by Desmond King

 

As I lay on the ground, I look at this delicate rose placed by a lamp post.

My foggy, ragged breath blurs my vision. My eyes, My mind hover over the rose.

Who placed it there?

Was it a grieving mother? Childless. Taken. Only a white rose for remembrance. 

A flash on a screen. A name screamed aloud. 

What was she doing now? 

 

The sound of boots becomes clearer as the ringing in my ears subsides. 

A white rose, placed in a color will soak it up and become that color. 

I wonder will it become the crimson red of my blood today. 

The cold of the ground hadn’t become apparent to me until I saw a red line dye the snow. Even the snow that fell couldn’t help but be absorbed by my crimson life. 

 

The rose sat so beautifully. 

As if it knew its purpose for being there. 

I think it’s beautiful. Almost poetic. To know your purpose. 

The rose knows that it is for someone who might be forgotten. 

 

My purpose… Well, it wasn’t apparent until today. 

Target practice. 

The world’s most dangerous game. 

Cops and Robbers. 

Good and evil.

 

The muffled screams are continually repeating, 

“Don’t move” “Stop resisting” “Don’t…” 

The words start to jumble together as other boots arrive.

Ah! I bet you she is buying more flowers. 

The childless mother. 

She will probably be here soon and see the beautiful crimson red rose. 

Will she put flowers here for me too? Will my mother? 

 

My eyes blur as the boots kick in my teeth. 

It would matter if I hadn’t stopped feeling the cold a while back.

 

I gargle, jagged teeth and sweet blood in my mouth.

Slowly I let it flow out. A sharp pressure arrives as my arms are positioned against my back. 

My body is lifted away from the ground. 

I look down to see the Rorschach inkblot I had made.

Hovering over it made me realize that I had made one last impression on this earth.

A fleeting art, I drenched in the snow. 

I wonder if the lone rose would think it was beautiful? 

What would the world think of my art? 

Was my painting in snow a masterpiece or something too difficult to understand?

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Authors

  • A digital magazine centered in the radical spirit of resistance and hope across the Black diaspora.

  • Desmond J. King (They/Them) is a multi-disciplined creative. They received their B.A. in Creative Writing from Northern Illinois University and an M.A. in Creative Writing from Southern New Hampshire University. Desmond explores writing, music, and art to try and understand themselves and the world around them. In their writing, Desmond tries to answer questions that titillate their mind. What is love? How do you heal? What does it mean to be Black and Queer in this lifetime? What is time? And more. Desmond believes that documenting today's conditions will lead future Black people closer to freedom and alleviate the pain of those who died too early to see it. If you want to read more of their work, please follow their blog, www.anuntoldstorytold.com.