Let's Play White

In the Afrofuturism collection Let's Play White by Chesya Burke builds dark fantasy and horror short stories on African and African American history and legend, while playing with what it means to be human. White brings with it dreams of respect, of wealth, of simply being treated as a human being. It's the one thing Walter will never be. But what if he could play white, the way so many others seem to do? Would it bring him privilege or simply deny the pain? The title story in this collection asks those questions and then moves on to challenge notions of race, privilege, personal choice, and even life and death with equal vigor. From the spectrum spanning despair and hope in "What She Saw When They Flew Away" to the stark weave of personal struggles in "Chocolate Park," Let's Play White speaks with the voices of the overlooked and unheard. "I Make People Do Bad Things" shines a metaphysical light on Harlem's most notorious historical madame, and then, with a deft twist into melancholic humor, "Cue: Change" brings a zombie-esque apocalypse, possibly for the betterment of all mankind. Gritty and sublime, the stories of Let's Play White feature real people facing the worlds they're given, bringing out the best and the worst of what it means to be human. If you're ready to slip into someone else's skin for a while, then it's time to come play white. Table of Contents Walter and the Three-Legged King Purse I Make People Do Bad Things The Unremembered Chocolate Park What She Saw When They Flew Away He Who Takes the Pain Away CUE: Change The Room Where Ben Disappeared The Light of Cree The Teachings and Redemption of Ms. Fannie Lou Mason About the Author Chesya Burke has published over forty short stories in various venues including Dark Dreams: Horror and Suspense by Black Writers, Voices From the Other Side, and Whispers in the Night, each published by Kensington Publishing Corp. as well as the historical, science, and speculative fiction magazine, Would That It Were, and many more. Several of her articles appeared in the African American National Biography, published by Harvard and Oxford University Press, and she won the 2004 Twilight Tales award for short fiction. Chesya attends Agnes Scott College, where she studies creative writing and the African diaspora as it relates to race, class and gender. Many of these themes find themselves appearing in her fiction. Excerpt From: "Walter and the Three-Legged King" Shit droppings on the sink were always evidence that the rat had been there. Walter hated the beast; it did nothing but live off the crumbs he left. It survived—it thrived—off of his misery. Day after day he watched the thing grow fat while he wasted away. Walter wondered if he died right there on the floor, if the rat would eat his rotting corpse. That was okay. As soon as he got the chance, Walter was gonna catch the thing and choke the shit outta it with his bare hands. And if that didn’t work, then he would figure something out. One way or another, he would defeat that rat. Walter searched the counters, fixing his shirt into the waistline of his pants. The damn thing had gotten into the pots that he’d made last night’s stew in, licking the remaining sauce from the cheap steel. Damn it. He needed to start washing everything, including the counters and all, the night he used it. That should help. At least it would keep the damn thing off his counters. Then maybe it would go and bother one of his neighbors in that godforsaken building. As Walter turned to walk back into the room for his shoes, the rat stared at him from a small hole where the wall met the floor. Why hadn’t he noticed that gap before? The rat was completely still. It stood on its hind legs, its ears perked up, listening. After a moment, it ventured out farther into the living room, keeping its eyes on Walter. Jesus, the thing was bold. Walter moved slowly, trying not to make any sudden motions. Here was his chance. He could put an end to this right now. The man turned back to the sink, slowly, keeping an eye on the filthy little beast, and grabbed the closest thing he could reach. He wrapped his hands around the dirty stew pot from the night before, aimed, then threw it toward the rat. The pot sailed through the air, picking up speed, as the handle twirled clumsily, over and over in a circle. Just as the pot hit the floor, Walter knew he was off. By only a few inches, but enough for it to matter. The rat jumped at the sound, ran around in a circle, and then ducked back into the hole. The pot bounced off the floor, hit the walls, and splashed leftover not-quite-stew all over the apartment. Walter looked at the mess, then at his imitation Rolex wrist watch. He’d gotten it off a street vender for the low, low price of five bucks. It didn’t particularly look like a Rolex, and it didn’t keep the time all that well, but what the hell, it had been cheap. Either way, the watch wasn’t completely wrong; right now he didn’t have the time to clean up the mess. He had an interview in less than forty-five minutes. Well. He guessed there would be no need for the rat to climb the counters now—as long as Walter was willing to throw food right at it, this rat would eat like a king.   He had barely made it back into the apartment again before the landlord came rapping at the door. Walter didn’t have to guess who it was; nobody else bothered to visit him. Jerry wouldn’t either if Walter didn’t owe him money. He stood, stepped over the mess that he still hadn’t bothered to clean up, and opened the door. Jerry stood there, gnawing on a turkey leg the size of Walter’s calf. “’Sup, Walter.” As he spoke, food spilled onto his shirt, the blue veins in his white cheeks swelling with every chew. “Nothin’ much.” Walter didn’t invite him in, and he wasn’t gonna. As long as his name was on the lease and he still had possession, he would reserve that right. Though the way things looked, that wouldn’t be too much longer. All the more reason to keep the man standing at the door. “So, how’s everything, man?” “It is what it is.” “Oh?” Jerry was notorious for beating around the bush. “Yep.” Walter’s belly began to rumble. As disgusting as it looked, that turkey leg smelled delicious. All he had in his icebox was leftover meatless stew. He wasn’t even sure that stew could be called stew if it had no meat. “Look, Walter, did you get the job, man?” Walter looked him square in the eye. He didn’t have a lot of respect for Jerry. The man had not left the building for more than fifteen years. He often paid the children who resided there to go shopping for him, and he had the other residents take care of his bills while they were out. Everyone said he had some kind of fear of the outside. Most people just helped him when they could. Walter hadn’t lost respect for him because of that, but because he had gotten his job as the super of the building because he was related to the building’s owner. At least, Jerry’s sister was married to the man who owned the building. All in the family after all. Keep the jobs in the family, and keep the money there, too. Walter knew that one could afford to have a paralyzing fear if one had options in life. Others had to do what they had to do. For Walter, that meant walking the pavement every single day looking for work, no matter what ailment he had that day. “You know you’re like two months behind, man. And I can’t hold it off for much longer. Know what I’m saying, man?” He honest to God hated when Jerry called him “man.” He swore he heard “boy” every time. Every damn time. “I didn’t get the job, Jerry. They were looking for somebody less qualified this time. Imagine that.” Jerry was quiet for a moment. “Sorry about that, man. So listen, I heard about this job. It’s at the Ambassador. It’s nothing high and mighty—a doorman or bellhop or whatever—but it’s something…” High and mighty? Walter didn’t respond. If he did, he’d probably be jobless and homeless by the end of the day. Jerry waited for a moment, as if letting the idea sink in, and then he continued. “The recession was over several months ago. Things are supposed to be better. What do you think the problem is?” Maybe I just don’t wanna work. Walter felt that the man was accusing him; he didn’t like it, but he said simply: “What recession? This is pretty much what it’s always looked from this side.” Read More by Chesya Burke "CUE: Change" - Issue 25 of Apex Magazine "Say, She Toy" - Issue 95 of Apex Magazine "For Sale: Fantasy Coffins (Ababuo Need Not Apply)" - Issue 113 of Apex Magazine