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Sandra Jean-Pierre

Category: Short Stories

Life Ways

My Uncle has a thick band of periwinkle blue embedded between two encircling rounds of brown within his irises.  Like the wonder of blue phosphorescence against the pitch black of ocean – it is all that you can see and all that seems to matter.  This wonder is curtained behind sweeping eyelashes set on almond shaped eyes.  His skin is a dark brown sugar, much like mine has baked into under the relentless Miami summer sun and my refusal to stay

Those You Touch, You Change

© 2010 Sandra Jean-Pierre …but who will change me? The hurricane candle we used this time last week to light our way in the electricity-less cold darkness is sitting on top of my desk. It is blue, the candle, and sloppy wax has dribbled on to the outside. I dunno how, but it has. I have a vine/leaf print top sheet covering my window and curtains still, the same one that doesn’t close all the way and left me prone

Mopping

© 2010 Sandra Jean-Pierre I’ve been mopping the floors of my home for fourteen years. I generally start at the front of the house, at the threshold of the front door and work my way back to the Florida Room. The breadth of my mopping exploits can stretch from my bedroom bathroom clear across to the breakfast nook – the entire width of the house. I’ve mopped through funerals, a birth and after parties. I’ve mopped up juice, milk, blood,

Mission Impossible

© 2010 Sandra Jean-Pierre Even at the age of five, I was not to be out done. I remember my disappointment, when upon waking in the mornings and I’d find not only my Aunt gone but my Older brother AND my Mother too. I’d quickly scramble out of the twin bed, unafraid of my bare feet touching the cold hard wood floors of the apartment, damning my chubby fingers for getting stuck between the large wheel and the smaller push

Dead People’s Language

© 2009 Sandra Jean-Pierre There is a language that dead people speak. It sounds like Portuguese, Swahili, Farsi, mixed sometimes with Hebrew, French and Czech. If I listen closely I can detect a bit of Spanish, blended in with Tagalog and Hopi. I can only imagine it sounds like what God would hear in the chorus of prayers and wails that rise to the bottom of the clouds, then burst through heaven like a tree through the air. This dirge

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