somehow i just feel it go come in handy someday...

 

walk good.

a.i. sentience...

this whole scene with the lamda a.i. potentially being sentient fully alarming and i need to be able to find it again because i know i need to reread but my brain eh able yet until i recover from the 1st read...

walk good.

turn me on episode6 "on being naked"

this one personal...

walk good.

turn me on episode5 "waves up tp 2m in open waters and less than 1m in sheltered areas"

this episode take almost 2months insteada the 3weeks i intended. sigh. technical difficulties. hoping an upcoming change in my recording environment doh lead to delays again; trying to be smart about planning for foreseen changes in advance because, realtalk, i hated knowing every passing minute beyond my internal deadline for it, that this episode still wasn't done. weeks of agony. hated it.

hope this worth the wait. this piece was published in pree las' year. hope you enjoy.

walk good.

turn me on episode4 "diablesse diaries part3"

turn me on's final installment of diablesse diaries, at least for now.

walk good.

turn me on episode3 "diablesse diaries part2"

for some reason, reaching episode3 make it really real now...take in the nex' part...

walk good.

turn me on episode2 "diablesse diaries"

going brave with a script i wukkin on years now and cyah get production ready yet; terrified but already loving the payoff!

pulling+editing excerpts from this beloved-but-impossible script-in-progress to create this episode2[+more] i feel mighta help me figure out how to finally finish this piece and have someting actually performable for stage! so chuffed i decide to use this and done seeing good come of it [:

walk good.

turn me on.episode1 "carnival.love.story"

the other day somebody hail me to write a short carnival play for a programme they were trying to get funding for. i happen to be hit with an idea i like and end up writing it over a coupla days and was happy with it and well looking forward to making the piece...until they come back+say, no funding...sigh. story of my facking life.

but i wake nex' day and realise is the universe telling me, my play too good to siddown+waste, is time to stop procrastinate and make the blasted podcast i been talking about too damn long finally happen.

so i did [:

walk good.

a quick ting

this novella just make me think so much ting, i feel i go need to re+reread, so i placing it here; enjoy: submergence by arula ratnakar.

walk good.

1year ago...crick crack, monkey

this post so long coming it take fasbook throwing up the memory of the happening itself las' year to make me finally say, stop procrastinating and finish write this damn ting.

since saying earlier this year about how hard i finding it to create in these covidous times, i meaning to come back and share the wuk i was so honoured to make las' year at the request of bocaslitfest who, once again, partner me perfectly with a project i was made for; they ask me to write+stage an adaption of merle hodge's crick crack, monkey for the novel's 50th anniversary, as a feature of bocaslitfest2020.

hear nah, when i tell you, project i maaade for...when i encounter the great merle hodge at a bocaslitfest showing some years ago was one of the only times i ever fangirl in life, and the only time of the 3 that was worth it; i get to tell her that her crick crack, monkey move me so much is the 1ting i ever t'ief in my life: an ex lend me when i said it on my list forever but i never get hands on a copy, and after reading i couldn' bear to part with the damn book. after meeting+telling merle hodge sheself i finally return the book and get my own copy which, when bocas ask me to do this project, i discover i had clearly lend somebody who had the same experience i did. and i cyah even be vex, the book so damn brilliant.

so i was facking terrified because, to not do this book justice woulda not just embarrass+depress me, but break me. failure was not an option. so i was proper scared, but then once i start digging up in the novel again to figure out how much of it i could transpose directly to stage because it so gorgeously written you couldn' do better than to just put merle words straight onstage to walk+run for theyself, even though going in i had zero idea how i was going+do it, as soon as i start doing the ting, the only parts of the process i eh love was not getting to include everyting, having to rehearse actors online insteada in person, and only getting 1take to flim for broadcast. and not only was i happy with what we were able to do in spite of the final reading on flim being far from perfect (final dress, though, was fire!) and bocas happy, but the merle hodge (who was so lovely+helpful when i contact her for some in-process clarifications) was happy. i feel so good when she say that i feel like i coulda dead right there with a smile.

if you wanna see what my fantastic actors manage to pull off while sweating their poor asses off in trini afternoon hot sun...

walk good.

privacy freak

for most of my life i been a privacy freak. when i was still in single digits i was gifted a gorgeous [to my then self] diary with cover image of pointe shoes+roses+manuscript and latch on the side that i, voracious reader and wannabe-writer, was so excited to write in. i lovingly, sometimes breathlessly, delightedly used it until learning it was read by somebody else. i ripped out and tore up every single page and never used a diary or journal again. in university when occasionally required to journal for a course i'd sit down the night before it was due and make up the whole thing based on what i learned in class. A+ every time.

my everliving distrust of diaries/journals was coupled with the knowledge that my memory was excellent and youth's failure to realise that wouldn't last as long as i expected.

i already losing hold of memories i thought impossible to fade. because my memory always been so good i acutely aware of the still-small [for now] slippage and it terrifies me, both as writer+person. i cry everytime something make me realise a little more slip/ping away. and i know is nothing in the face of how much most cyah remember but i was counting on having that memory, both as writer+person, that capability to continue to parse my amazing life and the glorious population i privileged to be connected to.

now i watch back at my unjournalled decades and vex vex with meself for letting an invasive adult rob me of a practice i needed, access to my personal library. steups.

walk good.

pree this!

in spite of depression negatively affecting my writing in these covidous times i manage to dust off+submit something i write from before, and it was accepted!

look me in the current edition of PREE.caribbean.writing. waves up to 2metres in open waters and less than 1metre in sheltered areas.

walk good.

what a dusty time

when covid19 became a thing and we went into lockdown las' march i wasn' worried. i mean, my comorbidity-having, nearly-dead-from-respiratory-complications-more-than-once-already backside was terrified (still am!) but not of lockdown; i love being home alone, had the good fortune to have recently moved and getting to lockdown living-alone-with-yard with grocery+pharmacy in walking distance, and could use the time to finish these damn plays! i felt lucky, relatively speaking.

over a year later even though i know months now, since las' year even, this is the new normal, i just not managing the way i expected. i didn' realise how much rehearsing+performing and my dance life matter to my mental health, nah; i had zero idea i couldn' substitute next-artistic-discipline and be safe. insteada happily slaving over a hot machine and churning out the rest of my collection because i love writing as much as dancing i find meself too damn depressed to write. i getting some in but nothing like i need and definitely nowhere near enough to have me in a good place to make the art i want when things shift. worse, not enough to pay bills right now when i have no shows or winery classes making money. [i learn real facking quick, online dance is not my flick.] being a freelance artist in a developing country that doh support art/ists was never a more losing proposition that right now and while i was prepared to scrunt most of my life, i wasn' prepared for this nonperforming, nondancing madness making me unable to use my talents to support meself...

i need to be writing fiction+essays to submit to make money to pay bills right now because by now emergency fund gone through, plus finishing my plays because tha's the wuk i come out to make and them scripts hadda get done. both what i need+want, perfectly aligned with all the time+space to do it. and yet i am not. i am trying but failing. stress get the better of me since las' year and i cyah find the zone. i barely reading. i just feel exhausted, all the time. i have ideas but no energy to make them actual words on a page/screen; they exist to be constantly chased through the jungle of my mind by financial stress that not-writing technically worsening by the moment. vicious-circling. i am a fucking mess, right when i literally cannot afford to be.

i just keep telling meself at least i still breathing...for now...

that is all.

walk good.

ting to come back to

awhile now i eh do this and i re/learn my damn lesson the hard way when i accidentally delete the file i was keeping all the shit i intended to blog. so lemme not stick on these3 i wanna be able to tackback to.

this for a few reasons. [and i so glad my music theory understanding enough that i could follow the whole ting because] i love this song deeply, regardless of how much its popularity make it overplayed i always thrill to hear it, love how it so layered+complex and manage to have this seemingly light melody but feel melancholy-to-dark in that way i like, so much so i always assume without ever checking is a minor key because is make me feel that certain kinna way certain songs do that i never understand and then i find out they minor [stevie's do me this, and, of course, shadow] and this video's get into the elements i think make alla-that so, because i always find it interesting that it often used to signify frivolity and that people find it kitsch when i find the tune anything but, which also make me realise my primary experience of the song affected by the fact that is the darker-feeling d-flat version with blues-countermelody discussed here i meet 1st and love best and thus play+hear most, so much so even though i never know or even try to analyse before what the difference is i know some other times i hear it out i's be slight disappointed, not loving the song less but some of them other versions send me straight back to listen to the one(s) i have instead for satisfaction, because i like weird and how lovely to learn it have weird shit about a song i already love, because, orfeu negro references.

this because even though i know from before why we dislike the sound of our own voice i think it explain my lifelong struggle with being told i talking loud in moments when i feel like my level being dictated by not being able to hear meself over whaever other sound(s) currently present (that seem to make no difference to others in the space) especially when the other sound(s) musical. i always been sound-sensitive plus struggle to hear human voice, hadda listen real intently when people talking to me but simultaneously catch the faintest bassline on the breeze from many plenty blocks away and can tell you wha' tune playing and be able to make out even at distance where the mix going and feel like i hearing that clearer than whoever talking to me right in my face. and my ears tune into my own speaking voice least of all (voices inside my head always make themselves perfectly heard, though); wha' she say 'bout mechanical filter@9minutes, followed by the biological+neurological filters sound exactly like that struggle to hear myself speak feel; come like my filters wukkin too good for my own good. a revelation.

and this because rule of 3 plus i find it so good at wha' it actually purport to be and intriguing in a kinna-feel-to-do-this way...

walk good.

fff#88

so this probably a new record for fff longtaking, but i playing a little because i think i need to, so it take awhile this rounds to write something i content enough with to share.

far from perfect but worth the exercise, for me; flash fiction friday #88 trigger: write of not/judging a book by its cover.

he wasn’ even remotely my type. not even a tiny, little bit wha’ i’s go for. usually.

this was a lingue redskin something. a long, tall caramel macchiato with greyblue ice in he eye. sugary finish but so obviously not sweet. a sharp cut cheekbone and a slice through one eyebrow suggesting fire under the ice. hand-span like a pro-basketballer and swag to match. not. my. type.

usually.

usually when a stranger i not on giving me current, i’s ignore. hard. me eh want nobody get the wrong idea and then is me-one fighting them off later. i know my size and wha’ mankind capable of and i eh need that battle.

but this lingue redskin something…

this lingue redskin something greyblue eye flick over in my direction and i nearly jump out my own skin. why he even watching over here? i just here trying to quietly kill time until my nex’ appointment, minding my own business, why he looking here for? i studiously look the next way. i not out here looking for nothing.

i stir my drink, check the time, again. i hate waiting. especially in public. this couldn’t be over fast enough.

and then this lingue redskin something fully watch me out the corner of he eye. this lingue redskin something fully watch me out the corner of he eye and one time i feel meself start to get warm. i feel meself get warm starting in my chest and the warmth spread up my neck to my cheeks and down to my belly, threatening to spread further, lower. i grind my backteeth and look straight down into my drink, thinking cool thoughts. calm thoughts. i try to picture cucumbers; cucumbers cool, right? but them cucumbers quickly turn from green to caramel and from fruit to meat and that eh work at all. i take a big gulp of my drink. what i feeling to do is dash it ‘way over my head to quench this rising heat. but, be still.

i there just trying to be still and hydrate and now this lingue redskin something turn to fully face me. even with my face insistently pointing into the dregs of my drink i feel he eyes, ice-lasers targeting the crown of my bowed head. and this lingue redskin something not looking away. and i cyah stare into my glass forever.

you might feel black people cyah blush but you would be wrong. and this lingue redskin something have me crimson, i swear, just sitting there trying to not melt completely into the puddle my insides already become. i dare not look up, or around, or anywhere but the bottom of my glass because i do not know why this lingue redskin something having this effect but i did not come here for this and need it to stop before i wet down the people and them good good furnitures.

i slowly raise my eyes. i eh know why, i so scared for two of we two eye to make four because if that only happen…

it does. and what i read as current before come like a electric shock now, swear them sparks people be talking ‘bout in stories actually fly, straight out my head like cartoon bolts, straight outta my head like my every coherent thought deserting me all at once, leaving me alone+unattended, unprotected, with this caramel macchiato stranger.

and as i cyah think and can only feel what was warmth then heat now a slow burn spreading through my nethers and my mind the lingue redskin something approach. and he approaching and my everything on fire but he greyblue eye cyah cool me and my glass properly empty and all my saliva run backward to come from between my leg and all i know is i surely about to embarrass meself if i only try+open my mouth and the lingue redskin something say,

“thorry, eh, mith, but you look thooo familiar…i know you from thomewhere? i over there watching you and wondering and jutht couldn’t take it no more and had to athk…”

…yeah, not remotely my type.

walk good.

flash fiction friday #88

so, 2months-to-the-day later, we back on like a socks.

flash fiction friday #88 trigger: write of not/judging a book by its cover.

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).
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 online).
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 leave the same trigger up until at least 1person other than myself writes a piece]*
write fresh!
walk good.

fff#87

my flash fiction friday #87; [contronym inclusions] trigger; conjugate as/if needed: buckle, dust, bolt, rock, skin, left, bound; [bonus words] refrain, sanguine.

once upon a time back when i wasn’t myself yet, before i become the sweat-rice magnate, i was a nonsinger in a land of musicians. i didn’t know nothing ‘bout no obeah, beyond its basic existence, which felt far from mines them times. them times all i had was the sight.
but the sight…that, i had, more than i wanted even, until later i learn what i could do with it, and a little focus.
i was just trying to make my way in this place, to find my space to claim. didn’t know what yet but knew still i need to devote myself to some purpose, that it have a power in me [need] to be directed+used. thought working in the library was a decent start while i decide my life and it wasn’t hard to get in, so i did. and from jump, i love that work. the library was a home for me who [had] always ache for a home i never know. i love that work. and i was good there for a time, reading everything that call me, seeking, searching, busy discovering the whole wide world, until the more immediate world rudely intrude.
i was reshelving. he pretend to need help. come and ask me about some author i never hear of, if we have them. i had to check. which was all he want. he proceed to keep me at the desk with a endless litany of questions and requests for recommendations and, i realise after, anything else even remotely sensible that cross he mind, because what he actually want was my attention+time.
from then, the man become a pest. somehow he figure out my schedule- maybe he was following me; probably was- and manage to turn up every shift to eat up my time with smalltalk+questions, rinse out my ears with weak attempts to impress, and (he thought) slickly, try to inveigle his way into my life, asking unnecessary things about me, finding excuse to try+bring me things, wanting to get inside my skin. i wasn’t having it. and apparently he wasn’t having that. the day i politely try to put he in he place and explain my being there was a job thus i had work to do, this man explode. in the library. in the middle of the day. in front the marish and the parish, he open up he mouth and leggo one setta abuse at me. well, my 2leg buckle, make me rock back and siddown hard, i was so shock. and shook. he rail up heself all by heself and as security reach, spin+leave.
that night the phonecalls start. all kinna quality hours my landline going off and when i pick up is only heavy heavy breathing and nothing else until i put down the phone. a few days later, my mobile, too. after about a 3weeks of sleep deprivation and swear somebody following me everywhere i go, jules, one of the girls in the library board me in the bathroom and demand to know what going on. of course i try to act like is nothing but she drag me over by the cracked mirror that say mister brown is a lick-bamsee in red sharpie in the corner, and force me to watch my own face and she say, gyul, you think anybody believe that “i alright” bullshit right about now? you eh bound to tell me ‘bout it if you doh feel but is not yesterday i born; you cyah expect me believe you alright, looking so!
well, with that i break down and tell jules all what happen with the man and how it have me frighten and cyah sleep. she listen, calm, and when i finish bawl jules ask quiet quiet, you have gold?
next night she carry me by ma lacey.
ma lacey blood take me one time. that very 1st night she tell me before i go, after i finish do all she say and rid meself of the problem, come back and see she again. i reach all the way back by me still feeling like under a fog but somehow not confuse, her instructions clear, a map in my mind to guide my inexperienced hand.
when ma lacey hear my story that night she laugh low and tell me, doh worry, man like that weak, them so does mash up fine fine like chillibibi and dust off your foot after…
i tell she i only want he leave me alone, completely. ma lacey laugh again and say, whaever you want, is yours.
i get the candle, write out he full name (we does keep excellent records), do everything just as ma lacey tell me. and he stop come in the library, at least when i there. my phones’ refrain fall silent again.
i reach back by ma lacey.
eh heh. i see like everything work out. so why you [come] back here?
now i confuse. but…you tell me…you say come back…
me? i tell you?
i watch ma lacey face close; she, inscrutable.
yuhknow, sanguine is a funny word. i never really understand how it could mean them 2 totally opposite things before but…now i do. both of them is how i feeling right now.
she watch me hard, then quietly ask, you ready to see? ready to learn?
i swallow hard. nod my head.
ma lacey bolt the door.

walk good.

flash fiction friday #87

late because of self-debate; in the end i decide to break rules and post a new trigger even though thus far only i write the most recent fff[#86], mostly because i think the nature of the last trigger defies deadline and tha's on me, and while i hope allyuh still try it, i eh want us sticking here.
so, something simple, a palate-cleanser, flash fiction friday #87 [contronym inclusions] trigger; conjugate as/if needed: buckle, dust, bolt, rock, skin, left, bound; [bonus words] refrain, sanguine.

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).
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 online).
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 leave the same trigger up until at least 1person other than myself writes a piece]*
write fresh!
walk good.

fff#86

my flash fiction friday #86; trigger: write a piece inspired by another artwork and decide whether to reveal inspiration to reader before or after.

for awhile she thought it woulda just be easier to stay dead. nice+quiet, no setta rayray, a person could hear theyself think. and she like that. thinking. have plenty to ponder, all the time, ‘specially when you know as much times as she. but after awhile she feel to see how things was going and she come back around again.
figure out living all over again, in a whole new world; that was something else. but that rounds the world was more involved, things was more involved, and she get more involved. and then couldn’t stay away. them times when she dead she would just come right back, fast as she could.
las’ time she had dead she hate it. promise sheself no cremation ever again. she still never feel quite right after the flames getting in she bones like that. so she say when next she deading again she hadda make sure everything in place to avoid that bullshit. no fire nex’ time.
thing is, she didn’t expect to get so attached to being alive. she thought she was long overs the novelty of human living, that she didn’t need the drama, but as things really start to accelerate she was too in it, too involved, to just lay there, nonparticipatory, while seemingly infinite fresh possibilities await. staying dead was no longer an option. she wanted to play [sheself].
and right then was when the universe take everything away.
she had dead+bury again. on the 9th night she flex, expecting the now-familiar breathing into being, but…
nothing.
not just no thing, but nothing, absolute.
nothingness crushing she very sense of self. like a vacuum inhaling she as she struggle to inhale life.
then out of nothing, from the void.
what you feel it is at all?
she current reality is she existence apparently in a bubble protecting she from infinitely imploding nothing…and the bubble sounding kinna upset. and she did not know and thus could not say what she feel it is at all mostly because she did not know what was at all. far less what to feel about it.
steups. ingrate.
she didn’t know how to respond to that neither and didn’t feel safe guessing wild, so she stay still.
i suppose you tbought was infinite, that even though you eh do a damn thing to deserve it you was just going+keep coming back around to do not one fart for the planet but like yuhself. nevermind the state of the world, you here for your health so once you good, nothing to worry about, ent?! well, not so again!
she start to understand the type of response that might be required for continued survival and her trembling (inasmuchas the disembodied could tremble) attempt come backed by smarts acquired over plenty lives, and she get through.
it wasn’t the end of she.
but the compromise she make to save sheself not no easy play and sometimes she’s cyah take the licks just so and them times, them darknight, is when you hear she still, wailing in the wind.

inspired by several foreign films; "Los Pasos Dobles", "Tremble All You Want", "Mary Is Happy, Mary Is Happy", came together as an idea of being dead, again, and the idea did it's own thing from there, not what i intended it to do...
walk good.

flash fiction friday #86

flash fiction friday #86 trigger: write a piece inspired by another artwork and decide whether to reveal inspiration to reader before or after.

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).
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 online).
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 leave the same trigger up until at least 1person other than myself writes a piece]*
write fresh!
walk good.

fff#85

my flash fiction friday #85; trigger: write [of/in/from] an alternate reality.

if i had a time machine i would go back+off bob. before he ever had chance to write that blasted lyric. i mean, this mightna be mister marley intention but he inspire a outcome worse than damage hitler or al-bashir or even chortle the bandit wreak on we the people.
waiting is a cage too small to stand all the way up or sit all the way down in. hardest part of being the resistance; that, and knowing you could just go the easy way any given night. waiting whole day every day for dark to come for we to tune out and tune into each other, waiting whole week for friday fete for we to secretly gather, waiting whole lives, plotting, dying for the chance for we to feel something, anything, real.
friday fete, when the afterwork switch flip and people getting herded to the dancehall, we make we usual flip, retune headphones to we frequency and find weself in we safe. the good thing about friday fetes was the full-weekend freedom we could thief for weself to be weself, inasmuchas any of we could know who weself was, and plan. that time i was 1st to reach so i unlock and switch on we frequency-blocker and settle and get properly comfortable in the furthest corner 1time. i was impatient with we progress and didn’t want to leave that sunday night without a plan to execute the very following friday fete and be done with the madness, finally, before i went mad meself. lately i could feel meself losing tether on reality, getting sucked into the mandatory music, starting to feel like feeling nothing wasn’t so bad and maybe i should stop foolishly resisting…
the others fall in and once the last was safe inside and safe lock i start the session, only to find out tyrone forget the protest music he was to bring for we to make we selections for the revolution. when he collect the cuteye i hit he, he say, on the 1st bathroom break when foodservices shift done and they joining the fete, he go use them movements to pelt home and run back with it so we weekend doh waste. didn’t seem a massive risk.
we make use of we time that 1st 3hours while waiting for timing when them in dancehall could choose to visit the rest-room for up to halfhour and foodservices staff now getting herded to the fete. but that friday what we shoulda be planning was a rescue, not revolution. all the work we do went straight out the door when we hear tyrone key turn and look up to then see he suddenly silhouetted by searchlight. the promoters somehow tune into he on he journey, pick up he different frequency and follow he straight to we, now, suddenly un-safe.
tyrone freeze in the doorway and that was all the promoters need. them force-switch he frequency and fill he ears+head with the friday fete dj and we see right in front of we, all the tension leave he body. tyrone boil down like bhagi. we watch them easy easy drag we boy back to institutionalised party. and all we coulda do was slam+lock we door while them focus on pulling he.
i cyah know if this go find you but i hope it get through so allyuh go know now it on you. we cyah know how long before they reach back here ready to mash up we dance and take the rest of we by force.
until the resistance buss them promoters’ throat and release alla-we, at least we know, when them music hit we go feel no pain, including the pain of not feeling anything again.

walk good.

flash fiction friday #85

flash fiction friday #85 trigger: write [of/in/from] an alternate reality.

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).
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 online).
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 leave the same trigger up until at least 1person other than myself writes a piece]*
write fresh!
walk good.

fff#84

my flash fiction friday #84; trigger: choose an existing archetype/stereotype/trope, and flip [a major component of] it.

was a quiet village. one of them places nobody who doh live or have people living there even know exist. one of them places if you call the name nobody cyah say they know it.
was. and them try and keep it so. them know from time them make out the scene, wasn’ no keeping people away once it come public knowledge, so them say them keeping that talk home. quiet. no mention to nobody not from the village. not a word.
it mustbe work for awhile in the earlies, but yuhknow is only one could truly keep secret. talk does spread, surprised tongue to the next shocked ear with no regard for the desire of the discussed to remain otherwise. after time pass people start to get slack, studying their outside people stories and stop studying if home secure. them start to bump gum, mouth start to run; a trickle, no more, but growing exponentially with each person they tell, telling more, because who ever hear anything like that before?
after time pass it had people not living there looking for any+every excuse to come through, trying all-how to spend the night; people who now hear this place exist calling down road trip, taking adventure-drive; people making cross-country runs on fumes+hope to find it, because the miraculous talk find them…
the village had been proceeding like most, if a little quieter than most; mostly unremarkable until it wasn’t.
first was ma mabel. she didn’t notice the bruise until later because the walk to the washbasin+mirror that morning was a revelation. mabel couldn’t recall the last time she walk; even though she well know different, she feel like is she whole life that hip have she hobbling, dragging+dropping, gimping she way around she tiny board-house. when she sit up the morning, slow, she notice she wasn’t as stiff as usual and get slightly hopeful about the day. she take it slower swinging she legs out from under thin sheet and off the bed, not wanting to spoil a good thing. cold foot seek out slippers, push them together in front of she, and slide in unusually mobile tarsals. excitement rising, she push up off the edge of the bed to stand with more momentum than she need this morning and almost pitch forward, but before she could even feel fully terrified she legs and them just step out, instinctively, and start to move, carrying she to the washbasin. all she do was wash face and brush teeth before she reach out in the yard with the joy of meeting a new day with a new self. she didn’t understand what the arse happen to she but she know it was good. when she eventually see the bruise she eh connect it.
after ma mabel was xerxes. sagaboy laid low by a vex husband’s blow, he was never the same since the night jonesey bois cross he crown with a crack them hear in quite-o quite-o. xerxes open he eye he old self a morning, except for the bruise on he neck, and call the trade the best bargain he ever make in he sleep. mabel did know to hush she mouth and give thanks quiet quiet in she place but it had no hiding the change in he.
more village people recover; nobody know why but who looking to question? bruises might be suspicious but tha’s the worst them see so every man-jack say gift-horse and hush they mouth. or was supposed to.
but people is people and like other people, and villagers start whispering to who they know need healing.
come+stay the night, you go feel better…
wasn’t long before it was the worst kept secret and then them couldn’t keep the crowds away. next thing i know, a night i duck in a window, hovering at the throat of a sleeping stranger, consumed+consuming, i hear+feel walls constrict airflow. i pause, flickering, and a voice from the dark corner i had ignore for the smell of cancerous cells calling, tell me,
“coffin locks and plexiglass. and apparently maybe we need blackout curtains…vou are a soucouyant, of some kind, yes?”
“how you find me? what you know?”
“more important: how do you exist? what exactly are you? a soucouyant, who somehow heals when she takes blood? how?”
“i don’t know. all i know is, i is the cure…”
“for what?”
“everything.”

walk good.

flash fiction friday #84

steups. this shoulda go up on time because i was so fucking on top of it, i do the thing in advance and schedule the post for noon. i busy, gone about my business, assuming the thing done, only to finish errands and reach back here and see no trigger; it still sitting there as a draft with the scheduled time watching me big big like i's a ass. steups.
anyway. flash fiction friday #84 trigger: choose an existing archetype/stereotype/trope, and flip [a major component of] it.

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).
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 online).
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 leave the same trigger up until at least 1person other than myself writes a piece]*
write fresh!
walk good.

foundation tings

the late great tony hall on the jouvay perspective.  
walk good.

fff#83

my flash fiction friday #83; trigger: origin story.

littlefrog sit up tall, craning she head, trying to make sense of new surroundings. the damp leaves even more intoxicating close, going straight to she senses as she take a moment to breathe after the exertion of reaching up on top them. they have a essence of something she never know before, something besides their leaf-ness. she still except for deep quick breaths as she scan for signs of movement. then she feel the vibrations. something big. plenty bigger than she. coming she way, fast for something so big.
a second later she under the top leaf, quivering, trying to shallow breathing and still she trembling throat. whatever coming, massive. the whole world shaking as it reach right up and she can’t peep all of it because it plenty taller than where she jump up to reach the leaves. it stop right in front of she but still moving on spot, vibrating everything under she tense bamsee and the leaf hiding she. she want desperately to leap from between the leaves back down to the ground to quickly, quietly, blend in and hop away but don’t know what this creature doing and where it looking, plus scared she could get crush. fear keep she shivering under the top leaf; she feel sheself secrete and before she could even understand what happening to she little body, what tiny glands could do, the pile of leaves fly up and land in something dank+wet but not like any wet she ever know before, starting with scent.
sensitive skin sense is not just water. she skin could feelsmell plenty brand new things, wet, kinna like where feel like home, but thicker, oilier. and not smooth force; slick, but gritty, somehow; things in things. and plenty different essence she never know before. like where feel like home but earthier, and more powerful, somehow, more…potent…
she don’t understand but it already don’t matter.
essences penetrate, permeate, pervade, infiltrate, invade, occupy, overrun…
littlefrog don’t understand but it already don’t matter. littlefrog is become…
suddenly sitting up in the iron pot in the sink, bamsee soaking in a floral musk, faucet jooking she centre-spine, jooking-board at she lowerback, confused…then suddenly full understanding of she own existence, what was and what is now and the shock she mustbe cause the ancient man facing she…then suddenly awareness of she now-human nakedness and what that could cause…then suddenly wondering what it was this obeahman was trying to do when a little frog fall in the mix…suddenly realising she shouldn’t stay to find out.
she struggle out the sink, push past the oldman and start to run, for the 1st time ever, pelting across the yard on new limbs thinking about running faster, and about where to go, about how big+wide this world is and how she never know before and almost never even know. so many thoughts; littlefrog woulda never know. and she running and wanting to run faster fasterfaster and then suddenly she feel a kinna way she only ever feel once before, just now, moments ago in the iron pot in the sink when she become…
suddenly, ocelot, speeding, into the night…

walk good.

flash fiction friday #83

flash fiction friday #83 trigger: origin story.

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).
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 online).
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 leave the same trigger up until at least 1person other than myself writes a piece]*
write fresh!
walk good.

fff#82

this fff was weird for me; not because i unhappy with what i write but i unhappy with me in this challenge. i disappoint meself with plenty shite fffs before when i cyah seem to write anything i like and end up posting an fff i unhappy with but sharing still because tha's part of the exercise for me and i always learn something from making meself write+post it even when i doh think it good enough. las' fff i was unhappy with mine but know is because when tony dead, i fold up. this rounds i goodish[ish!] with what i write, but feel i didn't get far enough out my comfort zone to truly fulfill the challenge, in spite of every effort to. i start out saying i going crime fiction because i wanna be able do that well and only ever try once, but late monday night realise even though i like my idea and find it outside my usual story-type, the actual writing, the voice, wasn't; like my natural voice lend itself too easy to the different genre, so it still feel like the kinna ting i would write. and i wanted to challenge meself. so i mash brakes 1time to think on it. late tuesday i decide to switch to something further removed from what i's usually do, and go romance, and rather than try to force-fit what i had, start over from scratch; i mean, it eh like i eh accustom being late with my fff...except when i went to start over in the wee hours of wednesday, i like what i already had too much and find meself trying to write a romance-mystery instead. then, realise today my completely unromantic backside really delivering something more like very light erotica than romance, and thus still staying closer to my usual voice (not that i's be aiming for erotica; is all them diablesse i's be there with) than i wanted, but new trigger going up nex' day and i eh have time to retrain meself to successfully execute romance by then, so instead i just taking the trigger as a trigger to write...something. and i eh vex with it, just feeling like i eh truly fulfill the challenge even though i happyish[ish!] with wha' i write, and did stick to the basic rule of the relationship-as-focus, even though i break the happy ending one, a la romeo+juliet, because if shakespeare could do ting, then who's me?!
and i still re/learn valuable tings through this semi-failed fffing: freedom is nothing to lose; all villains just need a hug; and the phone never rings, the baby never cries, and the rent never overdue in romances. so, flash fiction friday #82; trigger: pick a genre [afrofuturism/detective/horror/romance/noir/scifi/fantasy/speculative/etc.] and/or conceptual/structural trope [hero-journey/zombie-or-other-apocalypse/coming-of-age/etc.] that isn't your usual m.o. and make it yours.

the smell was unreal. too many unwashed in too little space, layered on top the pelau+pie. she shallow she breathing and press on. no time nor place for discomfort, especially as that smell was testament to how much these services needed. she make she way past the kitchen to she office. bookkeeping time; them accounts wouldn’t make theyself up.
she pull out the ledger, appreciating the beauty of running the wash like this, not having to maintain two different set of books for the government and sheself. of course, the tradeoff was every youthman assuming she soft and a easy takedown. of course, them youths was always wrong like a marble. nobody who reach far enough to become district cleaner coulda ever be soft. plus by now, this whole community was she; you would hadda come real ninja to get to she, catching she intransit your only possible opportunity.
she pull she mind back to the task at hand. what play off earlyweek cost, and intake need to reflect that. she remove the dummy event glamourised creole catering and start working backwards through the numbers but find she mind keep running back, playing through a peculiar selection of memories like if it searching for something…
walking into her office for the 1st time, singleminded in she purpose, no idea what she was in for. derailed, completely, by honey’s honeyed tones and later, determination. she gone in there smart but green with she big ideas and make she offer expecting to get through on sheer dollar amount, and honey’s one condition take she for surprise.
“wait. i hadda wha’?”
“you don’t have to; i asking if you want to because i want you to…”
“or hor. then…nahhh…”
“…but if you want the building…”
she watch honey up+down, hard.
“eh heh…so, i hadda.”
“you don’t want to?”
she watch honey long+hard again.
“fine.”
it was at dinner later she finally accept she mighta be outta she depth. and that maybe that wasn’t no bad thing.
she drag she mind back to the book in front she face. and a moment later, honey snatch she back again.
that dinner. she never had nobody just focus on she before. that level of attention, engagement, desire…she had never know what it was to have a person just be interested in and into she, as a person. honey sit close, touch she hand, look she in she eye, feed she exotic mouthfuls from her very fingers, the novel experience of sushi merely backdrop to honey stirring she insides in unfamiliar ways she know wasn’t about raw fish and plum wine…honey hot little hand sliding between she thighs under the table, right there in the people restaurant, 1st time she ever jump so, 1st time of many she find sheself owner of a vocabulary of sounds only honey could elicit.
the books. she tear sheself from honey’s warmth and come back to the pages. which conjure more memories.
standing in their building for the 1st time, she so excited she slowly spinning in a circle, taking in everything again, head full of them big plans until honey on her knees in front of she unzipping and pulling down and pushing aside, demanding access to she hidden parts, thiefing she head all over again. after, she+honey laying on the counter, honey whispering, “if tha’s wha’ you going and do, lemme help you. start by expanding your clientele…once you could service them.”
honey helping she turn the unused kitchen into a large-scale operation where the community’s needy could eat, free. honey teaching she how to make up accounts to cover the washing and the free food sharing. honey’s neverending supply of rich white people looking for their fix, never knowing they contributing to keeping the community fed. honey, executor of she dreams…
that could all fall apart if she don’t handle this part. accounts.
but she have honey on she mind because something troubling she; something not right, and she never wrong. earlyweek, when the shit went down, why honey wasn’t shock like she? that was the maths to study right now. numbers on paper cyah block the picture of that face she love, sad but unsurprised, already ready to help she move forward from what was evidently old news to honey ears. she know what she have to do.
the heart she didn’t think she had until honey, shatter. she didn’t know that could happen neither. she take five to gather sheself then get up to gather the things she need. she eh want honey to go too hard, she not trying to hurt she love, just end it.
when honey reach and ask why she so quiet she hand her the glass of brown liquid, clink she own against it, and pull honey into she lap after their 1st sip, wanting to enjoy the last of this warmth. she hold onto honey tight enough she get questioned again, and answer by draining she glass and reaching for the bottle.
“drink up, babes.”
she pour them both again, knock back she own, put honey to sit on the desk and kneel between her thighs, pushing up her dress. she know their time short now and doh want the end to come before honey get to. love is love.
when honey was bawling she name from the top of the mountain she feel the edges of the paralysis creeping in in time to watch+see the euphoria become terror in honey eyes and she tell she love with she last breaths,
“couldn’t let you betray me again. and couldn’t stay without you, neither…”

walk good.