FICTION: ‘Depth’


It has been a while since I have updated WordPress or given myself the time to unwind via herbal tea/cuddled up with a duvet, in some of the wonderful posts that favorite blogs/followers have been posting. My apologies! I need to be here once a week. Regardless of work duties and my usual running around, I have to, will do better! This is a short story inspired by the above prompt!!! ❤

Tingles outsourced from every cell in his body. Floating through his blood stream until every limb, lymph node and lobe felt lifted. Rising warmth seemed to cushion his whole existence and his favorite earthy, pungent aroma resonated around the room. The harsh, glacier winds outside were no match for the tropical wave of heat that kissed his skin. He rested his head back in his vintage love seat. His tattered and aged softspot. This was the seat that gave leeway to his legacy. The bustling, busy Lower East Manhattan streets that surrounded his studio apartment were of a decorated buzz, yet he could still hear the cat-calls and car horns of those outside. The alternative, artsy hub of New York. This wasn’t just any but the Saturday. Anxiety and adrenalin became a crescendo inside of him. It was time.

His smoke-laden windows created a miasma that would mirror the aftermath of a climatic love session. But this was his love. Alongside Science and Music Production, this vice enabled him to see trees of green in desolate days. Music Production gave birth to several underrated but classic tapes, CDs and slick, shiny vinyl that seemed to dance opposite him on his shelf. Science; excelled him to create his MPIC1000. The Music Projection Imagery Centre- the first device to visually project what people hear when under the influence. This was the test run. He had revisited, rewrote and revoked theories, equations and calculations over in his head. With his camera, situated on his tripod taping all as evidence, he was intoxicated on the herbal fumes. Yet still functional. He set up the four wires, situated in correspondence with each brain lobe. Delayed but meticulous and deliberate focus. He sunk into his chair. His senses heightening as his favorite substance cascaded itself over him like warm wax.

Heartbeat increasing, he turned on his MPIC. The magnetic wave of the smoke subdued his nervousness and the buzz that the MPIC generated was soon far away. He felt a  vibrational pull. A vinyl record of slow swing soul cracked and crooned in the distance. His computer screen flickered. Twice. Before he could force himself to move, the drug lulled him into a depth of relaxation. His loudening intuition suggested he wait. Utopia awaits.

Firstly, an array of monochrome pictures in crimson, cerulean, violet, sunflower gold and green speckled his room. Sailing and dancing through the air. 3D notes followed, appearing like the genetic coding of each solid object around him. They separated themselves from his picture frame, record player then window and the florescent notes hovered. Near the window, his Hawaiian plumeria flowers began to swelter. Somehow moist now, the yellow and pink leaves began to vibrate and seep in dewy pleasure, the flower’s core pulsating in an orgasmic convulsion. There was a word for that… He remembered. The biological name for the middle of a flower. ‘Stigma’. He heard. The word uttered by a sensual, female lower vocal register as the ‘ahh’ sound echoed and resounded with euphoric harmonies. Familiar. He felt a phallic reaction; arousal at nothing in particular. Scents of his wife blossomed out of nowhere. Demanding but not dire. A satisfactory, libidinous tingling. Even under intoxication, he remained faithful to her- his muse.

As the record progressed, the flavored baritone of the soul singer and his art of melisma sent chills down the scientist’s spine. The darkness seemed to carousel, while flashes of pearl cobblestones and neon shapes faded into the motion of the abyss. His wild locks swayed like palm trees. An incense named ‘Kemet’ burned with a vengeance, he smelled the sweet, spice-influx of the exotic, Egyptian musk. The scent reminding him of the word ‘pheromones’. Images of gold pavements, black soil, mango orange sunlight and regal civilizations pirouetted in and out of vision.

A sudden siren seared through his visions, causing his airborne counterparts to vanquish. He jumped up in shock. His pulse raced and his fingers, defensively seized into fists. A light flickered on and his wife ran in. His chest heaved and fell in double time. She saw his face, saw the machine and his computer and scolded herself for her unintended but startling intrusion. He unclenched his fists and gestured for her to sit on his lap.

“I’m sorry if I startled you. The smoke alarm came on. I can’t turn it off.” He rested his head in her welcoming chest, hunger suddenly claiming his taste buds and churning his eager stomach. High interrupted, yet not completely, he kissed her on the cheek and stood to follow the tantalizing aromas in the kitchen.
“How was the test run honey? Did it work?
He looked at the camera. Still recording. He was excited to see what was captured from both of his narcotic and musical trajectory. A creation that his wife jokingly deemed ‘too controversial’. Exhilaration rose at the possibilities that this machine would create worldwide.
“It mirrored you. It was perfect.”

FICTION: ‘Slur.’

Slur : This is a prompt I found via The Daily post. I believe that random prompts are an excellent method to challenge your creativity and gets the clocks ticking within your imagination. – @LHenrixx

They cuddled in their normal formation of ‘big spoon, little spoon’ as he jokingly called it. Him, in a foetal position, toned thighs gathered in unison near his stomach… With enough space left for her to sandwich her hands into his obliques. She loved those obliques. She, who stood a whole head and shoulders worth of height under him, snuggled toward his spine. A lavender and sea salt candle infused the room with a floral, musky smell. After a weekend of celebrating their wedding anniversary and two days until the bore of employment returned, they craved rest.

She always fell asleep before him. While many of her female friends failed to understand how she received any comfort that way (and jested much to his playful annoyance that she wore the pants in the relationship), she loved the quirky, unconventional displays of affection that they shared. He loved how beautiful and peaceful that she was when her body stopped fighting her nocturnal nature and allowed itself to submit to sleep.  Every morning, to her surprise, they woke up in the opposite position. Her, believing that it somehow ‘just happened’ and  him, smirking  mischievously as he purposefully waits for her to sleep before turning around.

Tonight was different. There is a difference between a couple that experiences real love and  a couple who are familiar with each other solely due to comfortability or convenience. True, organic love has an element of synchronization. From chemistry, to personality traits to intricate hypersensitivities. It was Summer. Everybody perspires, yet his scent was different. Not odorous or offensive. Just different. He had the same routine in terms of work, minimal social outings, same diet. The same action of relieving of his bladder at 3:03 am. Nightly.But somehow, his natural smell was different. Still a pleasure to her nose nonetheless. He had been lighting more candles in the house. He had also been reading before bed. Nothing alarming. All actions that many would overlook or fail to notice. But when two people are connected, nothing goes unnoticed.

She watched him sleep. Adored the curve in his spine that gave him the slightest hunched back. He was by definition, an alpha male yet was the most affectionate and anti- misogynistic man she had ever met. Even without aesthetics, their minds melded- from  humor to pet peeves to morals. They were a perfect match. She crept out of the bed, tiptoed down the hallway to fix herself a cup of Jasmine Tea. She bought the cup back to the room and rested it on her side of the bed side table. After taking a few mouthfuls of the fragrant, sweet liquid, she snuggled behind him and fell asleep.

The sound of breaking glass and a violent splash caused her to jump. Suddenly, hot, gripping hands constricted around her throat, as she struggled for breath. She opened her eyes and found him, on top of her with his eyes closed and a painful grimace on his face.

“I knew… it…. it was you!” He slurred. She faintly heard him through the mugginess of sleep and shock. She began to thrash her arms wildly against his torso, mustering whatever strength her body could give.

“Hon…. Honey. Wh…. What.. are… you… doing?” She yelled hoarsely, with limited breath. She was becoming increasingly light headed. Almost at an instant, he opened his bloodshot, feral and tearful eyes at the sound of her voice. She scrambled out of bed, fear in her eyes, fighting for air and holding her neck. He leapt over the bed and held her tightly within his arms- “I’m sorry” tumbling from his mouth several times. She stood defensively. This is beyond out of character.

“Why the hell did you put your hands on me?!” She cried, in disbelief.

He had a dazed expression on his face, his body rife with sweat.

“I…. I don’t… know.” He mumbled, almost inaudibly.

“No-  that is not good enough. What the f-?”

He put a hand over her mouth softly and nestled his face into her hair. She was no longer scared of him. He was not the stranger he was 3 minutes ago.

“I don’t know what came over me. I’ve been having these dreams.”

“What dreams? When? Why didn’t you tell me.?”

“Of the day that my Uncle died.”

That sent an automatic chill down her spine. His Uncle’s death was almost 15 years ago. He was in a youth behavioral programme at the time. There was no possible way for him to have been there.

“But you weren’t…”

“It….” His voice broke. She let him speak and turned around to console him.- leading him to sit on the bed, while she stood facing him.

“It has been happening over the last month. I keep seeing what happened that day. Like I was there.”

“How do you know it’s not just a bad dream hun?”

“My Uncle’s talking to me in it. He says to ‘pay attention’. It’s not just a dream. “

His head was heavy on her bosom. She could feel silent tears on his face.

“But I don’t understand. It was unsolved. And how does this explain you attacking me?”

“I was still dreaming, I’m so sorry. I saw his girlfriend’s face and I saw her ‘nod’ at somebody…”

“And then..?”

“The other times I would wake up. But his time… I….”

His voice broke again.

“What happened this time honey?”

“I saw them murder my Uncle.”


He bought me home. I didn’t invite him up. I wanted to. I needed to. I had envisioned it already. In every conceivable Kama Sutra position. But I knew if I did, the only sleeping I would be doing, was with him. We spoke for almost an hour, he explained he would be travelling for the next month but wanted us to keep in contact. He even offered to fly me out to his games and industry events, when I had free time. I politely declined because I couldn’t let him spend a flight on me- yet. He simply replied that he doesn’t live outside of his means, and anything he offers, he can and will facilitate.

I was sold. We sat in his Nissan 370Z. The surviving stars lined the sky, a breeze blew in. He removed a wayward strand from my forehead, leaned in and kissed me. Warm, lips pressed against each other. Which progressed to a heavy exhale, exploring hands, curious tongues, an erotic tug on my bottom lip with his. My hand traced his clear, unblemished skin, rested on his low goatee. We stopped, looked at one another and smiled.
“So you may be my Kryptonite, and that’s not a good thing.” He breathed, shook his head and bit his lip.
“Thank you for everything Jonah, I had fun.”
“Me too. Let me know you got into work, on time I hope.” He kissed my hand. I blushed, slipped out of the car and tried to maintain a level-headed walk while my lower regions partied and pulsated on the memory of our brief encounter. I fell asleep straight away, dreaming of a salacious, sensational space of nothingness.

I then woke up in a pleasant hazy state, partially confused as I thought I had woken up and called in sick. I even had visualized walking outside, seeing a gray sky and retreating to my bed. I guess I subconsciously wanted this lasting feeling to be upheld as long as possible. I sat on the transfer bus to the penitentiary. Strong, stirring thoughts of the night before. Jonah’s kiss lingered in my psyche. Lingered long, strong and hard. I hadn’t wanted to sell myself a pipe dream, especially not after my last relationship and the after-effects, but when it came to the brief instances I had shared with Jonah, what a piece of pipe to dream over. I was glad I decided to take up his offer for a date. It took my mind off the Warden, the looming verdict of the planted contraband in my office, my inmate case files. He took my mind off the prison and from the unfortunate and untimely outcome of the racially profiled, looming death penalty Dericks’ case.

A hypnotic, Samba-influenced song with a tribal undercurrent was on repeat in my headphones. I rested my head back on the seat, hair in a high bun, lips painted a daring burgundy- a contrast to my safe, usual choice of nude or clear gloss. Eyes closed, I indulged for a moment, until the bus jerked to a violent stop. Immediately, my high spirits were torn down. The driver was on the phone looking between the staff, the visitors on the bus and ahead. Levels of chatter and worry rose as everybody attempted to find the answers, peeking out of their limited spaces into the aisle. The driver instructed us to stay on the bus for our safety; he let off no more information than that. I remembered, that even though I had called my phone provider, I was on a different contact number. If there was an issue with the prison, I most likely wouldn’t have been notified. It sure as hell wasn’t an issue with the bus. I began to get anxious, I stormed up to the front of the bus. Just a stretch of paved, barren road ahead and behind us. Pissed. I had such a nice night-before, I even had a buzz waking up this morning. This was affecting my emotional feng shui. My worries over this contraband in my office began to flood back.

“What is going on?”
“Ma’am. I’ve been told to advise visitors and…”
“I’m not a visitor. I work here.” I hated being left in the dark in any situation, regardless of how minor or momentous the predicament at hand was.
“Ma’am. I can’t tell you right now, but I’m following strict orders.”
“From who?!” I exclaimed. He began bouncing his knee.
“How do I know this isn’t a plot to blow up the bus? Are we hostages?”
I should have known that the words ‘blow-up’ and ‘hostage’ in the same sentence near the vicinity of a penitentiary would cause chaos but I hadn’t had breakfast, or my morning Echinacea and Raspberry Tea yet. People were pushing, shouting questions, pulling out cell phones, getting increased levels of aggravated by the minute.
A congested smoky smell caught my nostril. Nobody was smoking on the bus. It could have been the gas from the van but it had a different foundation to it. I began to feel claustrophobic, I needed air- now. The minuscule window levers at the top did no justice.
“Let me out.”
“I’ve been given orders to keep everyone inside.”
“By WHO? Unless you can tell me who, I’m not bound by anything.” A few ‘yeah’s and sounds of agreement rose in the background.
“Are we gonna’ get shot or something? Town is like a twenty minute walk back where we came from. The prison is ten minutes the opposite way. Screw waiting here.” A heavy set man pressed the emergency button above the bus doors and exited. Half of the bus followed him, including myself. I needed to know what was going on.

To my horror, I looked ahead and saw thick, clouds of black overriding the sky. I coughed and spluttered as the densely nauseating smell of fire crept towards us. Other groups of people continued in pursuit of the prison. Family members, friends, lawyers, staff, everybody. I felt lost amidst the chaos, following almost aimlessly but knowing that I had to get to work. It was hard to see into the distance.
We all walked tentatively for around 5 minutes, until we heard a gunshot. The smoke and the foggy darkness intensified but all I could see of the prison was the outline.
“What was that?” Somebody asked.
“Sounded like a gunshot to me.” Someone else replied.
Then out of nowhere, what sounded like a firework streaked the sky with a piercing sound. It landed and exploded and a choir of roars, shouts and yelling took place. Almost like a war-zone, a stampede of bodies seemed to appear from nowhere. Running towards us

This took me back to the scene in my dream, it took an extra second to register before I unglued my wobbly legs from the ground beneath me, turned and ran. Ear-piercing sirens and blasts fired in all directions. The smoke was painfully blinding. The intoxicating fumes clouded my throat. My eyes began to sting.

Fight or flight took my body over as my wedges and I, ran for my life. A stitch tore under my rib, and short, sharp breaths carried more pain with each step. I hadn’t dared looking back, not once, I looked to my side, saw somebody in inmate attire with something in his hand, I continued to run, eyes fixated on the stretch ahead. The group who had left the bus had dispersed and the bus was nowhere to be seen. What was going on? Fear had seized every part of my being. Thinking straight wasn’t even an option. I ran for miles through what looked like the outback. I didn’t stop until I passed the turnpike and saw the town. I fumbled in my bag for my cellphone. I had an untimely missed call from Jonah. I called the prison- a long shot but at least was a possibility. The streets was full of cars; honking, beeping, additional catastrophe. Running to a near diner, I pushed the door only to be greeted by an owner with a saggy-faced, greying, scowling brunette and her fierce head shake. They had locked their doors. I pleaded silently, to no avail, flipped the bird and weighed up my options. I didn’t know where to run.

ARTICLE: ‘Death to Mumble Rap’ for @ItchySilk Mag

A necessary, raw, literary observation of the current, empty music ‘wave’ otherwise known as ‘mumble rap’. The definition is self explanatory.#KnowBetterDoBetter #SaveYourselves

Written by L Riquez (@LHenrixx) for the concept mag @ItchySilk:


POEM/VIDEO: ‘Wanderlustful’

A visual, truthful ode to ‘Wanderlust’ (definition: a strong desire for or impulse to wander or travel and explore the world). This project combined visual artists, a photographer, a fellow poet and a mood-setting, melodic music score (all contributors available in the credits).

If you lack substance, you and I lack longevity,
My dreams take place in New York
Where forks rest, entangled in tastes from Mounted dishes of fish tacos, giros and deli sides,
My fantasies reside in Cairo to Castries,
Markets and Marrakesh to Marigot Bay’s trees,
Erogenous escapes bring ease to me; I said erogenous escapes bring ease.
My tongue longs for Espanol,
My body does nothing but mount and rush more,
As my limbs do nada but love, lust for,
More, and more, of you.
Straddling air plane aisles, wishes galore for you,
You could have me reduced, juiced, ripe, raw for you.
Wanderlust. Continue reading “POEM/VIDEO: ‘Wanderlustful’”

Soul Food x Sight Candy

Not all those who wander are lost-  J. R. R. Tolkien

Photo Credit: LaDantai Henriqe