Essence Bonitaz's Blog: "And Another Thing . . ."

For six days I’ve existed, here and light years away, in limbo, silently watching over my body—that mess of bones beneath a thin white blanket in the ICU—awaiting God’s sentence. Thanks to my family’s prayers and tireless devotion, He has granted me omniscience while professionals deliberate.

The wait is over.

In scrubs and soft shoes, medical staff files into my room to commence my disincarnation. One by one, they silence each instrument until no beep, toot, or blip is heard. The clown concerto ends. My untethering ensues till every strap, line, and tube is withdrawn. At last, the breathing tube is pulled from my throat with a gurgling sound.

My final note is sung.

Fixated on my skin’s changing hue, my bravest compassionate loved-ones huddle bedside holding each other, horror-stricken at the sight of my body contorting to keep life from escaping it. Having adapted to this cracked vessel for over six decades, my soul pulsated through these veins with resilience, energizing and sustaining me regardless of how I abused it. Now, malnourished, my soul spins wildly, unable to bear the discomfort. It’s dizzying! Its fists pound my heart in rapid succession fighting to be released. It squeezes into my throat, trying to find an airway. It’s blocked! It partitions and attempts to escape through all my limbs at once, sending my arms and legs flailing! Still trapped, it reunites in my chest, pushing with excruciating force that arches my back and twists my spine! When the tugging and torture stop, flesh and bone fall away. My soul sheds that ragged loafer worn through the sole and crushed under life’s heavy foot. I emerge!

A spirit, finally free of material confines.


FIND MORE SHORT, EVOCATIVE FICTION FOR YOUR INDULGENCE ON MY SUBSTACK PAGE: Between the Sheets

It was hard, but I did it. I sent flowers along with a heartfelt letter of apology to my ex-boyfriend’s parents, asking their forgiveness. Five months ago they cast me out. It’s time we reconcile. I’m a legitimate part of their family now, something that wasn’t mentioned in the letter because my ex should be the first to know. I bought him flowers too, white roses, a symbol of hope and new beginnings. I left them on the passenger seat in my car when I stopped at a café across from his condo to use the bathroom for the third time this hour. It must be my nerves. I wanted to drop by and talk face to face, but maybe the element of surprise is too much for me. It could also be our baby pressing my bladder since it’s the end of my second trimester. Hopefully, my ex and I can forgive each other and announce the news together. First, I have to tell him.

With a latte in one hand and my phone in the other, I hip check the door and step onto the sidewalk into a warm March breeze. Funny how quickly things change. It was cool and gray when I left home. Now, the noon sun has burst through the clouds and a chrome, stretch Hummer has parked in front of my ex’s condo, in the same spot police pulled up after I surprised him five months ago. When he answered the door, I tackled him hurling fists and expletives as his teenage daughter watched in shock. I’d snapped! For that I was led off the premises by cops, though not in cuffs. He was guilty of cheating and marking me with his lover’s STD, a detail not mentioned in his statement.

Beside the Hummer, a suited chauffeur stands poised as passersby point and stare. Some residents watch from their balconies. We’re all curious to see who’ll get in or out of the limo. Moments later, a handsome dark-skinned man in a pewter grey, three-piece suit strolls out the building and hands something to the chauffeur. Damn. There’s nothing sexier than a man in a well-tailored . . . it’s Him, my ex! I slip back into the café and watch from inside while the chauffeur opens a passenger door. Long, honey legs step out in pale heels. My ex offers a hand to the woman with the legs as she emerges from their chrome chariot. Is she the one who came between us? She gazes over her shoulder, showing off the back of her blush dress with fitted bodice and puffy, above-the-knee skirt. Who knew herpes simplex-2 came in such a pretty package? Chauffeur snaps a picture. My ex slides his hands around his woman’s hips. She leans her ear toward his lips and laughs, tipping her face to the sun as he appears to whisper. Snap! Chauffeur captures the moment. My ex turns his woman around to face him. They kiss. Snap! Chauffeur records the memory while random bystanders clap, cheer, and whistle, applauding her victory.

Another woman exits the other side of the limo. She runs to the happy couple, arriving just in time to photo bomb their picture. Then He poses between the ladies, holding their waists and smiling for the camera. The women kiss his cheeks. Snap! I recognize the younger woman. It’s his daughter! She’s so mature-looking in that strapless version of the other woman’s dress. Wait. Did they just get married? Snap! They’re taking selfies. Snap! And rearranging positions. Snap! Snap! Their images sear my eyes like blinding paparazzi flashes. The longer I stare the more it stings. I look away, desperate for the show to end. When it’s finally over, I rush to my car and speed away.

The flowers tumble to the floor. Maybe I’ll let them wilt there.

MORE SHORT, PROVACTIVE FICTION HERE: /p/snapped

Best friends, Ajha and Tarah, reunite after a series of deceptive behaviors marred their relationship.

Enjoy this excerpt of Ajha's Web: A Series, a staged reading from my 2023 book tour!

https://youtu.be/-LKGRf2S7FA

First of all, I'm screaming my gratitude and beaming with joy for all of the Goodreaders who entered my giveaway for an autographed copy of my debut novel, Ajha's Web: A Series. THANK YOU!

I wish I were able to send one to each of you. Hang in there with me, and one day I will! Your support and enthusiasm makes the arduous pleasure of creative writing, in the midst of life's daily grind, worth the committment.

It has been a gift for me to see so much interest in this story. Whether you've won this episode of Ajha's Web or the experience is bought and paid for, I hope you enjoy it! And the next . . . and the next . . . and the next . . .

Goodreads has randomly selected the following entrants to receive a free copy.

CONGRATULATIONS: Anna-Marie, Anju, Joey, Staci, Alisa, Tiffany, Lindsay, Lucie, Elisabeth, Noelle, Tabitha, Kathi, Syndi, Jennifer, Kara, Sofiya, Diana, Sula, Bomi, and Katherine!

THANKS AGAIN TO EVERYONE who showed interest. I appreciate you all.

Sometimes I play with and stretch ideas or character back stories in ways not intended for my novels. The following is a flash fiction piece loosely based on a character in Ajha's Web. Enjoy!
 
APRIL 2016
It was an accident the first time—one I hadn’t known occurred until I noticed something in the water.

I'd been soaking in a warm bath, waiting for ibuprofen to relieve my twisting uterus. My period had arrived days behind schedule and angrier than ever. As I stretched my toes to turn off the tap, a pink, fleshy object floated past my knee. I cupped my palm and lifted the popcorn shrimp-like thing from the water to examine it closely. My breath hitched. Wonder and shock trickled through me like the water through my fingers. Staring at the dot-eyed organism, I twisted between relief for having been spared an unintended pregnancy at nineteen and sorrow for the tiny form that would never house a soul. The decision had been made for me. Still, I didn’t know what to do with . . . It.

“How?” My boyfriend had asked. “I thought we were on the pill.” The way he said we spawned fanciful visions of us holding hands at the altar, him running errands to satisfy my cravings, our baby secured to his chest during sunset walks along trails in a quiet suburban neighborhood . . . one day. “We are,” I assured him. It likely happened when I missed a pill and didn’t use back up, a mistake we vowed to never make again. Neither of us intended to saddle our relationship with the kind of responsibility a baby brings. Not yet.

While we waited until after graduation and marriage to plan our miracle, sunlight would nourish the Hibiscus tree adorning my parents' home where I lived during those college years. I never mentioned why I bought it, or that I buried our fetus in its pot. But my boyfriend was drawn to it, in awe of its spectacular orange flowers. We all were. And everyone cared for it without me asking.

It was the last time recovery after losing a piece of me would be easy.

MORE AT https://bonitaz.substack.com

noun
1. Military.
a. a hollow projectile containing bullets or the like and bursting charge, designed to explode before reaching the target and to set free a shower of missiles.
2. Shell fragments (Dictionary.com, 2024)

Readers often wonder how much of me is within the characters of Ajha’s Web?

Truth is, there’s a hollow fragment of who I am, or what I desire, or what intrigues me in every character. They are shrapnel, microcosmic projectiles bursting with imaginary qualities. By the time they explode into the world I create, they’re distinct from one another and anyone in my real life.

When I’m not writing, I’m an American Sign Language interpreter, a profession I’ve given to Ajha Attwood and Tarah Bennett—the kind of coworkers I fantasize about having. Marcus Attwood (Ajha’s husband, a police commander) is dedicated to ensuring that boys in his community have a father figure and role model they can depend on—a quality I admire in a man. Isabela Perez, a recovering addict estranged from her family, is an accomplished model whose teenage daughter, Bo, is a fashion enthusiast much like myself. The feisty matriarch of Ajha’s family, Denise Martinez, takes after my own mother in beauty and form. Her son Hector Jr. is an impressive lover with a heart of gold. Who doesn’t desire that?

They represent a small sample of characters dwelling in Ajha’s Web, where everyone has a story, fraught and flawed. When this shower of missiles strikes, nothing is unscathed.