BE Storybook

 The dice in Raj’s hand felt like living things, bones that knew his secrets. In Chaguanas, they said Raj could charm the spots off them, but no one trusted the charm. His smile was a well-practiced curve, his laughter a currency spent freely at rum shops and dusty pavements where men gathered to forget their wages. He won often, but it was the way he won that etched his name in the town’s mind: a little too smooth, a little too lucky, always leaving just before the mood turned. “Raj from Chaguanas? Better check your pockets after you check his eyes,” they’d mutter. The truth was, Raj trusted no one either, least of all himself. His inner voice was a constant, frantic calculation, odds, tells, escape routes. It was a voice of fear disguised as cunning. He never listened to the quieter, deeper pull beneath it, the one that whispered enough. The change came on a rain-soaked Friday at Mr. Benny’s backroom game. The air was thick with smoke and desperation. Raj was on a hot streak, the...

 Jinelle Chattergoon kept a perfect house. It was her fortress. Every morning at 6:17 AM, she would align the spice jars in her immaculate kitchen, each label facing forward, a silent army against the chaos of the world. The chaos, for Jinelle, was mostly other people. They were unpredictable. They made promises they didn’t keep, like her father, who had promised to come back from the store and never did. They passed judgment in quiet sighs, like her mother, for whom no achievement was ever quite enough to fill the silence at the dinner table. For thirty-something years, Jinelle had operated on one principle: it was her, alone, against the world. This wasn’t a complaint; it was a fact, as solid and polished as her granite countertops. She built her life as a monument to self-reliance. Friendships were surface-level conveniences, easily discarded if they demanded too much. Relationships were temporary negotiations. Letting anyone in meant giving them a map to the hurt, and Jinelle h...

 The sound that finally broke Madeline wasn’t a gavel or a partner’s rebuke. It was the sterile, efficient click of her own Montblanc pen, capping a contract that would make a pharmaceutical giant richer and a community sicker. In that click, she heard the closing of a door on a version of herself she had never believed in. For three years, she had been a sharp, successful reflection in the polished marble of Henderson & Pierce. She reflected her father’s pride (“My daughter, the litigator”), her mother’s relieved anxiety (“A stable future at last”), and her classmates’ thinly veiled envy. She wore the tailored armor well, but inside, the authentic Madeline was humming a different tune. It was a restless melody that surfaced during late nights, not with legal briefs, but with the weathered neck of her old Taylor guitar. The leaving was a quiet earthquake. Her resignation letter was simpler than any legal filing. Her father’s stunned silence was worse than anger. Her colleagues’...

 Kevin’s world was the hot, sun-bleached pasture behind his grandmother’s house in St. Lucy, Barbados. His “fairway” was baked earth and tough guinea grass; his “hole” a rusted coffee can buried at the edge of the sea grape trees. His club was a piece of cured tamarind branch, his ball a hardened guava. Yet, in his mind, he wasn’t Kevin from the village. He was a contender. He could feel the pristine greens of Augusta, the silent pressure of a Sunday lead, the weight of a championship trophy. For five years, his discipline was monastic. He rose before the sun to swing, focusing on the whisper of the branch through the air, the precise angle of his thin wrists. He studied old golf magazines from the library until the pages soft, committing swings to memory. He practiced stillness, the way his grandmother prayed, as an unshakable fact of being. The local boys called it foolishness; his aunt said he had “sand in his head.” But Kevin built a practice, stroke by lonely stroke. Then, the...