I understand most things around me. I capture them like a fireflies in a pickling jar. I stare at their truth until they have taught me what I need to know. Then, I let them go to gather more on their own. And if I am lucky, they return to me and tell me more. They do, you know. The animals, birds and even insects, they tell me things.
Uncle Dirk is a man who, when he speaks to me, reminds of a dead person. Not Papa-like dead person whose soul is now accounted for in Heaven, so they say, but a walking dead person whose soul he has shed, the weight of it much too cumbersome to carry around. Aunt Lina. It wasn’t but 4 months later the news came that she had died from complications of pregnancy, at least that is what Dirk said. I have my suspisions. I have a feeling for these things you see.
Excerpt from a previous draft by C. Dennis-Willingham
Piece of cake. He rolled down and through the growth of weeds beside the tracks, his backpack cushioning him. Only a short walk and he’d be “home”.
He digged living under the overpass. The new highway was far from being built. In fact the overpass didn’t even pass over the street yet. No rumblings above him. Peaceful, just like he wanted. Who needed a fancy ass pad when he had this?
After climbing the cement incline, he perched himself in the shadows against the wall where he could watch but not be seen. He lit the doobie scored yesterday from a dude at the Stop ‘n Go nearby and toked it slowly.
The rumblings of the Missouri Pacific train line, now off to his left, didn’t bother him. Perhaps one day he’d climb that train and truck it the other way to California. See what all the hoopla was about, besides the weather being perfect for a man of the streets. What had ole Machine Gun told him? “California- you could ‘find yourself here’”. That was it. Good ole Machine Gun. Such a drag, him getting blow up.
Austin’s five o’clock traffic crept below him. Sometimes, he’d count the trucks until he got sleepy, like counting sheep with engines. Today, he’d keep track of the number of Volkswagen Beetles, the new cars his favorite. So damn hard to decide which color was best. Maybe when he breathed in the world the way it was supposed to be, it would be easier to decide.
To make choices.
A chick to his left held her thumb out but no one stopped. She kept walking his way, keeping her thumb out and her back to the traffic.
Safe in the shadows, he took another toke and blew out slowly letting the drug take effect. Not bad for being free.
Prissy little thing in her cutoffs. Her ass swayed in rhythm to her blonde ponytail, carefree and cluelss. The yellow halter-top showed off her bra-less points. Many a night he’d dreamed about a girl like that. Probably nineteen, twenty. Probably just a hand-full of years younger than him but fifty worlds apart. Probably never had to wash herself in a damn swamp.
She was right below him now.
If you don’t move, you’re invisible.
The explosion pierced his ears forcing him to curl into a fetal position. He covered his head, forearms over his ears. His heart pumped bile into his throat while his mind waited for the blood to Ooze into a puddle.
He moved, inching up to a sitting position. How could he be so stupid? He was state-side now where cars backfired.
As the deer pants for water so does my soul pantfor peace in today’s world. Each day I wear my big girl pants and get on with living in the face of multiple challenges, sometimes, unfortunately, doubled due to the colour of my skin. One topic that I find unsavoury to talk about is race and that in 2017 I have to justify myself as a human and my right to life.
I was raised by loving, upright and hardworking folks and I aim to be a good representative of my parents. Back home, we didn’t bother with the difference of skin colour and all the rampantugliness of hate that currently swirls around.
I didn’t know that I’m black. I only knew that I’m a valuable human being and a fellow occupant of the world and it was not until I ventured away from my home…
Tomorrow, you have a choice. The far-right has scheduled another rally. Some may be your citizens, some may come from other places.
Some of you will oppose the rally.
Yes, the far-right has a right to speak. Perhaps, if you are like me, you will continue to “fight” for justice and equality for all people. But please “fight” with words.
Regardless of your “side”, I know how tense passions are – how they can escalate to the rise in blood pressure, to teeth grinding, to clenched fists. But please, put down your shields, your torches, your tear gas. In fact, don’t bring them at all.
And to my NON Alt-right friends: As difficult as it may be, perhaps you can stand back and listen. Then, maybe we will discover why the alt-right is so afraid of differences and what led them to that fear.
When we abandon our “imaginary loved ones”: I have a lot of characters that could hang with David K’s Abigail and George. Maybe they could be friends in someone else’s book.
Note: What were the chances I would find the word Willy-nilly (daily post) in one of my writings? As my kids used to say, “Random!” But here it is!
Excerpt from The Moonshine Thicket by C. Dennis-Willingham
Mr. Leonard, Scooter, and Frank have already left the house for Rosie’s. It’s part of the plan. Mama squeezes her hands together while Miss Helen make-ups her face.
“Stop being so willy-nilly, Bernice. This will be a perfect evening. And for heaven’s sake, stay still!” Miss Helen says, winking at me.
Mama plants her hands on Miss Helen’s vanity. “I know. It’s just, well, there’s so much to say.”
“Then say it and put it behind you.” Miss Helen stands back and eyeballs her work. “You look beautiful, Bernice.”
“Better than beautiful, Mama,” I tell her.
“I’m in my slip for Christ’s sake. At least wait to compliment me until after I’m dressed.”
When Mama puts on her new dress, a pink taffeta with frilly layers, she says it’s too fancy for Rosie’s café. But she can’t stop looking in the mirror.
Carolyn Dennis-Willingham 