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."

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