i wish i coulda see this live plus wish i coulda be in this, so fucking bad. choreo hard like concrete plus he win me when he giddem wings followed by the knock-knee courru...
and while i bandying 'bout bonuses, i suppose might as well rest this supposedly complete list of kinks+fetishes here for future reference...walk good.
my [later-than-ever-before] flash fiction friday #76; trigger: write [of] emptiness. this like addiction, this never-ceasing need? addiction or obsession? both. ritual taking to satisfy constant craving never fulfilled ever desirous of manifestation that evades, eternal, they say. but who even know? they say i don’t exist and i here. wanting. with every breath. the only thing i know is must-have. so i take what i need. try to make what i need. but destined, they say, to never succeed. cavernous inside, abyss of melancholy, hole unfilled for eternity, creature created to fail, to seduce but never fully obtain, take but never gain, infinity of little deaths, never a single spark of life… diablesse. say my name. call it for salvation when you come and i consume your seed wasted mind broken my heart, shattered, again as if i somehow didn’t know what i am... walk good.
sometimes it doh come when you want it...flash fiction friday #76 trigger: write [of] emptiness. rules of engagement: you will send in your suggestions for flash fiction friday triggers (starter sentences/phrases, closers, titles, inclusions, structural/thematic challenges, etc.) anytime during the week up to 11.09a.m. friday, trinbago time; i will post the new fff trigger by noon friday trinbago time.* 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, song or novel length prose poem using the trigger provided. you will add comments and appropriate linkage to this/my trigger-post indicating your desire to participate and the completion of your piece (don't need a blogger/gmail account to comment here on my blog).you may join in at any time prior to deadline.* you will display your piece as a post on your own blog (or as a comment on this/my trigger-post or fasbook note or instastory or whaever, 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 time.*[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.
post story since yesterday but clean forget to say, it directly above this post on blog, or@ https://urbanfolktales.blogspot.com/2019/06/fff76.html walk good
once upon the other day i cold-read the lead for a screenplay-in-progress. it went excellently well because i literally a perfect fit for the role; i knew the director would audition me if/when it reach production. coupla weeks later director hail; she like me for it and will i audition on-camera? absolutely no problem; i know i's the one. script read like she write the lead and the whole damn flim just for me. so i go in. great audition. i cry, make them cry, mash up the improv, mash up the dance. this role perfect for me; i know is mines. hadda be. which shoulda be my 1st clue, right; why i eh see was carnival medea and this love come back again? when i go learn it have no perfect fit for me? so at the time i stupidly go about my life knowing i go get the call when time come because this role, this flim, make for me. right. she auditioning male leads. me+she done talk that we both think the same person make sense for male lead; in my opinion, strong male actors of a certain age pickings real slim here, but this one dude seem a sensible fit even if he eh necessarily prove himself a good actor yet (which i done tell he long time; too many here equate getting cast with being good and being different with being good, and that cycle of assumptions of talent dangerous). i knew he wanted it and we woulda work well together. he read+agreed. director love him for it, as expected. then outta the cut, the unexpected hit. when i work, when i make/art/wuk, no matter the project, once i engaging it my goal is always to make the best product/ion possible, even if that affects my opportunity to do wha' i want on/for the project. onstage or on the page, i always trying to make the best product/ion i/we can. but this director, apparently she doh wuk so. after she audition and cast he as male lead (from among limited options, remember) she then cast somebody else as female lead even though we all know this person will come nowhere close to the wuk i woulda puddown, and strictly because, i shit you not, it most important to her that the male+female leads be of differing ethnicities and me+he are not. she would rather cast an inferior actor in spite of having access to better both in terms of talent and natural fit for the specific role, and do her story that injustice, than allow her lead actors to be the same ethnicity, even though we look nothing alike and are different types. the person she cast not believable as a dancer (massively important to story) even to nondancers, male lead included. i would never do my work that. but the flim eh mines so it is what it is, which, like this love and carnival medea (now realise, because i doh come here to pong i may never have said what a hot fucking mess each was and maybe i should formally review, sometime) will be nowhere near as good as it coulda be. and after spending whole day on a shoot with same director for somebody else's project i mad vex; whole day in the back of my mind i jus' wanna oppose this woman under, how you could treat your wuk so?! but then, tha's the point, right? is she wuk, she script for she to direct as she see fit and who the fuck is me? if she find making statement about racial unity (not at all a theme in her story of differing personalities+lives coming together; race have no part, isn't mentioned and this just about the visual of different ethnicities coming together) more important than making the best flim possible from her idea, who's me to say no? so i vent here, recognise the reminder that casting often have nutting to do with talent, continue wuk on my own scripts where creating+telling the best story in the best way possible is wha' matter, and tell meself, one day one day congotay...wha' is to is must to is, ent? make/art/wuk. always. walk good.
my very late (and, apologies, mostly unedited, not because i doh care but because, paying deadlines...) fff#75; [inclusions] trigger: seed, feed, weed, bleed, greed/y. from since i small it had a woman up by we they say was mad because she always used to talk to she garden. i eh mean when she come out to water the plants she tell them morning or evening; i mean full conversation for hours everyday, she outside in she garden in she big, floppy hat, drink in hand, liming with she plants. and at first it was no scene. for years she tend she garden, lime with she plants and mind she business and she eh bother nobody and nobody eh bother she. but yuhknow people fas’, and wha’ they cyah explain they make story about to make less frightening. so wasn’t no surprise to me that when the first person turn up not-quite dead with the mark on they neck already turning black+blue everybody was quick quick to call she name; not that nobody actually know it, or actually have evidence of what they talking but yuhknow in small communities sometimes rumour is all it take for something to get treated like fact. the second+third persons attacked fare somewhat better; they turn up all the way dead, at least, which considerably easier for all+sundry, logistically speaking. and people realise by the third one, too, that they could (mostly) rest easy; it was clear that victim-selection favoured the least favoured among us. even not-quite-dead morris was better than the morris mrs.morris was trying she bes’ with for donkey-years prior, especially once she figure out not-quite-dead morris eh need a damn thing except to be positioned out of she way when the day come and now she really only hadda mind sheself, and nobody mourn the end of blakie big son who had done nothing but drink and terrorise neighbours since he get big, or sour ms.wylie with she evillous ways. it was what happen with the 4th+5th victims that first sow seeds of discontent with the “arrangement”. a night mabel decide she had enough of the stupidness and follow bolo when he say he was going and fire one with the boys, to see where she man was really going everynight so. she say, in a mess of snat+tears nex’ morning, that she follow he to by desiree, and when she see tha’s the door he gone in, was going to turn+go back to she place one time to cry and burn candle, but then something tell she, see for yuhself. so mabel apparently gone round by desiree bedroom window, expecting to catch the two of them in flagrante delicto, and instead get a whole different eyeful. mabel claim she see what look like a small fire blazing in the middle of the room all by itself, with desiree fling to one side, and bolo stand up staring at the fire like he in a trance. mabel claim she see the plants-lady face in the fire, and then the fire move toward bolo and was engulfing him until she cry out from by the window. mabel claim when she bawl out the fire stop swallowing bolo, and she see the plants-lady face again before it rush straight toward her, out the window, knocking down mabel in the dirt, and fly up into the sky. mabel say she run inside, grab bolo, and drag he ass back home. she call meeting in the morning to tell everybody what she see, and that when she reach bolo home she realise he have puncture-mark turning black+blue, and like he cyah talk, he so out of it she cyah even tell if he understanding when she talk to he. when they check by desiree, they find she just like mabel say, dead in the corner of she bedroom, and of course, puncture done turn black+blue. one time mabel start: how clearly the plants-lady is a soucouyant, just as she say from since morris, and because bolo had the misfortune to interrupt when she come to feed, even though he’s a good man he get bite too, and how this mean nobody safe, how this mean people cyah afford to sit back and let no soucouyant operate like this because soucouyant judgement not to be trusted, and how if it could happen to bolo it could happen to any of we. and of course mavis answer back that how mabel know that, how mabel so sure bolo wasn’t suppose to get bite too, maybe bolo eh so good as mabel think, after all he was by desiree in the first place, because mavis still vex since she get leave out for mabel years ago. and that start one big fight and nothing get resolve and nobody make no real plan to deal with the situation besides people talking about rice for the floor around their bed, and some declaring certainty in their safety as good people but whispering similar rice-stocks shopping intentions to immediate family members. me, i was curious about how everybody so sure they know the true identity of we friendly neighbourhood bloodsucking fireball when i know nobody ever even talk to she. so i pick up meself and i gone. i find she, naturally, outside in the yard, in deep conversation with the plants, discussing the merits of plant- versus animal-based diets for humans and relative impact on the environment, while tending a particular patch of what i swear was the same weeds my mother always had me spend saturday mornings clearing from in-between everything else that manage to grow in our yard. but this woman was minding them, letting them grow huge+tall, already bigger than i had ever seen, bigger than she self. it was like a bush and like a tree at the same time, stretching vines up+out, sprouting flowers all over, finding itself big+strong+beautiful, and i swear it was turning+leaning into her as she move around it, talking, checking leaves for signs of trouble, stroking like she would a loved one. i didn’t know what to say or do. i had no plan beyond curiosity carrying me to her garden, but standing in the lane watching her communion with plants i suddenly know what i come to do, what i have to do. and i tell her, in a rush, words tumbling out faster than i could control about what people saying because i realise, without knowing why, i on she side. i want she to fight the oldtalk. but instead she just smile. she smile and say, people is people, yuhknow what I mean… i leave, confused about everything except the sense of dread building when i think about how this go play out. nex’ fortnight was kenwyn. me eh know if he was just so sure nobody know it was he thiefing from people all these years because nobody brave enough to oppose he massive, drunk ass, but kenwyn take no precautionary measure at all; no rice, so salt, no sand, they find nothing of the sort set out when they check home for kenwyn after he miss work. they find he same way like morris and bolo, but this time the whole place mash up, he things pelt all about, furniture break down, kitchen in a disarray, and kenwyn, already-black+blue bruises all over, not completely drained+dead just emptily staring into an open cupboard with a 5pound bag of rice sitting, unopened, watching he right back. they say it obvious what went on, that the soucouyant come to bleed kenwyn and he fight back. they say maybe it have something in that. now the planning start in earnest. so i went back by the plants-lady. this time she smile as she see me, like she was looking out for me, even. she ask if i want to visit with her garden. i say, yes but no, that i come to tell her she have to go, to hide, to fly, to flee, that they coming for she, they know she is soucouyant and they mad vex, more than they frighten. she smile again and ask if i see she baby, how big the baby getting, and when my confused eye follow her gesture i see the weeds in the corner patch reaching, magnificent, up into the sky, even farther than sun letting my eye follow. and as i looking up, trying to wrap my brain around this plant i accustom seeing as no more than good-for-nothing rubbish to pull out the earth as fast as it sprout, become this incredible tower of foliage, she say she understand, that is her own fault, she shouldna be greedy, shoulda know kenwyn was more than she could take down by sheself and while his bad behaviour was plenty reason, she shouldna let she eye get longer than she belly. and i still looking up, now trying to reconcile her words with my idea of how soucouyant is, how soucouyant should be, supposed to be, she start to climb. by the time i realise was because the plants-lady climb she way into my upward field of vision and as i keep looking up she keep climbing up and up and up like some jack and the beanstalk madness, except what could actually be more madness than a real live soucouyant climbing into the sky on an overgrown weed to escape… i stay the rest of the day+night and into the next, looking out. she never come back down. we never see she again. walk good.
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