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Creative Corner: ‘Love is a pink candy floss gremlin, hiding under a rock.’

They say: love is mysterious, love is beautiful, love is iridescent and glittering, something ethereal and sublime – and hey, who am I to say that it’s not? But for most of us, being the imperfect obsessive creatures that we are, love has a little stubby turned up nose like a bat and glinting pointed claws and fur sticking up in spikes. Skittering, scattering, sniffling … Continue reading Creative Corner: ‘Love is a pink candy floss gremlin, hiding under a rock.’

Creative Corner: ‘A Strange Morning’

He wakes up like any other day: with a jolt from a dream. Today it was odd, but the memory slips from him the more he tries to grasp it. After a few moments, he sits up in his warm bed, slowly pushing off the many layers of blankets. He stands up on unsteady legs, the kind that only come from waking up too quickly … Continue reading Creative Corner: ‘A Strange Morning’

Creative Corner: Recurring Dream

I’m in a wood and it’s dark. Trees compete to thrust their limbs Above the earth. Their branches twine and tease, Threading my hair into knots, Wet as moss. I’m in a wood and I’m running, And the leaves lash out harder than my pace. They smack me like shadows, Full of reproach, Carrying the night forward, onwards, forever. In the shortest breath, I hear … Continue reading Creative Corner: Recurring Dream

Cooking and Conversation

They say the first sign of insanity is talking to yourself, but for me it is a sign I’m cooking. I admit, there is a certain flair of insanity to my culinary methods. I defy measuring, exchange ingredients routinely, and follow recipes how I follow most advice – listening but rarely enacting. Cooking is a language for me. I’ve confessed and drank wine with Nigella, I’ve laughed and ranted with Ramsay, and I’ve questioned Oliver on many occasions. Cooking is a warm hello in the shape of tender meat and clouds of mash, it is an apology sweetened with strawberries, it is a declaration of love infused with chillies, and it is a get well soon in the shape of a bowl of garden vegetable soup. Continue reading Cooking and Conversation

love in the time of Corona : part i

I think I fell in love three times during the escape. This was all unexpected. A few months ago, I was intending to go to Edinburgh, way up north from England. One harmonious night, in a local, crowded bar in London, I met this old man who had his dog outside at the entrance, almost boozed out but conscious enough to intuitively like or dislike a person. Continue reading love in the time of Corona : part i

The Life Chronicles: I Don’t Like Cider

I don’t always choose red wine. Red wine sinks, and makes a barrel of my body. It turns my purple eyelids heavy, and my pink tongue, purple. I drink a glass in the garden and watch the cracks in the patio or the pegs on the line: the ones that are so old that opening breaks them, belonging to tenants long-gone.
Sometimes white wine wins. It is strong and acidic, demanding the drinker to stay alert. White wine matches white blossoms, which match dinner in the garden, which matches white wine. Pollen tickles the inside of the nose and bees hum upon a bed of weeds, the one littered with dead bluebells. Continue reading The Life Chronicles: I Don’t Like Cider

i just woke up from the worst night of my life. i am twenty years old. i live in a city called Riverside, another city in the west. i am not from here. i come from Africa, the eastern part of Ethiopia, if you must know. i am here for school, attending college. and last night, last night was the darkest of nights for me. i am most certain the devil visited me. it hugged, kissed and did not let me sleep until my whole self gave up to its unsolicited caress. somethings are true. fear, anxiety, devil, evil, these things are true. they are for everyone in some ways, but until they happen to you, it is easy to believe they are not true. some crazed minds made them up to scare others. because until they happen to you for real, the idea of thinking about them is fun, enjoyable, giggly. but not last night. not when my lonely room shrunk to six inches, and in the midst of gasping for breath, in the midst of my extreme exhaustion, i was still keeping a tab on my eyes not to close themselves – because i did not trust them anymore. that i would not wake up if i let them shut. that the devil, in its grotesque gaze, was waiting for me to make this mistake for a split second, so it manifests itself all over my naked body in winter – sweating in winter, in a cold room.
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