So, this is a collection of really short stories that I’ve written over a period of time. Some were submitted as part of a flash fiction challenge at the end of last year. After some editing, and all that, here they are. Enjoy!
ICE QUEEN
Sultry, seductive and sexy. It was in the way she sat there alone under the sun, its antagonist; her cool vibes igniting a wild fire in my belly.
I moved towards her, this angel of perfection; her sweet curves softly whispering to me as I approached, her whole presence screaming for me to taste, to partake of her caramel essence. I reached this goddess and made, despite my natural fear, to taste of her sweet skin. My tongue caressed her sweetness and I felt it, rush through my body to my head.
Brain Freeze.
THE RED CUP AND SILENCE
There was music. Mr. Eazi holding her down like a short skayt, and someone else going on about shuku shuku being a shoemaker. My red cup was filled with my own poisonous brew, a challenge to my liver. I swirl the contents of my cup as I giggle at the palpable excitement in the room. Everyone is making an attempt to hide their face, orders from the Small Doctor. There is music.
I try navigating through the mass of twirling and twisting bodies drenched in sweat, towards the cake at the end of the room. The salacious taste of the butter icing as it melts on my tongue driving me. My mind is still salivating at the thought when my path is obstructed by the body of a dancer far more skilled than I. My brew, and thoughts of melting icing, is now on my body and my floor. No one notices me. I am left fuming over split brew.
I throw the cup down in silent frustration and make my way out the door. Unnoticed. Fresh air hits and I wonder how aging (dying) is a celebration. The door opens. In his hand is a red cup, his own brew. I take it. We stand staring into the night. I am grateful for this gift he offers, the gift of silence. There is still music.
THE MAN BEHIND THE FLAMES
The heat of the flames was basically designed to sear the skins of mere mortals. He was no mortal. He would brave this trial. He had just one job.
The sun was setting and people had begun the trips back to their homes after another hectic day of hustling to survive. Young couples had come out of hiding to be caressed by the evening’s cool breeze and continue their descent into love. The single ones had come out too, predators both male and female, ready to capture any who wasn’t already owned. Ready to, in bare animal terms, piss all over them and mark them as theirs. He wouldn’t partake in the games. He would stay and brave this fire. He would stand between them and the flames, their saviour. He had just one job.
As he tended the flames, observing in silence, he smiled. A young couple approached. It was time. His first battle. One job.
"Aboki, this suya how much?" the young man asked, his arms drawing his woman closer, chivalry against the flames.
"tu handrid", the gap toothed aboki responded with a huge grin on his face.
… I DO.
“…to have and to hold…”
You cannot have another person. Not in the sense of having a pair of shoes, or money in your account. Not in any sense. People will always try to leave you. Maybe that’s why you’d have to hold too. But then, you’d hear that your grip is suffocating. I am standing here, beside the man I love, promising to have and hold him. I will. I can’t promise that he’d be able to. Not in any sense.
“…to love and to cherish…”
Because love is a terrifying thing. And should I leave, no, when I do, I’d wrench his happiness from underneath him and leave him plunging into the abyss of despair. Clutching for pieces of me in places I was not stored; settling for pieces of me that are in reach, inadequate but laced with the anodyne of happy memories. But I love him, always. How do you not cherish whom you love?
“…till death do us part…”
Because the black hooded god will come for us all. And all that was ours; my love, his pain, would be gone forever. Because the black hooded god has already come for me. How do I tell my love in our vows that I have been marked by death?
THERE IS GOD.
“There is God", she muttered as she sat awash in self-pity, doing nothing.
On a throne far away, high up within the clouds and dazzling brighter than the sun that it blinded mere men, sat the one and only Creator. His beard was thick and white, an aged lion’s mane. With a sceptre in his right and his left hand under his chin, he gazed down upon mankind with a face that gave off nothing. He spotted the young woman drowned in her pity.
"There is God", he snickered making no move to lift her from her plight.
AND IT RAINED… FIRE?
John had been searching for so long. His search was what led him here, this gathering of those who had seemingly found it. He wanted what they blatantly flaunted; a deep belief in something (someone) in control of their own lives. He wanted to put his life in the hands of another, an escape from the world and its troubles.
The young man in front was calling John forward. Really, he was calling out to lost souls to come find themselves. John swore that he was talking directly to him. To come. To find peace.
John found himself behind a robust lady headed forward. There was heat in the room but John swore that it was not the overcrowded building with few functioning fans. It had to be the ‘treasure’ he sought, warming the cold of his heart, baring his soul. The lady was touched by the man. She dropped to the ground, shivering and ululating. John was next.
The young man’s hand touched John’s head. Nothing happened. John was still on his feet, still without. The man nudged John, tilting him, still nothing. Minutes passed and John stood there, the man muttering, waiting and without. There was no salvation here.
The crowd continued to chant behind John: “Send down fire! Send down fire again! Holy Ghost Fire!”
THE MOON DANCE
There is no need for a fire tonight. The clouds have gone and the moon is out to play. The moon’s light drowns the gathering, lengthening shadows, lighting our way. Everything before our eyes can be seen; our hearts feel out and fill in the rest.
There is no need for a fire tonight. Our bodies may be scantily clothed – wisps of cloth over our torsos and groin. Yet, no cold reaches our bones. Our bodies twist and turn to the rhythm of the drums, sweat coats our obsidian skin, each movement fanning the flames in our hearts. The cold is no match for our dance.
Our feet stamp the red earth in unison, faster. Faster. Faster. Faster. Our hands stroke the air in unison, wildly. Wilder. Wilder. Wilder. The earth answers us, dust rising to merge with the moon’s light. Your eyes are fixed. On our feet, nubile hips, hands or toothed smiles. Faster. Wilder. Faster. Wilder.
The crier’s voice rings out through the night. Calling out to those who’ve gone before us, in a language we do not know. Slower. Slower. Slower. Our ears wait. Slower. Slow… You must listen close too. You will hear them; the wailing of the mothers whose children stained this earth red for the land. We dance for them.
There is no need for a fire tonight.
THE DICTATOR’S LAST PSALM
Every dictator was a rebel. Every rebel arose to vanquish a dictator. There are no new beginnings. And everything eventually ends. I have the time to think of this now. The sun joins in my musing through the open window, an unwanted guest peering at my face. Somewhere in my mind, I am wishing the nurse will return soon.
Once, eons ago it seems now, I lived under others. Those who thought they owned my body. Those who believed I owed them my existence. They told me what to eat, where to go, who to worship, what to read and when to return. They also gave me a roof, food and time. Theirs was a dictatorship born of love for me. I wanted none of it. I understood nothing.
So, I grew. In stature, in freedom but not in wisdom. I became the owner of my body. I became its dictator. So I ate, unhealthily; I drank, excessively; and I lived carelessly. And my body suffered. And suffered. In silence.
The nurse is still not here. The drugs have gone now too. My pain is back. I can taste the bile coming up my throat. I can hear their battle cry, blood rushing to my ears as my vision begins to blur. I can feel the warriors take up arms in my head. The revolution has begun. My body rejects its dictator. My reign would soon be over.
Selah.
That’s it. Hope you enjoyed them! Please clap, share and let me know which one of the stories you really liked. 😊
Osondu
