Day Four Black Shorts - Establishing Momentum

A well-written short story has the power to excite the imagination and stimulate the soul. I encourage you to think, plan, and write short stories with full intentions to pay attention to the sacred rights and responsibilities of human beings.

I share the first paragraphs of six black shorts I have written, all dealing with a social justice issue.

Not So Strange After All

“Get away from me you devil-loving maggot.” His name was Leon. My name was Leon. I noticed him sitting outside of CVS pharmacy jingling a green and white cup. “God, Bless. Have a nice day,” is what he said to everybody who gave him some change, and those who refused. That’s why I was surprised with his outburst when I decided to sit beneath the large storefront window next to him. I was not close enough to offend, but close enough to chat. I circled the block several times before engaging in this strange behavior. I could not help myself because he had a striking resemblance to my father who has passed away a year earlier after suffering from an acute case of pneumonia. I wanted to know the story behind the man who sat spread out on Canal Avenue with a matted, salt and pepper beard. It was something about his hands and the cup that did not match. His fingernails were striking. I expected them to be dirty, unmanicured, and trouble-looking. But they were not. There were clean and well cared for.

Black Bag

"Lil’’ Joe sat in the back of the car with a stupid look on his face. The large graffiti-laced t-shirt and hanging jeans with large cuffs hugging the ground at the back of multi-colored gym shoes marked him as a young man looking for trouble. The bulky bag he was toting raised suspicion. His run-in caused him to imagine the weight of Mrs. Jackson’s disappointment. He heard her saying, “Stay out of trouble.” He was excited and scared at the same time. He would become one of the guys after sharing what happened tonight; he was now a first-timer, an official member of the brotherhood. 

Lefty

This was my first time back in the old neighborhood after being away for more than four years. “You know, Lefty, died.” Cameron, one of my best friends from childhood told me about his death. It’s funny how memories and emotions are quickly ignited with unexpected news. Although I hadn’t heard the name, Lefty, in ten years, I felt a deep lost. I remember looking forward to seeing him turn the corner as he wheeled his way toward Madden Park in a sluggishly looking chair with rips in the leather and dingy push handles. He was a huge man, always wearing the same country straw hat and blue jean overalls with one working strap. Dirt was always caked under the fingernails of his huge hands. He sweated a lot, and his underarms were wet most of the time. Lefty never wore socks in the summer; his crusty ankles showed through the back of his open-toe sandals. 

Not in My Neighborhood

His bright red cap, half-cocked, was the first thing I noticed when he entered the room. I am not quite sure why he showed up, but it was something about his presence that was welcoming. His movements were slow and measured. I could hear the questions he was asking although he remained silent. The baby face atop the grown-man frame was weathered with pain, but not totally washed of innocence. He was teetering between something that was difficult to pinpoint. Then he spoke, "Not in my neighborhood."

Sixteen

She sat two rows in front of me on the seven-car train that was moving toward the city. Her hair was uncombed and there were naps all along her two-toned neck. The daughter’s hair was not in much better shape suggesting that she just didn’t have time to get to it this morning. Earplugs were in her ears and small gold hoop earrings, nothing extravagant, hung from her lobes. The dimples on her moderately dark face were attractive. She was really pretty. I made brief eye contact with the girl who looked like she was about sixteen. We exchanged a brief smile that was interrupted by a young boy who began to scream; the pacifier dropped from his mouth.  It was obvious he hadn’t had his first haircut, and the white dry snot marks on his nose looked nasty. She spent the duration of the ride trying to calm him down. The train passengers, mostly white, looked irritated because the young boy’s cry was intruding upon their newspaper reading; their attempts to complete work on laptop computers, or their desire to simply enjoy four-dollar-cups of coffee. I felt sort of sad for the girl as she bounced the baby up and down on her lap as her little girl looked on. The mother’s face tightened each time his shrieks grew louder; she looked somewhat apologetic for disturbing the others. At one point, I even became irritated. Why won’t the boy just shut up, I thought?

             

My Daddy’s Shrine

My momma always told me my daddy ain’t shit, but I still decided to love him. I’m his seed and I carry his name. It’s been three years since I last saw him. It was a perfect day. I remember waking up early on my tenth birthday. The blinds failed to block out the morning’s sunlight that crept into my room. The ray of light stretched like a rope across the tiny bedroom that I shared with my little brother, Fergie. I dressed quickly when mom told me that daddy was on his way over to take me to the game. I heard the horn and I rushed downstairs. Big Gib, with a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth, was sitting in his new Chrysler. He looked perfect to me. I was excited to go to the north side to see the Cubs. Kids in my neighborhood lost interest in the game; the parks are now empty. It is rare that I get a chance to wear my jersey with the number 37 on the back, another gift from my father. He’s fourth generation and I am fifth generation.