For Anyabwile
by M.James Cooper

How come everybody can't Love the way that you Love?
Selfless,
Warm,
Inviting Love.
I don't think you know what people see reflected back when they are looking at you.
Despite that ignorance you are without a doubt aware of so much more than just your brilliance.
You are here,
You are committed,
You are selfless,
You are blessed,
You are, Love.

This story is itself an introduction, so, it needs none.

Sweet Like Country Pepper, Hot Like Morning Dew
by M.James Cooper

If I were to tell you about this place I call home in one word, I'd say, Goodness. Home is where people move about as if they own it, not realizing it is on loan from God and the spirits  that came before them. See them walking, knock kneed, pigeon-toed, or straight like arrow, and, pushing with happy aggression, and, shoving, inviting play. Finding each other on corners or under sheds, and laughing, hot sweaty faces, heads tilted back, open mouths catching the sunlight, talking too loud, dancing a dance, taking a wine, knees bent, asses up, hands in the air. As they proceeded to live they shook the land and made the salted waters jump and wave and crash against the rich soils. But never mind the waters, no one ever falls over or capsizes into it unless they themselves jump in it. Limeing, beers and soft-drinks in hand, rum mixed with coconut water, loosening tongues, passions rising, rising to the top of something from somewhere that before lay dormant, under control; hot burnt sugar hands persuading you to take a dip, or a woman with seasoned hips, who might give yuh a taste. Like I said, never mind that, just enjoy yuh'self.
And so this is some of what it is, home, the sounds of good living cause good vibrations to be just that, good. From the feet of giants that send speaker-like thundering sensations, sometimes with sound, sometimes just felt underfoot, it travels from the center, boom after boom it wakes the dust up, then makes the trees happy, then the birds jump from their resting places to tell each other about it; eventually it reaches the things beneath and allover, spreading to the ocean, it is then the currents frighten the water causing it to jump and crash exposing frothy teeth that make the would-be-hot boys and girls scream then turn and run, naked exposed bottoms shaking, no shame, no guilt, no sins, yet, and no matter, they run, the children, they run, into the hot burnt sugar hands of their male elders or wrap their own skinny ones around the soft jiggling hips of their mothers....

This story, like most of what I write, is about awarness and humility and humanness. It took me by suprise, but I accept the outcome.

S.H.E
(Some Hell on Earth)
by M.James Cooper

...The ballast would no longer hold: The thing that carried a past so heavy, she dare not speak its name. Was she a girl, or a woman already? A happening. A somebody came and left a mark behind. Like all transgressions, it get covered up with new things and passing days. Still smell like rot to me. Burning like fire but not cleansing the evil that is there. Whatever do this thing to her leave back something permanent, like a parasite in your brain, like whip lashed skin, scared and marked for good. Memory. Heartbreak. Her past must be a scorching heat, tackling sulfured earth, bringing fire. They watched it spread and consume but did nothing. Everybody saw it burn and turned their backs on the situation, the wind picked up this new self and the smell that only she could smell long after he stopped touching her, and pelted the proof here for us to witness. Smell it? Smell like sin and decay to me...

A small piece of the pie.

From thy Getting...
When I write, I believe there is something all about that guides me.
I don't fully understand it;
Can barely grasp the fullness of it.
A sentence a word, an obligatory thought and beginning that I must craft from, a name and a face.
Some call it talent, ability, even skill.
It is the thing that floats above the waters and stands next to me, God essence.

This is a short narritive where truths and lies are as clear as murky waters. A man has experienced a loss he cannot get over, and jealousy clouds his perception and that of several townspeople we meet along the way, but you be the judge...

Let a Drunk Man Tell It
 by M.James Cooper

Harmon Lovejoy is a hard man, too rigid to be moved and too stubborn for convincing. I doh know why he so aggressive towards me. Hasty man with a short temper, an unbelievable stronghold on he wife and chil'ren like yuh can't believe. How he get a sweet woman like Bernadine tuh marry him, I will never know?  How'come surly man like Harmon get everyt'ing God give and dey don't know what to do wid it? And how'come woman like Bernadine Shaw give up she surname for good and never ask for it back? What meanin' dat have in it? I get sorrow from dat, but somebody else call it love. It call adherence too, since dem is catholic and don't believe it parting. Mrs. Bernadine Lovejoy might as well be one ah he own chil'ren seein' as how she does call him Daddy as well as husband. Man, I tell yuh, if he call she name, she runnin', if he tell she "Come, sit down," she pull up seat right next tuh him no matter what need doin'. She wasn't d'type of woman to crochet or read. On occasion she might sew a dress fuh she'self and comb she hair, no pressing comb, Harmon don't like it. One time, way back in '63, before d'last baby born, Harmon ask Bernadine to come cut he toenail. Well, she did leave boilin' pot on d'stove, and ice from Iceman don't put away yet, so heat from stove cause ice tuh melt. A begrudging 'Thank you' barely make it out he mout' before he could ask for some ice cold lime juice! "...and Bernadine, don't use dat dirty brown sugar, use d'white sugar. Ah buy dat not so you could keep it stored up..." Last time she try to strain out all d'dregs dat settle at d'bottom a'd'mug. Three times she run it through using cheesecloth to strain it, but Harmon still find fault, say he could see 'all kinda shit' in he glass. Debris. "There is debris in my glass Bernadine! This juice have shit in it!" So, she leave quiet like mouse and went next door by Ms. Rose to ask for some ice. House buildin' back then, young Ronald Browne helpin' haul away rubbish, fussin'' and fixin' and walls goin' up and d'electrician say not'ing will be on for at least two hours. Is Rose she'self tell meh 'bout it when it happen! Rose and she son Gregory been livin' next to d'Lovejoy's since dey married and did just move into dat oneroom house years ago. There is nobody more reliable than Rose Browne when it come to talk. "Let eyes see and tongues tell," is what she would say, "Your business is your business until is my business." Then she would laugh, raise up she hand, wave, turn around and walk off. In past days he done 'buse she for way less than juice mix wid brown sugar, so hot juice would only make it worse; d'only problem now was, wey she go'get more money from, since that ice was suposed to last until d'next time Iceman come 'round, and money doh stretch like rubber-band no time before or after today. Harmon Lovejoy is a hard man who count he money down tuh d'penny. Fat Maggie, Marcus lil sista tell meh how he is cheapskate and wouldn't spend no money on she when he did leave Bernadine fuh she durin' d'time Bertrand did have d'accident.