Lydia scans the online travel magazine and sips her tea distractedly. Work is boring, and the weather outside is dreadful. She needs a break. She’s browsing for an adventure to lift her spirits when a headline jumps out: Come experience the real Caribbean, it beckons . . .
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 . . .
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 . . .
It was almost dawn when a loud shriek of anguish and pain could be heard at the end of Guayaguayare village . . .
Kwapo can’t remember the words to the song, but it doesn’t matter. These days the show is strictly burlesque . . .
Jariah feels remnants of bickering trailing behind her like afterbirth, spotting at times, or falling out uninterrupted at others . . .
The lunch bell begins to ring, so we say our prayers, chewing the words up in our mouths with half-open eyes as we watch our teacher, leather belt in hand . . .
The long wooden pirogue knocked lazily against the concrete pillars of the jetty . . .