Category: Fiction

The School Takeover

Ms. Charlmagne sucked her teeth loud drawing the attention of the other teachers. She didn’t care. They’d been eyeballing her the moment she started teaching at Priscilla Prescod Memorial School with her tight-up skirts and long weaves that she let fall down her back like a white woman or one of dem chabine girls. But she was good at math. That’s why they hired her.

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Looking for Lagahoos

Jane Jr. thinks she has escaped but she hasn’t. She joins a colony of people like us, plastic people who inject smiles into their mouths and their cheeks. She takes pictures in flitting white linens and wide-brimmed hats and posts them to social media. Her partner does not hit her with his fist, or hit her at all, she says on the phone to Jane, while she applies the powder extra-thick below her eye.

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Preludes

Did you know Raymond Chandler lived here in Forest Hill? he asked. I grinned because he remembered Chandler was one of my favourite writers. Suddenly it felt good to be in a car driving along unfamiliar roads with a friend. It was early evening, chilly but not too much, and we saw trees that had turned red, orange and gold. We saw blackbirds on fences, and pigeons on old buildings. There were houses and gardens and libraries and museums.

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Back Bush

I stepped inside, the aroma of the air filling my flared nostrils; it was a combination of mangoes, something floral like perfume, and a dash of myrrh. I walked through the house under the warm orange glow and watched as you threw your heels off your feet, and our heights equalised. You unclipped parts of your pink wig and reached for the zipper at the back of your dress.

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Passover

Daddy used to be a dinki mini chairman himself before the heart attack. (People sey is bad duppy kill him.) He praised the ancestors when Courtney bawn. He never complained when she chose gerreh over dinki. “She’s a leader, Peadove,” he prophesied, “not a follower…”

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Peter 3:15

This wasn’t hero work he was doing. Peter was well aware of that. It was his duty. To reshape destiny by taking a bold step to shift the course of history. While the general public scratched its head, longed out its bottom lip, and prayed that the reckless ride government had placed the country on would miraculously end, Peter had been roped into a grand scheme…

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The Vagrant, the Ring and the Pothound

No one ever chooses to be a vagrant. A beggar, maybe. Now, that’s a career choice. But a vagrant? Hell, no. That is a result of the government closing down state-owned enterprises instead of restructuring, the banks stealing from your savings account under the guise of transactional fees and the creation of second-rate tertiary-education schools that hand out degrees to undeserving students who eventually take your job.

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Don’t Go Under the Coconut Tree

I knew all my “what ifs” would be shared by my husband, and I knew they were unhelpful. Why this place to have this family? Why this land? Should we have been more open? Was it fair to have had him at all? None of these can be answered. But I take a moment’s pleasure in imagining different timelines where he’s still here, still running around, still laughing his toothy laugh, eyes full of wonder.

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FICTION

Passover
DWIGHT THOMPSON

Looking for Lagahoos
LYNDON NICHOLAS

The Vagrant, the Ring and the Pothound
KIRK BUDHOORAM

Don’t Go Under the Coconut Tree
LUKE ELLIOTT

Back Bush
KAMSI ARCHIPLEY

Peter 3:15
RACHELLE J. GRAY

Preludes
ANDRE BAGOO

NON-FICTION

Rhythmless & Sweaty in Kingston  
DANA FLETCHER

POETRY

Basin Tanka, From Memory
AMARA AMARYAH

Two Poems
ANIKA CHRISTOPHER

Rest in Power
GEOFFREY PHILP

Three poems
JUSTIN HAYNES

Two Poems
KEVIN REIGH

No Gods
NIGEL ASSAM

Ablution
KAY-ANN HENRY

PREE SHORTIES

Urban Portal: From dem time to NOW
GICELLE MAGLOIRE

Muffler burn
KAY-ANN HENRY

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