A Limerick:

“The best aid for supplication is humility.”

— Imam Ali (a.s.), Ghurar al-Hikam, no. 9945

Bookstore in Copenhagen, Denmark. 1899. 

"Your handwriting. the way you walk. which china pattern you choose. it's all giving you away. everything you do shows your hand. everything is a self portrait. everything is a diary."

Chuck Palahniuk

Writing has two stages:

1. you can't stop

2. you can't start to save your life

The Argent 

A Ghoster mini-comic. 

Read online

Kan- wa ma kan.

It was- and it was not.

It's how all the stories start. They tell you of what was and what wasn't, but they don't tell you which is which.

Perhaps you are seven. Perhaps you are eight. You ask the sweet, greying hakawati (story crafter) "but a'amu (uncle), was it real?" Your eyes bright with eagerness and hope. And he tells you, his smile never faltering, "kan wa ma kan, my child. It was and it wasn't. Perhaps it is real. Perhaps there were caverns and theives and treasure. Perhaps there were empires and warriors and charmers. Perhaps it was the land of mysteries- the very land that Shahrazad spoke of. And perhaps it was not."

You close your eyes to better imagine the stories the old man tells. What a wild thing it was, your imagination- and even wilder his was, for the stories he crafted were his own. Flying carpets. Music. Mercenaries. A king's banquet. A marid (jinn) to make your wishes come true. "But was it?" You ask. Desperately hoping it was. And more so wishing it is. "It was and it wasn't," your hakawati says smiling.

You can smell the sweet smoke from the altars that burn ever so steadily; consuming an offering to gods long forgotten. You can hear the echoes of music long since silenced. You see the dances of people long dead. You know their stories. "But was it?" You press further. "It was and it wasn't," the old man says, his smile never fading.

You're out in the golden dunes of Arabia. A glistening object catches your eye and you take hold of it- and you are knocked back by the force of the marid storming out. "Shobeik lobeik. A'bdak bein edeik. Your wish is my command." He says. But you have no desire for anything other than answers "was it real?" You ask, but he disintegrates into whatever nothingness he came from, leaving you asking yourself whether or not it was. Whether or not you are.

You are growing up. You are now thirteen. You have yet to stop asking "was it?" Your father says it was not. Your brother says it was not. Your friend says it was not. But you are wild and stubborn. You say "but what if it was?" And they laugh you off.

Four years later and you are seventeen; and the raging fire of the stories' magic within you dims to embers. Your hakawati has long since passed away. You keep his smile tucked into a fold so deep in your heart you nearly forget about it. And you stop asking for stories. You stop asking "was it?" And what is even worse, though, is that you start to believe that perhaps, after all, it was not. That it never was.

But I am here to tell you this; it was. You spoke to the marid. You heard the music. You saw the people dancing and you smelled the offerings to their gods. It might be so deep within you, as deep as your beloved hakawati's smile is buried. And I want you to know that you, now, have your answer.

“If the coffin hits anything at all, Death will come back for more.”

That’s what old people say.

In the Philippines, whenever someone dies, we hold a wake for 5-7 days. During this time, friends and family visit the deceased to pay their respects. There are prayers, feasting, singing and games. A celebration of a life that once was.

And the most critical moment? The last one on the last day. Pallbearers must ensure that when moving the coffin from the family home into the funeral hearse… it never hits a corner, a wall or anything at all.

Because according to superstition, if it does, Death considers it an invitation to return to the home and fetch more souls.

I’ve heard numerous anecdotes about this being true. Told over and over again. Stories passed down for generations. A family of five that all died within a week. Friends who passed away within days of each other. An entire village that was felled by what seemed like a plague. All because a coffin hit a wall.

But none of it is true.

My ancestors made it up.

To keep the truth hidden.

They were seven siblings in all. Four girls and three boys. The first six were supernaturally blessed. The youngest was not.

Today, we don’t care if this happens. So what if little Johnny can’t tell the future or cast a spell? He could be a successful lawyer, doctor, entrepreneur. He’s not missing out on the chance to become fulfilled in this incarnation.

But back then, being a “Squib” in a witching family meant you were worthless.

And so Teofilo and Saturnina — the eldest two — asked the rest, “Should we share our powers with our youngest?” And they all said yes.

A ritual was performed. Orisons were chanted. Blood magic was invoked. And so their powers flowed, from one sibling to another. Which means they now shared one life. If one dies, the rest would follow.

Then and until very recently, traditional witches in my country pretended to be Catholics. The truth would have made them outcasts. Labelled as evil. 

And so to hide the supernatural way they would die in the future, and prevent their children being branded as witches, the siblings made up a superstition and spread it: “If the coffin hits anything at all, Death will come back for more.”

Many decades after they planted the seed, it fully bloomed. So when Crisanta, the third sibling, died of an illness, and the other six followed within a matter of minutes… nobody suspected they were witches.

Instead, all the neighbors said, “Alas. The pallbearers must have hit a wall, inviting Death to come back for more.”

"Ah, September! You are the doorway to the season that awakens my soul... but I must confess that I love you only because you are a prelude to my beloved October." 🍁🎃🌙

- Peggy Toney Horton

Sound on for the cutest coo.