Three people in a single motel room on the west side. Two of them are tied up. The one they say is running things is the one on the bed. A 20-minute read.
Three voices, one bookshelf — fiction and reflection in about twenty minutes.
Tag: memoir
A man is on a woman’s couch in Chelsea. She works a corner to keep them both high. He sits in the chair and plays a guitar that he did not buy.
There’s been a disturbance at the men’s shelter. A resident bit a guard’s hand. Two guards responded, looked around, and declined the paperwork.
An undercover officer has moved into a squat on Avenue A. He is not there for the drugs. He is there for a man who has never been charged with anything.
Police shut down the weekend market. About a dozen officers attended; two or three is normal. The bookseller is named as having refused a lawful order.
A man in a tattered black suit sat down on the stoop beside the street musician and said his name was Death. They stayed there most of the afternoon.
A student jumped from the teachers’ lounge and broke both legs. He says the Black kid at the back lunch table told him to do it. A 30-minute read.
The family at the corner house has been evicted. As their wagon pulled away, the Black boy next door stood in the road and raised both middle fingers.
There’s been a disturbance at the elementary school. The only Black student is being made to retake the exam. He must have cheated. A 10-minute read.
There’s been an altercation in the schoolyard. A sharpened screwdriver was involved. The eight-year-old on the ground is the one they took to the office.
He was hospitalized twice that year. Both times, he fell down the stairs. He sleeps in the hall closet at the top of them. A free 10-minute read.
A six-year-old was seen at the collection plate holding a hundred-dollar bill. He had been told not to be seen. He must have taken it. A 10-minute read.
Chicago, 1967. Delivered in a warehouse one block from the hospital that wouldn’t take them. The mother declined to hold him. She must not have wanted him.