An audacious young writer.
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I Can See Only Darkness
“How’s it going, Frank?” a badly aging man in a cheap black suit says as he sits down at his desk. “Better than ever,” Frank, a humble, black, slightly overweight, forty-something man says back to his coworker in their small office.
I Can’t Remember
I can’t remember. I can’t remember what I was doing a moment ago. I can’t remember what time I went to sleep last night.
I am an honest man. I try to be like Jesus was, and I am like him sometimes. Some of the old ladies think I am him the way they look up to me. But I’m not someone to look up to. If only they knew what I have done. They would not listen to me. For I have sinned. I am an evil man.
Cold Hands of Joy
Cold hands of faint, sinuous veins, of pale and saggy skin, of broken colorless fingernails dig into the ground and lift up dirt and a maze of roots. He is nearly bald with grey hair growing out of his ears and nose, and his eyes damply wet against the dry air, and his face full of deep lines. With a hunched back and weak folded knees, his hands are shaking and digging with soft and calloused fingers in the cold dirt at the edge of a park.