The First Mistake

On a day where the rain slants sideways, something I will remember even a decade later, I ignore the heaviness of my rain-soaked sneakers and continue down SE Capitol Street. Mama always says stealing is for the dumb poor kids, not the smart ones like me. I stuff my hands into the pockets of my brother’s sweatshirt holding onto the money tightly. 

When I get to cleaner streets the people change too. They stare at me beadily, their eyes turning black like the pigeons that fly to our windows. I take my hands out of my pockets and look up. Mama says to be proud always, no matter what neighborhood. I have a mission, though: find the best candy this side of D.C, make it real special for grandpops. Today is his eightieth birthday and Mama says everyone deserves a special treat.

The shop is the nicest I’ve seen. Big, shiny letters stick to the windows. I’m learning to read so I recognize “groceries,” “gifts,” and “candy.” The other letters loop around and make my head swim for understanding so I tie my shoelace and walk inside.

“Are you lost, boy?” The clerk’s Southern drawl is harsh and he smacks his lips on the words like they’re sour. Later, I would wonder why I didn’t leave then. I tell him about my grandpops, tell him his whole life story as it started in the cotton fields of Georgia.

“And now he’s eighty and Mama says to get him the nicest chocolate bar I can find!” He glares at me now and I recognize this expression from Mama when I broke her favorite cup. He gestures for the money and I dig deeply into my now-empty pockets. I look up.

“Your first mistake was coming here,” the man crosses his shoulders and spits on the ground.  

In a panic and rage I won’t understand until later, I grab the chocolate and run. He catches me before I read Capitol and the rain hides the tears I should have cried.

Unrooted

I flip through the dry pages of the textbook until they make a light breeze that tastes of salty dust. The root maze catches my eyes on the tangles that spread beneath the mangrove tree set deep in the swamp. The breeze slows, stops, and the salt collects and mixes in the water that the roots carry to the leaves. Wood like this is emulsified, compressed, changed into the paper I hold in my hands. If I were there, would I protect the tree?

The mudskipper clings to the roots, a fish out of water. It swims amidst the bramble and sunlight filters through making the water opaque and bright. What should be a tangle of timber is a thickly woven puzzle with each piece of lichen-crusted bark fitting over, under, and around the next. I imagine the scent of cedar is cloying as it bakes in the brackish water beneath the tree. On tiptoes, the mangrove stands in the tide and the mudskipper scales the trunk—slippery at first, then dry and papery. It does the job I cannot and safeguards the tree as it stretches to the spindly branches at the top. Instead, I look down past green filtered sunlight, past knobbed bark, even past the mudskipper who looks back at me. Two-dimensional and paper-thin.

Cover

Avery routinely knit on her daily commute to the Senior Center. She would count the rows at every stop the bus made—not before—and unravel her work if she dropped a stitch. Some days, Alfred would collect her from the final bus stop outside what she called the Senile Center.

Today another man waited for her. He had bright blonde hair that made Avery think of the packets of to-go mustard sitting in her fridge. His cheekbones were high and stood out against his narrow face. The suit he wore clung to his legs in the way Avery had seen young skaters wear their pants. She guessed he was new here, a young boy looking for some extra money helping the old people of Toronto.

“Hold my scarf,” she said and handed him her half-unraveled knitting.

“Can I help you down, ma’am?” He smiled and she thought of her grandson. He lived in Ontario with his mother—she wouldn’t acknowledge that she was her daughter—and probably wore pants as tight as this young man.

When she stepped off the bus, her handbag caught on the door and the contents spilled on the asphalt. Three tubes of chrome-cased lipstick (brown, of course) rolled underneath the wheel along with a hair brush, pill container, bits of receipts from the last month, and a book. Avery’s doctor had warned her that quick movements might upset her hip, but she ducked down and threw the contents back into her handbag. Unfortunately, the young man was faster.

“Don’t forget the book—” He stared down at the cover, a well-endowed woman gripping the bare chest of a muscle-clad man. His surprise was evident of finding an amorous grandma.

“I can walk from here, thanks.” She grabbed the book and traced the cover before placing it in her bag. It was, after all, her favorite picture of herself. 

Pancakes and Petri Dishes

If you give a biologist a pancake

he will poke it with a fork

like a rare organism. He’ll examine it,

dig into its microstructures.

He might even smell it.

If you give a biologist syrup,

his experimentations might be halted

by its mapely sweetness. You’ll breathe

a sigh of relief—you distracted him.

Although he might speak with his mouth full.

But take the biologist further

out of his habitat. Remove

his lab coat, his goggles. Laugh

at the way his hair sticks up like Einstein’s.

He might even begin to examine you.

So you give a biologist a pancake

in the hopes he will fork its sponginess

and hypothesize about its taste. Because

if he looks at you under a microscope

all he might find is empty space.

Blind Date

Eustace had only been on one blind date before tonight. That time, his friend Steve from the office had pestered him into seeing his cousin from Washington so many times that he had finally said yes. She wasn’t bad to look at—wasn’t particularly good to look at either—but she was tall, blonde, and had breasts big enough that he could distract himself from her equally large nose. Tonight was supposed to be different. Eustace combed back his toupee and brought his thumb and pointer finger over his mustache to smooth it down. That would have to do.

Outside the restaurant, a long line had formed behind the shrubbery that stood like sentries on the sidewalk. It was five minutes before he read the black banners above the windows: Dark Table. The instructions from his sister were clear: Go inside, find a short girl with a dark bob, and be open-minded. He would try.

An older man with hairy knuckles escorted him into a bright lounge. He wanted to tell him it was rude to wear dark sunglasses in a building, but the man moved quickly back to the front. Eustace tugged at his dress shirt, convinced he looked as uncomfortable as he felt. Sweat condensated on his forehead. Find a dark bob—or was it an up do?—and say hello.

“Eustace?” The voice was throaty and feminine. He turned to his right. “Oh good, it must be you! I’m Shirley.”

“You already know my name,” he said. Besides the obvious height difference he didn’t know why his sister had told him to be open-minded. She didn’t have a large nose at least.

“So, have you eaten here before?” she prompted. He tried to look interesting.  

“No.” He cleared his throat. “Is it good?”

“Well it’s about to be the most authentic blind date of your life,” she said. Before he could question, the server gave them a pair of dark sunglasses and led them into the pitch black.

Don't Write

Write the story the world needs. Don't write for the sake of putting pen to paper or because you like the way the ink drifts across the page, solidifying your ego as it dries. Write because someone's story needs to be told. Don't write because your story hasn't been given enough attention. Write to change your own perspective with the idea that you are not alone. Don't write with the intention of fixing someone. Write with heart, with passion, with bravery. Don't write to hide. 

Most of all, don't write because you think you're not good enough. Write because you know you are and that someone out there is as well.  

Scabs

His anger, at first like an

Open wound,

Scabbed over in time but

Remained red hot inside.

It clotted,

Dark red and brown

Mixing like a dangerous potion. 

When hard crusts formed on its edges,

His anger was almost forgotten.

"It's for protection," she would say.

I nodded and looked away. 

Finally, when it broke and

Anger oozed from his every pore,

I looked at her again.

The open wounds were hers. 

Irrelevant

Speak the truth

Irrelevant

For the Hell of it

Because you never

know when you'll get to say

the words again.

Find your voice

Irreverent

For the Hell of it

Because you know that

words are ephemeral

and translucent.

Write it down

Document

For the Hell of it

Because your words

can be captured and shared

for good measurement.

Empowerment for the Hell of it