Peoples came to church all sorts of ways. Early on, mens rode showy horses while their gals sat in buggies, shadin their pasty faces. Us poor folk walked, heads low so’s we wouldn’t look at no one. Cause problems.

Later, cars, mostly black, kicked dust in our eyes. Preacher Thompson had a fancy red truck. Course he did.

During the flood, Dawson piled us in his shrimp boat and blasted over them waters. Got to church directly on time. Thompson sermoned about the power of giving before claiming Dawson’s boat as a righteous offering.

Now Dawson ain’t got no money.

No Regrets

Posted: August 10, 2022 in Friday Fictioneers

yeah, used to be that guy or a guy like that. shaved my head. tattooed my scalp. wore keys that meant nothin on chains hangin from my belt. jingle-jangle. joined some guys. scared regular citizens for no reason. yelled at an old lady til she cried. real tough. nabbed a stroller. baby and all. hid it on hester st. laughed til our sides split. more shit went down. then julio found a girl. and left. then marcus, deric, little sam. i kept on keepin on. someone had to. now i’m scratchin my memoir on a wall in cell block 8.


Posted: October 30, 2020 in Uncategorized
Tags: , ,

When my heart shatters like a single mussel shell beneath your angry words and I fall to my knees and cry for mercy, kindness, forgiveness, a gentle hand or a whispered I love you, will you be there, not to shout questions or offer unneeded advice but to gently lift me up and guide me, not to your home or mine but to a place of warmth and softness where our baggage of discordant history has no place and the sound of children’s laughter brings delight instead of angst?