Jaded.

Jaded,
Hair falling over
Watchful eyes,
Waiting patiently
For a deat dealer.

One never came,
Their cool shadow
Never entered the
Square and as he
Got to his feet
He wondered
If that was for
The best.

He was not one
To confront one
But his future
Depended on him
Doing so.

As he entered
A side street,
He saw one, moving
Ever so slowly, as
Though he had
No where to be,
Nothing to do.

With much haste,
He ran up to it,
Extracting a hunting
Knife from its sheath.

Before the death dealer
Knew what happened,
He had buried
The knife in its back
Exactly where
They told him to.

Slowly, the deat dealer
Turned around,
Its eyes lacked
The norma emotions
Associated with being
Attacked, anger, fear.

Instead its eyes
Held pity, then
Relief. A smile
Crept across
Its face as
It became a
Corpse long dead.

It wasn't long
Before it became
Ashes at his feet.

In killing
The death dealer
He became one.

With it came
Immortality, that
Is until one day
When a jaded soul
Comes to take it
All away from him,
When he is more
Than jaded.

Bad Writer 2

"Hello, this is Ingrid, how can I help you?"

"Good morning, this is Karen, how can I help you?"

"This is Leslie, a wha you want?" This is how I wanted to answer the phone as one more American calls about their faulty cell phone or some error on their bill. Instead of saying that, I say, "Hello, this is Leslie, how can I help you?" making sure to put a little pep in my voice to make the pissed off customer think I really care.

Care my ass. Just two more hours, then I'm out of here, but out of here to what? That's the funny thing about my life, I'm so busy waiting to get out of one place or another. When I'm home, I want to be here and when I'm here, I want to be at home. My life has been reduced to my wanting to be somewhere else.

"Hello, hello?" a southern drawl crawls through my headset and yanks my attention back to the job. "Are you still there?"

"Yes," I say, my voice like the sugar that was my island's main industry. "My apologies, according to your account, you are in three months arrears and you have been disconnected. Would you like to make a payment to have your account reinstated?"

The answer was the sound of a dial tone. You got to love the Americans.

"What you doing this weekend?" Annette, the 20 year old besides me asks. Since she started working at The Call Center, she's been trying to make a friend out of me. I still haven't decided if I'm interested.

"Working," I reply.

"Saturday and Sunday?"

I shrug, "You know how it is." Thankfully her phone rings, I didn't want to go into the nonsensical conversation about how much we hate the job. During my first year here, I would go on and on about how much I hated the place but after three years, I am so over the conversation.

Still, the only thing I like about the job is that it comes to an end.


'til next Sunday. 
Click here to read the first installment.

Image Credit: Call Center Company

Don't

Lend me your ears,
O' citizens of
Planet Earth.

Drink not the water
For it has been
Made foul with
Our actions, direct
And indirect.

Eat not the food
For it has been
Engineered to a fraction
That can still constitute
The final product as food.

Befriend not your fellow man
For his corrupt ways
Have left him scheming
And dishonest. His loyalty
Attached to parties, races,
Cultures to the point
That he can not see
Our common humanity.

O' citizens of Earth,
Sit back as our
Population swells and
Bloats, becoming a
Super nova, but will
It lead to our extinction?

O' how the Earth
Would heave a sigh
Of relief when
We are nothing
But fossils buried
Deep within her
Many layers.

Until that time,
As Earth waits
Patiently for our demise,
Don't drink the water,
Don't eat the food
And don't befriend
Your fellow man.

Mississippi

I wasn't supposed
To end up in Mississippi,
In fact, I should have
Been sailing through the sky
In a fancy jet to
A tropical island but....
Things had changed.

They had first changed
For the better and
Then they got worst,
So much worst.

As the clang of
The jail cell shattered
My reverie, I looked
Around the holding cell.

The women ranged
From hardened criminals
Who lounged around
The cell as though
It was a room in
Their home, to
Innocent women who
Sat in whatever corner
The could find, heads
Down, perhaps praying
To get out.

As for me, I was neither,
And some would say
I was both.

A seasoned criminal
Who had never been
Caught, that is until
Mississippi.

A good con
Turned bad and
Now I was facing
Prison. And for
Some eerie reason
I was not sad.

I had accepted
My fate, but
Something told me
That at a moment's
Notice, everything could
Change for the better.

Perhaps, I will see
That tropical island
Sooner than I think.

Sane

The four walls
Looked back at her.
The whiteness of them
Almost blinding
Even under the
Fluorescent light.

She wasn't mad,
She told herself
As she tested
The straitjacket
For the tenth,
More like the
Fifth, time.

She would have
Screamed, she
Would have wept,
But she had
Done both and
Was ignored.

Looking up at
The shadowy mirror,
She knew they were
Behind it, watching
Her, trying to justify
That she was mentally
Disabled.

She wasn't and
Behind the mirror
No one stood,
No one was
Alive.

The only door into
The room swung open,
She twisted around to
See who the visitor
Was and upon seeing
Who it was she
Smiled.

He knew she was
Not crazy. Stooping
Down, he undid the
Fastenings of the
Straitjacket, freeing her,
Embracing her.

Then with one deft move,
He broke her neck
And released her, letting
Her fall like an old
Rag doll.

She was sane,
But they locked
Her away, and
He was insane
And they refused
To see it. And
Now they were all
Dead.

Bad Writer 1

Back in July, I self published the first of a series and it got panned. The reviews were harsh and even though I tried to keep positive, it took a toll on my ability to write. Well, to be honest, I approached the project out of a business mind set instead of because I liked story or the characters. Perhaps that was reflected in the book and because of that the reviews were not too encouraging. The only thing is I had three more books in the series, I was also working on another series in that genre but after the reviews for the second book, I just hit a wall.

In hitting a wall, I felt out of it. Writing was a form of expression and yet I felt that I couldn't write, that I was a hack, but this is what I want to do for a living. Then I remembered what a friend had said about writing what she knew, so I decided to write what I knew and because I was in a dark place, the following story is, well, dark. But I must admit, it is better than the commercial novellas I've self published. 

I don't have to push and pull the characters around, this character kinda just flowed. She's not supposed to be likable, she's not even good but she is walking her path. She is leading me back to the characters I want to write, the women who buck against the norms and dares them to fight. They are twisted and different, and I like exploring them. No, I'm not entering the realm of Dean Koontz, but I am writing something worth reading.

Below is the beginning, it's raw, unedited but at least I'm getting it out there. Enjoy.


Walking along the side street, I stilled my mind, leaving my senses open to take in everything. Shoving my thoughts away like disobedient children who refuse to be silent. In this moment, I didn't want to interpret what I sensed, I just wanted to take it in.

As I walked, the sun's rays cast sharp shadows out of the buildings painted lively colours. In the distance, the ting, ting, ting of a steel pan could be heard. A stark contrast from a few blocks away where a street vendor blasted the latest tunes, be it soca, dance hall, pop or church music.

A breeze rushes by, licking the beads of sweat from my brow and sending my skirt to billow around me. I didn't hold it down because I knew no one would look, no one would see. In my world, I was invisible.

I was one of many, I was another cog in the machine and no one really noticed the brown girl dressed in conservative clothing. Why notice her with relaxed hair scraped back into a ponytail when they could eyeball the butter skin good gyal with red hair pinned up high? Why notice the woman with no makeup when the one with purple lips and green eyes catches everyone's attention?

Why notice me when there really isn't anything about me to notice? In a way that is what makes me dangerous, you don't see me coming until I'm standing over you making your neck smile.


This will be posted every Sunday 'til the end. Until next Sunday.

Image Credit : Imageback

Shadow and Light

Let the flowers fall,
Let them fall upon
The ground and be
Stumped upon.

The woman in white
Approaches, her stride
Measured as she grips
The arm of the man
Beside her.

One would think she
Walks to the somber
Melody of a funeral song,
And not the melody
Of the wedding march.

Her eyes flicker under the
Net of the veil, this
Way and that 'til
They settle upon me.

Sadness is consumed
In a ranging inferno
Of lust and desire.
Sweet princess.

I was asked to come,
To witness this spectacle.
Now I wonder if
I am the spectacle
As hushed tones soaked
Through the music.

I watch, from the pews,
The rites of marriage,
The black box,
Heavy in my pocket,
The ring inside shines
Bright, almost fooling one
That it is on fire.

With the heralding of
The union, Man and
Wife, I slip into
The shadows of their
New existence.

I make my way to
My car before
The church emits
The happy crowd.

Sitting in the quiet
Of the car, I call her,
Not her in white, but
Her on the other side
Of town.

I am coming over,
I am going to ask
A question and
Her answer may be
The one thing that
Would pull me from
The shadows and
Deliver me into the
Light.

May I touch

May I touch
Your soul?

May I stoke it,
Palm it, massage it
Till a multitude of
Emotions surge forth
Like a mighty spring.

May I touch
Your spirit?

May I attune it
To my vibrations
Till it resonates
Till we harmonize
Perfectly.

May I touch
You?

May my words
Bring forth a
Groundswell of inspiration
That drives you and
Others to action.

May I touch.

Someone

The oak door creaked
Open, and a little head
Peered in.

With eyes wide open,
She took in the machines,
The TVs that seemed
To be broken and
The woman that was
Broken.

She smiled sweetly
And ran towards the bed
Only to be stopped
By the family doctor.

He stooped down and
Whispered in her ear,
Her glee soon became sorrow
And when he released her,
Her gallop became
A hesitant stride.

Peering up at all
Who stood beside
The bed, she came to
A stop at the foot of it.

Then before they could
Stop her, she climbed
Up onto the bed and
Curled up beside
The woman.

Those who moved to
Removed her were stopped
By those who were moved
By the little girl's actions.

The actions of a little girl
Who wanted to sleep
With Mommy one last
Time, before the warmth
Slipped away, before
Her humanity exited
Her body, leaving something
So clinical and empty
That they refer to it
As a cadaver.

Until then, this lifeless
Body was Mommy, Wife,
Daughter, Sister, Friend
This was someone.

Who Am I

He kissed me
And I should
Have slapped him.

I should have
Become violent
Towards him.

Him, this little man
With soft features
And a beautiful
Smile.

Him, the only man
Who looked beyond
My masculine posturing
And saw me as I am.

As I am?
What am I?

Every day, I would
Look in the mirror
And ask myself that
Question.

The woman of the
Evening, sleeping
Fitfully in my bed
And still I felt...
Dissatisfied.

That is until
He kissed me
And the Pandora's box
Sprung open and
Although I tried
To slam it shut,
Its lid would spring
Open.

Instead of all
Manners of evil
And strife, out
Came my truth.

Instead of becoming
Violent, I craved
His touch, I wanted
More. My thirst,
A thirst I never
Knew I had,
Grew stronger.

He smiled.
A knowing smile.
Then extended his hand.

I took it
Without hesitation
And was led
To his apartment.

Instead of closing
The now gaping box,
I was going to explore it
And in doing so,
I will at last
Answer the question,
Who am I?

Escape

It held my by the throat.

Its claws gently scratching
My jugular. It wanted
Me to know how close
I was to death.

Intentionally,
Unintentionally,
It could end my life
And I could do
Nothing about it.

As I waited
For certain death,
I wondered about
What brought me
To this time and place,
What had me counting
Down my last
Heart beats.

One,
I escaped Earth
On a ship destined
To anywhere but Earth.

Ten,
I crossed a warlord
Who was smarter than
She looked. Trust me,
A small head doesn't
Mean a creature
Is stupid.

Twenty,
I escaped again
But I was traveling
To the dark side.
No one goes to the
Dark side so no one
Would follow me there.

Thirty,
There is a reason
No one travels
To the dark side,
And it is holding
Me by the throat.

Forty,
Forty heart beats
Too long, it's time
I escape this World.
I've always been good
At escaping.

If Only

A single loc
Fell over his eye
And I bit my lip.

I bit it so hard
That I soon felt
The coppery taste
Of my blood.

I wanted to look away,
Look away from
Dark skin stretched over
Rippling muscles that
Knew nothing of office spaces.

Skin that was tanned
To the perfect shade
That reminded me
Of black coffee,
No sugar, no cream.

I watched as he,
Without thought, swept
The rebel loc from
His vision and tucked
It with its brothers
In a loose entrapment.

If only I could
Touch.
If only I could
Taste.
If only I could
Feel.
If only....

While thoughts of
Wanton acts danced
Merrily through my
Mindscapes, he looked
Up and our gazes met.
I should have
Looked away.

Instead I smiled
And he smiled,
Then looked away as
His girlfriend called
Out to him, and
The smile that was mine
Became hers.
I envied her.

With the pricks
Of jealousy, I
Felt pricks of shame
And guilt.

The afternoon light was
Caught in my engagement ring
And was fragmented, sent
Here and there.
I looked at it and sighed.
Only guilt pricked at me.

I said 'yes', willingly,
But I now wonder
If asked now, would
The answer be 'no'.

I looked back down
At my neighbour
And he was now looking
At me. Could this
Be a possibility?

I wonder,
If only....