Masqureader

$83.07

2009-12-11T12:15:00.000-08:00

by Richard Rawlins

The tyres on the vehicle bumpity bumped their way upon the grooved in roadway of the state funded circumvented enclosures of political prosperity and working class despise. Here upon this hilltop in a rejuvenated Paramin of almost Ramon Navarroesque yesteryear except for the hidden trap guns of ganja farmers, agricultural wooden toolsheds and crocus bag scarecrows, I saw her.

I saw her. The huge obesity of a woman. Indian in all her glory. Her foot black from traversing the sturdy concrete road. Solid in frame like an oak tree in a Yankee Christmas movie. A large ass. wide and big and dropping and fat and very obese. Oh largese. Breast swinging, unchained and un-trapped and free and bra less, without concern. Nipples forcing a point in their sweaty tunic of a dress. laden with flowers, clinging to her shiny greasy skin in the noon day heat. Then her matted-hair head raised as we saw her. “Good day”, my gay friend and his Indian indecisive roadtrip companion said in unison. “Good day”, she replied. “Good day”, I said looking longingly like I wanted to be face deep in those huge thighs. Panty less I thought as her body shifted slightly to reveal in the monstrous shadow she casted that ran the length of the scratched out red dirt front yard all the way to her little board and galvanize home just edging the bamboo, a child. A “lickle” grubbiness of a child. A dougla. A child no more than three playing in dirt with a stick and a pan. With a kind of white dry milky ring around his mouth. How mundane I thought . What an exsistence…but then that is youth isn’t?. Carefree.

“Let me out here please…” I said to my friends. “Why?” said my gay friend with the semi possibly gay and indecisive Indian roadtrip companion. “Because I think I love her.” I countered. “What the fuck ‘rong wid’ you?!!” the indecisive Indian shouted. “Jus fuckin’ so…like you mad or wat?” At that point I opened the door and decided to get out the vehicle. My gay friend steuppesed. mumbled something as I left the car and pulled the car over to the side of the road next to the bamboo patch adjacent to the squalid abode.

I approached the huge obesity of my sexual arousal and now growing physical and mental curiosity questioning in my mind what I was about to do. I approached her she smiled at me. “Hi“ I said. “Hello” she replied flashing me a smiling row of crooked yellow coloured teeth. “Can I fuck you?”, I said.

The smile gone from her face her black lips curled in disbelief and she spat out at me. “Mister like you ent see meh chile dey.”

“ Sorry”, I responded, staring at her pendulous breast that seemed slightly wet from sweat and maybe lactation. “My mistake”, and headed for the car.

“Wait!!! , we could go inside and fuck if yuh like. My mister doh come home til later.

And the boy he kinda behbeh he not go go nowhere.” “Come nuh”, motioning me inside as she began raising up the back of the old tattered dirty frock business of a dress revealing her big black dimpled mosquito pockmarked ass.

“Ok”. I said, “sure”.

“But wait”, she said, “you have eighty three dollars and seven cents?”

THE END

What we playing at?

2009-11-13T10:47:00.000-08:00

Welcome to Masqureader, a literary blog devoted to giving a space for new and innovative writers in Trinidad and Tobago.

Each week we will publish work by young contemporary artists, featuring both fiction and non fiction writing and ...really just about anything else we think is cool, new and different.

First up we have work by Tracy Hutchings, Nicole Clarke and Rodell Warner.

Enjoy

A Blank Canvas

2009-11-12T09:43:00.000-08:00

by Tracy Hutchings

in the beginning
there was a stark white canvas nah
and it was real lame
lame no ass

an nuttin was on the face of it.
nutten i tell you! not a damn ting.

and then the writer, the thinker and the great designer
take dey over farse self an say
"watch nah - this tablet. this canvas need something!"
and they did create
they did draw up d ting
an write up d ting
and tings was good.

then the writer say
"ah feel this need some tragedy. yeah... is real pain an sufferin on d canv-ass!"
and he did bring out the sweet bitters an did plaster
the canvas till it was blood stained and raw.
an d great designer and the thinker watch it an say dat how...
tings was good.

an d thinker say
"tanks for d tragedies, we turn dem into art"
and she did compel the whole lot ah dem to come an draw pun the canvas

an they did come
d stars of heaven come wit dem farse self an
paint up d place
an did laid dey soul pon d canvas
an tings was good

then the great designer put a big ass snake on d canvas
an at first, d stars ah heaven say "wheeeeyyyyyy! dat snake real bess!"
but den dey figure d snake need someting and so they did add
an add
an add
an add

an others came,
bringing dey version ah art pon d canvas.

an d canvas bearers start to say
but wha d ass - yuh call dat art.
bun dat
take... that shit... out meh canvas
an dere was war pon the canvas!
scribble fight up wit scribble
art fight up wit art an tell art dat art was shit
an no body ask the canvas what the canvas want.

an lo
everybody say "she need a lil someting"
"she need a lil extrah"
an randomness start to pull up an
crap up on she
up on she canv-ass

an the writer did feel
"leh we start over. raise d consciousness ah d canvas raise d levels on d canvas"

but it was too late
depression did start to raid it
an man say dat how he shoulda never draw on it
an man start to vex up when other man start drawing up on d scribbles
not realisin'

dat d point ah d ting
was not to point ah ting!
not a fingah!
not a flickin fiery thumb
an make hum-drum noises

just paint!
jus draw!
jus write!
right?

write way all yuh pain
till you feel clean like a blank canvas
till yuh ass feel whole again

Jake Don't Learn

2009-11-11T13:27:00.000-08:00

by Rodell Warner

Jesus wanted me to know i shoulda been happy with my hands so he let the skin on my middle finger get pulled in the conveyor belt in the factory where i work and crushed and then sorta alright for a while but then they had to cut it off.

Then all i wished was for my right hand to look like my left hand again and my left hand, after that, i never thought was spotty or veiny or ugly or anything.

I walk around with my hands in my pockets a lot now. I bought a lot of hoodies and jackets with pockets on the sides in the front like that so i could just slip them in and nobody'll notice. Its the fuckin worst when i have to shake sombody's hand now or touch a girl. And they always say its okay, but that never changes anything. Its the fuckin worst. All i want now is for my right hand to look like it used to look. I wish i had a time machine.

I have a girlfriend, but i dunno what to do with her. That tune never changes. And nobody ever tells you what you're supposed to do with girls anyway. Not really. Its always "Now what?". I guess lovin Jesus wanted me to know what to do with a nice girl like that, so he made her fall in love with some fat asshole when i wasn't lookin and now they're livin together somewhere i dont know and lookin to get married or whatever. I dunno how she could pick that fat cunt over me anyway. Or fuck him. I'm sure he's the worst at it. Cunt. And whenever she answers the phone now she always finds some way to tell me about all the things he does do for her. I dunno how he does all that shit anyway. I dunno. Anyway i don't have a girlfriend anymore, but i know what to do with one.

I wish i had a time machine.

I picked up a GQ the other day. Two. I had to get them - what i really wanted was this girl magazine with this girl on the front wit the loveliest, sloppiest ass i ever saw and i had to buy it. But they put it on the shelf in a plastic case and i had to get the GQ's to sandwich it and walk to the counter without everybody seein what i was buyin. I kept tellin myself i was an adult and they have these in the store for a reason and i could easily buy it and nothing was wrong with that. I just wanted it to go smoothly. The cashier looked at me when she scanned it with the other stuff though, and when she gave me the bag and i said 'Thanks', she didn't answer.

Anyway, in Europe the men dress up all the time. Everyday. Its not like here. This place is the worst. They wear whatever they want, they do whatever they want, they look good all the time and they know what to do with everything. Women and work and everything. I was thinkin if I went i could just scrap everything and be like them. That'll be good. I could wear gloves and I wouldn't have to be here anymore doin this shit.

ID. I Do. IDEA.

2009-11-11T13:22:00.000-08:00

by Nicole Clarke
So there's this old dude, right. And... his eyes are dim, he cannot see, he has not brought his specs with... He? Was supposed to
work, at least, if you were a Girl Guide, but. Anyways
There's this old dude, right, who's looking for his specs and he looks in the bedroom. Not there. Kitchen? Not there. Living room? Not there.
So his wife comes in, realizes what he's doing and says, “You old wanker, they're right there on your god-forsaken head!”

No longer funny. No longer young enough to be excused nor old enough to know better, he married the girl.Chile she up, take chain up 'bout wedlock. And married the girl. They could say whatever they want about a dollar, but the reds was nice, willing and big belly.
So he married she.

But then there was... she.

No sapodilla sweeter. No mango riper. And, pardon the language, no pussy tighter. Weaving in and out of every man's fantasy, from his to yours and his to yours and his to...

And back again.

Not the best, not the worst. Not the last, not the first. But something to write home about. Something to pee your pants for. And something to make you remember...

Remember?

Strange how, originally, no one talked 'bout (remembered?) she army man father. She army man father who only find out... she army man father who say... she army man father who make it easy to accept that she was a reds who was nice, who was willing and who...
Well, we done know he married she.

And, so, it was written, in the book of life, and a child was born.

Then another. And another.

And, at the same time, a man was born. Suckling for air and life within the womb; gasping and grasping for the freedom without.

But there is no happily ever after.

Just some kiddies trying to find a dude, who maybe cyah even find his glasses but isn't even remotely related to the dude who...

Married she.

And he? He goes through life, day after day, droning on and on, a slave to himself.

So what to do?

Can someone tell someone...

What to do?

Nuttin. Absolutely fucking nothing.

Because, at the end of the day...

Who is this dude?

Is it you, or your father, yoursisteryourbrotheryourchildyour...

Mother.

Or maybe it's just you.

Your identity.

Your inability to accept yourself. Your life. Your you.

That strange thing inside that pulses and beats and would spit on a stranger if it had the chance. The courage. That thing. That you. That...

That that.

So you will sleep with his wife... Once no one know. Watch porn. As long as nobody know. Play with your... As long as. Slap that...

Shh...

Let's take a drink and...

And it have real rain these days.

Laugh. Out. Loud.

Once upon a time, a boy, a girl and a no one started running.

The boy ran into a man.

The girl ran into life.

And the no one...

The no one ran into you.

So you decide.

Can he find his glasses.

Can he find his wife.

Can you.

Find?

Yourself.