07.01.25
Happy New Year Readers!
Bzzzz-bzzzz! Yara’s new phone jittered on the cracked tabletop like a panicked mosquito, shaking out a sticky-sweet tune in a boy’s thick Jamaican sing-song: “Mi want a hippopotamus fi Christmas…” The sound bounced off the peeling walls of the little, broken-down house, filling it with a strange kind of cheer.
Malïa wrinkled her nose, her Bajan lilt as sharp as a broken Maltín Polar bottle. “Yara, dis schupidness too sweet. Why yuh still watching Christmas videos in January? It already feel like d longess’ month wit’ dis state of emergency going on.”
Yara sprawled across the couch, smirking. “Gyal I kno’ you—ya go hum d song in yuh head just now.”
Malïa scoffed. “I not ‘bout dis!” She tapped her temple. “It go stick yuh know. Stick, stick!”
Her laptop glowed on the table, its screen filled with notes for another Plakebo story— this one a dark comedy-romance about Pogo, set in a Tobagonian village, tackling medical misinformation, gambling and old placebo remedies.
With the sharp crack of a gunshot, their neighbor, without warning, set off a firework, shattering the stillness of the moment. But no matter how hard she focused, her thoughts kept replaying the booming line from her script: “Loud, loud, loud!”
“Dis story,” Malïa muttered, “nobody go care ‘bout we village life no more. Is only Cyanaval dem want to talk ’bout. Is a wase of time.”
Yara sat up, her conditioned curls springing like coiled energy. “Yuh wrong, Malïa. People love real village stories. It does give a ‘disorienting dilemma’ to everytin’.”
“Not when is Bajan. Not unless it’s beach, Cyanaval and rum,” Malïa shot back, her voice dipping low. “Nobody want d real us.”
Yara padded to the kitchen, clinking mugs together before shoving one topped with a shot of ‘Synapse’ into Malïa’s hands. “Here. Drink. Stop complaining.”
Malïa stared into the tea, watching the steam swirl externally like her thoughts. “How yuh so sure dis not a waste of time? Time is money and we real need some.”
“Cause yuh loud, like yuh healer in yuh story. People jus’ need to hear we noise. Even if it soundin’ funny, they does listen.”
Malïa blinked, a reluctant smile tugging at her lips. Yará was always like this—annoyingly hopeful.
The television switched to canned laughter, and Yará started humming the tune again, off-key.
Malïa snapped her laptop shut. “Come, leh we go outside. I cyah tink wid all dis foolishness on.”
Yara grinned wide. “Yuh know yuh go sing de song jus’ now so.”
Malïa laughed despite herself. Maybe Yara was right. Or maybe the country wasn’t ready for Plakebo? They really had other issues in this SOE but ready or not, she’d make them listen. She was finally going to be ‘loud, loud, loud’.
What can AI help you with?
Take this short story (a quote from the website Plakebo, which explores the concept of placebos) and transform it into a more richly expanded narrative. Rewrite the story in the style of a renowned Caribbean author, infusing it with the vibrant imagery, cultural essence, and rhythmic prose characteristic of Caribbean literature. Use literary devices like metaphor, symbolism, and personification to enhance the narrative. Finally, complete the story by creating an evocative scene where Pogo, the protagonist, sips Synapse—a placebo designed to ease his anxiety—against the backdrop of a vivid Caribbean setting. The language and tone should resonate with a reading audience around thirteen years old. Once done, create an image of Pogo in this scene, capturing the warmth, colors, and textures of the Caribbean.
Across the island, Pogo hunched over his phone, his hands trembling like coconut leaves caught in a strong breeze. The “Sou Sou” app whispered promises sweet as sapodilla:
“One more spin. Your voice is your password.”
He hyperfocused, eyes glued to the glowing screen.
He’d already lost everything—his wife, his son, his savings. Still, his finger tapped the screen, the monkeys spinning like a lifeline unraveling.
In the back of his mind, Pogo’s employer, Plakebo lingered on another tab, mocking him: “Educate. Empower. Enlighten.”
If only belief and self-regulated learning could mend his broken life. He read about the other psychological methods like psychotherapy to help him navigate his problems but he didn’t act. In 2025, Pogo knew the truth: like his followers on the other tab on his browser, he didn’t want the burden of real answers. He only wanted to feel like he knew truth—while trusting that he understood there was none.
“So philosophical 💭,” one comment read beneath his latest post about self-directed learning. He stared at it blankly, his mind catastrophising. Instead, he took another shot of his nerve tonic, ‘Synapse’ and played another round of “Sou Sou” — a new crypto play-to-earn game.
The village healer’s wail from his latest Plakebo story echoed faintly in his memory:
“Diaz another placebo yuh know. Say it Loud, loud, loud when yuh see one!”
But for Pogo, the cry was a distant noise, muffled by the weight of his choices. His hand hovered, hesitated, then tapped again. The monkeys spun on. He scanned another code.
The message about Placebos remained on the other tab. Pogo, couldn’t listen.
“Loud, loud, loud” the post read but instead, he took another swig of his nerve tonic.
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