A Sci Fi Short for Michael Brown

‘We must become experts on lynching.’
‘Again?’
‘Yes. We thought it was a past tense virus, but it was just in mutation. Our danger is escalating.’
‘And if we know more…what then?’
‘It is unclear…right now we need only to awaken ourselves to the presence of this death in our midst. As with everything, awareness yields new practice, new practice yields new worlds.’
‘I am practicing tears, grief, rage. This awareness is painful.’
‘Yes, liberation is a brutal path. It is also a blissful path. It is the only meaningful path.’
‘Axe.’
#scifishort #Ferguson #writeourselvesforward

if you feel moved, please add on to the story or write your own.

michael brown’s homegoing

i have been watching ferguson and feeling many many things. how unique this moment is, and how familiar. how exciting the responses have been, and how exhausted i am by the need to respond. most of all, how to manage all of these front lines, all these black bodies swinging, all this brutality to brown skin.

where i sit in detroit, it is a beautiful, soft, cricket-full summer. and there are masses with no water. the u.n. said it isn’t right, like they said gaza isn’t right. so. there isn’t much relief in the moral high ground.

tonight it is the virgo new moon, and it is a night for prayer, ritual, magic and saying what it is we want. i want the kind of safety that comes when no one is afraid of you, when you are loved unconditionally, when you can make mistakes and live to learn the lessons, when you can rest assured that you will only die of natural causes, when you have every opportunity to live a beautiful and impactful life, when you can be bold and young and vivacious and sassy and creative and brave and tender and old and full of tears, pleasure, laughter, wisdom, new life. and black. i want, i invoke, the safety for black and brown people, for all people, that will come with the healing of the species from the mental illness of racial supremacy/inferiority.

i thought the moon should know.

they called him michael
and he was her only blameless child
and you would have loved him
but he died so quickly,
like a nameless child
(chorus of a song i wrote in high school, for another brown boy who never made it home)

lay him in the dirt
lift him high, raging angels
let him make it home
(for black august on the day of michael brown’s funeral)