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This should be WEBNOVEL or one of its competitors

White Teeth --- Zadie Smith

https://www.nairaland.com/1467988/literature-section-awards-2013

Check the link and choose. Be advised, if a story was nominated twice, it deserves to be read earlier before others. Enjoy yourself.

The prince came every night for the past five days. A mystery man. But this night was different. Not for the street that had fallen asleep. Not for his limp and the clanging of his walking stick. He walked rather too slow and paused and looked back too often. He was the son of the king.


Cold breeze blew my window curtains as he walked onto the bridge and out of view.



The newspaper arrived the next morning with a bad news. The 'mystery man' was on the headlines: TROUBLED PRINCE DROWNED 'COS HE IS A BASTARD.

it seems the OP joined the literature section very late.

Well, I was here...

EgusiShankly:
what is the meaning of pekele??...

pekele pekele...

you can roughly translate it to 'see me see trouble'

I'm in

Nice.

interested

Your time and mine are precious. Not to waste it, I will get down to where I'm going --- straight: My favorite 5 stories on this forum.

Here is where readers should drink a cold beer and smile because this is choice ---mine.

And sorry, I write stories that are older than 2013. So stories that come after are exempted. That's why someone needs to create a 'counter thread.'

Good.

I love styles. I love arts that are not a scrap of the surface --- I mean those that get under our skin and into hearts.

Oya, let's start!

1. A walk down memory lane --- EggovinEmma

I love the sentence that sings as though it was a music in letters. This woman writes in plain language that defines simplicity and yet confined and rich in depth.

You should see how this woman described the killing of rats (I will share this later).

Note: the topic is now hidden if you want to view. But there is a way --- if you want to, you will find it.


2. The Place of Rest ---Ishiluv

This story ignited the idea for my best story. And I won't lie to you, I reread the first page it at least once every month. I told you I love styles, didn't I?

When you finish, read The Book of Death by the same writer. You will have an idea of what I appreciate in fiction.

3. Under the Rusty Brown Roof --- Fik fanuel

The second best writer, on this forum, I appreciate her characterization. She takes you to Ibadan, bring you to a family and make each member so real you are dining in their room and hearing the 'rapper' sing.

4. The coffin of Errors --- Larry sun

'My stomach!'

A start like Charles Dickens, Christmas Carol: 'The ill-mannered Pa Jimoh is dead, to begin with.'

And as you ride on, you read about the preparation of Pa Jimoh's coffin and the 'errors' during the transport of this 'edifice' --- which are indeed humorous.

Read real, vivid descriptions. The death of the protagonist from the palm tree. The Bees. The village. The truck driver etc. etc. all packed with humor.

Perhaps you want to learn how to bring characters to life, then, ask Larry how he writes 'backstories.' I'm not that lucky to get an answer.

5. Madness on The Highway --- Olu chi

Crazy, crazy, crazy!

The highway, in this bus, as Oluch described it, is filled with madness. Her style, too, is simple yet rich in 'tone' and depth. An ordinary expressed in creative and artful sentences. What some people will call talent.

*****.
We are done. Some stories are well written in style but I didn't list them. I'm sorry, things would have been different if I had written '10 or 20 favorite stories on this Forum.' Forgive me.


Reminder: Here the choice is mine. It is otherwise when you create your own thread and make your list. Good luck with it.

And, thanks for reading.

He glanced at his watch: half past 6. He had parked his car along the busy towards a mast waiting for the girl... stalking, actually.

He wasn't sure she would pass this route or even if she's at home. Or if she's left for work. He was a man of his time. Such liberty comes when one is an entreprenuer — a day for stalking. He watched the gate intermittently with his watch. The cars were passing, the street was awake though a bit of darkness still hung in air. The sun was hesitating, should I surface. He sighed. He has work to do and would like to see her. Maybe meet her again, to explain. This is morning he couldn't go towards that house.

That night they had drove after her and she, after saying things to the gateman drove in through the old and rust-painted gate. The stout gatekeeper dragged him out of the compound with indignation. Thanks, anyway, other times police would already be on his case, 'young man, why did you pursue a young lady?' Or the mob would turned him a charred meat.

The gate opened; the keeper was same. The car glide out; it headed forth and he followed behind.

'Time to know your place of work Rita'

Madness. Why are they following her? It might better to ask herself, why is she running?

Mark, she was running from Mark. Why?

Mark and Rita are not meant to meet ever again. They are meant to keep their distances and this running was about, increasing the gap.

She stepped on. The car sped on. The poles danced past. With a bright grin, 'thank you daddy,' she said. The car was doing fine and the feeling of being a bird on wheels washed over her. She couldn't have afford the car herself. In the mirror, her pursuers were no where. She smiled again.

The night was quiet and the number of cars has decreased. The spacious road was enough to make a ostentious drive, sideways, forth and back. Sky was blue and the moon was useless in the sense of lighting — streets lights, houses, hotels and tall buildings were doing the job fine.

Suddenly, a car sped past her. And in the same manner screeched to a stop right before. 'Heavens!' Rita shouted stepping on the break. Her eyes flared. Her heart a thousand miles closing on hell and paradise. The car-tyres cried like a beast. In a moment marked with luck her car stopped before it crashed the bastard's bum.

The car drove off without saying, 'hi, sorry, I was drunk' And Rita cursed.

A car turned up beside her and she turned to see Mark smiling on her from the front seat.
****** ******** ********* *******

Slim and Karen, I hope I haven't ruined it.

weldone keren and slim

Slim berry123:
yhung browhne where ah u ooooo.... food don done ooo... Kusibe77..

viewing.

I'm in as a team member

saw it now, and thqseries, too

Tunde gulped his alcohol. He squeezed his face tight; the liquor was warm and a bit bitter exactly like he wanted; like he wanted, so that his annoyance can ease. He poured himself another which half filled the cup; relaxing the cup in his hand and let the past hours play on his mind.

What did she take herself for, a celebrity?

He's been stupid, acting like a fool all day because of one girl. Thats what they say about getting attach too much, but he was showing what he felt, truthfully, as though a fresh of the morning sun, that can't be hidden. His for her can't be hidden. Rita, yes, he loves Rita. And this has become a fool. He was been played as though a tennis ball to the wall when the player was assured it would bounce back. He would come back.

It's enough. The rejection, it's enough.
He had spent hours combing his hair, polishing his shoes, and tried looking good for her, and when he went to her house as planned, she opened her door in half.

'see Tunde, I'm sorry I can't join you, I've slight headche, maybe some other time'

Then she slammed the door shut. Leaving him outside, hurt, betrayed and embarassed — all in one second.
He stirred the glass cup by shaking it, as if though it was a mixture.
The smile in his face had then vanished and he dragged himself than to the bar with the aim of expel his annoyance with some drinks.

He was angry, and his mind was boiling.

Staring around with annoyance clouded vision, he saw a young beautiful lady. Their eyes met and she stared away. His mouth went wide. She's beautiful than Rita, he mused. He put down his cup, and stole another glance her way. She was beautiful and perfect, except being not as fat as Rita, and not as close to his heart like Rita. Her face was more beautiful, and he can't guess why she's alone in this place.

Perhaps, it's time to put Rita where she is, at her house, off his mind, and enjoy his evening. He stood, buttoned his shirt and walked to her.
Rita ruined his plans, but he wont let ruin the entire night.


'Please' he offered a hand, and she accepted shyly, and placing her glass down on a table, they stepped to the center.

Soon, the bar was astounded, their cheers and clap cheered the couple that are so good as dancing partners.

*****-----*********-----+--************

Everyone is free to contribute. silent viewers!
**★*********★*************★*****

She stood at a corner and wine filled her cup. Men charttered, and music blared, and ladies giggled. The centre had opened for dancers. She loves to dance, but she came alone. Alone with herself and her wine. She stared around.

At a seat was one of the handsome men she has ever seen. Turning fully at him, her gaze met his and she stared away quiclky, the tables, chairs, and seated couples met her gaze and a smile broaden her lips. He was cute and he was alone, she thought. Talking to men first wasn't her thing, he should attempt if he wasn't dumb. Handsome men are dumb anyway, but not often in the matters of women. She filled her mouth with liquor and let it in her throat slowly.

*****----***********-----***********

Sophia sat queitly. A LED Tv hung on the cream paint wall, and around her stood two other white couches. Aesthetic painting: a woman backing a baby in medeival villige beautify the walls. A half empty glass of alcohol sat on a glass table before her, and under her slippers holding feet, mantled by brown, dotted designed square ceramics tiles. She held a magazine with both hands, and on its page was a pre-wedding photoshoot of a couple. Complimenting couple, she thought — Husband was dark and tall, wife was blonde skin and average height.

Advertently, she picked the glass cup, took a sip from it and return it on the table. It warmed her throat and warm her thought too. It was night and she would soon sleep, as she's already wore her night gown. She enjoys it, a cup or two just before falling on bed.

She read the couples name and smile crept on her face. One day, she will be having pre-wedding shoot too. Hers would be shot outside the shores of this country — Paris is her best choice — she can't rule out Italy though — or maybe just South Africa. Those tall archaic monuments in Rome were her fancy for a background in a shoot, like the ones she's seen in movies and the one she visited, once. She took another sip, ran a finger on the picture as if though she was texting the texture of the couples' skin. She read the woman's name — oh! she was an Igbo.

Sophia was a lady of twenty one. She learnt marriage was a cup of tea that requires patience but she caught herself not out of it. She will marry. And living happily ever after was the part she fought, why not happily from the beginning. Just like she has been with Richard. All the headache and frustration that comes with relationship has been silenced when they knew what they wanted, and defined it. In this world, where faithful men are easy to find like dinosaurs, she'd better enjoy herself now, than keep it till later.

Bitter- truth which she believed was that marriage is filled with lots of headaches and frustration. And she wasn't ready for those chunk of worries at her age. She was twenty one, has a master degree from a foreign university — the meeting ground for she and Richard.

It wasn't love at first sight, if anything could be accorded to define it, it was 'lust at first sight.' He was tall. He was dark. His charisma allured her and plus his wittiness, her legs went in air. When they returned to Nigeria, they continued where they ended — for satisfaction — for friendship, companionship — till they're ready to part ways and give marriage chances.

Another sip of the warming liguid brought it usual warmness to her throat. She flipped the page of magazine, uncrossed and crossed her legs. The new page displayed RMD, a popular actor, and his ebony wife. Their brigth smile, igniting a bright one of hers — spreading widely across her face. She, too, will get married, and like this they would look good. Her man would be tall like him... like...

Richard? You are saying Richard?

Richard is just a friend and he knows it. He is just an 'explorer' that cannot be tame. No, not Richard.

She picked her phone from the table, slid it unlock, and dialled his number — just to hear his voice. Only, just his voice. Smiling, the phone sing in her ear, she waited. The caller tune stopped, and her smile fused to a frown. Staring at the screen, she dialed again, like the first, it sang and beeped a drop. She threw the phone on the table. She returned to her magazine but it seemed Richard Mofe Damijo was turning to Richard Oluwadamilare. She squinted, slap the magazine shut and it, too, went on the table. She squarmed, fiddling a hand through her hair, and adjusted the collar of her night gown.

She slid on the phone again to see the time though a clock was ticking on the wall: 9pm. He couldn't be sleeping. He should be about... Maybe with another girl... She dialled again and this time, sadly and surprising, 'the customer you're trying to call is switched off'. Farther this time, she flung her phone to the opposite couch.

Karenjay1, I understand now. Jjagz you did justice to the piece.

Everyone can we please stop creating more characters? please, let's deal with this ones first.