₦airaland Forum

Scary?....tut!......you havent even smelled a black rose from "Le Fleurs de Maul"

Naa...@princesa...he took something much more than that.

For those who love to see a story with linking chapters, well, pardon my approach...I'm a lil eccentric...each of my stories are seemingly disjointed....bt have a single universal theme....feel free to leave ur opinions. PS: I'd like to see sum1 attempt a suitable title 4 the second story. Cheers.

Hello repogal,(Jude Law myt nt be glad to see u tho *grins*)...I just read your story 2day....and I must say, its pretty hard to come across good writing...I particularly like the descriptive hue in your story, it flows well with the narrative... its quite good...it tells me you read wide.....you would do well if you attempt the psycho thriller genre....anyway, I say mazel tov to you mami...

Mr Edet woke up at 5:46am. The first signs of daylight were barely visible. Today was pension day for Mr Edet. The government owed him and other retired workers a substantial sum of money. After three years of protests, the government finally gave way. "The cutthroats!", he muttered under his breath. Well, nothing puzzles God. But it was with profound shock that Mr Edet received the news at the pay point that his name did not exist anywhere in the government records. He collapsed and slipped into a coma. Nothing puzzles God.

Whenever I looked into her eyes, all I saw was a mass of deadlights. She was like Amelia, and like the rest of them, they were drawn to what they described as a quiet intensity. I've always found the phrase odd, incomprehensible. Although when I look back now, Madam Titi(she was my land lady) never really met my stare. She always looked at my feet whenever we discussed rent details, like someone trying to avoid a sharingan snare. Dogo, my indescreet next door neighbour once told me(he tried to make it sound trivial) that the land lady thought I was 'deformed'. I think people should mind their business. I'm not an exceptional individual. I'm barely 5'2, with modest tastes. I'm not vain about my looks, I've a hard time recalling what my own face looks like in a mirror and I assure you, its not because I'm scarred in any way. My hedonistic predilections and adventures are anything but wild, and no!, I dont imbibe or smoke. I find the thought distasteful. What I love most is a quiet room. A dark and quiet room. Darkness is very soothing, and it comes with its own kind of peace. I always keep my lights off. I find the yellow blaze harsh, loud and sickening. I like it like Miss Havisham's bedroom, without the mould and decay of course. At work, I have my lunch by order. I dont go out. The sun has a vendetta against me. She always came to see me at lunch, with her eyes dancing all over my small office. Great balls of light playing frisbee in her eyes. Amelia was like her. Her body was fished from the lagoon on a thursday night. She had been dead for five days. The papers say her tongue was cut out, her arms were hanging, broken, like those of a doll, there was massive trauma to the head and her eyes had been cut out. I find it all incomprehensible. Its been six months. I'm at the beach watching the waves roll back and forth with a crash. Lagos is such a peculiar place. Kate is by my side, her breath warm against my cheek. She says I'm sweet and intense. She loves it. Her eyes are different. Its a void, a lighted void that drinks you in when you look in them. She is not like Amelia and the rest. Their eyes light up the darkness of my home, I keep them on my dresser, neatly cut from their sockets.

If u want to read something from my "Book of Countless Sorrows", something dark, insidious, avant garde and radical like the bohemians...just "light ur beacon" and drop ur holler....

And then she died. She always loved eyeshadows;different shades, I used to find them gaudy, she wore a different color every other day. She would say, ", what do you think of my..."whatever", I would retort, "we are already late for the outing". That was five years ago in Kaduna. I remember walking along Kano road, Kasua. An old man offered me an odd looking albeit beautiful plant. "They bring good luck, but they do not last long" he said to me in hausa. I ignored the man and his plant. She took ill one day and began to fade. The moment I set my eyes on her I knew. Intuitively, I knew. The doctors gave me a medical treatise on her illness. "Isn't she looking healthier today?" rhetoric!, empty tests and meds. Bottom line, her illness confounded them. A month at most they deduced. But she endured three months. She always wore those eyeshadows even then. She lost her power for speech, but I could see the pain emblazoned in her eyes. I was broken. I was with her one of those days, looking at her frail form, I SAW the eyeshadow. It was Jade-green. "Beautiful", I thought aloud. There was a queer look in her eyes, and then she smiled weakly. She handed me an envelope from under her pillow. A small note; "hey D, I'm glad you like them, I've been dying to hear you say they are beautiful, love, Jessy". I smiled sadly, I think I laughed, laughed at the grim humour, and I wept because I understood. And then she died. That evening, it was a friday, April 7. I've always wondered how the dead manage to look so timeless in death, but she was better, you never saw a more beautiful corpse. The day she was buried, the heavens wept. I walked away from the graveside like a psych ward patient pumped full of daizapam. Someone was speaking to me; "did you see the body, I've never seen eyeshadows more beautiful on the living". I looked up at the sky and said"yes, they are indeed beautiful" [left][/left]