Scribe: A Novel

By Khali LaBre

Scribe is a compelling story about a determined young man growing up in the inner-city streets of Orlando. We follow the protagonist, Demetri Joseph (Meechi), through three different phases of his life as he discovers and utilizes his talent and gift as a writer to find his way out of poverty, an abusive relationship with his mother, and into a life of prosperity and love. Meechi learns to be careful about what he asks for because sometimes loss is necessary to win, and sometimes instant gratification isn't worth it.

 

Scribe is filled with lovable and relatable characters, including Meechi's best friend, Trent, who despite his challenges with mental illness, is a visionary that tries to convince Meechi of his writing gift, and the charmingly witty and wise Miss Viv, an elderly woman who is a retired school teacher and respected in her community, guides Meechi on his path to success.

 

Meechi continues learning about himself and others as he becomes a grown man. He realizes that a lot of things that the future holds have a lot to do with making peace with the past. The journey to success simultaneously comes with joy and turmoil.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lemons & Gold Publishing
• Release date: Nov 23, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215543580

Khali LaBre

Khali LaBre, author of Dreams of Akasha: The Visionary Chronicles is the self-appointed “Queen of the I-4 Corridor” which runs from the east to the west coasts of her native State of Florida. She is from both Tampa and Orlando, Florida, and is an animal and food-loving free spirit who is passionate about incorporating her cultures into her work and demanding the preservation of the true African-American Vernacular English. Her debut novel, Dreams of Akasha: The Visionary Chronicles is available online through various major ebook retailers, and in the ePULP section of the Orange County Public Library System in her hometown of Orlando, Florida. Her upcoming novel, Scribe, set to be released in November 2022, will take place in the city as well, and is expected to be somewhat controversial. She’s gifted in many areas besides writing, she’s a member of the Thespian Honor Society, Sigma Tau Delta, USF alumni, is musically-dramatic, and she is a lifelong Bipolar Warrior. She will always be a proud Floridian, but she follows her heart wherever the rainbows are.

Book preview

Scribe

A Novel

by

Khàli LaBré

Trigger Warning

This book contains: Strong Language, Violence, and References to Suicide and Sexual Assault.

Dedication

To my Grandma, Emma Lucy Jefferson SmithThe woman who taught herself how to read and gave birth to legends. Thank you for inspiring me to go on this journey as a writer and a scholar. I am able to run because of your walking; this is what I am grateful for from you, you taught yourself to read the books so that I can write them.

I hope that wherever your spirit decides to rest, that you are happy and that you are proud of me. You gave me the most happiest parts of the first 14 years of my life.

I love you and miss you forever...energy never dies.

Your feelings is all you got. If somebody done hurt yo feelings they done hurt you.

-Emma L. J. Smith

Prologue

Beyond the sunny, white sandy beaches of Florida and behind the smiles of Mickey and friends at Disney World, which is the so-called Happiest Place on Earth, there was a little boy who lived in the hardest part of Orlando.

He lived in the Parramore District in Downtown Orlando, which holds a rich history as being a historically Black neighborhood. However, during this era of Parramore that this little Black boy lived in, the neighborhood was riddled with nothing but drugs, prostitution, and crime and did we mention bullets?

Not only was this little boy an innocent child who only tried to do his best and be good like his Grandmommy and aunties would tell him, he had the gift of the pen.

He was so talented with writing in his classes in school, his teachers even proposed to his mother that he should skip a few grades and advance to two grades ahead of his classmates because his writing at 8 years old was just that good!

But his mother...you mean the Devil herself?

She wouldn’t allow him to have anything good or allow him to feel good about his self. Anything that made that little boy happy, she would find a way to snatch it away from him.

One day, on one of her bad days, while she was cleaning the bathroom with bleach, the little boy came in from school to show her a certificate he’d won for winning the spelling bee.

He was beaming from ear to ear, thinking that his Mommy would be happy about the good news.

But not only did she take the certificate and rip it up and throw it in the trash can, she even decided to beat him with the buckle of the thickest, heaviest leather belt that she owned.

But why? Why was she treating him like this?

She didn’t even speak while beating him, just kept going on and on...

MOMMY I’M SORRYYYY! The child was begging for his life.

Mommy never responded and she kept going until she damn near passed out.

After she caught her breath, she went and ran some bath water and walked back to find her son passed out on the floor.

Getchyo ass up and go get in the damn tub! she told him.

The poor baby was too tired to ask a question or to protest, for fear that another beating would follow.

He did as his mother told him and undressed and got in the tub.

The water was cold.

She came in with the bottle of bleach and the belt.

Stand up! she told him.

The little boy did just so.

Don’t let them white folks fool you at that school, do you understand me?

Yes ma’am,

He didn’t understand.

Yo ass ain’t bout shit! All these damn certificates and shit, don’t let your head get big! Ain’t nothin’ in it no way, so it probably won’t, she told the little boy.

It just didn’t make sense to him.

This thought must have registered on his face because the look his Mommy gave him made his blood curdle.

You think I’m dumb, don’t you? Yuh SORRY NIGGA!!

She took the belt and went to swinging on the poor little boy’s back as he began to scream as loud as he could.

Maybe someone could hear him next door.

Maybe his Auntie could make her stop treating him like this.

Maybe someone would come to the rescue to save him, like Batman.

Maybe, if he concentrated really hard, he could transform like Optimus Prime and drive away.

He had all of the hopes that a little 8-year-old boy could have.

And then, his Mommy did the unthinkable.

After engaging in nearly two hours worth of senselessly beating her son, she decided to pour bleach over his head and let it pour all over his fresh welts and sores.

She heard him screaming and panicking as the bleach got into his eyes, causing them to sting something fierce.

He reached out to find the knob for fresh water to wash his face with.

Make sure you use some soap and clean up your shit and take your ass to bed, his Mommy told him.

He’d written letters to Santa Claus in his classes, and only one time did he get what he wanted.

Maybe all those other times, Santa didn’t read his letter.

It caused the little boy to stop believing in Santa Claus; besides, what kind of crazy White man is gonna come down a chimney in the hood?

Especially in Parramore.

There were only three reasons for White folks to be in the hood and it was:

1. Gentrification, or

2. To buy drugs, or

3. To come to take children away.

So, thinking that Santa Claus was coming to a crime infested area, as it was at the time, to bring him some toys was foolish.

But one day, the little Black boy went to school a few weeks after the catastrophic day with his mother and something spectacular happened.

Underneath the Christmas tree that his teacher had put up for them in his classroom was a present with his name on it.

In fact, all of the other kids in Miss Rolle’s class received presents, too.

But, this little boy, in particular, felt more than special, because he didn’t believe anyone would actually hear him, or listen to him, let alone read his letters.

The present was wrapped in shiny, holographic blue wrapping paper with a white bow tied on top of it.

Go on... said the sweet teacher, who couldn’t wait to see the look on the little boy’s face, ...open your present! Let’s see what Santa Claus brought you this year!

She was smiling so hard until her eyes seemed to smile along with her mouth.

The little boy took no time to rip open the beautifully wrapped gift and opened the box.

WOW!! the boy exclaimed, Santa read my letter!

He was so overwhelmed with joy that he started to cry.

Someone paid attention to him, finally.

Miss Rolle didn’t realize how powerful this moment would be when she’d gone out Christmas shopping for her students a few weeks ago.

Inside the box was a remote controlled yellow Tonka truck.

That was all he wanted.

He never asked for much because, already at a young age, he felt that he wasn’t good enough to deserve more.

A few of his classmates came to console him.

Many of them had no idea why he was crying so hard.

But when your own mother tries her best to send you back into the void of where you came from, before birthing, any little moment like this was a big deal.

Miss Rolle, he asked his teacher privately, after sharing the toy with his classmates and oohing and aahing over what the little truck did, Can I keep this here?

You don’t wanna take it home, baby? asked Miss Rolle.

No, because my—I mean—, said the little boy, trying to not talk about how he knew his mom would destroy his gift.

Miss Rolle already knew that the little boy was being abused at home, she was just waiting for him to say something so that she had the proof to take to the authorities.

But the little boy thought very hard before speaking.

I—I just think it would be safer here, he said.

Miss Rolle tilted her head out of concern.

You can keep it here, I’ll put it in my drawer. You can play with it during recess, she said as she carefully placed the little yellow Tonka truck and its remote into a large drawer.

She made sure to lock it.

Baby let me ask you a question... she said to the little boy, ...does your mama hurt you?

The little boy was shocked that she was asking him this question.

Please don’t say anything! he responded.

But does she?

The little boy felt his eyes watering up again.

Miss Rolle could see the scabs and welts all over his legs.

She had seen different cuts and bruises on him throughout the school year.

Sometimes he would be out of school for two weeks, only to come back with faded injuries on his face or his limbs.

She noticed how the little boy would usually wear a sweatshirt every day and never took it off, no matter how hot it was under the Florida sun.

She just wanted to hear it directly from the child that his mama was, in fact, abusing him.

Yes, replied the little boy.

Now he was terrified, because as soon as the word got back to his mother, if nothing was done to save him, she would surely kill him.

The little boy figured that if Santa Claus read his letter and gave him what he wanted, maybe he could write a letter to someone who could help him with an even bigger problem.

What if he started writing letters to God?

The concept came to him as easy as the wind blowing through the trees as he sat outside.

He was getting ready to heal the wing of a crow that somehow got stabbed with a sharp piece of wood. He’d found the bird on his walk home from school.

His mother never gave him too much trouble about healing broken animals, especially birds.

What’s wrong with it? she’d asked him as he walked in through the house to the back patio.

He has a piece of wood stuck in it and he’s bleeding, the little boy explained.

It was never understood how the little boy knew how to conduct surgery on injured birds, he was a natural at it.

You must get that from yo daddy side, his mother said to him on one of her good days.

She didn’t have very many good days.

The little boy finished his snack and washed his hands, and made his way over to his patient to fix its injured wing.

It’s gonna be okay, he told the bird.

The thought of writing letters to God kept swirling around his mind as he worked on the bird.

He just had to try it.

So later that night, he waited for his mother to finally fall asleep. He knew she was asleep when she cut the T.V. off.

He quickly, but quietly, grabbed a sheet of paper and a pencil and started to write his letter to God.

Dear God,

Please help me get away from my mom. If I can’t get away from her, at least make her be nice to me. I don’t know why she hates me. She beats on me a lot and it hurts really bad.

They say that boys aren’t supposed to cry...but I cry a lot.

Does this make me weak?

Does this make me bad?

Am I a bad person for not liking my mother and wishing she would go away, or just die?

I’m sorry if I have so many questions, but Grandmommy told me that if I prayed and talked to you, that you would help me.

I just want to be happy, God.

I guess praying to you is not enough, so I decided to write to you. I feel I can get my words out better this way.

I’m scared, God...but if Santa Claus can hear me when I write letters to him, I figured that I should write letters to you, too.

Just please get me away from my mama. I don’t know what I did wrong, but thanks for reading this, if you did.

Sincerely,

Demetri M. Joseph

Three weeks had gone by since the little boy wrote his letter to God.

He was becoming discouraged and frustrated with the lack of results when there was a knock at the door of his mother’s house.

His mother answered the door wrapped in her housecoat, with a scarf on her head with a cigarette in her head.

She cracked the door open.

Hi, I’m Jessica with the Department of Children and Families, I need to speak with you for a second, said the woman at the door.

Uh-oh!

The little boy started to panic as he heard the conversation being had at the door.

No, I don’t beat my child, his mom lied so smoothly.

Then it clicked in the little boy’s head...was this God answering his letter?

We have evidence to show that you are beating him, said Jessica, We have reports from the school as well from different teachers that say they have seen Demetri with cuts and bruises all over him at school.

Ma’am I don’t know what you’re talking about! Meechi, come here, said his mother.

Oh no!

Tell these people that I don’t beat on you, why are they asking me these questions? said his mother, talking to him through her eyes while feigning her love for him by kissing him on his head and hugging him.

Jessica could tell something was off, because of Demetri’s body language.

What is she talking about, Meechi? Did you say something to someone at school?

The little boy didn’t know what to say, so he just grinned and looked at the social worker.

You can tell me, hun... Jessica told the little boy, ...I’ll make sure she can’t ever hurt you again.

At 8 years old, that sounded so good.

Little did he know what new can of worms he would open if he told her the truth.

He thought about it for a while.

We’ve received reports of scars and bruises on his arms and legs, do you mind if I ju—

Bitch, don’t touch my child! interrupted the little boy’s mother.

Excuse me?

You heard me, I said bitch don’t touch my child!

Jessica shot the mother a look, and then turned her attention to the little boy, Demetri can I see your legs?

Um..okay the little boy replied.

He lifted up the legs of his pants up to his knees.

There were all sorts of cuts and bruises on him.

How did that happen? asked Jessica.

Um...I don’t know, the little boy replied.

Son, does your mother hit you? asked the social worker.

Um...sometimes, not all the time, the little boy told Jessica.

The partial truth.

That woman