Tag Archives: race

The Journal

Posted on by under Short Stories

As she packed his things, a journal fell open on the floor. Curious, she turned to the first page. The spine cracked softly as she lifted it, as though it hadn’t been opened in years. Dust floated in the late afternoon light, settling over cardboard boxes labeled in her careful handwriting: Kitchen, Clothes, Important Papers. She brushed her thumb over the first page, tracing the deliberate strokes of his pen.

Her father had always written like he spoke—measured, controlled, never wasting a word. But here, on this page, something felt… different. She began to read.

June 12, 1963 — Birmingham, Alabama

Mama says I’m too young to understand what’s going on, but I understand more than she thinks.

We walked farther than we ever have today. My feet hurt halfway through, but I didn’t say anything. Everybody else kept going, so I did too. Mr. Henry let me hold onto his coat again so I wouldn’t get lost in the crowd. There were so many people—more than I’ve ever seen in one place—moving together like one big body.

They were singing. Not just humming, but singing from somewhere deep. I didn’t know all the words, but I tried to follow along.

Then the police showed up. The singing didn’t stop, but it changed. Got louder. Stronger. Like people were daring the fear to come closer.

I saw dogs today. Big ones. Growling. Pulled tight on leashes like they wanted to tear through us.

Mama pulled me behind her when things started getting loud. I could feel her shaking, even though she kept her head up.

I think bravery looks like that. Not being unafraid… but not running. I don’t think I’ll ever forget it.

She swallowed hard, her fingers tightening slightly on the page. She’d read about these things in textbooks—photos, summaries, dates neatly printed in bold—but this… this was something else entirely. This was a boy watching it happen. Her father. She turned the page slowly.

March 7, 1965 — Selma, Alabama

I saw something today I wish I could unsee.

We weren’t supposed to go all the way across the bridge, but people said it was important. Said history was happening. I didn’t know what that meant, just that everyone seemed to believe it.

When we got there, the state troopers were already waiting.

It happened fast. Shouting. Then running. Then screaming.

A man next to me—older, maybe someone’s father—got hit so hard he dropped straight to the ground. I can still hear the sound it made. Like something breaking that shouldn’t.

I froze. I hate that I froze.

Mama dragged me back before things got worse, but I keep thinking… what if she hadn’t been there?

What kind of man stands still while someone else gets hurt?

I don’t like the answer. And I don’t like how angry I feel now. It sits in my chest like it’s waiting for something.

She exhaled slowly, pressing her lips together. Angry. He’d used that word before. Now she could see where it started. She hated that he had to endure that.

October 2, 1968 — Montgomery, Alabama

The letter came today. Official. Stamped. No room for misunderstanding. I’ve been drafted.

Mama cried before I even finished reading it. I told her it would be alright, that I’d come back, that it wasn’t as bad as people say. I don’t know why I said that. None of it felt true.

I folded the letter and put it back in the envelope like that might undo it somehow. It didn’t.

I keep thinking about all the things I haven’t done yet. All the places I haven’t seen. All the ways my life hasn’t even started.

And now it feels like it’s already over. I’m not afraid to say it here. I’m scared.

Her grip on the journal tightened. He’d never let himself sound like this. Not in front of her. Not ever. Maybe the reason why laid within these pages. She decided to keep reading to find out.

May 14, 1970 — Somewhere near Da Nang, Vietnam

There are sounds that follow you. Not the ones people think. Not the gunfire. Not the explosions. Those fade, eventually.

It’s the quiet after that stays. The kind of quiet where you realize who isn’t there anymore.

We lost three men today. I knew their faces. Their voices. One of them owed me five dollars.

Now all that’s left is their gear and the empty space where they should be.

I don’t write their names down because I don’t want to remember them like this. I already remember enough.

Sometimes I think parts of me are getting left behind here, piece by piece. I don’t know what’s going to be left when I go home.

A tear slipped down her cheek before she realized she was crying. She wiped it away quickly, but more followed. She tried her best to stifle them, but her efforts were in vain. She contemplated stopping, at least for now, but chose to continue.

January 3, 1971 — Back Home

Everyone keeps saying “welcome back” like I went on a trip. Like I didn’t leave something behind I can’t get back.

Mama hugged me so tight I thought she’d break. I hugged her back, but it felt… distant. Like I was watching it happen instead of being in it.

I tried to sleep in my own bed last night. Didn’t work.

Every time I closed my eyes, I was right back there.

So I stayed up instead. Sat in the dark and listened to the house breathe.

I don’t think I belong here anymore. But I don’t belong there either.

I don’t know where that leaves me.

She closed her eyes briefly, pressing the heel of her hand against her forehead. All those quiet nights. All those times she thought he was just… distant. He wasn’t distant. He was somewhere else entirely.

August 19, 1973 — Atlanta, Georgia

I told myself I needed the money. That’s how it starts. That’s how it always starts, right?

But if I’m being honest, it’s not just that. It’s the feeling. The edge. The way everything sharpens when you’re doing something you’re not supposed to.

For a few minutes, I don’t feel lost. I don’t feel broken. I feel… in control.

I know where this road leads. I just don’t seem to care enough to turn around.

Her stomach twisted. He had always been the model of self control and stability. She couldn’t imagine a time where he didn’t at least appear to be fully in charge of the situation. She almost stopped reading. But she didn’t. Her curiosity wouldn’t allow her to not finish.

February 11, 1975 — Fulton County Courthouse

Five years. That’s what the judge said.

He didn’t look at me when he said it. Maybe that made it easier.

Mama was there. Sitting in the back. Hands folded tight in her lap like she was holding herself together by force.

I wanted to tell her I was sorry. But the words didn’t come. They never do when they matter most.

So I just stood there and let them take me away.

Five years to think. Five years to face everything I’ve been running from.

I don’t know if I’m strong enough for that.

She leaned back against the wall, staring at the ceiling again. Five years. Five years of a life she had never known existed. Five years that he never spoke about, that neither of her parents ever spoke about. She wondered why they kept it from her. Did they think it would change how she looked at him? But it also explained why he pushed her so hard to be a model citizen.

September 3, 1977 — State Penitentiary

There’s a man here named Elijah who keeps talking to me about God.

I told him he’s wasting his time. He just smiled like he knew something I didn’t.

He says grace isn’t about deserving. Says if it was, nobody would get it.

I don’t know if I believe that. But I keep listening anyway.

Started reading more. Not just the Bible—everything. History, literature, anything I can get my hands on.

Turns out I’m not as dumb as I thought. Just never had the patience to sit still long enough to learn.

Funny what you can find out about yourself when you have nothing but time on your hands.

A small, sad smile crossed her face. That sounded like him. She wondered if he was always that way or did prison change him. She softly shook her head, trying to dispel the image of her father being incarcerated.

April 28, 1979 — State Penitentiary

Got word today—I earned my bachelor’s degree. Never thought I’d see that sentence written down.

If you had told me ten years ago this is where I’d be, I would’ve laughed in your face.

Now it feels like the first real thing I’ve done right.

I’m starting to think maybe a life can be rebuilt. Brick by brick. Mistake by mistake.

She turned the page more gently now. As if the story was shifting. As if she’d ruin something if she rushed to read the next entry.

June 15, 1981 — Atlanta, Georgia

I met a woman today. Didn’t expect that to matter. But it did. It does.

She laughed at something I said—not a polite laugh, not forced. Real. Warm.

I almost forgot how that sounds.

We talked longer than I planned to stay. About everything and nothing.

I didn’t tell her where I’ve been. Didn’t tell her who I used to be.

I don’t know when—or if—I will.

But for the first time in a long time, I want to be someone worth knowing.

Her eyes blurred again. She could see her mother so clearly in those words. She remembered seeing pictures of them together before she was born. Her mind quickly imagined what they were like back then.

November 2, 1983 — Atlanta, Georgia

She told me today we’re having a baby. I felt the floor drop out from under me.

Not because I don’t want it. Because I’m afraid I’ll ruin it.

I’ve spent so much of my life breaking things—opportunities, trust, people.

What if I do the same here?

What if I become the man I’ve been trying so hard to leave behind?

But when she put my hand on her stomach, none of that mattered for a moment.

Just… possibility.

I don’t know how to be a father. But I know I want to try.

Her breath caught in her throat. For as long as she should remember, he had been the pillar of strength in her life. A shining example of what a man could be, should be. It was hard for her to envision a version of him that was full of self-doubt.

July 9, 1984 — 2:17 AM — Grady Memorial Hospital

She’s here. I held her in my arms, and everything else fell away.

Every bad decision. Every regret. Every piece of anger I’ve been carrying for years.

Gone. Or at least… quieter. She’s so small. So new.

And somehow, she feels like a second chance I don’t deserve but have been given anyway.

I made her a promise tonight. Not out loud. But I meant it all the same.

I will spend the rest of my life becoming the kind of man she can be proud of.

No matter how long it takes.

Tears fell freely now. She didn’t try to stop them.

May 21, 2005 — Atlanta, Georgia

She asked me today what I was like when I was younger. I told her, “Not much different.”

That wasn’t the truth. The truth is, I’ve lived more lives than I can count.

Some I’m proud of. Most I’m not.

I’ve seen things I wish I could forget and done things I wish I could undo.

But if she ever reads this… I hope she understands something.

Everything good I became—every bit of patience, every lesson, every quiet moment I chose to stay instead of run—

Started the day she was born. She didn’t just change my life. She saved it.

The room around her was still. Soft, quiet—but not empty. She closed the journal slowly, pressing it against her chest as if she could hold all of him there—every version, every mistake, every quiet act of becoming who she had known him to be.

“I understand,” she whispered. And for the first time in her life, she truly did.

First Hunt

Posted on by under Short Stories

He was finally entering manhood and now was the time. Storm Runner stood at the edge of the high ridge overlooking the valley, breath frosting in the crisp morning air. He had barely crossed thirteen summers, but today he would walk with the hunters. Today, he would be counted among the grown men of the Ani-watu—the River People—his tribe nestled deep in the rolling green hills of the early American frontier.

A thin mist clung to the forest below, blurring the shapes of trees so they appeared like spirits rising from the earth. Storm Runner tightened his grip on the bow he had carved himself, smoothing his thumb across the polished wood. His father’s voice echoed in his memory.

“Tools are only as strong as the heart guiding them.”

His father, Black Cedar, emerged beside him, tall and broad, carrying the quiet confidence of a seasoned warrior. “You breathe too fast,” he murmured.

Storm Runner exhaled and nodded, trying to steady himself.

“It is good to feel fear,” Black Cedar said. “It shows the heart is awake. But do not let it rule your hands.”

Storm Runner wanted to answer with something wise or strong, but all he managed was a tight smile. His father didn’t seem to mind.

The party gathered—ten men, all respected hunters. Strong Elk, who laughed even in the face of hardship; Two Rivers, whose tracking skills were unmatched; and old Gray Squirrel, the elder who had hunted more winters than any man alive. A few offered Storm Runner nods of encouragement; others simply watched to see how the boy would carry himself. Today was tradition. Today was responsibility. Today was everything.

They moved at dawn, slipping into the forest like shadows. Storm Runner walked near the rear, his senses alive. Every cracking twig, every whisper of wind through branches, felt magnified. The forest was waking with them: birds scratching in the underbrush, distant rustle of deer, the burbling creek ahead.

Gray Squirrel knelt by the water, dipping his fingers into the soft mud. “Deer passed here not long ago,” he whispered. “A buck. Heavy.”

The men nodded. They began to follow the trail, steps soft and deliberate. Storm Runner bent low to study the tracks. His grandfather, Ghost Wind, had drilled lessons into him on how to read the land. “A track is a story,” he had said. “If you listen, the earth will tell you what happened.”

Storm Runner traced the shape, noticing the deep impression of the hooves—yes, a large buck, moving steadily but not fleeing. The boy smiled faintly as pride warmed his chest. He was ready.

They stalked deeper into the woods, weaving between towering pines. After an hour, they spotted their prey grazing in a glade. The buck was magnificent—antlers branching like small trees, fur shimmering in the dappled light. Storm Runner’s breath caught. This was the moment. But just as Strong Elk began to signal positions, the forest shifted. The birds went quiet. The breeze stilled. The world tightened around them.

Storm Runner felt it before anyone else—the unease creeping in like a cold finger tracing his spine. He opened his mouth to warn the men. But before the words could come out, a gunshot cracked across the valley. The buck bolted. Men dove behind trees. Another shot followed, then a third, echoing through the forest. Shouts carried through the trees—harsh, commanding voices. Storm Runner froze for a heartbeat before Black Cedar grabbed him by the arm and pulled him behind a fallen log.

“Soldiers,” he hissed. “Union soldiers.”

Storm Runner’s heart hammered. Why were soldiers here? Their lands were far from towns or battlefields. The Ani-watu tried to stay hidden from the war tearing the country apart. But war often wandered where it didn’t belong.

Blue-coated figures emerged through the brush, rifles raised. Though only a dozen or so, they moved with grim purpose.

Two Rivers muttered, “They must have tracked us. Or the deer.”

No one believed that. The soldiers spread quickly, forming a loose semicircle. They were coming for the hunters. Storm Runner clutched his bow, hands trembling. Black Cedar crouched beside him, eyes fierce but calm.

“Remember what I taught you. The forest is your ally. Listen.”

Storm Runner nodded, though panic clawed at his chest. The men around him looked tense. Some were already wounded from the first shots. They were outnumbered, exposed. Another volley of gunfire blasted through the clearing. Bark splintered. A warrior cried out. Storm Runner squeezed his eyes shut for an instant.

“Listen, boy,” Ghost Wind’s voice whispered in memory. “When fear speaks too loudly, hear the world instead.”

He forced his breath to slow. Through the chaos, he listened. The creek. The slope of the ridge. The cluster of pine needles masking soft, unstable ground. The deer path looping behind the soldiers. The world was speaking.

Storm Runner tugged at his father’s arm. “The ridge,” he whispered. “It’s soft. We can trap them there.”

Black Cedar met his gaze. He didn’t question the boy. Not today.

“Go,” he said. “Tell the others.”

The boy slid through the brush like a fox, keeping low, weaving between trees. Shots cracked overhead but missed, the soldiers distracted by the warriors’ evasive movements. Storm Runner reached Strong Elk first.

“We must draw them toward the ridge,” he whispered urgently. “The ground there will collapse under many feet.”

Strong Elk blinked. Then a grin spread across his bearded face. “Ahh. Ghost Wind’s trick.” He slapped the boy’s shoulder. “Go, tell the others!”

Storm Runner raced from man to man, relaying the plan. Soon the warriors shifted subtly into new positions, moving with practiced silence. A sharp whistle—Storm Runner’s signal—cut through the trees. Arrows flew. Warriors darted between trees like living shadows. The soldiers, believing they were pushing the hunters back, surged forward with renewed aggression. Right toward the ridge.

Storm Runner scrambled up the side of the slope. He remembered he and his grandfather testing the hillside last spring, Ghost Wind saying, “One day you will use even the land as your shield.”

He struck the ground with his bow, hard and rhythmic. The soil loosened. Pebbles tumbled.

Below, the soldiers advanced in a line—too many men on too unstable a slope. The earth groaned. Then it gave way. A roar of sliding earth filled the forest as the ridge collapsed, sweeping half the platoon down in a cascade of mud, stone, and broken tree limbs. Men screamed, some trapped, others scrambling desperately. The remaining soldiers staggered back in shock. That was the moment.

The Ani-watu warriors emerged from the trees with fierce cries, arrows and spears flashing. Strong Elk led the charge, his battle roar echoing across the valley. Black Cedar’s blade struck like lightning. Even old Gray Squirrel moved with age-forgotten speed.

Storm Runner, still on the ridge above, fired arrows to cover them—each shot guided by instinct, training, and the beating heart of the forest around him. The soldiers faltered, morale broken. Some fled outright, disappearing into the trees. The battle was over within minutes.

Silence fell slowly, hesitant to return. Storm Runner climbed down, limbs trembling. The men gathered, some wounded, all exhausted—but alive.

Strong Elk clapped the boy on the back hard enough to jolt him. “You saved us all, little warrior.”

Two Rivers nodded. “A plan worthy of Ghost Wind himself.”

Black Cedar approached last. No words at first. Just a warm, steady hand on his son’s shoulder.

“You listened,” he said quietly. “You trusted the land. You trusted yourself. Today, the spirits walk proudly beside you.”

Storm Runner swallowed hard as emotion swelled in his chest. A hush settled as Gray Squirrel stepped forward, leaning heavily on his staff. He studied Storm Runner for a long moment.

“Storm Runner,” he said in a voice like rustling leaves, “you entered the forest today as a boy. But you return from it as something else.”

Storm Runner lifted his chin, meeting the elder’s wise, weathered gaze.

“You have earned your place among the men of the Ani-watu,” Gray Squirrel declared. “From this day on, you stand as a warrior of the River People.”

A murmur of approval rippled through the group. Black Cedar’s eyes shone with fierce pride. Storm Runner felt his heart grow fuller than he thought possible.

He walked home with them beneath the fading afternoon light. The land was quiet again, but it felt changed—more alive, as if acknowledging him. He had entered the hunt a child. He returned a warrior. And the forest knew his name.

Black Joy is Revolutionary

Posted on by under Piss Off the World, Rants & Random Ramblings

Man! I haven’t done this in a WHILE! And not for a lack of topics to discuss, purely because I’ve been focused on a multitude of other issues in my life. Hell, it wasn’t that long ago that I decided to really rededicate myself to my writing (and by extension, this blog.) By the way, how y’all like the new URL? Make sure y’all tell your friends to come read something. Thanks!

Normally at this point, I would give y’all a rundown of what’s been going on in my corner of the universe since we last spoke. Honestly, I just don’t feel like doing it, Plus, it’s way too much to go into right now. Maybe we’ll do that another day. So let’s hop right into it, shall we?

I know you’re looking at the title of this post and the accompanying picture and probably thinking, “This dude wrote a blog about a hoodie?” Well, kinda. Maybe a little backstory will make it make sense.

So I bought the hoodie in question a few years ago. It was right after COVID really kicked the world in the teeth and we basically all lived in nothing but pajamas and loungewear. As most of us probably did at that time, I spent a lot of time scrolling social media and buying stuff I probably didn’t really need. It’s not like I was spending my disposable income on going outside and having fun, so I might as well build an impressive collection of hoodies. If you ever get bored, scroll my IG to see it.

But one night, I come across this post with this hoodie that truly spoke to me. BLACK JOY IS REVOLUTIONARY. Even the website name had a powerful message behind it (here’s the link, go support)

https://blackmensmile.shop

So I buy the hoodie and in my mind, it was the most magnificent thing. We as black people have rarely had anything to celebrate or be joyous about in the country. But somehow, some way, we still find a way to be happy. And for people that look at our history in this country, they can’t fathom why. It truly leaves some people flabbergasted that we don’t burn the whole fucking country down. And that’s not to say that we don’t have our moments of rage. Especially recently. Nor does it mean that we don’t have movements that are seen as the polar opposite of black joy.

But on a daily basis, no matter what the universe throws at us, we still find a way to be completely and utterly unbothered. There’s no better example of this than the pockets of blackness on social media. We take absolutely NOTHING serious! Any and everything can be made fun of! And that jovial spirit stands in full defiance of a country that has enslaved, brutalized, murdered, subjugated, and exploited people that look like me since the first slave ships landed on the coast of Western Africa in the late 1400s.

But I digress, we’re not here to have a conversation about Critical Race Theory. At least not today.

For the past 3+ years, this hoodie was my silent protest. I’d proudly wear it whenever and wherever. Black folks would see me out and show their approval. Some less melanated people had a less supportive reaction. But I gave not a single fuck. Thank my dad for that, I swear I hear his voice in my head every time I start talking about some black shit.

Fast forward to present day. We all see what the current administration is doing to our country. And while quite a few of us saw it coming and tried to be the opposition, the majority of the country either didn’t see what was in store (we really don’t know how) or wanted it to happen. Either way, the shit has hit the proverbial fan. Folks fucked around, and now they are finding out. And they’re becoming outraged, and rightfully so. Elected officials are employees of the people. Their job description is to serve the public, not just the wealthy elite. And don’t get me started on what that weird son of a bitch from South Africa is doing. No one voted for his Nazi saluting ass, yet he really does seem to be the guy running the country. He even sold cars to the President on the White House lawn. I tend to think I have a pretty vivid imagination, especially for a writer, but even I couldn’t have come up with a story like this.

Through their outrage over what’s occurring, the pig mentally challenged financially strapped former supporters of the current presidential administration have looked for allies in the very people that they once sought to keep oppressed. And to their credit, most black folks have opted against taking to the streets to voice their disapproval with the status quo. Some have even gone a step further and made sure to carefree they are in the face of what’s happening. Because what can really come of us taking to the streets en masse to show our disdain? In getting upset and raging against the machine? Not. A. Fucking. Thing. It’s exactly what they want. They want us to give them a reason to really bring back the pre-Civil Rights Era of this country. So by sitting this one out and showcasing our happiness in these troubled times, we are truly protesting. In this moment, our black joy is revolutionary.

See what I did there? Until next time, peace and love. And stay revolutionary.

The Era of the Black Leader has Long Been Dead, Get Over It… (Part 1 of the POTW Series)

Posted on by under General, Piss Off the World

Good afternoon world! Usually I would hope this blog finds you in good health and even better spirits, but I’m pretty sure you can tell by the title that I’m looking to upset somebody. So why waste the time and energy hoping you’re happy if I plan on trying my hardest to change that? But enough about the introduction, let’s get right into why we’re here today…

This all started as a innocuous Facebook post, as most things do nowadays. The conversation was originally about Donald Sterling’s ignorant ass comments regarding Magic Johnson. If you aren’t familiar with the dumb shit that ignorant bastard let come out his mouth, check out the link..

http://www.cnn.com/2014/05/12/us/donald-sterling-interview/

As the conversation on Facebook continued, one individual blamed Magic and other celebrities for not doing more to uplift and rebuild the black community. His stance was that they owed it to us as their adoring public to lead us back to the right path, as black leaders had done in the past. Anybody that knows me knows this did nothing but incite me. I hate, no wait DESPISE, the idea that the black race needs a single leader out front to show us the way. Other races don’t have an appointed or assumed leader, why do we need one? Admittedly, there was a period in time when we needed someone to speak for us as a whole. But that time has since come to an end. And frankly, we’ll never see two gentlemen come along like those in the picture below.

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Now, I’m not here to try and make it sound like there aren’t problems in the black community. I would be as naive as the previously mentioned gentleman if I believed that. But we can’t look to one person or a group of people to fix the problems that we face. It’s up to us to do that. And until each and every black person in this country realizes that it is their responsibility, no it’s their duty, to make sure they do their part to improve their surrounding conditions, we’ll never see any progress.

I think the problem is that we want to see grand scale changes made in our neighborhoods. There’s nothing wrong with that, but even the smallest contribution helps. We have to start somewhere. And the best place to start is at home. We have to teach our children how to be respectable members of society. We have to teach our sons how to be gentlemen. We have to teach our daughters how to be ladies. I understand that’s not going to automatically undo all the crap that our elders endured in this country over the last 400+ years, but its a place to start.

I’m not saying we don’t have to affect wholesale changes in our communities in order to get them to where they should be. We need businesses (especially black-owned businesses) to invest in our neighborhoods to revitalize them. But we can’t expect any business owner to honestly open up a location in our neighborhoods if they look like war zones. That’s where the residents come in. We have to take pride in where we live if we want entrepreneurs and CEOs to see our communities as being viable options for their businesses.

But the change has to start from within. We can’t affect or expect change if we’re doing the same things. I’m gonna get off of my soapbox for now. So until next time, peace and love…