James Hackett

Orientation today kinda drained me a bit (next time I will have breakfast). Thought it would be a simple process of just going to hear a few officials speak, get some documents. Boy was I so wrong.

However, despite that sinking feeling of my time going away, I am pretty much excited to get to work on my degree. I am part of the first batch of students to study Fashion and Design in the Caribbean and the pressure is on all involved to perform well. The world and the faculty heads are bearing down on us newbie students to make the inaugural programme a success.

I think we can do it. The teachers seem very excited and passionate about making this work, I just want to meet their expectations. I have a lot of high standards to meet. More later!

So I kept saying that I was working on Daaknite and didnt really show anything much other than a few sketches from Papa Bois Mama Dglo and others. Well here we have Tales from the Daaknite: The Coronation.

The Coronation takes several years after the last adventures of keston, Kayla and Rhonda. Things are changing again for the darker and it is up to our trio and some new allies from the Gods to help them out.

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Apparantly the police is all over a youtube video, now down, that was published in our local newspapers today. Seems like some local version of a ganster video has made quite a stir, with the rappers from Laventille in Trinidad (usually synonymous with gang related culture).

Obviously a violent gritty production it shows artist Shines (his peforming name) spewing out lyrics about killing “babylon” and all the other things that people that kill babylon do. No doubt inspired by popular American gangster rap all the way back to Niggas With an Attitude (NWA) these guys have managed to achieve popularity like no other street performer of this time.

These guys are probably in hiding from the police detectives currently looking for them, I just think the entire situation is hilarious since the local newspapers (Trinidad Express) transcribed the song in the papers. What kind of stupidness is that?

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Spent some hours learning WordPress. I kind of like it over Joomla now, simpler, less fussy; more or less how I want to deal with things these days. So yes I did over SHiZZiES, there are a couple things missing like most of my links, the folklore section and what not but I will add those over slowly (no one was reading the Folklore stuff anyways -cryface).

However this new interface is fun and should be friendlier to new and old readers.

I am basically counting down the days before school starts I will be starting my Fashion Degree next month, eeek! Before that begins I plan to update some new stories coming to SHiZZiES’ line up aside from the Pooraj and Mammoo comic, in development we have a Soap Opera styled story coming and the new Daaknite Episodes and finally Warren Leplatte’s Kalenda will be ongoing. See ya soon.

There was a dull ache between her legs. This pain intensified to a sting every time she moved. Deep inside her unreachable heart beat. All the love between them had ended but not the making love. They were very good at that.

It would seem as she lay on her side that the rapid jerk of his fly meant the lovemaking was over. She shut her eyes to think. Was there ever love here? She could hardly recall it. He did not kiss her when they had sex. He would say a lot of things but deep down she believed he was saving his love for someone else. The someone else who had taken the look out of his eyes, that special look of love. The thought was maddening.

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A ravenous full head of brownish red hair lay on the upstairs floor of the master bedroom. The woman it had been attached to lay motionless in a position that resembled a posable doll. With one knee bent and the other relaxed, ever so slightly raised at the knee, she might as well be lain out on Maracas for a tan. Except this living doll was not living at all. No, what I was witnessing was her dead body. At the wrists were purple and black bruises where rope had once been tied and one picture perfect tear was still wet on her cheek. About her neck was tied a neon green piece of fabric which had started its life out as a thong, her thong.
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3:00 am
Diego Martin
Seema flung a mass of straight jet black hair over her left shoulder. She stood in the far left corner of the bedroom, yanking on her underwear most probably this time, inside out. She is a tall figure, drenched in daubs of colour not discernable in the dark. Just like many nights before this one, she hurriedly put on her clothes in Challo’s bedroom.

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Sierra Leone Road, 2:00 a.m.

I have always liked to write in the dark, with my pen pressed to notepad, in the stillness of navy blue light streaming through large bay windows. Whether or not that is good for my eye sight however, is a topic for debate.

My name is Antonio. Some of you will already know that, and for others, I offer a firm handshake. The intent of writing this all down is to quench the insatiable choke hold that is seeking insanity. It is to prove to myself that all that is happening is real.
The dreams began a couple weeks after the accident.

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A soft lapping on the shore line, as waves roll wonderless and forgotten to wipe away the last footprints indelible in the sand. A navy sky is blanketed in a sparkle of stars that speckle endless as if carelessly dropped by a child. Cool breeze sways through several trees, welcoming the sweet slow sleep of the nearby patrons who have all turned in for the night never to see the beauty that is displayed in the mystery of dark.

Elsewhere I roll over in bed, waking to the spray of almost blue light streaming through the curtains. The shadows play along her hips and face as she snuggles more securely into the pillow. There is something peaceful here, something beautiful and peaceful and sacred. I reach to stroke her face, and all the hair that has covered her cheek. She rumbles, smiling and affects groggy words, “I am tryin to sleep, Dread”.
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Laventille

9: 00 p.m.

Sandy Brown applies the last of her lip gloss staring into the mirror as Tiba lies asleep in the bed.

Sandy is not her real name, and he has never really bothered to ask.

Coming to her feet, undoing a mass of curls with a hairbrush, she cannot help but think of the lifestyle she’d been enjoying.

He had offered her so much, most of these things had been goals of hers, things she could only have hoped would someday come. Of these gifts he had offered, and which she had politely refused were a house, a car, and a wedding ring.
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At least the new chair works just as I wanted it to. Thank goodness, otherwise that last kill may have gone differently. Another deserving soul on its way.

Being La Femme had its own satisfaction and right now I had no regrets, but Layla…was I still Layla?

Sigh did I want to be? She was so broken and still so empty, she had a purpose now and she was really hoping it would be enough.
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Perfumes this time.
Sensuous.
A sliver of scent with a pound of impact.
Here we go again.
Now I had an idea of why and instinctively knew where. She was in the room with me watching and waiting.
To be honest I didn’t give a fuck. This journey or whatever the hell it was, was not by my choice, it was thrust upon me without my consent or even knowledge of what was going on or what was to come.
No one asked what I wanted nor did they give me a choice.

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