Plotlines, Outlines, Godplay

(Fiction) Words for Wednesday: What we did to Sara

By |March 25th, 2015|

I wrote this opening with the grand plan of developing the story through the manic mechanism of¬†NaNoWriMo. But as I’ve come to expect […]

Fiction: Moon Sonnet (A Short Story)

By |August 5th, 2014|

I submitted this short story for Short Story Day Africa 2014. This year's theme was Terra Incognita. Though I do read in the genre, writing speculative fiction is indeed unknown ground for me. My story didn't make the longlist so I thought I would share it with you here.

Writing News: Writivism Short List and poems for Pen Powered Mic 1

By |June 2nd, 2014|

The writing life is rough.¬†Gritty as sandpaper against the skin of all four of your cheeks. Some people talk of bleeding onto pages, they’re not […]

Writivism 2014 Flash Fiction: No Juju That Strong

By |May 26th, 2014|

She sways and spins, her position held by hips as broad as a baobab. The feather-duster in her hand sheds ostrich plumes. They rain down hope on the woman kneeling before her. Mama Eve raises feet clad in green plastic mock-crocs. She stamps on a heap of cowrie shells, filling the room with brittle crackling.

The Fare [shortlisted- African Writing Prize for Flash Fiction 2011]

By |April 11th, 2012|

[shortlisted- African Writing Prize for Flash Fiction 2011]


Home Invasion

By |March 29th, 2012|

We were introduced to the Black Box writing technique by supervisors Silke Heiss and Paul Mason in an MA seminar that dealt with conceiving the bones and sinews of a story.
Elements are chosen randomly from five categories; character, situation/incident, place/setting, time and theme.
These selections are then used to develop the framework upon which the narrative hangs.

The Buried

By |May 23rd, 2010|

It was 3 AM and I was digging a hole in the desert.
Christa stood next to me.
In the torch light, she was a fidgety monster patting a bundle in her arms.
“Is it done yet Tess?”
Her voice was gritty in the smooth silence.
“Almost there hun, you just hang on.”
She went back to poking at the swaddle and cooing in delirium.
“Uh-huh, I’m so sorry baby, I’m so sorry. Momma’s gonna try and make this better you hear? I’ll be better next time. I’m so sorry.”
I’ve been here three times before; digging holes for Christa in the desert.
You could call me a good friend.
Dependable. Complicit. Fucking insane.

of sons and daughters (pdf)

By |March 23rd, 2010|

Download the complete and roughly edited first draft of this short story here

And after, an overwritten rooster

By |November 22nd, 2009|

At 2am, the magnificence of the night was defiled by unholy shit spewing from the house five doors away.

She stuffed the comforter into her ears and began to think really loudly.

But there was this one note.