fiction and musings from a gay black dude with delusions above his station
In an era decades before cellphones and Twitter, word spread instantly throughout campus: Clayton was to get a butt whipping. Mrs. Hamilton, though, was not naïve. She kept Clayton after class on a trumped up pretext. When the room had emptied, she walked slowly towards him. “You know they’re waiting for you, Clayton,” she said. …
(Editor’s Note: The ‘growing up gay’ tag is usually applied to essays. This story is strictly fictional.) For a 12 year old, Clayton Simmons maintained the most peculiar habits. By a calculus all his own, he computed the precise number of movements and amount of time necessary to complete his morning rituals so that he…
