The rain stops now and I shake my head to fling the last drop off my big straw hat. It have a freezing trickle of water running down my arm, a silver ball escaping down to the tip of my finger. Forest rain does be like that: cold in the humidity, shining like hell when the light touch it . . .
Category: Duppy Thursday
Akashic Books is proud to introduce a new flash fiction series, Duppy Thursday. Though we’re based in Brooklyn, our location envy of the Caribbean is evident throughout our catalog. One aspect of Caribbean literature that appeals to us is the integration of folklore into contemporary stories—a perfect example being Jamaican author Marlon James’s debut novel John Crow’s Devil, which we published to great critical acclaim in 2005. Whether it be the spider Anansi, the devil woman La Diablesse, the Soucouyant, Mama Dlo, or Papa Bois, these mythical beings have injected life (and death) into the literature of the region. As with our other flash fiction series, we challenge you to tell your story in 750 words or less.
It was hard to resist the lure of Miss Chantal. Her silky-smooth waist-length hair was as dark as her haunting round eyes, set a little too far apart in her heart-shaped face . . .
The Woodsman takes a nip of rum and stares out from under the brim of his battered ball cap. “Fucking Green Hell,” he mutters under his breath . . .
Eddie had always been a quiet man. Living on the outskirts of the village meant he was always met with a curious but hesitant eye. The village children were always warned to stay away from him . . .
At night you lie awake, kept up by the sounds of running feet and children’s eerie laughter . . .
Jariah feels remnants of bickering trailing behind her like afterbirth, spotting at times, or falling out uninterrupted at others . . .
The constables looked at the river foaming angrily as it crashed against the rocks. Puzzled, their eyes searched the water where it flowed calmly into the sea, looking for some sign of Delroy—a shirt, a shoe, something to explain what had happened to him . . .
Late one afternoon, while sweeping up, my uncle asked if he ever told me about how he almost make a jail, and immediately I thought: whoremongering . . .