Welcome to the Your Turn page of Revisions & Revelations—a creative-writing workout space! This is your playground and your proving ground—a space to stretch, flex, and grow your storytelling muscles one juicy prompt at a time.

Push your boundaries. Create with heart. Edit with purpose and courage. Discover new layers of your voice. Make messes, chase magic, and laugh on this writing adventure.

Most of all, celebrate your progress—every single step counts.

The only rule: Be kind. Mistakes aren’t failures—they’re footprints on the path to brilliance.

Save your work, revisit it later, and marvel at your progress. You’re building something extraordinary.

The world’s waiting for your story. Let’s go write it.

Into the Fire

Transformation is one of the oldest promises in storytelling. It’s also one of the most trafficked corridors in the language. Writers have walked it so many times they no longer notice the floorboards creaking—moving through without thinking, without feeling the weight of what they carry.

That’s the deeper work of The Alchemist’s Lab: The fire isn’t only for your characters. Are you ready to hold the language you’ve been using to the heat?

Every cliché you reach for has already survived someone else’s story. It’s been tested.

Your own phrase—the one that fits the shape of what your character went through—has survived nothing yet. It exists only in you.

That’s exposure. That’s the real heat of the forge.

When you stop reaching for language that has already been proven and start working with what’s raw and specific and entirely your own, it’s more than a craft choice.

Your own language makes a claim about how you see the world. No one to share the risk with. No precedent to point to.

The question worth sitting with is whether you’re ready to stand in that heat.

Ready to put your language through the fire and claim what survives?

Let’s run it through the forge.

Fun Facts

🔎“Heart of gold” appears in Shakespeare.

In Henry V (1599), the soldier Pistol praises the king not knowing the man in front of him is the king in disguise: “The King’s a bawcock and a heart of gold.” One of the earliest recorded uses in English—a phrase already doing the work of shorthand for a complex person. (Henry V, Act 4, Scene 1)

Story takeaway: The cliché has a specific first moment—a soldier, a disguised king, a camp the night before battle. Ask what your character’s “heart of gold” moment is—the scene where the goodness first had to be named.

🔎Gold leaf is so thin it becomes translucent.

One troy ounce of gold can be hammered into a sheet covering nearly three hundred square feet. At that thickness, gold leaf no longer reflects light—it transmits it. Light passing through turns greenish blue. The most luminous of metals, at its thinnest, lets the light through rather than giving it back.

Story takeaway: The character with a heart of gold is less a mirror and more a window. Ask what your story’s good person lets through that others reflect away. That’s the specific, physical version of the cliché.

🔎Medieval alchemists weren’t trying to create gold—they were trying to purify it.

They believed all metals were the same prime matter at different stages of perfection. Lead was impure gold. Gold was the most refined expression of the underlying material. The alchemist’s task was not invention but purification—bringing the base metal to its highest form.

Story takeaway: A cliché is that base metal—the gold of what you're trying to say, still mixed with lead. Instead of discarding it, the Alchemist’s Lab runs it through the fire of your story’s world until what comes back is the most refined expression of the truth you were reaching for.

🔎Isaac Newton wrote more on alchemy than on physics.

Newton spent years copying alchemical treatises by hand, one after another, trying to decode their secret imagery. The man who mapped gravity was also hunting for the philosopher's stone.

Story takeaway: One mind held proof and mysticism at once, and that fault line is exactly why we can’t look away. Give your character the same—their contradictions are what make them unforgettable.

🔎“Motif” means to move.

From the French motif, Medieval Latin motivus, from movere—to move. A motif is not decoration. It is what moves. The recurring image that, when you trace it through the story, shows you where the emotional current is running.

Story takeaway: When you find your story’s motif, you’ve found its engine. The cliché run through that engine doesn’t come back the same. It comes back moving.

Practice Prompts

✍️The First Burn

To practice writing transformation from the inside—before the character has named it.

1. Think of a character who has just come through something that changed them.

2. Choose one physical habit, gesture, or object that belonged to who they were before.

3. Write the scene where they reach for it—and find it doesn’t fit the same way.

4. Let the change live in the action. No naming what happened. No explaining what they learned.

What this reveals:

• how transformation shows up in the body before it shows up in language

• where your instinct is to explain rather than to let the scene carry weight

• how much a single gesture can hold when you trust it

Bonus: Read the scene aloud and mark every place you feel the urge to add a line of interior summary. That’s where the forge is.

✍️The Forge Record

To practice excavating what a cliché is standing in for.

1. Find a transformation cliché in your current work or borrow one: “came out stronger,” “trial by fire,” “forged by hardship.”

2. Ask: What actually happened? What did it cost? What did the character tell themselves while it was happening?

3. Write the scene the cliché replaced—not the aftermath, the event itself.

4. Set the cliché aside. Let the scene speak without it.

What this reveals:

• how often clichés function as emotional shorthand that protects the writer as much as the character

• where your prose reaches for summary when it could stay in the moment

• what the fire actually looked like before the metaphor smoothed it over

Bonus: Go back to your original draft. Read the cliché aloud, then read your new scene. Notice which one you feel.

✍️The Unfinished Alloy

To practice the dramatic irony of incomplete transformation—what the character insists is gold, and what the reader can see still needs the flame.

1. Write a character trying to convince someone—or themselves—that they have changed.

2. Give them one piece of evidence they’re proud of. Let them lean on it.

3. Now let the reader see, through action or detail, what hasn’t changed.

4. Don’t name the gap. Don’t editorialize. Let the scene hold both at once.

What this reveals:

• how self-narration often reveals more than it intends

• where you trust your reader and where you don’t

• how transformation becomes dramatic only when it’s incomplete or contested

Bonus: Read the scene and ask: Whose version do you believe—the character’s or the scene’s? If they match, the scene isn’t done yet.

What do you think?

Think of a transformation you’ve lived through. What cliché did you use to explain it to yourself at the time? What would you say now that you wouldn’t have had language for then?

Alchemists believed impure material had to be burned down before gold could emerge. What in your writing are you afraid to burn—and what might be waiting underneath?

Drop me a line if there’s something you’d like to see in the “Your Turn” space!

Until next time, happy writing!

Also by R.K.H. Ndong

Testing by fire

“She had a heart of gold.”

The sentence arrives complete, fully formed—and tells us almost nothing. We know she is good. We know the writer needed her to be good. We know the phrase arrived before anything more specific could.

That’s the frustration with “heart of gold”—it reaches for something real. The hope that genuine goodness exists: unconditional, intrinsic, not earned or performed. Someone who is kind simply because that is what they are. That gold is worth finding.

But passed from one generous character to another, the phrase has been rubbed so smooth it says “good person” and stops there. The heart has gone generic. The gold has lost its specific weight.

The alchemist doesn’t discard the base metal. She runs it through the fire of what she knows.

What motif is already alive in your story—the recurring image, the world your narrative keeps returning to? Run “heart of gold” through that.
Ask what goodness looks like in your story’s own language.

Let’s run the heart of your character through the fire.

Roots

Heart comes from Old English heorte—the seat of courage, will, and thought. Not just love. The ancient heart was the whole inner person: the place where decisions lived, where valor was stored, where identity was kept. To lose heart was to lose the capacity to act. To have heart was to have the whole self intact.

Gold has its own story. From Old English gold, Proto-Germanic gulþą. The most malleable of metals—hammerable into sheets so thin light passes through them. Resistant to corrosion and oxidation: It doesn’t rust, doesn’t tarnish, doesn’t erode under the slow pressure of time. But pure gold is too soft to hold its own shape. Without alloy, it bends under pressure. Its luminosity is real. Its fragility is equally real.

Let’s sit with this a moment.

Because “a heart of gold” is carrying something more precise than we’ve been using it for. An inner life as malleable as gold—shaped by pressure, luminous, resistant to slow erosions. But not unbreakable. Not alone.

The cliché was built on that complexity. Passed from one generous character to another until the complexity wore smooth and what remained was simply: good person.

That gap—between the metal’s true properties and the phrase’s polished surface—is the crucible. That’s where the alchemy begins.

Restoration

The rewrite is alchemical work—running the base phrase through the fire of what your story already knows.

Start with the motif. Not the cliché—the recurring image, object, or language your story keeps returning to. The thing already doing the narrative’s emotional work. Water, stone, weather, machinery, bread, light. Whatever your story has made its own.

Now ask what “heart” looks like there. The ancient heart wasn’t sentiment—it was the whole inner person, the seat of will and courage and thought. What is that center in your story’s world? What holds? What decides? What refuses to erode?

Then bring in gold’s properties. Malleable—shaped by pressure, holds the impression. Luminous. Resistant to slow erosion. But too soft to hold its own shape alone. Your character carries all of that. How does your story’s world say it?

Write from the translation. Trust the motif to carry it.

She pressed seeds into strangers’ hands before she remembered to keep any for herself.

He was the one who swam toward the wreck. Something in him simply couldn’t remain on shore.

She had been hammered into a shape the work required and held it without complaint.

She was the kind of person who made a room warmer without ever turning up the heat.

Each rewrite lets the motif do what the cliché couldn’t: say the specific, true thing.

Exploration

Your story has already built its lab.

The motif is already there—the recurring image your narrative keeps returning to, the world it has made its own. You may not have named it yet. But it’s doing work on every page.

Find it. Then find the character you’ve been calling good without saying what their goodness actually looks like. The one you’ve described and not yet inhabited.

Run them through the lab. Ask what their generosity, their courage, their luminosity looks like in your story’s own language. What would the cliché look like if it spoke your story’s language?

The formula is already in your hands.

🌿Choose a character you’ve described as good, kind, generous—or one you’ve implied it about without naming it. List three recurring images or objects in your story’s world. Write one sentence for each that shows your character’s goodness through that image, without naming the goodness. Find the one sentence that carries the most without explaining anything.

🖊️✨Until next time, may your pages hum with purpose and clarity.

Also by R. K. H. Ndong

Welcome to Your Turn—the creative-writing workout space of Revisions & Revelations! This is your playground and your proving ground—a space to stretch, flex, and grow your storytelling muscles one juicy prompt at a time.

Push your boundaries. Create with heart. Edit with purpose and courage. Discover new layers of your voice. Make messes, chase magic, and laugh on this writing adventure.

Most of all, celebrate your progress—every single step counts.

The only rule: Be kind. Mistakes aren’t failures—they’re footprints on the path to brilliance.

Save your work, revisit it later, and marvel at your progress. You’re building something extraordinary.

The world’s waiting for your story. Let’s go write it.

Crossing the Threshold

Somewhere in a draft, there’s a threshold the pen stopped at.

Maybe it’s the moment you softened a blow before it fully landed. The grief that arrived already managed. The character who reached for something to say and found something easy instead of something true.

We hesitate for good reasons. A reader with no ground beneath them is a reader in freefall—and we feel that because we’re in the scene with them.

But the shadow work of this voyage asks a harder question: Whose discomfort are you actually protecting?

What truth have you been writing around—too raw, too heavy, too uncomfortable to let land at its full weight? The shadow is already there.

What would happen if you let the raw weight of the moment speak?

Let’s find out.

Fun Facts

🔎 “Consolation” means to soothe with someone—not for them.

The word comes from Latin consolari: con (with) + solari (to soothe). True consolation, at its root, is an act of presence—to soothe alongside someone, not from a distance. “At least” moves in the opposite direction: It soothes the speaker as much as the one grieving, by drawing a floor under the pain rather than sitting inside it.

Story takeaway: A character who truly consoles doesn’t offer a floor—they stay in the falling. Ask what it would look like for your character to soothe with someone instead of for them.

🔎 Keats called the ability to stay in uncertainty “negative capability.”

In a letter to his brothers, December 1817, John Keats described the quality he most admired in writers: “Negative Capability, that is when a man is capable of being in uncertainties, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason.” “At least” is the opposite—the irritable reaching. The refusal to stay in the not-knowing long enough to let the grief speak.

Story takeaway: The writer who can stay in the uncertainty of a scene—without reaching for resolution, without drawing a floor—is practicing negative capability. Resist the urge to fix the discomfort of the unresolved moment. This is where the truest writing lives.

🔎 Grieving people consistently say they want to feel witnessed, not fixed.

In “The Myths of Coping with Loss” (1989), psychologists Camille Wortman and Roxane Silver found that what grieving people most need is to feel heard—their pain acknowledged rather than managed. The impulse to offer silver linings is driven more by the helper’s discomfort than the griever’s need (Wortman & Silver, Journal of Consulting and Clinical Psychology, 57(3), 1989).

Story takeaway: The character who cannot witness another’s grief without reaching for a remedy is revealing something about themselves—what they cannot hold, what they cannot face, what they are protecting. That is the shadow. That is what “at least” was covering.

🔎 Carl Jung—the shadow as what we refuse to see in ourselves

Jung identified the shadow as the unconscious part of the psyche containing what the conscious mind refuses to acknowledge. In Psychology and Religion (1938): “Everyone carries a shadow, and the less it is embodied in the individual’s conscious life, the blacker and denser it is.” Shadow work is the process of making that unconscious material conscious.

Story takeaway: “At least” is a shadow move—it pushes the uncomfortable weight of someone else’s grief into the dark rather than acknowledging it. The character who can name their own discomfort is doing shadow work.

🔎 Robert Bly—the long bag

In A Little Book on the Human Shadow (1988), poet Robert Bly described the shadow as a long bag we drag behind us, stuffing in everything we’re taught is unacceptable. Shadow work is unpacking the bag.

Story takeaway: Every “at least” a character offers is something they’ve put in the bag—discomfort they won’t name, grief they won’t witness. The bag gets heavier. The rewrite unpacks it.

Practice Prompts

✍️ The Shadow Reveal

To practice finding what the comfort phrase was protecting against.

1. Find a moment in your draft where a character offers comfort: “at least,” “it could be worse,” “you’ll be okay,” or any variation that draws a floor under someone else’s pain.

2. Ask: What was too uncomfortable to let land? What did the phrase protect the speaker from having to witness?

3. Write the scene without the comfort phrase. Let the grief stay at its full weight.

4. Read both versions. Notice what the comfort was actually managing.

What this reveals:

• where your characters reach for comfort to manage their own discomfort

• what you as the writer are avoiding alongside them

• how much weight a scene can hold when nothing draws a floor under it

Bonus: Write one sentence in which the speaker acknowledges their own difficulty witnessing—without offering a floor.

✍️ The Witness

To practice staying in the full weight of a moment without reaching for resolution.

1. Find a scene where grief, fear, or pain resolves too quickly—comfort arrives, understanding comes, the moment closes.

2. Cut everything from the moment of resolution to the end of the scene.

3. Rewrite the ending so no floor is drawn. The other character stays—without fixing, without reaching, without “at least.”

4. Write two sentences showing what staying looks like in the body. What does the witness do with their hands? Where do they look?

What this reveals:

• how often your scenes resolve before the weight has fully landed

• what your characters do when they cannot fix what is in front of them

• whether presence—without solution—can carry a scene

Bonus: Notice what it costs the witnessing character to stay. Write that cost in one physical sentence.

✍️ The Floor

To practice finding where you, as writer, draw the floor.

1. Read a scene of emotional extremity in your draft—grief, loss, fear, shame.

2. Find the moment where you softened it. Where you explained it, named it, offered the reader a way to step back from its full weight.

3. Cut that softening. The explanation. The named emotion. The narrative mercy.

4. Rewrite only what remains. The plainest language. The rawest truth. No floor.

What this reveals:

• where your instinct as writer mirrors your characters’ instinct to soothe

• what lives in the weight you’ve been drawing a floor under

• how much a reader can hold when you trust them with the full weight

Bonus: Ask what you were protecting—your character, your reader, or yourself. Write that in one sentence. Then cut it.

What do you think?

When you write toward comfort—for your character, for your reader, for yourself—what are you trusting that comfort to do? And is there a version of the story that lives on the other side of it, in the weight you haven’t yet let land?

Every writer has a truth they approach and then step back from—a shadow they write around rather than into. What is the thing in your work you haven’t quite said plainly? What would it cost to say it—and what might it give back?

Drop me a line if there’s something you’d like to see in the “Your Turn” space!

Until next time, happy writing!

Also by R.K.H. Ndong

Shadow Beneath the Salve

“At least it wasn’t worse.”

The phrase arrives before grief has finished falling. Before the full weight of what’s been lost has settled.

At least you have your health. At least it wasn’t worse. At least you still have each other. Every variation draws the same line: Here is the floor of your grief.

We offer it because we mean it—because pain with a bottom is survivable, and a darkness with a shape can be waited out. There is gold in that instinct: the refusal to let someone fall without reaching out with comfort.

But “at least” carries something else alongside the need to soothe. Something quieter. Something worth looking at directly.

There’s a shadow beneath the salve.

Roots

Least comes from Old English læst—the superlative of lytel, meaning little. At its smallest. The absolute minimum.

“At least” draws a line. Here is the floor of your grief. You have landed somewhere. The fall has a bottom.

Let’s sit with this a moment.

Because the line is drawn in good faith. The person reaching for it genuinely wants to stop the fall—to find something solid in someone else’s dark. That impulse is real.

And yet the floor that someone else draws may not be where the grief has actually stopped falling.

“At least” names the minimum acceptable loss. In naming it, the phrase makes a quiet claim: that whatever lives below that line is too much—too dark, too heavy, too uncomfortable to stay with.

The phrase carries something alongside the salve that it keeps quiet: It manages the person offering it as much as it manages the grief. “At least” gives the speaker a floor too—a place where someone else’s pain becomes speakable, holdable, survivable.

Whose discomfort is the phrase actually protecting?

That gap—between the soothing and the raw weight of what needs to be witnessed—is where the shadow lives.

Restoration

The rewrite is shadow work—stepping past what the phrase was protecting and saying the thing plainly.

Start by naming what the cliché was covering. What was too raw, too heavy, too uncomfortable to let land fully? What did the “at least” allow you—as writer, as character—to step back from?

Sit with that. Resist the pull toward another soft phrase to carry it. The instinct will come. Let it pass.

Now find the plainest language available. The truth of this moment, in the simplest words that can hold it. No floor drawn. No mercy offered that hasn’t been earned.

The discomfort is the signal. The sentence that makes you hesitate—the one that feels too exposed, too direct, too much—is often the one that needed to be written.

She didn’t have words. She stayed anyway.

Truth was, it was as bad as it felt. There was no floor. No better version of this.

He had been trying to make it speakable—for her, he told himself. He tapped his fingers against his lips. For her…

She let the silence hold its full weight. Didn’t have the strength to reach for the shape of it.

Each rewrite stays where “at least” couldn’t—in the full weight of what is.

Exploration

Your draft has its own “at leasts.”

They may not be those exact words. They may live as softened blows, grief named but not stayed with, moments where a character extends mercy to another—and the writer extends the same mercy to the reader. The floor is drawn. The weight becomes manageable.

Find that moment. The place where you pulled back from the full weight of what your character was carrying. Ask what you were protecting—your character, your reader, or yourself.

Then write past it. In the plainest language available. The thing that has been waiting on the other side of the comfort you offered.

What would happen if you let the shadow, the raw weight of the moment, speak?

Write from where the comfort couldn’t go.

🌿Find a moment in your draft where comfort arrives too quickly—a character offering “at least,” or a narrator softening the blow before it lands. Write the version where no floor is drawn, no mercy offered before it’s been earned. Let the full weight settle. Then ask: Whose discomfort does the original version actually manage?

🖊️✨Until next time, may your pages hum with purpose and clarity.

Also by R. K. H. Ndong

Welcome to the Your Turn page of Revisions & Revelations—a creative-writing workout space! This is your playground and your proving ground—a space to stretch, flex, and grow your storytelling muscles one juicy prompt at a time.

Push your boundaries. Create with heart. Edit with purpose and courage. Discover new layers of your voice. Make messes, chase magic, and laugh on this writing adventure.

Most of all, celebrate your progress—every single step counts.

The only rule: Be kind. Mistakes aren’t failures—they’re footprints on the path to brilliance.

Save your work, revisit it later, and marvel at your progress. You’re building something extraordinary.

The world’s waiting for your story. Let’s go write it.

What the Body Knows

Some things take permission to say plainly.
The specific weight of grief.
The exact location of fear in the body.
What courage actually costs.
A cliché offers a different kind of permission—to say the true thing approximately, without having to go all the way there.

Exploring beneath the surface demands more effort: study the sensation, evaluate the weight, brush your fingers over the wear marks.
Discover more embodied, more specific language by layering in elements of the hand that’s reaching,
the moment that’s holding the need,
the truth you’re building.

That specificity is the thing we most often avoid. The abstraction is easier to hold. The body is harder to write.

But the body is where the gold is.

What physical truth have you been keeping buried under the surface of easy language?

Ready to reach past it?

Let’s dig.

Fun Facts

🔎 “Bite the bullet” is over a century old in print.

Found in Rudyard Kipling’s The Light that Failed (1891): “Bite on the bullet, old man, and don’t let them think you’re afraid.” What feels timeless often has a surprisingly recent and specific origin.

Story takeaway: When a cliché feels inevitable, check its birth date. Someone first reached for this image because nothing else would do.

🔎 Archaeologists read time through layers.

The principle is called stratigraphy: In undisturbed ground, deeper layers are older. Each layer is a step further into the past. Archaeologists not only excavate downward, they excavate backward.

Story takeaway: A cliché has layers too. The familiar meaning sits on top. Beneath it are earlier meanings, original contexts, the moment someone first needed this image.

🔎Leonardo da Vinci performed thirty human dissections—according to his notebooks—to draw the body.

According to Leonardo’s Study of Anatomy—Royal Collection Trust, he didn’t draw from received knowledge—he went to the body itself. Working at night in hospital crypts, he filled thousands of pages with what he found. The map came from the territory.

Story takeaway: When language fails to reach the reader, ask whether you’ve gone to the body itself—or whether you’re drawing from someone else’s map.

🔎 The body keeps a record of emotional experience as physical sensation.

Neuroscientist Antonio Damasio’s somatic marker hypothesis proposes that emotional memories are stored in the body—a tightening in the chest, a heaviness in the limbs. The body is more than the vehicle for emotion. It is its archive.

Story takeaway: Your character’s history lives in their body before it lives in their thoughts. The phrase that names their emotion without locating it in the body is skipping the archive.

🔎 In archaeology, where something is found matters as much as what it is.

An artifact removed from its original context loses critical information about its meaning, use, and age. Archaeologists record exact location, orientation, and surrounding material before anything is touched. Context is not decoration—it’s the artifact’s biography.

Story takeaway: A cliché divorced from its original context loses the same way. Instead of relying on the cliché, base your language in the meaning, use, and age of the moment.

Practice Prompts

✍️The Physical Dig

To practice finding the original physical reality beneath an abstract phrase.

1. Choose a cliché from your draft—or borrow one: “shoulder the burden,” “heart sank,” “back against the wall.”

2. Look up the phrase’s etymology or earliest usage. What object, action, or physical experience did it originate from?

3. Write the sentence using the cliché as it usually lands—abstract, familiar.

4. Write it again using only the physical reality you found. No abstraction. No emotion named. Just the body and the object.

What this reveals:

• how much meaning has been buried beneath the familiar phrase

• where the original physical experience lives—and whether you’ve been avoiding it

• how etymology can return a phrase to its body

Bonus: Read both versions aloud. Notice where your voice changes register—that’s where the body came back into the language.

✍️The Sensory Rebuild

To practice rebuilding a scene from physical sensation up.

1. Find a moment of emotional extremity in your draft—grief, anger, terror, longing.

2. Identify every abstract or emotional word in that passage: “felt devastated,” “was overcome,” “couldn’t bear it.”

3. For each one, write a replacement sentence that locates the experience in the body—one specific physical fact, no explanation.

4. Read the new version. Cut any sentence that names the feeling rather than inhabiting it.

What this reveals:

• how often emotion is named rather than felt in your prose

• what the body does at the edge of what language can carry

• whether your reader is being told to feel or given something to feel

Bonus: Save the abstract sentences you replaced. They are a map of where your prose retreats from the physical.

✍️The Artifact

To practice returning an object to language that has lost it.

1. Choose a cliché built around an object: “bite the bullet,” “grasp at straws,” “drop the ball.”

2. Find the actual object. Hold it in your imagination. What does it weigh? What does it feel like? What does it do?

3. Write a scene in which your character interacts with that object physically—not metaphorically. The object is real. The body is real.

4. Step back. Does the emotional meaning emerge without being stated?

What this reveals:

• how objects restore meaning that abstraction has cleaned away

• whether emotion can be carried by physical reality alone

• what you find when you return to the thing itself

Bonus: Try this with a cliché of your own making—a phrase or image you return to often in your own work. Ask the same questions. What object have you been carrying without knowing it?

What do you think?

Which is harder: recognizing a cliché in your own writing, or deciding to change it once you have? What keeps you reaching for the familiar phrase even when you know it isn’t doing the work?

Every writer has a handful of phrases they return to—words or constructions that have become fingerprints of their own making. What are yours? And what might they be reaching for that you haven’t yet found your own words to say?

Drop me a line if there’s something you’d like to see in the “Your Turn” space!

Until next time, happy writing!

Also by R.K.H. Ndong

Read more

Read more

Read more

Read more

Read more

Read more

Read more

Read more

Read more

Read more

Read more

Read more

Read more

Read more

Read more