Fey Ugokwe's Blog, page 4

Wifey

"Her tongue was lolling about in the lane of something real and beautiful--and it was all very, very good. 'Bring this,' she breathed, glancing at him from above the glass. 'Um...just bring a bottle of...this...'"

Wifey

"His hair was unruly again, and dotted with winking bits of stripper glitter and patches of beige body makeup. And the fumes coming up from his head, jacket, skin within were made of stale cigarettes in layers and repeating--it was nauseating, churning, burning to the eyes, and it made hers water, tear, run..."

Wifey

**Description: a mystical, lyrical and haunting, psychological thriller/historical fiction that careens along the unexpected twists and dark turns in the tenuous marriage between a 22-year-old daughter of well-heeled, immigrant professors and a 25-year-old, orphaned man from the hard scrabble of Los Angeles, and their relationship's journey from a successful, young couple's life in L.A. to the swirling mystery of suburban Dallas. "Wifey", a work of contemporary fiction/contemporary women's fiction--itself a kitchen of diverse and multinational characters--highlights a variety of sociocultural issues, inclusive of domestic violence, spirituality, and sustainability, using the universalizing backdrop of food, and spotlights the smacking differentials within individual power, the hair-raising undertow of relationship secrets, and the prickling chill of unforeseen fates**:

Wifey

Walking to the world cabinet, she squatted down again and pulled at the rum bottle. And she opened it up, strong swarthy sea and steadfastness hitting her nostrils hard from within it--that sweat of some of her peoples, hands upon hands back when to sugarcane, a sweet spoil of past oppressions. And she drank it down--all of it--all into her little self, knowing she could not hold onto it without extreme drunk to soon come. And that was the fortuitous part...:

Wifey

"The air was heavy and static with the potential of a much darker reality to storming, come...And Rhys was watching at the whole of Rodney in a wary readiness--eyes scanning across the row of Rodney's crew and back again, with the very same vigilance. Some were shaking their heads slowly, conveying their disapproval. Everybody--including P.V.'s invitees, who had begun to whisper amongst themselves, and clinking, place down their plates, silverware, glasses--was waiting on Rodney. They were all of them in the room chests-pounding aware, that he was--or might indeed soon become--the snapping kind...":

Wifey

**Description: a mystical, lyrical and haunting, psychological thriller/historical fiction that careens along the unexpected twists and dark turns in the tenuous marriage between a 22-year-old, primarily Asian, Miami-born daughter of well-heeled, immigrant professors and a 25-year-old, orphaned African-American man from the hard scrabble of Los Angeles, and their relationship's journey from a successful, young couple's life in L.A. to the swirling mystery of suburban Dallas. "Wifey", a work of contemporary fiction/contemporary women's fiction--that also includes other diverse and multinational characters--highlights a variety of sociocultural issues, inclusive of domestic violence, spirituality, and sustainability, using the universalizing backdrop of food, and spotlights the smacking differentials within individual power, the hair-raising undertow of relationship secrets, and the prickling chill of unforeseen fates**:

Wifey

"Walking to the world cabinet, she squatted down again and pulled at the rum bottle. And she opened it up, strong swarthy sea and steadfastness hitting her nostrils hard from within it--that sweat of some of her peoples, hands upon hands back when to sugarcane, a sweet spoil of past oppressions. And she drank it down--all of it--all into her little self, knowing she could not hold onto it without extreme drunk to soon come. And that was the fortuitous part...:

Wifey

"The air was heavy and static with the potential of a much darker reality to storming, come...And Rhys was watching at the whole of Rodney in a wary readiness--eyes scanning across the row of Rodney's crew and back again, with the very same vigilance. Some were shaking their heads slowly, conveying their disapproval. Everybody--including P.V.'s invitees, who had begun to whisper amongst themselves, and clinking, place down their plates, silverware, glasses--was waiting on Rodney. They were all of them in the room chests-pounding aware, that he was--or might indeed soon become--the snapping kind...":

Wifey

"And they already well knew her there at the bustling, fragrant stalls of the farmer's market...she was the smiling, pin-drop quiet, petite one...hemp shopping bags dangling on arms--ultimately filled to the heavy--the burgeoning home cook pausing to squeeze, sniff...deselect, select, buy. Then it was always the driving...to follow recipes and tinker with them--and ultimately fill the faux-material unit with the fresh smells of things that were actually real...":

Wifey

"Suddenly, in a straight line from one of Rodney's nostrils, a wide trickle of blood sprang out, and began to rapidly roll down to meet his lip. "Damn," he whispered roughly, inhaling hard. Without releasing her, he dropped his head and raised a shoulder, wiping his nose on his jacket. The slick of blood against the smooth leather left a wet trail on the garment that shone, as if oozing, in the bright halogen cast of the kitchen...":