Monday, January 25, 2016

Their wooly black locs twirled in circles down their backs, swinging in unison with one another to the beat of the faint steel drums echoing from the hot Harlem streets.  Their fingers laced together, tight and their offspring close at their backs.  Their tiny steps just hairs from their elders.  Their baby locs springing like tiny coils from their fertile heads.  Uneven but still beautiful.

And they were Harlem black.  Uptown brown.  Deep but shallow. Created by the sun and mildly bitter from yellow. Like jewels in the smokey city heat.   Their velvet locs moist with coconut.  Their skin like licorice and Shea.  Their clothing was handmade.  Rich cottony fabrics. Vivid blue and white.  It floated with them.  Caught in the breeze they created.  Barely grazing the asphalt that carried their feet.

I wanted to be with them.  Birthed from them.  Maybe just close enough to listen to them speak. So my thoughts could dance in the beat they left in their footsteps.  Words and books and truth and knowledge.  Standing in my moss green tights and Catholic school uniform, I released my mother's manicured hands and watched.  We were here from South Jamaica to see ourselves. More what we hoped and who we had planned to be.  My hair was processed and short.  It smelled like Soft Sheen and Dax. It stunk in their light. And I
Who I
Me
Who I pretend
Who I be
I knew
Breathing in the air they shared as they passed us by. I was watching them be free.



***
Prompt: Write about freedom.

Each Sunday, I will be sharing my response to a short writing prompt from the many (many) writing books I've invested in over the years.  Enjoy, join me or leave a comment! Prompts are an awesome way to get the muse to come out and play.

Love and Light,
Faye

Monday, January 18, 2016

I wasn't entirely sure how I got there. I'd overheard the one with yellow hair say I'd been asleep in a box and that my fur had been covered in icicles, my eyelids practically frozen shut. I just remember that the box was warmer than the ground had been and drier.  That sleep had been good after all of that walking. I'd curled up in the corner of the box, warmed by a small stream of light pouring from a window high above my head.  The light smelled like cinnamon and warmed the air around it.  It reminded me of home. Though I knew it wasn't. I had been lost for awhile then. Too far away to find my way back.

I must have forgotten to awaken because I woke up in a cage, bright and warm.  A soft bed, a full bowl and a sandy box to do my business in when I had to go.  I had a neighbor but he didn't acknowledge me  much.  He had patches of fur missing all over his body and I could tell from his scent he had been places I'd never been.  He'd lick his bare skin and fall in and out of sleep, a habit that made most visitors stand a little farther away and visit me instead.

I didn't mind it much.  I liked the cats that walked on two legs.  They'd crouch down say things to me. Warm air pouring out of their mouths, teasing me with their fingers.  Some would even scratch my head until I closed my eyes. Purring to show my gratitude.  They'd come and go until the sun went down.  Nights were lonely and quiet. It was then that I'd miss the sun and moving air.  A good stretch or a long walk.

When she came in for the first time, I had a feeling it wouldn't be her last time.  She stayed for longer than most people and left right after we played.  Like I was who she had come for and no one else.  She had the little one with her and he was scared at first.  He'd smile but he wouldn't get too close. He'd bring me squeaky objects that the dogs like and wave them in front of my cage to get my attention. Then he'd run away.  Too afraid that I'd get too close but wanting me to at the same time. I'd stick my paw out so he could touch it and mash my face against the bars so he would nozzle my nose.  When he was brave enough to touch me, he would giggle.  His hand smelled like clay and wax. It was usually stained in marker.  When I knew him better, I'd try to clean it off.  When he'd laugh, she would too.  I would stick my paw out of the cage and place it on her palm.  She stroke it tenderly and say calming things in words that sounded like songs.

The day she brought the other two with her I knew they were mine.  The big one brought me out of the cage and held be high of above the ground.  Held me tighter when a big dog walked by and scratched in my favorite spot beneath my chin as he said hello.  The other little one did the same, holding my eyes for the longest and smiling with missing teeth.  I went home with them that day. In a box like the one I'd found under that window.  But this one was filled with warmth. In this one, I wasn't alone.

In our house, they give me my space. They open the window to let me feel the air and pull me close sometimes so I can feel their hearts beat. My bowl is full and I don't have to search to find water.  They say things that they believe I can't understand. I do. Most of it.  But I go when I want so they know its always my choice. To stay. I know enough about the places around to go when I don't want to be seen or hear any sounds.  I can tell they like me. I can tell they won't hurt me.  I can tell they would be sad if I went away.  I would too. I guess.

I think I'll stay awhile.



***
Prompt: Write from the point of view of an animal.

Each Sunday, I will be sharing my response to a short writing prompt from the many (many) writing books I've invested in over the years.  Enjoy, join me or leave a comment! Prompts are an awesome way to get the muse to come out and play.


Love and Light,
Faye

Sunday, January 10, 2016

The blades of grass tickled our bare feet as we tried to outrun the chase of the sprinkler. Hopping between the gaps, the cool tap water shooting out like fireworks, raining down and mixing with the beads of sweat on our skin.   We'd collapse on our towels atop the asphalt and giggle until our stomachs hurt. Inhaling the salty smoke of the fired up charcoal grills, swimming into our nostrils and making our stomachs growl.  Low bass and sweet rhythms poured from other yards, intoxicating the elders with Beres Hammond and coconut rum, whiskey and Maze.  Their shadows peeked through the thick bushes that separated our yards.  Holding each other close as the sun beat down on their cotton tunics and sandaled feet.  Low rumbling of grown up talk soundtracked the air as we browned like turkeys and ran like wild beasts in the city sun.

We feared nothing yet were afraid of so much. Scraped knees and chewed fingernails.  Climbing tall trees and hiding from the leer of new grown ups.  Our bathing suits hid so little.  Blossoming bodies practically nude beneath the thin nylon lycra of our swimsuits.  Jaundiced eyes and "Hey, little girls" and "Hey, little lady, you look so sweet." Accents and curry.  Nicotine and blackened ribs.  Tight hugs and leather belts.  The candy from the corner store was hard, thick and ten cents. You could get two mouths full for a dollar.  Wedged beneath the gaps in our braces and mashed in the pits of our back teeth.  Short bike rides. Hot asphalt.  We, hopeful with bright eyes.  Police sirens and the Cosby show.  Sweet dreams, disappearing nights.

Endless days on repeat.





***
Prompt: Write about a place.

Each Sunday, I will be sharing my response to a short writing prompt from the many (many) writing books I've invested in over the years.  Enjoy, join me or leave a comment! Prompts are an awesome way to get the muse to come out and play.


Love and Light,
Faye

Sunday, January 3, 2016

There were so many possibilities in that moment.
When I close my eyes now, I can still feel them.  Warm, sweet, endless.  Leaned into him. Wrapped in his large arms.  On my ivory couch. Even then it felt safe and worn. Like I had been there before. Even though it was our first time.
The scent of the candle I lit traveled between us, filling the air with hints of cinnamon and spice.  Bouncing around to the music he played.  A forgotten song buried in a forgotten CD.  Satisfying in a way I'd forgotten I'd needed.
I was in a small studio then.
Young, solo, excited and scared.  Scents and sounds filled those four walls like color.  Vibrant, present... almost human.  We were barely shadows in that candlelight and I think we both knew how small we were in the depth of that moment.  The girl with the long braids and the boy with the messy afro.  Specks of candlelight in our eyes.
His fingertips moved up and down my arms, stopping only to toy with the hem of my long sleeves and then drifting back up again.  I could have stayed like that on repeat.  Living in that song.  In that moment.
His voice was so low at first I thought it was the song.  He'd asked me to kiss him.  I was almost too nervous to say yes.  I nodded slowly, leaning my head back to meet his lips and looking into his eyes.  He looked back at me, still asking.  I met his lips with certainty, our eyes drifting closed.  Ready.  His hand resting tenderly on my cheek.  Mine on his.
It was nothing but a thing.  I'd said. He'd said.  Before, we'd thought there would be a dozen first kisses.  Some not his. Some not mine. After all, there was our youth.  Our immortality. Our possibilities.
Not accepting for a moment that underneath the weight of the song, swimming in the scent of cinnamon and buried in the cushions of my ivory couch, we'd want to make this one our last.



***
Prompt: Write about a first kiss.

Each Sunday, I will be sharing my response to a short writing prompt from the many (many) writing books I've invested in over the years.  Enjoy, join me or leave a comment! Prompts are an awesome way to get the muse to come out and play.

Happy New Year ;-).

Love and Light, 
Faye
 
© 2012. Design by Main-Blogger - Blogger Template and Blogging Stuff