The Aftermath: The Second Storm

BLACK PEARL

SPECTRUM WAVE PUBLISHING

SPECTRUM WAVE MUSIC ENT.

COPYRIGHT@2025

And when her last satellite loop faded from the screen,

A second, colder storm moved in, bureaucratic and mean.

The world’s nations, in panic, issued a global ban:

“No travel from the Sisters’ lands.”

Not for aid, not for family, not for a helping hand.

They banned the flight, banned the boat,

Cut the sisters adrift, left them barely afloat.

They called it “biosecurity,” a “quarantine zone,”

But it was a sentence to suffer and die alone.

The Sisters’ Pact: Forged in the Flood

But in the mud, in the salt, in the crushing debris,

A pulse remained. An old, familiar key.

Haiti, from her ruin, remembered the weapon she’d won.

She did not send a ship, or a gun.

She sent the blueprint of freedom, etched in spirit and blood.

Cuba, though crippled, sent her doctors into the sludge,

Nurses who understood surviving a judge.

Jamaica sent rhythm, the deep, grounding beat,

To organize feet when there was no food to eat.

They became a Triune Coast, a single, wounded will.

Their liberation was no longer a political bill,

But a spiritual fact, proven under the wheel.

The world banned their bodies, their passports, their flight,

But it could never ban the soul that rose in that night—

The soul that was three, yet utterly one,

The Sisters of the Scourge, who could never be undone.

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Hurricane Melissa: The Calculated Catastrophe

BLACK PEARL

SPECTRUM WAVE PUBLISHING

SPECTRUM WAVE MUSIC ENT.

This was not anyone’s imagination.

She was the cyclops who opened all

Four of her eyes, by everyone's surprise, were preparatory

She did not form over warm Atlantic waves by chance.

She was conjured from data, given a lethal dance.

Her eye was a perfect, predatory ring of cold,

Her rain bands were razors, her story foretold.

First, she made landfall in Haiti.

She found the hills already scarred, the earth already frail.

She did not bring wind; she brought a tsunami of mud.

Entire villages—Gonaïves, Jacmel—were swallowed in a thud.

The statistical report, cold and neat:

8,500 confirmed souls are missing in the concrete-silt sheet.

Not just deaths, but erasures.

A schoolhouse with 200 children became a mass grave engineered by pressures.

300,000 instantly homeless, a number so vast,

Living in a slurry of the present and past.

Then, she pivoted to Cuba.

Here, her tool was not mud, but the sea itself.

A storm surge, 30 feet high, a watery shelf.

It did not flood Havana; it scoured it clean.

The Malecón was shattered, a skeletal scene.

Colonial plazas became salt-water tombs,

As the power grid drowned in the engineering rooms.

The death toll, officially, was 3,200,

But the true devastation was in the aftermath’s hour:

1.2 million without shelter, without a dry bed,

A nation of engineers, left with nothing but dread.

Finally, she settled over Jamaica.

Her method here was water, weight, and wind.

For seven days, she spun and never thinned.

She parked over the Blue Mountains’ sacred spine

And wrung the sky out, line by line.

Forty inches of rain in a week.

The Yallahs River became a roaring, brown streak,

Carrying cars, carrying roofs, carrying hope away.

Landslides peeled the green skin off the day,

Burying communities like Portland Cottage whole.

The death toll was 1,750 on the scroll,

But the homelessness was a pervasive blight:

Every third person is lost in the island’s long night.

For example, A 90-year-old woman, Miss Clémence,

Who had survived dictators and poverty’s expense,

Now slept sitting up in a rusted car,

Her lifetime of photos warping in a jar

beside her on the passenger seat.

Her home was a memory, her street was a mud-slicked beat.

A father, wife, and mother-in-law

Had built a shelter from an abandoned car

To stay warm. He felt hopeless

As he held his beautiful newborn in his arms.

The house had blown down due to the crisis that Melissa

had created. She unapologetically turned her back

. By October 2025, the month that survivors won’t forget.

She was described as a home/ land invader

because she had left a total ( highly cost-effective) mess behind.

A Story About Three Sisters

BLACK PEARL

SPECTRUM WAVE PUBLISHING

SPECTRUM WAVE MUSIC ENT.

COPYRIGHT@2025

A story about three sisters,

Separated from birth.

They later discovered their identity,

But they were only partially granted their liberation.

Jamaica was first captured,

Snatched by the sea-wolves’ hands,

A jewel traded between pirate bands,

Then claimed by a distant Crown’s demands.

She accepted the Crown’s gilded wealth instead,

A pact of sugar, rum, and silent dread.

Haiti was cast into devastation’s shame,

Born from the flame of a sacred, revolutionary name.

She built a fortress of determination,

Forged in the fire of a nation’s creation.

She claimed the secret weapon: Liberty,

And gave it to every link in the island chain,

A righteous scream against the rain of pain.

“Fight,” she whispered, “for every right.”

And her sisters listened in the night.

Cuba played the longest game,

The eldest, bearing a strategic name.

A republic in heart, but not in name,

She stayed behind, shouldering the blame—

The sacrifice, taking the bread crumbs instead,

While a world of empires turned overhead.

As the world turned, the years bled on.

Haiti was betrayed by the very spawn

Of her own freedom—children who worked not for a dime,

Who twisted her legacy, making the world unkind.

The toxic impact, a systemic imperial curse,

Waged feudal wars against the indigenous.

Colonial children, with papers and laws,

Tossed the original owners from their homes and caused.

This impact manifests as a historical trauma’s stain,

A cultural erasure, a persistent, dull pain.

Colonial structures, in modern disguise,

In courts and in agencies, under bureaucratic skies,

Relentlessly whitewash our cultural historic bequests,

Stealing our future, putting our souls to the test.

The forthcoming children of the heritage,

No longer updated their technology’s charge.

Their data was transferred, not into light,

But into panoramic sonic waves of might,

Used to enquire for minerals deep in the land,

Mapped as business enterprises, sold to the highest hand.

The skilled, trained mission? To persuade the indigenous,

Bidding them aid with a treacherous kiss,

So they could build a modern, pioneer frontier,

On the graves of ancestors, fueled by greed and fear.

The sisters made several attempts to warn

Their other island brothers, from before the storm.

But temptation brought wealth to the ruling nobles’ doors,

While the natives remained the true sufferers of wars.

Prices rose like floodwaters, taxes piled like stone,

Heavy burdens began to cripple the backbone.

And when more natural resources immersed the scene,

This is where the greed became obscenely keen.

In environmental laboratories, cold and stark,

Scientists gave birth to a new kind of dark:

A Cyclops with Four Eyes, a calculated swarm,

A weather-made weapon, a man-made form.

An imitation of a storm, with a feminine name,

Programmed for a singular, devastating aim.

Her name was Hurricane Melissa.