Visitation

Grant hesitates at the entrance. The chamber is filled with rows of chairs similar to church pews. From the back wall, men dressed in dull green jumpsuits file through a steel door.

“How do they keep them from running off?”

“They shoot,” Grant’s mother says flatly. She pushes him forward to follow the guard, who shoulders a rifle.

The guard sits them across from a middle-age man scratching his graying beard. Sunlight pours in from the window and reflects off his handcuffs.

Grant blinks several times to refocus his vision, then stares into the familiar dark brown eyes. “Hi, Dad.”

word count: 100

Nortina


© J Hardy Carroll
© J Hardy Carroll

I’m back from a long hiatus with another Friday Fictioneers story. 

Friday Fictioneers challenges you to write a story in 100 words or less using the provided photo prompt as inspiration. Click the froggy icon to read other stories and add your own.

Black Poetry Writing Month: Write a Poem for the Voter

Cell Song

Night Music Slanted
Light strike the cave of sleep. I alone
tread the red circle
and twist the space with speech

Come now, etheridge, don’t
be a savior; take your words and scrape
the sky, shake rain

on the desert, sprinkle
salt on the tail
of a girl,

can there anything
good come out of
prison

—Etheridge Knight, from Poems from Prison (1968)

 

Today is an important day in African American history. On this day, February 3rd, 1870, the fifteenth amendment to the U.S. Constitution was ratified, making it illegal for the federal and state governments to deny a citizen the right to vote based on race, color, or previous servitude (slavery). A month later, Thomas Mundy Peterson became the first African American to cast his ballot.

Of course, those sneaky southern states would find other ways to deny the black man his civic duty (Jim Crow, literacy tests, poll taxes, grandfather clauses, etc.), and black women would have to wait another 50 years before they were awarded the right to vote with the nineteenth amendment.

Voter_Rights

Etheridge Knight began writing poetry while in prison, serving an eight year sentence for armed robbery. He was just one of millions of black men and women who have been disproportionally imprisoned thanks to our flawed justice system. This is not to say that these men and women are all innocent (though there have been many cases of wrongful convictions), but we also cannot be so blind as to assume that blacks are more prone to violence than whites.

Many states deny convicted felons the right to vote, and in some cases, a felon can permanently lose the right to vote even after being rehabilitated back into society. This means that thousands of black men and women can no longer exercise one of their most important civic duties.

Furthermore, in 2010 a wave of Republican backed anti voter fraud laws swept the nation (a curious move, as regularly empty polls would show that voter apathy is a bigger issue), shortening early voting in some states, eliminating same-day registration and voting, requiring government issued IDs, and setting other mandates for voting. While no one can say these laws have anything to do with race (could it also be a coincidence that they were passed almost immediately after President Obama was elected?), it’s hard to ignore that the groups most affected are African Americans and Latinos. Then, as recently as 2014, there was (crazy) talk of repealing the Voting Rights Act of 1965!

Is it possible that the government is covertly attempting to take back the black vote? The idea will probably always remain a conspiracy theory, but it’s too important to ignore. Voting is the closest thing we have to controlling how our country is run. Who knows how detrimental it would be for us if we lost that. (a Trump election?)

For today’s optional #BlaPoWriMo prompt, write a poem for the voters. Why is voting so important? What could it mean for them if they lost their right to vote? What could it mean for this country?

—Nortina

A Child’s Prison

Today is my birthday, or that’s what they tell me. I don’t know the exact date I was born. No one here does. We’ve always just existed behind the cold, damp gate of Greystone Orphanage. The guards tell us stories of birthday celebrations—sweet foods that melt in your mouth, wax sticks lit to count the years, large rubber balls filled with air that rise above the ceiling.

Sam tried to escape on his birthday. He wanted to eat until his stomach burst, listen to loving parents sing and rehash the triumphant day they brought him home. He wanted an Iron Man toy. He didn’t know what it was, only hoped it would break through these iron bars, setting him free.

His frail body slithered through the rusted bars of the window— he was the only one tall enough to reach it. We heard a splash, then silence. Seven moons later, Becca came back from the infirmary, said she saw Sam on a board missing his right shoulder.

The guards don’t speak of birthday parties anymore.

word count: 175

—Nortina


Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers is a weekly challenge where you write a story in 100-150 words (give or take 25 words) using the provided photo prompt as inspiration.

Click on the froggy icon to read other stories and add your own!

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