The Fortunate End of Jonas Black

'Moss' by Sandra Lara (http://www.flickr.com/people/cambiodefractal/)

There are dozens of other stories born of each tale we tell. There are stories which travel in different directions than their parents. Like embers from a fire, these asides are often overlooked, but hold within themselves the potential for a beautiful dance of flames, or a horrible conflagration.

When Hook ordered his crew to bombard black tooth cove and take the fight directly to Peter and the lost boys, they also managed to add another enemy to their already long list of enemies: the mermaids who made their home there. A mermaid's wrath is a slow, painful thing. Perhaps, that has something to do with the nature of the creature.

The juvenile mermaid is hardly a threat to anyone. Her teeth and claws are dull and her powers of allure are like those of young virgins: unrealized at their worst, and undirected at their very best. Her breasts are small and her hair too wild and too short to distract from her grotesque shell shaped ears. They linger along the shore mostly, as all young sea dwellers know that shore is the best place to practice hunting.

The adult mermaid is quite better off. Her breasts are full and her hair luxurious, and in the water her speed and strength are unmatched.

The elder Sea Hag, on the other hand, looks precisely as frightening as on would imagine, though not because she is ugly. After about a century or so the sea turns her hair a pale green and she carries her breasts lower than in her youth. Though in certain cases; when she is gliding through the water, or when seen from a distance, or after months at sea surrounded by irritable, swarthy men, this is hardly a deterrent. After all, she still has dark, round nipples which certain men find alluring the way a wet tongue exploring bright red lips can distract the mind from the absence of certain teeth. Or the way the smell of cheap perfume on a lady of the night can cause lust and curiosity to override fear or self-righteousness. No, the Sea Hag is terrifying because, for as much as she is obviously inhuman, to a man longing for the comfort of solid land beneath his feet, she is irresistibly beautiful.

The Hag also has a voice, one which defies simple description. Simply put, it is the kind of voice that can cause as much as five fine, regular men to cast off the thrill of battle and clamor quickly and stupidly into the sea.

"MAN OVERBOARD!" The call raced along the starboard side, from bow to stern. By the time the crew had assembled for a rescue three of the men were already eaten. A fourth man, the salty brigand known as Jonas Black, was seen in the water laughing and weeping simultaneously. The mermaids had surrounded him. Four of them swam with him at the surface of the water. Their hands caressed his sun-beaten skin. Their teeth sank deep into the flesh of his chest, his belly, and his legs. A single hand grasped passionately at his matted hair. Later, at his wake, the men would remember that the only time Jonas had responded to something with anything more than a miserable grunt was that day.

"Don't save me, gents" he'd manage to say just as he kicked away the buoy and rope meant to save his life, or at least give him hope. "Oh god. Oh heaven. Oh hell what awaits me! If ye could feel what I'm feeling ye'd beg for the same. Don't ye dare save me!"

At that moment the sky, the sea, and everything around him had grown exceptionally bright in Jonas’ eyes. Several points of light danced before his eyes. The sensation of the mermaids' hands carried his mind to a time long ago, a time long before the salt water casually filled his mouth and attempted to ease its way down his throat. He'd had too much to drink in some port town or the other, they all had. The entire crew, with the exception of the Captain, had filled themselves up to the gills with grog and native honey-wine. But the bar wench, who some said had taken a shine to Jonas, allowed him to sleep it off by burying his beard in her mountainous bosoms. It was the only act of affection he'd ever been shown, and in his secret mind Jonas called it love.

The feel of the mouths on his flesh now was something immensely better than this…love. The saltwater had been burning his eyes for so long now. The pressure at that depth hurt his ears, and each breath of brine was like fire in his lungs. It was all so exquisite, even as the dancing points of light faded into the stark white glow of death.

I Could Call you Brother

(Also got an 'Aww' or two at Literary Night.)

Oh, what brown a face!
What a wide, well shaped nose.
You, my friend, were made a thing of beauty!
But you smell, quite strongly, of sweat and fatigue.
Is that what you were doing, perhaps, when I first saw you?
Lost in a field of high grass
Casting angry looks at the fruit cart.
And then you came charging along the path,
excitement in your eyes as if
you knew you'd done something wrong.
You blazed by me.
I could run with you
in the heat of mid day sun
and call you brother.
But only if I threw my human life away.

Oh, what brown a face.
What a wide, well shaped nose.
Don't you know you were made a thing of beauty?
But you shine, not brightly, sweat and frustration on your brow.
Is that how you were feeling, perhaps, when I first saw you?
Lost in a sea of bodies
until strong fingers snatched free a thin gold lace.
And then you came charging through the street,
hunger in your eyes although
you knew you'd done something wrong.
And you blazed by me.
I've seen your kind of hunger,
Brother.
I could run with you.
But only if I threw my life away.

Dreaming of Flying

(Edited, slightly re-tooled.  Recieved 'Aww's at Literary Night, April 24, 2010)

Thelma had a dream. In her dream the sky was the purest of blues. The only clouds were the ones that were scattered by her outstretched arms as the wind folded obediently under them. Below her the sea flew by. Below her the land grew out of the water. Below her the island circled, and the village on the island craned its head, and the many hands reached up. Their finger tips wanted so badly to touch her perfect skin. But if wanting could make it so, we would never feel that earthly heaviness that comes with waking from such dreams.

***

"You have such perfect skin" he whispered. Thelma could see why he would think that. His skin was rough, like his hands, but not like his voice. His voice told her sweet things, and did so smoothly. His hands were made pretty by the glinting metal that choked his swollen fingers. His skin might have been nice if she ever saw him in any kind of light aside from the street lamp or the club lights that danced while they did...something else. It was something to slow to be called dancing, and a little part of her was jealous of the other girls her age, with boyfriends their age. She wanted to dance like them, with abandon. Dance with her entire body. Dance until she was dripping with sweat. But years from now, those girls would still be here. They would still be dancing to the same songs while Thelma was in Paris or Japan or New York. All she had to do was move slow and sexy. It wasn’t really dancing. The many orange hairs on his arms and chest might look handsome in the sunlight on a beach somewhere. He could look like—Like who? Like Brad Pitt. Yes. He could be her Brad Pitt, only with rougher hands. And a smoother talk, if not a gentler voice.

***

He has such a gentle voice. Thelma usually heard baby's crying and crying and they sound like they could shatter glass. The ones she babysat for would bawl for no reason, just to drive her crazy. Not this one. This wasn’t what she thought it would be like. He has the gentlest voice a baby ever had. He was so quiet for a baby. Too quiet, in fact. She’d thought none of it had worked but what if it had? The bitters, the bad medicine, what if she’d tied her belly too tight in the final months? What if she’d tried so hard to make it go away, to keep it all a secret that now that he was out he was continuing the lie.

She could hide him when anyone came around. If they didn’t know, they didn’t have to find out. He was quiet. So quiet for a baby. The gentlest voice a baby ever had.

***

Come baby. Walk fu mommy. Ih nuh far. Come, you could walk. You’re a big boy now. A big boy. Come, come. No, mommy can't back yuh. Mommy too tired. And you too heavy, baby. You a big boy now. No man…Shhh...nuh cry. Nuh cry, we soon reach. Just wa lee bit further. But you have to walk. Mommy can't back you, baby.

Okay man…Ay, mi back. Ay, mi legs. Mommy can't carry you, baby. Nuh fi too long. You too, too, heavy. This baby just too heavy.

***

”Nuh too long now. Good thing we reach here early though. Ay, yuh see how much the baby like the plane? Now, when you reach you know how fi get weh paat yuh gwein? Personally? I nuh see how a man can send for you but not have the decency to pick you up from the airport. Thelma, he nuh own wa car? Well ih cyant at least pay for a taxi? I know, I know. You da your own woman now. Woman by law and nature. That nuh mean your aunty cyant worry. Now when you reach yuh muss call and mek we know you alright. And you have fi mek the baby hear yuh voice so he nuh miss yuh too much. You di listen? First chance you get you start saving up, hear? Don't depend on no white man for too long, you hear? Take it from me! Maybe in about six months you can send for the baby? A year? A child needs his mother. And you must call regular so he know your voice. You hearing me, Thelma? Well answer me then! I swear, you acting like you already miles away.

4 Train from Masholu Parkway to Grand Central (revised)

New York is written on the walls.

This steel and electric boogaloo glides on through the sky

weaving past brick and rock

and I see it there: barely legible shout outs.

The Boogie Down is getting up.

There's no green here. No gardens. No wildlife.

But like desperate weeds I see graffiti

climbing from the cracks and achieving

its own spiritual ascension.

It creeps up the side of apartment buildings

like its own version of central park Ivy.

It settles, gathers, and thrives in little nooks

like an east village garden.

And in some places it is tended to.

Places where the lines between rich and wealthy broadens

like the hips and lips and noses and accents

of those faithful gardeners.

They take precious care of their charges.

They fertilize them regularly while talking shit to the boys.

In the summer they let meringue play from open windows

And freestyle hip-hop from the front stoop.

Everyone knows gardens grow best when sung to.

They don't eat without eating among the Spanish Montana leaves.

They don't drink without watering the three foundations first,

Offering libations for all those that have gone before.
They care for the ever growing vines and brambles

with equally chaotic calculation;

pruning with whitewash, culling the rot

while giving reverence to the dead.

And in the spaces they make, new limbs grow stronger,

the blossoms bloom brighter,

and the graffiti gardens grow taller,

and taller,

and taller

out of the shadows.

Like everything else they strive to reach upwards.

Let Manhattan keep their copses and shaded paths.

The Village can have their occasional street corner trees

and guarded, gated gardens.

All that is fine for them who have clear days

and singing birds

and the ever present sun in people's minds.

Let them escape it if they want to.

The Bronx is so hungry for light.