Who is this Mysterious Sender?…

November 10, 2015 jacquelineobyikocha41 Comments

A different bouquet arrived day after day with no indication of the sender.

Sally was uncomfortable with the whole scenario.

It had started without any card attached.

Then proceeded to an unsigned card with cut out words that simply said,

I saw you today. You look beautiful in white.

I saw you today. You look ravishing in red.

I saw you today. You look gorgeous in green.

All in reference to the colour she wore that day.

By day sixteen she was tired.

The notes had changed their tone. They now read:

I want you. To be mine.

I need you. You must be mine.

I will have you. You have no choice.

The stairwell to her apartment now scared her.

Her neighbours all looked like suspects in her eyes.

Could it be one of the three odd flatmates in the opposite flat?

Was it the shirtless guy who stood on his patio every evening smoking as she walked home from work?

Was it the old geezer who always passed her on the street with his dog?

She didn’t know what to think anymore.

This was no longer funny.

It is time to report to the police.

The Daily Post prompt Secret Admirers

You return home to discover a huge flower bouquet waiting for you, no card attached. Who is it from — and why did they send it to you.

Creative Writing · Musings · Social critic

Unlikely thief…

June 20, 2015 jacquelineobyikochaLeave a comment

It was still a slow day in “The Hive” as it is called. Customers strolled in; in ones and twos, some lingered and some did not. She walked in pushing a baby in a stroller. Her dressing was quite interesting. She wore a pair of bright yellow gold and brown studded boots, soft flannel blue loose pants, a brown woolly top coat which hung around her midriff and a belt in the same color as her boots around her waist. The rest of her white flabby tummy was exposed. Her hair was an interesting mix of brown and orange strands.

The square aquamarine glasses which were perched on her nose were all spangled up with sparkle dusts of different shades. Her ear-rings, shoulder drop length of twisted metals with little round festive looking balls at the ends, swung and tinkled as she walked by.

Her wrists were encircled in individual bands of various designs and multicolor, each side had at least five bands with a big pink cocktail ring on her middle finger. She was a burst of colorful sight for sore eyes. She was a stamp of eccentric individuality.

The baby looked very healthy and cherubic, her short sparse brown hair capping her round plump face and ruddy cheeks.

The little one was dressed up in a short baby top and pink sweater with her little rotund stomach sticking out. Her baby bottoms were adorned with a white and purple animal print diapers and her tiny feet had nothing on them. They simply kicked the air without restraints.

Baby was just gorgeous with her folds of plump pink flesh and her dribbling mouth which had a thumb stuck in it all the while.

Ms. Bright Colors (lets call her that), took a position in The Hive and surreptitiously did a quick scan of the occupants. There were two young black men- a dread-locked chap and a nondescript one; they both had big headphones over their heads and covering their ears, with faint vibrations of the music they listened to seeping through the muzzled earpiece; their heads were bent over their laptops. A middle aged white lady sat in the corner, she was working on her needlework craft of lovely handmade and embroidered cover cloth, and a young Caucasian lady who seemed to be deeply engrossed in the book she was reading.

She gathered a couple of publications and flipped through them absentmindedly. She observed how intense the attention of the two black men and the young lady were. She observed that the handicraft lady went for bathroom call ever so often. She observed that nobody paid much mind to the scanty people seated in that corner, then she waited.

Now and again, her babbling baby fretted a little bit and she fed her from an uncapped bottle labeled cupcake. It cast the impression of a homely, caring mama, all at the same time.

Once again, the need for the lavatory arose and Mrs Handicraft shuffled off. As soon as she left, Ms. Bright Colors calmly gathered her things and efficiently swooped on the Mrs. Handicrafts bags and belongings; her precision like that of a hawk that was marking its prey. With her stolen booty nicely ensconced in the stroller beside the baby, she strolled out unnoticed, back into the San Antonio high street, into the crowd of hurrying shapes.

Mrs Handicraft came back to her seat and was aghast to find her belongings gone. She looked under the table, on the counter top by the corner and in every possible nook and cranny, her face taking different shades and splotches of pinkish red color as each second ticked past, her pursed lips muttering angry unintelligible swear words.

Raising a hew and cry, she roused the attention of other occupiers and the accusations started to fly. Her knobby fingers assuredly pointed at the two black men in accusation. The men got upset and a big row ensued. The officers were called, arrests were made, and they were shuffled off to the county jail, no questions asked. Their protests fell on deaf ears, their color was enough judgement.

Assumptions were made; a missing white woman’s bag and craft basket, two black men = two thieves. What would these men do with a craft basket? No one cared to ask. Maybe they stole it to sell her yarn and needles, and who knows, possibly for the credit card and change in her wallet?

The old lonely observer who saw it all through the designed vitrine of The Hive, tried to offer his espionage services to the officers, but no one was interested in the ramblings of a homeless, drunken black man, who seemed to be in dire need of a good bath.

Mumbling as he shuffled along, he was glad that he was not arrested along with the others.

Fiction · Short Stories · Weave that Dream

#The Threesome…..

May 29, 2015September 10, 2015 jacquelineobyikocha17 Comments

In shocked disbelief, I stared at the face on the boxed inset on TV. The headline news was making its evening rounds again on the local news channel. They had shown her in the morning, but as I rushed around for my morning engagements, I had glanced with vague interest at the strangely familiar face without recognition; but now, it was all coming back to me.

It was a couple of days to Valentine and I was growing heartsick and overdosed from seeing all the love shaped hearts stuck on store windows, the heart shaped chocolates, the balloons and cakes, the little teddies with their sugary messages, lovers making moon eyes at each other, even all the television channels seemed to be peddling the same syrupy valentine messages. I felt like the loneliest person on planet Earth. I was just getting over a broken passion and part of my therapy was to venture often to the Starbucks cafe tucked inside Barnes and Nobles where I immersed myself in strong cups of coffee, or chocolate brew coupled with decadent slices of double chocolate cup cakes whilst flipping through the pages of a romance where everything always ended with happy forever afters.

That day was nondescript and I couldn’t wait to get to B & N after my shift for my new found dose of romance in the pages of a book. I was starting a raunchy book by Lorelei James and I needed to see if it would be worthwhile buying it. It would serve as my pick me up over the valentine weekend with a nice tub of Ben and Jerry’s ice-cream and my very own box of sinful chocolate eclairs.

I got to the cafe and to my delight the comfy armchair in the corner was vacant. I quickly established ownership by putting my bag on it before placing my order for a caramel macchiato and cheese cake. I fetched the book, exhaled to let off pent up steam from a busy but uninteresting day and settled down to some sensory delight.

About half an hour later, they walked in. I did not pay much mind to them initially, I just gave a cursory glance. I thought they were passers-by and only took serious notice when they finished their purchase and chose to seat a little distance away, yet in my direct view.

The gentleman was just above average height and would not necessarily be referred to as handsome. He looked quite ordinary with his semi-bald hair, dressed in a black woolly pullover over a deep navy jeans, blue tennis shoes and an ear glinting with a tiny stud earring. Still, he had a well-bred, well put together look, imposing in an unobtrusive way.

His companions, the two ladies were complete opposites. One had raven black shoulder length hair and was quite slim and tall. She was sensibly dressed in a cream top and black pencil skirt, with her glasses perched on her nose. Her looks were as plain as an ordinary day – but she had exceptional red painted full bee stung lips which stood out in such stark contrast with her appearance.

Now the second lady with her golden toned skin, her layers of highlighted blond locks, and a well made up face with kohl lined eyes, was a head turner. She had a fuller face and a curvy body that exuded strength and gracefulness simultaneously . Not your typical description of beautiful, but magnetism oozed from her pores. From her droopy ecru sequined top worn over fitted jeans, to her expensive looking coach shoulder bag, nice brown high-heeled boots and the Burberry striped scarf carelessly slung around her neck, she spelt class.

After my sleuth-like observation, I turned back to my reading, but their soft talk and giggles kept pulling at my attention. The golden toned ladies dark eyes glinted with naughtiness as she threw her head back in a throaty laugh. They shared chocolate bars, nibbling often from each others fingers. A fleeting touch here and there, which to a non-discerning observer would have appeared innocent. However, from my vantage sitting point in the corner, I could see their footsie play going on under the round table they occupied, and the flexing grips of both ladies hands on the mans thighs now and again.

My ears strained to catch a glimpse of their conversation but their voices were low and did not carry far, yet their discussion was interjected ever so often with a throaty giggle and a sigh.

I tried to mind what I was reading but my voyeuristic senses had been stirred. I took discreet peeks at their shenanigans, uncomfortable at such an open display of questionable affection. I did not try to rationalize their open display. It was valentines day tomorrow and who knows?

Eons later, after liberal shares of bites and sips, and a lingering kiss planted on the gentleman’s lips by the lady with the golden tone, they got up to leave. Just as they were exiting the entrance, I watched as the gentleman gently squeezed the bum of the lady in pencil skirt and glasses.

My question as to the nature of their friendship was halfway answered, yet I wondered….

Now, right in front of my eyes, on the screen of my 32″ Samsung TV, the lady with the golden tone has just become the body bundled in a blanket and dumped on a beach in Galveston. Cause of death; asphyxiation from strangling.

Within me, I knew that I had some vital information, but I struggled with the decision of getting involved in a possible murder case. My imagination went into overdrive and all sorts of monsters started hiding in my closet.

After a nightmare ridden sleep of seeing the woman’s beguiling eyes, I picked up the phone and called the police.