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Storyteller

Memorial Day Picnic Lunch

Ahhhhh a quiet Monday, well quiet Monday morning. I can smell the food cooking, hear the calypso music coming from the old fashion radio in the drawing room. We had just gotten back from the Poppy Day parade, oh the pageantry, police in their white tunics, black pants with the red strip down the sides. They 303 riffles perched on their shoulders. The white helmet with the shiny silver points, their black boots had sparkles like stars in the moonlight. Cadets from the secondary schools, scouts, veterans, all marching through the city to the police band. Now here we were, Me and Mommy Charles in the kitchen, cooking up a storm. I was not old enough to do most of the cooking, so here I was mimicking all I had seen her done over the years and by the scent coming from the pot, it is sure that I learned from the best. Man, you should see all the food as I packed it into containers to take to the beach. Avocados, yams, plantains,  green figs, (green bananas) dashin, and to go with that some saltfish souse. Ohhh yes, this meal is fit for a royal family. Now the decision on what to drink, hmmmm, oh I know, how about some homemade Mango juice ohhhh yes, that will hit the spot on the beach. 11062146_977419175625229_4704684745282317629_n

Ohhhh yes, I did a little dance cause if I did not stop myself I would have drank it all right there. Now its off to the beach for the picnic.

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Storyteller

Snack Time

After that lunch, well a red blooded tropical boy needs a snack, so I make me way to the back yard. Man all them choices, plumbs, red and China, golden apples, paw paw, chenttes, oh lord, how to make up me mind. Then I turned to the mango trees, them things were ripe for so. Ok mangos it is, time to climb that tree and do some serious picking. Yes boy this going be some juicey eating.

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Storyteller

Come Sit

Ahhh yes, it is a great day to stay home from work. Come, sit with me, out in the sunshine, listen to the waves, smell the salt in the air. Close your eyes, feel the cool trade winds brush against your skin. Smell the aroma of wild flowers as the wind bounce of the hilltop and back out to sea.  Listen to the clinging of ice as thirsty tourists raises they glasses of guava juice, or is it pineapple juice. Hear the sound of the lone calypsonian strumming on his guitar somewhere on the beach. Listen to the roof of the stray hut whistle, watch the coconut tress sway, hear the sound of sails flapping in a gust of wind. Feel the coolness of Mango juice run down your throat. Yes, perfect day to brush of work, perfect day to just sit and let the sun soak in.

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Pics with verse Storyteller

Good Marning me People

Good Marning me People

Nothing like an early morning tropical rainfall, you know, when you can smell the mud, and the grass and the trees. Oh yes, you can even smell the mangoes, and the soursup and the plumbs. What better way to wake up than to smell all these scents tickle your nose, and you lay there, somewhere between a dream and reality, breathing deep, and in your head, you are standing on the edge of Grand Etang Lake, and a light drizzle creates bubbles on the lake’s surface, and suddenly you feel like walking in the rain, so you jumped out of bed, opened your window and is greeted by sparkling leaves. The sun had come out, you have missed your opportunity to go walking in the early morning tropical rain. But have no fear, it is the rainy season, tomorrow morning you will be waiting bright and early for the heavens to open up and cry.

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Pics with verse Storyteller

Whats for lunch

Whats for lunch

hmmm, I see yams, Tania, green figs (bananas)) breadfruit, hmmm, What to cook, maybe a split peas soup, or an oil down, or rice and peas, stewed chicken, with yams, and Tania, on the side, oh yes a tall glass of Mauby too, Now that sounds good.

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Pics with verse Storyteller

Welcome to the Dance

Welcome to the Dance

You are invited to the tropics, where the natives dance in the shade of the mango tree, and the humming birds stop in mid flight to stare, and caterpillars look on, hoping that some day, they too can join the dance of the butterflies.

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Food Storyteller

Weekend in de country

Weekend in de country

Ahhhh boiled green figs, or bananas as you know it, plantains, and stew chicken, pour on the gravy from the chicken and a tll glass of freshly sqeezed lime juice and you have a perfect Grenadian lunch. Me Auntie used to cook dat de best yuh know. She never used de gas stove. In she kitchen, she had a build in concrete section, flat on top like a table. On it she had three rocks and she would cut campesh wood put them in de middle of the stones and light dem up. “Ah go never use dat gas stove, de best tasting food is dun under real fire.” I would sit in de living, listening to de pot boiling and de fire wood cracking as the sent ah the food filled de house and spilled out into the back yard. Dem children in de village would gravitate to de house, sitting round de mango tree, dey mounts watering. Me Auntie always feed dem too you know. After lunch we would sit under de tree telling stupid jokes, some ah we even fall asleep right day on the ground.

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Storyteller

La Diablesse ist installment, next one Wednesday. Chapter 1

CHAPTER1

Streaks of red, orange and yellow exploded from dark clouds that formed round the late afternoon sun, the sea was calm except for the ripples made by a cruise ship lazily gliding by, small round holes lined its body from bow to stern, yellow glows escaped the holes like fading fireflies on a half moon night. I looked over to me left at the old French fort that stood overlooking the habour the eighteenth century building a constant reminder of the island’s colonial history, I heard the faint sound of music as the police band practiced they calypso tunes, tropical music flooded the air with plenty of rhythm. A seagull flew by and I followed its graceful motion until it settled on the roof of the house on the other side of me yard The yard was three acres of dirt that turned into a sticky mass of mud when the heavy tropical rainstorms drench the island. There was no garden of vegetables like the other houses, deep in me, me arrogance as a self-proclaimed intellectual would not let me work the soil.  The only plant life that prospered back there was the large mango tree just to the right of some rocks, its big green leaves swayed in the gentle gusts that whipped through the yard, the sweet fruit, some green, some yellow hung from thin branches occasionally falling to the ground tossing up dirt as they landed. At the back of the yard a thick clump of bushes marked the boundary between me yard and the neighbour’s yard, prickled trees covered with vine leaned over as if protecting the ground from mechanical weathering.  I peered into the bushes; it always seemed like a black hole even when the sun is in the middle of the sky. Me thoughts were interrupted when I heard a loud pop, it sounded like fireworks at Christmas, all the bloody dogs in the village started barking, I mean; you would have thought it was the second coming or something. Anyway back to me thoughts, I always wanted to walk through those bushes to see which part of the neighbour’s yard I would come onto but I never wanted to trespass, Mr. Alexander lived there and that man was a grim old fool who would kill any animal that ventured into he yard, bloody old man had a mean disposition, I swear, he had to be the devils prodigal son. There were other houses around, some concrete some wood, but mostly wooden, man I tell you what, some of them houses was so colourful when the sun shined directly on them it could blind god.

I was distracted from me thoughts by the thud of a mango hitting the ground, it rolled a short distance and settled at the feet of little Dexter who was sitting under the tree, he reached out and picked up the large fruit, wiped it on his shirt and sank his teeth into it, yellow juice escaped through he fingers and down his arm. A small bug hovered over him for a second then came to rest on he head and he swatted at the pest getting some of the yellow juice in he hair.  He blue shirt was dirty from playing in the dusty roads all day in fact that child was always covered with dirt, mud was caked between he 

toes as he swiveled he shoeless feet in the dirt.  He finished eating the fruit and surveyed the rest of them lying round him. Then, as if a light bulb went off in his head, he gathered 

the fruit into one pile took off his shirt and placed them in it, threw the laddened shirt over he shoulder and walked out the yard with a triumphant grin on he face.  

He climbed over the wall and into the yard of the small house to the right of me yard, yelping as he jumped, he mother came to the window and yelled at him to come inside. She started to go back inside but stopped and leaned out the window, the large black wig she wore tilted precariously forward, I chuckled, pondering the idea of the wig falling off she head and into the pool of muddy water under the window.  Just as it was bout to slip completely off she head she grabbed it, straightened it, looked round and went inside the white laced curtains closing slowly. 

I heard she talking to Dexter from behind the wooden walls of the house she voice carried with the wind out to sea. That woman was usually the topic of discussion when the village gossips got together, some say she did not have a strand of hair on she head not to mention the fact that a local obeah man was the one who put a curse on she.  I would always laugh when I heard that story because the whole idea of Obeah and Voodoo seemed real counter productive to me.    

I turned me attention back to the sunset, the yellow globe was half way down as if hiding its complete beauty from the world, the sounds of steeldrums playing in the distance them pansmen and them were already practicing, preparing for carnival in August, I tell you what, they sure could play a sweet tune.  I closed me eyes took a deep

breath and inhaled, the salty air bit at me nostrils causing me nose to sting a little but boy I loved that smell for so. 

Before darkness devoured the daylight and the wonderful sounds that came with it. I pulled meself inside bumping me head on the window frame, this was one of the disadvantages of being seven feet tall me head was marked with bumps and bruises from all the doors and ceilings I bumped me head on. I was grossly under weight for me height, one hundred and forty pounds to be exact, as a child I was the target of every bully in the damn village, I mean, them little bastards would follow me home after school. 

“Tall tin an terrible, bamboo in pants,” they shouted they laughter echoing down the narrow streets, bloody ingrates, it was they constant teasing that contributed to the present-day arrogance and disdain I had for the traditions of the island, I mean, I was likened to every bloody folktale character ever though of.

I left the window and walked across the room, a small maple coloured desk sat in a corner covered with papers, I stood over the desk surveying the mess, damn it, sometimes I hated being a teacher all those bloody papers to grade could spoil a man’s eyesight, but I sat down and started filing through them anyway.

It was one o’clock in the morning before I was done with the last bloody paper, I yawned stretching me arms to the ceiling, the rough surface jabbed into the soft flesh of me middle class palms. I yawned again and stretched me legs out me knees popping as I 

did then I got up and walked over to the window. The full moon hovered over the sea its crystal light shimmering across the ocean causing the water to look like the sky with twinkling stars, the cool Trade Winds bushed against me face and I inhaled then turned and walked away from the window, I tell you what, the site of me bed was enough to send a wave of relaxation through me. I dove into the air and landed on the bed me body sinking into the soft mattress. I lay there thinking bout the next day, I was a teacher at a small Methodist school in the city. I had good pupils most of them loved telling stories and that is why I loved teaching writing classes. I fell into a light but restful sleep with the images of the day flashing before me.

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Parts Obeah Storyteller

The Apperance

Henry was still asleep under the mango tree when suddenly his body became hot, like he was floating above the pits of hell. Out of the darkness he saw someone standing in front of him.  Henry blinked and rubbed his eyes. The man’s face looked like it was made of iron; his green jacket had black stripes on it that made him look tall. He leaned down towards Henry, his hand hidden behind his back. Henry squinted to see if he recognized the man, but his dark face blended with the starless sky behind him. Lightening blasted, turning the night into a sheet of white. Thunder exploded and the ground shook like a violent earthquake rumbled across the island. Henry’s heart raced up as the blinding lightening flash again, followed by the ground shaking thunder. Henry tried to stand up, but he stumbled and fell hitting his back against the trunk of the mango tree. The man turned to Henry, his iron face blended in with the dark sky. He took another step towards Henry his right hand still hidden behind him. Henry cowered away, his vision blurred from the moving earth. Suddenly the man lifted his arm above his head; he was holding a machete,

“Gren mwe fret” he screamed in a nasal voice. The machete’s sharp edge glittered in the lightening flash. Henry screamed, as the man brought the machete down. Henry grabbed his arm, his skin felt like iron and he heard the pops and cracks as his fingers began to give out under the weight of the man. Suddenly he was sitting up looking up at the star filled sky.

Henry looked around; he was lying on the ground next to the mango tree. He checked his body to make sure all his parts was still where they should be. He tried to stand up, but his legs buckled under him and he hit the ground with a sickening thud. He lay there, as a mixture of hot and cold rushed through him. He shook violently, his joints felt as if they were being ripped from his body. Suddenly Adofo stood looking down at him.