Category / Work in Progress

by BiSKITs & Gravy

Managed

by S.L. Jordan

POV: Ammetta

There is an uncanny feeling when secrets get revealed, that’s what Ammetta was feeling at the moment. The air in the room felt thick. It warped her sight and deafened her ears. She saw their lips moving, soundlessly but could feel the impact of the words quietly slipping past their tongue and out into the air, creating the fog in the room.

She stood, unsteadily, and held her hand to her chest.

“No! I can’t even hear what you’re saying …”

Ammetta stepped away from the table, knocking her chair over, and stumbled to the couch. She fell back in suspended motion, barely landing safely in her comfort nook. The tears that had started at the table, finally fell in earnest raining into her ears.

“What. Are. You. Even. Saying. Right. Now?” she asked, punctuating each word through terse lips. She waved her hands through the air, as to clear the fog – in hopes the words being thrown at her would make sense.

She felt the weight of their body on the couch, but still no sound could be heard. The abruptness is which she sat up brought up face to face with the offensive mouth. She jerked back with narrow eyes and focused on the movement. Maybe she could lip-read. She watched as lips she had known intimately continued to dismantle her heart, her history, and everything she’s ever trusted until this point.

The pressure building up inside of her was too great – she looked around for something to grab and smash, to release the emotions that were firing uncontrollably through her body. One after another.

Surprisingly, there was nothing within reach. That’s when she noticed that the apartment had been sterilized. The frames and knick-knacks that usually cluttered the tables and bookshelves, were no more. Where had they gone? She haphazardly thought, when it dawned on her. This conversation was planned – her reactions were anticipated. There was something about that, that sent Ammetta further over the edge, the handling in the mist of having her world ripped apart.

What felt sudden was actually choreographed.

Author’s Note: by now you should have noticed that I AM good for a little flash/micro-fiction that CAN be more. This isn’t even what I wanted to post today. I wanted to continue the story I have been posting over the last few months. Ammetta had other ideas – and she needed to get this out. STAY TUNED, she maybe back.

by BiSKITs & Gravy

June 6, 2015

NWKP Backstory

“To win any battle, you must fight as if you are already dead.” Miyamoto Musashi

By S.L. Jordan

She knew from the very beginning, that one day this day would arrive. When they started The Order 23 years ago, they made peace with the fact that it might all end tragically. The cause was worth it.

She thought she had come to terms with it, but those decisions were made before Izola. By young, bright eyed and naïve lawyers – who wanted nothing more than to change the World.

Now, she was a mother. A mother who loved her daughter dearly.

Repeatedly glancing over her shoulder, she hurried down the busied sidewalk to her office. It was a beautiful day, and the neighborhood was taking advantage after a brutal winter. Stoops were crowded, music was blaring, and kids sped by on anything with wheels. Inara loved the energy in Black Bottom Hill- one of the last holdouts in the fight against gentrification, there was so much history within those six blocks. A legacy laid by her ancestors. She stopped in front of the building that held her remote office.

313205 Westmoreland Blvd. One of the first buildings her great-grandfather purchased.

Stepping over the puddle of urine in the vestibule, she hurried up the four flight of stairs. Giving a half-hearted wave to Sister Hastings she slammed the door behind her and turned the deadbolt.

Besides her desk, in a safe in the floor she pulled out a satellite phone and dialed Josue.

“Bonjour” his voice floated through the lines. After all these years, the sound of her husband’s Haitian accent still made her weak in the knees.

She doubled over from the thought, her heart thumped with grief. This might be the last time they spoke.

“It’s time” she said.

The silence was deafening.

She could hear him walk across the plush carpet of his office and close the door.

“Are you sure?” he said as his voice broke.

“Yes. Remember, you mustn’t come. You have to stay there and make sure things are still in place.”

“But, ZoZo –“

“NO!” she interrupted, “you must follow the plan. Nadine will be here with Zo. She will take care of things here.”

“How do you expect me to not come for my daughter?” he asked. There was anger brimming his voice. After the birth of Zo Josue wanted to back away from The Order, to find another way to save the world. A way that wouldn’t take us away from her.

“Josue,” she uttered softly “we know this is the best way to make sure she stays safe.”

“But” he said ….

She slumped down into the chair and looked outside the window. The weight of it all fell on her shoulders as they sat there. Silently. Listening to each other breathe.

“you won’t be here to feel the brunt of her anger” he finished on a sob.

“I know” she whispered.

Author’s Note:

I used to HATE writing backstory- the pieces that do not make it into the final draft, but informed aspects of your character and plot. Inara is my protagonist, Izola, mother. Nightwatcher of Kween’s Port starts ten years after her murder. Decisions were made years before Izola was born that placed her on the path to becoming the Nightwatcher of Kween’s Port.

by BiSKITs & Gravy

Don’t Wet My Hair

by S.L. Jordan

There was a magic to it. I was certain.

Masterfully I dodged the students crowding into the hallway as I made my way to the locker room. Twisting and flicking my wrist the entire way. I had been practicing it for the last few weeks and now my wrist had a mind of its own. Twisting and twirling mid-air. So much so that James had to make a special class announcement last week.

“Are you practicing to be a magician?” he belted out during social studies.

The class broke out in laughter.

I cringed.

“Yeah,” I quipped back “trying to cast a spell that will make you stop belly flopping in the medley relay, and we MIGHT win for once.”

“Ohhhhhhhhh” the class cried in unison.

Terrell cupped his hands together and mimicked the flopping sound James made during the last swim meet. 

More laughter erupted from the classroom.

James slid down in his seat glaring at me.

“Alright. Calm down with all that racket,” Mrs. Wellington directed “and please stop doing whatever it is you’re doing Stephanie.”

I tucked my wrist under the desk but did not stop practicing.

I didn’t care about the jokes, I cared about getting it right I thought as I slid into the locker room with three minutes to spare before the bell, and like me, there were girls who had rushed from their last class to make it on time. Many of them were already dressed in swimsuits and were making their way to the mirrored wall.

I dropped my bags in front of the nearest locker and grabbed my caboodle before joining my classmates in front of the mirror. First things first. The time it took changing did not compare to the time it took to fix my hair. 

The mirrored wall is where we all stood and tried to stuff our hair under scarves before forcing a swim cap over our heads. Braids, straw sets, pin curls, and wraps. The styles were endless, but the priority the same – DO NOT GET YOUR HAIR WET! It was THE number one rule.

 I maneuvered my way to the corner near my best friend Brieshelle. Bri was the youngest of five girls. Her mother was a beautician, and every single one of her sisters knew how to do hair. It came as no surprise to any of us, that her hair stayed laid. Being the great best friend that she was, she had been trying to bring me over to her side for years. The side that cared. I cared, but just not that much. 

“Are you gonna need help?” she asked as she swiftly flicked her wrist around her head securing her thick hair into the perfect wrap with bobby pins.

I shrugged.

I didn’t used to be this girl. Last year, between track, softball and swim, I kept my hair in braids that were professionally washed and maintained every two weeks. 

Sometime during the past summer, things changed. Last year, I was a tom-boy who cared less about her hair, and more about making that run, finishing the race -on the track or in the pool, but all of that was before I got a wrap for the first time. Before I saw how beautifully my hair could frame my face, wrapping so smoothly along the lines of my cheek. The bouncy movement as I swung my head back and forth. I got my first perm in the sixth grade but kept it in braids or a ponytail because they were easier to manage. But I got my hair flat ironed for the first time a few months ago and it opened a whole new world for me. A world that deemed me and my hair acceptable. Cute, even. 

The attention I got one the first day of school?? It was unbelievable. The compliments from teachers, younger students …. from everyone, it felt different. Made me feel different. 

All those feelings have been pressing down on me. 

I shrugged again, shaking off those thoughts and focusing on the present and my hair. 

Bri just kept moving through her routine. She finished wrapping her hair and followed up with saran wrap before tying her scarf over everything. Triple protected. The saran wrap was new. We were experimenting on ways to keep water from seeping under our caps.

Starting on the left side, brush in my right hand I swept it counterclockwise around my head. I leaned forward in hopes of keeping my hair in place while I grabbed the plastic wrap. 

Bri grabbed both my hands.

 “Just stop” she said. 

I froze in place – leaning forward with my chin on my chest. I could feel her place a bobby pin at the nape of my neck and secure my hair. She continued along placing booby pins 3-4 inches apart. I peeked up in the mirror and could see the perfect swirl at the crown of my head. 

Once the bobby pins were in place, I could wrap my hair with the plastic and tie on my scarf. I used two swim caps, which made me look like a Cone Head. I wasn’t alone all our heads look misshaped, and it was something we were okay with as along as our hair came out dry afterwards. 

While the most of us were struggling in the mirror to protect our hair, the “Period Squad” would casually stroll through the locker room to the pool. Fully dressed. Hair in place. 

The “Period Squad” are the popular girls who had been welcomed into Women Hood, or “claimed” they had been. Every week there was some issue with their cycles, and they couldn’t participate in class that day. EVERY WEEK. 

They would sit on the bench along side the pool and watch as we tried in vain to complete the lesson while keeping our heads out of the water at the same time. They had decided that their hair mattered more than the class, and we were the foolish ones for not doing the same. We suffered while they chatted with their boyfriends from the sideline. 

Have you ever tried to swim and NOT put your head underwater? It’s almost impossible. 

Today was a free swim period, but I had a meet on Saturday. So, while the rest of the girls got to play in the shallow end I had to practice for Saturday’s meet. I was doing my best to keep most of my head out of the water when I heard the whistle.

“What are you doing?” Coach Winfield cried from the sidelines.

I stopped mid-stroke, hoping he wasn’t talking to me.

“WHAT IS THAT YOU ARE DOING?” He asked again, this time directly facing me. There was no room for misinterpretation. He was talking to me. 

“Practicing” I said meekly. All motion had stopped. Everyone was watching us. I could hear the “Period Squad” snickering from their bench.

We both knew I was not practicing. At least, not for Saturday. The breaststroke was not my race, but it was a stroke I could do and keep my head above water. 

“Not like that you aren’t” he said, “If you practice hard –“

“You play hard” I finished. 

“Well …..” he said.

I continued to gently tread water while he waited for an answer.

“My hair – …” I started.

“Oh NO, not you too!! Please say you won’t be joining THEM” he said as he gestured toward the “Period Squad”.

I kept on treading – gently. 

He went to retrieve the dive bricks and placed them at the edge of the pool.

I swam to where he stood glaring down into the pool. 

“Breath practice ….” He said and walked away.

Breath practice was the ultimate punishment. Not because I couldn’t do it, but because there was no way to do it and NOT get your hair wet. 

I stayed there in that spot staring at those bricks. I could hear the shrills of laughter from the shallow end – the free play my other classmates got to enjoy. Those girls didn’t have to pick between their hair and something else.

The irony of it all was I loved being underwater, I loved looking up and seeing the distorted view, the sound trying to break its way through the rippling water. There was a calm to it that I deeply loved.

But it came at a price. The price of social acceptability. 

I sighed as I reached up to grab the first brick.

Pulling it into the water, I inhaled as I let the brick slowly drag me to the bottom of the pool. I could feel the water as it started to seep my under cap, through the scarf and the final barrier – completely soaking my whole head.

From the bottom of the pool, I sat and watch the air bubbles float to the top – the only proof I existed underneath and came to the sinking realization that I too had made my choice.  

Author’s Note:

  1. cue up India Arie’s, “I am not my hair”
  2. followed by Solange’s, “Don’t Touch My Hair“
  3. This is a snippet from Just A Girl From the East-side, A Collection of Short Stories
by BiSKITs & Gravy

Background: Baby’s First Gun

By: IO

This piece is some character background for a short story I’m procrastinating on revising.

Judy wanted her baby brother to finally grow up. It was gonna be his only nephew’s first birthday soon and he was finally gonna meet a relative of his that was younger than him. A desperate part of her hoped this meeting would finally wake Craig up to the fact that he’d been an adult for several decades already. 

Craig was as spoiled as a poor country boy could be. Their father, elated to have a son after the disappointing surprise that had been Judy (her name was gonna be Jude), liked to proclaim that he finally had someone to inherit. Nevermind that all their father had was a job on someone else’s payroll at their town’s mechanic shop. But he lost that all on his own, stealing money from the only guy with the skill to revive a beat-up tractor from the brink of death. The farmers who relied on that skill saw that theft as an attack on their livelihood and all but ran their family out of town. 

The family moved to another small town, far enough that gossip of their fall was but a whisper. Judy was a teenager and suddenly in charge of taking care of her father and brother while her mom tried to earn enough on tips at a diner to support them all. But Craig was still the golden child. 

They were never fully embraced by their new home, being outsiders. Even though Judy had lived there longer than she had in her birthplace, she was the last to be invited to any town gatherings. Until baby Hank.

Because Hank was born there, and a baby, he automatically was welcomed to any infant-friendly outings: 4th of July fireworks, bowling tourneys, tailgates, etc. And because, being a baby, Hank was unable to attend unaccompanied, Judy got an invite as well. And slowly she was becoming one of the locals. 

For Judy, there was a lot riding on Hank’s first birthday party. This was a chance to befriend other moms, expand her social group beyond the other waitresses and their pity invites. All she needed was for her younger brother to grow up.

by BiSKITs & Gravy

Winner, Winner Chicken Dinner

by S.L. Jordan

Geranium walked out of the Wolverine Tower into the dingy, slushy snow, coat zipped to her chin and secured with the senna colored handknit scarf her grandmother made for her last birthday. It was a rare moment of old school grandmotherly love, and Geranium treasured it. “Shit” she mumbled as she fumbled to secure her earbuds under her earmuffs. The prickling in her fingers was a testament to the meteorologist’s predictions that morning; she felt every single digit of the 10 degrees moving through the campus. Today was the last day of class before finals, and even though she had plenty to do: papers to write, vocab words to go over, she continued heading West to State St. to attend the last Black Student Union function before the holidays. As the Treasurer she needed to be there, and they were hosting the infamous annual Fry Off which made her attendance mandatory. 

There was something else that forced her out in that snow, and not back to her warm dorm room where there was hot chocolate with homemade marshmallows waiting for her. That something was a pair of the most hypnotizing grey eyes framed by wild thick eyebrows that defied traditional grooming. Eyes that made her warm all over, warmer than said hot chocolate. All semester she and Brice had been playing cat and mouse, and she was sick of it. Geranium decided today was the day to make her move, and she had the perfect game plan.

 NO ONE could deny the power of her grandmother’s cooking, just ask her fifth husband. It could be said that Mama Sara was a handful, to which she would have said “aint nobody asked you to hold me”. She was a mix of old school and spunk. “Precious”, that’s what she called me, “the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” she said as she washed her collard greens while smoking on a Kool cigarette, smoking smoke billowing out on side of her mouth like a chimney, “it’s also the way to teach him a lesson”. She often spouted words of wisdom similar to those while we sweated over a hot stove. We had spent the better half of the semester deciding what I would make, she came and brought all the ingredients to my dorm last month. She went through all the steps, but the last one. She left a bottle, unlabeled, and  said to sprinkle some in the grease before the meat was dropped. No matter how many times I asked she wouldn’t say what it was. “Mama Sara, what if someone is allergic?” Geranium would say. “They better have that pin-thingy on them” was her only reply.

 After spending the better half of the last month testing out the recipes, she finally felt like she had the winner. Feeling confident, Geranium walked in the Windmill, the 100 year old local bar that has hosted BSU events since its inception at the University of Michigan. There was already a crowd at the bar, the windows were steamed with the heat from multiple fryers, and the smell of yeast from the microbrewery set up in the back permeated the room. 

Greeting her fellow members, other students and local patrons as she walked in Geranium made her way to her station. Janice, her best friend and roommate, had already brought everything she needed from the dorm. She had left the chicken drumsticks in the refrigerator for 24 hrs marinating, and splashed it with some of Mama Sara’s special ingredients. “Did Mama Sara ever tell you what was it that bottle? Some sort of Alabama Hoodoo?” Janice had her nose buried in the bowl trying to identify the concoction. “No!” Geranium replied as she yanked the bowl out of her hands, “and get your boogers out my chicken. Im tryna’ win tonight, not make people sick.”

 “Now, you know I’m rootin’ for ya’, buuuuuut uh … those prawns and mud-daddy’s Rell over there tossing look GOOD” Janice did a full body roll to emphasize just how good. Geranium cut her eyes at Janice. Truth be told Rell could have been frying rats and Ja’ would have said they looked good. She was crushing hard. “Word, Ja’? We go back to 2nd grade!! That’s how you gonna do me?” “Gee. I SAID, I would vote for you! Don’t get all sensi on me.” “Just don’t let anyone else hear you say that!”

Geranium said with her finger wagging in Janice’s face. Janice playfully swatted Geranium on her butt, “Whateva’. Whateva’. You see who just walked in, right?”  She hadn’t, but she knew who Janice was referring to. Trying her best to look busy and not pressed for his attention, Geranium started to fill her cast iron pan with peanut oil, that was a part of the recipe that would set her dish apart, when Brice casually strolled by. He was clad in Blue and Maize head to toe, like everyone in the Windmill. School pride was a serious affair, and many contests were held in the very same bar over who had the best and most unique swag.

“Ahhhh. What are you gonna be cooking up Mighty Stuff?” Brice asked as he pushed an errant loc from Geranium’s face. The calluses on his fingers creating tiny trembles across her skin. His eyes were a heather grey today, matching the overcast outside, and focused solely on her face. Flustered she stepped back, “Nothing major … just fried chicken thighs” she said nonchalantly. Behind her she should hear Janice choking on her own laughter, only she knew how long and how much she had been working on “just chicken thighs”, wait until they got back to the room Geranium thought. 

“Nothing major?” Brice asked. “I don’t think you KNOW how to do ANYTHING lightly Mighty Stuff” he whispered close to her ear. Before she could respond his teammates came barging through the door loudly chanting the school’s fight song:

Now for a cheer they are here,
triumphant!
Here they come with banners flying,
In stalwart step they’re nighing,
With shouts of vict’ry crying,
We hurrah, hurrah, we greet you now,
Hail

Game or no game, it was not uncommon to hear those lyrics at any time on campus. Soon the Windmill was shaking with noise as every patron, student or not, joined in. On the last refrain the captain of the football team declared “LET’S GET READY TO RUUUUUUMBLEEEEEE”.

Geranium chuckled as she slowly started placing the thighs in the hot pan. There were a variety of things being fried, from chicken shawarma’s to Dutch Girl Donuts, and before long the Windmill was filled with the aroma’s mingling together like old friends. Geranium had planned on having Janice help her with plating for the judges, but she was so busy flirting with Rell that she didn’t notice her roommate waving across the room.

“You need something?” she could barely hear him over all the noise. Geranium turned towards the voice, and stared at Brice standing there with his trademark gap toothed smirk. Geranium gathered her nerves, and said “ as a matter of fact I do” she handed him some plates and pointed to the table, “can you help me set the plates for the judges?”.  He took the plates making sure his hand brushed against hers as they exchanged hands. “It would be my honor Chef” and winked as he went about arranging the plates. 

“Mighty Stuff, what made you pick chicken thighs? He asked as he grabbed a piping hot hush puppy from the appetizer bowl.

“Holds more flavor” she said with a wink.

 Once everything had been fried the buffet was set up. First, the pre-selected judges lined up for plates. While they ate and determined the five finalists the other patrons loaded down their plates with everything imaginable to assist in soaking up their beer filled bellies. The line at Geranium’s station stayed busy all night, and she barely had time to talk with Brice. She noticed he kept coming to her station for more.

Author’s note: I started this piece last year to submit to a “Food” themed contest. Clearly, that didn’t happen as I lost myself and the story towards the end. I think this is another piece I want to revisit later on down the line.

by BiSKITs & Gravy

Free Write Writing Prompt

by S.L. Jordan

There was nothing new about this drive. That was the thing I loved and hated about it. The passenger seat offering the same silent film of corn fields and cows. Even with all four windows down, sweat gathered and pooled in the creases of my elbow before cascading down onto the cracked upholstery. I peeled my legs off the seat to hang my feet out of the window. The AC was out again because Marie had forgotten to get it charged before we left. I harassed her for weeks and she still forgot. Out of the corner of my eye I could see her lip syncing some song only she could hear, she was completely unbothered by the sweltering heat. The silence stretched between us just as long as I-75S, and we were in a deadzone so I couldn’t even use the radio as a buffer. Air out. No Aux Cord. Seats duct taped together. Damn hoopty.

I told Marie to trade this car in months before we left too. I told Marie a lot of things.

Pay the rent.

Get Reginald’s SSI check.

Check her glucose.

Go grocery shopping.

Pay the rent.

Pay the rent.

PAY THE FUCKING RENT MARIE.

No guesses needed on what Marie DIDN’T do, but just in case it’s not clear she didn’t pay the rent. After months of paying late our landlord had finally had enough.

Authors Note: In the spring of 2019 during a Writers of Color Workshop, held in Houston, TX by Writespace, we were given fifteen minutes to free write during class. We were not given a specific topic or genre, this was just something that I came up with on the spot. Every so often, this story will make its way across my mind and I wonder “where did they end up? Did they have a destination in mind?”

I may never finish this story, or maybe some bits and pieces of it will appear in future stories.

by BiSKITs & Gravy

NWKP: Backstory

by S.L. Jordan

“Where were you last night?” she asked, her voice sliced through the silence startling and stopping me in my tracks. 

I hadn’t noticed her, tucked in the corner of the family room in her favorite chair, tattered mint green robe knotted under her breasts. I could see an open book in her lap, dog-eared and weathered from years of use, no telling how long she had been up. Waiting for me, worrying about me. I hated that, hated that I added more stress to her life. I knew six months ago it was time for me to go, time to find my own place.

I had foolishly hoped she would have gone to bed by now. The digital clock glared beside her casting a red glow across the room. 3:32 a.m. She and I both knew there wasn’t much open at that time of night. Nothing she’d want me involved in that is. 

I kept my head down avoiding her all-knowing gaze, “I was out” I replied walking stiffly to the stairs sticking to the shadows in hopes the darkness hid my secrets. I held my breath and contracted my muscles as I slowly sat down. I exhaled forcibly and leaned back staring at the ceiling. 

Suddenly, there was a bright light chasing away the darkness. She stood from her chair, her statuesque frame casting a shadow along the floor. 

“I can smell you from over here,” again her voice –tainted with displeasure- slashed through the room delivering quick jabs. I honestly didn’t know if she meant the Johnny Walker leaking from my pores or the sweat running down my armpits, so I feigned ignorance. 

“I just left the gym” drawled from my lips. My lips … felt funny. Loose. Like, I wasn’t in control of them.

“HA! They are giving out red label at gyms now?!?! Well I’ll be! That’s new”, she said “YOU forget. Me and your mother were drinking that before you were even born …” her voice cracked and began to trail off, the way it always did at the mention of my mother.

“Your mother –” she started again.

She along with the room started to sway. My vision was cloudy, the room was getting smaller with darkness encroaching on the peripheral like I was looking through a peephole. 

“Good night Nadi” I began trying to cut her, the pain and memories off. Reaching for the banister I tried to will strength into my legs. To stand. To escape.

With wobbly legs I took the first few steps before falling backwards -in what felt like slow motion- and slamming my head into the wooden floor.

“Zo!” was the last thing I heard before it all went dark

by BiSKITs & Gravy

Kween’s Port Chronicles

March 13, 2025

Almost ten years ago the city was shocked by the brutal and senseless murder of beloved Kween’s Port native, Philanthropist, and former D.A., Inara Jean Yarborugh. The Yarborough family has a long legacy in our city and Inara was on the path of blazing a new trail. With the acquisition of the small Civil RIghts Activist firm by her family’s firm, there was talk of a political career in her future. Her 14 year old daughter and  burgeoning soccer phenom, Izola Jean Yarborugh Calixte tragically discovered her mother that day. For those of us who have followed along for the last decade, have witnessed how KWPD has handled, or mishandled, the case – depending on who you ask.  

At long last, the case has been taken to trial. District Attorney West assigned prosecutor Curtis Williams to the case, who has prosecuted only three other capital murder cases in his career. We are on the eve of the verdict being handed down by The Honorable Judge Julés in the murder of Inara, and I have the pleasure of speaking with her daughter today. Now, at 24 Izola has been forefront and center in this investigation since the very beginning. 

Izola, thank you for agreeing to speak with me, especially today, I understand you gave your victim impact statement to the jury and Judge earlier. I can not imagine what you have been going through over the last  ten years –

You, nor your readers, have to imagine what I have been through. Your colleagues reported on every detail of my adolescent angst. [she waves her hand as if to say, “all was forgiven”] It’s been hard, too fucking hard sometimes, but I’m still standing. But to answer your implied question, yes I gave my V.I.S to the judge and jury today and everything feels bizarre, but not as weird as I know tomorrow will be.

Explain what you mean by that. 

Tomorrow will possibly give us the verdict, or answer, to ONLY ONE of the questions surrounding my mother’s murder. 

What question would that be?

Why, WHO killed her, of course.  

Of course, and what is the second question? 

WHO is GUILTY of her murder! Raymond McDowell may be the person who committed the physical act of the crime, but he’s not the one who is guilty of the act. He’s a lowlife, and had no real reason to kill her. His wife had left him plenty of times before she met my mother. She couldn’t have been the cause of her leaving again. It doesn’t make sense. You know what else doesn’t make sense? Raymond’s fucking quarter million dollar defense team. A WHOLE DAMN TEAM. He’s the pawn! He’s the pawn for something bigger ….

That’s an interesting perspective to have. What would justice look like for you?

I get you have to ask these questions, but c’mon? What do you think it would look like to me? Shit, what would it look like to you?

All I can say is, I don’t think the Justice I am looking for can be found in the criminal system, but it would look like the person who killed her AND the person who was guilty of her murder getting the needle together – and THAT’S the edited for public version of justice.

Will your father, Deputy Calixte, be joining us tomorrow?

No. 

Um. Ok. Well, would you care to share some insight on the bigger conspiracy you think is at play?

No, the fuck I wouldn’t Cassanthia. What do I look like? A fool? Nah. My mama aint raise no fool. 

With that, she kicks back from the table knocking her chair into the wall behind her and stalks out of the room leaving behind two large scuff marks. 

The trial is set to start tomorrow, March 14th, at 10 a.m. at Kween’s Port Wayne County Court – Division 1 with the Honorable Judge Julès presiding. 

Cassanthia Denise Johnston is a veteran award winning investigative journalist internationally known for her series,Twice Forgotten, on the abductions of indigenous women from the Piscataway Indian Nation in Kween’s Port, MD.

by BiSKITs & Gravy

How to be the life of the party

by S.L. Jordan

Take a nap before the party, you want to make sure you have enough energy to last all night – and part of the next morning if needed. Pancakes, anyone? Make sure you have a long hot shower before you go – want to stay fresh through all  the funky moves you’ll be doing. Make multiple playlists -House. Rap. R&B. Funk. Grunge. EDM. Go-Go. Soca. Reggaeton. Hell, even country (yee-haw ride ‘em) -be ready for whatever the mood is. Your outfit has to be moveable – no uber tight pants or super high heels. Gum. Lighters and an extra usb to charge your phone. Better yet, a battery pack. And cash -small bills, bills, bills. ALWAYS have a few coins on ya fo’ tippin’ or strippin’ – who knows where the night will end. TAKE NOTHING PERSONAL – it’s haters everywhere, don’t let that stop yo’ shine. So, dance like EVERYONE’s watching, because -duh- they are. LIVE like your Aubrey. Be open and friendly, especially to the introverts and wallflowers. Do a hustle – doesn’t matter which one. Kiss someone – if you’re single. Sneak, if you’re not. [Wink, Wink].

by BiSKITs & Gravy

FE/26 – Part V

by S.L. Jordan

🜝

Quiet as a mouse, I made my way around the counter. Slowly, I pushed the door open -pausing when it creaked- and crept into the back hallway. It was scarcely lit and the beating of my heart drummed loudly in my ears drowning out the buzz of the overhead lights. I tried controlling my breath, long slow inhales and exhales, like my instructor taught us. I needed to be in control. 

“My body is a weapon, and I yield it with precision and control”

Sliding one foot in front of the other I continued down the hallway, it showed evidence of a struggle; scuff marks and broken drywall. A smear of bright red blood leading the way. It was still wet to the touch and the metallic scent sent me into a haze. Not now, I thought. I couldn’t lose focus, anxiety caused the acid to swirl in the pit of my stomach. I channeled that energy outward. I slid my hand into the brass knuckles I kept in my sweatpants and followed the trail until I came upon the back door, Sunmil’s office I assumed.

Now, I could hear muffled sounds coming from the office. There was a sliver of light that spilled into the hallway. Shadows could be seen moving around in the room. 

“That is all the money we have in the safe” Sunny said, his voice filled with fear. There were two other men in the room with him, their gruff voices barking orders and threats. From a crack in the door, I spotted his family -wife and three boys- crouched in the corner held at gunpoint, while the other assailant forced Sumnil to give up the safe. Sunny’s face was badly bruised. The blood in my veins roared ferociously at the quiver in his voice and I kicked in the door taking the captors by surprise. Knocking the gun from his hand with a flying roundhouse kick, I crouched down and sweep him with a muay thai low kick. He went down and clipped his head on the corner of the desk, blood began pooling from his wound filling the room with a pungent metallic scent. Iron – I could taste it on my tongue – it fueled me on.  

I was so damned amazed with myself, but I didn’t have time to throw a parade before his partner in crime began throwing bottles at me. Adrenaline and anger propelled me forward. I was sick of people taking advantage of innocent people. I was sick of no justice. In between the rage, flying fists, and colliding bodies flashes of my mother lying on that living room floor struggling to take her last breath ran through my mind. My fists continued to pummel him as a warm mist sprayed across my face. 

He was unresponsive by the time Sunny could pull me away. My ragged breath filled the room. I couldn’t face Sunny and his family. No one had ever seen that side of me outside of the studio – hell I had never seen that side of me. His boys stared in awe as silent tears ran down their cheeks when their mother ran to me and wrapped me in the tightest hug. It was then I noticed I had taken some pretty solid rib shots. I winced. She spoke into my chest, a voice tinged with tears, “thank you” she whispered before returning to console her boys. 

Sunny grabbed my hand. The one with the brass knuckles still slick with blood. He just held it, gave me a squeeze.

“Leave before I call the cops” he said, and turned to his family to say “a masked person came in to save us.” They nodded in agreement.  

Yeah, that might be a good idea I thought. Walking back down the hallway and into the store I grabbed my Johnny Walker and took a swig with shaky hands. The rum raisin aroma filling my nostrils I felt every muscle in my body relax. Surprisingly, the heat of the drink felt cool as it made its way down. 

I strolled leisurely back to my apartment, the light of the moon guiding my way. The crisp night air mixed with the pepper sips of scotch had me on a high I never felt before. For the first time in years, I felt safe.  I could get used to this feeling. 

The End ….

or is it?