WALKING IN MY DELIGHT!

I ran as fast as my legs could carry me
My feet hurt so badly, for I could not count how many stones I had stepped on
I had been running for more than 2 kilometres now
I knew I was tired, but the fear in my mind had pumped enough adrenaline to keep my legs moving

I was returning from a programme I had been reluctant to attend at first
It was my aunt's idea that I should go for the programme
She insisted that I learn more skills so I could become a complete wife material
I dont know who told her that the material I was wearing did not have WIFE on it
The skills acquisition center was about 4 kilometres away from where I stayed with my aunt

The programme for today was about how to start up a fish pond
It was an interesting experience, packed with a lot of learners like myself
Just before the programme ended at about 6.30pm
I saw a very familiar face that refreshed an already healed wound

Five years back, I met my first love
He is the most charming man that I have ever met
As my first love, he gave me the foundation of relationships
We were best friends, up until that nightmare took place

Immediately the programme ended, I took to my heels, I knew he would come after me
I was not wrong
I had an edge of some distance over him
As he pursued me, he called out my name to stop
But I knew better than not to stop
I had met my fear, and there was no turning back
It was too late!

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The Sphere

Photograph by Elena Saavedra Buckley. Once when I was about twelve I was walking down the dead-end road in Albuquerque where I grew up, around twilight with a friend. Far beyond the end of the road was a mountain range, and at that time of evening it flattened into a matte indigo wash, like a mural. While kicking down the asphalt we saw a small bright light appear at the top of the peaks, near where we knew radio towers to occasionally emit flashes of red. But this glare, blinding and colorless, grew at an alarming rate. It looked like a single floodlight and then a tight swarm beginning to leak over the edge of the summit. My friend and I became frightened, and as the light poured from the crest, our murmurs turned into screams. We stood there, clutching our heads, screaming. I knew this was the thing that was going to come and get me. It was finally going to show me the horrifying wiring that lay just behind the visible universe and that was inside of me too. And then, a couple se...

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Print from Trouble , by Bruce Charlesworth, a portfolio which appeared in The Paris Review in the magazine’s Fall 1985 issue. Rejection may be universal, but as plots go, it’s second-rate—all buildup and no closure, an inherent letdown. Stories are usually defined by progress: the development of events toward their conclusions, characters toward their fates, questions toward understanding, themes toward fulfillment. But unlike marriage, murder, and war, rejection offers no obstacles to surmount, milestones to mark, rituals to observe. If a plot point is a shift in a state of affairs—the meeting of a long-lost twin, the fateful red stain on a handkerchief—rejection offers none; what was true before is true after. Nothing happens, no one is materially harmed, and the rejected party loses nothing but the cherished prospect of something they never had to begin with. If the romance plot sets up an enticing question—Will they or won’t they? — the rejection plot spoils everything upfront:...

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