fiction and musings from a gay black dude with delusions above his station
The man stood. He did some stretches, side-to-side, back and forth. He clasped his fingers and stretched his hands in front of him. He turned around and looked out the window. “Not much of a view,” he said. Mr. Little said nothing. The man turned around to face him again. “You said something about living…
“Who. . .who are. . .” he stuttered. The man behind the desk looked up. “Who do you think I am?” he said gruffly, before turning his attention back to the papers he shuffled on his desk. “Well, I mean, you can’t be who I think you are,” Mr. Little said. “Why is that?” the…
When he opened his eyes, a bright light hit him, though despite its brilliance, it did not make him flinch. He felt warmth from it, but it did not make him perspire. He turned around and saw behind him unfocussed blobs, like muted watercolor brush strokes. Their shapes looked familiar, like houses and buildings and…
