Fiction

Three Lines and Fourteen Words

By Akuchidinma Raymonda M.

Silhouette couple holding hands. Pinterest.

When she got tired of crying on the sofa, she sluggishly changed into a flowered jumpsuit, left her apartment and walked down to the bus stop, where she took a cab to the beach. The well illuminated beach teemed with people, finding it an ideal place to celebrate a day of romantic love. She sat down on a cane chair wide enough to contain two persons, which she found under a curved coconut tree.

A couple kissing passionately under a canopy caught her gaze. Repressing a sigh, she looked away. Nothing had prepared her for a break up on a Valentine’s Day. Looking up at the starry sky, she wondered if she would ever heal from the heartbreak and if she did, she knew she might forever remain immune to love.

Earlier, she had planned the events for the evening, just to show him how much she cherished him; a romantic dinner at a celebrity restaurant, two hours at the cinema, an hour at the beach and a steamy night at a five-star hotel. She had left the office earlier for the airport to pick him up. At the airport, the sight of the descending plane, heightened her excitement.

She quickly made her way, through the crowd in the arrival hall, where she had been patiently waiting. When she spotted him, her heart skipped a beat. She waved at him. He had barely spared her a smile, when someone whizzed past her.

“Sweetheart!” Screamed the pregnant woman, whom she could as well have ignored.

To her astonishment, she threw her arms around his neck and they held each other for what seemed like an eternity, before he stepped back to kiss her on the forehead. When their gazes met over the head of the petite woman, she saw the silent plea in his eyes and knew at once, that she had lost him forever.

Leaning forward, she cupped her head in her hands. Her only imaginations were of him, caressing the petite woman on a sofa, in a candle lit bedroom. This sent a shiver down her spine. She wondered why she always fell for demons in white robes. Her phone rang. She reluctantly picked it up on the fifth ring.

“Nkem, we need to talk.” She recognized his husky voice.

“Ekene, you should know we don’t need goodbyes to walk away.” She ended the call.

Trying not to relive the beautiful moments they once shared, she got up and walked towards the sea beckoning her. She winced when the soles of her feet hit the cold water. Neither the soothing sounds of the clashing waves nor the beautiful white creases they made on the sea could ease her pains. She stood there relishing the idea of committing suicide.

“It hurts so much.” She whispered.

When her crave for life outweighed the urge to drown, she returned to the cane chair, only to find a stranger sitting at the other end of it. Too tired to search for another seat, she went and sat down quietly, keeping a distance from him. As she flicked through her phone gallery, tears like rain drops fell on the phone screen.

“Did you lose someone dear to you?” His sonorous voice sliced through the silence.

She ignored him even though she was tempted to share her grief with someone.

“It is a beautiful night. Don’t waste it crying over things you can never change.” He returned his attention to his phone.

As if she had been waiting for a cue, her shoulders convulsed with sobs. Spent from crying, she leaned back to stare at the receding tides.

“I always love the wrong men.” She sniffed.

He handed her a bottle of water which she reluctantly took.

“I always fall for women who take my love for granted.” He added.

Silence ensued, each lost in their own thoughts.

“True love doesn’t exist.” She broke the silence.

“It does. Just that people like us don’t have cupids hovering above us.” He adjusted, so he could look at her.

What type of man would hurt a woman on a day like this? He wondered. He had also suffered the same fate but had moved on, hoping that someday his scars would be healed by a stronger love. He couldn’t help pitying her so he decided to share his experience, with the hope that she would find some consolation in his story.

“Is it too late to make up?” She turned to look at him.

“Last night, I got her wedding invitation…” He choked with emotion.

“Aww…” She gasped.

“I doubt if I can ever love again.” He heaved a sigh.

The gloomy look on his handsome face tore at her heart. She thought of how to put a faint smile on his face. Without a second thought, she said the only three lines she could remember from a novel she read as a teenager.

“Hide not your emotions
For gracefully a rare love rides
And you it will surely find.”

He chuckled.

“Strangely, your words just warmed my heart. Are you a poet?”

“No.” She answered with a grin.

For the first time that night, he noticed how beautiful she was. Ignoring the warning bells ringing in his head and giving in to the desire to derive peace of mind from a genuine smile, he said the only fourteen words which his heart could muster.

“Hold my hands
Let’s walk together
And feel these sands
If not forever.”

She looked at his outstretched hand and smiled. She knew that if there was any way to salvage their ruined Valentine’s Day, it was to take the hand of this stranger whose love life was also a mess as hers and enjoy the rest of the evening at least.

To her, it was neither love nor attraction, rather an escape from herself. So she slipped her slender fingers into his larger ones which curled around hers. With their shoulders an inch apart, they walked along the beach and forever, they never let go.

 

Akuchidinma Raymonda M. is a Microbiologist from Nigeria with a passionate interest in fiction writing. To read her full bio among those of other Writers, who have previously submitted their works to the blog, click on the “WRITERS FEATURED” page at the top.

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A Calm Beneath Castles

By Gregg Savage

Treasure Chest buried in the sand. Shutterstock Images

“Digging! Let’s goooo digging!”

This was an adventure Claire knew she could do without. The dense, leathery aroma had all but vanished from the sofa, which had become her sanctuary over the past three months, yet she had come to associate what little smell there was, with almost meditative states of peace and warmth.

On the sixty-fourth day of cradling her writer’s-block, Claire completed the arduous task of shifting the three-seater chesterfield, so that the view of Winston Beach could be more easily ignored.

With the intimidating vista replaced by three abstract pieces of art portraying wavy,
white lines on red backgrounds, she had managed to create a space to curl up and let the dreams unfurl; where the only two things she had to struggle to control, were her thoughts or the muscles behind her eyes, as she engrossed herself into the world of her favourite dramatic novels, scratching for inspiration.

Today, however, her five-and-a-half-year-old son, Tommy, was demanding control. Claire gave in with a long, reluctant sigh.

“Why do you want to go digging, Honey?”

“Pirates have hidden the treasure and we got to find it!” He announced.

“Oh, have they now? Well, we can’t allow that treasure to go undiscovered, now can we?”

“Nuh uhhhh”, he conceded.

As she peeled the upper part of her body away from the sofa, she couldn’t help but draw a loving smile on her face, while watching him try to manoeuvre his body, despite the baggy board shorts, in an attempt to dig up piles of imaginary sand.

Tommy’s matted, black hair contrasted that of his father’s, showing all the signs of a boy who was not yet old enough to be fussing over his looks every day. If Tommy remained convinced of his illusion for long enough, maybe the two of them could stay here for as long she wanted.

He sang a song while he dug:

We’re going on a treasure hunt, X marks the spot, three lines down with a dot, dot, dot.

After repeating several verses, Tommy stopped singing but kept his arms swaying. He looked up at her with his hazelnut eyes and communicated without a word that he knew this was make- believe. They locked eyes just as they had always done and sat in silent conversation. Her legs like weights, Claire released the rest of her body from the grip of the couch and just out of reach of its comforting scent.

It was time to go.

The two of them stood contemplatively at the rear entrance to their modern home, surveying the building layer of clouds diminishing what chance they had of an enjoyable afternoon. Claire’s only swimsuit, exposed more of her skin than she felt comfortable with and as she unfolded her arms, to drape the hair blowing against her face behind her ear, she looked down at Tommy whose enthusiasm had altered into a more solemn reluctance.

This time taking after his father, he pressed his lips together, unsatisfied with the one option Claire presented him with and she followed him with her eyes, as he defiantly marched with his bucket and spade down the sandy track.

It had not escaped Claire that Tommy’s reluctance, was due to their beach trips never being able to live up to those he had experienced with his father. She also knew that conveying this understanding to Tommy, in his own language, was futile. Explaining to him that his father was never coming back was an impossibility.

The situation reminded Claire of the baby herring which had naively trapped itself in their house last summer. Unable to see the link between their actions and its freedom, the bird ferociously resisted the loving help persistently offered from its would-be saviours. In the same way, Claire thought, Tommy was unable to connect-the-dots between lowering that box in the ground and Daddy never taking him out in the dinghy again.

As far as she was concerned, Tommy might only show slightly more excitement than usual were his father to unexpectedly arrive home after-dark tonight, Chinese food in one hand, bottle of wine in the other, nothing short of love for his small family.

It was when the two of them went on their weekend father-son fishing trips that Claire got most of her writing done. It provided the perfect opportunity to sit at her desk and write her novels uninterrupted. And, when it pleased her, she could look out of the study window and watch the two of them fish, taking comfort in imagining them smiling and relaxing together.

Somehow, they always managed to make at least one impressive catch and it was unavoidable, that Tommy would eventually run dripping-wet through the house, ripping Claire out of her make-believe world by triumphantly proclaiming that he had caught their dinner.

On the afternoon of her most recent birthday, Claire was on a roll (or, ‘in the zone’ as she described it) and had immersed herself so thoroughly in her writing; had become so absorbed by the characters unfolding before her, that she inevitably lost track of time. It was a noiseless lightning strike sharply filling the night sky that eventually alerted her to the dreadful realisation that there had been no distractions. No interrupting, triumphant proclamations of dinner being caught that night.

We’re going on a treasure hunt, X marks the spot, three lines down with a dot, dot, dot.

Claire lethargically carried herself around the remainder of the golden sand dunes, bordering the man-made track and finally exposed herself to the beach. The threatening clouds pervading the sky and the exposed mud-flats clogging the horizon, possessed their private section on Winston Beach with an unpleasant air of desolation. Tommy had ventured far enough, away for it to take a moment to decipher which way he was facing but there was no urgent need to summon him back; she could watch him well enough from the path’s end.

Claire hesitated to set herself up on the beach and instead stood silently watching her son. What caught her attention wasn’t so much what Tommy was doing, but rather what he wasn’t doing. She squinted enough to notice his dense hair was unable to get into full sway in the wind and confirmed that instead of digging like he ought to be, Tommy was looking back at her.

They watched each other long enough, for Claire’s lungs to begin begging for their denied breath and at once, she simultaneously gasped and began battling both wind and sand to make her way over to him, nearly collapsing when she discovered tears freely flowing from behind his eyes.

“My little baby what happened?” she asked in panic, kneeling to place her hands on his tiny shoulders for comfort.

“This storm’s going to bring rain, Mummy, and that means I have to go.”

“Well, where are you going precious?”, Claire forced down the familiar lump in her throat and stroked Tommy’s hair, “You’re scaring Mummy, Baby”.

“Got to find the pirate’s treasure – don’t want to, but got to.”

“What if we just head back inside, Honey? Would you like to play our pirate game in the
house?”

Tommy forced a chuckle through his tears as if to tell her she was being silly, “Treasure’s not in the house, Mummy. It’s buried in the dark.”

Sensing the imminence of the growing storm, Claire’s temperature and concern rose
considerably.

She pleaded with him as she wiped his face with her towel, “I know this isn’t the way you and Daddy used to play Sweetie, but I’m trying, Baby.”

Tommy suddenly dropped his bucket and spade and threw his arms around her. Shocked by the impulsive action, Claire delayed hugging him back. Eventually snatching him into her arms, she scrunched his small, blue shirt in her fists and let her own heartache free. The sounds of their grief gradually succumbed to the increasingly violent waves breaking in the distance.

Tommy spoke first.

“We caught you dinner, Mummy. It’s buried in the dark”.

Claire’s face immediately, lost all emotion and she slowly pushed herself out of their embrace, to examine him as if for the first time. Distant thunder tumbled towards them as Tommy used his hands to wipe his eyes. Claire saw him give an affectionate smile before bending down to pick up his bucket and spade.

Knowing that Tommy was now in control, she began following him along the shore, towards the Eastern cliffs of Winston Beach. Cool, light rain began to fall as they walked, the contrasting feeling on Claire’s skin causing her to close her eyes and breathe in deeply.

They reached the entrance to a small cave, where the overwhelming scent of salt-water mixed with seaweed and rotting fish forced Claire to swallow heavily. She protected herself from the foul intrusion with her towel and followed Tommy inside. Enough dull light crept into the cave, letting the layers of history forming its walls gradually become known to her.

Tommy set the bucket down beside himself and presented the spade to her in his outstretched palms. Outside, the rain drummed against the sand and rocks, forcing a bracing chill into the cave and Claire wrapped the towel around her thin frame, in a vain attempt to get warm.

Tommy failed to shiver.

The two of them looked into each other’s eyes and a dreadful emptiness replaced the eternity that had forever accompanied these moments. As the sadness travelled up her throat and into her eyes, she grudgingly picked up the spade from her son’s hands.

Claire sobbed through her tears, “I’m going on a treasure hunt”.

She dropped to her knees, drew the little, red spade back, drove it into the moist sand and struck something solid.

 

Gregg Savage is a Children Stories’ Writer and trained Teacher from Townsville, Australia. He currently posts a new tale everyday on his WordPress Website http://www.greggsavage.net. To read his full bio among those of other Writers, who have previously submitted their works to the blog, click on the “WRITERS FEATURED” page at the top.

 

7 Things Every Upcoming Writer Should Know

Photo sourced from Google Images

So you have been writing for God knows, how long. You are hoping and wishing for that big literary break someday. It’s normal. Every upcoming Writer hopes and wishes to one day have his/her books lining the bookshelves or a bestseller(s) or to win a writing award or simply to get their name out there, but for some reason, it’s always a (lengthy or not) process not entirely devoid of challenges.

What therefore should an upcoming writer know?

1.Writing is not easy

There is the all too famous writer’s block or those days, when you don’t really feel like writing anything and can’t quite put a finger to the cause. Do not be fooled that it doesn’t happen to the established writers. I bet it does but over time, they have learnt effective ways to overcome it. A common advice that has equally worked for me, is to develop a culture of writing frequently or every single day.

Personally, I do not write on a daily basis but I do write frequently in a week. I have also began ensuring that for every single piece I embark on, I have to bring it to completion. Unfinished stories or manuscripts have a way of deceiving a writer, that they just haven’t got it in them, to come up with something worth reading. A finished story or manuscript has a way of boosting a writer’s confidence that they can do it.

Writers like Gregg Savage over at http://www.greggsavage.net have since mastered the art of daily writing with great results.

2.Rejections will be many

I remember meeting up with a magazine editor in late 2015 and feeling like the biggest fool on earth after the meeting. I had been blogging on other non-fiction related topics, for over 2 years then and I really believed that it would not be that hard, contributing for a fashion magazine. The look on the editor’s face when I met her and had not even perused the said magazine, prior to our meeting made me conclude that I’m better of ditching writing altogether. It did not help matters that she gave me like 5 minutes of her time before I got dismissed.

Had I dwelt on that particular rejection or others I have encountered in my writing journey, longer than I should, I probably would not have been here, offering tips on what upcoming writers should know.

Once you begin to put your work out there for people to read, sending in manuscripts or whatever fiction or poetry, you are bound to encounter a few rejections. It’s never personal. Use every rejection as an opportunity to improve on your writing.

3.Beta-Readers are equally important

You need to have those people you give your finished pieces to read and they give you constructive feedback in return. Constructive feedback includes the positive and the negative stuff you need to change. As a writer, I know how scary it gets sharing your work with others. You are never too sure what they are going to say, if they will even read it or whether they will even like it. Of course there is bound to be those dismissive types, who scan through your work and quickly point out a list of negatives about it. Crushing, right?

However, there is that reader, with a writing background or who has a passion for reading or has studied something literature related who will sit down, read your work then break down to you a couple of things, you need to change or improve on and equally point out the positives. These types, I have come to realize, are the best beta-readers to have.

4.Books are expensive

Sometimes, I like to walk into bookshops especially in Nairobi. There’s one at Yaya Center and another at Sarit and many other places I may or may not have been to, but find the one at Yaya personally, being well stocked. My mission is usually to scan the latest books by African writers available on the shelves and I’m never dissapointed. Of course the prices range from 1,500kshs to around 2,500kshs. For an upcoming writer, who may equally be financially challenged or working on a tight budget, this can be expensive and can even put you off the whole idea of shopping for relevant books.

However, do not let that deter you from reading. One question you will always encounter when you begin identifying yourself as a writer is “What are you reading?” It always gets embarrassing when you have nothing you are reading at the moment. It sounds absurd trying to explain to people that you might not be reading, though you would really want to because you find books expensive.

To avoid this, make friends with ardent readers whom you can frequently borrow books from and please ensure you always return the books you borrow or alternatively, join a book club. You are bound to meet with persons who might be in a position to also lend you some of the books they have read. Hopefully, with time you can afford these books and begin purchasing them for yourself.

You can only improve as a writer through reading.

5.There’s lots of fiction online

In relation to the above still, nowadays you can find lots of fiction online in the form of short stories or excerpts. Online literary magazines/websites such as http://www.afreada.com, http://www.brittlepaper.com, http://www.addastories.org among many others, have taken the initiative to feature amazing stories from both upcoming and established writers, which you can read and learn from. Good news is, you don’t have to spend money to access these stories.

6.Learn your style

No writer is the same. After reading Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s “The thing around your neck” and “Americanah” and a certain short story of hers which appeared on Harper’s Bazaar, I found myself getting surprisingly, used to her specific writing style. I’m sure if I were to continuosly sample a particular writer’s work in succession like I especially did hers with those three, I’m bound to discover yet another writing style exclusive to that writer. As you embark on your writing journey, always keep it in mind that you are uniquely you and work on perfecting that you.

7. Comparisons will kill your writing career

As an upcoming writer, the temptation to compare yourself to other established writers or writers you think write better than you, can sometimes be too much. However, the surest way to demoralize yourself is to constantly look over the fence and begin coveting what that other writer supposedly has. In our writing journey, our paces are different. Never forget that.

 

 

CALLING ON WRITERS AND POETS

Image Courtesy of Google

Are you a Writer or Poet?

Would you be interested in contributing to www.definitelylorna.wordpress.com, poetry of any length or a short story of between 2,000-2,500 words?

African themed stories are highly encouraged, though it would equally be refreshing, to read stories from other continents.

This is an upcoming blog therefore, submissions are voluntarily for interested persons. Hopefully, this can change in future.

Include a short bio of yourself as well as a recent photo together with your short story or poetry and send to lornalikiza@yahoo.com.

A separate profile of the Writer/Poet will additionally go up on the blog.

Looking forward to hearing from you 🙂

Let’s Write!

 

(Upcoming Kenyan Writer, Scholastica Memusi’s Short Story http://www.definitelylorna.wordpress.com/growth-warrants-change was recently featured on the blog. She makes the first Guest Writer.)

 

 

A Request To Beta-Readers

Google Images

Firstly, let me state that we value your honest feedback as published and unpublished writers.

Beta-readers according to the definition on Wikipedia, are non-professional readers who read written work, generally fiction, with the intent of looking over the material to find and improve elements such as grammar and spelling, as well as suggestions to improve the story, its characters or its setting.

One of my good friends happens to also be my beta-reader. As a book enthusiast who reads a lot and specifically enjoys African fiction, she has gladly read each one of my manuscripts this year, that I have requested her to read and offered her feedback at the end.

As an unpublished writer, I sometimes cannot help second guessing myself. I also must admit that negative feedback concerning my written work is usually the hardest to take. And yet I’m the kind of writer who has on certain occasions, requested someone I was not well acquainted with, to read my work. There is always that hope that they may like what they read and offer tons of praise and encouragement, right? Wrong.

On most occasions, when I have asked this particular category of people to read my work, their feedback has been_Um_ not necessarily positive or just a tad bit positive. I am human and to hear someone I have requested to read my written work, who seems conversant with literary stuff, tear down my writing, only serves to heighten my insecurities. I find myself wondering whether the feedback would have been different, had they known me better, perhaps as a friend or a published writer. But then it is not always a guarantee for people who know you very well, to always have positive things to say about you.

My mum used to be one of my initial beta-readers. Mum does not have a background in writing but since at the time, I was just starting to come out of my shell as a writer, she was generally the closest person I could somehow trust with my work. Mum has witnessed some of my moments of disappointment in writing. She has seen me being taken round by Editors when I was trying, albeit unsuccessfully to get into Print Media as a columnist. She has offered her advice, her encouragement and blessing concerning my writing.

Funnily enough, every time I shared my manuscripts with mum, she would always have an issue with the names of my characters. It would start from sentence one. That was basically her only critique which I rarely agreed with simply because, it never made sense why she wanted me to change the names I had chosen carefully, for my characters. And in as much as mothers mean well, I realized soon enough that I needed a beta-reader, who would delve deeper into my written work and offer more solid feedback, rather than quickly pointing out that they did not like majority of the characters’ names. I ceased sharing my manuscripts with her, although I would gladly share my published books with her someday.

The title of my post happens to be a request to beta-readers and with good reason. I understand that many times you have our best interests at heart. You would really like us to improve our writing and plots. But as a writer who has experienced beta-readers bashing her work in the past, I would suggest that you purpose to always start with the positive feedback, before you get to the negative feedback. Also, drop the comparisons. The worst thing you can ever do to an upcoming writer requesting your feedback, is to compare him or her with an established writer. I personally believe that every single writer has a different writing style. We can never be the same in our prose delivery.

The common mistake that some (or many, depending on individual experience) beta-readers make is the constant desire to quickly point out the mistakes. Not only does this crush the writer, but equally makes him or her believe that all their efforts have amounted to nothing, if the number of mistakes in their work are that glaring to readers. So much that when the positive feedback follows, it hardly sounds genuine enough. More like a consolation for the otherwise crappy piece of work, they have slaved away to come up with. Writing is not easy, I kid you not.

And I’m sorry to say this, but I bet there are many aspiring writers who have given up, after receiving feedback from a beta-reader delivered in this manner. Understand that it takes a lot of courage for any writer to share their work with someone else. Our writings happen to be some of our deepest thought processes. Therefore, the best way would be to first mention the positives, no matter how little before you proceed to what you think needs to be changed. The message it passes to the writer is that, you appreciated their efforts in seeking opinion from you in the first place and are well meaning, on the aspects you would like them to change or improve on. Remember, even the writers with the most mistakes in their work, have a potential to improve their written work.

What have your personal experiences been with beta-readers? Did you consider their feedback constructive? Has a beta-reader ever crushed your spirit and how did you get back up? I would love to hear all about your experiences in the comment section 🙂