How to tell a story about a story


I sat alone long after I’d finished reading the short story feeling lost in the real world. Cheated. The outline had put my hopes higher than any flag in the land. It made me walk away into a sanctuary hoping never to come back. Away from the touch of human kind,away from bother and deep into a silent land where characters spoke in their muted conversations only accessible through written words.


In the hiding, the only thing that brought humanity close to me was the sound of lorries grunting at the highway, murmuring at the burden of the red gravel weighing down upon it and the far away whimper of a child and the parachutes wobbling in the air like a group of rainbow color hunting eagles.

Cricket chirps were rampant, stealing away the short-lived stillness from the conversations between the birds. I could also hear a dove woo a mate in its deep husky grunt of lust.

I sat on a boulder, ready to lose myself to the read. I was easily a saint kneeling in the church waiting on God’s voice. My legs hanged out my balls to the pleasant lick of the evening sun. In a posture that my biology teacher would have readily discouraged and even pull your ear just to emphasize his stand. The wind blew gently and bananas danced amply as if imploring me to share the sweetness.

The intro was witty. It carried promises of worthwhile rewards if only you hold your calm. However, it warned whoever could not get past the common 148 characters on Twitter and even fewer on Whatsapp that are mostly abbreviations. The enticement in it roused my pleasure cells and they opened up like flowers’ bloom in anticipation of morning sun.

The writer gave me a maiden entrance into the world of his lead character and I was impressed. I smiled. I blessed the Lord for giving us good writers who never let us perish in the wake of plunging economy but give to us the opportunity to get lost in gripping stories. the thud in my chest softened and became steady, only fluctuating on hitting a bizarre line that deserves a reread.

I read on, gobbling even the mundane parts of the story. Letting myself sink into the appalling tentacles of the snappy sentences. With the thirst of a drunkard, I gulped down the suspenseful paragraphs. And the story, told from the heart and passion of a storyteller, drifted silently past my eyes.

The rhythm in the story edged away the one in my aura. I lost track of time and everything else. I geared to claiming my well deserved award. And when the time came,after all the patience,after all the thirst, after all the wait, my zeal was not for nothing.

For the twist in the story left me laughing at myself.

The story lingered on in my head for a very long time. I wished I’d been the one to tell it and still paint the picture without losing a single color. Or detail. Or crucial dot.


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