It turns out Mama was right in saying I couldn't go with her, or I might not come back, just like her. Mrs. Smith came in the house hugging me and crying on Sunday night, saying that I should turn on the news, and she would explain what was going on. I was still sour at my mother for leaving me behind, so I didn't listen. Besides, I already knew.
"Honey, I am so sorry...but I need to tell you something...dear? Are you listening to me?"
Mrs. Smith stopped mid-hug to pull away and look me in the eye.
Then she started speaking again. "Something has happened..."
Like I said, I already knew what happened. I had seen the news, announcing that dreadful day as "Bloody Sunday". I saw the pictures of the police spraying the innocnt crowds-crowds with my mother in them-with tear gas. I saw the coverage of people, both black and white, being attacked by the merciless men, hitting the protesters with clubs. It was a one-sided attack, the news said. But they didn't fully blame it on the white men. They blamed it on the people marching, on John Lewis, the leader of the march who was just trying to make things right, and on all ths little children who joined their familes in rebellion. I saw images of women and men running away, desperately trying to rid of the tear gas, and the hate their own kind set upon them.
One of those people was my mother.
One of the little children could have been me.
--------------------
So I know it's short. It's a short story, after all.
What do you think?
YOU ARE READING
Last Sunday
Historical FictionThis is a short story I had to write for school awhile back. I decided to put it on here to see how it does. Last Sunday is a historical fiction story about a young boy living in the 1960's, living with just his mother, as his father died yeas ago...
