Tuesday, July 3, 2012

Black Shorts - Day 4




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. 
(homelessness)



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. 

(neighborhood violence)


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. 
(changing communities)


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."
(becoming resilient)


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?

(teen pregnancy)
             

My Daddy’s Shrine



My momma always told me my daddy ain’t nothing, 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.

(father-son relationships)

We will provide Brother Author critiques paying attention to the following:

Logical sequence
Interest level / momentum
Situated - ness
Authenticity
Care
Word Choice
Voice

You will post your first paragraphs today. 

11 comments:

Anonymous said...

The Wild Day in Bensonhurst

I grew up near the Hudson River just outside of New York City. The house is a big one, and my family lives comfortably. My family is Mohawk, and we never left the land. The story of our civilization ends with the tribes being forced into Canada. However, my family never left; we were some of the only to stay. I have spent days playing in that snow trying to find a way to please my dad. My family calls me Hiawatha, but all of my friends call me the Chief. My father, Alka, was a thorn in my life. He was always telling me to get a girl. He would say “a boy is not a man without his woman,” I would only nod. The girls in school isolated me because I am the only Native American in school. I would only wonder as how I could live up to his expectations. One day my friend Tommy from school told me he has a girl for me in his neighborhood. This was my chance to prove I was worth something. I was not going to let my father down. So, I asked my dad for the money, and he agreed. My father was so predictable. “You are about to become a man. Take this chance, make me proud, and do not let your mother know anything. I will see you when you guys get back.” My father said as I got ready to leave for Tommy’s house. I was scared to death as to what I should do. How could I, the skinny Indian kid, handle an Italian dame. The sweat dripped from my forehead as I boarded my train.

BA7 said...

Tyrone shuffled his feet, eyes glued to the floor as he stood in front of the dean. Behind the dean was that white cop, Officer Holmes, his eyes narrowed at Tyrone. Tyrone wished that Ezekiel had just threatened the boy for the money instead of whipping out his steel knife. Now he was in the cop car, and Tyrone had a chance of sitting in there with him, even when he was just in the bathroom without a clue on what went on.
“Tyrone,” the dean voiced, and Tyrone unlatched his eyes to look at his face. The hands were folded underneath his chin, and what little hair he had left was drenched with sweat. Tyrone wanted to get this over with so he could get back to Ms. Jenkin’s classroom, one of the only rooms in school that still had an A/C unit. “We both know you’re involved in-”
“How many times I gotta say it, man?” Tyrone barked, and Officer Holmes raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know nothin! I wasn’t even there!”
“I told you these kind of kids always lie,” Holmes muttered. “Can’t get none of these boys to tell the truth. I knew he was trouble the moment he walked in here. Should just take him in – he’s bound to be behind bars sooner or later, anyway.”
“What you say, man?” Tyrone made a step towards him, but no sooner had he balled his fists did Holmes whip his hand towards his holster.
“Make me,” he growled, and Tyrone halted, suddenly burdened with fear. “I wish you would, you little runt. I could get one more future drug-dealin punk in jail.” He smirked. “Though I’d much rather put both that criminal and you six feet under.”
The dean leaned back in his chair. “That’d do us all a favor.”

BA4 said...

Almost

By Ryan K. Blackwell


I was on my toes excited, heart pumping, and sweat created a path down from my forehead to jaw line. Aside from the excitement, annoyance and impatience began to set in from standing in line in front and behind people, some I knew, some I barely talked to, who wore the same black cap and oversized gown, waiting to get their named called, showing that they are now a graduate of Hershing High. Some one hundred and fifty of us students were about to receive our high school diploma. The remaining ten to twenty people who weren’t graduating either decided sit amongst the parents and siblings, or decided to not show up at all. Marcus, my best friend, stayed home and slept. The last time I spoke to Marcus was last week. He barely comes to school and the last time I saw his report card, he had two C’s, a D, and four F’s. Marcus and I hung out all the time and sometimes made some careless mistakes. I learned from them, he didn’t.

BA 10 said...

Untitled

Henry climbed the stairs to the rooftop of the Hundred Oak apartment complex, all 40 flights of stairs. He knew it was trespassing, but from there you could see the Chicago skyline and the surrounding suburbs hidden among the sea of lush Oak trees. He grasped his frayed, purple spiral notebook in his hands, as he plopped on the Adirondack. Henry enjoyed the sound of silence he got up there, he’d come up to write and read whenever he felt overwhelmed with paranoia or stress. He glared out at the trees, as if they were the cause of the problems, imagining all them without their leaves, with hollowed trunks that echoed when you knocked on them. If trees could talk, he was sure they’d be jeering at him, saying that taking all honors classes was suicide, that sunlight would be foreign to him.

BA 6 said...

Strict by Jabari Harrell

Finally, it was the first day of summer and I was ready to get out of that strict school. Now I am free to wear what I want to wear, say what I want to say, and do what I want to do. My name is Jay and I go to a noble street campus called Chicago Bulls College Prep. Everyday I walk into the school my bald headed principle always says “Good morning!” Every time you get in trouble it’s hard to tell if he’s mad at you or not. The classes were an hour and 45 minutes. I fell asleep after hearing a boring teacher talk the whole time. I’m happy that I’m finally out and there’s more time for me to spend time with my girl. I’m not into gang violence or drug selling what I’m really into is that I was really successful as a freshman and was one grade close to the honor roll. I will never give up until I get my Ph.D. Not to get to the big leagues to be the best baller or be like Mike but to be called Dr.

BA 2 said...

Where Are You
By
Corey Ellis

January 15th 2007 was the day I found out upsetting news. On January 17th my school was having bring your father-to-school day. I had two days to find someone who could pose as my father. Who could I get? There was my mentor for many years, my uncle who had his own kids to care for, or my older brother who isn’t reliable. Well time ran out; the 17th was here. All my friends were with their dads laughing and telling stories. A boy named, Ronald, passed me by and said, “ Ha look at the lonely boy with no dad at least mine stayed.” The presentation continued with dads telling us cool jobs and how much they love their kids, I could only sit a cry. I then thought what if my dad was here what would he say

“Hi kids I’m Corey’s dad I’m unemployed, left my three boys and wife, and I’m a drug user.”

My teacher, Mrs. Swason, called on me so my father could present how could she knowing my father didn’t show and before I could speak my mom came bursting through the door. She got up and presented saying “ I know its bring your father but I am Corey’s father I’m the lead supervisor at CHAC, I raise my three boys by myself, and I love my baby boy with all my heart.” She left to go back downtown to finish work but as I walked home with my friends there were no tears but a smile because this was the best day ever! Through all the teasing and frustration my mom came through, on a special day one she wasn’t supposed to show for. “How did she know?” I thought I didn’t tell her. This act of willfulness shows me that no matter what the people who want to be there for you will be there.

BA12 said...

Fatal Mistakes

I was almost at my house. My wallet, fat from my ‘‘payment’’, was thumping against my left thigh, bags swishing on my right. My back cold with sweat and metal, weighing me down. I kept going as fast as I could, turning on corners. I kept looking over my shoulder, eyes circumnavigating, hoping he wasn’t at the post. His goonies are always with him. I turned the corner and was now another street from his post. “Don’t be there, don’t be there,” I prayed. Then I slowed down and cautiously, slowly, rounded the corner. On the other side of the street, back turned I saw him. All I had to do is cross the street unseen and be safe. One step, two steps, three steps, and four steps then he turned slowly and with vengeance in his eyes, he coldly smiled at me. I froze.

BA1 said...

Unwanted Involvement



I glared at him, as he got on the bus, young, black, pants saggin, headphones blastin. Hair in an unkempt Afro with a slight taper, wearing the new Jordan 10’s. I looked at my shoes a couple of scuffs but still looking pretty good. He came and sat next to me seeing that there were other empty spots on the bus. He looked to be about 14 or 15, his face looked young and fresh no facial hair. We sat there in pure silence as I counted fifty-three red cars that we passed before he said, “Ain’t you Man Man’s brother”. His voice sounded semi-deep like he was going through puberty. “Yea why?” I responded. “Tell him he better have my loud by this afternoon.” Central Street said the monitor at the front of the bus. I watched as he walked off the bus without telling me his name. I thought to my self-astonished what does my brother have to do with drugs? I got back home at about 5pm. Walking in the door I sensed something different; the air felt stale and heavy and things in the house looked disturbed. As I walked in my brother’s room, whispers of death’s cold breath chilled my spine down to dry ice.

BA9 said...

Hear My Call
My mother always said I was a survivor. There I was standing on the Subway in the heart of downtown Chicago. I was on the Jackson stop at the Red Line train. No matter where I was I could never muster enough courage to feel like I had a sense of belonging. I always felt this growing urge to die that constantly seeps in and runs it sharp fingernails across my throat. I always planned the way I thought I should die. The methadone couldn’t finish me. My family thought I was a step away from creating a mass murder that would result in my spirit to be banished straight to the pits of hell. In reality, I just wanted to end my existence. As the train grew closer I walked up towards the train tracks. I could see my blood splattered all over the tracks and my limbs ravaged off by the force of the train. I could die in front of all these people and be content. If I jumped in front of the oncoming train I wonder would they finally notice me? A short woman was watching me said, “I was there too.” “Don’t give up on life until life gives up on you.”

BA 2 said...

Where Are You
By
Corey Ellis

January 15th 2007 was the day I found out upsetting news. On January 17th my school was having bring your father-to-school day. I had two days to find someone who could pose as my father. Who could I get? There was my mentor for many years, my uncle who had his own kids to care for, or my older brother who isn’t reliable. Well time ran out; the 17th was here. All my friends were with their dads laughing and telling stories. A boy named, Ronald, passed me by and said, “ Ha look at the lonely boy with no dad at least mine stayed.” The presentation continued with dads telling us cool jobs and how much they love their kids, I could only sit a cry. I then thought what if my dad was here what would he say,

“Hi kids I’m Corey’s dad I’m unemployed, left my three boys and wife, and I’m a drug user.”

My teacher, Mrs. Swason, called on me so my father could present. How could she? My father didn’t show. And, before I could speak, my mom came bursting through the door. She got up and presented saying, “ I know it's bring your father-to-school day, but I am Corey’s father. I’m the lead supervisor at CHAC, I raise my three boys by myself, and I love my baby boy with all my heart.” My mom's presentation made me feel like the luckiest boy in town. When everyone left the room, I went to Ronald, and said, "Where's that smart comment now?" My mom left to go back downtown to finish work, but as I walked home with my friends there were no tears, but a smile because this was the best day ever! Through all the teasing and frustration, my mom came through on a special day she wasn’t supposed to show for. “How did she know?” I didn’t tell her. This act of willfulness shows me that no matter what, the people who want to be there for you will be there.

ba11 said...

The Outside World


I take another sip of the dirt water. Mom must have accidentally lock the door again like she does every night but that’s ok because I can beg for food like she always tells me. I’m hungry little boy I’m scared for my life. If what happens on this street is right then I’m a dead boy. Guns blasting, I go in the trashcan for cover. This is my life. Is this is my place. Hell nah, this can’t be all there is, death and violence, this is not right. But here I am listening to bullets as a god dam song. Then I hear the trash can open and a man and tells me “get out nigga your coming with.” I cry. I scream, no one comes, no one hear, no one helps in my time of need. I’m alone, all alone. I refuse to go but that’s all I can remember when I was knocked out by the handle of a gun.