Brenda Mareri

free minds…free thoughts


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Retribution: Chapter 2

Entry 1: 1st July 1874

Marsha Grey …..Her long luscious hair intoxicates me every time she passes by. She deserves me, she needs me , she just doesn’t know it. He isn’t good enough for her. I’ll show her, she’ll appreciate me. The urge has been growing stronger every day since Father took me to the woods. I can still see the blood flowing from his neck. I had to do it. All i can see is Marsha Grey’s veins throbbing with bright red blood, one day I’ll do it…….

Clint sat down with his father in front of the fire place, cinders jumped from the wood, illuminating the small cabin. They always went hunting in the woods every weekend. Clint’s father poured himself a glass of whisky and downed it in one gulp. ‘ Boy, when you hunt, its a game of strength and you should always win the prize,’ he bellowed. Clint knew why he said that, every hunting trip they took, he always failed to shoot the deer. He didn’t understand why he needed to kill the poor animal.

“Get up boy, follow me’, his father growled at him as he led him outside. It was freezing outside and Clint shivered as he shuffled through the dried leaves. His father led him through the thick dark forest. It was almost midnight,Clint didn’t understand what his father needed to show him so badly.

From a distance, he could hear whimpering. it sounded like a wounded dog. As they made it further into the woods, the whimpering got louder. His father suddenly stopped and stared at a tree stump. A dark figure was tied to the stump and struggled to move trying to get free. Clint’s father shoved him towards the dark figure and handed him a pistol. “Take care of the mangy mutt’, he bellowed as Clint staggered towards the animal.

Clint got closer and realized the dark figure was no animal. It was actually the towns’ sheriff, Rick Broderick. His leg was badly mangled and he had a gag on his mouth.Blood trickled from his forehead and soaked his white polo shirt. He had a busted lip and his left eye was swollen to the size of a grape.

Rick looked up at Clint and tried to scream, but all he could let out was a whimper. He looked back at his father and knew what he had to do. Clint stared into Rick’s eyes and pointed the gun at his temple. His hand tightened around the pistol and his trigger finger squeezed.

The bullet blasted through the nozzle and straight through Sheriff Rick Brodericks’ temple. His body lay there lifeless. A sense of fulfillment filled Clint. He didn’t understand why taking a life made him feel this way. He felt a smile creep in, he tried to fight it away. His father grabbed his arm and pulled him close. ” This is who you are meant to be, this is who you have always been’, he whispered as he led Clint back to the cabin.

There were so many questions Clint needed answered. Why the Sheriff, why did he feel fulfilled when he pulled the trigger. That is when it all began….

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Retribution

Prologue

Drip! Drip! Drip! That’s all he could hear. The floor was cold and damp, he shivered uncontrollably. He heard a groan from the far corner of the dungeon. To his left he noticed a small Indian boy shackled to the wall. He was emaciated and seemed like he was breathing his last breath.

Looking down at his feet, thick iron shackles enclosed him to the walls of the dungeon. Hefty footsteps made their way towards them. Clint Hetford it’s your last day he bellowed. Freedom at last. He stood up and they unshackled him. The festering wounds the metal had caused by rubbing his skin raw left him almost crippled. The gallows awaited, the noose fit tightly. Soon it was over, gone with him were the souls he had released in his 20 year killing spree.

Briiinggg!! The alarm went off. Clint woke up frantically. Dreams can be so lucid, he had lost himself in his sleep. He got up and dashed to the shower, a new day, new victims.

Chapter one

The year was 1876, and this was the worst winter they had experienced yet in the small town of Lindell. Winter made Clint’s’ work even harder. It was hard to dispose of his victims in the snow. They would never decay, so he had to resort to using acid to get rid of all the evidence. Misty Day was his tenth victim. She served him beer at the saloon and always smiled at him.

As Clint filled his tub with acid, he stared at Misty Days lifeless body. He didn’t mean to slit her throat but why did she have to snoop around his yard and find the dead Vernon boys. He dipped her body into the acid and watched as all skin, flesh and bones dissolved into the liquid. The acid stopped bubbling and every ounce of Misty was gone, he was starving. He left the bathroom and went to the kitchen.

Clint grabbed a mug and filled it with his home made beer. As he rummaged through the kitchen for some cheese and bread he heard an all too familiar sound from his basement. He grabbed his hunting knife and headed for the basement. The basement door was locked which was a good sign. None of his prized possessions had made it out. He unchained the door and walked in.

On the floor was Mike McKormick and chained on the wall was Vane White. Mike had gotten free from his chain and was trying to remove the chains from Vane.

“What’s all this racket about?’, bellowed Clint. Mike shivered in fear and shuffled back to his corner.

‘I see someone got free and is trying to be a hero, I’ll teach you what it means to be a hero”

Clint grabbed Mike and chained him back to the wall. He grabbed a metal bar from the door and took a swing at Mike. The blow to his cheek knocked Mike unconscious. Blood spewed out of his mouth and a tooth fell to the floor. Clint walked out of the basement locking the door behind him.

As he walked back to the kitchen, he heard a knock on the door. He never entertained guests on Sunday mornings. At the door was the Sheriff, no doubt at his door to ask about the two missing lovebirds Mike and Vane.

“Good morning Sheriff, what can I do for ya?” asked Clint smiling as he opened the door for the Sheriff. Sheriff Benton walked in and tipped his hat.

‘Thank you Clint, am here about a journal that was found five days ago in Misty Days house. Looks like it’s your journal and she’s been missing for a week now,” said the Sheriff.

Clint stared at the Sheriff and sunk down into his armchair.

The journal……that’s how it all started.


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Trigger Moment

The crime scene was fresh. That’s how Miranda liked it. The best time to take photos before the damned forensics team arrived. Two little boys and their mother, victims of the night before. She wondered what it was like taking the life of another as she took numerous pictures in all angles.

She heard the main door open. Someone was interrupting her crime scene ritual, so annoying. Slipping out through the back door she heard someone shout out,” Damn it Miranda, you need to stop doing this.”

It was Jerry, she smiled as she hopped on her scooter and zoomed off. She would always imagine her scooter was a Koenigsegg (Google worthy)and the road was her own personal playground. The photos she took would definitely have Fran fall off her rocking chair. She got home and abandoned her scooter on the sidewalk, running into the house.

“Fran! Fran! you’ll never believe what happened at the Smith House, these photos are mind blowing”. There was no one in the house, that was strange. Fran was always home. Sixty year old retired exotic dancer with arthritis and the shakes, the rocking chair was her new best friend. Plus she was too lazy to ever leave the house.

And yes, exotic dancer, the small town of River Creek had its treats if you looked in the right places. Fran had moved in with Miranda and her sister Ginny after her house was burnt down by the McKinny boys. The McKinny boys always caused trouble if you didn’t pay them for their so called “Town Protection” fees.

Miranda went up the stairs and still no one. Maybe it was unemployment cheque day, those were the only days Fran left the house…to collect unemployment cheques. Oh well more time to take a closer look at her photos. She walked into her room and took out her camera. It was her Dads camera, he gave it to her before his prostrate cancer didn’t allow him to live another day. She lay on her bed as she scrolled through the grizzly photos.

The Smiths were a jolly good old family, always went to church and sang in the choir. Little Tommy Smiths neck had been slit clean. Looked like a surgeons work to Miranda. His eyes were bulging, one would say as if to record the last minutes of his short lived life.

” I didn’t think she would be there,” Miranda heard Fran shouting outside the house.

pp

She peeped from her bedroom window to get a better look of who Fran was talking to. A hooded masculine figure stood next to Fran, she was shaking like a leaf holding something in her hand.

“Get rid of her or you’ll be next. You got it!”‘ the hooded fellow bellowed at her. Fran nodded and stared at the sidewalk, Miranda’s scooter lay there. Fran quickly ran into the house with a clear mission.

What is going on? Miranda pondered. She had to get out of there before Fran got to her room. She grabbed her camera and dashed towards the door. As she rushed to open the bedroom door everything went black……


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This is not a movie review…..

I was watching and re-watching Edge of tomorrow featuring Tom Cruise. For those who haven’t watched it, it’s a must watch. The acting is on point and just enough humor to get you hooked. Who wouldn’t like to reset the day every time someone shoots you in the head…spoiler alert. The mimics are totally awesome, at least the aliens didn’t disappoint….okay enough about the movie.

As I watched it, I realized something, no wonder directors hire well trained actors. They already have the skill and know how. Why hire a bunch of poorly trained actors and spend billions of dollars training them. I heard Tom Cruise was in it and I :rushed to the cinemas. This is not to say that I do not support upcoming actors and actresses but you have to admit you know what quality you’ll get if Johnny Depp will be featuring in another Pirates of the Caribbean sequel.

Aside from the actors, the same reasoning directors will use to get the best actors is the same reason employers will use not to hire you. I am in now way supporting employing only the qualified but I am just saying I get it. Spend money to train vs hire someone who already knows what they’re doing……I get it. Oh well , off to look for another Tom Cruise movie or maybe today it will be Idris Elba, decisions decisions …………….  :-indexp


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My African Short Story….Part two

The clouds looked heavy with rain which was going to make his  work harder. Herding was not something he had planned for himself in life.Ten cows, five sheep and a few wives, that was his big dream. The Mlanji community was one that frowned upon men who did not have more than two wives and ten cows. He was nowhere close to that thresh hold.

The cows were in heat which would make moving them into their sheds a herculean task.

He was just a young boy when his parents passed away and the Vulandi family took him in as his own. He could remember vividly as he was taken into the huge compound and Mr.Vulandi stood at the gate to usher him in. Memories he was not fond of.

As he sat on the fence with his herding stick, he tried to gather courage to read the note. His reading skills were not up to par but he had to try. He had been taking reading lessons from the little boy who lived in the next village for a small fee. The boy would teach him how to read and write and in return Bwanji would give him the magazines he used to hide under his bed full of girls in short skirts.

 

The note in his left breast pocket was crumpled . He took it out and opened it.

I have thought about it and I think we should meet, be discrete. The silo at 5pm

He could not quite comprehend what discrete meant but he presumed it meant something positive.

Nmandla scrubbed the floor till her hands went numb. Her thoughts darted from one worry to the next. It had started as a joke and she saw nothing would come from it. All girls in the village did it anyway.……His well chiseled body was the first thing that attracted him to her. Not much of a looker but he could lift a log like it was in paper weight category. Bwanji had started making advances the minute he set his eyes on her, she found it odd.

” We can’t do that again, if my mother finds out she will have us both flogged” she whispered to him. The silo was too small to fit both of them but it had to do. The smell of maize reminded her of the first time she met him. He smelt of maize ,very odd. He stared at her and brushed her hair.

” You mean this is the last of it, i accept not”

She squeezed out of the silo and headed back to the house. The sun was setting and mother would start asking for her. Bwanji was angered greatly, how could she just decide that. He had a say did he not, dumbfounded he opened the silo door. He needed a release or else he would choke the rooster that was announcing its time telling prowess. Busaa (local brew) would have to do, he grabbed his bamboo straw and headed to the local mini-brewery.

Nmandlas’ mother had to put a stop to it. The funny business that was culminating between the two did not amuse her at all. A herds boy and her daughter, what would the villagers say.  The wedding was in a few weeks time and she could not risk any sabotage. She would have to visit the village witch doctor for a potion of sorts.

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Siswero and the women sang in praise as they walked into the Vulandi compound, Nmandla was called into the kitchen by her mother.

“I have seen you with the herds boy too much , and you are growing fat. I know you bear his child”

Sobbing,Nmandla nodded and burst into tears.

” This is the kind of disgrace you bring us”.

Nmandlas’ mother grabbed her hair and shook her head as hard as she could. She reached for the witchdoctors potion in her pocket, it had to be done. Forcing the liquid down her daughters throat seemed like the only thing to do. Nmandla swallowed and dropped to the ground grabbing her throat, whizzing trying to take in her last few breaths. Soon she lay there lifeless.

What was next, they would all know what she did. Quickly she rushed to grab a piece of paper and a pen, she scribbled what she could and pinned it on Nmandla’s chest. She heard hefty foot steps heading her direction, she dropped to the ground and started sobbing. Siswero walked in and gasped in horror.

It was done.

 


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My African short story……. Part 1

short storyNmandla woke up to the chiming of birds and the sweet smell of mothers sweet potatoes cooking. It was the hot season in Bukwere and she could only sleep in her birthday suit. The smell of cow dung was still fresh and made her morning nausea even worse. They had just plastered the huts in the compound the day before in preparation for the celebrations.

She grabbed a bucket and dashed to the “water pit” as her mother referred to it and started her daily chores of watering the plants outside.

“Nmandla, come and nourish”, called out her mother.

It was about time, Nmandla was starving. Her appetite had become a monstrosity and she had to munch on something every passing minute. Her mother stared at her in surprise and said,

“Where are your manners, wash your hands the ‘mabwoni’ (sweet potatoes) will still be here”

Nmandla dashed to the kitchen to wash her muddy hands to avoid any more backlash. As she scrapped the mud of her hands, Bwanji peeped his head through the hole in the kitchen wall.She had vowed to fill the hole with a cake of dung but never got to it. Bwanji adjusted his head to fit through the hole and blurted out,

” Aah my African queen, if only I could squeeze through here and grab your ample cherries”

Her cheeks turned red and she dashed back to eat her breakfast.Her mother watched her wipe her plate clean in minutes and propped her self on the sisal chair at the corner,

” You eat too much these days, you have grown as fat as a cow”

Nmandla giggled as she walked to the garden, “Mama, I think your old age has gotten the best of you, your eyes deceive you”

Bwanji sat on the fence tending to the cattle as he munched on his ‘maenjera'(mixture of beans and maize) and strong tea(hot water and tea leaves). As the Vulandi’s herds boy, life was good. He had three square meals a day and was the most desirable in the village. His small hut and new black mamba bicycle could get him all the desirable girls in the area.

His father had worked for the Vulandi family as head of security as he liked to call himself but everyone knew the right designation, watchman. After his death, Bwanji was left an orphan as his mother had passed away years back due to the an ailment that was never identified. The Vulandi family took him in as their own and gave him a chance at making it in life.

It disturbed him immensely that what he had done was a big slap on the cheek to the Vulandi Family.

Nmandla was always the talk of the town. Her long charcoal black hair was the envy of the village girls. Her soft chocolate colored skin would have you think she bathed in milk and honey daily. Her supple bosom would mesmerize all those who dared to lay their eyes upon them. The almond shaped marble eyes that defined her small oval face seemed to enchant once she stared and battered her thick eyelashes.

She came from one of the most affluent families in Bukwere and her father was one not to mess with. A former soldier in the colonial era, he had a quick temper and ruled with an iron fist. Her mother was sweet and quiet, never said much but knew a great deal of what went on around her.

Preparations for the wedding were almost complete, Nmandla was to be wed to the chiefs son the next day. A throng of middle aged women started streaming into the compound. Wedding songs and ululations filled the air as the celebrations began.Food was being prepared in large cooking pots, and the guests were flowing in.

Nmandla was to be fetched and prepared for her big day by the village women. Siswero, the head matron went into the main house to fetch Nmandla. In the house, there was a cloud of uncertainty and sorrow.

Siswero could hear loud sobbing coming from the kitchen. Heading into the kitchen, she found Nmandlas’ mother face down on the floor devastated beyond relief. To her left was Nmandlas lifeless body with a note pinned to her chest,

The sacrifice had to be made, it was either me or him. Sorry……


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The Golden Goose: Technology

Four months down the line and my writers block is finally broken.  I would attribute this to a number of brilliant minds I was working with today. Young Turks (as I would refer to them) harnessing their talents to make the most of what education has offered them. Internet is a powerful tool which most take for-granted. Inspired by videos online on how to make your own bomb(highly not recommended), making your own robots, make your own disco lights and many more projects. These kids have been encouraged to exercise their imagination and bring out the best of their abilities. TECH

All this got me thinking……why are we not investing on harnessing hands on skills in the young minds instead of fully pumping volumes of physics and chemistry books into their brains. I would refer to this as a hands on approach which definitely makes us more desirable to the socioeconomic market. A chance to build your own tank robot and have it roam around the house taking videos expands your thinking to just beyond waiting for Apple to build the next best gadget. I would like to see a society where curiosity is heightened to the point where most people run to the hardware shop to attempt and build their own robotic arm. My friend and I took the initiative to form a company to spread the “Technology word” to all. We embarked on this journey in the hope that Technology will no longer be a wild goose chase to acquire but accessible and simplified to all. Well, this is not to downplay other areas of study and research, but we all need a pinch of tech in our bowl of  soup.