Something is holding me Back

AuthorHouse

Contents

Something is Holding me Back............................1Messenger of Change.....................................8Flashback...............................................13Door of the Sheep.......................................17Manuscript of a Maniac..................................30For Granted.............................................39Too Disgusted to go to Work.............................44Self-Fulfilling Prophesy................................49Flabbergasted...........................................55Man in the Trunk of His Car.............................60Just Keep Reading It'll Come to You.....................65The Interview...........................................74The Longest Tantrum.....................................81Who is God..............................................86Nepotism................................................90

Chapter One

I have degenerated; degraded by a phenomenon called, Desire. I am a black sex locomotive and an, otherwise, worthless negro. She does with me what she pleases. How can she know she is evil? Right and wrong do not exist in her world. How can she understand she is evil? There is no one to correct her. How can the ignorant question the [so-called] intellectual, or the impoverished, the wealthy? She is her own law-giver.

When I mount her she beats vehemently upon my chest, she scratches and screams. Her icy eyes tell me she hates me for bringing such unique pain & pleasure to her frozen libido. She beckons me, sinks French manicured nails into the small of my back. I pump more ferociously, delivering thrust after thrust, after thrust, after thrust, after thrust, after thrust, after thrust, until she finally collapses into unconsciousness. She is a slave to my phallus.

* * *

For this long I have resided in this place. No longer a journeyman, I am now a prisoner, redefined by a different species of beauty. A beauty consumed by desire. A beauty most do not consider as such, for her motives are misplaced. My days and nights are symmetrical. Darkness is my greatest constant. This darkness resembles the primitive womb I evolved from many moons ago, before she called me out of my identity.

But here within this cold concrete, whether I be her black, powerful sex machine, her barbaric negro, or even her sovereign prince, if I do not transcend this place, if I do not walk those stairs, if I do not exit that door - but where on earth shall I go? I built this house, and the one next to it, as well as the one down the street.

She does not acknowledge my work, my labor. She says it could have been- even should have been- done differently, better. Those black dots in my eyes have become so discombobulated that I cannot tell the difference. Truth be told, quiet as kept, this is why I am here. My own possibilities are too bright for me. I fear I may not be able to adjust, and even if I could and did, then what? Are there others in these dismal crypts? Will they hear my story, be inspired, dare to tread forbidden ground? Or will the thought of meeting such light cause them to curse me for sharing those things that have become so unattainable? But I am a living testimony! And my master was a most vicious, cruel one. Today I have another master that I have begun to nurture and appreciate. So much that that evil master starved of my attention and I marched out of that murky basement and burst thru those doors as a new-born being born again!

Ahh, they would not listen. Their surrogate mother has their loyalty. I am but a has-been, a reflection of past greatness, and no one cares what was great on yesteryear. I might as well merge with my jailor, love and procreate with my persecutor, screw her brains out, forbid her to leave me and withhold my hypnotic phallus from her if she disobeys.

If she raises her hand to strike me, I shall not strike back, but instead dodge her licks. I will not abuse her in that style. I will be unmoved by her, only look at her from time to distant time. I will look thru her when I mount her, look past her when I pass her. Our offspring will have more of me; I am the richer, the original. She will not win because I will not fight. I will assume a position all my own. One so concentrated, so confident, so perfectly focused, that my discipline shall inevitably drive her to me, to embrace me or attack me, or completely drive her away.

* * *

Tis' a wet day outside; spinning rubber meets sparkling pavement. Steam rises from the sun-burnt asphalt.

Tis' a wet day outside (outside of this flipside). My window of view has grown smaller to my hungry eyes. So I close them. I smell the freshly fallen rain. I hear the rustling raincoats of children as they mimic the hero characters emblazoned so colorful upon their "shield from the inclement."

Alas, I am weary. My body aches to be kissed by the cooling droplets of sky juice. As I lay my sweaty frame down atop this narrow cot I think back over all I forgot and remember to write down my plans next time. And thinking of which, I must prepare myself, my soul, for soon she shall enter. Enter with a very strong expectation to achieve a surreal relaxation. Her confusion will prevent such a height. She is twisted by her own convictions. She searches for resolution outside of her and therefore can never have it. As her search will only send her in endless circles. And she circles back to me almost daily. I am detested by her because I bring her to the brink of bliss.

We are in love with one another, yet it differs in aspects. I no longer hate her for this sub-human imprisonment. Today, I am capable of exiting this man-made purgatory. But I have convinced my own self that she needs me. I misbelieve that I can get thru to her, defrost her sub-zero prejudices and sweat out of her every impurity, watch hate, murder, lewdness, theft, flow like overdue extract from her vanilla skin.

The impossibility of my mission has hypnotized the loyalty of my heart, commanded the focus of my time.

My passion is sustained by my very suffrage ...

* * *

She took away my family, pillaged my territory. Sick actions make pale skin ugly. Here she comes. Exotic fragrance seduces me before the door creaks. She takes off her shoes at the door; the softest feet. Her hair is thin, stringy. Yet it smells of fresh cinnamon, completely blonde, matching her skin.

What will she say to me today, words, or will her clear blue eyes study my sweaty bulk? The footsteps have ceased. She's at the door. I hear one shoe hit the floor, then the other.

The knob turns very slowly. No key is required. Why would she lock it when she knows I will not leave?

She enters. Firm, bare breasts led by powder pink nipples. A petite frame carrying a tunnel whose entrance is made of thick, tender folds of flesh.

I open my eyes and see her there, beside my cot, breathing calmly. Her face is without expression, yet she seems pleasant. She straddles me and covers me with soft kisses.

Her lips are supple. Icy lips meeting muscles channeling blood of fire succeeds in warming her while calming me. My massive hands all but hide her small head as she bobs upon my head.

While her brain-filled head flutters with colors of smoke blue I seemed to slowly be transported into a space of endlessness.... This is That Moment! "Earth to slave!" Not at this moment, for this is That Moment.

All of my senses are One. I remind my mind not to mind the time, this time of sick subjugation, cultural degradation. No need to mind this time of sleeping with the adversary. Providence is indeed on my side.

I can feel the warmth of her straining throat. She comes up slowly. Our eyes meet. She frowns. Narrow lips lower onto my weapon until my hopeless victim can no longer breathe ...

As she struggled to exhale I could smell the stench of the trenches of her soul which reeked of sour history. I thought she would pull her hair from its root. Meeting the fall of her tunnel, admiring the shiny glisten she left with each rise.

I lifted myself forcefully, hoping to puncture her blackened heart that that murky infection would leak out thru pale pores. I am imprisoned by the steel bars & mortar of my imagination, my optimism. Must pump harder. Pink walls massage me but I must go deeper.

I must fill her womb. Flood her intestines so that she shits that view of me down pipes, pipes that lead to oblivion.

I must crucify my victim [the only way I believe I can] until she bleeds. My Love needs purification. Her screams pierce my ears like many daggers. I am no longer here. The whip! The whip! Yes, this is your redemption: Phenomenal phallus to your sacrilege rescue by way of sadistic strategy to slay you with superfluous sex. See sangria run like the hell it contains!

These eyes opened to see my Love totally under my power; my, how the tables have turned. That same whipping post that once, times four hundred, soaked up my sweat, my blood, my snot, is now taming this infamous tamer.

I rise to take a breast in my mouth. Sweet perspiration stings my hungry tongue. Aggressive teeth make my Love moan, hug my neck. She grips my robust locks and is instantly energized.

I spin. My bare feet touch the cold floor; a hand on each cheek of my Love's boney backside. I stand. We share a kiss so intimate. We pull at each other's tongue. Inhale. Exhale. She licks my full lips. I press into her. Her eyes close ...

I imagine she is dreaming, visualizing a place without metes & bounds, a place where race is not two-faced; a place where class and caste are absentee; a place where our taboo love is not political.

She looks so peaceful. I stroke her with the gentleness of a caring companion, careful not to interrupt her trance. I imagined her visualizing pure ecstasy not tainted by pre-judging stares, sarcastic gestures, non-stop whispers ... I, too, began to drift.

I imagined murdering her before she castrates my father, carving her neck before she cuts my unborn sister from my dear mother's womb.

My anger escalated and my thrusts became long and deep. I imagined my phallus being a Kemetian sword, slicing the very fragile organs my victim needs to survive. Her fatigued legs wrapped around my trim waist as I bent my knees and strove to puncture a lung, burst a kidney.

Dizziness causes me to stagger. We fall upon a nearby pile of soiled linen, my blood levels. I look down at my victim. I see the familiar look of fear. She is anticipating the terrible pain of which I am about to happily inflict.

She is frozen, stuck, staring at me, and attempting to brace herself. I kiss her knee, her calf. I lick her ankle, the arch of her foot. I suck each toe.

Gripping her ankles, pushing until thighs touch breast, big toes touch temples. I fuck my Love- without pity.

Her gorgeous pale face is now the prettiest pink. Her clear blue eyes are squeezed tightly shut. I bite her heel feeling my Holy Water about to erupt. Three last deadly strokes: one for Father, one for Mother and one for all those like me. With the last stroke our bodies meet and I hold them there, with her nails digging into my lower back. I fill her with the blood of my Ancestors ...

* * *

Everything is a haze. Paralysis appears to be our justification for sulking in each other's wet. I finger her soggy blonde strings to the side of her flushed face. I am reminded of the deafening peace just before a tremendous storm. What would be the actions of this pale twister once exhaustion had run its course?

I concluded to do what I had not done before. Rather than hold my Love tightly in my arms, I got up and moved away from her. Drying myself I look at her lying atop the stiff pile of plum-colored sheets; her thin body a white blotch.

Sitting on my cot I question myself: something is holding me back, I wonder what is that? She never has to again wake to this world, but would that satisfy this void that is lodged so deeply within my being? Something is holding me back from simply walking away. Where will I go? Maybe it is time to start anew.

How did the very object that imprisoned me, committed the most treacherous of genocides against me, now be the very apple of my eye? I have no intelligent response to these dense inquiries. I know no one to call on. If the proper answers lie within my Self, then that truth would make me my own God. But what is that?

I take a fresh blanket from the chest and cover my victim's body. I began to set things in an organized manner. After setting things straight I sit on my cot with my latest reader. It is full of science-fiction short stories. At the moment I am reading "To Prune Hell's Garden." The protagonists are Gaffle Dey, the supposed hero of Truth, and, Jabril Hell, a labeled insane scientist who is bent on controlling what he calls "beastly humans." Hell has discovered a small planet approximately nine thousand miles below Earth. He's respectively named his planet, Hell's Garden. It was once rumored that Hell was the descendent of an exceptional genius and divine ruler. He was said to have been taught the mysteries of existence and given the keys to the Universe.

But young Jabril grew tired of dealing with so many imbeciles who had not been shaped and molded to be producers and organizers. He grew so sick, in fact, that he set about constructing a secret laboratory where he restlessly sought the perfect plan to eliminate those useless, beastly beings, and cultivate the perfect man. Young Jabril realized that rather than eradicate them all, he could choose the choice ones, take them elsewhere and reshape, remold their underdeveloped minds. Hence the start of Operation: Hell's Garden.

Just a moment, my Love is awakening. I do not move. She arises slowly and stretches and sharply asks me, while rolling those clear eyes, what the hell am I looking at? Her words are likened to the hottest syrup that has been boiling for hours and then is poured ever so slowly onto the flesh of an already wounded man.

I lower my head back to my reader, lifting it just in time to receive a glance of my Love's departing. Maybe I should be numb to her behavior after such an extended period, but I am not. I tell myself I am to blame. I should have lasted longer, kissed her harder, more passionately. I should have ... A few more pages and I shall be asleep myself. I am too drained at the moment to psychologically analyze these unorthodox circumstances. Until the next time, my Love ...

Jabril has excelled in space travel and comes up on a relatively small, awkward planet of a dirty, red aura, just below Earth. He finds this planet is already inhabited, yet its residents are handicapped in comparison to his own mental capabilities. He befriends these aboriginals and learns their culture. Ever so often he would return to his space craft and form theories and possibilities. Hell decidedly makes this planet his home and sets out to destroy the older, more mature, inhabitants, and exclusively use the youngest of the young to conduct his experiment.

There is a woman. Her complexion is that of burnt clay. There is no way of telling her age. She was indescribably beautiful to him and clearly wiser than all the others he'd encountered. They'd talk for long periods at a time and he was enchanted by her grace and intellect. She was versed in poetry, war, and government.

One night while back aboard his ship Jabril wondered to himself. He was not trained to deal with his own emotions, yet he had never encountered such a specimen as this. She could prove to be his greatest ally, or his worst enemy. He fully knew he had no room for error. To even over contemplate the obvious went against his logic. It was understood: the woman must die, first. She must die violently that Hell be the natural choice for total dictatorship.

My eyelids are heavy. I lay down with my reader beside my head. I fall into a deep sleep, quickly. I dream of me and my Love engaging in bloody battle. With heavy swords we open each other up in the worst of ways.

I wonder will this madness ever end?!!

Messenger of Change

"Be not deceived; God is not mocked. For whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust ..."

Mother never spoke another word after the burial of her husband. Neighbors knew he was a chronic drinker and assumed he'd burned himself up. They knew Louise's life had gone downhill ever since Luther Wright had entered her life nine years earlier. Luke's drinking increased drastically no sooner than Louise's womb began to swell with Martha.

Good grief, what about Martha?! What traumatic experiences that child must've endured. Her youthful face gave no hint of what might be within her mind. Even if one did know what had happened in that little shack, what now lied ahead, what could be done? The abusive prints upon her psyche were beyond the comprehension of the nave community, with their conventional beliefs and mundane culture.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Something is holding me Backby Othello BornEl Copyright © 2010 by Othello BornEl. Excerpted by permission.
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