[{"id":11738,"date":"2026-08-26T10:18:38","date_gmt":"2026-08-26T15:18:38","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/?p=11738"},"modified":"2026-08-27T08:40:01","modified_gmt":"2026-08-27T13:40:01","slug":"the-sea-come-for-ismaida","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/26\/the-sea-come-for-ismaida\/","title":{"rendered":"The Sea Come for Ismaida"},"content":{"rendered":"AMANIE MATHURIN<\/p>\n
The sea come for Ismaida late one night in August, it cold arms reaching into her home, wresting her out of a troubled sleep. Ismaida jump to her aching feet, anxiously searching the one-room dwelling for anything worth saving. Nothing, she decide.<\/p>\n
Quick quick she climb to the top of a nearby tree, feeling her way up its sturdiness in a practiced flow of aging limbs. From this perch that she grow to learn well, Ismaida listening as the sea claim the few remaining possessions that mark her eighty-six years of living on this earth. Her single church dress and Sunday hat \u2013 the only clothes she had left besides the ones now clinging to her wet skin. The sea had begin its uninvited late-night visits some months ago, and by now the little that she used to call her own lay in its bottomless mouth.<\/p>\n
In the morning, after the sea reluctantly retreat, Ismaida carefully climb down to check the damage, a ritual she used to by now. A few more aging boards tear loose from rusted nails. Water soak all the way through her old kabann<\/em>, the odd collection of ragged clothes where she sleep. She try in vain to squeeze salt water out of the worn bible she pretending to read in church every Sunday. Still, she count herself lucky. Or at least more lucky than the others. She still here.<\/p>\n***<\/p>\n
The first to go was Aggie, the old woman from church who walk with a limp and always have half suck mints in the pocket of her floral dress. Aggie, her small home, and all her belongings had disappear just so one night. Is like they never even exist. Ismaida remember that Aggie front yard had roses with bright petals. She think the thorns use to pull her clothes when she walk past Aggie small front yard to reach her own even smaller square of home. Ismaida want to believe she remember the talcum powder Aggie always use to paint across her large breasts. But as hard as she try, she cannot remember Aggie face.<\/p>\n
The second person to disappear was\u2026 Serita? Now that she think about it\u2026 Ismaida not even sure if that is really the woman name. When the woman had first disappear, Ismaida think about how her longtime friend always use to welcome her into her kitchen to borrow a handful of sugar, a hot cup of ginger tea, or to listen to the news on her small transistor radio. But when Ismaida ask her neighbour about their dear friend whose name she somehow can no longer remember, the neighbour think Ismaida losing her mind. What woman? What house?<\/em> That spot empty years now!<\/em> Or so the neighbour say. Yet everytime she pass the watery grave, Ismaida swear on the bible she taking a faint smell of ginger tea. And if she strain her ears real hard, she even hearing the radio man talking to the wind.<\/p>\nThe third was a man who never had no name. Lucky for him, Ismaida thinking to herself, for nobody can forget what they never know in the first place. The man live in a old, empty fisherman shack just a stone throw away from the sea. Some days he use to help fishermen clean their catch. But only when he hungry enough to work. Other days he just sleep whole day, snoring loud and quarrelling with the sea when it climb through the one broken down window and tickle his toes. Now the shack gone, but nobody can explain to Ismaida why she still hearing the man quarrelling.<\/p>\n
Ismaida cannot remember the fourth and fifth people. Or how close to her they maybe use to live. They was men or women? Maybe children? Oh god, she hope not. But she know is five because every night she counting the five notches she carve in the wood frame of her small front door that barely holding on to the hinges. She had start carving the notches about four months ago, after the second person go missing.<\/p>\n
But even with the notches for proof, nobody believe Ismaida. They laugh at her and say her mind running away and she not young enough to catch it. The only person who not treating her like she crazy is Celestin, her good friend ever since they small. He had teach her to swim when they was little children, and now in their old age he still greet her with a big smile above his silver beard. She wasn\u2019t sure if Celestin believe her, because he never really talk much. But at least he use to listen and nod his head, his long grey locs hanging over his face while he cleaning fish. He never laugh at her and call her a mad old woman like all the other people she try to warn. Everybody else think just because she is an old lady she don\u2019t know nothing.<\/p>\n
***<\/p>\n
Ismaida live her whole life here and she remember when she was a child and the sea use to dance playful playful along the shoreline. She use to run toward it laughing, letting the water lick her small toes. She grew up so close to the sea that she never learn how to be afraid of it. Her father use to go out on his small boat to catch fish, and he had promise her that once she grow tall enough to reach by his chest, he would bring her out to sea with him. But that day never come. Before Ismaida had grow big enough to reach just higher than her father hip, the sea had claim him. Just like that. One day, an ordinary day, he leave home well before dawn, just like every day for most of his life. Except this time his boat never come back. And her mother never stop crying, walking to the shore every morning before sunrise, hoping the sea would return her man. Or at least part of him.<\/p>\n
Still, Ismaida thought that the sea was only dangerous if you went too far beyond where it agree to welcome you. And so even after Celestin teach her how to swim, she always use to make sure she stay close enough to still see her mother shrinking form on the shore. The sea was their backyard. They could not avoid it. Only learn how to keep a respectful distance from its hungry floor. Now, some seventy-five years after her father had gone and Ismaida had learn to draw her own boundaries with the sea, it decide it want more from her. Is as if the sea grow legs one day and suddenly feel like it want to test them out, crawling closer and closer to Ismaida little house, some hundred feet away from the shore. Bit by bit, the sea decide that waving to Ismaida from the rocky front yard not enough. It want to live inside the small house with Ismaida, curling it fists into her small saucepan. Spreading it palms across the cheap painting of Jesus on the wall. Taking off it shoes and stretching it new toes along her bare floor.<\/p>\n
***<\/p>\n
The next time the sea come, Ismaida decide she cannot take no more chances. She afraid because by now seven people gone, just like that. Seven people who had live no more than a stone throw away for as long as she can remember. All of them gone in the blink of her old milky eye, in less full moons than Ismaida can count on the twist up, bend up fingers of her right hand. And still, nobody want to listen to her. Nobody care what an old woman like her have to say, even if their grandmother mouth was still wet with breastmilk when Ismaida start learning this sea.<\/p>\n
And so, under the light of the moon her hands, thick with a lifetime of work, start to tear the small shack apart, board by board. She tie the boards in a neat bundle and strap it to her stooped back. Rusted nails jangling in her pocket and Ismaida running. Fast. Further inland. Rain pounding at her from all direction. The sea hear her heavy footsteps and now it hot on her tail, chasing Ismaida relentlessly, it frigid tongue lapping her calloused heels. Over the hill and away from the sea Ismaida run, her skirt tie up in two big knot to keep her from tripping over it. With each nervous glance over her shoulder she notice the sea retreating. For now. Panting for breath, she unburden herself from her load, carefully laying the weather-beaten boards along a grassy ledge. She dust her hands and plant them on her formidable hips sighing, \u201cMwen las<\/em>!\u201d Weariness. Not of old bones, but a tired spirit.<\/p>\nIsmaida cautiously feels her way around before climbing to a high branch she hope to use as a lookout. The sea far enough that she can barely hear it. Still, she listen to the distant roar, hoping that it cannot see her. When she satisfied that she safe, at least for the night, she begin the work of piecing back together her small home. Within minutes she patch up the thin walls and wooden windows almost instinctively, a skill she grow used to as of late.<\/p>\n
![\"\"](\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/LaVaughn-Belle-Chaney-series.jpeg?resize=960%2C958&ssl=1\")
Artwork: LaVaughn Belle. Chaney Series (We Live in the Fragments)<\/p><\/div>\n
The final puzzle piece is the doorframe. A heavy rock smashing against the nail as Ismaida pounding the frame into place. Then her fingers running along the seven notches carved into the ancient wood. She counting. Slow. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight<\/em>? Her fingers tremble against the unfamiliar notch, her nimble mind quickly searching for the details of its appearance. But despite her best efforts, Ismaida have no memory of this eighth notch. No idea when she carve it, or whose life she was trying to quietly commemorate.<\/p>\n***<\/p>\n
That night, as she lay her aching bones along the thin kabann<\/em>, Ismaida calculating how she can protect herself. She ease herself off the floor and strip bare. Slowly, intentionally, she turn her dress inside out before slipping it back over her tired shoulders, the three small buttons to her back, instead of against her withered breasts. For good measure. The things that happening these last few months is anything but ordinary, and Ismaida living long enough to know not to take any chances.<\/p>\nIsmaida try to sleep, but she cannot. She dreaming of friends with no face, screaming out to neighbours with no name, her voice a strangled whisper caught in her throat. She see Aggie running and Ismaida try to chase her. But when Aggie stop to turn around and Ismaida think she will finally see her friend face again, instead is a thick grey beard brushing Aggie powdered neck, long silver locs hanging over her face like a curtain.<\/p>\n
***<\/p>\n
When she wake up in the morning, Ismaida thanking the lord she run. Celestin gone. The news not yet begin to spread, but Ismaida know. She wake up knowing. His house and boat gone too. They had survive many storms. Ismaida stare at the dirt under her long finger nails, deep in thought. She wondering if maybe she will ever meet Celestin again, feel the kind smile behind his bushy silver beard.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe sea don\u2019t have no back door,<\/em>\u201d she mutter to herself mournfully.<\/p>\n***<\/p>\n
The next night, Ismaida sleeping when she feel a freezing, wet hand around her throat. Almost out of habit, she get up to run. But she tired. Tired of running. Tired of taking the house apart and putting it back together. And so Ismaida walk calmly toward the sea, so angry she feeling the blood boiling close close to her skin.<\/p>\n
\u201cKi sa ou vl\u00e9?<\/em>\u201d The sea howling, drowning out her shouts. What you want<\/em>?<\/p>\n\u201cMwen pa ni anyen ank\u00f2<\/em>.\u201d Quieter now. Pleading, almost. I have nothing again<\/em>!<\/p>\nSuddenly the sea leap forward in the darkness and Ismaida stumble to the sand in shock. She try to scramble to her feet but cold watery arms trawling her back down. Desperate, she pull herself free and begin to run. The sea taunting at her back. Still she run.<\/p>\n
She looking for someplace to hide but all around her is emptiness. Not a house in sight. She think she screaming but she not sure. Nobody around to hear her. Ismaida run until the sun come up, painting the sky orange above her. And her feet still going, bringing her towards a row of houses she know had to be somewhere around the corner. But the more Ismaida flee, the more she feel lost. Nothing to help her get her bearings right. Miss Pauline house suppose to be not far from the big patch of seagrapes trees. If only she can reach, somebody must help her. The sea was dangerously close. She could feel its chilly fingers grasping at her ankles.<\/p>\n
But there is no house. Only emptiness where Miss Pauline and her six unruly children should be. And emptiness next to her where Magdalene had build the small house with the money she make plaiting shells into the white people hair on the beach. Emptiness where the small rumshop use to be. Ismaida listen for the sounds of reggae music that use to come from the shop every day for the last twenty-two years. Silence.<\/p>\n
The sun set and Ismaida still running. She never had to go so far before. She can feel the sea edging close close. Surrounding her from all sides. Towering above her. Pulling the beaten path out from under her bare feet.<\/p>\n
\u201cJ\u00e9zi Kwi!<\/em>\u201d Jesus Christ.<\/em><\/p>\nThe wall rise up in front of her as if from nowhere and Ismaida feel the blood pouring from her forehead as she dash headfirst into the thick layers of brick. Stunned, she gather herself in a daze and start to move quick right alongside the wall, feeling her way along the hard concrete. She believe that somewhere beyond that wall there must be a path that will eventually lead her to the big road. The new one with all the loud cars carrying people up and down. She never see it with her own two eyes, but she hear the fishermen talk about it. She hear mothers warn their children about going near the new road. About how the cars had already eat three little boys, leaving their mothers to pick small broken bones from between metal teeth.<\/p>\n
Finally, the concrete end and her fingers grasp metal. Thick bars that she start to rattle, shouting in desperation. A man in a uniform staring at Ismaida through the metal bars, shaking his head gravely and pointing to a sign. Ismaida\u2019s milky eyes cannot see the sign, and even if she could, the letters spelling out HOTEL GUESTS ONLY<\/em> would mean nothing to her.<\/p>\nIsmaida pulling at the metal bars in despair, screaming. The roar of the sea filling her ears now, smothering her own cries. She feel the water grabbing at her neck and her arms and legs flailing in vain. The sea cold, unforgiving. Pulling her down into its liquid tomb. As the saltwater fill her lungs Ismaida briefly wonder who will carve the ninth notch above her doorframe. Who will remember she was here?<\/p>\n\n\t\t
\n\t\t\t
\n\t\t\t\t
\n\t\t\tAmanie Mathurin is a storyteller and researcher whose creative practice takes root in the intersections of decolonial imagination, counter- memory, and narrative justice. Using Saint Lucian orality and speculative writing, her work interrogates colonial legacies, archival silences, and the politics of knowledge production.\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Bit by bit, the sea decide that waving to Ismaida from the rocky front yard not enough. It want to live inside the small house with Ismaida, curling it fists into her small saucepan. Spreading it palms across the cheap painting of Jesus on the wall. Taking off it shoes and stretching it new toes along her bare floor.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":15102494,"featured_media":11743,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","_coblocks_attr":"","_coblocks_dimensions":"","_coblocks_responsive_height":"","_coblocks_accordion_ie_support":"","_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_wpcom_ai_launchpad_first_post":false,"_jetpack_feature_clip_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"{title}\r\n\r\n{excerpt}\r\n\r\n{url}","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2},"_wpas_customize_per_network":false,"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false},"categories":[728594616,1747,728594591],"tags":[728594619],"class_list":["post-11738","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-amanie-mathurin-pree-15","category-fiction","category-pree-15","tag-pree-15","et-has-post-format-content","et_post_format-et-post-format-standard"],"yoast_head":"\n
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<\/em><\/p>\n<p style=\"padding-left: 320px;\">she shouted<\/p>\n<p style=\"padding-left: 120px;\">he got on top<br \/>\nlost\u00a0the car and by the dump<\/p>\n<p style=\"padding-left: 80px;\">robber samaritans<br \/>\npulled him out<\/p>\n<p style=\"padding-left: 40px;\">but how on earth<br \/>\neveryone asked<\/p>\n<p>ever sanguine he\u2019d respond<br \/>\n<em>In life, you go with the flow <\/em><\/p>\n<h3><strong>Chary<\/strong><\/h3>\n<p>Patricia catch her fraid when she saw the flash<br \/>\nthen heard the clap, shampoo in her palm<\/p>\n<p>she knew water on a body could carry a charge<br \/>\nhad seen how careless coach\u2019s sessions could<\/p>\n<p>end with the chaos of an ambulance<br \/>\nbut she was late, she took the chance<br \/>\nWhen was some too much or another not happening lately?<br \/>\nShango vex?<\/p>\n<p>It had started with the fracas in May<br \/>\n— giving her a bligh to text<br \/>\nthat sweet mouth man — <em>did you feel that? are you okay?<\/em><\/p>\n<p><em>I bring the earthquake<\/em>, he fronted<br \/>\nlater confessing they send him<br \/>\nshaking in the street.<\/p>\n<p>but then there was Beryl<\/p>\n<p>when the coconut tree, outgrowing<br \/>\nthe house\u2019s shade\u00a0passing the roof grasping<\/p>\n<p>light became an urgent obstacle<br \/>\nto manage \u2018til her body said stop<br \/>\nand she finally appreciated her mother\u2019s<br \/>\nhurricane naps<\/p>\n<h3>Chaperone<\/h3>\n<p>once upon a time i knew<br \/>\nonly one girl with a Ventolin pump.<br \/>\nhow many times we going bun<br \/>\nRiverton<br \/>\nscheming for contracts<br \/>\nto out tyre tower infernos<br \/>\nsending hordes<br \/>\nof students to nights lost<br \/>\nin ER waiting rooms<\/p>\n<p>how many<br \/>\nBottlesTamponapplicatorsCarseats<br \/>\ndid we find at the beach clean-up that day?<\/p>\n<p>the tally-list came late,<\/p>\n<p>and bwoy<br \/>\ni was busy trying<br \/>\nto keep track<br \/>\nof that own-way pickney running off<br \/>\nin a private car on her own agenda<br \/>\nbefore we piled the 10 bags of whatever<br \/>\nup to be sent to — not sure.<\/p>\n\n\t\t<div class='author-shortcodes'>\n\t\t\t<div class='author-inner'>\n\t\t\t\t<div class='author-info'>\n\t\t\tRhea Manley is a poet and educator based in Jamaica. She holds a BA. in English Literature from Lewis and Clark College in Portland, Oregon. Manley was selected as a Bocas Breakthrough Fellow (Trinidad and Tobago, 2024) for her work as an emerging poet. Her debut chapbook Girl School was published by Peekash Press. Her poetry was also shortlisted for the Edward Baugh Prize for Poetry (Jamaica, 2019 and 2022). Her writing has appeared in PREE Magazine, New Voices: Selected by Lorna Goodison (UWI Press, 2019) and other literary outlets. Her work explores postcolonial struggles, state violence, women\u2019s autonomy and how these issues affect daily life.\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>once upon a time i knew<br \/>\nonly one girl with a Ventolin pump.<br \/>\nhow many times we going bun<br \/>\nRiverton<br \/>\nscheming for contracts<br \/>\nto out tyre tower infernos<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":15102494,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","_coblocks_attr":"","_coblocks_dimensions":"","_coblocks_responsive_height":"","_coblocks_accordion_ie_support":"","_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_wpcom_ai_launchpad_first_post":false,"_jetpack_feature_clip_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"{title}\r\n\r\n{excerpt}\r\n\r\n{url}","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2},"_wpas_customize_per_network":false,"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false},"categories":[422,728594591,689812892],"tags":[728594619],"class_list":["post-11723","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-poetry","category-pree-15","category-rhea-manley","tag-pree-15","et-doesnt-have-format-content","et_post_format-et-post-format-standard"],"yoast_head":"<!-- This site is optimized with the Yoast SEO plugin v28.5 - https:\/\/yoast.com\/product\/yoast-seo-wordpress\/ -->\n<title>In the Heavy Rain; 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Under the full moon\/this mahogany skin stains cherry red. The soft edge of helix\/blushes aan sunburns. Fainted scent. Breath\/overheating from the quiet rage of my exile. Only the sea makes me forget the garden. Only the moon morphs this body into a forbidden fruit\/I will offer. Sunday finds me, again, bloated\/floating in the water\/as diamonds bounce off the reflections of light aan wave aan his shadow black aan grey\/circling twice the shore for fresh meat. Good mornin, how are you? In our waters, sharks speak. In this town, women learn early the delicate dance with beasts. When to move, when to freeze\/when to respond without speech\/with a smile fine enough to make fillet out of him. Until then, I am still. For not all of them bite. Most wash up on the sand beside you. Fin, sticking in the wind\/sweat, beading down a jawline\u2014 strong enough to break sugarcane\/open. It\u2019s something different about you. I wonder if he means my scent. 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Writing.","publisher":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#organization"},"potentialAction":[{"@type":"SearchAction","target":{"@type":"EntryPoint","urlTemplate":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/?s={search_term_string}"},"query-input":{"@type":"PropertyValueSpecification","valueRequired":true,"valueName":"search_term_string"}}],"inLanguage":"en-GB"},{"@type":"Organization","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#organization","name":"PREE","url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/","logo":{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-GB","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/","url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/01\/PREE-logo.png?fit=782%2C414&ssl=1","contentUrl":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/01\/PREE-logo.png?fit=782%2C414&ssl=1","width":782,"height":414,"caption":"PREE"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/"},"sameAs":["https:\/\/www.instagram.com\/preelitmag\/","https:\/\/www.youtube.com\/channel\/UCuiY23cFTFeSXuap5c8dreg"]},{"@type":"Person","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#\/schema\/person\/4518f338ddbd9b8905be3abd07c656f1","name":"ap","image":{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-GB","@id":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g","url":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g","contentUrl":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g","caption":"ap"},"description":"writer, editor and walkabout","sameAs":["http:\/\/anniepaulose.wordpress.com"],"url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/author\/anniepaulose\/"}]}},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p9tXKW-32Y","jetpack_featured_media_url":"","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/11716","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/15102494"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=11716"}],"version-history":[{"count":6,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/11716\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":11731,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/11716\/revisions\/11731"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=11716"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=11716"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=11716"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}},{"id":11710,"date":"2026-08-23T19:12:00","date_gmt":"2026-08-24T00:12:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/?p=11710"},"modified":"2026-08-27T08:40:02","modified_gmt":"2026-08-27T13:40:02","slug":"three-poetic-studies-from-a-count","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/23\/three-poetic-studies-from-a-count\/","title":{"rendered":"Three poetic studies from \u201cA Count\u201d"},"content":{"rendered":"<p><span style=\"color: #0000ff;\">SHORTLISTED<\/span><\/p>\n<p>SONIA FARMER<\/p>\n<p><em>Compiled from the pages of \u201cHurricane in The Bahamas\u201d by Terence Keogh, a first-hand account of this tourist\u2019s experience surviving the 1932 Great Abaco Hurricane, published one year after it made landfall, in Harper\u2019s Monthly Magazine.<\/em><\/p>\n<p><img data-recalc-dims=\"1\" loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" data-attachment-id=\"11708\" data-permalink=\"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/23\/three-poetic-studies-from-a-count\/pree_15_submission_a_count_poetic_studies_page_2\/\" data-orig-file=\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/PREE_15_submission_A_Count_poetic_studies_Page_2.jpg?fit=2244%2C2904&ssl=1\" data-orig-size=\"2244,2904\" data-comments-opened=\"1\" data-image-meta=\"{"aperture":"0","credit":"","camera":"","caption":"","created_timestamp":"0","copyright":"","focal_length":"0","iso":"0","shutter_speed":"0","title":"","orientation":"0","alt":""}\" data-image-title=\"PREE_15_submission_A_Count_poetic_studies_Page_2\" data-image-description=\"\" data-image-caption=\"\" data-large-file=\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/PREE_15_submission_A_Count_poetic_studies_Page_2.jpg?fit=791%2C1024&ssl=1\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-11708\" src=\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/PREE_15_submission_A_Count_poetic_studies_Page_2.jpg?resize=1080%2C1398&ssl=1\" alt=\"\" width=\"1080\" height=\"1398\" srcset=\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/PREE_15_submission_A_Count_poetic_studies_Page_2.jpg?w=2244&ssl=1 2244w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/PREE_15_submission_A_Count_poetic_studies_Page_2.jpg?resize=232%2C300&ssl=1 232w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/PREE_15_submission_A_Count_poetic_studies_Page_2.jpg?resize=791%2C1024&ssl=1 791w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/PREE_15_submission_A_Count_poetic_studies_Page_2.jpg?resize=768%2C994&ssl=1 768w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/PREE_15_submission_A_Count_poetic_studies_Page_2.jpg?resize=1187%2C1536&ssl=1 1187w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/PREE_15_submission_A_Count_poetic_studies_Page_2.jpg?resize=1583%2C2048&ssl=1 1583w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/PREE_15_submission_A_Count_poetic_studies_Page_2.jpg?resize=1080%2C1398&ssl=1 1080w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/PREE_15_submission_A_Count_poetic_studies_Page_2.jpg?resize=600%2C776&ssl=1 600w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/PREE_15_submission_A_Count_poetic_studies_Page_2.jpg?w=2160&ssl=1 2160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1080px) 100vw, 1080px\" \/><\/p>\n<p>We had ideal weather all the time<br \/>\nin a place called home<br \/>\nwhere we again lived<br \/>\nin danger of<br \/>\nanother twenty-four hours<\/p>\n<p>we were moving away<br \/>\nand toward<br \/>\nthe prospect of<br \/>\na normal storm<\/p>\n<p>the past<br \/>\nremained just as it had been<br \/>\nnailed fast<br \/>\nto the special moorings<br \/>\nof the future<\/p>\n<p>I thought there was<br \/>\na destination<br \/>\nunable to see the condition<br \/>\nof this passage<br \/>\nfast as it was<\/p>\n<p>our harbor changed<\/p>\n<p>that is not<br \/>\nmy body<br \/>\nany more<\/p>\n<p><img data-recalc-dims=\"1\" loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" data-attachment-id=\"11707\" data-permalink=\"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/23\/three-poetic-studies-from-a-count\/pree_15_submission_a_count_poetic_studies_page_3-2\/\" data-orig-file=\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/PREE_15_submission_A_Count_poetic_studies_Page_3-1.jpg?fit=2244%2C2904&ssl=1\" data-orig-size=\"2244,2904\" data-comments-opened=\"1\" data-image-meta=\"{"aperture":"0","credit":"","camera":"","caption":"","created_timestamp":"0","copyright":"","focal_length":"0","iso":"0","shutter_speed":"0","title":"","orientation":"0","alt":""}\" data-image-title=\"PREE_15_submission_A_Count_poetic_studies_Page_3\" data-image-description=\"\" data-image-caption=\"\" data-large-file=\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/PREE_15_submission_A_Count_poetic_studies_Page_3-1.jpg?fit=791%2C1024&ssl=1\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-11707\" src=\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/PREE_15_submission_A_Count_poetic_studies_Page_3-1.jpg?resize=1080%2C1398&ssl=1\" alt=\"\" width=\"1080\" height=\"1398\" srcset=\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/PREE_15_submission_A_Count_poetic_studies_Page_3-1.jpg?w=2244&ssl=1 2244w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/PREE_15_submission_A_Count_poetic_studies_Page_3-1.jpg?resize=232%2C300&ssl=1 232w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/PREE_15_submission_A_Count_poetic_studies_Page_3-1.jpg?resize=791%2C1024&ssl=1 791w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/PREE_15_submission_A_Count_poetic_studies_Page_3-1.jpg?resize=768%2C994&ssl=1 768w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/PREE_15_submission_A_Count_poetic_studies_Page_3-1.jpg?resize=1187%2C1536&ssl=1 1187w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/PREE_15_submission_A_Count_poetic_studies_Page_3-1.jpg?resize=1583%2C2048&ssl=1 1583w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/PREE_15_submission_A_Count_poetic_studies_Page_3-1.jpg?resize=1080%2C1398&ssl=1 1080w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/PREE_15_submission_A_Count_poetic_studies_Page_3-1.jpg?resize=600%2C776&ssl=1 600w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/PREE_15_submission_A_Count_poetic_studies_Page_3-1.jpg?w=2160&ssl=1 2160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1080px) 100vw, 1080px\" \/><\/p>\n<p>we left<br \/>\non a plank<\/p>\n<p>carrying nothing<br \/>\nand from nowhere<\/p>\n<p>bound by something<br \/>\ntrying all the time to remain<\/p>\n<p>crawling upon<br \/>\nhands and knees<br \/>\nevery joint creaked<\/p>\n<p>but only the wildest howl<br \/>\ncould be heard<br \/>\nroaring the place down.<\/p>\n<p>Any prayer<br \/>\nsmashed to pieces<\/p>\n<p>like a shower of leaves<br \/>\nhurtling through the air<\/p>\n<p>and being sent off<br \/>\nto leeward death<\/p>\n<p><img data-recalc-dims=\"1\" loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" data-attachment-id=\"11709\" data-permalink=\"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/23\/three-poetic-studies-from-a-count\/pree_15_submission_a_count_poetic_studies_page_4\/\" data-orig-file=\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/PREE_15_submission_A_Count_poetic_studies_Page_4.jpg?fit=2253%2C2915&ssl=1\" data-orig-size=\"2253,2915\" data-comments-opened=\"1\" data-image-meta=\"{"aperture":"0","credit":"","camera":"","caption":"","created_timestamp":"0","copyright":"","focal_length":"0","iso":"0","shutter_speed":"0","title":"","orientation":"0","alt":""}\" data-image-title=\"PREE_15_submission_A_Count_poetic_studies_Page_4\" data-image-description=\"\" data-image-caption=\"\" data-large-file=\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/PREE_15_submission_A_Count_poetic_studies_Page_4.jpg?fit=791%2C1024&ssl=1\" class=\"alignnone wp-image-11709 size-full\" src=\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/PREE_15_submission_A_Count_poetic_studies_Page_4.jpg?resize=1080%2C1397&ssl=1\" alt=\"\" width=\"1080\" height=\"1397\" srcset=\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/PREE_15_submission_A_Count_poetic_studies_Page_4.jpg?w=2253&ssl=1 2253w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/PREE_15_submission_A_Count_poetic_studies_Page_4.jpg?resize=232%2C300&ssl=1 232w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/PREE_15_submission_A_Count_poetic_studies_Page_4.jpg?resize=791%2C1024&ssl=1 791w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/PREE_15_submission_A_Count_poetic_studies_Page_4.jpg?resize=768%2C994&ssl=1 768w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/PREE_15_submission_A_Count_poetic_studies_Page_4.jpg?resize=1187%2C1536&ssl=1 1187w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/PREE_15_submission_A_Count_poetic_studies_Page_4.jpg?resize=1583%2C2048&ssl=1 1583w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/PREE_15_submission_A_Count_poetic_studies_Page_4.jpg?resize=1080%2C1397&ssl=1 1080w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/PREE_15_submission_A_Count_poetic_studies_Page_4.jpg?resize=600%2C776&ssl=1 600w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/PREE_15_submission_A_Count_poetic_studies_Page_4.jpg?w=2160&ssl=1 2160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1080px) 100vw, 1080px\" \/><\/p>\n<p>all this time<br \/>\nI had regard<br \/>\nfor the laws of gravitation.<\/p>\n<p>the building<br \/>\nwas collapsing<br \/>\nin my arms.<\/p>\n<p>picked up off my feet<br \/>\nmy hands sang out<br \/>\nto grip the mystery<br \/>\nthat keeps an airplane flying<br \/>\non a puff of wind<\/p>\n<p>knocked to earth<br \/>\ndevo-tion<br \/>\npoured down on my back<\/p>\n<p>and that wreckage<br \/>\nbecame some kind of final shelter<br \/>\non top of me<\/p>\n\n\t\t<div class='author-shortcodes'>\n\t\t\t<div class='author-inner'>\n\t\t\t\t<div class='author-info'>\n\t\t\tSonia Farmer is a writer, visual artist, small press publisher, and educator who uses books and their allied crafts to interrogate Caribbean archives. Through Poinciana Paper Press, the Center for Writing, Book Arts & Publishing she founded in Nassau, The Bahamas, she works with writers and artists through classes, residencies, and publishing projects to advance cultural ownership and voice in Caribbean narratives. She has self-published various poetry collections, chapbooks, and artist\u2019s books, including \u201cInfidelities\u201d (longlisted for the 2018 OCM Bocas Prize for Caribbean Literature) and \u201cA True & Exact History\u201d (winner of the 2019 Holle Award for Excellence in Book Arts & semi-finalist, the MCBA Prize). Her poetry has won the 2011 Prize in the Small Axe Literary Competition and been shortlisted for the 2020 Montreal International Poetry Prize. She holds a BFA in Writing from Pratt Institute and an MFA in Book Arts from the University of Iowa.\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>the past<br \/>\nremained just as it had been<br \/>\nnailed fast<br \/>\nto the special moorings<br \/>\nof the future<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":15102494,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","_coblocks_attr":"","_coblocks_dimensions":"","_coblocks_responsive_height":"","_coblocks_accordion_ie_support":"","_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_wpcom_ai_launchpad_first_post":false,"_jetpack_feature_clip_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"{title}\r\n\r\n{excerpt}\r\n\r\n{url}","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2},"_wpas_customize_per_network":false,"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false},"categories":[422,728594591,728594599,54914814],"tags":[728594619],"class_list":["post-11710","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-poetry","category-pree-15","category-shortlisted","category-sonia-farmer","tag-pree-15","et-doesnt-have-format-content","et_post_format-et-post-format-standard"],"yoast_head":"<!-- This site is optimized with the Yoast SEO plugin v28.5 - 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and a woman long past menopause"},"content":{"rendered":"<p><em>Editorial note: To preserve the formatting of this poem it is featured as an image and may therefore appear different from our standard format:<\/em><\/p>\n<p><img data-recalc-dims=\"1\" loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" data-attachment-id=\"11700\" data-permalink=\"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/23\/oh-and-a-woman-long-past-menopause\/screenshot-2026-08-23-at-2-28-46-pm\/\" data-orig-file=\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Screenshot-2026-08-23-at-2.28.46-PM.png?fit=586%2C1336&ssl=1\" data-orig-size=\"586,1336\" data-comments-opened=\"1\" data-image-meta=\"{"aperture":"0","credit":"","camera":"","caption":"","created_timestamp":"0","copyright":"","focal_length":"0","iso":"0","shutter_speed":"0","title":"","orientation":"0","alt":""}\" data-image-title=\"Screenshot 2026-08-23 at 2.28.46\u202fPM\" data-image-description=\"\" data-image-caption=\"\" data-large-file=\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Screenshot-2026-08-23-at-2.28.46-PM.png?fit=449%2C1024&ssl=1\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-11700\" src=\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Screenshot-2026-08-23-at-2.28.46-PM.png?resize=586%2C1336&ssl=1\" alt=\"\" width=\"586\" height=\"1336\" srcset=\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Screenshot-2026-08-23-at-2.28.46-PM.png?w=586&ssl=1 586w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Screenshot-2026-08-23-at-2.28.46-PM.png?resize=132%2C300&ssl=1 132w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Screenshot-2026-08-23-at-2.28.46-PM.png?resize=449%2C1024&ssl=1 449w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 586px) 100vw, 586px\" \/><\/p>\n<p> <\/p>\n\n\t\t<div class='author-shortcodes'>\n\t\t\t<div class='author-inner'>\n\t\t\t\t<div class='author-info'>\n\t\t\tCelia A. Sorhaindo was born in The Commonwealth of Dominica. She migrated with her family to England in 1976, when she was 8 years old, returning home in 2005. She is co-compiler of Home Again: Stories of Migration and Return (Papillote Press, 2009), and author of poetry collections Guabancex (Papillote Press, 2020), Radical Normalisation (Carcanet Press, 2022) and ABiYA (2023).\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>can you imagine what longlong silence-in can do?<br \/>\nfury&grief locked in embrace cycloning constricted<br \/>\nspace? i feel i know why she \u2014 he \u2014 us \u2014 thepoets,<br \/>\nstillstaysosilent. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":15102494,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","_coblocks_attr":"","_coblocks_dimensions":"","_coblocks_responsive_height":"","_coblocks_accordion_ie_support":"","_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_wpcom_ai_launchpad_first_post":false,"_jetpack_feature_clip_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"{title}\r\n\r\n{excerpt}\r\n\r\n{url}","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2},"_wpas_customize_per_network":false,"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false},"categories":[707670382,422,728594591],"tags":[728594619],"class_list":["post-11690","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-celia-a-sorhaindo","category-poetry","category-pree-15","tag-pree-15","et-doesnt-have-format-content","et_post_format-et-post-format-standard"],"yoast_head":"<!-- This site is optimized with the Yoast SEO plugin v28.5 - https:\/\/yoast.com\/product\/yoast-seo-wordpress\/ -->\n<title>...oh, and a woman long past menopause - PREE<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/23\/oh-and-a-woman-long-past-menopause\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_GB\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"...oh, and a woman long past menopause - PREE\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"can you imagine what longlong silence-in can do? fury&grief locked in embrace cycloning constricted space? i feel i know why she \u2014 he \u2014 us \u2014 thepoets, stillstaysosilent.\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:url\" content=\"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/23\/oh-and-a-woman-long-past-menopause\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:site_name\" content=\"PREE\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:published_time\" content=\"2026-08-23T17:31:45+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:modified_time\" content=\"2026-08-27T13:40:02+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:image\" content=\"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Screenshot-2026-08-23-at-2.28.46-PM.png\" \/>\n<meta name=\"author\" content=\"ap\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:card\" content=\"summary_large_image\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:label1\" content=\"Written by\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data1\" content=\"ap\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:label2\" content=\"Estimated reading time\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data2\" content=\"1 minute\" \/>\n<script type=\"application\/ld+json\" class=\"yoast-schema-graph\">{\"@context\":\"https:\\\/\\\/schema.org\",\"@graph\":[{\"@type\":\"Article\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/23\\\/oh-and-a-woman-long-past-menopause\\\/#article\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/23\\\/oh-and-a-woman-long-past-menopause\\\/\"},\"author\":{\"name\":\"ap\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#\\\/schema\\\/person\\\/4518f338ddbd9b8905be3abd07c656f1\"},\"headline\":\"…oh, and a woman long past menopause\",\"datePublished\":\"2026-08-23T17:31:45+00:00\",\"dateModified\":\"2026-08-27T13:40:02+00:00\",\"mainEntityOfPage\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/23\\\/oh-and-a-woman-long-past-menopause\\\/\"},\"wordCount\":91,\"commentCount\":0,\"publisher\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#organization\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/23\\\/oh-and-a-woman-long-past-menopause\\\/#primaryimage\"},\"thumbnailUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/Screenshot-2026-08-23-at-2.28.46-PM.png\",\"keywords\":[\"PREE 15\"],\"articleSection\":[\"Celia A. 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The teacher asked<br \/>\nA hand restlessly high in the air shouts heaven<br \/>\nThe Bible sir, another voice from the back corner<br \/>\nThe classroom of vibes and dice<br \/>\nLaughter bursting through ignorance<br \/>\nQuiet! The teacher bellows<br \/>\nPlease, it\u2019s becoming a marketplace<br \/>\nSilence! The teacher bawls<br \/>\nIt\u2019s a nightmare<br \/>\nNobody is learning if<br \/>\nNobody is listening<\/p>\n<p>III<br \/>\nSir sir I bored sir<br \/>\nSir can I go to de bathroom sir?<br \/>\nPlease sir look at that boy<br \/>\nSleeping on de desk sir<br \/>\nMan my head hurting man<br \/>\nI beg your pardon<br \/>\nDon\u2019t beg me for nothing sir<br \/>\nYou wait till I reach eighteen<br \/>\nTo tell me that my God black<br \/>\nThat Egypt not in heaven<br \/>\nAnd Africa is where I come from<br \/>\nWha is that sir?<br \/>\nMy Granny never teach me dat<br \/>\nI never heard dat in Sunday school<br \/>\nWe never learn dat in church<\/p>\n<p>IV<br \/>\nSheltered like little sheeple<br \/>\nThese boys confront the truth<br \/>\nIn the Black History class<br \/>\nToppling over desk and chair<br \/>\nOne boy rages through the door<br \/>\nRunning from his story, laughter trailing<br \/>\nWe can\u2019t afford to lose another one<br \/>\nThe teacher quips like the good Shepherd<br \/>\nFind me Egypt on that map before I venture back<br \/>\nWith my rod and staff in my hand<br \/>\nYoung man! The teacher calls out<br \/>\nSir! Sir! A chorus of boys in the class<br \/>\nLeh de foolish guh long<br \/>\nLike lamb to be slaughtered sir<br \/>\nSir?<\/p>\n<h3>THIRD-WORLD POEM<\/h3>\n<p>At first glance the globe seems top heavy with its<br \/>\nSkyscraping towers and tycoons<br \/>\nBankrolling trillions in a G-spot<br \/>\nOf influence and transnational dominance<br \/>\nNorth sits stoutly on the south reigning<br \/>\nTrickle-down crumbs and crooked foreplay conditions<br \/>\nThey fart on us with pleasure and disdain<br \/>\nSometimes there are no farts at all just a shifting<br \/>\nOf the goal post screwed over our own reserves<br \/>\nDowngraded to exotic squatters blacklisted<br \/>\nAs invisible as the dung they pass down<br \/>\nIn goods and good<br \/>\nThe gods of war and right<br \/>\nSucking the minerals out of our green light<br \/>\nBreaking us down to build us up backwards<br \/>\nInsuring our deaths to gross domestic products<br \/>\nAnd we the people down south stamped poor borders<br \/>\nHead facing eastward hands stretched out to the west<br \/>\nLabeled third world and unable to balance<br \/>\nThe scale of our structural adjustments<br \/>\nNo refuge from regulatory tyrants<br \/>\nThose who rob the elephants of their tusks<br \/>\nThe virgin soil raped of rights and devalued growth<br \/>\nSargassum seaweed stench up to our door front<br \/>\nDevoured by hurricanes the oceans rise warm<\/p>\n<p>Looking again citizens see, saw the cruise ships\u2019 sail<br \/>\nWhere north never meets south like east meets west<br \/>\nOn second glance down south<br \/>\nWe sacrifice our homes for the tourists<br \/>\nNesting on their dollars like sea turtles<br \/>\nOn the edge of high tide<br \/>\nWe are the gold and silver joy<br \/>\nThe birth of the first waters cradled out<br \/>\nOf diamond wombs and veins of sweet crude oil<br \/>\nWe house the lungs the living jungle<br \/>\nThe heart and soul, the hands that hold this living globe up<\/p>\n<h3>A GAZE AT GAZA<\/h3>\n<p>I gaze<br \/>\nfrom my gallery<br \/>\nin Paradise<br \/>\nthe young men<br \/>\nlaze<br \/>\nwith their gadgets<br \/>\npose and posting<br \/>\nin Paradise<br \/>\nso distant the news<br \/>\nin Gaza<br \/>\nthose young men<br \/>\ncan only be<br \/>\nyoung men<br \/>\nin Gaza<br \/>\nWhat will their gadgets be<br \/>\ncellphones<br \/>\nrock-stones<br \/>\ntablets<br \/>\nbullets?<\/p>\n<p>In my Paradise<br \/>\nyoung men<br \/>\nsell their word-sound<br \/>\nfor firearms<br \/>\ngraduate<br \/>\ntowards the big guns<br \/>\nin my Paradise<br \/>\nYoung men<br \/>\nromanticize<br \/>\na new terror on the streets<br \/>\nname their own turf<br \/>\nafter militarized struggles<br \/>\nblood and resistance<br \/>\nIn Gaza<br \/>\nin Lebanon<br \/>\nin Beirut<br \/>\nthe Red Sea<br \/>\nthey see no peace in the Middle East<br \/>\nthe West simply not the best<br \/>\npeacekeepers<br \/>\nnegotiators of the right<br \/>\nWhat’s the worth?<br \/>\nsoon another Paradise lost<br \/>\nToday it’s Gaza<br \/>\ntomorrow<br \/>\nVenezuela?<br \/>\nGuyana?<br \/>\nTrinidad?<br \/>\nJamaica?<br \/>\nHaiti?<br \/>\nMy Paradise?<\/p>\n<p>Winston Farrell (Theatre and Development Studies (Leeds) is a theatre arts practitioner and published poet from Barbados. He enjoys reading and performing his work on and off the page. He engages his audience with the power and the rhythm in the word. He is a winner of the Frank Collymore Literary Endowment Prize, the Governor General\u2019s Award for poetry 2015 and the 2020 and 2023 Gine on Peoples\u2019 Choice Poet of the Year.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>Looking again citizens see, saw the cruise ships\u2019 sail<br \/>\nWhere north never meets south like east meets west<br \/>\nOn second glance down south<br \/>\nWe sacrifice our homes for the tourists<br \/>\nNesting on their dollars like sea turtles<br \/>\nOn the edge of high tide<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":15102494,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","_coblocks_attr":"","_coblocks_dimensions":"","_coblocks_responsive_height":"","_coblocks_accordion_ie_support":"","_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_wpcom_ai_launchpad_first_post":false,"_jetpack_feature_clip_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"{title}\r\n\r\n{excerpt}\r\n\r\n{url}","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2},"_wpas_customize_per_network":false,"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false},"categories":[422,728594591,728594615],"tags":[728594619],"class_list":["post-11684","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-poetry","category-pree-15","category-winston-farrell","tag-pree-15","et-doesnt-have-format-content","et_post_format-et-post-format-standard"],"yoast_head":"<!-- This site is optimized with the Yoast SEO plugin v28.5 - https:\/\/yoast.com\/product\/yoast-seo-wordpress\/ -->\n<title>Please Teacher; 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If she jumped"},"content":{"rendered":"<p>ADA MARICIA PATTERSON<\/p>\n<h3>Antoinette<\/h3>\n<p>broken and resolved<br \/>\nin the red room<br \/>\nshe lives in earshot of a<br \/>\ncruelty of husbands fucking our<br \/>\nchambermaids<br \/>\nin this the hold\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 the attic<br \/>\nthat keeps us most undressed<br \/>\nand toothless and<\/p>\n<p>don\u2019t know a day when<br \/>\nsun shone last<br \/>\nyou left her back in the good place\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 anywhere else not here<br \/>\nthinking she could be pocketed<br \/>\nsun in hand<br \/>\nas if you wouldn\u2019t burn up<br \/>\nas if char and in-cin-e-ra-tion were<br \/>\nnot words in your creole<br \/>\nas if you could never be<br \/>\na great house on fire \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0as if that<br \/>\nwasn\u2019t written in your blood<br \/>\nskin persuasion and your \u201cthat sort<br \/>\nof thing\u201d situation<\/p>\n<p>you clamp down your teeth<br \/>\nmousetrapping a lie or at least<br \/>\nwhat feels like one<br \/>\nwhat feels like sin and secret<br \/>\nmad colours buried<br \/>\nin your backyard body<br \/>\nlike dog bones and dead pets and<br \/>\nshameless sex toys<\/p>\n<p>you want to know why<br \/>\nthe life you live has no \u201cF\u201d<br \/>\nthat\u2019s how they spell it<br \/>\ndeception\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 dishonesty\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 really<br \/>\nshould\u2019ve told me before we kissed<br \/>\nbefore we touched and met and fucked<br \/>\nand choked and spat up murder on his<br \/>\nstupid dick<br \/>\nshould\u2019ve should\u2019ve<br \/>\nbefore we even spoke<br \/>\ntold me<br \/>\nwho I thought you\u2019re not<br \/>\ntold me \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0so I could excuse myself<br \/>\nmost repugnantly<br \/>\nand all debonair<br \/>\nand sly<br \/>\nit didn\u2019t matter how much lie<br \/>\nhe did bite down on as he ate your breast<br \/>\nhoping to draw milk blood<br \/>\nand a piece of me all the same<\/p>\n<p>why are men so obsessed with tits<\/p>\n<p>did it really make a difference to tell you so<br \/>\nbefore you could waste a chance on me?<\/p>\n<p>brokenness is what we do<br \/>\nbecause piece is all you want<br \/>\nnever all<br \/>\nnever whole\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 just hole to<br \/>\nthrow your waist into like every<br \/>\nother next garbage man<\/p>\n<p style=\"padding-left: 80px;\">tell him so<br \/>\ntell him so<br \/>\ntell him where to carry his ass<br \/>\ntell him \u2018bout his mother<\/p>\n<p style=\"padding-left: 120px;\">him who was certainly not raised<\/p>\n<p>to respect a woman like me<br \/>\nsplit apart\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 wood from nail woman<br \/>\nby expectations, assumptions and<br \/>\nsoft<\/p>\n<p style=\"padding-left: 40px;\">yet rude awakenings<\/p>\n<p>he was certainly not prepared<br \/>\nnot quite grown enough<br \/>\nto accept her without entitlement<br \/>\nwithout fearful wrist holdings<br \/>\nand locked up dresses burning out<br \/>\nof control<\/p>\n<p>\u201cI\u2019m not comfortable,\u201d he moans<br \/>\nas if it means anything but<br \/>\nstop<\/p>\n<p>what about my comfort<\/p>\n<h3>if she jumped<\/h3>\n<p>any dollar store homosexual<br \/>\nwill call himself <em>sickening<\/em><br \/>\nyet don\u2019t know one fuck<\/p>\n<p style=\"padding-left: 120px;\">about being <em>so<\/em> beautiful<\/p>\n<p>that men want to make you disappear<\/p>\n<p>I can\u2019t do it anymore<\/p>\n<p>such a deranging feeling<br \/>\nto be so terrifically hated<br \/>\nyet so loved and desired all<br \/>\nthe same<\/p>\n<p>I wake up shot down<br \/>\nevery god gone day<br \/>\nand text my bestie<\/p>\n<p style=\"padding-left: 40px;\">for proof of life<\/p>\n<p>then we cackle like old young<br \/>\nhens do<br \/>\ndelirious<\/p>\n<p style=\"padding-left: 40px;\">from dodging all the wrong kinds<\/p>\n<p>of glances<\/p>\n<p>the doctor\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 he gave us the same face<br \/>\nmore or less<\/p>\n<p style=\"padding-left: 40px;\">approachable\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 close enough\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 to be<\/p>\n<p>hunted<\/p>\n<p><em>\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 first, do no harm<\/em><br \/>\nthey promise<\/p>\n<p style=\"padding-left: 80px;\">as they turn us into forsaken fuckable women<\/p>\n<p style=\"padding-left: 80px;\">the wrong kind of girl can\u2019t be<\/p>\n<p>harmed or raped<br \/>\nthe women\u2019s movement hammers on<\/p>\n<p style=\"padding-left: 80px;\">I am a nail<br \/>\ntrying to run<br \/>\nbut nails don\u2019t have legs<\/p>\n<p><em>nasty girl<\/em><\/p>\n<p style=\"padding-left: 80px;\">it curls off his tongue too easy<\/p>\n<p>pushing more of him into<br \/>\nyou\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 like nail in a coffin<br \/>\nthe wrong kind of girl doesn\u2019t need<br \/>\na mouth to speak<\/p>\n<p style=\"padding-left: 40px;\">just a head hole<br \/>\nwith firm grip<br \/>\nno teeth<\/p>\n<p>could I learn to fly<\/p>\n<p style=\"padding-left: 40px;\">if I jumped<\/p>\n<p>from the highest battlement<br \/>\nand dreamt of softer landings<\/p>\n<p>a good man\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 hard to come by<br \/>\ngave me chocolate pudding once<\/p>\n<p>when I wanted to jump<\/p>\n<p style=\"padding-left: 80px;\">out of my skin<\/p>\n<p>and I couldn\u2019t help myself<\/p>\n<p style=\"padding-left: 80px;\">I bawled my eyes<br \/>\nout of my head<\/p>\n<p>it was too painful<\/p>\n<p style=\"padding-left: 80px;\">too much like a<br \/>\nknife of burning sugar<br \/>\nthe reminder<\/p>\n<p style=\"padding-left: 40px;\">that I too could deserve kindness<\/p>\n<p>so sweet and simple<\/p>\n<p style=\"padding-left: 40px;\">like sad girl chocolate pudding<br \/>\nmy mouth chomping down for dear life<\/p>\n<p>I have become something so hard trying to survive<\/p>\n<p>could I deserve more<br \/>\nkindnesses please<br \/>\nlike a nail<br \/>\nlearning how to fly<\/p>\n<p style=\"padding-left: 40px;\">hitting the ground\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 no longer running<br \/>\ncan I be soft too<br \/>\nif I jumped?<\/p>\n\n\t\t<div class='author-shortcodes'>\n\t\t\t<div class='author-inner'>\n\t\t\t\t<div class='author-info'>\n\t\t\tAda Maricia Patterson is an artist, writer and educator based between Barbados, London and Amsterdam. She works with drawing, masquerade, music, performance, poetry, textiles and video, considering what it means to change under duress and what life can look like under existential threat. Patterson is an alumna resident of the Rijksakademie van beeldende kunsten, Amsterdam.\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>brokenness is what we do<br \/>\nbecause piece is all you want<br \/>\nnever all<br \/>\nnever whole\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 just hole to<br \/>\nthrow your waist into like every<br \/>\nother next garbage man<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":15102494,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","_coblocks_attr":"","_coblocks_dimensions":"","_coblocks_responsive_height":"","_coblocks_accordion_ie_support":"","_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_wpcom_ai_launchpad_first_post":false,"_jetpack_feature_clip_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"{title}\r\n\r\n{excerpt}\r\n\r\n{url}","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2},"_wpas_customize_per_network":false,"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false},"categories":[710030748,422,728594591],"tags":[728594619],"class_list":["post-11673","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-ada-m-patterson","category-poetry","category-pree-15","tag-pree-15","et-doesnt-have-format-content","et_post_format-et-post-format-standard"],"yoast_head":"<!-- This site is optimized with the Yoast SEO plugin v28.5 - https:\/\/yoast.com\/product\/yoast-seo-wordpress\/ -->\n<title>Antoinette; If she jumped - PREE<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/23\/11673\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_GB\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Antoinette; If she jumped - PREE\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"brokenness is what we do because piece is all you want never all never whole\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 just hole to throw your waist into like every other next garbage man\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:url\" content=\"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/23\/11673\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:site_name\" content=\"PREE\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:published_time\" content=\"2026-08-23T13:26:38+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:modified_time\" content=\"2026-08-27T13:40:03+00:00\" \/>\n<meta name=\"author\" content=\"ap\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:card\" content=\"summary_large_image\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:label1\" content=\"Written by\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data1\" content=\"ap\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:label2\" content=\"Estimated reading time\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data2\" content=\"4 minutes\" \/>\n<script type=\"application\/ld+json\" class=\"yoast-schema-graph\">{\"@context\":\"https:\\\/\\\/schema.org\",\"@graph\":[{\"@type\":\"Article\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/23\\\/11673\\\/#article\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/23\\\/11673\\\/\"},\"author\":{\"name\":\"ap\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#\\\/schema\\\/person\\\/4518f338ddbd9b8905be3abd07c656f1\"},\"headline\":\"Antoinette; If she jumped\",\"datePublished\":\"2026-08-23T13:26:38+00:00\",\"dateModified\":\"2026-08-27T13:40:03+00:00\",\"mainEntityOfPage\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/23\\\/11673\\\/\"},\"wordCount\":772,\"commentCount\":0,\"publisher\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#organization\"},\"keywords\":[\"PREE 15\"],\"articleSection\":[\"Ada M. 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SAMUELS<\/p>\n<p>Her voice is a crackle<\/p>\n<p>whip<\/p>\n<p>slapping the shrill air<br \/>\nof her revival church-ground<\/p>\n<p>where yellow poincianas<\/p>\n<p style=\"padding-left: 40px;\">rain<br \/>\nflowers<br \/>\naround<br \/>\nall those who sit,<\/p>\n<p>stray dogs<br \/>\nby our feet<\/p>\n<p>awaiting the fruit of her knowledge.<\/p>\n<p>She emerges,<br \/>\nblue polka dot dress,<\/p>\n<p style=\"padding-left: 40px;\">knees blackened with ash.<\/p>\n<p>when she<\/p>\n<p style=\"padding-left: 40px;\">steps<\/p>\n<p>the earth rattles.<\/p>\n<p>Black mint oil,<br \/>\nstout,<br \/>\nbrown-skinned woman,<\/p>\n<p style=\"padding-left: 40px;\">spilling into the space,<\/p>\n<p>grey hair wrapped<br \/>\nin black<br \/>\nherbs sticking out<\/p>\n<p style=\"padding-left: 40px;\">north, south,<\/p>\n<p>east\u00a0 pointed at me<\/p>\n<p>face furrowed,<br \/>\nbut not angry,<\/p>\n<p>as she moves my chair<br \/>\nout of the sun to in front<br \/>\nof her church,<br \/>\nthe faded blue-green like<br \/>\nsea foam.<\/p>\n<p>She calls me in,<br \/>\nasks me to spin two<br \/>\ntimes<\/p>\n<p><em>where\u2019s your baby\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n<p><em>dead\u00a0\u00a0 <\/em>I say<\/p>\n<p><em>Don\u2019\u2019t worry, she never like the father<\/em><br \/>\n<em>She will come back<\/em><\/p>\n<p>There is a pile next to us,<br \/>\ncandle<\/p>\n<p>blue<br \/>\n<em>healing<\/em><\/p>\n<p>red<br \/>\n<em>you must love yourself<\/em><\/p>\n<p>black<br \/>\n<em>the night sky\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n<p>white<br \/>\n<em>the light.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\t\t<div class='author-shortcodes'>\n\t\t\t<div class='author-inner'>\n\t\t\t\t<div class='author-info'>\n\t\t\tJenelle (Neptune) Samuels is a Jamaican writer and photographic digital artist, and a former mentee of the \ud835\ude1e\ud835\ude30\ud835\ude2e\ud835\ude26\ud835\ude2f@\ud835\ude0b\ud835\ude2a\ud835\ude30\ud835\ude33 \ud835\ude1a\ud835\ude36\ud835\ude34\ud835\ude35\ud835\ude22\ud835\ude2a\ud835\ude2f\ud835\ude22\ud835\ude23\ud835\ude2a\ud835\ude2d\ud835\ude2a\ud835\ude35\ud835\ude3a & \ud835\ude13\ud835\ude26\ud835\ude22\ud835\ude25\ud835\ude26\ud835\ude33\ud835\ude34\ud835\ude29\ud835\ude2a\ud835\ude31 \ud835\ude17\ud835\ude33\ud835\ude30\ud835\ude28\ud835\ude33\ud835\ude22\ud835\ude2e. Her poetry and prose explore ancestry, belonging, and transformation, with work published in \ud835\ude17\ud835\ude19\ud835\ude0c\ud835\ude0c, \ud835\ude1b\ud835\ude29\ud835\ude26 \ud835\ude0a\ud835\ude22\ud835\ude33\ud835\ude2a\ud835\ude23\ud835\ude23\ud835\ude26\ud835\ude22\ud835\ude2f \ud835\ude1e\ud835\ude33\ud835\ude2a\ud835\ude35\ud835\ude26\ud835\ude33, \ud835\ude1b\ud835\ude30\ud835\ude33\ud835\ude24\ud835\ude29 \ud835\ude13\ud835\ude2a\ud835\ude35\ud835\ude26\ud835\ude33\ud835\ude22\ud835\ude33\ud835\ude3a \ud835\ude08\ud835\ude33\ud835\ude35\ud835\ude34, \ud835\ude1a\ud835\ude2c\ud835\ude26\ud835\ude38 \ud835\ude14\ud835\ude22\ud835\ude28\ud835\ude22\ud835\ude3b\ud835\ude2a\ud835\ude2f\ud835\ude26, and \ud835\ude19\ud835\ude26\ud835\ude23\ud835\ude26\ud835\ude2d \ud835\ude1e\ud835\ude30\ud835\ude2e\ud835\ude26\ud835\ude2f \ud835\ude13\ud835\ude2a\ud835\ude35. In 2023, she won the National Library of Jamaica\u2019s Young Writers Prize for Poetry.\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>Black mint oil,<br \/>\nstout,<br \/>\nbrown-skinned woman,<br \/>\nspilling into the space,<br \/>\ngrey hair wrapped<br \/>\nin black<br \/>\nherbs sticking out<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":15102494,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","_coblocks_attr":"","_coblocks_dimensions":"","_coblocks_responsive_height":"","_coblocks_accordion_ie_support":"","_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_wpcom_ai_launchpad_first_post":false,"_jetpack_feature_clip_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"{title}\r\n\r\n{excerpt}\r\n\r\n{url}","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2},"_wpas_customize_per_network":false,"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false},"categories":[728594614,422,728594591],"tags":[728594619],"class_list":["post-11666","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-jenelle-samuels-pree-15","category-poetry","category-pree-15","tag-pree-15","et-doesnt-have-format-content","et_post_format-et-post-format-standard"],"yoast_head":"<!-- This site is optimized with the Yoast SEO plugin v28.5 - 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Mi trial not dying fast enough.<\/p>\n<p>Just yesterday, Matilda and me was in de backyard,<br \/>\nshe, pouring slurries of syrup, white sugar, and water<br \/>\ninto small plastic bowls, long twigs in dem like ladder,<br \/>\nfi help bring back hungry bees dat survive de hurricane last year,<br \/>\nme, checking de young banana plants<br \/>\nsince de mature ones did fly away to glory,<br \/>\nwhen me buck up mussi de frog cousin<br \/>\nitch on to one o\u2019 de leaves,<br \/>\ncolour change like lizard to rahtid,<br \/>\nas green as envy and badmind.<\/p>\n<p>De Cuban tree frogs did arrive here like carry-go-bring-come<br \/>\nafter dat summer hurricane two years ago.<br \/>\nY\u2019know de storm dat have de same name as mi auntie<br \/>\n(God rest de dead)<br \/>\nwho always used to chuckle and answer, \u201cIs good luck.\u201d<br \/>\nwhen fass people asked her why she never tie de knot.<br \/>\nAnd just like bring-come-carry-go,<br \/>\nde frogs drop misery wherever dem hop.<\/p>\n<p>Matilda and me get to understand from Mabel, our wash belly,<br \/>\nhow dangerous dem disturbance is fi wi native species,<br \/>\nwhich we losing one by one to odda invaders like<br \/>\nde white-tail deer people bring in de \u201880s,<br \/>\nall kinda frogs, birds, worms, fish, and insects,<br \/>\nand drought seasons going up like light and water bills,<br \/>\nde heat gulping down water in rivers and swamps<br \/>\nand \u201cdisplacing the number of dwindling\u201d crocodiles.<br \/>\nMabel mek us know dat some of our species so special<br \/>\ndat dem can ongle be found in dis land of wood and water.<br \/>\nIf all a dem become extinct, nuh we next pon de list?<\/p>\n<p>Me nah lie, me fraid o\u2019 de damage de climate crisis causing<br \/>\nmore dan de big crocodile dat me, Jacob, and Fergie<br \/>\ndid rescue from de five fool-fool bwoy who did waan kill him.<br \/>\nDem nuh have a drop o\u2019 sense dat de Almighty give mi donkey.<\/p>\n<p>Mi anxiety deh pon rooftop since Mabel did tell we \u2018bout<br \/>\nan activist from Bonaire who said de island would disappear<br \/>\nin thirty years\u2019 time de way how de seas been rising.<br \/>\nDe clock been striking from before Whappie ketch Phillup!<br \/>\nMe nuh like dis rocky boat dat we in de Caribbean<br \/>\nand de res\u2019 o\u2019 small islands elsewhere find wiself in.<\/p>\n<p>De big Cuban tree frog never stand a chance wid Matilda.<br \/>\nShe get him out two-twos and deal wid him proper<br \/>\nbefore me could seh feh to him from behind her.<br \/>\nMi dilemma was over before I finish make water.<br \/>\nI wish de climate crisis could solve so easy.<\/p>\n<p>Mabel, come tell we more \u2018bout dis climate resiliency.<\/p>\n\n\t\t<div class='author-shortcodes'>\n\t\t\t<div class='author-inner'>\n\t\t\t\t<div class='author-info'>\n\t\t\tNadine Tomlinson is a Jamaican writer who aims to become a storyteller. Her writings lean towards the speculative. She draws inspiration from family anecdotes, Caribbean folklore and social issues, among other things. You can find her works in the Writing For Our Lives anthology, Metamorphosis anthology, Strange Horizons, and other places.\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>Just yesterday, Matilda and me was in de backyard,<br \/>\nshe, pouring slurries of syrup, white sugar, and water<br \/>\ninto small plastic bowls, long twigs in dem like ladder,<br \/>\nfi help bring back hungry bees dat survive de hurricane last year<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":15102494,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","_coblocks_attr":"","_coblocks_dimensions":"","_coblocks_responsive_height":"","_coblocks_accordion_ie_support":"","_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_wpcom_ai_launchpad_first_post":false,"_jetpack_feature_clip_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"{title}\r\n\r\n{excerpt}\r\n\r\n{url}","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2},"_wpas_customize_per_network":false,"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false},"categories":[728594613,422,728594591],"tags":[728594619],"class_list":["post-11648","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-nadine-tomlinson","category-poetry","category-pree-15","tag-pree-15","et-doesnt-have-format-content","et_post_format-et-post-format-standard"],"yoast_head":"<!-- This site is optimized with the Yoast SEO plugin v28.5 - https:\/\/yoast.com\/product\/yoast-seo-wordpress\/ -->\n<title>The Haunted Sea; 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The tremendous rupture of liquid prebiotic memory splattered the bedsheets and window blinds to leave a shredded husk of a body behind. The surface shone with a slick, oil-like sheen. It pulsed, rhythmically, recalling some sort of tide. There was no way of guessing whose gravity this belonged to, not at seven-thirty in the morning.<\/p>\n<p>It was unclear if the soup answered to a higher or an inner power. More dense than wide, total and amorphous, the soup was everything and nothing. It was a marvel that the bedroom served as an adequate container, though it remained possible that its four walls, plastered with sun-faded photos and glow-in-the-dark crescent moons and stars, would only function as yet another unstable vessel. The soup, brimming with unknowable depths and constant volatility, seemed to threaten further collapse. Or, at least, stains.<\/p>\n<p>These things happen.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cMaybe in foreign,\u201d was the irritable response over that morning\u2019s breakfast, a formerly innocuous cornmeal porridge. \u201cWhen I was growing up, you could never just shed your human shape and dissolve into formless matter. You woulda been beat within an inch of your life.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>The father of what had since become soup then kissed his teeth for emphasis. His distaste was evident. Perhaps in days of yore, disembodiment was something you could thrash out of an organic solution of obscure origin, but not anymore. Perhaps this was the fault of ages, that their society had strayed so far from enforcing order through force and fear, that children believed they could balloon and bubble and burst overnight before fragmenting the very fabric of existence.<\/p>\n<p>Debatable merits of corporal punishment aside, something still needed to be done. There was still that morning\u2019s appointment at the passport office to think about.<\/p>\n<p>Amid the great inconvenience of it all, it was impossible to tell if this event was supposed to be a curse or tragedy or what. There was nothing to make head or tail of. All that remained was a shimmering expanse of organic compounds, the looming dread of Kingston city morning traffic and the fact that they were now running behind if they wanted to beat the long line to get inside. It was already so difficult just to get the time off from work and to organise who could have the car when, to now have to deal with the dramatics of abiogenesis. This was the last thing anyone needed this morning. It was a question of consideration, plain and simple.<\/p>\n<p>The mother of what had since become soup stood in the bedroom doorway, waiting for some acknowledgement of this disrespect. With one arm akimbo and one foot tapping out impatience against the ceramic tile, her eyes narrowed at the scene before her. The door handle could have come off in her grip, the way she was white knuckling it. Of course, the soup could acknowledge some indeterminate gravity and swell with abstruse tides, but she had to stand there and wait for a response.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cSo you really have nut\u2019n fi say fi yuself?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Being soup, of course not.<\/p>\n<p>Throwing both hands to heaven, she turned her back and left the room. Oh, that soup would have two shoulders to shake. Oh, that soup would have a rawse to beat. But no, everything came down to her to decide what to do now, as it always did, as of course she had to do everything in her house herself, as one day she would jus\u2019 drop dead and alla unnu would realise.<\/p>\n<p>And if her husband wanted to keep grousing about how late it was then he could damned well get up and make himself useful instead of sitting on his carrouches fi jus\u2019 complain, complain, complain, and then maybe they could leave the house in a timely fashion, Jesus Christ.<\/p>\n<p>A familiar exhaustion began to prickle against her shoulders. She had never been able to tell if this came from without or within, but if she did not shake it off soon, it would begin to sink its way deep inside her. She could pay it no mind, but she could not really ignore it. She would have to let it slurry into a series of associations in her head. She could not imagine that she would ever have made it so far into her twenties and dissembled thusly. And to have done so under her parents\u2019 roof? She did not understand this, at all. Was living here so impossible that one would have come so completely undone?<\/p>\n<p>In the face of such great unknowns, she had no choice but to keep it together. She had never had that luxury of choice. There was only ever the need to act. There was only ever the need to keep it together. She had no choice but to keep it together.<\/p>\n<p>The tightness in her shoulders triggered her recall. There was one thing she had that could help. Though such cellular retrogression was new, it was not as if the pickney (or what had been such) had never before rendered evolution inchoate. What was now left of the prior form lay strewn along the bedroom walls and floor, fragmented beyond repair, but there was at least another human skin waiting in the downstairs storage closet.<\/p>\n<p>For the past ten years, this spare form lay draped from a clothing hanger, shed as neatly as a snake\u2019s. Ordinarily, these could be pretty tricky to come by. Most people, it turned out, did not ever experience a cataclysmic reckoning with the tenuous bounds of a physiological condition. Even if you were to, for example, rope each limb of a person to four different horses and then set the steeds galloping in different directions, the body would simply rip at the joints and the human at the centre, the being, would simply die. As mediaeval as it sounded, it was many aeons more civilised than <em>soup<\/em>.<\/p>\n<p>At present, although the preserved human skin in the downstairs storage closet had served for a fourteen-year-old, it wasn\u2019t as though there was an alternative. There remained the single rip down the spine which resembled the fracture in a chrysalis, but this was nothing she couldn\u2019t stitch back together. It would be a tight fit, but the only thing that mattered (in a manner of speaking) was that the face was the same as the last passport photo.<\/p>\n<p>With the skin slung over her shoulder, the mother of what had since become soup ascended the staircase to embark on the task ahead. She would not repeat herself to her husband, resigned as she was to take charge of the situation. In a house full of organic material, she was again alone. It took all her concentration to hold the delicate juvenile skin open as she scooped up as much of the soup as she could through the split in the back. She did not care if she collected every last drop so long as there was enough to regain personhood. As long as there was enough for them all to move on with the day, then they could do just that.<\/p>\n<p>Past the undue labour and the sweat of her brow, which was all that she could process, she had been one to keep her insides within her. She had done so her whole life. She had once even carried the soup inside her, and rendered everything human once before. So why was she here, now, kneeling at times on the hard floor with her bad knee, having to do this all again? Where did things all begin, actually? She did not understand where this was all coming from. Perhaps she was to blame. Perhaps this had been waiting a long time to manifest. Perhaps this was carried in the bloodline like an evil, waiting in the veins, such total and utter collapse.<\/p>\n<p>She did not always have the name for her shoulders\u2019 pain, but she did not ever have to guess how much it weighed.<\/p>\n<p>At last, the balancing act of skin and soup was complete. The mother had to set about stitching the spine together. She held the opening steadfast in her grip. A slight but obvious ripple continued to billow underneath the fourteen-year-old features, which were at pains to hold twenty-something years of growth inside. The limbs were as gangling as ever, the lips just a little too wide for the face, the faint goat-like stink still hormonal and pervasive.<\/p>\n<p>The mouth twisted now into childish contempt. \u201cWhy do you still have this?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>It was a good question. \u201cYuh luddy,\u201d was the only response.<\/p>\n<p>They, as a unit, as a body, as a whole, were also late.<\/p>\n<p><img data-recalc-dims=\"1\" loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" data-attachment-id=\"11420\" data-permalink=\"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/19\/primordial-soup\/088a3e05-4700-4549-a66e-437b408b5b3a\/\" data-orig-file=\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/088a3e05-4700-4549-a66e-437b408b5b3a-e1786379611273.jpg?fit=638%2C1154&ssl=1\" data-orig-size=\"638,1154\" data-comments-opened=\"1\" data-image-meta=\"{"aperture":"0","credit":"","camera":"","caption":"","created_timestamp":"0","copyright":"","focal_length":"0","iso":"0","shutter_speed":"0","title":"","orientation":"0","alt":""}\" data-image-title=\"088a3e05-4700-4549-a66e-437b408b5b3a\" data-image-description=\"\" data-image-caption=\"\" data-large-file=\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/088a3e05-4700-4549-a66e-437b408b5b3a-e1786379611273.jpg?fit=566%2C1024&ssl=1\" class=\"alignnone size-large wp-image-11420\" src=\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/088a3e05-4700-4549-a66e-437b408b5b3a-e1786379611273-566x1024.jpg?resize=566%2C1024&ssl=1\" alt=\"\" width=\"566\" height=\"1024\" srcset=\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/088a3e05-4700-4549-a66e-437b408b5b3a-e1786379611273.jpg?resize=566%2C1024&ssl=1 566w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/088a3e05-4700-4549-a66e-437b408b5b3a-e1786379611273.jpg?resize=166%2C300&ssl=1 166w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/088a3e05-4700-4549-a66e-437b408b5b3a-e1786379611273.jpg?resize=600%2C1085&ssl=1 600w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/088a3e05-4700-4549-a66e-437b408b5b3a-e1786379611273.jpg?w=638&ssl=1 638w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 566px) 100vw, 566px\" \/><\/p>\n<p>The hour was edging perilously close to eight, and they had to get going. Without further event, the family embarked on the painful wait in traffic. Their peace was uneasy. All they had to do was make it to the passport office without making any mention of what had come to be that morning. The skies were empty save for the ancient sun. The mother cut her eye behind her to hazard a look at the child. Again, a child in all senses of the word, and not just relative to her being a mother.<\/p>\n<p>Already, there was a leak.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cPickney. <em>Pickney<\/em>.\u201d They had already fallen back into familiar patterns. Reflexive, easy. Her voice served as warning: \u201cMi will give you something fi cry \u2019bout.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>A long line of bodies lay in wait for them when they arrived in the parking lot. This was the part of the queue that snaked its way outside the entrance to grow longer and longer as the day dragged on. They stood underneath a wide white tent, a courtesy and shield against the brutal sunshine. It helped and was comforting that no one they knew was there. The only thing any of them recognised in those waiting strangers was the slight sag to the torso, where they had begun to crumple under life\u2019s demands. A few retained a tight shine in their eyes. That morning did offer the promise of renewed potential (or, passport). A world of possibility lay ahead of them\u2014 more lines outside more embassies, more lying supplicants to more foreign governments, more hoping, more waiting, more opportunity to at last become part of another body.<\/p>\n<p>Once the car had come to a stop, out stepped the child first, followed closely behind by the mother: \u201cYou have your photos with you?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cYou have the money?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cYes!\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cYou have the old passport?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Of course not. Not even allowing herself the satisfaction of a changed expression, the mother reached into her handbag to procure it. The farewell they shared was choppy and uncertain, like one could not decipher what the other was talking about. Mother and child stopped to stare at each other.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cWhat are you doing?\u201d The child had the audacity to ask. With chin gestured towards vehicle, \u201cDon\u2019t you have work?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cWhat do you mean, what am I doing? Don\u2019t ask me these questions, alright? Not this morning. Who else gwaan stay with you?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cI don\u2019t need you to stay with me.\u201d Again, the contorted mouth. \u201cI can handle an appointment on my own. I\u2019m an adult.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>For as clear as the day was, the atmosphere was charged by an unseen and distant tempest. Later, it would rain. It would pour.<\/p>\n<p>Whatever silence befell them was by accident. The immensity of all there was to be said, the infinite morass of it, hurtled at incomprehensible velocity through every atom in the air and every fibre in the nervous system. It was as if all had already come to light, already come to be, already come to pass. So then, what else was she supposed to say?<\/p>\n<p>The mother stood there in the parking lot, eyes narrow against the glare. \u201cIf you insist,\u201d she said, got back into the car and left.<\/p>\n<p>The pain in her shoulders did not disappear but was by now drowned out by a sinking feeling in her stomach. It was as if it were collapsing in on itself. She wondered if this was how it all began, if she was now on the precipice of devolving herself. Yet, somehow, she doubted it. This was, she could tell, nothing. It was more than nothing. It was empty. Void.<\/p>\n<p>Time would be the only authority from there onwards. It was only a matter of time. Soon, she would get the call \u2014 how anyone would find her number she could not quite yet decipher \u2014\u00a0and she would then have to learn that she was correct in predicting that the child had yet again dematerialised. How else was the pickney going to learn? How hard was it? To know better, to do better, to act better, to be better.<\/p>\n<p>The hours continued to press in on each other, the dread compounding like an encroaching migraine, until at last it simply vanished. It was noon, and she would make a detour to the passport office on her way home for lunch, exactly as planned. Neck craned from the parking lot, she half-expected a number of civil servants to flood out the front doors in distress. Instead, only one reedy pre-pubescent came shambling towards the passenger\u2019s side.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cHow did everything go?\u201d she wanted to know.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cIt was fine.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cJust fine?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cYes?\u201d Sudden remorse followed behind. \u201cSorry. I just want to go home.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Another silence emerged on the ride back. The two bodies went their separate ways once they made it through the entryway. Perhaps this would be the new normal for the household, and perhaps it suited them all just fine to have a child that still resembled one. It was hard to know, and even harder to ask. There were no answers without inquiry. Yet without question, how would they discern whether they had entered into a new era or not? Calling out what had occurred that morning felt the same as calling it down. Better not to discuss it, as with most everything else.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cMummy,\u201d called out a soft voice from upstairs. \u201cCan you come here and help me with something, please?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>By the time she made it up, the child had already started sliding the fourteen-year-old skin off.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cWhat are you doing?\u201d the mother demanded, distraught. She attempted to intervene, holding the face steady. A slight, insistent current billowed the human shape in and out of proportion.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cIt has to come off. It doesn\u2019t fit anymore.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cWhat you mean it don\u2019t fit?\u201d The mother could spot the rupture in real time, widening at the neck. \u201cIt never work this morning? What happen to you now?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Just that morning, when she had hauled the skin into the bedroom, the only thing inside had been a haunting emptiness. They were right back where they had started. No, this was even further beyond. She did not know if she could bear witness to this.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cMummy, I can\u2019t do it anymore. Please, just let it go. I\u2019m so tired.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cWhat you mean? Tell me what is happening to you.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cI don\u2019t know.\u201d The voice fell further apart. \u201cI don\u2019t know.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>There in that bedroom, standing over the remains of high school belongings and a tattered twentyish body, the refitted adolescence slipped from them both.<\/p>\n<p>Maturation, since forgotten on the floor, had once bloomed into tenderness\u2014\u00a0a slow-growing, hard-earned affection for a rigid and sharp and awkward teenager. The skin of a young adult had made newfound patience and straight posture from the vestiges of poor form. Everything had seemed so healthy, once. Everything had seemed so whole.<\/p>\n<p>Both then and now, when she looked upon the finest details and features of her child, she recalled how small it had all been in the beginning, held against her cheek, soft as baby\u2019s breath.<\/p>\n<p>The eyes, dark brown and long lashed, were losing focus. \u201cI just can\u2019t do it anymore. You can keep it if you want.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cIt\u2019s not for my sake. What am I going to do with it?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Everything was leaking out in her arms and would never be the same again.<\/p>\n<p>Rachel Chin is a writer and artist from Kingston, Jamaica. Her work explores movement at every scale, from migration to emotion, examining adaptation as a negotiated relationship to reality. She is a 2024 C\u00e9line Bureau resident writer and a 2021 JAFTA-PSF Screenwriting fellow. A trained but lapsed historian, she has her MA in History from McGill University and her BA in History from Columbia University.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>Amid the great inconvenience of it all, it was impossible to tell if this event was supposed to be a curse or tragedy or what. There was nothing to make head or tail of. All that remained was a shimmering expanse of organic compounds, the looming dread of Kingston city morning traffic and the fact that they were now running behind if they wanted to beat the long line to get inside.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":15102494,"featured_media":11420,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","_coblocks_attr":"","_coblocks_dimensions":"","_coblocks_responsive_height":"","_coblocks_accordion_ie_support":"","_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_wpcom_ai_launchpad_first_post":false,"_jetpack_feature_clip_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"{title}\r\n\r\n{excerpt}\r\n\r\n{url}","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2},"_wpas_customize_per_network":false,"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false},"categories":[1747,728594591,728594610,728594599],"tags":[728594619],"class_list":["post-11623","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","category-pree-15","category-rachel-chin","category-shortlisted","tag-pree-15","et-has-post-format-content","et_post_format-et-post-format-standard"],"yoast_head":"<!-- This site is optimized with the Yoast SEO plugin v28.5 - https:\/\/yoast.com\/product\/yoast-seo-wordpress\/ -->\n<title>Primordial Soup - PREE<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/19\/primordial-soup\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_GB\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Primordial Soup - PREE\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"Amid the great inconvenience of it all, it was impossible to tell if this event was supposed to be a curse or tragedy or what. 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