Sycorax's Daughters

by Kinitra Brooks, PhD

  Kenny watched the life drain from his old friend. “There’s shit in this world that you don’t understand, but now, I get the benefits. You wanted class and status. I wanted power and all I had to do was give them my soul and yours.”

  Yvonne walked Kenny to Jessica, and she pushed him to kneel at her bloody feet. It was time for his promotion.

  When Jessica sliced her inner thigh, then offered it, Kenny headily drank. He watched Yvonne sit on TJ’s chest then snap his neck. Jagged teeth appeared then she lunged at him to feast on his heart.

  “What a sweet tribute.” Jessica cooed. “Now Kenny, you will become more. Open your mouth and taste me. I want that fancy conniving tongue of yours.”

  He watched Jessica lower her lips over his. Twin glinting incisors appeared. Jessica was no more. Before him was a vampire succubus. A demonic entity that gifted him with the kiss of her taint.

  “Bottoms up,” Jessica said with a forceful kiss.

  TJ’s death had given him the ultimate prize. Contract now sealed, delicious darkness flowed into him. He felt a jolt then Yvonne led him into a living wall to relive all the horrors of his dark acts. With her in his arms, Kendrick felt fueled by his sins. Millions of hands touched to feed on him. Kendrick’s gift of manipulation would be used to break the souls of those around him and win for the Dark. All in the name of, CU Reynolds and Co.

  Whispers & Lies

  by Deborah Elizabeth Whaley

  Whispers grow

  in the soul of creatures

  hiding in human form

  a fine tuned utterance

  a disastrous wrong

  a hollow barren song

  burning through a bleak atmosphere

  Press your ear closer

  to the African drum

  and you will hear

  rhythms of things

  creatures hold dear

  and why fire tongues

  made of birch rod

  invade the earth

  violently nod

  as they whisper loudly

  dishing in the dirt:

  They whisper —

  to save place

  They whisper —

  to save grace

  They whisper —

  to save face

  They whisper —

  to kill envy of Others

  They whisper —

  to keep it undercover

  They whisper —

  to cast truth and reality asunder

  They whisper —

  to keep it from falling apart

  They whisper —

  to pretend they had good intentions from the start

  They whisper —

  because what they are doing is not from the heart

  They whisper —

  like soulless creatures

  wearing pallid sheets, in the dark…

  But don’t you never mind

  Because whispers?

  they’re just creature lies

  they obstruct truth and transformation

  holding a mirror to their eyes.

  And like feathers dispersed

  in the harbor sky

  and like whispers,

  and like lies

  truth sits still

  whispers grow faint

  incinerate

  die

  Cheaters

  by Tish Jackson

  You’re being very difficult, Cassandra. I’m starting to think you don’t want to be healed.

  (no response)

  I know you feel responsible, but—

  I AM responsible!

  You can’t keep blaming yourself. I understand you feel you don’t deserve forgiveness, because you feel what happened to Joe and his friend was your fault.

  It was my fault. My fault.

  But no one else blames you! Not Joe’s family or friends. Not the police; you were found not guilty by reason of insanity. And of course I don’t blame you. But I do want to help you. Don’t you want my help?

  Yes, Dr. Hall. I want your help, really.

  Don’t you want your old job back, your old life?

  I guess so…

  Of course you do! You can have your life back! You only have to reach out and grab it.

  #

  I should have known better that last time. I mean really, it was my own fault. Technically, I brought this massive load of guilt upon myself. Although my current therapist says that I must try—really TRY—to move beyond blame. Apparently, that’s the first step towards healing. As if any sane person really wants to be healed these days, anyway. Hell, you have to be half crazy to get along.

  Be Healed! Like some sort of handicapped wheelchair bandit on Jerry Falwell’s now defunct televangelist show. I mean honestly, what do these people do after the show anyway? Yes I’m HEALED! Thank you Jerry Falwell! Thank You Easter Bunny! Same thing, isn’t it? Make believe, fantasy life? Even if it was real, and somebody was really healed on one of those shows, what would they even do with their new life? Is being healed all it’s really cracked up to be? I mean let’s be real here: SSI, Disability and any other form of government assistance would be instantly cut- off. With the gravy train at an end, Mom and Dad would soon be serving up an eviction notice. They’ll be ecstatic at having the trailer to themselves! Now the ex-wheelchair bandit is a walking, able-bodied bandit with no place to live, no job and nowhere to go.

  After spending his whole life cosseted, he’s thrust out into the world with no skills, no money, and no life. He’ll probably end up homeless on the streets begging for spare change. Only who wants to give a healthy, hearty, walking individual some of their hard earned money? Nobody, that’s who! Passersby wonder ‘Why can’t these homeless people get a job like everyone else?’ So the ex-wheelchair bandit needs a racket. So he gets another wheelchair —nothing as fine as the one he spent the last ten years in; no, this one is strictly manual without the benefit of motorized anything. He has to mentally and physically paralyze his legs all over again, in order to make a new living—a new life the only way he knows how. He ends up right back where he started, without the use of his legs—but with the added burden of hating Jerry Falwell and his parents and God with every fiber of his being. And how can you get along without God?

  As I actually walk down the halls of this crazy hospital, I admit I’m not in a wheelchair—physically that is. But my therapist, Dr. Jerry Hall, does bear a striking resemblance to the televangelist, and sometimes our sessions (sermons can turn into an almost religious pep talk. That’s how much Jerry—I mean Dr. Hall fully believes in his psychobabble. His earnest, shining pink face seems to almost beam his belief out at me, as if I can be healed! through osmosis, using the sheer force of his will. Which of course makes him totally blind to the truth—that everything I’ve said is true and it really happened. And, brings me back to my original statement— this whole debacle is entirely my fault.

  #

  I met Joe for the first time while I was on a temporary job at a convention in Las Vegas. For me, there was this instant attraction during our first introduction, that surprised me. I had once again sworn off men, especially after what happened the last time. Plus, Joe was not the type of guy I usually dated—he was actually nice.

  I mostly like them skinny with lots of hair, and he was the exact opposite—far from skinny and just about NO hair to speak of. But he had the sweetest smile and a banging goatee, a favorite of mine. We met when I was lost as usual, and running around a corner trying to find my ballroom I ran smack into a giant chest. I bumped my nose a little bit, but it was enough to make my eyes water.

  “Hey, don’t cry! I’m sorry I … uh, stood in your way?” Joe’s face was halfway between concern and laughter, which made me laugh. “It’s ok, I’m okay, no worries! Actually I ran into you, so I should be the one apologizing to you. Did I hurt you with, uh, my nose?” We played the Three Stooges for another minute, taking the blame for the collision before Joe asked me to have a cup of coffee with him to �
�settle his nerves”.

  During that first week, we chatted each other up at every opportunity. I made excuses to go to his office, and thought up possible topics of conversation. We had lunch every day going to different restaurants on the strip that I could never afford on my own. I learned that Joe had a disposition that matched his smile (sweet as pure cane sugar) and he was generous to a fault. He always volunteered to get the tab, or to hold the door, or carry whatever heavy item was needed. However, he was only in Vegas for work. He actually lived across the country in Tennessee, but kept a house here since he traveled back and forth so often. Two weeks later, as the convention was coming to a close, Joe asked me out on his last day in town, and of course I couldn’t say no.

  I should have said no.

  I wish now I would have.

  Maybe things wouldn’t have turned out so badly.

  #

  I have a bad track record when it comes to the opposite sex. To me, they have always seemed to be a perpetual mystery; way different from the images my rose-tinted eyes send to my fevered brain. Unfortunately, I don’t have a sad backstory with an Aha! moment that explains the current events. I had two nice parents and a younger sibling of each gender that I didn’t hate. Genuinely middle class, we had things but not so much as to be unappreciative. Growing up in the Bay Area ensured I wasn’t ever the only Black girl in school and I like to believe I was pretty well-adjusted. Well,

  I did hate high school, but the people who didn’t are the ones I suspect first…of anything. I wasn’t popular so I got a little teasing occasionally, but when it went too far—like when a bunch of the jocks started a food fight on my hair—I was not weak enough to just sit and take it.

  Drew, the football cornerback famous for making last year’s winning interception decided to throw a handful of mashed potatoes at some poor nerd walking by, splattering him directly in the chest. Problem is, I didn’t know any of that was happening when I walked in to grab an orange and I got hit with a blob of Jello—landing right in the middle of my hair. You KNOW you don’t mess with a Black Woman’s hair!

  “Dreeeeeew!” I screamed instantly. I looked up through orange Jello and focused on Drew.

  “Hey,” he said laughingly, “It wasn’t me! I aimed for the rocket scientist.”

  “YOU ASS!” I grabbed a blob of orange jello and threw it directly at him. Of course I missed, which made Drew laugh again. However, I was focused on the troublemaker, Mr. I Won The Game So I Can Do Whatever I Want. So I went for him. I grabbed a tray off Drew’s table and smacked the crap out of him with it.

  I was aiming for his face, but only reached his chest since he was standing on the table.

  “Look you privileged asshat, I’m not some frigging nerd that will take a lump of mashed taters to the chest! Next time you wanna act three years old, do that shit when I’m not around!” I got the “crazy” reputation and was left alone for the rest of that year.

  Needless to say, I did NOT date any jocks from my school. I’m pretty enough for that shallow minded group, but athletes didn’t appeal to me, obviously. My 5’7” height holds my small curves well; although I was always hoping my boobs might get up to a C cup. But I was lucky to get my mom’s perfect shaped almond brown eyes and well-defined lips. Dad’s nose wasn’t great, but it wasn’t freakish and seemed to fit my face fairly well. I kept my shoulder length hair freshly pressed every week back then, unlike the unkempt fro I was currently sporting. I mean, I’m not unattractive, and I don’t think I’m crazy…I really can’t point to any one reason this is happening to me.

  I used to believe that I was born with abysmal taste in men and that’s why I always picked losers. I’m starting to think that the truth of the matter may hold more sinister connotations.

  #

  Anyway, that first night out together, Joe was a complete gentleman. He took me to the Hard Rock Casino and we had drinks at the Pink Taco before hitting the blackjack table. Of course Joe kept trying to give me money to play with. It was fun, but I didn’t want to seem like I was trying to take advantage of him.

  “You are so sweet and I thank you! But this dealer truly hates me.” I gave the dealer a wink and a smile. “Let’s head over to the Venetian and try out Tao. C’mon, you know you wanna shake that groove thing with me!”

  “Cassie, I promise you don’t want to see me on a dance floor. It would a disaster of gigantic proportions, trust me.” I gave him my skeptical face, though and waved off the dealer, indicating I would sit this one out. “No, trust me! Imagine all of this flailing about, smacking other dancers about the head and shoulders on accident. My bald head will be shining, drops of sweat flying around hitting unsuspecting dancers in the face—gross! Can you see how this could go so very wrong?” Joe continued on in that self-deprecating vein until I was bowled over with laughter and had to get up from the table. Joe gave in, as his protests were nominal at best.

  We had a great time. We laughed, gambled and danced the night away. He was a pretty bad dancer—even worse than I was, and that was endearing to me. But we stayed out all night until it was time for breakfast. We went to the Barbary Coast for their steak and eggs breakfast with the rest of the all-nighters. In the morning, when it was time for him to catch a plane home, we shared a sweet clumsy kiss that lit fires in my blood I’d thought had been dampened forever. He said he would keep in touch and I’d hoped so because that first night was so great.

  Well, I guess that first night really doesn’t matter, does it? It’s all the nights, accumulated as a whole and averaged out like some sort of complex math problem that somehow makes the difference. And after a year, I unfortunately didn’t have a lot of positive nights to put into the love equation. Joe came to my city pretty often and at first I was flattered. However, I was only invited to the house in town on a couple of occasions, which invites suspicion in itself. We always went out, to restaurants, clubs, coffee shops, and of course my apartment. I had checked his ring fingers for that telltale tan mark, but there weren’t any. In the beginning, the absence of the telltale mark reassured me that all was copacetic. But I was starting to think that just meant that he wasn’t seeing someone else legally. Also, an alarming amount of our conversations in the last six months of our relationship contained references to Joe’s ex-girlfriend—who I was starting to suspect was more like current. Granted, they were generally negative statements about how “cracked up” she was, or how she had ruined his credit with wild spending habits and he was still paying off the bills. “That’s just one of the reasons I really like you, Cassie. You don’t take my kindness for weakness. I really feel like I can trust you.” I remember him telling me that once over coffee, and I blushed and smiled back at him. But when I asked him tough questions like why his car was still in his ex’s name, his lengthy inadequate responses began to take on a stuttering quality. Soon our conversations started to blur into a loud white noise in my mind, filled with my silent contempt; all his murmurings began to blend into one big ass LIE! It started to feel like those words were circling around inside my head, going faster and faster until I wanted to scream at him to STOP but he wouldn’t, just kept going on and on like I was stupid and couldn’t tell the difference between the truth and a lie. I just wanted to stand up and STRANGLE the lies, throw them DOWN and STOMP on them, CUT him to PIECES—

  When you find out you’re in a one-sided love affair, there’s always anger. What they don’t tell you is with the anger, comes shame.

  There is always the question, “Why do I always get the assholes, the bums, and the LIARS?” Shame is a magnificent isolator, too.

  It doesn’t allow you to confide in friends. You explain yourself by saying you can handle it yourself. But in reality, “handling it” would mean you’d have to stop hiding the truth from yourself. You have to acknowledge that once again, you’ve allowed yourself to be used, that you gave up that special part of you.

  That’s why I had to stop dating before I met Joe.

  Finally the time c
ame with Joe when the anger grew so thick around my head that I couldn’t smell the sour tang of self-humiliation that had held me captive for so long. Joe had cancelled our last two dates, and had failed to make today’s phone appointment, which was supposed to hold some sort of apology and explanation for his recent behavior. So that afternoon, I pulled out my address book, consulted his card and decided to show up unannounced at his house.

  It was truth time.

  #

  Why do you think you want to hurt members of the opposite sex?

  I don’t know. They’re all assholes, anyway.

  You know that’s not true, Cassandra. You know lots of men that aren’t-- like that. So think, why do you think you want to harm them?

  (no response)

  Cassandra? (pause) You have to do some work if you want to resolve this.

  Now--

  Because they hurt me, okay! They hurt me so I fucking hurt them. Fuck them!

  Okay, that’s good, that’s very good. They hurt you, they’ve made you feel pain?

  Hell yeah! I was angry and pissed off to the extreme.

  Dig a little deeper, Cassandra, go underneath the pain. Is there anything else they made you feel? Was there something other than pain? Tell me, Cassandra.

  (no response)

  Work with me! What is under that hurt feeling? Fear, pain, anger maybe?

  (no response)

  Tell me—it is okay to tell me. I’m safe, Cassandra. What is it?

  What do you really feel?

  (whisper)

  Speak up, Cassandra, I can’t hear you.

  Pleasure.

  #

  I had planned on a final confrontation, where I give this excellent, Academy-Award caliber speech on how REAL men are supposed to treat women. I planned to explain to Joe how he failed miserably at Women 101, and how soon Karma would catch up with him eventually.

  In my mind, I planned how it would go. Joe would cry and be super apologetic. He would clasp his hands together like a child praying and beg my forgiveness. I would not deign to give it. The outcome I expected would free me to find a good man. As I let loose of all the poison and pain his rejection (and let’s face it, ladies and gentlemen, when you get to the end of the tootsie roll pop, that’s what it is when your man cheats on you—rejection) had caused me, I would grow taller and straighter while Joe steadily shrunk with each word. In my daydream, my 5’7” frame somehow would majestically tower over Joe’s 6’2” as I stood fast on Righteous Indignation!