Boys Get Scared: Part 4 (Louis Toliver Jr-Monroe, LA)

"This is the point where we call the police, right?" Jake breathed heavily. Kevin stood, looking in the refrigerator, shaking. "This is the point where we call the fucking police, right?!" Jake emphasized loudly.

The doorbell rang. Kevin and Jake froze. The doorbell rang again. Jake peaked around the kitchen counter to the living room. He saw red and blue lights flashing outside, through the glass of the upper front door.

The doorbell rang twice abruptly. Kevin darted out of the kitchen to the front door, while Jake peeped around hesitantly. Kevin opened the door and a cop was standing there with his gun pointing to Kevin.

"I was patrolling the street, received a call that a boy's screams were heard? Back up, boy!" The cop forced himself inside. Kevin backed up quickly and Jake came out of the kitchen with his hands up. "Who's house is this?!"

"Mine, Sir," Kevin said shaking.

"Where's the other boy?" The cop asked.

"He's in pieces in my refrigerator," Kevin nodded his head in the direction of the kitchen.

The cop went the kitchen opened the refrigerator, "Mercy. This is sick shit you boys did."

"We didn't do that!" Jake put his hands down and walked towards the cop.

"Hey, kid! Put your hands up and come with me!" The cop pointed the gun at Jake.

Jake put his hands back up, "But..."

"Shut the fuck up," the cop hissed at Jake. He walked him to the front door as Kevin watched silently. Jake looked at Kevin terrified and Kevin looked at Jake just as terrified.

"I'll be right back for you," the cop disappeared with Jake as the front door shut behind them.

Kevin stood in the living room as the red and blue lights flashed on him, silently.

Comments

Come Hither (Annette Redmond Walters - Lafayette, LA)

I meant it not this way but the tears just flow and my makeup smearing all the more, leaving behind that familiar filthy residue. I may have begun to drive myself away, dragging you down as well. But it's done, I've flipped the switch and now it's dark once more. How painful is the music to my ears, I can't stand to be alone in it, yet here I am again. I pray you fly back and safely and warmly to me, though I fear I've dug the grave too deeply. As the dirt shifts within my soul, I choke on those loving words I'd meant for you. All the fragments of light I see becoming smaller and I wish to be near you in your embrace that might make me feel the warmth I'm missing. And in reality, I doubt I'd breathe another breath without you. So come hither and quickly soothe my dying heart, you are the only cure I know. I cry and cry again, come hither to heal and love me. Come hither and help me dry my tears.

Let That Fucker Burn (John Chenvert - Napoleonville, LA)

Let that fucker burn. Let the fire crackle like the whips once did— like bone meeting leather, like screams swallowed by the trees. Let the white columns crumble to ash. Not as tragedy— but as truth, unearthing itself from beneath generations of silence. Nottoway is not a mansion. It’s a mausoleum. A lie carved in stone to honor the hands that held the whip, not the backs that bore it. They called it the “White Castle.” A place of beauty. A place for weddings, for photo ops, for pretending that horror can be made elegant if the curtains match the guilt. But no paint can cover what happened there. Blood doesn’t wash out with white linens. And pain doesn’t forget just because you renamed it history. I’m not Black. And I won’t pretend to carry that weight. But I also won’t ignore it. My people—the Guanches—were taken too. Our language silenced. Our land stolen. Our names nearly erased. So yes, I know colonization. Yes, I know what it means to be disappeared. But I also know this— my skin ...

The Peculiar New Room (Nick Perere - Baton Rouge, LA)

A peculiar fourth room has appeared in my three bedroom abode. High ceilings Higher than any ceiling in the house Perfectly pristine whitewashed gallery walls The largest window one can imagine Stretching from floor to ceiling Wide as an ocean’s horizon Revealing the lushest greenery and the bluest skies. I am meant to show masterpieces here. But in one of the corners o f the perfectly pristine whitewashed gallery walls i s an ugly patch of dirt. Dirt darker than charred coal. And the dirt is crawling And multiplying. With their spindly legs and dangly antennae Vermin covered in filth and willingly ready to spread their germs Scuffing the perfectly pristine whitewashed gallery walls. But I have to move on, I have a gallery to exhibit. Smile and act as if nothing is wrong. Come. Enjoy the show. Enjoy the artwork hanging Upon the perfectly pristine whitewashed gallery walls.

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