You’re Cordially Invited to Be My Beta Reader

So as one casually does on a random tuesday, I wrote something a little questionable— and I need your eyes on it. Writers are usually their own worst critics and when we have sat with our own piece for far too long, it becomes difficult to tell what is filth or what s a work of art. That’s where you come in.For the sake of discretion, please note that this is not a love story. I do not write on of those, the fluffy hearts and the warmth of lovers- I find no joy in describing how his heart longed for her, no wait, I do write about longing except the kind I write, he longs for her heart in his palms, her actual heart, severed from her chest.  No, I am just joking. It is just a simple story about Oma,  a girl whose dreams were too big for the belly of poverty.  What i ask of you is not 'not bad', 'good work' or any form of soft padded mutters of critique. I ask for you to read slowly, ingest every metaphor sewn to the edges of this bleeding piece and let me know in the most honest way possible; does this belong at the bottom of my desktop trashcan or is it a work of art in the making.Read it. Sit with it.  And when you’re ready, tell me what you saw.'There are a lot of things that we do not know and a whole lot of others that we can never imagine happening. When you walk in the morning, you do not expect to die but in the back of your mind, you worry that a car might hit you or that you might be snuffed out by a drunk truck driver…anything but the knife of a psychopath teasing your bulging belly. No one thinks of these things but perhaps you should. Oma should have thought of these things but she was too busy worrying that the new girl had bigger breasts than hers and was going to steal her customers. That evening, she stuffed her bra with pads, added red to her lush lips and fluffed her hair until it was like a pretty cloud sitting atop her head. “Dem go take” she muttered to herself, twisting and turning to get all the angles of the sensuous arc of her breasts spilling over her short bandage dress. She jiggled her buttocks, grabbed a fistful to admire the weight and then smirked to herself “They never see”Omata Asipita a.k.a Oma Baby, a twenty-five-year-old from a village called Okene in Kogi state. She was once a bright young girl with dreams that were bigger than her tiny self but she soon realized that dreams were not enough to feed her family of twelve. Her mother wouldn’t stop giving birth and her father didn’t care…more children meant more free hands to work on his measly farm. Remember this name. Whisper it like a warning and if you ever did see her on the streets on this marked day, know that it was the last day she walked the earth. It took one choice, in the sliver of a moment. She had even fought her friend Aiza to enter that stranger’s car and somewhere in her head, she patted her back at how streetwise she was. She was all smug when as she melted into his car leathers,  counting the notes that he would stuff in her panties at the end of the night. Those notes did make it to her panties but when it did, she was nothing but a lifeless body and broken nails beneath piles of mud and litter. One, two, three, four, fiveOnce I caught a whore aliveSix, seven, eight, nine, tenThen I let her go to hell He stood over her body with glee…the stranger and stared over the canvas, wondering where best to inscribe his truth to the world. Her neck was long, swan-like even and as he stared closer, he could hear the voices give their approval.Perfect.His hands went to work, red paint caressing the skin of a taut belly with hardened practice. His fingers worked delicately, dancing over the dead skin like they were made to be. Like day and night, two things that perfectly existed together. A song was on his lips, a hum of satisfaction…the melody that walked his victims to hades. One, two, three, four, five,Once I caught a whore aliveSix, seven, eight, nine, ten,Then I let her go to hellWhy did you let her go?Because she clawed and screamed, you know.How many more lives will I take today?In my twisted game, they all will pay. He shook his head like a kid in the candy store. Left, right, left, right…eyes gleaming, feet tapping to the harmonious beat. Blood kissed the the skin of the rubber boots and he hissed through his teethm amused “Such a bloody mess”He laughed- soft and delighted.Time unravelled in silence and then he was done, presenting to the wretched world the beauty of his masterpiece. “Ehn…the last one was prettier” he mused, Now you knowNow you seeThe end of your filth' So what do you think?

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