Forward Generation

By Griffin Graesky

Was it thunder or death that convulsed the sullen sky? Palmer, immersed in his mania, was convinced it was all concentrated on him. But he embraced a reality that dictated it should be so, and his acceptance of this was complete. While cars smashed through puddles of collected rain water, the sidewalk traffic of umbrella clutching pedestrians, lurched forward and back. They impeded his progress. Palmer forced his way through a mass of human bodies gathered on the busy downtown corner waiting for the light to change. He moved clumsily, perception distorted by the hard drugs that raged through his system. The thunder seemed to chase him as he rushed along in the pouring rain. He stopped when he spied a refuge deep down in a sliver of an alley, finding shelter underneath a dark, ledged corner. An arc of lightening stole that instant from the black night to momentarily illuminate his dismal silhouette — now framed by the dirty gray walls of his temporary reprieve.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 20, 2018
• ISBN: 9781387758708

Book preview

Forward Generation

Forward Generation 

by

Griffin Graesky

First Edition, Spring 2018

All rights reserved under international law.

This anthology is an original work of fiction. Names and characters, places incidents, situations and circumstances are all the product of imagination and have no basis or relation to anything in reality, or any person living or not. Any similarities are strictly coincidental.

No part of this anthology may be reproduced in whole or in part without express permission given by Griffin Graesky.

Email: [e-mail]

Dedicated to those who feel things.

Forward Generation

Chapter One

A blade of sunlight forced its way past thick, black curtains and entered the dark room to rest on the closed eyes of Drew Carter, as he lay there, locked inside his dream. The bedroom door flew open.

Drew! C’mon, wake up, boy!

His mother’s voice trumpeted into his ears, wrenching him back to reality. She had only stuck her head in for a moment, but that was enough. She quickly whipped around leaving the door open allowing the textured sounds of vintage Studio One reggae music to permeate the space, a regular tone setter for the morning vibe.

He commanded his eyes open and they drank in the first object to reflect off the back of his pupils, over on the wall, his most valued poster. The image immediately filled his spine with steel. Malcolm, peering at the whirlwind forming outside his window, with his jungle clipped M1, hitched up and ready.

Inspired now, he resigned himself to the task at hand.

Just three more days he murmured to himself.

A labored rise brought him to his feet, re-introducing him to the world of doing, which included his sister, Andrea, who was always in the bathroom too long.

Drew slowly walked down the hall outside his bedroom, passing pictures on the wall of him and his family throughout the years. He barely noticed them anymore, but this day he stopped for a moment and looked at the one from when he and his father were at a carnival. Drew was no bigger than the large stuffed animal his dad had won him on that day. Andrea and his mother had gone to Brooklyn, New York for the weekend.

The reason was that they had to run special mission to bring back some contraband. His father considered, a woman alone with her daughter would draw less attention, when doing what they were doing, and success was absolutely imperative.

Drew and his father stayed home and did the father son thing, good times indeed. That particular day at the carnival, when the large speckled Giraffe was won at one of the one of shooting galleries, the man behind the counter at first discourteously heaved a large pink Unicorn with wings toward him, immediately evoking the Lion’s roar,

Bloodclaat man! Drew's bellowed father, you can’t give my boy that pink think? You must be mad. his deep voice fully unfurled, with the Jamaican patois, caused the man behind the counter to quickly stand to attention and switch it up.

Drew was just turning nine years old back then, now he was a broad shouldered nineteen-year-old on the cusp of manhood.

He started off looking at the picture today because he saw a baby cockroach crawling on it, which he quickly flicked off, but it replaced his usual early morning discontentment with a fleeting smile.

Drew continued his sleepy saunter down the hall to the bathroom only to realize there was no access for him or his over flowing bladder.

Andrea, hurry up! he yelled out in frustration as he banged on the door.

Relax! she shouted back, I’ll be out in a minute!

Sitting on the back porch, awash in Sol’s dominance of the eastern sky, was father — James Carter, also known as The Roots Man. This was his mission, his home, and his palace. He put this all together with his wife Marcia Carter. James looked out introspectively, smoking a spliff, exhaling from his nose and mouth slow, allowing the flavor of the draw to send him back to that place in time. Halfway Tree, just north of Kingston, Jamaica, he and his father at Steelies Record shop. It always had the smell of strong ganja in the air.

Heptones, U-Roy and The Paragons would play while the men talked politics and burned big Wilbert spliffs. He used to roll with his father more time as a young boy, sometimes traveling perched atop his majestic shoulders — which he also inherited. And then it happened. So suddenly and so viciously. His father was taken away from him. It was election time and he somehow found himself caught in the crossfire between opposing groups of enforcers, who ruled their fiefdoms with blood and bullets back in the decade of their independence from the England.

Hit in the chest, his father dropped and bled. His pierced lung let out air like a deflating balloon. He tried to pull himself out of harm’s way, scratching and scraping across the ground flat on his belly. While bullets pinged and zinged overhead, finger nails dug into the asphalt so he could drag himself forward to safety, where his wife and children and friends waited for him. He could almost see them, smiling and waving him on home, the last blurred thing that passed before his mind’s eye as the light of his life finally waned. He lay there dying, as the gun battle raged on, and on. That’s when James’s mother made her decision to leave that land come hell or high water, she’d had enough. James tapped his spliff ever so slightly, with his leathery blue collar hands. They’ve endured more than their portion of abrasions from the thoughtless cogs of industry that seemed to have a need to grind away at the common man. But as a connoisseur, his hands indulged in the articulation of this simple maneuver that made sure the burner didn't get corrupted. He took another deep meditative draw and his meditation turned to the future. It could be so uncertain, the future. Everyone has their way of dealing with uncertainty.

Oh Jah, thank you for blessing me and my woman and our seed as we dwell inna Babylon. I know that I have done many things that were not pleasing in Thy sight, but as Moses led the Hebrew Israelite's from Egypt, even through the wilderness, I tried to do my best. Now as we are about to leave this hard boiled life behind, I ask, oh Jah, that You allow us to go forward...even if I cannot see the promised land myself, I pray that You don’t deny my seed, please, oh Jah, trod with them itinually. But it is not my will, but Thy will that shall come to pass. Amen. prayed The Roots Man.

Andrea moved confidently through her life because she not only received the strong black woman training from her mother, but she was born with gifts. Hard core tenacity, an ability to be honest with herself, and a real pragmatic understanding about the world she lived in.

Her goal was to be a professional working woman one day. She was a little unsure about the career though. Perhaps a publicist or a lawyer, a banker, or a stockbroker. No decision as yet, but she believed it would manifest one way or another. A will of steel, just like her mother, would make sure it happened. She finally relinquished the bathroom to Drew. Andrea stepped out, satisfied she had sufficiently accentuated her natural beauty, but then encountered her mother, the sergeant major of the mornings.

Stop right there misses! commanded her mother.

C'mon Mom. 

Andrea sighed, acknowledging the tone in her mother’s voice. She stopped and stood still for inspection, rolling her eyes with her arms folded about her chest; trashed out in a baby blue velour tracksuit. Her straightened hair was tied back in a neat pony tail. The make-up she wore was imperceptible and freshly manicured fingers sported flawless white-tipped nails. A throaty sound that only a daughter could translate as her mother’s reluctant approval released Andrea from inspection.

Marcia caused Andrea to overstand, as she did, a shapely body was a blessing, but her intelligence needed to be it’s equal. A balance. She hadn’t compelled her daughter to dress any certain way, instead she influenced her to be a lady in all her ways. Back when Andrea had just started grade seven, Marcia saw her in gear that she could not let her leave the house wearing, and promptly sat her down for the talk. She explained the desires of young men’s hearts and the lies they would tell gullible young girls to fulfill them. She let Andrea know that she was a queen in training, and if she didn’t move like one she would never be one, much less be treated like one. Those things touched Andrea and stayed with her, always. Especially the part about her being a queen. That meant she would marry a king, and that had driven her ever since. They both then went downstairs to the kitchen where the smell of fried plantains and scrambled eggs whiffed through the air at will. Andrea prepared herself a cup of tea before sitting at the table, while Marcia put some food onto her plate.

You want more?

That's good mumie, thanks.

You’re welcome, now hurry up and eat so you can leave for school. Where's your brother?

Late getting ready, as usual.

Why is he always the last, that's why they failed him last year you know.

No mumie, they failed him last year because he used to skip class and fool around all day...also I think because he's kinda dumb too.

She giggled at her comment, unaware it had reached her father’s ears, and James was far from pleased.

Andrea, you know I don't response for those kinda talks in a’ this ya house. bellowed the Roots Man with his strong Jamaican patois accent that his children's friends barely understand yet was crystal clear as a sunny day to his household. Andrea turned to see her father framed in the open back door.

Oh hi daddy, I was just kidding, you know I love Drew, but he slacks off sometimes.

Just mine yourself, seen? The Roots Man quickly walked over to the bottom of the staircase and bellowed once more.

Eh bwoy come down stairs, cause' if you late fe school me naw go like it!

I'm ready right now dad! Drew hollered back.

Well make haste!

The Roots Man James Carter took his seat at the table as Drew stepped into the kitchen to take his.

This smells good mom, so hungry, oh yeah, I saw a baby cockroach up stairs I think they’re tryin’ to make a comeback. We need to get more of that roach coke to kill them.

Marcia passed her son a fork as she finally took her seat.

Drew, why you always have to take so long to get ready in the mornings?

Mom, Andrea is a bathroom hog. he replied.

Andrea quickly addressed his comment,

Whatever man, you always try to come into the bathroom when I'm trying to do my hair, what do you think is gonna happen? I'm not gonna just stop and get out!

All I'm sayin' is why don't you go in earlier that way when I'm ready to go in you're already done! Drew proposed.

Really? said Andrea, Well why don't you get up earlier and get in before me?

Whatever, don’t steal my idea! argued Drew.

"Exactly, it’s your idea so you