🎶 THE SHADOW — A New Wave of Musical Prose with Reggae Soul 🎤📖

artwork specially provided by NS

Hello Steemit family,

I’m thrilled to introduce you to “THE SHADOW” — a story about exile, truth, and the power of words. It’s not just a short story. It’s a lyrical monologue wrapped in mystery, soaked in reggae, and sharpened like a protest anthem.

What is Lyrical Fiction?
Picture a narrative that doesn’t just speak — it resonates. Every line hums with rhythm. Every silence echoes with meaning. This is storytelling that moves like music — gritty, poetic, raw. Inspired by dub, spoken word, and the confessional honesty of protest reggae, “The Shadow” brings a new kind of fiction to life: where what’s unsaid matters as much as what’s spoken.

Who Is in the Story?
Meet Stan — a Bulgarian artist running from a broken homeland, but carrying its voice. In a sun-drenched mansion in Jamaica, he meets Koko, an exiled tycoon turned ghost — a man with power, guilt, and a dream to build something real before it’s too late. Their dialogue becomes a manifesto — about corruption, memory, and why silence is the most dangerous enemy of all.

Why “The Shadow”?
Because truth doesn’t wear a crown. It moves in silence, behind the curtains, behind the lyrics. This story explores what happens when one man wants to give his voice… and another decides to lend his silence to something bigger than himself. It’s about legacy without vanity. About music as weapon. About saying what must be said — when no one dares.

A Story with a Soundtrack
Like every revolution, this one has a rhythm. “The Shadow” comes with a real soundtrack — the anthems that echo its pages, the music that bleeds through its dialogue. Not background noise — but emotional fuel. Listen as you read. Feel as you reflect.

🎧 LISTEN TO THE SONG THAT STARTED IT ALL — “Свобода” (Freedom):
https://shemzee.bandcamp.com/track/--204

This is just the beginning.
More chapters. More songs.
One voice. One truth.
One shadow.

THE SHADOW

It was late afternoon in Cherry Gardens.
The Jamaican sun blazed like it was burning for the last time over La Vista Blanca—a luxury estate gleaming white beneath the encircling palms. Everything was white—from the stones in the yard to the glass-roofed gym and the teardrop-shaped pool.
Three armed men checked Stan right at the entrance. One took his phone, another frisked him for weapons. The third—silent—stared him straight in the eyes. Then nodded:
"He's clean."
They led Stan down a marble path between spiky plants and life-sized lion statues. The back of the house was open—like a stage. A white couch. A white bar. A white hammock.
And finally—the host, known as Mister K /Kostadin/ Kamenov, or to friends—Koko the Jamaican. Sitting cross-legged, shirtless, sweaty from a recent workout, with a Cuban cigar in hand. At the sight of Stan, he smiled, stood up, and walked toward him:
"You Stanislav?"
"That's me."
"Koko. Nice to meet you," Kamenov extended a hand. "Nice to see a fellow countryman, damn it. Sit down. No need to be formal, just call me 'you'—I'm not some fancy snob..."
"Thanks," Stan replied and sat down.
"Want to have breakfast with me? I’m into good food, and I’ve got a top chef—local guy. I never skip breakfast—it’s the most important meal. Look, today he made something traditional Jamaican—ackee and saltfish, it's the national dish here.
And in your honor, I added something special—fresh mango, pineapple, a bit of toasted coconut, bananas with wild honey. And, of course, a cup of Jamaica Blue Mountain coffee—the best in the world."
"Sounds great, looks great..."
"Let’s eat."
The breakfast really was culinary poetry. Koko ate slowly, savoring every bite. Stan was hungry and finished faster. The coffee—the best he’d ever had—tasted like morning silence, like tropical freshness, like a balance between strength and gentleness. It didn’t jolt you awake—it gently invited you into the day—with finesse, grace, and dignity.
"This coffee is incredible. So… why am I here?"
Koko turned on the sound system with a remote lying on the table. Suddenly, through the speakers came the track they had recorded the other day.
"Because of this song—'Freedom'—I heard it, first 'cause it’s in Bulgarian, and then a few more times ‘cause it’s fcking awesome! Like this: ‘Give the thief rich clients… Give the banker high rates…’—man, that’s the truth. And ‘greedy, lustful power dictates to the crowd’? That’s not reggae, that’s a transcript from Bulgarian hell."
"I’m glad you liked it… It’s from our life, from that life I ran away from," Stan replied.
"Because hustlers became ministers, and uncultured jerks from the villages started telling us what art is. And in the end what? The mafia owns everything. Newspapers, banks, kebab shops. A gypsy nation, bro. But you—you sing ‘Freedom’... at least you sing honestly. I want to help you. I’ll sponsor you."
"Just like that? Without asking for anything? Doesn’t work like that. I don’t sing on commission."
"No, dude, sing however you want, just keep hitting those politicians. Expose their dirty laundry, just like you did in that track. That’s all I want. Listen—I’ve got money. Cash, bank, crypto. I’ve got people who’ll cut ears if someone disrespects me and heads if someone dares stand up to me. Anyone who’s tried—I’ve crushed them. But life isn’t just cash, bitches, and feasting. I want to leave something behind. Like a monument—but one they can’t tear down. I had a ton of properties in Bulgaria, and I had to disappear overnight with nothing but the clothes on my back and my phone. Good thing I had a crypto wallet, or else… everything I had left would’ve been gone.
But the song—songs live on and will outlive us. I used to like Bob Marley, long before I came here. And Inner Circle—‘A la-la-la-la long, long-li-long-long-long…’ You remember? Never been into chalga. I’ll give you the money. You’ll have a studio, security, you’ll play in Trench Town and even in front of presidents, if need be."
Stan stayed silent. Koko poured a bit more coffee into their cups. Then continued:
"Listen, man. I know how it sounds. ‘Sponsor’—nasty word, especially for an artist. But I’m not some wimp who’s gonna tell you what to sing. I don’t want you bowing to me either. Don’t even want people to know it’s me behind it."
Stan studied him carefully. He wasn’t sure whether to trust him.
"Then why? You’ve got money. You ran an empire. You live in a mansion, smoking hundred-dollar cigars… what more do you want?"
Koko gave a crooked smile. It looked more like a scar than a smile.
"It’s true… I’ve had it all. Money, women, enemies, greed, revenge. I was a king until I became a fugitive. And now? I live. But I also think. You know what hurts the most? That in that country—ours—no one remembers. Everything passes—lies, scams, murders, hunger—and still gets forgotten. That’s what I want to change."
Stan stayed quiet. Koko continued, softer, more sincerely.
"Your songs… they won’t change the world, right? I know that. But if five thousand people hear them, if even five of them ask themselves, ‘Why do I live like this?’—then it’s worth it. That’s why we’ll release them for free. Spotify, YouTube, torrents—doesn’t matter. We’ll upload them everywhere. Kids today download everything for free anyway."
"But without you interfering?"
"Never. I won’t give you lyrics, I won’t say ‘Tone this down,’ ‘Don’t mention that.’ I just want one thing—hit them, Stanislav. Hit them with words. Those who made us miserable, built themselves a paradise and pushed the rest of us into hell. Those who call themselves politicians but are just liars on a leash. Describe them. Call them by their true names. And if you can—make someone feel angry. Or ashamed."
"And why me? You could buy a hundred singers..."
Koko shook his head.
"I don’t want singers. I want a voice. Yours. You don’t sing—you cut. And that’s heard. That’s why I’ll pay for everything—studio, gear, producers, security if needed. You just tell how they fcked up Bulgaria."
"And you? What do you get out of it?"
"Peace, man. I’ll know I gave something. Without taking. Because I’ve already taken everything. And honestly… there’s nothing else left for me to do. And now I think—maybe the most meaningful thing is to give a stage to the truth. Without being in it."
Stan thought for a moment. Drank the last sip of his coffee. Jamaica Blue Mountain—a taste of a new beginning.
"Alright. But on one condition."
"Name it."
"I won’t take money from you directly—nothing personal, it’s just, I’ve sworn never to have a boss. I’ll set up a crowdfunding account, and if you want, contribute there. And I don’t ever want you to tell me what to sing. Sorry if I sound harsh. Just saying it straight."
Koko laughed and raised his cup.
"Your word is law, poet. And my name—forgets it. You’re the face. I’m the shadow."

TO BE CONTINUED...

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