Posted on No Comments on Flash Fiction Friday #42: Shaman

Flash Fiction Friday #42: Shaman

 first fff in a while! And now i have to know: how many times can i write about obeah before i actually need to research it?

flash
fiction friday #42 (inclusion)trigger: religion,
superstition, tradition, vision, collision.
                         Shaman

He didn’t like to talk about it, but given the nature
of gossip, everyone knew and did the talking for him.
Big time evangelist preacher,
but I hear his brother is a obeah man! Yes! I hear it too! An’ it wasn’t jus’
he, his granny in it too! My tanty was tellin’ me so de other day…
Not to say it wasn’t true. For Raymond, growing up was
as steeped in Granny’s special prayers as it was in entire Sundays spent in
church and revival tents. It had gone on for so long that by the time he was
old enough to think anything of it, he couldn’t imagine anything different.
Raymond didn’t hear much about Randy these days other
than the whispers of the congregation. The last he heard was that he was up in
some shack in San Souci, honing his arts, to paraphrase his grandmother. Randy
had embraced it from the start. Raymond had to have a brush with death before
he did anything about it. It was ten years ago and he and his best friend
Marlon were coming home from a Carnival fete, (the congregation absolutely
loved that part), when a driver drunker than he was sped through an
intersection and ran into their car, passenger-side first. The driver of the
other car had been killed instantly and, as he would find out later, so had
Marlon. Yet, when Raymond awoke in the ICU, Marlon was there with him. And he
stuck around for a while after that, (and would visit whenever he got bored
with whatever otherworldly business he conducted when he wasn’t busy haunting
Raymond).
 It was
Marlon who helped him figure out the whole healing touch, and Marlon who
suggested the whole church business. His granny knew of course, and would tut
righteously whenever Raymond mentioned Marlon.
“Spirits not supposed to linger so long,”
she would chide, sucking her teeth and shaking her head, to which Raymond would
respond with a halfhearted shrug. He knew about as much about ghosts now as he
did ten years ago. His forte now lay in balancing the people’s beliefs in the
divine and the extent of his ability.
 He
started out about a year after his accident. Between the seminary and the
advice from Granny, Marlon and Randy, Raymond thrived. For the first time in
his life he was actually doing well with something: secondary school was
lackluster at best and life pre-collision was idle, punctuated by whatever
hustle was necessary to fund temporary desires. But the Church made him feel
whole. So his congregation grew. Marlon had the makings of a shrewd businessman
and he wasn’t going to let go to waste just because he was dead, and donations
poured in.
Raymond declined the radio and TV spots and tried to
keep the pills and tonics to a bare minimum. He would cringe when he heard
other evangelists on the radio with their bizarre Frankenstein-esque Yankee-cum-“foreign”
accents rebuking the Devil and lauding their various remedies, (specially
shipped and available for a very affordable $700 package deal). He was already
mixing “devil ting” with scriptures and his morals wouldn’t let him betray the
people further.
Yet Raymond knew that some of the same members of his
congregation that would sit and gossip about his brother would drive up to San
Souci to see Randy with matters they felt weren’t appropriate to bring to the
House of the Lord. Two sides to the same coin; what was obeah to one was
religion to another and whatever Spirit had given him this gift was fed by the
same belief of the people. Obeah man, witch doctor, pastor… Raymond had figured
out a long time ago that it was the same calling, different name. The trance,
the healing… It was all steeped in ritual and parlour tricks, with a kernel of
truth nestled at the centre of it all. Shaman was shaman.
Posted on 4 Comments on Flash Fiction Friday #38: Obeah Ting

Flash Fiction Friday #38: Obeah Ting

FINALLY!!!
i am sooo sorry i took so long to do it :/ tried something a little different here, please comment on its effectiveness.









What she didn’t know was that I would do for she. She was rubbin up under my man when I tell she to stop it an she never take meh on. Well I had tell her I was a obeah woman too an she didn’t listen to dat neither. Yuh see granny had d gift and mummy was to get it too but mummy say dat was simmi-dimmi foolishness an she didn’t believe in dat kinda voodoo bullshit. Granny tell her dat voodoo an obeah is two different tings but if daz how yuh feel yuh gyul chile go get it instead, d power didn’t really mind. Dat was before mummy even tink bout boys, far less havin a gyul chile, so she steups an say simmi-dimmi bullshit again. So when I eventually pop out ten years later, feet first an d ting over meh eye, granny take one look at me an tell mummy to make sure an sen me by she every weekend so I could learn d ting proper.
 By d time I was five an ready for big school, granny pull me aside an tell me that woman wicked for spite an when I went in school I was to be careful an not let nobody play up in meh hair cause if they get even a strand, they could wuk all kinna ting on meh an I wouldn’t even know. I went tru primary school, an pass meh O’ Levels an everyting was nice, passin everyting, making sure all d teachers like me wit a lil help from granny, an never really havin any trouble wit mummy cause according to granny, mummy was a lil bit frighten of me. But I never really test it, so we was jus normal.
 So I reach form six now an me an dis gyul who was in my school for basically d whole ting but we didn’t really get close till form five an so by lower six she was always in meh house an knew nearly all meh business. So I tell her I was learnin obeah from granny but she jus laugh an say she didn’t believe me so I say aite from den I start to move lil different. Not enough for her to notice eh, but enough that if she do some shit, I coulda handle dah scene. So when she spend d night I take some hair, her toothbrush mysteriously went missing, dat kinna ting, a kinna back-up plan, just in case.
 I remember before I used to hear stories bout her takin people man an jus doin shit but I never really study it because we was rel good nah, but a day she tell me to check her facebook for someting cause her internet wasn’t workin an I see, big an bold, dis bitch talkin to my man on chat! I say, nah! She cyah be movin so, she was probably askin him where I was or someting so, so I open d ting an I see is sweet talkin she sweet talkin him!
 But I say, okay, lemme check an see waz d story behind dis. So I ask an firs she laugh an say she would never do dat kinna ting, but then she start to get on an say how I movin so wit she, like I doh trust she an all kinna ting an I remember d play we learn for lit an is like, d lady doth protest too friggin much! So I tell she to jus stop talkin to him cause we would rel fall out if she continue to jus play up. I musbe have Miss Mary Jackass write on my friggin forehead cause d nex time I check her facebook d bitch was still talkin to him! Clearly she tink I dotish. D man I will deal wit, a lil sweat rice will calm his straying ways, but she, I go do for she. Instead of laughin like a ass when I tell she I does do obeah, she shoulda take it as a warning. Dis will d very last time she will play like she pullin up on people man. I will make sure.

Posted on 3 Comments on Flash Fiction Friday #37: Une Nuit Dans Les Bois

Flash Fiction Friday #37: Une Nuit Dans Les Bois

 “They just don’t respect us any more, Anansi. Hunters come and go as they please, and they don’t tell the stories like they used to. Ask the children who Papa Bois is and they think is some guava switch to jumbie them into behaving good in school!” His leafy beard rustled as he shook his head.
 “You complain, Bouchon, but at least they talk of you. You know who they replaced me with? That stinkin’ Brer Rabbit. A rabbit! What part of Anansi the Spider-man did they miss? Cho, thinking about all that foolishness have me irate. You have any pear to calm me down in this big old forest of yours Père Bois?”
 Pears?” Papa Bois asked in confusion. “I can’t really leave the forest in this condition.” He glanced to his pair of cloven feet.
 “Not dat kind of pear, man. Avocado pear, what unno call it around here? Zaboca.”
“Ah,” sounded Papa Bois. He snapped his fingers, and the two old men peered into the darkness of the woods. 
 The rotting leaves of the forest floor quieted the backward footsteps of the small childlike creature that delivered the dark green avocado to the pair. He tipped his brimmed hat at the gentlemen, then disappeared back into the thicket. Anansi gave an exaggerated shudder. “Dem douen always disturbed me. I don’t know how you take care of them.”
Papa Bois sighed. “I don’t like them either. And I leave the minding to Mama D’leau. They like the water anyway.”
He tossed a small hunting knife to Anansi, who caught it deftly and began to pare his avocado.
 “How did you get here anyway? Surely not by flying, I know you don’t like to go any higher than a coconut tree,” asked Papa Bois.
 “I have my ways,” said Anansi mysteriously, pausing for a moment, then laughing boisterously. “No, I came in by boat, then took a taxi in from the pier. And the taxi driver made sure I wasn’t going to hunt.” Anansi cleared his throat and continued in an impeccable Trinidadian accent, “Doh try an hunt out of season eh, ‘cause Papa Bois go well do fuh yuh. I had a breddren who-”
 “Yes, yes I know. He had a ‘breddren’ who I caught and punished,” interrupted Papa Bois with a chuckle.
 “You see Bouchon? They didn’t forget us completely yet. Now eat some zaboca and enjoy the night.” 
Posted on 1 Comment on Flash Fiction Friday #35: Rites Of Passage

Flash Fiction Friday #35: Rites Of Passage

First fff written for the new year. (not the first given eh… this one is a good 2 and half weeks old…. but it was hard to find something that wasn’t dirty.…)

 “Drink it nah boy!”
Jason hesitated. The clear liquid in the purple plastic cup stank. In fact, it smelled almost exactly like the methylated spirits his mother had used to clean his grazed knees last month. The same mother who would deliver the spanking, no, it was safe to say he would receive a cut-ass for this, if she found out what he was doing now.
 It all begun when Kwasi, the eldest of their group, decided, thanks to his older brother, that alcohol was what really separated boys from men. So the vodka had been borrowed from someone’s liquor cabinet, and Jason did his part by bringing the plastic cups he knew his mother wouldn’t miss.
 “Yuh ‘fraid or what?” someone goaded.
That was enough. Jason drank it down in one gulp to the whoops and hollers of his friends. The cup was refilled and passed to the next boy, and Jason was once more secure in their ranks, until some new stipulation of manhood was discovered.
Posted on 2 Comments on Flash Fiction Friday #34: The Traveller

Flash Fiction Friday #34: The Traveller

So i decided to play a lil ambitious with this one, i wanted to get an epic poem feel, then i kinda didn’t feel like settling down to write, hence the delay. not sure if i’m completely satisfied with the end result, but i certainly don’t hate it.
i could have gone subtle with the words but i decided against it.

The traveller had been warned against this route
Though it promised to be quicker.
Brave,
Strong,
Could survive anything
that was thrown at him,
Was his boast,
Though the weariness that licked his feet,
The hunger, his belly,
And the cold, his back,
Threatened to prove him wrong.
Before he could regret his pride,
In the distance appeared a light,
Luck was still at his side.
He made it to the door
and knocked thrice upon it.
It was opened to reveal
A kindly old widower
Who offered,
In return for his company,
Free lodging and even fare for the night.
Once inside and warm,
With promises of food to follow,
Our traveller settled to listen
To the old man’s yarn.
He spoke quite fondly
Of days that had been too long past,
And lovers long dead,
And the ways things 
Should have turned out instead.
When the traveller received
His warm meat
And cold ale,
He proposed a toast
To warm feet,
A good roast,
And goodwill to all men.
When our traveller awoke
By the light of the dawn,
His benevolent host
Was no where to be found.
The room was far less attractive
Without the light of the fire,
And the hearth seemed
Too cold for a flame
Only hours expired.
Nonetheless he gathered
His effects and dusted his coat,
And continued his journey
To where he was bound.
Only when he was
Well along his way
Did it occur for him to wonder,
That perhaps his host wasn’t human,
Perhaps his host was a ghost.
Posted on 1 Comment on Flash Fiction Friday #33: Rendez-vous S’il Vous Plait

Flash Fiction Friday #33: Rendez-vous S’il Vous Plait

clearly i am not stickin with this one 🙂

She clutched her coat more tightly to her body in a futile effort to shut out the cold rain. It was assignments like these that made her long for home, or at least to be sent somewhere tropical. She crossed the empty street, careful not to slip on the slick cobblestones and entered a small tea parlor with dusty cakes in the window. She chose a seat in the corner of the shop and hung her wet coat on the back of the wrought-iron chair. She shivered slightly as she removed a bright red handkerchief from her bag and began to dry herself off with it. The waitress spotted her and brought extra napkins along with her pot of tea. She smiled gratefully and accepted them. Hopefully her show had been enough. 
 She sipped her tea gently, and soon a man with a watch with a band designed like a bicycle chain approached her table with a grin. “Maggie!” he exclaimed. “It’s been too long!”
Her trigger had worked and here was her contact, exactly as she had been told he would be.
 “Jonathan! I know!” She rose to embrace him. One of the first thing she had to do when she started out in this job was get over her fear of hugging strangers. “Have a seat,” she added, while taking her own. After they’d spent the next half hour trading made-up updates on their imaginary families, Jonathan looked his watch. “It’s getting a bit late, shall I escort you to the train station?”
 They left the parlor with linked arms and began their short stroll to the station, seeming to all the world like a pair of lovers. At the station he pulled a small box, about twice the size of a matchbox and thrust it into her hands. “Happy birthday,” he said, and kissed her on the cheek. They hugged again, then she boarded her train. As the train started up she saw him whip out his phone to alert his superiors.
 On the train she sat alone and secured the box in a compartment of her bag. The rendezvous and collection had been a success. Though she still had the boarder to cross, she expected smooth sailing from then on. She made herself comfortable and looked out the window. She took a moment for self-satisfaction. She’d done well, career-wise. After all, she was being paid to take a free trip half way across the world to drink tea and fetch a matchbox. It had even stopped raining.
Posted on 2 Comments on Flash Fiction Friday #32: Teacher’s Pet

Flash Fiction Friday #32: Teacher’s Pet

eugh. finally. this one did not want to be written at all, and hence, i don’t like it very much. but it’s the only way i can get fff#33. 
(and for those who catch on…. ahem… doh make it out please :P)

 She took everything mundane about our classes and spritzed it with her flowery perfume. Most of the boys where enthralled by Ms Bell. The ones in the upper classes attempted to wow her with their newfound charms. Us younger ones just blushed when she asked us questions and tried to impress her by either being very bad, or very good.
 She rolled her Rs beautifully, and once she sang us a Spanish lullaby in her sweet, lilting voice. For me, she was an angel in my history of all male teachers and she begun my transition from boy to man. 
 She left after a year, not because she was a bad teacher, but because she was going back to school. My next Spanish teacher was the very old, very wrinkled, very surly Mrs Jones, but my love of the language had been very securely cemented and not even Mrs Jones’ perpetual grouchiness could waver it.
 I hadn’t given Ms Bell much thought for years when one day while I was in the office with a class mate I saw her. I went up to her and stumbled out a quick introduction.
 “You mightn’t remember me Miss, but I was in your form one class and-” I rattled.
She interrupted me. “Of course I remember you Jason.” I was twelve again, knees shaking and blushing like mad just from her words and her charming smile. Some things never changed.
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 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.