Chipo Asante

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Mar, 2022

Stories (4)

4 Stories

54 karma pts

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“Brilliant Corners” by Chipo Asante

Submitted to Contest #167

I almost don't recognise him, lying out on the scanner bed with his legs straight as a palm tree.The colour from his face has emptied out, leaving gaunt and ashen skin, like dust you would find building up on a windowsill. Before they shaved off his hair, it was a head of tangled weeds that, when its vines were stretched, reached his collarbone tattoo. It is now a blank canvas on which we place electrodes.I spent hours trying to put a name to the face before they handed me his chart. I scribbled out his name and promised that I would ask the...

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“Crowned Cloth” by Chipo Asante

I don’t think you were too pleased to see me when we were first introduced. Judging by your pasty face, eyes devoid of spark, it probably wasn’t the best time to have crossed paths; especially considering that you were a little busy, well, being lowered into the ground. Of course –- it could’ve been all the stress that characterised your last few months. Despite that, I think you could’ve been a little more receptive to my presence. After all, you have me to thank -- more than anyone -- for your propulsion into mainstream fame. All publicity...

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“Streams of Milk” by Chipo Asante

Submitted to Contest #143

I used to pretend that the merging and parting of clouds were the Gods of the skies, fighting. Rain and thunder and snow and sun were the falling dust they sent flying. Streams of milk up above would migrate from one side to the other, travelling to places unknown. Maybe heaven.I was staring at the sky on Monday, in all of its patchy wonder. Silky swirls drifted from east to west as I observed from the ground below. 24 degrees Celsius out, partly cloudy. Cirrus clouds moved like wind blowing. Altocumulus ones looked like popcorn, not fully c...

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“The Umbrella Man” by Chipo Asante

Submitted to Contest #138

Soren didn’t hear him coming in, or what he said as he drained the water from his boots into a bucket.“What?”Gallagher said it again, but the door was open and the roar outside filtered whatever he shouted at the top of his lungs.“Close the door!” Soren yelled, making a slamming motion with his hands.The bell above it made a delicate cling as audibility was restored. Water droplets tapped at his mug as Soren realised that the roof had become a belly, swollen, precipitation leaking into his chamomile tea. “You don’t make boots ...

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