Tuesday, February 18, 2014


I am a huntress. Diana, Artemis, Atlanta, are my forebears. I don't hunt for the sake of exigence. Nor is the consumption of flesh my concern in any which way. Hunting is a way of life for me, a form of being. I am a mythical archetype, a constituent . Men who prey upon women, wolves who prey upon unsuspecting women are my main targets. And for a while i have been on the lookout for this wolf who killed and ate a young woman i loved in my village across the ocean. Pursuit of this lycanthrope has brought me here, in this forest, amid the tress encased in snow and the expanse of emptiness this landscape undulates interminably, ad infinitum.

Ever since i lost her it seemed a fragment of me was perennially obliterated. Nowadays i gaze at the pool, which substitutes for a mirror, seeing my resignedly becalmed countenance and lugubrious disposition. It saddens me, this unpartnered, solitariness and i hope for some restitution to this unutterable misery that assails me. Demolishing the wolf seems to be a focal point, a fulcrum i can base my reprieve on.

I pass this village on the outskirts and hear a dreadful noise. I look into a cottage and hear the wolf , the wolf i've been looking for, snore insouciantly. I see his stomach ballooned and figure that he has consumed his prey just now. I cut up his stomach and out tumble an old woman and a young girl, with burgeoning womanhood. While the wolf lies with a slit belly i look at the young girl and am startled into unmitigated immobility. It is like those days when she and me looked at the mirror. We would seamlessly blur and be superimposed. Remnants of that vision still clung to my breast valedictorily and seeing this young girl not only recalls that pristine image but proffers a possibility of reawakening and reconfiguring my latent desires, rendered taciturn and uncommunicative through erasure and negation. The mirror betokens to me what i was, could be and could become. Actualization, always immanent, became imminent. Ripples of inexpressible ecstasy ricocheted from me.

Meanwhile the perspicacious young girl sews up the wolf's stomach with stones and as the wolf staggers out i kill it with my arrow. The grandmother , who had hitherto been unperceived by me suddenly looms conspicuously. Her hair, tied in a bun, is imperceptibly disarranged, wrinkles proliferate from her cheek, meandering agreeably across her face giving her otherwise youthful eyes a modicum of wisdom. Her skin is soft, her lips delectable. If the young girl embodied what i could be, the grandmother, with her regality and insignia of aristocratic rectitude gives a vision of what i would be when i aged. The mirror traverses both past, present and future so that i inhabit simultaneal temporalities. And the epiphany it yields is so transcendental, so corporeally metaphysical that i swoon in my consciousness with euphoria.

The three of us encircle each other , encased in love . The past is papered over, perhaps to be consigned and forgotten, the future beckons as i, redoubled with lust, solder the two disparate worlds i inhabit. 

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