813 Stories

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MuChama

The boys shuffled their feet back and forth like Juba. They slapped their hands against their thighs and bucked and jolted their bodies to which ever rhythm they could feel. It wasn’t long before their grunting and sighing turned into words. MuChama drew in a deep breath and breathed her song into the boys lungs.

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Where Grass Blooms

The day Theresa’s buried her 3 sons, the entire Samson family was at the old house, mourning together. The sound of their cries carried out onto the front porch, pass the children in the yard, and into the ears of the young newly weds who sat inside a white SUV at the edge of the lawn. Together, with their realtor, the young couple walked up to the porch where Donald sat with his great grandchild.

“Can I help y’all?” Donald asked of 3 people who stood out among the primarily all black mourners.

Return to Sender: A Story About Self Care… sorta

One evening , after a long and grueling day at work, I came home to find a package on my front porch. Just a plain brown box with no return address or message implicating who this package was meant for. But it was on my porch at my home so I opened the door.

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813 Stories Presents: Strangers On A Train

”  The middle of the train is where two complete strangers, one coming from the front entrance and one from the back, found their way to the last set of seats on that nearly packed train; horizontal to each other and unoccupied. They sat down, almost in unison, beside each other without saying a word.”

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813 Stories presents: Smudge

“Good,” Kyle breathed in heavily, pulling a loc of her hair to his nostrils, “the smell is gone.” He laughed as he tossed her tresses back over her shoulder. He was referring to the smell of the processor the salon used to perm Mara’s once thick coily hair. The first time Kyle ever smelled it, he pretended to gag and asked her what she was doing. She explained the perming process that was used to keep her hair looking the way it looked the day she met him. He lovingly suggested to her that she didn’t have to perm anymore and that he was ready to embrace her natural curls. But the first time he felt her roots strengthening beneath his grasp, he quickly reminded her that the smell didn’t really last that long anyway.

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813 Stories: The Fighting Type

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Usually, the flex of his power ended in overnight cotton picking or some type of beating. Even though Master Williamson was afraid of Able, he knew able wouldn’t run and would take whatever punish came when nobody was looking.

I love Able with everything in me and I’d marry him if he’d ask me. But he won’t marry me because he says I don’t fight. He said I’m not the fighting kind.”