Infomizer:
IMHO, I feel the zeitgeist has ebbed and y'all have identified what the problems are. Mediocrity is ubiquitous and any attempt to challenge it is seen as supercilious. In response, the critics lose interest and such mediocrity (and even outright sub-par works) continues to thrive. Afterall, it's a Web 2.0 world and anybody can post anything online. What an unfortunate pattern! I'm not a regular visitor here, but Op's post is easy to relate to when one takes a panoramic view of the entire Nairaland community. Let's hear what you've got Seb. All hope is not lost.

We'll have to start with the most important question first; is the site owner/administrator comfortable with the way things are on this board? There's no need diving into the ocean for a rescue when the man intends to drown. It is imperative to know if Seun, the Oga pata-pata of Nairaland, likes the current state of the literature board, is indifferent to it or also acknowledges that there is a problem that needs fixing. Seun needs to weigh in on this discussion before we can start talking about implementing possible solutions. I would like the moderators or whoever has access to the admin to bring his attention to this thread, so we can decipher a way forward for the Nairaland literature board.

Ishilove:
I get a lot of requests to push stories from this section to the homepage, but at the risk of being misunderstood, I want to state categorically that very few stories here are homepage worthy. The major problem with these stories are typos and 'gramatikos'. How can you expect the mod to push a story fraught with grammatical errors and poor formatting to the homepage? I could reformat the story, but it would be too time consuming for me because I have so much on my plate.

The reasons why stories by writers like Sharonwrites, Larrysun, Standd, Royver to mention a few make it to the homepage is because most times their stories are almost flawless.

Exactly, I don't blame mods or the site admin for not pushing stories from here to the front page because, as I speak, I struggle to find a story currently on the board's first page that are front page material. And God forbid that I would champion a sub-par or error-ridden story for a place on the front page. That's why I am asking that we look into this situation and arrest it before this board becomes just another board.

I have a few suggestions as to how we can make this happen, only if mods and the site admin are also interested in making this board one of Nairaland's most important because, as it stands in my opinion, this board is lagging behind some other boards on this site and we cannot let that be the case.

Divepen1:


This is one of our problems.

My dear, I don't even want to talk about those ones. They should be the moderators' headache.

I remember the very first time I posted a story on Nairaland; 23rd of April, 2012. That was my very first story posted online and, for me, it was huge. But my intention for posting the story on Nairaland wasn't just so others could read what I had written - I mean, I could get that by setting up a blog and bombarding my facebok friends and twitter followers with links. I wanted to present my work to a community that would analyse it, critique my writing, suggest ways of improving my style and generally make me a better writer. And I must say I am grateful for the first responses I got because they pushed me to keep on writing and getting better.

Fastforward to presentday, though, and the Nairaland literature board is a far cry from what it was in 2012. And this is scary because it's just been three years, not thirteen. Let's face it and be truthful to each other, the Nairaland literature board is flooded with subpar works by people whose mistakes aren't pointed out and so assume they're doing the right thing. I cannot say I know for sure what the cause of this sad degeneration is but I can say for sure that there has been a erosion in the quality of the material I see on Nairaland. Once upon a time, I could read people's works and want more - so much more. But now I can barely get past page one without yawning.

How did this hapen? Yes, that's the right question to ask because i'm not the only one asking it. I've been talking to quite a number of the folks I met on this board when I first joined and they are also of the opinion that there has been a noticeable negative change on the Nairaland literature board. Most of them don't even come here anymore - not to post, not to read the stories, nothing. Like me, they don't see an attraction here anymore. Is it any surprise that less and less stories from the board make the frontpage? While (my apologies) irrelevant and, i dare to say, pointless posts like what Nkiru Sylvanus wore on her birthday continue to show up there. The fact is that asides from the fact that Nkiru Sylvanus and her birthday clothes (not suit, for the pervy minds amongst us!) are more likely to generate hits for the site, there's very little worth reading coming from this board.

Should we blame the fact that there hasn't seemed to be a healthy balance that promotes a full and complete approach to literature and writing on this board? Just click your back button and take a look at the board's main page. At least 75% of what you see there are story series. This in itself is not a bad thing, but a first time comer to the board would imagine that we only write story series here and either join the train or leave the board. Those that write short stories now have to include that in their title so nobody asks them for updates. There's little else that goes on on this board and it's saddening.

The fact is, I have never really been a regular poster on Nairaland but at least I used to religiously visit the literature board everyday. But now it feels like a chore. Too many of these story series are a bore to read (no offence to the writers) and the more experienced writers on this board don't seem to be active at correcting the less established writers when they make mistakes, analyzing their works and suggesting improvements. And I feel that should be the point of a board like this; a place were writers can meet, share ideas and help each other improve. But with the current state, i'm not seeing that happening. And it's sad.

I think i'm popular on this board for my humorous or comic stories, but this is not one of them. This is a serious issue we need to address because I want future writers to find on the Nairaland board a place were they can know what level they are currently at and work on thmeselves till they are confident in their ability as writers. This board shouldn't just be a place for churning out and consuming literary works. No! It should be a place were minds and pens are sharpened, were budding writers can find support and inspiration, where Nigeria's next legends of literature are born. I want the next Chimamanda or Wole Soyinka, when waxing lyrical about their history as writers, to say "I am thankful to the Nairaland literature board because it helped me become the writer I am today". I am no Chimamanda. Or Wole Soyinka. But Nairaland and NaijaStories, the two sites I turned to when I started posting my works online, have certainly turned me from a rough writer with good ideas to a writer whose stories can actually be read and enjoyed and knows there is still room for improvement. And there's no reason why this cannot be someone else's testimony too.

Except the site's owner and the moderators are comfortable with just having a board that gets them hits and traffic, then something has to be done. And soon. I'm not comfortable with the way things are on this board and I have kept that bottled in long enough. Feel free to criticize my stance or opinion; our country's constitution empowers you to. But if you would walk the path of truth you would see that what i'm saying needs more than just cursory consideration.

Atk01:
Lmao.

Thanks for reading!

"....and we took a flight from there to New York. We were supposed to fly out to London that same day but my mum was too tired so we just stayed at the Astoria Waldorf till the following day..."

I stared at him mouth agape. This boy obviously thought he was talking to five year olds. How can someone say he flew to Germany on a private jet just to change his socks? Ahn ahn! Even Bill Gates doesn't do that. And he is/was the richest man in the world (these things just keep changing anyhow). Not only did Ahmed fly to Germany to change his socks, his parents had to import special tissue paper from Poland for wiping his nose when he had a cold. And last I checked, Poland wasn't popular for its extra soft tissue paper exports.

Here's the thing. Ahmed is a liar. A compulsive liar at that. The very first sentence he had spoken to me when we first met contained a lie - it turned out his name wasn't Harrison at all. In fact, he didn’t have a name that wasn't local. Yet he told me his name was Harrison David Jefferson. I was impressed and would have remained so if his mother, who had been talking with our housemaster hadn't called him Ahmed repeatedly and, when he pretended not to have heard, she slapped him across the back of the head.

And from since then, Ahmed had to have set some kind of record for lying. Most times needlessly. Once we had been discussing video game consoles we had. Seun had a Playstation X, I had an Xbox and Tola had a Playstation 3. Almost all through the conversation, Ahmed had been on the periphery, chipping in now and again about games he had played before (or more accurately, had read in the PC Gamer magazine Segun had brought to school). When conversation finally lulled, he decided it was time to make his grand entry.

"Has anyone played PES 2014 on Playstation 6?"

A stunned silence descended on our group. Playstation 6? What was this guy talking about?

"Game is mad. Been playing it since it was delivered to my house from the US. The graphics are almost real. All the players look like the real.."

"Wait, wait, wait." Tola cut in. "Did you say Playstation 6?"

"Yes." He responded, the confidence of a guy who has told a perfect lie on his face. "Haven't you played it before?"

Silence again. This was so not real.

"Errr, are you sure what you played isn't one of those made in China games that have like one billion games preloaded?" I was blown away.

"No. Playstation 6. From Sony"

"But Playstation 5 isn't out yet. And Playstation 4 was only just released."

"Well, my dad is friends with the chairman of Sony so he sent me the prototype of the PS6. They'll be releasing it in two years.

Of course, it occurred to me to ask why the man skipped sending him a prototype of the PS5 and went straight to six. And how, in spite of the fact that news of things like this leak all the time, there was not a mention of a Playstation 6 on the internet. And I’m a subscriber to gamerinsider.com.

I really should have called him out at that point but there are some lies you hear, you just feel too weak to argue with the liar. I let it slide (as did the others, as astonished and unbelieving as they were) and conversation continued. I had just mentioned that my favourite character on Mortal Kombat was Sektor when Ahmed declared that he also had a favorite character, and his name was Segment.

"Ahmed, there is no MK character named Segment." Tola said flatly.

"There is! I'm serious!" Ahmed squealed. "He is a new character on the latest MK".

"I have the latest MK." Tola returned. And I have used pretty much all the characters. We know the sector and segments are parts of a circle but Ahmed, fear God, there is no M.K character named Segment.”

“Oh, so I’m lying abi?” Ahmed shot back, sounding insincerely incensed. “Don’t worry, when we get home, come to my house. You’ll see it for yourself. You don’t have the latest M.K and you’re now claiming you know everything. Just wait till vacation.”

Of course, this was classic Ahmed. He would drop a lie big enough to sink an ocean liner then back it up with “wait till we get home”. Maybe because he knew that by the time we broke for vacation, most of us would have forgotten the argument and those that even bothered to remember wouldn't be bothered to check. That was until he said that that he had a virtual reality video game console and Seun vowed that he would make sure he verified this was true.

“That guy is a big fat liar.” Seun declared after the mid-term break. “His lies can raise the dead. The guy does not have any virtual reality console. When I got there, he said his mother seized it and locked it in her room. These are the kinds of lies that vex me. Abeg. The only game I saw in his house was Ludo. And the glass covering has broken sef and one die is missing.”

Were we surprised? Not really. Was he done? Not at all. As Seun rounded up his report, Ahmed turned up not looking at all like someone whose monumental lie had just been exposed.

“Guys, how far?”

We stared at him in silence.

“Ahn, ahn. This one you guys are looking at me like this. Am I safe?”

We kept staring at him in silence, till after ten seconds, Tola couldn’t take it anymore.

“Ahmed! Ah, you can lie for Africa!”

Nuges11:
This right here is the man/woman/nairalander that inspired me with his utterly hilarious stories to start writing comic pieces. Big ups senbon

Awwww, thank you!!!!!!!

whitemosquito:
Go jor...
So what do we do now? Do u still use the numbers at least? They are both switched off!

*sighs*

and here's the link:

www.nairaland.com/2060343/white-mosquito-flash-fiction-challenge

I ended up not picking ur brains again. You have a lot to make up for o. Read up and drop comments on the comment thread.

Im watching you in 5D.

Added you on BBM

Silkmoth33:





Lmfao! Best story so far! Enjoyed every bit. I'm sharing it

Awww! Thanks a mil!

whitemosquito:
Senby, Im slightly frustrated o.

ah....why? sorry i've been offline sef. my phone formatted and i can't remember the number i registered that whatsapp account with

“SO what are you bringing for the Christmas share party?”

I groaned inwardly. I’m not a huge fan of Christmas festivities. If anything, Christmas is one of my least favorite times of the year. Maybe because right from when I was little, I’ve always associated Christmas with one form of disappointment or another. Like one Christmas family funfair that, on TV, was advertised as an absolute must not miss. After bugging my parents no end to take us there, they obliged. Only for us to get there and find out that the “most fun this season” comprised of a bunch of crying children singing Christmas carols off-key, a harassed looking Santa in a Santa suit three times his size, three Teletubbies that looked like they were either suffering an advanced stage of AIDS or severe malnutrition judging from how skinny they were and an overcrowded swimming pool. After several attempts at swimming ended in kicks to various parts of my body, I dragged myself out. Twenty minutes in and I already wanted to go home.

And the absolute worst part of it all was when they dragged us in front of the camera and asked us to say stuff like “I want to give a Christmas shout out to my mummy, my daddy, aunty Tolu, brother Segun…” I mean, those other kids sounded like retards. When it was my turn I absolutely refused to say anything, even if I knew my mother would twist my ears and slap the back of my head after that.

Or when the primary school my father switched my younger brother and I to when we moved promised that Santa Claus was dropping by our school and we would all get to meet him. At least those of us whose parents would cough up N1000. I found it odd because Santa as I remembered didn’t collect money to come give out presents. I didn’t mind anyways. I had never got to meet Santa before and he had never come down our chimney to drop presents under our Christmas tree and in stockings hung over the fireplace. Maybe that was because we didn’t have a chimney. Or a Christmas tree. And if our stockings were anywhere other than in the wardrobe, the defaulter would receive a hot slap from my mother.

After much additional bugging (with the assistance of my brother), my father agreed to pay a thousand Naira for each of us to see Santa and receive a gift from him. I was absolutely ecstatic and couldn’t wait. The school didn’t make it any better. Teachers routinely threatened us with not seeing Santa if we didn’t behave properly (as did my parents). Then a huge banner was placed outside the school gates with a fat, smiling, jolly Santa clutching a big bag that was bursting with presents, probably as a means of showing students whose parents hadn’t paid for them what they were missing. I had paid so I wasn’t bothered. Several times I dreamed of the fat Santa and the Playstation console he would give me. And a bicycle. And a remote controlled toy car like the one Tolani was always bringing to school but never let me play with. Santa was my promises fulfilled. Santa was my dreams coming to pass. Santa would make Christmas perfect.

Till now, I remember Santa’s coming as one of the biggest disappointments I have ever suffered in my entire life. To start with, Santa’s grotto was at the back of the school, right outside the headmistress’ office window. Apparently, last year’s Santa had made away with half the bag of presents after claiming they had finished and the headmistress wanted to keep an eye on this one. It was tiny and hot and even the standing fan did nothing to make it any better. It was nothing like any of the Santa’s grottos I had seen in the movies and I was sure all I needed to do was pull on one of the red and green sheets for the whole structure to come down. And it was inconveniently located close to the school dumpster so occasional wafts of breeze sent students (and even Santa himself) fanning the air away from themselves and covering their nostrils. It was horrible.

Then Santa Claus. The biggest disappointment of all. To start with, he was black. Very black. Blacker than me, and I was quite dark. If he was any darker his second name would be midnight. He contrasted sharply with the white Santa I had seen on the banner. Then his beard. Unlike the banner Santa’s beard that was full and white, this one was thin and stringy like those of guys named White Eagle in Chinese movies. And I could see underneath the white that was only attached to the Santa’s face with the assistance of a piece of string, was scraggly black beard. I wondered years after that why Santa didn’t at least make the effort of shaving his black beard. And those weren’t the only differences. Unlike banner Santa that was plump and looking well fed, this one looked like he had just been rescued from a war torn country where there was a severe shortage of food. His Santa suit looked like it had been worn several times without washing and the white cuffs and collar were turning a disturbing shade of brown. And unlike Santa’s big, black , shiny boots, this one wore Converse sneakers.

It might have been better if it had stopped at his appearance alone. This Santa spoke with an accent, was bad tempered and threatened to slap Seun and Dami if they didn’t stop fidgeting and pose for the “damn picture”. He blew his nose loudly and then wiped it on his sleeve. Then after a while he took a break. Only for us to spot him a short distance away, eating amala and gbegiri then smoking a cigar after he was done. Santa ate cookies and milk, not amala and gbegiri. And Santa certainly wasn’t known for smoking. Or drinking what suspiciously looked like cheap alcohol in a sachet like I thought he just did. What was going on?

After waiting an hour, I finally got to meet Santa – for all of five seconds. First I stood beside him (as against sitting on his lap, which should be the normal thing) and had a picture taken with sweat pouring down both our faces (power supply was gone so the standing fan wasn't functional). Then he handed me a wrapped package that was clearly too small to be a Playstation or a bicycle. But I could feel a box and something flat through the wrapping paper. Maybe I got the toy car! One out of three wasn’t bad. All my earlier disappointments disappeared as I sprinted down to class eager to open my present before others got back too. I went to my seat, placed the package on my desk and started to unwrap.

A packet of St. Louis sugar and an exercise book. What in the world was I supposed to do with a packet of St. Louis sugar and a twenty leaves exercise book? Give myself diabetes and then write a forty page essay about it? I stared at the pair on my desk till tears started pouring down my face. And that was when my disappointment was complete.

So now I was being asked by the HR manager what I was bringing for the Christmas party where everybody’s gifts would be shared at random. I hadn’t brought mine in yet so I decided I would drop by the mall to pick up something on my way home, wrap it then bring it in the following day. It took me barely five minutes to pick out something. I joined the shortest queue I could find at checkout and waited till it was my turn.

Then I reached in my back pocket to fish out my wallet while the cashier scanned the barcodes on the packet of Dangote sugar and forty leaves exercise book.

Who says I should be alone in my Christmas disappointment?


http://tiersays.gidicentral.com/2014/12/25/short-story-submission-christmas-disappointments/


Merry Christmas Everybody!!!

"YOu dey mad! Your father left yansh dia! Idiot! Bloody bascard!"

I sighed in frustration. There are few things I hate more than one driver insulting the other over someone's error of judgement while trying to overtake someone else. Especially when one of those drivers is the driver of the bus I was on, heading to a job interview this fine Monday morning.

Actually, the bus driver was at fault. He had tried overtaking when it was obvious that the Rav 4 beside him was already partially past him. So when the bus almost grazed the new-looking car, I was surprised to see the driver yell out first.

"You no go commot this carton wey you dey use block road. Nonsense and rubbish. Person no go buy better car, dey use sugar carton dey block road."

I glanced around the bus. Bare wires were poking out from every corner. There were at least 20 Pasuma stickers of varying poses and ridiculosity on the windscreen. The seat was hard as rock and the bus smelt of wet fish. Hardly paradise compared with the Rav 4 that looked fresh from a dealership. Clearly the guy in the Rav 4 wasn't hearing what the driver was saying. Partly because he had already zoomed off which was a blessing, considering most other drivers would have parked right at the center of the road to check if their car had actually been scratched. Also because his windows were up and his car's airconditioner appeared to be doing a pretty good jub. Meanwhile, the shirtless driver, who was perspiring heavily, was still yelling invectives at the vehicle that had now put good distance between them.

I don't know why it seems like whenever i'm on a bus heading to somewhere important, things like this happen. About three weeks ago, I was on a bus heading to a different job interview when the bus I was on almost scratched a black Toyota Camry while trying to overtake. Well, the first sign of trouble was that I had spotted a federal government number plate when the bus was still behind. Clearly the driver hadn't spotted it when he screamed "your father there" and called the Camry driver's mother a prostitute.

It still didn't occur to him when the Camry sped up and cut him off, forcing him to park - that only seemed to infuriate him further.

It only began to dawn on him when a a very black man in green camouflage pants and black boots emerged from the passenger side of the car clutching a horswehip.

It had clearly dawned on him when he began to struggle with the seatbelt.

And by the time the soldier who had biceps that looked like miniature wine barrels had dragged him from the bus and he was yelping "officer abeg", it was clear he was in major trouble.

The officer seemed to be in a good mood afterall and let him off lightly with five slaps and ten lashes of the whip. It was the first time I had ever seen a grown man cry after a beating and he alternatively sniffed and wiped his eyes all the way to our destination. When a Golf wrongly overtook him near the bus stop, he did not say a word.

Or once, my sister and I had just left church and were heading to the airport to pick her husband who had just flown in from Abuja. I hadn't learnt how to drive yet so she was driving, humming a song as she drove and generally carrying the aura of holiness from church when she suddenly had to swerve to avoid a pothole she had barely spotted, in the process nearly grazing a beat up Maxima on the other lane.
"Sorry!" she called to the driver, waving in apology. "I was trying to avoid a pothole!"

The beat up driver was having none of that.

"Are you mad? How can you be driving recklessly like that? If you don't know how to drive then park this your jalopy and stop causing accidents all over LAgos!"

I could see that my sister's initial apologetic disposition had faded to slight anger but we were just coming from church so she decided to keep her tongue and ask herself "what would Jesus do?". The beat up man kept right on - while both cars were still in motion.

"All these women who feel they must drive because their husbands have cars. You won't stay at home just be jumping around causing problems."

My sister started humming "Jesus is the answer for the world today."

"Nonsense. Better go back to driving school. Only goodness knows who you slept with for a drivers license."

My sister's knuckles were nearly white from gripping the steering wheel. I knew if the guys said one more word, she would explode.

"Bloody lezb1an!"

You know those points in cetain Hollywood movies when someone says something shocking and you hear a record scratch followed by uncomfortable silence? I heard that that moment. Or maybe it was the sound of the tires screeching as my sister suddenly slammed on the brakes.

"WHat?!!!"

Then she accelerated, blocked off the Maxima, got out and headed from the car. Fromt he rear view mirror, I could see the mask of amazement and surprise on the beat up man's face.

"Me! Lezb1an abi! You will explain to me today which of the female members of your family has been doing me."

My sister is a - well - formidable woman. And the beat up man looked like Saka suffering from malnutrition. It was all I could to drag her away from the man who was trying to shrink into his car seat while muttering "no, no, no..it was a mistake..." It made a huge impression on me, how quickly people get angry while driving and I resolved that when I started driving, I would not let that kind of anger get the better of me.

That was, of course, till the first time I actually drove my father's car out to go buy diesel for the generator. I was turning out of the street into the adjoining street when a white Jetta sped across, hitting the front bumper and knocking out the left headlamp.
The anger welled up in me faster than the speed of light.

I leaned out of the window.

And yelled.

"Bloody lezb1an!"

usmanspihn: So baws you be guy. I think say you be girl oh. And why don't you make use of your writing skills well on NL. You are good and am sure you know it

thanks! I try my best.

alizenbohr: Anytime I see the name 'senbonzakura_kageyoshi' behind a post/story, I always de laugh in anticipation.
Guy, more groundnut for your garri & more stew for your rice!

Thanks!

PrinceAdepoju: that's our 'present' churches for you. . .
good one there, Boss.

Thanks!!!

I haven't exactly ever been too keen on going to church. Back when I was little, Sunday School every Sunday afternoon felt like prison. And I determined I was just the Michael Scoffield to break out of the imprisonment imposed by the unhappy Sunday School teachers who kept telling us our hearts were "like this";


*teacher walks to the blackboard, draws a big heart with chalk, then points to the center*.


And kept pointing me out as an example of people whose hearts were "like that" after capturing me for what had to be the fiftieth time for the day I had tried escaping.


Even worse were deliverance sessions. I didn't understand why people just kept falling. And whenever an evangelist came and laid hands on me to pray, I would stand rigid like the ancient orange tree in my father's compund to find out if whatever it was that was knocking them down could uproot me. That was till a certain evangelist decided I was possesed by a strong spirit and took me to the inner room for more intensive deliverance prayers. After nearly thirty minutes of prayers and being surrounded by five sweating evangelists, I was convinced I would not be going home that day unless I did something drastic. So when the next evangelist approached to lay hands on me, I promptly fell in what has to be my finest moment of acting in my entire life.


Prayers still lasted for one hour before I was let go, though.


My disposition towards church remained somewhat like that and deteriorated even worse when I was about entering University. By this time, my mother was convinced that I was possesed by a particularly stubborn spirit that had to be exorcised by, no less, the "prophet" at the end of our street on the recommendation of a neighbour.


As soon as we stepped into man's "Holys of Holys" (as was clearly labelled by the large, hand-drawn cardboard sheet outside the door) the man hissed;


"STOP!"


We paused in mid-step, eyes on him.


"I sense a spirit of unemployment in this room. You foul spirit, begone!"


Now, i'm sure even my mother wasn't sure what the spirit of unemployment had to do with our current mission but, for future purposes, she yelled a vigorous "AMEN!!!!"


He nodded his head and asked us to sit.


"Prophet, I need you to pray for my son. He...."


The prophet raised a finger and my mother fell to silence. Then he pointed at the door and asked her to wait outside. After she was gone, he turned to face me;


"Kingsley."


"I'm not Kingsley," I responded. That seemed to throw him off a bit. "I'm Seun."


"Your brother, Kingsley."


"I don't have any brothers."


The "prophet" wiped a bead of sweat from his brow.


"Your cousin...."


"No cousin named Kings...."


"Well, who do you know that is named Kingsley?" He asked, a bit exasperated.


"My frien....."


"Yes, him. He is making plans against your employment."


"Er, I just gained admission into the University."


He paused for a bit.


"Are you sure?"


Well, I had completed my registration so I was quite sure.


"Then he is making plans against your future employment! Kneel let me pray for you!"


Again, I found myself being hovered over by a sweating person for fifteen minutes. Then he invited my mother inside to join spiritual powers or something of the sort he said.Then I had two sweating people praying over me for another fifteen minutes. At no point did it seem to occur to either of them that one was praying against evil spirits and the other was praying against unemployment.


After it all, my mother was encouraged to sow a seed towards my future employment which she did without hesitation and generously. As we were leaving the "Holys of Holys", a young man was being ushered in. I tarried long enough to hear him say;


"Prophet, my name is Kingsley. I've been seeking a job for the past ten years....."

http://zakuraweekly.com/prophetic-funny-short-story/

dambatta:



ok didnt read all that , too long ....but am a bleach fan and HUGE byakuya fan thats why i opened the thread

Lolz, SMH