ifnoonehastoldyou

F-Boy Literature: But Your Girl Reads My Blog Though...

2016-08-09T20:48:00.003-04:00

Joshua is privileged.

Joshua is so privileged that, at thirty, his mother still brings him dinner from the country club she frequents to the home they acquired for him one year ago. He has the advantage of saving his bread, literally, and spending his parent's wealth. He's got immunity to the millennial struggle, a descendant of a divine nine founder, and a Maryland blue blood resident. Joshua is so damn proud that this is the way that he refers to himself: blue blood, more affluent, not like these other negroes.

These words don't crawl out of Joshua's mouth until we're well accustomed. Had they been uttered when we met, I would've made a run for the hills.

Joshua is so freakin' blessed that he mentors young men, on the weekends, courtesy of his fraternity initiatives, built upon honor, and lies to them. (I won't hate on his organization, his brother and his momma hooked me up with more volunteer work in NYC. They're clutch.) He tells them to stand their ground, get their own, fend for themselves.

"Like you did?"

I smirk, from the corner of his sofa as he tells me this. He's responding to my volunteer work in juvenile detention centers. He wants to show me that he puts in work, too.

He's cocky, "I mean, I didn't grow up the way they did, but they don't need to know that. They've got to learn to pull themselves up by their bootstraps."

I lean forward in my seat, flabbergasted by his horsesh*t. I want to put my talented tenth Timberland in his Booker T. behind.

(I'm an advocate of being an amalgamation of both.)

I look over to a corner where he has all of his shoes. I spy his frat boots, for his step shows. His organization stole the concept from one that came before him. He's a thief all around, taking the stories of his brothers...telling young men he's struggled, been through the mud, kicked his way out of sorrow.

I'm peeved, and it shows.

"You look upset."

"Nah, I'm good."

I realize I'm in the middle of boondocks Maryland, and he's my ride back to DC, where I'm staying. He moves closer to me, on the couch, "I missed you."

I haven't seen Joshua, for two months. We met at a brunch in DC, and we spent the whole day together. After that, we kept our growing relationship over the phone until I made my way back down.

Red flag numero uno. Why didn't he bring his butt to NYC? Oh yeah, something about work and blah blah blah---men will make you a priority if they wanna.

There were moments that Joshua's superficiality showed, while we spoke. I convinced myself that I could unravel this, that he'd be different alongside someone who walked around with a bleeding heart. Perhaps I could soak into him, show him the error of his ways.

I was wrong.

I spent the evening with Joshua and his friends that eventually showed up. We played Uno, laughed and talked, and they imitated my NYC accent. Ayo, ma. Ayo, B. I would've done the same to their DMV flavor, but they've got too many made up words to remember.

As his friends got ready to leave Joshua asked if I wanted to crash. I stretched my arms and told him I needed to wake up early to do something in the city. He took me back, the ride silent as hell, because Joshua is so damn privileged and fine that he's never had a woman tell him that she's ready to go home.

In fact, the reason I'm sure of this is that he said it on my way out, "Damn, I can't believe you're turning me down. That's a first."

I snickered, swallowing a lethal retort, "Goodnight, shawty."

I tried not to reach out to Joshua after that. There have been a few lapses in judgment, a drunken "heyyyy" or a bored "hope all is well," but I've usually stopped the conversation after a few minutes.

Joshua makes it his business, every year, as the summer is coming to a close, to get back into my life.

Last year, right after one of his infamous "girl, where have you been" texts, I spotted him in my neighborhood supermarket. I was shocked, considering he lived four and a half hours away. He looked like he'd just seen a ghost.

"Eh..Eh...Erica, how are you?"

He was looking around the spice aisle, nervously, and he wasn't in search of paprika. Ha! There must've been a girl with him. He always did like Yankee ladies.

I giggled as I realized this and I started to respond, when a beautiful young woman made her way to us.

"Joshua, I found it! You're gonna love it. Grandma was always about breakfast at night."

She was holding up a box of Bisquick, and I smiled, praying that she was going to make him pancakes for dinner.

BECAUSE. I. AM. PETTY.

I hoped he was reminiscing the surf and turf I'd made, the last time we'd hung out.

He put his arms around her quickly and started to push her in the opposite direction, "Great! You ready?"

She looked at me, "Wait, who's your friend?"

I extended my hand, "I'm Erica, I'm..."

"Oh, girl! I know you. I see you around sometimes, but I haven't been brave enough to say hi. I just copped your book. My homegirl put me on. She went to the release."

This. Woman. Pulls. My. Book. Out. Of. Her. Bag.

Joshua should use his privilege to stay silent. She would love to know why she can't talk to me.
I smile hard, hoping he's reading my notion.

This. Woman. Asks. Me. To. Sign. Her. Book. On. The. Spot.

"Girl! Micah is a trip! When is your next book coming out? I loved it. Sorry, it's so tattered. I've reread that thing a million times."

I. Sign. That. Joint. With. Pleasure.

"Why you ain't tell me you knew, her? She's like the f-boy literature, queen."

*wink* Now y'all know how I got my new book title.

"We have mutual friends, babe. That's it."

Liar.

I hug her and thank her. I stick my tongue out at Joshua, behind her back, as he rolls his eyes. They walk away, Bisquick in hand, and I cover my mouth stopping myself from saying, "The tea aisle is the next one over! It goes well with breakfast."

I'm curious.

I head to Joshua's FB page and find his girl. I click on her page and see that she's posted almost all of my blogs. She's even re-posted one about Joshua and failed to realize it was about her guy. She's got a picture, next to the book, with the caption: New fave author! Go cop that!

I like her.

Summer is coming to a close and per usual...Joshua and his privilege are on my phone.

Joshua's privilege will not stop me from writing my truth.
Joshua's blessings don't hinder my speech.
Joshua's honors translate as a mouth full of mistakes, a blunder, a joke with immunity.

& I would've left it there, had he not showed his arse today.

Heh. I might be a stalker, but your girl reads my blog.

Hey girl hey!

Checkmate.

_____________________

Just in case you were wondering....

This is an excerpt from my new e-book "F-Boy Literature." Some of the prose you've read here but there are new essays and poems you haven't. I'll be dropping it on August 23rd, and I'll be having an exclusive reading/release at the Union Square Slam Feature on the same day. Trust me. You don't wanna miss this.

Guest Author: Voodoo Man Part 4

2016-08-08T22:22:00.000-04:00

Find all chapters, here.

4

Chapter Four

By the time June had landed in New Orleans it was three o’clock and her girls had already been there for three hours. She wondered what they had gotten into while waiting on her arrival. Maybe they hadn’t waited on her at all. She sat in baggage claim and decided to turn her phone on to check her notifications. She had a voicemail from Rice checking up on her and one from Deanna chastising her for missing her flight. She had a text alert from an unknown number: Tonight. Madame Laurent St. John’s Shop. June was confused because she didn’t know who the sender was nor had she ever heard of such a shop. She assumed it was one of her friends and that her phone signal was still distorted from the flight.

It didn’t take long for her bright purple luggage bag to find its way onto the conveyor belt. She grabbed her belongings and hailed a cab to the AirBnb address they were all sharing. Luckily for her they all had separate bedrooms so she wouldn’t have to worry about any awkward couple moments where she’d be sleeping. She was nevertheless excited about experiencing Mardi gras for the first time. She peered out the back seat window as they drove down the historical Magazine Street in the Garden District of New Orleans. She loved the bright blue, yellow and pink houses that lined the street each covered in a colorful array of flowers and greenery. The taxi stopped in front of a bold blue house with bright yellow lining. It was covered in colorful violets, forest green ivies, and the tulips and sunflowers sprang from the grass in the yard. It seemed like a small house for what would’ve been six people, now five.

“This is it Miss. That’ll be twelve dollars.” The cabbie turned in his seat.

“Twelve dollars?! Sheesh you guys are expensive, I should’ve requested a car.” June dug in her wallet and pulled out a crisp twenty dollar bill. “You can keep the change sir.”

“Thank you. Need some help with bag?”

“No I just have one.” June grabbed her carry on and pulled her luggage out of the car. She couldn’t wait to get inside and see her friends.

“Thank you.” She said as she closed the door. She stepped on to the curb as the bright yellow taxi rode off.

With her belongings in tow she eased her way through the black cast iron fence that wrapped around the property. The black paint was cracked and chipping and the fence made a loud creaking sound as she opened it wider and wider. It was quiet on the street except for the rustling plants and trees dancing with the wind.

Her heels clicked and the wheels of her luggage made a loud thud as she approached the house walking on a broken cobblestone path. There was just a single step that led to a wraparound porch and a screen door protecting the glass door with the chipped white border. She rung the rusted doorbell and waited for an answer. When she didn’t get an answer she tried her luck and turned the glass doorknob.

“Hello?” June called. The house was empty. She walked through the hall and admired the black and white photos lining the yellow walls in the corridor. She loved how colorful the house was. There was a powder blue table with a multi colored mosaic lamp. She ran her finger along the rainbow colored coat hooks and hung her bag on it.

“Hello? D? Rice?” She called once more. Maybe they hadn’t heard her.

She walked into the living room. There was a fireplace and June immediately fell in love with it. She wished Trevor was with her. She imagined many nights of their vacation spent in front of a fireplace, sipping wine, talking, and quietly making love as everyone else slept. Things had to end; she just wished it wasn’t now.

She put her bag down and sat on the floral sofa near the fireplace. It was safe to assume no one was home. She laid her head back on the couch and thought this was going to be a long and interesting vacation. After a few minutes in the living room, she followed the dark cherry wood hall to the kitchen and things became even more colorful. The kitchen was one of her dreams with its huge island with marble counter top; the stove was just like she had seen on those late night cooking shows she watched when insomnia paid her a visit. She marveled at the gold pots and pans that dangled from their rack on the ceiling. She had never seen a gold refrigerator before and the kitchen table was a dark wood to match the flooring. The walls were painted the same powder blue as the table in the hall and rather than black and white photos, there were colorful paintings and vintage brand posters on the wall. She imagined waking up early and cooking breakfast with Trevor as he came up and hugged her from behind. She imagined them having a counter top quickie before everyone else rose for the day and sharing laughs and giggles because no one would know, but them. She knew this vacation wouldn’t at all go the way she had hoped, but she was going to make the most of it.

Lost in thought she received another alert: Tonight. Madame Laurent St. John’s Shop. It was the same as before and June thought that it had to be one of her friends. She decided to call Deanna.

“Hey where are you guys?”

“June! You finally made it! We’re on Bourbon Street.” Deanna said.

“Hey, June!!” Everyone said in unison.

“June come meet us!” Rice yelled in the background.

“Okay I’ll call you. By the way do I have a key to this house?”

“Yeah it’s in the second room at the top of the stairs. That’s your room.”

“Okay, thanks. See you soon.”

June hung up and decided to take her time unpacking. She wasn’t in a rush to be a fifth wheel although she wanted to check out that shop someone kept texting her about.

She texted Patrick from the airport, “Hey I landed. Nice meeting you.”

Likewise ;)

______________________________

Deja is a lifestyle writer and digital content creator for some of your favorite sites such as Madame Noire and Upscale Magazine. When she's not writing loves getting lost in the world of fiction specifically crime, mysteries, and thrillers. She believes that sometimes the best and cheapest vacations are in between the pages of a new book.

Guest Author: Voodoo Man, Part 3

2016-08-01T09:04:00.002-04:00

Each week you'll be able to read a new installment from unique aspiring authors. This tale is from Deja L. Jones. Enjoy!

Read part one and part two here.

3

Chapter Three

It was 10:04am and June was running late. She had a half hour to get dressed, hail a cab and make it to JFK airport before she would miss her flight. The sun crept in through an opening in her sheer white curtains instantly blinding her. As she dashed from her bed, she was soon hit with the reality of the amounts of liquor she had consumed the night before over dinner with her friends. Although it was hard for her to spill that bit of tragic news to her friends, she did look forward to the vacation and time away from her now semi empty apartment.

Trevor didn’t live with her, but he did spend a great deal of nights at her apartment given his roommate situation so, he kept most of his belongings with her. She came home from dinner last night to find all of his things gone and his key left on the coffee table on top of her collection of women’s magazines. He certainly hadn’t wasted any time. June decided it was better that way to avoid any awkward and extremely emotional run-ins with him. She realized it wasn’t so much the absence of Trevor that hurt; truth is she knew he wasn’t good for her anymore. He wasn’t the same guy she fell in love with. She realized that she was lonely for the first time in six years and that’s what made her sad. She didn’t know how to date, or pursue men. If a guy pursued her, what would she do?

She rushed to the bathroom and spilled all of her guts into the toilet. She hadn’t realized she drank so much, but then she remembered that coming home to an empty apartment encouraged her to pop open a bottle of tequila and drink herself to sleep. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand as she struggled to get up. Her house phone rang but she knew she wouldn’t catch it so she let it go to voicemail.

*beep* “Hey girl! It’s Deanna; I hope you didn’t answer because you’re on your way to JFK! Anyway, my flight touches down in NOLA at 12 noon. I haven’t heard from Rice and Kyle this morning, but we hope you have fun on the way! See ya soon.” *beep*

June brushed her teeth, gargled, popped an Advil and flipped on some tunes to get ready. She was down to twenty minutes and still had to make it through security check. She knew there was no way she would make the flight unless by some divine intervention. It was Saturday and June knew traffic would be terrible, so she requested an Uber on standby and dashed for the shower. The warm water melted her soul and washed away all of last night’s funk and emotions. She felt a burden lift from her and she decided she would have the time of her life at the Mardi gras.

After her shower, she laid out a pair of fitted jeans she knew would accentuate her curves, a form fitting sweater and a pair of wedge boots. It was chilly in New York City and she hoped that it would be a bit warmer in New Orleans. She fluffed her fro as the Uber alerted her to her car arrival. She had already packed the previous night before drinking herself to sleep, so she was ready in less than fifteen minutes, but that only left her five minutes to get to JFK and she knew she was doomed. Her friends would be waiting for her, so she decided to call Rice because she wasn’t in the mood for Deanna’s judgement and parenting.

“Hello? Girl where are you?!” Rice exclaimed.

“I’m just getting in the Uber, I’ll probably have to catch the next flight out and meet up with you guys at the hotel.”

“You mean the AirBnb house. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, I just overslept. I didn’t realize I drank so much.”

“You only had the grapefruit martini and tequila though. Don’t tell me you’re getting soft on me June.” Rice laughed. June decided she wouldn’t disclose that she had drunk half a bottle of tequila on her own last night.

“No. I’m good.” June laughed.

“Well, alright babe. Let me know what’s up with the flight and I’ll see you in the bayous.”

They said their goodbyes and June decided she would relax a bit and take the next flight out. She rolled down her window and put in her earbuds and laid back to some of the happy tunes of Hall and Oates. The 70’s duo always cheered her up and made her long for an era she wasn’t even from. It didn’t matter that she was stuck in traffic or that she was missing her first flight to NOLA, or that she was going without a beau or that her friends would rub it in her face being the fifth wheel. In that moment, she was at peace in the hustle of New York City.

After what felt like an eternity of weaving in and out of traffic and through side streets and highways they had finally pulled up to the drop off area at the airport. She only had one luggage bag and a carry on, so she figured she could manage alone. Her flight had long departed so she needed to make another flight reservation which she knew wouldn’t be easy since it was Mardi Gras and everyone would be going there. As she approached the ticket desk, she noticed the ticket rep was a fine chocolate man. The last guy she even noticed was Trevor, but this guy had bulging arms perturbing from his short sleeve shirt. The shirt was so tight his massive chest could barely contain it. June’s eyes traced the lining of his sharp jawline. His complexion was like a special edition of Hershey’s.

“Good afternoon Miss. What can I do for you?” His voice was of the baritone. It was deep as his hue in melanin.

“Umm...Yeah I missed my flight to New Orleans thirty minutes ago.” June looked at her watch and hoped that he would be able to accommodate her.

“Yikes, sorry to hear that. We’re all booked until tomorrow morning.”

“Please there has to be something else. I’m supposed to meet friends there today for a vacation.”

“And they didn’t wake you to make sure you were on time?”

“No, no it was my fault.” June didn’t like the questioning. “Can you help me or not?”

“We do have a seat in first class; you would have to upgrade your original ticket.”

“I’ll take it.” June pulled out her ticket and credit card. “You can charge it.” She read his name tag. His name was Patrick. He didn’t look like a Patrick. He smiled as he scanned her ticket and swiped her card.

“You’re all set. Flight leaves in another thirty minutes. Is there anything else I can do? Dinner? Your number maybe?”

June giggled. She was fresh out of a long term relationship and didn’t think it was a good idea to move on so quickly, but it couldn’t hurt to have a little fun she thought. She wrote her number on the back of a flight pamphlet and handed it to Patrick.

“I’m June by the way.” She said as she threw her carry on over her shoulder. He extended his hand.

“Patrick. Nice to meet you June.” She grabbed her rolling luggage bag and headed towards her boarding area. She started to feel great already. What better way to experience the single life for the first time than in the city of New Orleans during Mardi gras. She thought that her experience would make for a great article on getting her groove back while on vacation, but it seemed a little Terry McMillan cliche. June was a writer, or at least that’s what she wanted to be. She worked as an ad exec for a publishing company and put in a request to be moved to editorial. She figured it would be a change from the ad work she always found herself buried under.

She looked at the flight pamphlet with Patrick's number on it and thought it would also be a change to saturate the emotional drought she's been in.

______________________________

Deja is a lifestyle writer and digital content creator for some of your favorite sites such as Madame Noire and Upscale Magazine. When she's not writing loves getting lost in the world of fiction specifically crime, mysteries and thrillers. She believes that sometimes the best and cheapest vacations are in between the pages of a new book.

F-Boy Literature: The Introduction

2016-07-29T12:31:00.000-04:00

Blue says I need to stop dating guys with regular names.

She is convinced that men with names like Jason, Christopher, Michael, Brandon, and the like are all out to get me.

I try to explain that assuming a man is insufficient and spoiled because he bears a name that aligns with respectability politics, is absurd. She reiterates her point when another Brandon has hurt my feelings, a month later.

"I feel like a Kwame would be too immersed in his roots, to be a f-boy. He'd be too busy trying to find the origin of his namesake, to cheat, lie, or use you."

I'm not opposed to her philosophy, but I'm a benefit-of-the-doubt kind of gal. I like to fathom your existence, by spending time not assumption.

Brandon is an iPhone poet. He scribes in his notes app on long train rides home because his car is in the "shop." How long will they hold your car at the mechanic, anyway? I think this should be general knowledge, for all women. (Not because materialism is important, but because we'd like to know if we're fraternizing with a liar.)

This is Brandon's claim to fame when we first match on Tinder. The app has become more of a game, thumbing through when I'm bored and half-assing consistency like everyone else.

He says, "Your bio says you're a writer. I'm a writer, too. Poetry, huh? We should go to an open mic."

Original.

Blue stops my story, here, "Why do you keep dating creatives? For once I'd like you to date someone that isn't a closet poet or a 6th-grade manuscript away from asking you to help them progress."

"Ah, c'mon. Writing poems on his phone doesn't make him a creative."

Brandon is cool. He's good looking, real chill, has a son who he spends a significant amount of time with, and works in telemarketing, but he really wants to be a writer.

Blue is pissed, "Telemarketing?!"

"What if he has a good heart, Blue?"

She tells me I've been watching too many Tyler Perry movies.

On our first date, we go to an open mic. I bet you didn't see that one coming. I decide not to perform, because I'm trying not to expose the whole I'm-an-HBO-Def-Poet-Slam-Champion-Fiction-Author-4x thing, until we're a bit more comfortable. Besides, I'm okay with him shining.

Get your shine on, boo.

He walks to the stage, trendy lopsided unkempt beard, smirk above, and iPhone on full swipe.

Read. Them. Poems. Sir.

Get. Your. Scroll. Up. On.

He taps the mic to make sure it's working, coughs, and speaks:

I'm a virgin to the mic, well, at this cafe.

That means...I'm gonna pop my cherry tonight.

He winks at me, in the crowd, when he says this. He laughs. The crowd is silent. I'm almost under the table.

Girrrrlllluhhhhh.

I've been waiting to make you mine.

You're so damn finnnnneeeee...

Waterfalls do not equate to the effortless

flow of your spinnnnnne.

You're backbreaking,

breathtaking,

mesmerizing,

booty shaking.

Blue is on the floor, in stitches, after stanza one. She doesn't realize that it's only funny after the fact. When you walked in with the dude, and it's evident that you're on a date, folks look at you with sorrow in their eyes.

It's safe to say I didn't want to see Brandon again.

Does that mean I didn't see him again? No.

I met Brandon on the cusp of meh and I-gotcha-a-dollar-gotta-be-quicker-than-that.

That horrendous outing was one month before I met what I swore was the love of my life. He fit all the stories that married and happy couples tell: shows up out of nowhere, few degrees of separation, everything just falls into place.

I'd erased Brandon from my mind once I met Carlos...yeah, we'll call him Carlos. However, he had one of those regular names too. Blue might be on to something.

Carlos was a whirlwind, a plethora of promises, someone who said the right things at the right times. I believe he meant these things when he said them. I'm unsure if he understood what love is.

I am sure after months of perhaps, maybes, tucking his sentiments into conjunctions he still did not realize that love is a decision, a choice, not something that falls out of the sky.

We've got this f-boy thing all wrong.

We believe they come peacocking, draped in regret, that we'll be able to spot their red flags like they hang from their pockets on Crenshaw.

But f-boys are subtle.

They are a cross breeze.

A bunch of mismatch negroes who don't know what the f--k they want.

F-boys wear suits and smiles, fitted and timbs.

They'll tell you they're coming into their own and ain't ready to provide.

They are hotep, pro-black, activists that activate when you're in their presence and will fight for you on the front lines, but still tussle your name through the dust.

"Define f-boy."

Chest high,

close friends,

who'd swear on their bibles,

that they have no tendencies,

state this.

Siri: "Define f-boy."

Slate says it's the worst kind of guy, a buzzword, an insult that doesn't need elaboration.

Webster: Can't compute, but usually this word correlates with Donald Trump.

Urban Dictionary: Someone who ain't about sh*t.

Synonyms: A-hole, bae, jerk, boo.

Results:

Buzzfeed: Fifteen Signs You're Dating A...

Huffington Post: A Brief History of the Internet's Favorite New Man Bashing Slur

Bustle: Ten Words That Should Be Added To The Dictionary With "On Fleek."

"Define f-boy."

Waits for the second date to Netflix and Chill.

Because this gives off the perception that he might be a gentleman.

Doesn't anticipate rain, so he asks to borrow a coat on the way out.

Football frame, rocking a Banana Republic women's trench walking to the J train.

Will call you at 2 am without an emergency.

Like, "What's up? What you up to?"

Like you ain't sleep.

Has his father show up at 11:30 pm, in the aisle of the movie theater asking if he forgot his curfew.

At 28 years old.

A man, prone to rocking crimson and creme, twirling a cane, and pulling out his compact mirror to ask if you think he's pretty at a dinner table.

Tells you that he's looking for love and runs for the hills once it's said.

Sits in your living room and tells you that he "can grow to miss you."

Rubs your stomach, says he can envision you being his "baby momma" one day.

Kisses you quiet, when your voice is too much.

Uses the word "females" like you're not a whole being, just an anatomical knickknack.

Puts his hands in your box braids and says, "I bet more guys are interested now that you've put that afro stuff to rest."

Tells you that you're making up statistics.

Like science ain't a thing.

Like math ain't real.

Like we ain't out here middle-aging and single, fly-as-all-hell-though, still.

Like that's a bad thing.

I see you, sistas.

Will show up to your crib, still in talking phase, after y'all both worked 12 hours and asks you if you cooked.

Wants an independent, goal oriented, business woman, that'll keep her ass in the kitchen, supermarket, hospital bed, birthing babies, and making sandwiches at the same damn time.

Spits an embarrassing ass poem on your first date and then sends you one every day, by email...

named Jason, Michael, Christopher or...

Brandon leans in after I tell him I'm only interested in being friends and asks me, "Who hurt you?"

This is also after a post-date phone call, asking when he can come over to a plate of my cooking.

"I see that food on Instagram, yo. I'm tryna taste it."

All puns are intended.

Blue and I flat line, at this part of my story. She is on my hardwood floor, rolling. She asks one more time, "What's his name again?"

"F-boy."

_____________________

Just in case you were wondering....

This is the beginning of my new e-book "F-Boy Literature." Some of the prose you've read here but there are new essays and poems you haven't. I'll be dropping it on August 23rd, and I'll be having an exclusive reading/release at the Union Square Slam Feature on the same day. Trust me. You don't wanna miss this.

Fiction Series: Lucea: Pt. 2

2016-07-02T16:24:00.004-04:00

Read part one here.

Present Day:

Grandaunt Delphine’s eyes are like silk. They glimmer, white, green, or blue, depending on what part of they sky she’s focused on. She unfolds history, while we stand next to grandpa’s grave. The cement block, emerging from the ground, looks like it can hold four people instead of one. I begin to say this, as the tall bamboo that looms over us starts to rustle. The clicking of the wood is loud as the wind runs through it, sounding like chatter, like someone trying to speak to us.

Delphine explains that the grave is for five people, not one. My grandfather lay in the one, I stand on, which explains why the scrawling of letters is only on one-third of the gray, cold surface, but his mother, his father, and two of his children lay beside him.

Someone used a stick to write, in the cement, “Do not mourn. I’ve lived my life. –Dr. Jeweler.” Delphine laughs, when she says that his most recent girlfriend did this. She snickers it as if we’re both not witnesses to Grandpa William’s lineage strewed carelessly across Jamaica, America, Canada and England. She smiles down at the middle of the grave as if her next tale will not be of two prepubescent boys who’ve died of pneumonia, during one of his drunken stupors—leaving them under the porch to get sick. We listen to the bamboo rattle once more, knowing it is an apology, understanding that it is a plea for us to the preserve the land despite.

Love lived in the hills of Westmoreland, Jamaica.

It’s buried in chronological order, from the top to the bottom. Even though it would find it's way to Lucea and evolve into the lie, across the ocean, it started here.

The first set of graves were next to a half-finished house, purchased room by room by a family that meant to make their way back home. The same could be said of William's great grandfather, a Jewish Cuban shoemaker who'd bought the land. Three years after uprooting his Spanish-speaking family to this new island he went out for a ride on his horse and hit a tree. He died upon impact. His wife heard the news later that evening and went to her bed to lie down. She never came back out. They found her, dead from heartache, a few days later. Their children, Enrique, Martin, and Lucea, were left to fend for themselves.

If you walked a few steps down the hill, behind the shanty home that Aunt Delphine called home, Lucea lay there alongside her husband. They were the only ones that stayed behind, harvesting and caring for the land her father loved. Lucea's husband was the only man in the area who spoke her native tongue. Although she'd picked up some English, she had difficulty communicating with the Westmoreland community. Her husband, who worked in the sugar cane trade, learned Spanish on his travels. The moment he realized he could understand the beautiful girl who grew up a few hills down from his family home, he made his way to her. They were instantly inseparable. She traveled back to her homeland, by his side, the smell of sugar cane and sweat permeating their clothes.

He would look down at her, while they crossed the ocean, and say, "Nothing in this cargo is as sweet as you."

They'd crossed the ocean six times and had two children to show for it before they settled back in Westmoreland. Delphine and William, three years apart in age, knew the land like the lines in their palms. They picked mangoes, ackee, and breadfruit to their heart's content. They watched their parents fall for each other every day, wanting nothing more than each other's company.

In the middle of the 1930's, Delphine and William's father fell ill with tuberculosis. The siblings were coming in from picking fruit for the house when they watched neighbors assist in lifting their father into a car headed to the hospital. Lucea ran from the home, screaming in a language the natives could not understand. While raising her husband into the back of the vehicle, they yelled, "Lucea! You cannot come. You will catch de' sickness."

She fell to her knees, watching the car descend the hill, wondering where they were taking her love. She grabbed William, seven years old but brilliant for his age.

"Where are they taking him?"

William replied, in his mother's language, "El hospital. Papa enfermo?"

She nodded, walked into the house to grab her purse, and took William and Delphine to a neighbor's home. This was the last time they saw their mother and father. They both passed away from the illness, three weeks apart from each other.

William could only remember the last thing his mother said to him. She said it softly, in his ear, before she turned her back to the children she'd never see again, "We are cursed. Love is not for us. We are cursed."

_____________________________________

As Grandaunt Delphine pointed to each grave and told the stories, I interrupted, "Do you think we're cursed?"

Delphine put her hands on her hips and sighed, "I'm still single. You tell me gyal. You think we, women, are cursed?"
I thought about it. This couldn't be true. I wouldn't exist if it were. My grandparents were in love, weren't they?
As soon as I asked Delphine this, she hissed her teeth and rolled eyes, "If that's what you call love, me no want it."

1962
Louise was in trouble.
She was twenty and pregnant again. She'd fallen for someone who was unavailable, once again. He lived in the neighborhood, and their families knew one another, but he'd failed to tell her that he was promised to someone.

She sat in the neighborhood bar, trying to decide if she wanted a beer. She didn't want to harm the baby but decided that it wouldn't hurt if she weren't going to have the child. There was a rumor that the local roots woman could get rid of unwanted children. It's not that she didn't want a child. She did. She was ready for a family. However, she wasn't ready to bring another child into this world that didn't feel wanted. Her first born, Aaron, was already questioning who his father was. She couldn't go through that again.

The bar attracted all sorts of folks. It was on the corner of a local road and a major highway. If you were visiting Lucea, you probably stopped for a drink or thought about it. She'd just finished a shift at her new hospital job and couldn't help but wonder if she'd started to show in her uniform.

Just as she was thinking of ordering a beer, a gorgeous man walked in. He was the color of the sand, near her childhood home, and his eyes were the color of the sea. He sat right next to her, ordered two beers, and turned to face her.

"You're all alone or wha?"

She frowned, "I'm just relaxing before I go back to my yahd. I've been working all day."

He smiled, "Working lady. I see."

His beers arrived, and he pushed one towards her, "You drinking?"

She looked at the glass and moved her hand, hesitantly, towards it, "I'm not sure if..."

He took a swig of his drink, "If you should be drinking while you're carrying pickney..."

"How do you know that? Am I showing?"

He laughed, "No girl. You look good. You're glowing. I can tell these things. Special gift."

He pulled the drink back, "You shouldn't be drinking. But you can tell me all about how you got here."

He extended his hand to shake hers, "I'm William, from Westmoreland."

"Louise, from Lucea."

He studied her face and tried to ignore the coincidence, while listening to her story. He also sought to ignore the words running rampant through his mind, "We are cursed. Love is not for us. We are cursed."

It seemed to be coming from the bamboo rattling just outside the bar, first a whisper and then a yell. William tried to tune it out, drink by drink, song by song, woman in his palm.

Guest Author: Voodoo Man: Part 2

2016-06-22T16:11:00.003-04:00

Chapter Two

After her big meeting, June power walked back to her office, sent her girls a mass emergency alert to meet her at the Southern Table and packed up for the night. As she sped down the interstate, she thought about how she would break the news to her friends. She wondered if she should still go on the trip or if she should save herself from being the lonely and bitter fifth wheel. She braced herself for the lectures that would ensue and turned on her soul music selection to relax her until she could get something strong enough at the bar to really mellow her mood.

After forty-five minutes in traffic, she finally pulled into the restaurant’s parking lot. She took a deep breath as she turned her car off. It had been months since she had been at the Southern Table and she missed the ambiance. She missed the low key live jazz music, the amazing drinks and the soul food. She and her girls would sit at the bar for hours talking and mindlessly ordering rounds as they flirted with the cute bartender.

“June, welcome back!” She always loved the warm welcomes she received from Che, the short general restaurant manager.

“How you doing my friend?” He said in a thick accent as he hugged her. He made it a point to talk about his home country of Burkina Faso in Africa.

“Ugh, it’s been a day Che.” He took her coat.

She did a quick survey of the dimly lit restaurant before she found her friend Rice seated at a corner table. June had known Rice since she landed her first job in advertisement sales straight out of college. She was one of the applicants accepted into the company’s young leaders program. Rice’s real name was Janice, but most called her that as a mock of her Asian heritage and for also being the first international employee at the ad firm. She was June’s first work friend and they bonded over their love of food. Her time at the firm didn’t last long before she decided to quit the corporate world for a career in non-profit. The Southern Table had become their spot, so had the signature grapefruit martinis.

“June!! What’s happening?” Rice always had an intuitive way of knowing when something wasn’t right in June’s life. June could tell by the concerned look on her friend’s face.

“What do you mean?” June knew that Rice knew that something was wrong.

“That no good did something didn’t he?!”

June waved the hostess away and placed her jacket on the back of her seat and sat before she decided to address her friend. She at least wanted to order a drink and throw back a few shots before she began telling the final chapter of her sad tale in the chronicles of June and Trevor. Besides, their happily married friend Deanna hadn’t arrived yet.

June had somehow curated the perfect life for herself, friends included. They were women from different backgrounds and who worked in different fields. Rice worked as a nutrition counselor who recently opened up a non-profit health and wellness clinic, so it wasn’t often that she got to spend time with her. Deanna had just married her college sweetheart and girl’s nights became less than often. They were all at different place in their lives and June didn’t know how she would tell her friends that Trevor had dumped her and just the day before their trip. She was touching thirty and single for the first time in decades. How was she supposed to start over at her age? If only her love life was perfect. Her and her girls had a bet that she would be the first to marry and now here she was, back at the drawing board.

“Ladies, ladies what can I get you?” A handsome young waiter approached their table. He had a really lovely scent of sandalwood and musk, the kind that you could smell before he actually got to you. It was inviting and the girls inhaled as he stood beside them. He introduced himself as William.

“I’ll have a grapefruit martini and tequila on the rocks.” June immediately responded.

“Wow someone’s having a bad day.” Rice chuckled. “I’ll just have a water and lemon for now.”

“No problem. I will be back with your drinks in a few. Would you ladies like a menu?” The waiter asked.

“Yes and an extra one for our friend.” Rice said.

“You got it.” Rice watched as their waiter walked away.

The ladies both sat and caught up on life and work all the while avoiding the big issue at hand that June was trying to stall on. She wanted all of them there for moral support because she knew as soon as she blurted it out she was going to lose it emotionally. She had gotten so good at covering up the problems that her and Trevor were having that they almost didn’t exist in her mind.

“So are you gonna tell me what’s up or no?” Rice was eager to know what Trevor had done since she had already assumed it was him anyway.

“Let’s wait for Deanna.”

“Fine, but you know she’s never on time.”

The drinks had arrived and June wasted no time in guzzling down her tequila. She thought if the liquor hit her system quickly she’d have the courage she needed. Liquid courage. She could then sip her martini in peace. It had been a half hour before Deanna arrived and the live jazz band was just warming up for their first set. It was now dinner time and happy hour was coming to an end.

“Heeey!” Deanna knew how to be fashionably late. She waltzed in wearing a bright yellow dress and a leather jacket. The yellow created a bold contrast against her deep chocolate skin.

“Finally!” Rice said. “Sit your prissy body down we’re tired of waiting for you.”

“Yeah I’m pretty hungry now.” June said looking at her watch.

“Sorry, my surgery went past scheduled time, so I was in the ER longer than expected.” Deanna took her jacket off showing off her huge canary yellow ring. She had just gotten married a month ago and still hadn’t come off her cloud of marital bliss. She had been the eternal scholar of the bunch which had finally led to her being a pediatric surgeon.

“So June has some big news? What’s the 911 alert about?” Deanna took her seat and picked up the drink menu. She called over the waiter and order a Pinot Noir as June gathered her thoughts. Her mind was racing.

“Well…there’s no easy way to say this I guess.” June ran her finger alone the rim of her class avoiding eye contact. “I won’t be going to New Orleans anymore.”

“What?!” Rice gasped.

“Girl do you need money? We got you!” Deanna chimed pulling out her check book.

“No…no” June could feel her eyes brimming with tears. “Trevor broke up with me. After all these years!”

“That bastard!” Rice shook her head.

“I didn’t like him anyway.” Deanna was in her usual kick a girl while she’s down form. “I don’t even know why you stuck with him for as long as you did.”

“Yeah she’s right. You are so much better than him.” Rice agreed, but it didn’t make June feel any better. She was twenty-eight and alone.

“I don’t know what I did wrong though.” June sobbed.

“Girl it wasn’t you!” Deanna said before taking a sip. “He just wasn’t the right guy for you.”

“Yeah, you grew up and he didn’t.” Rice rubbed June’s back to console her.

“But that doesn’t mean you skip out on the trip because of him.” Deanna said.

“Guys, I really don’t want to be a fifth wheel on this trip. I mean you all have someone and then it’s just me.”

“I’ll tell you what; we will find you someone on this trip to New Orleans.” Rice flashed a mischievous smile. “What happens in NOLA stays in NOLA.”

“And it Mardi gras!! You can’t miss it and trust me you certainly won’t be lonely. I’m sure we’ll find a sexy bachelor in the debauchery of NOLA.” Deanna said.

“Thanks guys.” June still didn’t feel better, but she appreciated her friends for trying.

“Girl, forget Trevor. He was holding you back anyway. Can we eat?” Deanna said picking up her menu.

“If only there was some way I could create the perfect guy right?” June said.

“Interesting. What would your ingredients be?” Rice asked sipping her water.

“Well since I already have one I would go with him.” Deanna said.

The girls talked about their perfect man and laughed at how ridiculous they sounded. June was actually wondering if it were possible to create the perfect man, what ingredients she would use.

“Let’s see, intelligence, a man with the money honey, and some machine guns for arms. I like my hugs strong!” Deanna laughed.

“Eh. I don’t like his arms too big. Sculpted, but not huge.” Rice chimed in.

“I don’t know…maybe someone with a good job, nice looking and wants to get married.” June said as she gulped the last of her martini. She was pretty simple when it came to love. She just wanted to love someone and have them love her back.

Rice waved the waiter over and they ordered just as the live band geared up for their first set. They loved their time at the Southern Table, but it wasn’t really a place for chit chat. The music was so loud they could barely hear one another. June decided she would still go to New Orleans since it was already booked, she would just need to change her itinerary to accommodate a single woman in a group full of couples. She hadn’t approached a guy since 2007 when she had met Trevor. What was she supposed to do now? She thought New Orleans was certainly much too soon to get back on the horse. She hadn’t even dealt with the emotional damage Trevor had caused. Was there any damage? She thought.

After surveying the menu, the women ordered their usual and talked about their plans and arrangements for their trip the next day. Deanna would be with her husband Mike, Rice had her beau Kyle and then there was June. They decided they would make lots of club time and girl time so that she wouldn’t feel alone. She was glad to have the friends she had. They were blunt, harsh and rough around the edges with her, but she never had to question where they stood with her. The girls toasted to a fun weekend in New Orleans as their food arrived and they ordered another round of drinks.

______________________________

Deja is a lifestyle writer and digital content creator for some of your favorite sites such as Madame Noire and Upscale Magazine. When she's not writing loves getting lost in the world of fiction specifically crime, mysteries and thrillers. She believes that sometimes the best and cheapest vacations are in between the pages of a new book.

Guest Author: Voodoo Man: Part 1

2016-05-28T11:21:00.001-04:00

9 oz sweet red wine

Patience, understanding, honesty

9 cloves

Love, respect, intelligence

Rose petals

Funny, thoughtful, ambitious

Few drops of my blood

Magic of the Mardi gras

“Repeat after me.”

“Let the one who drinks this wine, shower me with love divine, love potion number nine let his love be forever mine, as long as he loves me before midnight chimes and the new moon shines, his love will forever keep the magic alive.”

Terrified, with hands covered in blood June had wandered into the dark and hazy swamps of the Bon Temp bayous. She was a long ways from the magic of New Orleans; she was an even further from her studio apartment in East Harlem. She hid behind a moss covered tree in fear for her life. Her hands pressed into the moistness of the old tree. Black magic always came with a price and she had but a drop left of the potion given to her months ago by Madame St. John, the witch doctor who told her she could create the perfect man or so she thought.

Short of breath, she remained quiet as she whispered the love spell over and over again. The sound of feet splashing in the swampy water drew closer and closer and then there was complete silence. She could hear the crickets; she could hear the frogs and feel the mosquitoes chewing away at her sprained ankle. She ducked lower praying the smoky sheet of fog would make her invisible from what was lurking.

Suddenly, a strong hand clamped down hard on her shoulder as she let out a blood curdling scream…there was nothing perfect about him.

Nine Months Earlier

Hurled over her desktop, with tear blurred eyes, June tried to make sense of the email she had just received. This was the day she had feared. After six long years of putting up with Trevor’s complacency and waiting for him to step up and be a man, he had finally cut the thin piece of string that was holding them together. Funny thing is, June saw it coming; she just didn’t think it would happen the day before their vacation with friends. She couldn’t bear to face her them and their permanent expressions of judgement and disappointment. It seemed like all of her friends were getting married, engaged or happily committed and June wanted that. She just chose the wrong guy for it. Maybe he was just the right guy at a different time in her life. She and Trevor have been college sweethearts. They met on move-in day in Tinsley Hall at Rutgers University in New Brunswick, New Jersey. It was her freshman year and after hours of lugging suitcases, boxes and dorm decor up several flights of steps with her family, she had finally met her RA, Trevor.

He was a junior and finance major with ride-the-bull-wall-street dreams. As June got to know him, she loved how smart he was. She loved how excited he got when he told about numbers and money, she didn’t understand it, but she knew passion when she saw it. He had dreams of becoming a stock advisor and whenever it was his turn to plan their dorm events, it was always a powerhouse film like Wall Street with Michael Douglas or some Martin Scorsese “hot shot” film. No one ever showed up, but June and it always turned into a night of deep intellectual conversation over a classic film. It became obvious that she had a thing for him to the dismay of her roommate and first college friend Deanna. Deanna didn’t like anybody at their college. She was always paranoid about the quality of men at Rutgers and felt that most were too full of themselves while others seemed to keep a revolving door of women in and out of their rooms. Trevor wasn’t like the boys she was used to from her dilapidated city. He wasn’t like the boys who loitered in the front of the neighborhood bodegas, rapping the latest trap song ridiculously loud and hustling drugs; he wasn’t like the boys who cat called from the tinted windows of their Oldsmobile as they rolled down the streets in cruise control with tires too large for their cars. Trevor was a man who had a plan. He was educated, came from a great family and was extremely sexy. After a semester of late night study sessions, dinner dates in the cafe and dorm sleepovers, he’d finally asked June to be his girlfriend. He wasn’t her first boyfriend, but he was her first real relationship. They had a genuine connection.

She loved him, even though he didn’t follow his dreams of being a Wall Street maverick. However, the more they grew as a couple, the more Trevor became complacent in their relationship. He was fine with his low income job working customer service at the city bank. He was fine with his frat boy roommates since he spent most nights with her. He had lost his spark, his drive, the very thing that attracted June to him, but still, she couldn’t imagine life without him and no matter how bad things got she knew she had to make it work.

She sat up as she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand smearing her eye shadow. She read his email once more and couldn’t stop herself from dialing his number. He didn’t have the decency to tell her to her face after six years, she thought the least he could do was answer the phone.

“Hello?” Trevor sounded as if he were just waking up. June wasn’t surprised.

“Is it really over?” June’s voice was shaky as she tried to keep herself from bursting into tears.

“June, you know I love you. I just can’t deal with the nagging anymore.” Trevor let out a sigh. She remembered the argument they had that morning about him missing the deadline for the management application at the city bank.

“Trevor…baby, I just wanted the best for you!” June couldn’t see the fault in her wanting a better life for someone she cared about.

“Why can’t you just accept that I’m happy where I am?” Trevor blurted. “I’m sorry I didn’t become some rich, old soul, money man, but I’m fine.”

“But…” June tried to interrupt.

“It’s just not me June. I think we’ve given it our best shot.”

“But Trevor what about our trip?! What am I supposed to tell everyone?” June couldn’t hold back her tears any longer. Her mother told her to never let a man break you, but all June could think about was everything she had invested in Trevor and all she had sacrificed to make their lives comfortable. It was her that bent and broke her back to provide for the two of them and all she asked for was simple appreciation.

“Is that all you care about? A trip?”

“Maybe we can….work this out?” June was near begging at this point.

“June take someone else. I’m sorry.” Those were the last words he said before he hung up. June listened to the dial tone for a bit trying to process what just happened.

Take someone else? June thought. She didn’t have anyone else. She had made Trevor her whole life. Dating another guy had never even crossed her mind. She did the only thing she thought would help in this situation, she wailed. She wailed painfully and cried loudly and didn’t care if anyone on her work floor heard her. She knew deep down inside that Trevor wasn’t the one for her. She had worked so hard and they had built so much together that even though she knew it wasn’t going anywhere and they had grown apart, she wasn’t ready to let go yet. She hadn’t emotionally prepared for this. She hadn’t gotten her heart ready. So she cried. She hoped that if she cried hard enough he would feel the pain he’d caused her. She thought that if she cried long enough she would shed enough tears to fully cleanse herself of him, but it was too soon.

“Ms. Adams?” said a timid voice over even softer knocks on her frosted glass window. It was her assistant.

“Yes?” She struggled to make herself sound alright. She wiped her face and fixed her clothes and wondered how long she had been standing there watching the train wreck of a mess she had become in less than a few minutes.

“Your 4 o’clock meeting is here.”

“Shoot! Give me five minutes to gather my things and have them meet me in the boardroom.” June was a top advertising executive for a small boutique firm. It wasn’t a fortune 500 company or anything, but it did afford her an office and a couple of vacations a year. She had been planning a couple’s vacation with her friends since last year and hoped that afterwards it would’ve prompted Trevor to think about marrying her. She didn’t realize that her hinting and nagging was putting pressure on him.

“Are you alright?” Her assistant whispered.

“Yes. Meet me in the boardroom with bottled waters.” She stood up, checked her face in her closet mirror, fixed her make-up, gathered her notes and portfolio and made her way to the conference room like nothing had even happened. She had a deal to close with a luxury cosmetic brand and it seemed that work was the only thing she could get right in her life and besides, somewhere in the Lower East Side there was a grapefruit martini waiting for her.

______________________________

Deja is a lifestyle writer and digital content creator for some of your favorite sites such as Madame Noire and Upscale Magazine. When she's not writing loves getting lost in the world of fiction specifically crime, mysteries and thrillers. She believes that sometimes the best and cheapest vacations are in between the pages of a new book.

Guest Fiction Series: Vinnie, Part 9

2016-04-27T15:08:00.002-04:00

For a few months, Rivaflowz.com will be taking four guest authors #fromblogtobook. Each week you'll be able to read a new installment from unique aspiring authors. This tale is from R. Preston Clark. Enjoy! Read all parts, here.
____________________________________

It must pain him to sit back here without the distraction of driving. Without the immediate excuse of needing to watch the road that prevents him from making eye contact with his single fatherhood. Our limo driver took that away from him. Rid him of his ever-so-useful excuse. Now he must make eye contact with the one thing he has never attempted to understand.
I stare at his face. The muscular ridges of his jawline. His cautiously furrowed brow. His flared nostrils. His stern chin. All attributes he held back from me. He could not imagine giving me something that was so integral to what made him, him. What gave him the ability to walk into any room and garner the respect of all those that entered, all those that stayed. His expressions were that of a man who beat pain into submission, hurdled obstacles with grace and dignity, who did not put his failures in the laps of others, rather he just refused to fail at all. Made it easier that way.

He is fighting an unnatural feeling now. That feeling of failure. He failed as a husband. A protector. A lover. He is failing as a father, though the latter is not a psychological locale he will rest in just yet. It is still up to me to invite him to his inevitability. Do not worry. I am working on it.

“Are we almost there?”

Nothing. I knew this would happen but I still felt the need to question him in some way, even if it was of the small talk ilk. At least he could never say I did not try. I try. I have tried.

“Do you know why they call it a repast? Seems like a word with a lot of meaning behind it. Traditional. Historical, even.”

He looks left. He looks right. He looks down. He looks around. He never looks at his son.

“I’m hungry."

That inhale-exhale was earth-shattering...

“Shut up. Just – shut your mouth. I do not want to hear you. I do not want to see you. I do not want to breathe you. I want to rid you of the half of you that is me so I can stop blaming myself for who you have become. For you are my fault – at least in part.”

He looks at me now, with a sacred disdain only used for a certain kind of hatred. Derived from a place of love. One cannot hate something as strongly as something they once loved. That thin line is through and through. I do not return his eye contact. I wanted it only a moment’s prior but it is now unnecessary. He said what he said. I heard every word, every enunciation, every syllable.

The limo slows to a stop.

“Your answer.”

He opens the door. Sunlight floods the interior, burns where he once sat. I sit there for a second, wait for the heat to evaporate my father’s scorn. The seconds become minutes as the palpability of such an emotion proves itself steady. It will not dissipate by simply being patient. It will not fold simply by my own sheer will. It will need to be destroyed, brought to its knees before ever considering an attempt at its rebirth.

But first, I must exit.

Sunlight bounces off my pearly white garb, blinds onlookers as their black skin and attire absorbs every ounce of heat it can. They starve for what already nourishes me.

I enter the facility that holds all the remaining funeral goers as they await to partake in the repast. In normal surroundings, I would question the necessity to eat food following the burial of a loved one, but funerals are selfish occasions anyway. They are for the living. The loved one is dead and gone. Sometimes for over a week of time. The grieving has begun well before we take the time to bury someone. Yet, we still gather together to celebrate a life. It is done only to be seen. We want others to know just how much we cared. How much devastation we are enduring. It is odd, in the least. It is scary, at the most. It is tradition, in the end.

Eyes find me. I have not forgotten what just transpired at the burial. I am aware of what I have done. Glares pierce my every step. I will not be alone again as long as we continue the celebration of my mother’s life. I will be a target. This I accept.

I take my place in line. A few elders motion me to the front of the line. Tradition states that the family of the deceased eat first. I listen to tradition. My plate reflects all that is black about this occasion. Chicken. Mashed potatoes and gravy. Ham. Green beans. Collard greens. Buttered roll. A plate of celebration. It was supposed to replace the sadness of the day with the small talk of the hour. Here, at the repast, I was supposed to engage my fellow mourners in conversation that either further mourned my mother, or completely forgot she died in the first place. Either way, I was supposed to slowly start putting a smile on my face. My mourning ends with this meal. That is the only reason I could come up with for me to be eating right now.

Oh, and tradition.

I take a seat one spot down from my father. This was an odd selection on my part but necessary. I stare at my plate. Everything looks delicious. If only I were hungry. Only thing I starve for is understanding. Why was I still here and mother was gone? Why was I left here to deal with my father on my own? Why was this food in my face like it was going to satisfy any level of my grief?

Anger builds in me at a steady pace. Confusion chokes my sanity. I cannot eat this. I move my food back and forth. It mixes together into a farm boy’s slop. Its aesthetic ruined.

“Anger builds in me at a steady pace. Confusion chokes my sanity. I cannot eat this. I move my food back and forth. It mixes together into a farm boy’s slop. Its aesthetic ruined."

Eyes never left me. More eyes join in. My father moves his food around as if he did not hear me. He heard me. He listened. Intently. And what he heard was worrisome. But I doubt he is worried about the proper thing.

I must not partake in this conclusion of my grief. I must not. My grief is not over. Your grief might be over. Their grief might be over. But my grief is not over. You cannot tell me to eat this.

“I must not partake in this conclusion of my grief. I must not. My grief is not over. Your grief might be over. Their grief might be over. But my grief is not over. You cannot tell me to eat this!”

I realize I am standing. I have been standing for some time now. My mind and mouth no longer singular entities.

My plate. In my hand. Launched at the wall. Its remnants splatter amongst the shock of my action. I was not shocked at my actions. Nor was I surprised at the rising stench of my father’s fury piercing my nostrils, his loathing soaked in his inability to pass me off to another person.

My mother is dead…

I am his problem now. This much is true.

____________

R. Preston Clark is an educator, screenwriter, poet and open mic host with too much to say in too many ways. Find him on Instagram & Twitter.

If No One Has Told You: You're Teeth Aren't Confetti (An Ode to Lemonade)

2016-04-26T22:46:00.000-04:00

**Author's Note: warsan shire's words featured in Beyonce's "Lemonade" are italicized.

"I whipped my own back and asked for dominion at your feet. I threw myself into a volcano. I drank the blood and drank the wine. I sat alone and begged and bent at the waist for God. I crossed myself and thought I saw the devil. I grew thickened skin on my feet, I bathed in bleach, and plugged my menses with pages from the holy book, but still inside me, coiled deep, was the need to know ... Are you cheating on me? Cheating? Are you cheating on me?"

What's black, white, and red all over?

Me.

It's 2 am. The accents of our living room are black and white. He'd told me that I could take liberty with how I adorned the place. In fact, I was told to take liberty with most decisions about "our" life. This was a clear indicator that he did not intend to be a factor, he wasn't here to stay.

But I was blind.
I was in love...lust, like...something.
I was too excited to be in a relationship.
Too ecstatic at the prospect of a prospect.
Too infatuated with an idea, instead of a person.

I was red all over.

Black and white pillows propped by back, while I wrote my latest freelance article for an outlet that sent checks with the speed of a tortoise. We needed the money, however late it might've arrived. I was making up for two incomes, a lack of stamina, the dependency his mother wove deep into his spine.

He lay on the sectional, next to me, fast asleep. He'd spent the day perusing the internet for potential positions in his field. Full stop.

I'd spent the day running curriculum, from building to building in Harlem, conversed about National Common Core Standards over martinis at the end of the day, wrote a brainstorm in my iPhone notes on the train ride home, and wrote our way into groceries and rent, until the wee hours of the morning.

I'd come home at 11 pm, and he was still asleep. The garbage was still in the bin, the dishes weren't washed, the painting I asked to be hung sat on the floor. I had finished the tasks before I headed to my computer to write.

Midnight.

I was finally writing.
I was writing a dating series about past lovers and wrongdoers.
I was pushing a pen cap through the parts of my box braids, trying to conjure a story.
I needed to make magic in this Wordpress template.

This was a difficult task because I was in a relationship. I wasn't single and roaming as the column implied. The stories were true, but they were happening in the past. I was building a time machine with my words.

I wasn't lying.
I wasn't a liar.
Someone was a liar, but it wasn't me.

1 am.

His phone rings.
I ignore it.

I keep writing.

I was writing about this military boy named Carlo I'd met during my tenure at my HBCU. He paraded the campus with a bookbag and a smile like he attended with us and not the Naval base nearby. He had Jamaica tatted down the side of his abdomen and a slight patois accent. He reminded me of home but was the furthest thing from it.

My boyfriend insisted that I take the writing job to tie up loose ends. I asked him if it bothered him that I was writing about other men, like Carlo. He said no, "You went on dates with them. That's it, for most. I think it's dope that you're getting paid to delve into your nostalgia."

I took the job.
I wrote until my fingers were numb and our fridge was full, and our love wasn't in danger because of financial instability.

I keep writing.

Carlo's name was changed before he was introduced to the world. He saw me as a "friend," someone he'd prompt, like a shuck-and-jive in front of onlookers, "Yo, read a poem for my boys. She's like a famous poet and sh-t, listen y'all."

This made for good context.
I wrote that, too.

Full fledged.
F-boy.

I reread the document and made my edits.
I ended it with something powerful, something that made it seem like the wound was closed.

His phone rung again. My ex slumbered.

1:45 am.
1:50 am.
1:55 am.
2:00 am.

He did not rise. He was a heavy sleeper. I shook him. Still, no answer.

So I answered it, "Hello? Hello? Who is this?"

"Hello, is Terrence there? This is his girlfriend."

I had no desire to wear her skin, but I understood warsan shire's metaphor dripping from Beyonce's tongue. It was sour and sweetly familiar. I'd been there.

What did she have, that I didn't?

"If it's what you truly want ... I can wear her skin over mine. Her hair over mine. Her hands as gloves. Her teeth as confetti."

"Time" was his reason.

He wore it proud, like a crown of f-ckery pressing thorns into his common sense.

"You never have time. You're never home."

& I tried to pinpoint when I'd started to go missing.

I did this same thing when a drunken, mansplaining co-worker approached me , after learning I was no longer going to get married.

"It takes two to cheat," he said, vodka and arrogance on his breath.

I'd heard this before, and in some cases there was validity to it. There was sometimes a partner in the union who'd been screaming all along, one that tried to express that the relationship wasn't headed in the direction they thought it would be.

When I tried to explain that lumps, covered in velour blankets, and Netflix could not speak, he asked me to think deeper. He told me that there was something I wasn't giving, causing my partner to cheat.

& it was time. Straight from the horses mouth.

He was right.

I spent my time trying to be loyal.

I carried our deficit on my back while pulling him to his feet and telling him continuously that he was love and light.

I told him that it was feasible for him to illuminate his way back home.

I pushed.

I pulled.

I loved him, without regret, without blame.

I made his hunt for his revolution easier.

I told him I'd find the money, while he found his way.

I was mistake.

I was not letting him be a man.

I was making lemonade.

I was making stone soup.

I was trying to amalgamate all the good we had left, hoping it would find us together.

I was black woman.

I was one day hoping that he would love me, with more of a force than a pat on the back.

"Why can't you see me? Why can't you see me? Why can't you see me? Everyone else can."

& when he was dust to dust.

A blur on the Long Island Railroad tracks, back home to his momma...

I wrote, again.

I wrote, in the present.

I wrote to heal.

I wrote to feel full & whole.

I made lemonade.
I still make lemonade.

Sometimes, with no lemons.
Sometimes, with my palm.
Sometimes, with rain water, tears, and the sweat under my bosom.
Sometimes, with my momma and lemon substitute.

My mother always scurries, when my father announces his impending arrival. She throws magic on to the stove, she makes leftovers into new dishes, she turns cocktail shrimp into gourmet. Sugar and lemon concentrate, with not enough time to go to the store. I watch her, silently, from a stool in the kitchen. It's the same stool, that I paint from. She stands behind me and with each stroke she nods. It's my mother who purchased my first briefcase of pastels, hands covered in color and grime.

"It's a mess in here, but I love your new work."

She raised me to cater and create, all at once. She taught me that I was womb and warrior.

"Grandmother, the alchemist, you spun gold out of this hard life, conjured beauty from the things left behind. Found healing where it did not live. Discovered the antidote in your own kit. Broke the curse with your own two hands. You passed these instructions down to your daughter who then passed it down to her daughter."

I have been immersed in think pieces: Some folks think that Beyonce's work is inspired by her marriage to Jay-Z, some think that she's speaking to all of us who've been hurt, others find her to be a vessel for indie and incredible artists to get to the mainstream, and some aren't here for her revolution at all.

I'm here for the healing.
I'm here for the acknowledgment.
I'm here for the anthem of my skin.
I'm here because healing sometimes takes the form of narrative.

I am living proof of this. I have friends that are also the poster-women of tribulation, lacing their articles with their hurt and hoping someone can rectify via their errors.

I'm here for any song, strum, speech, dance, heartbeat, scribe, that lifts us, that tells us it's okay to be wounded; that tells us it's okay to get angry about it.

Sometimes resonation is enough.
Sometimes it is a starting point.
Sometimes it sparks a movement.

I'm here for Lemonade because I've been there.
Magic making, without recipe.
Sour across my tongue.
Blood on the chopping board.
Citrus in the wound.
Scars and all.

Guest Fiction Series: On The Other Side, Part 10

2016-04-25T08:41:00.000-04:00

(Read all parts here.)

“Kamaria, what’s this about an all-expense paid trip to Los Angeles? Did you call them back?”

“I did. It seems legit. I’ll go by there tomorrow morning and see if everything checks out. I’ve never been to Los Angeles. I think it would be fun.”

“So you’re just going to leave the kids here alone so you can have fun?”

“They’ll be fine. Besides, they’ve wanted to spend more time with their friends. Being stuck in the house all of the time isn’t good for anyone.”

“Well, you don’t get out much. Maybe it will be good for you. The kids can spend the night with their friends while you’re gone so if I have to work late, they will be okay.”

“So I can go?”

“Of course babe. Maybe we need some time apart.”

“Wait, apart how?”

“Just a vacation, babe. We can clear our heads. We’ve been bumping heads a lot lately.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. Was he going to let me go without a fight? Was he serious?

“You’re right. Are you going to be okay without me? You haven’t cooked in years.”

“You know I love takeout. I’ll be fine. Just enjoy yourself. Did he say when you would be leaving?”

“No, he didn’t. I was under the impression that I could choose the dates, though.”

“That would be good. That would give the kids time to prepare before staying with their friends.”

“You’re right. I’ll find out tomorrow.”

I wanted to let Ahmad know that it worked. But I knew that it wasn’t a good idea to call him while Martin was in the house. So that conversation would just have to wait. Since Martin knew that I would be going to see about the tickets the next morning, I had an excuse to see Ahmad.

“Good morning beautiful.”

Ahmad was the first embrace that I felt the next morning in a nearby coffee shop.

“Good morning. I guess when you say you’ll handle something, you do just that huh?”

“ I’m a man of my word. I told you I would take care of you. I meant that Kamaria.”

“At least someone is trying to take care of me.”

“Hey, don’t do that.”

He grabbed my chin and placed a kiss upon my lips. I knew that he cared, but he was extra gentle lately, and I liked it. It had been a while since anyone had embraced me, without me expecting a blow to follow. But there he was, giving me all the attention that I hadn’t felt in years.

“Never underestimate the amount of love that you deserve. There’s that smile I haven’t seen in a while. I can’t stand to see you upset. Let me make you happy. Come to Chattanooga with me.”

“When? Martin is already okay with me taking a trip. Just tell me when.”

“What about tomorrow?”

“Woah, isn’t that a little too soon?”

“Not to me. My week is free. Come with me.”

“Okay. Let’s leave in two days. Give me time to prepare the kids.”

“That works.”

We ended the conversation, and I headed home. I was excited. I knew that things could often be too good to be true. I didn’t want to get my hopes up too soon. So I didn’t get too excited. I would just go home and pack before Martin got there.

I had a few hours before anyone would be home. I needed to pack, and I used that time wisely. I picked clothing that wouldn’t look too suspicious if Martin were to go through my bag. The last thing I needed were red flags to go off in his mind. I refused to go away with bruises. If Martin wanted to keep me from meeting anyone new, he would give me a reason to stay inside. That was his way of handling things.

But not this time. I refuse to let him ruin my vacation. I need this more than anything right now. Ahmad knew it, Martin knew it, and Amari knew it. Maria was oblivious to the whole thing. I liked it that way. I didn’t need to ruin her innocence too. Amari already carried many of my burdens. I hated that. He has such a beautiful heart, but it often caused him a lot of pain. I can no longer count on my fingers how many times he has slept in bed with me because he was worried about me. He wanted to protect his mom. I couldn’t blame him. It seemed as though I needed protection. He shouldn’t be the one protecting me, though.

When Martin got home that night, I told him that I would be leaving in two days. I told him that the sooner, the better and that the kids would be fine. He agreed, however, hesitant.

“What’s wrong?”

“I feel like you’re leaving me.”

“I’ll be back before you even have the chance to miss me.”

“I miss you already.”

What’s making him so loving now? Getting him to give me a compliment is usually like pulling teeth. They say that you don’t miss your water until your well runs dry; maybe he’s getting thirsty. He realizes that I can go out on my own. I can travel without him. All I need is a little push. I need this vacation.

“I miss you too babe.”

We spent the rest of the night watching television, enjoying each other’s company. The kids spent the night with friends, so we had the house to ourselves. We talked, we laughed. It was nice. We fell asleep in each other’s arms.

As I fall asleep in his arms, I can’t help but think about the upcoming weekend. I know that if Ahmad is as serious as he seems, this weekend will be perfect. I can imagine falling asleep with him. He’s safe; He’s secure. This marriage is not. I’ll remain in the arms of the man that has chosen to love me in ways that I would never feel again, at least I hoped not. Maybe Ahmad would be everything I ever wished him to be. Maybe love wouldn’t hurt this time.

____________________________________

Verina Wherry is a writer, poet, and aspiring author who spends her free time listening to music, shopping for incense and watching Criminal Minds reruns.

If No One Has Told You: You're Almost Thirty And That's Okay

2016-04-24T13:39:00.000-04:00

I'm aging.

This is usually said with disdain, with a complaint of a thrown back or the distance between your overpriced Brooklyn apartment and group brunch, where everyone will want to split the check based on their order.

I am aging.

I say this proudly, no longer afflicted by the notion that my younger comrades will find me boring, that I will have missed out on something, that twenty-somethings are doing something better than what I'm doing right now.

I can tell by the way my tongue curves to tell the braider that she's pulling too hard, that she better be careful with my edges. I can tell the way I've started to accept the differences between my mother's blueprint and who I'm becoming. I can tell by the way I laugh, when my grandmother calls to ask if I voted for Hillary and I tell her Bernie, and she hangs up the phone. I can tell by the men that line my inboxes, text messages, and doorstep. They've returned to claim the only real woman they've ever known and disinterest isn't enough for me to express my disgust. I can tell by the way I pull my eyelashes off in front of my man and he does not flinch. I can tell when my 5'11 body steps into heels, and I'm no longer anxious about my head grazing a low ceiling. I will own any room I'm in.

A revolution happened inside of me, on the eve of my 28th birthday, in November. I released "Of Micah and Men" in a beautiful lounge surrounded by family and friends. I went to dinner afterwards and at 11 pm my friends started to depart.

Ro had to head back to her fiance.
Blue had homework to do, her degree within grasp.
Bethany and her boyfriend went to meet up with another couple.

She grabbed my hand, outside of the restaurant, "Girl, do you want to come with us?"

I nodded no and told her I'd be fine.

My cousin rode back, with me, to the house in silence. On the way she called an ex that she hadn't seen in a while. He arrived to scoop her, shortly after we arrived.

I walked in, to the silence of my apartment, like I have on plenty of weekends. Something was different. I glanced at the clock. It was midnight, early for a birthday evening. I did not reach for my phone to complain to my momma; I didn't feel a sudden surge of sadness, that I should be doing more.

I grabbed a makeup wipe, removed the foundation from my face, and smiled all the way through. As I got ready for bed, I thought of all the things I wanted to be doing by next year at this time. I wanted to own my own educational program. I wanted to be in a foreign country, celebrating another year under the stars. I wanted it to be with a lover and confidant, someone I could depend on that knew me deeply. I was suddenly so excited about the prospect of settling down, the notion of calmness, that I wasn't sad about going to bed early.

It's April and I am looking forward to solace. I find immense joy in the laughter of my students, daydreams on my subway rides home from performances, solitude in crossing my legs with those of a man that I want forever.

This is a different kind of storm.

I am remembering a girl, in love with love, stanzas abundant.
I was angry and proud, a downpour on my pointer finger.
If you wronged me, you became a martyr for the f-boy, the double-faced friend, the lie that tells itself.

& I weathered every aspect quietly.

I held grudges, like Zeus does lightening.
I knew how to demolish hope, with the flick of a pen.
I stuffed my hurt into the leaflets of leatherbound journals.
I kept it hidden well, tucked for no one to see.

But now...

I bleed everywhere.
On this blog.
On a stage.

In my aspirations.
In the way that I strut down a Bedstuy block, with thunder thighs.
Chafed.
Intense.
Unapologetic.

I am slowly reaching the age of negated f--ks. I am open and honest. I am demanding and empathetic, all at once.

This is a different kind of storm.

One of my students could not stand me, when I started teaching his cohort. I am a no-nonsense instructor. Even though I have several fun moments in my class, I am sure to let students know that I expect them to delve into their writing, instead of throwing pencils across the room and telling jokes when they should be listening. I had to correct him several times; a reoccuring conversation that did sit well with him. But he listened. He had no choice. Backed against a wall, his mother's phone number under my thumb, I explained that I expected more from him. It's been seven months, since we met. The other day his mother passes me in the hallway, I've never met her in person, her son says she's a businesswoman and always out of town.

"Ms. Buddington?"

I smile at her, wondering who she might be, "Yes, that's me. How can I help you?"

"I know you don't know me, but you know my son Eric. I'm here to grab his reports. He admires you so much, he wants to be a writer when he grows up, now. Thank you, for all that you do."

This is a different kind of storm.

I wait for the hum. I always do. It's the moment where a relationship turns to magic, when the honeymoon is in full swing. I am the first to know. My best friend's mother calls to tell me that she's engaged. Bethany is still taking pictures and swimming in the moment. She hasn't had time to deliver the news, personally. She met John in April, he asked for her hand in June, they're engaged in November.

She finally calls, "Sometimes it just happens that fast. I love him so much. We just...knew."

I remember being twenty-five and annoyed. I'd been living with a man who took advantage of my kindness for three years and we were supposed to be married on that third year. The month we'd planned to make if official, we'd been broken up for almost three months. He called to ask about a mutual friend's wedding, "Would you be weird about me bringing someone with me? I have a plus one."

"Would I mind you bringing a new woman, not the one you cheated on me with, to a wedding on the same month we should've been wed? Sure, not at all."

For an entire year, after that moment, weddings and engagements on my timeline would make me cringe. I was twenty-seven and convinced, silly me, that I'd never make it to this place.

I listen to Bethany breathe a sigh of relief on the other end of the phone and I don't cringe. I am happy for her. We are nearing the big three-o and she deserves this. She's been through so much. I send her my love. She puts John on the phone and I tell him congratulations, too.

He laughs, "I wanted to tell you, when we were there for the release, but I couldn't get a moment alone with you!"

I laugh too.

This is a different kind of storm.

He shows up out of nowhere. We kind of know one another, from a distance. We met at a Troy Davis panel years ago; both passionate about injustice, youth development, black boys/men.

It is only such dedication, such fire, that could bring us back together again.

I am baffled, when he stands firm in my presence. I am not sure if I know how to do this anymore. How does a relationship sound? What does it feel like, again? Does it glimmer, as the Thursday sun rouses him awake for work? Does it tell his momma about you? Does it say that you remind him of of an old teacher, one of the most influential folks in his life? Does it feel like a crack in your chest, when he leaves? Is it supposed to be this early? Is it this soon? Is it swallowing three words, because society tells you that if you utter them he might leave?

He frightens me and excites me, all at once.

He doesn't read my work, unless I prompt him to. He won't see this.

But he is a different kind of storm.
& so are my students.
& my friends.

We are all evolving.
I am almost thirty and I am turning into someone I recognize.
I have been trying to be her, all along.

Guest Fiction Series: On The Other Side, Part 9

2016-04-21T08:45:00.000-04:00

(Read all parts here.)

It was almost impossible to wake up the next morning. The aspirin that I took made me sleep longer than usual. When I woke up, the sun was shining through the blinds and onto the dresser mirror. I rolled over to see food on a tray beside me. The eggs and grits were cold.

What time is it?

The clock read 12:54.

Martin left for work at eight o’clock.

How could I have possibly slept that long? Maybe that wasn’t an aspirin that I took. This is crazy.

I knew that Martin had gone to work, so I was in no hurry to get out of bed. The bath last night helped alleviate some of the soreness that I would normally feel the next day. The last time he hit me, I stayed in the house for days. I couldn’t let that happen again. Instead of sulking in my despair, I made a trip into town. I knew that my face was bound to have some significant bruising, but I needed to go.

My wardrobe choice was leggings, a tank, sneakers, and sunglasses. There was no reason for me to look as horribly as I felt.

It was 2 o’clock when I left the house. I had no idea where I was headed, but I knew I had to go somewhere. A drive would help to ease my mind, calm my thoughts, and give me some much-needed relaxation. My Audi was like a second home to me. Whenever I needed to clear my head, I would drive, to the nearest quiet spot I could find. I would often drive into the rural areas at night so that I could watch the stars. I could never see the stars in the city. It was too early for that, so I drove around instead. After driving for about an hour, I drove to the nearest park that usually had the fewest amount of people.

I needed to run. Running gave me stability. It made me feel grounded. At that moment, stability was what I needed. The feel of the earth beneath my feet and the wind blowing in my hair took my mind off my reality. As I ran, I noticed the children on the playground.

I remember when my children were that age. I remember when I was that age when things were much simpler. There was no pain, only joy. Oh, the joys of being a child.

Being so focused on the children, I accidently ran into another runner. I landed on my butt.

“Are you okay miss?”

“I’m fine.”

He reached down to grab my hand, and the hand felt familiar. I was too embarrassed to look up, so I didn’t, until…

“Kamaria?”

Glancing upwards, I would know those eyes anywhere. It was Ahmad. I ran into Ahmad.

“Hi, Ahmad.”

He helped me onto my feet.

“I’m starting to think that you’re on a mission to rescue me. I can’t count how many times you’ve saved me from my reality, and even my nightmares. What are you doing here?”

“I run here a lot. It’s a way for me to clear my mind. It’s relaxing. I haven’t been up here in a few weeks, though. I’ve been busy.But the one day that I choose to come and run, you’re here. I don’t believe in coincidences. Have you been here before?”

“Not particularly. I usually just go to the gym. But I needed to be in nature today.”

“Want to finish this lap, and then sit down and talk?”

“That’s fine with me.”

We took one more lap around the track in unison. I’d never had a running partner before. It was different, but I liked it. I liked the idea of knowing that no matter how slow or fast I ran, he would be right there with me.

We sat down on a bench near the entrance of the park, and he stared at me.

“Why are you staring at me?”

“You look so beautiful. Why do you have on sunglasses? Can I see your eyes?”

I winced at the thought. But I didn’t move, as he removed my glasses from my eyes.

“What happened?”

He touched the side of my eye that I’m sure looked worse than it felt.

“It’s nothing. I hit it on the side of the counter while I was bending to pick up something I dropped. As you’ve witnessed before, I tend to be quite clumsy.”

“This looks like more than just an accident, Kamaria. Are you sure there isn’t something you want to share with me?”

“We’ve only known each other a few weeks, Ahmad. There’s no need for me to burden you with my problems.”

“So you’re admitting that there is a problem?”

“Maybe a small one.But I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. I always come out on top. I’ve been here before. I just needed to get away and clear my head.”

“Well, why don’t you let me take care of you. I can help you get away. I have a cabin in Chattanooga. We can take a trip and maybe it will help to take your mind off of some things.”

“How would I ever go away for a few days without raising a red flag with my husband?”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll handle it. Just be ready.”

“Okay, I’m taking your word for it. But keep me updated on the plans. I don’t want to be completely out of the loop. Plus, the kids will be worried.”

“No one will have to worry. Just trust me. Send me your house number in a text message. I have an idea. ”

“Okay Mr. Jenkins, I think I can handle that.”

“Good, now let’s get you home.”

After leaving his presence, I felt the urge to talk to him, so I called. He stayed on the phone with me the entire ride home. We ended with the understanding that he would contact me about the trip plans. Ahmad was a great listener. I couldn’t say a lot while we were together. Being vulnerable with Ahmad was not something that I needed to do at the moment. It couldn’t possibly be a good thing. But I knew one thing, That wouldn’t be the last time we talked. I would open up to him more. Something about him made me want to be open and honest. Maybe this trip to Chattanooga would be a good thing, after all. We would just have to see.

When I got home, it was 4 o’clock. The kids hadn’t made it home yet, and there was no sign that Martin had been home. There were a few missed calls on the caller ID with one unheard message on the answering machine. I wondered who it was. No one ever called the house phone.

Hi, I am looking for a Mrs. Kamaria Smith. She has won an all-expense paid trip to a retreat in Los Angeles. This is specifically for Kamaria Smith. She must come and redeem her plane ticket by tomorrow at noon. Please give me a call back at 404-555-2341 before 6pm today. My name is James, and my extension is 43561. Have a blessed day.

This must have been his plan. I knew Ahmad’s voice anywhere. It was heavy. I found comfort in that voice. I was sure not to delete the message. I knew that If there were any chance of this working, Martin would have to hear the message for himself. He would have to speak with someone. There’s no way he would believe it, coming from me. I sent Ahmad a text, thanking him for his time and telling him that I hoped his plan worked. I did need the getaway. I haven’t been anywhere without Martin since the first year of our marriage. I needed it more than anything. If nothing else, at least I could get to know Ahmad a little better.

____________________________________

Verina Wherry is a writer, poet, and aspiring author who spends her free time listening to music, shopping for incense and watching Criminal Minds reruns.

Fiction Series: Free Verse: Part 11

2016-03-29T12:26:00.000-04:00

I spent the morning pacing; in the clusterfuck, I called an apartment. I’d never been cognizant of its small size, until now. The box, filled with my father’s words, filled with Damali’s intentions, sat amongst all things I was familiar with: the side table, the laptop, the flat screen television, the cable modem. It stuck out, like a weed, in a garden of things that made me feel at home.

It called my name. First, it was a whisper, as I shook myself out of bed groggy and tired. Saturday morning ran rampant through my thoughts. Malaki wanted to place me on a shelf; somewhere everyone could see his prize. He gave off an air of superficiality but cared just enough for me to ignore it. Damali was down to earth and genuine; characteristics I waited to arise in Malaki but still couldn’t see.

I wonder if Damali felt more real to me, because of his connection to my past. Every time something of Brooklyn triggered my tragedy, I now thought of where Damali was at that moment. Was he immersed in youth development? Was he at a picnic table writing? Did he hear the collision from his window? Was there a cracking sound or shiver of his spine, when he got the call?

Finding out that he’d known and cared for my father, so immensely, forged a closeness to him. I was feeling a fire that needed dousing, something that would consume me if I lingered on it for too long. It was this feeling that pushed my feet towards the box; that helped my hands pull open the flaps and grab the first journal I could see.

My name was on the first page.

“Dear Jai,

I am hoping that you’ll stumble on these words. I will leave them for you, but I don’t know if you’ll ever forgive me. When you’re consumed with guilt, when you realize that there are things that you cannot protect your only child from, you break. I said all the wrong things. I uttered words that I’d heard the women of my family tell the younger girls who were free but often misconstrued. Once the words left my lips, I knew it’d take a while for you to forgive me. I knew you wouldn’t be able to speak to me for a while. But never did I think you’d leave this way. You haven’t called. Your dorm director says you’re always out performing. I’m excited that you’re still writing. I hope you’re finding salvation in the words. I’m sorry that we couldn’t be your salvation. We took something from you, but we were trying to give you something in return: your childhood. I hope…"

The sound of my cell phone interrupted my reading. It was Damali. His voice sounded rushed and upset, “Can you talk?”

I put the journal down, “Yea. What’s going on?”

“My brother is home.”

Damali hadn’t said much about his brother. He said he’d left home when he got older to live with a woman. His book had prose about him, and you could tell he admired him, as younger brothers usually do.

“Okay. Isn’t that great?”

“He’s home from jail. I haven’t seen him in years. Mom just called to say he walked through the door. We didn’t know he was getting out. We haven’t kept tabs on him. We were so ashamed…”

I cut Damali off. I thought of my parents, of my father, and what I’d do if I had the chance to see them again, “It doesn’t matter what he did, Damali. You should go. Don’t let guilt ruin something good. The man who went in could be someone else entirely.”

Damali sighed, “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

He sat silently on the phone for minutes. I let him process his thoughts, while I paced my home, eyeing the box filled with journals. How many words, in that box, were for me?

“Will you come with me, Jai?”

“To see your brother?”

“Yes. I know we just met again, and I know it’s sudden, but my mother wants me to come over for dinner tonight.”

I thought of the storage space, Damali’s story, the way in which my father loved him and I answered, “Yes. Absolutely.”

It was 8 pm when Damali arrived for me. We drove through Brooklyn in silence, taking in its new shape and sound. Gals without melanin walked hand in hand in bars that’d sprouted from the ground suddenly. Our faces cringed, everytime we passed a place we did not recognize. The new structures were dandelions; aesthetically pleasing, but clearly out of place waiting to be blown away with the next trend.

We pulled up into the parking lot of the housing projects, on the other side of Fort Greene Park. My father’s community center was nearby, but I was never allowed to visit. I tried to envision a younger Damali, looking up at my tall father, conversing nearby. Damali got out of the car and let me out, too. He grabbed my hand, sending a chill through my body, “Are you ready?”

I smiled at him, “Are you ready?”

He nodded. We walked inside the building. The insides were always the same: plastered in a dull blue, the color of dreams forgotten, linoleum floors, an elevator that still worked but creaked all the while. It was as if someone planned to design something spectacular, a metropolis for those who could not afford more open spaces, and gave up on the design halfway through.

We took the elevator to the eighth floor and walked down a hallway, its light flickering. Damali grabbed my hand tighter. His breathing quickened, and I squeezed back, trying to comfort him without words. He took the key out of his pocket, clearly having done this a million times, but still nervously shaking.

“They should be home. When I called earlier, mom said Benny would be back in a few minutes. He was making his rounds, seeing folks he hasn’t seen in a while.”

I nodded and placed my hand over his while he finally turned the key. We stepped into the apartment, the living room almost barren except for a television and a sofa in the center. His mother lay on one end, barely looking up to say hello.

& suddenly I couldn’t breathe either.

The walls were fading.

& I could smell sweat and the sun.

It was as if sand filled my mouth, as Damali trying to welcome me inside.

There was salt on my tongue.

& then the man on the other end of the sofa spoke and extended his hand, “I’m Benny...I mean Benjamin. Damali’s older brother.”

He needed no introduction. Before his hand met mine, I was ascending the stairs of the building, clutching my chest.

Everything felt like sand. I was heavy, and I could feel myself eroding. My feet finally hit the floor of the lobby, and I fell into a corner, crashing like a wave against the shore.

Rewriting History

2016-03-26T17:50:00.002-04:00

I'm sitting on the Brooklyn promenade with a fiery brown Brooklyn boy, and I don't think he can fathom what this moment means to me.

We hang our legs over stone steps, carved to meet the river that connects the boroughs.

He says, in his ripple-like voice, water lapping nearby, "These steps have been here longer than the gentrification. I used to come out here to think."

I am afraid to tell him that I did the same thing.

If you ask my best friends, how I love, they will tell you: with words, heart, hard, and somewhere near the Brooklyn Bridge.

From walks with my mother after bookstore visits in the city, to that Brown Sugar moment that Boris lands a kiss on Sanaa's lips, to scribing to the skyline, the promenade has always been my oasis. It was where I lay my burdens down, gave them to the bright blue sky. It's a place I've allowed very few to infiltrate, with me. I kept it safe, only mentioning it in my work and to my girlfriends.

You'd think that if you loved me you'd read my work.

It's been the safest place to keep my secrets.
That should tell you all you need to know, about my love life.

Once, my ex-boyfriend asked my best friend for the perfect date idea. She spit it out, right away, without thinking, "You've got to take Erica to the promenade. She loves that place. It's where she goes to hide and write."

She told me, months after our breakup, that he thought this was too predictable and chose not to go along with it.

& now someone is pervading my space.
Or perhaps I'm doing the same to him.
New York City twinkles across the way.
& I'm recollecting all that correlates with this view.
Hurt.
Pain.
Anger.
Release.

But I could feel none of it.

We'd laughed at a poetry reading, ate Mexican and spotted Busta Rhymes, and stared at one another now and then, both thinking the same thing: When are we going to kiss?

When I asked if he was ready to go, he said he wanted to do one more thing. He led the way to the promenade and all the while I wrung my hands in anticipation, because...this is the first time I'd be there with someone that could be special.

& I tried to conjure the hurt that I usually give to the water, allowing it to float away, but I could feel none.

I was happy.
& it would take a time machine,
the echo of a past lover,
a sighting there--in that space,
God triggering a memory,
for me to me hurt, there, again.

At that moment, all I could see was--night,
glimmer,
fiery brown,
Brooklyn boy,
with intellect abundant,
a crooked smile,
and similarities in our banter.

Good things.

I was rewriting history.

& it wasn't the first time.

Up until last year, I couldn't drive through or past Philadelphia, without crying.

I'd grip my wheel tighter, passing the I-95 exit, and force myself to look in another direction. There was a rage that I don't dare mention in posts anymore, but the best part about it is that it's gone.

In 2015, I walked the city with co-workers during a work retreat. We scarfed down cheesesteaks, trying to decide which restaurant had the best one. I walked past familiar sites, ones that used to sting upon mention, but I was on cloud nine. I was at the top of my game, excelling in my career, immersed in the hum of a good time.

I was rewriting history.

Today, Tara and I went jogging in Eisenhower Park. We turned into an exit, and instantly something clouded her eyes, "I've been here before. It was for my ex's graduation barbecue." I know the ex she's referring to. He's the kind of man we whisper about, like Voldemort, his name leaves cringe and suffering everywhere.

"Oh, him."

She pulls into the parking lot, "Yeah, him."

We spend the day on a nature trail she's never walked before. We take in the 9-11 memorial, stretch at all the fitness stops, and laugh at the plethora of geese shit on the concrete.

She Snapchats our adventure and laughs as I fail to do pull-ups, on a pull-up bar, "We've got to do this again."

I recognize the smile on her face, as she says this. It's one I wore, only a few nights before.

She's rewriting history.

_______________________________________

I could relive my past through my pages.

My shelves are filled with burning questions, unanswered affairs, the scrawl of a girl enamored.

& sometimes I do.

I'll sit in my office, hardwood floors beneath me, tattered and colorful notebooks surrounding me. My words will fill the room; they're in different languages: the language of a fourteen-year-old in love with her best friend, the sound of an eighteen-year-old that merely escaped harassment, the laughter of twenty-one-year-old independence.

These women/girls, variations of myself, are necessary for me to scribe. Sometimes I need to tap into them, to describe a moment or use certain vernacular. They are all prison to smell, a song, a place, a vivid metaphor.

& even without opening the books, I was once able to conjure them by walking into those spaces:

A bedroom:

"You will slip outside of yourself. Third person. Your body is not you. You are a soul that's drifted from your casing and even though you're outside watching and horrified, this is not happening to YOU. Convince yourself this, because it's all that you have left."

An ex's living room:

"On one of the nights that we lay awake talking, he brings this up, out of nowhere and everywhere, "I'm afraid to have daughters that look like us. I don't want them to go through what my mother and aunts went through. I think things will be different for my children if they look different."

On the steps of my alma mater:

"He said something that I’d be hearing for the first time, but I’d be hearing again and again.

He sounded like a prospective broken record:

You’re a unicorn,
got bells and whistles that I ain’t used to
too good---errra, errra,
too smart---erra, erra,
not ready for something serious,
even though you never asked for that
only respect—but I wasn’t brave enough to give you that."

On phone conversations:

"You don’t believe in beating your children. You don’t believe in abusing women. I’m confounded by your stances. How can a revolving door, a man cloaked in mistakes, believe in anything but himself? You talk about homeschooling. You wonder if they’d be better off outside of a public classroom, among students who've been sheltered and covered. I wonder if you know you are a home school, a role model, in front of an audience every day. You’re a professor of faux pas. You tell one woman you’re celibate, another that you’re looking for something special, a mother that you’re not sure what you want right now, but it can “progress.” You draw chalk lines around black-bored bodies. You teach anatomy like Basquiat, pull parts from lovers and display them on a canvass, which happens to be your skin."

_______________________________________________

As I get older, my bedroom recollections are the rustle of boxes and laundry bags. It's painted over with the memory of leaving to move into my apartment, for the first time. My alma mater glows with professors who often ask me to come back and "little brothers/sisters" who ask me to come back and "chill." The ringtone that used to send a jolt through my body is simply a tune that I once knew and my students hum as a throwback, occasionally.

None of the spaces, memories, words resound the same. The reverberations are replaced with other things, good things, illuminating things, as I glow up.

We are always rewriting history.

& I take in the night,

glimmer,
fiery brown,
Brooklyn boy,
with intellect abundant,
a crooked smile,
girl--woman,

who grows,

whose journals no longer define her.

Good things.

I am rewriting history.

It's a realization that comes to me as I'm sitting on the edge of Brooklyn, trying to pinpoint the last time I'd felt happiness there.

The river pushes itself on the rocks below our feet, and it's saying something, "Right now. Right now. Right goddamn now."

Guest Fiction Series: I Used To Love Her, Part 7

2016-03-14T16:36:00.000-04:00

_______________________________

To catch up on all parts click here.

How could I not have guessed? Chase had JUST told me about his opening the last time we spoke (click here for the tea). I'd spent the last few weeks trying to forget this man; now here I am at his event!

I quickly weighed my escape options. Chase had a clear view of the door from where he stood, and Hasaan hadn't taken his eyes off of me once. There was no way I'd be able to slip out unnoticed; I'd have to bear it, just long enough for people to disperse and both of them to get distracted. I slowly moved back, allowing other guests to gather in front of me, hoping to hide from his view.

How did I get myself into this?

Out of all the galleries, Hasaan chose to showcase here!?

Hold on. How did he end up here?

Just as I began to move on and put Chase out of my head, he pops back into my life. I knew that I shouldn't have come -- I should have listened to my first mind and spent my Friday evening at home with a glass of red and Ms. Nina Simone. Or at the least dragged Amali along.

What are the odds that I'd run into the snarky-guy from the restaurant at Chase's grand opening... and HE'S the featured artist? It was too weird to wrap my head around.

Chase began to wrap up his speech, and I knew that my window was near. I edged past the onlookers, eager to congratulate the director/artist, and made my way towards the door. I breathed a sigh of relief as my hand pushed open the glass --

"Chloe!?"

Not so fast...

He'd seen me.

OK, no time for games, no time for nerves. Face him, slay and get out of here.

"Hey.. great space, the gallery is lovely," I said as I turned around. Chase smiled. I braced myself for the rush of emotion I'd learned to expect whenever our paths crossed. I breathed in deeply, hoping to calm my heart which I knew would be all but bursting out of my chest in 3, 2....

And then, I came to the most bizarre realization; there was nothing. I felt nothing.

Chase began to walk towards me, eyes shinning like the sun, a grin spread wide across his face. He looked different than before. I tried to place my finger on what was so strikingly different about him as he pulled me in for a closer than wanted embrace.

"I didn't think you'd come after. I mean. Well, I'm really happy to see you." He reached for my hand holding it briefly before letting it drop.

"Well, honestly I didn't know that I would. The station is covering the event, so..." I paused. I looked over to see Hasaan making his way toward where we stood. He moved confident and curious... he actually looked amused.

What the hell is going on?

"How did you find your artist?"

I couldn't beat around the bush, and this was far too ironic for me to brush off as a mere coincidence.

"He's dope right? I just asked around, I wanted someone who was fairly new; wanted to bring something fresh to the art community. You know that's my angle, giving new artists the chance to get their stuff seen. Listen Chlo,.."

Our conversation was interrupted by a guest asking for pricing on one of the pieces.

His eyes pleaded, begging for more time.

"Work the room Chase. Congrats again, this is amazing, " I reassured him. I had to admit; I was proud of him. Seeing him in his element gave me a new appreciation for my... old friend. I motioned for him to go ahead when he grabbed my hand -- again.

"Wait for me."

He turned to address his guests when it hit me:

He wasn't wearing a ring.

I got out of there as fast as I could. I didn't have time to fall down the rabbit hole of "where the hell is his ring -- hold up he's still single." I JUST and I mean just got centered with myself, just got that old vibe back, I can't afford to relapse!

Like really.

Hasaan caught up with me halfway to my car. "You were going to leave without saying goodbye?"

I laughed "What are you doing leaving your own event?"

"Stopping you! You can't leave yet.”

“I’m so sorry, something came up,” I explained, “But I would like to talk more about tonight and your work. I'd like to pick you brain a little more for the story.” I opened my clutch & grabbed a card to hand him.

“Call me and let me know what your schedule is like for the next couple of days. We can meet and talk more.”

“Are you always so professional Ms. Chloe?” he asked.

“I try to be,” I answered. I couldn’t fight the unexpected smile I felt plastered on my face.

"Well, would you mind if I used the number on this card for more personal reasons? You know once we wrap up business."

He was cute, talented, and clearly went after what he wanted. I caved... but I wouldn't let him know that just yet.

There I go.. butterflies and batting eyelashes; OK I wasn't that bad, but still...

I shrugged, "Call me. Have a good night Hasaan."

I got into my car still reeling from the evenings events.

Where. Was. The. Ring????

Let's try to digest this. Chase didn't seem to have any inside knowledge of Hasaan... which was a relief. Maybe this was just coincidence. Hasaan seemed interesting; I had to admit I was looking forward to meeting with him, and yes for reasons that had nothing to do with journalism. Yeah I know, I know. But why not? Plus, he looked at me in a way that no one had in a long time.

Like he sought me out and wanted to pull me in.

I dialed Amali. No answer.

That night I found myself thinking about Chase even though I tried my hardest not to. I contemplated calling to see how the event ended (since I had run out like my Audi would turn into a pumpkin at the strike of midnight).

I didn't.

Mostly because I figured Chase would reach out. Wishful thinking.

He didn't... that night.

The next morning I awoke to the ringer of my phone blaring in my ear. I couldn't wait to tell Amali what had happened, but I quickly realized that I'd have to because...

It was him.

I couldn't believe she came.

After everything that happened, I wrote it off as too little too late. Even when I ended things with Jessica, I couldn't bring myself to reach out. Chloe made it clear that there was no possibility of us.

There she was, standing in my gallery, looking more beautiful than my memory gave credit for.

She managed to slip out before I could say more than "Thanks for coming"; typical Chloe.

It might have been the fact that for the first time since I'd run into her that I was able to look at her through the eyes of a single man; it may have been the way the chiffon hugged her body perfectly, hitting every curve just right.

Maybe it was because every woman I'd come across after her had only reminded me of how much I missed her; how much I loved her.

I don't know what it is about her, and that's the thing.

It's just her. It has only been her. Always

I tapped the green icon and prepared myself to be sent to voicemail.

"Chase?" she answered.

___________________________

Angelica is a creator/writer living & loving in Atlanta, GA.

Guest Fiction Series: On The Other Side, Part 8

2016-03-13T08:42:00.001-04:00

I couldn’t remember the last time I had been out when Martin got home and I was sure that it angered him to no end. As I walked into the house, I braced myself for what was bound to be an argument. I knew that Martin would give me a hard time. I needed to make sure that the kids were okay. The house was darker than usual, and there was no sign of the kids anywhere. It was only 5:45 and they weren’t asleep. By the time I made it into the living room, my anxiety had reared its ugly head.

Martin must be in the bedroom.

I went into the kitchen to put up the groceries. Ahmad made it his business to purchase the ingredients needed for the orange dessert that he wanted me to try. As I put the cold items into the refrigerator, I heard a clink. Turning around, I noticed Martin standing at the bar with a glass of whisky in his hand. He sat the glass down on the counter and walked over to me at a pace that would give anyone pause.

“Hi, honey. You wouldn’t believe the crowd at the store. You would think that a holiday was coming up by the length of the lines. It took forever to get the few items that I needed.”

“What store?”

“Publix”

“I drove by there on the way home, and it didn’t appear to be crowded.”

“Well, I doubt that you passed it while I was there. What time was it?”

“Kamaria, don’t get smart with me. I know you’re lying.”

“You just saw me walk into the house with bags from Publix. Why wouldn’t you believe me?”

“Because you’re a liar.”

I slammed the door on the fridge and walked to the bedroom. I did not want to have that conversation with him.

Does he want to talk to me about liars? I can’t believe this. I should have known that he would make a big deal about this. I can’t go through this right now. I just have to find a way to calm him down.

When I checked the kids room, Amari was lying on the bed, listening to his music with headphones and Maria was taking a nap. I didn’t want them to hear what was happening. Martin followed me into the bedroom.

“Now what is this about me being a liar?”

“Keep on getting smart with me Mari. I promise you will regret it.”

“Okay, Martin. I’m done. I just don’t like the fact that you don’t believe me. I only went to pick up a few things to try a new dessert recipe. I thought I would be able to surprise you tonight, but you’re the one full of surprises.”

“I’ll show you surprises.”

Not again. There’s that look in his eyes. The bruises were finally starting to fade. He always did this. He never let too long go by without a reminder to stay in my place. I still have the scar from the time he mistook my arm for a turkey and sliced it. Maybe if I think about something else his punches won’t hurt as bad. He’s getting closer to me, and all I can think about is my father. He was always there to protect me. The one time that I need him the most, he’s not here. It hurts. My heart hurts. My ribs hurt. I’ve felt pressure like this before. This moment brings back memories of the moment I told my ex-boyfriend, Jonathan that I was pregnant. He thought that if he could cause me to miscarry things would be okay. It took a month for that bruise to disappear. Hopefully, this one won’t last long. I can’t look at Martin. I can’t.

I turned my head so that maybe, just maybe he wouldn’t bruise my face. I couldn’t risk any more damage to my face. There was no way I’d be able to hide that from Amari again, and I was sure that Ahmad would notice.

His breathing calmed and the veins in his neck minimized. I guessed it was over. I heard him walk away and water running in the bathroom, shortly after. As I lie on the bed almost in a comatose state, he came and picked me up. The next thing I felt was warm water hitting my body. I must have seemed out of it for him to run me a bath. It was hot enough to bring me back to reality. Then came the uncontrollable sobs. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t fathom the idea of looking at myself in the mirror, so I sat there with my eyes closed, sobbing, hugging myself in a way that seemed as though I was trying to hold myself together. If I didn’t keep it together, who would?

Martin washed my face. He washed my back, my shoulders, kissed me on the forehead and whispered “I’m sorry” in my ear. I still couldn’t look at him. I started to vomit. Martin grabbed the trashcan. I cried, I gagged and cried some more. He kissed me, he held me. He dried me off, draped my favorite red night gown over my sore body, and tucked me into bed after giving me an aspirin and a glass of water to drink.

How could someone so violent, be so comforting?

I needed to be held. I needed to know that I wouldn’t fall apart. I guess he knew this because after he had spent thirty minutes in the shower, I felt his arm around my waist. I didn’t want to speak to him. He didn’t make me. He slept, I cried.

This can’t be life.

____________________________________

Verina Wherry is a writer, poet, and aspiring author who spends her free time listening to music, shopping for incense, and watching Criminal Minds reruns.

If No One Has Told You: You Don't Have to Stay

2016-03-04T16:13:00.000-05:00

The last vivid memory of my ex, that I have, was his hand clutching the leather handles of a duffle bag and walking out of our apartment. I think my mind has memorialized it this way, because he put a picture up of the bag, on the top of yellow subway platform lines, on his Instagram. The caption read, "Traveling."

The truth?

He was headed back to his mother's house. We'd decided that it was best for him to leave our place while we worked on our relationship.

I mean, I decided.

That day, I lived my life per usual: I went to work, wrote at a nearby cafe, visited Barnes & Noble, hit Midtown Comics. These visits are not out of the norm. Going to all of them, in one day, was out of the norm. It was 11 pm, on a Wednesday, when I realized that I was avoiding going home.

This is normal, considering I'd just suffered a separation via my long-term boyfriend that same morning. We'd moved into that place together, chosen the color for our walls, and created a Pinterest board to inspire the decorations.

We were corny as hell, but we were madly in love.
Why wouldn't I be afraid of the silence, of going home to nothing?
It made sense.
I'd been greeted by him, for 1,095 days in a row.
Hell yeah, I had the right to be nervous.

I opened the door, to our, I mean my, two-bedroom apartment and dropped my things. It was midnight; technically the next day. I said this out loud, "You kind of survived a day. You can survive one-thousand more."

I sat on my sofa and took a long deep breath. I waited for the sadness to come. I timed the tears and braced myself for a full-out meltdown.

It did not come.

Instead, my eyes roamed the room taking in items that I hadn't used in years: my camera, my paintbrushes, my unfinished manuscripts.

I'd spent my days catering to the man that I loved. I made sure dinner was prepared, by the time he got home, I got his clothes together, I helped him with his aspirations. He was a cheerleader for my own, but he didn't do nearly as much for me. I did not notice this, until several months after our breakup. I did not fathom that I might've wasted my energy until it came back tenfold.

I was free. I realized I could use the rest of the week to paint, take pictures, write to my heart's content, to live. Instead of crying, I spent the entire evening in front of canvass with Thelonius playing in the background. It was bliss.

This wasn't the first time I had this realization. I had moments when I went away to writing conferences, for business meetings, to see family and friends. I felt free then too. I convinced myself that it was just from the pressures of everyday life and I loved my significant other.

I did love him.
I did.
I'd just fallen out of love with him, without realizing.
I was tolerating him.
& I'm sure, if he were still in love with me, he could feel this.
Thus, plummeting into the spiral of f-boy crap he had pulled before we decided to call it half-quits.

This is how I feel about Brooklyn, about New York City.

I did love it here.
I did.
I'd just fallen out of love with it, without realizing.
I'm tolerating it.
& I'm sure, if Brooklyn wanted my love, I would feel it.

I spent my summers on these blocks, particularly East Flatbush, soaking up the sun, block parties, and the smog of Jerk Chicken grills. Brooklyn was culture heavy, my Caribbean family nearby, hella beautiful boys, and girls with more flavor than a spice rack. I was going to own a home here, raise my babies in a brownstone, fall in love with a brown man who mirrored my drive.

& then I realized that living here was all about drive.
& the brown man I'd found needed to be restarted, every once in a while.
I had to ignite him, not in the way that I imagined through passion and adoration.
I was igniting his ability to think outside of the box, to tear everyone else's blueprint and make one of his own.

I worked twelve to fifteen hour days.
I blogged and freelanced, like crazy.
I saw less of my family and more of "those events," that the whos-who goes to.

I watched the culture heavy place I spent my summers in evolve. We curated those native to this area, showcased our nostalgia of the borough in blown up photographs in cafes, spit poems about how we wanted it back, to diverse crowds, most who could barely afford to live here anymore.

& I could not breathe.

I walked into spaces, that felt like home as a child.
& I felt like a stranger.

Fingers were clicking against keyboards, entrepreneur's hands shook those of trust fund babies, who sometimes were one and the same, everyone had a specialty coffee they whispered to the barista.

& no one ever wanted it:
black,
black,
black.

& so I'd run.
I booked a ticket to Maryland, Virginia, or somewhere else every weekend.
I loved Brooklyn.
It was where everyone wanted to be.
I just...I just....needed a break.

Brooklyn had turned into my ex: a good looking, almost-got-it-together, f-boy. I caught glimpses of our love, as I turned corners and watched the children play before the streetlights went out, in the moldings of the buildings, in the stories of my students.

I'd lose sight of it; once I was reminded of the rat race it took to stay here and the amount of work it took to keep us together. Love isn't enough. Nostalgia cannot help me hold it together.

I'm not so sure if a break is all I need anymore.

& that vivid memory of a duffle bag, clutched by hand, runs through my mind often these days.

Except, the hand is my own.

Novella: Lucea: Pt. 1

2016-02-16T22:27:00.000-05:00

I’m sweet on pretty boys.

I’m still trying to decide if it runs in the family or if clichés ring true. They say women attract men that remind them of their fathers. My dad has piercing eyes, blue like the bay he splashed in as a child, behind his one room cerulean house. I wonder if my grandmother drowned in the oceans that my father inherited from his own. My grandfather swam to Lucea, with a jeweler's dream and those very same eyes and it was all he needed to curse the women of my family, forever.

We don’t speak about the lie: The lie that consumed us and spat us out. The lie that probably had our ancestors rolling around in their Old Havana and Hanover graves. We died on red soil, amongst sugar cane, and in the sand; products of a plantation that traded between the coast of Cuba and Jamaica. They say if you stand on the highest hill, in Lucea, you can see the shores of other islands. None of my family has ever made it to the top of that hill. Our truth probably sits under an unturned stone, there, awaiting us.

I say this jokingly, to my grandmother, Louise, after my first introduction to the lie. Grandma Louise is tall and stout, over six-feet, and she’s looming over me as she speaks, “Shut your mouth! You don’t know anything about anything. Piglet don’t worry, you’ll come, you’ll see.” Grandma Louise calls me piglet when I’ve annoyed her. She’s reminded by the abundance of toys and love that surround me. I’m far more blessed than my forefathers, and she’s dedicated to telling me.

The lie follows us all to America. It divides us, even when we are together. We sit in church pews and family gatherings and ignore it. Grandma Louise, Grandaunt Lorna, and Grandaunt Doris keep it under their feet, they stomp it during hallelujahs and bring it to the pastor during prayer call. They sprinkle holy water on it, as it bounces from corner to corner in any house we’ve acquired.

We whisper about the lie in backrooms, during functions. The cousin crew tells bits and pieces of things we’ve heard and the older ones that know refuse to speak. Big Mike, dubbed that since the birth of his son Little Mike, says if we continue to talk about it, it will fester our generation too.

I think Big Mike doesn’t like talking about it because it would reveal how he came to be. I move our chatter to different rooms trying to exclude him. During baby showers, we hang in Auntie Marlene’s back guest room. On Christmas, we find ourselves in Uncle Benny’s basement. Eventually, Big Mike becomes too concerned to find out where we’ve decided to discuss the lie. He’s got two children to chase and a wife that doesn’t like him out of her sight.

I wouldn’t want him out of my sight, either. He drinks like a fish, trying to gulp his history, trying to eradicate his origin. The Heineken is heavy on his breath, whenever he arrives at the party, “Where the cousins at? Youth! Where y’all at?”

We disperse quickly; we act as if we haven’t been discussing the lie. He looks right at me, when he opens the closed door. He knows I’m the ringleader. I’ve been trying to piece together the lie, all of my life.

“What y’all doing?” he asks.

“Nothing.”

He looks around the room, watching us twiddle our thumbs and glance anything but him. He hisses his teeth, and while closing the door, he belts out in patois, “You too lie.”

1955-1956

Open wound and salt water don’t mix.

Louise’s mother, Esther, knew this when she told her to go and wash off behind the house. Louise complied, walking to the bucket of fresh water they kept in the back to clean up things when the faucet wasn’t working. Esther ran across the yard, snatched her hand from the bucket, and pointed to the ocean.

“Get clean. Don’t miss one rahtid spot. I still need you to carry the food down to the workers.”

Louise pulled her sore feet through the sand, her calves red and bruised, and prayed she didn’t miscarry. The only thing worse than being beaten half to death by her mother and aunt was losing her baby. The water stung. Her lips split, and her shoulders had small cuts, but it could’ve been much worse. Uncle Martin walked in and stopped it before they could finish.

“Estha! You didn’t come home with a child at almost the same age?” Uncle Martin’s voice was thick like porridge. His hands were rough, and callus from holding a machete for chopping sugarcane and Louise could feel his skin rising as he lifted her off of the floor and helped her outside.

Esther placed her hands on her hips, her belt lying on one side of her apron, “More of a reason not to come home and tell me! She should’ve just run off with him. Father God, I cannot believe this child!”

Esther was talking about Mas John. He worked in the sugarcane fields, with Uncle Martin, and was one of many of the workers that they fed. Martin convinced the lead field hand to share out their profit to his sister, so she could feed them during their breaks. Louise was responsible for bringing the food over to them, once Esther finished. John was responsible for the swelling of her belly.

Today’s special was mannish water; often the meal when the seaside was dry, because not every morning was a good catch. Uncle Martin had come home to help carry the food over. The pots were too heavy for Louise to take alone. She was grateful to him, wondering if she’d still be alive if it weren't for him.

She went inside to change her dress and grab the pot of soup. Louise’s aunt, Shirley, was on her knees in prayer. The rope she used to help beat her niece was still wrapped around her palm. Louise shuffled around the room, trying to get her clothes before her aunt decided to hit her, again.

The praying stopped.

Louise pulled down her dress and lunged for the doorknob when Shirley grabbed the tail of her dress causing her to stumble backward.

She placed her chin on Louise’s shoulder and pulled her arm tightly behind her back, “Kibba ya mouth. Not a word of this to your younger sisters.”

Lorna and Doris knew nothing of Louise’s pregnancy. She waited for them to go to school before she told her mother. They would eventually inquire about her sudden waddle and morning sickness, but it wasn’t time yet.

Louise begged Shirley to let her go, “I’m not going to tell them anything.”

“Good, because you’re no example.”
__________________________________________________

Louise didn’t go to school.

It wasn’t because she wasn’t smart—she outwitted the boys on the seaside, innovating traps for crabs and borrowed books from Mas John. She read all day long, only stopping to help wash clothes or help with other tasks. The uniforms and supplies for high school were just too expensive. She didn’t score high enough on her tests and Esther didn’t want to waste money on her education, when she could be “helping to tidy the yard.”

For three years, Louise was idle. Aside from the rare trip to Montego Bay to sell sugarcane at the market, she spent days awaiting her sisters’ arrival, hoping they’d have new and exciting things to tell her.

“What was your lesson, today?”

The two girls would giggle and run, knowing their big sister would chase them and tickle them to get the information.

Doris was two years younger than Louise and Lorna was two years younger than Doris. Despite the girls’ age difference, they could’ve been mistaken for triplets. They were all tall and chubby. It was clear that Lorna would be the tallest. She was almost as big as Louise and Doris and would prove it when she fought back during their spats.

Something was magical about this year.

It started with a huge feast when Uncle Martin caught what looked like one hundred fish flapping in his net. The whole family scaled the fish and friend them, so they could enjoy the meat with dumplings. Louise wished on a fishbone --because she read somewhere that you could--that she’d find purpose this year. She wanted to learn.

Mas John had a picture of New York City, in his pocket. She’d never seen one until he pulled the postcard out and showed it to her when she delivered lunch.

He pointed to one of the skyscraper’s windows, “That’s where some of my family live.”

“In that building? That place right there?”

Louise narrowed her eyes, hoping she could see small people inside of the glass. She hoped they would move, jump out, and tell her how she could get to America too.

“No, silly. But I think they live in something like it.”

“Nice. Do you have a lot of family, in foreign?”

“Yes. I even have some in England.”

“Wow!”

Louise had learned of Big Ben, the Queen, and more when she was in school. Some of her teachers were from England. She imagined John’s family strolling the streets and speaking in twang.

After this conversation, John started to bring her things. He knew she was intrigued by texts that showed her new worlds and happened to have an abundance of them at home.

She once asked, “Where is home?”

He smiled, as he spooned curry goat into his bowl. He always got on the line last, so he could talk to Louise as she packed up to head back home.

“Home is wherever you are.”

Louise was not sure what he meant by this. Home could not be wherever she was. Sometimes she was buried in the sand, awaiting the tide to come and wash her away to a new land. Home was the cerulean walls that were starting to erode, due to the water rising. Home was 8 pm bedtimes and 7:30 deadlines for washed dishes.

This wasn’t home: Home was always with him, in the books he brought to her, amongst the stalks of sugarcane, in the laughter he afforded her. This was home.

She told him and he agreed.

He asked, “Why don’t I come home with you, one day?”

_______________________________________

On the walk to her house, on a Wednesday when she knew everyone was at the prayer meeting, she wondered why they weren’t going to see John’s house. Louise wanted to see where he kept his books. She wanted to see where he slept.

John was twenty-six and fine. He wore overalls, over a t-shirt that could barely contain his muscular frame, and always wore a hat to protect himself from the sun. He’d soaked up enough of it. He favored the dark of the sea sky, when everyone had come back in from fishing. The neighborhood girls, talked about him after church.

They say he lives in another town.

He only comes here to work.

I don’t think he fancies anyone.

I believe he likes to keep to himself.

Louise prided herself on being the one he shared himself with. She swore that her fifteen-year-old heart would never beat for anyone else as he pulled her on top of him in the bed that she shared with her mother and aunt.

She had no idea what they were doing. She doesn’t remember if she refused or not. She knows that it hurt, and she just wanted it to be over. But when it was over, she knew that she’d be able to talk to John about books, sugarcane, and all the other things they had in common.

John became scarce after that. He did not line up for lunches and could be seen in the distance, chopping away. He did not smile in Louise’s direction, as she threw the leftover plates and utensils in a bag and made her way back down the road. He barely murmured a word, when she tried to return his books.

He just pointed to the ground, gesturing for her to lay them down.

Louise was confused by his actions and walked all the way home, trying to figure out what she’d done to deserve his silence. Lucea was all sugarcane and hill, except for a few small towns—places her family couldn’t afford to shop in. She waved to Donna, the woman who sold fruits on the roadside and readjusted the bag as the shore became more visible. The cerulean house appeared behind a dune. Uncle Martin sat on the porch, having stayed home from the fields due to his magic leg acting up. He’d dubbed it that. He always tapped his knuckles against the ankle of his left foot and said, “No magic, today. It will kick in again, tomorrow.”

Louise walked past him, inside, and dropped the dishes into the sink. She headed to the backyard to get fresh water when she noticed something propping the back door open. She kneeled down to get a closer look and realized that it was one of John’s books. She pulled it out from the crevice of the door and dusted it off; "Moby Dick" was embossed in green on the hardcover.

“So that’s where that went.”

She opened the book, deciding that she would read it after she washed the dishes. Someone had written their name on the back of the cover in pencil, “Mrs. Williams.”

Louise didn’t know anyone by that name and wondered who she was to John. She pictured a little sister they hadn’t discussed yet, bringing home books from school.

Mrs. Williams.

Why would a high school girl address herself this way?

She was confused. She decided that she’d ask John, when he decided that he would speak to her again.

That same night, Uncle Martin pulled his net once more to find an abundance of fish. They would have another feast. It's been six weeks since they had a big catch. Louise bit her lips in anticipation, knowing they’d have leftovers for days.

Her mother had prayed before they began, “For health and strength and daily food, we praise thy name oh Lord, amen.”

Aunt Shirley broke the silence, just as they started to break bread, “You know…I dreamt of fish last night.”

Uncle Martin laughed, “I don’t think that was about dinner. John Williams told everyone that his wife is with child, today.”

Louise queried, “John Williams?”

Her mother quipped, “That’s Mas John, to you. Have some respect.”

“Yes, mommy.”

Louise could hear the sound of crickets and roaring waves through the crack of the window. She’d mastered tuning it out, so she could fall asleep. When she lie in bed, that evening, there was another sound. It was the sound of cracking, something splitting open without warning. She closed her eyes and wished it away, but it wouldn’t go, and nothing felt like home.

From My Journal: This Is The Kind Of Love That I'm Looking For

2016-02-15T10:03:00.000-05:00

Folks keep asking me what kind of love I'm looking for. Well, it's the only kind that I know.

My parents met at church.

That’s a really good beginning to a love story, unlike some of those we’ll have to share with our children and grandchildren.

Ours will probably sound more like:

I fell in love the moment I swiped right.
He was the only guy at the bar that wasn’t saying misogynistic things.
Her friend’s friend that I used to date introduced us.
I used to hook up with your aunt, but then I met your mother, she was the love of my life.

These are the love story introductions that hook-up culture will give birth to. We’ll discuss that more, in another post.

My parents aren’t perfect. I won’t sit here and pretend that we’ve lived a Huxtable existence. We lived in Brooklyn, for some time, we’re Caribbean (or Ja-faking as my mother calls me, I was born here) and we lived in houses where our neighbors were above or below us, and slammed their broomsticks to tell me to shut-up, at the age that quiet is not a norm. We spent our days hand-in-hand at museums and parks. We told jokes at the dinner table Crooklyn-style while my momma stirred together lemon juice and sugar water. My parents danced after dinner, playing everything from Jamaican Ska to Barbara Streisand. They argued on the way out of the door and then made up by the time we'd hit our first intersection. My father has always had a place to retreat--a big closet turned into a study, a spare room, a basement.

My mother has always been good at getting him to retreat. However, they love each other unconditionally. They’ve been through everything together and although they’re pulled in different directions, sometimes, they always find their way back to one another.

This is the only kind of love that I know.

My father was the skinny-Sunday-school-class-clown and my mother was a more mentally sophisticated (as she puts it) sixteen-year-old. They were both the same age, but my mother wasn’t pleased with my father’s antics and knew she couldn’t be bothered with someone who lacked depth.

She said he’d run down a hallway, with his brother not too far behind, screaming, “New girl! There’s a new girl!”

She was wrong about him.

My father, a poet and avid reader, had tons of hidden idiosyncrasies. After realizing his jokes were not impressive enough, he talked to my mother about books he’d read and theories he had. He lent her things he found interesting and quizzed her on them the following day. The proof of their courting is strewn across my bookshelf, their love in frayed borrowed texts and stanzas: I Am The Darker Brother, Langston Hughes Collections, Invisible Man, The Autobiography of Malcolm X.

My mother was obsessed with J. California Cooper while my father was prone to read anything black and revolutionary. He wrote her poems, telling her about his estranged father and absent Cuban heritage. She listened, telling him about her mother’s immigration to America and the toil she and her brothers suffered while waiting for their mother to send for them.

Soon the skinny-class-clown, now a force to be reckoned with, and the sophisticated teen, who often teased my father about not being the only poet in their relationship--due to one published poem in AP English, were falling in love.

“Your father saw me in some tight white Calvin Klein jeans and lost his mind.”
“Your mother is full of herself.”

& so he wrote for her:

You were made for me
When the Earth was without form and void, our love was there.
Firm and strong, it pierced the darkness and created light.
Warm and fertile, it covered the barren land and brought forth life.
When God made you, he took my breath away.
& while he marveled at what HE made, I simply smiled.
For I've always known that you were the best thing for a man.
---P. Buddington (My Dad), 1986

My parents went to universities a few miles from one another, on Long Island. My father stayed on campus while my mother rented an apartment with friends. They went through typical young-love complications: dating other people when separated for months, deciding it was over and then back on again, speaking one minute and not speaking the next.

Despite all of this, they still ended up together. They were married a year after they graduated, I showed up a few years later and we’ve been one big relatively happy family ever since.

This is the kind of love I was raised on.
It’s the type of love the tries over and over again.
It’s the sort of love that time ends.
It’s one with long phone of face-to-face conversations.
It’s the kind of love that is upfront about intentions.
It’s a love that says what it means, even when it’s afraid.
It’s the kind that leaves the car, in the middle of the fight, knowing that anymore miles of screaming would erode the forever left between them.
It’s the sort that hops in a cab, cools off, and still makes their way home.
It’s the love that is seen in the eyes of anything that comes from their union: family found, children born, teachers proud, and tassels turned.
It’s the love that is only breakable if happiness is separating, but is truly unbreakable if you did it because their content is the only thing that matters.

This is the love I was raised in.

It’s hard for me to adjust. From Blackplanet to OkCupid, I’ve been clicking and swiping for something that the digital world is trying to disintegrate. I meet men that "don't text", most that shy away from commitment, and many that can't seem to grasp that communication is best served in quiet spaces. This is not what I'm used to. However, I'm forced to maneuver carefully through the chaos we call: talking, caking, chilling, kicking it.

Or...whatever is the farthest thing from falling in love.

Guest Fiction Series: Vinnie, Part 8

2016-02-09T22:06:00.001-05:00

_______________________________

(Read all parts here.)

It smells like brimstone. Hell swims in my nostrils, explodes onto my tongue, and spits out venom. I do not want to stain the pews of this church. It would be unbecoming.

I stand here, with Walter behind me, in the middle aisle of a church I have not entered in five years. It stopped being a place of frequent visits when my mother realized her husband was not going to love her as Christ loved the church. He loved her as Christ loved his cross – you hang in there out of love and destiny, but you will die here.

My mother did not die here. She died somewhere else. And yet, days later, we must revisit her death as this fresh occurrence. Something to sink our grieving hearts into. And by all of us, I mean me. My grief is the only one that matters. Unless these others are willing to reach my level – the level of a son losing his best friend, confidant, security and place of rest – then no, you may not claim grief. Not now. Not in my vicinity.

Walter stands by my side now. I do not know when he arrived there, but he is there, like he always is. Funny how someone with seemingly no redeeming qualities can be such an outlet at a time when I am burying my mind’s focal point.

“Dude, this sucks.”

“Yes, that it does.”

“I’m sorry, man.”

“Just something else we have in common now.”

“I didn’t want that.”

“And yet…”

Time refuses to sit still…

The sanctuary is three-quarters full. Friends. Co-workers. Family members. Strangers. Each with their own reason for being here at this time. I just wish they would stop consoling me. Words can do nothing at this time. None of these others were there on my level while my mother was alive so how can they join me in grief? They could not join me in love so how can they join me in grief?

My eyes water. I hate this emotion. I hate that I cannot control it. It is the only way my body knows how to express itself. I wish there were another way. But there is not. I will spend the rest of my life trying to find another way.

I do not hear any of the words rendered during the service. I am sure they are nice. I sit here between my father, and his politically correct grief, and my friend, Walter, whose attire is just as renegade as my own.

The naked eye would deem my attire angelic. This beautiful black boy draped in light. But how these others look at me is what this color, this light, this white, deserves. Stared at in disgust, stared at with disdain, lost in this flood of black and grey. This light seems out of place in this darkness.

My skin crawls. The fake in the air stifles. I find myself watching as these others find it in their hearts to mourn. Their backstories each scream of negligence; showing their faces here now is just a means of clearing a conscience.

Oh, it’s my turn…

I find myself being called to the microphone. The expectation is for me to say something about my mother. Seems like a simple enough task.

I step to the microphone and turn to the crowd. Draped in my socially incorrect garb, it is difficult to ascertain exactly why the others stare. Nevertheless, they all expect words to leave my mouth. For them to receive some level of understanding, of the one relationship my mother had that no one else could quite understand. This bond was something unseen before.

But even as paragraph length stacks of sentences with Baldwin-isms flanking every precisely put together turn of phrase crafted with a seamless literary quality barricade themselves behind one another expecting to be released into the awaiting ears of the others – I cannot speak.

There are no words. I am incapable of expressing myself in this moment. So I stare into the audience, pick out one by one those that intrigue my eyesight. All the while hi-jacking the attention of all of those in attendance.

I’m so sorry… that I’m not sorry…

Angst fills a row with a divorced man on one end and a divorced woman on the other. It is palpable, the angst. It is clear that the angst is between them specifically. The angst is theirs. They know the angst all too well. It chokes their breaths as they attempt to mourn, but they cannot decide whether they are mourning my mother, or mourning the death that birthed the angst. Too bad they cannot go back and do it again. Too bad they would not know that they should try again anyway.

My mother tried to help them…

He has beaten her. Over and over. She stays still. Over and over. She refuses to move from beneath his iron fist to shelter. He uses her face as a launching pad for his insecurities. He marks his territory with black and blue bruises encapsulating the loathing of his mother, in her lack of a father. She never knew what the love of a man entailed. So she suffers a sick retribution for mistakes she never made.

My mother consoled her…

Muscular arms across his chest. He needs no seat. Just the vestibule. His jawline screams of past battles, both with himself and his demons. But he has won now. He has taken his innumerable mistakes in his youth and transformed them into a ministry, guiding young men of today away from the drugs, sex and violence that consumed his once frail psyche. I welcome his presence here, despite being unaware of his why.

My mother respected him…

An elderly woman sits solemnly, Baptist church-goer hat adorns her petite head. Her eyes, fixated on me. That matters not. All that matters is that she has been here before, too many times, yet this, is still, her first time.

My mother honored her…

A civil rights activist who brought me non-fiction upon non-fiction books to add to my colossal collection of literature. She saw something in me. She saw herself. I welcome her presence here.

My mother adored her…

A young girl, innocence drips from her eyes as everything that reaches them is new. She stares at her mother, engulfs the image of her scowl, her inability to feel, and packs it, only to be used later when her attitude blossoms and she needs a reference point for her immediate demolition of souls. She had to get it from somewhere. That somewhere is here.

My mother prayed for her…

I burst from my post at the microphone and back into the pew. The crowd incapable of gathering the proper response to such awkward emotion. I am an emotional embarrassment of riches as I struggle to find my place among the two men in my life.

Tears dart down my cheeks. My father to my right. My Walter to my left.

I rest to the left…

My father, rigid. He sees nothing. Blind to emotional dexterity. His natural inclinations muffle the silent cries of parental instinct. He does not recognize his child in need. He will, though. One day… if it’s the last thing I do…

Baldwin…

I stand at this, at this microphone. Make eye contact with a hoard of strange spectators gathered for sport. My stomach gurgles, pushes through my esophagus, creates a bile word vomit to land on the laps of those who dare to watch me speak. I do not apologize for such things. The taste, one of decadent souls and rotten relationships.

I speak.

“’No one can possibly know what is about to happen: it is happening, each time, for the first time, for the only time’… James Baldwin.”

The crowd hushed.

“’Love does not begin and end the way we seem to think it does. Love is a battle, love is a war; love is a growing up’… James Baldwin.”

Does no one understand this grief of mine?

“’Love takes off masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within… James Baldwin.’”

Their eyes feel so violent against my skin.

“’It was books that taught me that the things that tormented me most were the very things that connected me with all the people who were alive, or who had ever been alive… James Baldwin.’”

Tears in my eyes. So necessary. As is my anger. My voice betrays me, crackles in the pool of pain in my throat.

“’To be a Negro in this country and to be relatively conscious is to be in a rage almost all the time… James Baldwin.’”

Each time I say Baldwin’s name, more and more of me is released into the air. I am relegated to a sounding board, a young man whose voice is no longer his own.

“’You know, it’s not the world that was my oppressor, because what the world does to you, if the world does it to you long enough and effectively enough, you begin to do it to yourself… James Baldwin!’”

They are scared now. They should be. They do not know how to handle my emotion. So they sit still. Soak in my breakdown with a sponge-like quality.

“’Children have never been very good at listening to their elders, but they have never failed to imitate them!’ James Baldwin!”

Screeching. Shrieking. Howling. Face flushed.

My mother is dead…

My father stands up. Fixes his suit jacket. Turns to his minions first. Half smiles. Walks in my direction. He matters not.

“’The world is before you and you need not take it or leave it as it was when you came in!’ James Baldwin!”

My father attempts to grab me, wraps his arms around my waist. This is the closest thing to a hug he has ever given me…

I fight him at every step, my voice incapable of being muzzled. I feel like Samson when he got his strength back that one final time. No one could stop him. No one will stop me.

“’The most dangerous creation of any society is the man who has nothing to lose!’ James Baldwin! ‘The future is like heaven, everyone exalts it, but no one wants to go there now!’ James Baldwin!”

Within our struggle, my father finds my ear and coarsely whispers into it.

“You have effectively ruined your mother’s burial service. You have effectively ruined everything. You are effective. You are defective.”

“’People who treat other people as less than human must not be surprised when the bread they have cast on the waters comes floating back to them, poisoned!’ James Baldwin!”

Defective… defective… defective…

______________________________

R. Preston Clark is an educator, screenwriter, poet and open mic host with too much to say in too many ways.

Fiction Series: Free Verse: Part 10

2016-01-25T23:26:00.003-05:00

To read all parts of this series, go HERE.

I could still feel the imprint of Damali’s kisses on my lips. I ran my fingers along them, closing my eyes momentarily, trying to bring back the moment. I sat in the park, with a journal and pen in hand.

I tried to scribe about the onlookers; I wanted to write bits of Brooklyn into my work. I needed to apologize to my city for leaving it behind, by writing its beauty into immortality. As adamant as I was, about this, I couldn’t help but write about Damali.

brown

Brooklyn

Boy

What makes you so fly

You crawl under my skin, like

Summer sweat

And street lights

Got words that belong

In composition notebooks,

You hum my metropolis,

My world, so sweetly,

With your words

They should plaster the pages

On the brownstones,

So onlookers could remember we were here

The park was filled with those without a care in the world: nannies, children, those with night jobs, those with trust funds and possibility. I’d taken the C-train and walked over to Ft. Greene Park, just to get out of my neighborhood. Hopefully, the change of scenery would inspire my pen.

Two small boys, arms hanging from a jungle gym, in the distance laughed. Their sounds carried over into the area with benches and latched on to my memories.

I often wondered what my son’s laugh was like. I pondered if he was pushed on a swing while his voice filled a park just like this one. I couldn’t help but imagine the wrong palms, pushing him higher and higher, palms that had no correlation with his own, palms that could never mimic his lifelines. When did he learn to swing on his own? How did his independence show up on his face? Were his eyes, like mine? Did he tell his "mother" or "father"…let go…when his feet became accustomed to bike pedals? Did he have a backyard? Did the grass end up in his hair? Did he run barefoot, wild, and free?

I hoped that he was somewhere warm and loving. I prayed that he broke bread with a family that urged the smile from his lips, pushed his swing, held on to his tricycle and let go when he asked.

I couldn’t help but think of the ocean when I thought of Kal-El. Even with all this concrete, brick, and stone around me. I listened closely to the rush of a nearby, broken fire hydrant. It mimicked the rush of the ocean, outside, as I was told to push, to let go. I held him briefly, as I watched his eyes flicker. He wanted to look at me. I couldn't stop looking at him. Before he could wail, before he could cry out for his mother, they pulled him from my arms.

brown boy

who belongs to me

who belongs home

I hope you know beaded curtain,

Box spring,

Beat box,

Brooklyn,

I hope you know where you're from

My anxiety started to build. It’d been a while since I had an attack. They started in college, after my parents' death, and I’d learned to control them with therapy. A feeling of panic rose from my stomach to my chest and, my heart thumped like it needed a door to open. I closed my eyes and silently prayed it wouldn’t show. I could bring myself back to reality; confirm my surroundings. I grabbed the rails of the bench, ran my fingers down along my jacket, and pulled my nails across the cover of my journal.

I was here in the park.

I was here, writing my truth.

I was in the middle of Fort Greene, watching remnants of my childhood and newcomers interact.

I was only steps away, from where shattered pieces of my upbringing lay.

The anxiety started to rise again. My tactics were not working. I lifted myself from the bench and began to walk towards the exit, hoping no one could see my breath escaping rapidly.

“Jai, is everything alright?”

The voice resounded, behind me. It was deep and filled with concern. It traced my earlobe, calming me at once.

Malaki walked towards me, on the pathway out of the park. I couldn’t tell if my anxiety subsided due to his presence or if my fear of him seeing me unraveled prevailed. He was a walking dream. The type of man I imagined my mother slipping into her prayers and palms. He was secure, genuine, intelligent, and courteous. He wanted to know how he could help, in what ways he could make me better. He probably assumed that I was better, that I was his equivalent. He was wrong. I was the opposite, a multitude of sad stories and muddled anxieties. What did he see, in me?

“Is everything okay?”

I furrowed my brow, hoping I could convince him of usual stress. He could see right through me.

“Talk to me. I’ve been worried about you.”

I imagined him watching me from afar, seeing my sudden departure from the park, following me while I tried to find air, “I’m okay. I’m just working through some things.”

“I usually come here to get work done. It’s a change of scenery. I noticed…”

“I was just leaving to go home and get some writing done.”

“Can I make you a cup of coffee? You can get some work done, in my office. I live right across the street, you can see the park from the window.”

Malaki was intuitive. He’d been checking in on me at work, bringing me coffee on my most tiring days, smiling when I needed reaffirming that I was doing okay. Could he see my sorrow, from where he stood?

I thought of the night before. I envisioned Damali’s arms around my neck and his thumb in the small of my back. His touch was a ghost, standing between my diminishing affection of Malaki. Malaki stepped forward and held my hand, I’d waited too long to respond, “It’s okay, we can talk when we get inside.”

I was standing in Malaki’s living room. It was standard bachelor pad décor: leather sofa, flat screen, and white walls. He had huge bay windows, installed in the front of his condo that I was sure used to be the site of a brownstone.

“When did you say this was built, again?”

“2012. I bought it and, I rent a room downstairs to a friend of mine. It was a steal. It was my first company bonus and, I needed to make sure I invested in something other than New York City rent.”

It bothered me that I couldn’t remember what used to be here. My old neighborhood was becoming a figment of my imagination. I watched the same kids I’d been watching earlier, run around the playground. I could no longer hear their laughter; it was replaced by the sound of Malaki’s coffeemaker and the sound of spoons against porcelain.

“Sugar?”

I nodded my head. I refused milk and stated that I liked my coffee black. Malaki smirked and raised an eyebrow, as if to infer something.

Everything spilled.

We talked until the wee hours of the morning.

Malaki was easy to talk to. He was a true listener, interjecting only to prove that he was still listening. I told him about growing up here, my eroded relationship with my father, my parent’s sudden death, and the box that sat in the middle of my studio apartment. He stopped me, only to make more coffee and then he’d tell me to go on.

My notions were on display, and he stopped to admire each and every one.

How did that make you feel?

Do you still think about it?

What’s next?

We talked about almost everything. The one thing I'd failed to mention was Kal-El: the bud that flowered in my womb and was plucked before it blossomed. Malaki excused himself to go to the bathroom. I stood up, from the sofa I was sitting on, and stared out of the window into the now dark grounds of the park. Pitch: like my apartment with Damali beside me, bereft of light after our bodies found their way to one another. Amongst the inky shadows and the occasional sound of a passing car, I told him of my long lost love: a child too new to understand his meaning. Damali, too, listened and kissed my forehead. He sunk into my confession and sighed heavily, "You're stronger than you give yourself credit for."

Malaki came back from the bathroom and mumbled something about covers and a guest room. I turned to him, trying to figure out why I could not give him the same words I gave to Damali.

"I think I should leave. It's been good talking to you. Thanks, for everything."

I left Malaki's home, refusing his offer to walk me to the train, waiting for the sable sky to swallow me whole, for my anxiety to rise.

Nothing.

Nothing came.

Guest Fiction Series: Vinnie, Part 7

2016-01-24T19:11:00.002-05:00

_______________________________

(Read all parts here.)

Such a blessed closet. So much black. So much beauty. Today calls for something different. A white short sleeve button-down collared shirt. White loose-fitting slacks. White socks. White sneakers. White laces. White baseball cap, no logo. Laid out on my bed. Attire so fitting for a viewing.

You are assuming that my mother is an angel, so the attire is appropriate. That is incorrect. White is depression. White is the prison-industrial complex. White is the school-to-prison pipeline. White is the destruction of human rights. White is oppression. White is slavery. White is racism. White is death. Are you shocked? Are you surprised? How could I place white in such light? Imagine how black must feel.

This shirt fits perfectly. One sleeve at a time. Five buttons. So do these slacks. One leg at a time. Zipper. One button. Comfortable socks. One foot at a time. Sneakers snug. One foot at a time. Laces clean. Double knots. Both sides. Baseball cap fitted. Perfect imagery.

My soul is splintered into thousands of pieces and not even the best surgeon with the most steady of hands and a surgical team of the best in all of their select fields could put it back together again not without the voice of my mother guiding them putting them in the right position to properly assemble a soul only she knows up close…

Run on sentence, run on…

Sentenced to an earthly existence sans my mother. Dressed in exactly the message I want to portray. I just hope people can understand my word choice, my style choice. Not trying to make some grand statement. People only question you when you go against the Euro-centric norm. Baldwin would be so proud of me in this moment.

“What are you wearing?”

My father wears tradition on his back like his slave first and last name were tailored for his lips. Black suit. Grey tie. Black shoes. Grey socks. Perfectly shaven. A crisp gentleman. Baldwin would put my father in such a properly structured sentence, dropping him to his knees in Uncle Tom anguish. Oh, the whole armor of God is on me today and she is just as fed up as I am.

“She would want you to be appropriate at this time. We are about to bury her. You look silly. You do not look like my son.”

I stare at this oddity of a man. This traitor of gene pools. What does his son look like? I look like my mother’s son, possibly the greatest visual representation I could foster. His approval is not necessary in this moment. Neither is his presence. Neither is mine. My feet start moving. Somehow I end up out the door. Walking up the hill from our house. Someone calls my name.

“Vinnie? Vinnie?!”

Sounds like my father. Does not sound like my dad. My legs make my decision for me. One step at a time. No need for directions, this is natural progression. I am supposed to go this way, in this way. Time to walk in my truth. I will be saying goodbye to my mother’s body soon. There is no way to prepare yourself for such an occasion, only time.

Footsteps behind me. Louder. Running – with a purpose. I do not want to turn my head around. I do not want to see my father in his house slave’s Sunday’s best. The footsteps slow, replaced by heavy breathing.

I hope it is my father…

“Look at me.”

I know this voice. It is one of friendship, of knowing when to show up, of being there, of providing a shoulder, of walking in my truth. I turn around to engage.

“My dear friend.”

“You walk too damn fast.”

“You’re just out of shape, sir.”

“You need to learn slang.”

“Colloquialisms?”

“Why you ruin everything?”

I smile. This burst of youthful exuberance comes at a time when my thoughts only surround that of the adult realm. I am dealing with things beyond my emotional scope. Am I intelligent enough to understand? Absolutely. But despite my academic prowess, I still cannot add more years of experience to my current 14. No book can substitute experience. I have experienced other worlds through my favorite writers’ viewpoints but that is all that I can claim. To be a kid, on occasion, is a necessary reminder to slow down.

“You thinking about something overly deep, ain’t you?”

This white boy makes me laugh.

“How can you tell?”

“You make facial expressions the rest of us don’t know how to. Like you’ve been here before or something. When it happens, I have to fight the urge to slap the hell out of you.”

“Fight the good fight.”

“I hate you.”

“I miss you too, Walter.”

He wears a beat up white T-shirt, dirty blue jeans, busted sneakers and battle scars. He looks like he auditioned for The Sandlot or Stand By Me. A stereotypical rugged white boy, attractive to some, a threat to others. His experiences differ from mine. It is written in his outfit, on his skin. In his eyes. His tongue paints a different picture but his eyes, pain’s locale.

“Where are you headed?”

Drop my eyes. Raise them again. Slightly smile. But I would not call it a smile. That would be disrespectful to happiness. Walter puts his arm around me.

“I’m going, too.”

“You are?”

“I am now.”

We walk. Nobody talks. Only about a mile remains in this trek. A car has not pulled up yet to reveal my father. It is a detail of this trip I thought would be added. He let me leave his house, on the way to his deceased wife’s viewing, by myself. I may not be dressed like his son, but he is not dressed like my dad. He is forever my father. Biological necessity. Financial security. He fills a need, but does not satisfy mine.

______________________________

R. Preston Clark is an educator, screenwriter, poet and open mic host with too much to say in too many ways.

Fiction Series: Free Verse: Part 9

2016-01-23T10:52:00.000-05:00

Read all parts of this series, HERE.

Dinner.

It suddenly crossed my mind that I hadn’t eaten, after spending an entire day in front of the computer. I was working on a book of poetry. I’d started it my freshman year, slipping pieces of paper and napkins I’d scribble on, in a portfolio. It wasn’t until having coffee with a fellow writer, notes protruding from the folder, that it was suggested that I start to compile them for a book.

The process was a daunting one, filled with doubt, perfectionism, and the urge to erase things. I tried to be new Jai, in my words. I wanted to write poems, as if I’d only been living since I left for college. Unfortunately, my mind conjured everything familiar. Bodegas, melanin, and Brooklyn’s beautiful decay slipped from my pen continuously.

I pushed the gate that enclosed my apartment building’s steps, open. Fall was winding down and the chill wind indicated that winter was on its heels. There was a fish fry place a few blocks away. I knew I’d regret the calories later, but longed to feel the comfort of grease and fullness.

I walked down the block and took in the night sky, bereft of the stars that I’d become accustomed to in the south, and listened to Brooklyn whirr. I lived on the cusp of Bedstuy and Bushwick; a housing projects across the streets and fast-food still abundant. I picked a portion of Brooklyn that hadn’t been altered yet. Partially, for the cheaper rent; another for the rawness of it. As horrible as some of my memories were, I couldn’t deny that Brooklyn was suffocating. There was an air of audacity; an abundance of folks who dismissed concern with the impudence of conquerors.

I watched faces bereft of melanin, scurry from trains, not acknowledging a world that's been born on the concrete they stepped on. They awaited a time, in the coziness of renovated homes, when they would no longer fear what was happening outside of their window.

I often feared that I was considered one of them. I could not tell if it was this anxiety, my genuineness, or my upbringing in “The Fort” that made me greet the brothers on the corner. Usually engaged in conversation about pop culture or block gossip, they’d nod and concede my existence.

“Good evening, ma.”

I smiled back.

I was not one of them. I was not one of those that scurry; those that deemed others invisible. At least, I didn’t think I was.

I had to think of it this way: If it were an abundance of us, wealth included, would the city move to change the environment? Would sirens wail louder? Would help arrive faster? Would the cracks in the sidewalks suddenly disappear? Would potholes come with cautionary signs? Would trees sprout overnight?

I didn’t think so.

On the walk I thought of Damali., His demeanor reminded me of the borough I grew up in. I was still annoyed that he’d only just mentioned that he had my parents’ items stored somewhere. He had several instances to tell me.

As I neared my destination, I paused. Would I have been willing to receive Damali’s news, when I first met him? I was a ticking bomb, diffused by the right tone, touch, and time. He seemed to have that effect on me. But did he know?

Before I opened the door of the restaurant, my hand found its way into my pocket for my phone and dialed his number. It was his voice that woke me up from my trance, “Hey, Jai?”

I’d only seen him twenty-four hours ago. His voice sounded worried. He probably wanted to know whether I’d looked through the box’s contents if I was ready to talk.

“Hey, are you hungry?”

I wasn’t ready to talk. I wasn’t prepared to confront the past and be the person I thought I left behind.

“I am. I was about to cook something. Did you want to come by?”

I didn’t want to take him up om his offer. I wanted to be in control.

“No. I was about to grab something from this fish fry spot, near my house. Come over. I’ll grab you something, too.”

Damali snickered, he sensed my need to sway things, “Okay, Jai. Text me your address. I’ll be over in a few.”

____________________________________________________

“What did you mean by ‘you’ll break my heart’?”

Damali and I finished eating our dinner and we were seated on the futon in my studio that in a few hours would fold out to become my bed. I thought about this, as Damali put away the garbage. He walked away, to the kitchen area, his back bulging from the shirt he wore. We’d been close to each other before, but never in such a solitary place. My heart was beating a mile a minute. I jumped at the sound of the forks hitting the marble sink. Everything seemed intensified, when he was around. He came back over to the futon and sat on its other side.

“I meant exactly what I said.”

“Why do you think I’m interested in you, that way?”

“Oh. In that way? So you’re interested in some way?”

I gulped and buried myself beneath throw pillows, “Don’t flatter yourself, Damali.”

“Your father was like my own.”

What did my dad have to do with this moment? I hadn’t felt this way, about anyone, even Malaki, in a long time. This was not the time nor the place to discuss the bond between him and Michael Merendez.

“Okay.”

Damali moved over. He was sitting right next to me. He placed his hand on my knee, as he spoke, “I need you to understand that I would not be sitting here if it wasn’t for Michael.”

_____________________________________________

January 13, 1997

Today I saw, D, again. That's not his real name. He refuses to tell me who he is. He says he doesn’t know if I’m a “snitch” yet.

---M.M.

Mills watched as the boy swept the stairs, in front of the shop. Autumn approached slowly, the leaves cascading onto the welcome mat. The day came to a close, while the purple and blue of the sky swirled into the night. The boy was doing well: He showed up to work on time, greeted customers with a smile, and cleaned up before he left. When Mr. Mills placed a “now hiring” sign in the front window, he hadn’t expected a boy of that age would ever be his most faithful employee.

Mills stood at the end of the block, with Michael, smiling at the boy’s vigor.

“I think he’d do well, in your program.”

“I know. I saw him a few months back, sleeping on a bench. He ran away from me. I’ve been looking for him, ever since.”

“Well, he won’t run now. He and I get along. I’ll call him over, here.”

A few months ago, while Mills was counting his profits for the day, police cars littered the block in a matter of moments. Despite the slow integration, crime was a steady reminder that few things had changed. They pummeled on every door of the neighborhood, looking for a young man. They wouldn’t disclose the crime, only his description. At the very moment, the police turned away from his door, Mills heard rustling between his shelves.

“Who’s there?”

The reply was the quick pitter-patter of small feet, and suddenly a small child almost ran past him. Mills grabbed his dirtied collar and stared at the little boy, who couldn’t have been older than nine, raising his fists and feet in protest. He lifted the boy and sat him on the counter while he spit and cursed violently.

“Let me go!”

Mills blocked his path of escape with his body and looked over the brown boy whose legs dangled from his store counter. His clothes were too big for his body, draped over his skeleton like figure. A blotch of red ran down his arm, and Michael recognized it as dried blood, against his brown skin.

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

He was quiet, now that he realized he had nowhere to go and would probably be trapped until the police arrived for him.

“What’s your name?”

“Why does it matter? Call the cops back here and let them take me.”

“How did you get in here?,” Mills asked.

“Front door. You were in the back, and those dumb ass chimes are finally gone.”

Mills laughed at the boy’s last utterance, “What are you hiding from?”

“Everything.”

Mills stared into the small boys’ eyes. His voice, too big for his body, was clearly that of someone who’d seen far more than they should be allowed. There was a small commotion outside. The police officers cuffed suspects and pushed them into their squad cars. Mills and the little boy stood on the steps and watched alongside the rest of the neighborhood. The small boy began to cry. Mills knelt down and handed the boy his pocket square.

“You want to tell me what happened now?”

“I don’t wish to tell on my brother. I don’t know anything.”

“Who wants you to tell on your brother?”

“Everybody. I ain’t no snitch! I don’t know where he’s at, anyway.”

“What did he do?”

“I don’t know. My mother ain’t home. They’re all over our place. I can’t go back there.”

An ambulance passed through, bereft of sirens. A woman, still in her pajamas, arrived for the boy and grabbed him tightly. Mills sat back and looked on in wonder, saddened by the lack of shock on her face. Her hair was strewn, eyes were wet, and alcohol was lingering on her breath.

She pulled on the boy’s arm, annoyed that she couldn’t find him, “Only one I got left.”

_____________________________________________________

“Mr. Mills gave me a job. I didn’t keep it for very long, because after I had met your father, I wanted to work for him. It took months to convince him, but I eventually got small responsibilities that lead to larger ones at the community center.”

“I guess that’s why you’re so good at what you do now.”

Damali smiled, “Indeed.”

“I have a confession.”

“I’m listening…”

“I didn’t open the box, yet.”

“I figured that. You haven’t talked about it.”

“I’m not ready.”

“I don’t think we’re ever ready, but life is deciding to confront our worst fears.”

“What if you’re safer not confronting them at all?”

Damali put his arms around my shoulders. My heart was no longer beating fast; it had stopped. I could not feel it in my chest. It seemed to have jumped out and found its way somewhere else.

I spoke again, “I haven’t opened it yet because I’m still angry at my father. I know it sounds ridiculous. How could you be mad at someone that isn’t alive? How do you mend things with a ghost?”

“Jai, were things so horrible that you can’t forgive him, even in the grave?”

Damali was blinded. He’d known my father as a leader in the community, a leader. He would never understand the lies, the cover-up, the shatter that my family became.

“Damali, I didn’t even know about you. What does that say about our relationship?”

“I’ve always seen it as his way of protecting you.”

I looked down at the floor and followed the lines of the wooden panels to the box, which still sat in the corner I’d kicked it into, “Or isolating me.”

“I’d like to think that I knew your dad pretty well. His office at the center was filled with pictures of you. He told us stories about your triumphs. He used your stanzas, as bookmarks. He read us things you were working on and begged us never to repeat it. We all aspired for him to love us the way he loved you.”

Damali’s words were new to me. They bounced off of my ears and wrapped warmth all around me. My father, Michael Merendez, bragged about me. He read my work when I wasn’t looking. He loved me.

Damali’s arm seemed to tighten, around my shoulder, “I told you. He was the father I never had.”

I didn’t want to talk about him anymore. I took my next thought, stared at the box, and mentally tucked it there for safe keeping.

“Does that mean you see me as a sister?”

Damali wore the same expression he wore the day we stood in the cafe; he wanted to push me away, but there was something in his warrior eyes that wouldn’t allow him to, “No, I don’t. That’s why I’m going to kiss you.”

Psssst!!! I care about your thoughts! Please leave a comment, below. :)

Guest Fiction Series: I Used To Love Her, Part 6

2016-01-23T09:00:00.000-05:00

_______________________________

To catch up on all parts click here.

Chase:

What am I doing?

Nobody wants to hear our story. Our pain. Our fear. Our tragedy.

Nobody wants to know who? What? Or -- the question that leaves us lost, in search of one answer, some way to make sense of it all -- why?

Do you want to know how Chloe broke my heart into pieces all because she was too scared to allow herself to be loved? Fully. Boldly. Unconditionally.

Loved.

A love so fluid and so encompassing it stretched past minutes, to days, to months and finally years; a love that leaves me, here thinking about her, when I should be writing vows.

A love that leaves me...

A love that not only lived, but thrived, while I moved on into an engagement. The kind of love that somehow makes itself especially apparent at the most inopportune times; like tonight at my rehearsal dinner, when my brother asked if I was sure.

Is anybody ever sure?

Or at some stuffy boutique that my fiancée insisted I go to, to have our tuxes fitted.

God, you sure have a funny way of working things out.

My pride put her out of my head the week after she left. My heart never really got the memo, even after I ignored its plea. Told it to shut up & go to hell. Told it she was dead and the love was too.

I moved on; I played the field. I networked. I worked on building my dream. I dated. I never lacked the company of a beautiful woman.

Just that of the one I wanted.

Seeing her.... Look, I never allowed myself to miss her; never allowed myself the weak indulgence of thinking about her. I convinced myself I was better for it.

But seeing her... forced me to remember; her face, pained and beautiful reminded me of everything I thought I'd left at the end of a driveway 2 years ago.

I wanted to talk to my best friend. She was still that, after all this time.

I wanted to hold her, save her from the ground breaking beneath her feet. Tell her it was OK, I forgave her. Kiss her lips so she'd know.

I had never left.

I wanted her to stop me. I wanted her to tell me that I was right; it wasn't too late. And I get it, I'm selfish for asking for her to give me permission to break Jessica's heart... I'm wrong. I knew it. I know it.

So when Chloe told me to drop it I swallowed the fight erupting from my chest, walked her to her car and watched her leave.

For the last time.

I mean come on, who breaks off an engagement? Not after 2 carats have been purchased and last minute touches completed.

Not after asking an amazing woman to spend her life with me (even if I knew all along she was just second best).

Jessica loved me... despite my loving Chloe. She doesn't deserve this. I don't deserve her.

But you don't really want to hear my story, right? I'm the bad guy; the one still in love with a woman I can't forget no matter how hard I've tried. The one who up and got engaged to the next woman bold enough to try & fill the void Chloe left behind.

But... What was I supposed to do?

I was prepared for all of the I told you so’s.

I was prepared to swallow my pride, nod in agreement, and admit that maybe everyone was right and I should have left well enough alone.

I knew all along that Chase and I could never, would never, and should never be… anything. Our time had come and gone. I’d accepted that.

So why didn’t I feel relieved?

Midway through giving Amali the blow by blow details of my meeting with Chase, I realized something.

All of that freedom and vindication I thought I would feel instead left the familiar sting of disappointment. Yeah I talked a good talk; about how great it was to finally close that chapter of my life and that we might even be able to salvage a friendship out of it (yeah right).

How empowering it was to show Chase that I’d been living more than well without him.

How nice it was to see him happy (yep I went that far).

I don’t know how Amali was able to swallow the lies that I spoon-fed, when I couldn’t even bring myself to believe them. Regardless Chase would be married in 2 weeks. I had NO choice.

Get over it Chloe.

Over the next few weeks I launched operation get my life (ya’ll know the one). I worked out. HARD. I drowned myself in work. Production on 2 shows kept me pretty busy and I even returned to my journalistic roots, volunteering to cover a few big events coming up. Anything and everything to keep my mind from wandering back to old flames and old habits. I was all about me and that left little time for me to think about ANY man let alone Chase (thank God). My sister, on the other hand, had different plans…

With her wedding around the corner, Leslie took up a quest to make sure I'd have a date by any means necessary. It’s actually kind of funny. She hasn’t resorted to setting me up on blind dates just yet (I’m sure it’s coming), but she’s taken every available opportunity to introduce me to each single guy she happens to come across.

“Chloe, this is Kyle, he works with Miles”

“Chloe, I want you to meet James, he’s new to our bible study group”

“Hey Chlo, this the 100th man I’ve introduced you to PLEASE go out with him!!!!!!”

Ok so the last one was overdramatized but you get my drift. She was on a mission to find me a man and honestly I was quite alright not having one. I was just beginning to get Chase out of my system (finally) and enjoying it. Sounds cliché, but focusing on myself, my work and my needs actually seemed to be exactly what I needed to pull me out of my lost love stupor. For the first time in a long time I felt like my old self; the before-I-got-cheated-on-and-started-f’ing-up version. I felt great and looked better.

After another long successful week of working Chase out of my system, I poured myself a glass of wine, got ready to go over segment pitches and settled in to my favorite spot on the sofa. Nina Simone blared through my speakers as I prepared to spend a quiet Friday night at the house, until my phone began to buzz. I ignored it until I had no choice but to see who was being so persistent...

Carla, my boss, wanted to take me up on my earlier offer to cover events; there was a gallery opening tonight and the who’s who of the indie art world would apparently be there. You know how you make plans, and it sounds great at the time, but then the day comes and you'd actually rather die? Definitely one of those moments. I let out a silent groan in protest, but agreed to go. I downed another glass of wine, got dressed and dashed out the door.

The event was beautiful; all taste and no pretense — a refreshing change of pace from the often overdone parties seen regularly here in Atlanta. I stopped by the bar, snagged some tonic water and willed myself to go mingle.

I walked the space, taking in the art work while searching for familiar faces. The artist chose to use different mediums to capture what it is to be a black man in America. Admittedly, the vision was brilliant. My eyes landed on a particularly captivating photo of 2 little boys walking down a sidewalk, book bags in tow. My thoughts were interrupted by 2 taps to my shoulder.

"Hello again."

I turned to see the handsome (albeit irritating) stranger I'd met while waiting for Chase at the café (peep that here). I smiled.

"I remember you. Newspaper and coffee. I don't think we've formally met, I'm Chloe."

Intro the man I'd come to know as Hasaan. He was handsome-- there was no doubt about that. Tall and bronze with a dazzling smile and dimples that gave his face an air of mischief; but there was something else... something his look gave way to but I couldn't for the life of me place my finger on. None the less, he peaked my interest. A little conversation can't hurt... can it?

"So, are you familiar with the artist?" I asked.

"Yes, I am... in fact your looking at him," he laughed. Perfect! I could chat him up with no qualms, I mean, this is work. It's my job to find out all about the artist, right?

We strolled the gallery; Hasaan giving detailed info on how his experiences shaped each piece and me recording/ soaking it all in like a sponge. Before I knew it, an hour had passed and the guest were called to gather for a brief moment with the director of the gallery and the featured artist aka my new friend, Hasaan Callaway.

I began to walk over to the growing crowd when...

"I'd like to thank you all for coming to our opening tonight."

... I'd know that voice anywhere. My stomach dropped.

No. This can't be happening.

I looked past everyone toward the front of the room to see a proud Chase standing next to Hasaan.

This would be interesting.

___________________________

Angelica is a creator/writer living & loving in Atlanta, GA.

Guest Fiction Series: On The Other Side, Part 7

2016-01-19T08:43:00.003-05:00

The next morning, Martin woke up and went to work as usual. The kids were already out of the house and I needed a day to myself. I had no idea how I was going to get out of this date with Ahmad. I didn’t want to stand him up. I had already agreed to go and I was typically a woman of my word. But I knew that I couldn’t do anything to upset Martin again. He was in a good place and there was no way that I was going to ruin that. Maybe something would come to me later.

I went to a nearby spa and get the complete package. I wanted to feel better. I needed to feel better. I knew that if I could take my mind off my reality, then the next few days would be less stressful. I could think with a clear head.

I knew that since I didn’t schedule an appointment that I would be waiting forever to see someone. Maybe I could get a pedicure while I was waiting for a massage therapist to become available. I learned that therapy was something that I would require a lot of and there was nothing better than getting a massage. Sometimes I just needed to sit in silence. I definitely didn’t feel like talking to Dr. Ashbury today. So, if it were therapy that the doctor ordered, massage therapy would have to do.

After spending nearly four hours at the spa, I was renewed, rejuvenated, and relaxed. I almost sounded like a commercial. But it was beautiful. I ordered take-out and poured myself a glass of wine. I had been craving a steak for a while, so for lunch I decided on Houston’s. They had awesome food and I wouldn’t have to fire up my own grill. I put on my Miriam Makeba record while I lit my frankincense and myrrh incense. I sat down on the couch to eat. Before I got a chance to flip the record over, I had fallen asleep. Stress always caused me to dream, and I guess I was stressed that day.

“Kamaria, come here!”

“Ma’am?”

“Where have you been?”

“Out with friends, you told me I could go out, remember?”

“I didn’t tell you that you could stay out this late. So where were you?”

“We went to the movies.”

“If I find out that you were with some boy, I promise, this will be the last time you see the light of day.”

“I promise mom. I wasn’t.”

They say that mothers know everything. I guess this time wasn’t much different. I spent the next fifteen minutes waiting on the test results. One line meant I was fine. Two lines meant I would probably be dead soon. There was no way I could tell my mom. I didn’t know what to do. While I waited, I walked to the kitchen to get something to drink. All of a sudden, I had dry mouth. It had to be my nerves. As I walked to the bathroom, I nearly fainted, because there was mom sitting on the toilet holding the pregnancy test in her hand.

“Kamaria, all I ever asked of you, was that you tell me the truth. You’ve been lying to me all this time. How could you?”

“Mom, I can explain.”

“What are you going to explain, the fact that you’ve obviously been sleeping with some nappy-headed little boy, or the fact that you think I’m stupid enough to believe whatever lie you’ve thought up in that big pretty head of yours?”

“I can explain all of it.”

“Save it for your father. You’re going to have this baby and I don’t want to hear you crying about it either.”

“Wait, it’s positive? Sh*t”

“Just because you’re pregnant, doesn’t give you the right to cuss in front of me. I know you’ve lost your mind now.”

“I’m sorry mom.”

“Don’t be sorry, you should’ve been careful.”

The next few hours were horrible. I heard the front door open and I knew that dad was home. I knew that he would have my side. I just knew it.

“John, you’ll never guess what your little Kamaria has gotten herself into now, or better yet, what’s gotten into her.”

“Janice, what is it? It’s been a long enough day already. I just want to lie down.”

“You can lie down, alright. You might even pass out. Your little Kamaria is pregnant.”

“What do you mean she’s pregnant?”

“You know, she’s with child, knocked up, carrying. Do you need anything else to help you comprehend this situation?”

“Kamaria, is this true?”

“Well I never looked at the test after mom looked at it, but I’m sure if she says I am, then it must be true.”

“No need to get smart about it now, Kamaria. How? Why? Who?”

“I don’t know. All the other girls are doing it. His name is Shawn.”

“Does Shawn know?”

“No, I only just found out.”

“Well don’t you think you should let him know?”

“I will, soon. I promise.”

Just when my dream started to get emotional, I woke up at the sound of my phone ringing.

It was Ahmad.

“Hi beautiful. How are you?”

“I'm okay.”

“Were you asleep? I didn’t mean to wake you. But it is 2:30 in the afternoon.”

“I was just taking a nap. What’s up?”

“Just wanted to check on you and make sure that we were still on for Friday.”

“About that, I had been meaning to call you. I’m not sure that I’ll be able to go with you. Can I get a rain-check?”

“Well what’s wrong with Friday?”

“Honestly, my husband invited me out to dinner Friday. We haven’t really been on the up and up lately. I’d rather just go and reschedule our outing, if that’s okay with you.”

“That’s fine. Just let me know the date and time.”

“Will do.”

“What are you doing right now?”

“Nothing. Waiting on the kids to get home, but that’s about it.”

“Want to meet me at Cold Stone for some ice cream?”

“I can do that. I have to be back before it gets too late. I don’t want to leave the kids home alone for too long.”

“Okay, so would 3 o’clock be fine?”

“Sure.”

I left a note by the front door for the kids to warm up some T.V. dinners and I would be home shortly. The last thing I needed was for them to worry about me.

When I got to Cold Stone, I noticed a car that looked similar to Martin’s. But Martin was at work. Plus he’s not the only person in the city that drives a Lexus. I was sure that it wasn’t Martin. Walking inside, Ahmad was sitting in the corner of the restaurant. He was looking down at his phone. I walked over to speak.

“Hello sir.”

“Mademoiselle, have a seat. Would you like to place an order? I wanted to wait until you got here.”

“That’s fine.”

As we stood, he walked up to me and wrapped his arm around my waist.

“I’ve been waiting to do this since the first time I laid eyes on you.”

He kissed me. It wasn’t just a peck. He kissed me as if his life depended on it. Suddenly the room seemed empty and my head felt a little lighter than usual.

“Ahmad, we’re in public.”

“I know, and that’s okay. Your husband isn’t here.”

I couldn’t say much else. But I know that my legs started to feel weaker.

Maybe I’ll just let him order for me. Yea, he seems to be good at making plans and taking the lead. Let’s see if he can get this right.”

“I think I’ll be safer here. Can you order something for me? I’m not picky.”

“Sure babe.”

He’s already calling me babe. This can’t be a good thing. But that kiss was phenomenal. Maybe it’s just a term of endearment. It’s fine.

While Ahmad was getting our order, my phone dinged twice. They were text messages from Martin.

“Kamaria, where are you? The kids are here, but you aren’t. You better not be out with another guy.”

Why is he even home this early? It never fails. Maybe this is a sign. One thing is for sure. I’m finishing my ice cream first. The kids are fine.

I sent him a text and told him that I was at the grocery store and I would be back shortly.

So now, I have to go find something to buy at the grocery store.

Ahmad came back to the table.

“After we finish the ice cream, mind coming with me to the place we first met? I need to pick up a few things.”

“Sure, it wouldn’t happen to be oranges would it?”

“It just may be.”

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Verina Wherry is a writer, poet, and aspiring author who spends her free time listening to music, shopping for incense, and watching Criminal Minds reruns.