A terror seized spirit

Nightfall quickly descended blanketing the physical world.  Stillness dominated behind the black iron gates as a cloudless night gave way to the low hanging moon spilling its illumination on to the material world.  Looming shadows concealed the unearthly and their malicious agenda.  Resentment centuries old seethed with animosity.  Vexed by memories weaved of cruelty and violence it lusted for vengeance for having a cursed destiny. 

Slumped over against one of the oldest head stones in the rear of the cemetery a half concealed figure remained motionless on the ground with its legs folded beneath it while its arms rested at its sides. The head hung at an awkward and unnatural angle.  The blue swollen hands looked as though they tried to push itself up from the damp ground, but gravity won out over all efforts. Slowly gravity began to draw down its body fluids.  Deep within the spirit of Jose Rivera he fought to understand what had happened to him and who was this other that pushed up against his consciousness as his physical body had ceased functioning some time ago.  Such force an anger he had never known before was upon him in his final stages of death pushing him from his physical body.  Terror seized his spirit as he looked down at his motionless body slumped over.  Time had lost all meaning to him.   His confusion was vast and endless.  Panic-stricken; his spirit cringed as words no longer were the way of communication.  Only deep sorrow accompanied him as he continued looking down and feeling how wrong it all felt being a part of the darkness that dominated.  Continuing to gaze at his motionless body, he could still feel the other presence.  Unable to move from where he hovered, he had no other choice then to watch on in horror as the unspeakable began to take place before his very spirit. It was something that went against the laws of nature defying creation itself.

Thick gold carpet cushioned her feet as she closed the vertical blinds across from the contemporary art that lined the walls.  Brass lamps softly illuminated the living room giving the white leather sofas the appearance of suede.  Scented candles and crystal figurines sat on brass coffee tables.  In center of everything, a black lacquer entertainment center housed an expensive media system with a 50-inch high definition television.  The opposite wall housed rows of books from ancient African history to the civil rights era, and spirituality to the paranormal with six small yet powerful speakers meshed in between them softly circulated the music of Miles Davis while she made herself comfortable reading the autobiography of Malcolm X.  The worn and beaten book was one of her favorites.  After six years in the department, she continued to remain unaffected by the department's silent intolerance of strong African descended women.  She prided herself in taking charge of her own life and not submitting to the constant family pressures in settling down getting married and starting a family like so many women in her family from the Bayou.  Sierra Sheldon felt quite comfortable with her life the way it was. 

The soft leather caressing her body brought out a sigh of contentment as she turned the pages of her favorite paper back.  "Hummm I think I'm gonna change my name to Sierra X...yeah," she chuckled to herself.  Hours later, her eyelids grew increasingly heavy as the words on the page blurred, and her surroundings dimmed. The book now rested on her chest as her breathing changed signaling that sleep had now claimed her opening the way for the dream-time to become her reality during the night.  Behind the closed eyelids, another world began to form; another era pushed its way to the foreground.  Silently she stood watching the activities unfolding before her.  Black people dressed in tattered and worn clothing.  A great sadness had engulfed them as they went about their task, hard and heavy work burdened their bodies bending their backs and breaking their spirits.  Everywhere she looked, she witnessed anguish and sorrow that felt contagious.  “I gotta get outta here,” she said looking around desperately, "how do I get outta here?"  The next thing she knew; she felt strong hands grabbing her.  "What da hell do you think you’re doing...jus standing around like you ain’t got nothing to do," the voice said.  As she turned around to meet the face that spoke, she was shocked as she was man handled.  "This niggra needs a lesson bout wasting time on this here plantation oughta throw you to the gators in them swamps," he said spitting the wad of brown saliva on the ground from the chewing tobacco; red faced and obese she immediately recognized the man.  Utter disbelief fell over her like lead, as she was being drug toward the field.  She heard the others weeping calling out the name Shelby.  "Who is this Shelby? Are they referring to me?"  Then she was roughly thrown down to the ground as she looked up she saw three other faces she recognized standing over her; speechless and horrified she watched as a cowhide whip was cracked over her then suddenly a voice cried out," she's momma Tutu's!  Boy you don’t wanna do that," one of the white men said.  "Well she ain't got no cause standing round shiftless wit fields needing tending to," he said spitting on the ground again, "get up niggra," he shouted as the others laughed at him.  The familiarity was eerie their faces she had known but how? Moments later the white men left and a large broad boned woman almost the color of night picked her up from the ground as if she were a rag doll.  Her speech was strange yet familiar.  The melodic accent told her that she was different.  She felt powerful and strong.  Soon others gathered around her.  Their warmth was comforting to her.  "Their faces," she thought to herself," I know these faces, but not from here," she mumbled as the terror drifted away from her.  "I know you...I know all of you," she said.

"Of course you do girl...much as ol man Reese and momma tutu been looking after you...keeping you outta trouble," a young man said laughing. 

"Awe now Rufus stop teasing her."

"No...I know you from somewhere else." she insisted until the ring of an annoying phone woke her from the dream.

"Woooo," she said still startled and amazed from the dream's content, breathing heavy looking around wide eyed as if the players of the dream would reappear again to confirm her thoughts as she ignored the ringing phone.  "Damn what time it is?" She strained to see the illuminated digital numbers reading 7 am.  "Damn on my day off…gimme a break," she said sitting up with the book still in her hand.  "Awe man what'da hell?  Her mind raced trying to make sense of the dream and all of its players.  Bit by bit it all came back to her, the pieces began to fall in place sounds, smells, feelings, and emotions.  She rubbed her forehead as more of the pieces of the dream returned to her.  "The 1700s?  No, that can't be right."  Then more and more of the dream's scenery flashed in her mind's eye confirming her worst thoughts, hitting her hard leaving her feeling dumbfounded.
 "A slave...I was a slave?"  Her face frowned as she wrapped her mind around the concept.  Glancing down at the book, she still held questioning its contents as to weather or not the book had influenced her dream.  "That's impossible I've read Malcolm's stuff a hundred times over...and it never made me dream I was a slave before," she mumbled, and then a familiar face came to the forefront dropping her heart into her stomach.  Then all of a sudden she remembered a fear so intense flooding over her, rough calloused hands that man handled her throwing her to the ground as if she were nothin more then trash.  Remembering the faces of her tormentors that stood over her, she could feel bile rising up in her throat.  She fought back the urge to expel her early morning stomach contents.  "Sonuvabitch!!! The white boys just transferred...but how can that be?"  Bewilderment and disbelief rendered her almost motionless, still sitting on the couch.  "Could this be De Ja Vu? I knew it was something about them that just didn't sit right...damn," she said getting up to pace the floor.  "No, this can't be right, I must be tripping." Just then, the phone rang again; sucking her teeth with a sigh she picked up the cordless phone to check the LCD screen W. Jackson read across the miniature window.  "Oh cool...yo...you ain't gonna believe this dream I had...man it was the weirdest," she said becoming silent as the words from the other end demanded her silence.  Seriousness then etched across her face.  "What? You gotta be shitting me...you too... no way Jackson...no way.  This is too weird...what...who...momma C."  Then she remembered among all the faces one stood out clearly, it was the one that picked her up from the ground.  "Momma Tutu they called her," she mumbled to herself, forgetting she was still on with Jackson.  Then another familiar face came to her, "Serg too," she said snapping from her waking dream state.  "Yo...Jackson.  "Alright see you in a little bit," she said hanging up the phone.

what'cha doing now...I'm coming over...we gotta talk," she said pausing for a response from

I hoped you enjoyed this excerpt from book two of the series
"To Avenger and Resurrect"  available at amazon.com
 http://astore.amazon.com/wwwicosochch-20 and you can visit me at
www.wix.com/soyinkaiyabo/chaoschronicals