The Healing (part 1)

During the war, we fought on opposite sides – two factions divided by a common hate for one another – we killed one another’s’ friends, relatives and childhood. We were 12 and we had been told we were fighting a holy war. A war which would grant us revenge. A war which would eradicate the pain in our hearts from losing loved ones, the more enemies’ throat we slit the closer we got. We were told it could only end with one side obliterated. A war which would make us happy. Which was all we wanted.

No side came out victorious, only more blood and pain. Only more hatred layered with sadness. Only more of the same. Then, out of the blue, the war ended. And, it was over. We were told to pack and leave. Left alone, both in our twenties, clueless as to what to do next. The uselessness of what we had done struck us. We had not changed anything. The pain was there, only stronger. Looking back we saw solely the regret of a now long gone childhood. We were left stranded with no skills aside from how to expedite bullets from the barrels of guns to pierce flesh.

At a loss for what to do and where to go. I frantically searched for activities I could do. Dancing, singing and Dj-ing. The sound kept the noises in my ear quiet. One day, I saw a flier glued to a wall. The wall was slightly burnt, scars left from the battles.

It read:

Healing and discussion center for all children who participated as soldiers in the war. We are here to hear and help you. Please come share your story.

I snickered at the flier. At the time, realisation of ramifications of the war on myself had not yet come over my mind. I lingered in a state of absolute denial. However, I went. Out of sheer curiosity. Who would be there? Would anyone even come?

We met in a small hut outside town. The place had a beautiful garden and serving as entrance was a large arch covered in vines and flowers which twirled and intertwined over the archway. I arrived and saw the inner parts of the construct. There were no chairs. Only small red pillows sitting in a perfect ⭕️ circle. I was the first to arrive. So, I simply sat there and waited a while. A fresh smell of earth and grass abounds the air of this little hut, I noted.

Gradually, I heard footsteps making there way through the garden and into the hut. I was on my back, laying down sprawled on the ground, arms stretched. I turned my head to see who had come. And then, I saw him.

That man. The one I had searched for everyday on the battlefield. The reason I had gone through that hell. He gave a short bow with his head, acknowledging my presence then sat cross-legged across from me. I stood up and stared into his eyes. He stared back. We said nothing. A minute passed and then two and then five. Still, we said nothing. We stared. His eyes gleamed shortly as though he had just recalled something. Within myself I felt an overflowing fountain of lava nearing implosion. He was the man I had wanted to kill. His face had been splattered on many posters during the war. He had been the leader of the squad which had killed my family. I scrutinised him carefully and realised he was around my age. Perhaps a year or two more at best. Then suddenly:

I lunged towards him, going straight for his throat […]

—— ——– ——— —— ——- ——–

Poem by Issa Dioume: Tumor, tu meurs #poem #bilingual #experimental #art

Tumor, tu meurs
Like budding petals of a fleur.

Tumor, tu meurs
Like a languidly beating Coeur.

Tumor… Tu meurs
Like the mots of passants.

Tu meurs, tumor
Like the life of mes parents.

Tumor, je meurs
So be it, il était temps.

Tu meurs, ils pleurent
These are the tears des enfants.

Tôt le matin, j’irai cueillir la rosée, des fleurs du lendemain.

– Issa Dioume, 2018, 15th April
Click for more on writer’s website

Jenny ran sur the colline —- French & English but, same theme & ideas (collaboration with Aimé lesot)

Jenny courait sur la colline. Ses fossettes creusaient ses joues, témoignaient de sa joie manifeste. Ses pieds martelaient le chemin en terre, laissaient des empruntes et délogeaient les petits cailloux de leur cratère dorénavant appauvris. Devant: un horizon sans ligne – seulement de grands arbres, feutrant les rayons du soleil. Derrière: seulement le souvenir de ce qu’elle avait entraperçu dans sa course dépourvue de but premier. Elle était seule – heureuse – et jouissait de son isolation mouvante.

Solace, to her, was the fruit of exile and isolation. After moving from Maxmouth – a beautiful city in the countryside- to the big concrete urban jungle of San Peregio the stability of her family’s life, which had once been harmonious and a source of happiness for Jenny, came tumbling down. The earlier congeniality now found itself replaced by perpetual pandemonium. This was tantamount to swimming up a river and suddenly finding yourself falling off the edges of a waterfall.

Elle tombait souvent. Ses genoux et ses coudes étaient couverts de petites cicatrices – de croûtes quand elle venait à perdre l’équilibre. Jenny savait qu’il était impossible à l’Homme de remonter une chute d’eau, elle avait tenté, maintes fois, sans succès. Les courants nous poussent en un sens, un peu à la manière de la providence. De ce raisonnement métaphysique elle en avait déduit que rien ne pouvait se rembobiner, que tout était à assimiler, à comprendre, et que le rebond ne valait le plongeon que lorsqu’un soupçon de relief – de joie – pointait derrière un nuage. Et puis elle l’avait vu dans le ciel; et aujourd’hui elle avait décidé de nager à contre courant.
Elle courait, et derrière les arbres et le soleil feutré s’écrasait l’eau en bas d’une chute.

And she declared to the wind, thinking aloud, “Speak my name to the ventriloquist, beg him to stop cramming words into my mouth. Pain is the substance society thrives on. It thrives off of subjecting its subjects to pain” and she suddenly understood” I am the ventriloquist.” The camera panned out, zoomed through the air and framed a boy pedalling up a hill. As he pedalled away, the load became quite substantive and a bit rough on his calves. Nevertheless, the little boy went onwards to the top of the hill and there, stood admiring the sunshine.

By

Issa Dioume (English);poet/writer/lover of words

&

Aimé Lesot (French); poet/writer/ philosophy addict

English Writer’s website:

https://thebiligualwriter.com

French Writer’s website:

https://aimelesot.wordpress.com

Where do they all fall?

My boiling blood told me they all fall, grow stark cold, then roll away, forgotten. Leaving behind a sweet serenade of stupor and the slow dwindling of memories. My boiling blood told me it would go cold turkey one day; simply stop warming my bones and flesh.Without warning. I know yet fear cold. I can’t escape cold, but then again, what can I escape?

At night, I hear flowing blood drumming in my ears, urging me to listen to the beating drum in my heart; a repetitive rhythm slowly coming to a stop.

In winter my blood boils hotter, to keep me safe. It’s effective. It cares for me, I think.

The landscape unravels like a fakir deploying his magical carpet and slowing floating toward the sky and off into the sunset. The clouds are pretty today. I didn’t quite like yesterday’s clouds. What will tomorrow’s be like? It’s, perhaps, not something people care for but, I do. I care, for clouds.

And, I care about where they all go when they fall. Those boiling fruits of blood.

Division revision- poem by Issa

Sometimes the water flows
Sometimes the water stills
Stilling my hopes in crypts

Sometimes it rains on my face
Sometimes sun radiates off of it
Burning men like cigarettes

Sometimes I care.
Sometimes I don’t.

Sometimes I share.
Sometimes I won’t.

Blue birds fly unseen in the sky.
Only perceived when poked in the eye.
Manichean Mannequins of wonder.

Wanderers under a flattening roof
Unimpaired by water. It’s Rustproof.

Look yonder to cross the border.
As we are: birds of the same feather

Written by Issa Dioume

Author’s website:

Issa Dioume’s writing

Mystery Blogger Award # 3 & 4

Thank you Winnie for nominating me for the Mystery Blogger Award.

MYSTERY BLOGGER AWARD:

What is that? “Its an award for amazing bloggers with ingenious posts. Their blog not only captivates; it inspires and motivates. They are one of the best out there and they deserve every recognition they get. This award is also for bloggers who find fun and inspiration in blogging and they do it with so much love and passion.” Created by Okoto Enigma

Rules

1. Put the award’s logo/image in your post.
2. List the rules.
3. Thank whoever nominated you and include link to their blog.
4. Tell your readers three things about yourself.
5. Nominate 10-20 bloggers you feel deserve the award.
6. Notify your nominees by commenting on their blog.
7. Ask your nominees 5 questions of your choice with one weird or funny one.

3 things about me:

1. I love Isaac Asimov and his three laws of robotics. In I, Robot.

2. I travel a lot, and lived twelve years in India and eight in France. The rest of my years were spent travelling the globe.

3. I love getting constructive criticism on my posts. It is the only way to grow and improve further as a writer.

My answers to Winnie’s questions:

  1. What’s an injustice for you?
    To me an injustice is when someone’s action impede someone else’s freedom. As human beings we are liable to fall prey to our impulses. Some of them are good but a lot of them can cause negative repercussions on the life of our fellow human beings. So, I believe it is important to reign them and keep them under control.
  2. What country are you from?
    I am from French but as I mentioned earlier I spent more time outside of France then in the country itself.
  3. Who’s your favorite author? Please share some quotes from his/her book.
    My favorite author as of now is Paul Auster.
    Here is a quote from Moon Palace: “[…] I decided that the thing I should do was nothing: my action would consist of a militant refusal to take any action at all. This was nihilism raised to the level of an aesthetic proposition. I would turn my life into a work of art […]”
  4. What inspires you to write?
    My inspiration comes from myself. From personal experience or things I observe or hear in everyday drivel. I take what I hear and morph it into a story that fits into a narrative I want to drive.
  5. Do you believe in supernatural beings? Please explain.
    I do not believe in supernatural beings. I believe that we strive to reach the UBERMENCH Nietzsche talked about. Although I do not think it is possible mentally, physically with drugs we may one day reach a supernatural physical state. I believe humans have a very creative imagination. And a lot of the supernatural stories are derived from figments of imagination out of  creative minds that could become writers themselves.

My questions for my nominees:

1. Is honesty always a good thing?
2. Is monogamy a cultural thing or natural thing?
3. As a writer, what form/style of writing do you prefer?
4. Why did you take this path of writing?
5. How has writing impacted your life and way of thinking? Please develop.

My nominees are:

  1. Of course Winnie (thank you for the nomination once more)
  2. velvetscreams
  3. Cody Reed
  4. Foolchund Saahil
  5. Richard Tilly
  6. David Redpath
  7. Patrick Walts
  8. Anouschka Glunt
  9. Apple Rae
  10. Lia, The Curious Snowflake

Please, keep me updated and tell me when you have answered the questions. Thank you! Have a good day!

A TUMULTUOUS VOYAGE (part 7)

[…]  Bramin turned his head around. He found the way back now barred, by what appeared to be two gigantic similar-looking men. Probably twins, he thought.

He stepped forward, mentally steeling himself, slowly making his way to where the trio stood; waiting, with evil smirks across their faces.
He opted to head for the target which seemed simplest to quickly take out. The young boy. Strategically, it was the logical option. The boy appeared to possess ranged weapons, which could  be used to shoot at Bramin from a distance, and hamper him in his fight. A headache he did not want to face.

” Hello! What do you sweet gentlemen want, at this early hour? he said, closing in on them, I am in a hurry. I have somewhere to be. And, the journey to get here was not a cakewalk.”

The unconcerned sun began to point its nose in the horizon. Sending streaks of light splashing into the streets. Allowing Bramin to better assimilate his surroundings.
Suddenly, the stooge-looking fellow approached with an assured smile. However, Bramin could see the man was not confident. What betrayed him? His speed, he walked too slowly, too cautiously, clearly wary of the young man facing him. He took his time and made sure not to get in Bramin’s range, or, what he thought was his range.

“We are exhausted as well from our own journey. It would make it easier for everyone if you simply handed over your possessions without making us have to take your life.” He sized Bramin up with a quick glance then said ” You are fairly young, don’t waste the years your mother spent caring for you by being reckless.”

Here we go, thought Bramin. Now the words had been spoken, there was no going back. Either he would do as they told him and risk being gutted all the same, or, they would fight and, someone would die. What remained to be decided was: whom?. He was severely outnumbered, his only chance hanged on whether he could outclass them in terms of skills and outsmart them. Silence pervaded the air. Weighing on everyone’s mind.
“I prefer the two other options, Bramin filled his voice full of intimidation and power, I live and you let me pass through unobstructed. Or, you attempt to stop me, fail miserably, die in regret and I take possessions off some lifeless cadavers. Yours. All of yours.”

The stooge-looking fellow, grabbing the hilt of his sword, looked over his shoulder and said ” Well, we gave him the choice now, didn’t we? Whatever happens now, is destiny’s will.” The two others smiled stupidly back.
Bramin drew his sword. Pulling on its haft until it hung high up in the air. And, brought it down on him with one swift strike across the chest. The speed of the strike made it barely visible to the naked eye. The man hardly had the time to spin his head back to admire the scarlet result. His face showed incredulity as he starred down at the line on his thorax from which blood now spurted out, like an erupting volcano. *Clank* He sank to the ground and remained there. Forever.

The smiling duo ahead now looked quite grim. Their smiles had been wiped off their faces along with Bramin’s strike. What remained was O-gaping  mouths followed by ugly grimaces.
Bramin leapt forward. Rushing towards the young boy. The two giants behind finally reacted and started running after him, but, it was too late. Bramin reached the boy and, using the blunt edge of his sword, attempted to knock the boy out. On his right, the one that had looked like the leader rushed forth and parried the strike with great effort. Pushed back by the strike, he landed squarely his rump. I should have used the slicing edge, thought Bramin admonishing himself, then, there would be two of him right now.

Before he could get back to his feet, Bramin rushed towards him – sword raised high up. Abruptly, he felt a blade dig into his ribs. Damn! Forgot the kid! Bramin pulled a small star-shaped blade out of his sides and threw it towards the gigantic mammoths heading his way. Then, he ran. Past the boy, leaping over the man on his back; Dodging, as more flying-stars were sent his way.
He backed up in a tight sombre alley and waited. This time, they would have to come to him. As prey now became predator. Blood flowed down to his sides but he remained sharp as a sword. Ready. For, whatever would come next, he had already played out in his head […]

Written by Issa Dioume

Author’s website: thebiligualwriter.com

Previous part of the story:
A TUMULTUOUS VOYAGE (Part 6)

If – by Issa @thebiligualwriter.com #poem

Clickety-click, there comes Debros and his stick
Hear a clickin’? Know Debros comes a-knockin’!
If snooting around you see a round man in a suit
Wearing dirty boots, to boot and a shivering left foot.

Squirming like a toad,         heaving,                 from his heavy load.
If upon a road, you smell – odours of a putrid rotten cell.
If you sense slimy hands, latch onto your back; and there: dwell.
AND a cold raspy voice akin to dishracks; Know this: Debros will attack.
Clickety-click, Rickety-rick there go Debros and stick; Off to freeze another candle wick.

Written By Issa Dioume
Author’s website:

https://thebiligualwriter.com/

A TUMULTUOUS VOYAGE (Part 6)

[…] Bramin, walking up drawn-out alleyways, carried a flyssa sword on his back ; a green-white pearl bracelet gifted to him by his mother ; a satchel leather bag with a long-gilded strap, which allowed him enough room for flexible movements. That was why he wore it, as he was fully aware of the dangers which accompanied the hazardous journey he was pledged to. He might, one day, find himself in a situation where a quick reaction would be primordial.
The pearl bracelet was a keepsake he wore to never forget what had set him on course to find the treasures of the wild jungles of Azerkah. The pearls – imbued with T’ien’ttai – held magical properties of slight healing and better-than-average fortune.

Ahead of him stood a bundle of huts topped by thatched roofs of straw, sedge and other types of vegetation – all huddled together. They resembled a band of bandits hiding behind bushes in a dark forest waiting for an unsuspecting prey to pass them before furtively pouncing at it. Bramin walked cautiously past the huts, ready to draw at the first sight of any movement. He began climbing his ascension up an inclined stairway leading to the centre of the city. However, trouble came quickly his way. An unfamiliar young man walking up unfamiliar streets armed with a sword – an easy target for conspiring bands of criminals –  is but a fruit ripe for the taking.

A party of three dubious looking individuals surfaced further along the road. But, Bramin instinctively guessed they were not alone. Animated shadows danced about behind the huts, eyes threw daggers his way from hidden cramped  side-alleyways. The three shady looking individuals moved up to block his path. One, who acted like the leader, was tall; wore grey rounded spectacles on his nose; and a black cloak. Another, who looked like an everyday stooge stepped forward, chest heaving up proudly, beckoning Bramin to come closer – an omen of misadventure. The last one, a young boy looking only fourteen or fifteen at best – seven years my youth thought Bramin gloomily. The young boy wore a red bandana and at his side rested a sharp curved dagger along with what seemed like star-shaped throwing darts. Bramin did not want to be forced to hurt an immature pup barely off his mother’s tit.

As he moved along, his hand gripped the rugged handle of his sword – ready to unsheathe if given no other choice. […]

Written by Issa Dioume

Click for part 5 of ‘A TUMULTUOUS VOYAGE’

Author’s website for other writing: https://thebiligualwriter.com/coffeebreak/

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