They had promised that they wouldn’t fall in love—the summer was littered with failed relationships—so they kept their feelings to themselves.

  Neither wanted to drown in the emotions of the other, although they floated dangerously close to that. Instead, they continued to tread the water with their hands, their lips occasionally touching, but never really merging into one.

  Memory Gaps

  It’s the “we were never gonna make it” part he keeps forgetting, lost in memories, moments, music blanketing them, sealing them, their bodies left to marinate between sheets that now rest at the bottom of a Goodwill bin.

  He can still taste her, smell her, hear the sound of her voice and the sweet sighs of her sleep. Forever was a given. They thought they would never use their words as weapons, savagely slicing the other.

  They didn’t know their love had an expiration date.

  No, he romanticizes their past because people block out those things that hurt them most.

  Hero

  The cape was so long he tripped over it, the blue polyester sticking to the soles of his Converses. “You know, all heroes don’t wear capes,” Pops told him.

  The mask didn’t fit well over his glasses, pressing the plastic frames into his face. “You know, all heroes don’t wear masks,” Mama told him.

  His pigeon toes kept him from running fast. “You know, all heroes aren’t fast,” his brother told him.

  He couldn’t fly, lift a car, or turn invisible. “Being a hero is about caring for others and showing up,” his family told him.

  He could do that.

  Wishing

  She wore cotton shorts, white like Delta clouds, her brown legs peeking out from underneath and shining like melted chocolate, her Stan Smith Adidas white like lies with a kiss of mistletoe green on the heel, and her soft lips tasted like the sweet syrup of purple popsicles on a Saturday in July.

  My mind was a wheel of fortune, my fingers crossed, hoping the right words would come (before I bankrupted) to freeze her in her tracks, lock this moment in our memories, a fossil where years later we could hold it and laugh at how silly we were.

  The Candy Tax

  Big Mama said, “Reach in my purse and pull out a five. Pick me up a pack of Camels from Joker’s. And bring me back my change.”

  I put on the headphones to my Walkman and walked a block to the store on the corner.

  Joker wasn’t supposed to sell a pack of cigarettes to an eleven-year-old, but he knew how Big Mama did it.

  He pulled down the pack without a word.

  “And let me get two packs of Now & Laters. Red.”

  Joe casually rung me up.

  Big Mama never mentioned the candy.

  She had nicotine. I had sugar.

  Junior’s Quick Stop

  My wife doesn’t trust gas station fried chicken, but, dammit, I do. In fact, I rank it among the best food in town, including those fancy chains, where they keep laying off the spices and seasonings every year.

  I tell her that they lovingly marinate those breasts, before gently battering them and patiently submerging them into the hot oil.

  She stops and contemplates this, then remembers we are talking about fried chicken.

  “I just can’t get my chicken from the same place I buy gas for my car,” she finally says, never once considering the convenience of such a thing.

  The Day My Sister Broke Ranks

  It had been an established family rule from time immemorial that you stayed in your lane when it came to family cookouts. Big Mama made the sweet potato pies and the fried chicken, Papa took care of the catfish, Uncle Joe made the best cornbread, Aunt Marcy had the macaroni and cheese on lock, Aunt Nancy handled the greens, and Aunt Louise did the potato salad.

  My sister, clearly a Generation Z’er, brought a second side of potato salad—with raisins in it.

  No one corrected her, but they lovingly ignored her contribution, whispering “Bless her heart” beneath their breaths.

  Ice Cream

  On Saturdays, Uncle Dennis would pull his old blue Nissan into the backyard, and we’d gather around, full sponges, suds bubbling up between our fingers, washing in big circles like Daniel-san.

  Earth, Wind & Fire blasted from the boom box on the back porch, the plug attached to an extension cord running past the screen door back into the house.

  “Don’t forget the tires!” he’d yell, while picking his hair.

  He’d be taking his main squeeze out that night. We’d wash the car, and he’d pay us with ice cream money.

  Looking back, I still feel that was a good deal.

  Dreams of an MC

  In my dream I am spitting. But not spitting like dropping bars. I am spitting spit, then blood, then teeth, wondering how long it’ll take to get dentures.

  When I try to speak, to spit bars, my mouth moves like it is stuck together with molasses. Eventually a sound emerges through my throat and vibrates past my lips. The sound wakes me.

  Sitting on the edge of my bed, I rock back and forth to calm my nerves, reciting rhymes from an old notebook until I can re-establish verbal dexterity.

  Then I fall asleep, words protecting me like a mouthguard.

  When Niggas Turn Into Gods, Walls Come Tumbling…

  After Fat Belly Bella

  Monk took a deep puff and exhaled out his soul until the smoke filled the booth and he could no longer see the microphone. The words poured from a place beyond him, beyond the studio, beyond the protests, beyond the pain.

  I’m tired of being invisible

  In a nation supposedly indivisible

  One day he could become a hashtag, but in this moment, behind that microphone, he was invincible, immortal. He was determined to craft his breath into songs, into art.

  In the future, when people looked back at 2020, they would know that he was there, telling his own story.

  Homecoming Dance at the National Guard Armory

  She knew he couldn’t palm a basketball, but she allowed him to palm her ass, which she figured was much softer (more like a fresh bag of carnival cotton candy) than the hardwood leather he had trouble handling on the court.

  She carried him just off the beat, like a Questlove snare hanging over a measure. She didn’t mind his hand, though. At least that part of her wasn’t stuffed with tissue.

  His breath smelled like hot Vienna sausages and peppermint, and he kept trying to sing Keith Sweat’s part on “Make It Last Forever,” always just a little off-key.

  Water

  Big Mama’s funeral was on the twelfth day of summer. We dressed in black, sucking in the blasts of the sun’s breath, our bodies crying water from every pore.

  The graveside service had gone on too long, our fans unable to keep up with the suffocating heat. Sweat ran into our eyes, stinging our tears, and we fought the urge to think about the repast, where an air conditioner awaited us.

  The pastor, seemingly oblivious, droned on, though, until eventually Big Arthur passed out, his knees locked. He fell like a great oak struck by lightning.

  The benediction quickly followed.

  Stuck

  I hated when my parents took us to visit Aunt Lulabelle. As restless kids, we had nothing to do but stare at her faded yellow and tan wallpaper, anthropomorphizing the 70’s-styled repetitive flower patterns.

  Sometimes we’d have to go sit in her living room—but we couldn’t play in there, for fear of knocking over a crystal vase or something.

  The air conditioner in the kitchen didn’t blow in there very well, so my sister and I would sit, the backs of our thighs stuck to the plastic on the couch, wanting to leave, but too afraid to stand.

  Uncle Red’s Unorthodox Advice For Approaching Fine Women

  Uncle Red’s cure for Little Carlos being nervous around girls:

  “There’re two types of people: those who wipe and look and those who wipe and don’t. If you’re in the first group, your eyes are on the prize. What does that say about you?

  “Now the second group is using ‘the force’ to feel things. Those are the ones who start getting that itch later. What does that say about them?

  “It’s human to do either of the two—and every human’s got to make a choice.

  “Fine women are human, too. They’re not exempt from this. Catch my drift?”

  Nike’s SNKRS App Won’t Let Me Be Great

  I just can’t catch a break.

  I’m up early on Saturday mornings—sometimes Thursdays and the occasional Tuesday or Friday—to cop a pair of kicks I’ve been eyeing for over six months. A limited drop, another pair of J’s I probably don’t even need, all to be dope, get the nod from heads in the know, round out the collection, stunt on these motherfuckers (because during a pandemic what else is there to do?).

  Just one pair.

  I’m not even trying to resell.

  I will definitely cop and rock.

  But this damn app won’t even let me be great.

  Soundtrack

  They’d parted ways over twenty years ago—had even built their own families—but they remained tethered to each other through a single song, their nineteen-year-old selves locked eternally within those four minutes of Johnny Gill singing “I’m Still Waiting,” beckoning them back to a place in time where the song once played on repeat in his sophomore dorm room, scented candles flickering against the autumn darkness, while they did their best to make love to every square inch of each other’s being.

  Although their relationship had come to an end, the song refused to let either of them go.

  A Hair Story

  “When you gon’ cut that boy’s hair?” Uncle Morgan asked.

  “He can grow it as long as he wants. It’s his hair,” my mother responded.

  “You ain’t worried about him lookin’ like a girl?”

  My mother paused a bit too long before answering, “Nope.”

  I sat between Grandma’s thighs on the house steps, her hands smelling like coco butter and coconut oil, as she braided my hair, which was now down to my shoulders.

  “Samson’s strength was in his hair,” Grandma reminded me.

  “But do I look like a girl?” I asked.

  “You look just like one of God’s children.”

  “Hot Sauce In My Bag” Swag

  “You really carry hot sauce in your bag?” Nick asked Aniyah.

  “Yep.”

  “Is it a Beyoncé thing?”

  “Nope. I’ve always carried hot sauce in my bag.”

  “And you use it?” Nick asked, realizing the stupidity of his question. “Around white people, I mean?”

  “Why not? If the food needs a hit, I give it a hit. I don’t care who’s around.”

  “I don’t know if I could do that, stereotypes about us and all.”

  “Well, you have to do you, just like I have to do me.”

  Nick looked at his catfish plate and grimaced. “Can I borrow some?”

  “Nope.”

  Portmanteau

  He couldn’t tell if it was a compliment or a derision. She had said it matter-of-factly, as if he should have known what it meant. He prided himself on knowing these things, things that were in the vernacular of popular culture. Through context clues, he had figured out what “being on fleek” was. He had even managed to grasp “turnt up” fairly quickly. See, it was a matter of breaking down the words individually and then putting their meanings together collectively. This word, however, was different. Was it sexual? Was it the opposite? He’d never been called a fuckboy before.

  The Writer

  After years of waking up to rejections from editors, agents and publishers, Gary put all of his unpublished stories, novellas, and novels into a folder marked “Do Not Resuscitate” on his desktop. Sometimes the things you love just don’t love you back, he thought.

  He looked at a few cameras, some DSLRs and even a few fix-lensed mirrorless ones, unsure if photography could scratch the same itch.

  He then taught himself to play the guitar, hoping music would do it.

  But in the end, he returned to his original passion: writing.

  He realized the world’s affirmation was not a requirement.

  Talons (Redux)

  She pinned him to her bed, her fingers like claws, her nails pinching his flesh. He was so hungry for her that he didn’t feel the blood dripping down his arms or notice the large wings emerging from her back and stretching wide over the bed, blocking out the street light pouring through her parted window blinds.

  His eyes closed, he enjoyed the feeling of her body moving above him, surprised by how committed she was to this character.

  Then she squawked in climax, and he opened his eyes, just in time to see his flesh dangling from her beak.

  Open Mic

  Love Jones had made Akeem into a horrible poet. In lieu of studying real poets, he wrote second-rate poems, all designed to woo some woman in the audience.

  He also looked the part: wearing a pair of prescription-less glasses and carrying a Moleskine notebook around with him.

  The other poets weren’t impressed, though, nicknaming him “the poet who didn’t know it,” quietly laughing as he read, and snapping their fingers in jest when he finished.

  They had no idea he was studying them and reading their favorite poets and that one day he’d actually be even better than they were.

  The Sneaker Grail

  After years of searching, Wallace had finally found them.

  He admired their golden color, surprised at how heavy they were. He was briefly reminded of his first pair of Air Jordan 1 OG highs, smelling the insides of the shoes, fresh out the box. He’d come a long way since then, both literally and figuratively, as he stood in the small shoe shop in Rome.

  Wallace knew they were legit. Only two people had ever worn them.

  He, however, planned to never wear the Talaria of Mercury. Still, he couldn’t help wondering what Michael Jordan would have done in them.

  Washington Square Park

  The little boy sat down across from Ivan Chernyshevsky and moved a pawn.

  “Why you come here and do this to yourself? You never win,” Ivan said, shaking his head slowly.

  “My father used to come here to play—before he died,” the little boy responded.

  “Really? What was his name?”

  “Charles Lewis.”

  Ivan nodded. “And you? Your name?”

  “Tobin.”

  Ivan rubbed his hands together to warm them, then rubbed his thick beard. “Well, Tobin, first thing to learn is white goes first. That means I go first. Then you play.”

  Tobin nodded.

  “Don’t worry, kid. I will teach you.”

  Pillows

  Whenever I had nightmares when I was growing up, my mother would pretend to throw away my pillow, claiming the bad dreams came from inside of it. She claimed to buy another pillow, and I’d use that one until, inevitably, I had another nightmare.

  Years after I had served three tours in the army did it occur to me that my mother did not buy me all those pillows. She was working two jobs to feed five kids.

  She just needed for me to believe I could fight my fears until I was actually old enough to really do it.

  The Daily Public Library

  By the time I reached the library and put my bike on the rack, my t-shirt was stuck to my back with sweat. But the library would be cool inside.

  The head librarian, Mrs. Patterson, nodded to me. “You doing the Pizza Hut BOOK IT! Program this summer?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I responded, fluffing my shirt to let in some of the air conditioning.

  I walked the aisles, taking my time, pulling down mysteries and science fiction, horror and humor, drying off.

  Next week I’d have enough for a personal pan, but for me, it was about more than the pizza.

  Dreams of Barack’s Jalopy

  For a week, Marlon dreamed Barack Obama was trying to sell him a magical used car. It was the car Barack had been driving when he started dating Michelle.

  There wasn’t much to it: an ugly yellow Datsun with a rusted-out hole in the floorboard that allowed you to see the street beneath the car.

  “It’s done wonders for me,” Barack said.

  Marlon studied the jalopy, trying his best to sense magic in it. “I don’t know,” he finally said.

  “Well, think on it,”Barack responded.

  In his dreams, Marlon never bought the car, but wondered if he should have.

  There Was An Old Lady…

  This is how the story goes: The was an old lady who lived in an Air Jordan 1 OG High Travis Scott/ Fragment collab sneaker. She had so many children wandering about and getting into shit that people threaten to call protective services on her—more than once. So that broth/bread thing with the switch was out.

 

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