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 

The 7th

"Welcome to district number 7, the house of pain...cause this is gonna be a pain in your ass if you don't like black folks....and by the redness of your faces I ain't far off the mark.  Oh by the way...the welcome wagon that just left here that's sergeant Richards and he's got an intolerance for intolerance.  I take it that that's how you all ended up down here in the shit hole," said Byron Shields with a broad grin.

"Look buddy...it was just an overtime detail...what's the big deal."

"The big deal is the shit hitting the fan big time," Ron said with his feet propped up leaning back in a chair that groaned beneath his weight.  Byron Shields nick named Ron the 6-year vet had dreams of becoming a stand up comedian; comic relief was his goal until the hands of fate turned his life in another direction.  His father’s unfortunate death left his family in dire need.  Raised to be self-sufficient and responsible he assumed the responsibilities of being the provider in the house stepping into his father’s shoes in his early twenties.  He possessed the face of a teenager, and that’s where his co-workers made their mistake of underestimating him.  Most times, they were made an example of by a serious tongue-lashing that was equivalent to Red fox or Richard Pryor harassing their audiences.

 "I See you white boys cutting your eyes at me...don't be hating because you fucked up on TV."

"Ron...shut- the-hell- up," said a soft voice by the window attempting to suppress a laugh, “don’t nobody wanna here your bull shit early in the morning."

"Yeah man...it's too early for your shit," another sleepy voice responded.

"Aw you just mad because you can't live at the gym...ya Shaka Zulu looking-" 

The door swung open with the Richards returning to the podium.  The frown on his face automatically announced bad news.  "Aw man...here we go," mumbled Wade Jackson, "guess I ain't getting to the gym today either...damn."

 Richards stood there momentarily thinking to himself how to be the bearer of bad news, but he knew there was no way around it, "ok it's been brought to my attention that extra coverage is needed on the South end...as per captain's orders we are to cover that area until further notice"

"With what?  We're already stretched like a rubber band," Jackson said letting out a sigh.

"We're just gonna have to make do...like the chief says do more with less."

"Yeah but he ain't out here making do is he?"

"Look Jackson don't piss on my already bad day...you wanna stay in this piss hole...huh...bad plumbing, bad electrical.  Fucking crack heads running around messing around with your vehicles.  I don't know about you, but I'm tired of having to crack skulls on the way off duty.  Look it's a huge construction sight with a lot of building materials laying around."

"They need to secure their shit then," said a salty female voice from the rear of the room.

"Don't start with me Max," he said glaring at the 19-year vet.

"Look I know it's a lot but the higher ups thought with so much controversy around the site It'd be a good idea to have some extra man power around it, not to mention we'd be more familiar in that location when we do relocate."  The tension in the room seemed to lighten at the mention of relocating.

 "New guys...my office...the rest of you know the drill.  Be safe stay safe, and make it home safe."  Clearly offended by the black sergeant’s commanding and take-charge attitude the newly transferred cops felt a well of collective hate against the seasoned sergeant rising up threatening to spill over.  Their eyes could not help but to express their contempt in taking orders from him.  As the others were leaving out for their daily patrol assignments Sierra Sheldon happen to glance back; feeling eyes on her back she noticed the cold and steely stare coming from the newly reassigned transferred Jim Wagner.  She held his stare until he looked away.  "What the hell is his problem," she said feeling an uncomfortable familiarity about him.  There was something she disliked about him that went back further then the fiasco the day before.  “Creep."

"Com'on woman...wha'cha dragging for...its coffee time," Jackson said tugging at her shirtsleeve.

"Alright...alright...I'm coming," she said to her partner of the last 18 months.  Outside the sun had begun to rise up over the horizon.  The cruisers began surging their way to life as officers with clipboards seated themselves in vehicles with mileages that could write a book telling stories the average person could not begin to imagine.  Sierra and Jackson have witnessed more unusual and bizarre incidents in their short careers then the average person would see in a lifetime.

Jackson sat behind the wheel; his young face etched in the concentration of the thoughts that saturated his mind.  "Yo ...what's up with the day dreaming," Sierra asked as she started the daily patrol log, starting with the vehicle’s mileage, "hey I thought you were in a rush for your caffeine fix?"

"Ya know something...there's something about them white boys...can’t put my finger on it, but for some reason I don't trust'em, and I don't lik’em...don’t ask me why I just don't."

"Duuuuh maybe because they don't like people like us...ya think?"

"No...  Besides that.  It's something that just ain't right.  They just got here and already I can't stand'em...ya know...just forget it I'm probably just tripping."

"Well can we trip over to the dinner and get some coffee before the bullshit starts?  I'll put us in service in ten minutes...so com'on already."

***

Samuel Richards sat behind a cluttered desk full of memos, directives, incident reports ,patrol logs, overtime sheets, and a ringing phone; agitated and annoyed he answered, "7th....Richards," he said exasperated, "ok let me check I'm gonna put you on hold," he said stabbing at the red button and slamming down the receiver.  "God damn it give me a break," he said  hanging up from the phone eyeing the three patrolmen including the sergeant; again a strange and unpleasant feeling emerged as the four gazed back at him waiting for him to brief them so they could belittle him in the privacy of closed doors.

"Four re-assignments why do I get all the...never mind," he thought to himself looking over the files on his desk.  "Edwards...when did you make rank?"

"About a mouth now."

"An you’re down here in the shit already...who'd ya manage to piss off?"  The man's face turned beet red as the senior sergeant eyed him sensing the man's resentment.

"You're gonna be holding things down as the relief supervisor when I'm not here so I suggest you get familiar with the system here.  We got a way of doing things here in the 7th, so you can throw all that other crap out the window.”  Edwards felt like an open book swallowing hard before speaking, "there was a misunderstanding that's all."

"That's not what I'm reading here...if you're trying to make a name for yourself here to take back to your good ol boys club I strongly suggest you don't...AM I clear?"

"Crystal."

"Fine the other side of the squad room through the double doors to the right set up shop....desk, locker, phone...all waiting for ya.  I'll be there in a minute to get you computer access.” 

Still steaming Edwards turned without responding as animosity and resentment coiled around him like a snake; having to answer to a black man only stoked the already burning anger.  "What was the department coming to," he thought to himself as he turned the doorknob to the small office that seemed barely large enough for a desk let along two.  Richards failed to mention he would be sharing the space with Sergeant E. Michaels.  Briefcase in hand he stared at the other desk in its neatly maintained area free of dust, file bens neatly stacked with other office supplies housed by a more modern desk compared to his.  Edwards looked over to the area that was to be his space.  The almost antique wooden desk covered in dust, old paint cans, brushes, and dirty rags made his blood boil keeping his face a constant shade of deep red.

“Oh I see you found your desk and everything ok I’ll get the janitor to get it cleaned up for ya," the corporal said holding back a snicker, "oh…the captain wants you to come and sign for your training date," the corporal’s heavily Latino accented voice said.  Shaking with anger he never turned around to face the corporal, and continued to speak with his back turned, "what training?"

"Oh they didn't tell you... anger management and diversity training," he said closing the door.  To add insult to injury not only was it embarrassing to him having his good ol boys see him tossed down to what he considered the slums; now he had to be told how to properly interact with those he considered beneath him.  "Damn it," could the day get any worse he thought to himself.

Back in Richards's office, the remaining three grew anxious; not knowing their fate; being re-assigned to a predominately-mixed community.

 "You three hold tight for a minute," Richards said getting up from his desk looking out the window into the parking lot," SONUVABITCH," he growled jetting out of the office leaving the three bewildered, moments later loud shouting could be heard from the window.  The three went to the open window to see what the commotion was.

"Get the hell outta this god damned lot before I crack your crack head ass skull,” he shouted to an individual dressed in winter clothing in the middle of summer.  The layers of dirt made it hard to distinguish the man's racial identity

"Ooooh if it isn't one of my missing slaves."

"Get your crazy ass up outta here," Richards bellowed loud enough for it to be heard by anyone in the area.  "Oh shit is this what we got to look forward to; working down here in the 7^th," Halaski asked looking at the others in disgust.

"What the hell is that?”  Barnes was horrified at the man's appearance.

"The hell if I know...I can't tell...it's a dirty bastard...I know that much."

"It's a crazy ass ...an I betcha there's a whole lot more of'em out there," Halaski said smirking

"Damn spades out there and in here...I'll be damned...if my great great grand daddy was alive this shit would kill'em for sure."

"Yeah well he's probably turning in his grave like the rest of our dead kin.  Damned hood coons in charge of shit...I'll be damned if I didn't have to...

"Ok everybody back to business," the sergeant said entering back into the office rubbing his knuckles. 

"What was that about," Wagner asked.

"Listen up...out here...watch your vehicles when ya work mid nights...that white boy out there has been known to try vandalize our cars...locked'em up a dozen times... stunk up the place to high heavens...couldn't get the smell out for weeks.  So now when we see'em around our cars we just tune'em up an he's on his merry way; real nut job...thinks he's in the 18th century...in colonial times... back on some plantation. I got his god damned slave alright," Richards growled.

"He's a white man," the three said in unison shocked and appalled. 

I hope you have enjoyed Another reality written for your 3rd eye where fact sounds like fiction and fiction sounds like fact

This was an excerpt from the 5 book series "To Resurrect and Avenge" 

now available at amazon.com   http://astore.amazon.com/wwwicosochch-20