Re-Membering Katrina, “When Chris Met Katrina”- a short story

The boat whistled its’ way through the waters and soon the screams of the women faded. The air was now filled with the constant yells of families sitting on roofs screaming for help.  They approached Memorial Medical Center and Chris decided to seek refuge there.  As he got closer, he could see through the lobby window hundreds of people camped inside.  Every seat was occupied and people were sprawled out on the floor with blankets.  Police were patrolling the doors.  Chris knocked but the policemen just stood and shook their heads in the negative.  Chris trudged through the water to the other side of the hospital and policemen were standing heavy guard at those doors too.  He knew besides the sore bones and loose teeth, he had no serious injury and they were not going to let him in.

Chris double tied his bag of food and treaded through the water on his tippy toes.  He began to reminisce on the summers growing up in New Orleans.  His father worked as a mechanic in a neighborhood shop and in the summer Chris would help out by washing the cars once he was done.  Afterwards, instead of joining his cousins down at the local swimming pool, he hung out with the neighborhood knuckle heads and smoked weed.  Or they convinced one of the older drunks to buy them liquor.  He was all of nine years old.  With the water slapping up against his chest and occasionally splashing in his face, he wished he had taken those swimming lessons instead.

A few blocks from the hospital, Chris found himself pacing in the water side by side with a dog.  The dog was a dark brown cocker spaniel probably looking for a dry place to rest his feet.  From atop, the dog seemed to be relaxed.  But he knew underneath he was probably  paddling his legs wild as the devil!  Chris remembered how easy it was to tread the dog paddle when he was younger so he picked his feet up to give it a try.  He quickly dipped in the thick, murky waters and emerged panicked.  He struggled to get his stance stable but soon regained his pace and continued down the street with the other stranded people.

A little ways down, Chris spotted the small boat and whistled to get their attention.  They acknowledged him by waving.  Other people began to whistle and try and make their way to the boat too so Chris picked up his pace.  The eyes of the dog swimming nearby were showing signs of exhaustion.  There was no telling how long the dog had been in the water.  The dog let out a bark, then went under the water.  Within seconds, his head reappeared and he began to bark in desperation.  Chris was mindful to stay as far away from the dog as possible to avoid being bitten.  The small boat reeved it’s engine as they waited for him.  The dog’s bark now became aggressive as he continued to swim towards Chris.  The men on the boat splashed water towards the dog to slow him down and distract  his concentration on swimming.

“Come on man!  Dat dog look mad or summin’!,” one of the men said.

Chris turned his head to witness the dog go under again.  He started to run on his tip toes because he knew he would get sprayed with the dirty water when the dog came back up.  He reached the boat and threw his bag of food aboard.  He could feel the water spray on the back of his neck as the dog shook its’ head.  The men reached down and pulled Chris on the boat.

“They wasn’t lettin’ nobody in down at the hospital huh?,” Gunner asked.

“Naw,” Chris simply replied.

The boat pulled away and the dog continued to swim behind it.  His eyes were bulging as he barked pleas of help.  There was nothing in sight for the dog to take refuge on.  The dog’s shiny, brown coat disappeared under the water a third time, not to emerge again.

a snippet from the short story book, Mississippi Window Cracks.

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Mississippi Window Crack

stripped (a poem)

tired of waking up tired / after 8 hours of sleep
up all night fighting somebody / even though I live alone
in a white dress / she came to me and said my peace would
come with pain / my peace was letting go of everything that I
believed keeps me sane.
I was naked / but not stripped, like before / misunderstood &
confused with this spiraling in my spine / I gave it all away.
I snored that night / I was so tired.

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Full Circle, a full moon

While my first writing love is poetry, my first on stage love is the theatre.  My BA is in theatre from Grambling State University and I performed all through high school and college in various genres.  I ultimately moved to Los Angeles with the dual mission to become an actress and writer.  As I continued to write, I fell in love with the dance of words in poetry and began to perform as a performance poet.  The rest is history. I’m not sure if I chose poetry or if poetry chose me but we damn sure got married!

My full circle story… June of 2016 I received a call that an upcoming television show needed a writer of poetry for the series because the lead character parlayed as a poet in her downtime.  The show, “Rebel”, is backed by executive producer and oscar nominated/emmy award winning director, John Singleton.  Without hesitation, I accepted!  And a few weeks later, I was told that I was being written in as the lead actresses’ poetry rival.  Having not prayed on being an actress in years, they were being answered some 15 years later.  So off to Los Angeles I went…

2017-01-05_05.42.15.jpg  Two of my poems had already been accepted and taped for the series so I was showing up as not only an actor for an episode but a writer.  MIND BLOWING!!!  I was so nervous that my lines would not stick in my memory.  I was so nervous, I shut down and was totally shy and quiet on set.  But I was there and had to perform.

Continue reading Full Circle, a full moon

You should write your truth

Lorna Simon has plans to diminish her resume of safe journalism and be known for reporting trendsetting stories.  Certain that she can persevere her impressive family linage within her carefree lifestyle s a social butterfly, this notion is put under fire after a night of partying thrusts Lorna into being a news maker instead of a news writer.  Lorna alleges she has become the victim of a sexual assault crime committed against her by a woman, Trista, who is a promising event planner and an associate of Lorna’s mother.

Paralyzed with humiliation of  having to publicly defend her sexuality as a heterosexual, Lorna must decide to believe in her bouts of memory loss and forego the incident or rekindle her passion for journalism to protect her livelihood and uphold the integrity of her family.

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Some Poetry Seeds for You

“Nikki Skies is a poetic warrior with style and honest energy. Powerful, vibrant, passionate and hypnotic expressions surrounds her forcing you to merge with her words.” Floyd Boykin Jr./CEO and Founder of SpokenVizions

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“Nikki Skies is not a poet. Nikki Skies is a literary visionary. Painter of panoramic jazz sunsets, sonnets and dusty morsels of herstoric truth.” Anastacia Tolbert, Journalist/Cave Canem Fellow

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I am a lover of perseverance. I am folklore. I am consistency and contradiction.

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