Writer’s Quote: To March

Ah, and just as it came, its departing. Yes, you guessed it right, I am talking about the month of March. The quote above reminds me that as March rolls away, making way for April to waltz right in, so many people would always remember this month as the time when so and so happened. And for others like myself, it would mark the time of transition from one age/stage in life to another. Oh yes, I have officially joined the gang of 21 year olds (I miss saying I’m 20) and now, the only excuse I have left for not getting married is – I am still in university. Only one more year left for that excuse to run out. Oh and the excuse of “I’m not ready yet”, doesn’t work in Northern Nigerian homes. 

Do not mind me, and take everything I said in good humor and with a grain of salt. Below is a poem by Emily Dickinson about March, one I absolutely enjoy reading.

TO MARCH
Dear March, come in !
How glad I am !
I looked for you before.
Put down your hat-
You must have walked-
How out of breath you are !
Dear March, how are you ?
And the rest ?
Did you leave Nature well ?
Oh, March come right upstairs with me,
I have so much to tell !

I got your letter, and the birds’ ;
The maples never knew
That you were coming, -I declare,
How red their faces grew !
But, March, forgive me-
And all those Hills you left for me to Hue –
There was no Purple suitable –
You took it all with you –

Who knocks? That April –
Lock the Door –
I will not be pursued – “,
He stayed away a Year to call
When I am occupied –
But trifles look so trivial
As soon as you have come.

That blame is just as dear as Praise
And Praise as mere as Blame –
    By: Emily Dickinson

Writing because-

“It’s not just the writing”, she said,
It’s the looking back at a formerly white page, now transformed into a confluence of rugged slanting black ink. Words, which were formerly a jumble in your head. And you stare at the piece of paper, wondering who on Earth could possible read that, jumble.
You crumble it up, dumping it at the back of your room, the back of your thoughts until…

yes, until, someday. Days, months, maybe even years. You find that crumbled piece of paper you had denounced into rubbish. A forgotten piece of work. Your eyes move across the page, word after word, line after line and everything you ever wrote down is exactly what you need to hear at the moment. And the words you had once upon a time sought refuge with cannot contain the bucket of emotion brewing up within you. What you once thought was rubbish, looks like a masterpiece. How time changes everything.

——“nothing is ever wasted”, she said, “so write today, not just for the present, because not everyone will appreciate it, but because someday, those same words might be exactly what you’d need to hear”.

Night is not just night-

Night is not just night,
She says,
It’s the end of wear from
Another day,
Its the want of every tired limb,
To graze the bed
And be engulfed within,

Night is not just night,
she says,
It marks the start of day
for a few,
When the birds arrive,
And the sun depart-
To make a living,
They depart into night.

Night is not just night,
She says,
It’s the time when memories,
Sneak a peak-
Appearing as droplets down
Our cheeks,
With the knowledge, that darkness
Would shield their view.

Night is not just night,
She says,
It’s the time some pray,
The time some waste,
The time some rest,
Or the mind comes awake,
But night is not “just” Night.

My Sister in Somalia

My sister in Somalia,
Her skin a golden brown and hair,
A curly thick nest of black strands, lay
Today- voice devoid of strength, and body
a reflection of it’s former image,
My sister in Somalia lay silent,
No words to say.

My sister in Somalia-
The pride of the eastern African
Continent, the shoulder which held
Together- family, friends, a nation in
Herself- bearing one after the other
Little ones, in succession.
My sister lay today,
Skin on bones.

My sister in Somalia-
The fighter who’d give her all
For the future generation, a wife
sharing the burdens of her
Partner, with ease. My sister lay today-
Her young ones, at her feet-
tired eyes moving across all three;
And the dreaded- who to feed?
only one morsel to eat,
I weep for my sister in Somalia.

Flash Fiction: Coincidence

“My son is missing”

Within minutes, Parkland Forest was thronged by Law enforcement officials- tents were set up and search parties, dispatched. D.I Lucy and her partner D.S Fenworthy were seated in one of the tents, across a woman with dishevelled brown hair and tear stained cheeks. She was fidgeting in her chair, looking from one detective to the other.

“Can you please take us through everything that’s happened, Miss Jerome?” It wasn’t a request on D.I Lucy’s part.
“You can call me Susan,” she answered in a low voice and began to talk the detectives, somewhat calmly, through every detail of the trip, up until the moment she couldn’t find her 8 year old son.

At D.I Lucy’s request, Susan got up to get the detectives a picture of Jake, the missing boy, giving the detectives time to converse.

“She obviously looks distressed“, said D.I Lucy, “and notice how she chokes whenever she mentions Jake by name.”

“Yes, but boss”, added D.S Fenworthy, “I haven’t been in this department long, but I have never met the mother of a missing kid who didn’t lash out during interview, wondering what on earth we were doing seated instead of out there looking for their kids”.

“Nice observation”, remarked D.I Lucy.

Susan came into the tent after a few mintes and with her was the picture of a young boy- raven black hair, brown skin with a smiling face. She handed over the picture to D.I Lucy, and for someone who was a pro at her job, she couldn’t mask the shock on her face. D.I Lucy looked from the picture, to the woman standing in front of her. The recognition of the face in the picture registering in her mind and the words Fenworthy had just said, playing in her head. Susan didn’t lash out earlier because this wasn’t her first time being in the situation; she’s been through it before and knows how the investigation goes.

“Miss Jerome?” Blurted out D.I Lucy
At that moment, tears descended across Susan’s face as she nodded in affirmation.
“Yes,” her voice was breaking, “Jake’s twin brother got missing three years ago and was never found.”

D.S Fenworthy looked to his partner in shock and then asked the mother, “what was the date?”
24th of March.
D.S Fenworthy immediately looked to his phone although he already knew the answer. Today’s date was also 24th of march.
That’s one heck of a coincidence.

---

I wrote a flash fiction about two weeks ago with the characters D.I Lucy and D.S Fenworthy, and I loved the idea of writing a story surrounding detectives ad partners so I thought I’d write another one again. And I’m sorry, but that is where the story ends, it’s  not a series and there’s won’t be a continuation. Though I might occasionally write on the two characters.

The above image is courtesy of Scary Mommy.com

Writer’s Quote: Mother’s Smile

It’s another Wednesday, which means, it’s time for Writer’s Quote and Poem. I noticed on Facebook, a lot “happy Mother’s Day” was trending about two days ago. I guess it was Mother’s Day in my side of the world. In honours of that, I would like to dedicate today’s quote and the poem below, written by Michael Burch, to all the parents striving and sacrificing,  with their time, their sweat and their little wealth to make sure their children always have enough and more, with regards love and happiness. I hope you like the poem below.

Mother’s Smile by Michael Burch
For my wife, Elizabeth Harris Burch, and my mother, Christine Ena Burch

There never was a fonder smile
than mother’s smile, no softer touch
than mother’s touch. So sleep awhile
and know she loves you more than “much.”

So more than “much,” much more than “all.”
Though tender words, these do not speak
of love at all, nor how we fall
and mother’s there, nor how we reach

from nightmares in the ticking night
and she is there to hold us tight.

There never was a stronger back
than father’s back, that held our weight
and lifted us, when we were small,
and bore us till we reached the gate,

then held our hands that first bright mile
till we could run, and did, and flew.
But, oh, a mother’s tender smile
will leap and follow after you!

The girl with the black veil-

Yes she will smile and,
Yes she’ll say thank you;
But only when needed,
And that’s all she uttered.

Yes she would walk and,
Go into classrooms;
But thats all she went to,
And only when needed,

She walked with her head high,
Her blue eyes looked downcast;
A black veil her trademark,
We named her dark widow.

But no one, yes no one
Even once tried to get her,
To open the world, we all
Knew she held within her.

Her frail body floated,
Under layers of clothing,
The nickname travelled fast
But she walked on unbothered,

Until the day she didn’t,
The girl with the black veil,
The news came as a shock,
Our dark widow had passed on.

We found out the reason,
She hid behind a black veil,
Leukaemia- they called it,
Her cells were killing her.

We prayed for Azmeena,
We wept for her departure,
She fought all alone,
And we did nothing to help her.

---

This is something I wrote as a free-write literally now, Just to keep the muse going. If you are not a fan of rhyming, feel free to ignore this. 🙂

the above image Is courtesy of  Emaho magazine.com

Rejection-

He told you, that verses were old school,
All the modern poets dwelt in lines;
So you bundled up all of your pages,
Dumping them in the dark of your house;
Only one- two lines just, he requested,
No one’s got time to go through a page,
And the heart that you poured into writing,
Crashed to nothing, within a sec.

You tried, didn’t you, to conform,
But the words wouldn’t make sense in two;
After efforts and hours and struggling,
You decided it wasn’t for you;
So you bundled up, all that you’d written,
Modern poetry was not worth the pain;
With his words echoing in the background,
You set fire and watched through the flames.

Who’s to say that you can’t be a poet,
Just because you refuse to conform,
To a particular style of writing,
While beauty resides in every form.
Seasons fade from autumn to winter,
But the truth of the fact still remains,
Some would prefer the winter in autumn,
Some would choose the other way;
Write two lines if you wish or long pages,
Write because- you have something to say.

Her Evolution-

I wasn’t always like this you know, she remarked softly, as if speaking to No one in particular.
I used to be fun, at least that’s what I’ve been told. I used to have friends, I even used to make jokes, laughable ones too.

It was great to be the joker and the life of the crowd and I reckon, I enjoyed the attraction and the favours it brought along. But eventually, I began to wonder if there was more to life than “that kind” of fun …

I wondered if I could be more. I wanted to be more.
More than just another pretty face, another name who gets passed around by with a laugh, another came and gone, another soul in a world filled with a billion of us. I wanted to be More…

It began with writing down all the things I thought I could do, the person I thought I could be, and- I never dropped the pen afterwards.

They say I have changed and I have lost who I used to be.
But in fact, I have evolved, I have found who I am supposed to be.

Flash Fiction: The slithering guest

“You know the drill, so let’s get moving,” ordered Big Sis, to nods and stamps of the ten year olds assigned to her.

“Batch A, head North.”
“Batch B, East, and mind the slopes.”
“Batch C, continue west and be wary…”

Whatever batch C was supposed to be wary of, nobody found out. Little Jim interrupted by pointing with trembling hands, towards the dead-beat car which had been in that forest for as long as anyone could remember.

“Em, big sis“, he was saying “There’s a snake on the car.”

Big sis smiled, then said “Is that so Jim, just like there was a roach in yesterday’s dinner when you didn’t want to eat.”

Little Jim protested, joined by the other kids.

She reluctantly turned her back to the kids, to face a slithering creature on the car roof.

Big sis swayed on her feet,  before slumping to the ground with a thud so loud, it brought Big brother to the site. The kids were never more grateful to have an extra camp master.

---

word count: 174. This story is In response to Flash Fiction For Aspiring Writers challenge. Where, each week we are provided with a picture and are to write a  75-175 word story in it. A big Thank you to @Tim Livingston for providing us with this week’s photo.