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Flash fiction short story Fighting Strife through Nature by Shawntaye Scott
Javina sat under the tree, pondering the nexus between calming sensations and watching the sky put on a show. Orange cumulus clouds paraded the sky, settling her mind and heart. The past few months have been tough; she is suffering through emotional hardships due to her mother Isis absconding her. The
sharpness of the incident blurred Javina s mind, skewing the way she viewed the situation. The first few weeks after
Isis disappearance, Javina kept their house squalid. Sickened by the sudden turn of events, she wallowed in misery and sorrow for days. Finally she learned to employ her adroitness and deal with the
situation properly. Determined to lift herself up from this tragedy, she relied upon her inner strength. As a child, I always felt that God was sending a message to his beloved children on earth that everything would be alright through the sky. When my daddy died, I stared at the sky, and watched the sunrises and sunsets take place. These shows always soothed my grief, loneliness and anger. I realized through that and reading my Daily Word that God loves me. She tapped back into this insight after
Isis died from cancer. The spirituality coupled with support from family and friends made grief management corrigible.
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There she is, my beautiful baby. I miss her, I miss her so much. I never told her about the pain, oh the pain I endured constantly. The treatments were emotionally and physically draining. Unfortunately, they didn t stop the spread of that monster either. She could see it in my eyes though, I know she could. Poor baby, she did her best to make sure I was comfortable and I appreciated that. She went to work, school and came home and made sure our place was immaculate. It took its toll on her and I m glad that finally I m at peace; in no more pain and not being a burden to her anymore. Although she ll never verbalize it, my sickness and chemotherapy stressed her out. Now that I m gone, she can live on without worrying about me. I ll be ok. Right here with her daddy, we ll always watch over our baby.
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Isis left her financial matters irreparable where Javina had great difficulty closing accounts, rolling over insurance money and settling other issues. Almost a year and a half after
Isis death, Javina finally sold her parent s house and moved into a small apartment. She took a year off from school and has returned to finish up her master s degree. When I feel like my world is disintegrating, I turn to you Lord. I feel you all around me, your presence is everywhere.
NOTE: Shawntaye s work has been published on the e-zines Holler, The Writers Crib, Subjective Substance, Now and Forever, Nubian Mindz, MagNetique, Timbooktu, Confused In A Deeper Way, The Soul of Pittsburgh, The Underground Window, The Noyse Magazine, Sage of Consciousness and the Canadian E-Zines Poetry Stop and 3 Cup Morning. She also has published a poem in the Summer 2005 issue of
Stanford
University s Black Arts Quarterly newspaper. I contributed a biography on Mildred D. Taylor to the African American Women Writers: An A-to-Z Guide, a reference work that will be published by Greenwood Press in 2006. I also contributed a biography in An Encyclopedia of African American Literature, published by Greenwood Press in 2005. I ve also been included in the Forthright Poetry Compilation, Our Truth and The Lion Speaks: An Anthology for Hurricane Katrina, both which are available on www.amazon.com.
Shawntaye Scott
mariot6110@hotmail.com
ROAD TO PERDITION
By George Onmonya Daniel
An ill looking young man walked through immigration checks at Larnaka International Airport one hot August summer mingling with tourists from Western Europe, Far East Asia and others. If immigration men had been careful they would have noticed something about him, but then Cyprus airports are the most porous airports in Europe. With his fake Belgian passport, it was easy to get lost in the crowd and pass all the checks.
As he came out of the airport a taxi driver walked to him holding a cardboard with his fake name written largely in capital letters. It was easy to identify him because he was the only black amongst sea of white folks and coloured that landed that day at Larnaka.
You Mr. Maviska Valks? the stout potbelly man asked hopefully. He had waited for more than an hour and his patience was running out. If it was his own working time he would have driven away but the company had called him to pick this client.
The stoic face stared into his. He could only see the eyes. He had carried many people in his life before and when a client does not want to be disturbed he knew perfectly well. When the client nodded he was relieved and led him to his taxi parked in the car park some three hundred meters away. He had rucksack clipped on his back like those hippies, but nowadays most young travelers prefer it for easy luggage, so the driver assumed that it must be his only possession on this trip.
He drove quietly without bothering his client who was lying in the back of the E-Class Mercedes Benz obviously so tired from the journey. He wondered where he was coming from, perhaps, South Africa. The previous summer he had picked up a young black and white couple from Johannesburg and for a whole week he drove them all around the Island. They had paid very well. He smiled to himself but the smile was cut short as some youngsters overtook him in their jeep shouting obscenities in a very high speed. Many of them had died on this same road, drunk and stoned with cocaine, heroine, marijuana or some other ecstatic drugs. Where are the policemen? They suddenly disappear at night from the roads allowing this bunch of crazy boys to endanger people s life.
It took him forty seven minutes to get to Limassol and the hotel by the beach park. Many tourists were outside mooching around aimlessly arm in arm with their girlfriends, boy or men friends: nowadays he did not know the adjective to qualify these homosexuals. In Spain, Netherlands and across Europe, the law allowing same sex marriage has made them bolder than even the normal couple of man and woman.
To read the entire story click here.
The Red People
By Kenneth Campbell
"What's he doing here? Oh shit, I'll be right back." The air was hot, muggy, dark, gray, and desolate. What was I doing in the
New York City subway, much less my wife, on a sunny August afternoon. Those thoughts all pale in comparison to the figure now walking toward me. "Where are you going, Ben?" My wife shouts at me. "That man over there, he's my father."
An old gold mohair suit, a little baggy in the leg, just like the one he always wore for best, a solid gold watch his only adornment. As he strode purposefully through the dark cavern of my subterranean nightmare, our eyes locked, of this I'm sure. I want to laugh, scream, embrace. One billion emotions in a single tearing flood. I need some air to clear my lungs. My dad, you see, has been dead for fifteen years.
He doesn't even see me. I must touch him to get his attention. I reach for him, then freeze. Coming down the platform behind him are my three sisters and their children, all following the ghost of my long forgotten pain.
As I stare at my lost siblings, he speaks to me. "What are you doing here, Huey? I wonder why you're losing your hair. That looks like a new shirt you've got on. Those are new pants and that chain around your neck - that's sterling. Look at your sisters Huey, look at their kids. Look where they're living. I see you have a wife and two kids. All of you went to
Europe last year. Have you no decency Huey, no shame."
"Daddy you look great. Just the way I remember you. There's so many things I want to say to you Daddy that a fifteen year old boy just couldn't fathom. I want to thank you for raising four kids in
New York City with no help. You had no wife, no family, no education, not even a high-paying, strike-busting union job. Hell, you didn't even have any citizenship until the last few years of your life. Not bad for an illegal "alien", from the planet
Jamaica. To read the story in its entirety click here.
CONSPIRACY AGAINST THE GODS
By George Onmonya Daniel
he fiendish eerie scream pierced into the heart of the quiet lonely night with strident supersonic ripples that traveled with the harmattan breeze. It was the chilliest egregious and most terrifying scream that sent my body shivering in febrile of fear. The incantations with its insipid monotony could be heard clearly adding to the tenterhooks of that night. The full moon wore a mystique mien with a placid obfuscation sitting there completely lonely without a single twinkling star as company.
She was so strong in that transcendental unrest that she had to be strapped to the wooden bed as she struggled violently. It was good to watch her sleep after the diabolic attack that would continue until the moon went to rest.
To read the full story click here.
Passages, Finding Home
by bonita lee penn
 In the summer of 2003 my family and I visited the African Passages exhibit at the Carnegie Library, this exhibit showed and told the variety of rights of passages celebration that the female and male young adults of the tribe go through to reach adulthood. I could sense that I was in for an experience of a lifetime.
A strange feeling came over me as I walked the long marbled hallway leading to the exhibit. All the sudden my back was pulled straighter, my eyes rose to greet the ceiling, my stride became long and sure. The wall on each side of me became thousands of loyal subjects whose eyes were fixed on me, trusting me to show them the way. Smiling, waving, shouting my name, each person reaching out to touch me, watching me walk by with pride in their faces.
My pride fueled by their pride was now became an ocean of waves as the distance between myself and the exhibit closed in on each other. I had reached my destination, I had reach the home of my people. My family members rushed in, not knowing why I had stopped at the outside of the room.
I stood there for what seemed like hours breathing in the glances from the oversized color photographs. From the doorway I could hear the mixture of tribal languages, I could hear laughter and singing, I stood there crying as I breathed in the atmosphere that awaited me.
As others rushed around me, examining the photographs, reading the tribal traditions as they would read a newspaper, hurriedly. I walked slowly into the room turned to my left and came face to face with my sisters, my brothers. I stopped to touch the photographs, I stared into their eyes as I heard them explain their coming of age traditions. I touched every item that was touchable; I read every label, every name. I tried to burn all this in my mind, I wanted to always be able to go back and remember the passages my people went through, I want to be able to be familiar with their traditions to the point they become my. Some photographs and stories I felt a familiarity about them, some I felt a sense of fear, as maybe they were the enemies of my people. But I also felt a sense of pride. I wanted to dance with them, twirl around, shout. I did, for a short time, I felt as though I was home in Africa. For a short time I thought I knew who my ancestors were. For a short time I thought I knew the language they spoke. For a short time, I knew where I came from. For that moment I wanted to bow down and pray.
Tears continued to follow me throughout the exhibit, I could not share the overwhelming feeling which was a mixture of pain, anger and pride to my family. I stood in the midst of all the beautiful people rich with tradition. I closed my eyes to become one to be closer, to jump into those photographs and hug my sister, brother, mother, father. I closed my eyes and reached for her hand in the photograph, she was smiling at me, welcoming me into her world. I held on to her hand as she led me on a winding path, around large green trees. Through tall grasses, past lions resting under the shade of the tree of life and we climbed rocks, we lay in cool caves, we swam in the warm rivers, and she introduced me to my home, Africa.
For over an hour I walked, touched, smelled and listened to their beating hearts. I was so close to the pictures, trying my best to connect with a long lost family member. I cried and said hello back each time I pressed the button to hear voices coming from the pictures whispering silly tales or scary stories, inviting me to take part in their rights of passage celebrations.
I stood and examined the cloths, the texture, and the brightness of the red, green, yellow, orange, browns and that beautiful color I call Moroccan blue. I need me a Moroccan blue sarong. So I can cross the Sarah in royalty style.
 For a brief time I felt as though I knew my ancestors. They invited me to join in their traditions, they welcomed me into their circle of Life. I was home. That was only for that brief moment one sunny summer day in 2003.
Do you often wonder where your ancestors come from? Don't say we come from Africa, do you know how many tribes are in Africa, do you know how many languages they speak, how many traditions they celebrate. That answer I come from Africa is not acceptable to me anymore. I find it more apparent around the holiday time, yes that holiday they call Christmas. We won't even go into the religion part. That is a story all to it's own. Today we are talking about having a traditional holiday.
The holidays are a time where most Black families gather together to thank God for the blessings of the past year and to ask him for guidance in the New Year. This is also a time of the year when many of the other ethnic groups in America celebrate in their own collective traditional ways. This particular holiday means another year of either choosing to celebrate Christmas as it was introduced to our slave forefathers. Maybe this will be the year I do the Black American tradition of Kwannza, or to not celebrate at all.
This past year I found it hard to continue to label this holiday as the Christmas season. I opt to use the word Holiday. This is not a traditional holiday for Black families. Don't mistake all the soul food cooked and served on Thanksgiving, 4th of July, Labor Day or Christmas as our traditional holiday. It's the same old holiday from slave times, the only difference is instead of massa getting all the good food, we are cooking it for ourselves. Well that is for those of our mothers and grandmothers who aren't cooking big dinner as maids. Some things never change.
A celebration of tradition would be, celebrating the season the way our ancestors celebrated. Did they celebrate Christmas? A more important question, why would they if they were not Christians. Again religion another story in its' self.
We as Black Americans lost more than our freedom on the passage journey from Africa to the Americas. I can honestly say we have been cheated out of our heritage, out of our traditions and of our languages. We don't know which tribe, which region our direct ancestors lived and breathed. We are the lost tribe of Africa running amuck trying to find ourselves.
I was ordered by the stranger, who calls himself the Master of our land, to keep his son alive, not to leave his side until the fever broke. I was given instructions to give him some of the white man's medicine, twice a day, saying this would cure him. I know what would cure our illness, if they would leave our country, take their medicines, their women, their children, their weapons, their lies, their hateful ways and board those ships back to that dark, damp, cold and dirty country they praise and the Queen Mother they pray to each night. They came to the green shores of our land and refused to leave. They expect us to lay down and worship them and follow their directions.
My young son, who I was only permitted to visit once a month, because I must work far away from my village in order to make small change to care for these new masters. Money, not enough to buy medication for my own son. My son who had the same sickness last season, yet I was not allowed leave this place until it was too late. I travelled many miles over dirt and muddy roads, to travel to the next village and I traded my last few shells for an ancient medicine that would save my son. By time I returned exhausted to my village with the medication, my son had died. Now I carry the medication around my neck hidden inside the lion's skin pouch as a reminder of how close we all come to death and how what can save us, is usually laying in a hidden place, waiting to save us.
I stood above his bed, and I patiently watched the life slip away from this man's son. He will die soon, as their medicine, is no good, here, in our land. I stood, as a warm breeze blew through the bedroom curtains, knowing without my medication his son will die. I touched the pouch, chanted the anicent warrior's prayer, took up my shield and spear and went out to join the rebels.
Arrogance's Final Days
another short short story by bonita lee penn
"She came to this place to write?" he asked no one in particular. "This is the place where she wrote it?" he continued to ask questions to the wind, crumbling and tearing the faded pieces of papers, scattering them like pieces of bread leading a path back from where he came. He kept going forward, taking time only to watch the ground below, dotted with mud puddles, splashing unwanted color on his new linen white sandals. It didn't matter not this time, he was going to find her. Too many times he played the spectator, watching as they, walked out of his life, not this time, not her.
He looked through her, thinking of himself, damn, what suit will go with these white sandals? "I'm talking to you." she said, walking towards the door. Nothing. The door shutting behind her, the sound of stilletos tapping, then the elevator door opening, and closing. That was a month ago. He arrogantly thought she would calm down and slip another poem under his door, decorated with words of love and understanding, like she had done more times than he cared to count. Suddenly, he felt cold, he was alone for the first time and their three years were nothing but bit and pieces of papers flying behind him.
He smiled, thinking to himself, "she'll be here, she'll come back. I remember her saying once, this is where she came when she was trying to find the right words to reach me." She reached me, but I wouldn't let her in. He sat and waited, the rain felt like lashes from a nine-tail whip against his back, followed by the sun, as it dried the mud and the rain, sticking to him like blood. He sat in her place and the words came to him, writing over her faded words, he tried to write, i'm missing you and i love you. The paper too wet to hold his words.
The Club Part II
A continuation of the saga by Nicita Robinson
10-7-2005
This was the day I remember most clearly, of all the days in our life together, this one stayed in my thoughts. After a night of dancing we became Marcus and Rachel, never seeing one without the other.
Just memories of how he made me feel, think, reactions from his touch and reactions from how I grew from our love.
Then my memories swept to our separation and how it changed me and everything around me, how the look of my beauty through his eyes was replaced by wounded sleepless nights and hunger less nights filled with horrible pain; a pain I never felt before with a certainty I would never recover.
Marriage is or should I say, can be the most beautiful or the most painful relationship to experience. But lets be real, one knows when it s falling apart, nearing its end. With your constant and incessant conversation tipping, hoping not to rock things, craving for it to be the way it was yet paralyzed with fear of the inevitable; this becomes mere movement. We know.
I remember the very day our marriage fell apart. I was ill and needed surgery. I needed my husband by my side only he needed to work; it dawned on me that he no longer wanted to be my husband.
You re a strong woman, he said, You don t need me there, besides I have to work and you know I ll be going home in a week to see my son for his birthday and you know they won t given me anymore time off. Sounded reasonable, right?
When I came home from the hospital which by the way I was driven by my neighbor, Marcus was at work. When he returned home that morning I watched him pack, he kissed, hell, pecked me goodbye is a better description. Then he was gone, I cried and until that hour I had never felt so alone.
That was only the beginning. It was destined to become far worse. After that morning, we hardly spoke to each other. He would come through the door from work giving me nothing more than a grunt that mimicked a hello.
So, I did what any red blooded black woman would do, I left his sorry ass. All the utilities were in my name so I had them shut off; even the all time favorite, I ll die without it cable television; hey a girl must do what a girl must do. Like I said you know when it s over you just have to think BIGGER if you are going to survive it.
THE CLUB
By Nicita Robinson
Shelby and I pulled into the parking lot behind the club just in time to get the last vacant space, checking our reflections in the overhead mirrors fussing with the finishing touches. Earlier in the day we had gone on a shopping spree where I purchased the perfect outfit; it made me feel quite confident and sexy.
My wardrobe consisted of the casual mother of three wear I had grown accustomed to over the years, not very conducive to the club. But I was single now and it was on.
I fussed with my leopard-print skirt as I stepped out of the car pulling my blouse off one shoulder, positioning its buckle over my heart. I looked great
but uncomfortable walking to the passenger side where
Shelby stood looking stunning in her crocheted sweater dress, you could tell she had way more practice at this club scene.
We walked across the street toward the club entrance, people were waiting impatiently to get in; for me this was unsettling. There has to be a better way; this is stupid I complained, but it was like this every weekend and most times not even a half decent lookin Brotha near the door. My ringing dissatisfaction was obvious to those standing around us, but I didn t care if I was overheard; that's when the young Sista in front of us turned nodding to her own complaint.
I know that s right girl, I look much too good to be waiting in this long line; besides this club ain t all that anyway as she flung her hair from her shoulders showing far too much skin in her backless dress sporting her colorful butterfly tattoo.
Shelby, with her rude self didn t make the situation any better, she pretended to fiddle with her shoe pulled at the strap, and unsuccessfully trying to whispering that the outfit wasn t all that sharp either looked me dead in the eye raising her eye brows up and down, as we both tried not to laugh, but of course the young sista heard her unsuccessful attempt and wasn t very happy calling us bitches and turning away, Shelby; you have to love her to know her, she's just that way.
The line started steadily creeping; and now only five people were in front of us. That s when I felt a warm strong arm circling around my waist, as I turned I caught the gaze of the most gorgeous honey brown eyes; it was Marcus. We had just met three days ago; the chemistry was warming.
You girls can t dance with me standing out here, he said as he tilted his head from side to side; inviting eyes traveling from my head to my toes, making me feel my beauty through his eyes. He pulls at my hand in a beckoning manner.
The dance floor wasn t crowded everyone was standing around the bar; we picked a space on the floor all to ourselves moving in step to a song that was obviously to fast for our movements, It felt like we had been dancing together all our lives, slowly moving completely unaware of those around us.
After our dance we sat closely together at the bar asking all the appropriate getting to know you questions, I felt ease and comfort in my spirit being with Marcus, from that day until the present, I felt we would be together forever.
That was then.
Nicita Robinson 10-5-2005
Steelergirl_48@hotmail.com
The other die-hard fan. "Who Knew
ASCENDING AND DESCENDING
BACK IN THE DAY
By Chi-Chi Lanier
I have been considerably overweight for most of my life. I am now in my mid50s and weight challenges are ever present. Thank God I do not have heart disease or diabetes. Now I see the same challenge in my grandson who is also overweight at 9 years old. I am very concerned about him.
I grew up in the 50s and 60s right here in
Pittsburgh s Hill District and had an ample amount of exercise but my exercise growing up was not in a fancy gym or spa. It was done ascending and descending those
Pittsburgh hills. Grades 1 to 6 while attending Vann Elementary, I walked to school twice everyday. In the morning, I walked to school. For lunch, I walked home and then back to school after lunch (sometimes I ran), then back home again at the end of the day and so on and so forth for the entire week Monday through Friday. On Saturdays, my mom enrolled me and my sister in a dance/ballet class downtown. And on Sundays my sister and I walked to church on Sugar Top.
After getting home from school, I immediately completed my homework and headed outside to play for hours, no TV except occasionally Howdy Dowdy or Ed Sullivan on Sundays. But I was still chubby. Then on to Herron Hill, the middle school, where for 3 years I walked to school in the morning and home in the afternoon ascending and descending those hills, homework, then out to play with games like Rolley Poley, Hopscotch, rope jumping, Eye Spy, racing, and sometimes my mom allowed me to walk to the Ammon swimming pool, you name it, I did it. Not to forget the many trips to the penny candy corner store and the grocery store on Bedford Avenue, the drugstore on Centre and Kirkpatrick, the rib place on Herron Avenue, for my mother or for one of the senior citizens who would pay me with a bag of pop bottles.
Back then salad bars, all-you-can-eat restaurants, and fast foods were practically nonexistent. Eating out in my family consisted of the food counter at G.C. Murphy s or McCrory s restaurant located in their basement where nothing was supersized. I didn t taste pizza until I was 19. But I was still quite chubby. In my early years, some people called it baby fat but that excuse could only be used for so long. Then on to
Schenley
High School where for 3 more years, I walked to school in the blazing hot sun, rain and sleet and the 10 inch snowstorms. My mother didn t play that 2 hour delay stuff, oh that s right, there wasn t a 2 hour delay back then. 10th, 11th, 12th grades, I endured a stringent gym and swim class, up and down the school stairs, pacing round and round the halls of
Schenley
High School s enormous triangle. But I was still chubby and I stood out because back then there weren t many overweight kids and let me tell you the students helped you to remember you are chubby. My sister was slim, very slim and she wasn t sent to the store half as much as I was. How d that happen?
I will admit though that I was always hooked on sweets. Mama made sweet Kool-Aid every day and a scratch cake or pie every Sunday. Sugar may have been my problem.
Now my grandson, unlike me, was slim at the beginning. When he was born, my daughter and I vowed to break the fat curse in our family. He weighed 7 pounds at birth and was fed organic baby food throughout his infant years until about 18 months. He was never fed sugary snacks and drinks. At about a year old, he let us know by grabbing a sliced beet in his chubby little fingers from his mom s plate that he liked veggies. So we gave him plenty organic veggies and foods and to this day he will eat veggies that most kids won t eat including the slim kids. And he does not eat red meat or drink cow s milk and loves water.
At about 6 years old, he began to fluff a little, and then vavoom, my grandson was chubby too. The funny thing is that he doesn t eat a lot and his carbohydrate intake and portion size is monitored. But one thing he has not done. He has not ascended or descended the hills of
Pittsburgh because his mom or dad drives him to school, drives him everywhere. My grandson is a computer child, doesn t play Rolley Poley or Hopscotch, and doesn t go to the playground. You all know how it is now. His doctor from birth informed us, after giving him a clean bill of health, that he s big because his dad is big. But being very concerned about his weight and the effects of the cruel Pillsbury Dough Boy jokes he gets at school, with much prodding and encouragement to be slimmer, his mom helped him become very active this summer.
He walks/runs around a track with family members. He gets on my treadmill for 20 minutes when he visits me. He is aware that some of the foods that he likes (like pizza and pop eaten together) is not good for his weight if eaten too often. My grandson has lost over 10 pounds. He weights about 150 now. So it seems that the key focus for him is to remain very active daily enough to break a sweat with each activity. It seems that he sweats more quickly now and the funny thing is that he doesn t want to eat as much now especially after exercising.
Sugary drinks including juice has been greatly reduced. I would guess his metabolism is changing. For me, at his age, it was the opposite. So folks, if you have overweight kids or grandchildren who are healthy, find out what activity works for them because everyone is different. Get them away from the TV and the computer games after school and help them to become as active as possible like we did back in the day, ascending and descending those
Pittsburgh hills.
The Understanding
© A. Christina Stubbs 2002
I left his house feeling empty, confused but mostly guilty. We had made prior plans to meet at his place and then go out. I had made several unsuccessful attempts to reach him to let him know I was on my way. He would always tell me that I could drop by anytime, and although I usually was uncomfortable with that notion I had felt somewhat secure this time, besides we had made plans.
So why did I feel out of place and in the way as soon as he opened the door? After, all he asked me to come over? I somehow felt as if I was interrupting something or again in the way. He himself was distant, unfeeling and crass. When I asked if he was up for company he responded I am saying you are here already so? I wasn t sure if I couldn t sleep that night because I was angry at him for the way he treated me or disgusted at myself for tolerating it for so long.
I convinced myself that I had to roll with the punches. After all, this is the way the game is played when you are dating and involved with someone who is an everybody s, nobody s man. I tried so very hard to ignore the signs and the wonders that appear in clear view. There would be a specific hello to another woman when we are out. The I have to use the bathroom in the middle of the movies after the two-way vibrates. The infamous I didn t know you called, didn t get the message, I fell asleep combination after a broken date. Yet I found myself still making the extra effort to be the undying supporting woman, lover and friend. But why? After all we were not husband and wife or even boyfriend and girlfriend for that matter and the only commitment we had in our relationship was to the understanding. It was ok if he didn t call me back until 3 days later after he forgot about our date Or if I seen him out with another woman all booed up or even if he rushed me out of his place after a passionate intimate moment. All of these things are compliments of the understanding.
So with the clear unspoken rules of the understanding that we had a noncommittal relationship why was it that I still felt somehow obligated to be loyal. I was loyal to his wants, needs and desire, but most of all loyal to his emotions. I would call him back when he left me messages. Whenever, he wanted to see me I would make myself available and all because I didn t want him to feel unwanted and unloved. Despite myself I went without to please him. It wasn t always bad but I was fooling myself. By pretending I could handle our understanding I was guilty of hurting myself. I was allowing him to take whatever he wanted from me without any obligation stating that I could in turn take what I needed from him. Maybe it was because he had mentioned that he loved me a few times, occasionally sent me flowers said that I was special, and that I made a difference in his life. He gave me just enough to hold on to the he does care, love and want me ideal. Or could it be I was expecting him to do right by me thus escaping the responsibility of walking away.
It didn t matter how independent, attractive, sweet, sexy, supportive, ambitious I was or even how much I cared for him. The understanding didn t allow room for growth. And if you happened to get caught up then you have no one to blame but yourself. And even when I tried to trust in love and hint or even openly talk about my feelings the only thing I ever understood was that I still almost always left his house feeling empty, confused but mostly guilty.
Having Her Say
by bonita lee (
3/18/92)
As I walked through the door I felt a warm breeze cross my face. Not putting into perspective that it is a gray overcast day with biting snow hitting my face at rapid intervals. The breeze went across my face me as I walked in Room 210:
Domestic/Violence Court. Considering the situations are rarely different from case to case, domestic violence from drug/alcohol use and our players are as usual, the arresting police officers, the public defender, a few private attorneys and audience of the plaintiffs, the defendants and assortment of curious friends and family. We have the mothers hovering over their daughters, talking of kick him out, put his ass in jail, or some from the old school, saying what about the children, they need their father, you are married to him, you are his wife. We all have our opinions of what she should do, but you have to be in her shoes to know exactly what she wants to do and for what reasons. Like some of my colleagues at the Positive Women Club (a fancy name for women's counseling center) I don't judge those who make a stand to cut all ties with the abuser, or the ones who want to keep giving him a chance. Like I said they all have their reasons for making that choice, and when they have had enough only, then they will say stop! Even though there are cases when women have been so terrified to take a stand, until it has gotten to the point where she had to be carried into the hospital the next time around. But have yet to have a woman stay that long.
Amongst my job related duties is to answer the counseling hotline on my designated days, on one of those days I had a young woman caller, crying saying that she has not slept in a week, her children are afraid to sleep. She has a young teen age son who would not leave the house because he fears for her well being if he leaves. She cries that her husband is a rock star, a crack addict. That every night he is in the room smoking crack the house reeks of it, and she fears for the children's health. But he has refused to leave and he says, that she is his wife (like that has anything to do with it). The police can't put him out because his name is on the lease, and suggested a court order. He has also made it hard for her to work, he follows her and calls her at her job making a scene, he has also forcibly kept her in the house on many occasion when she had to miss work. She is tried of him running through the house chasing men who are not there, she is tried of the infidelity accusations, she is tried of being called a whore, a cheat, accused of stealing his money, his drugs, she is tried of the threats to do her bodily harm, to kill her. The children hear and see this and are beginning to hate him for his actions, and beginning to lose faith in her because she won't make him stop, because she won't make him go away. So I give her information on the court order. And she said she would be seeing me in court.
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MY GUARDIAN ANGEL
(A true story) by Vera V. Mozee
(Circa: August 12th, 1983)
Every evening at a few minutes before 5 p.m., I boarded the 11D Perrysville Avenue bus at its very first stop in downtown Pittsburgh. Though the building where I worked was right in front of the second stop, I would walk the extra steps to assure that I got a seat on the bus. Most times I would get one, but there would be so many people that you had to literally fight your way on in order to get a seat. By the time the bus made all the stops and left downtown,
there was hardly standing room. This was par for the course for all the busses on that route between 4:30-6:30...on any given day.
On this particular day, a Friday, it was 93 degrees and I had had a bad day at work and to top it off, I wasn't feeling well. At the bus stop, standing in the
midst of wall to wall people, it was apparent that the majority of them had had a similar day as mine. When the bus came, it was a major battle just trying to get on. Tempers flared, there were lots of pushing and shoveling, a fight nearly broke out because someone stepped on someone's toes and didn't apologize. I almost knocked a lady down scrambling for a seat.
At the second and third stops, the exact scene took place. It was bedlam on the bus. Actually, it was like this all the time but was worse on this day.
(Probably because the air condition was not working). I had considered waiting until 7:00 when the crowd and traffic had thinned, but I was anxious to get home as soon as possible.
Two days prior, a woman I had never seen before boarded at the fourth stop. When she would get on, the whole atmosphere changed. By that time, it was standing room only, and people who had just short of inflicted bodily harm for a seat would offer theirs to her. Myself included. She would decline with, "No, no. Thanks just the same." And she would stand at the front.
When I said the atmosphere changed, that was no understatement. Of course, I didn't know the woman's name but I called her GRACE because it seemed to fit. She would stand there smiling and softly humming an old Spiritual. It would get so quiet that all you could hear was the humming she and the bus made. People would start being polite and friendly toward each other.
"Grace" looked as though she stepped out of another era. She wore old-fashioned seer-sucker suits and she was color-coordinated to the max. The first day, she wore a pink suit, pink pumps, pink purse, pink necklace and bracelet and a pink ribbon securing the bun on the nape of her neck. The second day, she wore all green and this day, it was baby blue. No matter what color purse she had, pinned to its strap was a big white button with bold red letters that said, "JESUS SAVES."
She had a round, wrinkled-free face, medium brown complexion and a head full of thick, jet black hair. But if you were close enough, you could see a lot of gray strands mixed in. She was neither fat nor thin (somewhere in between), neither tall nor short. She would stand there smiling a calming little smile and
humming. She would face the riders, turning that smile on everyone.
The two days before, when I got off at my stop, she stayed on. My stop was on a long, curvy, heavily-trafficked thru-way, which I had to cross to get to my
street. It was located on a curb just beyond a bend and there was no traffic light. I could see traffic coming from one direction (the side I was on), but I
couldn't see it coming from the other direction because of the bend. So, I would wait until there was a break, step off the curb and peer around the bend, and dash across if I had the chance.
On this day, when I was hot and tired and bothered and not feeling well, "Grace" got off at my stop. It surprised me because I was the only rider on that
particular bus, at that particular time of evening who got off there. Traffic was very heavy and we stood for long, long minutes waiting for a break. She was
still smiling and humming. I felt creepy, and so I tried to make small talk, commenting on the hot weather and such. She nodded, said a word or two and kept on humming. It bothered me that she didn't want to chat.
It seemed as though traffic would never cease, and with the hot sun beating down on me, and this "strange" woman standing there smiling and humming, I was feeling a little dizzy and weird, and I just wanted to get home. Finally, I looked and there were no cars coming. And so I stepped down from the curb into the street to peer around the bend. In the next instance, "Grace" grabbed my arm and pulled me back onto the curb. A car came speeding from the direction in which I could see, and I would have gotten smashed to smithereens had she not pulled me back. I was a mess. I was trembling and crying and saying over and over that I did not see that car coming. She was as cool as a cucumber and all she said was, "You have to learn to be patient." And she continued her humming. I was trying to pull myself together when she said, "Alright, you can cross now."
Traffic had come to a dead standstill, but I was reluctant to cross, in light of what had almost happened. "Go on," she said."It's safe now." And so, I ran
across the street and when I reached my street, I looked back and she was not there. I thought perhaps she had crossed with me and so I looked up and down the street, everywhere, but she was nowhere to be seen. After that day, I never saw her again.
When I thought about how she pulled me back onto that curb, I realized that it was not a human action. For, the way she yanked me back in a split second before that car zoomed by, the both of us should have fallen backwards into the bushes. The curb was at least two inches from the ground, and so it seemed that I was lifted and lightly placed out of harm's way. I should have died that day, but my Guardian Angel, "Grace," was sent to save my life.
It hit me about a week later that the Spiritual she hummed ("The Old Ship Of Zion") was the one my grandmother used to sing all the time when I was a little girl.
EPILOGUE: A couple years after that incident, they removed that bus stop because a woman was hit by a car as she tried to cross the street
Mommy, Why Do People Die?
By, Rob Marshall
I remember this "Indian Summer" evening as if it were yesterday. It was right after my Cousin Ida s funeral, I just turned seven three weeks previous. Nestled there in my mother s arms, holding the toy gun Cousin Ida had given me, fidgeting into my favorite position of comfort. All the while picturing cousin Ida s piercing hazel eyes, the freckles under her eyes a somewhat peculiar feature of all the women from my grandmother s side of the family. I focused on her gray, curly hair, her wild laughter, and the kiss she gave my cheek while calling me the birthday boy.
Out came a heavy whimper and sigh near tears. "Why so sad Robbie?", came my mothers voice, on the wind, off in the far distance, reeling me back into the present. "What s with the pouting face son?"
"Mommy, why do people die .why does it have to happen?" Then flinging the toy, screaming, "I DIDN T WANT HER TO LEAVE I DON T WANT HER TO GO! I said my prayers. I asked God to bring her back. He didn t answer me." Crossing my arms and looking up through foggy, tear-filled eyes, I exclaimed, "I am very, very mad at Him. Mommy, I said my prayers every night for a whole week, and He never answered me, not one darn time. You know I don t like him very much!" My mother started cradling me in her arms, slowly rocking and kissing me on my forehead. I felt little drops of water hitting my forehead and my still crossed arms. Through her ebbing sniffles she said, almost whispering, "God called her home to be with Him. He felt that it was her time to go. You see Cousin Ida was really sick." "Well, she didn t look sick to me!", I blurted in indignantly. "I know", she continued in a soothing voice, "But she was very sick, you only saw her when she was having her good days. Sometimes she had trouble getting around. Somedays she couldn t walk or stand very long."
"But she didn t look like anything was wrong," I protested. "Robbie, the doctors said that she had a stroke. That happens when a vein or blood vessel in your brain just bursts. There s really nothing you or anybody can do," she said reassuringly.
"Not the doctor?"
"No, son."
"Not Sister Maria at the hospital?"
"No."
"What if granddad and even Uncle Jake tried? They can fix anything!"
"No Robbie, I hate to say, not even them. God decided it was her time."
"Well, I m still mad at him and don t like him very much!", I said firmly with arms crossed and stern faced. Tears, again, welled up in my eyes. Now exhausted and crying the steady rhythm of the rocking chair lolled me to sleep.
In my dream I slipped back to Saturday morning, a week ago. Its picnic and bar-b-que time. Whoopee! Bursting into my Cousin Ida s front door skipping, legs churning, excitement meters off the scale. Leaving my mother, grandmother, grandfather and the rest of the family in my wake. Room to room to room, calling and yelling for her. Nobody here! Oh well, off I go bounding up the stairs to the second floor, yelling and sing-songing at the top of my lungs, "Cousin Ida, its picnic time, its play time, its time to go to the park and play!" It was an unusual, out-of-place quiet; the air was thick as I rounded the corner for her bedroom. It was so thick that I had to put effort in my strides like I was pushing against something.
As I pushed open the bedroom door and entered the room I could see her lying on her back along side her bed, her head towards the door. Her rotund form looked so out of place, yet peaceful at the same time.
"C-o-u-s-i-n I-d-a, Cousin Ida?", I stammered a few times as I got closer to her. She had her eyes open, transfixed on the ceiling; her right hand was
clutching the locket that held the pictures of her and her late husband Henry. As I knelt down on her right side, I spoke her name again and timidly asked if
she was okay. At this her head turned towards me and then her faraway stare began to focus on me and she started to smile. She began moving the fingers of her right hand and ever so slowly I used my little hands to pick up her big hand and held it the best I could. As I knelt there staring into her eyes I started to call for my mother and the rest of the family. I focused on her warm comforting, hazel eyes eyes that again, were going off into the distance and glazing over and changing color. Ominous rubbles and gurgling was coming from her body, then twitching, convulsions, and shaking. Her mouth started to open as though she was trying to speak instead of words; foam started to flow from the right side of her mouth.
Suddenly I could hear thunder in the background peculiar for that sunny hot day.
"Cousin Ida! Cousin Ida!" I can feel movement, people moving around me in the room, franticly moving. The thunder is getting closer now, and more distinct. I can feel the floor of her bedroom start to vibrate with each thunderclap as this eerie storm gets closer.
"Cousin Ida! Cousin Ida!" The storm is so close now that the thunder is starting to make the house shudder and pitch. The air is becoming acrid. That s odd, there s a smell of cordite in the air that reminds me of the smells at the road construction sites where my Uncle Louis worked.
"Cousin Ida! Cousin Ida!" My heart is pounding, pulse racing, the hairs on my body are bristling and standing on end. There are voices echoing way off in the distance like in a tunnel. There s a sickening churning going on in my stomach. It s getting hard to breathe. Where in the . There is some kind of wet and heavy mist and smoke drifting in around Cousin Ida s shuddering body and me on the floor. My sight is getting fuzzy. Why is the room spinning? I m struggling to keep my focus there is an unbelievable urgency, somewhere, which is pulling Cousin Ida and me down this . This tunnel of swirling lights, wet mists, and smokes!
"Cousin Ida! Cousin Ida, talk to me!" Suddenly my clothes feel wet from sweat. The echoes are closer now and more distinct! "Cousin Ida! Cousin Ida! Don t be sick again. Please tell me what I can do. I ll get your medicine and make you all better!" I m crying and screaming for help now. Hoping that my Mother, Grandmother and Grandfather will hear me come and help us!
Now the spinning is getting worse, like being on some crazy whirligig. Something flowing into my eyes now stinging and blurring my vision there s this salty, gritty, and metallic taste in my mouth. Why can t I focus?
"Cousin Ida!" "Cousin Ida!" "C-C-C-O-U-S-I-N!!??!!" "R-R-R-I-I-C-K!!??!!" "R-R-RICK!" "RICK!!" "RICHARD!!!" I m still holding his hand, his/her hazel eyes
are there, their freckled faces strange is shifting back into focus, the foam is now blood!! The storm and thunder the explosions are closer now, more distinct. Bullets are tearing into the ground around us!
"I ve got you buddy! Stay with me! Hang in there soldier that s an order! MEDIC! MEDIC!! M-E-D-I-C!!!! We need some help over here!!! Get your sorry God damn ass over here NOW!!!"
With labored breathing, eyes glazing, drifting off, he whimpers, "This is it huh, I m outta here!?"
Hand pressing his chest wound, "Not on my watch damn it! Do you hear me Rick? Not on my fucking watch! NO! NO, Damn you! God Damn It!! N-O-O-O!!!" "Gone!"
"Ain't that a bitch!"
"Just GONE!!"
All that was left was his familiar, trademark smirk on his face that reminded me of Rick s sick sense of humor. Sort of his last calling card for seeing humor in the worse situations his own demise no less "Thanks a lot old friend. Shit, it s just like you to go home early and the party is just getting started." I caught myself whispering to myself.
Wiping away my tears, rubbing my eyes, and focusing everything seems to be moving in a slow-motion, grotesque, and insane dance with faces turning in my direction wearing looks of anticipation, dread, and fear. "You can do this. We have to do this!", comes roaring forward from the back of my mind. Cutting through my feelings of loss, and setting fire to all my senses.
Suddenly I'm shocked out of my stupor by somebody yelling orders, and as I started to get my focus I realized that it was m-m-m-me??!
"Alright, listen up you maggots, you pieces of shit!"
"They wanted a fight they ve got it."
"Pick your targets conserve ammo!"
"Take out the tree line with the 40 s!"
"WE HOLD THE LINE HERE! WE HOLD IT RIGHT THE HELL HERE!!!"
Glancing at Rick s empty shell I muttered to my self, what seemed like a unanimous thought of everyone there, "This patch of ground was yours; but we just made a down payment, so we re gonna stay for awhile, a long while!" As I started muttering to myself, mainly to still my nerves. I was
simultaneously joined by all of us that were left as we took the fight to the faceless enemy in the tree line; "No One Gets Left Behind. We All Go Home, or
Nobody Goes Home!"
"Now let s do this thing we get the big bucks for SADDLE UP LADIES, AND LETS GO DANCIN !!!"
So, why do people die? We try to put so many platitudes to it. So many numerous salves to explain it and make it more palatable, more logical, so clinical. You know the lines, " It was his/her/their time to go; the ever popular for Ole Glory, Country, God, Mom, and Apple Pie" Whatever!
In the final analysis when the bullets start flying YOU SCREAM, YELL, BLEED, AND DIE FOR EACH OTHER!
Rob Marshall, was born and raised in
Pittsburgh's
Manchester district on the Northside. He has had assignments in Air Recon, Special Operations, the real Area 51, and a Combat Photographer/Photojournalist and retired after Desert Storm.
He now lives in the mountains above
Albuquerque,
NM where he practices wholistic medicine and Shamanic healing.
~~~~~~
By Nicita Robinson
I often wonder why the days seem longer while the hours grow shorter, look up and watch the clouds notice how they appear to move faster and faster across the skyline yet not moving at all, and how people sail through life with a kind mellow nonchalant ease in their spirit while still being plagued by the mundane problems called living.
I often wonder why some of us enter into this life like a whirlwind whether wanted or unwanted; yet not staying for very long; leaving behind those who yearn for their presence, as others live on for what seems an eternity.
I often wonder why there are some who take their time growing up, yet we're relieved in the knowledge that it isn't necessarily a pre-requisite of who we are, or who we will become, being comforted by the fact that it is simply the light within.
I often wonder why some of us wake up each morning unaware, and uncaring to the burdens of others, while trampling through life firmly planting one foot before the other, feeling owed something greater then breathe.
Pain and Desire, kindled with an overwhelming mixture of Love, Spirituality, Family and Friend's these things connect and fill us, these expressions we share struggling and praying that this " be " the day we become better people.
My prayers are for wisdom and conscious ability with an even greater desire to see beyond myself, we took our time God and me.
This sought after wisdom is in all of us growing yet, waiting for just the right time to introduce itself into our lives.
Steelergirl_48@hotmail.com
THE WONDER
Short Inspirational Story
Dear Sin"
Sin, we need to talk...I'm not quite sure how to say this any other way so I am going to get to the point. You have got to go. I can't be with you anymore. I apologize if this seems like it is coming from nowhere. I'm sure you probably thought everything was fine. You probably are thinking "Things have been great, we've been closer than ever" and you know what? You are right. We HAVE BEEN closer than ever. You have to understand that is why you have to go. Well you don't have to understand; as a matter of fact I don't expect you to understand. But none of that changes the fact that you have to go.
Wait a minute......no, you don't have to go.....I m going to go. After all, I have been staying in YOUR place. I don't want to look around and see this place where I came to you. So I will leave.
And I'm not going to give you the lame old explanation "It's not you it's ME" because it is YOU!!!! I should have never been with you. I know....I know....you are probably going to say "I didn't come after YOU.....YOU came looking for me!!!!!" And you are right. I sought out. I WANTED to be with you so you know what? Maybe it is ME! You have always been sin and will always be sin. You have not changed for centuries!!! So yes, yes.....it is me. I HAVE CHANGED. I used to want to be with you. I used to NEED to be with you. You were all I knew sin. From day one.......all I saw was sin and all I knew as normal was sin.
What? What was that you asked? "Where am I going to go? You are all I know and have so what will I do you ask?
Well you see, you WERE all I knew You WERE all I had. But today, I found something more. Something better. It is tough to say found because it has always been there....I just refused to look away from you long enough to see it.
Huh? I'll have nothing you say? I can't take any of the stuff we accumulated together you say? Cool!!!! I don't want to drag any of that stuff with me. You can keep it all sin!!! It did not do me any good anyhow right? I'll go where I am going with nothing if I have to because when I get there, everything I ever needed is waiting for me...and then some!!!!!
Who is it that I am leaving you for you ask? His name is JESUS. YES.....you know Him. You know Him very well. You have spent your entire existence trying to keep me from Him. You tried to avert my eyes from Him and keep them on you and it worked. I allowed you to do that.
But you see, Jesus is patient. He waited for me. He stood right there all this time with His arms wide open waiting for me to com to Him. He watched over me as I lived a life with you and He even protected me from many things WHILE I WAS WIIH YOU!!! And you knew He was there but there was nothing you could do about it but hope I did not see Him. Well, now I have seen Him and I am not looking back.
Oh...oh...you are going all Scarface now and hollering "You'll be back!!!!!!! They always come back!!!!!!!" And I know many do....but I'm not coming back!!!! I have to admit....I may still bump into you from time to time but I will NEVER BE WITH YOU AGAIN!!!!
I know, I know......you are going to make my life hell now. I know you are going to stalk me. You will be right there every time I fall extending your arm to pick me up and draw me back in.......don't waste your time. No, no.......I'm not going to go get any PFA papers on you or anything......don't need them. Oh, you say you are not letting me go anywhere huh? Too late. I'm already gone. I may be right here speaking with you but I am already gone.
You see, I got saved today. I am already a child of God following in the path of that perfect example Jesus. So while I may slip from time to time and stumble over the obstacles you place in my way....I will never walk your path again. So yes, you are right...I will see you again and you will see me.....the difference this time is that it will be from a distance. And each time you see me I will be father away and then, finally, when Jesus returns......you will NEVER SEE ME AGAIN!!!!
Later!
Peter would enjoying hearing any comments from the Soul Pitt readers: dem.morgans@verizon.net
from Peter Morgan
WHEN WILL IT END By: Nicita Robinson
 Everyone called him Joe, even me; Daddy Joe was the name I gave my father. I remember, he was a handsome man; as are most father s to their little girls. My dad had a deep chocolate completion, his skin was smooth, and I remember how I loved to kiss his cheeks, his skin was beautiful for a man, Dad s hair was a curly and wavy combination and black like coal.
I remember spending most of my time with gram Estelle , Dad s mother. She had the same deep chocolate complexion, with hair white like the first fallen snow. I remember sitting on her lap, touching her face, with the love of a child, thinking it would never end.
I remember my Dad s girlfriend Grace she was nice to me, a pretty women, with fair skin, her hair, light in color, with flecks of gold streaming through, feeling like silk, I remember I loved her; she was like a mother to me. The last time I remember seeing Grace, was my lasting memory, of the night she and my father were fighting, or him fighting her.
Joe worked for a small town doctor, daddy was their family chauffer, and from white folk s standards, a part of the family, he not only learned to play golf, he owned his own set of clubs.
But on this day he wasn t playing golf, this day the clubs became the weapon of choice, I tried to stop him, I tried shielding her with my tiny frame, when suddenly she raised her arm in a defensive move, her effort protecting me, when a blow from the iron hit her elbow crushing it, the sound of bones breaking, in agony and pain she screamed. I remember wanting to stop him from hurting her, this man I loved, was someone I didn t know, his beautiful man with now distorted features of anger. I can t remember hearing words; I was seven years old, with rising fear beginning.
After that I wanted, I needed to live with my mother, that day he wasn t there to kiss me goodbye. He wasn t trying to come for me, to stop me from leaving, call me, sending a gift at Christmas; nothing, as if he hadn t created the life a daughter.
Is this where it all begins? As little girls, the first love of young life, that of our father s, when we form our fears and insecurities about ourselves, and love relationships as adults.
When I saw my father again, I was twenty-five years old. When will it end? Bringing life into the world, yet never seeing anyone other then ourselves.
Dangers of Watching America's Top Model
(this short story was actually an entry taken from dyoung s weblog, http://d.theroyalyoungs.com)
sometime last week somewhere in the eastern suburbs of pittsburgh, pennsylvania after a hectic eleven hour day of dealing with the aggressively apathetic, the a.n.d.y. finally makes it home at 8pm, just in time to partake in one of his guiltiest pleasures, (no, fuchsia leather saddles with tassels weren't involved, not until sunday dusk at least, but thanks for asking.) watching america's next top model with my girlfriend. (edit. i just re-read the statement i just made. see...this is the point where you'd be completely, totally, unquestionably justified in never coming back to this site again. if i were a visitor here, this would be the breaking point where i'd break out in total snark mode, leaving comments like...
dear nicoles purse,
can i have my nuts back, please?
sincerely,
the a.n.d.y.'s scrotum
if it ever came to that point with any of yall, i'd understand)
i realize that admitting to not only watching the show, but looking forward to watching the show with my girlfriend is probably enough to permanently revoke my charter membership to manhood and the weight room at bally's, but america's next top model is quite possibly the funniest show on television right now. from each models pretentiousness and zoolander-esque facial expressions, to guessing which furry forest mammal will be sitting on tyra's scalp when she makes her first appearance, the unintentional comedy is off the fucking meter. plus, when else do you get a chance to gawk at ten to fifteen reasonably attractive calcium deficient chicks while spending quality tv time with the n in the a.n.d.y.? anyway, as they prepared to make their final cuts, the judges save their strongest reservations for a more than reasonably attractive snizzle, citing her "bulky body" and "heftiness" as the principal factors of their disdain. did i mention that she weighed 135 pounds, and was 5'8'? (btw, ladies, as the representative for all men here, we will take responsibility for gang violence, purposely leaving the toilet seat up, the girls gone wild era, and bad action movies. we will not take even a hint of blame anymore for the masochistic obsession you all have with your weight. it is finished. the only people who reserve hero worship for ultra-waifish chicks are gay men and other women. thats it. nobody else. if you dont believe me, ask any rational man if he'd choose kate moss over c-amc (crazy-ass mariah carey) or amerie over esther baxter.)
after watching the judges basically clown her and becoming cogniscent of the n in the a.n.d.y.'s changing demeanor, i braced myself for the inevitable question...
n in the a.n.d.y.
"do you think i'm fat?"
a confident a.n.d.y., seeing this as a potentially great segue to post-antm booty, rubs the n in the a.n.d.y.'s ass and says...
"just your booty, baby."
the moment after my mouth pronounced the "t" sound in "booty", i desperately pined for a way to circumvent the space-time continuum that would allow me to back-track 10 seconds, removing my hand from the n in the a.n.d.y.'s asscheek, and severing the tip of my tongue so i wouldnt be able to utter those words. my pinings, unfortunately, failed to become true.
n in the a.n.d.y., who removes my hand with a look that expressed to me that any chance of having "gravy" that night was lost in the wind like a fart
"i'm serious damon. im asking you a serious question, and all you're thinking about is sex. if she's fat, what does that make me? am i fat?"
"of course not, baby"
"oh, so you're a liar now? didn't you just say my butt was fat?"
considering the size (4 long) of the jeans i just had my hand forcibly removed out of, the number of days (1 or 2 at the time) that had passed since the red sea had parted, the approximate weight in pounds (8) of the raccoon attacking tyra's head on television at that moment, the amount of hours (7) nicole was working the next day, the number of times (1) i made reference to a part of her anatomy being "fat" in the last 10 seconds, and the number of beads of sweat (at least 17) dripping down my forehead at the time, i finally figured out the amount of possible correct responses (0) to her question, and hurriedly retreated to the kitchen for some gatorade.
Damon Young |
|
PASSION by Midoribleu
 I stood before him in my nakedness and waited. His eyes traced my most intimate places and they traveled to the common ones too and I felt my face flush red. He eventually made his way to my eyes and saw my embarrassment but instead of it being another thing to exploit on me he smiled. His lips curled as if to say something sarcastic and then his lips opened and the words "you're beautiful" spilled out. I relaxed instantly and smiled back returning the words "thank you."
He then got up from the couch and headed towards me. I felt uncomfortable, not because he moved closer, but uncomfortable at the thought a man as wise and wonderful as he would even want to touch me. I wasn't disfigured or hideous. I was average height with an hour glass figure. I was more ashamed at the minor cuts and scars I'd accrued in my youth and of course the blemishes and the stretch marks from being such a portly child. As he got closer I trembled mysteriously feeling a draft causing my nipples to get hard. He wasn't amiss of any subtle changes on my body automatically focusing on the "change." He smiled again as if to say he had recounted a personal joke. My head went down in embarrassment, but as it moved south his hand grasped my chin lifting my face to his and he passionately kissed me. I trembled again but this time I felt myself get excited. I had wanted this from him for quite some time. His hands caressed my shoulders and then cuffed my breasts. I let out a noise, a combination of a sigh and a moan. It shocked him and he pulled back looking into my eyes. I stared helplessly back at him and he resumed his tender kiss.
His hands now seemed to rhythmically cascade onto my hips and to my ass cuffing and squeezing it. This time I heard him moan and I smiled. I tried to pull away but he held onto my lip drawing me in deeper. At that moment one of his hands then moved between my thighs feeling the wetness that gathered. I moaned louder concluding that moan with a yes and he placed his finger inside me. Slowly, deliberately he moved them in and out. My legs began to quiver and I felt weak. He used his other hand to balance me as he continued to stroke his finger in and out of me. The desire to have him in me was so great that I grabbed his fingers and moved them quickly in and out of me. He stopped me, understanding my need and picked me up placing me on the counter. He guided my hands to his boxers and I pulled them down. Before I could breathe a word he entered me and I clenched his back not in pain but indescribable pleasure. For so long I wanted him to feel him and I was and it was as I imagined. He moved his hips slowly entering and exiting me, with each stroke, I grabbed him tighter. His movements continued stroking faster and deeper and I moaned louder. I could feel him get harder and me wetter each time and I suddenly felt euphoric. My legs unconsciously wrapped around him bringing him in closer and deeper. He moaned now too, whispering something I could not hear. He now lifted me, still wrapped around him and placed me onto the bed.
Once there, he laid me back and gently spread my legs holding them as he entered me. I moaned even louder and so did he. The strength yet tenderness brought my body to the point of orgasm. He could feel my legs grow shaky and he began to sweat. His strokes once consistent were now erratic and suddenly he stopped altogether. He let out a sigh, signifying that he too was at the point. I took this moment as my cue, and sat up bringing my lips to his guiding him onto the bed. I then straddled him and he entered me. I began to rock my hips forward in a steady deliberate circle. He moaned louder grabbing onto my waist. I placed my hands to my side to clasp his and I rocked my hips back and forth each time he held on tighter. My thighs started to shake and I knew I was about to climax. His grip was tighter and I knew it wouldn't be long for him either. I continued my movement contracting and releasing my inner muscles to heighten the feeling. His eyes closed and abruptly he clutched my waist. In that moment I felt myself release letting out a scream. My thighs shook erratically against him which caused him to cry out. We were climaxing at the same time. Waves of warmth and release and bliss came over us and we trembled helplessly. Afterwards I collapsed on top of him. I could hear his heart still racing and I felt his hand cross over my back to embrace me. He then kissed my forehead, whispering sentimental words.
I looked up at him and he had the same smile as before but this time words came out. "I love you" I replied "I love you too" and he tenderly kissed my still quivering lips. I rested my head on his chest and drifted off to sleep.
Please give a big Soul Pitt welcome a new short story writer to our group: Nicita Robinson
LIVE TO LOVE ANOTHER DAY
I would hide in the sliding door closet in our bedroom, it would be a surprise and he didn t know I was coming to town, oh I had threatened to, but I hadn t so far- not until today.
It was noon, when I arrived, getting out of the car, the shy was clear, and the breeze warm on my face, my temperature was up in the one hundreds, but you couldn t tell it by this beautiful August day. It was cool and still in the house, even though air conditioner was off; no one had been home for hours.
Boxes were packed and stacked by the front door, all of my things, my life, packed in boxes, looking at them all I could think of, was her bathrobe, on a hook behind my bathroom door just weeks before.
That s when I found out my worst fears had now become a reality, my husband was, cheating, and he brought her to our home.
Hurt and anger were my only feelings, well, maybe anger s not the best word, Rage is more like it, not a thought in my head of what I was going to do next, just pictures of their faces, the looks of surprise, and shame.
Who was I kidding, shame was not in their vocabulary, if it was, this would not be happening, and my life would not be stacked in boxes.
So I decided to sit on the landing, until I heard the car pull up, and the key turning in the lock, then I would slowly retreat to the closet, out of site, they would never know I was there, until I wanted it to be known, with my husband s service revolver in my hand.
The plan was complete, or so I thought, could I kill the man I ve loved all these years? Only time would tell, so there I sat in the dark, waiting.
That was my dream, how I would kill them both, do a Betty Broderick on their ass, but life is to short, and the pain really doesn t last forever, even if you still love him, and when you see him your heart smiles this big bright smile, and all the love you first felt, is still there. That s God.
But truly the feeling of loss had overcome me, I didn t know what to do, I had been married to this man for what seemed like an eternity, now it was all gone, I had lost myself, I had been betrayed, I didn t know what to do or where to go, I wanted my life back..
My first thought when I packed up and left him, was, he loves me and will not be able to go on without me, just like me, I couldn t stand to be away from he, even when he would come home from work, and not speak to me, just walk in the door with a grunt a hello, I still loved him, he was my husband, and all things can be worked out, so I thought, so I prayed.
The night I left home and arrived at my daughter s house, while bunking out on the couch, I cried myself to sleep when everyone went to bed. I always felt we were apart of each other, all I wanted was for him to come for me, and ask, no beg me to come home, but he never did, that was two years and five months ago, now they live together.
The women in his life is the same age as my daughter, what a joke, it really is almost laughable, if it didn t hurt so much. When something like this happens after so much time in a relationship has passed, its so hard to get back in the race again, you no longer care, to trust and the thought of falling in love, my God, no thanks, not yet, if every.
You met people, men that is, who say they know how you feel, I understand , they say, no you don t and if you do, that s your story, and I don t care to hear it, it wouldn t help.
In all my life and twenty-six years, two marriages and one very bad first break up, I would never have thought it would be me hurting, feeling like a wounded animal tucked away in a corner, weeping uncontrollably, and wanting to die.
They say love hurts, or is it true love hurts, I m not sure, but it sure does blow the big one. So you grieve, for one maybe two years, then your motto becomes NEXT TWO DOWN AND PRAISE GOD, its over.
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..I have a confession to make
...I live in the hood