Girl Bye

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Aniya was the color of Jiffy cornbread.  She drove a 2012 Dodge Dart. She was 5’9″ about 190 lbs. She had 14% body fat and it was all in one place. She was proud of her masterpiece. No use in describing her face.  It didn’t matter.  It never would.  Men admired her body. She was well aware of that.  She decided a long time ago she wasn’t working a day job. She was going to work a traditional job though. Nothing was more traditional,  proven,  and no one was more hard working than a stripper. She made about $400-600 a night at “Biddies.” Men and women loved her.

They would watch her “fireman spin” down the poll. They marveled at her “body wave.” You could see her abdominal muscles working and the bruises on her thighs from the pole.  She called them her “battle scars” and she charged clients $50 per leg to kiss or touch them.  She was the most talented at “Biddies” because this was her career.  She wasn’t working her way through school or a single mother supporting her kid. This was what she wanted to be…a fantasy.

Aniya’s husband was 42 years old. He was his wife’s senior by 15 years. He was her anger management counselor when she was mandated by a judge to “get right or go to jail.” He was stereotypically “tall, dark and handsome.” Yet, he was socially awkward and always had trouble keeping a woman. A great smile and pretty lips would draw the women in but then he would speak and stumble all over himself. Goofy behavior is woman repellent and DJ had a lifetime supply of goof.  Aniya was different.  She was self assured and confident enough for the both of them. She would twerk on a one armed handstand at work.  Then she would come home and order dinner (not the domestic type.) She paid for a cleaning service visit once a week.  DJ was happy.  As long as she fell asleep in his lap at least twice a month, he had nothing to complain about. 

One night Aniya came in the house and there was a bit of commotion.  She pranced into the bedroom and DJ was straightening up.

“What are you doing?” she asked in an accusing manner.

“Cleaning”, he said dryly. 

“Why? I pay for that. I pay for your lifestyle.”

“Oh please.  You drive a Dart and you wanna act like a boss! When I met you, you were nothing.  Well I want more, I want something. ”

Aniya took a breath of calm. Ironically,  DJ taught her that in anger management.  Something was up. DJ isn’t stern.  That’s what made him attractive.  He was easily controlled. 
She walked over to the bed and she looked underneath it. She saw a few condom wrappers.  Aniya made a mental note to talk to the cleaning lady about that. No big deal. She knew of DJ’s affairs the same as he knew of her “champagne room” escapades at “Biddies.” That was the dynamic of their relationship.  No judgement. 

It was what she saw beyond the wrappers that took all the air out of her lungs. Her skin turned blue and her fingertips lost feeling.  Her breaths became shallow.  She could no longer hear anything and all she could see was red. She couldn’t even stand up to confront DJ. She could hear her friends chuckling. The conversations they had about her “great relationship” and “unconditional love.” “Girl bye!” is all they would say. She felt stupid.  There was no conversation to be had. She felt like her body was inside out.

“DJ”, she whispered. 

He just stood smiling. 

“What the hell is this?”

-By:Shaun Nickens

Day 3 of the writing challenge.  Let me know what you think or if you want more! For entries like this one, check out my “Chest Naked In The Park” archived category. Tweet your feedback @shutyamouthnow
Thanks!

Unleash

She opened her eyes and it was the same beaming light from the dream.  Piercing. The light was painful and abrasive.  Blinding. Where was it coming from?  It was relentless.  She tried to rub it away. She tried to blink it away but it was strong and impenetrable. Now she was getting a headache.  Unable to focus,  she stumbled out of bed.

Her legs buckled and she fell to the floor.

She decided to call him. The phone seemed to ring for hours.

He answered.  “Hi.”

She said, “I can’t sleep.  I can’t see. I’ve been blinded. My legs are useless.  Now I am laying here on my white carpet with the blood of my heart spilling out of me. I’m in a pool of blood. A puddle of crimson all around me. I’ve screamed but the neighbors are unmoved. I’m in a cage of vulnerability.  I cannot be released by anyone but you.  I’m alone. I’m getting weaker. I can feel my body getting colder. I’m afraid.  When I bang on the walls with my right hand it slowly disintegrates. I will soon be a pillar of salt encapsulated in a puddle of blood. My heart bleeds for you. Please…please…help me.”

She hears the dial tone after he mutters to himself, “crazy b#!&h.”

The light begins to flicker. “I’m dying”, she definitively states. She begins to imagine what God must look like. She prepares all the questions she has for him. In all her pain, she doesn’t cry.

Then she hears the familiar sound of bongos. She sees something tall, slim, and solid. Most importantly. . .it stands alone. She squints and she can see. It’s a microphone. 

The light is a spotlight. 

She gradually crawled to the stage.

**********

This excerpt is day 1 of a 30 day writing challenge.  Comment,  share, like. Tweet your feedback @shutyamouthnow. Happy holidays!

-Shaun Nickens

“Insult to Injury” Ode to M.Brown

We huddled around the TV set at work waiting for the results of the indictment.  Surely, there would have to be some ramifications right? A boy was dead.  He was someone’s son. We all knew the officer wouldn’t get heavy time BUT something would happen right? They can’t just let him loose right? There was video, photos, tangible evidence,  and witnesses. 

The stench from the defecation of the elephant in the room was stifling. 

No indictment.

Everyone has an opinion but all I can think of is his parents.  How can he be a threat over 100 feet away with his hands in the air? He’s been labeled a “thug” because of a cigar robbery. So murdering troubled teens is excusable by law? In this “post racial society” the salve used doesn’t seem to soften the blow.  Talk about adding insult to injury. 
He’s gone.

We struggle for words.
We struggle for action.
Enraged everything.

I stayed on the writer’s block for weeks,  literally at a loss for words. I stayed on the writer’s block where a boy was killed.  I waited four hours for inspiration.  Nothing arose. No words were good enough. 

I started this post days ago.

While I was stuck, people have been out in high numbers. While I was stuck, people of all colors have been bound together by intolerance.  People have been bound together by love of human life not just Black life.

You can go to the following link to support:
http://gatheringforjustice.us9.list-manage.com/track/click?u=119c9d3f6c712ec773cfa5a05&id=b6e04ae34b&e=60f3152387

Bless!

-Shaun