St. Somewhere Journal, July 2013

  Déjà vu all over again, Isaiah thought, as he stumbled towards the jeep.

  He raced down driveway and onto the main road. As he careened through the valley, sharp blasts from the volcano caused all four tires of the speeding vehicle to leave the pavement. The lush mountain landscape turned psychedelic. Sprays of brilliant lava and hot yellow gases shot high into the halo of green clouds. Broiling pyroclastic gas would overtake him within a matter of minutes.

  His heart was beating wildly when he turned into the airport parking lot. The terminal was deserted. Isaiah ventured out onto the runway, threw his hands up to the sky, and prayed for a miracle. He didn’t have to wait long until the same beat up turbo-prop that had deposited him on The Island sputtered through the thick cloud of ash.  He took off his jacket and waved. The plane zoomed over once and then circled back around. As it dipped dangerously close to the ground, Isaiah flatted himself on the hot runway.

  Isaiah squeezed his eyes shut. He could hear the hissing of molten lava as it crept steadily onto the tarmac. But next thing he knew he was on board the plane, buckled in the same seat as before. The steward was standing over him looking concerned.

  “What happened?” Isaiah asked, baffled.

  “You had an accident, dude. Major turbulence caused you to hit your head on the window as we passed over The Island. Since you were the only passenger scheduled to disembark, we never landed. We’re just heading back up north now.”

  “But I was there,” Isaiah insisted, pointing downward.

  “That’s impossible. No one got off the plane. Besides, looks like that place is history.”

  Glancing out the dirty window, Isaiah noted that The Island was nowhere in sight. Was his trip home simply a dream resulting from concussion, or was it real? Scratching his bandaged head, Isaiah checked his watch and was relieved to see that time was once again passing. He was getting ready to recline when he became aware of the Mystic seated beside him.

  “How was your trip?” the fakir inquired.

  “According to the steward, I never got off of the plane.”

  “Maybe not physically, but mentally you were long gone.”

  “I dreamed I went home,” said Isaiah.

  “So what did you learn while you were away?”

  “Someone who looked a lot like you advised me not to worry about the past or the future, to follow my heart and live in the present moment. My mother spent a lot of energy making sure I got the message. ”

  “Tim Tim,” the Mystic challenged.

  “Bwa Chès,” Isaiah retorted.

  “Why is it that when you lose something, you always find it in the last place you look?”

  “Because once you’ve found it, it isn’t lost anymore,” Isaiah beamed

  The Island would always be alive in his memory, but from now on he was confident he could find his own way home.

  The Haunt of Alma Negron A Story by Althea Romeo-Mark

  Sammy awoke when a soft, slimy thing fell on his face. With a swift stroke he slapped it away not knowing what the wet thing was. A draft enveloped him. Alma forgot to shut the windows, he thought shivering on a rock-hard bed in a damp room. Feeling for the bed sheet, he discovered there was none. He sat up and opened his eyes. It was pitch-black except for lights that shimmered through the not-too-distant trees. The unfamiliar room seemed immense, without walls. He barely made out the gray furniture that loomed in the blackness around him. Turning onto his side he reached for Alma. The stone-cold bed was empty. Sammy squeezed his eyes shut and thought of Alma Negron. Her face, square and plump, smiled at him from the bar stool at Aqui Me Quedo.

  The night club Aqui Me Quedo sat on the highway which stretched to Red Hook dock on the eastern end of the Caribbean island of St. Thomas. Everyone knew each other there. At weekends and at Sunday cock fights, customers raised hell from early until late. Their boisterous companions were mostly Latin women who queened the bar stools, drank and flirted with men before dragging them off to tiny rooms upstairs. Alma Negron did not appear often, and when she picked up a man, she took him outside Aqui Me Quedo.

  Sammy Smalls, a dark, stocky, dreadlocked mechanic and Rock Steady, his taller, muscular work mate, were addicted to the smell, the flashing lights, and the twirling rush of bodies at Acqui Me Quedo. Sammy’s felt warm all over the first time he saw Alma. He was seated at the back of the bar stirring his rum and coke when Rock Steady, elbowed him.

  “Sammy, look! A wonder of de universe.”

  “Sweet thing, eh. Is me lucky night, Steady.”

  Alma sat facing them. The rum punch in her glass shook mildly as she swayed on a stool to a salsa tune on the jukebox. Her tight fitted jeans displayed plump, solid thighs and a small waist. Sammy’s eyes ran down her curving hips and up again. Huge breasts protruded from a green halter top. He wanted to rest his head between her cleavage.

  “Steady, I feel I going win de lottery.”

  “You think you could catch her?”

  “Steady, she not a fish.”

  “You know what I mean, Sammy. Rope her in with small talk.

  “Well, I not roping anybody.  She not a cow.  That’s not me style.”

  “You got style, Sammy?”

  “No.  I going be meself.”

  “Sammy, you want her?”

  “Of course, I want her.” His light brown shirt was damp under the armpits. He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his sweaty face.

  “Well, come up with something good.”

  “Stop needling me,” Steady.

  Sammy wiped his face again and stuffed his handkerchief in his back pocket. “O.K. I going.” He walked unsteadily to the front of the bar, looking back once at Steady. He straightened his slumping shoulders, then smiled. Alma Negron sat before him.

  “Me name’s Sammy Smalls.” He extended wet hands. Alma’s plump, light fingers grasped his. He pulled his hands back, surprised at the weightlessness of the handshake.

  “Alma Negron,” she whispered.

  The deep-set grey eyes on her caramel colored face, hypnotized Sammy.

  “Let’s dance. It’s carnival time, you know. No, no, no don’t stop de carnival. No, no, no, don’t stop de Bacchanal.”Alma broke out in song as she grabbed him and spun him onto the dance floor cluttered with gyrating bodies.

  Dancing with Alma was dancing with air. She held him, twirled him around, leaving him dizzy, his mind in a whirl-wind. As they danced, her grey eyes glowed like a cat’s in the dark.

  “El Gato.” The name popped into his head as her long nails clutched and clawed him.

  “You like me?” she purred into his ear. Long nails walked down his back.

  Sammy trembled. Alma held up his limp body during the next number, a slow cha-cha-cha. He woke from his trance alone on the floor. A couple clung to each other in the spotlight. A slow, oldie competed with drunken chatter in the room. It was just past midnight at Aqui Me Quedo.

  Alma always left him like that every time they danced, he unaware of his surroundings, transported to another world. Steady said she usually escaped before twelve. Sammy suspected that she was married to a man who worked a late shift, maybe a security guard, who wasn’t stocky, and didn’t have rough, chiselled cheek bones like he had. He imagined the husband to be possessive of his tall, caramel-colored Venus. Sammy named Alma’s husband “The Bull Dog.” He hated this man who abducted Alma from Aqui Me Quedo around midnight. He wanted Alma for himself.

  Sammy proposed to her each time they met. He brooded when Alma didn’t show up. She popped in mostly on moonlit nights. He waited for her outside the bar under a mango tree. Moonlight streamed through its branches. He watched her extend firm legs out the dark, blue taxi’s door . Then it would speed off, its occupants protected by gray tinted windows. He was convinced that Bull Dog dropped her off at Aqui Me Quedo on his way to work.

  “So you come.” Sammy hugged her.

  “Yes, I here. You think I wasn’t coming? I know you don’t trust me.”


  “Yes, I trust you.” He held her soft, light hands and led her inside the bar. “Is your friend I don’t trust. By the way, what he do?”

  “Business.” She smiled. Her cheeks swelled.

  “What kind of business?”

  “His hand in everything.”

  “Wish I could mash them.”

  “You too jealous!” 

  Sammy ordered her a banana daiquiri and she settled down on the bar stool. He sprinted across the room to the jukebox, watched his coins danced down its slot. A calypso blared from the machine. “Bend down, touch your toes, draw back and let your bumsy roll.”

  Everyone dashed to the dance floor. Alma’s shoulders swung from side to side as she waited for Sammy to plough through the crowd to meet her. She took control. The flashing lights, reflecting on her grey eyes, dazzled him. She spun him round. He clung to her, his head stuck between large, breasts.

  “You going marry me, Alma!”

  “Who tell you that?”

  “Me heart tell me.” He attempted to hold her still but she kept on dancing.

  “Alma,” he shouted above the music. “I beg you, leave Bull Dog and marry me.”

  “Who?”

  “Sorry dumpling, I mean, you friend.”

  She smiled enigmatically. “You can come home with me tonight.”

  “What you say, Alma?” He thought rum had impaired his hearing.

  “Tonight’s the night,” Alma whispered. “Come!”She pulled him outside and shoved him into the waiting tinted-windowed taxi.

  Alma kissed him, her tongue reaching down to his soul. She chatted incessantly during the 20 minutes ride over Raphune Hill and across the town. They left the taxi near the Jewish burial ground. An old plantation house loomed ahead of them. The colonial structure, partly hidden by trees, stood behind the Jewish burial ground. The silhouette of a large veranda, which occupied the entire front of the house, seemed to dance between the trees. Alma led the way. Pulling a key from her purse, she opened a large door and flowed mirage-like into the front room. The ceiling was a high dome. Dark, velvet drapes covered the open windows that sucked the wind in and somewhere let in a little light from a nearby street lamp. Sammy shivered. White candles rested on long rectangular tables placed around the scantily fitted room. Sammy, befuddled by rum and the smell of Alma’s scented breast, stood, rooted. She glided silently into another room. Tired of standing, Sammy climbed onto a nearby table, removed the candles, stretched out and waited. He dozed.

  Sometime later, he felt a thin bed sheet settle upon him. Alma slid under it and cuddled him. Her body was cold. But with sleep serenading him, Alma next to him and rum within him, he did not give a damn. Death could take him for all he cared.

  A thunderclap followed by a downpour woke him again. Wet leaves swirled onto him. Gongolos dropped and crawled over his chest. He hollered at the sight of the large, black worms. Creeping daylight revealed his bed, a moss-covered grave. He closed his eyes, shook his head and wiped his face with the back of his hands. Opening one eye at a time, a cemetery emerged around him. Sammy fell down on his knees besides a headstone, shrieking. The screams, rushing from his mouth, reverberated in the trees. Terrified birds fled.

  Grave diggers found his rigid body later that morning, mouth wide open.

  Magic Island A Story by CHJ Rousseau

  A car approached, creeping toward me at a congaree’s pace, headlights on high beam intensifying the darkness around, blinding me. I waited for it to speed up and pass, but it just kept crawling closer, and closer… I prepared to scream and take to my heels. But where would I run? Who would hear me? What would they do if they heard? No one got involved any more—too many good Samaritans had not survived their helpful impulses in this place.

  The car kept coming, drawing nearer as I forced myself to keep walking, to keep cool. It drew abreast, stopped—then revved twice and sped off.

  What—what was that about? Feeling hysteria coming on, I stopped for a moment, two, hyperventilating. Come on, come on. Not too far again…

  This little town, a village really, is called Blue Basin. Sounds magical, doesn’t it? Conjures visions of sparkling pools reflecting azure skies, nestling amidst protecting hills of lush primeval forest. Here, bird calls greet the dawn and accompany the day. Feathery streamers of impromptu cascades appear on the hillsides after heavy showers to visit their half-sisters, the permanent waterfalls that grace the valley.

  This is a rich valley—and I’m not referring to the commercial success of the weed fields over on Cameron Hill. The north-east trade winds washing over the mountains have the tang of the Atlantic that lies just beyond. At night, across this valley, drift constellations which most pitiful earthbound dwellers of towns and suburbs never see, except when the power company stages a blackout, prising them away from the television by force, and there’s darkness all around to remind them that there’s a world out there, with a sky, and stars, unbounded by living room walls. Yes, it’s a rich valley, a beautiful place, but that is just part of the picture; the power outages reveal other things too, the not-so-pretty ones that burgeon in the dark alongside all that natural beauty.

  I live in Blue Basin, and I need to get to the shop that’s a mile away in the village. The old car won’t start. The short-drop taxis are unreliable at night. It is Saturday evening and I need to move, to breathe, to escape from this house where my thoughts are closing in on me—thoughts of unpaid bills, overstretched budgets, and the tightrope I walk every day to make it from one paycheque to the next.

  I must get to the shop, need to get to the shop.

  So I leave the house, a few dollar bills grasped in my fist. I soon leave my neat neighbourhood behind and venture on to Blue Basin Road, then turn on to Cicada, passing some appreciative loiterers on the corner. I gaze down this road and my steps slow: the road resembles a dark tunnel with no light at the end. Where are the streetlights? I begin to recall the daily newscasts: murder, rape, mutilation and grisly combinations of the three, sashaying through my memory like a phantasmagoric parade, each more horrifying than the last. Screaming headlines. Photographs in which blood is the dominant chroma. Video clips that make me turn my head away, footage of the bawling bereaved, innocent of the cold corneas of the cameras recording their raw grief. Bodies strewn across the country in death-sprawls, sometimes in pieces. Neighbours stuttering: “But—but—that boy don’t be in nothing! How they could shoot him just so, just so?” And, “Why he had to kill she? So woman can’t leave man again? Who going to mind the children now he in jail and they mother dead?”

  I want to turn back; I keep going. I console myself: at least there are several houses along that dark road that I must pass. If I scream, someone will hear. If I am given time to scream, that is…

  There is a house on the right. Someone is sitting on a porch, in the dark, but I cannot see him. I can see the tiny red glow of his cigarette, though. I wrinkle my nose as the acrid perfume drifts over. Correction: his ciga-weed.

  “Helloooo. Psst. Psst.” 

  I quicken my stride.

  “Aye, goodnight! Aye, psst...”

  I leave the unseen man and his friendly overtures behind. The road stretches longer than my memory of it. I hurry along, sometimes passing groups of people speaking in undertones, relaxing when I discern female voices in the dark, side-stepping parts of the road that seem more impenetrably black than the rest, listening for steps behind me, peering into bushy areas, unable to see the pebbly, potholed pitch on which I tramped, hoping that no steaming pile of gobar awaited my scantily sandalled feet. That would be the least of my worries, I can’t help reflecting, remembering the mapepire I had killed just that morning in the yard. I entertain myself by attempting to recall the body count in this little valley for the year to date. Five? Six? More?

  I try a different angle on the numbers game: how many drug dealers had I passed plying their trade in the dark? What were the odds in favour of a police car appearing to make a bust? Would the go
odly gentlemen in blue buy my story that I just needed to get to the shop, surrounded as I was by weed and crack-cocaine commerce in all its shadowy glory? I considered the odds of police appearing and felt better: the authorities had better sense than to come up here at this time of night. I plodded on, finding strange comfort in the annihilating darkness, letting my thoughts drift along their chosen paths, itinerant.

  Ten minutes after Ornella left the staff room, shoulders set in a determined square and weariness crinkling the corners of her eyes, she tramped back in, a lone student in her wake with a deflated backpack flopping from his shoulders.

  “They gone,” she replied to the query in my raised eyebrows. “Crawled through a hole in the fence by the football field. Except for this one.”

  The boy shuffled from one foot to the next, looking virtuous.

  “Miss, I remind them that the test is today, Miss.”

  “Well, you are going to sit right here and do it.”