The Words of a Dying Flame

There was a time in history when man and his creator lived in harmony. Father, as they called the deity, would descend from the silver sphere in the sky he called home and spend time with his creation, teaching them how to farm and hunt, and occasionally entertain their children with games and stories. Every night, he ensured they were all in bed, after which he would go back to the sphere in the clouds. Eventually, some of the people began to wonder what was up there. Some thought he was going to another home much like theirs, yet others believed there was an expansive universe in there, while others thought he might have other children of his own. But they didn’t dare ask Father, lest they bite the hand that feeds them. However, there was a family that was determined to satisfy their curiosity, so one night, after he had tucked them all in and turned to go home, they woke up and peeked at the deity from afar. They watched him walk majestically down the valley, cross the r

There she stood, her white dress dangling on her body, red stains partly hidden by the long black flowing hair that barely covered her horns, all atop a wrinkled, face that was horribly disfigured on one side but fair and lovely on the other, peering at them with her deep set, black eyes that had a dark liquid oozing from them. “My love,” Isela cooed as he met her, kissing her passionately to the horror of the two men. “ Dear God ,” the agent whispered under his breath. “I’ve missed you,” the creature gnarled as she smiled, revealing a set of jagged teeth with the same red stains on them. She then looked at the men, whose petrified expressions somehow surprised her. “Is there something wrong, gentlemen?” They looked at each other, then at it, unable to answer. Isela glared at both, his eyes asking them to be kind to her. Unable to contain himself, the agent blurted it out. “ISELA THAT’S A DEMON YOU’RE WITH!” “DON’T CALL HER THAT!” Isela snapped as he came at him, rain

Now filled with creativity and ambition surpassing any, he believed, Isela ran to his agent to tell him about some new pieces he just had to create. However, he found him seated with the local priest, looking dejected and mortified at Isela’s mere presence. “I need to talk to right away, it’s about,” Isela started, but was cut off by his agent, who looked up at him solemnly. “What is wrong with you?” “What do you mean? I’m just excited to share my new ideas with you.” “Is that all you’d like to share with me?” he asked the sculptor, whose joy was slowly turning into concern. “Are you…what’s wrong? What did I do?” “My son,” the elder croaked, “your friend has shared some very disturbing information with me. Now, seeing the outrage a situation of this magnitude may cause, we saw it fit to settle it among ourselves first.” “What situation? What is it? Why are you being so cryptic?”  “Tell me, Isela,” he went on, eyes piercing Isela’s soul, “is it blindness or desperation that

      Many decades ago, in this very village lived a man named Isela. He was an upcoming craftsman who made beautiful wooden and bronze engravings of animals, landscapes and even famous people. His art became the most sought-after item in the caravan trades and even brought dignitaries from kingdoms everywhere who offered him a handsome sum to work for him. Also, being a young, handsome man, many sought to have him wed their daughters, including some of the dignitaries. But our own king, the most revered Bilaal Mutongo, didn’t want to lose one of his most important assets, so he offered him his eldest daughter, Uumi as his wife. Taken aback by her beauty, he immediately accepted and stayed in Kikeero.            After a lavish wedding and gifts from allies to the king, one could only imagine that he would live a wonderful life afterwards, but they didn’t. Because Uumi was accustomed to a royal lifestyle filled with excessive wealth beyond what most could only imagine, she p