The Other Halves of Me_If I have the words..._Mates_Divine Bloodline
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The Other Halves of Me
I still remember the day my sister was kidnapped. Guess I should since I had to rehash it about a thousand times. I was mad at her over something stupid, so I rode my bike like mad home from the park. I thought, if I could get there fast enough, I’d have time to play with her Crissy doll and braid her hair. Oh, that reminds me what we’d been fighting about. Barbara said Crissy’s hair couldn’t be French braided, but I wanted to show her it could. Turns out I couldn’t French braid anyway, but since Barbara didn’t come home, I had plenty of time to practice. Hours passed and it didn’t occur to m...
If I have the words...
“I can’t do this.” I rubbed my little brother’s spine, ignoring the way his sweat coated my skin through his button-up shirt. In the darkness backstage, I was grateful no one else was here to see how clammy he was. My mom should never have forced him to sign up for debate. I mean, really. This kid? Up in front of the entire school? He was much more comfortable holed up in the library. In the back, curled against stacks of musty old philosophy books. I was pretty sure he’d read every single one of the ancient philosophers and was now making his way through Malcom X.“It’s going to be fine.” As ...
Mates
Jordan squints and rubs his eyes as the light between the blinds shine on them. He sighs and grunts as he sits up, looking over to his guitar at the far side of the room which is among a pile in front of his closet. It's gotten more dusty. "I should tidy up a bit sometime soon." He says as he saunters over to his window to draw the curtains when something catches his eye. He squints pulling the blinds up, "Did I order something?" There's a large box from Amazon sat under his mailbox. The neighborhood is pretty quaint so he wasn't annoyed at this but he looks down at his phone and clicks his te...
Divine Bloodline
Divine Bloodline“How can you tell the Tree is a girl, Gran?” The shea butter applied to my scalp in neat little rows slid onto my forehead and mixed with beads of sweat as I sat on the front porch between my grandmother’s knees. Every Sunday, we took my braids down and washed my hair. Then Gran braided it right back up again, greasing my scalp as she went. I can’t imagine a Sunday that we didn’t spend together, managing the mane that fell past my waist. It took all day, but the best part was sittin’ on that porch, listening to her tell stories about our family www.onedoor.ccand the land that provided for ...