Krystal Pen

Fiction, Poetry and everything Literary. Every voice should be heard.

Tag Archive for ‘Nemine Funge-owei Michael’

Ghosts on the loose/ series/ chapter 5

The sun rays flicked slowly, bringing in a feel of safety. Toma laid on the bed, eyes folded, hands clenched and lips tightened and drawn-out. It was how he folded in Maa’s arms in the night, to be hard, hard enough to repel the fear. I smiled and touched his lips, pushing them back gently. They melted, relaxing into a tender plane. Then he wiped his lips with his tongue […]

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Ghosts on the loose/ series/ chapter 4

Kolokuma sat on the white plastic chair and felt a blistering liberty; a looseness amidst the heat within him, like feathers flaunting in the wind. He rolled the sweats away from his pale hand with his thumb and thought of the next morning; covering a few more kilometers and sacking more calories. The morning was frosty. It kept his sportswear moist a little longer. He hummed larghetto melodies and watched […]

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Ghosts on the loose/ Series/ Chapter 3

A day before. Weird kolokuma sat on the cane chair kept permanently at the entrance of his log cabin and made the sound of different gunshots with his lips. It was his way of telling his personal account of the war. Nobody liked him because he was a demon, a demon inside the body of a fifty-something year old albino- because demons do not have voices, they only compel people […]

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Free men/ Poetry

Men live in twos but free men live without conflict. The conflicts are sands; enticing and without heads. The conflicts are when you want to be a seed, living on the surface when you want to travel with the wind. Men live in twos but free men live without conflict. Free men are the souls with no hide; seeds that abide. They are also the bodies without a soul, mere […]

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This is how a man dies/ Poetry

First; He chases shadows of coins and delicate things budding from Sheba’s queen dancing in the wind, bearing no compass. Second; He wears away from his vessel like woeful steam rejecting a black kettle. Third; He becomes hyacinth roaming Forcados; homeless, while his vessel wears away and finds a space among clays. Fourth; He becomes a memory. This is how a man dies.

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I want to die sailing/ Poetry

  Tell me about the death you bring I long for it At least, it brings a devouring pleasure And bolting streams of sweats Tell me about the lips The taste of five colonies of bees burnt The savagery of hyenas folded into the dark Tell me about these bumps Abandoned on corners carefully Soft fire that rolls peace from skins Valleys sitting like mountains Tell me about those sacs […]

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