Tuesday, December 30, 2014

fff#45

late but clearly not never; my flash fiction friday #45 [inclusion trigger]: sea cockroach and the sand dollar band

...and then space/time snap back; vision clear...empress diablesse come back to myself here, now, as ever...still a woman in a place where woman gets no respect. black woman in a place where black women get no respect. a citizen of a place where citizens get no respect from self, fellow citizens, or those we choose to represent us, where daily abuse of the senses sending we more than mad...st.anns! where we going?
and this is why i exercise my power. because is my only means of control. and because we deserve it. i am the superhero we deserve. when i hunt, when i choose, i take the ones we can afford to lose. i take the ones who add nothing to the whole of us, we the people. i take the ones who just taking up space, sucking up oxygen wasted on their mediocre talents, to then hawk+spit in our genepool. i take them as necessity demands, as practice while i wait to find the one, wait for the right one to give me the child i need.
tonight is hunt night. moon full. is we time now.
in this time is a new "village dance", reinvention of tradition, we go a dancehall now. tonight sea cockroach and the sand dollar band playing on the grandstand and i there in my glory. these days the dances sweatier, music grimier, men slimier, all the easier for empress diablesse to stand out from the crowd, a different kinna woman...mysterious, sexy in my long, clinging skirt, not your usual type, but impossible to ignore. hips sway, beckoning your eyes to linger, lips call you wordlessly, soundlessly, you hear only your blood pounding in your ears to the rhythm of my heartbeat...this part i enjoy...
i pull, i coax, i finesse...without needing to speak i make myself felt from across a room, make my choice and take without you ever knowing it wasn't your idea, your conquest, your triumph. you think you get through, think you win, you think yourself king because you believe you possess a queen, never realising nobody can contain the empress...the lesson of the hoof is stoop to conquer.
tonight i hunt. for the darkness, to fill the black hole inside myself, i hunt.
sea cockroach and the sand dollar band mashing up the grandstand; i survey my prey. knowing how unsuspecting they all are, intoxicates...this part i like...i select carefully: sweet enough to please my eye, smart enough to please my mind for the little time i'll keep him, shittong enough to feel no guilt over...
i draw him close so he can find me irresistible. i play the mas impeccably; practice makes perfect and my mas must play perfect when the right one finally come. this one, tonight, not the one, but enough for right now, enough to keep the visions quiet, enough to let me sleep after.
he will offer to take me home. many many moons ago it woulda be on his bicycle, or even his back, slowly getting heavier, anticipating his inevitable dread, his building fear when the growing weight exhausting him and he realising he lost, in the dark, in the bush, with a strange woman he pick up in a dance, a "loose" woman? tonight he'll drive, windows down for the cool night air, finally we all stop sweating for the day. he won't have the warning sound of hoof dragging ever so slightly in the grass by the side of the road. times change, we [immortal] must change with them, try not to seem out of place. tonight this man drives [me] to his death.

walk good.

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Friday, December 26, 2014

flash fiction friday #45

flash fiction friday#45 [inclusion]trigger: [sea cockroach and the sand dollar band]

usually, an inclusion-trigger (as opposed to a specific starter, like fff#43's before the fall of the snake oil empire...) is a batch of seemingly unrelated words that must all be included in the piece (eg. fff#23+24; probably going so nex' week) but i put this one [inside] because the phrase isn't to be separated into its word-components for inclusion, but maintained+used as written.
big-up nickolai salcedo for the trigger; like allyuh-self!

rules of engagement:
you will send in your suggestions for flash fiction friday triggers (starter sentences/phrases, closers, titles, inclusions, structural challenges, 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]*
write fresh!
walk good.

3 Comments:

Blogger sweet trini said...

just saying i still in, just eh done yet, but my fff#45 sooncome...walk good.

11:37 am  
Blogger Frostblaze868 said...

Trinidad, is not the kind of place where people go mad over celebrities, us trinis, we just too cool for that garbage. Say for example a well known soca singer were to pop up by the doubles man and shout "haaaaay HAAAAA!!!! " hardly anyone would pay notice... Except maybe to let him know: road march title or no, the back of the line is STILL that way.

So after recording label contracts that spawned 4 albums, a tour that spanned 5 continents, forays with models that only wore certain designer's clothes, a drug abuse stint that included only certain designer drugs and a car crash on the Nuremberg while driving the world's third fastest production car... when sea cockroach and the sand dollar band jump out that blue panel van with nothing but the clothes on they back, and a few empty Guinness bottles in hand, on the block that chiseled their talent for percussion out of their habit of beating on random objects, the only reaction to their appearance was one random old man who ask them if they had a spare cigarette.... Which they didn't.

They were ignored until they started gathering a random assortment of items: a tree stump, the drum from the rear brakes of a datsun 280 c, a discarded piece of bamboo, half a plastic barrel, a short piece of 3x3 angle iron and so on which they arranged in a loose circle. They looked around at each other as they produced various drumsticks from special pockets sewn into their levis, and with an unseen signal started simultaneously beating an intricate percussive pattern on the collected items.

With their backs to the crowd, all facing inward, focused only on their 'instruments' they payed no attention to the bacchanal that slowly evolved around them: women gyrating, the men in their close proximity who weren't gaping were buying drinks by the case, cold enough to be wearing jackets of frost, Johnny, white oak, puncheon, sweat and weed smoke mingled in the 7 pm air and nobody was interested in the news, only the RIDDIM.

They didn't even pay attention to the players

Five broken hearts with bodies attached. The beat they played was an ode to the pain they experienced on foreign shores and seas. A drumroll to the glory of musical fame, a bass kick to love lorded over and lost, a rushing twisting tribute to the autobahn, and a spiraling low beat into oblivion to the depths of drug addiction. It was quite the goodbye to the life of debauchery they had dragged each other through, kicking and screaming

No one noticed that all five of them were crying til the bottom of the half of the plastic barrel buss.

They threw the sticks in the closest drain, downed the closest offered beverage and went back from the block that bought them together, to the homes that raised them, to live out the rest of their lives as modest men. Because, as sea cockroach himself said:

"dis music ting go kill me wi, better I did had stay on de block and sell hard weed!"

11:35 pm  
Blogger sweet trini said...

yay for people fffing!
my fff#45@ http://urbanfolktales.blogspot.com/2014/12/fff45.html
walk good.

8:12 pm  

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Tuesday, December 23, 2014

fff#44

i real late with this one because in true fff-style i experiment plenty; i struggled to finish (would still call it a draft at this stage; not as sweet as las' week's fiction) because of my insistence i must marry ideas i know not technically for each other, but tha's the fun in fff, ent? i knew i was undertaking a kinna impossible challenge but once i had the idea to connect the unconnected i couldn' not try, especially when we have this perfect forum for exploration...sooo...this may not work at all; tell me what does/not so i know how the experiment went, nah...flash fiction friday #44 trigger [left open as title, as starter, or for inclusion, by ellipses before+after phrase]: ...when the sky broke...

when the sky broke and judgement call and the flooding start in central and the pitch lake overflow, the midnight robber and the great bat, freshly installed in the mas camp, were otherwise occupied and miss the warning that they done losing ground, literally and figuratively...
since the grande dame lorraine get run the bat busy studying the treasury and the robber on heself as usual, now trying to figure out how to maintain he dreader-than-dread now he suddenly come man-friday; didn' expect when he day dawn it would be under bat wing and not he own broad black brim, but he was there studying empress diablesse showing face (and hoof! in broad daylight!) when the bat come whispering in dark night about tides turning on her-greatness the grande dame and advantage to be taken. robber always for capitalising on somebody downfall so he fall in, but since they take up residence in the mas camp the bat busy counting coppers, and he realise it too easy ramfling people when you's the regime; without the challenge of constantly terrifying, the robber find heself bored. and boredom is a gateway to contemplation, dangerous with these dark minds...is not like he was a stranger to the idea of introspection, but moreso retrospection, stopping short of actual analysis; midnight robber tradition is extreme self-proclamation+aggrandisation, a rapper flaunting his cred, focused on his terrible achievements, from tearing his way out his mother's body to birth he own self to becoming a mastermind of death+destruction+corruption and all the atrocities proudly committed along the way inspiring fear+horror...but boredom have him thinking deep.
tings that never give pause before heavy on his mind now. outside is anarchy as people losing land+homes to rising waters in some parts and rivers of pitch bubbling to the surface snaking silently, suffocatingly through others, and marauding masquerade bands taking advantage of the vacuum as the bat still counting and the robber paralysed by his mind turning inside. outside people fighting, fleeing weeping skies and pitch flowing faster than thought possible, undiluted by the nonstop torrents from above, and the robber lock inside, trapped by echoes he used to just ignore. talk 'bout his evil acts, pong his foul, stink attitude, question his intelligence, but he done prove heself there and nobody could tell him he eh great+terrible as he is; and is he running this mas camp?! but they did whisper in corners that behind that front is a gateway rasta, a non-threatening ease-into the dark thrills of jouvay and night mas no real woman need entertain, an acceptable rebellion for straight-haired wannabes supposedly seeking danger but really just playing theyself, and that- that!- he manhood cyah take. for the first time he acknowledging his trajectory, gateway rasta fuelled by the rage of his robber-self slowly, slyly using that position to rise, advancing through them ranks of protected women and abusing their docility to grow his reputation for being a hard, rough tess; by the time he first encounter the bat, gateway rasta had become beti-slayer, and now he hadda wonder if everything else he ever do is just to counteract that.
outside the mas camp, chaos. sky+earth split open and no way to dam either deluge with the grande dame lorraine long gone, bat m.i.a., robber in existential crisis and no nex' big bandleader in sight; anybody who could just abandoning the island. empress diablesse watching+waiting, quiet in the forest where she know she safe until flooding subside and she could see all who might pose a threat and decide how to dispose of them before she show face again. all she waiting on is dry enough ground to plant she hoof because she done decide if she eternity is this place she might as well make it she own; she tired hiding hoof and hunting under cover of dark; why it doh have man throwing theyself at she foot, begging for a chance with woman so powerfully connected as she very name imply? and if the men and them too weak, why la diablesse hiding? best she come out and show sheself and just take her pick of them until she make the child she want and have no need of them again.
when the sky finally clear and the pitch harden and people start venturing out to survey the damage and see what could salvage, empress diablesse use her camouflage skills like never before; insteada making she corpse-face young+beautiful to fool man, she make the mas camp an illusion of pitch-preserved decrepitude. she secret sheself by the gate to maco everybody who show too much interest, marking who looking in the yard trying to make out what happen with the great bat and midnight robber. them she would deal with first...

walk good.

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Friday, December 19, 2014

flash fiction friday #44

flash fiction friday #44 trigger: ...when the sky broke...

rules of engagement:
you will send in your suggestions for flash fiction friday triggers (starter sentences/phrases, closers, titles, inclusions, structural challenges, 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]*
write fresh!
walk good.

8 Comments:

Blogger sweet trini said...

almost forget to declare intention: i'm in! walk good.

10:28 am  
Blogger sweet trini said...

i know i officially late, but in case anybody waiting for ting to read, i saying i almost done and still intend to post it...walk good.

12:35 pm  
Anonymous keifel said...

Done and posted

2:54 pm  
Anonymous Victoria said...

Done, if late, and posted: arsculinaria.net/?p=450

12:46 am  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

1.

When the sky broke, when it finally cracked open and we could see the infinity beyond the blue, the infinity in the blue, we were in tears. We were in the final launch and she and I had shaken and rattled till we broke the hemisphere. She looked at me. I wondered at her. I mirrored her look of newness and horror. I'd never been touched like that before. My soul had moved around and grasped hers with tangible spirit caresses. I'd heard of soul mating before, but I'd never guessed it was real. Here in outer space away from all others, we’d admitted to each other that it was something we always wanted to try. Our friendship had exploded. The ground beneath us had been incinerated by our ascent. I moved to touch her but she flinched away. "You've ruined me forever." she said. She was right. This was the high we’d been searching for all our lives. There was nothing beyond this. Anything past this, I was sure, had to be the ecstasy of death. I’d waded through a thousand thighs, and could wade through a thousand more, but I would never regain this moment. We were afraid to touch each other. The electric currents flew across the ship and jolted us. I understood her perfectly. My fear rose to meet my desire, my wonder, and strangle them both before they could turn us to deities. Here was the mystical. Here was the answer. Here was everything. This must have been what the first man and woman found, the first time. We could populate new worlds.

"People will come from all over the planets to see us." She was not speculating. She was stating the reality. Her hair was a nest that she touched and rearranged as she spoke. I believed her. I knew the truth of her words as completely as if she'd told me the earth would keep turning. I would never get over her. Her love, her lust, her smell and her laughter were now mine. Her moans would echo through me for eternity. Whatever was mine was hers. She was me. She had ruined me forever. I turned to the controls and nudged the spaceship nearer to the Mars substation. I knew her thoughts and sensed her movements before she made them. Even now, I could feel her steeling herself to make as quick and as clean a severance from me as possible. She would not leave me, she never could, but she would live her life without me. If she had to she would take a creature from the red dust of Mars. She would fashion him in her own image and likeness and breathe into his nostrils. She would make love to the clay figurine. She would make him walk and talk. She would animate him and have him follow her around and hold her baby stroller and her groceries. He would be a zombie and a slave. His be all and end all would be to lay impotent between her legs every night after she’d murdered him. She would resurrect him in the morning and he would shave and salute the day and go out to his job and bring her home money. She would do this without a second thought as to what I was thinking. She would do it easily enough, because he would good man. He would never be me, but she would live on because she was just like me. She was a deity. She was a goddess and goddesses do as they please.

12:04 pm  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

After we clamped on to the substation we were transported down to the red dirt of Mars by a circular machine we'd nicknamed the escalator. We descended in silence. We heard the crunch below us and the hatch opened. Already I could see the Nevarrians coming near, their long silent strides were intimidating to the uninitiated but we knew them well. I turned to her and said, "I will stay. I can stay. I have to stay. Just let me know what you did. How did you do that?" She sighed, "You already know I don't know. I had that once before with someone, but never so powerful." I had to know what she'd done. Was she a spell caster? An alien? Had the trip deprived me of one of my senses, or heightened them all and made me open to suggestion? What was the explanation? I was lying to myself, chasing down what I already knew to be falsehoods. The answer was as simple as stated. We were soulmates. I turned to her. "I need to know for sure, give me time. Let me have you a few more times so I can figure this out." "No,” she answered. “No more love making. I know what I want. We are here. We are now. There's nowhere else to go except for on together, or on apart."

I left her behind on the Nevarrrian region near the underground lake a few miles from the Martian equator. She had just looked at me. We dared not touch each other and we did not speak. I waved and she waved back. I stepped on the ship and navigated it back to the substation. She was already moving about her business and chatting up other crew members as I began my ascent up the escalator. She was brutal. She would move on as easily and with as much difficulty as I. I re-launched two days later and I did not tell her goodbye. She made no effort to contact me. She never did. I returned to earth and enjoyed a beautiful relationship with my girlfriend, who became the mother of my three children. I satisfied myself with living on Earth. I thought of her sometimes, when the sky blushed purple and the sun bled red. I thought of us in the heavens, about who we had become then and who we could have become. I taught my children to never fear greatness. I taught them to never fear the unknown. I hoped they would be braver than I. I never flew again.

12:04 pm  
Blogger sweet trini said...

late-but-done+posted@ http://urbanfolktales.blogspot.com/2014/12/fff44.html
majorly experimental, but now i get to read plenty ting! yay!
walk good.

12:18 pm  
Blogger Nickolai Salcedo said...

Ten minutes.

No one on the cliff had made a sound for ten full minutes save for the zuldan who struggled to maintain his composure after having been starved and exposed to the elements. He could not tell which he was shivering from more; cold, fear, hunger or exhaustion. The slaves had been beating and hacking at the wrists of the god Kun’s statue feverishly working to free its pike from its grasp. Overhead the clouds blackened. “Fitting…” thought Oskha, “… even the sky heralds the fall of Goyan.”

He had begun the evening enjoying his tour of the pleasure quarters in the citadel of Hel Tugush. The Bahuyani and Mahicani women were his favourites. Now those same women stood facing him with the machetes of the imperial guards held tightly in their hands. A few could not help but smile at the sight of the great zuldan Oskha Pathunyh ‘El Haulh Al Orubh’ reduced to a mere whimpering animal as he held on for his life. Oskha winced at the sound of each blow at the statue as he could hear the slaves getting through with their task. Eventually when the spear hit the ground with a loud clang, Oskha nearly jumped out of his skin as he could hear the slave Kaminho taunting from behind the throng,

“Zuldan Oskha Pathunyh. El haulh al orubh. Runt of the Rakmuni litter.”

The zuldan lowered his eyes to the ground. The silence was unbearable as he shuddered at the thought of his fate. The crack and boom of thunder was all he had to break the silence as a storm approached. He glanced over at the pile of dead bodies; his family. His principal wife, Adhalusya’s naked body stuck out from underneath the pile. Her skin had a ghastly hue and was punctuated by deep slashes caused by severe flogging.

“…..OSKHA!”

At the sound of his name, Oskha jolted around to face Kaminho who stood brandishing the spear of Kun. He stared at the blade at the top of the spear and remembered taking part in many Kun worshipping ceremonies as a child while his father conducted prayers. He thought of the many goats he had slaughtered in the name of receiving Kun’s blessings for victory in wars that his father waged against Goyan’s enemies. A burst of thunder and a blinding flash of lightning brought him back to the present moment and tears came to his eyes.

“Are you crying?”

Kaminho stared at the wretched sight of the zuldan and calmly motioned for him to stand. Oskha struggled to rise to his feet and in the moment of standing, sobriety returned. He felt the first drop of rain on his scalp and looked up to the sky. The huge blackened clouds above seemed laden and pregnant. He returned his gaze to the slave Kaminho in front of him. Oskha stared into the man’s eyes and cracked a smile as he said, “Remember me when the ships of Goyan reach your shores and you are overrun with the host of my soldiers. Remember me when they stick you and gut you like the filthy pig slave that you are.”

Kaminho stepped back, the image of the whimpering dog was gone, replaced now by a defiant wolf.

“So…” Kaminho thought, “….the dog has regained his fangs. Here then dog, see of what use your bite is against this.” As the sky broke and the torrential downpour began, Kaminho raised the lance high into the air and brought it down with such force that it cleaved Oskha’s body down through his left shoulder and all the way to his chest. The zuldan’s lifeless body was immediately set upon by the surrounding host who now spat and stabbed at his carcass.

Thus fell the old filayat of Goyan.
It would be another two hundred years before the restoration of the Rakmuni dynasty during which time the filayat buckled under the strain of completely inept leadership.

3:35 am  

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Tuesday, December 16, 2014

for the record:

december2014.
ma replace the bartels' microwave, the 1st+only (until now) ever to grace this house, going strong about 30some years (yes, going, me eh know why the arse she interfere with[replace] the damn ting!) and for some reason it bothering me way more than the stove she replace without a word a 2weeks prior (wasn' actually bothered about the stove, just the complete lack of notice about a clearly planned major event). felt a need to record what feels like momentous change to me...in the less-than-a-year since fred, also gone is furniture (from beds to seating+table), stove, microwave, cutlery, other minor kitchen appliances, tv, shelves, dishes and cookware that populated the house of my childhood...
in the positive column, i did discover that we, the remaining trinidad bartels, are the proud owners of a slap-chop.
walk good.

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Monday, December 15, 2014

fff#43; before the fall of the snake oil empire...

my flash fiction friday #43, triggered with italics[below] and inspired by recent events...i having conversations with different friends lately about how i doh know what i look like, have no concept of the bumsee people tell me sweet, have no idea what it is about my winery that make anybody care to watch when it have champion bubblers and professional winer-gyuls out there with proper antics and i just dancing because it feel good...until today; today a friend show me footage she take when i get call onstage when the canals perform my song friday night. it felt like my 1st time really seeing myself, was definitely the 1st time i feel like i see what other people see when they watch me, and all i can say is, i honestly had no idea...the amazement and slight disbelief i still feeling about that, plus the vibes the canals and the blackyard hitting me right now with raw(jouvay/carnival2015 sooncome!) plus [italicised]trigger that hit a sweet-spot with me:

before the fall of the snake oil empire we was in a collective ecstasy. for a full generation before the collapse, men throughout the country reaching the point of spontaneous erection followed by full-body paroxysms at the mere mention of her-greatness, women orgasming uncontrollably if they only think of her-greatness a nani-hair too reverently. eyes rolling back in heads, bodies danced themselves to exhaustion in the streets, shoes+clothing rend leaving the fervently faithful nationalists exposed to alarmingly rising numbers of severe sunburn and heatstroke deaths in the late 2280s. nobody coulda predict the sudden downfall of her-greatness...well, almost nobody; the only one who did get sacrificed to the island for treason, for traitorous behaviour against the holy state republic of snake oil, established year-2120, one-with-her-greatness, the grande dame lorraine.
when empress diablesse first open she mouth in public, when she first say the words, utter the idea that bring down the kingdom, they take she for [a] mad[woman]. everybody hear and refuse to see and just keep it moving because to hear the unspeakable is to think the unthinkable, and nobody was ready to leggo the grande delusion of dame lorraine and everything she represent for the now, well, [the] then, the now, then...
when empress diablesse stand up quiet quiet in the square on murray street then suddenly dash 'way the bottle of snake oil in the dirt by she foot, nobody expect the revelation that follow. nobody expect to see hoof on display jus' so in broad daylight, nobody really even believed in them ting again...la diablesse who? this was the age of the ageless, infinitely-bosomed, eternally aroused, gros lolo, promising forever to this tropical island paradise running a booming economy entirely on hedonist-nationalism, from basic orgasm-based services to specialised aids+assistance to extreme clean-up, related travel and health-care and hospitality industries; full-service hedonism fully supporting a nation of believers in the promise of eternal life for their earthly morality. the grande dame lorraine make everybody happy making everybody happy by dragging what was taboo from jouvay into daylight, stealthily infiltrating the pretty mas of the upper class with the dark inversion of jamette humour to grease the easy slip+slide down the twisted road to the holy state republic of snake oil, established year-2120. the oil was the one export of our service-nation, and we use it to grease everything from palms to waistlines, and poles to politics...until empress diablesse show sheself, lift skirt hem to reveal proof that the grande dame was not the only deity left we, not the only leader-saviour, nor the only way. she say stop imbibing the oil and claim we true power, use what we do on we backs+bellies not as the means+end but as a way to own the world...
the grande dame lorraine denounce such gallerying immediately: obviously empress diablesse distracting from her ulterior motive; she who tied to this island by the dead weight of she cowfoot and insatiable desire for not just the child she need he seed to make, but to thief everyman very mind+soul, to consume his contents to feed her hunger and fill her empty insides, she need to expand her hunting ground because if she take all she want from here the economy go fail for lack of diversity of service providers, remember time long like twine and her thirst immortal...
the sacrifice of the empress diablesse soon follow and it was the beginning of the end of the empire, though not of la diablesse, ever...local hedonist-nationalists couldn' square with the desecration of a deity, even an old one they had forget until the day she make a stand in the original redlight district. they start to turn against the system.
her-greatness gradually come to inspire fits of violence rather than the previous passions. people come to resent servicing heathens to feed their families and turn from a faith that demand such indignity. paroxysms of violence escalate until la grande dame get ambush+planass by a sexually-frustrated mob who run she from town and clear the way for the great bat to dance in in the middle of the night and take over the mas camp, install he pardner midnight robber as security h.n.i.c., and usher in the new age of iniquity-inequity.

walk good.

2 Comments:

Blogger Nickolai Salcedo said...

So I know that I'm super late... but nevertheless here's my fff attempt.

Before the fall of the Snake Oil Empire Nu Stambul, Lu was fashioned as a sceptre for its ruling family, the Hauskuh. They were Taikh mosihms from lands far to the east who had come to the continent of Hamrikh during the great war of Makhdon. Crafted by skilled ivory workers of Nijenh, Lu was a symbol of mosihm rule in Hamrikh and was passed on through the successive generations of rulers known as zuldans.

The rule of the Hauskuh dynasty would eventually come to an end at the hands of the mosihm usurper Gyog Rakmun. Tracing his lineage back to pioneering jhadhi from Duyshun and Intiyh, Gyog benefitted from his family’s long military history. After landing in the Ha’ Amzon and infiltrating their way into the heart of northern Hamrikh, the Rakmuni set down ties and roots in Nu Stambul. By the time of Gyog’s deposition of the last Hausker zuldan, the Rakmuni had already spread themselves to all service fields of Nu Stambul and adjacent areas just outside its borders in neighbouring states. With his familial ties ensuring his success and protection, and with the sceptre of mosihm rule firmly in hand he then crowned himself Der Groza Zuldan Gyog Rakmun el Awul. With Lu in hand, Gyog began to bully all the surrounding nations of northern Hamrikh, effectively carving out an empire for himself in the process which he then named the Filayat (State) of Goyan.

Five generations after Gyog’s death, his descendent Oskha Thannyh lost his life to rebel slaves on the Goyani pleasure island of Jhinbek. The slaves had received news of a coup de tat that replaced the Rakmuni dynasty with a family of lesser nobles. The new zuldans were smart enough to take full advantage of social unrest that had spread to Goyan from its south-eastern neighbour, Inkahpedu.

Nickolai Salcedo
-=-

11:26 am  
Blogger sweet trini said...

yay!@salcedo https://plus.google.com/100820806424083435150/posts (i doh know how to tag you here because i doh actually use my google+ so i may have to give you notes in person or tell you to check here, and you teach me how to tag for future; you hosting your txt @google+ or wha? oh, and you should technically paste your fff as a comment on the trigger post, not the one of my story, so everybody checking the trigger finds it):
if you intending to use this in future, edit "coup d'etat" (should also have acute accent over the "e", i believe) plus i doh think you need to say "(state)" when you name the filayat of goyan; otherwise, now i just wanna read the rest...aaalll the rest...mwahahahahahhahahaaa...walk good. biglove.

1:40 pm  

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Friday, December 12, 2014

flash fiction friday #43

back by popular demand! or at least, some people i like ask, and i feeling to write, too, so we on like a socks, and off like molly's drawers; wash yuh foot and jump eeen...
keeping it simple for this 1st foray for at least some of us, i going with original-style triggering, a starter insteada inclusion or structural challenge; flash fiction friday #43 trigger:
before the fall of the snake oil empire...

rules of engagement [this week i acknowledge late-posting by nearly an hour, so feel free to recoup that time re:deadline; i eh go vex]:
you will send in your suggestions for flash fiction friday triggers (starter sentences/phrases, closers, titles, inclusions, structural challenges, 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]*
write fresh!
walk good.

5 Comments:

Blogger Christine Cormier said...

I'm down. Methinks I need some creative writing time.

1:05 pm  
Blogger keifel said...

This comment has been removed by the author.

12:31 am  
Blogger keifel said...

Posted

12:41 am  
Blogger sweet trini said...

in+done. read@ http://urbanfolktales.blogspot.com/2014/12/fff43-before-fall-of-snake-oil-empire.html
walk good.

5:11 am  
Blogger Nickolai Salcedo said...

Before the fall of the Snake Oil Empire Nu Stambul, Lu was fashioned as a sceptre for its ruling family, the Hauskuh. They were Taikh mosihms from lands far to the east who had come to the continent of Hamrikh during the great war of Makhdon. Crafted by skilled ivory workers of Nijenh, Lu was a symbol of mosihm rule in Hamrikh and was passed on through the successive generations of rulers known as zuldans.

The rule of the Hauskuh dynasty would eventually come to an end at the hands of the mosihm usurper Gyog Rakmun. Tracing his lineage back to pioneering jhadhi from Duyshun and Intiyh, Gyog benefitted from his family’s long military history. After landing in the Ha’ Amzon and infiltrating their way into the heart of northern Hamrikh, the Rakmuni set down ties and roots in Nu Stambul. By the time of Gyog’s deposition of the last Hausker zuldan, the Rakmuni had already spread themselves to all service fields of Nu Stambul and adjacent areas just outside its borders in neighbouring states. With his familial ties ensuring his success and protection, and with the sceptre of mosihm rule firmly in hand he then crowned himself Der Groza Zuldan Gyog Rakmun el Awul. With Lu in hand, Gyog began to bully all the surrounding nations of northern Hamrikh, effectively carving out an empire for himself in the process which he then named the Filayat (State) of Goyan.

Five generations after Gyog’s death, his descendent Oskha Thannyh lost his life to rebel slaves on the Goyani pleasure island of Jhinbek. The slaves had received news of a coup de tat that replaced the Rakmuni dynasty with a family of lesser nobles. The new zuldans were smart enough to take full advantage of social unrest that had spread to Goyan from its south-eastern neighbour, Inkahpedu.

10:53 pm  

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Friday, December 05, 2014

medea [hashtag useit]

a propos that insteada preparing for the single rehearsal i get before playing medea for an audience, i get to spend today going through my dead [less than a year] father's business papers so we can pay off his debt?
walk good.

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Tuesday, December 02, 2014

now taking requests...

i saying in front, this post may feel erratic. but i figure few enough people reading and if i content to write it, well, is my blog, ent?
so, someting fun las' week, i in the car, alone, en route to rehearsal (the museum of difficult women performance was vibes) and they finally (finally!) play naughty by menace, sorry, m1 on the radio, which, by this point, i waiting on days now, and i get to take in them verses properly, and lemme tell yuh, halfway in, mr.menace, sorry, m1 had me blushing in the car all by meself! he hadda get big-up. he get on bad dey...
someting not fun las' week: asshole police. now i wasn' there; he tell me the story immediately after it happen but i wasn' actually there and i talking from memory, but that doh change this fuckery...so we rehearsing@ the bigblackbox in the blackyard maybe 9pm-ish the other day, tech week for continuum dance project's 10th anniversary production of sonja dumas' new ballet the museum of difficult women, and chinee on lights; he need to get some nex' equipment so he+roger walking the 3blocks back to lil house to jump in the car and go, in the neighbourhood roger living+working(+walking+running) in over 20years now. between the blackyard and lil house police roll up on them for a stop+frisk and roger find heself up against the wall, hands spread above he head. he point out they eh do anyting to warrant this treatment and get talk 'bout his all-black kit, including tam+hoodie (not up/on) and how if he only put up his hood he would look like a bandit. roger, of course, point out the obvious, that while wearing all-black+hoodie might be someting a bandit would also do, doing so does not necessarily or automatically make him a bandit. he even bother to explain that he in the arts, walking the few blocks from the venue he runs and operates from, to his home of many years to carry the lighting technician (and them done suspicious of chinee wrench hanging offa he pants) for equipment and we who work backstage in theatre wear all-black on purpose for the job...only to be told he have a right to carry a change of clothes so he doh end up in the street in all-black looking suspicious. because apparently it eh just police, is fucking fashion police we have out here now.
i cyah even pull together enough words for my outrage at this kinna profiling; all you doing is walking down the road; how the fuck the police could tell you what you can+cyah wear?! black clothes illegal now?! this is the shit that make me irate. this is why i have to immediately go in the opposite direction anytime i see police, because my arse will get in trouble when i lose my little mind the day they give me some fuckery like that to hold. better roger than me, yes...
[related thoughts?] my whole life i know myself to be bigger than i apparently am. i know i take up space. plenty space. i fill a room; when i enter my presence is felt through no effort on my part, i just being, but i occupy space and exert a force. i solid. i am a performer audience members are shocked to discover the offstage size of. and i eh know where this disconnect come from but the disconnect slowly becoming clear to me; i watching footage+photos of me onstage nex' to people i consider my size and seeing myself petite. i confuse. i know i bigger than that, i feel bigger than that, i am bigger, i bigger than that! but then i see more photos+footage confirm my tinyness...my dancing as big as i know meself to be, but my actual physical self, is small. i am distressed. i find lately i have to be careful i doh dance off all my cushiony parts and get skinny or i feel like only half a person. who is this little female dancing out my liverstring? i wonder if this confusion is like what gender dysphoria feel like; all i know is, it very disconcerting to suddenly find oneself not large enough to support one's lifelong invincibility complex...
and maybe said complex is wha's prompt me to do ting like read a brand-new, completely unvetted story in front an audience, and now this: sweet trini's urban folk tales, now taking requests!
i figure, i like to experiment, love a challenge as part of the writing process, and need/want/will be writing more, so why not truly challenge meself? so i taking writing/fiction requests and/or triggers [re:triggers, search blog for "fff"/"flash fiction friday" (buncha numbered triggered-story posts)] with the promise of writing to suit; and yes, i'd consider non-fiction requests but reserve right of refusal and will write@discretion (mine) only. so wha' you feel to read? request via comments...
and on that note, i fall for this poem so instanteously i hadda share:

The Writers
(On constantly mishearing ‘rioting’ as ‘writing’ on the BBC)
There has been writing for ten days now
unabated. People are anxious, fed up.
There is writing in Paris, in disaffected suburbs,
but also in small towns, and old ones like Lyon.
The writers have been burning cars; they’ve thrown
homemade Molotov cocktails at policemen.
Contrary to initial reports, the writers
belong to several communities: Algerian
and Caribbean, certainly, but also Romanian,
Polish, and even French. Some are incredibly
young: the youngest is thirteen.
They stand edgily on street-corners, hardly
looking at each other. Long-standing neglect
and an absence of both authority and employment
have led to what are now ten nights of writing.
Amit Chaudhuri

walk good.
ps: and watch dimitris papaioannou's nowhere (in memory of pina bausch); how much can be effected with so little, such simple movement with such impact...

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