Place All Short Story Entries Here

**sistactry** · 10-16-2003, 01:53 PM

Re: Place All Short Story Entries Here

(((Boundie)))) dat was soooo nice, it mek me tear up.., [img]/forums/images/graemlins/frown.gif[/img]

(((Wallhalla)))) very nice, [img]/forums/images/graemlins/wink.gif[/img]

man, we gots tolents like dirt.., Lacy me sarry fe unu de judges.., [img]/forums/images/graemlins/laugh.gif[/img]

(((40legs))) a wha dat.., a hope u coming back.., [img]/forums/images/graemlins/tongue.gif[/img]

**championgal262** · 10-16-2003, 04:36 PM

Re: Place All Short Story Entries Here

BANG the sound of thunder crashing in the sky, as the woman slept in bed with her husband she strated to fight in her sleep. Her husband grabbed her and shook her telling her to wake up, as the woman slowly opened her eyes she realized she had been dreaming. When her husband went to work she started to remonis about the dream she had. "why would I get a dream like this with my husband cheating on me he has been faithfull for 6 years and why does this woman have to be white?" she thought to herself.
For 3 months the dream was the same with the exception of more detail.

One night at the dancehall the woman was enjoying herself dancing and laughing when one of her friends wispered in her ear "look at the bar see your man?" as the woman looked toward the bar she saw her man conversing with a a woman who looked white, thw woman angrily stormed over to her man and asked him what he was doing he replied with "buying you a drink". as his wife looked the other woman in her face the woman looked a little paniced, her husband gave her the drink, and they walked to the otherside of the dancehall.

From then on the woman would make it a point to drive her husbands car and it just so happened that for some reason when she was out this other woman always seemed to be at the same place as if she was looking for the owner of the car.

The woman had planned to get to the bottom of this and to see if her dreams were real, so the woman went to a school yard where soccer was played reguarly except for this day. The woman got out the car and stood off to the side about 20 mins went by and what do you know the other woman just happened to be driving by the empty soccer field, looking for the owner of the car. The wife popped out of nowhere and asked the woman why she is following the car. The other woman cocked an attitude and said im looking for my baby daddy he is the owner of that car.

At this point the wife was fuming and said to her "your looking for my husband? because your pregnant with his kid? the woman said yes and I will take him from you too. with that said the wife replyed with a right hook and a kick in the gut, the other woman came back with a left hook and a jump kick knocking the wife to the ground, as the other woman went to stomp the wife the wife rolled and tripped the other woman and the other woman went down, the wife grabbed a huge stone and forcfully applied it to the other womans abdominal area, jumped on her and went buck wild. Hearing the sirens getting lounder the wife jumped in the lexxus and was out.

She went home and when she got home her husband was there. Scrapped and bruised the wife grabbed a kitchen knife and put it to her husbands throat and said to him If i go to jail because of your ho, you will die. Nothing came of the fight and she never saw the woman again and her husband stayed in check.

**sistactry** · 10-16-2003, 04:51 PM

Re: Place All Short Story Entries Here

lawd CG.., [img]/forums/images/graemlins/704555_dwl.gif[/img] dat sound like one fe wha Jackie call dem, Bones and someting.., [img]/forums/images/graemlins/704555_dwl.gif[/img]

awrite den, dat did even have me enthused, yeah man, dat better.., [img]/forums/images/graemlins/wink.gif[/img]

**championgal262** · 10-16-2003, 05:01 PM

Re: Place All Short Story Entries Here

thanks

**Venn** · 10-17-2003, 01:09 PM

Re: Place All Short Story Entries Here

Is when di voting a start? wait deh, a who a di judge fi dis yah?

Soh far mi have 3 weh mi like.

**neutral** · 10-17-2003, 01:27 PM

Re: Place All Short Story Entries Here

Originally posted by Ctry:
[QB] lawd CG.., [img]/forums/images/graemlins/704555_dwl.gif[/img] dat sound like one fe wha Jackie call dem, Bones and someting.., [img]/forums/images/graemlins/704555_dwl.gif[/img]

yu seet to ctry,yu no see wah de wife do...shi grab a big stone an "forcefully applied" it to de odder woman gut [img]/forums/images/graemlins/704555_dwl.gif[/img] [img]/forums/images/graemlins/704555_dwl.gif[/img] [img]/forums/images/graemlins/704555_dwl.gif[/img]

unnu no mek mi laaf een yah tiddeh..wooieeee!!!! [img]/forums/images/graemlins/704555_dwl.gif[/img] [img]/forums/images/graemlins/704555_dwl.gif[/img] [img]/forums/images/graemlins/704555_dwl.gif[/img]

**sistactry** · 10-17-2003, 01:51 PM

Re: Place All Short Story Entries Here

((((CG)))) nuh pay badd mind ((((Nuetral)))) no mind yaa me hear.., a competition him fraid fah.., [img]/forums/images/graemlins/tongue.gif[/img]

(((Vennidelino)))))whappen putts.., me no quite sure a who a de judges yet enuh.., wha u waan bride dem off, or u waan jine dem., mind a money u a look enuh.., far de whole a we bruk lakka church mouse., [img]/forums/images/graemlins/laugh.gif[/img]

**championgal262** · 10-17-2003, 01:55 PM

Re: Place All Short Story Entries Here

Netural just liked that part it musta remind him of something

**Venn** · 10-17-2003, 02:02 PM

Re: Place All Short Story Entries Here

Originally posted by Ctry:
[qb] wha u waan bride dem off, or u waan jine dem., [/qb]

Ongle if a man judge [img]/forums/images/graemlins/laugh.gif[/img] an a ongle certain man to.

**Guest** · 10-17-2003, 02:16 PM

Re: Place All Short Story Entries Here

Once upon a time there was two mad gal. deh one weh name Country come from country. Batta foot one weh name Miss Portmore come from portmore. Dem was so mad, dem couldn't stand one-na nadda maddness any more. So them deside fe go about dem ways and never to meet up again. Country say " I will continue heading north" Miss portmore scratch har head then deside fe go south. [img]/forums/images/graemlins/smile.gif[/img] [img]/forums/images/graemlins/laugh.gif[/img] [img]/forums/images/graemlins/laugh.gif[/img]

a wha kinna eediat story dat., u waan me bann u from me yaad.., :verymad:

**sistactry** · 10-17-2003, 02:25 PM

Re: Place All Short Story Entries Here

Originally posted by Venn:
[qb] Ongle if a man judge [img]/forums/images/graemlins/laugh.gif[/img] an a ongle certain man to. [/qb]

ehhmmm, any and any man wont duh.., [img]/forums/images/graemlins/704555_dwl.gif[/img]

**sistactry** · 10-17-2003, 02:25 PM

Re: Place All Short Story Entries Here

Originally posted by championgal262:
[qb] Netural just liked that part it musta remind him of something [/qb]

or someone.., [img]/forums/images/graemlins/laugh.gif[/img] [img]/forums/images/graemlins/laugh.gif[/img] [img]/forums/images/graemlins/laugh.gif[/img]

**Nanette Stewart** · 10-18-2003, 01:52 AM

Re: Place All Short Story Entries Here

Up until five minutes ago, this had been like any other evening after work. She was riding on the subway, on her long and usually quite uneventful ride that took her from the office to a block away from her apartment building. But now, this evening had already become one that would stand out for her. Nothing had happened on the train. There had been no fight, no emergency stop, no lights shutting off. But she had heard something that had shocked her. Something that came from the woman sitting right behind her. Their backs were to each other, but she had heard her voice loud and clear. Perhaps because her voice was so, well, loud and clear.
“I wasn’t surprised at all when I heard that he was Jamaican. What do all Jamaican males do, but shoot and kill? The only thing that surprises me is that he doesn’t have any children that he wasn’t minding. Now that would make him the typical Jamaican man. And so what if he’s mad? If he wasn’t mad, he’d still be doing the same thing.”
It wasn’t that somebody was talking about the DC sniper and implying that his Jamaican heritage had something to do with his crime. Unfortunately, she had heard that sentiment several times since the story had come out. It wasn’t hearing someone talk about Jamaican men as if not one good one existed. She had heard that before as well. It was the fact that the voice was a Jamaican one.
The woman speaking was clearly from Jamaica. The accent was undeniable. She had tried to convince herself at first that maybe the woman was from some other Caribbean island, but how could she mistake the very same accent that she and all her family had? This woman, who was loudly speaking out so negatively about Jamaican men, was herself a Jamaican.
The woman didn’t stop there. “Listen, let me tell you something about Jamaica. Did you know that Jamaica has the highest murder rate in the world? Can you believe that? Ten times the murder rate of the U.S. Something like a thousand people a year get murdered there and it’s less than 3 million people. It’s ridiculous! That’s why so many people leave.”
Her friend mumbled something incoherent. “Yes! There are the same number of Jamaicans living abroad as living in Jamaica. You ever heard anything like that before? And it’s not just because of the crime. The exchange rate is 60 U.S to 1 Jamaican dollar. 60! How can people survive there with those kinds of numbers? All those politicians down there are clearly worthless. But people will kill off themselves for these same foolish politicians. You know that every time there’s national elections, people in Jamaica are killing each other over it?”
It was apparent that, whatever else you wanted to say about this woman, she was one to back up her arguments with facts.
“And don’t even get me started on how backwards the people there are. Every song talking about burning batty man or chi chi man. And if not that, then it’s about sex. Why don’t they write a song about getting an education? Or about not letting the Columbians use Jamaica as their drop-off point for all their cocaine? Something that says something sensible.”
Once again, her friend mumbled incoherently. “No, it’s not just marijuana. It was bad enough when that was the only problem. But now it’s cocaine too!” The woman fell silent. Apparently at this point the woman was all talked out, or at least taking a breather.
So now she had to decide what to do. Was she going to sit by quietly and let this woman feel she was totally justified in what she was saying? Was she going to argue with this absolute stranger who would probably come away thinking nothing more than that she was crazy?
But then something clinched it for her. The woman’s incoherent friend finally spoke at a tone that was audible. “Wow,” said the obviously stunned friend, who was clearly a native of this country and not Jamaica. “I had always thought Jamaica seemed like such a cool place. I guess not.”
As a Jamaican, this woman would be viewed by others as an expert opinion, someone who knew all about the country. And she was clearly teaching others that Jamaica was a bad place to come from, and that Jamaican was a bad thing to be.
So she took a deep breath and turned her body around as much as she could in the small subway chair. “Excuse me,” she said quietly at first.
As neither of the two turned around, she spoke louder and tapped the woman on her back while doing it. “Excuse me!”
Both women turned around, surprised. “For the last I-don’t-know-how-long, I’ve been listening to you talk bad about my country and about your own country. And it may not be my place, but I can’t get off this subway without having my say.
“You talk about all the negative Jamaican men, like one of the snipers. But let’s not forget that the other sniper, the one apparently in charge, was not a Jamaican. And let’s consider the men from Jamaica that don’t fit your little mold. Is Colin Powell a womanizing criminal? What about Michael Lee-Chin?”
She saw the woman’s eyebrows start to wrinkle. “Oh, you don’t know who that is? He’s the 19th richest man in Canada, a billionaire who made his money through mutual funds, and yes, a Jamaican.”
She turned her attention to the woman’s friend. “Have you heard of the Manley family? Norman Manley was a great politician that fought for Jamaica’s independence from Britain, and Michael was known worldwide, someone that Jimmy Carter called a true hero when he died. And I have to mention the females in that family. His daughter Rachel is an award-winning author and you just have to see the artwork that Edna Manley produced.”
Now the woman’s friend was smiling, and she could tell that she was making just as much an impression as the woman had.
“As for the music of Jamaica, your friend doesn’t seem to know about Peter Tosh, Bob Marley, Morgan Heritage, Ziggy Marley, Beres Hammond, Dennis Brown…I could go on, and if you’re interested, maybe I’ll write down some names for you.”
She turned back to the woman. “You know so much about the bad side of Jamaica, and I’m not disputing a lot of what you said, but Jamaica has a good side, a wonderful side, and I don’t know how you can deny that.”
As she finished her own tirade, she realized that the subway had come to a stop, and that the stop was hers. She stood up and grabbed her bag off of the chair beside her. She had said what she had to say, and didn’t need to get into an argument. Now that she’d gotten her feelings off her chest, she felt light and suddenly unconcerned with this woman who clearly had some issues with fully loving herself.
“Miss,” called out the woman as she was stepping through the doors, somewhat crossly, somewhat contritely, “I love Jamaica too, you know.”

**Abuxxp** · 10-18-2003, 03:42 AM

Re: Place All Short Story Entries Here

The Passenger

The white Japanese four-wheel drive pulled up a short distance from the crowd. Out of boredom and for the lack of anything better to do they watched as the man got out the passenger seat. He walked to the back of the vehicle.. The door magical opened. The occupant in the back was ansious to get ride of unwanted terror. The man grabbed his gear, perching the helmet on the top of his head dropping the rest casually on the ground. He rapped hard on the roof on the vehicle which sped of with out any human sound, kicking up sand as it did a wide faster than safe U-turn.

The man glanced at the crowd then looked around. He seemed to hesitate for an immeasurable moment when he saw the expected smoke rising in the distance.

"Nothing changed" He noted as he continued the survey.

He listened and heard the hush of people being silent and the retreating, fading engine of his previous transport. Bending he scooped up his gear, swinging the sweat stained bergen on by the wrong strap onto his shoulder in a first stride. One arm free, still at the side all the accouchements the other side. A hawker rushed forward, a sale perhaps. Lifting the darken goggles with to his forehead his free hand the patter was silenced with a look. Treading his way through the crowd that seemed to part without moving. Their silence had become soundless as if they had forgotten to breathe. Suddenly the wall broke and a flood of sound hit.. The wail of the desperate, the cry of fear. Babies were thrust at him... He smelt the humanity. It was real and as always at moments like this unwashed stunk. Hands pulled at his clothes.....

He moved ignoring, pushing indifferently at humanity.. His eyes fell on a lady seated it seemed serenely, looking at the ground. He kept moving watching as she shook something and knew instinctively what was happening.. Still he kept walking. The lady looked up and their eyes met momentarily..... Hers held the familiar desperate plea afraid to acknowledge that at this moment there was no god to help. Shifting his gaze he saw the expected baby. The mother was shaking it as if to put life back into it. She picked the infant up desperately put it on her bared breast, ignorant of the crowds existance desperate to stop the inevitable. Its eyes were slowly closing, not understanding that it existance was ending. The next would be the wail of grief. The stride never faltered the attitude did not change he pushed those he had to out the way, with no anger no more force than necessary.

At the barrier the AK carrying guard in the blue uniform watched him, bored despite the chaos close by and the death within ten kilometers. Without a word being said the man reached into the top pocket, pulled out a laminated plastic card. The guard looked at the card. A look of uncertainty contempt, envy fear spread across his face. He shook is head in disgust, trying to mask the fear by hesitating. He kept looking at the face looking at the card. The face could have been that of the man, maybe it seemed. Fear making the uncertainty more real. He shouted and three companions who were sleeping in the shade of the broken guardhouse shed reluctantly came toward them, rubbing sleep from their eyes.

The guards argued and shouted. First at each other then at the new comer who watched in silence. Frustration caused by the uncertainty of the times and the indifferent certainty of the passenger. Should he be let through or sent away ? The newcomer's silence merely added to their uncertainty. The crowd was now restive as if an organic system each individual trying desperately to get the attention. Crying, screaming women wished that they could use their feminie charms to get this man's attention. Take me, their eyes pleaded! Get us way from the uncertainty which may be rape or worse. Men were envious of the women as they were powerless in the face of the coming terror unarmed and with nothing of value to trade for their lives.... >

Then without being told the man slipped the pistol from the holster ejected the magazine and pulled back the slide. A bullet spun in the air and the man caught it with the hand holding both gun and clip. The ringing of metal on metal was lost to the noise. Spreading the unarmed weapon on the table and pointed at the clipboard. The guard scribbled, signed and handed over the receipt for the weapon. A scrap of paper in exchange for a bits of metal. He snatched the card from the hand of another guard shoved both into a pocket.

Then he slipped under the red and white barrier. As he passed a guard gobbed spit hit his boot. The man glanced down at the boots. They were expensive, individually crafted, soft leather, rubber soled. And once had been glamorous.. Now they were the colour of the surrounding sand, with irregular anonymous black stains. The left boot crowned a small lump of spittle sliding down the outside ankle. He glanced at the guard who grinned in triumph, unfolding an AK, courage now found knowing the power he held and wanted it to be acknowledged. The crowd in the back ground seemed to sigh collectively indiffent, unmoved by the familiarity of the death to follow. He looked back at his boot continued walking with no indication anything had happened. The guard shouted and cocked his rifle uncertain of what to do.. Without turning or changing the man walked following the path. The guard had lost the initiative, his power was lost so he lowered his gun. The crowd laughed at the impotence of the soldier like a inexperienced whore whos mark has failed to rise to the occasion.

The man stopped looked long at blue container with two struggling air condtioner units that acted as the terminal. He glanced towards the runway empty except for the fuel truck and patches. He walked away from the building to ward a what seemed like a lump of rock in the flat featureless sand. As he approached the rock metamorphosed into a man seated alone on the sand.

"Salaam Alekum." The man greeted.

The seated man glanced up without acknowledging. The man dropped his gear. Sat down leaned against the back of the seated person. Both sat in silence stareing at the endless directions expanse of sand. An eternity passed. The silence was broken by the occasional rumble of traffic that passed on the distant black top and the pale blue sky was dirtied by the smoke of burning fuel in the distance.

"Maya" the seated man spoke. Without waiting for a reply he past over a plastic bottle, still wet on the outside precipitation due to its coldness. The new comer swallowed a mouthful swilling the water around his mouth enjoying the coolness. Then spat it out. A long stream of liquid splayed his leg, hit the warm soft sand. Then he drank deeply, grateful for the cold water and not having to drink the lukewarm idodie tinged water he had in the canteen on the side of his pack. Slated he poured the precious liquid over his face. When finished handing back over his shoulder the now half empty bottle. They sat in silence for a long moment. Enjoying the peace the solitude and each other companionship, indifferent to the passage of time. Indifferent to the crowd at the fence in the near distance.

It may have been a long moment when the newcomer spoke.

"Toscano ?" He reached into one of the innumerable pockets on the fawn coloured trousers and extracted a brown tobacco tube tapered at both ends encased in a cellophane wrapper with a green and red ring in the center. From another pocket he pulled an imitation "leatherman tool" with practised indifference sliced the tube in two. And passed one half over to his silent companion. He lit his half before passing over a cheap lighter. They smoked the peasant's cigar in silence as the day began to fade. And magically some life sprang from the emptiness. A scorpion scurried out the sand but more surprisingly a number of black and white rabbits appeared, aliens in this environment some how surviving the maelstrom of desert existence.

At some moment they heard in the distance the call to prayer.... Before it could be completed , it went missing to the sound of arriving hope in the form of a plane that. All eyes followed the approaching plane like fans at a tennis match. They watched as it landed and taxied to in front of the container. The propellers slowly fading then suddenly stopped. Magically a ground crew appeared and began to service and unload the vechile.

The noise of the engine was replaced by the scream of the crowd.... Waving paper money... A woman bared her breast, promising the guard answers to his sexual fantasies. Prayers were said at a scream. Allah was being becheeched. Babies held high. Grown men sat on the sand desolate and cried when they realises the expected indifference to their pleas. The women, the mothers continued their pleas. Pride long lost, replaced with desperate hope .

The two men sat in silence a while.

The crowd was screaming the guard struggle to stop them. He fired a burst in the air then followed by one into the ground in front the crowd. Three more joined him and swung black nightsticks indiscriminately bruising flesh and bone.

"I am staying" the silent companion finally spoke.

The man stood, re-slung the bergen glancing at his companion of silence.

"See you in hell again"

An exchange of casual boy scout salutes was the only good bye gesture made . Then he walked casually to the plane now silhouetted against dust inspired deep red setting sun. There was a spring in his step he was going home. At half the distance he stopped in mid stride surprised, ... His hand went to his belly, feeling dampness glancing down he saw blood. He began crumbling, dead before he heard either the rattle of the AK or the triumphant shout of the barrier guard.

**msportmore** · 10-20-2003, 05:06 PM

Re: Place All Short Story Entries Here

Stolen Dreams

I have always lived in the country. For as long as I can remember - as long as the sky was blue, the grass was green, the beaches were welcoming and the air was nice and warm – I have lived in the country. I was born here and grew up here. I went to school in Kingston because my father knew someone who knew someone else who could get me into school at a lowered cost in Kingston and so that is where I went. I commuted daily. Every morning I would get up at 4 to catch the 5 o’ clock bus to get to school and be seated by 8 a.m. And every evening I would catch the 3 o’ clock bus and make it home by about 6 p.m. I couldn’t do any after school activities because that would mean missing the 3 o’ clock bus and having to wait for the last bus which would be at about 5 pm. I didn’t mind though…I was labeled as “Country Gyal” and even though I was proud of where I was from, the way my classmates said it in disgust caused me to hate the red dirt that surrounded my yard – the same dirt that caused my shoes and sometimes my socks to be discolored. I attended an all-girls’ school. Those girls came from different walks of life. And though it was evident that we were all from different backgrounds, yet the “country gyal wid di dutty shoes an socks” stuck out.

Like a sore thumb.

It was at those times that I hated where I was from. I hated the fresh air that I breathed in every morning on my way to school. I hated the natural beauty that surrounded me as I looked on the landscape and waited for the bus. I hated the beach that was just 5 minutes away from my yard. I hated the sound of the rain on top of the roof reminded me that there was a zinc roof above me.

I hated it all.

I had an English Language teacher named Miss Robinson. She spoke so well. I could sit there for hours listening to her talk about the simplest of things – it didn’t matter – as long as she spoke, she had my attention. When I grew up, I decided I wanted to be just like Miss Robinson. She was a sharp. Crisp looking too. And she drove a pretty blue Fiat. Wow! I wanted to be just like her. It was said that she went away to foreign to study and when she came back, she started teaching at our school. It was settled then. That’s what I would do. I would go to foreign, study hard, learn to speak as well as she did, and come back to get a good job and maybe even drive a pretty car too.

I was always bright in school. But I was shy. Especially when I started going to high school. The teacher would ask me a question and although I knew the answer, I was scared. I knew the minute I opened my mouth I would hear someone from the back of the room whispering: “Den di country gyal cyaaan chat nuh betta dan dat?” Then they would all start giggling…no, I prefer not to answer – which usually meant detention – which usually meant staying after school – which usually meant missing the 3 o’ clock bus – which usually meant getting home at 8 pm – which usually meant getting a fine beatin when I got home. I didn’t care – I hated that I didn’t know how to speak as well as the other girls. So I would just endure the punishment.

Summer time involved me going with my mother to sell food to the tourists as well as regulars who came to the beach in our area. Mommy cooked boiled corn, soup, fish and bammy. She had a stall and was well-known and loved by many. Sometimes when things got a little slow, Mommy allowed me to go on the beach to see the sites. It was those times that I enjoyed the most. Times alone with myself. I would look at the tourists and returning residents and even those who came from Kingston – just for the day – to enjoy the beach. I would fantasize. I would look at someone and pretend that was me years later. After I went away for a college education like Miss Robinson. And after I bought my car.

The Summer of 1989 is the one I remember the most. I had just finished 5th form and taken 5 CXC subjects. I would have taken more but we didn’t have the money. I was feeling despondent. My father was terminally ill and there was no money. I knew I would go no further and all hope was basically gone. There was no money for sixth form either. So I knew I wouldn’t be going back to school in Kingston…I knew I wouldn’t get the chance to go abroad to study…I knew I would never get the money to buy a car or to take care of my parents like I really wanted to.

I went as usual with Mommy to the beach where she sold her corn and soup and fish and bammy.
I admired my mother. Her struggles depicted the blackness in the Jamaican flag. Her livelihood depicted the greenness of our lands and her sunny disposition showed the yellow stripes in the flag. In my opinion, she was the epitome of the island and her people. Her sayings would always leave me thinking for a long time about what they meant: “Dog a sweat but long hair cova it” “Every haat know it owna sorrow” “One day outta di seven” “Rain a fall but dutty tough”. I could sit and listen to her and her sayings all day. To me, she had the wisdom of Solomon and the strong will of David.

I sat there and watched as beads of sweat popped up on her forehead. She was obviously tired, and weary. But she continued to serve with a smile. Yes, I would have to take care of my mother – she deserved much more than this.

Later that afternoon, I sat under a tree on the beach in my usual spot and allowed my five senses to take in any and everything. I stared lovingly out at the Caribbean Sea while my nose enjoyed the aroma of the sea mixed with the sand and the heat and the smell of the festival and fish. My ears laughed with pleasure as the sounds of the waves crashed into them…the laughter of the children in the background, or perhaps it was the pulsating rhythm of the reggae music that infiltrated the air also made love to my ears. I could taste the saltiness of the sea and the sand as I sat and played with the hot sand between my fingers…Yes, I loved this place – but I couldn’t stay here…some way, somehow, I had to go and find something better for my family – for my mother, for my father, and for all my younger siblings.

I didn’t hear the commotion at first. I didn’t hear the scream. But suddenly, I saw everyone start moving toward the street. I decided to go and take a look at what was going on. It was then that I saw what had happened. There was an accident. A truck had gotten out of control while coming around the bend…it veered off the road and plunged into the sellers that sat by their stalls…as I looked a little closer, my heart started racing as I noticed that I couldn’t see Mommy’s stall. I started to walk towards the scene, the walk turned into a trot and before I knew it I was racing towards the now totally mangled truck. “MOMMY!!!???” I yelled in a frantic panic searching for my mother. “MOMMY!!??!!??” I couldn’t see her stall and I didn’t see her. Just then, Miss Vi let out a huge wail. Miss Vi was the woman whose stall was next to my mother’s. As I spun around in the direction of the wail, I froze. I looked over and saw Miss Vi clutching to a bloody mass – it was my mother’s dress – and as I looked closer, I saw that my mother was still inside the dress.

Lifeless.

I stood there and stared and I cried. I cried until the sun went down. I could see Miss Vi’s lips moving, saying something to me. What was she saying? I didn’t know. I was just crying. I tried to speak but words failed me and I cried. I thought of my younger siblings and I cried. I thought about my sick father and I cried. I sat on the sidewalk – and I cried and cried and cried. My mother was gone. And she was not coming back. And so I cried.

It’s been 6 months since the accident and I now live on the sidewalk on Main Street. I never went back home after my mother was crushed by that truck. I am now known as “di mad ooman of Main Street”…I don’t care.

And as I lay on the cold concrete which has become my bed, I see a little girl – teenager – on her way to school. With her crisp and clean uniform. I hear the girl tell someone she is walking next to: “I have always lived in the country. For as long as I can remember - as long as the sky was blue, the grass was green, the beaches were welcoming and the air was nice and warm – I have lived in the country”

And as I listened to her speak about her dreams, I cried.

Place All Short Story Entries Here

Comment

Comment

Comment

Comment

Comment

Comment

Comment

Comment

Comment

Comment

Comment

Comment

Comment

Comment

Comment

ads