Flash Fiction Friday #42: Shaman

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

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

                         Shaman

He didn’t like to talk about it, but given the nature of gossip, everyone knew and did the talking for him.

Big time evangelist preacher, but I hear his brother is a obeah man! Yes! I hear it too! An’ it wasn’t jus’ he, his granny in it too! My tanty was tellin’ me so de other day…

Not to say it wasn’t true. For Raymond, growing up was as steeped in Granny’s special prayers as it was in entire Sundays spent in church and revival tents. It had gone on for so long that by the time he was old enough to think anything of it, he couldn’t imagine anything different.

Raymond didn’t hear much about Randy these days other than the whispers of the congregation. The last he heard was that he was up in some shack in San Souci, honing his arts, to paraphrase his grandmother. Randy had embraced it from the start. Raymond had to have a brush with death before he did anything about it. It was ten years ago and he and his best friend Marlon were coming home from a Carnival fete, (the congregation absolutely loved that part), when a driver drunker than he was sped through an intersection and ran into their car, passenger-side first. The driver of the other car had been killed instantly and, as he would find out later, so had Marlon. Yet, when Raymond awoke in the ICU, Marlon was there with him. And he stuck around for a while after that, (and would visit whenever he got bored with whatever otherworldly business he conducted when he wasn’t busy haunting Raymond).

 It was Marlon who helped him figure out the whole healing touch, and Marlon who suggested the whole church business. His granny knew of course, and would tut righteously whenever Raymond mentioned Marlon.
“Spirits not supposed to linger so long,” she would chide, sucking her teeth and shaking her head, to which Raymond would respond with a halfhearted shrug. He knew about as much about ghosts now as he did ten years ago. His forte now lay in balancing the people’s beliefs in the divine and the extent of his ability.

 He started out about a year after his accident. Between the seminary and the advice from Granny, Marlon and Randy, Raymond thrived. For the first time in his life he was actually doing well with something: secondary school was lackluster at best and life pre-collision was idle, punctuated by whatever hustle was necessary to fund temporary desires. But the Church made him feel whole. So his congregation grew. Marlon had the makings of a shrewd businessman and he wasn’t going to let go to waste just because he was dead, and donations poured in.

Raymond declined the radio and TV spots and tried to keep the pills and tonics to a bare minimum. He would cringe when he heard other evangelists on the radio with their bizarre Frankenstein-esque Yankee-cum-“foreign” accents rebuking the Devil and lauding their various remedies, (specially shipped and available for a very affordable $700 package deal). He was already mixing “devil ting” with scriptures and his morals wouldn’t let him betray the people further.

Yet Raymond knew that some of the same members of his congregation that would sit and gossip about his brother would drive up to San Souci to see Randy with matters they felt weren’t appropriate to bring to the House of the Lord. Two sides to the same coin; what was obeah to one was religion to another and whatever Spirit had given him this gift was fed by the same belief of the people. Obeah man, witch doctor, pastor… Raymond had figured out a long time ago that it was the same calling, different name. The trance, the healing… It was all steeped in ritual and parlour tricks, with a kernel of truth nestled at the centre of it all. Shaman was shaman.

Flash Fiction Friday #38: Obeah Ting

FINALLY!!!

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

fff#38: (starter) what i/you/he/she/it/we/they didn't know...

What she didn’t know was that I would do for she. She was rubbin up under my man when I tell she to stop it an she never take meh on. Well I had tell her I was a obeah woman too an she didn’t listen to dat neither. Yuh see granny had d gift and mummy was to get it too but mummy say dat was simmi-dimmi foolishness an she didn’t believe in dat kinda voodoo bullshit. Granny tell her dat voodoo an obeah is two different tings but if daz how yuh feel yuh gyul chile go get it instead, d power didn’t really mind. Dat was before mummy even tink bout boys, far less havin a gyul chile, so she steups an say simmi-dimmi bullshit again. So when I eventually pop out ten years later, feet first an d ting over meh eye, granny take one look at me an tell mummy to make sure an sen me by she every weekend so I could learn d ting proper.

 By d time I was five an ready for big school, granny pull me aside an tell me that woman wicked for spite an when I went in school I was to be careful an not let nobody play up in meh hair cause if they get even a strand, they could wuk all kinna ting on meh an I wouldn’t even know. I went tru primary school, an pass meh O’ Levels an everyting was nice, passin everyting, making sure all d teachers like me wit a lil help from granny, an never really havin any trouble wit mummy cause according to granny, mummy was a lil bit frighten of me. But I never really test it, so we was jus normal.

 So I reach form six now an me an dis gyul who was in my school for basically d whole ting but we didn’t really get close till form five an so by lower six she was always in meh house an knew nearly all meh business. So I tell her I was learnin obeah from granny but she jus laugh an say she didn’t believe me so I say aite from den I start to move lil different. Not enough for her to notice eh, but enough that if she do some shit, I coulda handle dah scene. So when she spend d night I take some hair, her toothbrush mysteriously went missing, dat kinna ting, a kinna back-up plan, just in case.

 I remember before I used to hear stories bout her takin people man an jus doin shit but I never really study it because we was rel good nah, but a day she tell me to check her facebook for someting cause her internet wasn’t workin an I see, big an bold, dis bitch talkin to my man on chat! I say, nah! She cyah be movin so, she was probably askin him where I was or someting so, so I open d ting an I see is sweet talkin she sweet talkin him!

 But I say, okay, lemme check an see waz d story behind dis. So I ask an firs she laugh an say she would never do dat kinna ting, but then she start to get on an say how I movin so wit she, like I doh trust she an all kinna ting an I remember d play we learn for lit an is like, d lady doth protest too friggin much! So I tell she to jus stop talkin to him cause we would rel fall out if she continue to jus play up. I musbe have Miss Mary Jackass write on my friggin forehead cause d nex time I check her facebook d bitch was still talkin to him! Clearly she tink I dotish. D man I will deal wit, a lil sweat rice will calm his straying ways, but she, I go do for she. Instead of laughin like a ass when I tell she I does do obeah, she shoulda take it as a warning. Dis will d very last time she will play like she pullin up on people man. I will make sure.

Flash Fiction Friday #37: Une Nuit Dans Les Bois

fff#37: (inclusion) pair, pare, pear, peer, père, pier.

 “They just don’t respect us any more, Anansi. Hunters come and go as they please, and they don’t tell the stories like they used to. Ask the children who Papa Bois is and they think is some guava switch to jumbie them into behaving good in school!” His leafy beard rustled as he shook his head.

 “You complain, Bouchon, but at least they talk of you. You know who they replaced me with? That stinkin’ Brer Rabbit. A rabbit! What part of Anansi the Spider-man did they miss? Cho, thinking about all that foolishness have me irate. You have any pear to calm me down in this big old forest of yours Père Bois?”

 Pears?” Papa Bois asked in confusion. “I can’t really leave the forest in this condition.” He glanced to his pair of cloven feet.

 “Not dat kind of pear, man. Avocado pear, what unno call it around here? Zaboca.”

“Ah,” sounded Papa Bois. He snapped his fingers, and the two old men peered into the darkness of the woods. 

 The rotting leaves of the forest floor quieted the backward footsteps of the small childlike creature that delivered the dark green avocado to the pair. He tipped his brimmed hat at the gentlemen, then disappeared back into the thicket. Anansi gave an exaggerated shudder. “Dem douen always disturbed me. I don’t know how you take care of them.”

Papa Bois sighed. “I don’t like them either. And I leave the minding to Mama D’leau. They like the water anyway.”

He tossed a small hunting knife to Anansi, who caught it deftly and began to pare his avocado.

 “How did you get here anyway? Surely not by flying, I know you don’t like to go any higher than a coconut tree,” asked Papa Bois.

 “I have my ways,” said Anansi mysteriously, pausing for a moment, then laughing boisterously. “No, I came in by boat, then took a taxi in from the pier. And the taxi driver made sure I wasn’t going to hunt.” Anansi cleared his throat and continued in an impeccable Trinidadian accent, “Doh try an hunt out of season eh, ‘cause Papa Bois go well do fuh yuh. I had a breddren who-”

 “Yes, yes I know. He had a ‘breddren’ who I caught and punished,” interrupted Papa Bois with a chuckle.

 “You see Bouchon? They didn’t forget us completely yet. Now eat some zaboca and enjoy the night.” 

Flash Fiction Friday #36: Charisma

fff#36: (inclusion) paw, poor, pore, pour

It seeps out of your very pores,

What ever it is you’ve been blessed with,

You’ve been anointed with,

Your cup is overflowing with it,

And the poor fools that

Paw at your feet

Lap up the lagniappe that pours

From your chalice.

Flash Fiction Friday #35: Rites Of Passage

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

fff#35: (inclusion) spank, drank, thank, stank, rank

 “Drink it nah boy!”

Jason hesitated. The clear liquid in the purple plastic cup stank. In fact, it smelled almost exactly like the methylated spirits his mother had used to clean his grazed knees last month. The same mother who would deliver the spanking, no, it was safe to say he would receive a cut-ass for this, if she found out what he was doing now.

 It all begun when Kwasi, the eldest of their group, decided, thanks to his older brother, that alcohol was what really separated boys from men. So the vodka had been borrowed from someone’s liquor cabinet, and Jason did his part by bringing the plastic cups he knew his mother wouldn’t miss.

 “Yuh ‘fraid or what?” someone goaded.

That was enough. Jason drank it down in one gulp to the whoops and hollers of his friends. The cup was refilled and passed to the next boy, and Jason was once more secure in their ranks, until some new stipulation of manhood was discovered.

Flash Fiction Friday #34: The Traveller

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

fff#34: (choice of inclusion) ghost, roast, boast, toast, host.

The traveller had been warned against this route

Though it promised to be quicker.

Brave,

Strong,

Could survive anything

that was thrown at him,

Was his boast,

Though the weariness that licked his feet,

The hunger, his belly,

And the cold, his back,

Threatened to prove him wrong.

Before he could regret his pride,

In the distance appeared a light,

Luck was still at his side.

He made it to the door

and knocked thrice upon it.

It was opened to reveal

A kindly old widower

Who offered,

In return for his company,

Free lodging and even fare for the night.

Once inside and warm,

With promises of food to follow,

Our traveller settled to listen

To the old man’s yarn.

He spoke quite fondly

Of days that had been too long past,

And lovers long dead,

And the ways things 

Should have turned out instead.

When the traveller received

His warm meat

And cold ale,

He proposed a toast

To warm feet,

A good roast,

And goodwill to all men.

When our traveller awoke

By the light of the dawn,

His benevolent host

Was no where to be found.

The room was far less attractive

Without the light of the fire,

And the hearth seemed

Too cold for a flame

Only hours expired.

Nonetheless he gathered

His effects and dusted his coat,

And continued his journey

To where he was bound.

Only when he was

Well along his way

Did it occur for him to wonder,

That perhaps his host wasn’t human,

Perhaps his host was a ghost.

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

clearly i am not stickin with this one :)

fff#33: (inclusion) wet, match, chain, trigger, rendezvous

She clutched her coat more tightly to her body in a futile effort to shut out the cold rain. It was assignments like these that made her long for home, or at least to be sent somewhere tropical. She crossed the empty street, careful not to slip on the slick cobblestones and entered a small tea parlor with dusty cakes in the window. She chose a seat in the corner of the shop and hung her wet coat on the back of the wrought-iron chair. She shivered slightly as she removed a bright red handkerchief from her bag and began to dry herself off with it. The waitress spotted her and brought extra napkins along with her pot of tea. She smiled gratefully and accepted them. Hopefully her show had been enough. 

 She sipped her tea gently, and soon a man with a watch with a band designed like a bicycle chain approached her table with a grin. “Maggie!” he exclaimed. “It’s been too long!”

Her trigger had worked and here was her contact, exactly as she had been told he would be.

 “Jonathan! I know!” She rose to embrace him. One of the first thing she had to do when she started out in this job was get over her fear of hugging strangers. “Have a seat,” she added, while taking her own. After they’d spent the next half hour trading made-up updates on their imaginary families, Jonathan looked his watch. “It’s getting a bit late, shall I escort you to the train station?”

 They left the parlor with linked arms and began their short stroll to the station, seeming to all the world like a pair of lovers. At the station he pulled a small box, about twice the size of a matchbox and thrust it into her hands. “Happy birthday,” he said, and kissed her on the cheek. They hugged again, then she boarded her train. As the train started up she saw him whip out his phone to alert his superiors.

 On the train she sat alone and secured the box in a compartment of her bag. The rendezvous and collection had been a success. Though she still had the boarder to cross, she expected smooth sailing from then on. She made herself comfortable and looked out the window. She took a moment for self-satisfaction. She’d done well, career-wise. After all, she was being paid to take a free trip half way across the world to drink tea and fetch a matchbox. It had even stopped raining.

Flash Fiction Fridays

So this just occurred to me. Since I have all the fff triggers, i could share them with my readers! (readers oui.... sometimes i amuse myself).
if one choses to do so, you can link back to me, and you should link back to Elisha's blog sweet trini's urban folk tales, since she's the lovely lady who instigates these particular fffs and it's nice to know people paying attention.


here they are in all their reverse-chronological glory:

fff#33: (inclusion) wet, match, chain, trigger, rendezvous

fff#32: (starter) i/he/she/it/we/they took everything

fff#31: (idea inclusion) egg(s), witch, cave.

fff#30: (idea inclusion) snakecharmer, citrus, book(s)

fff#29: (starter) as much/little as...

fff#28: (inclusion) rebellion, fox, strange, mirror, pleasure

fff#27: (inclusion) lush, plush, brush, hush, gush

fff#26: (inclusion) rack, pack, track, crack, slack

fff#25: (inclusion) those who mind don't matter; those who matter don't mind

fff#24: (inclusion) earlobe, wrist, lip, knuckle, eye

fff#23: (inclusion) wrinkle, heavy, space, light, time

fff#22: (starter) when I drink

fff#21: (starter) it wasn't how fresh

fff#20: (inclusion) sunny, sandy, wet, warm, limp

fff#19: (inclusion) pleasure, pain, sweet, dark, trouble

fff#18: (inclusion) dance, glance, trance, prance, pants

fff#17: (starter) the rules of engagement

fff#16: (inclusion) smoke, joke, broke, folk, yolk

fff#15: (Inclusion) mind, find, blind, kind, dined

fff#14: (starter) no current

fff#13: (starter) sweating profusely

fff#12: (inclusion) prick, flick, trick, slick, thick

fff#11: (inclusion) block, clock, frock, rock, flock

fff#10: (inclusion) dirtier, messier, sloppier, wetter, read

fff#9: (Inclusion) all that was left was/were 

fff#8: (inclusion) gun, tonne, fun, plum, drum

fff#7: (inclusion) the only word the voice on the phone said was

fff#6: (inclusion) It was the eighth deadly

fff#5: (inclusion) flake, rake, break, stake, snake

fff#4: (starter) Freakishly large hands reached out toward

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

fff#2: (inclusion) crumb, bum, thumb, rum, dumb

fff#1: (starter) it was the smell of cinnamon

sweet trini's rules are thus:

rules of engagement:
you will send in your suggestions for flash fiction friday triggers (starter sentences/phrases, closers, titles, inclusions, etc.) anytime during the week up to 11.55a.m. friday, trinbago timezone; i will post the new fff trigger by noon friday trinbago timezone.*
if your trigger is not chosen and you think it is too brilliant not to be chosen, you will send it in again the next week.
you will write an anecdote, short story, or novel length prose poem using the trigger provided.
you will add comments and appropriate linkage to my trigger-post indicating your desire to participate and the completion of your piece (don't need a blogger/gmail account to comment on my blog).
you may join in at any time prior to the deadline.*
you will display your piece as a post on your own blog (or as a comment on my trigger-post or fasbook note or whatever, once we can all read it- please make sure we can all access the link to read it, not just those who are your friends on fasbook; there's a way to create public links for that, right?).
you will be done by monday noon trinbago timezone.*[in light of collective busyness and my general mentality, i not pressed about these deadlines 'cause i'd rather have fun reading late than never, so if you want to fff past deadline, go through hard, just make sure you comment on the appropriate trigger-post so we know which it belongs to, and if is a real old trigger, comment on the most recent post as well so we know something new to back-back+read...if nobody fffs i'll leave the same trigger up until at least 1person other than myself writes a piece]*

nicesness. now everybody can write some :)

have fun!

Flash Fiction Friday #32: Teacher's Pet

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

fff#32: (starter) i/he/she/it/we/they took everything

 She took everything mundane about our classes and spritzed it with her flowery perfume. Most of the boys where enthralled by Ms Bell. The ones in the upper classes attempted to wow her with their newfound charms. Us younger ones just blushed when she asked us questions and tried to impress her by either being very bad, or very good.

 She rolled her Rs beautifully, and once she sang us a Spanish lullaby in her sweet, lilting voice. For me, she was an angel in my history of all male teachers and she begun my transition from boy to man. 

 She left after a year, not because she was a bad teacher, but because she was going back to school. My next Spanish teacher was the very old, very wrinkled, very surly Mrs Jones, but my love of the language had been very securely cemented and not even Mrs Jones’ perpetual grouchiness could waver it.

 I hadn’t given Ms Bell much thought for years when one day while I was in the office with a class mate I saw her. I went up to her and stumbled out a quick introduction.

 “You mightn’t remember me Miss, but I was in your form one class and-” I rattled.

She interrupted me. “Of course I remember you Jason.” I was twelve again, knees shaking and blushing like mad just from her words and her charming smile. Some things never changed.

Flash Fiction Friday #3:

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

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

They never could get that right thought the old man wryly with a shake of his silver head. There was something in the act of taking off, the tension in his thighs, the effort of getting past the mental block to the allegedly impossible, the way that the ground buckled slightly when his feet eventually left the ground, that none of the books, the comics, the movies or the TV shows never got, far less for this made-for-TV movie. His granddaughter would laugh at him if she caught him watching one of these biographies, but Johann couldn’t help it. She wouldn’t understand until she too hung up the mantle of The Silver Swift. He missed it, and the based on a true story retellings of his glory days helped him to remember that they weren’t all a figment of his imagination. He looked up to see an actor that looked nothing like him battling with his sidekick turned arch-nemesis Ares in the middle of the town square. He’d forgotten that Marc was coming for tea that evening. It was surprising how after years of therapy and conversation how strong a friendship could spring up between such a notorious enmity.

 The doorbell rang and he shuffled to answer it. He embraced Marc and they stopped in the kitchen for the tea and biscuits. His granddaughter whirled in, whipping off the brown wig that concealed her trademark silver hair.

 “Salut Papa, salut Marc,” she said kissing them lightly on the cheeks. Her eyes twinkled and her cheeks where tinged pink. They knew without asking where she was heading. They shared a nostalgic smile and made for the television, turning to a local newstation. The glow on The Silver Swift’s face was evident on screen even through the shaky camerawork.

 “The thrill of it was beautiful, wasn’t it, Johann. The more dangerous the better,” Marc said with a chuckle.

 “Yes,” he replied. “And the movies never quite got that either.” 

Flash Fiction Friday #21: Fresh To Death

fff#21: (starter) it wasn't how fresh

It wasn’t how fresh

his mark was whenever  he went out,

or the way his shirt hung just right,

or the way his  jeans hugged his hips

and the demim kissed his skin,

or the combination of dimples

and bashful smile that always smelled of mint

that got me,

but it certainly helped.

Flash Fiction Friday #31: Dat Is Obeah

Fff#31: (idea inclusion) witch, egg(s), cave

This one is a lil bit different cuz i'm not really to use the words, more the ideas of them.... which is what i was supposed to do last week but this one came out much better. i really like it actually ^_^ it lil long doh....

 Kenny sat in his truck as he stared apprehensively at the house. It was one of those old wooden houses with shutters and fretwork that had fallen into the disrepair that came with age. Lonely tufts of grass sprouted between moss-covered, formerly white, pebbles. A large mango tree hung over the fence, suspiciously laden for one so near a boys’ primary school. It was all a little eerie, and that eeriness was what helped fuel the rumours that he remembered from primary school days till now, that the owner and allegedly sole inhabitant of the house was an obeah woman.

 He sighed. His childhood friend Dominic had sworn coming here would be the answer to his problems.

“Big man like you ‘fraid to go an’ visit ah ole lady boy?” he muttered to himself as he climbed out of the truck.  He got to the gate and looked about him. At the base of the mango tree lay the half-eaten corpse of a baby blackbird.

 “Eat anyt’ing from dat tree an’ yuh go dead.”

The memory came back to him clear as day. He shuddered.

 “Good afternoon!” he called out. A small woman peeped out from the side of the house.

 “Yes?” she responded, walking through the yard towards him.

 “Good afternoon Tanty. Ah looking for Miss Lucille. I need a favour an’ they tell me to check here.”

She cocked her eyebrow. “A favour? Dat is what alyuh young people callin’ it now? Come inside, dis is not talk to talk for outside spirits to hear.” She unlatched the gate and walked up the path to her front door. As Kenny followed, he thought he saw small bones scattered about the stones, but he didn’t query. The wooden steps creaked as he climbed them.

 The first thing he noticed as he entered the house was the smell. It was musty and moldy and the high ceiling and the darkness of the room made it seem cavernous. And the porcelain figurines made it seem crypt-like. The figurines that were so common in homes seemed especially morbid in this house, and Kenny wasn’t sure if it was the gloom, the red velvet they were seated on or the general eeriness that enveloped the house, but looking at the figurines scared him so he turned his attention back to the old woman. She peered at him and asked evenly, “What is this favour you need from me now Kenny Baptiste?”

 “Wha-“ Kenny stuttered, confused and a bit distressed. “How you know my name?”

 “Knowing t’ing is my business Kenny. Now what is it you want from me?” she replied briskly.
 “Well,” Kenny started, and paused for a moment to think how best to say it. “Me an’ de wife have been trying to have a baby and she can’t no matter what we do. I was told you could help me.”

 “And how we know you is not de problem boy?”

Kenny bristled. “Because the doctor check. Is not me,” he replied stiffly. Lucille cackled, and her eyes seemed to glow while the pale, sagging skin of her cheeks shook slightly. To Kenny it seemed that selling potions to him in the day was not the only thing this old woman could do. “I shoulda know is not sweet talk you come to do wit’ a ole woman like me.” Lucille laughed again and Kenny tried to suppress his shudder. “Sit down right here and don’t move, don’t touch not’ing,” she commanded as soon as she had contained herself and excited the room through a beaded curtain that tinkled as she passed. As if Kenny would ever do such a thing. The room terrified him so much that he didn’t even want to move too hard to scratch his nose.

 When Lucille returned he let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. She brought with her two sealed glass cylinders filled with about a centimeter each of something and some leaves wrapped in a paper napkin. “Powdered rabbit guts,” she said holding up the cylinder with the suspiciously brown contents, “And crushed mango seed. Make her an omelets or somet’ing for breakfast and mix them into it. She mus’ eat all.” She held up the leaves. “Make tea for her wit’ dis, no sugar, honey alone if she mus’ have it sweet.” She put them in a bag and handed it to Kenny who cradled it like was gold. “For de whole ten months from de day you give her dis, she is not to eat no kinda blood pudding, none at all, or it will not work.” She looked at him meaningfully to ensure he understood and he nodded. She began to hurriedly shuffle him out the door and down the path till he was at the gate. Kenny felt a little overwhelmed but was glad to see the light of day. He stumbled to his truck and was halfway in when he remembered. “Miss Lucille! How much I have for you?” Miss Lucille smiled almost predatorily as she leaned over the gate, and her small, sharp teeth glistened as sunlight hit them. “No money Kenny. All I want is de afterbirth.”

Kenny recoiled slightly but nodded. As he drove away, the word he had been trying to remember since he’d seen Miss Lucille finally came to him: soucouyant.

Flash Fiction Friday #30: Charmer

fff#30: (inclusion) snakecharmer, citrus, book(s) 

Not quite sure if i got what i was supposed to do quite right, but no scene :)

The snakecharmer plays his instrument and sways, serene, almost oblivious to the fact that the very breaths he takes enthralls the creature before him. So it was with me and him. The melody of his voice drove me to distraction whenever he spoke to me, and the movement of his hips when he walked away hypnotized me. But he wasn’t oblivious to the effect he had on me. Oh no, it was quite the opposite. He read me like an open book, saw the infatuation on my face as plain as if it were printed in ink, he caressed my spine and knew each page intimately.

He smelled of paint and canvas and ink mostly, but beneath all that lingered the faint but undeniable scent of something citrus. The citrus was the smell that snaked into your nostrils and hung around him no matter what he did, it was in his blood, and his kisses tasted of it. After the puppy love wore off and we grew apart, the citrus is what stayed with me the longest, and even now, it takes me back to the days of flavoured kisses, when his voice captivated me and his hips mesmerized me.

Flash Fiction Friday #22: When I Drink

fff#22: (starter) when I drink

(ah find d permalink! plus the link for the blog itself is HERE. also, i don't drink. seriously).

when i drink,

the warmth trickles down my throat,

settles in my tummy for a moment,

then rushes off to curl my toes.

the warmth then moves to my head

to cloud my judgment,

heighten my thoughts,

and dull the reasons why i don’t think about them.

the warmth then envelops me,

heats the tips of my ears,

then whispers into them,

and tells me i’m invincible,

and so i am.

but eventually the warmth dissipates,

the toes uncurl,

clarity returns with a friend,

the pounding in my brain,

and i’m left with the cold,

and just how invincible

i am not.

Flash Fiction Friday #18: Dance

Let it be known that prance is an incredibly UNATTRACTIVE word.
fff#18: (inclusion) dance, glance, trance, prance, pants

she enters as the music dims to announce that dj prance would be supplying the tunes for the night. the club is dark and the crowd moves, almost in a trance, to the carnal demands of the pounding bass. she makes her way from the bar, drink in hand, to join the mass of bodies pressed together as they dip and sway in time to the music. she takes a glance around her, and their eyes meet. she bites her lip and their eyes say all. they meet halfway. his hands run up the length of her thigh and fingers hook on the loops of her pants. their bodies mold together as they begin to move in time. and then they dance.

Flash Fiction Friday #29 Curlylocks

Flash Fiction Fridays

Trigger: (starter) as much/little as

As much as it may surprise some, the way I wear my hair now a days did not start off as this huge social statement many take it to be. I mean, two and a half years ago when I decided to go free and be happy to be nappy with the hair one Carnival Friday for school, I didn’t really have anything on my mind other than, “Hmm, what the hell can I do with my hair that isn’t a bun or 2 ponytails or spending 3 hours with a flat iron?”

 My memory is a little hazy, but I remember a lot of people being intrigued, and I’m sure there were some “what d hell goin’ on wit’ she boy?”s, and I certainly remember a friend saying that a friend of hers found my look “funky”, (though to be honest I was also going through my tie faze and it may have been a lot for him to handle), but it didn’t matter. I liked the hair, I liked how I didn’t have to fight up with it and I liked how it framed my face. And thus, the Powerpuff Girls were born! Not really, but my signature look certainly was.

 A couple months later I cut my hair to the shortest it had ever been, (chop chop chop, PIECES), and didn’t look back. I perfected the various formulae for product that would provide me with maximum curl and minimum frizz and my flat iron took a back seat. The hair with its bigness and puffyness and its notice-me-ness began to grow on people, and the naysayers became less frequent, (though as they say, those who mind don’t matter and those who matter don’t mind, and my close friends always liked my wild look), and people began to associate me with the hair.

 Doh feel I forget I called my hair a social statement however. I like to joke about how I don’t let Babylon dictate the style I choose to wear my locks, but like the best jokes, there is truth in my jest. I don’t need to straighten it if I don’t want to. I still do different things with my hair from time to time, but I always remember that straight isn’t the only “nice hair”, natural and curly is beautiful too. There are those who disagree still, I know, but I can’t say that I care, honestly. Who vex loss. Talk done.