I see you

I see you,

yes you, with eyes so deep, oceans rise in them.

I see you,

yes you, with tears so silent, dropping pins echo through.

Yes YOU, with a smile so bright, the sun stands in awe.

I see you.

Yes you, having a day, a moment.

I see you,

grappling through the dust for air,

stripping the words for a vowel of hope.

I see you,

Yes you, it’s a moment, a day,

it will pass, and hope will fill your words again.

I see you,

Yes YOU.

flowers
copyright N.chioma

 

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Aurora;my light.

“Dinachi! wake-up.”

“Stop joor. I can hear you and I wasn’t sleeping.”

Chuckling “You were not sleeping, just shielding your eyes from the piercing darkness abi?”

“I have had a hectic night shift, I don’t think my brain has the capacity for these your riddles yet.”

“You’re the one with all the riddles oh, lying there screaming at grandma in your sleep. It was really creep.”

“I wasn’t dreaming, just admit you woke me up for a cuddle.” with a grin he stretched to make room on the couch.

With the flick of a switch, she retreated to his heart.

 

 

 


Written for Friday fictioneers are writing group/challenge hosted by the lovely Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. It has been a while I have written a story and I loved writing this one hope you love it too. Please click on this link to read other stories and on this one to join the fun. (Have a go!)

From 2017 with love

Dear CHIOMA,

It’s good to see you once again at the brink of a new dawn; it is interesting to see how you have faired through your journey. I remember the last time we met, you had some doubts about the future but I was certain the end had drawn neigh for you. Alas we both forgot the one who stands before and within you, me moreso than you. I will never forget the moment He interrupted our dance, the moment our little tete a tete spun out of my control and settled nicely into His. Darn Him for having your deep seated attention.

All the same I will always cherish my little victories; moments when you cried, moments when you made a mountain out of a mole hill, times when you swore never to hope again. But like every good thing those moments came swiftly to an end and you sprang back into action despite your scars. If I hadn’t promised to feast on your joy I would have cheered for you and the strength that brought you to where you’re right now. Things never seem to go my way, and it’s all because of those silly words, you know the ones

‘all things work together for the good of them that love the lord blah blah blah….’

It was still fun watching you stumble and fall while you learnt the lessons He cleverly scripted into my scheme. Like when you learnt to not fear the worst possible outcome in that particular situation. I had hoped to hold that over you, to riddle you with guilt, shame, and despair. You mortals often feel failure is the end, the truth as you have learnt is rather much simpler. ‘The acceptance of failure as defined by oneself or society as an identity is the end.’ If you reject the label, the identity then you can rewrite the end of your story, which in real terms never ends until you breath your last. I guess once you discovered that lesson my grip on your reality took a nose dive.

But I still had to try, didn’t I? I mean it’s not a victory until your opponent fails to rise again and by jove that’s what you kept doing. 20171226_151906.jpgAnd as you watched your daughters bubbles fall to the ground rather than rise into the skies you acknowledged the single truth that time, chance and motive is indeed all that separates heroes from villains, mediocrity from success. You understood that though the bubbles had the inherent ability to soar they lacked the momentum and conducive environment to rise into the sky. But you also learnt that fallen bubbles regardless of stagnant conditions harbour an ability to bring joy to a little girl as she popped them even in the harsh winter breeze. Again it reminds me of words from that book again,

‘for though the righteous fall seven times, they rise again, but the wicked stumble when calamity strikes.’

I am not a sore looser or at least I like to think I am not but I have to say I am not pleased you got away. You can be sure  I will be visiting you again although my name will be a bit different.

Goodbye from sultry seven

Get ready to welcome sexy Eight.

 

The story that is us.

The story that is us, is the story

of delicate tendrils stretching through red soil.

The gods foretold its future,

‘cursed is the seed left un-watered 

beneath the haze of golden rays.

For though it carries the future,

it shall wither like

the cracks on the heels of a sojourner in the desert.

The story that is us, is a story

of angry tears beating down viciously on a smile.

The gods declare 

it is a rainbow 

hope in the midst

of opposing yet interlinked natural events.

Tomorrow shall yet come,

as surely as the tortoise has a home in its shell.

The story that is us, is a story

of shoots reaching out to golden rays

beckoning for a hug.

Chanting  ‘I know not when nor how

but one day I shall spread my branches high to the heavens

and my roots down to squash hades.

The gods are bemused,

for the story that is us

is not theirs to write but for the future to unravel.

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Redemption from shawshank

At first it made no difference to me, gradually it started to grate on my nerves; soft words spoken solely for my ears.

Like a dripping tap it slowly corroded my heart.

You promised to be there for me, you never waived. Off course I didn’t believe you, why should I? And against my better judgement I let you stay, why? Why? WHY?

I found you veil  and soft at once. How is that even possible?

Sitting here on the sofa next to you watching shawshank redemption, it dawns on me ‘like Andy you drilled a tunnel through the quagmire called my life, but unlike him you weren’t seeking escape, you were bringing deliverance to a life buried six feet under.

One would think you spoke flowery words, how wrong they would be. No you spoke the truth but you never said them in spite or derision. You didn’t seek to save me for yourself, you sort to save me from myself.

You took that step and never looked back.


In response to the writing challenge flash fiction for aspiring writers hosted by Priceless Joy click on the link to visit the blog. The photograph is from the lovely J.S Brand (interesting photo can’t wait to see all the stories it inspires) and the challenge is to write a 100 – 150 words (+/- 25 words) story inspired by it. Do click on the link for other stories. 

 

Easter’s hope

20160927_190919On a night like this,

beneath clouds of white concrete

a cradle of motionless stars;

I sit and ponder,

the mystery of a king

trading his life for a starry eyed wonderer.

What would he have said

of this wooden jungle grounded in concrete,

mini-cages holding lives

he wills the gift of freedom,

healing rooms that cure the coffin

but not the bone.

Aye! I ask myself,

what would he have thought,

of boxes that look within but see not the person,

of mirrors that speak the truth

in syllabus that only the deaf comprehend.

Of little value is the spring dew

to the flesh of a spirit languishing from thirst.

On a night as such,

beneath white concrete clouds

I ask myself

of what use are stars

if they lead us nowhere in the dark.

Slain

On the altar of hope lies a crimson heart

char my doubts,

pray the wind at dawn scatter my ashes 

unto distant shores of pleasant pastures.

it wails.

∗∗∗

On the shores of an abyss lies a patched mind

swallow my pain,

pray  the waves at dusk snatch my memory

into depths unknown from which none shall return

it wails.

∗∗∗

On the cross of forgiveness lies a broken body

salvage my wounds

pray the dew of heaven nourish my flesh

healing every crevice blotting out every scar

it cries.

∗∗∗

On the altar of love, a voice beckons … 

’tis but for a season’ this too …

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Reflections

Deep and fearful

is the boundless pit of inferiority.

Throw in your mansions, jets 

achievements and dreams.

Wider only shall it’s jaws grow, insatiable yet contained.

pulling you into a shrivelling shell.

 

His bedmate superiority 

differs not by much.

His garlands of acquisition enthrones him on high

from whence he tumbles at the whiff of a challenge.

Bill Gates is not the prince of Wales 

and the Prince of Wales isn’t Bill Gates.

Each holds a stake but one has the veins.

Find your God, find true royalty.

DNA connected.

 

Many are the battles that swell my pride,

Deep are the valleys from whence my soul cries deliverance.

Battles fierce and valleys black no conquest surmounts the 

victorious chant ‘I encouraged myself in the Lord.’ 

For with it inferiority’s loses its hold.

and the yoke of superiority is abolished.

My mind sings freely to the one who gave me victory

and taught me peace in the valley.

 

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Tiny

Tiny bubbles rise to the surface

Tiny cracks appear on the wall

Tiny ever so tiny

Lay down the chisel

Pack up the easel.

Standing on the capricious edge of definition

the shadow sprawled in break-away

the spine abandoned hopes of a breakthrough

Tiny ever so tiny

Was the last momentum

upon which a new hope depended.

Tiny but ever more exerting.

Image result for free images of a crack in the wall

Written for the daily prompt breakthrough.