Read The Donor: When Conception Meets Deception Online
Authors: Brother Dash
The Donor: When Conception Meets Deception
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover photo used under Creative Commons public domain license CC0 1.0 Universal (CC0 1.0) courtesy of VisualHunt.com
Cover design, interior design, typesetting and cover photo modification by Brother Dash.
© 2016 Brother Dash (Dasham K. Brookins)
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the author
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Please visit
www.brotherdash.com
to contact the author.
Printed in the United States of America.
Acknowledgements
Thanks and deepest appreciation from the bottom of my heart and the depths of my soul to The Most High, Family, Friends, Supporters and YOU the reader.
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Now…Happy Reading
The Donor
When Conception Meets Deception
a sensual drama
Brother Dash
Table of Contents
5 Allow Me To Reintroduce Myself
9 Guess Who’s Coming To Dinner?
16 Ashes, Ashes, We All Fall Down
Run This City
Gotham. They say she never sleeps. And on this night, neither does he. The thick choke of muggy air wrestles him from a restless slumber. It stirs and spurs him for a third consecutive midnight run towards…
the city
. Manhattan. A city not of his birth, but of his desire. It is a sweet seduction that he suckles through his puckered lips, his churning arms and his lunging legs.
HUH, PAT PAT…HUH, PAT PAT…HUH, PAT PAT
. Every limb and ligament pulls him towards the noisy town with the famous name. The sweat of his bulging quads, and chiseled calves, lotion his moonlit skin to a glistening mocha. His pecs pulsate. His nostrils flare. Beads of sweat, sugar crystal on his shiny shaved skull. The Brooklyn brownstone is now several blocks behind, as he eyes the East River before him. The city skyline sparkles and bubbles like popped champagne. Those celebrated skyscrapers can be soothing candles, or they can be angry torches. His legs whisk him towards them like the wings of a moth. And those flickering lights will either burn his fear or ignite his pain. Still…he runs. But why?
His long strides pound the pavement, across the bridge out of Brooklyn, and descend into lower Manhattan. Meaty muscles stroke and strike against Wall Street’s sidewalks. He dodges the steaming pile of gutter poop. He winces as he inhales the black exhaust of an idling yellow cab. But as the hour long jaunt strains his lungs and stings his legs, he slows to a stop at Water Street. He grasps his knees. His hulking chest heaves. His model smooth cheeks pulse and pop like guppy gills. The hot steam of perspiration rises from his crown like the white smoke from street sewers. As the taste of salty sweat seeps into the corners of his parched lips, it reminds him that he forgot to bring his steel flask of wat—
"Well ain’t that a nice plump rump," a raspy voice says.
Startled, he whirls toward the sound.
“Don’t look around all strange,” the voice says.
His eyes dip and dart but a row of boarded up storefronts is all he sees.
“What you lookin’ all around for? Hello, I’m talking to you. Lookin’ all fine with your hot and sweaty self. You just a shining like a candy apple Jolly Rancher I done licked. Mmmhmm. You gettin' my lady parts all hazy, hot and humid just staring at you. You with all that heavy breathin’.”
The voice is female with a Georgia drawl. It sounds as if it is coming from the dark and musty vestibule of a shuttered bodega. He inches closer. Crouching to peek below the shadows, his gaze is met by a pair of smoky pupils. They blink from behind strings of hair follicles that look like soaked clumps of rusty grass. They droop over a woman’s brow. She smiles. Her teeth look like stale cheese grits. They dangle from her black gums like rickety shutters. Spindly legs poke from her denim cut-offs like pick-up sticks. About a dozen glass bottles stand in perfect military rows by her pink feet. Her ankles look like the bruised joints of raw chicken. She smells like poultry.
“Something wrong with your nose? Why you scrunching it up like that? Be still so the light stays on you.” She surveys his broad shoulders. “Hmm. You know, my old man wore a wife beater T-shirt like that. He was all buff puffed up like you is too.”
He rises from his knees.
“Damn you tall. How tall is you?” she says.
“I’m six foot three,” he replies.
“Huh? Oh no, no. He wasn’t that damn tall. And he was more high yella than you is. Like Al B. Sure or that green-eyed Michael…um…what’s his name? Michael Easy.”
"I think you mean Ealy," he says.
“Huh? Whatcha say?” she cups her ear.
"I said Ealy. Michael Eal—never mind.“
"Well you ain’t yella like him. You a nice cocoa cream. Shiny bald head lookin’ tasty too. You know? That’s what I need. A strong and tasty man. A buff puff man like you. Mmmhmm, buff puff pastry. But do you gots that cream inside?” She hacks a cackling laugh.
“Cream?”
“That’s what I said didn’t I? Well, goddamn I sure hope your brain ain’t as thick as them muscles. You all sculpted nice and smooth though. Like somebody done carved you outta moist chocolate clay. Mmmm…so moist.” She pops her eyebrows twice. “You know he must not have no woman,” she says as she talks to her bottles like people. “His neck too clean right? Now if Buff Puff was my man? Sheeeit, I damn sure would be all over that neck just a suckin’ and a suckin’.”
She locks down and french kisses the flesh of her inner elbow, making orgasmic grunts and moans.
SLURP SLURP SLURP
“Uhhh right. I think that’s…probably…my cue…to…lea—“
“Leave? What you runnin' for this time of night anyway? I mean don't get me wrong, I ain't complainin'. I sure do enjoy my little private stripper show."
“You’re quite the character aren’t you? Well, since you asked. I run when I need to clear my mind. It relaxes me.”
“Awww, now you can tell Miss Pat all about your troubles. Come sit next to me baby. I’ll help you relax.”
Miss Pat smiles like a villain. He chuckles.
"I'm fine on that one…thanks. But I’d better get go—“
“Going? Well can’t you at least tell an old lady your name? Unless you just likes me calling you Buff Puff.”
“No, of course. I can tell you my name. It’s Chase. Chase Archibald."
"Chase? Your Mama named you that? What kind of a name is that when a baby come out? Chase? What crazy mama name her baby Chase? And what’s that other part? Whatcha say? Ar-Chee-Ball?” She starts bobbing her head and singing, "Ar-Chee-Ball, Ar-Chee-Ball, Ar-Chee-Ball."
Chase grits his teeth with a,
this lady cray cray
, smile. He backs away.
“Oh, you gotta go? Well, before you go…can I ask you one more question?"
“Okay…Miss Pat. I’ll give you one more.”
“Well if you gonna give me one more of something. You can give me a—“
“Now Miss Pat," Chase says, wagging a finger at her.
“Hee, hee, hah, hah” she says with a rotten laugh.
“Okay, okay. This here my question. So your name is Chase, right?” Chase nods. “And you out here running, right? So, let me ask you…is you
chasin
’ something or is you
being
chased?"
Chase pauses. He ponders the question.
Hmmm…that’s actually a good question.
Am I running to, or from? Do I even know?
He bends at the knees, smiles into her bloodshot eyes and replies with one word.
"Yes."
She curls her orange and grey eyebrows like a clueless quiz show contestant. But after three seconds she shrugs her twiggy shoulders and argues with her audience of bottle people. Chase smiles politely, turns and gallops back toward Brooklyn Bridge. He retraces his bounding strides back to the treelined streets of Cobble Hill. As he runs, he ponders the bag lady’s question.
Did I just run TO…or run away FROM?
"Am I boring you Mr. Jankovic?" Professor Chase Archibald says to the startled youth.
"Huh? Who? Me? Yes?” the young Jankovic says.
“Yes? So I’m boring you?” he asks.
"No. No, I mean—“
"No? Yes? You mean? Which is it young man?"
“No, I'm sorry Dr. Archibald.”
“Not every professor is a doctor young man.”
“Oh-uh-sorry,
Professor
Archibald.”
“Don’t apologize to me Mr. Jankovic. Apologize to your fellow scholars. Your colleagues on the journey.” Chase directs his attention toward another student. "And what journey is that Ms. Amendola?"
"Ummm," she says.
"Are you sure you want to start with ummm?" Chase asks.
“No, Professor Archibald,” the young Amendola says.
"Help them Ms. Ross-Jenkins," Chase says, pointing across the room.
"You asked about the journey Professor. Is it the journey of...of knowledge?" her voice tremors.
"Are you asking or telling?…Well? Tick-tock, tick-tock, come on now Ms. Ross-Jenkins. Your classmates are on a sinking ship and you're in the same boat. Who can help her?” Chase scans the room. His ears are met with silence. “Let’s go people…think about what we just read."
His scarlet and royal blue silk tie pokes from the crevice of his chestnut tweed vest. He drums his fingers on his shoulder. His eyes survey and his ears listen like radar. His mission is to whip these freshmen and sophomore creative writers into shape through training, inspiration and a dose of compassion. The young Robbie Jankovic had the misfortune of not paying attention in the warm, stodgy lecture hall. Chase uses his absent-mindedness as a teachable moment. He beats an open palm against the lapel of his vest, mimicking the thump-thump of a heartbeat.
“What is Mr. Jankovic feeling right now Gina?”
BUP-BUP…BUP-BUP…BUP-BUP
… He continues beating his chest as he questions the students.
“Anxiety," she replies.
“Good. Now, Ross-Jenkins, you. The same question…Come on, come on, chop-chop.”
“A nervous fear…like…like being stalked in the woods by a serial killer, who finds his human prey by following the smell of nervous sweat,” she says.
"Not bad, not bad. A bit wordy. Fear and nervousness go hand-in-hand so there’s no need to use both words, especially twice. But I love the creepy factor.”
Chase increases the beats and pounds his chest with ferocity.
“Now back to you, Mr. Jankovic,” Chase says.
Robbie rubs his oily, quivering fingers against his jeans. His chubby cheeks are flushed; they look like puffs of pink cotton candy. Chase grabs one of the dark brown metal folding chairs from behind the lectern. He creaks it open and parks it in reverse in front of Robbie. He straddles the seat like a saddle.
“So how do you feel Mr. Jankovic?"
“Uhhh…like I shouldn’t have sat in the first row.”
The class snickers.
“That’s always the best seat in the house. But give us some emotive adjectives and adverbs to describe how you feel. You want to use descriptive, not plain, or vague words."
"I feel. I feel tense with my guts like…” Chase eggs him on with a slow encouraging wave. “…tense with my guts like…like there’s a heap of scalding hot spaghetti that a man with a gun to your head has just demanded you to untangle…with your bare hands!”
Chase beams.
“Whoa. Excelenté señor. Excelenté indeed,” Chase says.
I like the creativity, the use of temperature and texture and the added bit about the guy with a gun. Now as writers you all will need to tap into emotion. And why is that Ms. Shah?"
She shakes. ”Well, I guess—“
"Don't guess, Ms. Shanti Shah…
know
.
“We tap into our own emotions because, how can you write what a character feels, if you don’t feel yourself?”
The class clown Raymond Raymond [his real name] interjects.
"Yeah 'cause sometimes I likes to feel myself too."
The class roars with laughter.
Chase, not amused, says, "You know that is an utterly fascinating bit of information Mr. Raymond. Why don't you write a 5,000 word short story this weekend, and present it to me during my office hours on Tuesday?"
"Oh wait—nah Mr. Archi—I mean Professor Archibald I'm good on that. For real, for real,” he stammers.
"No, no, Mr. Raymond. I insist," he says.
The wide eyed little comedian slumps in his chair.
"Now everyone," Chase rises. ”I caught Mr. Jankovic texting which is why I picked on him. I want you to think about the exercise you just participated in. Think about how Edgar Allan Poe was able to convey such emotion, and create such tension, in
The Tell Tale Heart
through an expert use of language. And think about this theme: Whenever we try to run from ourselves, it is our selves that will catch up to us. You may now go play in traffic. Class dismissed."
The students rise to the rumbling waves of murmurs, closing books and electronic device beeps and taps. They shove their laptops into already stuffed bags, and file out through the exit at the top of the stairs. All except for two stragglers. One is a male student, hunched and snoring at the end of the top row. The second is an hourglass figure rising from a seat in the middle of that row. She stands almost six feet, dress size about an eight. She’s wearing a black skirt suit with lilac pinstripes. Chase takes no notice of her as he packs his papers and books into a leather satchel on the grey folding table. She shuffles sideways towards the end of the row; she clutches a large black and purple suede bag against her hip. It is the kind of fashionista parcel created for women who prefer laptop bags that don't actually
look like
laptop bags. She steps over the sleeping student, balancing herself in three and a half inch leather heels—with red soles. The plump curve of her bottom brushes across the young man's knees. He perks up from his slumber, sees that his classmates have left, and boogies out the door. She is now the only one left as she peers from the top of the aisle, and down several rows, at the professor. She takes a crystal vial from her bag, unscrews the top, glosses and pops her full lips to a sensual sheen. She slinks her way down the platform steps, one heel at a time.