Tag: fiction

Friday Fiction in Five Sentences

The Foreign Wife – Friday Fiction in Five Sentences.

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Image result for images of three legged stool

Mrs. Kamanu could barely hide her disappointment and displeasure.

Jude’s return to the village after many years of sojourn in Holland with an ‘oyinbo‘ wife was least expected and a foreign wife was not the daughter-in-law that she had prayed for, for her son.

Her eyes were set on Okeofia’s first daughter Nkemdilim whom she had been calling ‘my wife’ for quite a while now.

A hard working, pretty and a well-mannered girl whose ample child-bearing hips would give her the grandchildren that she wanted.

Seated on her three-legged kitchen stool, with lips pursed like someone who had sucked on an unripe star fruit, she wondered how she would communicate with a daughter-in-law whose nasal language was beyond her comprehension.

© Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha

Quick glossary:

Oyinbo – White

Okeofia – An Igbo name which means Big Forest.

Nkemdilim – An Igbo name which means ‘May my own stay with me.’

Friday Fiction in Five Sentences

The Indentured Servant… Friday Fiction in Five Sentences.

jacquelineobyikocha10 Comments

Image result for image of female servant

Fatma’s admiration for her pristine, shiny surroundings has waned to a jaded tired feeling; two years and a half looked like an eternity.

Her excitement months ago has evaporated into a resigned feeling of just getting on with life so that she would earn and send money home to her folks in Ethiopia.

No one told her that her 3-year contract as a domestic help would turn into modern day servitude with hidden parameters.

Parameters that had not specified that every waking and breathing moment belonged to these people.

Parameters that had not specified the inclusion of the boss groping her at will.

© Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha

P.S. We’ll be having our monthly blog party tomorrow, 1st – 2nd of October. I’ll keep you posted.

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Featured Blogs

Featured Posts 130 – Share your post links.

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‘PLEASE KEEP SENDING IN THE LINKS.’ 

Today’s featured blogs posts are:

Examinations. Never been fond of exams.

The twist of life. An interesting, thought-provoking poem. An old blob of human matter. That’s what his children considered him to be when he got too old to be useful. Hmm!

Return to The Post Office Box – a story reimagined.  Interesting and this is what I said. “What an interesting story. I read the first part earlier and this ending really suits it. It’s a fun perspective to look at a thought-provoking story of a woman who’s enduring domestic violence.”

An interview with the main character. I totally like this concept that Pamela used here and will use it as well to help me understand the quirkiness of one of my characters.

Sugar daddies are killing a generation. An ugly story of a sad reality. A must read in my opinion.

Do step in and show some love.

‘Do you want more eyes on your words?’

Well then, add your LINK INTO THIS LOOP.

Comments are disabled here to keep the loop tidy. Any comments or link you want to send can be added through the link in the post.

Thank you for your understanding and regards.

‘We create a cohesive community when we come together. 

P.S. We’ll be having our monthly blog party 1st – 2nd of October. I’ll keep you posted.

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Short Stories

The Hospice…

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Celia bawled her eyes out and snot dripped down her nose . She’s never been one to sob softly into a handkerchief.

She had known that the end was close, but the news still hurt badly and tears swam in her eyes as she read the letter.

“Dear Celia, thank you for these years of love and care. For bringing warmth to the heart of an old lady. I’ve come to see you as the daughter I never had and would like to bequeath these items to you. Please accept them with all my love.”  Celia Oldham.

As usual, she had come for her visit at the hospice where she spent time keeping the old folks’ company; listening to their stories, reading to them and sneaking in an occasional toffee.

Over time the deceased became her favourite. Mrs. Oldham took to her when she learnt that they shared the same name and looked forward to the visits. She always took the pains to dress nicely in a frock, cardigan, pearl set and a gemstone ring that she wore on her third finger. Mrs. Oldham had no surviving family. Her sweetheart died during the war and she never remarried.

Inside the little box was a battered, old diary, the pearl set, the ring, a purple scarf, a bank draft for $200,000 raised in her name and the last book they had been reading – Jane Eyre.

© Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha

InLinkz

Thank you, Jade for the photo and Priceless Joy for hosting this charming platform where we unleash our stories:-)

Note: PJ please, I crave your indulgence for having overshot the word limit. I chopped and snipped the story here and there yet it refused to get shorter.

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Short Stories

The Wise One…

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Nature wore her splendour in golden tones and everywhere looked so pretty even though our thoughts were heavy at the moment and our demeanours were sombre.

It was Ms. Maisie’s funeral and I simply knew within me that things would never be the same again because no one could be like Ms. Maisie our Sunday school teacher.

Every citizen in our little township had felt the warmth of her neighbourly love and almost everyone turned up to pay their last respects. She taught us more than the beautiful stories of the Bible in this little prefabricated structure  built by the joint effort of the community and for a few minutes, my senses conjured up the delicious whiff of her melt-in-the-mouth butter cookies that she always had in a tin and shared generously.

My eyes drifted out to stare at the yellowing leaves of the Dogwood she had planted years ago and I saw a beautiful, brown Owl perched on the wire fence looking back at me. I’d never seen an Owl in my life and wondered if there was a reason behind this. I knew everyone said that an Owl is the wise one and Ms. Maisie was certainly a wise lady.

© Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha

InLinkz 

Thank you, Phylor, for the photo and Priceless Joy for hosting this charming platform where we unleash our stories:-)

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Friday Fiction in Five Sentences

Driven…Friday Fiction in Five Sentences.

jacquelineobyikocha20 Comments

Image result for images of the running man in the dark

He always ran so fast that everyone marvelled at the fleetness of his feet.

They all thought he was a champion and admired him.

No one had an inkling that he was trying to outrun the demons that taunted him.

He ran, and ran until he could no longer hear their snarling voices.

Once his steps faltered, they came nipping at his heels; he just had to keep running…

© Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha

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Short Stories

To be a star…

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She loved the expansive views from the apartment windows and always stood there to take it all in. A plush apartment in the heart of Manhattan was far beyond her dreams and some days MaryRose woke up expecting to find herself back in the country home where her family had lived for generations.

Eight months of living in the luxury apartment that came with her contract had not diminished her awe of the place and she always looked in amazement at the mega-rich stars who came to the penthouse in their helicopters and fast cars.

Inside, she was just a country girl who got lucky and often enough she felt like a bumpkin next to all the opulence around her.

A flash from a camera startled her. It was the infernal paparazzi in a helicopter and she was sure that the weekend tabloids would be carrying a scintillating headline “MaryRose bares it all.”

© Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha

InLinkz

Thank you, Iain Kelly, for the photo and Priceless Joy for hosting this charming platform where we unleash our stories:-)

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Friday Fiction in Five Sentences · Uncategorized

Dark nights – Friday Fiction in Five Sentences.

jacquelineobyikocha13 Comments

Image result for a man smoking in the dark

Mark sat in the dark smoke-filled room, the only light came from the red glow of his cigarettes.

Silent nights were his worst companions but he couldn’t stand the meaningless drone of the TV, where everyone looked cheerful and conversed with the ease of those who led normal lives. He hated the silent nights.

PTSD. That was what the doc said. PTSD. An easy blanket name used to describe his postwar struggles, and a handful of prescription that didn’t take away the recurring booms of explosives, the pungent stench of charred human bodies, the severed limbs, and the blood; so much blood.

The heroes welcome had been short-lived, for in the land fit  for heroes there’s hardly any jobs for those like him and he wished he was back in Afghanistan, where he knew his place.

Now, he just didn’t know himself anymore.

Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha

 

 

Short Stories

Jane…

jacquelineobyikocha15 Comments

Like clockwork, Chris and Wolf went for their morning jog.  One of the beauties of living close to the seaside was to watch the sunrise and sunsets above the waters. He loved the lifestyle his writing life presented, thanks to the success of his thrillers, though his was a lonely life.

Familiar with Wolf’s beach antics of sniffing at the crabs, digging through washed up debris, he wasn’t’ surprised when his Husky took off in excitement down the beach.

Within minutes, Wolf raced back, his insistent barking aroused Chris’s interest. The mound on the pebbles was an unconscious, female form. He quickly turned her over and administered CPR. She vomited, opened her eye’s for a few seconds and passed out again.

Glad that his home was close by, he carried her to his house to get her warm as quickly as possible and to call for help. Removing her sodden clothing to wrap a blanket around her, he saw the beautiful, antique watch nestled between her breasts and out of curiosity, he lifted the watch and saw the name inscribed at the back. It read, Jane.

© Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha

InLinkz

Thank you, Louise for the photo and Priceless Joy for hosting this charming platform where we unleash our stories:-)

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Friday Fiction in Five Sentences · Short Stories

To be a boy – Friday Fiction In Five Sentences.

jacquelineobyikocha12 Comments

Image result for cricket bat and ball

Anu’s perfectly arranged facial features gave nothing away, but her eyes bore a glazed faraway look in them as she watched the young boys play cricket.

She envied her son’s their sex and freedom. Their shouts and laughter took her back to the day’s of her childhood; days when she had played with her brothers, free of responsibilities and tiring worry; she had wanted to be a boy.

She recalled days of poking in the dirt to dig out little worms and nights of staring up at the star-studded skies in amazement that stoked her imagination and her inquisitive mind had wanted to know so much, but mother and nan always told her that aspirations of exploration were not for pretty little girls.

They said that pretty little girls grew up to be beautiful, proper, hardworking, obedient and selfless wives to boys from a nice family; pretty little girls bore strong sons to continue the man’s lineage and her questions about love were rebuffed; they said that love would come with the package.

At Seventeen years she had married her family’s handpicked choice of a nice boy from a nice family, bore strong sons and the boring obligation of sexual intimacy, but even after thirteen years of waiting, the kindling spark of love had failed to come with the package; mother and nan had lied to her, Anu still wanted to be an exploring boy and she plotted.

© Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha

Out of the silent breath