What world do you live in? Let's say there are two:

One is filled with light, bliss, and pleasure. You could literally put yourself into another's, and have that burst of pleasure surge through every thing called a pipe in your body - veins, arteries, and....

Then there's a second world filled with sadness, darkness, and a lacklustre bit of deception called piety. Damn!

Don't tell me you're in the second world!

You have eyes. There's no cataract clouding your lens. You have skin. You have no ice blocking the heat.

You're not normal.

What's holding you? Religion? Wait, the religion no one fathoms?

You think you'll be dump in hell because you stir up the fire in your bones. Nah.

It is a blessing. Exploring the curves, sinews, and softness here and there.

When next your feel your thing straighten out, dump that book of a Bible, and let it out. It's a blessing to express yourself.

You're never alive until you've done it.
There's so much unrivalled pleasure hidden in it.

Even when the pastor's eyes are fiery like Hell.
Steal away from the congration, with your hands cupping the pound of flesh.

Let no preying eyes of the oversized clothes-wearing usher see you. Move gently, like you'd do when you want to catch a roosting chicken.

Enter the church's toilet. There's no better place to do it. The pleasure here is surreal.

No, you don't need it. Raw. Pleasure scream raw.

The thrill is in the urgency. That's why they call it a 'quickie'. Pull your pants down. You could let them rest on your knees, it doesn't matter.

Climb the toilet sit. Sit on the hardness. The hardness that gives pleasure like no other.

Grind. Bend. Turn. Twist. Moan.

It's coming. It's coming.

Yay! You'll feel the mighty rushing wind all over your body. Such bliss! Such pleasure!

Such relief!

Glory as the feaces dump in the water. Then flush the rubbish away.

So you've never had a shit in the church toilet during service?

Are you in Port Harcourt? Are you in need of extraordinary writing services?

I'm just the one you're looking for.

We could meet over bottles of Fayrouz, and talk about it.

Contact me today on 08164041005 (preferably, WhatsApp text), or send a mail to thewritinghub1@gmail.com.

Let's do this!

After creating the group, NOBODY (nobody, except maybe myself, of course) joined.

It was heartbreaking.

Yet, I'm not going to give up.

So Port Harcourt writers, where y'all at?

Hello, PH City Writers

I was actually thinking, can't we have a WhatsApp group where we can interact, learn and share gigs.

Who knows, we might grow into a book club or something, meet real time, and help one another.

What do you think?

sundayerhun:
Do you need any writing and/or editing job done for you in Port Harcourt City?

Then drop a mail at thewritinghub1@gmail.com or WhatsApp 08164041005

Let's create a masterpiece.

Let's do this, Port Harcourt

Berenow:


If i can i will

I need to offset a loan on Quick check.

For SERIOUS Authors only.

Do you have a good book published on Okadabooks, but have little or no sales.

WE can help you hit over a 100 sales before the month ends.

WE are running INTENSE book marketing for the remaining part of this month and your book can be included: Facebook and Twitter Promotions, Blogpost, blog interview with a national reach, e-fliers and email marketing.

FEE is 5000. No bargain.

If you're interested, hit me up on 08164041005 (WhatsApp only).

If you aren't, don't bother.

We move!

Berenow:
��✅✳Quote of the day✳✅��

To everyone going through any struggle or pain right now, keep your head up, and keep on smiling, you'll get through it.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━
�
Join our whatsapp group for more motivational updates.

https:///EIftVxVsNHXEN4hSF5hkmw

Or visit our official website

https://berenow..com

Sometimes, helping the person solve the problem is better.

If I asked you for a small amount to meet an urgent need, will you help?

I feel like I woke up in another body. The way my bone cracks at every turn, and the squeaky-squashy sound it makes on this bed, like a foil under a boot.

No, this is not me. I wasn't born here. Leave me alone, let me go back to my body.

No one is listening to me! Mother is begging this bald doctor how bad she wants me back on my feet.

I try to move, but this legs won't obey me.

My mother's face begin to fade: slowly first, then rapidly. I must be dizzy, or these eyes must have an issues with the lens. They call it opacification, right?

I feel so tired and wasted! I can only see white now, but I hear Daddy's voice. Yes, he's here to get me out of this body.

His voice comes closer, and he touches me. But his hands aren't strong like they always were, I could barely feel them.

I hear mother sobbing now, saying how much she loves me. I love you too, Mama. Just get me out of this body.

I can feel my strength depleting my the second, like I'm leaving this body bits by bits, but I don't know where I am going. I still don't know where my body is.

I am still seeing white, and Daddy's voice is like that of a baby now. I can barely hear mother. I feel so lonely, like I'm left in a world alone.

I am too tired to breath. My chest just won't go down. Maybe I should just fall asleep. Maybe when I wake up, I will be in my real body.

I hope mummy and daddy will still be here.

.....

In 2014, when I got my first book published in print - I remember clearly - it was the best feeling in the world: the feel and smell and beauty.

The satisfaction of finally having your work in print, and available for others to read.

I know the struggles I had to overcome to get that done: lack of proper editing, design; and of course, lack of money!

I'm pretty sure you face SOME of these issues that is putting a seemingly forever inertia in your writing career.

The Writing Hub is here to fix that for you!

1) We offer Publishing Consultancy Services, helping you explore more financially comfortable means of publishing.

You don't have to spend hundreds of thousands to get published.

2) We offer Publishing Services, where we can get your wonderful book out in print without making you rob a bank.

3) We offer Editing Services, giving your work the spark it deserves.

4) In case you have difficulty putting your work together, we can help you write.

All these for a little fee.

PLUS: For any of these package, we'd help you publish on Amazon and Okadabooks. You wouldn't have to go through the rigours.

So hit us up today @

- Mail: thewritinghub1@gmail.com
- WhatsApp: 08164041005
- Calls (only): 08071436241

Let's make this possible!

Shiting is life - anywhere, anytime.

But some say the best place they think is the toilet.

Not in my Papa's toilet!

Let the back of the toilet be on the ground, and the door will be a rectangular cover. The door have never stayed on the hinges, not even the day it was built.

The only goal was to mail the president, like we used to say. No time to think or fantasize about Caribbean romance with that fine girl at the street-end.

'Mene mene, taka taka' the wooden floor will squeak. You'd be scared you'd fall inside any second, and start planning how to climb out full of shit.

Damn the day the shit is as solid as a rock, refusing exit despite your anus tearing apart. Then you sing 'Goody goody, let me poo-poo', in Bini, of course.

And the flies. It's the buzzing stupid sound they make that annoys. They don't make it anywhere, but close to the ears. You dare not try to kill any. The pit's usually more than 16ft deep.

The smell of generations of shit. How the hell are you going to enjoy your time in there? Not even when you're on shiting spree.

Then cistern, borehole and floor tiles came. Sick arrangement.

What's the fun in shiting in a place that'd pass for a bedroom?

No flies to render melody. The cracking wooden floors aren't there to dare. The sight of the dusty brown decaying shit inside the pit is absent. Not even the pleasure of wiping your anus with dry plantain leaves and throwing it down to the pit of shit.

Modern-day shiting is boring.

Take me back, please.

Ayemileto:



OP, come and update ooo.

I've updated now. Thanks

Chapter 3 continued

So Bob ran as fast as his tiny legs could carry him to the direction where the siren came from. He was not going to miss out of the help. And when he got to the place, it was a hospital, and a pregnant woman had just been brought in. She was in severe labour. Something hit Bob’s heart. The woman’s face was familiar, so was the face of the nurse attending to her. It was the same vehicle that brought her that year.

He was nine years old when the same scene occured while he yet lived at Willbough Street. He had passed by the hospital that night in one of his escapades of running away from home, and had seen the same woman rushed into the hospital in exactly the same manner. Now, it was all playing out again. The woman was later reported to have died with the child, and little Bob could not help but feel sorry for them. Here was the scene again.

Fear gripped Bob, his teeth began to chatter, and sweat began to gush out of his skin, and his head was about to shatter. He wanted to develop wings and fly away, but that was an impossibility. This was the clinic where Bob was born. This was the clinic where the woman had died. How come the woman was there again? He turned to leave, but he heard his named called out by a beautiful voice.

“Bob!”

He turned, and standing before him was the woman that had just been rushed into the hospital. Her baby perfectly cuddled in her arms. Bob could not believe his eyes. He was shocked to his bones. The woman looked adorably at him, and said:

“We are at peace, and we do exist.”

Then Bob summoned up courage and walked towards her. He looked at her in the eye, pointing his fingers violently at her.

“You died! You died when I was a child, you died.” Bob shouted to the woman, and kept his fingers pointed at her like a father warning her daughter.

“Yes I died several years ago, yet I live. I live in the life eternal, I and my baby.” She said smiling.

“What life is that?” Bob inquired obviously flabbergasted.

“It is the life people do not have to see death. It is a life of peace and tranquility. A life of peace, joy and fulfillment. A life void of struggles, sorrows, sufferings and shame.” She lectured Bob proudly.

And he looked at her interestingly, and said, “I am not dead, but you are dead. How come we are talking to each other? You are in a dead life, but I am in a life yet to die. What is the connection between us?”

The woman looked at him intently. “You are in the Willbough street of ghosts.”

The sound of that from the woman’s pretty lips completely paralyzed every ounce of courage Bob Sheider had left in him. The woman walked closer to Bob, smiling broadly. Just two centimeters away from Bob, he asked Bob to help him carry her baby. Bob did not think twice. He turned round and started running. He had no direction or destination, but he kept running until he bumped into someone.

He fell to the ground with bruises on his knees. He managed to stand to his feet, and blood was dripping from his nose. A large hand rested on his shoulder, and another hand gave him an handkerchief. Bob took it, raised his head up to see the kind stranger. Seeing the face, fear enveloped him, and the handkerchief fell from his hands.

Standing before him was a tall man with a rain coat on. His face also was familiar to Bob.

“Hell!” Bob shouted as he remembered that he was his friend that had died while they were children. He died on Willbough Street.

Although Willbough street was pretty dark this night, save for the little light that emanated from lanterns in people’s homes through the windows, he could clearly see the face of Fred who had died while they were eight years of age when he fell into a well and drowned. Now, he was a grown up man.

This struck Bob with fear. He still could recognize him. How did he grow? He was supposed to be dead, but here he was alive, strong, and offering Bob an handkerchief to wipe blood off his face. Bob looked at Fred closely.

“Tell me you are not a ghost.”

Fathertony:
1.Born with a silver spoon 2. Ace up my sleeve 3. All eggs in a basket 4. Tie in knots 5. Kicking the bucket 6. Carrying my heart on my sleeve 7. Joker in the pack 8. Make ends meet 9. Crowing about (something) 10. End of my tether 11. Getting Cold feet 12. Pull up your socks 13. Be a patch on (something) 14. Worm out (of a situation) 15. Cherry topping 16. In tatters 17. Red herring 18. Spill the beans 19. Bald as a cue ball 20. Bald as a coot 21. Holding the cat by the tail 22. Can make an omelette without ‘breaking an egg’ 23. Keep your cards close to your chest 24. A piece of cake 25. Hit the nail on the head And of course 26. Time Flies 27. Cat Got Your tongue

Where's the fun in ruining the fun?

In the image below, there are 27 figures of speech.

How many can you spot?


..

Obinnau
Divepen1

peacesamuel94:
Can an email address be dropped instead.

We have a WhatsApp group.

You can PM me at 08164041005

Hello, everyone
Thank you for your interest in Writing Hub.
I will add everyone that dropped their numbers to the WhatsApp group now.

Chapter 3

Bob Sheider had every cause to be afraid. Anyone would be! Meeting the skeletons of one’s grandparents in one’s apartment would make anyone lose his or her mind, but Bob was able to survive the fever, and even went ahead to converse with the skeletons.


Bob was convinced it was his last night on earth when the dead street he ran to began to transform into the neighborhood where he was born, and grew. It was a suburb of the major city. It had just one long road running across it, and that was its unique feature.

Bob was the first child of his family who was born at a local clinic at the end of the street at about 5 AM. His birth was on a cold September in a time when Willbough Street was known for bronzecasting. His parents were young couples who both worked in a merchant store in the main city. Bob last saw the clinic at age 12 when his family moved to the main city after his father got a better job.

He attended Ivy School, the only primary and secondary school that stood boldly at the middle of the street. It was one of the very few things the community was proud of. The school was striking for the fact that it was never painted. The reason for that was a hot meat of debate for drunks every evening. In this school did Bob shine as a little boy. He always topped the class that everyone expected him to be a doctor, and get a job in one big hospital in the city. But Bob loved football.


So he spent his early age as a Ronaldinho in the large expanse of land close to the school, which was converted to a football field. No stadium was better. Bob’s addiction to football made him rebellious to his parents instructions. Rather going home after school, he went to the field. There he would stay till his mother came looking for him, with a cane of course!

The popular-than-life bar was next to the large building where Bob and his family lived. Every evening was a party. Bob never attended until he was ten when he started stealing into the bar to watch ladies dance, and fill his nostrils with the smoke that emerged from the ciggaretes burning non-stop.

Willbough street never went dead. Bod moved out of its life 28 years ago. Now, Willbough street came into his life without invitation. The street lights began to turn into the trees that lined the dusty streets of Willbough street. Bob jumped up and wiped his hands with his eyes. Of course he was seeing properly: trees, not street lights. Bob’s face had been transformed into that of an old man by fear. “Unbelievable!” he muttered.

Before he could assimilate the dawning but scary reality, his entire body began to shake as the ground vibrated. “What the hell is happening?” he screamed, but no one answered. He definitely was not expecting any answer. He looked to the ground, and saw the tar on the road folding up. He looked across the street, and thesame thing was happening.

His bones cracked when his feet began to swim involuntarily. The tar turned into water, and after some seconds, it began to rush into the ground like the rain does during and after rainfall. To Bob, he was living the worst part of his life. Then a gentle breeze blew, and Bob was standing right on the sandy ground of Willbough street where he last stood two years away from three decades ago.

Bob was frightened, but an interest was developing great within him. The building at his front changed into the school where he had learned ABCD, and the football field where he last displayed his football skills appeared next to it. The church building opposite the school then also appeared, and Bob began to laugh at himself.

Thunder stuck repeatedly. Bob fell to the ground with a thud. A dusty wind blew across the street, and Bob Sheider fell flat on his face as the earthquake struck, and his bones crunched. Several minutes later, he rose up as streams of dust still danced lazily in the air. Bob heard the siren blow and he thought probably help had come to him in his misery. The only persons he had seen since his terrifying ordeal began were the skeletons of his grandparents.

frbona:
08064437054

Noted. I'll add you.

Hello, beautiful writers.

At the start of the year, I started the writing and editing service platform, The Writing Hub.

I have been writing and publishing professionally since 2013, but this year, I decided to have a platform that will project the service further.

Also, I want to create a platform for writers to share their works and reach a wider audience.

That's why I'm asking you to be part of Writing Hub. We have a growing Facebook page you can share your work and reach a wider audience.

We have plans for a website, blog, Instagram and Twitter pages soon. But first, we need writers willing to provide content.
To be part, please drop your no, and I will add you to a WhatsApp group where we'd discuss our plans.

Or you can PM me at 08164041005

Also, there are plans for upcoming writers and publishers in Benin City and Port Harcourt to converge and discuss what we love the most - books!

Please join us.

Thank you!

Hello, beautiful writers.

At the start of the year, I started the writing and editing service platform, The Writing Hub.

I have been writing and publishing professionally since 2013, but this year, I decided to have a platform that will project the service further.

Also, I want to create a platform for writers to share their works and reach a wider audience.

That's why I'm asking you to be part of Writing Hub. We have a growing Facebook page you can share your work and reach a wider audience.

We have plans for a website, blog, Instagram and Twitter pages soon. But first, we need writers willing to provide content.

To be part, please drop your no, and I will add you to a WhatsApp group where we'd discuss our plans.

Or you can PM me at 08164041005.

The Love Story (Episode 2)

It seemed music seeped calmly through the holes in front of the speaker box - melancholic music.

Osas: That photo is my past. Since I met you, I've not even spoken with her.

Imose: I want to believe you, but I can't. She sent me this picture. She threatened me.

Osas is taken aback, then grow angry. How was he going to get out of this web of thorns unhurt? Nothing was coming to his mind.

Osas: I'm sorry about that. She shouldn't have done that.

Imose: You should have wondered how I got this picture before lying to me.

Osas: I am very sorry. It was just one night.

Imose: Just?

Imose presses her hand strongly around the glass of drink. Her fingers began to hurt.

Imose: I've ruined my marriage for you, and you say just?

Osas: It came out wrongly.

Imose stands, and pushes the photograph on the table closer to Osas.

Imose: Do this just once.....

Osas: He is your husband.

Imose: Seven days.

Osas: There's a better way we can do this. We don't have to bring the cloud down because it rained.

Imose: If it doesn't go, it will rain again tomorrow.

Osas: You should see a doctor. If you need your husband taken out, hire assassins. You don't have to make me do it because I slept with another woman.

Imose: This isn't debatable. Seven days.


..........

What do you think is going to happen next?

adaeze12345:
Benscolari
what's your book about
you'll be successful if you write what people will want to buy.
hope you've done your research?
good look.
PS: I'm not looking for a writing gig, I'm also looking for good writer...a nightmare for people like me.

I'm here for you.