Any interest in having a weekly/bi-weekly short story contest? If it's weekly 1000 words. Bi-weekly 3000 words max. There will be a theme each week. Poems are also welcome.

All entrants will email their entries to me. I will then copy and paste them on here anonymously.

Entrants will read and review the stories and award gold, silver and bronze for the best 3 stories in their opinon. winner is the person with most golds. no prize money or whatever, just the knowledge that you have some good writing skillz.

Others can review the stories and offer criticism but their awards will not count.

So what of it, anyone interested?

We'll decide what the themes will be later.

I'm game, let's have some traction on this.

whew! i was about to slink off into the night. come on people. let's get writing.

lets write, lets write, who is gonna start naaaaaaaaaa

may be i should just take the bull by the horn, abi

Watch out
(but if my writing poor, no blame me ooooo am just a poet)
(Ran off to get a soft drink)

nice idea, my own is to read,

If we can get a few more people then we can start. So Myne, even if your own is just to read, tell your NL friends to register their interest so you can have some original stuff to read.

Superted, do we have to email the stories to you or we can just post them on the thread?

I am interested, so what is the first topic?

I suggest that the stories just be posted on this thread.

When is this baby getting off the ground?

Nice idea sprtd, even if i dont post i surelly wont miss reading.
Intrepid , oya start writing.

All hell broke loose as the sirens started wailing. All around me, men were jolted from different levels of leisure or activity and everyone grabbed their weapons and made for their designated battle stations. I jumped off my bunk and tossed the paperback novel I was reading to the floor, grabbing my AK-47 and my web gear and running for the machine gun nest where my squad was pre-ordered to man.

I jumped into the sandbagged position just as the mortar shells started dropping around us. I knocked off Sergeant Giwa’s helmet with the stock of my gun and he favoured me with a mean look while I mumbled an apology and ducked lower to avoid getting my head chopped off by a flying fragment of hot metal.

‘Sir,’ I said to him, as I cocked my rifle and buckled my helmet tighter, ‘are the Nigerians attacking for real this time?’

‘What kind of stupid question is that?’ He snarled back, squinting into the distance for any signs of a massed infantry charge by the enemy. ‘Does this look like a goddamn fancy dress party?’

The other members of the squad, Segun, Emeka and Charles stared straight ahead with grim faces. This was going to be their first taste of combat since Southern Nigeria seceded from the North some two months back. They were a good bunch; intelligent, friendly fellows who were caught up in a war no one expected and thus had little or no time to adjust to. I could see Emeka’s fingers twitching as he stared down the sight of the heavy machine gun he was manning. I felt sorry for him; he had to leave his wife and two children in the East when our Division was deployed to defend the Northern border at Oyo. He was a former banker with Zenith bank and from what he told us, he was in line for a promotion to branch manager when the secession was declared and all able bodied males were conscripted for the brutal combat that was sure to ensue.

I was jolted out of my reverie by an exploding truck to the left of our position. I grimaced as bodies went tumbling through the air in different directions like ragdogs. The shells were falling thick and fast now and the noise was deafening. I had a brain splitting headache from all the artillery concussions and it seemed the helmet I was wearing only magnified it but I would have had to be suicidal to remove it from my head and risk getting plugged by a bullet.

Suddenly, Emeka yelled in either fury or fright and opened up with the machine gun. I sneaked a peek over the sandbags and saw hundreds of Northern soldiers assaulting our lines. They were shrieking in Hausa or Fulani and running directly at us across the open field which we had previously cleared to create a kill-zone. Our mortars had opened up too and the shells were wreaking havoc in their lines. The enemy soldiers were falling like nine-pins as machine gun bullets and shrapnel decimated their ranks and weakened their charge.

Sergeant Giwa gave the order to open fire when the enemy soldiers were in range. We all opened up on them, firing in short bursts like we were taught in boot camp. I felt sick in my stomach when I saw a man go down after being hit by the bullets from my gun. I wanted to throw my gun down and heave my guts out in revulsion. The knowledge that I had just killed a man was utterly disgusting, even if he was out to take my life too. I was sick of the whole war, barely ten minutes after my involvement in it. I wanted to scream my lungs out and curse the politicians that contributed to the necessity of the war. While we suffered in the open, under the mercy of the elements, eating horrible food and getting ourselves killed, the old fools sat in their mansions and chased after our women.

I felt a tapping on my helmet and turned to see Segun looking at me with concern. I nodded my head grimly and he squeezed my shoulder in reassurance. He turned around and continued shooting at the enemy, his face looking like the angel of death’s as he poured round after round of hot metal into the massed ranks of the enemy infantry.

They were close now; I could see the cold look of hatred in their eyes as they shot as us. Their leaders must have brain-washed them into believing this was a battle of religion, as that is probably the only unifying factor among the Northerners. This bunch of beggars must have been sent as cannon fodder to probe our defences and assess our strength and resolve. They were nearly all gaunt-looking and poorly trained. I looked to my right and saw an enemy soldier cocking his hand, ready to toss a grenade. I shot him through the neck and he slumped to the floor, writhing in agony as he tried to squeeze in some oxygen through his shattered windpipe. The grenade exploded and took down nearly seven men, by my count.

All along our first skirmish line, our troops were repelling the enemy assault successfully. I could sense the enemy attack beginning to falter, the carnage too much for them to bear. It was probably a battalion-sized attack and with the number of men they had lost, the survivors would be hard pressed into forming a company. Suddenly, a whistle blew and the enemy turned tail and started running back to their jump-off lines. We all broke out in cheers and continued firing at their retreating backs, bringing down a good number of them.

‘Cease fire, son.’ Sergeant Giwa advised, ‘save your energy for later. I have a feeling you will need it.’

‘But Sarge, they are on the run!’I replied, in disbelief. ‘We should go after them and completely rout them!’

He shook his head as he checked his weapon. He placed it on an ammunition box and lit a stick of St. Moritz, taking a deep drag and exhaling gratefully, his eyes closed like he was thanking God for sparing him from death. I was going crazy with blood-lust and couldn’t believe we were not allowed to finish off the enemy. I stood there and looked down at the older man in anger for around five minutes, trying to get the adrenaline to stop coursing my head when a loud shout rent our lines and forced me to look up. My eyes widened and I choked down a lump that was forming in my throat.

The enemy was sending another wave of troops. Hundreds of them, With Heavy Battle Tanks!

‘Get ready, son.’ Sergeant Giwa said.

Feel free to critique it, I wrote it in a bit of a hurry though, so be merciful,

I'm so glad there's a bit of interest.

We can post it on here. But everyone must promise to be objective and judge the story, not the person.

Nice story by the way, intrepid. Only thing is that there isn't much characterisation. The only person I felt I knew, and thus cared about, was Sgt. Giwa. I suppose it shows the anonymity of soldiers though.

I want this to be a totally democratic thing so I was thinking all interested parties (writers and readers) could nominate themes. The themes are just a general idea and don't have to be followed to the letter. Be creative.

Let's say a deadline of Monday to suggest a theme, and then we'll vote and have picked a topic and be ready by next Weds to start. Does that sound ok?

The theme I suggest is "What if, "

Also are we going for 1000 words or 3000 words.

Hi Suprted. I wrote the piece in a hurry and thus I didn't think of the plot carefully.

Your suggestion is wise. We can pick the themes and complete the pieces in 3-5 days and post, abi? I think 1000 words is enough, sha.

Great idea!but how do u prevent copyright violation?

Great idea!but how do u prevent copyright violation?

Nice question,

good question. any suggestions. maybe we can put our initials in every paragraph. so like if keyleychi is doing it. he should put his initials somewhere in every parapgraph like

the quick quick brown fox jumped (KEY) over the lazy dog.

that way if some plagiariser just copy-pastes your story and you see it somewhere you have proof that its yours inside.

probably better ideas elsewhere.


@intrepid. I liked the story, would love to read more.

Here is my own piece

OBLIVION

“Tami, are you not going to fish today? The sunshine must have penetrated the river and the fishes would be awake by now!” my mama called from inside the hut.
“The day is still young mama, I will soon go.” I shouted back.
I looked up and saw the sun high in the sky, yet I felt reluctant to go. I stared across the horizon and felt an invisible darkness creeping upon the land. Usually, I would wake up at the first stroke of dawn and rush to the river. Now, the joy that the first rays of the early morning sunshine brought had receded. It had been replaced by a vague feeling of emptiness that had refused to go ever since the oil wells were installed.
My name is Taminore. I live in a small village in the Southernmost part of Nigeria, an area of land called the Niger Delta because that is where the River Niger flows into the Atlantic ocean, dividing into many rivulets or tributaries. One of these rivulets is very close to my home. We are predominantly fishermen and this river is our mainstay.
When I was fifteen, oil was discovered in the village. As I grew up, I saw my environment change rapidly before my very eyes. For the first time, there was electricity, and government provided a school for the community. For a while, the tides of change were positive. Then, gradually, the adverse effects of uncontrolled oil exploitation began to seep in. Now, five years later, I was twenty and my source of livelihood was being severely threatened. The river had been badly polluted due to oil spillage. The fishes were dying and the water had become unfit for drinking.
Soon, I started slowly across the creeks towards the river. Usually, when I got to the river, I would stand for a while on the shores of the river, admiring the beauty of my habitat. Then, I would find a suitable spot around the river, where I would sit, watching lazily as the water shimmered and the fishes danced in it. I could wait there for a long time, just staring at the water and dreaming, until I sighted Seigher. I would watch as she approached me, her big fetching bowl balanced on her head. She would smile at me, showing her small, white teeth. She had dimpled cheeks and hazel eyes. She would come to me and embrace me, then we would go fishing together.
Today, I was so late that I didn’t need to wait there for Seigher. She was already there, sitting on a tree branch. I realized her face was solemn and grim
“Tami!” she called as I walked towards her, “John is dead!” she cried. She ran to me and I held her in my arms. She sobbed on my shoulder, pouring out her grief.
“What happened” I asked, not believing that my best friend, and Seigher’s brother was dead.
“It was the soldiers. They thought he was a militant. Oh Tami, he’s gone!”
I held her in my arms and comforted her. I felt a deep bore in my heart, so deep it penetrated into my core and made me feel the impending doom. I stared at the river, the water used to be clear and colorless, but now it was glowing under the sunlight, various colors radiating from the oily face. I could see dead fishes under the water and the smell of oil was thick in the air