It was a hot sultry night on the streets of the south Bronx. Everyone was outside cause it was too hot stay indoors. Music was blaring from the boom boxes. There I was sitting, talking to my friends, listening to the music when all a sudden a black Nissan Maxima sped down the street. All I heard was pow,pow and felt a hot, searing pain go through my shoulder. It was only a flesh wound, but I needed ten stitches.
When I got out of the hospital, all I could think of was revenge. How was I going to find out who did this? I wasn't in any gang, and the shooting must have been a mistaken identity. I wasn't going to get shot for nobody again. I called the local hood to find out the dope.
Jimmy reported in a raspy voice, word's out that some black guy, your height and weight, dropped a crip last Thursday night.
"Well somebody better get their marks straight.''I retorted.
You better lay low until they find the right guy. Jimmy answered back.
I was fighting mad. It was hot as hell in my house. Why did I have to lay low. I didn't do anyone.
Because I do value my life, I stating upstairs for the rest of the weekend. The cops found the black maxima and the guy with gun in it. Turned out someone took down the license plate number and turned it in anonymously.
I still hang out on the streets but I duck down every time I hear sceeching wheels turning the corner. It's a habit, what can I say?
1 comment:
You write very well, Sylvester, You have a natural style and a sense of drama.
You could work on elaborating more to ensure that there is enough detail for the reader.
Keep experimenting with your writing, as you obviously enjoy telling stories.
Post a Comment