Scrolling
Scrolling through the endless void,
Searching for some form of fulfillment.
Scrolling through a bottomless pit
Of vipers and venom.
Scrolling through pages of useless
Clutter that fogs the mind.
Scrolling through posts and rants
That cause anxiety in hearts and souls.
Scrolling through…
Pausing,
Stopping,
Reflecting.
Realizing that,
By stopping the habit,
The mind begins
To think again.
Snapshots
One thousand words,
Captured in the form of
Contrast and composition.
Art,
Painted with color and
Natural brush strokes.
Moments,
Imprinted on canvases
Of color, shape, and line.
Stories,
Told through the lens of
The unseen narrator.
Memories,
That live on for the
Next generation to remember.
Snapshots,
Taken and passed along
Documenting life.
Bicycles
Amelia pulled her hair back into a tight ponytail and fastened her bike helmet underneath her chin. She whipped her bike around the garage clutter, corralling it outside onto the driveway. She stood nervously on the cement, gripping the handlebars, trying not to talk herself out of it. Looking over her shoulder, she saw her dad wave to her with an encouraging smile. She couldn’t turn back now.
She looked at her bike. Silver with purple accents. Ten speeds, which she had mastered during countless rides around her Northeast Portland neighborhood. Her parents only let her stay between 20th and 30th, and Skidmore and Alameda. The front of her bike had a basket. She planned to carry her backpack in the basket when she rode her bike to school this coming year after summer ended (she didn’t want summer to end, but she was excited to start third grade).
Loud voices echoed down the street. They seemed to move closer to Amelia’s house. Then, she heard the sound of bicycles racing at top speed. The boys came dashing around the corner and whizzed by Amelia’s driveway. But then, Bobby and Jamal screeched to a stop and returned to talk to Amelia.
“Hey!” Bobby shouted. “Come ride with us.”
Amelia hesitated. She looked at her feet.
“Where are you going to ride?” she asked.
“I think we’re going to Deadman’s Hill,” Jamal said.
Amelia’s heart began to race. Her eyes widened. Panic began to overtake her nerves.
“My parents won’t let me,” Amelia said honestly.
Bobby and Jamal laughed. Amelia’s face turned bright red and she started to feel angry, though she wasn’t sure who her anger was directed toward.
“You don’t have to ride down Deadman’s Hill,” Bobby said. “We know it’s probably too scary for you anyway.”
Amelia gritted her teeth and clenched her handlebars.
“Alright, I’ll come with you,” she said, “but I’m not going to ride down the hill. Not because I’m scared, but just because my parents won’t let me.”
Bobby smiled condescendingly. He hopped back on his bike and started to speed away. Jamal followed. Amelia jumped on her bike and pedaled hard to keep up.
Deadman’s Hill was only a few blocks away, but the ride seemed unending. The sun beat down on the concrete, producing a humid heat that drained Amelia’s energy quicker than usual. Her blonde hair darkened as she began to perspire.
As she pedaled toward Bobby, she noticed his bike getting closer, which meant she was catching up. She pedaled with more force, more motivation.
Bobby and Jamal were the coolest kids in school. They were strong, athletic, good-looking kids. Bobby was the best football player at recess, and Jamal was definitely the best soccer player. And they were both wicked smart. Amelia knew that they were becoming too cool for her, but she had been neighbors with both boys since she was born. But they were starting to become kind of mean. She sometimes felt like they were just bringing her along so they could be better than her at things.
As she rounded the corner of Alameda, she saw Bobby and Jamal stop. The street narrowed. Trees created a darkened archway. There it was. Deadman’s Hill.
Deadman’s Hill was the steepest hill in the neighborhood. It was so steep that cars weren’t even allowed to drive up it. Creepy old staircases jutted out from it so pedestrians didn’t have to strain themselves with its decline. The curbs still had metal loops that early Portlanders used to tie up their horses.
Amelia pulled her bike alongside Jamal’s and looked down. The hill seemed to go on for miles, ending in a six-way intersection. A shiver crept up her spine and into her neck.
“Alright, who’s first?” Jamal asked.
Bobby looked around at the trees like he didn’t hear the question.
“Hey, why is it called Deadman’s Hill, anyway?” Bobby asked.
“You don’t know the legends?” Jamal said.
Amelia and Bobby both shook their heads. Jamal settled into his bike seat and nodded his head, pushing his glasses down, giving him an aura of wisdom. He cleared his throat methodically.
“A hundred years ago,” Jamal said, “a thief robbed the old mansion down the block. He was speeding along the road on his horse. This very road. When he reached this hill here, his horse pulled up to a stop, too afraid to go down it. But the thief was determined, so he forced his horse to charge full speed. Halfway down the hill, a tree branch caught the thief in the neck, stopping his body on the branch. The horse kept going, never to be heard from again. When the authorities arrived, the man’s body was hanging from the tree, like a hangman’s noose”
Amelia and Bobby looked wide-eyed at Jamal’s tale.
“To this day,” Jamal continued, “the ghost of the thief haunts this very hill. As penance, he protects those who are deemed worthy to pass, and he offers no protection to those who are not.”
Amelia gripped her handlebars; her knuckles turned white with fear. Bobby’s knuckles did the same, but Amelia didn’t notice.
Jamal returned his glasses to their original position, and his expression of sage wisdom had vanished, leaving only the contented smile of a successful storyteller.
“So, who’s first,” Jamal asked.
“You’ve both ridden your bikes down Deadman’s Hill before, right?” Amelia asked.
Jamal and Bobby looked at each other with expressions of false confidence.
“Uh, well, um,” Bobby stammered.
“No, I haven’t,” Jamal said. “But I’m not scared to do it.”
“I haven’t either,” Bobby said, “but not because I’m scared. I’ve just been waiting for the right time.”
“So, why don’t you go first?” Amelia asked Bobby.
Bobby laughed, hiding his fear.
“You need to go first,” Bobby said. “We know we’re both going to do it. We want to make sure you don’t chicken out like a little girl.”
Amelia’s eyes flitted with anger. She wrung her hands along her handlebars and secured her stance on her bike.
“Oh yeah?” she shouted. “I’ll show you what little girls can do.”
Amelia slammed her right foot down on her pedal, shifting gears as she charged forward. She stopped her pedaling and began to glide, balancing her feet on both pedals as she lifted herself off of her seat. Deadman’s Hill approached.
The front tire tipped over the decline; she was committed. Her momentum carried her forward even faster. Wind blew her ponytail behind her, and her eyes squinted. Adrenaline charged through her veins. She felt like she was flying.
As she charged to the midpoint of the hill, she noticed a tree branch above her. The wind made the leaves dance, as if they were waving to her. She smiled.
Amelia began to panic as the stop sign approached. The end of Deadman’s Hill was getting closer. Too close. Too quickly. The crazy intersection was buzzing with cars.
After the stop sign, the hill immediately flattened out. Amelia slammed on her breaks and shifted her weight to one side. Her bike skidded to stop. Style points, she thought.
Amelia looked up the hill and waved to the boys, encouraging them to follow in her footsteps, in the trail she had just blazed. But when they didn’t make a move to ride down the hill, she jumped off of her bike and walked it back up the same way she came. As she reached the top of the hill, she noticed Jamal and Bobby silently looking around, avoiding eye contact with her.
“What’s the hold up?” Amelia asked. “Something wrong with your bikes?”
“Um, well,” Jamal said, “I, I think I have to get home for lunch.”
“Yeah, um, I, well,” Bobby said.
Amelia smiled proudly.
“You chickens.”
Stories
We jump in,
Meeting new people,
Becoming a part of a setting
That invites us to participate
In its daily rhythms.
When that rhythm is interrupted,
Our new acquaintances
Jump into action,
Bringing us with them into
Conflict.
These acquaintances become friends
As we dive into their stories,
Their backgrounds,
Their tensions,
Their character.
Some characters become friends,
While others become enemies.
Clashes between good and evil,
Often masked by
The blur between them.
As conflict rises
And tension grows tighter
With each decision,
The rhythm changes,
Quickening to a crescendo.
Then, issues resolve,
Sometimes happily,
Other times, not.
Characters grow,
Evolving into someone new.
As we leave the story,
We are also changed.
Thinking and feeling
Differently about,
Our own experience.
The East Side Kid
Jermaine tapped his pencil eraser on his desk on the side of the classroom. He watched the clock, which seemed to slow down the longer he stared. The teacher stood at the front of the room, where she gave last-minute reminders about the weekend’s homework project.
Jermaine looked sideways to Olubowale, who pressed his face against the desktop, covering it with his thin dreadlocks. Jermaine rubbed his own shaved head to keep himself awake. The late spring heat filled the room, making Jermaine feel drowsy. Since the old school building had no air conditioning, the windows were open, which hardly alleviated the stagnant humidity. Jermaine thought about those high rise buildings he could see across the river. The ones that probably overlooked the whole city. The ones with air conditioning. What a life, he thought.
“So,” the teacher said, “first thing Monday morning, y'all need to turn your projects into the homework basket.”
She scanned the room to ensure that each student heard her message. When her eyes moved to Jermaine and Olubowale, she smiled.
“You got that, Jermaine?” the teacher asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, jolting to attention.
The teacher continued to scan the room.
“Now, I know that school is almost out,” the teacher said. “But I want y’all to finish fifth grade strong. You’re about to move into middle school, where things only get more difficult. You hear me?”
“Yes, Mrs. Morrison,” the class said in unison.
“Alright, now,” she said. “The bell is going to ring any minute. Pack up your things, and have a wonderful weekend.”
Jermaine stood up and grabbed his backpack from under his chair. He tugged on one of Olubowale’s dreadlocks to wake him up.
“Hey, man,” Olubowale said. “Watch the hair.”
Jermaine zipped his backpack hurriedly, while his friend packed his own with care and precision.
“Let’s go, O,” Jermaine said. “I wanna dip out as soon as the bell rings.”
“Why you in such a hurry?” Olubowale said.
“I just wanna get my weekend started, man,” Jermaine said.
The boys threw their backpacks over their shoulders and stood by the door. When the bell rang, they sprinted into the hallway and out the back door of the school. Once they reached the blacktop, they slowed their pace.
“Hey, bro,” Olubowale said. “There’s your girl.”
Jermaine looked across the blacktop and saw Isabella standing with her friends underneath a chain-net basketball hoop. Her dark hair seemed to shine in the afternoon sunlight. Her purple backpack hung loosely off one shoulder. She spoke excitedly with her group of friends.
“Man, Isabella is not my girl,” Jermaine said.
“Yeah, but you like her though,” Olubowale said.
“So what?” Jermaine said.
“So, go talk to her,” Olubowale said.
Jermaine dribbled his basketball skillfully, pretending to deflect his friend’s good-natured challenge.
“She doesn’t even know me,” Jermaine said. “She has a different home room.”
“Then why is she looking over at you right now?” Olubowale said.
Jermaine felt his nerves fire.
“Alright, bro. I’ll go talk to her,” Jermaine said. “Just don’t pressure me about it.”
“I won’t,” Olubowale said. “I’ll just wait right her and mess around on my skateboard.”
“Cool,” Jermaine said. “Then we can walk home.”
Jermaine picked up his basketball and strolled across the blacktop. He walked with a fabricated composure that he hoped would bring him real confidence. As he stepped within earshot of the girls, he heard Isabella speaking to them in rapid Spanish. He tried to listen in, but he didn’t understand what they were saying.
Here goes nothin’, Jermaine thought.
He stepped a bit closer and tried to act smooth. He pretended to walk by the group without noticing them, but at the last second, he turned toward Isabella and raised his eyebrows in acknowledgment.
“Hola, chicas,” Jermaine said.
The girls giggled at Jermaine’s bilingual attempt.
“Oh, hey Jermaine,” Isabella said. “I didn’t know you spoke Spanish.”
Jermaine smiled. He felt his face grow warm.
“I don’t, really,” Jermaine said, shying away.
“Well, it was a good start,” she said.
Jermaine looked nervously at the group of girls. He could feel their judgemental stares.
“What are you doing after school today?” Isabella asked.
“Uh, nothin’ really,” Jermaine said. “Just walkin’ home with O.”
“Cool,” she said. “I’m walking to my grandma’s house. We’re making dinner for my little brother’s birthday.”
“That’s nice of you,” Jermaine said. “Well, maybe I’ll see you around the way this weekend.”
Jermaine waved to the group of girls, and then directly to Isabella. As he turned to walk away, he heard the group of girls giggle. He looked back at them and made brief eye contact with Isabella. He averted his eyes and felt his face flush. He tried to walk slowly and calmly, but he wanted to sprint away from the girls as fast as he could.
“How’d it go?” Olubowale said.
“Fine, I think,” Jermaine said.
“I saw them looking at you and laughing as you walked away,” Olubowale said.
“Damn,” Jermaine said. “They made fun of me?”
Olubowale slapped his forehead dramatically. His dreadlocks shook as he emphasized his point.
“No, dummy,” Olubowale said. “That means she likes you.”
“How do you know?” Jermaine asked.
“My older sister told me so,” Olubowale said. “She’s in the eighth grade. She knows.”
He dropped his skateboard and rolled away slowly, waiting for Jermaine to catch up. They moved along the school’s blacktop until they reached the opening through the chain link fence. Olubowale picked up his skateboard and walked down the short set of stairs.
The boys turned left and walked along Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard. The old asphalt smelled hot as the afternoon sun cooked the street. Even the usually green grass was turning brown in the heat.
Jermaine loved his walk home from school. The street was always vibrant with life and people. He smelled the barbecue smoke that floated through the air from the restaurant across the street. He heard the heavy bass from a car stopped at the red light. He saw brightly colored graffiti that graced the otherwise dull brick exterior of the auto shop. He knew the Jamaican dance club would get loud tonight; it always did after dark. He heard laughter from his barbershop as they passed; its door was open to provide some relief from the heat.
One of his mom’s friends passed on the sidewalk, so Jermaine waved. Her husband gave Jermaine a supportive pat and smiled as he passed. As the boys stopped at the corner, an old green car with loud music stopped at the red light. The guy in the passenger seat nodded at Jermaine. He nodded his head in return. The light changed, and the car slowly rolled away. Jermaine and Olubowale strolled through the crosswalk. Their confidence built through the recognition and guidance they received from the older boys in the neighborhood.
“I wonder what kids on the Westside of town do when they walk home,” Jermaine said.
“What do you mean?” Olubowale asked.
“You know, we just have such a cool walk home from school,” Jermaine said. “We live in a fun neighborhood where we know everybody. We know who to talk to, who to stay away from, and where to go. I just wonder if those rich kids on the Westside have that same feeling when they walk home from school.”
“I doubt it,” Olubowale said. “You know those rich white boys don’t walk home from school. They have drivers.”
“Like a taxi?”
“No, like a butler or someone who comes to pick ’em up,” Olubowale said.
Jermaine frowned.
“Like those kids on T.V., I guess,” Jermaine said.
“Exactly,” Olubowale said. “Like those kids on T.V.”
Olubowale turned left to go to his house. Jermaine watched as he skated away. They planned to meet up later. After dinner, probably. Jermaine walked one more block and turned right. He walked across his front lawn. The dry grass crunched beneath his shoes. He jumped up the brick step and unlocked the front door to his one-level house, tossing his backpack to the side. It landed by the window; the hardwood thudded beneath the weight of the textbooks. Jermaine peeked into the kitchen.
“Mom!” He shouted. “You home?”
No one answered his call. His mom was working late tonight at the hospital; people needed nurses more frequently on Friday nights. His dad was volunteering at the community center, something he did a few nights each week as a way to give back to the neighborhood. His brother had practice after school. Jermaine would have to make dinner himself.
As he walked into the kitchen, he passed a photograph that hung from the wall; it showed Jermaine, his older brother, his mother, and his father. Though he wished they were home to greet him after school, he knew they were spreading positivity in the community.
And it meant that he had the television to himself.
Jermaine smiled and walked into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and grabbed the jelly. Pulling the peanut butter and bread from the cupboard, he made himself two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. He put the sandwiches on a plate, grabbed a soda from the refrigerator, and dashed into the front room. He turned on the television and sprawled out on the couch.
“Just in time for after-school cartoons,” he said.