Published by Commonwealth Writers' Adda Stories

Chattel Lane is a small fishing community in the north of Barbados, but unlike its name, things in Chattel Lane seldom moved.

If you left Chattel Lane in 1960 to go drive bus in London, and come back to visit your now middle-aged children and show off your polished British accent, you would find that on entering the village, the piece of wood with ‘Chattel Lane’ slashed on with white paint was still hammered onto the telephone pole.

Published by Commonwealth Writers' Adda Stories

It all start when Granddaddy say he not giving me a dollar to buy a pack of corn curls, so I swear to find a way to get them myself. I try holding my breath till I get what I want, but Granddaddy laugh at me bad and tell me to galong and dead – it would save he money.

Originally published by Arts Etc Barbados (No. 28, 2012)

When my parents tell me that they was going to get marry, join in holy matrimony and have they relationship bless before God, I was worried because I could have swear that them was married every since.
 

Originally Published by St. Somewhere (Autumn, 2010)

When I was younger, I loved going to funerals because I could sneak away from my crying mother and run outside in the graveyard with my friends, where the real fun began. My nickname was Dare-Angel, because I never turn down a dare, no matter how dangerous it was...
 

Originally Published by Journal of Caribbean Literatures (Vol. 7, No. 2)

As you hold his bloody, trembling hand, the boy tells you that his father used to be a policeman, just like you. You ask him to tell you about his father; just to keep him talking until the ambulance arrives. He tries to reply but coughs and spits blood, and you tell him that it's going to be alright, and that he has to hold on, but you are scared because the blood stain on his shirt is growing larger by the second.
 

Originally Published by The Caribbean Writer (Vol. 26, 2012)

I is the oldest crab on this here beach…lived here almost twenty years. This hole was the home of three generations of my family. My great great great grandfather spent two years making this hole, spending all day digging in and out, in and out until it almost kill he. This hole survive through hurricane, flood, high waves and it always protect my family and I. Now my oldest think-he-knows-it-all grandson is telling me that we have to move because the beach is disappearing.