Category: break

Random 01

And she died.

Ok, this is supposed to be a light hearted non-story post filled to the brim with encouraging words for the week.
But you see, I have a very bad (good) habit of killing things literally. Not literally like literally but literally like litera-really. You feel me? (She asked, sounding like a Yoruba JJC in Yankee)
My habit is so bad (good), it extends to everything I watch. I mean, after two episodes of an anime and no one dies, it’s obviously a sign you’re watching a shoujo not a shounen. In fact,  a shounen is a disgrace to shounens if no one dies in the first episode.
Where am I going with this?  Your guess is as good as mine.
I don’t guess.

I’ll start again.

Good morning, denizens of Earth.
I bring you greeting from a tiny city surrounded by mountains, greenery and sheep.
It’s a sunny day out here and I’m so happy because I know it’s going to be shit soon. (She put on her raincoat in anticipation)
For breakfast, I had  an overripe banana, a burnt half pizza and green tea.
The good, the bad and the ugly.
I leave you to decide which is which.

(Clears throat)

Hear ye!

(Shoots beams of encouragement erratically)

And she died.

Moral lesson: Never use nuclear material as ingredient for ANYTHING.


The Writing Process Blog Tour

Yes, I didn’t die.
No, I’m not suffering from anything terminal.
I’ve just been BUSY.

I won’t bore you with the long details. Anyway!
The Thinking Tank himself enlisted me to join his battle in defeating an evil entity from the future. I won’t lie, I just agreed because of the after-party victory jollof rice. Fam, I don’t even want meat.
Lol ok on a serious note, this is a post about my writing process and strategy and all that.
‘What writing process? You haven’t written a story in ages!’ You say.
Well, sharrap.
I have been and am writing. Just not blog stuff.
Let’s head to the FAQs:

1. What am I working on?

Personally, (and when I say personally I mean for myself), I’ve got two projects lined up. One is a collection of short horror stories I’ve written. They’ve been put up on this blog at one point or another in the span of about two years. What I’ve done though, (just in case you’re wondering why I’d make a collection of familiar stories) is I’ve re-written them; given them more length, depth and alternative endings in most I think. I’ve also added stories I haven’t put up here so there are new things to read eh?
The second thing I’m working on is a novella and no, not horror. My main focus while I’m writing this is creating something that can be used as a literature text in Nigerian schools at all levels.
I’ve been drawing strong inspiration from The classic African literature masters; Achebe, Chukwuemeka Ike, Okri, Ekwensi et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.
I’ve kinda stalled on both projects admittedly but I do plan on kickstarting again this summer so pray for me sumimasen!

2. How does my work differ from others in its genre?

I tend to tell myself I write in two genres: one, horror, and the second, the rest all jumbled up.
I’ll just answer this generally.
Sometimes, I don’t know how my work differs from your average horror or thriller because I read a lot of them and I know a lot of what I read leech into my writing. I cannot stop that. However, for how it differs, I’d say it’s in dialogue.
If you’ve read a lot of my stories you’d notice they do contain a lot of dialogue not just a straight run through. In these dialogues, I try to show the state of mind of the character speaking and it works somehow.
Also, I tend to not write happy stories, even when it’s supposed to be a lighthearted story. There is an underlying sadness in a lot of what I pen down (even my romance stories are sad, X for Ada eg) I don’t know why. I’ve just accepted that’s just me.
I’m not one for flowery languages or big words. So I write so that a layman would understand the gist of my tale without Google.
Now for my horror, I’m very keen on madness and the mind. A lot of my horror stories reflect this. I’m also big on creating powerful, psychotic female characters. This is not a feminist bid on my part, it’s just the way my thought process works. I genuinely believe women are scarier than men and so I allow my belief take preeminence in my stories.

3. Why do I write what I do?

I don’t know if I have a clear reason why I write a lot of disturbing things. Lol.
First is probably I’m influenced by what I read, naturally. Stephen King, Dean Koontz, Graham Masterton, Adam Neville etc. I also enjoy African literature even though I think I don’t read enough of them. Now, I’ve always wanted to merge these two ‘styles’. Horror in an African setting. The only book I’ve read that gave me a vague sense of this merger was The Bottled Leopard by Chukwuemeka Ike which still remains a personal fave of mine. Because I’m Igbo, it’s always easiest for me to make my characters Igbo so i can fully capture ethnicity in terms of culture and language.
When I was growing up, my sisters told me a lot of stories, scary stories. Igbo stories. Some passed down, some invented in their demented minds. Horror is an African genre. It’s in our folk tales. It’s in our art, Which is why the British museum have hidden our art in the basement! :’)
What I’m saying is that, this isn’t something new. It is just suppressed because religion and Da Blood! I cast and bind! Blah blah…
It’s just a story. They’re just stories. Or are they… Hehehe
I want to read more African inspired chillers and so I write them for my reading pleasure and for those who have the same appetite as I do.
My non horror stories, I write because sometimes I feel like proving I can be versatile. I don’t want to be stuck in a box. Or have my writing labelled under one concrete genre. I want to be like an amorphous substance; flowing, one molecule into the other.
I also extend my versatility to poetry, plays. Just because I can. I’m not the best at what I do but I don’t care because I enjoy it too much to make it about just being ‘best’.

4. How does my writing process work?

With a dialogue.
I do this thing where I run commentaries in my head. And hold conversations with different types of personalities in my head. And I stumble on that one dialogue that serves as a base to build up an enormous tale. Sometimes, the base isn’t solid and story ends up in my draft. other times, it makes the cut and ends up being told.
I tend to write as my Spirit directs, especially with short stories. I just write as I go, no plans. I find that having a plan restricts my imagination. I write and write till I get to an ‘end’. Then, i begin to edit and end up deleting half of what I got anyway! The editing phase is when I do my serious thinking, trying to make a story as plausible as I can. I mean I know it’s fiction but the beauty of the kind of stuff i write is making it so plausible, you believe it can happen (which most times, it can, but that’s a tale for another day)
When I have bigger projects, like my novella or working on a script for film, I do have an outline of what happens at every turn. I then fill up the outline with a corresponding story to match.
Then the additions and subtractions.
I type mostly but when I stumble on a good story in my head mentally and I’m maybe at work or in school, I go long hand.
Oh! I just remembered another novella in the making I’m writing by hand about cats. I wonder where I kept it… :-/

Anyway guys, that is all from me!
To pass this baton given to me, I’d introduce the next person writing about his own Writing Journey!
You all know him well, he’s no stranger to Phantom Pages.
Edgothboy! One of my favourite writers.
Eddie is an alumnus of the 2011 Farafina Trust Writing Workshop. He has called himself an amateur writer (Smh), cheerleader of the greats and a Melissa Bank groupie.
He blogs at PTS


That’s all folks!
I’ll try write more, no promises.
If you want to ask any more questions, please feel free!


The hills sit and wait for us
Like old men,  their backs bent
Under the weight of age, 
Time immemorial.
Their beards,  dense foliage
Of hubris-like greenery
Cover their near nakedness

They sit and watch as we climb
Our weary feet, wet
With our tears.
Black, with our sins.
They bleed.
Red, a testament
To our frailty.
And yet, we climb.
Naked as we came. 
Pendulous breasts hanging
Shrunked penises like forgotten stubs.
The unformed.
We’re Adam and Eve.
We do not notice.
Our only aim is to climb.
Some of us have forgotten
Why we climb.
Lost in the madness of scrambles
And brambles.
It can be said we have no purpose
Yet our instincts push us
And we go on our mad dashes.

When we’re near,
The hills would sing to us
And welcome us.
Cold, aged arms embrace,
Guide us.
And we shall lay on the altars,
A living sacrifice.
Our eyelids fluttering to a close with relief
Our dry, mud blood-caked lips expelling
Last breath.
Lying there,
As we surrender
Under piles of bones
That are our brothers.

The Journey through Life
It is called by many.

I’ve been missing. I know.
Long story.
I write something every week but I’m never sure if I like it.
So I have a piling draft section.

It’s Halloween month and from next week Thursday, leading up to 31st, I’d be doing a lil somn somn.
Not a rewrite like last year.
But I’d be providing stories.

I do hope you’d stick around.

Have a lovely weekend!

Ma Sullivan

She sidled up to the front aisle and sat down, her thinning grey hair covered haphazardly with a scarf. It did not stop stubborn wisps of hair bent on freedom from escaping. She sat and waited for the remaining seats to be filled up apprehensively. Her calloused hands gripped the clutch of her favourite bag and she rubbed the filigree design with her thumb feeling every bump; a habit she was wont to do when extremely nervous.
The room to be viewed was still empty of people, the only occupant, a big metal chair She stared at it, as if concentrating trying to pry it secrets out. Soon, it would be taking the only thing she had left away from her. Her lips dried and she licked them reflexively. She heard movements behind her and knew the pew had begun to fill up.
She did not turn back, avoiding to see the faces.
It wasn’t shame or fear.
No. Ma Sullivan knew no shame.
She just did not want to explain her presence; or offer apologies she knew would be ineffectual.
So she sat there, hair tucked haphazardly in her scarf, back ramrod straight, staring right ahead.
Quite a number of people wanted front seats, and as she made way for them, they saw her and gasped.
She did not avert her eyes; No Sir!
She looked them straight in the eyes, taking in the ill-disguised look of disgust on their faces without a twitch of her facial muscles in reaction. They always dropped their eyes first, shuffling past her. She heard them whisper amongst themselves and pass her name around.
She heard the murmurings behind her but refused to answer them; she had every right to be here.

Soon, the lights dimmed and the main stage area lit up, distracting them.
Guards came in and walked to the chair, checking the straps and bolts. When they were done, one of the officials gave a speech.
She did not listen. She tuned them out.
She came for one thing only.
Soon, they brought him out.
She stared at him as they pulled him to the chair and strapped him. Ignoring the bondage, she stared fixedly at his face.
He had grown softer around the edges. His eyes looked rheumy. He looked older than ever.
His once full head of hair was shaved completely bald and looking like that, sitting there, she could not help but be reminded of his father.
His father had once sat on just the same chair.
She had watched her younger son sit on the same chair.
Now, it was his turn.
As if feeling a stare, his weak eyes looked to the audience and seeing his mother, there was a sudden light in his eyes.
Not one of happiness; of anger, of resentment.
He sneered at her.
She watched him impassively, unprovoked. Seeing as he couldn’t rile her up, his swore at her, red in the face.
Unfeeling bitch.
Like she hadn’t heard that one before.
Was this his way to finally get the attention he always craved from her?
Well, he got in. She was there watching.
He flipped her a middle finger before he got completely immobilised and smiled at the little frown thst crawled up her eyebrows.
The bitch wasn’t carved out of stone then!

Soon the ceremony, as she dubbed it started.
The official stated his name; stated his crimes.
Ma Sullivan did not flinch as the list of murders her son had committed rolled out.
Murders against women her age; women that looked like her
Murders meant for her.
He had had her face in mind every time he strangled them; he said so in court.
His real victim was her but since he could not get her, they had to do.
No, he wasn’t molested ss a child.
But the fucking bitch was made of stone, all my life!
She sat stoic then, listening in the court room.
She was doing the same now; sitting there, stoic.

Soon it was show time,
They fixed the cap on his head and there he sat, looking as stupid as his brother had looked with that cap on his head; as stupid as his father had looked too, seated right there.

They killed him.

The others gasped as the electric currents fried him. She said nothing, merely watching her son’s jerking body as his brains fried.
It almost reminded her of his birth; the light flickering in the dinghy backroom of a motel. The smell of death and decay that she had been unconcerned about.
She wondered for a second if his electrocution had hurt as much as she did, pushing him out of her
It would have been fitting if it did.
Come in screaming, leave screaming.
It didn’t matter now anyway.
He was dead.
When he had been confirmed dead, she watched them roll out his dead body.

The show was over.
The murmurings began again.
How could she come to watch?
How could she bear it?
Just what kind of a woman was she?

She said nothing, walking out of the stifling room to the open air, grateful for the gulps of fresh air.
She made a beeline to her car and when she was safely inside, she rested her head on the steering wheel.
Tears coursed down her cheeks and she did nothing to wipe them away.
Where had she gone wrong?
Why did they all end up the way they did?
The media touted her as evil. ‘Matriarch of the Evil Sullivan”
It did not matter that she never participated in their crimes; or that she had kicked all three of them out of her house before they had gone on a bend.

Could she have stopped it?
She had failed.
As a wife; she married a lazy psycho, a lunatic.
As a mother; she was too busy to love them. She herself never received any love from her mother.She had worked hard to provide money for anything they wanted.
Why hadn’t they been enough?
Her lunatic mistake of a husband then bred them for evil.
As a human; she had been too afraid to stop them.
She kicked them out instead.
She had been a coward.

She swallowed a sob and decided on what she would do.
She would absorb all the blame; from the families of the victims, from the general populace.
She would absorb them all.
Then she would take it with her to a place where she knew she belonged.
To hell.


If this doesn’t make sense, welcome to the club. Didn’t make sense to me either.
Reading a book titled Talking to serial killers and this is the result of a half-formed idea.
Are people born evil? Or is it solely on upbringing?

Let’s think about that.


The abandoned house groans like an old woman as a nifty wind buffets the shack.
Window frames bang against window sills routinely at different corners of the house.
The swing hooked to the old oak tree at the backyard complains as the rusted metals holding the contraption rub against each other with the force of the wind.
The front door had fallen off at one point and so the house invites us inside to take refuge from the billowing elements.
The front door leads directly to a large, almost empty space that should be a living room.
Wallpapers peeled off, plaster fallen off the walls in patches like fairy dust.
It is almost empty, save for a rocking chair.
It does not move, even as stray children of the wind find their way into the abandoned shack of a house.
Somewhere within the house, an old grandfather clock booms the hour and as if on cue, the house is whipped into a frenzy.
Moans pass through the walls and if one should press their ear to them, they’d swear they heard conversations.
The stairs squeak, as if someone of great bulk is climbing down.
The grandfather clock stops booming at twelve and suddenly, the rocking chair begins to move slowly.
Almost happily; like a dog that has sighted his master.
The stairs stop squeaking and the floorboards take over the squeak, almost sounding like footsteps that lead to the living room and eventually, to the rocking chair.
The chair rocks faster…
Almost in a frenzy that if it were human, it would have been foaming at its lips with excitement.
A big crash and as if a weight had fallen on it, it stops.

A low  murmur, old crooning…
The empty rocking chair begins to move, as if controlled.

There is just one glass that has not fallen off a window frame in the house. The glass is in the living room. The rocking chair faces the windows.
Reflected on it, a fat woman sitting, staring at the naive soon-to-be-permanent-guests of the house; You and I.
Face, as black as night.
Hair, as white as snow.
Teeth, as red as blood.

She watches us as we run into the house to take refuge from the heavy rain that just began to fall.
“Wow! That was bloody sudden!” you mutter as you look around and sighting the chair, make for it.
You sit on it and invite me with open arms to sit on your lap.
Together, we sit, gazing at nothing.
We do not notice the reflection.
We only shiver a little; maybe from a chill.
Maybe because reflected, she just pulled us into herself.
One big hug.

Face, black as night.
Hair, white as snow.
Teeth, red as blood.


Another flow of random energy amassed as words.
I would settle down soon enough for  proper story.


The world ended and we didn’t notice.

It wasn’t as the prophets had said; with trumpeting blasts and floating bodies in the skies, raptured.

If it had ended that way,  wouldn’t we have been better off?

Our world fell apart around our ears and we never noticed.

Earthquakes, droughts, famine and we never noticed.

It wasn’t happening to us; We forgot about it.

The Earth sagged in fatigue and yawned.

Her gaping mouth swallowed remote cities.

Sinkholes. Floods.

Japan was far away.  Apparently, ChristChurch wasn’t even a name of a church!

It didn’t matter anyway because they were far away.

Wars intensified;  tribal, religious.

We sat in our moral couches, condemning acts of violence;

Forgetting everything the next day.

It didn’t matter. What is Yemen anyway? An Asian cuisine?

The Earth’s knee got weak and she shook, unsteady.

Buildings collapsed in China; In Bangladesh.

They’re populous. They’d get by. Life moves on.

We woke up to news of tornadoes and tsunamis.

We did our Samaritan duties and donated.

We thank whatever deity we wanted for our safety.

We forgot about it.

The Earth was weak and her waters were poisoned.

Some drank and died inside; moral decadence

School shootings; Drive-by shootings; Cinema hall shootings.

We watched on tv, from the safety of our homes,

The wide, deranged eyes of the deadened.

Their frothing mouths as they spewed hate.

We blamed it on Something; Race. Religion. Video Games.

We forgot about it.

Then it came to our streets.

Our neighbor was shot by a man who didn’t like Pakistanis.

We were shocked.

The next day saw revenge butcherings in broad daylight light.

We stood outside for the first time and gazed at ourselves in dismay.

“Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

The ceremony of innocence is drowned”

The world ended a long time ago and we never noticed.

We hid our heads in sand, believing ourselves to be safe.

The Earth died and is decaying.

She falls apart piece by piece and more cities disappear.

The wonders of our modern worlds are going.

The Leaning Tower at Pisa finally fell.

The Pyramids disappeared.

Whatever happened to our Lady Liberty?

The World ended long ago; how come we never noticed?

The Earth is dead and with her, we die.

Now, we wait for our turn on the guillotine.

“Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

The ceremony of innocence is drowned”


(Image culled from The Princess In Another Castle)


This strayed into my head some hours ago, due to recent events.
Decided to write as the words came so pardon the rambling.
I’ve always loved the poem The Second Coming by WB Yeats so couldn’t resist throwing it in.
Wanna know something funny?
I think the World ended a long time ago.


Day 29

This was a fascinating story from a random horror short story website I had given to a friend.
Follow this link ->

Thank me later and Happy Sabbath!

Memoirs of a Cobra

Hey people!
Been a bit quiet here hasn’t it? First post of November yea?
Decided to take a little break from writing anything serious, sorry. Taking my time to do more reading. Maybe I’ll recommend some books on here soon!
The good news is that I’d be putting up some of my old stories and some other random posts all lifted off my Facebook notes. Lol.

Anyway, today I have a new writer here, trying out his hands at the whole blogging thing! His handle, @volturi_lord and his blog would be kicking off at
For today, we have a poem (or spoken word type of thing).

Memoirs of a Cobra.

I slither through the opening into the sandy place.

Down in the corner, there’s a place of shade

Where I can rest from the sun’s scorching heat.

There’s a clang which startles me.

The wall under which I passed has opened

And towards me walks two high animals.

The ones that have plagued me right from birth,

Pursuing me with sticks and stones, trying to kill me.

I raise my head and look towards them.

They stop in their tracks, spotting me at the same instant.

They make sounds and move about frantically.

Out of the tall stone another one comes, something long protruding from his hands.

Stones land around me and I move to avoid them.

I spit out of fear and anger;

Fear for my life and anger at their hostility.

I make it to the wall which opens and I slither underneath,

Into that long ground of stone

Which goes on and on and on.

Something heavy hits my body and I can no longer move.

They make more sounds and increase in numbers.

These high animals that have broken me.

My head in raised in agitation and in pain, I spit.

Also,  in desperation too as I need to get away.

I try but I can’t move.

It’s surprising.

Its like they have divided me in two,

And I’m joined together by piece of hide and flesh.

There is a whirling sound and an iron animal comes.

It stops and from it two of the higher animals alight.

They stand with the others, multiplying themselves every second

A little distance away; my spit can’t reach them,

Why are they so hostile?

Why do they hate me so?

All I want is a cool place to rest and now I am bruised.

He comes towards me, walking on two sticks

Another is protruding from him: it is flat with a sharp looking edge

I  spit at him and he does the same.

This disconcerts me and I turn away.

Then he brings the sharp edge against my neck …

                                                                                                                                                              – Dankaro


That is it!
What do you think? Anyone had snake experiences before? Share!
A thank you to @volturi_Lord for the contribution!
If anyone considers themselves to be good at writing and has something I can use here, do get at me via Twitter, @weird_oo and we’d take it from there. 😀

I’ll see you soon!
Tee Hee!


Today’s post is a poem. Enjoy.

Wooden beads black and round
From the first time they held hands
Lips moved and thoughts told without sound
As fingers drew hearts in the sand

The yellow walls reflected her joy
As they sat by the fireplace
Disaffected by the world’s never ending ploys
A single shadow shared in quiet solace

The fights, they started small
Words thrown around and resolved in haste
And then they grew tall
And laid her love to waste

Between her legs, where others cavorted
Remained closed to him
So he took his keys and his wallet
And buried himself in gin

He screamed and shouted, shrieked and growled
She didn’t flinch, she’d never repent
Her ears deaf to his tortured howls
He crawled into the corner, when he was spent

His breaths are short and harried
Because alas, the pain hasn’t tarried
He has warred and he has prayed
But all for naught, she will not stay

Hearts break like cheap china
Hearts break like cheap china
Day breaks awash with desire
But hearts break like cheap china.

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