Join Free! | Login    
   Popular! Books, Stories, Articles, Poetry
Where Authors and Readers come together!


Featured Authors:  Michael Charles Messineo, iJohn McCoy, iW. Craig Reed, iDenise Richardson, iDavid Snowdon, iHugh McCracken, iBrad Bathgate, i

  Home > Literary Fiction > Stories
Popular: Books, Stories, Articles, Poetry     

ria takharu

· + Follow Me
· Contact Me
· Articles
· Poetry
· Stories
· 9 Titles
· Save to My Library
· Share with Friends!
Member Since: Dec, 2009

ria takharu, click here to update your pages on AuthorsDen.

Featured Book
Cooking 4 One
by Peter Mulraney

An introduction to cooking for men who find themselves living alone...  
BookAds by Silver
Gold and Platinum Members

Sunday Morning Resurrection
By ria takharu
Tuesday, December 08, 2009

Rated "G" by the Author.

Share    Print  Save   Follow

Short story written in 2003. Ria Takharu.



She looked at him as he asked her, “Do you still have that black and mild?”

The room darkly lit coiled in the midst of white sage to ward off the demons that seemed to follow him from house to house. It was a dark luck he swore the devel was responsible for “always stealing his joy”. He was a preacher but didn’t know it. He was in his baby’s mother’s home. The mother of his beloved baby girl whom he said he could never abandon the way this parents had abandoned him.

“Come on, you know you my wife, my Queen.” His words had slapped her sharply reminding her of their disintegrating love affair. Those words were sacred to Khara. Heart-felt sensations of deep love and loyalty that should have lasted a lifetime. He called her his wife at his leisure, but that was before and this was the end. In mid conversation, Khara’s eyes had cut him as these words had dispassionately fallen from his lips.

“How dare you say that?” she simmered glaring at his slender six foot frame.

Khara chanted in a slow low tone, “Naw, I smoked that!” Now she was lying.

She eyed him sitting long legged in the chair head bent rolling his joint, swaying to ska rythms and chants echoing, “First you a dread, then you a bald head. Jah weed them out.”

By the way he played the drum she felt he was isolated in a painful rhythm. She could see his spirit wander to a green hill surrounded by God and feeling no pain. She guessed he had all ready had a few joints before arriving for dinner by his display of internal gestures. He could never turn down her home cooked meals.

At the height of their love affair, she would awake from a deep sleep, hearing the familiar tap at the front door. He would come home after his early morning shift smiling red-eyed peeling off his clothes and heading for the shower. Their small apartment filled with the satisfying scents of Nag Champa incense and sweet honeyed yams, coconut rice and peas, and curried collard greens. She called him “Lion” because his mane was long-locked and smelled of a sensual enticing blend of frankinsense, cinnamon and sex. She called him “Lion” because he reminded her of the ancient African-Nubian sphinx and other royal Chango kings whoes nose etched across stones of old Mexico, Africa and India. She called him “Lion” because she herself was a “Lioness”, the daughter of Ra and needed the love a Black man deep inside her soul.

“You are a God, Lion, ” she would whisper starring into his royal Nubian profile. She lived the poetry of love she professed to him, “To Awaken in the Arms of a Lion” a book of poetry dedicated to their love, “Your rhythm is just what i need/reggae dub beats Burning Spear/”African must be free”.

Her love was a rush of heightened passion seeing “truth” in this man’s eyes. A reflection of what she sensed in herself; a prayer she summoned from the Most High. He was her salvation–instantaneous gratification. Failing to breathe from the previous five-year long relationship, she had just severed, she fell into bliss with this Newbein’ man. But for her, love was like that, years of trying to figure out the needs and necessary pieces to make it work, then the cool-spined break at the height of all exhausted possibilities, never looking back to what-ifs or regrets.

Khara’ s mind drifted through dark tunnels beneath the earth. Sounds of fast mechanical entities flying at unseen speeds. It was ad if monotony played its usual drudging monotone beats. Then a break of light; 79th and Lexington appeared to drift into her consciousness. Feelings of happiness overshadowed the darkness felt just a moment before. Life in New York hadn’t been easy, but had left soulful impressions of laughter, love and a constant high of enthusiasm for life that she found difficult to amass in this city of circles. Life had definitely changed. She learned deep lessons about love and respect for self on her journey of love in man.

She longed for happiness, that light-hearted feeling, she had experienced in the dirty apple. The stress weighted in her heart in this city. The constant battles of emotional instability she was holding onto. It was this uncertainty and engrossing tidal waves that had bound her to him. She had held on to the dead dreams they once shared.

Dead dreams had filled her spirit ever since she could remember. As a child, these dead dreams were falsely planted like alien hybrid elements in the very core of her existence. They were not her dreams alone but imposed upon her like weights. She believed in them, for her clones were real, tangible, and necessary for her being. The illusion that perception is real; not knowing the true components of happiness, of becoming a whole person.

Thoughts of a new life emerged into her mind and flushed joy throughout her body. These healing lessons were powerful blessings. For these blessings represented her greatest growth and the evolution she had finally learned to accept. To accept the responsibility of knowing the truth. As a child, she had rebelled againts her visions after seeing the raw truth. The truth was not only liberating it was shockingly painful. She was young and truth frightened her fearful. Her ignorance believed that her gift was a curse and a burden she was too young to bear. It was by her own words that she suffered so greatly and for so many years. To submit to the Highest truth, would change her life forever. Doing so in this District, the last plantation, would be a significant part of her personal prophecy. It was coming ‘home’ to the place she had run from.

Living a righteous life in New York City was a test of spiritually-rooted strength. Meditating at the age of ten and perfecting her Gift of Vision was a sign that she could exist between the Duat, the realms of being and deep understanding. Her sacred rites of passage graduated and elevated her from speaking in twisted fragmented tongues of broken rhythms into the sacred ebb of sacral waters of creativity and communal responsibility. It was still another accomplished feat of personal power and Ancestor-guided potential.

Looking forward among the many dead faces bought Khara into a trance. Fasting, she thought, was truly the way of getting closer to the Earth Creator. The body has the opportunity to quiet itself and you could hear and see between the realms of the living. The was real, not dead, not a dream. This part was so clear to her now. Red Earth had revealed Herself to Khara, the lioness initiate priestess, daughter of Ra, the Sa Ra, the Mother of this Earth. She was the seed, blossoming through her visions– the change and empowerment necessary to make her being whole; to truly be human in the Universe. She had opened herself to the gateway forever.


Want to review or comment on this short story?
Click here to login!

Need a FREE Reader Membership?
Click here for your Membership!

Popular Literary Fiction Stories
1. The Predator
2. Baggage
3. Closed
4. The Messenger
5. Italian Tale
6. Bui Doi (The dust of life)
7. Bacground Material for Israela
8. Take Me, I'm Free (Flash Fiction)
9. Final Sky, sample chapters
10. Dogs Will Bark: Weekly short 11/24/2014

Pastiche:Stories and Such by Lucille

collection of stories, essays and poetry. Several are award winners...  
BookAds by Silver, Gold and Platinum Members

Van Gogh's Peasant by Steven Ulmen

I refer to Vincent Van Gogh's nameless, faceless image simply as "Van Gogh's Peasant." Like a ghostly specter he centers Van Gogh's canvas, locked forever in the endless task of ha..  
BookAds by Silver, Gold and Platinum Members

Authors alphabetically: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z

Featured Authors | New to AuthorsDen? | Add AuthorsDen to your Site
Share AD with your friends | Need Help? | About us

Problem with this page?   Report it to AuthorsDen
AuthorsDen, Inc. All rights reserved.