Tag / Nightwatcher

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

Nightwatcher – Vol. II

by S.L. Jordan

“Fuck” I cursed myself just as the wind from the Atlantic Ocean decided to sweep in and all but make a mockery of the light fall jacket I had foolishly thrown on this morning.

I knew better. I wasn’t one of these newly transplanted Kween’s Portian’s that traipsed around the Central Business District, or the CBD as they lovingly called it, sipping their extremely over-priced caffeinated beverages. This time of year, the day could start out perfectly find and end with you in a parka. Today was one of those days, and here I stood on the corner of Bonaparte Blvd and Chase street barely covered in a slip dress, sheer mock turtleneck, tights that I hadn’t worn in years and already have 2 very large runs circling my legs, these wretched heels I borrowed from Aftlyn, and the thinnest of saving graces – a light trench. 

I ducked my head and gathered the coat tighter around me in hopes of keeping any body heat I had close. The curly wig I had slapped on to cover my hair was barely holding on as the night got windier. 

Ding.

As soon as the signal allowed I hustled across the street and continued down Chase street to my stop. Every few steps I tentatively touched the folder hidden in my waist trainer. I had no idea what the manila folder contained, just that an anonymous source reached out and said this is what I had been looking for.

For the last year I had been making the rounds on hacker boards and chat groups online looking for a way into the underground, the dark web, whatever they call it. I needed in. There were some files I needed from the District Attorney’s office that were not exactly public record. It took about 7 months, but three months ago I finally made the connections I needed and was invited to a secret VPN that had some of the best hackers in the world floating around the chat groups.  

I never made a direct ask.

I left hints. Small bread crumbs. 

Just waiting for the right person to talk the bait.

Last night, I received a message that a folder would be waiting for me at Rental a Box. A fake ID was left taped to the bottom of the bench of the stop outside my apartment building, hence the wig and ridiculous outfit. 

I made my way down the steps into the warmth of the subway tunnel. 

Now that I had the folder my adrenaline pumped through my veins at the speed of light. I couldn’t go home, not right now, I was too wired.

I pulled out my phone and texted Icene.

“WYA?”

“D.P. “

“Was’ up Zo?”

Perfect, I thought just what I needed to take the edge off.

“OMW”

Author’s note: This is an extreme rough draft. I jumped out the shower – where most of this was written in my head- and sat down to immediately get this down. As I use the end of the year to put the final touches on Nightwatcher Vol. I, I have been thinking about where the story could go from Vol. II. There are a few things in between the volumes, but I will be rolling that out later.

by BiSKITs & Gravy

NWKP: Backstory

by S.L. Jordan

1975 Kween’s Port

Nadine entered the cafeteria with her head held high, shoulders back. The picture of confidence, even if her heart was beating 5,000 times a minute. She couldn’t let them see that, they pounced when they smelled fear. She inhaled and exhaled deeply before taking a step, holding her lunch tray steady she walked over to the nearest table with an empty seat. As she flopped down, a noticeable hush fell over the cafeteria. She could feel the tension’s slow ascension up her spine. Nadine looked up to see what could stop a room full of high schoolers in their tracks, and everyone was looking at her. 

Her fork slipped her from her fingers and fell to the table, the clatter seemed never ending, punctuating the silence with its noise. To her right stood a girl holding a tray with a sheepish grin on her face.

“You’re in Inara’s seat” said one of the girls at the table with just enough stank on those words to let Nadine know there could be trouble. To be honest, Nadine hadn’t even noticed the other girls at the table, just the empty seat. Now, that she had it was apparent this was a clique and this was their table. 

She was torn. Did she want to start trouble on her first day as a transfer student in the middle of the school year? Not necessarily, but she also didn’t want to set the tone that she was a punk either.

“Oh -” Nadine started before the beautiful girl standing interrupted.

“It’s fine,” she said in a voice that settled any bad feelings that were stirring around the table. “It’s not like we have assigned seats here” she finished with a chuckle before sitting her tray down and dragging an empty chair from another table over. She sat right next to Nadine. 

“Hi, my name is Inara. What’s yours?”

Nadine kept her head down, trying to gain some composure before she responded. She sometimes stuttered when she was nervous, and her accent became particularly thick.

“Nadine”, she replied, lifting her head to look everyone at the table in the eye.

“Well, welcome to Our Lady of the Bay. Are you new to Kween’s Port?” Inara asked. 

Nadine hurriedly stuffed a portion of the crab cake po’ boy into her mouth, and nodded. She hadn’t decided if she liked Kween’s Port yet, or Our Lady of the Bay – but the school lunch? Was a 10 so far.

…

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

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?