Memphis

by Tara M. Stringfellow

“Memphis?” Brooke asked. “I didn’t know they had nice things down there. Figured everyone would be running around in overalls.”

Smh. This is how I pictured West Virginia like 20 years ago

I felt hot tears coming on against my will, a burning rage born from utter powerlessness.

Ooo I know that feeling. Very well described

Hazel took him in like he was a tall glass of lemonade on the hottest of August days.

The anger I had felt for years at my father was what I had had instead of him. It was all I had of him. So, I carried it with me always, like a rose quartz in my palm.

Trusting that it will do something, only to realize there is only no power in anger. There is as much power in anger as there is in a rose quartz

comb. What the fuck had I done? I had gotten the revenge I had waited my entire life for, and yet, I was disgusted with myself. Had I done this? Created this evil? Lord only knew. And I prayed He would forgive me. Because no matter what Derek had done to me, to others, to Memphis, that nigga’s trauma could never heal mine.