Friday, February 21, 2014


In the pond, time stands still and i am in a limbo. While the possibility of release never deserts me the stasis of interminable waiting renders optimism nugatory. Moments when i do hope, in an indivisible unity of being, a being i bring into being, i am discomfited by the awareness that i'd have to wait very long, maybe forever.

I leap from the pond and dive back in, croaking. When i peer into the pond's depths my countenance swims before me, at times blurring and wavering, at others motionless. These glimpses reconcile me to the anomaly of my being. Though i am entombed in an unalterable form without any volition i am, in my consciousness, diametrically opposite to that. I am that which i am not. I am not what i seem to be. I am cleft, yet soldered. These oppositionalities constitute me.

I retrieve the ball for the princess and extract a promise from her, a promise of companionship. Her willing, even enthusiastic acceptance seems apocryphal to me . So i march up to the castle, reminding her of her commitment. She was grudging, resentful but acquiesced. I ate of her plate and went with her to her bedroom. I asked her for a goodnight kiss. She flung me against the wall. And what happened in the interstices between collapsing and regenerating is a blank to me.

I saw the princess's agreeable warble of surprise and sensuousness. Carillons of erotic energy emanated from her. She was as taken aback with incredulity as i was.She, like me, had assumed that my form and being were immutable, being unaware of the churning within me. Now, a transformation had been wrought. I was myself, yet not wholly so. When i was cursed i had been a fledgling with a burgeoning moustache and regal clothes. Now i came through as lipsticked, rouged and sheathed in a spangled dress studded with refracting sequins. Where i had inhabited the enervating nothingness of non being, i came to be. This change was fortuitous, necessary and inevitable.

We lie on the sheets, the princess and i, reflected conjoined in the gilt mirror opposite. I press myself against her, kissing her rosebud mouth, i stroke her center with a moistened forefinger. The mirror  looks on, impassively but, we both know, approvingly. 

Thursday, February 20, 2014


I stand out incongruously because i love women. My father's love comforts me, reassuring me of a certainty amid the tumults of everyday life. My elder sisters hint at a materiality not only from which i am disbarred but which i willingly relinquish. I don't claim probity or blamelessness but a certain ingenuousness, a certain reticence is certainly constitutive of me.

Which is why when father told me about the beast and his condition i acquiesced willingly, though with apprehension. Again the promises of material wealth the beast proffers, though sanguine, are not mandatory for me. Me, i'm an old romantic, i'm looking for love.

The beast is robed regally, his luminous eyes look at me beseechingly, supplicating, as though about to shed tears. Everyday he asks for my hand in marriage and everyday i politely, considerately refuse. His otherness from me is two fold. His bestiality and his gender render him an inadmissible possibility for me. His protestations of regard stress, by contrast, the love i yearn for but can't seem to possess.

An ineluctable homesickness propels me homewards. He extracts a promise of my return and seeing the misery on his face i agree. My sisters marvel at my wealth, at my furs , at my spangled gown.

The months pass, the promise i had made so precipitately returns to haunt me. I see the lovesick beast, on the throes of death. His eyes are a mirror before whose gaze i find myself dissolving. His unwavering, enfeebled gaze draws tears from my eyes. Fusillades of pent up guilt emanate from me. The beast dissolves, revealing human contours. In the wake of his transformation i see a beautiful woman emerging. Subsequently i learn that she is a princess who was doomed to male beasthood and love would self determine her. But it was not just love but the inviolable purity of my desire that makes her become. The mirror contains a nascent blueprint, both of the visible and the configurable and with the ministrations of my tears the metamorphosis from beast to princess is actualized. The reversion to womanhood is not, i see, for her, a process of becoming but a realignment of her becoming with her being.

The funereal bed where the beast lay dying becomes a fulcrum of our love. She nibbles at my lips seductively, her white teeth incise my skin and her mouth on my interiority sends ripples of uncontainable ecstasy up my spine. She makes me be, she makes me become. 

Wednesday, February 19, 2014


His bestiality disgusted him. Suffused with human emotions he wanted to inhabit a physiognomy like human beings but felt constrained by his appearance to envisage a future. The blacks of his pelt glowed brightly in the dark, his eyes gleamed lustrously, with a liquid yearning. He longs for a transcendence of his lot, for an apotheosis.

Chancy circumstances bring beauty to the palace. He lavishes on her all material wealth and begs her to marry him, only to be refused each time. His desire is unconsummated and accelerated but its intrinsic unfulfillment means he inhabits a limbo, a blank nothingness. Beauty is a mirror in whose depths he sees his release. When he looks at the pellucid eyes of beauty he not only sees her iridescent lashes but what he could be, what he could make of himself. Yet he waits patiently, hoping that some prestidigitation would transform beauty's heart.

Beauty begs leave to see her family and he grudgingly acquiesces. He extracts a promise that she will return before winter begins. The days are spent by him both in introspective sombreness and exiting anticipation. The act of waiting in itself becomes a bulwark, a scaffolding, sheathing him from the uncertainty of the future with exhilarating dreams of the present. 

But beauty doesn't come at the time she promised. His eyes grow dim, his pelt loses its sheen , his fur loses its patina of firmness. He sags, he succumbs to the depredations of mortality .

Beauty meanwhile, spends her days remembering vaguely the promise she made but in the midst of family celebrations and frivolities forgets the promise. But a subterranean awareness that a promise has been broken sticks to her consciousness. An urgent remembrance sends her scuttling back to the beast. She finds him heartbroken, he is dying. Beset by an unconstrainable fit of tearfulness she sheds copious tears over his face, crying fulsomely, wholesomely, unrestrained by decorum. 

As each drop of tear falls from beauty's face he is subtly metamorphosed. Instead of the muzzle comes the aquiline nose, the profusion of furs becomes a fur coat and out emerges a gorgeous woman with golden curls, voluptuous breasts and a regal gait.

He, the unambivalent, incontrovertible he, is transformed into a she. The mirror never lies and its forceful interjections of unvarnished truth metamorphose him into a her. This is aided by the awareness of beauty's own propensities and preferences. Unable to access beauty's incandescence as he, because her refusal alerts him to his negation he undergoes his own transformation. The desire for exoneration precipitates the change and love, signified as self realization through the mediation of the mirror , validates it.

Beauty kisses the princess langorously, smoothing  her over by touching her curves erotically. The princess strokes beauty's nipples, feeling them hardening through the material of her cloth. They proceed to the bed where, conjoined, in seamless conjunction, they hope for a luminous future.

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. 

Monday, February 17, 2014


She has been given a task by her mother. She is to go and give her ailing grandmother cake and wine. However the destination necessitates traversing the wood where wolves proliferate and ambush the unwary. Red riding hood combs her hair neatly , puts on the red hood. The mirror reflects her unambiguously. She is filled with certainty, imbued with the potentiality of her strength and ability to both skirt and circumvent danger. So she proceeds, suffused with ebullience and confidence.

Clumps of snow fall from the sky. The fir cones are wreathed in an unsullied whiteness. The sky is pellucid but tenebrous. Red riding hood though  walks confidently. She sees a vale of fledgling flowers running on an alternate path and the thought of giving her grandmother flowers buoys and energizes her. She is waylaid and therefore delayed. She rushes back, reaching just in time.

The door is unlatched, her grandmother is reposing but yet a metamorphosis seems to have occurred. Her grandmother's tiny teeth have become wolverine, her flapping ears wide and dirty toenails long and a malodorous emanation of flesh emanates from her. Before Red riding hood can so much as deliberate upon the amorphous mystery of this transmogrification she is gobbled up.

Inside the wolf's pendulous belly she finds her grandmother, supine. In the amniotic effluvia of the wolf's waters she is reverted to her constituents. The undifferentiated anteriority of pre birth beckons to her yet the accoutrements of young womanhood render her fractious and desperate to survive before subsumption and obliteration.

The mirror yields a nothingness, a blank palimpsest. Suddenly from the dark depths of the cave of the wolf's stomach, where shadows and illusion seemed reality she is thrown back on real life. Picking herself up she sees her grandmother beside her and the wolf's slit belly. She looks up and an incandescent virgin huntress looks back at her. The huntress's face is haloed in self sufficiency and she exudes a honeysuckle scent. Her eyes, focused and intense, her firm bosom and uncompromising gait attract Red riding hood irresistibly.

But exigence takes predominance. Red riding hood sews up the wolf's stomach with stones and the wolf is shot down with arrows.

Red riding hood faces both her apotheosis and her anthropomorphism in the huntress. They clasp hands and exchange a deep kiss, drinking off the fountain of each other's lips. Their breasts heave, surge in conjunction and their heart beats with love.

That night Red riding hood undresses before the mirror. She sees her flushed cheeks, hardened nipples and  damp core and realizes that she has finally become what she had intended to be . Love freed her from repression, lovemaking incorporealized it.