I have had this recurring dream since I was about six. The only dream, besides waking nightmares, which I have ever recalled. In my dream, a monumental lion suddenly appears, a mane so majestic, I can’t help but to notice. Each misplaced visit forebodes something aberrant; it stalks about, first along the fence then it leaps atop the roof, not a single tile mislaid. While it slinks about, I rush my family inside, frantically. Why has this beast come? My face is stoic and scrutinizing, but my knees tremble and my heart races. Wild and free this feral cat has no place here. Who let this beast loose? It tilts its head and flicks its tail tauntingly, a torrid invitation. A standoff ensues: a six year old girl face to face with a king of the jungle. Its whiskers draw back in a snarl. What would the neighbors think if they heard a lion so far from the zoo? She, or I, I suppose- I am just an observer now - bows in diffidence, an attestation of reverence. This lion has no voice, but I know what it would say. And the feeling which startles me awake is that of nightmares.
About the Creator
Chipa Mulenga
Hello! I have dreamed of becoming a writer since I can remember. Adulthood and obligations lead me down the path of an educator for the past years. I joined Vocal to share my stories, some fiction some semi-autobiographical.
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This Is Love
If you were to walk past the house with the overgrown grass and weeds, you would see a lone light lit in the upstairs window. Another tumultuous spat between two lost lovers. What’s said is neither here nor there, it’s the same scene most nights. What is not said would probably be more of note anyway. Each of them is blinded by differing perspectives. Maybe the thing of most note is the willingness of both to fight. Against or for, unknown. I can only speak for myself, ready to come clean, my admission rings through the air. I justify it to myself. The look on his face feels like he’s known. His words are those of of acceptance. I’m shocked, if anything, at his response to the thing I thought would have to make us call it quits. He shows me grace and shows himself in a new light. This is the same man I have held a grudge against for so long, I begin to think. I can’t quite shake the suspicion he read from my journal when I’d driven off that night. I have this unnerving inkling, yet I keep my head held high, cornered, but I know I can’t back down. He asks me to reveal more lies and I walk through my mind and find that I have been honest to a fault to this man who is a stranger. Love grows through grace, that’s how I know I can’t leave this place. Is this where I will learn to love, I ask myself.
By Chipa Mulenga3 years ago in Poets
Smart phones, Humans and Aliens.
WARNING. I will be tapping into one of your favorite creative tensions: The absurdity of humans worshipping their glowing rectangles as if they were tiny oracles. There’s something deliciously poetic about that contradiction, and it lends itself beautifully to an instructive proviso.
By Novel Allen7 days ago in Poets
Autonomy Is The Real Privilege
Good morning, freedom-seekers! Today we’re gonna be looking at autonomy. A strange word, I know; one many would probably look at blankly and run away from on sight. We’re gonna figure out what it actually means, consider how it’s achieved, and decipher just how deeply most of us are tangled up in dependence without realising it.
By That ‘Freedom’ Guy3 days ago in Humans
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