Jessica Conway
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Elishia let her pointer finger trace along the line where the glass had shattered on the jewelry display. Mama was looking for the pretzel dough recipe in the nearest Auntie Anne’s to the store she left Elishia and Papa in. Mama told her not to move away from the mannequin behind her.
By Jessica Conway3 years ago in Fiction
The Past We Can't Escape
I cannot watch anything that portrays what life was like for black people in the past. Not because I don’t want to understand it or because it breaks my heart; but because of the raw rage I feel inside every, single, time. It’s a burning ache that rotates violently, end over end, in my chest each time I see tears on a black face, scars on black skin, and ESPECIALLY the look of unadulterated disgust portrayed on white faces. I’m afraid of that rage because it calls for more than justice. It calls for revenge: blood for blood, an eye for an eye, a life for another. It’s a very primal urge that feels a little too right at times. My soul sings for a revolution; even when I know the truth behind such a word. Real revolution means senseless violence and devastation. It means newly orphaned children, unworthy martyrs, and cities brought down to their iron knees. It would mean a chance to start building a new America, but with the same old bruises that never heal because we never learned. Just another war America would have to go through because we didn’t have the common sense or patience to communicate with each other.
By Jessica Conway3 years ago in The Swamp