Abraham Atawodi's blog
We are pleased to feature a hilarious story by Abraham Atatwodi. Do you write? Send your short stories, book reviews, opinion pieces, poems and NYSC experience to firstname.lastname@example.org for a chance to be featured on the blog!.
This short story by regular contributor Abraham Atawodi reveals how a loving relationship comes to an untimely end. If you write poetry, fiction, or non-fiction and would like to be featured on the ZODML blog, send an email to email@example.com.
A short but eerily powerful piece by Abraham Atawodi is top of our reading list this weekend. Are you a writer? Send your fiction, non-fiction, poetry, and book reviews to firstname.lastname@example.org for a chance to be featured on our blog.
The wind whistled a soulful dirge as it danced lazily around the dark neighbourhood, dodging rooftops and treetops. It ruffled the leaves, shook them spitefully off the tree limbs, and arrayed them haphazardly on the parched ground in a carpet of brown. The sun had blazed with fury in the afternoon. Now, the wind had taken the reins, chilling the starless night, and causing men’s hearts to stir within them. Stir, and boil, until their own self-loathing drowned them.
In this gripping tale, a hospital stay becomes the stuff of nightmares thanks to a sinister nurse. Want to be published on the ZODML blog? Send your fiction, poetry, non-fiction/opinion, and book review pitches to email@example.com.
She roams the lonely corridors, her fangs bared, her core boiling with insatiable desire. She hunts another unsuspecting soul, searching for the fear in your heart, the terror that paralyzes you. When she finds you, she says a quick prayer and devours you mercilessly, ridding you of the essence that is your life, smacking her lips greedily. Or so it seems.
I heard many stories when I was a little boy; stories of war and famine, stories of vampires that stalked people and lapped up every drop of their blood, stories of mothers who ate their children… but none about nurses. I was enamoured with them. Mother was a nurse, and very kind. She pampered me silly, she made me laugh. Mother was an angel. So, I imagined all nurses to be sponges soaked with pure and living compassion, pampering patients to blossoming health, radiating nothing but the warmth of unconditional love. I hadn’t met Nurse Uju yet.
I do not wish Mother was still alive. She became a ghost after that shameful Saturday afternoon many weeks ago when she learnt of Father’s infidelity with the neighbour’s daughter. I could almost see the thick cloud of despondency hanging over her, causing her to mumble to herself in incomprehensible syllables, her eyes perpetually glazed, until I discovered her lifeless body in the bathroom, a kitchen knife sticking out from her chest. I will never forget the look of her pale, stiff corpse, or the pool of dark, sticky blood that haloed it.
I’m not trying to be poetic
There really isn’t much to say
I’ve been touched by love
It’s in my heart to stay
It seems incredibly lame so I tear the sheet of paper and crumple it into a small ball, one of the many I have made today; snippets of creativity aborted ere they had a chance to breathe. I won’t relent. There is no harm in trying again.
Gerald sat still, unyielding chains binding him fast to the all-metal armchair. He looked around and couldn’t help but admire his captor’s taste. The sparsely furnished room reminded him of a frightful hospital theatre, only the silhouette sitting across from him was no meticulous doctor, and he had an old, rusty saw instead of a scalpel.
Gerald would have chosen a place like this too, to punish a wayward soul, to assert his supremacy over a common thief. He looked up at the lone spotlight that hung a few feet above his shiny, bald head and smiled, confident that the miserable piece of scum sitting across the room could see him, and it gave him immeasurable pleasure to annoy him.
A pretty girl, a delayed driver, and a rebuffed compliment - just another day on the city streets captured by this short story. Writers, get your work featured on the ZODML blog and in our newsletter by sending a pitch to firstname.lastname@example.org.
Rebecca especially did not like waiting. She had not waited a year at home before getting into university, like most of her classmates had been forced to, because even though they had passed the requisite exams, they did not know what buttons to push, or how. She had never waited her turn at the bank, not with her famous surname. She was used to getting things done her own way, in her own time. Particularly, she had never waited for a common driver in the blazing sun before, clad in a loose green t-shirt and tight-fitting blue jeans, with only an umbrella to shield her from the scorching madness of harmattan afternoons. So, it was with no small frown that she stood on the sidewalk, waiting for Chidozie, her father’s driver. He said he was close; she would soon see him. That was 20 minutes ago, when she called. She had suspected he was lying; he probably hadn’t left the house yet. Now, she was forced to wait.