The Descent - Sky, Year 2

Onyx liquid spills
over pearl white.
Obsidian eyes
glisten in the night,
like shadow cast
over virgin white.

Hand over mouth,
in fright.
Body half-drowned in ink,
sunken eyes yearn
for the last ray of light,
a futile fight.

Consumed, she becomes.
Wrapped in his watery cloak,
tight.

Tamar Knott (Year 1) - Sea Urchin

While waiting for a ship to wreck
Lantern in her hand
A young mermaid caught by a smuggler
Was dragged onto the land

Her tail gone, she cursed him
In the language of the sea
But he could not understand a word
“I was trying to save ye”

He took her too his family
They raised her as their own
Taught her how to use her legs
Gave her words to call land home

But just as birds are made for flying
She belonged beneath the water
She could never be quite like them
Even though they called her “daughter”

She placed her dress upon the sand
Let herself be claimed by waves
And that dear little sea urchin
Had never felt so brave

Year 2 - 'Winter' By Claire Fraser

‘Tis a sight to see,

and one that I saw with relish,

the transformation

of beautiful burgundies

into bewitching blues and ivories.

Thence I enjoy

platinum ballerinas

dancing through the ether.

Skating around each other

like lovers immersed in pursuit.

Bare broad shoulders

coated in porcelain stars

hang dormant above my head

as I rest on its slender trunk

admiring branch and rime.

Alex Pearson (Year 1) - Darling

Dear Diary,

I know it has been years since the last time I wandered your pages, and despite your inanimate nature, I feel the need to apologize. You have laid quietly on your shelf, patient and plain; the perfect keeper for the secrets of a crone. Upon spying your dusted leather cover, I knew you were the only one in the world that would listen to my feelings now.

I feel that this withered paper-skinned claw is in fact the only way I can express myself anymore. In these stale moments of clarity, my pen is the only voice I have. The time between each coherent thought is noticeably thinning, and I have been trying to appreciate them as they come. So today, old friend, I would like to tell you about Darling. If there were anything I ever needed to leave behind in this world, I believe it would have to be her.

                We met on a day that sits like a stone in my memory, and the bitterness I felt at the time still stings on the back of my tongue. The skies had been rebelling against every summer plan the world threatened to make, and that misery accompanied me as I sat brooding in Brooke Park. The swing I rested upon whined under my weight, and I remember the feel of chipping rust under my tight grip, the metal chains that held the seat too weak in my frustrated hands. I remember the desperation to will away the pricks at the corners of my eyes, and how I failed shortly after. Mostly, I remember the childlike hatred I felt for my fiancé, who had left just that morning to aid in the war efforts.

                It was all so unfair. That was what my young and selfish mind had been brewing for the past few hours. He was leaving because of some grandiose need to prove himself to his parents, and it left me by myself in a place I loathed, surrounded by people that alienated me. It had seemed to my narrow mind that the universe was abandoning me, much like my would-be husband. Had I been left to my thoughts, I’m quite sure I would have done something completely idiotic.

                As something a bit less important sounding than fate would have it, I was not condemned to my own presence for much longer. A young woman, who looked to be about my age, approached me from the shade of a nearby willow tree. I recall that I jumped when I noticed her, and that her advance was almost ghostly. In the gloom of the sky and the darkness from under the tree’s protective branches, the girl’s silvery blonde hair and porcelain skin had been masked. It was only as she moved into the clear that her pearl-colored form became altogether and vividly apparent.

                I had remained silent to her progress, lips pressed into a thin line and head bent, unwilling to further see or speak to this near luminescent woman. Even when the frame of the rickety swings squeaked once again, signaling that she had sat beside me, I did not move. Some form of ridiculous determination glued me to my seat. The new silence that occurred from this stubbornness stretched for what seemed like a true hour.

                Then from the corner of my vision, something small and brilliantly red caught my eye. I lifted my head and glared with swollen eyes at the full crimson rose that was being held in my direction. My anger-tightened gaze rose to meet hers, and I believe I had intended to snap at this harmless display of humanity. However, I never said a single word because when I looked at her fully I recognized a shining set of teeth and kind blue eyes, and I was immediately awed into silence. She was beautiful, and it wasn’t just her features that made her so. My misplaced aggression drained away and I found myself reaching for the rose, a return smile building on my lips.

                From there on, Darling was my single comfort in life.

We grew very close in the coming years, and as the war grew worse, I found myself withdrawing more and more. The letters I would occasionally receive from my fiancé came in sparser quality and quantity until they stopped coming altogether. Darling did her best to console me, and for quite some time it seemed to work.

She was mischievous and gutsy, I came to learn, and the longer I knew her, the more I enjoyed her company. Unassuming in appearance, Darling frequently drank and sang entire pubs under their tables. She was loud and charming, tossing around her argent locks like it was a game, fearless of everything. The men worshipped her, and the women tried, and failed, to hate her.

I learned that she liked to believe herself mature and settled, which was easily disproved by everything about her. I remember her telling me about how black coffee was the only way to go, and how her face screwed in on itself upon each sip.

Darling almost never spoke about her life, and I valued that I was the only person she told anything. I was more than surprised, and even a little bit jealous when I discovered that she was married. He was apparently a stoic man. A writer. Tall. Average looking.

Getting the details out of her was almost as difficult as nailing jelly to a tree. It seemed that they married more for money and status than for love, and sometimes I would see a look of such sadness on her face I felt like weeping for her.

I made many memories with Darling, including the time we spent playing at every fair that dared arrive in our town. She pranced about like she was made of nothing, and the exhaustion I felt paneling after her was rewarded by the simple pleasure and fun it was to be with her. Each time we went, she would save up her coins and buy Fairy Floss. It was one of our favorite treats, and while she would hold the pink floss, I would hold the blue. When we were just about done with each one, we would split the ends and share our newly created sugary purple concoction. I found myself living for those little moments.

There were so many things about Darling that I feel I will never be able to fully illustrate.

The way she held her herself. As if she could dance away at any instant.

How she wrote poetry on her wrists.

The way she would run and laugh in thunderstorms.

Her voice when she was singing just to me, and how she would sing louder when I teased her about it.

The way she tried her best in everything she did.

Forgive me. If you had known her as I had, maybe writing these words would not make me so sad. For then, you would know she was not just a dream as well.  

I believe Darling knew I loved her. Even though we never spoke of it, and I never made any effort to make my affections clear. I felt as if speaking of it would pollute the feeling. It would make it real, and force it to exist in a world where it couldn’t survive. So, it laid mute at our feet, both of us aware, but neither of us willing to raise it. I know Darling loved me as well, in her own way, and I was content with such attention.

It was not until Darling vanished for weeks at a time that I grew anxious about us. She would send me away without so much as seeing me, and it was by the third week of isolation that I had finally had enough. I barged into her home, expectant to find her performing some idle chore, but when I found my way to her, the accusatory words that had been building under my tongue fizzled and died.

A third of her face was swollen blue and purple, savage marks ripped across her lips, cheekbones, and brow. One of her crystalline eyes peered at me through a slit, and when recognition shone in her irises, panic followed shortly after. She told me immediately that I needed to leave. I remember how I stood there in complete shock, my ignorant brain trying to piece together what was going on. My hands had risen and fallen uselessly, and my mouth hung open like a dead fish.

When the story finally came to fruition, I pulled Darling close and wrapped my arms around her. She had stood like a statue in my embrace, and had it not been for the wet warmth on my shoulder, I would have thought her indifferent to my attempts of comfort.

Once we had separated, I made her tell me everything. She did, for the most part. To this day, I am sure she shielded me from the worst of it, but I feel some peace at knowing she could tell someone eventually.

As the story went, Darling told me her husband had been fired from his last deal, and he relieved himself with the company of alcohol and ladies of the night. Then he would come home late and let out other forms of frustration on his convenient wife. It was the unlucky dark hours in which Darling was awake that this would occur, and being the woman she was, speaking out to him or anyone else would do no good.

My blood had built to boil by the time she finished, and I turned my head in shame. I hadn’t known, and now that I did know, I could do nothing about it. I remember my hands had gripped hers tightly, as if that alone would be enough to protect her, and she’d smiled messily at me. After that, the days went on, and I went to see her more often. I had understood that if I were always around, I could be there to worsen the blows, so to speak.

I despaired to realize the endeavor was hopeless, though. Time soldiered on and I could not always fill Darling’s home with my shielding presence. The bruises continued and worsened, and I watched the woman I loved decay before me. Her glossy hair turned frayed and lackluster. Intelligent eyes dulled and the sowed lines of her face betrayed her usually elusive age. Her smile was a mere phantom of the past, and inspired more sadness than joy.

I knew she was dying, and I was useless to stop it. A depression fiercely dissimilar to the loss of my fiancé struck me, and the days we so usually spent in merriment were replaced by hushes of comfort and implicit fear. We were waiting.

Would that night be the last I had with Darling? Would the next? When would it happen? Our lives became paralyzed with paranoia until a particular night heard a frantic ringing at my doorbell. I stepped into the winter only to be greeted by Darling’s battered face. A wince escaped me at the sight of her, which she promptly ignored. She grasped my hands and stood close, pressing her cold forehead to mine. I squinted blearily at her, unsure of what to say, but thankfully she spoke first. Only a single sentence escaped her before she was off again like mist, into the dark and deaf to my questioning shouts.

The next day I regretted not following after her. I stopped by her house as I had made a pattern of doing, and when the door swung away from me I found myself looking into the red-rimmed eyes of Darling’s husband. I believe I asked him a question, but I do not remember what it was. The next truly conscious memory I have is of standing in front of Darling’s coffin, staring down at her paste-textured face. Perhaps my mind can be held responsible, trying to shelter me from the worst moments of my life.

Now that I think back on it, I’m sure Darling would have found the situation rewarding. Her husband sobered completely, and nearly the entire town came to celebrate her life. She had made her mark, and on none other so clearly than myself.

Where one of my loves had left me sour and alone before, this time was very different. Gone was the childlike frustration and hatred for existence, and instead I was filled with an obscure form of peace. Loneliness had bothered me incessantly before, and now it sat with me like an old friend. I spoke to no one and no one spoke to me. A silent contract the world and I held.

It seemed only appropriate that I exchange Darling’s red rose for a white one of my own. So, I paid her back time and time again, until I became too brittle to walk, and too old to talk. I know I will die in this house and my frequent comfort lies in the words Darling said to me on that particular night.

                Even as the last wisps of my mind fade, I will hold that precious aphorism tightly, and take it with me as I prepare myself to meet my her again.

---------------------

Liam Acornley (Year one) - The Blight's Return

This is a prologue for a story I'm working on called "The blight's return" (placeholder title)
Turns out I like writing set-ups more than the actual stories, oh well, enjoy WAF'ing this.

“Well” you may ask, “How did this world take its form?” Why of all worlds in creation has this one strange properties, its diverse and eldritch collection of creatures, cultures and lore? “The answer,” one whispers, “lies with the Fundamentals.” These four progenitors were there when the universe was forged, and if not, they were born with the initial burst of creation still ringing in their ears. Formed with the earliest energies of the universe, the Fundamentals wished nothing more than to begin their own lives as sculptors and creators. So they began the task of manipulating matter to their will: blasting and shaping it, creating planets, stars and suns. However, when matter became nothing more than a trivial craft to them, the Fundamentals twisted their tools upon themselves, producing physical forms and reshaping their spirits until they too were one upon this plane of existence. As reality itself became the very object they shaped, they yearned for more challenging targets, harder objectives to fulfil, until at last they decided they would create sentient life like themselves, and scatter it amongst the planets they had made in their infancy. Three of the four Fundamentals forsook their immortality and celestial forms to become one with those that they create, and they took the names Light, Chaos and Void; whilst their fourth sibling maintained a watchful eye from every corner of reality, and was known as Pneuma itself.

Light set to work, forging creatures with every possible spectrum of colour and scattered them unto this world, he created happiness, heart, courage and every discernible positive aspect of existence. Chaos, not wishing to be outdone by his sibling, began to set to work in creating the paradoxical equivalent of Light’s creations, and formed war, death, hunger and famine. Thus began the bickering of the two Fundamentals, while Light created the day and brightness, Chaos would create the night-time and shadows. Whilst Light placed peaceful creatures upon the surface of the world, Chaos produced predators that would snuff them out.

All the while that this was occurring, Void watched in vested interest, noting that without Chaos, Light’s creations would become too much of a burden for the world, and would decimate the lands if not put in check, and likewise Chaos’s agents of death would themselves die out if not for the creatures of Light. Intrigued by this, Void devoted himself to ensuring that one Fundamental would never out-do the other, there would never be light without darkness, nor life without death under Void’s omnipotent gaze.

Taking a backseat from the creation of this world, Pneuma decided that it would play less of a vital role in its siblings fight and instead yearned to see life from the perspective of a creation, instead of a creator. As such, it tore itself asunder and spread its fragmented form into the minds of Light and Chaos’s creatures, becoming the very embodiment of what we refer to as ‘soul’. Pneuma was everywhere, and in all things. Denounced by enemies as the great unmaker, worshiped by scholars as the twinkling of a divine eye, it occupied all planes at once and yet is never present. Upon a creature’s death, Pneuma’s shred would shake off its fleshy prison and make its way back into the stars, where the birth, life and death of the creature would be played for Pneuma who cherished every moment of the performance before sending its shred back to the world to embed itself on a newly birthed creature.

At this point, the world was in a constant state of renewal. Civilisations rose and fell, and races warred for superiority of the planet, more and more creatures were made and placed in the great oceans, the sprawling jungles or the flattened plains. Void, now regretful of his physical form decided he too would create something, something complete and balanced without any vestiges of Light or Chaos. It was at that moment Void realised, as he had become the embodiment of balance in all things, he must create something which could rival Pneuma itself, for his celestial sibling was truly the most powerful being in all of creation, and without a counterweight to this, Void would never be satisfied. So much like Light and Chaos who crafted the very world, Void went to work in creating a being with no soul, neigh, a being that could destroy a soul, that would be able to tear the fragment of Pneuma that a creature weighed down and consume it; allowing there to finally be the ultimate balance of power between the four Fundamentals. It was here, that Dirge, the Deadgod was formed.

Void created Dirge with one thought in mind, snuffing out the imbalance that Pneuma presented to the world, and Dirge obliged joyfully. With an insatiable hunger, Dirge took to the lands and slaughtered men, women, children, animals, fish, birds and even nature itself, tearing from its downed masses the shards of Pneuma and feasting on them. Blight spread from its footsteps and entire cities were razed by this one being, for with no soul to lose, the Dirge, no matter how many swords split its belly apart, no matter how many arrows pierced its head, and no matter how many times he was incinerated, could never die. As such Void saw the immense err in his ways, for a being without death was the ultimate imbalance, Pneuma itself could be consumed and destroyed, and as such had a weakness, but a being that feared and felt nothing, with no discernible way of being stopped was impossible to end.

Light and Chaos, now tired with this world left it, to pursue the errant creation and destruction of countless others, Pneuma followed suit, and expanded its reach to these planets too whilst still maintaining itself here. However Void was committed to this world, he has wronged it and would not stop until the Dirge’s march was halted. Unable to physically interact with it in his current form, Void instead influenced and twisted the minds of man, Orc, Naga, Trolls, Elves and so forth, to band together and create a grand prison for the undying Dirge to inhabit. Based hundreds of feet below the earth’s surface, the prison walls and roof was cast in the hardest substances each race could bring forth and after several years of toil, it was ready. At this point the deadgod had spread throughout a multitude of continents, wiping out entire races and civilisations, leaving few to contest his mission of consuming what shards of Pneuma he could find. Void imparted a final mission onto his people before shooting off into the cosmos in chase of his siblings, to draw Dirge to the pit that begat the entrance of the epic prison, and end its rein of terror.

It is said that after the Dirge was sealed away, and the races split once again to build their civilisations anew, the world flourished in perfect balance. Ecosystems were formed and the world began to heal over time, the blight seeping away into the bowls of the earth where the Dirge hopelessly clawed at the roof of its containment, still hungering for souls. Yet with no means of raising itself back to the surface, its efforts were in vain.

“And that is how this world took its form my son”, stated the grand savant to the child; “A bickering amongst gods that’s conclusion led to us, and this world we call home.”
“But what about the scary Dirge” questioned Lief, mind wandering to the images he saw in the holy-texts of his church,
“the Deadgod is on all accounts no longer a threat to you and I child, instead, you should be more worried about preparing for tomorrow, it’s a big day you know…”,
“Yes, yes I know. I only wish I could stay here longer, I don’t want to sit on a boring throne all day! And I still miss my father, what if I can’t rule the country as well as he can?”
“I will be by your side every step of the way Lief…apologies, my liege.”
“Oh well, goodnight! I want an early night’s sleep so I can go on my first monster hunt as king tomorrow, Lief the monster hunting king, doesn’t that sound amazing!”
“Of course my liege, goodnight.” And with that, the grand savant left the little princes chambers, not knowing the next time he returned to them, a great evil would have awoken.

Asher Downer (Year 1)- A princess with no tower

(The last line is not meant too be that far away from the previous stanza)

Once upon a time,

In a land faraway,

A little girl was trapped,

And there she would stay.

She wrote no poetry,

No stories were told,

By this girl turned into woman, 

by the woman who grew old. 

All the fantasies of childhood, 

Locked inside her heart,

Consumed by sensible reason,

A fairy tale torn apart. 

She married someone clever, 

And watched her child grow. 

And never thought of playgrounds, 

And dreams of long ago. 

Her wedding ring was plain,

She was not consumed by greed,

Though he was no Prince Charming,

With no armour or trusty steed.

She kept both glass slippers, 

Firmly on her feet,

All her apples were green,

With no poison in them too eat.

And as she raised her daughter,

To avoid tragedy, 

She told the girl no tales, 

And read no poetry. 

She brought up a young lady, 

To be sensible and sane.

The child would never be dreaming, 

So she would know no pain. 

She never thought of castles, 

For she wore no crown,

Her life full of achievements, 

But she never left that town.

Her dreams stayed locked in her head,

Like a princess in her tower,

Her world lacked colour,

But disappointment never had power.

Beth Ashley Year 2

Life is hard and everything is annoying

A miserable 'personal essay' - sorry it's late.
This is fictional so feel free to be ruthless

I have always been afraid of everything. People being able to fall asleep without brushing their teeth is a mesmerising thing to me. I have gone to sleep without brushing my teeth once in my entire life and I had nightmares that I coughed all of my teeth out. I also brush my teeth immediately after smoking, or drinking a fizzy drink (which I do neither of regularly, but will accept when there is nothing else).

Even more unrealistic things also keep me up at night. If I have a stomach ache, it can only be appendicitis. I cook meat until its cremated and eggs until their nuked, for I fully believe I will get food poisoning. Sometimes I even randomly choose to slow down my pace in case I have Vertigo and don’t know it – I wouldn’t want to find out the hard way. Every night I lock every door in my house and check them three times, because I think someone will enter my property and murder me. I start panicking about whether we have enough milk, even though I don’t buy milk. And then I get up to switch off all the plug switches off three times too so that a spontaneous combustion near a TV socket doesn’t fry me in my slumber.

Sometimes when I visit airports or railway stations, and instead of being excited about the trip, I somehow manage to convince myself that anyone with slightly bloodshot eyes or clears their throat must have Ebola. When I lost my virginity, I had sex with another virgin and used a condom and yet I still couldn’t sleep for two nights because I was sure as shit that I’d had HIV transferred into me.

I’d hug my boyfriend way too tightly, out of fear that he could fall down dead any minute. I’d stop touching my shoelaces, or the rails on the side of public stairs in tube stations, because of dirt. If I experience dizziness from light or temperature change, I self-diagnose myself with leukaemia upon the moment. I would quietly prepare to die in the next six months, and practise my last words over and over like a transcript.

It may seem like these are just symptoms of being a drama queen, or an idiot. But that’s not the case when you’re not just spouting attention thriving sentences, but you’re having these thoughts in your head and panicking every night as a result. I feel sorry for my mum more than myself. I must be hard to have a child who questions every detail of the medicine they need to take, or wants to know how to complete a job application at nine years old out of fear that they might one day become homeless. It really does show your child’s mental disability when they wake up crying because they’re wondering if the protective seals on the deodorant you’ve just bought could have been tampered with without their knowledge. I bet it’s even harder to pick up your daughter from a sleepover before bedtime has even arrived, because she’s far too uncomfortable sleeping in a room with so many people, and the other little girls mock her extensive night time routine.

And life definitely becomes just a tiny bit sad when your favourite part of the day is the blissful second when you wake up. The second just before I’d look around my home and remember the daily terrors. I’d try to force myself out of bed and attend my lectures. But it was as though a huge, black devil told me the world wasn’t worth it, and tucked me back into bed aggressively. “The world won’t like you,” he said. “You’re too weird. Stay here, where no one can see you.” Sometimes I’d wonder if this is what It will always be like and if there’s any point waiting to find out. At this point, I’d usually call my boyfriend or my therapist and I’d, once again, get talked out of suicide for what I’m sure will not be the only time that day.

The Stray by Kevin Kissane Year 2

I tried to write something new for this week, but it was just not going to happen in time for you all to workshop. I submitted this poem for my portfolio, but it needs work. Sorry Will for having you see this twice! 

I come across a

stuffed ginger cat

abandoned on the sidewalk,

splayed like game hunt,

its cotton hide

soaking up rain

off the pavement.

And I picture the moment

as black umbrellas bloom

like pupils widening in the dark,

the cat slipping loose

of a child’s tired arms,

and a careless mother

dragging her away,

kicking and screaming

into the grey night.

Year 1 - Beyond the Flesh By Michael Laniyan

                                                                               

                                            

                                                       Prevailing Years

                                                           Russia 2007

 The sun was slowly disappearing into Moscow’s cloudy early evening skies with a threatening hint of rainfall, it was a chilly cold April evening Ilona thought as she pulled away from the large window overlooking the banking district of the city as the wine bars and beautiful restaurants started to come alive with a rich blend of successful lawyers, bankers, government officials, lobbyists and investors alike. She caught a glimpse of her best assets in the long oval mirror with her nipples almost an inch long ever seeking out attention in spite of any type of bra she might be wearing and observed that her ass was beginning to contend with her breasts for attention, great she thought welcoming the competition as she let slip from her delicately broad shoulders the silk negligee and stretched her long legs into the waiting bath tub enjoying the warmth the bath offered while wondering how she would accomplish what Ivan had insisted she do. Shame she thought probing her mole’s mind how she would approach solving the problem and still remain in contention for one of Russia’s most successful bachelors ensuring a lifetime of luxury, not that she would lose any sleep as she was the toast of Moscow’s elite with a master’s degree in maritime finance and six years experience as head of corporate banking in one of Russia’s most powerful banks with a network list of connections as long as her Russian legs. At precisely six feet tall she barely got away with wearing high heel shoes without intimidating most of the egoistic assholes in various circles of Russia’s topmost rich and powerful class. The phone startled her out of her thoughts as she climbed hurriedly out of the bath dripping water as she reached for the phone, “Evening Ms Reznik”, your car is here. A female voice was saying as she got the phone to her ears, “thanks Vera, kindly tell the chauffeur l will be down in half an hour” Ilona said, and dialed laundry.

After passing through several security check posts the chauffeur pulled up by the huge entrance to the 17^th century building used by the ministry of international trade where the minister was hosting his counterparts from thirteen African states and five European states, a state security personnel opened the door and she stepped out of the limousine he held out his hand which she took gratefully thanking him with a smile. Two others pulled the big brass double door open with a long corridor leading to the east wing where the state dinner was taking place; a bit further into her strides she started seeing huddled together in small groups some of the power brokers from the politburo, Oil, Gas, maritime and banking sectors she noticed Dmitri Yakov talking to a group of men. He murmured something and broke away from them grabbing her hand in only three strides smiling broadly as he kissed her cheeks while saying in Russian “My sweetest love when will you surrender?” though he spoke perfect Queen’s English having attended Oxford. “I adore you too and am sure you can wait” she said as they walked coming to a bullet proof glass double door pulled open by two security personnel.   

An FSB officer appeared from nowhere and whispered into her ears ushering her towards a large table full of high level bureaucrats as she glanced back at Dmitri explaining with her eyes that they would hook up later. A silk suited squirt looking man jumped to his feet throwing open his arms in embrace “Ms Reznik, a lovely evening to you, he said loudly then he put pressure on her shoulders bringing her to his level whispering “the dignitary Mr Brodsky would like you to engage is sat on table one where a seat has being reserved for you, perhaps you should powder you nose and study this brief prepared for you by comrade Ludvig” he said thrusting into her hand a tiny make up kit pack, and just as quickly as he appeared he was gone.

She made her way to the rest room thinking as she looked across the room towards table one she saw the big frame of comrade Ludvig the trade secretary sat amongst of a blend of European and African dignitaries, she noticed quite a number of heads turn as she carefully strode across the polished 17^th century marbled floor between tables of dignitaries, carrying her beautiful frame elegantly her flaming blond hair reflecting the bright lightening in the huge banquet hall … It has begun she thought, in front of the wall to wall endless mirror in the ladies, she flipped open the small make up kit inside which was the paper brief neatly folded, and read through quickly noting only the necessary details and finally coming to the last page of three which had a picture. She was amazed and had never thought of Africans in this manner but he was so very handsome and fair skinned, perhaps he had Caucasian genes in his DNA.  Ilona flipped back to the second page that held the personal info, he had a first class bachelors degree in (PPE) politics, psychology and economics with a masters in corporate financing “wow” she gasped as her jaw dropped, he was only 35 years old 6’4 single and worth a whopping 164billion US Dollars,” where did all that fortune come from she wandered? Scanning through the brief with her trained eyes, it stated that he had his hand deep in various sectors around and including; Banking, crude exploration and refined Petroleum, arm supply deals for Mining rights, and Solid Minerals spreading through Africa from the Congo to West Africa. Shrugging her shoulder she lit a cigarette and with the same flame set the brief on fire dropping it in the ashtray and watched it burnout completely just as some ladies came in giggling and chatting amongst themselves. 

This would certainly be fun, she thought heading straight for table one. Ignoring all their gazes, there was an empty seat next to Ludvig’ she made for it putting out her arm, but that wouldn’t be necessary as all the men stood up and one held the chair for her while complementing her. “You look stunning”, he said in Russian, smiling Ilona Reznik looked round the table as she took her sit staring them all in the eyes, there were only sharks on this table she noted as her eyes finally rested on him, “hmm” she thought. He looked amazingly smashing, even better looking in real life and more adorable in his Saville Row tailor made suit, she was certain he must have some white blood in his genes even though the file claimed he was black African, his skin suggested otherwise. He smiled at her as he sat down and continued his conversation with Ludvig who was saying something to him in Russian about the new maritime regulations due to the Somali-Ethiopian pirate operations affecting all concerned in the shipping industry and how it has drastically increased the risk of freight across the industry. 

It wasn’t until late into the Russian evening and after Secretary Ludvig expertly removed himself from between them using the excuse of state matters that required his immediate attention to create an opening for her and after a few casual conversations with different dignitaries and a number of glasses of the most expensive champagne that she made her move turning towards him, she asked despite knowing otherwise; “is this your first time in Moscow”? "No! He replied, "but it’s my first time in this historic building", he said in perfect Russian. I did my first degree at Saint Petersburg state university where l read politics, psychology and economics; he could see she was taken aback. Why Russia? She asked, “it was the only university that would have me’ he joked, “no he said more seriously l made scholarship’ or else l would still be peddling something on the streets of Lagos”. “Hmm”, “peddling something” Ilona thought wondering what he had been peddling! What about you? He asked, refocusing her thoughts she reached for her Versace wallet and handed him her card, he glanced at his watch instead and without looking at the card he thrust it in his suit pocket! “I have two meetings scheduled before 11am tomorrow and need to get some sleep but if it’s OK with you we could do lunch at 1pm”. She got up while he was still talking and he noticed how tall she was’ he got up and two of his security details appeared from nowhere on either side of him, pulling their chairs far back. Waving them away he continued, “Should l send a car for you at 12.45pm? Ilona walked slowly allowing herself to take in as much as her champagne filled head would allow; she had already worked out how she was going to go about getting what Brodsky wanted so badly, leaning slightly towards him as they walked’ she asked, “is that a pick up line, and “where would you find me"? “The Ritz Carlton Hotel” where you have resided since your flat’s renovation started 5 weeks ago to be precise, he replied answering her question as they walked along the ancient corridors they arrived at the large historic doors. One of his aids opened the door to her chauffeur driven car. She paused, he was certainly linked to the FSB and probably every other security agency in the world of espionage, she smiled and gazed into the Moscow night”, “well l will be waiting if l can get away from my desk early” Ilona said shivering from the cold Russian windy night, turning sideways to conveniently slide into the back seat of her Mercedes, he leaned forward and kissed her cold cheeks just as his convoy of armoured Benz wagons pulled up alongside hers, his lips were soft and sensual yet he barely touched her cheeks. Impressive she thought realising this would be more difficult than she first thought because of his highly placed links. He knew so much about her and that was an indication of his international prowess. This was going to be a very dangerous assignment she thought! No wonder Brodsky wanted her on this one perhaps the African was threatening Brodsky’s control of the crude oil sector which number one had personally left Brodsky in charge of. An underworld supply of crude oil worth billions of dollars in revenue every year, yes this was certainly very serious and she needs to be on her highest level of operative alertness known in their circles as code red. Ilona shuddered at his smoothness that only the years of her own involvement as a double agent made her aware of, with that kind of money at his disposal he can buy anyone and so he probably already knows she is a senior SVR agent. She would give this one her utmost caution, who knows he may even be her way out of this arduous way of life, being an SVR operative was hard enough added to the dangers of a coerced recruitment by the CIA three years ago due to a grave covert error which now made life unbearable, she needed a way out or else she could be six feet under soon because double agents were considered rats and it is SVR standard practice to terminate such agents; but Ilona intends to live and stay very alive. 

As her car pulled away she waved and he blew her a kiss knowing that they won’t be having lunch tomorrow or anytime soon, but what a lady he thought as the door shut and Oleg slid into the seat next to Abel handing over a certified official copy of an old KGB classified file titled Ivan Brodsky the file was heavier than usual. "Does Yuri have a copy, and do we have anything on Ilona Reznik"? Abel asked. "Yes Yuri has a copy of Brodsky’s file but l excluded Ms Reznik’s file".  He opened the file going straight to the back and removed the large envelope with Ilona’s name, he opened it and brought out a smaller file’ he flicked it open and a few pictures of Ilona stared back at him. At the same time Oleg ordered the chauffeur to head for the Moscow Savoy hotel which was close to Red Square and the Kremlin, a part of the city his boss and best friend adored. Abel caught sight of Bolshoy and Maly theatres as the bulletproof G55-wagon sped across the magnificent city of Moscow he felt a sense of security he never enjoyed anywhere else, trusting his life into Oleg and Yuri’s hands like no other and even his London office with its entirely impeccable security prowess isn’t as capable as one of these two men. Oleg, his left hand and Yuri the right and together they were unbeatable, a formidable triangular force tried and tested with almost two decade of endless triumph. Yes he could never have done it this long and this well without his hands; they were the closest humans alive to him and were the envy of their peers, they were the reason he wasn’t married as one prospect after another were exposed, his hands left no stone unturned. Even the much acclaimed daughter of the respectable Emir of the oil rich gulf state with all his affluence was found wanting when his left hand uncovered her shameful depraved sexual exploits in Geneva and later Oxford were exposed, even the Emir asked for his forgiveness at his most precious daughter’s shame. It had hurt him at first but who can argue with hard evidence. The lift stopped on the 4^th floor and they got out turned left as one of Oleg’s men opened the door to the royal suite which had four exquisite double bedrooms an office and private conference room, Yuri was sat in his suit even so late in the evening going through some files, on the far corner a giant LCD flat screen was showing BBC 10 o’clock news which was wrapping up with something about Gordon Brown trailing in the opinion polls and his inability to win the next elections out rightly. Yuri turned waving away the female help in the suite’s lounge and the security details that followed them in then spoke to Oleg in Russian, “Has the meetings in the morning been reconfirmed? No it’s been cancelled he replied, “Our friends need more time to evaluate the company’s stocks behaviour on the Asian markets, and then report back to us.” However, we will be heading to London in the morning for the signing of the joint Shell exploration contract agreement. They sat discussing very late into the early morning hours all the evening’s events at the function and particularly Brodsky and his weakening influence on number one, as well as changing the crude oil shipments routes out of Africa, and finally they strategized on ways to defuse the ongoing refined product’s internal local price hostilities Apex Oil started back in December which was destabilizing the local Nigerian market”. Now though Abel knew where Apex Oil got his refined products from (Brodsky), so all they had to do now was threaten his benefactor in his own comfort zone in Russia and enrage number one even further. Ruthlessly making him realize that what he stands to gain by using Apex Oil to dump his refined products in Nigeria was nothing in comparison to what he stood to lose in his own backyard in Russia, six weeks earlier prior to their coming to attend the Russian-African trade conference in Moscow Abel with Oleg had met with the heads of eight out of twenty three biggest players in the world of Crude Oil refineries, while they already enjoyed existing partnerships with most of the refineries outside this group, since he seized total control of Crude supplies between 1994 and 1995 with the help of  Yuri and Oleg who crushed anyone in his path; and in six year from 1994 to 2000 they carved out a huge chunk of the supply chains of refined petroleum products and aviation fuel in exchange for billions of dollars in Crude Oil with ruthless precision. Abel controlled the refined products through most of the African Petroleum cartels in most of western and central African countries a huge population of perhaps a little over five hundred and thirty million people with the aid of his Russian Oil barons from whom he enjoyed complete loyalty and support which made it possible for Abel to monopolize the existing West African market supply outlets by lowering price to the point where it became impossible for existing players to operate without Abel’s reasonably cheap supplies, and the dollar bills poured in endlessly in tens of millions at first then the Asians came on board and soon they had their hands full when hundreds of millions of dollars began pouring in fortnightly; they had no choice but to float their own Bank so Abel got Yuri to buy controlling shares in the weakest Anglo Russian bank which wasn’t doing too well with only four branches across Europe. A branch each in Moscow, London, Paris and Istanbul. A year after stabilizing and re-furbishing of the bank’s existing service structures, offered in the European arm of the bank and with further intensive refinancing with endless cash flows from Abel’s arms, petroleum, steel and solid minerals trading empire they opened subsidiary commercial and corporate banking branches in Johannesburg, Pretoria, Tripoli, Gabon, Accra, Lagos. The headquarters was relocated to Jersey and an administrative nerve centre was situated in Abuja’s central business district with a large banking hall offering high interest foreign currency depository personal banking services with branches in Sao Tome & Principe, Gabon and Guinea within three years of acquiring it. Though the bank had independent administrative executives directors Yuri kept an eye on all the banks activities while Oleg was the bank’s board chairman.

The 2005 Gulf-stream G200 Honeywell model finished climbing and steadied at a high altitude, the fasten your seatbelt signs turned off. Yuri raised an arm and two female air hostess swung into action, Abel Kanuri opened his eyes and looked through the round shaped aircraft windows at the clouds formations, he has often wondered how the clouds seemed perfect in their variations as if an artist had drawn images with clouds in the sky. The sunlight reflected on the beautiful black and gold with white accents exterior of the air plane, he recalled the day Yuri took delivery of the third and latest addition to his air fleet, the excitement in Yuri’s voice when he showed it explaining every little detail about the jet, Abel loosened his tie then sank himself deeper into the comfort of the soft cream leather seat and stretched his legs on the matching leather foot stool; he dragged his weary eyes away from the captivating beauty of the skies and took in the valour of the air plane’s interior. Yuri was saying something about the newly elected Nigerian President expecting Abel at the state convention of NDP to contribute to the expensive governorship campaigns in two Northern states, Abel considered the issue for a second then instructed Yuri to authorize a donation of two hundred and fifty million naira in support of the incumbents campaign and the same amount to the candidate of CPP who was enjoying a clear lead in the Kano state opinion polls, insisting that both donations are not to be made public and Yuri is to ensure Lanre Fowler personally make both donations directly to each of the candidates on behalf of Kanuri Group otherwise half the money will be lost to greedy politicians in transit. Oleg began explaining to him the recent success of their London trading office in the NSE stock market and the advisory program they wrote for their Lagos office to install and use which was now reaping great results reflected in soaring profits both in Johannesburg and Lagos. 

But Abel was so exhausted from lack of sleep and endless meetings he couldn’t make sense of what both Yuri or Oleg were saying, his thoughts continued to return to the distant past. They had enjoyed three and a half years of peace after a blood bath lasting twenty three months of all out Mafia style war in the Congo for the control of the huge steel and mineral deposits in which one former president’s son had fought on Abel’s side against the notorious former Congolese parliamentary chief whip Fabrice Dieu. Prior to the peace times the past year or two had proved to be hectic while he contained various insurgencies on different fronts particularly in controlling crude oil thefts in the Niger delta region coupled with infiltrations into his crude oil supply chains throughout the Gulf of Guinea by local rebel militant lords that had threatened to degenerate into a mini warfare. Oleg insisted they had no choice but to ruthlessly snuff out the betrayals and mutinies from greedy rogue Government officials and rebellious trade alliances collaborating with disgruntled or unfriendly militant groups. Which Abel did reluctantly but ruthlessly to the incredulity of some West African Presidents two of whom met with him secretly during the West African economic summit along with the host. President of Guinea on Abel’s private yacht in international waters off the coast of Guinea at the height of the mayhem, they spent a few hours ironing out financial matters with both Presidents and their personal teams of experts regarding their remunerations into their Panama and Jersey trusts operations; then they returned in Guinea’s Presidents private Yacht which dropped anchor besides Abel’s. Towards the end of the meeting the Guinea President put a call through to his old friend Gaddafi on Abel’s satellite phone who reassured him of Abel’s ingenuous track records backed by probably the best team ever assembled by any independent Oil baron anywhere in the world. The President respectfully thanked his old ally Gaddafi then said goodbye. After their conversations which lasted almost three hours the President of Guinea wanted further assurances that with the death of his first cousin and with majority of his gang out of the way there will be no more killings in his country because the opposition and its sympathetic media were accusing and attacking his government of corruption at every given opportunity and the return of peace is not only desirable for all concerned but paramount. 

Different thoughts clouded Abel’s feverishly congested mind each thought jostling over the other, each stream of thoughts perhaps more chaotic or more pertinent to his tortured past and his now super privileged existence; he drifted in and out of various vivid lines of thoughts. Abel felt he heard Yuri and Oleg talking in the distance when they were opposite each other and only a few feet away from him, the gentle humming of the air-plane’s engines drowned out his calls for their help reaching them as he began drowning in the sea of his tormenting memories. The two continued their conversation on which strategy they would adopt to quell the on going Brodsky Apex Oil recent price wars oblivious to Abel’s drowning dilemma into his shadowy past. Alone again Abel fought and succeeded in keeping his head above the violent waves of conniving memories but lost out in keeping his drowsy eye lids open despite his best efforts. Waves of ancient painful memories swarmed his line of thoughts  battering the defensive walls protecting his mind and they eventually broke through and took over his mind with the past threatening to engulf him in its entirety; he despised his vulnerability to the memories from his murky past, remembering how dire it had been. Although in the beginning of Abel’s rise to prodigy his memories had served as a very useful but upsetting source of resolute energy, now though it’s threatening to bring back the fulsome memories of those who perished in terrifying circumstances and sadly still do. Involuntarily Abel’s eyelids shut firmly closed as the jet raced across the skies over Belarus, Poland, Germany, the Netherlands and eventually United Kingdom heading for London City Airport docklands in east central part of the ancient city of London, probably the most famous city in the world; trembling from the cold sipping through the blanket covering him. Abel helplessly drifted into a deep sleep and his dark, very dark eerie past.