Tuesday, June 23, 2015


my flash fiction friday #60; trigger: …hate [pronoun]self for wanting…

letters swim into words+sentences; thoughts crash against each other and i feel like i going+vomit…she had ask me if it still had curry crab on the table when she reach, late, as usual, she+he both, as usual, smug, like they really believe alla-we cyah tell wha’ the arse going on, like we eh seeing them both leave for lunch every pay-friday and neither reach back until we all come back out monday morning; steups…and as much as i hate myself for wanting a 3rd helping i somehow cyah stop my lying mouth trying to save for my greedy belly what i had done make out was a las’ serving hiding in the dish, just enough curry to saturate another warm, fluffy, buttery heap of buss-up-shut, masquerading as mere gravy because joan had know marcia was currying crab for today too and heaven forbid marcia own should somehow impress mr.johnson more, so joan gone all out, cracking shell and shredding meat until it allow me to tell the little white lie, “nah, dread, alla-them pot is jus’ dregs; it might have some dry paratha in the microwave, but tha’s all, nah…” to discourage her foraging+discovering my treasure, since she seem to be looking for something specific…my heart drop when she say she hungry+going+see if it have enough sauce to take down the dryness of a plate of lystra buss-up-shut, but wha’ you go do, eh? cyah have everything…now my screen screaming my foolish mistake…they rush her to port of spain general, but too late; her throat close up faster than her brain+organs could get the oxygen they need to survive…an hour ago my biggest sins were lying+greed; now, i’s a murderer…

walk good.


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