Fan-fiction - Final draft

The picking of Apples off the tree

“Hate - It was with this hand that Cain snuffed his brother. Love – It was with this hand that granted Solomon with wisdom. The left hand - the hand of hate. The right hand – the hand of love. The story of life is this: Static, one hand is always fighting the other. The right hand has taken the left hand down, it looks like hate is done. But hold on, STOP THE PRESSES, it looks like, yes it looks like the left hand is back. The right hand is on the ropes from a devastating left, and love has hit the canvas. Love is down for the count - 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9.....”.

He walked down the pavement. The moonlight shone a shadow in the shape of the Grim Reaper and its shovel not too far behind, on a night blacker than him.

Blacker than a million midnights.

Past his people, who were running around like they were trying to catch the Holy Ghost - under a mural that was fertilized with the flags of African nations, with the words situated above –
“Bedstuy, Do or Die”.

A mirror of the motherland where the black art would make the blood in them, shake chicken bones and chicken grease.

Past a burnt down building that would be boycotted no more, where all he could remember were the olive faces on the wall, that were burned along with bridges. Faces of those who were loved and idolized around the world, but faces who he never cared for, because in them - he saw none of him.

He thought to himself why there weren’t any pictures of brothers plastered on the wall.

Why Sinatra and ain’t no Malcolm X?

Why Marciano and ain’t no Martin Luther King?

Why he asked himself?

It was his people that acted like a blanket to these cold, broken down projects. It was his people who have been here for generation after generation. It was his people whose pockets and backs broke, who fell through the gun smoke, who tried ever so hard to break the chains around their feet and ankles – but lost hope. Or maybe, this was the very reason it was called the projects - just a project, created by the government where his people were more or less objects. Objects that were rubble to fill the ruptures in the concrete, so the next man’s feet could step without falling through the cracks. But it wasn’t just the man who fell for the crack – it was the crack mothers and crack babies too. The base was the basis of why mother’s prayers would be so long. So long, that they would fall asleep before they'd get to say Amen.

But the government wouldn’t govern anyone; no one would pick up when the Police sirens would ring and ring, no buildings would be built when people’s hammers hit – his people would politic themselves.

He was just like the next man, trying to keep his dick hard in a cruel and harsh world.

A man that read these chapters about life, that if he kept his faith – not in God, but the one he kept on his waist - he would be alright in his afterlife, even if that meant his fate.

He was told his ballot was like a bullet, that he couldn’t shoot unless there was something worth aiming for, and if it wasn’t in reach – he had to keep it in his pocket. The very pocket which would be forever engraved with the reminiscence of bullet residue.

The residue of fetus which was the son of my mourning, who I lost on an ill-fated morning before the sun came up.

Why couldn’t I get out? Why am I letting him do this to me?

Why isn’t anyone here to hear my cries of suffering?

It was too late.

His hands trembled as he grabbed my abdomen, taking me off his waist.

Covering me with sweat.

I was his heat, the allure of arousal as he cocked me.

I tried to hold on.

But I busted off.

The very nature of creating life.

But my nature was to cease life.

People panicking, people screaming, people running as he let me go.

I fell to the ground and breathed a sigh of relief.

Now I’m finally free.

Well, that was until I felt somebody else grab me.....

“.... 10”.