Crime?

It's just like escaping from within the boundaries of moral restraints. The deviation from this moral factor doesn't necessarily denote aggressiveness or some dark manifestation; crime can always be innocent—especially if there is a psycho out there who doesn't hear the whispers of composure. We ourselves hear these whispers—all of us, except we are like them, the criminals, the psyschopaths, the bloody highlifes who can't bear to pull a briddle. 

Yet we are like them. We may try to deny it. We may try to argue that we can never kill, never manipulate, never rob and burgle and cause wreckage; we may argue that we can never rape, that we hate the sounds of torture, that even if the world be swarmed by beasts we will remain humans. Where is the lie? 

But you know, every 'human' is an animal with a sense of morality. Take away the morality and you'll be unleashing a full-blown psychopath. Remorse is gone. And responsibility? To hell with it. Since this rot is a part of us (merely restrained), it is ever thrilling to explore what lies hidden in us yet exposed in a fraction of subhumans. It is ever thrilling to read and write CRIME and the many shades of it. And that is why I write crime.

The nature of the psychopath, though dark and evil, is rather intriguing and a bit of some 'nice' feeling. Why do we feel a murder isn't intriguing enough? Why do we feel a serial killer needs a crazier fetish to make them compelling and different from the others? It's in us. That powerful wisp of evil. Imagination's only doing its part; MORE of US appears when we think wild. We think deep into ourselves and see our dark sides and write them as though they are reflections or paintings of some evil stranger far away. I write crime to let out these darkness that I wouldn't dare bring to real life. And you're happy to read, ain't you? 

For me, it's not to correct any societal ill. Literary fiction can take care of that. And it's not to emphasise morality or the poor clichè that good wins in the end. I rather find it easier and more precise painting evil the way it is. Many evils go unrewarded. That is reality. I write crime to show reality. To show the darkness shrouded in pretense, in unconsciousness, in the intentional ignorance we've given ourselves away to. 

Jenny is the central character of my short crime, 𝙁𝙞𝙧𝙚 𝙞𝙣 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙈𝙖𝙯𝙚. And I've made her a grpping representation of this darkness. You'll find Fire in the Maze in the 𝙋𝙍𝙊𝙁𝙒𝙄𝘾 𝘾𝙧𝙞𝙢𝙚 𝙁𝙞𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝘼𝙣𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙡𝙤𝙜𝙮, 𝙉𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙨𝙝𝙖𝙙𝙚, featuring five (5) other crazy crimes. When you meet her, take your time to study her. Get lost in her world. And savour the thrill of darkness. 

The Anthology will be out on the 6th of May, 2022.

You can pre-order now. Details are in the comments section. Let's be happy!

For the love of CRIME FICTION!!!

by Elisha Oluyemi

HE WITHDRAWS HIS PALM from the dog's mane as though irritated. Seconds ago, he was chuckling as he tickled the dog and caressed its mane, the happy pet wagging its tail. But now, his gaze bores firmly at it, and his eyes are void of emotion, like one caught between good and evil.

The dog returns the gaze with the most innocent look an animal could offer. In the CCTV footage, the pet's eyes are two balls of sheen gazing out of their sockets, right at the young boy standing in the corridor, as though saying, 𝘗𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦... 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘥 𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘦. 𝘐'𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘣𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘣𝘶𝘥. 

Only that the boy isn't able to hear those pleas; or he can hear them but just finds them difficult to understand. His blank gaze turns into a deep frown, and he backpedals, swinging a sharp kick right at the dog's belly, sending it crashing against the near wall in the corridor. The dog growls—a husky whimper—writhing on its sides for some seconds, before it struggles back up its limbs to return to its master—this master who used to be kind. 

The boy withdraws another step and whips back a glance. A fire extinguisher container hangs on the wall. He backpedals towards it, hoists his both hands, and retrieves it. Head tilted, he slows a turn back at the dog whose eyes are now glistening the more, mopping at him as though wronged. He doesn't regard that either. He only trudges closer to it. In his eyes, this pet is nothing but a beast that must be crushed to the bones, a nuisance that must be murdered.

The dog moves closer, too. It stretches, face pushed upwards, begging understanding, telling his master that he is still that sweet pet from minutes ago. That he is still that obedient companion that wouldn't resent the chain around his neck.

Expectedly, this master doesn't know the colour of loyalty. Or he has been blinded by the evil that has just found him. The evil that makes a mother forget the allure of a baby's innocence. Everywhere she looks is darkness. Everything she hears is evil, ghostly whispers that rattle the heart, painting the seeable and perceivable world the colour of the blackness she has become. Everyone has a moment of discovery. A wisp or a mass of 𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘨𝘯𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘴. And this boy's fate  can't be more interesting.

He pulls along the iron container till he is a couple of steps away from the beast. At once, he hefts it and smashes it on its head, forcing a yowl from the pet. Swiftly, he hefts it again and rams it against the face so that the dog growls and staggers and quivers, but returns, jaws slacked, tongue dripping slime, head bowed yet in submission and loyalty. 

The predator isn't ready to halt his kill—his fresh awakening. He hefts the weapon for the last time and crashes it on the dog's jaw, bashing the animal to the ground in a sanguinary fit. The dog sinks down, mashed head flat against the ceramic floor, writhing like a mortified leviathan.

After the kill, the boy doesn't drop the murder weapon. He doesn't stagger; doesn't shake his head frantically like one who's overwhelmed by regrets. Instead, his shoulders quiver—just like when someone giggles hard, satisfied with what they've just done. He slows a turn back, eyes on the nail in the wall. He trudges back to that nail and hangs the murder weapon back in its place. He wouldn't clean anything up. Not the bodily fluid. Not the carcass. Not the traces of darkness he has left here in this short while. He only stares in the direction of the CCTV camera right in the ceiling. And he walks away.

If this is his first murder, he'll never be an invincible killer. He is one who doesn't care. He will be like those who fail to go far with their display of supremacy. What a waste of talent! 

But I care. I have a lot to do for him. And I will start by erasing this footage from the mall's database.