More naps these days
I’m tired of talking about COVID-19. I don’t even like that name. Whoever thought of it lacked imagination in my humble opinion. Lol
How about a writing exercise? You don’t have to do a thing. I’m just going to play with words and see what happens. It’s kind of nice to have all this extra time to hone my craft.
Should I go dark or upbeat? Let’s see what happens!
Uncensored and unedited, here we go . . .
A WRITING EXERCISE
I figured I had seen pretty much all there was to see on these mean streets.
I was wrong!
Nighttime arrives early on these streets, not so much an act of nature as a shadowing of evil. Humanity changes when the light ebbs and the obsidian darkness blankets us all in West Oakland.
They call me Professor, a reference to a former life, a life derailed by black tar and a weakness of the soul.
Walk with me any night and you will see a new species shuffling among the detritus and waste of the forgotten. Mules and pimps, snorters and sniffers, AB’s and ballers, gang bangers and peckerwoods, flying the colors, ridin’ the rails, strapped and ranked, all leading to tear drops and ten toes down in the Wild, Wild West of Peralta Street.
You want it, you got the cash, you can buy it, simple as that, my friend, angel dust to fallen angels, and a twenty will get you both when there’s a downturn to the market, a market run by the 98 Crew, the 500 Locos, and a dozen other affiliates looking to cash in on the two-headed cash cow, drugs and sex, as old a story as time itself, and lead flies often, bodies tumble in the gutter, rats feast, and the cops continue a hands-off policy for self-preservation.
In the middle of it all, one night, July 8th, so damned hot that night, stood Sister Hope, swear to God that’s what she called herself, right there on the street corner, wearing a flowing white dress, as pure as the snow sold in dime bags ten feet from where she stood, Sister Hope, smiling at all who passed her, greeting them with “Blessings and peace to you all,” and the locals giving her space, thinking maybe the crazies could be transmitted by breathing her air.
Late twenties, early thirties, golden hair flowing over her shoulders, an unblemished face, maybe five-four, one-ten at most, intimidating in her vulnerability, you know, none of the soldiers knowing what to make of her, and not willing to be the first to find out. One, two, three, four nights in a row she appeared, origin unknown, same corner, the whores standing aside, making room for her, and “Blessings and peace to you all” coming forth to all, a smile which could melt butter, bringing light to the darkness, and I’ll be damned, man, but for four nights the drive-bys ended, the rapes ended, the muggings and beatings and degradation ended, and it was like a new universe, you know, like we were all beamed down into, what do the mystics call it, Nirvana, yes, some state of inner peace, strangest damned thing I’ve ever seen. It was on the news, check it out if you don’t believe my chatter, four nights, four days, all quiet on the west side, cops totally baffled, not sure what to make of it.
On the fifth day, Sister Hope was gone.
That’s all I’ve got for now. Hope you enjoyed it! Remember, if you need a writing coach, I’m available.
Be safe and happy!
Bill
“Helping writers to spread their wings and fly.”
Billybuc
Artistry With Words 