I'm scribbled this short story here for a friend a few months ago and I thought to share here.

Your suggestions and contributions are welcome as I'm still a budding writer





Do not show grief. Men do not cry. What is love? Do men eat love?

Swallows pills.

Nonsense. You are stronger than you think. Take control. Do not let anyone make you feel less important than you are. Motivationalmumbo-jumbo.

Drinks water.


The abracadabra of self belief versus ululations of the heart. Classic story. Epic battle. Catharsis ensues as blades of glass beg for truce, self-belief and ululations oblivious. Elephants locked in combat while grass of

emotions bleed and bruise. Some things in life are not clear, or reasonable. Why does every design have an undoing clause? The heart leaves its business of pumping blood and starts to feel. The brain does not forget what it ought to forget.

Sad smile.


It is a curse. Yes, all is calculated to
ensure fallibility. The sort of premeditated sadism derived from plucking off the wings of a cricket or some other insect and then releasing it to enjoy its ‘freedom’. We are sport for the gods….Even nature enjoys black
humour.

His intention was not to rival Plato.
Pensive pondering just seemed to pour out from a battered mind.
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there”, he had said. Careless words. Practically the most careless to have escaped the lips of Man. A large scale insouciance of this nature wasn’t typical in his handful of hubris. He often prided himself in think-talking, choosing his
words carefully. Something was not right. No he couldn’t be blamed. At least not
completely. He couldn’t be blamed for such open-mouthedness symptomatic of acute mouth diarrhoea. He only took a little wine for his stomach’s sake now–something he didn’t do back them– alcohol wasn’t the culprit.

Ah He was a victim! He was a victim of a gelatinous heart. Heart so sensitive and stupid. And yes! That one who caused all this. The one who had shot arrows of melancholy into the stupid sensitive heart. Man could only remember faintly now how it wasn’t always like this. His
was a decent life, free and untethered. Ah, those days when even the chirping of insect and the intermittent cooing of birds had him frenziedly fascinated. When the ray of the rising sun tearing through his windows and kissing his skin used to send a glimmer of hope into him. Life held promise. He was contented. Until she entered the scene. Dark and lovely. Smile so captivating and rapturous
that it catapulted him to plains of
ecstasy. Her lips were supple wedges of
orange lathered with jam. And her body; slim, graceful, with elaborate bosom rotundity standing over a petite torso like succulent papaya on a young tree. Voluptuous curves further accentuated a figure so alluring that Venus would have been green with envy.

Trailing her then, he lost his mind, his
inhibitions and his shoes, falling headlong into the quicksand of love.She had smiled knowingly at him: the eureka moment. Pleasantries exchanged amid blushing faces and gummy smiles… They had bonded like star-crossed lovers, only in this case, there was one lover who clearly didn’t intend to
commit suicide. He of course was the initiator and it followed that he was the facilitator who emptied out his well of affection and lavished it on her. It was he who had known nothing else but love and promise. He could offer this from his heart of this reservoir that was limitless– or so he thought. She, the one who would betray him, acquiesced passively. With her, one never quite knew where they stood. Her poker-face dotted with those seductive starry-doe eyes. “You’re a friend, you’re more
than a friend”, he had told her. She smiled. Maybe she was amused, or humoured, Goodness knows.


Then came revelations. This is what I am, this things have I done. “Let us be friends for a while, then we’ll see what happens”, She said. A free trial. He was going to settle for anything. He agreed. Sour grapes. Suddenly this ripening fruit had turned sour. What did he do? She just acted funny. He didn’t know. He didn’t like it. She didn’t care.


She was the Bridge. Shaky, threatening to break from the start. He had made to cross the bridge, but it had been uncertain. It didn’t want to accomodate him fully, it didn’t want him to turn back. He was stuck in limbo. The voice of reason told him, “It’d be pathetic to die
crossing this bridge when there are less
uncertain bridges on the road”. But he liked this bridge enough to want to die. Bridge talked about having him sit on it forever, he told Bridge he’d crossed his heart and he hoped to die. Still Bridge was hesitant. Always second-guessing. Until even that guessing stopped… Till finally he understood: He was the like the proverbial knife kept in the fire
while Bridge searched for yam. Bridge found boiled yam elsewhere and palmoil to boot and left him heating away in the fire…

Impressive for a 'budding writer', I have a few tips for you.
1. Your use of language is somewhat confusing, make use of simpler words so as not to lose your readers.
2. Show, don't tell. The story doesn't contain any/much dialogue. When your xters tell the story through dialogue, it makes the story more exciting
3. In the last paragraph, it's difficult to know whether whether 'Brigde' is a xter, a metaphor or just an ordinary brigde.
4. Mix the type of sentences you use. You can use simple, compound/complex sentences to make the story less boring.
Finally, kudos to you. You've got potential.

Chicolee: Impressive for a 'budding writer', I have a few tips for you.
1. Your use of language is somewhat confusing, make use of simpler words so as not to lose your readers.
2. Show, don't tell. The story doesn't contain any/much dialogue. When your xters tell the story through dialogue, it makes the story more exciting
3. In the last paragraph, it's difficult to know whether whether 'Brigde' is a xter, a metaphor or just an ordinary brigde.
4. Mix the type of sentences you use. You can use simple, compound/complex sentences to make the story less boring.
Finally, kudos to you. You've got potential.

Thanks form the tips. I initially intended the story as a poem so that might explain the confusing language and bumpy plot. Thanks again, I'll take note of your points.