Tag / Work in Progress

by BiSKITs & Gravy

Religitually

by S.L. Jordan

Write about a moment in your life in which you felt connected spiritually. Where were you? What happened and what came of that moment?

I am a black woman, who was raised by a good ole fashioned southern black woman, who was also raised by a good ole fashioned southern black woman, and so on, and so on, or at least until my 1st maternal ancestor stepped foot on American Soil. So, it should go without saying or reason that I was raised in the church. The Baptist Church. There is a story my mother used to love to tell. I was 3, and my older brother was 4. It must have been sometime between my late winter birthday and his late summer/early fall birthday as we are 18 months apart. Almost step ladders. We were at church, I can’t remember the name but it’s kind of in, or was in, Midtown Detroit, not far from 75 N/S. We were sitting in a pew, my mother, my older brother, baby brother, and I. My dad only went to church when my maternal grandmother requested it, when the pastor made a call for baptisms. Now, according to my mother, my brother and I got up of our own accord and walked up to the front of the church holding hands. Of course, I have absolutely no recollection of that day. I remember the church, massive and gray, but that’s all about all. The majority of the early church memories consist of being dragged with my grandparents to their church. First, it was a church that was attached to a house somewhere on the Westside of Detroit. There was nothing fun about those Sundays. At church early for Sunday school, which transitioned into the regular afternoon service before finally going into the NIGHT service. I spent all 3 services sitting next to my grandmother trying hard to not let the devil get me.

“Granny, I’m sleepy” I would whine.

She would lean in close to my ear and whisper, “hush girl. If you were at home you wouldn’t be tired. You’d be ripping and running and I wouldn’t be able to hear how to listen! That’s just the devil tryna distract you from God’s word”, in a tone that let me know the issue wasn’t up for debate unless I wanted to talk to “Mama Sarah” when we got home. 

My brother, on the other hand, had the freedom to come and go as he pleased, and he loved sitting up front with Bubba and the rest of the Deacons. I was just there as the dutiful daughter, granddaughter, or niece. Blindly reciting scriptures for the Easter and Christmas programs.

“None of my grandchildren are going to STAND up in front of the Church and the Lord READING from the bible. Yawl gone memorize your verses. You need to know God’s word anyway.” Granny would fiercely declare.

By this time, my mother’s older sister had found, became a new member and was a Sunday school teacher at New Mt. Sinai Missionary Baptist Church, off Wyoming between 7 and 8 mile but closer to 7, led by Pastor Joseph Lanning. Every summer, for 2 weeks we spent Monday –Friday at New Mt. Sinai from 8am -12pm in Vacation Bible School pledging eternal allegiance to something I didn’t quite understand. 

“Are you a child of God?”

“Yes”

“What if someone asks you to denounce God?”

“What does denounce mean?”

“To deny”

I am a child of God”

“What if they threatened to kill you?”

“I am still a child of God?”

When school started it was more of the same, just different. Catholic different. More rituals. Every morning we pledged allegiance to the Christian Flag, and said our prayers. Wednesday mornings, it was mandatory for the WHOLE school to attend morning mass, for which my brother and I were habitually late. Look, Baptist churches had a lil bit of a Grace period with announcements and such. Catholic churches?? The organ started RIGHT on time.

Even with that level of indoctrination I never really had a spiritual moment. A moment when I could for sure feel the warmth and presence of the Holy Spirit.

Authors Note:

In 2018 I did a 30 Day Writing Prompt Challenge. This was the prompt from May 2nd, and my 1st attempt at a personal essay narrative.

by BiSKITs & Gravy

Dec. 26th

The Ozanne Series Pt. 1

by S.L. Jordan

I kicked the chunk of greyish melting snow and took another pull of my vape pen. As the light puff of smoke swirled around me in the crisp early evening air I glanced down the busy street in annoyance.

I could hear the Marching Band practicing down at Perch Field House. Nostalgia brought a wave of memories over me. Just last year, that would’ve been me down there practicing my flute along with the rest of the band.

But that was last year. Turning my back, I shook those memories off. It felt like a lifetime ago.

The town was bustling with activity to prepare for Dec. 26th. It should feel odd because almost every other city known to man was busy winding down for the season, except for the bigger cities that really brought in the New Year with a bang – but not us. No one would ever mistake sleepy old Heinx for a city that did anything other than fish.

Dong. Dong. Dong.

The clock above City Hall announced the time. 3 .p.m.

Just as I was about to take one last pull from my vape, I heard, “Trip 1 – now you know Imma have to tell your people ‘bout you smoking dat vape right in front of the school!”

I clicked the pen three times to increase the smoke and deliberately took the biggest pull I could, turned to face our neighbor and exhaled the largest cloud of smoke directly into his face.

“Make sure you tell dat”, I said and stuffed the pen back into my jeans pocket. Mr. Hatterly was just about as nosy as you could get, and while I knew I would have to hear it when I got back home, it felt good to shut him up.

“Trip 1”, I hated that nickname. One, it was stupid. Two, I’M NOT A TRIPLET!!

I am the oldest of three. We are a year apart. Yes, we all look exactly alike – and YES, we all have the same birthday – Dec. 26th.

BUT WE ARE NOT TRIPLETS! 

No matter what we said, or did the Heinxian’s didn’t care. We were the Ozanne Triplets as far as they were concerned. 

Mr. Hatterly was still sputtering and coughing when Holly and Gar walked up.

“Tinsey, what did you do to old man Hatterly?” Gar said around a mouthful of smoke.

“Looks like she tried to smoke him out”, Holly said, laughing as she patted Mr. Hatterly on his back until he waved her away with his cane, “excuse me, I was just trying to help.”

All three of us continued to laugh as Old Man Hatterly straightened up and walked off grumbling something about, “disrespectful ass kids”.

“What’s that you said?” I hollered at his back.

“Tinsey, chill. You already know mama gone be on our head about whatever you just did,” Holly said, pulling her own vape pen from her bag. 

Holly was the baby, but she was always the one who reigned us back in.

“He called me Trip 1.” 

We shared a glance and nodded in agreement. Gar shrugged, “well he earned it” he said and blew perfectly shaped rings of smoke from his mouth. 

The three of us made our way through town, laughing and smoking the whole time. I could see why the town called us triplets. We do almost everything together and we look EXACTLY alike. I mean, down to our birthmarks – a perfectly shaped five-pointed star on the insides of our right forearm. We thought it was weird too, but sharing it strengthened our bond. Or at least we thought so. When we were growing up, if Holly or Gar were in trouble, I would feel a sensation at one point of the star.

Our parents thought we were making it up, but we’ve all felt it over the last 17 years at one point. When all three of us are together, we feel a surge of energy pulsating through our birthmarks. No one else in our family had anything similar, and that made us feel even more unique and bonded. 

Maybe we were supposed to be triplets. 

Between us smoking and all the activity in town, it took us about thirty minutes longer to get home than usual.

“What do you think they have in store for us tonight?” Gar asked as we turned onto our block.

“I think I saw mom smashing clay in the back this morning…” Holly offered, “I need a new intention bowl.”

In the Ozanne household, we started our birthday celebrations the night of the 25th. Mom and dad always made a big deal of celebrating right at midnight on the dot. 

For the last few years our celebrations got weirder and weirder.

Last year, we were all given daggers. Pretty ornate ones too. When we asked where they had gotten such decorative knives, they ducked and dodged those questions as if they were pointed spears. 

Holly and Gar were in the midst of guessing when we all noticed the door to our home was open, and not in a welcoming way. It looked as if someone had kicked the door in.

“Wait here”, I said,

“Nah, you’re not going by yourself,” Holly and Gar said simultaneously. 

We paused for a moment and felt the surge of energy crackling through our birthmarks. I took a moment to touch the spot through my jacket before proceeding further. 

Taking the lead, with Holly in the middle and Gar bringing up the rear, we stepped onto the front porch.

“Mom… Dad…” I called out as we stepped through the front door. There was evidence of a struggle – broken glass, smashed furniture and spots of blood trailing toward the back of the house. 

That’s when I recognized the sound of the sink in the kitchen running.

Hoping I would find them in the back, I took off running towards the sound and found more broken glass and blood. I blindly turned the faucet off. 

“Gar, check upstairs,” I said while grabbing Holly to my side. 

Bewildered, I tried to process what I was seeing. What in the hell happened in the last eight hours? Who would do this? Where were our parents?

“They aren’t,” Gar said as he came running into the kitchen, “there’s no damage up there either.”

The three of us stood silently in our kitchen. As the oldest, I knew I had to step up and handle whatever this was, but my mind was taking its time taking all the details in.

“We need to call someone,” Holly said. 

My autopilot turned on and I pulled my cell phone from my jacket pocket to call 911.

“Wait,” Gar said just as I was about to hit the call button.

There on the table were a few newspaper clippings, and an envelope marked “Ozanne 3”. The top clipping showed an old gray-scale picture of a baby.

I stepped closer and picked the clipping up. I stared at that picture so long that Holly grabbed it from me. She stared at it even longer until Gar grabbed it from her. 

We all looked at each other. It was an announcement for a baby that looked just like us. Except the year was wrong – Dec. 26th 2005 – this baby was born a year after Holly.

“What the fu-” I started before Gar cut me off with a wave of his hand.

“There’s more…” he said in a hushed voice. 

Under the envelope marked “Ozanne 3” lay another article with an identical baby staring up at us. The article was marked Dec. 26th 2001 – exactly one year before I was born.

I felt like someone had yanked the rug from under me. Who were these kids? And why did they look exactly like me and my siblings? I crumpled to the floor and let my cell phone drop from my hand.

Gar grabbed the letter and ripped it open.

“It’s mom’s handwriting”, he said.

He sat down next to me and began reading.. 

To My Dearest Three,

I don’t know where to start.

You three are the loves of our lives. Loves we didn’t think we would ever have. Your father and I had been married ten years, and had experienced plenty of loss before we met you Tinsel. Eighteen years ago, while at the Christmas fair, there was a group of traveling ladies who were reading fortunes. 

There were rumors they practiced witchcraft and spells, but as desperate as we were, your father and I had our fortunes read. 

We would be parents, they said, but only if we did as we were told. 

They told us to perform a specific ritual five nights in a row from Dec. 20-25.

Most of our family tried to talk us out of it. It went against our beliefs; they said. They called it heresy, but we called it hope. After much debate, we started the rituals on the 23rd through the 25th.

That first year, nothing happened. I still was not pregnant. We eventually placed the fortune and rituals in a drawer and put it all behind us. 

That following year – on Dec. 26th at midnight we awoke to hear the cries of a baby that had been left on our doorstep.

That was you, Tinsel.

How we cried at the sight of your precious face. 

I hurried to find the rituals, the one to thank the universe for delivering you to us. We performed them that night through tears of joy.

The following year, out of a thankful spirit, we performed the rituals again on Dec. 23rd -25th. This time, we had our baby with us. Again – on Dec. 26th at midnight we awoke to the cries of a baby left on our doorstep.

That was you Garland.

To go from childless to two children was more than we could have ever wished for. We celebrated your birth and Tinsey’s 1st birthday under the moonlight. 

The third year, again out of a thankful spirit, we performed the rituals on Dec. 23rd -25th with our two babies. Only to be awakened again on Dec. 26th with the cries of a baby left on our doorstep.

That was you Holly. 

We celebrated and performed the thankful ritual as a family of five. Our hearts were as full as the moon.

Last Saturday at the Christmas Festival, we saw those fortune tellers for the first time in 19 years. They recognized you three and told your father the time had come ….

That we had to let you go.

Go become who you were destined to be, but how …

Gar stopped reading.

“But how, what?” I said.

“That’s where the letter stops.” He said. 

I finally looked at this face. He had the same face he used to make when he was younger and fell, but didn’t want to cry.

I grabbed his hand and squeezed it tight. His point on my star stung sharply.

Holly had been standing by the window silently while he read the letter.

“Someone is watching the house,” she said.

To Be Continued …. 

by BiSKITs & Gravy

Destiny’s Child

by S.L. Jordan

It takes some people a lifetime to discover their purpose. I can’t tell you how old I was when I found out my purpose. I know it was early. I was born with a distinct purpose.

Here I was, fourteen years later and we were on the eve of that destiny being fulfilled. Across the room he was curled into a tight ball, I could barely make out his small frame, underneath the thick layers of blankets. My parents carefully splayed out around him. Dad was  knocked out in the hospital recliner stretched out between us. While mom had pulled the roll-a-way as close to his bed as possible, flanked his side. Unconsciously her hand desperately gripped his as she teetered on the cusp of sleep. The soft glow of the hospital lights creating a halo encircling them. As always, I was off to the side fluttering around the edges of their family. The little big sister.

The rise and fall of his chest was in sync with the beat from the heart monitor. As brash as it sounded in the silence, it was a comforting tone. Some nights, it was the only thing that could lull me to sleep, the one sound we all found comfort in. 

I was born to be a savior. A savior baby, if we were being specific. My older brother has a rare genetic disease, Fanconi Anemia, and I’m his scientific miracle. Two actually. First, I am an exact genetic match for Jamil. Second, I somehow dodged the genetic curse passed down from my parents. My birth was a literal shot in the dark. The doctors warned my parents they might have two children with FA on their hands, but with limited options they did not prepare them to sit back and watch their only child die. The one they actually planned for. 

That’s where I came in, robust and with a set of pipes,  prayer answered. They used a surrogate the second time around. For the last 14 years, I had been stuck, prodded and poked more times than I could count. Fatigue, being one of the major symptoms of FA, kept Jamil restrained to his bed. On his good days, we could use his wheelchair and have some type of normal life. I was the girl in a bubble, restricted in my activities, where I could go, everything. God forbid I caught a common cold somewhere. I was quarantined for weeks if I even sneezed too much. They said it was for my safety, but I knew better, it was for this. This exact procedure. 

Just as my nerves settled, I heard a soft clanking. “Jamilah” floated softly between the beds and into my ears. Our eyes met across the room. Mom shifted, and we froze. Once she settled back to sleep, he struggled to arrange the various tubes running into his arm to sign, “R U ready?” he asked.

I taught myself ASL when I was six. Jamil spent some much time in the hospital with tubes down his throat that I wanted a way to  talk with him, and not just at him. My parents only learned the basics, so it afforded us privacy. It was our thing, one of the few things that made us feel like siblings. 

“Ready to be a savior? St. Jamilah at your service.” I signed jokingly.

“No, to be free …”

His response took me by surprise and caused me to stutter, my hands froze mid sentence. Leave it to Jamil to cut through the fog and get straight to it. “Hey, I don’t know how long I’ll be here. Why waste it with small talk” was his motto.  Honestly, I was afraid. Terrified it would work and terrified it wouldn’t. As a family, we were so set in our roles. My helicopter parents. Jamil as the dependent, and me – the mortal deity. Could we change? Would my mother’s smile ever reach her eyes? Could dad quit his second job? Would the late night whispers stop floating through the vents?

We spent the rest of the night fingers dancing through the air, making plans for after. The closer we got to dawn I could see the droop in his fingers. I feigned sleep so he could rest.  

I continued to sit there watching the hands of time tick by, I can’t help but wonder what “after” would look like. Were our plans just dreams deferred? Will the transplant take? When the saving was over, then what? Will my life be my own? The soft swoosh of the door opening was the sound of our new life calling.

Author’s Note: This is the first draft of a story I submitted to Spider Road Press in 2019.

by BiSKITs & Gravy

To Be Determined

by S.L. Jordan

She pressed her hand tightly to her mouth in efforts to smother the sound of her own breathing. Everything seemed so loud. The sound of her breath, the rapid beating of her heart. It was almost as if she could hear the blood traveling through her veins.

It was at that moment she felt a tickle in the back of her throat, and tried with all her might to swallow back the cough that threatened to give her away. She had dug this space out from under the floor boards years ago, back before the spores had attacked – back when she could fit comfortably inside.

The raid had come unexpectedly and she didn’t have time to grab her portable oxygen tank before hiding in the crawl space. Clutched to her chest were the plans she had grabbed just before the door came crashing in. Plans that threatened to overturn the grip of the Vestry on the nation. She watched through the sliver in the floor boards as the Vestry Sentinels ransacked her place. She had no idea how they found her location, or who may have betrayed her- the ire she felt in her heart as they smashed her things almost forced her from her hiding spot. There were no more than four of them inside the apartment, and she knew she could take them effortlessly.

She listened carefully for the sound of others. Were there more outside? As she debated her decision, she heard steps coming from outside the apartment – up the wrought iron metal staircase. She almost smirked, Janeth had complained of those stairs and the noise Janeth concerned to be a disadvantaged. But it proved to be useful on countless occasions, this being one.

She waited as the steps came closer, the gait and pressure of them told her there was only one other Sentinel coming up the stairs. Five would be pushing it in this tight space, but she had no doubt she could handle them all. Slowly, she began to move in preparation to strike when the steps came to a stop at the door way.

“Have you found anything useful?”

Paralyzed her hands fell limp by her sides, and she took in the biggest gasp of air -paying no mind to the spores she had just breathed in.

That voice, she thought as her eyes began to well up with tears. Tears she had long stopped crying. Tears that she thought had dried up and never to be felt again.

Her brother. was. alive.

Author’s note: It is Feb 15th 2021 and I am in Houston currently experiencing a snowmageddon -well, their version of it. As a Detroiter, I’m shocked this small amount of snow has one of the biggest cities down like this- and while I was napping this story popped into my head. With any hope, this wont be the last time we hear from her.

by BiSKITs & Gravy

African Kissing

by S.L. Jordan

Placing my hand on the dresser I leaned in closer. With my nose just an inch or two from the mirror my breath bounced off as I started to lean my head, no it was more of a bend in the neck, from left to right and back again. Slow at first. 

Then a little faster.

Faster.

Faster.

Left.

Right.

Left. 

Right.

Until I had built up a rhythm. 

I had no real idea of what I was doing, but I was practicing. I kept right on practicing until I got a crook in my neck. I stopped and stared back at the face in the mirror. What was I doing? Sliding my glasses firmly back up the bridge of my nose I flopped down on my bed, air rushing form my lungs as I hit the comforter. I stared at my ceiling, eyes glazed over. I noticed the spotty edges where the cloudy, grey painted sky ceiling bled into the blue painted sky walls. Ordinarily that would have driven me crazy, but a storm was brewing in my stomach and took precedence over my OCD. I couldn’t remember the last time I was this anxious. For the last two weeks all everyone talked about at school was the upcoming half day.

Once a month, the teachers had an In-School Service Day which meant WE got a half day of school. On the surface, there was nothing new about it. I would be walking to Wayne State University with the rest of the 6th, 7th, and 8th grade “Latch Key Kids” to grab something to eat in the student café before going to either the Detroit Public Library- Main Branch or Roscoe’s Arcade. We were chaperone-less and would spend hours running around midtown causing trouble and blaming everything on the kids from Spain Middle School, our rivals. Gossip about which couples had their first kiss had been making the rounds for weeks during recess. Leading me here, to that very awkward moment of trying to figure out body placement during kisses!

Rubbing the back of my neck, the crook had eased up some and I sat back up. Determined I got back in the mirror. I stared at my lips. Unlike last year, they looked nice, smooth and plump. I had started using this Vaseline my god sister gave me months ago at the beginning of the summer. She SWORE it would give me the softest lips ever.

“Here.” She said handing me a small bag. 

Looking inside I saw a small tub of Vaseline, a toothbrush and a glossy bubble gum pink lip-gloss. Confused, I looked at her with my left eyebrow raised. She hated when I did that.

Taking a finger she pushed it back down. “Don’t look at me like that,” she said, “We … no YOU are too old to have flaky, chapped lips.” Buggy had a way with saying things. Things that would make you fight a stranger, but somehow from her it sounded different. Hell, it even felt different.  

Still, I ran my tongue over my bottom lip and could feel the texture she was talking about. I started to pick at the flaky skin when she popped my hand.

“STOP! That makes it worse.” 

I was 9 months her senior, but Buggy had an air about her that made her seem older. She stayed with her nose in those pre-teen magazines that talked about things like how to get rid of acne, the perfect curl, and what to wear on the first date. 

“Well, what am I supposed to do with Vaseline and a toothbrush??” I asked. I hadn’t the slightest idea how the two could be used together that would help my lips. Toothbrushes were for teeth and baby hairs, and sometimes the occasional sole of a gym shoe. Dragging me into the bathroom, she showed me how I needed to brush my lips with warm water after brushing my teeth. The Vaseline was to be applied afterwards. “It’s best if you do it before bed,” she said motherly as she globbed loads of pink gloss onto her own lips.

I practiced puckering my lips, along with gently opening and closing my mouth. Oh, how I prayed he kept his eyes closed. Other than that peck of a kiss I shared with Dwight before I left Alabama last summer, the only knowledge I was equipped with were years of peeking at Victor on Young and the Restless from under my Granny’s dining room table. From there, I learned about French Kissing. Why did they call it French Kissing anyway? It’s not like the French were the only people to kiss using their tongue, and they couldn’t have been the first people to EVER kiss. Like, in the whole entire world? Ms. Rome taught us in Social Studies that everything started in Africa. So, why don’t they call it African Kissing? Well, I am black so I am going to call it African Kissing. 

I didn’t know what to do with my tongue, as they never showed that part in the stories. Just couples opening and closing their mouths over each other. Almost like they were trying to actually eat the other person’s face. Oh, and they moaned! How did you practice moaning though? Loudly? Softly? That’s all I knew about kissing.  The only time I ever moaned was in pain, and somehow I didn’t think that was the type of moan DeJean would want to hear. 

Last week, during lunch Sasha caught me just as I was going in to the corridor heading for recess. Our cafeteria, like most middle school cafes, doubled as an auditorium. We were sandwiched between rows of stacked chairs, the thick burgundy velvet stage curtain and boxes filled with hula hoops, jump ropes and balls for recess. 

“Are you and DeJean going to the library next week?” She asked.

As my granny would say, Sasha and I were casual associates. We had things in common, were in the same places, but I didn’t SEEK out her friendship. Our conversations just sort of happened. Kind of like that one.

“Yeah” I replied hesitantly, I knew she was plotting something, she generally kept a certain brand of mischievousness up her sleeve. My younger brother and I walked to the Library every half day, and she knew that just like she knew my mom worked 12 hr. shifts at the Medical Center, and that my dad worked construction. No one was available to pick us up until after 6.

“Have you heard?” She asked, the sound of her voice lowering with every word. 

“Heard what?” at this point I was starting to get annoyed. We only have 30 minutes of recess and she was wasting mine with her questions. 

“About the kissing list” was barely audible. 

I jerk with surprise. That was the last thing I expected her to say, at least to me. Sasha was known for going sneaking around with the boys on half days, full days, weekends, whenever.

Author’s Note: Another work in progress from my vault. I enjoy going back and re-reading a piece I worked on, sometimes it inspires me to finish the piece. Other times, I take something from the old piece and use it in a current work in progress.

by BiSKITs & Gravy

Untitled

by S.L. Jordan

Impatience has a weight to it. That weight can be seen in the slump of the shoulders, the shuffling from one foot to the other, the aimless walking of back and forth.

Everyone gathered in the FASFA office felt that weight. The air in the room filled with the repressive sighs of students hoping to hear good news.

Three of the five officers had already abandoned their post for lunch, and the remaining two were in no rush to clear out the waiting room.

The eldest of the officers turned to pull a file from the ever growing pile to her left, and there was a collective intake of breath. Who would be next? There seem to be no rhyme or reason to who was called when.

Confusion was clearly etched across her face as she struggled to make out the name on the file. Her lips moved silently as she fought to make that collection of vowels and consonants make sense to her tongue. A young woman seated in the far left corner slowly started to stand, as if this were a common experience, and made her way to the front.

The frustrated officer sighed and made an attempt, “Ms. Rata … Ratau …”

“Yes,” she interrupted the butchering of her surname, “that is me.”

Once at the counter, the student leaned in in efforts to obtain some level of privacy. The cashier, oblivious to her need for discretion, spoke even louder – “You’re going to have to speak up. I can barely understand what you are saying.”

The young lady tried to adjust her mask in hopes of being heard, and leaned in closer.

“Oh NO! You have to keep your mask ON, or I will have to schedule another appointment to see an officer at the earliest convenience” she declared even louder.

Those last four words took all of the shyness from the student, “at the earliest convenience” could mean by the end of the semester, and today was the last day for payments to be accepted. She straightened her shoulder and held her head high as she said loudly for even I to hear in the back, “I’m coming to check on the status of my scholarship, I have not heard back.”

“Are you sure you got it? As far as I know, all disbursements have been made. Tell me the name of the scholarship, and I will see what we have in the system”, the cashier replied flippantly. The annoyance that was clearly displayed on her face knocked the students shoulder’s down a notch. The confidence in her voice lowered again as she stated her full name and the specialized scholarship created specifically for immigrant students of color.

Author’s Note: this past weekend, I met with my virtual book club -Read Between The Wines- to discuss “Hitting a Straight Lick With a Crooked Stick” our August book. The book is a “full” collection of Zora Neale Hurston’s short stories. From a writers perspective I commented about how I would feel if someone found my notebooks of short stories, ideas, drafts or tidbits and just published them. Honestly, I don’t think I would like it if I were to be completely honest. On the other hand, I guess I’m “publishing” them now for the world to read, right?

Take this story for example, for the past week this scene has been running in the back of my mind. I wanted to explore how I would write a scene about someone else, from a strangers perspective. I had an idea of how I wanted the story to end, but along the way I lost the steam for it.

There are sentences, words, or phrases I love from this piece that I may steal for another project, but as for now this is how it ends.

In the words of Zora Neal Hurston:

STEPPED ON A TIN, MAH STORY END.

by BiSKITs & Gravy

And Then I Woke Up…

by K. Osorio-Teamer

And then I woke up to the sound of my upstairs neighbor vacuuming. At 8am. Who does that? The one day I can sleep in after what feels like weeks of getting up in the dark, they choose to vacuum, the loudest of all chores. I sit up begrudgingly, my head still heavy from sleep, my eyelids fighting to stay shut. The sun peeks through the white blinds of my bedroom window shining a light on the thick blue blanket adorned with a family of tigers that Abuela gave me a few years ago. “They represent us, mi amor,” she said as I took it out of the plastic case. “I am the big one in the back and these three little ones are you and your sisters.” She giggled at the thought until I could only see the wrinkles of her eyes. It’s warm under the tiger blanket and I consider laying down again. I mean, how long can someone vacuum, right? I already know I won’t fall asleep again. I will simply replay thoughts in my head until I drive myself crazy. How will I pay the light bill? I was late twice this week, so next week’s paycheck will be short. I haven’t gotten an oil change and the light’s been on for weeks. My back has been hurting again. I should really go to the doctor. I wonder how Cecilia and Mariana are doing. Ceci and Mari. No, it’s best if I get up and occupy myself. Maybe do some vacuuming.

I put on my favorite playlist and turn the volume up on the speaker as loud as I can so I can hear it in the shower. It’s best to stay away from the quiet. The quiet is the trapdoor that drops me into the rabbit hole of thoughts and regrets. And so I listen to Juanes as he begs God to let him love his woman and to let him die for that love. To Mana’s cries of a heart burdened by the thorns of a rose. To Natalia Lafourcade, who vows she hasn’t forgotten you, you her moonlight, for she carries you in her very skin.  The words of their songs are far better than mine. Once I’m done, I put on the biggest t-shirt I can find, the one that was Arturo’s. The black one with the El Borracho loteria card printed on it. The one he forgot to take with him when he packed his small box of things and left. When I get the tv on and see the far too perky morning show hosts, I pause the music on my phone. They’re jabbering about game day recipes for Sunday, but I am transfixed by the notification on my phone.

Mari: Hey sis. Please call me back. It’s been months since…

I know there’s a way to hide the preview of texts, but I haven’t even tried. I just wish it knew I didn’t want to see anything from Mari. The hosts are eating tortilla chips that they’ve dipped into guacamole and reacting like they’ve never had it before. I roll my eyes. I better get some coffee in me. I swipe the notification away and head for the kitchen, leaving the phone on the couch. The hosts have moved on to potato skins. That sounds pretty good actually. The coffee pot is doing its thing and I search the kitchen for potato skin ingredients. I hear the phone vibrate once more. I peek over the kitchen door with a bag of shredded cheddar cheese in my hand. I consider picking up. I decide to open the bag of cheese and inspect it. It’s past the expiration date but I don’t see mold, so I have the green light. I grab my favorite mug, the cat face with pink glasses, and pour the black elixir. Its vapor caresses my face softly.

Before my butt hits the couch, I already know what I’m binging – The Great British Baking Show. I can watch polite Brits bake for hours. It’s biscuits week on the show and they’re about to start the technical challenge when the curiosity finally gets to me. I pick up the phone and see a missed call from Ceci. That’s surprising. She stopped reaching out a month ago. Below the missed call notification is a text from her. Mari has tried nearly every day to get a hold of me either by calling or texting. She still sends me memes on Instagram. I don’t know which I preferred – Ceci’s silence or Mari’s persistence. I have to read Ceci’s rare text.

Ceci: You don’t have to talk to us anymore, but we have to sell Abuela’s house. You need to get your old shit out. We packed it for you. Come get it today. The house will be empty.

I can’t stop staring at the screen. The house that I grew up in will soon be filled with strangers imagining it as their own. They’ll paint over the walls, replacing the bright and lively yellows, teals, and pinks with gray tones to make it seem modern. They’ll put a Live. Love. Laugh. sign right where Abuela hung her Vicente Fernandez mariachi hat that she swore was really his. They’ll tear apart her garden without giving a second thought to the orange, grapefruit, and guava trees that fed her little tiger cubs for years. They won’t care about all the work she put into every part of the house. The doilies placed with care under black and white photographs and the calendars from the panaderia in each room. They won’t know how the smell of onions cooking journeyed into each room beckoning her cubs to come watch her cook and wait patiently for their meal. They won’t know Abuela’s smile or the wrinkle in her eyes. As the bakers panic over how long they should leave Mary Berry’s fork biscuits in the oven, I let the weeks of running from the quiet wash over me. Crying is a messy thing. The more you do it, the harder it is to breathe and the deeper you fall in the rabbit hole.

I don’t know if I should call them. Ceci and Mari. I know they’ll pick up and that’s the scariest part. Having to hear their voices, reminding me of a life that feels more like a dream than reality. A life where I walked into a house filled with love and the smell of onions. One where I laughed at memes that Mari sent me, and Ceci and I snuck our beers into the movies, and Arturo was the one sitting on my couch in his El Borracho shirt. A life when my smiles weren’t forced and I didn’t run from silence. One where I trusted that most people were good. But Abuela was killed and then I woke up.