By: IO

I finished reading Annie John by Jamaica Kincaid and have been thinking about leaving and returning to one’s home. Here’s an exercise in what Annie John might think about returning to Antigua ten years after she leaves and vows never to return.

I have been living in England for a decade now. Ten years have passed with only letters connecting me to my mother and father back in Antigua. I finished my training as a nurse and my mother asked if I would come home. My father’s health is failing and he may not last another year. He too has asked if I would come home. 

When I boarded that boat ten years ago, I vowed I would never see Antigua again. I did not think I would miss my mother, who had changed towards me, or that my father might sicken and die. What allegiance do I owe to the pledge of a seventeen year old girl who had found life at home too familiar and constricting? 

Now I miss the familiarity, knowing the people I pass on the street, the shops my mother sent me to, the doctors and obeah women she consulted when we were ill, the furniture in our house, all handmade by my father. Every now and again, I even miss Gwen, the girl she was when we were children, when we loved each other more than anyone else. 

Going home would not restore all that. Antigua would not be the island of my childhood any longer. It could not be, as I am no longer a child. I would see it as an adult, live in it as an adult. I could go back to the island where I was born, where I grew up, and I would still never see that place again.

by K. Osorio-Teamer

She heard them in the car while driving through highway loops; at work when there was enough free time to watch a show; in the living room-turned-dance floor while she drank an overpoured glass of wine; in the garden while picking the round, red chiles off her tree. In some spaces, they roared while in others, they were barely audible. They boomed in the car and garage, and if the woman put music on, the voices would grow louder. If they were particularly pleased by a song, they would sing along. Selena was a favorite. 

The first voice she heard was her father’s. Crisp and clear, as if he was sitting right next to her. The woman didn’t tell her mother. She didn’t know what would be worse – her mother believing her or not believing her. Her mother passed away about a year later without ever knowing her daughter’s connection to the after. Heartbroken but curious, the woman waited. She cried, spoke to her mother’s picture, and waited. She lit the candle, replaced the glass of water on the altar, and she waited. She cooked, read books on the back patio, watered the plants, and everything else Mom liked to do. But nothing. She would ask her father’s voice for answers, but he never gave them. Four months and a badly overcooked turkey later, the woman  finally heard laughs she hadn’t heard since her father became a voice. The woman’s parents were reunited once again and ready to micromanage her life for eternity. 

At first, they worried her. The voices. The first time she heard one, she was sure it was a mental breakdown. One morning on the way to work, she heard her father say, “you should slow down on this turn, you don’t want to flip the car over.” Out of reflex, she eased her foot off the gas slightly, slowing the car as it curved around the tight corner. The woman quickly realized she should be alone and he should be dead. She checked the car for any murderous back-seat drivers in vain. She knew it was his voice. Finding herself frightfully alone, she rationalized it as a result of her imagination and grief playing a cruel and convincing con on her. The past nine days had been a blur of black and perpetual weeping. She had been talking to her father’s picture every day since he died, so she wasn’t surprised that she was imagining his voice. Then she heard him again while she sped over a particularly deep pothole. “Slow down! That’s a lot of wear and tear on your tires.” 

That day, the woman nearly hit another car while trying to park. She cried just as she had that morning. And the night before. And every day since he died. This was her first day back at work and all she wanted to do was run into the arms of her bossy, backseat driving dad. She was sobbing in the full parking lot, drowning in the memories that crashed down one right after the other. Days in the garage with Papi as he stood next to her battered, green Nissan and attempted to teach her to change the small tires and check the leaky oil. “Papi,” the woman managed to gurgle through the tightening knot in her throat. 

“Ya, chavala. It’s ok. I’m here with you.” A whisper into her right ear, steadied her head. He wasn’t gone. Real or not, it was comforting. After four years, she’d grown accustomed to the resonance of their suggestions and reprimands. They were the loudest in the places they spent the most time. The woman complained about their nagging at times, but she knew she would never sell the home. The garage was her father’s favorite spot dead and alive. Regardless of the room, he was always the loudest though. Once the woman’s mother stopped giving her the cold shoulder, she didn’t waste time with comforting words, silly commentary, or loving encouragement like her father did. She was curt and to the point. 

In the kitchen, her mother was but a whisper. The woman was not the best cook, and she always wished her mom would speak up a bit more. She stood in her nearly silent kitchen, staring at the list of ingredients and their manifestations on the counter before her. She had written out the recipe herself. It was one of the few dishes she could remember her mother cooking from start to finish. Her mother usually made it for birthdays or Christmas dinners, so it felt fitting to make it for her husband for their first anniversary dinner tomorrow. She felt confident about it until she stepped into the small, windowless kitchen. The plan was to prep as much as possible today, so that tomorrow would run smoothly, but upon scanning the recipe, the woman felt adrift in a sea of worcestershire and tomato sauce. 

Arroz a la Valenciana 

Ingredients

1. White rice
2. Chicken breast
3. Smoked sausage
4. Carrots
5. Celery
6. Peas
7. Corn
8. Onion
9. Garlic
10. Raisins
11. Olives 
12. Worcestershire Sauce 
13. Tomato sauce/tomato bouillon cube 
14. Vegetable oil

Directions

1. Dice the carrots, celery, onion, and garlic. 
2. Steam white rice.
3. Boil chicken breast.
4. Shred the chicken once cooked.
5. Heat the oil in a cooking pan. Once hot add onion and garlic until cooked.
6. Add shredded chicken, sausage, carrots, celery, peas, and corn. Mix. 
7. Once thoroughly mixed, add worcestershire sauce and tomato flavoring of choice.
8. Mix in the rice.
9. Mix in raisins and olives.
10. Enjoy! 

This is all she could pry from her muddled memories. Out of habit, she had the water running in the sink as if she were moments away from starting the cooking process. Bitterly staring at step number ten, she realized she was nowhere near ready. The woman was oblivious as to how much rice or chicken to cook. In fact, she didn’t know how much of any ingredient to use. She shut off the water to wait for the whispers. Her mother never said much in the kitchen, but today she was bizarrely quiet. The woman rolled her eyes. She was desperate for a helping hand! Anything at all! But no, there was no box with little cards for reference and no elder to seek guidance from. Even her father had stopped talking to her in the kitchen since her mother joined him in the audible world. 

The woman’s rancorous eyes found mercy on the page. In bright red ink, the familiar curly calligraphy materialized in the margins next to step 2. 

Make rice & chicken 1-2 days before cooking the dish

The woman stared at the seemingly fresh ink and ran her finger gently over the final word. It smeared. She didn’t look around for any intruders or search for the red pen. She began pouring rice and water into the cooker and turned it on. Thankfully, she had a good enough instinct to start on the dinner today. She went back to the list to check off step 2 when she noticed more crimson cursive had appeared. 

Add a bit of oil to the rice

The woman smiled as she opened the lid of the rice cooker to pour in a “bit” of oil. Just as in life, her mom wasn’t giving any measurements or other specifics. Regardless, the woman was grateful that she finally had some help in the kitchen.

by Tony Williams

I want to talk about zombies. Not the original zombies who were slaves enslaved again by magic/magick forced to continue working until they had no will of their own. Or modern Haitian Zombies poor unfortunate souls under spells to do the bidding of others or worse love spells, only a shell of their former selves. Neither do I want to discuss the origin of the modern day film and to a degree literary zombie, “Night of the Flesh Eaters” better known as “Night of the Living Dead” or Romero’s follow-up films which were thinly veiled social commentaries. Also, let me state here, that Romero referred to them not as zombies but as ghouls. Do not ask me to site when or from where because I don’t remember, am not going to look, and this isn’t that kind of essay. 

No, I want to discuss my love/hate relationship with the genre. 

I hate the modern version of the zombie. The fast moving, strong, but mindless incarnation of Romero’s creatures. The updated “Dawn of the Dead” directed by Zack Snyder, version of the creatures. I’m not knocking the movie itself, just the creatures. The mindless horde that originally got you because you were trapped, tired, and outnumbered now gets you for those same reasons plus. Plus, the horde is fast and strong, they “smell” you, “sense” you in some way, they are relentless. They don’t just want your brains; they want all your flesh and bone. They will eat until there is nothing left of you except a dark brown smear, starting not with your brains but your soft entrails. 

These are the roaming dead until the screenwriter/director wants some action. Then out of nowhere they see, sense, smell, something the very thing our heroes and heroines don’t want them to. I’m thinking of you wandering zombie who notices where the one dog is going even though we’ve been told and seen that they don’t notice the dogs. And, and not only do you, wandering zombie follow the dog, but a pack follows you.

Yeah, okay. 

Look, the dead should only be frightening when they are newly turned not days, weeks or years later unless something interesting is happening. Take the infected zombie adjacent humans of “28 Days Later”. Great movie and cast by the way, so I have nothing to add. The in-between state of the “Warm Bodies” zombies still holding on to some semblance of their humanity. This zombie story is a romance, a love conquers all kind of tale. Which leads me back to zombie as social commentary with “Maggie” an under rated horror film about family and the healthcare system. There is a zombie film for every taste – comedy, dark comedy, romance, paranormal romance, social commentary (all the good ones), procedural, mystery, horror, fantasy, musical, road trip and every combination imaginable. The world is at an end as we known it. Let’s do something interesting, please.

I’ve found that though I watch the movies. I prefer the nuance of the written word when telling these stores. Are the stories still frightening, yes and so much more? Good horror leaves me in a contemplative mood because it’s about more than the blood and gnawing gnashing teeth.

In stories, flash, short, novella, novel, and poem the zombie/ghoul comes in a multiplicity of flavors. In “The Girl with all the Gifts” by M. R. Carey we have the evolution of mankind into something else and are left thinking about what it means to be human. “World War Z” by Max Brooks the book, not the movie, critiques political systems, global, and domestic racism, social and economic disparity, and so much more. “Hollow Kingdom” a zombie adjacent novel from the perspective of both wild and domestic animals surviving after the apocalypse. And lastly, The Old Kingdom series by Garth Nix, eight books including two volumes of short stories concerning an alternate history/fantasy with the undead playing a major role in the outcome of the main characters.

Countless takes and variances both in film and literature keep the genre going and keep me looking out for the stories that offer me more than a fright and a chance to nitpick.