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Please read on for excerpts from a few articles, submissions, poems and short stories that Nakia and Yokairy have penned.
Excerpted from
ARE YOU ANYWHERE, EVERYWHERE, OR...NOWHERE?
A Short Story, Nakia D. Johnson
"Where were you last night?" he whispered through parched lips as he placed his hands on the windows, removed them and watched the imprint from his touch fade away. His rational mind didn't really expect an answer but because he was met with only silence his faith felt shattered and before long, he was angry and so repeated the question again, only this time more forcefully.
His mind raced, waxed and waned, and he wondered. How often, he thought, how many times in say any given year does tragedy befall us? How often does it grab hold so tightly refusing to lessen its grip until we're at rock bottom with nothing more to lose? Can we really allow ourselves to fall, resting assured that we'll be caught?
He posed these questions to no one in particular yet to a higher power, an authority that he'd revered his entire life, not out of obligation, but because he'd been raised that way. But now frightened and confused, he wondered, had it all been a hoax? Was there anyone listening in this hour of need or was the vast emptiness echoing and painfully reverberating in his core all that there was?
Excerpted from KISS ME
A Short Story, Nakia D. Johnson
August 14, 2003:
The silver elevator doors slid together beginning the 32-story climb as Autumn and Evan, fresh from the 3:30 Starbucks break that’d become a daily ritual, made playful eye contact and exchanged the usual small talk—Floor? Thanks. You’re welcome—between frothy sips of caramel frappuccino and iced chai tea.
After 8 months in the office high-rise it was amusing to find that Evan, shared a mutual interest in not only coffee but more importantly the benefits of breaking the afternoon monotony at 3:30 each day. It had become somewhat of a game. Who would make the Starbuck’s line first? Would they run into each other on the elevator and make eye contact despite the stiff presence of the “suits” and their constant business chatter?
Maybe one day they’d even share more than the usual pleasantries. But for now, their little game was all there was. It added a childlike giddiness to the weightiness of the workday and gave them both something to look forward to, as fleeting as each interchange was...
NOONTIME IN THE 9 TO 5
A Poem, Nakia D. Johnson
Dreamin'...
Of lunchtime
And life
And faraway places
The kind that ease up
And creep into the empty spaces
The recesses
The deep, dark places of my mind
Blowing experiences, undreamed-of dreams and stand-still time
Dreams...
Not necessarily deferred
Or dried up
Or even crusted over
Dreams...
Dreams.
Just not yet meant...
To be.
Excerpted from PapaSweetJeans
A Creative Non-Fiction Story, Nakia D. Johnson
I celebrated my 26th birthday this past weekend and though I’ve been exposed to many things, there’s still so much more that life has yet to show me. My friend, John, lost his Aunt Rosie last week. According to John, Aunt Rosie had been dying for the last forty years. (John is 38). But he told me a story about Aunt Rosie’s passing that got me to thinking and set the stage for this tale too.
John says Aunt Rosie was tired, her body shrunken down to a little over four foot thanks to the perils of osteoporosis and other problems that ride in tandem with old age. When John's cousin Arleen asked Rosie if she was ready to go, Rosie looked up from her hospice bed and asked, “Where?”
“To die,” said Arleen, reassuring her that it was okay if she did, that though she would be missed, everyone would understand.
Aunt Rosie agreed that she’d fought a good fight and enough was enough. She was ready.
A few minutes later, Arleen sat quietly reading at Aunt Rosie’s bedside thinking that Aunt Rosie was resting as she had been.
After a while, she heard a soft, “1, 2, 3—go.”
Puzzled, Arleen looked around and then towards Aunt Rosie.
“1, 2, 3—go.”
Again, “1, 2, 3—go.”
It was Aunt Rosie, through dementia, osteoporosis and all the other baggage, counting down her time, counting down her life. When John told me that story he told it with a bit of humor to reflect the kind of lady that Aunt Rosie was. So often in the days following death we have to teach ourselves to smile and to laugh again, not much different from a toddler learning to walk. I saw both the humor and the sadness as I shared in John's story but I was left with a respect for Aunt Rosie’s strength because she attempted to take control even at the end.
And as I sat on my terrace this weekend watching the storm clouds roll in dark and brooding on the afternoon of my birthday, for some unknown reason I couldn’t help but think of Aunt Rosie and of Papa, Sweet, and Jean...
Excerpted from A BRONX SUMMER
A submission to BackintheBronx.com, July 2005, Yokairy Y. Tavarez
As I make my way down the eight blocks from my job to my children's school, I shield my eyes with my right hand and strain my already poor vision to make sure there are no Floridian drivers set on my destruction. Satisfied that all is clear, I cross the street and continue, not sure if the sensation of heat exhaustion is from the sun that seems hell-bent on boring a hole into the top of my head, or the fact that I seem to be the only person in the state of Florida walking to my destination.
I pass a fire hydrant and shake my head, wondering how on earth children in Miami have grown up without ever having turned on a fire hydrant in the sweltering heat, or played through the rushing water in the streets with their friends. Seems like a waste to me.
Almost unconsciously, I smile. Not the kind of whimsical, fleeting smile that barely passes your lips when you think of a humorous encounter. The kind of smile that opens your whole face and makes passersby question your sanity- the kind of smile that opens the door for the giggle, the chuckle and finally, the outright laugh that confirms the passersby's suspicions.
I continue walking straight ahead, but I glance back for another look, another glimpse at the fire hydrant, resting on the edge of the sidewalk, almost inviting a young kid to come along and mess with it. Then, in one fell swoop, I'm back home, back on my block, back in front of my fire hydrant...
LONELY LIVINGROOM
A Short Story, Yokairy Y. Tavarez
He showed up on my doorstep and every ounce of the independence and intellect I had ever come to acquire was long forgotten as the familiar sense of numbness came over me and my knees began to buckle. A feeling of anxiety mixed with the everlasting fear and yearning I had already gotten accustomed to were all that remained. It took me awhile to regain the ability to speak, until then all I could bring myself to muster were a couple of pathetic sighs and moans. I had no idea what he wanted, or what he was there for. All I knew was that I wouldn't fall into the same trap- not again. So in that quick instant, as all of our memories passed before my eyes, as all of the sleepless, tear-filled nights flew by, as I remembered all of the pain and suffering that I endured while he and I were together, and as I remembered a desperate promise I made to myself to never allow him to enter my life again, I slowly stepped out of the way and let him in.
He made himself comfortable while I danced around in slow motion trying to calm myself enough to utter a word to him. There he was, the only weakness in my otherwise steel heart. Calm and collected as usual, he was the exact opposite of my normal, high-strung self. Everything I was, everything I hated about myself, and everything I swore I would never be again was all coming back to me in one effortless motion. I saw a lingering smile on his lips and I remembered all of the venomous kisses and the lies and the words I longed to hear that were hissed at me. I remembered all that I gave to hear those three words, and all that I lost to believe them. With that smile I saw so much more than the pretend sincerity that lay hiding behind it. I looked deep into his eyes, involuntarily searching for some truth in the web of lies being spat out at me, and realized that those eyes of solid black, eyes not of this world, held the very meaning of my fear deep inside of them. And I tried to avoid contact with those eyes that literally had the power to freeze my soul, so that while he talked, I listened genuinely. And as he pled his case, I smiled half-heartedly. And as he begged for my forgiveness, something I had dreamt of for what seemed like centuries to hear for the hopes that we might rekindle some of the romance that we had at the beginning, I forgot everything that I hated about this curse called life and only let thoughts of love pass through my mind. And as I made my way across the lonely livingroom built for one, towards his open arms, I only thought of happiness and sunshine and tiny newborn puppies. As I moved closer to him thoughts of empty promises and painful memories and broken hearts careened down my spine.
And as my hand moved towards him...
And as my hand moved past him, I said my goodbyes and opened the door.
And even though I didn't know it then, I had just opened the door to my own future.
I didn't watch him walk down the steps and get into his car. And I covered my ears so that I wouldn't have to hear him drive away.
But I did sit on the floor and weep softly.
Not because I had made a mistake, but because I had just made the single most important decision I'd ever have to make, and in doing so, closed a major chapter in the book of my life. When I was done, I got up, looked around my tiny apartment built for one, and smiled.
I smiled for the first time in a long time.
And it felt good.
ME OR HER
A Poem, Yokairy Y. Tavarez
I roll over and touch the empty space in the mattress next to me and sigh, remembering that you are back where youre supposed to be and I'm left here, an empty shell of what I once was just hours before, as we rolled around on these very sheets, clinging to each other in forbidden passion, forgetting everything else around us long enough to imagine being together forever.
Here I lie, beside myself, out of my element, wanting to scream and punch and hit and cry, yearning to let it all out.
But instead I hold a mask to my face, keeping everything bottled up because of its consequence.
I wonder if you would ever understand the pain and torment on knowing that only one thing and one thing alone stands between you and eternal happiness, for that is what I know we would have together.
Lovers, friends, soul mates, so much more.
If I could tie you up I'd keep you beside me always, like a monkey in a cage, keeping you from the outside world, providing you with all the fulfillment and sustenance you'd need.
That is what you are to me: my life, the very air I breath.
Like a drug addict, I cling to you, strung out, open, bare, naked and exposed for what I am beneath it all.
Yet I must hide it all away, never letting on to our little secret, never letting the world in on the truth.
And as we pass each other on the moving train, my path straight ahead, yours in the opposite direction, I turn to you, imploring you to look into my eyes and in one fluid motion let the memories of the previous night of unbridled fervor overrun your being and bring you to me, once and for all.
Yet you stare away, into the nothingness of space, nodding and smiling politely as she twiddles in your ear, absentmindedly, not seeing the giant purple elephant stomping around in the train car.
Every day I awaken with the same pain, the same agonizing need to desperately force the world to recognize my obsession with turning this torrid affair into the stuff that dreams are made of.
Yet my wishes go unheard, my prayers unanswered, and every night, I open the door to the same face: the same face I hate every day and adore every evening. The same hands I yearn for every day and I allow to explore me every night. The same body I cling to the sweaty memory of every morning, and ride unendingly every night. The you that feeds my addiction, stringing me out and stringing me along.
And though I know this is going nowhere, I still open the door and let you in. Looking around the hall I make sure no one sees. I ask you the same question every time and expect the same answer.
And even though I lie to myself, convince myself we'll be together one day, that you'll finally come to your senses, realize my fabulousness and leave her for your one true soul mate, in the end, I know what the truth is. Yet I let you in anyway.
Now I dont know who's dumber:
Me or her.
A STORY OF A WOMAN
A Poem, Yokairy Y. Tavarez
I awoke one night with the pain of my bruised arm
I looked around to make sure you were not there
Out drinking again, I assumed
I looked in the mirror and cried
I saw a soul ripped of any pride, dignity
Robbed of any self-respect
I saw a voice yearning to be heard
Yet silenced by fear and pain
I wept for what I had become
Through tear-filled eyes I looked around the room
And saw the broken glass, the overturned night table,
The blood on the pillow
I saw the swollen eye, the bruises on my arm, and the busted lip
I looked in the mirror and saw a woman, beaten and abused
I saw a woman
I saw your mother, your sister, your daughter
I felt a spirit rise inside of me,
One which had so long been asleep that I had forgotten it ever existed
I saw my eyes open to a new light, a new day
I saw all the years of pain behind me
And all that lay ahead
And now as I watch the rolling hills fly by me,
As I listen to the conductor state our time of arrival,
As I clutch my suitcase, packed and ready,
I realize all it took was a voice
One voice to raise the courage not to run away,
But to run right up to your face
And scream through the bars of your jail cell,
I am a woman, and I will be heard.
Who's crying now?
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