🎶 HOW MANY TIMES? — A New Wave of Musical Prose with Caribbean Soul 🎤📖 🎸

artwork & poetry specially provided by NS

✍️ Freewrite Fiction: How Many Times ✍️
A Havana session. A confession. A song.

🔊 A special track titled “How Many Times”, recorded exclusively for this chapter, is now live.
🎧 Listen on Bandcamp → https://shemzee.bandcamp.com/track/--729

Havana was burning.
The sun clung to their skin like honey, and the air reminded them the body is a cell, not a home.

They didn’t talk. They didn’t rush.
Stella gripped her notebook like it held her breath. Stan’s guitar was more like a limb than an instrument. Desita — cool, unbothered, walking just a few steps ahead like someone who already knows you'll leave… but still offers you coffee.

They climbed up to El Gato’s studio, where the walls sweated and even the fans spun like angels going mad. Nothing there felt fresh — except for them.

🎙️ “Cuando estés listo.”
When you’re ready.

Stan stepped up to the mic.
And then it began:

“How many times
have poisonous arrows
been stuck in your back…”

His voice didn’t just sing. It remembered.
Rough, tender, full of ghosts.

Stella listened, not like a producer.
Like a person hearing their own hurt in someone else's mouth.

“I want to die in that corner
where you fall
when you drive with eyes closed…”

Silence followed. Still vibrating.

Desita, quiet but struck, whispered:

“Eso no es una canción. Es una confesión.”
(That’s not a song. It’s a confession.)

Then came the last line. Not sung — spoken:

“Cuántas veces volaré contigo no es relevante.”
(How many times I will fly with you… doesn’t matter.)

They recorded her voice, simple and sacred.
They drank afterward — to what survives. And what cannot.

And when they walked into the Havana night,
each carried a different silence.

But the same thought:

How many times I will fly with you… doesn’t matter.

📝 This is an excerpt from a novel-in-progress. All characters are original. The story blends music and memory, truth and fiction — and yes, the song mentioned in this chapter is 100% real.

🎶 🎧 Listen to “How Many Times” on Bandcamp → https://shemzee.bandcamp.com/track/--729
Feel free to share your thoughts, interpretations, or even your own confessions in the comments.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

HOW MANY TIMES?

Havana was burning. The sun streamed down the skin like honey, and the air stuck to their backs, reminding them that the body is a cell, not a home.
They didn’t talk much. They moved slowly, without rushing, as if the silence between them was safer than any direction. Stella held her notebook tightly, her hair stuck to her temples, but she didn’t tie it back. Stan carried the guitar like a part of himself — something you can’t take off, even when it hurts. Desita walked slightly ahead of them — with the gait of a woman who already knows you’re going to leave, but still invites you for coffee.
El Gato’s studio was on the second floor of a building overgrown with moisture and graffiti. The gate creaked, and so did the recording equipment. The fans spun like mad angels. Everything in the room looked tired — except for them.
Stan settled in front of the microphone, Stella sat on the floor by the wall, Desita stood behind the mixing desk. She finished her cigarette, put it out in a plastic cup with ash, and said:
— Cuando estés listo. (When you’re ready.)
He was ready and not ready. He closed his eyes. He began.
“How many times
have poisonous arrows
been stuck in your back…”
His voice was rough, warm, almost gentle, but with a slight spiteful note in the “sh” and “s” sounds. As if he was speaking to someone who had already left. Stella watched him. Not like a musician. Like someone who recognized their own pain in another’s voice.
“I want to die in that corner where you fall
when you drive with closed eyes
on the highway to hell, I am with you…”
The last words drifted away like steam. Only the air remained, still vibrating with them. Desita leaned back, bit her lip, and whispered:
— Eso no es una canción. Es una confesión.
(That’s not a song. It’s a confession.)
Stella looked at her.
— What did you say?
— That’s not a song. It’s a confession. — Desita smiled, then added:
— And that last part… “How many times I will fly with you, it doesn’t matter”...
She thought for a moment, then suddenly said:
— Cuántas veces volaré contigo no es relevante.
(How many times I will fly with you is not relevant.)
She said it slowly, clearly.
Stella shifted. Looked at her seriously.
— Record it. Your voice. I want us to have it. As the finale. That sentence in Spanish.
— Now?
El Gato shrugged.
— We have time. And the mic is on.
Desita approached the microphone. Took off her shoes, as if the silence demanded respect. She took a deep breath. And said:
— Cuántas veces volaré contigo no es relevante.
Her voice was low, calm, almost sad. El Gato stopped the recording, gestured, and went to the shelf. He took out a flash drive, copied the recording, and handed it to her.
— Here it is. As a keepsake.
Stella kissed her on the cheek. Stan nodded. Desita put the flash drive in her pocket and said:
— Now — let’s drink. Let’s drink to what survives. And to what cannot.
They left the studio after the session like after a small miracle. Darkness was already flowing down the street, hot and shiny. And everyone walked with one thought in their head:
How many times I will fly with you…
doesn’t matter.

TO BE CONTINUED

25% from the earnings from this post will go to @freewritehouse