Linguistic Playfulness started out with a series of the members’ workshop stories (WS). Some of these stories are stand-alone, others are part of a larger story. But all show the variety that is present within the group.
Next up are a series of assignments, writing tasks with specific challenges. Some will be goofy, others serious. We will explain the rules before each submission so you can help us judge if the writer achieves his goal.
We. Write. are a series of uncategorised stories posted at random by members of the group.
We completed the 20 Day Challenge with daily posts everyday for 20 days from different members, and stalled on the Collaborative Story Chain.
Our entries for Short Story Day Africa. Create a story in 100 words or less. Short and sweet.
You can explore the other works of the writers through their personal blogs, or here on the About Us page
They sat together in the kitchen store, behind the carton.
The girls waited,hearts pounding from fear. Nola controlled her fear by counting objects.
On the top shelf was the red cooler. She counted the numbers silently, suddenly Ure started fidgeting, tugging at her sleeves, whispering desperately, cockroach Nola, cockroach!
Ure jumped up with the intention of switching on the lights.
Suddenly, a blood curdling scream from the neighbours apartment stopped her in her tracks and sent her right back to Nola’s side.
The terrible screams abruptly stopped with sounds of rapid gun shots and footsteps heading towards their front door.
I walked down from the podium after the valedictory address avoiding Ugo’s eyes.
I knew they were watching me.
I knew they watched amid the proud handshakes, hurrahs and nods of approval.
His gaze alone saw the truth of my ambition, that desire to wipe out my existence.
He saw it in between the jokes and the pauses in my childish laughter.
He saw the lingering pain in the eyes of a portrait skilled at dissembling.
“You will never know me,” it seemed to say.
But I knew what his defying response was: ‘I see you. I know you
Gorata peeked over the window ledge. It was him. She sat to the side of the window, listening. First- knock-knock. Wait. Then knock-knock. Wait. Then a triple. So like Richard, always thinking more was better.
She met him online and should have known, anyone who updates their FB status hourly must have issues. His good looks reeled in her frivolous side. Served her right.
He was up to two double knock-knocks, a split second between them. That was it. She took out her SIM card, broke it in two and reached for the classifieds turning to “Flats to Rent”.
The reminiscences before the plane crash were raw like a second ago. The flowers, the gifts, the unhurried, lengthy and intense love making and the after head-to-toe spasms then the unprovoked beatings, the marks you couldn’t cover, the izal disinfectant smelling hospitals, the pity looks, the fleeting, impatient and sudden death sex and the cruelest daily words that pricked like thorns. therefore, as she looked at the sympathisers, she smiled inward but wailed outwardly.
She told Caro. Caro sort of told me. “One of them said she’s going to have him whether you love him or he’s dying for you in return.” Caro gave no names.
But she came to me, crying, a month later, as the bell went for Break. “You know TJ’s a bastard, right?” I said I didn’t know this. “He tried to rape me yesterday.” “No!” “Yes! We were leaving the club… he choked me in the back seat. He said it would keep him from his Uni-girls.”
“Thank you Jesus”, I whispered and straightened her uniform.
Sulking has always hurt me, causing considerable pains in my throat and around my forehead. I have never remembered to ask anyone if they feel the same things when they sulk. But then I have always seemed to have the weirdest symptoms in my family anyway. Like, no one else I know has tummy pains when they eat their first meal of the day. No one else has to swirl drinks in their mouth to really “taste” them before swallowing. No one else likes thick fruit juices like mango or guava.
My earliest memories of sulking seem to be of Sunday evenings as a six or seven-year-old, after weaving my hair in preparation for school on Mondays. Read the rest of this entry