“Bottlemouth” by Justin Haynes
Q: [tapping the photograph] Where’s the little girl? Where’s Anisa Quashie?
A: We do not know Anisa Quashie.
Q: [tapping the photograph] Where’s the little girl? Where’s Anisa Quashie?
A: We do not know Anisa Quashie.
When I was younger, visiting my aunt’s house was an adventure.
He used to beat she like a snake. When he done, she skin so black and blue and swell she look just like the Southern Main Road. . .
“I’m sorry.” It was a simple statement, filled with honesty and sadness, but truth was evident in the man’s voice . . .
Tina knew she shouldn’t have gone to that party with Robert . . .
We scampered across the assembly hall to peep out of the wooden louvered windows of our primary school, hoping to catch a glimpse of the parents as the cars pulled up across the street at the porte cochere of the Members Club to deposit their passengers . . .
It was almost dawn when a loud shriek of anguish and pain could be heard at the end of Guayaguayare village . . .
“J’Ouvert morning is when the angels and demons dance,” PaPa had said. His words were on a loop in Viv’s head as she made her way through the crowds on Back Street in Kingstown. Daylight had caught the night, melting dark tendrils until they turned grey . . .