Few people may recognize me from my previous account, Thronekid, which I have long deactivated. Others may remember my sole hit, Of 53", Some Music, and the Gallows, which I couldn't complete.

Others may have never heard about me.

Whichever part you fall, you're welcome. I'm open to regaling you with my special flash stories. Some of them will come with brief notes on my muse and thought process during their creation.

Drop a comment or two if you're fascinated at any time. I'd ask you to invite others, but perhaps this is the delight you don't want to share. For me, it's my lover, but we are different.

Here we go!

Baba was cursed: it always manifested as though the orange on the sun. He never reaped a harvest after sowing and his farmland was the first to go when it rained cats and dogs. But Grandmother had gone ahead to marry him.

She said it was love—the most beautiful, an ilk that surpassed the tears Christ shed on his cross. She said Baba's lineage never succeeded, but it failed to bother her. So, on a bad day, an awful make of misfortune, she and Baba had the nuptial knot tied, and he afterward proceeded to plant his seed in her when the shadows had faded with the air.

However, Grandmother only loved; she wasn't stupid. Her son, Kure, grew old and married, Orhiza, my mother. Then, when —like his father, Baba — he learned to raise his hands on her and had suffered five stillbirths with her, Grandmother understood.

Ohiza, the woman who bore me was brave. And the few nights everyone was unsuspecting, she went in with Ladi, the clergyman. But grandmother wasn't stupid, I say, and a day when she caught Ladi with my mother, she fervently hoped my fair, quiet mother missed her cycle.

If the heavens accepted Grandmother's prayers, I do not know. But mother confided that she took a concoction the next time Kure spurt his miserable seed in her and woke with a dead fetus the following morning. She claimed Grandmother had given her the substance.

©2017

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