We have a WINNER! - Short Story Contest

[Magician]

<span style="color: #000099"><span style='font-size: 17pt'><u>2008 Jamaicans.com Short Story Competition</u></span></span>

<span style="color: #666666"><span style='font-size: 11pt'>Rules, Terms and Conditions</span></span>

1. Winner will receive a <span style="color: #FF0000">Jamaicans.com T-Shirt</span>, and his/her Short Story will be published on the <span style="color: #FF0000">Home Page of Jamaicans.com</span> in May 2008.

2. The Short Story Competition is open to all Members, Moderators and Administrators.

3. Only one entry per participant.

4. After the initial entry is made, there shall be no editing of the story, so utilise the 'preview post' function.

5. There will be no "To be continueds..."

6. Please remember this is a G-Rated board and as such, all stories must remain within the boundaries of the board rules, contest is void where prohibited. All decisions and judgements are final and subject to the discretion of the Webmaster.

7. There is no word limit however, remember if it is too long, you might lose the interest of the reader.

8. The short story must be an original work and should not have been published anywhere else prior to this competition.

9. Recycling of short stories from previous competitions is prohibited.

10. Plagiarized work will be disqualified.

11. This competition will run until <span style="color: #00CCCC">11:59PM EDT Sunday April 13</span>, 2008.

Voting will begin on <span style="color: #FF6600">Monday, April 14th</span>, 2008 at 8:00AM EDT and end on <span style="color: #CC33CC">Friday April 18th </span>at 11:59PM EDT.

The winner will be announced before 11:59PM EDT <span style="color: #33CC00">Sunday April 20th</span>, unless there is a tie, and a runoff is required.


<u>VOTING IS AT THE BOTTOM OF THE STORIES SUBMITTED</u>

[Magician]

Re: Short Story Entries That Have Been Accepted (so far...)

<span style='font-size: 14pt'><span style="color: #FF0000">AUTHOR: Newtral

TITLE: Fowl Play</span></span>


fowl play
====================


"A fe yu fowl dis" ! ...? enquired a clearly irate maas
charlie,maas elgin rubbed his eyes to get a clearer picture of the scene infront of him on his verandah,maas charlie was standing there holding his young daughter in one hand,shaving foam still on his face as if he was interrupted in mid shave,his shirt inside out,and a rather large fowl flapping about under his arm, ,the child was crying and was obviously in a distressed state,woieee ! woieee! ,mi yeye mi yeye ! de fowl bline mi !...mi cyaan si nutt`n !

The fowl wasnt having none of this, it was quite vocally objecting to its detention," pacawwkkkkk ! pacawwkkkk!...."a whapp`m charlie" maas elgin enquired,.."a dis blastid fowl sah,pick mi 6 year old dawta melody innah har face,neally pick out de pickney yeye",..as if to protest at maas charlies version of events the fowl let out a very loud squawk, what sounded like "pacawk pacawk ! but in fowl speak could have meant "a lie, a lie !.....maas charlie turned to the the fowl and barked..."shet up"!

He continued with his story,..."mi seh, de likkle pickney out innah de yard a play,an mussi go fe go touch de fowl,de dyam sitt`n tun roun an pick de pickney right innah har face".

Melody continued with her bawling...,increasing the decibel level a few octaves higher,"woieee ! woiee ! lawd mi cyaan si nutt`n,..papa mi bline !. woiee woieee" !!

maas elgin moved in for a closer inspection of the face of the crying child,he couldn`t detect the offending wound,as melody, eyes tightly closed kept up the wailing, he decided he would better lean on the side of discretion,...."a si wah yu mean"he lied,doing his best to show the appropriate look of concern that the situation required,the fowl let out another squawk of protest, pacawkkkkk! pacawkkkkkk ! ..only to get a few choice cuss words from maas charlie for its trouble.

He clutch the fowl`s feet tighter and secured it under his arm as it attempts a desperate bid for freedom, wings flapping feathers flying ,maas elgin rubbed his stubbly chin and hope that his look of sympathy was appearing the genuine article as maas charlie warmed to his theme of cuss words,protesting that he`s going to sue whoever the fowl belonged to,..after he had inflicted his own retribution.

Maas elgin quickly made sure that he removed all doubt from maas charlie`s mind that he was the hapless fowls owner,his desperation spurred on by the language maas charlie was using,he especially didnt like the sound of "chop" and "machete" used in anger in the same sentence.

"charlie,anno fimme fowl,a doan own a big fowl like dat,all mi fowl dem roun back inna de coop".

Beads of sweat appear on his forehead as he offered to walk with maas charlie to help determine the ownership of the fowl,although he was secretly relieved when maas charlie declined the offer.

It was a very relieved maas elgin when maas charlie eventually stormed off ,cussing and swearing what he intended to do when he caught up with whoever owned the fowl, clutching the crying melody , and with the still protesting fowl, all flapping wings and flying feathers,it`s protesting taking on a more desperate urge,...pacawkkkkk ! pacawkkkkkk !.

maas elgin was just about to get back into the house when his wife miss maud came out to find out what the hullabaloo was all about,...."elgin a wah gwaan out yah, what`s all the hullabaloo,seeing the retreating Maas charlie miss maud turned to maas elgin,but a wah de! ...a wah maas charlie a do wid yu big big prize fowl undah him han"...?

Maas elgin quickly bundled his wife back into the house and shut the door behind them, wiping beads of sweat off his forehead he pleaded with miss maud,.....".Maud,...fram de day yu bawn yu nevah set yu yeye dem pon dat fowl,do mi a beg yu,truss mi pon dis one".

later that evening as maas charlie,his wife,and his 6 children sat around noisily tucking into their rice and peas and chicken, maas charlie took a piece of meat out his plate and handed it to melody, "si piece more fowl yah,yu deserve it fe de best actress mi evah si" he imitated melody`s bawling,...woieee woieee ! papa mi bline ! .......they all laughed as melody licked gravy from her fingers and bit into her piece of maas elgin`s prize fowl.

end.

[Magician]

Re: Short Story Entries That Have Been Accepted (so far...)

<span style='font-size: 14pt'><span style="color: #FF0000">AUTHOR: Phatty

TITLE: Irresponsible</span></span>



“Ok, Ms. Robinson, after listening to your concerns and evaluating your symptoms, it seems that you have multiple personality disorder.” Dr. Schwartz informed as he sat back in his big, leather chair. He removed the glasses from his face and threw them on his desk.

“Multiple Personality Disorder?!” Tashana laughed at the statement. She stopped abruptly when she realized how crazy her laugh made her sound.

“I know to you, Ms. Robinson, it would sound absurd.” The psychiatrist said walking from behind his desk. “I want you to think of your symptoms; you “wake up” in different places, you don’t remember most conversations you’ve had with me or anyone for that matter. You also tell me stories that you deny ever happening or you telling me, and then you’ll bring them up the next session. I’m surprised your relationship is thriving.”

“Well as ironic as it may sound I’ve never blacked out around him.”

“Interesting sounds maybe your other personality or personalities show up during times of stress. So far you have blocked out at work, the gym, and while visiting family. Has your family ever spoken to you about any peculiar behaviors?”

“Not really, only that my mother made a snide remark about me, at Thanksgiving dinner. My brother said I cursed and left the house and didn’t return that night. I woke up at a hotel in the city.” Tashana rose from the long black leather couch that she’d been laying in. She walked over to the window and stared at the people, who favored ants, walking up and down the sidewalk.

“Well here’s a prescription that should help with that. It may not go away completely, but the episodes should be less frequent.” He handed her the prescription, when Tashana grabbed it, the doctor held on to it. Her eyes met his. “Tonight, make sure you fill this tonight.” He said before he released it. Tashana was a known procrastinator.

“Yes Doctor I promise.” She stuffed the prescription into her planner. “Okay same time next week?” Dr. Schwartz nodded and gave a small smile as she exited the office. He sat down and took a deep breathe. Tashana reminded him so much of his own daughter that was her age.



Tashana’s phone rang loud as she entered the street yelling for a taxi. “Hello?” She answered as she climbed in. “Hello!!!” She said annoyed that the person hasn’t answered yet.

“Hey babe, it’s me, what you up to?” It was Mark, her boyfriend.

“Closest train station please.” She instructed the driver. “I’m on my way to home now. I just left therapy.”

“What’s the diagnosis, are you completely a nut or are just crazy.”

“Babe turns out I’m completely a nut, but I’ll explain later.” Mark laughed out loud, Tashana wasn’t laughing.

“Are we still on for dinner tonight?”

“Oh babe I totally forgot. Pick me up in 2 hours.”

“You are always forgetting the important things. I am important right.”

“Of course you are. You’re my life babe, muah! Catch you later I love ya.” She hung up the phone. She paid the cab driver and shot out of the taxi when she heard her train rolling to a stop below ground.

Tashana couldn’t believe she forgot her dinner date with Mark. She looked through her planner on the train to see if she had noted it. The prescription fell into her lap. She picked it up. “I’ll do this in the morning.” She mumbled to herself as she stuffed it back into her planner.



Mark stared at Tashana as she picked through her salad. His heart pounded as he twisted the box over and over in his hand below the table. “Would you rather get good news before dinner or after dinner?”

“Well after dinner is great because I may not be able to eat if I’m over-excited.” Tashana said. She then cocked her head to the side. “What is it?”

“Nothing big, but just not to risk it I’ll ask after dinner.”

“Come on now I’m curious.”

“Ok, fine. Well we’ve been dating for a year and some months now and I realized that a day doesn’t go by where I’m not thinking of you. If I don’t hear from you or see you, I can’t eat or sleep. It’s like I need you to survive.” Tashana began tear up as she listened to Mark go on about their relationship. She almost fell out her chair when he bought the black box from beneath the table and opened it. Inside sat a heart shaped pink diamond engagement ring. She didn’t even give him the chance to ask the question before she was in his lap screaming.

“Yes, yes, yes!!”



Tashana and Mark entered the apartment kissing hard and tugging at each others clothing in the heat of passion. The laid on her bed and as Mark kissed her neck she held up her hand behind him admiring her ring. ‘Wow Mrs. Martindale.” She thought to herself. ‘I’m going to be married. Wait, I’m going to be married?’ she repeated to herself as she just realized the commitment. Tashana began to see darkness crawling upon her. ‘No not now. Not now.’ All went black.



Tashana woke up on the sofa, which she found herself doing every morning lately. She made her way to the kitchen to get a bottle of water. The twinkle of the diamond on her hand caught her attention. She looked at her hand and noticed it was covered in blood. The bottle dropped to the ground and she ran to the bathroom in a panic. There was blood down the front of her chest she was only in her bra and panties. “What did I do? What did I do?” she repeated to herself she ran into the bedroom. There was Mark lying on the floor with a knife sticking out of his chest. His eyes still open. Tashana let out a blood curdling scream as she fell to the floor and doubled up in the corner. “I killed him!” she gasped as she stared at the knife standing directly out of his chest. She got up from the floor and rushed to the living room. “Okay clearing my head, clearing my head. We came in through the door kissing.” She walked herself through as she sobbed. She walked towards the door which was slightly ajar. She pushed it closed as her mind raced. “We went straight to the room; we lay on the bed…”

“Then you killed him.” Someone said with a giggle. Tashana looked around, her heart beating ridiculously fast. No one was in the room.

“Who’s there?” she asked looking around the room.

“It’s always just us dear.” She spun around and standing behind her in the dresser mirror was another girl, she had a wide satisfied grin on her face. Tashana spun around and looked behind her and no one was there. She looked back and the girl was still standing there. “Let me formally introduce myself, I’m your better half, the wild side. The name’s Holly.” Tashana stood frozen she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. “Don’t just stand there, say hello.”

“You’re not real, you’re not real.” Tashana repeated as she covered her ears and ran to the living room. She sat on the couch and looked up at her TV. In the reflection Holly sat on the back of the couch.

“That’s rude! Well you do have a lot on your mind.” She slapped her leg. “Get it?!”

“Leave me alone! You’re not real!”

“Then stop talking to me then, damn! What we gonna do about the body in the room?” She said pulling out a cigarette.

“I don’t know. Well you better figure it out. Cuz I ain’t going to Rikers.” Tashana put her head in her hands as she sobbed. She felt like she lost her mind. She did lose her mind!

“I didn’t do it.”

“Of course not, I did, you don’t have the guts.” Holly said

“Why’d you do that? I loved him!”

“No you didn’t, you was tripping about getting married when I came around he was raping me.”

“It wasn’t rape. We were making love.”

“Not the way he was going at it. Anyway I don’t make love, I F-“

“Shut up, shut up!” Tashana cut her off and threw a vase at the TV.

“Well I ain’t gonna shut up. You need to figure out how to get rid of that body. I ain’t tryna be Martha’s B----!” Tashana jumped up from the couch and ran to the bedroom. She grabbed the sleeping pills from her side table drawer. “Whatcha gonna do wit that. Come on don’t do that.” Holly said following Tashana to the bathroom. “All we gotta do is get the passport and ride. We could go to Jamaica or something.” Holly pleaded.

“I’m not going anywhere with you but hell!” Tashana growled into the mirror. She went into the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of vodka and returned back to the bedroom and sat in the pool of blood that collected next to Mark. Sobbing she drank as Holly sat in the mirror pleading with her to throw the pills up.

Tashana and Holly argued back and forth, until finally she looked up at the mirror and Holly was starting to fade. “Damn it Tashana!” She yelled. “Well it was fun while it lasted see you on the other side, deuces!” Tashana curled up next to Mark’s head and cradled him as she fell into her eternal rest.



“What do we have here?” The detective said as he grimaced at the murder-suicide that lay before him.

“Seems that we have a girlfriend that killed her boyfriend and offed herself with pills.”

“Sick, it never gets old; these murder-suicides.” He grunted as he lowered himself to get a better look at the bodies.

“Sir you might wanna take a look at this.” One of the detectives beckoned the lead detective over. “Look at this.” He pointed at the camcorder that sat on the dresser, red light still blinking. “It’s still recording.”

“Wow, this may be easier than we thought.” The lead detective said excitedly. He picked up the camera and put it to rewind as he headed to the dining room. He sat at the table the other detectives standing behind him. He pushed play.



“Come on baby, let’s be different tonight.” Tashana said as she placed the camera on the dresser.

“Mmmm, what did you have in mind?” Mark asked.

“Well, since this is a special night, let’s record it.”

“Record it. I didn’t know you for venturing out like that.” Mark said obviously into the idea.

“Let’s role play. How about I call you Jacques, and you call me Holly. The naive tourists visiting a Paris hotel, and you’re my bell boy.”

"Mmmm I like that." Mark laid back as Tashana crawled on top of him. Just then a guy busted into the bedroom knife in hand.

"Get up! I said get the hell up!!" Tashana scurried to the top of the bed where she pulled a pillow in front of her. "Give me what you got man." He screamed at Mark.

Mark got up with his hands up. "Okay man anything. Just don't hurt us." Mark moved to the side where he grabbed his pants and handed the wallet to the intruder.

"You, give me the ring!!" The intruder yelled at Tashana.
"Hell No!" She said non-chalantly.
"What's wrong with you? Give him the ring!"
"I said no!"
"B----! Do you think i'm playing?" The intruder moved towards Tashana and pulled her arm. She screamed out in pain. Mark came up behind the intruder who then turned and stuck the knife in Mark's chest with one swift motion. He then stepped over Mark's slumped body on the floor and ran out the apartment.

Tashana got up from the bed and tried getting Mark to keep talking to her. She hugged him as he slipped away. She rose and walked as if in a daze to the living room.

The cops then saw her enter and screamed as if it were the first time she saw Mark's body lying on the floor.

With a sigh the lead detective closed the window on the camcorder and dropped it into the evidence bag. "So was there signs of forced entry?"
"No sir. The door was shut when we arrived, but not locked."
"They left the door open...Jesus. In this nieghborhood they were begging for it."
A police officer then entered the room. "Sir, I just spoke with her therapist. Here's his info. Seems she was supposed to be taking some prescription that was suppose to help her with a disorder and her blacking out."
"So that will explain her reaction, and that whole episode she was going through. Why was she still blacking out though? The pills didn't work?"
"Well if she filled the prescription. It probably would have helped."
"What?" The detective looked puzzled.
"We found the order in her purse sir." The detective took the order for prescription from the officer. He shook his head in disappointment.
"It was just one night of being irresponsible...one night."

The End

[Magician]

Re: Short Story Entries That Have Been Accepted (so far...)

<span style='font-size: 14pt'><span style="color: #FF0000">AUTHOR: Seveen

TITLE: Untitled</span></span>


hell no he aint dead

shake him

sleep man not dead

he’s dead, are you sure

so now what

we can’t afford no nine nights

we can’t afford no funeral

tell me he’s not dead

yes ma’am sorry

what kind of chicken do you want tomorrow

for the ceremony … you know

what ceremony sir

he dead ma’am

dead, dead, dead

oh lawd

I was not expecting this

Let me make a list

New dress

Food

Extra money for the help

Extra chickens

Might have to have mannish goat

Why you die this weekend

Okay okay

Yes we have that

No we don’t have that

no I don’t need that – thank you very much – let my husband be dead for at least a day

oh here come the ladies in red

and the white rum

and the whole town

I need more chickens

Hello,

Nice to meet you

Oh yeah

So

Thank you for this

Thank you again

Yes we have white rum

Curry goat

Yes it’s for brother Dingy

It’s a nine-night man

Not a party – cho

Rock steady baby

Hey baby

Yep Dingy is dead

Do you believe it

Where’s the Monet?

So, you gonna do the whole thing

Yep, every night, every drink, every meal

Well I’ll be here

(((sigh))) you don’t have to . . .

So the food comes

And the drinks comes

And the folks that don’t know what’s going on come

And then finally

After

One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine

Nights, Dingy finally is closer to ashes to ashes.

[Magician]

Re: Short Story Entries That Have Been Accepted (so far...)

<span style='font-size: 14pt'><span style="color: #FF0000">AUTHOR: Jahlove7

TITLE: Beverly My Sweet</span></span>


Beverly My Sweet

Beverly’s mom sat still, staring into space
The weight of grief on her face
The news was too much to bear
Reality captures a mother’s worst fear
So the scene continues to play
Her mind rewinding to yesterday
Taking herself away from this place
To lie in her daughters warm embrace
You see Beverly was only twenty-one
Like the wind now she’s was gone
Taken in her youthful prime
Not given that Oh so precious time
Beverly was born on the Island of Jamaica
Somewhere in the western Kingston area
Resided with a very wicked father
A childhood she would always remember
Her mom had remarried, was working in the USA
While she was on her knees twice a day, but only once to pray
She kept hidden all father’s sexual abuse
It was inevitable she became somewhat loose
In Jamaica it’s like a little parasitic ritual
You have perverts even waiting at the hospital
She reached out to the nearest searching for a savior
But was use to the blueprint of her father’s figure
So like her peers she fell in love with him
Into the depths of society’s so called sin
Thought she found this wonderful king
But all this royalty wanted was that thing
Took it and so easily pushed her aside
Fantasy and reality began to collide
Some say that’s truly the day she died
For hours and hours she cried
All because she told him she was pregnant
He insisted she abort, her choice was irrelevant
It was time she knew he had kids and a wife
Her heart hardened and she began to reject life
There weren’t enough prescriptions to fill
To cure a soul that has fallen ill
It took the love of friends and family
For her to continue her life’s journey
She got the news in early spring
By late summer she would be in foreign
So they made the necessary arrangements
Had her baby and now lived with her new parents
Beverly began to deal with paying the price
A part of her youth she would now have to sacrifice
Got herself a job and went to night school
Was now clearly out of the deep end of the pool
That’s when the cruelty of destiny struck
Too easily blamed on the myth of bad luck
Beverly had a beautiful four month old
Now more precious to her than gold
During the birth Beverly was given a routine procedure
Consequence, now she is susceptible to seizures
Tragedy like this could not have been foreseen
Found only in stories on the big screen
You see it was two days after her birthday
She was feeling so happy and gay
A better life for her daughter she could make
But the next morning she would not wake
Beverly had passed away in her sleep
It was as if she had this special date to keep
So now Beverly is gone
But she surely will not be forgotten
For as we mourn her tragic death
Her memory is found in her daughter’s every breath
This is a true story she was my adopted niece
Beverly my sweet may you rest in peace

[Magician]

Re: Short Story Entries That Have Been Accepted (so far...)

<span style="color: #FF0000"><span style='font-size: 14pt'>AUTHOR: ILP_Again

TITLE: Street Festival</span></span>




I’ve always hated carnivals. They were always too crowded and the food and the rides were always overpriced. Every line 20 minutes long. I never understood the point of playing those impossible games. The gigantic stuffed pink animals looked ridiculous. They never fit in the car. I guess that is why I found it interesting that I ran to the Catonsville Street Festival. Yale G. Cannon had put six bullet holes in my bedroom door, and I jumped out of the bedroom window. I was on the run. I spent hours walking around the street festival, because that is what the robot-sounding at 911 told me to do.

* * * * * *
There was nothing spectacular about the way Yale and I met. He was working as a dishwasher at the community college cafeteria where I took classes. He spent the five minutes I was in line waiting for my cheese and green pepper omelet blowing me kisses and winking his tiger colored eyes. He came over to my table and asked me for my phone number. He probably won’t call I thought, but I wrote it down anyway.

The phone rang that same night; it was 8:45pm.
“This is Speed,” said a melodious voice, “whutcha’ doin’?”

I recognized him instantly. He came over that night. We had talked briefly before he whispered, “I like big girls.” We talked about my major and the kinds of foods he would cook for me. He gently stroked my thigh while we talked. Then we made love. He was very skilled in bed. We were an instant item. He would go to work, I would go to class, I would visit him at work, he would come over, we would make love, and then we would go to sleep. I was so excited that I actually had a boyfriend that I didn’t mind that he never went home. I didn’t mind that his calls came to my house. It didn’t bother me that I came home immediately after classes, because Yale was waiting for me. I didn’t bother me a lot that my friends stopped having lunch with me, I didn’t bother me that he started asking me my whereabouts and following me to my classes.

“Tell me about yourself Mr. Cannon,” I inquired one evening while we were lying in bed after having sex.

“What do you want to know?” He was mesmerized by Monday Night Football. “I dunno, why do they call you Speed?”

“Cause I am fast, baby.” He pulled me to him and kissed me. I forgot to ask him where he lived and how come I never saw him with friends.

My mother once said that the hardest things to see in life are the things that are right in front of you. My friend Terri Newsome tried to get me to really see Yale. She wanted me to see the Yale that was standing in my face. Terri knocked on my front door one afternoon a month after I began seeing him. “She lives,” she said feigning surprise. “What the hell is going on with you?”

I tried to sound hurt. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t give me that [censored]. What is going on with you and this dude? I mean you have stopped calling folk, nobody sees you around anymore.” She looked past me and into the front door. “Damn! Can I come in?”

Instead, I quietly shut the door and came outside. I learned to do things quietly after I started seeing Yale. I missed sitting on my front step in the middle of the afternoon. Yale didn’t like to do that. He said it was ghetto. The sky had a hazy, azure color and I wanted to soak it up. I sat down on the front step. “Terri, I’ve been busy.” I gave her a sheepish look which seemed to make her more irate.

“Busy sexin’ with that Negro you’ve been seein’.”

Yale walked up the walkway and kissed me on the cheek. He was earlier than I had expected. “Doesn’t my tall, handsome, bowlegged man look good Terri?”

“Oh yeah, he’s a natural bomb, girl.” Of all my friends, Terri was the best at telling you in five words what your mother couldn’t tell you in eighteen years. She left that afternoon after giving me a hug and sticking a letter that Yale had written to her the day before in my pocket. I really didn’t want her to go, but Yale said it was time to go inside. I read the letter in the bathroom later that night after Yale went to bed. I pretended to have an upset stomach. I’m really feeling you…the letter said. When can we get together? I’m a private guy…keep this on the down low. I got back in bed after I read the letter. I couldn’t fall asleep so I stared at the ceiling and made a mental list of the errands I needed to run the next day.

I talked to Yale’s mother once during the time that we saw each other. I came out of the shower and he was on the phone. “Huh,” Yale said as he shoved the phone in my direction. An un-naturally soft sounding voice was on the other end. A voice that sounded like it was recovering from a really bad bout with laryngitis. “My son says that you are so beautiful. He says that you have been takin’ real, real good care of him.” I was shocked and flattered. Before I could answer, the voice on the phone continued, “Ya know, I jes’ got out of the hospital. You both should come and see me.” We talked for about five minutes before Yale took the phone and told her we had to go.

I continued thinking about the sound of Yale’s mother’s voice later that night. I didn’t have anything else to think about because Yale was grunting while he was bouncing up and down on top of me. I was trying to decide if his mother was really ill or if she was really an effeminate man.

* * * * * *
A jazz group had taken the main stage at the street carnival. The crowd just continued to scream. The group started their set without saying the usual “Hel-lo Bal-ti-more.” The aroma of fried dough slowly invaded my nose and I realized that I was hungry. The smell was too overpowering to have been coming from the food area, so I turned to investigate where the smell was coming from. “Scuse me,” a man with a stuffed mouth said. He moved to his right after spilling lemonade on my t-shirt. “I love them, they are so soulful.” The man managed to continue talking about the groups strengths and weaknesses, all the while swallowing very large bites of fried dough. He had a large birthmark on the side of his eye. It was shaped like the state of California. It reminded me of the mark Yale had put on my face because I came home late.

* * * * * *

I had cut my classes one Thursday afternoon and decided to meet Terri and a bunch of friends for happy hour. Happy hour lasted a bit longer, so I decided to have dinner and catch up on the latest gossip. Yale was sitting in the Lazy Boy with the remote in his hand when I returned home.

“Hey.” I reached over to kiss him. He didn’t blink. His eyes never left the TV.

“You are late. Where have you been?” His eyes were glazed over.

“I told you I was going to happy hour in the note.”

“People get that dressed up for happy hour, huh?” His voice sounded warped.

“You don’t wear old jeans,” I tried to reason.

Yale stood up and walked over to me. He smiled and then I smiled. He came closer and I prepared myself for him to kiss me. I was stunned and confused when he punched me. I put a cold washcloth on my face and came up with justifications for Yale’s reaction to my late arrival. I decided that I did get home at 9:30 p.m. when I promised to be home at 7:30 p.m. I decided that I would just be better about coming home when I said I would. Maybe get home earlier. I covered the bruise I received for my mistake with make up.

Another one of my mother’s famous sayings is that you could find out what was important to a man by the contents of his wallet. I could hear her overbearing Jamaican accent saying, “Any man wortah dime, will hava picture of his ooman.” She always had un-welcomed pieces of advice and I always seemed to remember them when my subconscious was looking for answers. I guess that is why I looked through Yale’s wallet on the dresser one evening after another round in bed. His wallet contained the usual ID, a monthly bus pass, a piece of hair, a wrinkled dollar, and his Maryland State Department of Corrections Parole Identification Card.

I made Yale breakfast the morning after my discovery and kissed him good bye. I called Terri and told her what I had found. She was on her way. Terri would know what to do. “Tell the police that he is threatening you and that he will not leave you alone.” She kept saying it over and over again. Her advice really didn’t make sense. All I know was that I was embarrassed. I had been dating an ex-con. My mind raced with ideas about what he was convicted for doing.

At the precinct, Sgt. Ernest Powell, who looked like he had been sitting behind his desk for fifteen years, told me over gold-wired reading glasses about Yale’s sordid past. “Yale and the law go back quite a bit,” he said as he adjusted his stomach over his paper filled desk. “How did a young lady like yeerself get hooked up with the likes of him?” According to Sgt. Powell, Yale had been released early after serving six years of a twenty-five year stint at the men’s facility in Jessup. He was in for attempted murder of a woman (apparently he had slashed her throat) and assault of a police officer. The best Sgt. Powell could do was put a restraining order on Yale to stay 500 feet or more away from me. They would serve him at work. Sgt. Powell didn’t think Yale was dumb enough to violate his parole.

* * * * * *

Night came quickly to the Catonsville Street Festival. Smells of cut grass, beer, and trash hovered in the air. I was hungry but didn’t want to go home. I couldn’t call anyone because I didn’t want to beg for money in order to use the phone. I didn’t bring money for the phone. I walked around the carnival and stopped by each of the craft booths. I touched books, caressed wooden carvings, I smelled bottled oils, and wondered if Yale would look for me here. I spotted a police officer talking into his shoulder radio. He looked directly at me. Something on his radio made him recognize me. He walked over to me and asked, “What’s your name, dearie?” I was relieved when he told me that he would take me to the precinct. Apparently, Yale had been picked up after being spotted running from my house with a gun.

When I arrived at the precinct, Sgt. Powell was waiting for me. “Are you hungry? I have corned beef. It’s on rye.” I was starving, but I decided that my stomach would have to wait. I needed to see Yale. I thought he would look different after being picked up by the police. I signed one affidavit after another. I was assured that Yale would not bother me again. He had to finish his sentence after being picked up with a gun.

“You can finish school without worrying, he’ll be gone a while.” Sgt. Powell assured me. “Do you want to press charges?”

"I actually want to talk to him.”

“Huh? Suit yourself.”

I was led behind a double swinging door, where recently arrested individuals waited to be processed. The 8x10 foot room smelled like someone who needed a bath after not taking one for a day or two. Brown benches were placed against each wall of the room. A silver bar rested above each bench. The center of the room was empty. Yale was sitting on one of these benches, each of his wrists handcuffed to the silver bar. The handcuff made him look like he was on display. He was waiting for me.

“They say you are going back to Jessup.”

“Probably Hagerstown,” he managed to reply matter of factly. His eyes had that glazed-over look.

I didn’t ask why he tried to shoot me. I didn’t ask Yale if he loved me. I backed out of the room, so I could really get a good look at him. He looked kind of ordinary. He wasn’t the handsome, bowlegged guy I thought he was.
Sgt. Powell gave me a ride home. We drove by the entrance to the street festival. “I hate those festivals,” he said, trying to make conversation, “just a bunch of overtime.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “You can let me off here.” Sgt. Powell dropped me off two houses away from my house.

“Call me if you need anything, ya know, if you want to talk. OK?”

“Sure.”

I walked up to the front steps of my house and sat down. I was exhausted. I felt really old. I sat there for a long while. I could hear the faint sound of the festival. The sounds like warped records playing and muffled voices, made me chuckle. The slight breeze carried the scent of fried dough past my nose. An old Chevy Hatchback went by. The rear bumper barely cleared the road. In the back seat sat a very large, yellow spotted stuffed giraffe. The child sitting next to it looked smashed against the car door.

[Magician]

Re: Short Story Entries That Have Been Accepted (so far...)

<span style="color: #FF0000"><span style='font-size: 14pt'>AUTHOR: Calvin


TITLE: The Girl with the Red Shoes</span></span>



It was just after six when I stubbed out my last Belmont, took a final slug of cafe con leche and stumbled out of the grimy coffee bar onto the wide boulevard. There was no point in hanging around inside and whiling away the hours watching TV and waiting for news from Caracas. The generals had taken the state network off the air, and the private stations had imposed a news blackout. Besides, it was a glorious afternoon and the solitary bridge that connected Cuidad Bolivar to the remote settlements on the far side of the Orinoco River was silhouetted against the orange glow of the setting sun.

As I began walking slowly back towards the Hotel Colonial, I felt a hand tugging at my shirtsleeve. I turned and saw a slim mestizo girl dressed in a short black shirt and glossy red shoes. She was pretty, but in that slightly faded way that spoke of an empty fridge and too many late nights.

“Charma, I want to have your babies” said the girl, flicking back her dyed blond hair with her hand as she pushed her chest close up against me. I must have looked like what I was: a typical know-nothing gringo in spanking new Nikes with Raybans wrapped around my forehead like an aspiring Hollywood film star. No wonder she picked on me.

“No es possible para me” I lied. “Yo no tengo pinga. Un accidente terrible” I said, pointing at my flies and making a scissor motion with my fingers.

A second or two elapsed as the girl tried to judge the veracity of my outlandish claims. And then, inexplicably and without warning, she looked upwards and screamed.


***


The day before, on the hotel balcony overlooking the Orinoco, Helga was holding forth about the president. “The thing about Hugo Chavez is that he means business” she said earnestly, banging her beer glass down on the table for emphasis. “Venezuela is going through a revolution!” If it were not for the little crows feet still visible behind the disguise of her foundation, I would have put her at no more than forty. It’s always the eyes that betray a woman’s age.

“You think so?” I replied. “To me, he seems more like a typical Latin American caudillo. I’ve heard it all before. These guys talk about doing something for the poor, then as soon as they get elected they forget all about their promises and cosy up to the Americans just like all the rest.”

I stopped abruptly, realising that I was making a speech. And anyway, who was I to disabuse Helga of her illusions? She might be an idealist, but at least she was spending her time in Cuidad Bolivar learning something about the people. All I was doing was doing was using the place as a staging post whilst I waited for the next single engine Cesna to fly me to Angel Falls. Me and all the other dumb tourists.

“You think I’m naive, don’t you?” said Helga, reading my mind. “But I’ve spent the last couple of months teaching German in the barrios that surround this city. Something extraordinary is happening, except that nobody has noticed. The poor have gotten themselves organised and are taking control. Chavez has sent the army into the barrios, not to kill people, but to build houses for them. The upper classes are terrified that Venezuela is going to become another Cuba.”

“Well if what you’re saying is true, Chavez sounds more like an Allende than a Castro” I interjected. “And we all know what happens to Latin American leaders who rock the boat. Actually, that’s not quite true. How many yanks do know what their government did in Chile in ’73? Do you know the date of the coup? September the eleventh. About the same number of people killed too.” I was rambling again.

“So how long is this government going to last?” I asked, holding up two fingers to the waiter and pointing at the empty bottles of Polar.

Helga leaned forward and put her hand on my knee. “Maybe a day, maybe a month, maybe twenty years. No one knows. But don’t underestimate the ordinary people. They are with Chavez”

“I can’t see them” I said, gesturing towards the TV set in the corner of the bar. As usual, the presenter was talking about Chavez. “Is the president insane?” she was asking a panel of military men. The waiter flicked over the channel. A camera unit was broadcasting live from the scene of a huge anti-government demonstration. People in designer clothing and expensive jewellery kept putting their white faces in front of the camera and screaming abuse: Chavez is a killer! Chavez, go and live in Cuba! Chavez, you must die like a dog! A few days ago I would have stared at the screen, open mouthed. Now it just seemed normal.

“Do you miss Germany?” I asked. “Which one?” Helga said. “There’s still two Germanys. We in the East wanted socialism and democracy. We lost the former, and when we got the latter, it turned out to be a sugar-coated lie. That’s why I’m here, slaving away for 80 dollars a week. It’s better than being unemployed back home, even if it doesn’t pay as well.”

Then, out of the blue, Helga asked me if I was married.

“Sort of” I replied.

“Seperated?”

I nodded and forced a smile. It had been nearly a year since we had split. It was the little things I missed, like the way she used to wake me up in the mornings with a cup of milky coffee and a kiss on my forehead. I thought of her with the lover she finally took, after suffering years of my infidelities. I wonder if they’re making love right now? I looked at my watch and tried to work out what time it was in London. Are they five hours ahead or five hours behind? I’d been away far too long.

Then there was silence. A nice comfortable understanding silence. We were both running away, Helga and I. She from the wall in her head that had never come down. And me? That was easy. I was running from every mid-life cliché ever invented, and in the process confirming them all.

We sat there for a few minutes more, watching TV and smoking. “We’re like a couple of overgrown gap-year students” I said finally. Helga laughed. “Yes, I suppose we are” she said.

“Nino” I said, raising my eyebrows at the waiter. “La cuenta, por favour”


***


That night Helga and I made love for the first time. As we caressed each another between the sheets and our bodies began to move in unison, the army began to move through the streets. When we were finished, Helga turned on the radio to listen to some jazz. Instead there was a public announcement. We had a new government. Chavez had been ousted in a coup.

I awoke at noon with a headache from oversleeping. Helga had left me a note saying that she was returning to the barrio to be with “her people”. I decided to skip breakfast and take a walk. The streets were tense with expectation and shopkeepers were boarding up their windows. The curfew was due to begin at six. Everyone felt that something was about to happen, but nobody knew quite what. After a couple of hours of strolling around aimlessly, I found the grimy little coffee bar. It was the sort of place you could spend all day in without annoying the owners. I ordered an arepa and coffee and settled down to read the papers.


***


By the time I stumbled out of the coffee bar, I had forgotten all about the curfew. When the girl with red shoes screamed and looked upwards, my eyes followed hers. Perched atop the roof of the building opposite was a sniper, his rifle trained on us. He was just a boy, no more than 19 or 20 years old. “Pare!” he shouted. Stop! I could sense the fear in his voice and wondered how a young British soldier must have felt in Belfast during the troubles. The girl panicked and started to run. “Pare!” the sniper shouted again. I put my hands up and shut my eyes.

When I opened them, the girl was lying slumped on the pavement, crumpled up like a discarded rag doll. There was a look of incomprehension on what was left of her face. I dragged her limp body over to a shop doorway and laid her down next to a small pile of garbage. I tore a strip off the back of her skirt, leaving her bottom partly exposed to the eyes of the sniper. As if to explain this act of defilement, I placed the ragged piece of cloth over her bloodied head and shoulders and said the only prayer I could remember from my schooldays.

I lit another Belmont and sat there in silence, counting the armoured cars and trucks as they made their way slowly across the Orinoco bridge like a little army of green ants. Charma, I wanna have your babies, the girl had said. The sounds of gunshots and breaking glass were getting louder and in the distance I could hear chanting: El pueblo unido, jamas sera vencido. I imagined Helga amongst the crowd, wearing a black bandana, her eyes lit up with fervour and anger. I suddenly understood that Helga and the sniper and girl no longer had to make a choice. I did. I picked myself up and began to walk.

[Magician]

Re: Short Story Entries That Have Been Accepted (so far...)

<span style='font-size: 14pt'><span style="color: #FF0000">AUTHOR: Derob

TITLE: Bill</span></span>


As a writer of science fiction novels, I endeavor to distinguish my works by constructing them on a foundation of well researched facts. It was during the research phase of my last novel that my troubles first began. The novel was to have as its central character a demon. The aim of my research was to find historical and biblical accounts of a demon upon which I could base this character. I will not relate to you the name of the demon at this time, as that invocation was the source of my undoing.

My first experience with the entity (whom I came to refer to as Bill, because he so delighted in the hearing of his true name, that I chose this much less regal name, in order to deny him such delight) was late one night while reading references made to demons in the Satanic Bible. I had made the mistake of reading Bill's true name out loud while going over a reference to his lineage. Immediately after this utterance, I felt a cold chill caress the back of my neck. I then began to detect a foul, putrid odor in the room. I gathered together my research materials and went into the living room to work, but the stench seemed to follow me. I went to the window to let in some fresh air, and when I opened the curtains, I came face to face with Bill.
"Hello David", he said with a sly grin, "I do hope you will spell my name correctly".
Gasping from this sudden shock, I shouted "get off my property!"
"Take it easy buddy, I just want to help, after all it's my story".
I lunged at the window, flinging the curtains over the unholy apparition. I stood there with my heart pounding in my chest, trying to convince myself that nothing extraordinary had just occurred. After a few agonizing minutes of terror, I began to feel some slight measure of calm returning to me. Then I heard from outside my window, "we'll talk later David".

After my initial introduction to Bill, I spent several sleepless nights in my study, drinking heavily. I avoided touching, or even looking at my research materials. I convinced myself that the matter was concluded, and my novel would be based on some new, completely different subject. I was determined to put this experience, and Bill, out of my mind. Bill, had something quite different in mind, "why aren't you working on our book?" inquired a familiar voice outside my window. I ran into the kitchen and poured myself a large measure of Scotch to calm my nerves. "You are going to make a lot of money" came Bill's voice through the kitchen window. I stumbled backwards into the center of my living room and heard,"I'll be here until it's finished". For several more days I continued to resist Bill's efforts to prod me into continuing with the novel, but his nightly visits were too frightening for me to endure.

When I returned to my novel, it was with a fervor and determination that I had never before summoned in my work. Bill left me alone as I wrote page after page at a phenomenal pace. The words came to me so effortlessly that it seemed as if I were a mere observer to the process, and not its author. When I had finished my writing, I read it as one reading it for the first time. I also hoped that no one else would ever read it. But of course Bill would see to it that it was read, he appeared outside my window to congratulate me on the completion of "our work", and to remind me to send it to my publisher.

My novel has now been through several printings, as it remains a Best Seller. My publisher has begun to pester me for a sequel, a thought which worries me greatly. I have not heard from Bill since the day I finished the book, but I still drink Scotch every night, and I never open the curtains.

[Magician]

Re: Short Story Entries That Have Been Accepted (so far...)

<span style="color: #FF0000"><span style='font-size: 14pt'>AUTHOR: Guango1975

TITLE: Untitled</span></span>


Driving at high speed on a wet road is a challenge for even the most experienced of drivers. Losing control at high speed on a wet road, well, then you’ll start believing in God. Now, if you are a new driver and that happens well, God or a miracle, you’ll take either one.

Piggy had never had formal driving lessons, just afforded the use of a car so as to familiarize himself with what the experience was like. He had received his license in the mail maybe three days previous to that rainy morning when the world turned.

On that particular morning he had to give his mother a ride to work. He was already late for his own job and as usual she was complaining. The way she saw it, he didn’t know how to drive, and she couldn’t understand why she was taking such a chance to drive with him. Truthfully, he couldn’t wait to get to her office so he could stop hearing the complaints.

They finally got to her office and it was a relief for both of them, although it was hard to say who was happier. Her parting words were a warning for him to be careful, adding the old saying: “better to be late than never; an’ yu know mi have goat-mouth.”

“Memba seh you nuh know fi drive,” She added. “Mi nuh know why mi drive wid yu dis mawnin.” Sometimes it was hard to tell if she was joking or she was serious.

“Mama, mi a’right,” he replied. “You worry too much.”
“Mek sure yu take yu time,” She insisted. “De road is very wet.” As if stating the obvious was going to make a difference.
“Ah, good,” he sighed with relief, as she ran into her office.

Well, sure enough, he didn’t take her advice and, from past experiences, that was a stupid thing to do. He knew his mother should be considered a jinx because whenever she warned you about anything, inevitably, it always seemed to happen. Unfortunately for him, he must have forgotten.

He got on the Cross County Parkway via exit seven, and by the time he got off the ramp he was doing like 60 miles per hour. There were two cars in front of him, another car in the next lane over, and three more cars bringing up the rear.

It was about eight-thirty in the morning and the sky was overcast with dark-grey clouds and blue streaks of lightning, the result of a rush-hour thunderstorm. He had no music but he was satisfied with the music being provided by the rumble overhead and the pitter-patter of rain on the roof.

By the time Piggy got to the next bend there were no cars close to him. The other drivers had either exited the parkway, or had been left behind. It was like driving in a little cocoon of rain, asphalt, and spray from his tires at eighty miles per hour. He was so lost in his little world that when he heard his engine’s increased revolution, it totally caught him by surprise. The next thing he knew the sky, road and trees went from his left to his right in a neat little arc.

Immediately following that there was a loud bang and he was thrown forward against the seat-belt. Before he could react to that he was headed in the opposite direction, then another arc, then once again he slammed into the divider.

Once the car hit the divider a second time that’s when he realized that his foot was still on the accelerator and removed it, thus coming to a stop. During that entire sequence the only thought that had gone through his mind was: “I don’t know how to scream!”

Piggy got out of the car, now parked in the “passing lane,” and stood there laughing like an idiot. After about another ten minutes a policeman showed up and took a statement from him. The officer then summoned a tow-truck to remove his vehicle, by which time he had regained his senses.

He was offered a ride in the back of the police car, no hand-cuffs, to the nearest bus stop. He made it to work and continued his day like nothing had happened, too embarrassed to tell anyone about his ordeal. Hey, a man that perfect doesn’t make a mistake like that.

Piggy still has no idea what idea what kind of statement he gave to the officer (was that shock?) He is still unsure of the sequence of events. Did he hear the engine over-revving first, or did he see the world revolve around him, then hear the engine? He certainly doesn’t intend to repeat this exercise so maybe he’ll never know, but one thing’s for sure: for one moment in time the world revolved around him.

Piggy still has not received formal driving instructions, but neither has he had any real accident. Despite his experiences and what he has learned about driving, and although his mother still has not yet heard about the other time he lost control at a hundred and thirty miles per hour, she has still refused to drive with him, eighteen years later.

[Magician]

VOTE HERE for the best Short Story.

[Magician]

Re: VOTE HERE for the best Short Story.

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<span style='font-size: 14pt'><span style='font-family: Comic Sans MS'>Congratulations to <span style="color: #FF0000">ILP_Again </span>for her winning short story entitled "<span style="color: #3333FF">Street Festival</span>"! </span></span>

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<span style='font-size: 14pt'><span style='font-family: Impact'>ILP_Again, you will receive a Jamaicans.com T-Shirt, and "Street Festival" will be published on the front page of Jamaicans.com for the month of May. Look for a PM from Xavier shortly about your T-shirt. </span></span>

<span style='font-size: 14pt'><span style='font-family: Book Antiqua'>Thank you all who participated in the contest!
Both the writers who gava us excellent material to read, and the critics who voted in the finals.
Thanks also to Newtral, who suggested the contest.
If anyone would like to see other competitions, suggest them in feedback and we'll look into it!</span> </span>[img]/forums/images/%%GRAEMLIN_URL%%/70409-waytogo.gif[/img]

[Magician]

Re: VOTE HERE for the best Short Story.

Link to the winner's story on the front page...