Thursday, March 27, 2008

Happy Feet Boogie Wonderland full clip

So I had Bumpalump yesterday and we watched this and we danced and sang. Now he keeps asking where is Mumble and can I sing him Gloria.

Wednesday, March 19, 2008

Enchanted: "How Do You Know?"

Okay I loved this move it cracked me up and I loved this song. Infact sometimes I humm it to myself. That's you know he's your love.... Tee-Hee. Enjoy!

Barack Obama's Speech on Race in America - FULL - 2008-03-18

In keeping with the spirit of politics I decided to put Obama's Speech on race in it's entirety on the my blog. If you have not seen it check it out.

Bonjou guys et sak passe! Well it's been a week since I posted last my story The Sucoyants Kiss and I have some more for you today which I'll give you in a bit. Overall things are okay, I'm good, Trumph is good, our house guests are good. Life has been okay. Waiting for payday you know how that goes. The weather has been changing for the better even though this weekend it's supposed to rain cats and dogs mais ahh bien, this is Seattle.

Well I am going to give you some political stuff today. First is an editorial a White Man wrote about the (I believe) divisive usage of Obama's Church. I find it very interesting and while it may be preaching to the choir it is something I think you should show to White Folklz who fit the mold of what he is talking about. So without further ado here it is:

tim wise

Of National Lies and Racial Amnesia:
Jeremiah Wright, Barack Obama, and the Unacceptability of Truth

By Tim Wise

March 18, 2008

For most white folks, indignation just doesn't wear well. Once affected
or conjured up, it reminds one of a pudgy man, wearing a tie that may
well have fit him when he was fifty pounds lighter, but which now cuts
off somewhere above his navel and makes him look like an idiot.

Indignation doesn't work for most whites, because having remained
sanguine about, silent during, indeed often supportive of so much injustice
over the years in this country--the theft of native land and genocide
of indigenous persons, and the enslavement of Africans being only two of
the best examples--we are just a bit late to get into the game of
moral rectitude. And once we enter it, our efforts at righteousness tend to
fail the test of sincerity.

But here we are, in 2008, fuming at the words of Pastor Jeremiah
Wright, of Trinity United Church of Christ in Chicago--occasionally Barack
Obama's pastor, and the man whom Obama credits with having brought him to
Christianity--for merely reminding us of those evils about which we
have remained so quiet, so dismissive, so unconcerned. It is not the
crime that bothers us, but the remembrance of it, the unwillingness to let
it go--these last words being the first ones uttered by most whites it
seems whenever anyone, least of all an "angry black man" like Jeremiah
Wright, foists upon us the bill of particulars for several centuries of
white supremacy.

But our collective indignation, no matter how loudly we announce it,
cannot drown out the truth. And as much as white America may not be able
to hear it (and as much as politics may require Obama to condemn it)
let us be clear, Jeremiah Wright fundamentally told the truth.

Oh I know that for some such a comment will seem shocking. After all,
didn't he say that America "got what it deserved" on 9/11? And didn't he
say that black people should be singing "God Damn America" because of
its treatment of the African American community throughout the years?

Well actually, no he didn't.

Wright said not that the attacks of September 11th were justified, but
that they were, in effect, predictable. Deploying the imagery of
chickens coming home to roost is not to give thanks for the return of the
poultry or to endorse such feathered homecoming as a positive good;
rather, it is merely to note two things: first, that what goes around,
indeed, comes around--a notion with longstanding theological grounding--and
secondly, that the U.S. has indeed engaged in more than enough violence
against innocent people to make it just a tad bit hypocritical for us
to then evince shock and outrage about an attack on ourselves, as if the
latter were unprecedented.

He noted that we killed far more people, far more innocent civilians in
Hiroshima and Nagasaki than were killed on 9/11 and "never batted an
eye." That this statement is true is inarguable, at least amongst sane
people. He is correct on the math, he is correct on the innocence of the
dead (neither city was a military target), and he is most definitely
correct on the lack of remorse or even self-doubt about the act:
sixty-plus years later most Americans still believe those attacks were
justified, that they were needed to end the war and "save American lives."

But not only does such a calculus suggest that American lives are
inherently worth more than the lives of Japanese civilians (or, one
supposes, Vietnamese, Iraqi or Afghan civilians too), but it also ignores the
long-declassified documents, and President Truman's own war diaries, all
of which indicate clearly that Japan had already signaled its desire
to end the war, and that we knew they were going to surrender, even
without the dropping of atomic weapons. The conclusion to which these
truths then attest is simple, both in its basic veracity and it
monstrousness: namely, that in those places we committed premeditated and
deliberate mass murder, with no justification whatsoever; and yet for saying
that I will receive more hate mail, more hostility, more dismissive and
contemptuous responses than will those who suggest that no body count is
too high when we're the ones doing the killing. Jeremiah Wright becomes
a pariah, because, you see, we much prefer the logic of George Bush
the First, who once said that as President he would "never apologize for
the United States of America. I don't care what the facts are."

And Wright didn't say blacks should be singing "God Damn America." He
was suggesting that blacks owe little moral allegiance to a nation that
has treated so many of them for so long as animals, as persons
undeserving of dignity and respect, and which even now locks up hundreds of
thousands of non-violent offenders (especially for drug possession), even
while whites who do the same crimes (and according to the data, when it
comes to drugs, more often in fact), are walking around free. His
reference to God in that sermon was more about what God will do to such a
nation, than it was about what should or shouldn't happen. It was a
comment derived from, and fully in keeping with, the black prophetic
tradition, and although one can surely disagree with the theology (I do,
actually, and don't believe that any God either blesses or condemns nation
states for their actions), the statement itself was no call for blacks
to turn on America. If anything, it was a demand that America earn the
respect of black people, something the evidence and history suggests it
has yet to do.

Finally, although one can certainly disagree with Wright about his
suggestion that the government created AIDS to get rid of black folks--and
I do, for instance--it is worth pointing out that Wright isn't the only
one who has said this. In fact, none other than Bill Cosby (oh yes,
that Bill Cosby, the one white folks love because of his recent moral
crusade against the black poor) proffered his belief in the very same
thing back in the early '90s in an interview on CNN, when he said that AIDS
may well have been created to get rid of people whom the government
deemed "undesirable" including gays and racial minorities.

So that's the truth of the matter: Wright made one comment that is
highly arguable, but which has also been voiced by white America's favorite
black man, another that was horribly misinterpreted and stripped of
all context, and then another that was demonstrably accurate. And for
this, he is pilloried and made into a virtual enemy of the state; for
this, Barack Obama may lose the support of just enough white folks to cost
him the Democratic nomination, and/or the Presidency; all of it,
because Jeremiah Wright, unlike most preachers opted for truth. If he had
been one of those "prosperity ministers" who says Jesus wants nothing so
much as for you to be rich, like Joel Osteen, that would have been fine.
Had he been a retread bigot like Falwell was, or Pat Robertson is, he
might have been criticized, but he would have remained in good standing
and surely not have damaged a Presidential candidate in this way. But
unlike Osteen, and Falwell, and Robertson, Jeremiah Wright refused to
feed his parishioners lies.

What Jeremiah Wright knows, and told his flock--though make no mistake,
they already knew it--is that 9/11 was neither the first, nor worst
act of terrorism on American soil. The history of this nation for folks
of color, was for generations, nothing less than an intergenerational
hate crime, one in which 9/11s were woven into the fabric of everyday
life: hundreds of thousands of the enslaved who died from the conditions
of their bondage; thousands more who were lynched (as many as 10,000 in
the first few years after the Civil War, according to testimony in the
Congressional Record at the time); millions of indigenous persons wiped
off the face of the Earth. No, to some, the horror of 9/11 was not
new. To some it was not on that day that "everything changed." To some,
everything changed four hundred years ago, when that first ship landed at
what would become Jamestown. To some, everything changed when their
ancestors were forced into the hulls of slave ships at Goree Island and
brought to a strange land as chattel. To some, everything changed when
they were run out of Northern Mexico, only to watch it become the
Southwest United States, thanks to a war of annihilation initiated by the
U.S. government. To some, being on the receiving end of terrorism has been
a way of life. Until recently it was absolutely normal in fact.

But white folks have a hard time hearing these simple truths. We find
it almost impossible to listen to an alternative version of reality.
Indeed, what seems to bother white people more than anything, whether in
the recent episode, or at any other time, is being confronted with the
recognition that black people do not, by and large, see the world like
we do; that black people, by and large, do not view America as white
people view it. We are, in fact, shocked that this should be so, having
come to believe, apparently, that the falsehoods to which we cling like a
kidney patient clings to a dialysis machine, are equally shared by our
darker-skinned compatriots.

This is what James Baldwin was talking about in his classic 1972 work,
No Name in the Street, wherein he noted:

"White children, in the main, and whether they are rich or poor, grow
up with a grasp of reality so feeble that they can very accurately be
described as deluded--about themselves and the world they live in. White
people have managed to get through their entire lifetimes in this
euphoric state, but black people have not been so lucky: a black man who
sees the world the way John Wayne, for example, sees it would not be an
eccentric patriot, but a raving maniac."

And so we were shocked in 1987, when Supreme Court Justice Thurgood
Marshall declined to celebrate the bicentennial of the Constitution,
because, as he noted, most of that history had been one of overt racism and
injustice, and to his way of thinking, the only history worth
celebrating had been that of the past three or four decades.

We were shocked to learn that black people actually believed that a
white cop who was a documented racist might frame a black man; and we're
shocked to learn that lots of black folks still perceive the U.S. as a
racist nation--we're literally stunned that people who say they
experience discrimination regularly (and who have the social science research
to back them up) actually think that those experiences and that data
might actually say something about the nation in which they reside.

Whites are easily shocked by what we see and hear from Pastor Wright
and Trinity Church, because what we see and hear so thoroughly challenges
our understanding of who we are as a nation. But black people have
never, for the most part, believed in the imagery of the "shining city on
a hill," for they have never had the option of looking at their nation
and ignoring the mountain-sized warts still dotting its face when it
comes to race. Black people do not, in the main, get misty eyed at the
sight of the flag the way white people do--and this is true even for
millions of black veterans--for they understand that the nation for whom
that flag waves is still not fully committed to their own equality. They
have a harder time singing those tunes that white people seem so eager
to belt out, like "God Bless America," for they know that whites sang
those words loudly and proudly even as they were enforcing Jim Crow
segregation, rioting against blacks who dared move into previously white
neighborhoods, throwing rocks at Dr. King and then cheering, as so many
did, when they heard the news that he had been assassinated.

Whites refuse to remember (or perhaps have never learned) that which
black folks cannot afford to forget. I've seen white people stunned to
the point of paralysis when they learn the truth about lynchings in this
country--when they discover that such events were not just a couple of
good old boys with a truck and a rope hauling some black guy out to the
tree, hanging him, and letting him swing there. They were never told
the truth: that lynchings were often community events, advertised in
papers as "Negro Barbecues," involving hundreds or even thousands of
whites, who would join in the fun, eat chicken salad and drink sweet tea,
all while the black victims of their depravity were being hung, then
shot, then burned, and then having their body parts cut off, to be handed
out to onlookers. They are stunned to learn that postcards of the events
were traded as souvenirs, and that very few whites, including members
of their own families did or said anything to stop it.

Rather than knowing about and confronting the ugliness of our past,
whites take steps to excise the less flattering aspects of our history so
that we need not be bothered with them. So, in Tulsa, Oklahoma, for
example, site of an orgy of violence against the black community in 1921,
city officials literally went into the town library and removed all
reference to the mass killings in the Greenwood district from the papers
with a razor blade--an excising of truth and an assault on memory that
would remain unchanged for over seventy years.

Most white people desire, or perhaps even require the propagation of
lies when it comes to our history. Surely we prefer the lies to anything
resembling, even remotely, the truth. Our version of history, of our
national past, simply cannot allow for the intrusion of fact into a
worldview so thoroughly identified with fiction. But that white version of
America is not only extraordinarily incomplete, in that it so favors the
white experience to the exclusion of others; it is more than that; it
is actually a slap in the face to people of color, a re-injury, a
reminder that they are essentially irrelevant, their concerns trivial, their
lives unworthy of being taken seriously. In that sense, and what few
if any white Americans appear capable of grasping at present, is that
"Leave it Beaver" and "Father Knows Best," portray an America so divorced
from the reality of the times in which they were produced, as to raise
serious questions about the sanity of those who found them so moving,
so accurate, so real. These iconographic representations of life in the
U.S. are worse than selective, worse than false, they are assaults to
the humanity and memory of black people, who were being savagely
oppressed even as June Cleaver did housework in heels and laughed about the
hilarious hijinks of Beaver and Larry Mondello.

These portraits of America are certifiable evidence of how disconnected
white folks were--and to the extent we still love them and view them
as representations of the "good old days" to which we wish we could
return, still are--from those men and women of color with whom we have long
shared a nation. Just two months before "Leave it to Beaver" debuted,
proposed civil rights legislation was killed thanks to Strom Thurmond's
24-hour filibuster speech on the floor of the U.S. Senate. One month
prior, Arkansas Governor Orville Faubus called out the National Guard to
block black students from entering Little Rock Central High; and nine
days before America was introduced to the Cleavers, and the comforting
image of national life they represented, those black students were
finally allowed to enter, amid the screams of enraged, unhinged, viciously
bigoted white people, who saw nothing wrong with calling children
niggers in front of cameras. That was America of the 1950s: not the
sanitized version into which so many escape thanks to the miracle of
syndication, which merely allows white people to relive a lie, year after year
after year.

No, it is not the pastor who distorts history; Nick at Nite and your
teenager's textbooks do that. It is not he who casts aspersions upon
"this great country" as Barack Obama put it in his public denunciations of
him; it is the historic leadership of the nation that has cast
aspersions upon it; it is they who have cheapened it, who have made gaudy and
vile the promise of American democracy by defiling it with lies. They
engage in a patriotism that is pathological in its implications, that
asks of those who adhere to it not merely a love of country but the
turning of one's nation into an idol to be worshipped, it not literally, then
at least in terms of consequence.

It is they--the flag-lapel-pin wearing leaders of this land--who bring
shame to the country with their nonsensical suggestions that we are
always noble in warfare, always well-intended, and although we
occasionally make mistakes, we are never the ones to blame for anything. Nothing
that happens to us has anything to do with us at all. It is always about
them. They are evil, crazy, fanatical, hate our freedoms, and are
jealous of our prosperity. When individuals prattle on in this manner we
diagnose them as narcissistic, as deluded. When nations do it--when our
nation does--we celebrate it as though it were the very model of
rational and informed citizenship.

So what can we say about a nation that values lies more than it loves
truth? A place where adherence to sincerely believed and internalized
fictions allows one to rise to the highest offices in the land, and to
earn the respect of millions, while a willingness to challenge those
fictions and offer a more accurate counter-narrative earns one nothing but
contempt, derision, indeed outright hatred? What we can say is that
such a place is signing its own death warrant. What we can say is that
such a place is missing the only and last opportunity it may ever have to
make things right, to live up to its professed ideals. What we can say
is that such a place can never move forward, because we have yet to
fully address and come to terms with that which lay behind.

What can we say about a nation where white preachers can lie every week
from their pulpits without so much as having to worry that their lies
might be noticed by the shiny white faces in their pews, while black
preachers who tell one after another essential truth are demonized, not
only for the stridency of their tone--which needless to say scares white
folks, who have long preferred a style of praise and worship
resembling nothing so much as a coma--but for merely calling bullshit on those
whose lies are swallowed whole?

And oh yes, I said it: white preachers lie. In fact, they lie with a
skill, fluidity, and precision unparalleled in the history of either
preaching or lying, both of which histories stretch back a ways and have
often overlapped. They lie every Sunday, as they talk about a Savior they
have chosen to represent dishonestly as a white man, in every picture
to be found of him in their tabernacles, every children's story book in
their Sunday Schools, every Christmas card they'll send to relatives
and friends this December. But to lie about Jesus, about the one they
consider God--to bear false witness as to who this man was and what he
looked like--is no cause for concern.

Nor is it a problem for these preachers to teach and preach that those
who don't believe as they believe are going to hell. Despite the fact
that such a belief casts aspersions upon God that are so profound as to
defy belief--after all, they imply that God is so fundamentally evil
that he would burn non-believers in a lake of eternal fire--many of the
white folks who now condemn Jeremiah Wright welcome that theology of
hate. Indeed, back when President Bush was the Governor of Texas, he
endorsed this kind of thinking, responding to a question about whether Jews
were going to go to hell, by saying that unless one accepted Jesus as
one's personal savior, the Bible made it pretty clear that indeed, hell
was where you'd be heading.

So you can curse God in this way--and to imply such hate on God's part
is surely to curse him--and in effect, curse those who aren't
Christians, and no one says anything. That isn't considered bigoted. That isn't
considered beyond the pale of polite society. One is not disqualified
from becoming President in the minds of millions because they go to a
church that says that shit every single week, or because they believe it
themselves. And millions do believe it, and see nothing wrong with it

So white folks are mad at Jeremiah Wright because he challenges their
views about their country. Meanwhile, those same white folks, and their
ministers and priests, every week put forth a false image of the God
Jeremiah Wright serves, and yet it is whites who feel we have the right
to be offended.

Pardon me, but something is wrong here, and whatever it is, is not to
be found at Trinity United Church of Christ.

Interesting huh? Yeah I thought it would be. Well now for the next installment of the my story. Hope it's entertaining you.

The Soucouyant's Kiss Part 2

“So here is the question on the moment. How on earth are we going to vanquish her?” Karfa asked his grandmother as she wiped the corners of her mouth daintily. Before both of them were a pile of chicken bones, all that was left of the lunch they shared. Meme had been right after all, dealing with such things was a draining business and Karfa had to accede that he hadn’t eaten anything all day and knew he needed the strength if not more than she did.

“You know how to stop her already.” Meme responded quickly taking a sip of strawberry soda.

“Yes I know we rub her skin with coarse salt. I get it but I doubt that she will let us get that close. She knows we know what she is.” Karfa sighed. “I have feeling she will be taking more proactive measures against us now. I’m not sure it was a good idea to play with her as you did Meme.”

Meme gave Karfa a look.

“Of course it was a good idea. You were too scared to do anything but shiver in your own skin. Now we have Mam Jablesse on notice. She is going to have to take care because she knows that she’s being watched. She will move against now using more than just her brute strength.” Meme explained.

“You mean she will use obeah.” Karfa deduced.


“Meme you have the ability to counteract that stuff? I mean do you really?”

“You doubt me?”

“No Meme.” Karfa sighed. “I don’t vraiment Meme. However I am not sure that I want to be fighting a demonic blood sucking sorceress without the proper protections and or counter measures. Especially if she is so adept at locating her favorite meals as you’ve so subtly hinted at Meme.”

Meme finished her soda with a nice juicy slurp in response. Karfa frowned but said nothing watching her for some reaction.

“You will have to do the killing stroke.” She said now with finality.

“But you said-”

“I said I would help you. Said I would prepare you amour but will have to do the killing stroke. What is you so scared of? This is not the first time you’ve ever dealt with such things.” Meme confessed now. Karfa gave her a look of pure incredulity.

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

“Don’t you remember when you were pitit? Your little friend? Jeannot?” she prodded. “Jeannot Michaud? He and you were inseparable, don’t you remember?”

Karfa looked at her hard and attempted to get past that block that you make in your mind when you reach adulthood. We all have it and so you know what I speak of. It’s that block you put in your head that keeps the realm of childhood and adulthood separated in a neat pile of what was and what is. For many of us it keeps such things from getting too complicated. For Karfa at this moment it seemed a stumbling block. Then Meme said:

“Enfant don’ you remember? Les Lavandieres pitit you saw them that night.” And at that moment Karfa was caught up in a past memory from a place in time that’d buried until now.


Jeannot and I used to run through empty fields and climb trees and get up so high that we gave old the old Creole Grandmeres heart attacks for fear we’d fall and crack our bones in 10 places. We had a place down by the creek that we would visit from time to time usually with one of our parents or relatives to accompany us.

Of course then we had no idea of what the adults Black or White, Creole, Cajun, or American would whisper of that river. We didn’t know how to deduce those facts being that we never saw anyone swim in it on the hottest days of a Louisianne Ete because too many drowned in its clear, swift moving currents. Didn’t care to take notice that people would fish else where because boats there would capsize without reason, or that some folk said the fish did not look like fish of this world. And being children we never figured out at least not to our liking why whenever a cousin, parent, uncle, or aunt was with us near that creek they would be ready to usher us away with the quickness once the sun dipped low.

It was after one such instance that Jeannot and I little 4yr old brown slips of boys we were, managed to eavesdrop on Jeannot’s maman, Juliette Michaud and her best friend the notorious village gossip Madame Veronique LaHaye. The 2 stately ladies sat in the salon sipping iced cafes and chattering on about all the happenings in the village. Actually it was Madame LaHaye that did all the chattering, Madame Michaud just said,

“Ahh ouais. Hmmm-mmmm….”

Jeannot and I loved these times for hidden round the corner playing with our cars ( we loved those hot wheels and matchboxes) or action figures (star wars then) we could hear the forbidden games that adults played. We learned much before we knew what an affair was that Monsieur Saucier was having one with Mamzelle Duval. We heard about young Annette Butrois pregnancy and how Marcel St. Orange was a masscici. So it was in this same way that we heard about the death of young Paul Duchamp.

“So what happened to the pauvre bebe? Was he kidnapped? Was it the Bekes?” Juliette had asked, her full pink lips pursing in a frown that brought out her freckles. She ran her fingers through her coppery red hair and lifted her coffee to her lips. Veronique shook her head mournfully and fixed her own cup of coffee a contrast to her friend with her dark satin black velvet skin and hair which she wore in a small afro.

“They don’t think it was the White Folkz neither American nor Cajun.” Veronique mused. “Though I wouldn’t put it past them. Remember Romanard Thibadeaux? They lynched him down by the creek for daring to look in the direction of that scraggly White girl Alice Montblanc. His mother screamed something awful when they pulled him out of that creek.”

“Ouais and then pauvre Papan Thibadeaux became the biggest drunk in town. Triste. Triste, triste.” Juliette mused. “But this one was not a lynching?”

“No honey they aint lynched anyone here since we were teenagers girl. Romanard was the last one. It’s just that creek. Always been a bad place. Un mal endroit.” Veronique reminded her.

“I know girl. The babies play near there all the time.”

“Juliette you let them play there?”

“In the daylight. I take ‘em there sometimes. The boys. I don’ let them get in the water. Merde fille, I won’t get in that water.” Juliette confessed.

“Beggin’ yo’ pardon douxdoux but I wouldn’t let no child of mine ever go near that creek. It aint safe.”

Jeannot and Karfa continued listening silent as church mice as an interchange silent and perhaps fraught with tension passed between the 2 women. Juliette liked Veronique but found her too presumptuous at times and it seems that this was one of these times.

“You tellin’ me how to raise my fils mon amie?” Juliette asked finally.

“Non, non jamais ca ma fille. I’m just sayin’ I wouldn’t do it.” Veronique conceded.

“Fille don’ be questionin’ my fitness as a mother. Imma bonne mere.” Juliette told her smartly.

“No one said you wasn’t!” Veronique snapped back. Silence. Then a sigh. Jeannot and Karfa giggled silently. They didn’t like the know it all blabber mouth Veronique.

“Sorry fille.” Veronique

“Oh honey I should say sorry. I get a little tu connais?”

“We copasetic. So should I continue?”

“Ouais douxdoux how’d it happen?” Juliette queried.

“Well you know Paul weren’t no real bebe. He was 15. Old enough to be out and to know better.”

“Fille he was a baby. Whole life ahead of him. Madame Duchamp must be devastated…” Juliette mused. Veronique nodded in affirmation.

“She is a wreck. Kept screaming when they pulled him out I told him, I told him not to go wandering near the creek at night. Apparently they had a spat.” Veronique divulged.


“Ouais well you know young people. He wanted to go to some party, she didn’t want him to go, you know Mam Duchamp. The holiest woman in all the parish. Thinks that if she sits up close to the Kope, that’ll get her first in line into heaven. So of course he wants to go and drink or smoke grass or whatever they do. Well he went off in huff and walked on down by the creek.”

“At night fille?”

“Ouais a li nuit!”

“Why on earth would he do that?”

“You know young folkz they don’t heed no one and don’t believe nuthin’.

“He grew up here same as we all did, he aint heed the stories?” Juliette asked incredulously.

“Chile he aint cared obviously and he ran into Les Lavandieres.”


“Had to have. Vieux Homme Virgil said he heard them laughing sometime round 11:30 last night. Said they was cackling like witches.” Veronique confirmed.

“What the sheriff say?”

“What the sheriff care? He says the boy drowned. Aint no real signs of foul play and we all know the history of the creek. I heard too that the garcon was soaking wet when they found him. I mean they found him lodged against a branch in the water. But tell me this?”

“What fille?”

“How someone drown and have a broke neck?”


“Who are they?” Jeannot asked me his freckled yellow face brightening with excitement.

“Who is who?” I asked him.

“Les Lavienderes stupide ca ki!” he exclaimed.

“Ohhh Jeannot Imma tell yo’ maman you calls me stupide. Tu tete de merde!” I said hurt that my best friend would say such a thing. I was sensitive. “I aint stupide!”

“So Imma tell that you said a swears word to me and then you gonna get a whoopin’ from yo’ Papan like you did last time you sweared!” Jeannot threatened. Which was true. Papan caught me swearing at my little brother Charles and had torn my butt up with his belt. I didn’t want that again and I started to cry. Jeannot and I were children and while children can be cruel they are not usually malicious. A bit surprised Jeannot gave me a hug and said: “Okay don’ cry Karfa. I’m sorry I won’t tell on you if you do something for me?”

I stopped my crying at that promise which dangled before me like on of Meme’s rosary beads in service. I didn’t get many whoopings as child, not the least of which had to do with them being painful. I hated seeing the anger and then disappointment in the faces of my parents even then and I hated the humiliation because it is true… White children will embarrass their parents but Black parents will embarrass their children.

“What I gotta do?” I asked intrigue. “You not trying to trick me is you?” I asked.

“No tricks.” Jeannot promised.

“Tu me promis?” I asked. (Jeannot was a notorious little trickster. Meme nicknamed him Lapin.)

“Mo te promis!” He responded affirmatively.

“Okay what I gotta do?” I asked in acceptance.

“Ask your Meme if we can spend the night at her house cause then my Maman will say yes.” Jeannot instructed. I shrugged my shoulders. It was not an unreasonable request. However the little fire in Jeannot’s eyes I knew already at that age was trouble. I had my doubts.

“Okay…” I said.

“Then when we are at your Meme’s house we can go to our secret place and see Les Lavandieres.” He conspired. He began to laugh. “It will be an adventure like Thundarr the Barbarian. I will be Thundarr and you will be… Uhmm… You can be Ariel.”

“That’s the girl!” I exclaimed.

“Yeah but she has the magic and we need magic.” He reasoned.

“Okay,” I agreed. “We won’t get in trouble?” I asked now concerned.

“Non you crybaby.”

“ I aint no crybaby!”



“Okay you not. So we will go?”

“You have a sun sword?” I asked him. Thundarr always had his sun sword. Jeannot nodded eagerly and I thought this might be fun. We were children, small children we did not understand half the things Veronique and Juliette discussed. I wish for our sakes we had been a little older, a little more familiar with loss, and I wish with all my might the adults had talked about the things that scared them with us. It might’ve stopped us from what we were about to do that night. But in those days of lingering overt racism in small Louisiana Town racism was the only to be afraid of and even that was a changing bogey. Few people remembered the things that hunted the night and bumped in the dark shadows. Or at least they wouldn’t speak of it out loud.


Meme, Juliette, and my Papan all fell for it. We went and stayed at Meme’s house. Meme back then had a house not too far from the creek. We would visit her on summer days, play in the bushes surrounding the house, sip sweet tea, and feast on beignets pommes. She would take a near the creek as well to play but never by ourselves and never after dark. We were never to go near the creek after dark. All the adults infact said so. When would ask why we got no answers other than:

“Because I said so!” That was that. But not that night.

Jeannot sneaky, bold little man waited until Meme fell asleep watching Dallas and then grabbed me by the hand. Both of us in with blankets for capes and pots for helmets raced through the woods to the creek. It was dark and we could hardly see, but Jeannot had brought a flash light. I should’ve been afraid but I wasn’t. Jeannot was with me. We ran along the bank with the flashlight making funny sounds not really afraid and looking around for these whispered les Lavandieres that the entire town was talking about. Suddenly abruptly I stopped and Jeannot bumped right into me.

The night was clear and brightened by an orange moon. The air was heavy with the scent of magnolias and the clarity of the water. We were almost never afraid but I knew the emotion as sure as I knew the light of day. For by the light of the moon in the distance ahead were three old, wrinkled, hunched, White Women. They wore raggedy, soiled clothes from a time we did not recognize. Puffed sleeves, old fashioned style bonnets atop their withered faced heads, and long plaid skirts. Between them they seemed to be washing sheets covered in blood. Jeannot and I knew what blood looked liked. For us it was what you saw when you fell out of the tree and skinned up your arms and knees. Together the 3 women sang an eerie tune in a dialect of French unlike any we had ever heard before.

“Cannard Noz is we, washing here nightly by the creek,

Come lass and lad, come one to the three and learn perhaps what death has,

In store for thee.

Children of the night gather round us now,

Hold us father of night in an embrace strong and cruel,

For to see us is to know the doom of your mortality,

To know us

Is to know death, and if you give us half a chance you can come dear lad or lass

To join us in our dance but if you should misstep than your’s delight shall be to

Father Death next….”

Then they gave a cackle which froze my blood. I remember I wet myself and I started to cry softly because I knew I would get in trouble for wetting myself.

“Mo vle alle! I want to go!” I urged Jeannot. “It’s them Les Lavandieres.” I knew then what they were. They were demons from old France loosed where the French had dared to step and set up residence. Les Lavandieres come from the province of Brittany, they are demonic old women who wash anywhere water sits or flows in the wilds of that place. They are a death portent. Their appearance means someone will die in the locale. To see one is to court doom for if they see you and flicks blood at you, than you shall die in a month. However sometimes they may invite you to wash with them and you are compelled to come. May God himself help you then. For the Cannard Noz turn and twist the sheets in time to music of ancient Celtic Rites and Sacrifices, of blood heaped upon altars and screaming infants burned alive in giant trees of woven wicker. Of Fey Rings and trickster goblins leading people astray into the wilds. Of the Ankou’s cart wheel groans and the cries of the suffering dying. If you move in the wrong way while wringing and twisting those sheets Les Lavandieres will wrench your arms from your sockets and then pull you into their bloody sheets where you will be killed instantly.

I began to back away further off to the side of the bank into some shrubbery.

“Vinni Karfa.” Jeannot coaxed softly.

“Non!” I cried adamantly but quietly. I was afraid, wet, and miserable. Jeannot threw up his arms.

“You scared and I aint.” Jeannot decided. I watched him then as he crept nearer to them to get a closer look. My heart stopped in my mouth when I heard the snap of a twig beneath his weight. The first of the Lavandieres head snapped up and her eyes glittered like an oil slick in the light, revealing eyes burning with all the malevolence of hell. She gave him a smile revealing jagged sharpened teeth that to this day I scarce could give you description.

“See who comes here sisters.” She hissed in a voice that sounded hollow and reedy. “A little nigger boy comes to see the washing.” She commented. Her sisters looked up eagerly one of them drooling. Jeannot stopped now and I heard him breathing hard. For though he was brave he was still a little child and he looked back to where I hid nervously. I could tell then that he wanted to run and he would have. But that moment of recognition from the Cannard Noz, they had him rooted to the spot. The first among them beckoned.

“Leave me alone.” Jeannot whispered now in Creole.

“Non garcon you come to us.” She commanded. On jerking legs like some marionette Jeannot stumbled towards them howling all the way. Ignoring his cries they took up their song again and one of them as he moved into position with them put a bloody sheet in his hands.

“I want Maman!” he cried. He begged, he shrieked, he kicked, but he could not move from that spot.

“You ever helped your mother nigger boy? Ever helped with her washing?” the first among them demanded eagerly. Jeannot’s little face was mask of tears.

“Non.” He whispered.

“You will wish you had.” She laughed. They began singing now harsher, faster, wilder, and it’s evil spread over the creek with a potency that hushed every living thing. I crouched down into the fetal position, closed my eyes, and covered my ears. That did not block out his screams. Those insistent, pleading screams of a child afraid and in pain that haunted me in my dreams in half remembered snatches of capachony of agony filled me went thru me and I almost went to them and offered up myself to them too for the fellness of their power was in the suffering of Jeannot’s screams.

I woke up that morning to the sound of my name being called and I remember weakly calling out for someone. Papan and Meme found me along with a lot of other people. Juliette was there screaming, screaming like Jeannot screamed.

“Karfa what happened to my baby? What happened to my boy?” she demanded her face a mask of hysteria. Papan held me in his arms and whispered words to me that he would never whisper again, and I almost felt safe.

“Les Lavandieres.” I croaked. “Cannard Noz.”

Papan’s eyes went wide but he said nothing.

“Hush now. Fais do-do.” He whispered. I never got whipping, Meme never scolded me and no one ever spoke of the incident again until this day. I mean we moved away a year later. But I never would go near their creek again and sometimes at night I heard them singing that fell, evil song.

I don’t remember anything else about that day. I can’t believe I remember it now and I am loathing imagining it but I witnessed it. I witnessed those demon women killing my best friend at the age of 4.

Karfa stricken looked into Meme’s face his eyes flooding with tears.

“Yes I remember. I remember them.”


Well that's all for today. Everyone have a great day and remember. To err is human but to forgive is divine so spread that love and forgiveness around okay? Be blessed all of you.

Thursday, March 13, 2008

Prostate Cancer Awareness PSA #3

But you shouldn't like it too much. You only need to get checked once.

Prostate Cancer Awareness PSA #2

Don't be shocked when they check you for it. Some of you may like it.

Prostate Cancer Awareness PSA #1

And here for you is my PSA for the moment. Get checked for Prostate Cancer. It's important.

Inside Looking Out - Therapy

Here's more of my favorite Interracial couple they crack me up.

I write. I like to write stuff. Random things I dunno I've alwys wanted to be a writer and I think I'm okay. SO I've decided to post of some my writings to this site in the hopes that either I will be like some sleeper hit or whatever. Also as a way of just getting my ideas somewhere so... Here ya go.

Oh by the way I'm aiight life is interesting to say the least. I'm just deciding to see how ot get some work out with this right now... Trying to pursue a dream maybe.
The Soucouyant’s Kiss

When Joseph Elijah Taylor’s stepfather put him out that rainy Monday night in April he knew that he was in trouble. He was 19, was not in college, had no job, no money (either that was saved or left over from his occasional slangin’), and perhaps most important of all, (at least to Joe’s perception of his life at the moment) he had no one who loved him enough to help him. Such was life for boiz soon to be men like him. For whom could he turn too?

Certainly not his mother, who always had stood by her men, all the uncles who had paraded in and out of their lives like so many traveling circuses. Coming to his mother to bedazzle and to berate him and the leave them both, he grasping for some home that he could finally be the man in Mama’s life, while she was alone again waiting for that Ebony prince on his white stallion to ride in and save her from the suffocation that was ghetto life. She had been true to form this time hadn’t she? After all had she not told him? What’s worse had he not already had known her answer?

“ I aint givin’ up what da fuck I don’ got with Benjamin fo’ no goddamned faggot! He told you to get on and you lookin’ to me fo’ what? Get da hell out JOE! GET DA HELL OUT!! HAVE ONE OF YO’ FAGGOTS TAKE CARE OF YOU!” she had screamed at him even as her tears flowed. Even as her sepia’s eyes were rimmed in red, and her full lips trembled not out of their own accord but of the greatest heartbreak, she would not give an inch. She stood by her man. Joe was hurt but not so surprised. She hadn’t bestirred herself when “Uncle Jim” had half beaten him to a pulp when he was 12. Why would she now when her ‘husband” was doing in spirit damn near the same thing?

As for his step dad… Joe would’ve laughed if he was not so damn desperate. He had caught him. Had caught him and Quis in the garage, Quis on his knees in front of Joe about to take him to heaven after a blunt shared, about to make the high so much sweeter. He had caught them and had flipped…. Joe’s hand involuntarily touched his eye and he winced without meaning too. It hurt less than his mother’s latest betrayal but hurt still the same.

So now as he stood shivering in his baggy jeans, timbs, hat cocked to the side and his thin ass t shirt holding a hastily packed bag thrown over his shoulders and in possession of a wallet with only 40 bucks inside of it he knew that he was in trouble. He started walking, still maintaining the dignity of his thug swagger but lacking visibly the bluster of a young Black man that usually seemed so sure of himself, his head bowed almost so low that those who knew the devil may care brotha would’ve never guessed it was he. He took out his cell cursing the weather and the White People who dragged his ancestors to this side of the world centuries past and dialed the one person who he knew would help him. Or at least that he thought he knew would help him.


“So what are you saying Karfa?” Larry asked now his voicing rising just a hint, his eyes darkening and his face holding a look of growing thunder that Karfa knew if unleashed would sweep everything away in a tide of anger. Larry stood now, bare-chested, slim almost aquiline nose flaring, dark chocolate skin slowly reddening in hue, and his brown eyes which could at times be kind, exotic, cruel, and sexy all at once were definitely showing nothing but malice. Karfa’s head began to ache and he averted his eyes from his lover’s face so as not to make the situation more volatile. For when Larry was angry he became true to his sign a pure and total dread God of War.

“I’m only saying that perhaps you could relax sometimes about certain things.” Karfa said smoothly, taking care his voice was soothing and soft, without challenge. He did not want to stoke the fires of a fight.

“Relax about what?!” Larry snarled. Karfa sighed. He rose smoothly from the bed and wrapped his arms round Larry’s neck, once again moving slowly, softly, submissively towards his lover. Larry who was usually so cool and so in control had his moments and Karfa knew well how to quell them. Most of the time. He almost smiled but he didn’t dare to do so because he knew Larry would loose it.

“Relax your mind luv.” Karfa whispered now kissing Larry. Larry returned the kiss out of obligation not passion and Karfa noted that. He filed that away knowing that sometimes that was just how Larry was. A Black Vulcan on the edge of logic but with a tide of emotions churning beneath a cool and polished surface. It was what made him fall in love with him, and what sometimes repelled him from Larry as well.

“You think I am wrong?” Larry asked now his voice receding towards calm. Karfa gave him a smile of gold and shook his head.

“I think I am the emotional one most of the time and you are the level headed on except when it comes to your flare ups of jealousy. You know that boy was just trying to run some game and you know that I would’ve never fallen for it. You didn’t have to humiliate him so. Poor baby. You were cruel Larry.” Karfa sighed. Larry gave a smile, one of the times when Larry was total brotha in his look and attitude.


“You were.”

“Young’uns should respect their elders.” Larry quoted with a smile. Karfa released Larry shaking his head walking away. “But I guess…” Larry began now in a small voice. “That I need not be so jealous at times and that I should trust you more.” Karfa sank back to the bed and looked up at his lover with eyes that Larry had always thought reflected everything in this world and at times the next and then beyond.

“You barely ever are unless they hit on me in front of you. Then you slowly boil and I know what will come.” Karfa reminded him.

“I do not brawl in the streets.’ Larry reminded Karfa.

“That’s because you will kill them if you do.” Larry moved in close to Karfa slowly pushing the tall but shorter brotha onto his back his eyes beginning to smolder.

“Do you have complaints..?” Larry sighed softly. Karfa kissed him now and Larry kissed back. Karfa smiled.

“Baby come on work with me on this.”

“It is not like I’m some savage ghetto beat ‘em down shoot ‘em type of guy.” Larry reasoned.

“No but your own brand of rage is more than sufficient. Now promise.”

“I will.”

“Kool.” Karfa managed knowing that little would be said now for Larry was feeling it; Karfa could feel it and Larry rarely talked when they did the thing, even though Larry would smile at times. (Which Karfa always found to be such a turn on.) Larry was roving his hands over Karfa’s back and Karfa was getting breathless and hot and then the phone rang.

‘I should get that.” Karfa said. Larry’s fingers were moving to a very sensitive spot and his lips were beginning to explore. Karfa moaned.

“They’ll call back.”

“This could be important.” Karfa managed as the phone rang insistently again. Squirming and twisting somehow Karfa extricated himself from Larry’s grip and grabbed the phone giggling as Larry began to tickle him.

“Allo?” he asked.

“Yo K sup?” came a deep voice booming with authority and oozing confidence. Karfa gave high pitched yell and finally pulled himself out of Larry’s grasp. “Aey u aiight?” the voice asked now at that last yelp. Karfa allowed himself a giggle.

“Yeah Joey I’m okay just have an overactive friend.” Karfa managed. Larry’s long black arm shot out at Karfa and he screamed in excitement.

“Damn Nigga my ears shit! K u all screamin’ like a bitch in my ears n shit!” Joe snapped.

“Sorry Joey sweet heart,” Karfa apologized while giving Larry a STOP IT signal with his eyes. Larry sighed and turned on the tv. “Sorry, sorry boo, so wassup wit you Nigga?”

“Well uh see K I need a favor.”

“What kinda favor Joey?” Karfa asked now his mind starting to race just a little. One never knew with Joey what the deal was. Karfa had met Joey before Larry, some months before. Joey was then newly 19, young dumb and full of cum, and sexy as hell. He had the whole thug vibe going on and then sum and he had set his eyes on Karfa that summer and well… Karfa had tried to resist. None of it had helped, Joey (for that was Karfa’s name for him) would not see reason or couldn’t see past his lust, and Karfa was always a sucker for men who were confident. So it happened as it does at times with such things that the 19 yr old had the 29 yr olds body and the 29 yr old had ended up having the 19 yr olds heart. That had been a crazy summer full of joy, lovemaking, dancing and kicking it till dawn, hung over days, and finally Karfa bidding adieu to Joseph.

“But I thought…” Joe had attempted, his eyes watering and his voice trembling. Karfa had not expected that. Infact it was the only time he had seen Joe cry. “You said that we… You tole me….I-I…”

“Joey…”Karfa began and felt like at that moment nothing more than evil incarnate. “Joey you are wonderful and I do care for you…And in my way I love you but I can’t commit to you like that. We’re on 2 different pages.” Karfa intoned. He felt had intoned this because once somewhere he was in a situation like this but in Joey’s place and he suddenly understood in this instant what the other man had meant. It did not make Karfa hate the exemplar of such a thing any less nor did it make him hate himself less. So there were tears Joe shedding them after stomping off in a rage of hurt and Karfa who privately wept in Larry arm’s mumbling over and over ,”that he wasn’t nan but a piece of shit..”…Then after time passed for young and old hearts are both healed by the same salve a friendship began anew, though laced still with sexual undertones which Karfa successfully fought off. Now Karfa gave Joe advice, and Joe spoke to Karfa of more of his dreams and hopes, and sometimes Karfa bought Joe drinks or a hit him off with a couple dollars, or let him crash when his moms was on a tear and it seemed to be working. Still Joey was a young man with young young man drama which sometimes for Karfa made him glad he was in his late 20’s and which sometimes for Karfa made him just a tad bit impatient with Joe, (though he hid this impatience and tempered the feeling with remembrances from his own past), for Joe like many young men needed much and gave back little but wasn’t that how it was supposed to be? Karfa still loved Joe and in his heart he never minded or begrudged Joe for being anything but what he was. A young Black Gay Man in the city.

“K?” Joe asked now bringing Karfa from his reverie.

“Yeah Joey. I’m here. What kinda favor do you need?” Karfa repeated keeping the anxiousness he felt from his voice.

“Well that Nigga caught me and Quis… you know…” Joe stammered. “Some shit went down, I popped him I got popped, and well you know da rest.” Karfa frowned and waived Larry away who was making himself a bit of a hovering nuisance mouthing who is it?

“Are you alright Joey?”

“Yeah kinda. I mean I’m kooh.” Joe said keeping up that hot boi bravado. Karfa knew that meant no, Joey stubborn as hell would still never admit to needing any help. It always took Karfa and many others to drag it out of him.

“You can stay here. With us for a couple nights and we’ll figure out what your next move will be. Okay.” Karfa offered.

“No!” Larry hissed. Karfa a look of horror on his face covered the receiver with his hand and mouthed,



“Oh Larry please stop it.” Karfa admonished. “It takes a village.” He reminded him.

“He aint no kid.”

“Yes he is.’

“Just one you used to mess with.”

“Larry.” Karfa said giving him a look that said this would brook no more discussion. Then to Joe. “Yes sweets just catch the bus and get over here. Do you need me to come get you? Aiight I’m on my way. Okay. Okay. No problem ti papan. I’ll be there. Okay see ya in a few.”

Karfa hopped up and hurriedly dressed under the not so warm gaze of Larry’s eyes.

“Larry come on love he needs help.” Karfa excused. Larry gave him the Vulcan Face. Impassive, logical, ice cold and try as he might displeased as hell.

“You always save him.” Larry pointed out.

“Who else does he have if not us? He is us. We both were 19 once, and how easy was it for us? Larry his step dad put him out for a reason that we both know well. I can’t in good conscience not help him. Why should he be homeless if he aint gotta be?” Karfa asked.

“Fine. Watch yourself though. That boy still wants in your pants.” Larry gritted.

“Then we’ll have a 3some.” Karfa suggested exuberantly. Larry’s brow darkened. “A joke.”

“You are not making me feel better about this.”

“It will all be fine. You’ll see…”

“So says you Karfa, so says you.”


Karfa climbed the steps to his apartment with legs that ached, a head that was full of too many thoughts, and nerves that were a bit frazzled. His usually ready smile wasn’t so ready today and it was all he could do to keep it plastered to his face. The last 3 days had not been especially bad but they were not so great either. Karfa had to keep running interference between the bulls he was living with. Larry upon Joe’s entrance into the apt had decided that he would be king cock of the block and Joe of course chaffed until everything was becoming almost Discovery channel. Its wonder, Karfa mused as he put his keys in the lock, that those 2 haven’t killed each other yet. Karfa fully expected them to begin butting heads like cape buffalos or something. That would be a sight. Karfa laughed in spite of himself and was shocked to find both men chillin’ at the kitchen table tossing back some beers.

“Who are you and what have you done with Larry?” Karfa asked wide eyed at the sight of Larry and Joe laughing easy and having a conversation that didn’t involve either of them holding their dicks in their hands.

“Whathcu mean K we jus’ chillin.’ Joe responded.

“Yeah we’re jus’ hangin’ out.” Larry said. Karfa reached down and pecked him on the lips. “Actually it’s a bit of celebration. It seems Joe found a place to stay on Craig’s List.’

Karfa turned and rolled his eyes and thought I should’ve guessed. Well at least I don’t have to deal with their insufferable posturing any longer. However he spun back around and exclaimed:

“Oh Joey that’s great! But how and where and what? I mean you don’t have job.” Karfa paused now suddenly uneasy. Why did he feel uneasy? “I mean if you need-”

“Aww naw see yo’ boi got it covered. Imma man. See this old broad she gotta room for me in her house. I aint gotta pay rent jus’ help her round the house and stuff. I mean I aint gonna be there long but you know while I’m there I can handle my bizness and get things crackin’ again.” Joe said his eyes bright with anticipation.

“Larry what do you think?” Karfa asked unconvinced. Larry lifted his tall long body from the chair and headed to the fridge a smile on his face. He had shaved off his goatee and Karfa thought that his statuesque boyfriend was no more handsome in that moment and no greater of a smug ass either. He could barely wait for Joey to be gone and that made Karfa a bit angry but he swallowed the feeling down.

“Well I mean Joe’s got a plan. Stay with this lady for a bit, find work and then go on from there. I think it’s a solid plan.” Larry said. Of course you do, Karfa thought, any plan he has is “solid” so long as he is no longer living with us.

“Well Joey,” Karfa asked as Joey and Larry toasted to Joe’s good fortune. “Who is this woman? I mean have you even seen this lady’s home? How do you know you want to be rooming with her? I mean who just lets you live with them rent free without knowing you?”

Both Larry and Joe stopped now and looked at Karfa for a moment.


“Well what K?” Joe asked.

“Yeah well what K?” Larry echoed. Karfa wanted to slap Larry at that moment but simply glared at him.

“Joe you can stay here longer if you need too sweetie.” He began. He fixed a stare into Larry’s brown eyes. “We would love to have you here. Both of us.” Karfa said pointedly. Larry’s own eyes turned hard and his Vulcan face came out. Two can play at this game, Karfa thought. Oblivious to the conflict within the offer Joe shook his head eliciting a look of happy shock from Larry.

“Naw K. I can do this. I’m grown and I can make this work.” He decided. Karfa sat down opposite him and grabbed his hand.

“Of course you can man but I mean I dunno shouldn’t you have a little bit more info on this whole setup before you just rush in. At least let me and Larry go with you to scout this place out. What if it’s like an organ stealing ring or something?”

“Oh Karfa be serious!” Larry shouted in exasperation.

“Oh Larry shut da hell up!’ Karfa shouted back. Joe tried to look taken aback but his eyes couldn’t hide the smile at Larry chastisement. “I’m sorry baby… I didn’t mean that…”

“Y’all aint gotta be fighting over a Nigga. I mean look if it’s like that maybe you right we should check it out and if it’s all gravy then you know Imma post there.” Joe said.

“That sounds reasonable and responsible doesn’t it baby?” Larry half snarled. Karfa weary already of all this nodded slowly. “Well…” said Larry calming himself and taking Karfa by the hand. “Since Karfa is concerned for how you will be living Joe let’s all go and check it out.”


The house was an old Brownstone in the kind of neighborhood that you didn’t go to unless you knew somebody who lived. Addicts haunted the alleyways like so many bedraggled wraiths, one openly hitting a crack pipe while a drunk wandered past the car spinning and swaying in time with music only he heard. Streetlights flickered off and on like sputtering giant fireflies casting shadows that crept and reached with eagerness at the men.

“I don’t like this place.” Karfa whispered to Larry. Larry rolled his eyes.

“Karfa he can take care of himself. Look it’s not like we’re going to leave him with some psychotic murderer. Plus Joe has lived in worse hoods. Shoot we’ve lived in worst hoods. He can handle himself.”

“It’s not the hood or him I’m worried about.” Karfa confessed.

“Then what?” Larry hissed as they pulled up to the brownstone.

“That house it feels wrong.”

“Oh pleeze.” Larry dismissed. “So is this it Joe?” he asked.

“Yeah. This is it.” He asked.

“Well lead on this is gonna be your spot.” Larry encouraged. The three men climbed out of the car and gazed up at the once elegant now derelict looking home. Joe bounded up the stairs while Larry half dragged Karfa behind him. “Stop this.” Larry hissed into Karfa’s ear as Joe rang the door bell. They heard nothing.

As they waited Karfa’s eyes took in the ground of the house. The yard was overgrown choked with weeds and he could swear he saw a despised and familiar creature running through the grass into house’s foundation. The stairway leading up was cracked and crumbling with the railing seeming to be holding to cement more from sheer will than anything that had to do with physics. There was a creaking and Karfa turned his attention to a figure bathed in the soft glow of light from the hallway of the brownstone.

A woman the color of butterscotch, with wispy white hair, a genial face full of wrinkles, age spots and eyes that shone green and clear with a dangerous glinting fire appeared before them. She looked them over almost appraisingly but there was more to it Karfa thought. It was like a predator sizing up her prey. Whatever was behind the once over it made Karfa shudder.

“Good evening gentlemen. How can I help you?” she asked. Her voice held a lilt to it that Karfa immediately identified as West Indian.

“Excuse us, but are you Ms. Abernathy?” Joe asked as respectfully.

“Yes I am and you must be Joseph?” she asked now her green eyes glittering for a moment. “Come to see about the room have you now?”

“Well yeah.” Joe responded.

“Well then I was just preparing some tea, if you would come in we can talk,” she said holding her small bony arms in a sweeping gesture. Joe went in first, followed by Larry upon whose shoulder her bony, bird clawed hand patted for a moment. “My what a strong man. Remind me of me husband back in St. Thom-”

“Pas une chance isalope!” Karfa snarled then at the woman and immediately regretted it. It came out almost as if… Karfa felt dizzy in the confines of this house. He wanted out. Mrs. Abernathy looked confused and gave him a weak smile while Larry and Joe both starred at him their mouth’s agape.

“How delightful you come from the islands too?” she asked in a voice that was so sugary sweet it literally almost made Karfa want to vomit. It was like poisoned honey.

“Sort of, forgive me….I am.”

“Oh dear you look like you are just a wee sick. You okay darlin’? She asked with that voice. Karfa nodded simply feeling as if all of his will was seeping from his body.

“You okay Karfa?” Larry asked now.

“ I’m fine just, the stairs…I’m winded.” Karfa managed.

“Right” Larry said a look of vexation on his handsome face. Unfazed Mrs. Abernathy nodded and ushered the men into a salon which in Karfa’s opinion had seen better days. For one it smelled of must and rot, even Larry seemed uncomfortable. The walls were covered with dusty pictures of proud looking Black men and women whom Karfa assumed to be members of the Abernathy line who seemed glare with utter contempt at the men who now lounged beneath their gazes. Joe however happy go lucky as he was seem just as unfazed as Ms Abernathy.

“Well then let me go get that tea.” She announced sweetly. She gestured to the men to seat themselves which they did. “Y’all take sugar with your tea? Milk or both?”

“Sugar for me thank you.” Larry decided.

“I’m good.” Joe said.

“So am I,’ Karfa agreed knowing in that moment he would never eat or drink anything this Thomesian woman ever offered him that he did not watch her prepare. Instinctively he did not trust her or like her and it was bothering him because he hadn’t the slightest reason to not trust or like her. She was just harmless old woman. As soon as she left Karfa jabbed at Larry.

“Oww! Karfa wha’s up with you?!” he snapped in query.

“I want to leave. I want to leave now all of us.” Karfa found himself begging.

“Why it’s kool?” Joe asked now a hint of anger in his voice. “Why you trippin’ and what you say to her man? Why you actin’ all funny? I thought you was glad I found a place?”

Karfa sighed and looked about the salon. The place looked like nothing as much as a room in a haunted house inhabited by the living. A voice whispered softly from behind and Karfa’s head snapped around searching for the sound.

“Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?!” Joe snapped now in irritation.

“Joey I don’ want you staying here. We’ll find you someplace else.” Karfa decided.

“What?!” Joe and Larry exclaimed in unison.

“Something about her is not right.”

“Fuck you Karfa!” Larry hissed. “The only thing maybe not right is that you seem to want to have your fuckin’ cake and eat it too!” Karfa put his face in hands and groaned.

“Larry that is not even the-”

“Wait wait hold up here she comes, ahy y’all don’ start no bullshit up in here! I aint letting y’all fuck up my chance for a place to call my own!” Joe spat quietly his face brightening as Ms. Abernathy entered the room.

“Sorry man Joe we sorry.” Larry apologized.

“One of y’all is at least.” Joe hissed throwing Karfa a look that could’ve burned a hole into his chest. Karfa hung his had and said nothing. Mrs. Abernathy came into the room holding a tarnished tea service and placed it gently on a coffee table which looked as if it was about to splinter into a million pieces from the impact.

“Well now darlings serve yourselves. Your mommas don’t live here.” She insisted with a smile that to Karfa was feral. The bitch looked like a crocodile.

“Of course thank you ma’am.” Larry accepted.

“Well” she asked after a moment her eyes settling on Joe. They glittered again, Karfa was sure of it and it was not a glitter as much as it was a flash of a glow. He turned back to a smiling Joe and a relaxed Larry before settling his astonished gaze on the witch. For that’s what she seemed to be. Some kinda witch. How are they not feeling this or seeing this…?

“Well see these is my folkz K and Larry and well Larry helped me find you online.” Joe began.

“Online?” Mrs. Abernathy asked gently.

“Yeah the internet.” Joe expounded. Mrs. Abernathy threw up her bony bird claw hands in a helpless gesture.

“Oh dear I don’ really have no experience with computers. This nice man at the library helped me place the ad. He was so helpful. But that is how you found old Angela huh?”

“Yeah I guess. So tell me a lil mo’ about wassup with this deal Ms. Abernathy.” Joe pressed. Mrs. Abernathy gave a delighted giggle and clapped her hands together in gesture of pure girlishness that made Karfa once again feel nauseated. Larry and Joe on the other hand both seemed entranced and leaned in closer towards her, unable to even sense the revulsion Karfa felt for this... This… Crone. Infact Joe was even now pouring himself some tea like a little West Indian gentleman while Larry laughed easily along side the crone who continued to giggle nonsensically. Karfa just starred at them all, full of trepidation.

“Well dear it’s simple. I’m an old woman without anyone here. I miss St Thomas-”

“Then why don’t you go back?!’ Karfa interjected rudely unable to contain himself. The looks Larry and Joe gave him were so full of hate that Karfa wanted to hide.

“Forgive him Mrs. Abernathy.” Larry apologized gently. He glared at Karfa and spake through gritted teeth “Our friend is not himself.”

“Oh fiddlesticks he’s just feisty. All them Geechee bois are feisty.” Ms. Abernathy cooed and she gave Karfa a knowing wink. “I like them feisty. They’re better that way sometimes…” she trailed. “So as I say I live here and need some company and well Joseph a good strong set of hands would help me good round here. This home needs lots of working. It would be a great help to me and in turn you my son are helped yes….” She finished with a hissing that sounded no less like cobra. Karfa involuntarily shuddered. “Is ya cold luv?” she asked him now, seeming to Karfa to take relish in his discomfort. Embarrassed Karfa shook his head refusing to look her in the eye.

“What kinda work we talking?” Joe asked.

“Oh regular house hold duties. Things a man can do that an old woman can’t. I can offer you a bed to sleep in, food to eat, and a safe place to be at night. For these streets can be cold wicked places.” She explained. Joe and Larry nodded like 2 puppets on a string. “Don’t you agree child.” She whispered now and Karfa had the sinking feeling that she was speaking to him.

“I suppose I do.” He answered tonelessly. He didn’t dare look at her.

“Of course you do dear.” She sighed. It sounded like roaches crawling in mass and Karfa felt his skin crawl. She turned quickly to Joe and Larry. “So what shall we say my darling. A tour baby?” she asked genially. Joe nodded eagerly and rose looking to Karfa and Larry to follow. Mrs. Abernathy stood stiffly and licked her lips in Joe’s direction before looking at them as well. Larry gave them both a wide smile.

“Joe man you go on bruh look around this is your new place for a minute at least. Karfa and I will stay here.”

“Aiight.” Joe smiled. He turned and offered Mrs. Abernathy his arm. “Lead on mama.” He proclaimed. Mrs. Abernathy gave the high pitched girlish giggle and playfully patted at his arm before taking it.

“Oh Joseph you make me feel like a young girl again back in St. Thomas.” She sighed before they strolled off. As soon as they were gone Larry fairly rounded on Karfa.

“What da fuck is up with you Nigga!? Huh? You like Joe still, you want him in you still?” he snarled.

“Keep your voice down.” Karfa demanded.

“The hell with that! Wassup with you? You actin’ like you aint got no fuckin’ sense, talking crazy to this old woman who is offering Joe the very chance he needs. Which is a stable fucking place. Why are you trying to mess that up for him unless it’s to do some sneaky shit with him?”

“She terrifies me Larry!” Karfa blurted out now unable to hold it back any longer. Larry just gaped at Karfa and then gave a derisive laugh.

“She terrifies you? What? What is this harmless and kind old woman going to do you-”

“Not a damn thing because if she touches me again I swear I will bash in her skull!” Karfa hissed.

“What da fuck I can’t believe you! Do you hear yourself? Using an old woman to cover up your feelings for some child! You disgust”

“It isn’t about you or him so much as it is what will happen to him!’ Karfa exclaimed. He let out a sigh of relief. The air felt cleaner, he felt better already. She was gone and it was if the world was alright again. “That… thing…that … woman will hurt him.”

“Stop!” Larry ordered. “Just stop Karfa. Just stop.” Larry shook his head and gave Karfa a look of utter disgust and then sat back and took a sip of tea, his hands trembling in anger. Karfa reached out a hand to comfort and Larry shrugged it off.


“Karfa I swear if you say one more thing Imma….” Larry exhaled slowly. “Just don’t talk to me.” Karfa gave Larry a mournful look and then fell silent. They sat in silence until Joe and Ms. Abernathy came back both of whom were chatting like best friends though they’d met only moments ago.

“Well looks like I gotta place. I’m moving in tomorrow!” Joe cried.

“That’s great Joe!” Larry congratulated.

“Oh we’ll have so much fun.” Mrs. Abernathy cried. She turned and grinned at Karfa. Eyes wide Karfa looked at them both and crossed himself.


That night Karfa was in the dog house. With Larry and with Joe for what had transpired in the brownstone. Joe refused to speak to him, saying Karfa was hating on his good fortune for what reason he didn’t know, and Larry was seething that Karfa had moved Joe in only to get back with him. Karfa slept next to Larry crying himself to sleep besides an angry man and feeling as if that Abernathy woman was in the room watching his misery with relish.

That night Karfa had the most hideous dream. He dreamed of a bloody, festering skinless thing….Could it have been a human…? Its eyes were bright and clear glowing green and its voice was soothing but there was an undertone of something bitter and vile….And it flew on flaming wings of fire. Stranger still to Karfa when he recalled later the bits and pieces of the nightmare, it moved just like Ms. Abernathy.


Days passed and Joe moved into Ms. Abernathy’s home and Larry was able to accept Karfa’s apology for it seemed that perhaps Karfa was being silly. Joe had forgiven Karfa as well and seemed as happy as a clam. He started working at the bank, and was saving money waiting for the chance to get his own place. He would visit them from time to and time and give them updates, always chiding Karfa for being scared of that “down ass old lady”. Karfa laughed and took it all in stride and that might have been that. For things for Joe seemed to be going well. But it wasn’t.

Joe began to look…Different if that could be said. He seemed a bit older…A bit haunted…He was at times desolate if such a word could be ascribed to Joe. A couple times when Karfa ran into him swore that the man’s eyes were red from seeming lack of sleep and some people began to whisper that Joe was on drugs…The hard ones.

As with all those in the Life the network began to buzz and whisper, then openly gab and gossip. Folkz said Joe was on crack, others explained that he had a meth addiction. Friends close to him began to say that Joe hated to be alone but hated to be around people, acquaintances blabbed that Joe had developed quite a temper something that he had never had before and was prone to fighting after the club closed and being put out of places.

“You should talk to him Karfa he listens to you.” People would say. Even Larry joined the ever growing chorus of people asking for Karfa’s investigation at least into Joe’s strange behavior. Larry apparently had been in the middle of a fight that Joe had started. Even though he’d broken it up, Larry had come away with a bloody nose and blackened eye and was none to please about it.

“I knew he had it in him but he’s never been like this.” Larry related to Karfa that night as Karfa held a steak over his wounded. “Everyone’s been saying he’s loosing it. I hate to say it but maybe you should talk to him Karfa.” Larry mused after a moment of silence. Karfa only nodded and stayed silent keeping his own counsel. ___________________________________________________

It all came to ahead however when Joe came by one afternoon unannounced, enraged, hollering and carrying on. Karfa was shocked to see him. Joe looked horrible. His eyes had lost their youthful sparkle rimmed in a hideous red, his skin once a rich dark brown color was now an ashen gray, and he seemed jerky. It was not a version of Joe Karfa had ever seen and he could not believe he was seeing such a thing now. Steeling himself, Karfa calmed Joe down, poured him a drink, gave him a smile and an ear to listen. Joe with his lips loosened by the first calming sips of vodka began to speak.

“Why you so mad Joey? I thought things were well where you stay.” Karfa asked. After all these months he still could not mention that crone’s name.

“It was at first but…I dunno.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s like she sprung or sumthin. Like she stuck on a Nigga and we aint together or no shit.”

“Well of course not.” Karfa smiled gently. Joe gave him a look that was so feverish Karfa for a moment almost faltered. “Joey?”

“Right but she always blowing me up. Like Joseph where you at? Joseph why you no come home last evenin’. Joseph me needs your help.’ He imitated which made Karfa laugh in spite of himself.

“Joey you did agree to that.” He reminded him.

“So I did but it’s getting weird. Man she can cook but her food is bland. The bitch never uses salt.”

“Joseph don’t call her that! She is old enough to be your mother.” Karfa admonished him hitting playfully.

‘Fuck dat u don’ know she actin’ like she wanna be my bitch!” Joe shouted now with such conviction that Karfa immediately took notice. Joe began trembling. “She wants me around all the time…” he stammered.

Karfa took his hand.

“Okay Joey. Okay baby clam down. Tell me about her.” Karfa soothed.

“She never cooks with salt. Every damn thing that bitch cooks is bland as hell. She says it’s to help my blood pressure but I am 20 I aint thinking about no damn blood pressure. I went to Burger King one night, got me a value meal some fries you feel me right? Brought that shit in sat at the table in the kitchen put the salt on my fries and that bitch flipped the fuck out. Screaming, shouting, throwing shit at me. Told me she would put me out over some salt. It was crazy… I talked her down but damn. And that aint all. Her house it makes me crazy now…It whispers things to me….” Joe’s eyes took on the look of madness and young man stared off now into a place Karfa could not see.

“Joe…” Karfa whispered.

“Dark things, evil things, always wanting me to sleep. And I have nightmares every time I sleep there. A hag on wings of fire she comes to me and drinks me…Drinks my blood I think. I can’t get away…I can’t…” Tears began to flow down Joe’s face. “In the morning I feel drained and my chest and neck be covered in scratches. I hate going home. She be on my like she my bitch….” He trailed off now. Karfa gasped because he understood why that Abernathy creature had rubbed him the wrong way but he scarce could believe it. He did not want to believe it.

“ Joe.” Karfa sighed and took him in his arms in an embrace while Joe just sobbed.

“Naw Nigga she be singing sometimes I think I hear at night in my bedroom. She be singing this crazy ass song…Skin, skin, skin, come to me! She be singing it over and over and it’s like it drills in my fucking head.” Joe cried out now almost screaming. Desperate and afraid Karfa just held the man close and whispered:

“I’m here. I’m here. Calmes toi….” After awhile when Joe was asleep on the couch Karfa made a cursory examination of his neck and gasped. There were marks of such nature that Karfa knew exactly what he was dealing with and he was afraid for while he knew he did not yet believe and what was worse he had no idea who would believe him.

Welcome to Wikipedia.Org


West Indian Vampires

Karfa: I feel like a complete idiot doing this. I am a grown man and I live in the year 2008. There are no such things as vampires. There is no such thing. Je suis un idiot pou ces.

Redirected from West Indian Vampires

Soucouyant or Soucriant

The Soucouyant or Soucriant in Caribbean and specifically Trinidadian folklore is a creature that lives by day as an old woman at the end of the village. By night, however, she strips off her wrinkled skin, puts it in a mortar and flies in the shape of a fireball through the darkness, looking for a victim to suck the life-blood out of. To get rid of her, you must put coarse salt in the mortar containing her skin, and then she cannot put it back on and must perish. The Soucouyant practices witchcraft, voodoo, and black magic. Belief in Soucoyants is still preserved to some extent in Trinidad

Belongs to a class of spirits called Jumbies. Some believe that soucouyants were brought from the European countries in the form of French vampire-myths. These beliefs intermingled with those of Africans, which were then enslaved. Others believe that soucouyants were actually elder ladies, who experienced many things a lot of people could not bear. Those with mean humour would make up witch stories about them in regard to their wrinkled skin, and wisdom.

The skin of the soucouyant is said to be very valuable, as it is used when practicing the Black Magic - Obeah. The soucouyant can enter a home by turning into a fireball, and then entering through the keyhole or any crack/crevice in the home. If the soucouyant draws out too much blood from its victim, it is believed that the victim will die and become a soucouyant themselves. However some believe that the victim dies and that the existing soucouyant takes over/possesses the victims’ skin.

Karfa: Aie merde. I knew it. I knew that was why I felt so creeped out by that bitch!

Yahoo Search: Immigration records St Thomas

Angelique Nicole Abernathy

Country of Origin: Trinidad.

Date of Immigration: 06/15/1903

K: How can she be walking…. If she came in 1903 she should be dead…But…Oh fuck me!


Karfa: Allo Meme?

Meme : Allo?

K: Meme se Karfa.

M: Aie Karfa how you doin’ douxdoux?

K: Bon Meme. And you?

M: I’m still alive and I still got Jesu. This is a treat indeed you calling me up. All is well ouais?

K: With me ouais but Meme I got a friend who needs your expertise.

M: Whatchu mean garcon?

K: Meme what is a soucouyant?

Silence. The line goes still as if death himself put himself on the line. Karfa hears his grandmother sigh heavily and the rustling of pots and pans in the background.

K: Meme? Meme what is a soucouyant!?

M: Sicre Marie, Joseph, et Jesu! Karfa why you ask me?

K: Meme please you know!

M: To speak of such evil. Thems things can hear you. You just don’t go talkin’ ‘bout such things like you talk about recipes or people having gosses! Aie Mon Grand Met se tu foux?! Merci Jesu the sun is out now.

K: Meme my friend needs my help and therefore he needs your help now tell me.

M: Imma good Christian.

K: I never said you wasn’t.

M: Just so you know boi. See in the French and Dutch Creoles we call’em soukangou. Geechee and Gullah folkz call her the Boo Hag. The West Indians call her the soucoyant. But all the names se tous li meme choses. She is demon crossed from Africa on the backs of your ancestors hiding in their misery, living off they pain. Crossed from the whip’s lash from them Bekes as they killed and raped and beat and punished all because they owned us. She come from those evils. So they still live. Old women by day who shed their skins in the darkness of night and rises up on wings of fire searching for blood to drink. She can enter any place to find her prey and once she wants her prey….Oh my Karfala can nan stand against her in that quest.

K: You believe in them?

M: Yea and you must to otherwise why you call me? To chat about a christening? Don’t mock me child I seen things in my life that you never want to see in your nightmares.

K: Meme forgive me.

M: Aint nothing to forgive make sure that you listen. Has she marked you? Is she after you? Disez moi!

K: Non ,non pas moi!

M: Alors ki?

K: Mo zami.

M: He live with you?
K: No with her.

M: Saints preserve us! Aie Sainte Marie!

K: Meme how can you tell? If they are soucoyant?

M: Salt kills em. Coarse salt the best but salt kills em. Find her skin and rub it in while she out. When she come back she can’t put it on and she perish by the light of the sun and holy bells pealing from the church. She is an evil thing and she can not stand by the light of Jesus.

K: So if I offer her salt she won’t eat it.

M: She will refuse it as you do a woman.

K: Ha-ha. Very funny.

M: Had to lighten the mood. But you listen now serious are you sure of who you think is the soucouyant? I mean that she is one of them demons.

K: Pretty sure Meme.

M: That aint no answer. Even in my day back in Louisianne they would sometimes kill old women, innocent old women who were to strong for their own good in those times on suspicion of being one. They still do in the backwoods of the Islands. You can’t go accusing some woman of being that unless you got the proof.

K: Well duh Meme why you think I called you.

M: Don’t get smart garcon. I can still beat you.

K: Oui madame I’m sorry.

M: You young people today. Rude, forgetful, high siddity, and unaware. No one remembers the old ways to keep themselves safe. Y’all think that such things do not exist and so they prey on you and y’all never know it until you be restin’ six feet under.

K: Meme you can’t be serious….

M: Well that is foolishness to say to me. I can’t be serious but you callin’ my house to find out about a demon that you believe is killing your friend. Now as I asks you before do you have proof?

K: Well she says she is from St. Thomas but I did some research online and she came to St. Thomas from Trinidad-

M: Where Soucriants dwell.

K: Right.

M: When she come to Etas Unis?

K: 1903.

M: Jesu preserve us. You seen this woman?

K: Ouais.

M: How she look?

K: Not that old 69 to 73 maybe. Not old enough to be past 103.

M: What else? How you feel round her. You seen her so you felt something. You always been sensitive to things.

K: She (cough) scares me. And I think I’ve had a nightmare of her once.

M: Well if you scared of an old woman she must be evil. Your proof good so far but not enough. I’m coming over and then we go visit this woman. If she be a woman….

K: Meme I’m not going to confront her!

M: Yes you are.

K: No I aint.

M: Don’t sass your Meme!

K: Oui Madame….

M: Tellin’ me what you aint gonna do and I’m tryin’ to help you with this demon and you ruinin’ my religion makin’ me dabble in obeah and that even part of my old ways….(Sigh). We have to see her and get more substantial proof than what you read on the internet. Then if we establish she Soucriant then we can act in accordance.

K: But Meme aren’t Soucriants powerful witches? They have grand oungas et noirs magiks puissants! If she is soucouyant and figures we on to her than she will-

M: I have my own protections Karfa. You stop worryin’. Now have some bourbon and a cigarette for me when I get to your place so I can collect my nerves you done frazzled with this phone call. Then we will see about this creature. Adieu bebe! –CLICK!

K: I so do not want to do this.


Karfa left a note for Larry telling him to let Joe stay with them for the night and to leave him alone and then headed off with his grandmother back to chez Abernathy. Thankfully Karfa thought it was still summer and he was grateful that the sun was still shining and would be shining later on in the evening. His cocoa colored Meme sat beside him the car her full lips pursed tight and her glasses hovering on the tip of her nose regarding the house before them with avid interest. Her jet hair was upswept in a little bun that she covered with her good visiting hat.

“I gotta have my good hat. I don’ know this woman.” Meme had declared.

“Meme she is a blood sucking demon why do you care what she thinks of you?” Karfa sputtered.

“Well I still want to look my best.”

“Oh God.”

“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain. And why is you asking me all these questions honey!? You just stay quiet and let me do what I do best. You called me didn’t you?” Meme asked tartly.

“Yes.” Karfa grumbled.

“Well then shut up honey and let Meme do what it do.” Meme responded.

“Whatchu know about do what it do?” Karfa asked surprised.

“I see your 106& Park. I’m old not dead. No you stop worryin’ bout what I’m doing. Hush now garcon I gotta gather myself.” She held her small black purse against her stomach tightly and then moved her lips in what Karfa was sure was a Hail Mary prayer.

“Allons-y! I’m ready.” Meme said with such a finality and strength that Karfa was almost comforted as they climbed the crumbling steps to Ms. Abernathy’s heavy door. Almost because when the door opened and he was face to face with the woman he felt his knees buckle because it was not Ms. Abernathy who answered the door.


“Yes?” The lovely butterscotch toned woman asked, her voice once again reflecting a lilting musical accent that could have only come from the West Indies. She wore a smart blue dress that seemed to be reminiscent of the thirties or forties and her long black hair hung loss and long around her back. Her eyes too were green and glittered like gems in the night. Karfa gasped. Meme unfazed simply nodded her head and took charge.

“Yes good day dear. I am Nanette Marie Soulouque and this is my grandson Karfa. Forgive our intrusion ma chere, but my grandson and I were wondering if Ms. Abernathy was available we would like to speak with her if you do not mind?” Meme introduced and stated smoothly. The lovely lady smiled at that.

“Well I am Ms. Abernathy.” She stated proudly. Karfa made a chortled sound and Meme elbowed him sharply but discreetly in the side.

“Tais-toi!” she said softly through gritted teeth the smile never leaving her face. “Oh Mon Grand Met, there must be a mistake…I was led to believe Ms. Abernathy was much older.”

“Oh-ho!” the lady exclaimed in a high pitch girlish voice that made Karfa’s blood run cold when he heard it. Unconsciously he grabbed Meme’s hand grateful that unlike Larry she understood his fear and did not pull away. However she did whisper in Creole for him to persevere and be cool. “You mean my mother.” She giggled. “She is resting, her roomer who has been staying with her has I suppose ran off or something so she needs my help around here. Always a lot to do. Always much for a strong man to do.” She reiterated as her eyes glittered hotly. She gave Karfa a look that made him feel like she was regarding him as the juiciest rack of baby back ribs she’d ever seen.

“Well aren’t you a helpful and lovely young woman. More of these young people need to be like you. And so modest in your dress, not like these girls running about with their butts hangin’ out like ti kochanris,” Meme observed. The lady did a curtsey with all the alacrity of a 4yr old and giggled again.

“Well I try. I suppose it would be alright if you came in for a moment. Just be quiet I don’t want to wake mother.” The lady said. “Please come in.”

“Of course not my dear and your name please ma cherie?” Meme acquiesced almost pulling Karfa along with her into the hallway.

“Belle. Belle Angelique Abernathy.”

“Oh what a lovely name and French too. How brilliant.” Meme praised.

“Well I’m sure you know the history of the islands. All the different colonial rulers and such.” Belle suggested. “The islands are as awash in history and culture as anywhere else in this world.”

“Oh of course my dear. You young people have revived such an interest in the past we didn’t have when I was coming up. All this talk of African Empires, and being from Kings and Queens. It makes this old woman’s head spin.” Meme agreed.

“And such a thing to be Mam Soulouque.” Belle sighed softly. Meme turned and smiled at her.

“To be what chere?” she asked.

“To be old.” Belle stated flatly. Karfa looked tersely at Meme. Had anyone else said such a thing in that way to Meme she would’ve hauled off and slapped them but to this one Meme gave her a grin that beamed with kindness. “What I mean to say,” Belle continued, “just how I imagine you live so long in this body that begins to betray you. Your eyes give here, a pain hits you here. “

“Oh but we all age dear. Even a flower like you must feel the frost of winter.” Meme reminded her.

“Yes some flowers I suppose must.”

Meme and Karfa stood stock still for a moment and Belle seemed to have forgotten herself, or was in Karfa’s opinion either very brazen or clueless as hell. Belle smiled now.

“Well shall I put on the kettle?”

“That would be lovely chere.” Meme agreed with a smile as fake as her affectations.


Tea time was as pleasant as it could’ve been given the circumstances. Karfa remarked that at least the house was certainly more presentable. More clean. More homey, though it seemed to be to Karfa still quite creepy. The 2 ladies spoke of various things at length, about Louisiana and the islands, the similarity of their cultures, this and that. Towards the end of the visit Meme began to make her move.

“So this boarder you have… Where do you think he has gone too?” Meme asked Belle. Belle gave that laugh again though for a moment Karfa thought he heard a growl in the laughter.

“Oh he is somewhere but I do not worry. I’m sure I will find him and convince him to come back to help mother.”

“What if he does not want to come back?” Meme asked.

“Why would he not?” Belle asked. Her face suddenly grew hard and her eyes glittered with a maliciousness that Karfa recognized and his leg began to tremble. Deftly and discreetly Meme clamped her hand on his leg and stilled it.

“I am just say-”

“Why would he not?!” Belle hissed now. “He made a deal with us! He promised to stay with mother! To help her! To give her his strength! After all she has done for that ungrateful Yankee man ghetto dweller he owes her! Do you hear me! Sneaky, backstabbing dirty no good boi staying out all night when mother has needs that need tendin’ to! Things only he can help her with!”

“You act as if your mother and Joe have some kind of relationship. Which I find hard to believe.” Karfa interjected now in alarm. Belle gave him smile which Satan himself would’ve been proud of.

“Why? ‘Cause he is some Batty Boi? You think I’m talking of the filthy things you and your ilk do sissy man. Mother had her uses for him as he had for her!” Belle shouted now. She cast about realizing that Karfa and Meme were staring at her wide eyed. “Oh my…I’m sorry,” she said now in that gentle girlish voice. “I just get worked up when anything goes wrong with mother. Forgive my words they were rude. I know nothing of you.”

Meme stood now fuming and gave Karfa appointed look. She had no patience for homophobes and none the more so for those who went after her grandson.

“We should be going Mam Abernathy. It was… A pleasure.” She said stiffly. Karfa took her lead. Belle sensing she had done something wrong shook her head.

“Oh leaving so soon?” she asked. Karfa could see in his grandmother’s face that if Belle came within reach she would slap the woman shitless.

“We have things to do. Come along Karfa.” Meme gritted. Deftly with a quickness that surprised Karfa Meme spun around and tossed something in Belle’s direction. Belle shrieked like a banshee and jumped back her green eyes bulging and her slim hands clawing the air in rage.

“What are you doing!” she spat at Meme. The salt had made a clean line between them and Karfa noted that she seemed in no mood to cross it. “You old bitch do know what you have done!?” Meme cast about in mock confusion.

“Oh my goodness, I’m sorry dear I spilt that…You know us old women…” she tried without much effort Karfa noted.

“My mother and I…. My mother is allergic to salt! You should be more careful!’ Belle fumed still making no move to clean up the scant amount of salt on the floor.

"That's hardly enough salt to bother your allergic mother who is upstairs sleeping." Karfa bristled now at the woman sure of her origins. " I demand that apo-"

“It was an accident." Meme broke in now cutting Karfa off. "You seem industrious enough you can clean it up dear. Forgive me I’m just an old woman who has forgotten the ‘SENSE’ of youth. Begging your pardon.” Meme pleaded the insincerity thick in her voice. Karfa wanted to laugh but kept his face in careful mask of concern for his Meme.

“Leave. Now.” Belle commanded now all kindness having washed clean from her face and voice.

“It was nice to meet you Belle,” Karfa said sweetly.

“GET OUT!” she screamed. As Meme and Karfa walked out the door (they had to let themselves out) and headed down the stairs Karfa risked a look back. Belle never moved instead she stood glued to her spot her eyes glinting in a fury that could only be called murderous and in that moment Karfa felt a terror so strong he almost sank to his knees.

“Oui. Li se un jablesee. Yes she is a devil. A Soucriant if I have ever met one, demons that I have seen in my life my Jesu send all of you back to the fires of Hell!” Meme confirmed firmly as they headed to Karfa’s car. “I could’ve have slapped that creature!” She spat now in frustration. “Call me a bitch!”

“She has gotten younger.” Karfa observed with trepidation as he started the car aware of the Abernathy thing’s glare upon them.

“Ouais that is how Soucriants do, they continue to drink from their victim, gaining the strength of magik, and vitality all the while the victim gets crazed and wretched looking. Eventually the victim will die and then one of 2 things will come to pass. Either your friend will become a Soucriant-”

“Which is impossible since he is man?” Karfa questioned.

“Ouais. So then the other will take place.”


“You said you looked this up on the internet before you called me did you not?”


Meme sighed more from frustration than anything else.

“A victim will become as their killer or their killer shall collect and wear their skin.” Meme sighed softly now. “And their soul…” she managed. Karfa gave her a look of horror.

“Your friend is in terrible danger.”

“Meme you have to help him.” Karfa begged.

“Aint nothin’ more for me to do garcon. You have to help him. Only love can fight darkness. I can prepare you, give you things to stop her, but you have to defeat her. She wants him bad I feel it she wants him. She will seek him out; smell him out with her obeah.” Meme mused now her mind fixed on some past memory she refused to share. She turned and gave Karfa a pleading look. “Karfala you have to stop her.”

“I don’t know how.” Karfa confessed glumly. “I’m scared.” Meme rubbed his head softly and sighed.

“So am I bebe so am I. I’ll help ya some more I guess.” She decided softly. Then she brightened. “Mais premier poulet!”

“What?! Meme you want chicken? How on earth can you be hungry at a time like this?” Karfa asked in exasperation. Meme gave him the look.

“Well I was about to make myself some lunch but someone had to get my help with their demon palaver. So I being a good grandmere hastened to his side to help him. Now I’m hungry because that thing done frazzled me again and I want fried chicken. Now gets this tin can moving garcon. Popeye’s aint but 4 blocks away. Come one now. Tout suite!” Meme ordered. “We can’t be fighting demons on an empty stomach.”

Karfa could only sigh, start the car, and hope this would all end well. He was not sure that it would for any of them.

(To be continued)

Kyon Saucier copyright 2007

Salut Mes Zamis Sak Passe!

Wassup Folkz this is me Kyon Saucier also known as Mr Kyon on A4A or Creole Elf on BGC.... Aww come on now like none of y'all are ever on those sites, yeah you are 'cause I've seen you... LOL!

Enter my world for a second... What? Huh? Well yes there are Black People in the NW and yes we have a vibrant culture up here. I mean naw Seattle aint Atlanta or NYC or DC or Chicago or any other city with a huge Black Population, but it's my home and there are few places as beautiful... Not too mention in all of the NW Seattle and Tacoma have the highest Black Population. So come on enter the world of Kyon....Yon Yon Yon.... Sigh. I was trying to make an echo sound. Now look I I know I got some typos and things so be patient with me folkz.... Cause I get excited when I write... Okay there is no excuse 'cept that it's my page I do what I want! *smile*




Yeah when I was younger I could've been considered a geek. Always my eyes fixed upon a world none could see. Always seeking to escape from the mundane things of this life.

But a geek I think of as dreamer, someone one who delights in things outside of the ordinary.

Just Me Again

Just Me Again
And why not? Dreams were not meant for the sleeping times

For the ordinary world need not be such a boring place. There's always more than enough room for the things that make one smile.

Wolf Rider

Wolf Rider
Bear Claw

Blood Elven Prince

Blood Elven Prince
Worlds within worlds

Drow Hunting Party

Drow Hunting Party
Dark Elven Elegance

Adieu mes zamis....

Adieu mes zamis....
May the light of Elves shine upon you....I know it's corny but this is my page!