Feel Free to Roam

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

What Haunts the Sable Sphere - Part 1

The smell of burning porridge rose to the surface of the air and the eggs rank stench traveled with a heavy odor of black pepper and cumin that now burns intensely on your nostrils. Hunched over the stainless steel range tucked in the far right of the kitchen, she is cooking up your favorite meal; eggs and sausage with a hefty helping of plantain porridge and crushed sweet potatoes. The flushed coral Martha Stewart’s inspired pots give great life to the austere gray tones of the marbled kitchen walls. Water is gushing from the faucet, keeping the sweet potatoes cool until she’s ready for them. And she still hasn’t gotten around to your roasted tomato gravy, made spicy with the red bird peppers from the small vegetable garden you planted together. Shuffling over to the dining table she sits directly in front of you, spreads her thighs wide apart, and sluggishly pulled the torn hemline of her pale blue sundress unto her breathing hips, revealing the thick luster of pubic hair, growing wild from her Bermuda triangle. Her thighs still possess the ripe youthful strength that captured your gaze ten years to the date. It’s your anniversary. You never married her for reasons she still seems to be unaware of, even with all that has unraveled within the last four hours, thirty seven minutes and three and a half seconds.

“Ralph I need you home more often, it’s quite lonely waiting for you,” she whispers gently while placing the bronze mixing bowl between her thighs, and smiles. The darkness of her skin has always revealed the beautiful contours of a West African princess.

“Ralphee are you listening to me.” Her delicate face weighs heavy with eagerness; almost a craze insistence for your response.


Nodding furiously, your face perched for a sudden up roar, if only you could free your wrist from the cold grips of the kerosene drunken ropes wrapped around the curved arms of the ashen chair.
Flailing within the confined embrace and glaring directly at Amma, your attempts to brake free are exhausting. She smiles in contentment, finally you have nowhere to go. Stifled screams are barred by the soiled bloody blue linen wrapped around your throbbing lips. You are all hers. Face swollen ruff and bruised, your eyes crowded with curdled blood as tears shamefully creep down the high arches of your cheeks and settle on callous lips, the taste is cruel and real. The reality being the selfish choices you have made, eventually; propelling your once solemn Amma to the brink of unforeseen madness. Amma brings her hand heavily down on the center of the mixing bowl, crushing the contents. Sweet mashed potatoes and hearty yucca gradually forced together, molding and folding into each other, the determination within her gaze bares hidden longings.
Continuously gyrating her wrist into the bowl grasping the tiny mortar stick, glancing occasionally at your pathetic face with the bitter waters flooding and flowing over your weakened chin. Amma places the bowl on the table with the mortar stick erect in the center, kneeling on the dark wooden floor and arching her back under the table, she stares intently. Around the edges of the solid wooden structure are sculpted imprints of the Sankofa symbol. She recalls how the two of you eagerly placed each imprint together as a mark of your 5th year of commitment to each other. Suddenly, without hesitation she maneuvers from beneath the table, grabs the bowl from above, and shuffles hastily over to the kitchen sink. You can hear her rustling about in the cupboard, dishes moving and clashing with each other, something falls shattering upon impact with the floor. But she continues on, tossing about the cupboard. A few seconds later Amma places a ceramic triangular bowl on the table it’s filled with a fluffy dense mixture. It’s the potatoes from before, your mind is racing, and the throbbing beneath your chest seems tempted to leap out and stain the air with red fear. You’re hoping that she wouldn’t try feeding you, she must have poisoned everything. Back to the kitchen she goes.

Glancing at the full length oak framed mirror from across the dining table, your reflection a strange visual for swollen eyes. Your mind is still searching for reasons of why your woman would strike you with such vengeance. You were still loving her. After all, you picked her up when necessary and sex was given twice a week.

You were loving.

Food was always in the fridge, bills were paid.

You were providing.

In the morning she would find you always by her side. You were protecting.
Amma races back from the kitchen her tattered blue dress covered with dried blood and traces of her heavy labor soiled the gentle fabric. Placing the remaining dishes on the ironed linen, it is a picturesque site. She’s determined to unlock your soul. Taking a silver dinner knife from the setting, she darts under the table, looking again at the Sankofa markings and then turning directly at your naked pelvis. Amma grabs your dick and engulfs the limp stem with her mouth, clutching your testicles in her left hand, she begins to gnaw at your betraying flesh. You scream in delirious pain but your sounds are muffled. You can feel your flesh separating, blood seeping from the fresh wound. Again with feline precision Amma springs forth and tactically disappears. This time retrieving a sharp butcher’s knife and without hesitation but with no less pain your testicles have forcibly abandoned your body. It’s concealed within her fist, Amma places her hands over the lengthy vase in the center of the table, releasing her folded fingers and freeing the contents . The water within the crystal cylindrical structure turns a pale bitter red and they both sink to the bottom.

Friday, July 2, 2010

Where The Balls At (Journal entry for Fiction)

It had nothing to do with him but he is so completely wrapped up in his ego it's impossible for him to see beyond himself. It's as though he's walking around with his head violently wedge within his anus. Yes it's safe to say i despise him. Not in the sense of rage and hate but his tactless, materialistic and selfish attitude just causes my brain to involuntarily detach from my body and contemplate leaping out of my skull.
I was bonking him as much as he was getting pussy. it's a two way street! That Fucker! He called, in a fit because i refused to come over to assist his arrogant dick to an orgasm. Does he think my orifices are his playground, No this is not John Mayor's "Your body is a wonderland." Fuck that. If i don't feel like cumming most definitely i am not going to come. Probably he doesn't understand the prinicple of Buddy Assistant. Before i thought he was the perfect choice, we're sexually compatible his organ is waaaaaaay above average....I pause to reflect

and we were together for four years. So why not let your Buddy Assist be your ex. i felt things would not get complicated. Boy was i wrong. It's generally known that it is quite dangerous to dive into a platonic relationship with your Ex. But the base line of that ideal is simply related to the 'out of control wacky ditsy female emotions'. Some chauvinistic crow probably sarted that rumor... (rubbish)

the fact that i still love him made the sexual escapades even more exciting and darn satisfying might i add. But i understood that beyond the friction in the sheets there was no more left to be had by either one of us. I just needed some, was i wrong... (shut your judging eyes and curve that wagging finger)
Though i must mention in order to carry on this affair taking into consideration his overbearing male ego. i had to instill the pretense that the space between my thighs salivated for him alone and as such, he was the only Knight who roamed my hidden hollows...

HAH HAH! Such a gullible prehistoric ape, so yes i played tit for tat with his ridiculous invasions of my privacy and coyly responded to his vacuous declarations of love. he never once conceived the idea that a woman, needless to say i, would actually OWN the scrotum lost within some fractured state of genetics and treat him as marginally as he and his man clan have done to female beings.

Yes I reduced him to the basic function of his penile organ and yes i take no shame with it. however, the hyena growling escaping through the receiver of my phone at three in the morning was not expected and certainly not welcomed. So, with no more hesitation i introduced his ear drum to the dial tone and drifted into my slumber, content that the screeching nagging on the line did not belong to a BITCH.

Fiction Exploration of Writing with 2nd person

Your Bedtime Story

This whole concept of living becomes too tedious too often; you’re quite frankly just over being in this world enclosed and burdened by circumstances that just seem to increase as time goes by. You are tired. More so, you go about wondering when eventually you would decide to end it all, in order to escape; the monthly breakdowns and changing depressions. Sometimes, you ponder the idea that beyond this place in heaven somewhere; god is perched on his throne head flung high, mouth opening and surging from his gut is erroneous laughter: Laughing at the misfits called humans. But even these moments of daydreaming and mental drifting cannot become a constant practice, for they themselves will eventually pose a threat to your existence. 
Again this morning you spent two hours hunting for four dollars and 50 cents. After emptying shallow money banks, diving into sofas, leaving upturned cushions and sifting through the various crevices, you just managed to gather half of that amount. But at least; it’s a trip to school. So you resolve to walk the twenty two blocks back home. You ponder and curse yourself for quitting the lesbians. Pretending to be a sex slave perhaps was not so bad but then again turning into one is another story. Three hundred and fifty dollars a week cannot compensate for the energy that is put into faking those orgasms: Contorting your body to fit the molds of strange flesh. Who are you down there? Yes, down there, your pussy, do you even know what’s going on. When was the last time you took a deep look into that space? Or have you really become comfortable ignoring and pretending it does not exist, while demons violate and defecate within your space.  However, choices weren’t necessarily given to you and empty mouths would not feed themselves, tuition has to be paid, shelter to maintain and the never ending to do list continues. Welcome to the life of an immigrant.
What you wouldn’t do to at least get a position at Burger king, these Americans turn their noses and spit upon what they consider modern peasant work but for only you had the choice of reciting; “Hello welcome to Mc Donald’s may I take your order please” instead of making mental notes of Karma sutra or the money shaker moves of a exotic dancer.
At times you think of champagne sunsets, strong coco man trees, fresh grass and the Atlantic Ocean at night; sometimes, you think of home. Maybe you’d marry to the love of your life, with two point five kids and a career that you’d actually be able to brag about. Instead, you’re a belly dancer slash, naughty nurse slash, poll master slash, broke student and not to mention you’re months away from your twenty fifth birthday. You’re running out of time. You should of at least been happily married by now. Patrick means well but you cannot see yourself married to him. He’s ambitious wealthy and charming. He would treat Monica Bradshaw like a Queen but he’s never met Roxanne Charles. Why the hell did your mother give you that man’s name is beyond your comprehension. It’s not like he contributed a nickel to your name, god knows if he is dead or alive.
You have two hours before you start your shift at the club. Two hours to get home freshen up, hell who are you kidding you don’t need a bath, not like you’re sleeping with anyone, tonight. Grab your stuff and you’ll get Akeim in all his queenly glory to drop you off at the club, these thoughts must go to bed now.