This is the post excerpt.


I write poems, articles short stories and series.

I want to reach out to all the voiceless throngs in the world and let their voice be heard. Get deep inside your hearts and bring out the true emotions that lie within you.

In here, you will meet different people and different scenarios every Thursday. If it intrigues you so much, like, comment and share the links. But first, FOLLOW the account. Drag your friends along.

Lets get going.
©Rashid Hunt 2017


My body is numb and weary

For I know not writing on paper

Papers may be strewn by the wind

But my body dies and lives with my writing
I know the prick is painful when I write

So the ink joins me in my fight

I ink my body to my sorrow

So I may get to see another tomorrow
The scent of a companion remains unknown

For I feel dejected, rejected and beaten

You now come by as a  confidant

To stand with me as I fight to my healing

But my pen is still bleeding and pleading 

In my writing I die, in my writing I am born

©Rashid Hunt 2018



A bullet will kill you in three ways. The first one. One shot on your lower abdomen that penetrates your liver, stomach or a major artery. It takes 10 to 15 minutes before you bleed out. Or you give in to a fatal hemorrhage. The second one. Any where on the chest. The bullet will tumble, lots of bones breaking. Separating. The heart or the arteries get hit. Blood pressure drops to zero. The final one is the kill shot. On your head. The bullet will open up your skull and disturb the serenity of your brain matter. You are dead before your brain can process what happened. Snipers change everything.
I was packing so hurriedly since Abraham Satraken had put me on an emergency flight that was to take off at 0530 hours on 18/7/2015. I barely slept at night. The emergency flight was to and fro. The return ticket was indicated that I would travel back to Belfast on Saturday, 19/7/2015 at 1730 hours. My time in Mexico was so limited. The mission was so abrupt and I felt the pressure. The difficulty. It would normally take me two weeks before execution to get the right spot to take the shot. This would entail calculating air resistance, getting the speed of the bullet and the distance the bullet will travel. All these were dependent on the gun I would use. This was uncertain since I was supposed to be entirely unarmed. I was also supposed to watch the target’s vehicle as so to know which car he will travel in, that is in case of tinted windows. How the car will be packed and from which side of the car he will get out. It was a whole load of calculations that I was supposed to do in 24 hours. It was extremely tiresome. I hated the mission already. But after all, I signed up for it.
I took a taxi through Maori highway. The driver deviated to another route which I later realised it was a shorter route to the airport. The atmosphere at Belfast International Airport was quite lovely and I had an exquisite trip. I watched so many videos of Miguel Garcia. I got familiar with every aspect of his being. I could recognise his smile without seeing his whole body. He had a moustache, protruding forehead and big eyes that would lead you to hate him at first sight. 
I finally arrived at Mexico. Not so much jet lag as I had presumed. A taxi was sent specifically for Robert Bangford. I bought the local newspaper on my way to the hotel. News about the Minister of Education attending the press conference at Malinalco hit the front page. I got absorbed. Then I fell asleep. 

“Mr Robert. We have arrived.”The driver confidently said. 

It was barely two hours! I took out my bag and briefcase which had some clothes  and a laptop respectively. I turned round and saw a banner written Toptank Hotel. I was taken to room 59, third floor.

The room was lovely. I thought of bringing a hoe, sometime. After all, all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. But that part would come later. I checked the washrooms, closets and under the bed to see if there’s any Assassins planted. I only trust my instincts. I sat on the bed. Took out my laptop. Copied the coordinates of Malinalco Conference Hall on a piece of paper and walked out. Unarmed. I only carried my keys and some cash. A taxi cab pulled up on the driveway and I got in. ” Malinalco,” I coughed. And the engine was hot. I marked all landmarks that led to Malinalco from Toptank Hotel. I got to the hall and admired how spacious it was. As the amazing tall buildings impressed me, I wondered why I was supposed to assassinate the Minister of Education and not the damn President. Killing prominent people was quite fun. Drawing their lives was very exciting. They didn’t know when it was coming. How and when the lights will go out. I will know if someone is coming to take my life. And when they come, I will take theirs first. Even the angel of death knows, that’s why he doesn’t come. Or maybe I am the angel of death. Maybe. But I fear death. I fear death not because oblivion might lie beyond it but oblivion might not.

I got familiar with the neighborhood. Got in a cyber cafe to get a Google map of the location. I drew the plan, the roads, the landmarks. All the  relevant information. I couldn’t establish for sure where it would be the most approximate position to make the execution because the guns and my bike were still uncertain. I walked  on the subways, making turns in driveways and parkways. I programmed the routes in me like I was a native. It takes a great deal of ingenuity.
I always love night missions because the camouflage is easier. With here, so many people will flock the streets. This makes the security agile. The sun may also bring inconveniences for a reflection may be created. I stayed in Malinalco for the rest of the midmorning, through the afternoon and down to the dawn. I wanted to see the sun set. Having covered all aspects, I headed back to Toptank Hotel. As I alighted from the cab, I noticed the lights in my room were on. I checked in and took the stairs to the third floor. I was even more confused when I saw the door to room 59 slightly open. I pushed it wide and took cover. I waited. Nothing. I crouched and peeped. No one. Behind the door. No one. I saw a big bag on the bed. Beside it, a phone. Then I heard movements in the washrooms. The shower was on. Before I made a step to the washrooms, the phone rang. The caller’s name, Tequila.

© Rashid Hunt 2018



Time has been more or less like every physical entity. It is just that it has always been vaunted curative powers, since time immemorial. I always fed on it. I always embraced patience. I always waited. The correct time to strike was not to be speculated but established. That is better than blowing everything up. It saves on energy and also on time. Just as the words of a certain philosopher which go as “Be sure to put your legs in the right place, then stand firm.”

All these thoughts of time and optimism saturated my brain and  a man who came from behind, taking my Smith and Wesson .38 special brought me back to reality. The other guy was still pointing the gun towards me. My heart was drilling through my ribs. I felt nauseated. For the first time in my life, I was afraid. I had to put my hands in my pockets as so these bozos won’t see them shaking. What gave me hope was that these guys were not cops. If they were, where are their badges? What bugged me the most is how they knew my name. Jack Cork McCummings was a fictional name. After the real me died.
The guy sank in my chair. He was rolling my Smith and Wesson .38 special in his finger as he made himself comfortable. He spoke. “Great job you did Marcus, I’ll take it from here.” No sooner had Marcus put down his aim than I turned him round and skillfully took his gun out of him. My left hand firmly on his neck and my right hand pointing the gun on his head.
“Wow Jack. Relax. We are here to talk.” The other guy spoke so candidly. He was still rolling my Smith and Wesson .38 special.

“Start talking before I blow his brains.” I said.

“Don’t do something you will regret.”

“No one tells me what to do.”

“I am Abraham Satraken.”

Abraham Satraken was the owner of the armoury where I ordered my guns and ammunition. We never met because the order is done online and the deliveries always go to a different address. Then I could pick up my parcel later on. Payment was made before deliveries. By bank.

” I know all my clients and since you’ve been a consistent buyer, I did a speed check on you. I have to know everyone so no one can turn on me. You have a great deal of skill, I’m impressed. ” He spoke with a face life had chewed on.

“What do you want?” I asked condescendingly. Holding Marcus even more firm.

“I have a proposal for you. I give you assignments. Fire arms on discount. Most of them will be international missions.”

“I work alone.”

“If you don’t want to be a part of it, you can do only this one. It has to be executed. It has to be perfect. It has to be you. I’m not begging, I’m insisting.”

“My pay?”

“Goes through me. There’s a good potato in it cork sucker.”

“I’ll sleep on it.” I said. Face expressionless.

“Great talking to you Jack Cork McCummings.”

“Next time. Get your formalities right. Its Jack Wolf.” I said as I let Marcus loose.

“There will never be a next time Jack Wolf. Give me your answer before today midnight. Anchor is up by midnight, don’t be late.” Abraham Satraken said while handing me my Smith and Wesson .38 special. He opened the door.

“Oh! Look who’s hungry. Pizza is here.” Abraham Satraken added.
Marcus snatched his gun and followed Abraham Satraken. I put my Smith and Wesson .38 special at the back and waited.  For the pizza ofcourse. I had even forgotten that I had ordered pizza from Dick’s. Dick’s always delivered their pizzas at my doorstep every Thursday and Sunday night. At exactly 17 minutes to 10 o’clock.
Apart from gas, pizza was the only thing I paid by cash. The delivery girl always handed the pizza, took the cash and left. Today she spoke.

“Those guys have colder eyes than yours.”

I was silent. Still wondering if I was so transparent.

“You are the only one out of town who orders pizza at night.” I was silent.

“Your wall clock is 6 hours and 11 minutes ahead. Creepy.” That captured me.

“Hey observant woman, you making me uncomfortable.” Already feeling my gun. Prepared.

“Racheal,” she said. “Although its written on my tag.”

“Allan,” I lied. “Your cash is on the table.”

“Have a good night Allan.”

“Great night to you.” I faked a smile. I watched her drive away. I closed the door. I put off the lights.

I sat down and reflected on the day. It was fucked up. I had no ride. The thoughts of Abraham Satraken pissing on my face and  Racheal shitting even more were disturbing. I knew death if I saw it. It wasn’t nigh. I kinda liked Racheal because she had been nice. She was beautiful and had a fine posterior to match with. For Abraham Satraken, it was more than blackmail. He was desperate and I was the only hitman who could deliver. If I ordered ammunition that day, someone had  to die. That was clear and evident. 13 missions all successful. 13 and counting because I just got started. I looked at my wall clock and did the maths. It was 17 minutes to midnight. I took my laptop and typed an email to ASSAD, Abraham Satraken Supplies of Armoury and Deliveries. ‘I’m in.’ Almost immediately, a reply came.

Agent: Anonymous

Mission: Terminate the target

Date: 19/7/2015

Time: 1540 – 1550 hours

Target: Miguel Garcia

Mexico Minister of Education

45 years of age

Location:  Malinalco  at a press conference.
Hint: silver rings on fingers of left hand.
If you accept the assignment. Send ACCEPT.

Thank you.
©Rashid Hunt 2017


One evening when the sun was at its most beautiful state, I lay still and quiet at my required position. With my Barrett. 50 Cal in front of me, already in position. Relaxed. I also carried a Smith and Wesson .38 Special just in case some uncertainties came by. The orders I got before the mission were so clear. Rules were upheld. No names. Half of the payment made before the mission and completed when the mission was confirmed successful. Payments made by bank. My bank account was untraceable. Cash flows and activities erased every 17 seconds. The holder unknown. It was like it never existed, but it was there.
“Target heading your way. Do you copy?”

I hurriedly put aside the bread and packet of milk that I was eating while crouching in the deserted house. Some of the milk poured, but I didn’t care. The job was worth a pool of diamonds. The procession moved so slowly to their desired destination. Wherever the were heading. I didn’t care. All I knew was that someone in the inside was coordinating.

“Copy that.” I replied. I knew which car he will be driven in and at what position he would be sitted at. In the car. Although the windows were tinted. All closed. I could still see the target. It was like I had a form of power embedded in me. More of a strategist than shear luck, the rays of the sun were alongside my aim. No reflection was created.
I was very sure the coordinator, who was female, didn’t know me. I always put my identity confidential. I worked alone. The tales of partners turning on each other and blowing each other’s brain matter off was not pleasing.
She started the count down from 17 down. When she was 5, she became quiet. I counted by heart. My finger firmly on the trigger of my lover. I released one of my babies and the perfect shot got the eye of the target and the bullet went through and out on the other side of the head. Bam! No air resistance. Perfect shot.

The fracas, noises, screams and uncontrolled pandemonium gave a  chance for me to gather my equipment, put it in place, get on my motorbike. Ride away. No sooner had I fled than a black car was on my ass. I could see it from the side mirror how hard it was tailing me. Fuck! The nigger had security, agile security. They were on the verge of getting on my ass when I took out my Smith and Wesson .38 special and shot the driver dead. My aiming was stunningly accurate. It was exquisite. One shot one kill. Take the shot or lose the chance. Well I shot at them because I could not afford getting caught. I did something wrong. I carried the murder weapon. We were always supposed to leave it. That is one of the sniper rules. But I loved the Barrett. 50 Cal. This mind blowing single shot, bolt-action weapon comes with a maximum fire range of 2600 metres. And, it can shoot through a wall! I called it my lover, I didn’t part with it. I even slept with it. It was this emotions that always made an assassin vulnerable.
The pursuers stopped, got out and shot at me, intently wanting to draw the life out of me. All this time I moved towards the suburbs, I pulled them to where there was less attention so my escape could be easier. Strategic retreat. I got into the Catullus Woods heading North. I dumped the motorbike in a hole, cleaned, no prints. Took a North Eastern bearing. I knew where it led.
It took me 13 kilometers to get to the Maori highway that led to my home which was situated at the outskirts of town. I got home just in time to get the 9 o’clock news. What hit the breaking news was the assassination of the tycoon. His picture was on the screen and a poem written under it. I felt the poem was familiar. I recalled it was a requiem by Robert Luis Stevenson. It apparently was my favourite. 
As I finished reading the poem, a text popped up in my cell phone. 

“$375,000 deposited for the account number 06678149256 at 9.17 pm on 17/7/2015.”

I heaved a sigh of relief. Before I sat down, I heard a loud knock on the front door. I thought of opening the back door to go check out the front door from the outside, it was safer. With my Smith and  Wesson .38 special in my hand. No sooner had I opened the back door than a gun was raised and the muzzle on my forehead. My hands were up without being told to raise them. The gun did not freak me out. What freaked me out was what the one who bore the gun said.

“Jack Cork McCummings you are under arrest for the attempted murder of AbdulMutwalib Sagaf. What you say may and will be used against you in the court of law.”

©Rashid Hunt 2017 



It was a lie. It always has been. It was always there, staring, telling me that here is not where you belong. It was a life of lie. Living a life of another person. There was this constant voice at the back of my tenacious mind that was urging me towards a completely different life. A life that I lived before I died and reincarnated or maybe resurrected -because I maintained my body- to what I had become.
Nine years before meeting the Chief of the  MESS, Middle Eastern Sniper Syndicate  whom I met six weeks ago, I reported at the gates of Ghazi Baida Terrorist Group. I just had a notion that Ghazi Baida is where I would take all my bitterness after a gang slaughtered my parents, and assassinated my younger sister -who was taken out- on her way home from school. The police found her body with a single bullet hole through her head. That meant that one shot was fired and it must have been close and accurate enough for the bullet to go  through. No one blamed me for not following suit but the culprits always left one person alive, so that he would tell the tale. That is where they messed up.
Ghazi Baida was a quiet place and I will not put out so much information about it because I was put under an oath not to take out any information. Although they clossed down 6 months after I left. No names were involved just badges with a unique mix of letters and numbers. My badge read, A230385. I underwent a full 7 years course on  advanced assassination and learnt how to get away after a murder. With all that training, no one in the Murder School had a heart, not even the commanders who pushed us to and fro. 7 years of sleeping 4 hours every night, 17 minutes of eating which were broken down as 4 minutes for breakfast, 8 minutes for lunch and 5 minutes for the evening meal, and the  rest of the day was spent handling guns and following orders. Only some few breaks and weekends were not acknowledged. Maybe I was doing all that because of revenge but my spirit kept me going. Many of my fellows died within the initial starting months because of a lot of hard labour ,but, I kept on.
The memories of my dead family kept torturing me but my will made it easier for me to grasp. I always remembered the triggers and the critical analysis one would do before striking, I captivated, I absorbed, I was assimilated. I found studying of the human body in the Sniper unit ,at the first year of the admission, very interesting. I could spend my hours set aside for sleep to read. I knew that with all that knowledge, I would get an affluent human who would hire me as a hit man. I made a choice to kill, not for pleasure, but for money. And I promised myself that I would put to justice those who killed my family since justice was not prevailing and the legal system was already corrupt. My promise was set and there was no way I was going to betray myself. But first, I had to learn how to kill and not get killed. I made a choice. I died, not on the outside. In the inside.
© Rashid Hunt 2017


She jumped out of the bed and ran wild to pick up the ringing phone. I lay there like a dead vegetable, startled, saying nothing. Nothing was running through my mind. You would mistake me for a zombie. The best I could do was breathe and wait for the next step. Racheal always liked to dance and sing to my ringtone word by word. I found that childish but she enjoyed it and I had no right to rob her off her happiness. She would sing until it stopped ringing, then hand me the phone the second time it rang.
Racheal loved my Ringtones. It was Adelle who always sang. On this day,Adelle and Racheal sang :
This is the end

Hold your breathe and count to ten

Feel the earth move, and then

Hear my heart burst, again

For this is the end

I’ve drowned and dreamt this moment

So overdue I owe them

Swept away, I’m stolen

Let the sky fall

When it crumbles

We will stand tall

Face it all ,together

Let the sky fall

When it crumbles

We will stand tall

Face it all, together

At Skyfall

This day, she sang, glanced at my phone, kept quiet then passed the phone. The caller’s name read Witch. I didn’t want to ruin our second year anniversary with Racheal. I fucking put it clear to the bozos that I won’t take any assignments, not until I’m done celebrating with my woman.

With the type of vocation that I had, I was not supposed to have any strong links to people or even fall in love, but then love comes, and there we were.

Racheal did not know what kind of job I was doing. All I had to do was tell her that it was safer that she didn’t know, and just like magic, she understood. At least that was one thing I could count on her.
The weird name made her angry and the fact that I didn’t pick up made her angrier. I didn’t want to ruin the moment of course, so I soothed her with oils of words.
Things took a turn when the Chief himself sent a text and it popped up. It read:

Jack, our efforts are futile without your input. Get your ass in the fucking conference room, its the only shot we got. Renege on me at the expense of your girl.

If the Chief sent a text, in bold, then it should have been something that none of the other monkeys working round the clock could do. Fuck, things were getting out of hand.
©Rashid Hunt 2017


Let me tell you about a game I play

Where I close my eyes and fade away

I float away to a special place

Beyond the stars, moon and space
In this place, you see

There are only two people, just you and me

In this place, all is right

Nothing but love and we never fight
No courts, no cells, none of that madness

And neither is there sadness

No rules to follow, no laws to break

No one to hold us or separate
No one to tell us we can’t kiss or touch

I don’t tell you I love, I show you how much
But eventually the game must end

My eyes must open and reality to descend

But someday I’m not sure when

I’ll close my eyes and play the game again

©Rashid Hunt 2017