Third pov
Across the park, a group of boys their age argued loudly—voices rising, fists punctuating the air. Someone shouted about integration, another about Black Power. Afros and pressed collars, dashikis and church shoes, all colliding under the same sun.
Davis glanced over, eyes sharp. "That's the future fightin' with itself."
James followed his gaze. "They just want things to be right."
"Different ways of sayin' the same prayer," Davis replied.
"One kneelin'. One standin'."
James shook his head. "You make everything sound crooked."
Davis picked up the Jack of Spades, twirling it between his fingers. "Nah. Just complicated."
A trumpet wailed from somewhere down the street—raw, improvised jazz bleeding into funk bass thumping from a passing car. Davis's foot tapped automatically, catching both rhythms at once.
"You still comin' to Sunday school?" James asked.
Davis hesitated.
"Miss Loretta been askin'," James added. "Says you got a good voice for hymns."
Davis smiled faintly. "Hymns don't like questions."
James stiffened. "Church ain't about questions."
"That's the problem."
James swallowed. "You can't be everything, Davis."
Davis grinned, sharp and bright. "That's where you wrong. I'm a Jack of all trades."
(Davis pov)
The music swelled again—trumpet clashing with gospel chords drifting from a nearby church. You know, music really does wonders for a person. I stood between both sounds, perfectly balanced.
And already drifting.
Later in the afternoon....
I stacked folding chairs at the community center, the metal legs scraping softly against the worn floor. The room smelled like disinfectant, old paper, and sweat—the honest kind. Kids would be coming later for tutoring, for music lessons, for a place to be that wasn't the street.
"His eye is on the sparrow..."
I paused, fingers tightening on the chair.
Everybody says You see me, I thought,
but nobody acts like it matters.
I stacked another chair.
If You watch the sparrow,
why You let the hawks circle so close?
"Man!! I can't do this.."Across the room, I heard a little boy complaining and it looks like he has a math worksheet.
"Looks like you need help." I rhetorically said, walking over to the boy who looked a little defeated. "Don't worry your little head, you'll get it." I knelt beside him, patient, voice gentle.
The boy smiled when he finally got the answer right. "Hey! Thanks." He gushed
I nodded. "Thanks for the help, sir." He said, giving me a hug.
This is what You mean?
Service instead of certainty?
YOU ARE READING
If you relax, it will enable me to do anything I-, you're mine
General FictionIt is no secret that in all of Disney villain songs, whether in the Silver Age or the renaissance age, there's always a neon green in every magenta background. Other than lime green color, the color burning red represents passion time rage, while pu...
