Trial mini novel.

Hi reader! 😊 I tried writting something down today but instead decided to chat alittle. . . I’ve been having an idea for a while now, to share a mini novel I’m writting on this space.

The sample will probably be ready early July God willing. I would love to share a couple of the pages with all of you! and get your feedback. I’ll also take this opportunity to interact with you amazing, like minded individuals who take the time to read this blog, thank you all so much for the support.

So anyone interested in a sample can email me on, I’ll be sure to respond.

thank you all!!

Thank you!


FAULT LINE-my raw, fat tears.

I feel my teeth chatter from the cold. . . My fingers are cold, icy. . . yet I feel numb. . . I feel nothing . . .
“I think she’s in shock. . .”
I hear my friends’ careful whispers behind me. . .
I trudge throughout the ceremony . . . the procession a blur. The service is finally over. . . I’m standing right next to the casket . . . watching it without seeing it, yet feeling a weird sort of reassurance. . . He is only a few feet away from me. . . I hear the master of ceremony call to the pall bearers. . .I hear their footsteps . . . Or see their black suits. . . I’m not sure which my mind first registers. They pick up the coffin, hoist it on their shoulders. The scream erupts from my heart and out through my mouth, as a sudden, vivid pain floods every corner of my stomach, leaking acidity and an extreme anxiety. I’m now screaming in a continuous rythm, building up to a crescendo. My friend holds on to me as we follow the procession,

‘why are they moving him. . .??’

I frantically ask her, as tears form a cascade gently down her own cheeks, . . . She is mourning my own pain along with our loss.
My screams settle into sobs which are drowned by cries from the rest of the mourners. They watch with me as the pall bearers reach that final place . . . And I watch horrified as the casket disappears into the ground. . . My head starts to feel light. . . I rest on my friend’s shoulder as the masses surge forward and push me backwards, hiding the site from me as finally they come. . .

My raw fat tears. . .like torrents of flood waters.

. . . I struggle with you. . . with your memory. . . I want to be at peace. . . To know for sure that you are well, that you are safe, that you are happy, I want to be at peace when your memories flood my mind . . . Your face still so vivid and alive. . . I want peace my love, I want reassuarance, . . . All I feel is more and more fragmented. . . More alone . . . Fighting with pain and a world that does not seem to understand my worry, my loss. . . Where are you now? Are you safe? Are you happy? Or are you afraid? Lonely. . . In fear. Every time I dream I reach out into that dark abyss of grief. . . Longing to feel your touch again. . . to hear your reassuring voice. . . I don’t find rest from my dreams especially in my moments of inactivity, when thoughts of you are at their zenith. You persist with me until I wake, tired, and the cleansing waters of

my raw, fat tears wash away all residue of the pain I felt all night. . .

I want people to look up from their living, . . . I walk the streets . . . Watching the man on his phone live. . . The children running across the road at the children’s crossing. . .People everywhere continue living. . . it’s depressing. . .I went to the travel agent’s office today, in hindsight I should have probably called . . .I cancelled our trip to Switzerland, I had to explain to that kind travel adviser that you were gone. . . She asked me how my PHD was going. . . Just made it worse. . . all her questions were unintentionally irritating, forcing me into a finality that my mind is still grappling with, the plans were for two, the journey to be walked together, I was so excited . . . I will now have to find within me the strength to finish this journey on my own, you already reached your stop.

I passed by a much loved local designer’s store on my way back home. There was a jacket on display at the window, it was navy blue, with flawless tailoring and artful paneling on its pockets, done with beautiful, vibrant, ankara fabric whose patterns lean into a deep sky blue. It was gorgeous, it would have looked great on you. . .I should have bought it for you, you should have worn it on that grey day. . . tears are threatening to flow. . . You would not have cared though would you. . . Not on that day. . . no, you had already left. . .you were not even there on that grey day. . . I saw your face, through that impersonal glass. . . But I was alone. . .as expected, raw, fat tears begin leaking out of my eyes, accompanied by quiet sobs. . .

We laughed remember!? We laughed!! Thinking at the time how we had plenty of time. . . You laughed. . . You once laughed, and the sun shined just abit brighter inside. . . I miss you. . .I should have told you bye. . . I should have reminded you that I loved you. . .I should have told you that I loved you. . . A seismic shift has occured in my heart. You have left an area of weakness in my soul, a permanent fault line.

Why is the world going on like nothing has happened, everyone looks normal. . . The streets continue to wear that uninterested, blank, city dweller look. . . With the necessary splashing of personality from the upbeat, the haggard, the attractive, the busy, the stressed out. That hormonal, restless energy from the young and optimistic, the artistic, other worldly vibe from the bold and stylish. . . The city continues to pulse with that vitality, the incompatible marriage of resolute optimism and lethargy . . . A wash with vibrance from the masses. . . I loved it! Thrived in it, that good, bad and ugly. . .I now resent it . . . That ever forward march . . . I want people to stop, to slow down, to remember you. . .
Some days I want to also forget you, to get back to my own movement. . . I wake up a couple of days later, determined to be bouyant. I put my cheerfulness on like an armor, the tempo of that fake sanguine sparkle growing an octave higher everytime I met someone, and say hi. For weeks my demenour is loud, almost raucous, boisterous in everyway, overarching in its extremes and clearly fake.
Then I break down when I start to get there, to that place of forgetfulness, when my mind tries to release you . . . I panic and look for you frantically. . . You are my fault line, after the extreme I collapse into a week when the feelings are not as tempestous but daily and at unexpected moments. . . I touch my cheek and there leaking out, is a steady quiet stream of my . . .
Raw, fat tears.

My life has settled into a steady rythm, routine and activity are a much needed balm. My rocks miss their friend. . . You appreciated my passion without holding back. Your support felt effortless, so sure. . . Like you already knew that I would thrive . . . I sometimes wanted correct you. . . Secretly wanted to cap it, that steady, reassurance that stemmed from your own self assured nature. . . Sometimes I wanted to give you a glimse into that messed up maze that my life can be . . . Yet. . . I never dared, hope is too precious, and freely flowed from you, and not to mention, everything you called out, came to be. . . Thank you. . .
I don’t know how I will heal, if I will heal. . . For now, I live with an awareness of my fault line, an awareness that brings forth both pain and joy. So daily I choose to live . . . I walk on . . . Sometimes tentative, sometimes assured. As my new fault line pulses, . . . And on the quiet reflective days I still seek out release from my thoughts through the relentless leak of my raw, fat tears.

A dedication to Dorothy from Kate.
In Loving memory of dear Lodenyi, Dorothy’s rock man, twin and best friend.

He is near to the brokenhearted, and binds their wounds’ ❤️

with love,

by Ruth.
Illustrations and pictures by Kate Wachira.

Disclaimer: this is a work of fiction that draws inspiration from real subjects. None of the parties or events mentioned recount an actual event, and any parallels drawn are purely by chance.The work is a project of love from a friend, to a friend by a friend.