Detective McMann slammed his fist on the worn surface of the table in front of Campbell. “Just tell us what’s in the god damned package, and we can get this over with. If you had nothing to hide, you would just tell us, right?”
Mr. Quentin extracted the empty dropper from the cake, and gently wiped the chocolate frosting from the glass before screwing it back into the bottle. He slipped the compound 1080 into the inside pocket of his uniform jacket. Admittedly, a rather nasty game of roulette, but you’ll soon learn it was necessary. Mr. Quentin placed the slice of chocolate cake with the other seven slices, placed a hand on each side of the cart, then hung his head and paused. Another year, another dinner party spent serving his prized chocolate cake to the wrong family; although, thankfully, this would be the last. The thought made Mr. Quentin smile, and with a satisfied sigh, he closed his eyes and pulled the cart into a soft pirouette in front of him. The cart wheels on the marble floor was usually a noise that reminded Mr. Quentin of his hatred and misery day in and day out, but today, it was music.
Three Birds Market
Prairie winds lash and embrace me all at once, delighting in something other than crops and grasses to dance with. Despite the breeze, the late august sunset is warm against my outer walls. Inside, the light fights its way through the weak spots in the walls and roof, littering the floor with sunbeam spotlights; this reminds me of my age, which I don’t enjoy being reminded of often. I exhale the warmth into the winds, and the air inside me remains cool. The creaky complaints of my walls and rafters in the wind are drowned out by the joyful sounds of life enjoying the shelter of my walls. I am just happy to no longer be lonely.
I knew that I would hear him coming, but I didn’t think that the sound of the lockets hanging off of his belt would make it so damn haunting. I guess everything’s a little more eerie since the sun burnt out on me: my mind likes to fill in the darkness with what it thinks things might look like now, but my mind doesn’t have much good left in it. I slump back into the seat of the car and I wonder what time it might be. It’s the first I’ve remembered of the concept of time at all since I been on my own. Guess I want to know my time of death, since ain’t no one else gonna pronounce it. Maybe he’s got a watch amongst that string of silver hearts and I could catch the time before my locket is added to the collection. Surely one of us owned a damn watch, too.
Unfortunately, you’re me.
I was teeming with rage, ranting to you over snacks at your kitchen counter. Another day at work, another day fighting the systems that be, another day wondering what the hell I had to do to make change and why I had been so compelled to pick this fight as my career. Another day hating the patriarchy and navigating my way through destroying it. My son stirred from his nap, pulling me out of my angry trance and back into complete infatuation with my new role: mommy. I returned from his room with him cradled in my arms to find you had not moved a muscle, as if you had frozen in thought following my ranting. I sat back down, and your eyes truly sympathized for me when you crinkled your nose and said. “Unfortunately, you’re me.”
Logan and the Mailbox.
Logan was trying his best to keep from shuffling his feet on the cement, but it was proving pretty difficult to walk and write at the same time. The street was so quiet, apart from Logan’s scrrraaaaape pffffffttttt scraaaaaape-ing of his winter boots, and the quiet made it the best place in town to do his writing. His little black notebook was balanced in his palm and hugged tight to his chest, while his other hand gripped a weathered pencil and scratched onto paper the greatest story ever told in a little black book. Quite possibly, this would be the greatest story ever told in any little book, even little red books and blue books.
No Louis without Lil.
“The second wife of Louis Armstrong”. That is the most prominent and popular tag line used in search results when you look up Lil Hardin-Armstrong— but that’s not quite the story I’ve gathered. The most interesting thing I’ve found about Lil’s story is that there’s really two major accounts of it: what you believe about Lil depends on where you got your information from. Some really did just see her as one of the women who married Louis Armstrong, lots have never even heard of her, and the others know that reducing her to the title of “second wife” is nothing short of offensive. I fall into that last category. What better month than Black History Month to get some of the real history straight, and clear up how yet another Black woman’s influence is being slept on?
This year, I’m off of social media. Cold turkey. All apps were deleted January 3rd, and I haven’t looked back. Okay I downloaded one app once for 2 hours because I sent out a customer satisfaction survey to my ex boyfriends for a PowerPoint night with my girlfriends. BUT THAT’S IT. And yes, I got responses. Eleven of them, to be exact. Only one rated me an 8/10 on the worst ex ever scale (10 being the highest). The rest gave me a solid 1-2. I digress.