Afrosentric

Over the last few years, I've been given opportunities to perform at events in and around my island. In some cases I write an original poem for the event. This poem was written for a fashion design competition that was called Afrosentric.

One of the organizers wanted a spoken word performer speaking with background music as dancers danced. Another organizer had seen me perform at Soothe had suggested me. As I knew the first organizer, I had an in.

What I found amusing was the fact that I've turned my back on what I studied at college, Fashion Design, and I turn around and am performing at a fashion event. It still tickles me to think about it.

Anyway this introduction as grown too long, so here is the poem:

Traveling across

A sea of sand,

A man as dark

As the sun is bright

Adjusts his turban

And looks to the

Horizon, seeing

Nothing but sand

And somehow he

Finds comfort here.

Women dance under

The full moon,

Their hands reaching

High to the cloudless

Sky as the drums

Beat a rhythm

That is echoed in

Their hearts, in

Their souls. It was

The music that brought

Them to their feet,

To the dance.

Children laugh

Despite the emptiness

Of their stomachs,

They laugh.

Despite the poverty

That surrounds them,

They laugh.

Despite the many tears

That have fallen and

Will fall,

They laugh.

This land beyond

The horizon is not

Only deserts, grasslands

And jungles,

It is cities with

Buildings that try to

Touch the sky.

Technology and commerce

Fitting neatly in the palm

Of one's hand.

This land, so far

And yet so near

To us all.

It is near

When we look

At the reflection

In the mirror.

It is near

When we break

Out into song,

In our voices.

It is near

In the food we eat,

The way we speak,

The names we give our children,

The way the rhythm,

Any rhythm, flows

In and through us.

It is so far

And yet it

Is ingrained

In every cell

Of our being.

Our being,

The beings of

The stolen children,

Taken and forced

To toil in a land

That, too, was stolen

And yet they would

Have us believe that

It was discovered.

Despite our abduction,

We survived,

We survived enslavement,

We survived poverty,

We survived adapting

To a freedom that

Was not even a dream

To our parents.

And through this fire,

A new people was forged.

A Caribbean people,

But never do we forget

Our past, our history,

And the fact that

We are the children

Of Africa. We

Are not just Caribbean people

We are Afro-Caribbean people.

Our past proves

That we are a

Resilient people,

A creative people,

A people capable

Of everything and

Anything.

We have accomplished

So much in spite

Of our painful

Beginnings, we have

Created champions,

Artists, intellects, dancers,

Singers, designers and

The list goes on

And on and on.

And as the future

Extends beyond

The edge of our horizons,

There is so much

We can achieve,

We, the stolen children

Of Africa, we, the

Afro-Caribbean.

Although our leaders

Wish to return us

To slavery under

The moniker of jobs

Where we bow our heads

In servitude to

People with pale skins

And green bills.

We, the people, can choose

To be different.

We, the people,

Can show those who

Think we are only

Capable of laboring

Under the dictates

Of those who don't

Even look like us,

That we are better

Than this.

We, the people,

Can show the world

That we are creators,

Innovators, masters

Of industry and

Much, much more.

And tonight

We link our past

With our future.

Our past, Africa.

Our future,

A new generation

Of designers.

And that link,

That bridge,

We call

Afrosentric.

P.S. In this piece, I took a shot at the local politicians and would you know it the Minister of Culture was standing in front of me.

P.P.S. Will post the video within the coming week.

Tick Tock

Tick Tock

I hear my

Biological clock

Ticking away

The eggs I have

In short supply.

“Yuh nuh have

A child, yet?”

He looks at me

Like fertile soil

In which to

Plant his seed.

I look at him

As though he is

Trying to plant

A weed in my

Well tended garden.

“Step along,

Young boy,”

“Don't you have

Two, Five, Eight

Kids, brother man?”

“Ew,” are thoughts

That prod the back

Of my tongue, begging

To spring board off

The tip and dive

Into their ear

To swim in the

Gray matter

They call a brain.

And still the clock

Ticks....

Tick Tock

Tick Tock.

Fuck the clock.

Toss it into one

Of those trash disposals,

Let it be reduced

To bits and pieces,

Freeing me of

This prison.

This prison of

Others' expectations

Due to the fact

That I am a woman,

And as such, I must

Breed!

Breed?

Breed?!?

Alas, my entire

Existence, in a

Blink of an eye,

Has been reduced to

A walking womb.

I want to....

Breathe, the inhale,

Exhale kind,

Don't get it twisted.

Then again, I could just

Let time slip away,

Let the clock run out,

Ignore the pity

In people's eyes,

The venom in the

Eyes of overtaxed

Parents, the laments

Of family and strangers

For not letting my genes

Live beyond my body.

Extracting this clock

From my craw and

Breathe. Inhale. Exhale.

Breathe.

Then...

Then I would see a little one,

Be it a floppy headed babe

Or a gangly seven year old

Who has just begun to reason,

And....

And I touch my hand

To my stomach.

And I imagine a

Little me with an

Extra bit of spice.

And...

And I think,

Just maybe,

Just maybe

I could be

Someone's mommy.

Tick Tock

Tick Tock

Tick

Tock.

image credit: Ales Krivec

Seven Days

Give me seven days,
He smiled,
His eyes twinkled
Like the stars above
With an energy
She knew too well.

Can you perform
A miracle in such
A short time?
Her smile was nervous,
Tinged with a hope
That was ambrosia
To him.

I can do it
In less time,
His confidence never
Wavered, a steady
Candle flame, even in
A sand storm.

Then seven days
It is, she smiled
On the outside
And prayed on
The inside.
She wanted him
To succeed.

One then Two,
Two then Three,
Three then Four,
Four then Five,
Five then Six,
Six then Seven,
Seven then...

At the end of
The seventh day,
As the sun became
One with the sea,
As the moon bloated
And sickly watched
Over her, he came forth.

Did you worry?
He searched her face.

Yes,
Her eyes flutter shut.

Did you pray for me,
He tipped her chin up,
Urging her to look at him.

Yes,
She could never lie to him.

Did you believe in me?
His lips brushed hers.

Always,
She met his gaze
And in his eyes,
She saw that the
Miracle had come to pass.

I love...

I love
The smell of him
In my sheets.

I would turn over
In the middle
Of the night
And it would be
There.
I would breathe
Him in.

I love his
Scent.

I love
His skin.

Alabaster black
In some places
And a sweet
Brown in others.
So sweet
I would kiss it
Here, there,
Anywhere and
Everywhere.

I love
His skin.

I love
Sleeping with him.

I knew I was
Long past infatuation
When I could
Dream with his
Arms wrapped around
Me.

We weren't two
Lumpy masses
Existing on a
Plane courting
Nocturnal bliss,
We fit perfectly
Together, in more
Ways than one.

I love
Sleeping with him.

I love...

I love....
Him.

Not for reasons
Or concepts but
Because he is
One star and
So am I
And in a universe
Of stars, we
Somehow found
Each other,
We found someone
Who fits perfectly.

Then again,
I guess
That is
A reason.



I will be honest and say that my handwriting was awful, so there are a few words in this that I doubt was in the original poem. Still working on my poetry.

Likkle Boi

"Psst
Psst,
Miss,
Lemme talk
To you for
A minute."

Taking in the
Boxers on display,
The jeans so tight
It is a wonder
They are able to
Hang so low,
The woman ten years
His senior sucks her teeth
As though sucking
The flesh off of
A kenep.

"Likkle boi,
Don't know
Him place,
Thinking a
Big 'oman
Like me would
Eva deal with
A likkle boi,"
She says, hiking up
Her bag and
Walking away.

All that likkle boy
Want is the two
Dollar me work
Hard for. He
Would t'ink is
His payment for
Rubbing my
Neck, feet....
And other such
Places.

Not dis 'oman yah,
My money is for
My clothes,
My food,
My child,
And no man alive
Would get a cent
Of it. I work too hard
To throw way
What likkle money
I work for.

If only that
Likkle boi did
Know that I only
Deal with man
And they money.
And by the look
Of things, I would
Become a man
Before that likkle boi
Ever would.


My attempt at dialect. LOL. Oh and this is "kenep"

Not Ever

Whisper softly to me,
Speak words that you
Would never say to
Anyone but me.

Tell me that
You want me, that
You need me, that
You love me.

Why is your
Tongue still?
Why are your words
Trapped in that mind,
Prisoners of some
Malady I know
Nothing about.

Why don't you
Speak truth to me
For your actions
Speak them so
Plainly.

Alas, your mind
And body oppose
Each other and
You trust the mind
But I trust the body.

Then go!
Yes, go!
I shall not stand
For such indecision,
It is either you love me
Or you don't.

Speak plainly, man,
I know those lips,
I know that tongue
Can construct
Sentences.

And so we have it,
You love me, but you
Also love someone else.
The decision was never yours
It appears. It is mine
And my decision is for
You to leave.

Don't look at me with
Sad eyes. Put your tail
Between your legs and
Shoo.

I am not one
To share my toys,
Not now,
Not ever.

In This Time

A Norman Rockwell painting
Hung over my head,
More like a print,
But I'm not judging.

A snapshot of
A more peaceful time
Sends me reeling back
To the time when it
Was not so peaceful.

When a hatred gripped
The hearts of men
Who could never get
Past their programming.

A time when women
Could not vote,
When a black man
Could not occupy
The same space as
A white woman.

I also remember
A time when the
Hatred was reversed
And the anthem of
"F*ck the police"
Was played from every
Ghetto blaster.

In this time,
A time I now
Live, gangstas are
Either dead or
Making movies.

In this time,
We haven't resolved
The hatred, and
Untended it has
Been left to fester.

In this time,
We wear masks so
Tightly that they
Seem to become
Our faces.

In this time,
I look up at
The Norman Rockwell
And wish that
This lie was true.


Image Credit

Something to Tell

"Do you love him?"

I looked back to see her standing in the doorway. Rays of light streaming pass her, bouncing off the dust floating aimlessly in the room I used as my studio. Her heavy loc's, laced with threads of silver, hung around sturdy shoulders and the dress she wore reminded me that her heritage was never far from her heart. Mama Elliot had come a-visiting.

I turned my attention to the mound of clay, spinning before me on the potters wheel. It was not out of disrespect that I turned my back to the old woman, I just did not want my face to betray me. I wanted to find the right words to answer what appeared to be a simple question.

As I held the clay in both hands, I heard her enter the room and take a seat in the corner of the room. As I dipped my thumbs into the top of the clay, creating a dip that would grow into a bowl, I heard her strike a match. Soon, the scent of Mama Elliot's brand of ganja coiled around me, tickling my sensitive nose.

She did not repeat her question, she did not have to. Plus, it was not the old woman's style to repeat herself unnecessarily.

At last I said, "I don't know if I love him." I knew she would wait until the sun melted into the Caribbean Sea and be born again in the Atlantic Ocean. "I've grown accustom to his face," I said, honestly, to the vase forming beneath my hands.

Her laughter rumbled out of the depths of her like thunder erupting from a stormy sky. "You've been listening to Papa Elliot's music, eh? For a Rasta, he sure love the white man music."

As her laughter subsided, I felt the intensity of her gaze forcing me to look across at her.

"Be truthful, Child," she took a draw on her spliff, half way spent by now. "What you mean you don't know if you love the man?" With each word, a puff of smoke escaped Mama Elliot's lips.

I turned back to the vase, now six inches tall, spinning before me. I took a scrap of paper and made an indentation in the base. All the while contemplating the truth and if I should speak it.

"I care for him a lot but I'm not passionately in love with him." The words of my mind were spoken by my lips.

She snorted in an unbecoming manner.

"Who said anything about being passionately in love with him? What gave you the notion that love had to be passionate?" She exclaimed.

I looked at her and said nothing. Then returned my attention to the vase. This time, making an impression on its bulbous center.

"You think Papa Elliot and I have this passionate love, don't you?" She asked.

"Don't you?" I asked.

It seemed to be that we were speaking only in questions.

"Child, let me set the record straight. Papa Elliot and I love each other. There are times I hate the man, thinking that I should pack up my barley bundle and leave his sorry backside. Then there are times when I love him something fierce, I would drink his bath water if he asked me to, and you know how dutty the man can get."

A snicker escaped my lips before I could suppress it.

"I'm sure he feels the same way 'bout me," the old woman continued. "You see, Child, love is not this blazing inferno meant to devour your heart. Love.. love is the slow burn, the kind that forges steel. You have to keep stoking the fire, baby, to keep it going, to make it worth it."

She took another draw on her spliff, savouring the high. "An inferno dies out as quickly as it is erupts, but the slow burn, that  can last forever."

Mama Elliot got to her feet and walked over to me. She stood over me and I looked up to meet her gaze. Our eyes locked, she searched mine, she searched my soul.

"Do you love him?" I knew this was the last time she would ask.

"I... I love him." The words of my heart, spoken by my lips.

Mama Elliot smiled, a knowing smile I knew so well. "I know."

"If you knew, why did you ask?" It was I who was searching her eyes, her soul.

"Because you needed to know, you needed to say it , to hear yourself say it. Now you have to say it to him." She leaned in, pressing her cheek to mine and whispered in my ear. "Nuh worry, he love you, too."

I closed my eyes, tears welling up behind my eyelids, strong emotions bubbling up from within, tugging and pulling at my defenses. The fortified walls crumbling under the weight of my mother's words.

I opened my eyes and she was gone. I looked down at the vase and the wheel slowing down. I had now lost interest in it, deeming it complete as it was. I looked up at the old picture of Mama Elliot hanging on the wall in front of me.

She died ten years ago, diabetes got the best of her. Yet, my mother always came to me when I most needed her, when I needed her guidance.

I got up from my stool and walked over to her picture, reaching out to touch her likeness. "Thank you, Mama."

I heard a noise at the doorway to my little studio. I turned to see him standing there.

"Are you okay, baby? Something told me to check on you," his voice, thick with concern. I knew he saw the tears on my face, glittering in the half light.

I closed the distance between us, I took his hand as I stood before the man I loved. I looked into his eyes, searching them, searching his soul, discovering that Mama Elliot had told the truth.

With a smile, I said, "There is something I have to tell you."

Untitled

Among the rocks,
I found a diamond,
Its many facets
Reflecting my torch
Light in every direction,
Dazzling my eyes.

In my hands,
It was hard
And unyielding
And all I had
to do was slip
It into my pocket

No one would know,
No one would believe.
Instantly, i would
Become rich, but
What is rich?

What is rich,
If I deceive
The ones I love?

What is rich
when there is
No one to share
The trappings
Of my prosperity?

What is rich
If I was alone
In a world
That is foreign
And nothing but
Illusions and deceptions?

Digging a hole,
I made my decision,
I placed the diamond
In the hole
And buried it.

A fool am I?
Perhaps, but a
Happy fool with
No money to his name
Is better than an
Unhappy one with
Money to burn.

A fool I am.

His Words

He would whisper
In my ear in
The most unexpected
Places, the most
Unexpected times.

His words would
Beat against my ear drums
As crowds pressed us
Together as we waited
For a concert to begin.

His words would
Break my concentration
As I sat at my desk
Working on a budger
Or something work related.

His words would
Wrap theselves around
My attention and
Pull it violently away
From what triviality
I was lot in.

His words never
Changed, never morphed
Into anything else
And still when I heard
Them a smile wormed
My face.

Then his words
Would become my words
As I whispered
Them back with
Equal sincerity
That was never
Lost on him.

His words.
My words.
Our words.
I love you.

Held On

He held on to me
As the golden raays
Of the morning sun
Turned Sharp and white
Then dull and golden
Again.

I should be dead,
Instead, she lay
Motionless, somewhere
In this building of
Life and death.

He held onto me
As though I was
A life preserver
But he was mine.

I held onto him
When the hearaging
Didn't stop. When
the doctors and nurses
Buzzed around like
Inhabitants of a disturbed
Hive, he held onto me.

I survived but
She didn't, she
Slipped through my hands
And fell into death's
And before I could
Get to know her,
She was gone.

It was as the
Shadows stretched
Till they became one,
That the tears came.
One, then two, then
My ace, his face
Was awash
With tears.

And we held on,
Even as sobs
Caused tremors
In our bodies
We held on
To each other.

The tears would dry,
The sobs would be
Silenced. The pain
Would recede from
Sharp to dull
And we will try
Again, but for now
We held onto each
Other.

A Monster

I feel like
A monster.

The light streaming
Through the gap in
The window turned
Innocuous dust motes
Into stars. I wondered
If actual stars were
Really dust motes
Floating in someone
Else's space.

Are you
A monster?

I looked across at
Dr. ..., his head tilted
As though he was
Reading the pad
He always held,
But he was looking
Up at me over his
Glasses.

Do I look like
A monster?

We were prone to
Doing this, answering
Questions with questions,
I'm sure to normal people
This would be irritating
But to us, it was normal.

A minute passed.
What does it
Look like?
A monster?

I reached out and
Grabbed a handful of
Stars. The action would
Have looked peculiar.
Perhaps it was.

It has horns,
And red eyes,
Pointed teeth,
And terrible 
Skin.

I squeezed my hand,
Imagining stars, moons,
Planets and little itty
Bitty people being
Crushed in my little
Hand.

What if I said
It looks like a
Woman with
Grey eyes and
A disarming
Smile.

I smiled.
Are you calling
Me a monster?

He didn't answer,
He wrote on the
Notepad he always
Held during our
Sessions. The thick
Glass separating
Him from me.

Perhaps, I am
A monster.

Feels Heavy

My pen feels
Heavy today and
As I force it
Down upon the paper,
It sputters ink
Here and there,
Thoughts splutter
With no rhyme
Or reason, just
Thoughts.

My pen feels
Heavy today and
It feels as though
A wall was built
Between my muse
And me.
Free her,
Free me,
Free us!

Let our words flow
Like rivers older
Than time, older
Than the existence
of creatures that
Quench their thirsts
In the ever flowing
Waters.

Let my words be
Unshackled from
The heavy chains that
Hold them down in the
Muck of silence,
Let them be free.

Free them,
Let them not be
Held back by mine,
Own fears, mine own
Doubts fed by
The words of others.

These words are not
Mine, they never were,
They were stories
Of their own making
And I am but
A tool, nothing more
Than a pen, a type-
Writer.

My pen feels
Heavy today and
Still I put it
To paper, I let
Thoughts sputter
Across it until
They make sense,
Then again....

Then again,
Do they have
To make sense.

The Price

Open up your heart,
She banged on the door,
The pain of striking it
Shot up her arm and
Still she struck it
Again.

To her, the pain
Was nothing in comparison
To the pain she
Felt in her heart.

A pain that wormed
Its way into the
Tight spaces in her
Chest and squeezed
The one organ that
Made life possible.

I love you, you know.
Her striking the door
Ceased and in the
Silence, she spoke
Her truth.

It made her feel
Naked, her skin
Exposed to his
Possible rejection.

The door opened and
He stood in the doorway,
His eyes searching her face,
Her soul.

Do you really?
Say it again,
When she did,
He smiled.

Taking her hand, he
Pulled her into an
Embrace.

I don't love you,
His words were
Whispers in her ear.

He stepped back
And closed the door.
She stood, jaw slack,
Spirit crushed.

Was this the price
Of being vulnerable,
Of loving a man,
Of walking in her truth?
Was it worth the price.

Turning around and
Walking away from
His front door, she
Closed her heart,
And with it the
Pain. For her,
The price was too high.

His Smile

His smile never reached
His eyes, instead it
Was oily and as a
Result my smile was
Slow in coming.

His smile set off
A chain reaction of
Disgust in me as it
Made me feel as though
He was stripping me
Bare with his eyes.

A smile is supposed
To make people happy
But his, his was
The Rumpelstiltskin kind
Of smile and I
Was grateful I had
No hay to spin to gold.

His smile did him
No favours and I
Was grateful when
It faded away in
Disappointment when
For the tenth time
I said that I
Was not interested.

His smile was
The one smile
I never missed.

Of Time

With each passing day,
A jewel formed on
One of the many chains
That hung about her.

It was not long
Before they weighed
Her down, curling
And folding her body.

It was as though
Time was returning her
To the earth with
Each trinket
Representing a day.

It was not long
Before her existence
Was reduced to
Her bearing the pain.

But one day it
Was too much
And she fell under
The weight, crashing
Down to the earth.

Time paid no heed
And more jewels appeared
'til she disappeared
Under the trinkets
Of time.

The Arena

In the center
Of the arena
They stood, a
Mindless throng
Yelling at them
To do the
Unspeakable.

They looked one
Another over,
Trying to determine
If one or the
Other will leave
The arena alive.

One uttered words
That were a mess
Of sounds to the
Other. They did
Not even speak
The same language.

Strangers being
Forced to kill
Strangers.

With the energy
Of the mad crowd
About them,
They attached,
Not out of anger,
Not out of malice,
But out of the need
To survive.

Before long, one
Was struck down,
And with the crowds
insistence the other
Rendered his opponent
Lifeless.

As the arena
Grew quiet,
A sense of clarity
Descended upon
The survivor.
Small hands released
The bloodied axe.
The child fell
To its knees.

They were but
Children, not quite
Men and women,
And yet they were
Forced to do
What we are
Reluctant to do.

As he wept
Over the slain
Child, a girl
Who would never
Become a woman,
A guard scooped
Him up.

The guard would not
Return him to the
Cage that had been
His home. He
Would be taken
To the barracks,
He would become
A soldier, serving
The empire.

But before he
Ever serves his
Country, the empire,
The child had to
Lose his soul.


Image Credit: galleryhip

Untitled

His body was
Nothing but a silhouette
Among the shadows.

If I knew not
That he was there,
I would think him
An illusion formed
By an over-active mind.

He sat beside me
And the heat
Emanated from his body
Made me wonder if
He had absorbed the heat
Of the sun and now
It was seeping
Away into the cool
Night.

Yet when I touched him,
When our bodies
Became one, he was
Cool to the touch.
It was my body,
He said, that was
Heated.

It was not long
Before both bodies
Became heated, minds
Lost in a pre-climatic
Trance. The mind,
Body, soul enveloped
In a singular gasp.

Falling apart,
Bodies spent,
Minds drifting to
Parts unknown,
We reached for each
Other. An intimacy
Followed by an intimacy.

One kinetic.
One latent.
Both connecting us
To each other,
To this moment,
Which quickly slipped
Away to slumber.

From the shadows
He came,
In my arms,
He remained.

When I Grow Up

When I grow up
I want to be different.
I want to be the
Person people point at
And say, “Wow.”

When I grow up
I want to hold life
By the hair and swing
It around and around
'Til it got dizzy
And puked all my desires.

When I grow up
I want it all to be
Sweetness and light
Edged with a darkness,
So dark it rivaled
Black holes.

When I grow up
I want the sun
To shine unto my face
And the breeze to
Lick the sweat from
My brow.

When I grow up
I want it all
To make sense,
That I would understand
Why people claimed
Their sadness.

From the outside,
I appear to have
Grown up, but
It isn't what
I thought it
Would be.

Somehow, I get
The feeling that
Someone is lying,
Is it me or
Is it society?

Somehow, in the depths
Of me, I believe
That the truth is
Buried under the many
Layers of crud placed
Lovingly around me
By those who
“Know better.”

So I believe
I am still growing,
A plant buried
In a seed
Buried in the earth.
And when I grow
Up, I will make
Life puke all
My desires.

Pay Day

This is my contribution to a challenge put on by two friends, Random Michelle and Charlie Roots, called Zombie Apocalypse 268. For more information on the challenge, visit Random Michelle.

“Eh, what's that Cheryl?” I make my last walk through of a warehouse on the outskirts of St. John's where I am stationed. My shift is coming to an end, and the last thing I want to hear is that I am not going to get my pay check this afternoon.

“Eh, the boss turn into a zombie and didn't sign the checks and dem?” I return to the guard booth and fill out the log.”You not serious,” I shift my cell phone to the other ear. “What kind of zombie 'e turn into?”

I sit down heavily on the piece a chair they say they giving us to sit on. “What you mean you don't know?” I sigh, “Is 'e walking about slow and clumsy or is 'e rushing about?”

Hearing a shrill scream in the distance, I get to my feet and slam shut the door, locking it. Then I crouch down behind the desk, pulling the chair close to it.

“Okay, 'e jumpin' out 'im skin?” I ask after Cheryl gives me a description of the zombie my cheapskate boss has became. “Alraight,” I ignore the scratching at the large plate glass window that looked into the warehouse. Most likely the guard stationed outside, but that's his problem, not mine. “Now get a bunch of de men to 'old 'im down' and make Mr. Browne sign de checks.... I very serious Cheryl.”

“Look Cheryl.” Now the fool guard banging on the door. “I don't care if dere is a zombie whatever, I got to get paid. My rent due next week, I have to send money back 'ome and de Migo man sure to come 'round on Sunday. I can set my clock on dat one.”

The banging stops and it gets real quiet. Too quiet. I'm tempted to take a peek but I know better than to let the guard outside know I'm in here. A loud explosion of something going through the window destroys the silence, glass skitters under the desk. Shit, when did zombies get so resourceful?

With a chupse, I tell Cheryl that I will call her later. Still, I don't come out, if Mr. Resourceful was going to get me, he was going to have to come for me.

I listen as he lands on broken glass. He slowly walks around the office, glass crunching under spit shone shoes. But something is wrong. His stride is too purposeful, not hurried or wild. He comes around the desk and stands but inches away from me. It is now or never.

Pulling out a metal nail file from my shirt pocket, I raise my hand as high as the desk would allow. It is now or nev-

“Peaches?” it is just above a whisper. “Where you, Peaches?”

“Donovan?” I push the chair out, forcing my co-worker to step back. “Donovan, you not a zombie?”

“Do I look like a zombie?” he replies, watching me get out of my hiding place.

Looking him up and down, I say, “Is questionable.” Turning around, I take in the smashed window. “Now why you go and do dat for? Now anything can get in.”

“You not glad I come look for you?” Donovan has the heart to say. “I coulda left you 'lone to face dem.”

“I woulda managed,” I turn back to face him. “Plus, I t'ink you de one 'fraid being alone.” Not even waiting for a response, I pull out my phone and call back Cheryl.

“So you get him to sign the checks, Cheryl?” I ask when the phone is answered. “What?!? Mr. Browne get she? He's gnawing pon she right now? Jesus.... but, hear nah, did y'all get Mr. Browne to sign de checks and dem? Okay, good good, I coming just now.”

Seeing the shocked expression on Donovan's face, I ask, “What?” as I disconnect the call.
“You nuh 'ear?” He responds. “Cheryl pregnant.”

At first, I was speechless. That little mite of a woman get herself with child for that cheating boy she call a man. I wanted the best for she but maybe it's for the best she died early. She would not have survived anyway and then for her to be pregnant, too. She would have gotten in the way, but I don't utter a word of this to Donovan as I heard he had feelings for Cheryl.

“Lets go,” I say at last. “We'll give her a decent burial when we get a chance,” I lie.

“Where we going?” Donovan asks, not making a move to go. He isn't the smartest man to put on a security uniform.

“Where else?” I say, walking over and removing the gun from the holster that hung at his side. I check the clip and remove the safety. “We're going to the office to get our pay,” I look up at him.

A scream broke the silence that hung over us like a heavy blanket. It is closer, they are closer. There are miles between us and the office filled with unspeakable horrors and I am asking him to travel through them to get a piece of paper. But it is more than a piece of paper. We worked the week and we have to be paid. We have responsibilities to meet and it doesn't matter that the world has gone to hell. I want my money.

“E safe,” Donovan says, his eyes veering to the gaping hole he made in the plate glass window that would have separated us from whatever gets into the warehouse.

Following his line of vision, I see a woman staring at my co-worker. She would have been beautiful if it wasn't for the sunken eyes that seem see nothing, the slacken jaw from which dark blood leaks from the corners. A gaping wound on her arm has little maggots squirming as they consume her at their leisure. She doesn't care, her attention solely on the man in the room.

I put a bullet in her head. The kick of the gun new to my small hands but I could get used to it.
Looking back at Donovan, I hear her drop to the floor like a sack of garbage. “You sure?”

He pulls his gaze away from the window and blinks at me. The gears in his mind moving ever so slowly as he tries to decide on what he should do. Should he come with me where he is sure to encounter more like the corpse on the floor beyond the window? Should he stay and deal with whatever gets into the warehouse?

With a chupse, I put a bullet in his head. He took too long to answer and a second's hesitation means life or death in this new world. As I search his body for extra rounds for his gun, I rationalize my actions as a mercy kill. It is either I kill him now or later and I might be busy later.

Pocketing the extra rounds, my phone and a few odds and ends, I sneak out of the guard room. As I creep through the warehouse, I hear them, but I was prepared for when I see them.

Standing in the doorway of one of the exits, I can smell death in the faint breeze as it blows through the open door. In the distance a small group of undead walk slowly towards the warehouse.

If it was Monday, I would rethink what I am about to do. I would have hid out in the warehouse, surviving on dried goods and bottled water. But it's Friday, pay day and I'm going for what is owed to me. I'm going to get paid and it's going to take a whole lot more than a zombie outbreak to keep me from that pay check.


Image Credit: Bilder