Lyrical Lit
I grew up on the crime side. The New York Time side, stayin alive was no jive.
©2017. All Rights Reserved.
And as an adult, it’s still not a cake walk. I’m different than most of the people here. Different means a whole ‘nother set of problems. What I call problems some would call a gift, but it’s all about perspective.
I don’t know when it started, but when I was born my mother died of… complications. You can say I know death. Death gave birth to me. It is with me and has been as long as I can remember. See, the “problem” I was referring to earlier is all about death. I can look at someone, anyone, and know how they will die. In the most intimate detail. The friends I did make didn’t stick around long. So with age came seclusion.
Why invest? Why bother?
Most of my life happens in the confines of my apartment. I found a way to work from home, and I was content with that. One rainy Tuesday, I ordered some groceries. Moving fast, the code to get into the building was left off my order. Panic set in right away. Being careless, forgetting small details means interaction with others. Going out and seeing people. The driver. My stomach started spinning.
I received a text, my preferred method of communication. When I responded with my code. It didn’t work. Immediately, I texted my neighbor and asked them for theirs. No entry.
After texting most of the people on my floor, I had no choice. I took the stairs from the 7th floor to avoid people. I stopped before going out the exit. No voices in the lobby. Jetting out of the exit toward the front door of the building in a panic the driver and I connected eyes.
Time slowed and his death played like a movie in front of me. Bullets tore through his flesh. Blood, the air was heavy with it. Blood and fear. A uniformed man with a gun in his hand. The police. I was frozen in my tracks.
He waved. His large, bright smile welcomed me as he raised my groceries for me to see. His clothes. The same clothes he wore as he lay dead in the street.
I ain’t pass the bar but I know a little bit, enough that you won’t illegally search my shit.
©2017. All Rights Reserved.
The white officer’s face creased up with anger. Reaching into the driver’s window, he forcibly removed the man from the car.
It felt like the hottest summer night of ’65. Noland was on his way home from seeing a young lady named Loretta that he was courting. His freshly permed hair was neat, and his moon grey pants, topped with a crisp white shirt, tie and sweater made it easy for him to make a first impression.
His creamy brown skin beaded up with energy over the excitement of he and Loretta going steady. He was winding down the North Carolina road, when Sheriff James Stokie stopped him.
Men that looked like Noland either left beaten and bruised or with a white sheet over them when they crossed paths with Stokie. Noland’s body tensed as his tires came to a halt.
In the sticky mist that saturated the night air they scuffled. Through aggressive grunts the Sheriff directed Noland to stop resisting. Noland didn’t want to die that night, so he fought and fought for his life.
The fight went on for what seemed like hours to Noland when luck arrived in the form of Noland getting his slim fingers around Sheriff Stokie’s gun.
This ain’t funny so don’t you dare laugh; just another case about the wrong path.
The car jerked to a stop.
Barely getting it on the side of the road, Camilla muttered some incoherent obscenities before popping the hood. Slamming the door behind her.
She examined the intricate machinery. Outside of changing a tire, she knew nothing about cars. Irritated, she dropped the hood. Looking up and down the wooded road, no cars approached from either direction. It was early. She just passed a gas station, but it was too far a walk.
Sitting back in her car, she grabbed her phone and began texting:
Late.
Why?
The Car.
A white car passed Camilla, and continued down the winding road. After a while, she saw the white car in her rearview mirror.
Relieved but cautious, she locked her door, but cracked her window. The man approached the passenger side door, and Camilla leaned over and cranked the window down a bit.
“You okay ma’am?” he inquired.
Signing, she informed the man she was deaf.
Understanding, he ran back to his car.
Looking in the rear view mirror, Camilla saw him asking a woman in the front seat for pen and pad. Signaling that the woman in the car was deaf.
When he returned, he began to scribble on a pad.
Are you okay?
I’m fine, car isn’t. Won’t start. She handed it back.
He gestured for Camilla to pop the hood. After his inspection, he came back to the passenger side door. Signaling for Camilla to unlock the door, he got in and leaned over.
She studied him. He was strong, but moved in a very gentle way as to not frighten her.
Tapping the gas dial, he looked at her smiling. He scribed. “You are out of gas. Going to send my wife to the gas station about 10 miles up the road, and you’ll be good to go.”
Giggling, Camilla covered her mouth embarrassed and shook her head in disbelief. Speaking a sound that sounded much like sorry, she grabbed the pad.
Thank you so much. Handing it back to him, he put up his thumb, and went back to his car. Camilla watched as he instructed his wife, pointing in the direction Camilla just came from taking the red gas can from his trunk. Pulling past the car to u-turn, his wife smiled and waved at Camilla.
The white car vanished on the curve when Camilla began screaming, and making noises. The man, sitting on the back of Camilla’s car rushed to her aid.
Throwing the door open he got in trying to assist her. She was panic stricken. Frantic, violent and jerking her body. Trying to restrain her, he yelled, “What’s wrong?” Her responses disjointed.
“You’re okay! I’m here,” he comforted. Mouthing the words; he repeated them until Camilla began to calm.
Assured she was okay, the man sat in the car catching his breath. The sound of flesh tearing filled the car. Camilla pushed her knife into the stranger’s neck to the hilt. Bleeding out, he struggled to pull himself from the car. Turning the knife she pulled him towards her. They were face to face. Her level of strength surprising him.
Smiling, she watched the life drain from his eyes. The kick in his feet slowed. He was still.
Reaching over him, she slammed the passenger door. Cranking the car, she pulled off, continuing down the empty wooded road.
A call came in on her cellular phone.
“I’m on my way.”
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