He has one weakness, one way to bring him crumbling down faster than a burning building

That weakness is—

My father told me he spoke to ghosts as easily as people.

Coming from him, this did not seem crazy.

He mentioned  a conversation he’d had that morning with his grandfather, retold the joke he had heard.

The fact that his grandfather dropped dead on the golf course on an April day in 1927 was of no consequence.

The joke was a good one.

Timeless, like its teller.

Now he too is gone, my father, gone to join the ghosts to which he spoke so easily.

I did not inherit his full facility with ghosts, only a touch of it.

I can feel my father and know he is there, but he is mute.

It is as though we swim together in the sea, masks and snorkels and fins.

I can neither speak nor hear as I float through this world, its currents wafting hot and cold, up and down, the only sound my own stertorous breathing and the rush of blood in my ears.

I see him there, my father, floating in eddies of his own.

Behind the plate glass of his mask I can see his lips moving.

To hear his voice is my utmost wish.

The inbetween is always open,shadows lurking in every corner. They weave our lives, deadly and always silent. Many times they are nothing more than warnings at the edge of our nightmares.

I meet these shadows in times of chaos. They are similar with hardly any differences. Yet there is one who stands out amongst them. When I was little a shadow a lot like me protected me from my nightmares. Her purple eyes kept watch, protecting and judging me. Often she would make me choose, though I can no longer recall what. As I got older my dreams became stories full of adventure and shapeshifting dimensions. Eventually she faded away.

For many years I would fall asleep hoping to meet her once more. One night, I saw her again in the corner of my dream. Happy to see her, I attempted to communicate with her. I tried calling out to her but she never moved, her eyes closed as if sleeping, but I could feel her probing me. Fully awake. Looking through me with closed eyes, assessing me. Many nights passed by but she never moved, the soft glow of her eyes mere lines on her face. I tried reaching her but she always kept me away. The world would shift her into the shadows until her glow disappeared.

In the real world, I became obsessed with playing cards. I loved drawing the shapes into fancy diaries or brooches. The first time I drew the Ace of Spades the shadow took on three spades, two hair clips and a brooch. Her form became more solid, with victorian clothes and ruffled socks. Still, she didn't move. It was almost as if she was waiting for something. But what?

Finally, when I came of age she was silently waiting for me by a gate. Inside was pitch black. The hair on my arms stood up. My stomach dropped, suddenly aware of how vast and empty the dream was.

The shadow walked into the void looking back to make sure I followed. I stepped forward. Shock spread through my legs. Freezing water rippled at my ankles. A strange echo could be felt in the water. Ahead of me the shadow walked briskly towards an unknown destination. I fought furiously against the water, my legs losing feeling with each step. I lost my balance and crashed into the water. The echo became clearer. A lullably. Someone was singing a lullaby. I've never heard this lullaby before, not even in the real world. Suddenly, the humming stopped.

Shrieks pierced through me from multiple directions. Crushing me, stabbing me. A burning hand dragged me deeper towards the the sound. It felt like I was dragged for eternity. Fighting. Never escaping. Each time clawing at the water with added vigor. I only stopped fighting when my muscles started tearing from the effort. I closed my eyes against the nausea.

The darkness became still. I opened my eyes again, they were met with a disapproving glare from a golden man.

He said, "You shouldn't be here."

He stepped aside to show a small shack. There a window let moonlight shine on a small bookcase.

From then on I would always dream of that small shack. I would appear facing the window and the bookshelf, to the right was the void, to the left a three step staircase leading to different worlds. I usually browsed the books. Each time the bookcase would become a different library. I would spend hours reading the summaries on the back of the books. If I decided to read the book would take me into its story. When I felt more adventurous I would take the staircase to go exploring.

One time it opened to a multicultural festival. There were many shops selling things I'd never seen in the real world. The plants were also very beautiful. I plucked a flower, admiring its intricate design. The music stopped. A faerie approached me. It was dark and loomed against my small figure. A smaller faerie bit my hand. I dropped the flower with a yelp. When I woke up I had a bruise where the faerie bit me.

Later, my dream continued. The faeries were still angry at me. The shadow appeared behind the bigger ones. They tilted their heads towards me. The shadow took my hand, opened a random door, and threw me inside with her.

The room was an abandoned castle. It was overgrown with plants, yet a stained glass withstood the decay. In front of it was a capsule with a body. The body was covered in glowing green marks. The shadow told me the body is a book made from the memories of people that died in nature. I wanted to touch it but the shadow warned me against it. She led me outside of the building. A few yards away was the ocean. Many people were humming a lullaby.

Later in the real world, I heard someone humming the same lullaby. I ran desperately towards the sound, but the person stopped humming. Even now I wonder, who was that person? What is the shadow trying to tell me? Who is she?

George stood, staring at the closed up doorway, in anticipation. The patterned paper on the wall started to come together and swirl around into a whirlpool of colours, like a dancing rainbow. It was as if the library knew what George’s intentions were. The colours then began to stretch out into the distance and it was almost as if he could see what was on the other side, but rippled, like looking into a pool of water, gently wafted by the wind. He felt every nerve ending in his body jangling within him, and on the tips of his fingers, as he gripped the Myths and Legends book tightly in his right hand. He had never felt so nervous in all of his life. He had also never felt so alive.

‘So you know what to do,’ Molly repeated.

‘Yes, Molly,’ he shouted back, ‘you’ve told me enough times and I’ve got the book as well if I need to check anything.’

He took several deep breaths and counted to three in his head before declaring;

‘Okay, here goes,’ he yelled.

He ran as hard and fast as he could across the room and, with a loud whumph, disappeared into the portal.

*

George picked himself up and wearily dusted himself off, spitting tiny specks of dirt from between his lips and picking clumps of moss and grass from his jacket with his finger tips.

He’d been catapulted through the doorway, with flailing arms and legs, making him tumble down into a messy heap. He made a mental note not to take such a long run up in future.

He looked over his shoulder. The portal was in between a couple of trees, where two large branches had met to make a huge archway. Apart from a few reasonably large boulders there was nothing else around him, except mist and darkness. He was in the middle of a field and the ground beneath his feet felt soft and squishy. In the distance he could see the outline of a wood and guessed that this must be where he was supposed to head for. He took the reading glasses off, which were askew on is face anyway, and put them, with the book, into his satchel which was slung around his shoulders. He decided it would be best, on this occasion, to leave the bookmark in place, because he had the feeling he would need to make a quick escape, later on.

With carefully placed footsteps he proceeded towards the haggard trees. Upon reaching the woods George didn’t feel any better about the prospect of entering into them. Luckily the moon above was bright, but in the thick canopy of the foliage, this would offer no help. He slipped his hand into the bag and blindly rummaged around until he chanced upon something metallic and cold to the touch. He pulled out a small thin torch about four inches in length. He normally used it to read under the bedcovers when he was supposed to have put the lights out and gone to sleep. It didn’t offer much light, but it would be enough to see the ground in front of him, so he could at least place step after slow step.

George moved forwards, tracing what appeared to be a track worn in the earth by past visitors. As the undergrowth got thicker he could feel wet leaves slapping and clawing at his clothes. Eventually, after several long minutes, he reached a narrow clearing about ten metres in length. At the other end he could just about make out two paths that headed off in different directions.

All of a sudden, as if on cue, he heard a faint voice coming from the direction of the path on the right.

‘This way George,’ it whispered, ‘this is the way to what you seek.’

The voice drifted and swayed in the air, singing to him in a magically enchanted way. He found it impossible to resist and moved off in the direction of the voice, as if hypnotised by its sound.

‘Come on George,’ it sang, majestically, ‘not much longer now, nearly there.’

George’s feet began to move more rapidly, carrying his body along quicker, but not quite jogging. He was now completely oblivious to anything he was stumbling into, determined to reach the source of the voice. Suddenly, as he crashed through the branches of a large bramble, the ground gave way underneath him and he began to fall.

With an instinct he didn’t realise he possessed his left arm shot out to try to grab something, anything, to halt the descent. He got lucky. A tree root was protruding out of the earth on the edge of the ravine, and he managed to hook his wrist into it. Somehow, with one fluid movement, he swung his body around to grab it with the other hand, ramming the torch into his mouth in the process, to leave him dangling over a drop which he could now see was at least a hundred feet deep. As he hung there stones mixed with earth crumbled over his head and body into the darkness below.

He didn’t dare to move, hanging there for what seemed like several minutes, trying to regain his composure and strength. Eventually he slowly, delicately, scrabbled and heaved his way back to the top before collapsing on his back, his chest heaving to regain some of breath back into it, with his ankles still hanging over the edge.

‘How could I have been such a fool,’ he remonstrated with himself. ‘What’s the point in having a survival guide if I don’t even consult it first?’

He pulled himself up onto his haunches before grabbing the torch, which was now on the sodden ground beside him after falling from his clenched teeth, and took the book out. He opened it up at the appropriate page.

When searching for the Leprechauns lair, situated usually in a cave deep in some woods, be wary of the Pixies. These mischievous little creatures are the bane of travellers and like nothing more than to lead them down the wrong path, often into danger.

He continued scanning the paper until;

One way of fooling a Pixie, so as to be sure not to be led off in the wrong direction, is to turn your overcoat inside out. This confuses them long enough for you to reach your destination…………be careful though, Pixies love Leprechaun gold and, once it is dug up from the ground, can smell it from miles around. No amount of treachery on your part will deter them from trying to steal it from you.

George put the book away and proceeded to turn his jacket inside out. He then gathered all his things together, straightened himself out, and headed back in the direction of the clearing. When he reached it he then took the other path. It wasn’t long before George could see, about twenty metres ahead of him, a cave in the side of a rocky outcrop. The trick with his jacket must have worked, because now he was making good time, unhindered.

The mouth of the cave wasn’t very big, only about four feet in diameter, but, brushing aside some of the foliage overhanging the entrance, he could see that it opened up into a much larger chamber inside, of which there was a small fire burning in the centre.

‘H..hello,’ he shouted into the cave, hearing the echo bounce around the walls. ‘Is anyone there?’

He waited a few seconds but there was no reply so he tried again;

‘I don’t mean to harm you, honest….please can I come in.’

Again he waited, without reply.

I suppose I should go in and wait then, he thought to himself but, just as he was about to crawl into the opening, a little, sharp featured, bearded face appeared from out of nowhere and blew fairy dust into his eyes.

*

‘Blisterin’ buff –gumbles,’ grunted the voice.

George fuzzily came to his senses as his vision adjusted to the dim, flickering, light.

Straddled across the top of the fire was now a small cauldron on a metal stand, with some kind of concoction bubbling away inside it, which the Leprechaun was taking sips from with a wooden ladle. He was muttering things in a strange language, while adding pinches of this and that.

‘Oh, so you’re awake then are ye’,’ he exclaimed in a distinct Irish accent. ‘Stormin’ in all uninvited like that, no manners ye’ aven’t, ye’ darned dumbimble.’

‘Sorry,’ George offered, rubbing his head. Now he knew what a hangover must feel like, or so he thought. ‘I didn’t mean to be rude….it’s just that I need to, well…’

‘I know what ye’ be needin’ ye’ great big scruff-guffle.’ He interrupted, flatly. ‘Ye’ don’t think now that you’re the only one to ‘ave been ‘ere wantin’ some of me gold do ye?’

George hadn’t considered it before, but of course he wasn’t.

‘Oh right, er yes well, if I could just have a couple of pieces then I’ll be on my way and I can leave you in peace...’

‘Ye’ don’t just get to come waltzin’ in ‘ere and expectin’ to take away some gold jus’ like that ye’ know,’ the Leprechaun protested, ‘you have to, let’s say, steal it from me, in a manner of speakin’.’

He studied the bemused look on George’s face, before adding;

‘Look in the darned book ye’ great big pile o’ stinkin’ pugmumble.’

George was shocked by the Leprechauns rudeness, which was in contrast to his tidy appearance, dressed neatly in a finely tailored bright red suit with gold edging and shiny, polished, buckles on his shoes and hat.

Again he took out the book and found the relevant paragraph –

Upon finding and meeting the Leprechaun you will find him most accommodating, but at the same time a rambunctious character, owing to his solitary existence. The only way he will allow you to ‘steal’ gold from him is to make him laugh. Warning: do not try to take the gold from him when his back is turned, for all you will end up with is a bag of smelly dirt.

George took a long, slow, gulp. This was going to be an impossible task he thought as he looked back across at the Leprechaun, arms folded, waiting, with a stony face.

‘Come on, bring it on, give it ye’ best,’ he said. ‘An’ I don’t wan’ te be hearin’ the same ones ye’ Ma an’ Pa told me last time either. Good as they were, I be hearin’ ‘em already now.’

George was stumped. All the best jokes he’d ever heard had been told to him by his mum and dad. He delved into the deep recesses of his memory to try and remember a few from the school playground.

‘Okay, here goes,’ he announced, ‘what type of monster really likes to dance?’

There was no reaction from the Leprechaun.

‘A boogie man,’ George said, enthusiastically.

Still no face movement from the diminutive man sitting opposite.

‘Alright, maybe not that one then…erm...how about this one: What do you call a fairy that never has a bath?......Stinkerbell.’

Still nothing, not even the slightest crease of the upper lip.

‘Oh come on,’ George said, ‘surely you found that funny?’

‘Oh, to be sure, it was mildly amusin’, but not enough to make me split me britches.’

He saw the fettered look pasted on George’s face and, almost but not quite, felt sorry for him.

‘Look, I tell ye’ what, ye can have one more try. Think of the best one ye’ can, but then ye’ll have to feddle yer diddle an’ let me have me supper, okay.’

‘Right, it’s a deal,’ George replied, biting his lip in deep consideration. ‘Are you ready for it?’

‘Go on; give it ye’ best shot.’

‘Okay, here goes,’ He shouted.

George jumped up and darted around the fire, pounced on the Leprechaun, and bundled him onto his front, tickling him furiously all over his tiny body. The Leprechaun started letting out high pitched giggles and squeals.

‘Alright, alright,’ he gasped, ‘you win….leave me alone or I’ll wet meself.’

George pulled away, catching his breath, emitting little ‘he’s’ and ‘ha’s’. He hadn’t had that much fun in a long time. By now the Leprechaun had lifted himself off the cave floor and was releasing little, excited, breathless gasps.

‘Bhago Dhaia, boy, that’s the best of ‘em yet. I’ll gladly give ye’ some o’ me gold. Follow me,’ he said.

The Leprechaun wiggled his finger, directing George to follow him to the back of the cave, picking up a small spade on the way. He plucked a twig out of the ground and started digging on the same spot. Not long after he lifted a miniature treasure chest out of the hole and shook the earth off the top of it.

He then lifted it up to his mouth and whispered something into the lock and the lid clicked open. Inside it there were several tiny leather bags. Leprechaun gold was obviously not very big.

‘Here, take a bag. There’s a few pieces in there, ought te last ye’ a while,’ he said, ‘but ye’’ll need te be quick now mind, the pixies’ll already be smellin’ the scent.’

‘Thank you,’ George said, shaking his hand, before slinging the satchel around his neck and scrambling back outside the cave.

He didn’t want to waste any time as he sprinted back along the track, hurdling over the outline of tree trunks and ducking under branches. The idea of being beaten up and robbed by a gang of marauding pixies wasn’t his idea of a good time.

As he made his way along the path, crashing through branches and brambles, he could hear little yelping sounds to the rear of him and to the side. His heart thumped inside his chest and his legs pumped even harder as the noise got louder and louder.

He finally reached the edge of the wood and exploded into the field, sending leaves and undergrowth flying into the air. He could see the portal in the distance, the mist having now cleared. It was only now, in the bright moonlight, that George could see his pursuers, and then wished he hadn’t looked. Hundreds of tiny blue figures, about a foot in height, all dressed in green costumes swarmed out from every opening at the edge of the trees and closed in on him in a massive semi-circle. Red, silver and purple Pixie dust exuded from every footstep, rising, to create a huge bulging cloud in the air.

Closer and closer he got to the archway, but he was now tiring, his lungs protesting vigorously to every yard of ground he covered. A few of the Pixie front runners had jumped onto him, swinging from his coat tails and pulling at his hair while they clamped their legs to his shoulders.

He flayed his arms around, batting and swatting them away, keeping the leather pouch of gold tightly enclosed in his fist. He only had a few feet to go now so, with a sudden burst of energy and resolve, he took a huge leap head first into the portal, leaving several confused Pixies gliding through the air.

Standing on tiptoes,

I yearn

to reach higher

than clouds

blooming

in purple blossoms.

I want to fly free -

I won’t give up.

I hear whispers

flailing

around me

touching wounds

that encumber me

in superficial shell

overflowing

with hunger

for all I can be.

I touch

the reflections

of the rain, knowing

I will once again

grasp the radiance

of my soul

as particles

of sundust

banish chill

from the air,

opening to bliss

as long

as I am willing

to exist.

The ‘f’ in my own ‘family’ stood for flogging. We were bred with it. It was a dietary requirement. And no, don’t be fooled by the title, there was nothing sugary about the experience. Not to us. It was only sweet for our parents, especially Mama. Mama could be too tired to cook, but let her find out that we left a chore undone, or an errand unattended. Her muscles would spring to life. Yes, for beating. She was always, it seemed, gunning for some sort of cane prize.

It wasn’t as though my younger brother, Akin, and I liked to be mischievous, sometimes we were simply unlucky—like the day I was bringing my parents’ meal from the kitchen and was about to set it down when Mama asked me to bring her an extra plate. Then some accursed, godforsaken witch of a housefly found no better moment to perch on my earlobe. Both hands occupied so I couldn’t swat it, I raised my shoulder to attend the itch—a motion, most sadly, Mama would misinterpret.

“Eh-ehn, am I the one you’re shrugging your shoulder at because I asked you to bring me a plate? Go and bring me that cane.” That was the format for guaranteed punishment: a rhetorical question, masquerading as an investigative inquiry, followed by an imperative statement. To attempt either answering the question or appealing the order only fetched a bonus pre-punishment slap, so what was the point? Discipline received (with swollen arms and a bruised knee as testament), and dinner forfeited (my favorite àmàlà and ewédú), I made sure I killed off all the insects I could find in the house that night. And the next day.

Mama’s motive for beating us, as she put it, was that the world was just too rotten and she couldn’t, wouldn’t, allow her two boys be corrupted by indiscipline. Her mantras included the Proverbial “…a child left to himself bringeth his mother to shame,” and “Train up a child in the way he should go…” The day she would upgrade our caning ration, she invited us both to sit down and lamented how we—I, actually—had not been taking my studies seriously considering I had the Common Entrance exam in a few months. Then she tasted her tallest finger and leafed through her unclothed Bible before proclaiming, “Withhold not correction from the child: for if thou beatest him with the rod…” Akin and I went flat on the floor at ‘rod’. As I begged her to be lenient, and Akin pretended to pass out, she continued reading, “…if thou beatest him with the rod he shall not die.” There was no going back.

While it was the most popular, flogging was not the only method of instilling discipline. Mama could also ask us to ‘kneel down, raise up your hands and close your eyes’ as our school teachers did, with Mama’s version including, ‘and face the wall.’ I never quite understood the eye-closing and wall-facing part, but I understood that an unexpected lash would attend the buttocks if our raised hands showed any sign of drooping. Alternatively, it would be the dreaded ‘Lọ f’ìka ẹ d’ólè s’íbèyẹn!’ meaning “Go and plant your finger on that spot,’—a punishment that was akin to the posture in hopscotch when you are about to pick up the stone, but in this case, you would be forced to freeze. The actual torment was the clear instruction to never change legs or switch fingers. It wouldn’t take more than 15 minutes for a union of sweat and tears to begin the solemn procession of tumbling off the tip of our noses.

Did I mention that Mama had uncanny prediction accuracy? If she told us ‘Spoil that mousetrap and see what I’ll do to you,’ we could as well begin to weep in advance, because by either extreme caution, or a complete absence of the same, we would engineer the fulfillment of her prophecy. Was it when, while pouring her some drinking water, gravely mindful of her strict, not-too-low-but-not-to-the-brim policy, Akin’s trembling hands overfilled the china cup, wetting her wrapper? Or how, despite warnings against handling hot things without a cloth, I would attempt removing a clay pot of fresh gbègìrì soup from the fire with bare hands, ending up with a shapeless, canary-yellow sea dotted with black shards staring back at me from the sandy kitchen floor? After earning a fat knock on the head that he would nurse all week, and after I acquired her fingerprints across my cheek, Akin and I needed no telling: Mama never threatens. She assures.

Still, all too often, my brother and I seemed to discard prior warnings and revisit our old ways. One Saturday afternoon after chores, Akin and I left the house without permission. Not that we could have sought it, because neither parent was home. The whole thing was my idea; Akin hardly had the courage to break rules anymore. I, on the other hand, was bored out of my wits and needed some rowdy company. We just had to make sure we were home on time.

We visited our neighbour’s farm first and climbed and plucked and consumed all the cashews we could stomach, throwing up when we could go no further. We had spent over three hours there when Akin suggested we head home. I was about to succumb when I realized how bad an idea it was: our shirts were littered with cashew juice, one of the most stubborn stains I have encountered in this life. If Mama spotted or sniffed it, our alibi was blown. So I suggested we go play soccer with our friends. The dust would mask the cashew stains as long as we ensured that we slid and rolled abundantly on the pitch. It seemed like a brilliant plan but when we got to the pitch, and our team kept winning, it was almost impossible to leave. Akin pressured, but I kept reassuring him we would go home after the next win. It wasn’t until a teammate kicked the ball far into a thick bush, and no one volunteered to retrieve it, that everyone dispersed. Our curfew was “6pm sharp” so when my teammate glanced at his watch and casually declared that it was “past 7”, I took some relief in knowing I wouldn’t face our parents’ wrath alone. Chastisement is worse without a partner in crime. At least in this case Mama had no basis for her “Can’t you see your brother? Is this how he behaves?” statements. When I searched, sang and screamed to no end however, I realized how undone I was: Akin had gone home without me.

Stopping two doors away from home, panting like my heart would find its way out any moment, I bent down and locked two straws of spear grass together, then plucked a lash from my left eye and buried it in the hair atop my head—two of the sure-fire charms my school friends told me guaranteed their parents forgot to punish their wrongdoings. Remembering how little of an amnesiac my own mother was, doubled my pace. And my blood pressure.

I approached our front entrance, hesitant. The door was ajar. I peeped in between the door and its frame through the gap occasioned by the hinge. I squinted, widened, cupped the edges of my vision, but the lantern’s flickering light was inadequate to make out anything. Two taps on my back and I instinctively went flat on the ground, confessing, “Mama, the hosts of heaven are my witness, I went in search of Akin not knowing he came home by another route. He went out, plucking cashew all afternoon. In fact, his friends also told me that while they were playing ball…” I paused. Something was not right. Mama would have cut me off mid-sentence, even for the most valid of excuses. As I contemplated looking up at her face, and considered whether I could afford the extra penalty that would attract, I heard a sound. A cackle. Then sniggering.

It was Akin.

I sprang up, bent on vengeance—both for his ditching me and now for disrespecting me. Pleading filled the air, as we swapped positions. He gobbled my forgiveness before I was done cooking it up. Then he gave updates: As expected, our parents had been asking of me, but he covered for me, telling them I left my shoes back where we went to play ball. I thanked him, although I wondered how such explanation could fly. How would I trek over four kilometers and not realize I was barefoot? He said Mama was busy in their room and I only needed to make it to our own room unnoticed and start snoring. Tomorrow morning, we would outwit her in the time-of-arrival debate since she was not there when I came in; he was. My tense shoulders caved in as I smothered Akin in an embrace reserved for brothers.

So, tip I toed, hoping to make it safely to our room. In the low light of the lantern dimmed by its smoky shade, I saw two long, thick sticks—bigger than I’d ever witnessed—behind the kitchen door. To think, retribution had been chilling by the corner all this time, awaiting my arrival.

I was almost out of the passage when: “Olúwamúmiboríogun.”

Now, that was disturbing on two levels: One, my full name was only mentioned when I had committed a serious offence. Two, that was Papa’s voice. While Mama beat us as frequently and as soundly as she could, Papa hardly did. But whenever he had to, it was a guaranteed grand style thrashing. And knowing Papa, this was about more than flouting curfew.

“Y-ye-yes Papa.”

“Welcome,” he greeted, punctuated by the sound of the main door latching behind me. In slow motion. Paka…paka…paka. Triple-bolted. Fate sealed. No neighbours could intervene. “Come,” he said, grinning. He was just a couple feet away but reaching him seemed like a holy pilgrimage on foot.

“Father, I’m not worthy to be called thy son,” quoting the prodigal son from our Sunday School memory verse, as I prostrated right where I was. If disownment was the alternative to death via thrashing, my choice was clear.

“What nonsense! You’re indeed my son. And will always be.” Disinheritance bid unsuccessful. Then he motioned at something. Now, unlike Mama, Papa always went to the imperative statement; he had no time for rhetorical questions. He would only summarize the purpose of the thrashing after it was over, like, “Next time you won’t go and break somebody’s louvre blades with a ball.” So, I stood in front of him and awaited the imperative statement.

“Go and bring those canes.” He added for effect, and apparently to heighten my torment, “They are ALL yours.”

My eyes followed his outstretched hand from origin, across my head and to, my goodness, the back of the kitchen door. Yes, where stood the two skyscraper sticks that would draw the curtain on my sojourn in this world of sin and flagellation and death. This was the end; it couldn’t be any clearer. From far off in the galaxies, I could hear Papa’s favorite song from his phonograph playing in my head, my thumping heart replacing the bass drum as Jim Reeves sang, Take my hand…precious Lord, lead me home.

But Papa would interrupt the flow and abort my levitation, bringing me back to the parlour where I was now inching my way towards the kitchen, bum and boxers united by sweat. He smiled.

“Your headmaster said you passed your Common Entrance exam so I stopped to buy you some sugar cane. You like them, don’t you?”

It was the end of the week on a Friday when I answered my telephone. Even before I picked up my phone, I felt that I could feel the sense of urgency to its demanding rings. I considered letting it continue to ring and leaving the office for the weekend, but in a job like mine, I knew that it could be an emergency with one of my psychiatric patients. I really wanted to go home to my cozy apartment and have a stiff drink since it had been a difficult week for me. I pictured and imagined the smell of the warm pot roast that my housekeeper had left in my oven. I hadn’t had time to eat any lunch and was ravenous.

“Hello,” I said into the mouthpiece, trying not to show my annoyed feelings. “This is Dr. Cohen.”

“Dr. Cohen, this is Jade. I just needed to hear your reassuring voice. I am feeling shaky and a little unhinged. The last couple of months have been challenging for me.”

I felt a tremor of concern course through my body upon hearing Jade’s voice. She seldom called me with good news. “Jade, is anything wrong? Where are you? Is your husband okay?” I really hated to ask these questions but believed that I needed to get to the bottom of Jade’s obvious emotional state. At the same time, I felt a little aroused as I waited for her tale to begin to unfold. Jade took the actions that were only ‘pie in the sky’ for me. My admiration for Jade began to increase as I saw her reach for her dreams once again. I could imagine such things but I did not have the guts to follow through. One day, I hoped to let my inhibitions go.

“Oh, Dr. Cohen, I am no longer in North Dakota and I am no longer with my husband.”

“Did you get a divorce or are you separated?” I asked hopefully, needing her to assure me that he was still in the land of the living. However, I knew that this was unlikely.

“My beloved husband, Jim, had a terrible accident. The bed of a truck came down suddenly and crushed him to death. Please don’t think it was my fault – it was an accident. The truck mechanism malfunctioned and slammed down on him. The insurance company admitted that the truck was defective and settled out of court,” Jade promised with muffled sobs. “I am so upset and will miss him so terribly.”

I really did not believe Jade entirely but she was so convincing. I knew that I must give her the benefit of the doubt. And she did sound very distressed and troubled. “Jade, are you all right? I am so sorry. I know that you really seemed to like this husband. Where are you? Would you like to come in to see me? Is there anything else bothering you that you want to talk about?” In my heart, I wanted Jade to be a normal person and I couldn’t help but care about her. She had been my patient for a long time and I felt a connection to her. Her downward erosion seemed to be pulling my values down to her levels and I couldn’t do anything about it. I also was beginning to become sexually aroused by the tales of her exploits, although I did not want to admit my shortcomings.

“I had to get away from North Dakota after the tragedy,” informed Jade. “I am in the sunshine in Miami Beach trying to get back to normal. I need this time to rest and recuperate and can’t get in to see you now. But there is something I need to discuss with you. Do you have a few minutes?”

“Of course, Jade,” I reassured her. “Is something bothering you other than the tragic death of your husband?”

“Dr. Cohen, I am still having feelings of paranoia. I am sure that some sinister person is watching me and wants to do me harm. He seems to be inside my mind, making me believe that he is responsible for the hardships and pain in my life. Is this a just a figment of my imagination or is this really happening to me? I try not to have these feelings but they are beginning to overcome me. They seem to persist day and night and I find it hard to go on with my life.”

“My plan is beginning to work,” I thought. “Soon Jade will be completely consumed by her paranoia. I think that she will eventually be unable to function and I won’t have to take any drastic actions. The course of her behavior needs to stop and I must become the master manipulating his puppet.” My slight body seemed to expand and become more powerful as I took charge of my patient.

“Jade,” I assured her, “if you think something is so, it is true in your mind. You must avoid the conduct that brings on your paranoia. It might be reaching the time that you need to take yourself away from the world to a place where you can be helped and medicated. Do you think that now is the time when you feel ready for this kind of solitude and peace from your thoughts?” I smiled as I thought of having Jade in my complete control where she would have no choice but to cater to my every whim. “Yes,” I thought, “an institution would be perfect for her and I could see her whenever I wanted.”

I listened as Jade’s mood completely changed from darkness to light.

“Dr. Cohen, I am fine,” she chirped with a lilt in her voice. “I was just feeling some doubts and needed to hear your voice. I feel much better now. Thanks for helping me and talking to me. I will keep in touch with you.” She had dismissed me summarily, as if my advice had no merit.

Hearing the phone disconnect, I held the phone in my hand, unable to put it down. I was overcome by a feeling of apprehension. I was angry that she did not listen to my advice. A chill convulsed my body but I knew that I could do no more. Maybe in the future, Jade would be more amenable to my suggestions. If not, I would have to do whatever I could to stop her. I really did not want to do what I feared would be necessary.

_____________________________________________________________________

Title:  Jade Murder Without Remorse

Genre: Psychological Thriller 

Age Range:  Adult from 18 to 80

Word Count this write: 1100 words Book Word Count 64987 words

Author Name:  Pen Name: Sari Lantana Real Name: Claire Grebin

Why a good fit: This book would be a good fit because it is an exciting psychological thriller which would appeal to many readers.  It has a very unique twist that no one will be able to foresee. It is very well researched and delves into psychological aberrations.

The hook:  The subject of this book is a psychopathic murderer.  The book delves into what caused her to be this way and is seen through a psychiatrist's eyes. Every murder draws the reader in but the conclusions reached will not be what is expected.

synopsis: Escape into the realm of the beautiful, psychopathic Jade who commands both love and hate as she charges forward in many twists and turns, engineering novel ways to kill her four husbands. Become immersed in the world of renowned psychiatrist, Dr. Cohen, who is conducting a research study on psychopaths, hoping to understand them and prevent them from treading on dangerous paths. The story of Jade is told as seen through the eyes of Dr. Cohen. But Dr. Cohen has a hidden, devious aspect as he finds himself becoming involved in a symbiotic relationship with Jade. Against his better judgment, he finds himself wishing that he had the courage to take a risk and explore the dark side as his patient does. Will he have the courage to step over the line? The suspense mounts to a conclusion that will be both shocking and unexpected. Ride this thrilling adventure into the uncharted future because the ending will prove challenging and out of the realm of imagination of even the most astute.

Target Audience:  Adults of any age.

Bio Platform:  I am a self-taught writer, college educated and have a background of owning and operating a dive boat charter business from Miami to the Bahamas where I saw many unusual situations and interesting characters which made me want to write my first book, Bahama Red, Intrigue on the High Seas, which is based loosely on my experiences.  I now have a second book, Jade Murder Without Remorse, and am working on my third book, Half of Me is Missing, which will tie back to my book, Jade Murder Without Remorse.  My books are published as e-books. I write on Prose daily and am number one on their popularity list so have many followers.

Personality:  I am creative in most areas such as my writing and I also paint and sell my work.  I love adventure and like to incorporate it into my books.  I love to walk, do aerobics, go to the gym and I also like to socialize. I have a love for the sea and often include it in my work.  I am lucky enough to live in a little seaside town which feeds my passion.  I love to research my books so that the reader will become fascinated but not feel overwhelmed by pedantic facts.  I love to fool the reader so the ending will be completely unexpected.

Likes/Hobbies:  I write, paint, sew, enjoy friends, fish, like the beach, enjoy exercise, prolific reader.

Hometown:  Flagler Beach, Florida