james's picos
A lone gray cloud floats across the blue sky as I lie, white shirt stained with brown coffee, on the green grass.
Holding his knees to his chest and praying silently: "Please don't let them find me."
Was it always like this? Too much coffee. The pencil shaking in my hand. Can't think and can't see.
One touch, one sound, one tic, builds a wall brick by brick that separates you and me.
The smoke curled and wound its way to the ceiling when she put out the cigarette. I never saw her again.
I pushed through the crowd, looking, hoping to find him, so small among the grown-ups.
But in the end, we all gathered around the hearth to listen while Father read, as always, transgressions forgotten and faults forgiven.
Her camera in the streets-more dangerous than gun or bomb-telling the story of oppression and violence; of subjugated people.
5 past stores and news stands. 4 past parks and projects. 3 away from lights. 2 forgotten places. 1 home.
It was raining when Sam took the baby to her mothers'. Still no name, she thought. And now no daddy.
They sat, heads in hands. They waited.
They told us there was going to be a tornado. If we wanted to get home we should do it now. I got caught in the worst of the storm.
