Tag Archives: stories

Lela Malona

This piece, which I wrote in 2006, first appeared in The Arabesque Review.

bus stopLela rises at 4a.m. to catch the W13 for 5:45 downtown. She reaches the office at 6:30 to start coffee and have a fresh pot brewed for the workers stumbling in at 7a.m.

She was always known to bring in snacks and treats for her co-workers: Sugar cookies, candy bars and Now&Laters. Even though she wasn’t paid extra for her enthusiasm, her reward was the smiles of office mates as they enjoyed her goodies.

Barely a year on the job and she’s earned accolades from everyone along with numerous awards that amount to nothing more than condescending pats on the head. Kind of how a master praises his dog for entertaining his friends with tricks and being well behaved.

The things rewarded ranged from cubicle cleanliness to best personality to on-the-spot action.

Lela earned the latter that day she heard the loud, beeping sound of the fax machine and saw the blinking message indicating it was out of paper. But Lela’s swift action in ordering reams of blank sheets saved the day when her coworkers thought they were all but doomed.

“Good job!” A team manager told her.

“Keep this up. We just may have to give you a brand new name plate over your desk,” said another team manager as he glanced at her breasts and thighs. “You may even be promoted to Secretary. Way to take the initiative.”

He knew 10 months ago that she had the job when he interviewed her. He had introduced himself then as Clyde Holder.

Clyde usually took off his wedding band when he was interviewing women. That day, he wasn’t expecting to get caught up in the soft glow of Lela’s olive skin, her curly brown hair, and jell-o bosom.

The whole game of going through the interview process was so he could enjoy the eyeful. From that day on, he spent his nights lying beside his wife, dreaming of romping with Lela and sweating her curls straight.

Clyde knew then that he couldn’t go straight at her for what he wanted. No. If there was anything he’d learned from his years of office negotiations, it was to soften her up with shallow praises and phony certificates he had stacked in his drawer.

Another quality Lela’s coworkers noticed was that she was a voracious reader.

She was well-read on nearly every popular street lit novel from Hustla’s Anthem by Felon E. to I Ain’t Yo’ Father, Boy by Ms. D. Meaner to I’m ‘Bout to Slap You, Shawty by Juve Nile 10den-C.

She was reading the relationship self-help book,  You Know Yo’ Man Cheating When…, co-authored Tiara Sprinkles and Mello Mike.

Their bios alone were drama. Tiara Sprinkles (birth name: “Tia Jenkins”) decided to keep her stripper name even after she was born again and co-pastored the mega church, Party of Saved, with her husband Bishop Mack McCloud, with a mission of reaching out to women at risk of straying from the love of the true man, Jesus Christ.

Mello Mike was a failed emcee, whose hype men jumped him on a video shoot after they found out they were being replaced by the GEBCO dancers.

He met Tiara during an altar call when she offered to pray for him after he blessed the basket with a large sum he’d retrieved from the church ATM.

You Know Yo’ Man Cheating… was a collection of anecdotal info from their own experiences and those of several other church members. When publishing companies refused to pick up the manuscript, they decided to self-publish and distribute it at several church seminars.

Almost half-way through You Know Yo’ Man Cheating…, Lela—who had attended one of the seminars weeks ago—moaned in affirmation at each of the passages she read at her desk.

“Hey yall. Listen to this one: ‘If a woman ask a man out, then she does not know if he’s interested in her.’

“Here’s another one: ‘If your man doesn’t want to have sex with you anymore, then he was never physically attracted to you.’ Mmph! Mello and T bringing it, yall.'”

Right across from Lela’s cubicle was Chris’s workspace.

He wasn’t in the mood for any nonsense that day. He tried ignoring her, but was pulled into the conversation when he was asked what he thought about the passages in the book.
“Are there footnotes or a page for sources that you can research on your own?” He told Lela without looking away from his computer screen. “Do they even have degrees?”

“Anybody can speak the truth,” she snapped. “You don’t need a degree to write a book like this.”

Lela flipped through and read a few more passages out loud.

“Keep that ghetto shit to yourself, then. I ain’t trying to hear you read off a checklist for sistas, who look for Mr. Right at every Happy Hour and Cabaret.”

Chris was getting ready to put his headsets on to drown out Lela with MF Doom’s Vaudeville Villain album.

“You can limit your chances of meeting these wack dudes by doing something out of the ordinary. Try going to a reading or an art exhibit.”

At 6′ 3″, he had a commanding presence when he entered the suite despite his position as clerical officer. His laidback demeanor was often mistaken for laziness and his cool temperament for being timid.

Why was he the only guy in that workspace? Chris wondered. He hated that Lela tried to make him a source for everything she wanted to know about guys.

He was only one man, who could only speak about what he liked and disliked. Chris couldn’t stand guys who tried to be a mouthpiece for every man.

That’s why he never liked Terrance Mason and his syndicated radio talk show. The guy’s divorced and he’s giving relationship advice, he thought.

He despised Terrance’s sold out plays: “Why Men Walk in the Dark” and “Disarming Shango.”

Chris had considered getting with Lela when she started working in the office, but quickly dismissed that idea. They were from two different eras despite the fact that she was a few years younger than him.

He was from an era where developing craft was the most important thing an emcee can do. Storytellers like Ghostface, MF Doom, Pharoahe Monch and others were legends that people of his era worshiped and saw as the torchbearers for true lyricism.

Lela was of the Laffy Taffy era. The era of the Chicken Noodle soup.

Great. Dances that sound like sides, he thought. What’s next? The Italian Wedding? The Cheese and Broccoli?


Posted by on November 14, 2015 in Uncategorized


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Cornbread Othello’s Reflections on the Coco Loco

Editor’s note: Several years ago, while studying Journalism at Howard University, I started to appreciate prose. Having written mostly poems up until that point, I enjoyed the freedom prose gave me that I didn’t have with poetry. Poems seemed more demanding because of the various literary devices and space. Prose opened a new world to my writer mind. With that discovery, I started writing flash fiction pieces. The following one first appeared in The Arabesque Review, an international arts journal. I borrow a character, Fatback McGristle, who was created by my friend and fellow writer, Derrick Weston Brown. Thank you, Derrick, for permission to include Fatback in this story. Here it is:

bbA line inside of Coco Loco stretched along the bookstore walls, wrapped around the Poetry shelves and passed through the Biography and Fiction sections.

Every Thursday night, eager performers rushed Fatback McGristle for the list as they cried, “Ohh.. mee, mee!!” The tired host let out a frustrated sigh while his gold capped tooth gleamed among the other three remaining ones.

Outside, Cornbread Othello was brushing back his sandy-brown ‘fro before taking the Black&Mild from over his right ear, lighting up and puffing tight O’s that stretched to loose hoops the higher they climbed the cool air.

“I ain’t never seen people this excited for the open mic since Yogi Records in Adam’s Morgan. But that was years ago. A few of these pups were nursing their mother’s tit then.”

Cornbread peeked inside at Fatback gesturing wildly that the list was closed, and that there were no intentions of squeezing on late-comers.

“This was a whole different scene nine years ago. D.C. was fierce then. Can you imagine being at a reading and every poet there at the caliber of those in the Black Arts Movement? You left every reading ready to put pen to paper under some desk lamp or whatever light you had to work with.”

Cornbread got his name from reading on the scene. It was awhile before the older cats took notice and was feeling his Shakespearean flow–everything from sonnets to rhyming couplets.

After the council of elders had watched Lawrence Fishburn play Othello, and after considering that his skin was lighter than corn meal, they unanimously decided what to call him.

The rest was history. From there, he’d go on to share his work in Switzerland, Japan, the United Kingdom, and Australia.

Cornbread’s work was in several national and international anthologies. He published over 20 collections of poems, 10 novels and numerous articles for the Washington City Paper, The Afro, EMERGE, and the National Newspaper Publishers Association.

Cornbread was also nominated four times for a Pushcart Prize and the National Book Award. The Pulitzer Prize-winning poet and journalist was invited to do speaking engagements throughout the African continent.

The D.C. scene was definitely a different place then. So much onus was on the writer to study their craft and not to take the reader for granted. Even the audience was well-read not just in poetry, but other literary genres and current events going on around the world.

“One night, this self-proclaimed elder got up on the mic and started doing this number by the Last Poets.”

Cornbread takes a long drag on his Black&Mild, now smoked to the mouthpiece. “He never even acknowledged that it was their piece.” He holds it in as long as he could before releasing a stream through his nostrils.

“I felt so sorry for that cat when he finished that poem. Right after, the host counted to three and damn near everybody in the place recited the same poem back to him before they banned his ass from ever performing there, again.

“That was then. Recently, I was at another spot nearby. Nag Champa was burning strong that night. This one cat does a poem and bites several lines from Saul Williams’ ‘Amethyst Rock.’

But everybody was so busy being righteous that they didn’t catch it and the chump got daps and back pats. I was so disgusted that I left. ”

Cornbread pushes through the heavy double doors. Cornel Shalom was on the mic.

Cornbread couldn’t stand this extra-righteous brother. Something about the guy’s whole image seemed artificial. Cornbread ran into many of these dudes preaching that “king” must love the “queen” rhetoric.

Most of these guys were womanizers, who postured as photographers, poets, teachers, and founders of non-profits. At 6′ 4, Shalom–who was bald–was wearing a long flowing ceremonial garment.

“The Tax Man’s!!…the Tax Man’s debt!!” ranted the militant, who was said to resemble Morpheus. “The Tax Man’s!!…the Tax Man’s debt!!”

He said it as if he were somehow stuck on repeat, as if the idea were a scratched record struggling to play past that point.

“The Tax Man’s!!…the Tax Man’s debt!!”

At first, Cornbread thought he was having a seizure. He was reaching for his pick just in case the performer tried to chew off his tongue.

But he realized it was a part of the performance when he picked up on the dramatic pauses and the way Cornel looked intently into the eyes of the mostly-women crowd. Five more runs of this and his piece was finished.

Cornel then whipped out two African Peach incense, lit them, and cued his boy to dim the lights before going into the love poem called “Black Queen,” a tribute to Baskin Robbins’ new flavor due to be released during Black History Month.

Cornbread thought, for a minute, that he was in a Dark & Lovely hair commercial when sistas gave Amen-affirmations to Cornel on the mic. Cornbread half-expected a cream-colored, dreadlocked brother to come from backstage–barefoot in Capoeira pants and a linen shirt, handing out roses to women in the crowd.

Cornbread shook his head.

“These people want to be entertained instead of enlightened. They don’t appreciate the poets sharing their craft with them nor do the poets appreciate the crowd. Instead they do poems for the cheap applause.

“Back in the day, a poet had to be on their p’s and q’s because they could be approached afterwards by someone in the crowd and have their work critiqued on the spot. If they misused a word, someone usually pointed that out while talking to the artist.”

Gone are the days of honest and constructive criticisms, he thought.

“And don’t even think of approaching people today because then you’re ‘hating’.” He disliked that whole practice of dismissing criticism: “Oh, you hatin’!”

But this wasn’t the worst night at Coco Loco’s. No sight of Moans da Poet, who usually walked around, ogling strange women with his lazy eye before trying to grope them.

Whenever Moans was around, he signed the list so he could do his sex poems to get the women in the mood.

But it was hard for anyone to grasp what he was trying to say in these pieces. One minute he was talking; the next he was making sonar noises.

Cornbread once overheard two women from a nearby table say it reminded them of PBS’s special on mating sea mammals.

“Things really were different nine years ago,” Cornbread remembered. “Rita Dove was the Poet Laureate of the United States then, which led to the discovery of the Poetry on the Metro Project.

“It was founded by this lady named Laurie Stroblas, who went around teaching writing workshops in D.C.’s public elementary and middle schools. You gotta get ’em while they’re young and the appreciation’s still there. I used to love to see the kids faces light up when they saw their poems going to and from school on the public transit system.

”’Hey Mister,’ one of them would tug on my sleeve. Keisha, I think was her name. ‘That’s my poem! Look!’

“I told her, ‘Keep doing your thing, sweetie. Don’t forget about those that came before you. Read all their work and keep it moving.'”

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Posted by on November 12, 2015 in Uncategorized


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Tim Seibles: A Product of Sweat and Patience

(PHOTO: Tim Seibles is a literary treasure.

Understanding how Tim Seibles got the National Book Foundation’s attention requires some knowledge of neuroscience and of his persistence to be heard.

At any moment, the human mind rapidly shifts between thoughts. It’s that movement Seibles mimicks when arranging the sections of his books. “If we’re really listening, we’ll go from rage to tenderness pretty quickly,” he says in a recent phone interview. “I try to put together different kinds of poems in a section…approximately the ways in which our minds move.”

The results are five books that take readers on an exciting ride through a surprising twist of tone and subject matter on each page. This skill is one reason the National Book Foundation selected his latest collection Fast Animal as a 2012 National Book Award Finalists.

“Established in 1950, the National Book Award is an American literary prize given to writers by writers and administered by the National Book Foundation, a nonprofit organization,” according to A panel of five judges in each genre chooses five finalists from those submitted in their category, which ranges from 150 titles (Poetry) to 500 titles (Nonfiction).

The Foundation will honor Seibles and other finalists Nov. 14 at New York City’s Cipriani Wall Street. The evening before, he’ll be among those presenting during the National Book Award Finalists Reading at The New School.

News of his nomination pinballed through the national literary scene, with poet and activist Tony Medina weighing in. “Tim Seibles’ NBA nomination not only validates what has been a steady, stellar commitment to the word with an incredible body of personal, political, bitingly satirical poetry of integrity,” Medina says. “It also shines some much-needed light on the great, risk-taking work independent presses are engaged in in the face of such precarious times in publishing.”

Cornelius Eady is also ecstatic. “I’m really pleased about his nom,” says Eady, who co-founded the Cave Canem week-long summer poetry retreat for writers of African descent, where Seibles taught workshops. Of the nomination, Eady added, “It’s way overdue.”

That excitement spread to Seibles’ Facebook wall, where friends and colleagues congratulated him. Among them was Debra Marquart, who teaches with Seibles in the Stonecoast MFA Program in Creative Writing. “Not a bit surprised,” she posted, “but very much delighted by this news!”

(PHOTO: Etruscan Press)

“Yaaay, Tim!” posted Marilyn Nelson, poet, translator and children’s book author. “Congratulations!”

Seibles felt the love. “Most beloved friends!… It means a lot to have so many good people in my corner,” according to his wall post. “Again, I so appreciate your belief in me and my poems. For me, being a writer is all about these kinds of connections, fam. May only sweet luck rain on every one of you.”

To hear Seibles tell it, his nomination is icing on top of icing that includes his more than two decades of sharing his work to both national and international audiences. Philly born and bred, Seibles is a member of Old Dominion University’s (ODU) English Department and MFA faculty. A teaching board member of the Muse Writers Workshop, he received fellowships from both the Provincetown Fine Arts Center and The National Endowment for the Arts. He won the Open Voice Award from the 63rd Street Y in New York City. The Stadler Center for Poetry awarded Seibles a Poet in Residence post at Bucknell University. His poems appeared in many journals and anthologies, including Best American poetry 2010.

The National Book Award Nomination is also payoff for Seibles’ patience and sweat that produced his previous collections: Body Moves, HurdyGurdy, Hammerlock, and Buffalo Head Solos. He got the news while he and Jamaican-American poet Shara McCallum visited the Nichols School in Buffalo, NY. “We read poems…talked about how you write poetry, how you analyze it,” Seibles recalls. He tried to ignore his vibrating phone. “Finally, I pulled it out of my pocket in the middle of class and looked at it and saw: ‘Congratulations, National Book Award Finalist.’”

Cait Johnson is another Stonecoast colleague thrilled by her “compadre’s” nomination. “I’ve been a fan since I read his Hurdy-Gurdy and realized that here was a rare man who honors the divine feminine while maintaining a warm, dynamic, and very muscular masculinity,” Johnson says. “Such luscious balance! Such gritty, real, and often lyrical work.”

My first encounter with Seibles’ work was in 2004, when I Googled him and came across his poem “For Brothers Everywhere” (from Hurdy-Gurdy). What blew me away was him calling the streetballers “…muscular saxophones/ body-boppin better than jazz.” Since then, I’ve always admired how Seibles sweats a poem to its maximum potential. Another example is his poem “The Applecake,” where he offers this stunning sequence:

(PHOTO: Applecake

I like to consider your applecake
smiling on the kitchen counter, dressed
only in its sweetness, its round face
a jubilant island of apple and sugar—
no mere strudel or sloppy cobbler—
it is a baked cathedral of promises
kept, your applecake
opening up like a three-day weekend,
a Good Friday for the mouth, a jailbreak
from the hard, inedible, unthinkable city.

He makes it look effortless, yet it’s a labor-rich process. “When I think about a poem, I think about it being analogous to a song,” Seibles says. “I think about the songs I love the most.” Among those is Jimi Hendrix’s “Power of Love” from his Band of Gypsies album. “In those five minutes, there’s so much happening in that song both in terms of lyrics and…the sound of the guitar,” he recalls. “Man, I have played that song, since 1970, probably 10,000 times.”

Another inspiration is Sade Adu’s title song “Soldier of Love”. “The musical composition behind her voice sonically is perfectly conceived…the instrumentation is perfect, the inflection of her voice is perfect, the tonal and timbre qualities of her voice is perfect,” Seibles says. “It’s like everything is in place and it makes the song so rich, second by second that it’s irresistible.”

He added: “I know the only way Sade…and Hendrix did that was they worked their asses off. They kept thinking, ‘I can do more. I can make this better.’ They went into the studio and stayed until it rang. So what I try to do, when I think about my poems, is try to approach that work with the same integrity of Hendrix, Sade, and many others.”

DC poet Brandon Johnson certainly puts Seibles up there with Sade and Hendrix. “I admire Tim Seibles’ work because of his ability to inject deep tones into conversational communications,” he says, citing Seibles’ skill at turning pop culture into social commentary.

(PHOTO: Courtesy)

He does this through his persona poems that speak through Wile E. Coyote and the Roadrunner, where a classic cartoon subtly shifts into a discussion on  human character. “Tim’s work always speaks to me because of his sensible way of reminding me that the complex can be explained without charts and graphs,” Johnson says, “just an entreaty to pay attention and think past yourself.”

Seibles developed that skill and integrity as a young poet, 19 years old, dreaming of writing books and sharing his work with the world. “Once I got hooked on writing, I was going to be writing something, and most of it was going to be poems,” he recalls. “I was just really thinking, “I’m going to be writing poems, nothing’s going to stop me, and—damn it!—somebody’s going to hear me at some point.”

He learned humility from his teachers Michael Ryan, John Skoyles, and Jack Myers at Southern Methodist University (and later from Mark Cox, Myers again, Susan Mitchell, and Richard Jackson at  Vermont College, where he got his MFA).  “Because of the ways my teachers spoke about paying your dues, like how many rejection slips they got and how long it took before someone was even willing to publish one or two of their poems, let alone a book, I just assumed it was going to take a long time to get much notice,” Seibles recalls. “That’s just the nature of things. There are a lot of writers out there who are better…who’ve been doing it longer, whose craft is sharper. You just keep doing your thing and eventually someone would notice what I was doing.”

Sarah Browning and Melissa Tuckey definitely noticed. “As his many devoted readers know, Tim’s poems are tender and righteous, playful and erotic, lyrical and full of heart,” says Browning, who met Seibles at the Association of Writers and Writing Programs (AWP) conference in 2006.

That year, she attended his panel on the erotic in poetry. “Needless to say, I was knocked out,” recalls Browning, director and co-founder of Split This Rock, a nonprofit that celebrates the poetry of witness and provocation through a biannual festival, where Seibles read and led a workshop. “Every book of Tim’s has been extraordinary and, last month, the National Book Foundation wised up,” Browning says. “I’m thrilled that the NBF’s recognition will bring more readers to Tim’s essential work. He is truly one of the most urgent and necessary poets of our time.”

(PHOTO: Helen Peppe)

Melissa Tuckey agreed. “I love the humor and joy and political engagement in his work, his generous imagination,” says Tuckey, co-founder of Split This Rock. She served as co-director of the nonprofit from 2008 to 2010.

She first heard Seibles read at Ohio University more than a decade ago. She’s been a fan since. “I am super excited about Fast Animal‘s National Book Award nomination,” Tuckey says. “It’s well deserved, terrific to see his work in the national spotlight.”

The nomination still feels surreal to Seibles. “I’m only now beginning to realize how big a deal it is,” he says. “I always imagined it would be a big deal to get a major award or to be nominated for a major award.” The closest thing he’s experienced to a National Book Award nomination was when he won the National Endowment for the Arts (NEA) grant in 1990. That year, Seibles was among the 40 people the federal arts agency awarded.

However, the National Book Foundation spotlights five writers in each genre: Fiction, Nonfiction, Poetry, and Young People’s Literature. “That’s a very big thing,” Seibles says. Of being among the five, he added: “It really puts you in a tight set of company.”

In addition to comments on his Facebook wall and my conversations with his friends and colleagues,  I constructed this article from a small part of an interview I conducted with Tim Seibles for an extended Q&A-piece that’s forthcoming in BOMB Magazine.

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Posted by on November 2, 2012 in Article


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Graphic Novella in the works!

ImageFor my third semester project, in the Stonecoast MFA Program, I decided to team up with the incredible Cory Thomas to collab on a graphic novella. The illustrations are Cory’s interpretation of my short story (tentatively titled THE HAGAKURE OF CORNBREAD OTHELLO) that he completed so far for this project.

I’m hoping Cory and I can continue this and sell it to a publisher. I got a good sign from my homie, the wonderful poet Bianca Spriggs, who sent me some resources on a publisher that puts out comics and graphic novels. Keep your fingers crossed. Check out an excerpt from the graphic novella here.


Posted by on June 15, 2012 in Uncategorized


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The Ear Hustler (flash fiction)

(PHOTO: stfudii)

“YOU LOOK GOOD,” the guy tells the woman. They’re standing behind a teacher in a coffee shop where the audio selection shifts from jazz to acoustic world music to blue grass, then back to jazz. Grounded coffee beans claim the space with their fragrant presence.

The guy has close-cropped white hair. He’s wearing a gray sports blazer over tan khaki pants. He’s much older than the woman, who’s dressed as if she’s heading toward the gym or as if she’s just finished jogging and came inside to cool off, having had the sun bake her complexion a pumpkin hue when it seemed to scream its heat over everything uncovered.

The teacher taps his fingers on the countertop. He took his students out for a writing exercise. He told them where to set up, and figured he had enough time to grab a drink and get back before his students noticed him missing. He needed something cold for his dry throat made dryer by the 78 degrees. He watches the couple, who, at first, appears to be father and daughter—that is, until he sees how the old man is holding her shoulders.

The woman looks no younger than 25, yet something about the touch still seems inappropriate—the old man rubbing her arms and squeezing her flesh, how his touches linger. That she doesn’t shrug him off says she’s comfortable with this, that he’s done this before. It says she even enjoys this as he leans back and slowly rolls his appraising gaze over her new body. “How much weight did you lose?” he asks.

A woman making drinks tells the teacher his Green Tea frappuccino is ready. She tops it off with whip cream while the teacher smiles like the young woman who tells the old man, “I lost thirty pounds.” The teacher pops the straw through its paper sheath; he slides it through the dome cover and into his drink, which a student will later say looks like guacamole and sour cream, stunning the teacher with her imagery.

But at the moment, the teacher sips the gooey goodness of milk, ice, and green tea powder. The old man asks the young woman, “How did you lose the weight?” The teacher nearly chokes from her response: “I got divorced.”


Posted by on March 14, 2012 in Fiction


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At the Corner of Reservoir Road and Wisconsin Ave NW (a Flash Fiction)

EDITOR’S NOTE: Today, the weather was so good, I took my poetry students (only two showed up for class) out to Wisconsin Avenue NW in DC’s Georgetown. Their assignment was to people watch–observe how strangers interacted with one another. The students were supposed to also observe the strangers’ body language, and then create a flash fiction story. I took part in the exercise and wrote the story below.

(PHOTO: Peter Dworin/ NYTimes)

A BIKE MESSENGER WHIZZES BY, running late for a delivery she should have made an hour ago. She has one more time for a client to complain before she’s fired. She flies by the sound of Bengal music wafting from the red Honda Civic that waits for the traffic light to turn green.

She passes the cyclist whose rolled up yoga mat is in her bike’s rear basket rack. She passes a guy late for an interview. He’s got a folder with copies of his résumé. I should have worn a watch, he thinks. He puts his face against the glass panes of an art shop, and then bolts when the store’s clock tells him what time it is.

The courier passes the woman rolling her bag along. I don’t know how I let the sales lady talk me into buying this, she thinks. The pink and green rose pattern is so ugly. The courier passes a woman on the phone outside Long & Foster Realtors. Then the courier’s gone before a green Saturn whips a U-turn ahead of the silver Audi station wagon that’s about to pounce the intersection on the green light. The Saturn turns before the officer in the tinted out black Denali with strobe lights notices. It turns in front of the old guy who’s waiting for the cross walk signal. He shakes his head at what he thinks was a careless maneuver.

The old guy’s wearing black dress slacks under a mud-colored Parka and lily pad green winter hat. I should’ve checked the weather before I left home, he thinks. I’m burning up out here. It’s 65 degrees, for Christ’s sake. He looks around and spots a writer and two girls. Who’s that guy scribbling in his book? the old guy continues. What are those two girls doing up on that wall?

The old guy shoves the thought from his head when he’s nearly trampled by three students from Duke Ellington School of the Arts skateboarding down Wisconsin Avenue. One of them is a junior. He’s brave enough to wave at a teacher from his department, as if the junior didn’t have an art block class to attend. The skate boarders avoid the woman pushing a stroller up the sidewalk. The woman’s a young mother—she couldn’t be older than 21.

(PHOTO: Travel Smart)

The mother snaps her head away from the couple who both look as though they stepped out of a Calvin Klein ad. Supercuts! the young mother thinks. That’s where they got their hair cut!

The couple laughs and points at a bald man in the passing pick-up truck. Pick-up truck dude’s smoking a cigarette and wearing a button-up shirt with too many medals to be a civilian. He stares at the writer and two girls hanging out on the wall. I fought in Vietnam for what—so some hippies could sit on some wall instead of working and write about nothing.

He shakes his head. And people like them wonder why republicans want to cut funding for the arts, he continues. Well, I’m all for it. Stop wasting that money and put it towards something useful, like war. But those comments are lost on the writer, who’s preoccupied with another old guy walking up Wisconsin Avenue in a biker’s jacket that probably fit him three decades ago. Now, the jacket grabs at his shoulders and elbows like officers subduing a perp on the run.

The writer glances up at his students staring at what’s across the street. To where, he doesn’t know or care. His attention’s on the woman in black tights and a light sweater. Every step she takes, her athletic legs flex like a whisper that teases him for looking—that is, until he remembers his fiancée at home. Next to her, the woman in black tights is Medusa. Every time he’s around his fiancée he pinches himself. That his fiancée is still there after the pinch, that he hasn’t awaken from what feels like a dream, only proves how lucky he is. The teacher’s jarred from his thoughts when one of his two students asks, “Mr. King, are we going to do this until five o’clock?”


Posted by on February 23, 2012 in Fiction


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