Posted on No Comments on The Little Things

The Little Things

It’s the little things
that make me think of you.
(the smell of stale smoke,
brushing my hair,
the way the boy at the corner stood
as he waited for a bus).
When they come,
as thoughts often do,
I’ll inhale,
try to still my heart,
flush the thoughts away,
Of course it never works,
but I can’t help but try,
and maybe one day
the little things
will be just that:
things.

Posted on No Comments on Trinidad, A Love Letter

Trinidad, A Love Letter

 Tobago, I’m sorry, but you aren’t included in this letter. You are so wonderful and special and you deserve your own letter, but I am not the person to write it.
Dear Trinidad,
I love you. I love the curve of your coasts, I love the hills and swamps and landmarks that dot your form like freckles, I love the way the greens of the flora and the colours of the flowers take you and I love the way your accent dances across sentences and sings everything you say.
 You’re so talented and creative and intelligent, and you bring all that talent, creativity and intelligence to everything you do. Your art, music, books and poetry move me, mind body and soul. I love how resourceful you are, the way you take the mundane and make it extraordinary and uniquely yours. I love the way you cook, so savory, so spicy, so flavourful, each bite, ambrosia, (my mouth waters just thinking about it).
 All that being said, Trinidad, you aren’t perfect. You think you’re invincible, but you’re not. All the beauty you possess will not last if you don’t take care of it. Nor will the resources you were blessed with last forever. I wish you wouldn’t let pride blind you. God may be a Trini, but that doesn’t mean you can do as you please without consequences. The fact that you are so amazing and wonderful doesn’t mean you should disregard the culture of others; they are equally important as yours.
 It’s a big world out there, and it’s easy for a small island to get lost in the fray. Resist the lure of following all the “developed” nations, action for action, instead learn from their mistakes and go from there. Following their lead blindly will only lead to ruin. You have the ingenuity, creativity, passion and resources to bring change in this world, a change that will only come if you do things your own special way.
With love,
A Citizen.

Posted on 1 Comment on The End

The End

Ah, yet another piece that i started years ago and never finished. It doesn’t even want to tell me when it was created…. but i think about 2 years ago? either way i just finished it and i’m quite pleased with myself 🙂 read and hopefully enjoy ^_^


The End

 We are driving along the highway then crash, bang, then nothing. No sounds, no sights. I can’t feel my toothache, my back isn’t itching any more and toe has stop throbbing. My completely blank mind is tarnished by the advent of a thought: Am I dead?  The sensory blackout is broken and I see a white wall.
No, not white but red, blue, purple, green, indigo, turquoise and every other colour and hue that my finite brain can conjure. I feel insignificant and ignorant for assuming that something that beautiful could be simply white, but then I am filled with the peace of knowing that it’s okay, it’s been done before and I glance up to see where that systematic and meticulous whirring is coming from.
 There is a door. A big white door the colour of sun bleached driftwood. It is imposing, but all doors are meant to be opened, even this one. Behind the door, as far as the eye can see, are a vast network of golden gears, and a myriad of doors.
 “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
I jump. The speaker is beside me, the largest person I have ever seen. She is easily nine feet tall, with curly hair that cascades down her back.
 ‘Who are you? Where I am? What is this?” is my barrage of questions.
She laughs, a big, comforting laugh that calms my heart’s staccato allegro.
 “I am God. You are in Limbo. This is the Gateway.”
I cannot reply. Being told you are dead is not an easy pill to swallow.
“Come,” she says, offering a hand, which I take.  As we walk, I struggle to regain my composure. “I’ve been agnostic my whole life. Am I going to Hell?” I eventually manage to ask. She chuckles shakes her head. “No, no Hell. Very few actually end up there, and even then not for long.”
“Heaven then?” I ask, hopeful.
Another chuckle.
“No heaven either. You humans used the concept of it to keep morality in check, but it was pure fantasy.”
“So all those religions were wrong? I mean, you’re a woman, is there no Jesus either?” Being dead now seems trivial compared to all this.
“Not completely wrong, most of Us are here, just some things got a bit lost in translation. Jesus, for instance was not my son,” she replies. “And in the human rewrites, you were prone to embellishments.”
“So where do we go when we die?”
“You go back.”
“Back?” I have lost my composure once more.
“Yes. If you make an impression enough times, we remove you from the cycle. The exceptionally good come here, and help with Limbo. The exceptionally bad go to what you would call Hell, and eventually we send them back to try again. We hope someday we will all be together.”
We’ve stopped in front of a door a shade of green more brilliant than I ever could imagine. She opens the door for me and releases my hand.
 “Will I remember any of this?” I ask.
“Did you remember anything the last time?” she questions back. She places a kiss upon my forehead. “Goodbye child. Change your world.”
And with that I step towards the light.
Posted on 1 Comment on Flash Fiction Friday #3:

Flash Fiction Friday #3:

(no title yet…. i forgot what i wanted to call it : )

fff#3: (Starter) They never could get that right



They never could get that right thought the old man wryly with a shake of his silver head. There was something in the act of taking off, the tension in his thighs, the effort of getting past the mental block to the allegedly impossible, the way that the ground buckled slightly when his feet eventually left the ground, that none of the books, the comics, the movies or the TV shows never got, far less for this made-for-TV movie. His granddaughter would laugh at him if she caught him watching one of these biographies, but Johann couldn’t help it. She wouldn’t understand until she too hung up the mantle of The Silver Swift. He missed it, and the based on a true story retellings of his glory days helped him to remember that they weren’t all a figment of his imagination. He looked up to see an actor that looked nothing like him battling with his sidekick turned arch-nemesis Ares in the middle of the town square. He’d forgotten that Marc was coming for tea that evening. It was surprising how after years of therapy and conversation how strong a friendship could spring up between such a notorious enmity.
 The doorbell rang and he shuffled to answer it. He embraced Marc and they stopped in the kitchen for the tea and biscuits. His granddaughter whirled in, whipping off the brown wig that concealed her trademark silver hair.
 “Salut Papa, salut Marc,” she said kissing them lightly on the cheeks. Her eyes twinkled and her cheeks where tinged pink. They knew without asking where she was heading. They shared a nostalgic smile and made for the television, turning to a local newstation. The glow on The Silver Swift’s face was evident on screen even through the shaky camerawork.
 “The thrill of it was beautiful, wasn’t it, Johann. The more dangerous the better,” Marc said with a chuckle.
 “Yes,” he replied. “And the movies never quite got that either.” 

Posted on 1 Comment on Flash Fiction Friday #21: Fresh To Death

Flash Fiction Friday #21: Fresh To Death

fff#21: (starter) it wasn’t how fresh

It wasn’t how fresh
his mark was whenever  he went out,
or the way his shirt hung just right,
or the way his  jeans hugged his hips
and the demim kissed his skin,
or the combination of dimples
and bashful smile that always smelled of mint
that got me,
but it certainly helped.


Posted on 4 Comments on Flash Fiction Friday #31: Dat Is Obeah

Flash Fiction Friday #31: Dat Is Obeah

Fff#31: (idea inclusion) witch, egg(s), cave
This one is a lil bit different cuz i’m not really to use the words, more the ideas of them…. which is what i was supposed to do last week but this one came out much better. i really like it actually ^_^ it lil long doh….


 Kenny sat in his truck as he stared apprehensively at the house. It was one of those old wooden houses with shutters and fretwork that had fallen into the disrepair that came with age. Lonely tufts of grass sprouted between moss-covered, formerly white, pebbles. A large mango tree hung over the fence, suspiciously laden for one so near a boys’ primary school. It was all a little eerie, and that eeriness was what helped fuel the rumours that he remembered from primary school days till now, that the owner and allegedly sole inhabitant of the house was an obeah woman.
 He sighed. His childhood friend Dominic had sworn coming here would be the answer to his problems.
“Big man like you ‘fraid to go an’ visit ah ole lady boy?” he muttered to himself as he climbed out of the truck.  He got to the gate and looked about him. At the base of the mango tree lay the half-eaten corpse of a baby blackbird.
 “Eat anyt’ing from dat tree an’ yuh go dead.”
The memory came back to him clear as day. He shuddered.
 “Good afternoon!” he called out. A small woman peeped out from the side of the house.
 “Yes?” she responded, walking through the yard towards him.
 “Good afternoon Tanty. Ah looking for Miss Lucille. I need a favour an’ they tell me to check here.”
She cocked her eyebrow. “A favour? Dat is what alyuh young people callin’ it now? Come inside, dis is not talk to talk for outside spirits to hear.” She unlatched the gate and walked up the path to her front door. As Kenny followed, he thought he saw small bones scattered about the stones, but he didn’t query. The wooden steps creaked as he climbed them.
 The first thing he noticed as he entered the house was the smell. It was musty and moldy and the high ceiling and the darkness of the room made it seem cavernous. And the porcelain figurines made it seem crypt-like. The figurines that were so common in homes seemed especially morbid in this house, and Kenny wasn’t sure if it was the gloom, the red velvet they were seated on or the general eeriness that enveloped the house, but looking at the figurines scared him so he turned his attention back to the old woman. She peered at him and asked evenly, “What is this favour you need from me now Kenny Baptiste?”
 “Wha-“ Kenny stuttered, confused and a bit distressed. “How you know my name?”
 “Knowing t’ing is my business Kenny. Now what is it you want from me?” she replied briskly.
 “Well,” Kenny started, and paused for a moment to think how best to say it. “Me an’ de wife have been trying to have a baby and she can’t no matter what we do. I was told you could help me.”
 “And how we know you is not de problem boy?”
Kenny bristled. “Because the doctor check. Is not me,” he replied stiffly. Lucille cackled, and her eyes seemed to glow while the pale, sagging skin of her cheeks shook slightly. To Kenny it seemed that selling potions to him in the day was not the only thing this old woman could do. “I shoulda know is not sweet talk you come to do wit’ a ole woman like me.” Lucille laughed again and Kenny tried to suppress his shudder. “Sit down right here and don’t move, don’t touch not’ing,” she commanded as soon as she had contained herself and excited the room through a beaded curtain that tinkled as she passed. As if Kenny would ever do such a thing. The room terrified him so much that he didn’t even want to move too hard to scratch his nose.
 When Lucille returned he let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. She brought with her two sealed glass cylinders filled with about a centimeter each of something and some leaves wrapped in a paper napkin. “Powdered rabbit guts,” she said holding up the cylinder with the suspiciously brown contents, “And crushed mango seed. Make her an omelets or somet’ing for breakfast and mix them into it. She mus’ eat all.” She held up the leaves. “Make tea for her wit’ dis, no sugar, honey alone if she mus’ have it sweet.” She put them in a bag and handed it to Kenny who cradled it like was gold. “For de whole ten months from de day you give her dis, she is not to eat no kinda blood pudding, none at all, or it will not work.” She looked at him meaningfully to ensure he understood and he nodded. She began to hurriedly shuffle him out the door and down the path till he was at the gate. Kenny felt a little overwhelmed but was glad to see the light of day. He stumbled to his truck and was halfway in when he remembered. “Miss Lucille! How much I have for you?” Miss Lucille smiled almost predatorily as she leaned over the gate, and her small, sharp teeth glistened as sunlight hit them. “No money Kenny. All I want is de afterbirth.”
Kenny recoiled slightly but nodded. As he drove away, the word he had been trying to remember since he’d seen Miss Lucille finally came to him: soucouyant.
Posted on 1 Comment on Flash Fiction Friday #30: Charmer

Flash Fiction Friday #30: Charmer

fff#30: (inclusion) snakecharmer, citrus, book(s) 
Not quite sure if i got what i was supposed to do quite right, but no scene 🙂


The snakecharmer plays his instrument and sways, serene, almost oblivious to the fact that the very breaths he takes enthralls the creature before him. So it was with me and him. The melody of his voice drove me to distraction whenever he spoke to me, and the movement of his hips when he walked away hypnotized me. But he wasn’t oblivious to the effect he had on me. Oh no, it was quite the opposite. He read me like an open book, saw the infatuation on my face as plain as if it were printed in ink, he caressed my spine and knew each page intimately.
He smelled of paint and canvas and ink mostly, but beneath all that lingered the faint but undeniable scent of something citrus. The citrus was the smell that snaked into your nostrils and hung around him no matter what he did, it was in his blood, and his kisses tasted of it. After the puppy love wore off and we grew apart, the citrus is what stayed with me the longest, and even now, it takes me back to the days of flavoured kisses, when his voice captivated me and his hips mesmerized me.
Posted on 6 Comments on Fluff

Fluff

I’m being very mean to these two pieces and posting them together because they’re both fluffy bits of silliness…. 


Like

I like you.
Stupid me.
Stupid you.
Me for liking,
You for being so likeable.
But alas,
So be it,
I like you.


There’s the first one. And this is the second.

Maybe

Maybe in another life,
If I still weave words
And you still write symphonies,
I’ll write you sweet nothings
And whisper them in your ear
While you play me a song
That only I will hear.
Posted on No Comments on Writers’ Insomnia

Writers’ Insomnia

I write best late at night. Maybe it’s the silence that forces me and my thoughts to spend some quality time together; a silence that is interrupted only by my fidgeting, or the clacking of the keyboard or a pencil scrawling across paper, or the lack of people bothering or observing or disturbing with their mere presence. Somewhen between midnight and 3am on a good night, when everyone else is sound asleep, my mind is full of ideas, keeping me from sleep and forcing me awake until I let them out.  My suspicious mind thinks that anyone who happens to hear me probably assumes I’m watching porn or doing something naughty, but I can’t help it. The urge burns me with fervor most foul; it is an itch I must scratch. As to whether it’s any good in the morning, however, is an entirely different kettle of fish.