Books by Crystal Evans

The car purred to life and the tall shadowy figure of the boy she had the most earthshaking sex with a few nights ago gaped at her with contempt from behind the glass. She wanted to go home but first she needed to be one with the wind. She listened to the sound of the cars whooshing by and drank in the bubbly nature of the people heading into the Chinese owned supermarkets and knew she was finally home. Home always found her in her moments of despair. It found her in the men she fell in love with, her preference of music and her basic outlook on life. Tom was a good man but he was safe and Kitty never liked safe, she was reckless and risqué like the malefactor blood that ran in her veins. She could not run from it. The Ghetto was not just a place; it was a state of mind. She always thought she was running from the Ghetto but the Ghetto was with her even to the deepest corners of the earth for the Ghetto was her. You could not run away from yourself.

Most women wanted their first child to be a girl but I prayed for a son and I believe it probably had something to do with my love for men. I have been accused all my life for "lubbing too much man". I loved men. Brown men, black men and bleachers; tall men, short men, wild men and Christians. Rich or poor, scammer, drug men, doctors and cane cutters; as long as it name "man", my teeth be grinning from ear to ear. My child's father, Jerr was the love of my life. I knew I wanted to be with him from the first day I spoke to him, tall, handsome, sitting on his blue Honda civic in a blue Hollister Shirt and matching Ralph Lauren Polo Pants. I saw him before on several occasions, ruggedly handsome with big Afro hair, decked out in either a white merino or V neck T-shirt driving his Suzuki Grand Vitara. My friends and I would literally stick our tongues out, panting like dogs at him, screaming Oohs and Awes at how mesmerizing and swaggarific he looked on those 22 inch Chrome rims.

The club reeked of incense that killed the smell of weed, fuck and liquor. It was a rundown building in the midst of Kingston, on the back road where respectable men took their Downtown Girlfriends and came for the occasional ghetto slam. Men would be seen filing in and out of the club twenty four hours like an ATM and the Go-Go's came out in full swing to get some air in the daylight. It was a sight to behold, variety on top of variety of bodies from scrawny to mampy, every flavor of the week, different sizes and shapes for every male folk. This was not Fiction or Usain Bolts Tracks and Records, you did not need any status to be admitted to this makeshift sex shop. The cheap carpet had more holes in it than a test picture at a gun range, the sofas were scuffed with weed and cigarette burnt and the stools had seen more sexcapades than a porn director.

Franco ran down the dark streets of Red Lane with his shirt in his mouth. He had seen a shadow grabbed his friend around the corner and began ditching blows into his upper torso. Why Raty stopped to urinate at the junction was beyond him but he ran because he was sure that when he looked back at the shadows, Raty lay motionless on the ground and the creepy silhouette was running towards him with a shimmery object in his hand that illuminated into a spark when it hit the lights. He careened the deep corner, jumped into a yard and catapult onto the verandah. He crouched immobile on the ground, confident that this was the only way he would be able to escape the dark, quiet silhouette that he knew would soon creep up around the corner looking for him. He only hoped that the occupants at the house did not see him come into the yard and call the police. It would never work in his favor if the police came.