Micro Story #7: I Am Not a Tablerapper

The handcuffs are tight - tighter than they oughta be.

“You’re a criminal,” I’m accused, viciously, on the other side of the plastic barrier. “Your lies are legendary; your hoodoo cannot be.”

The police car reeks of annoyance and generational anguish - both of which belong to me.

“I am not a liar.”

Such fruitless words they are as they tumble from my lips. Even as I say them I know they are houseless, breakable.

Unfortunately for the policeman - yellowed with adult jaundice turned feral - I am not breakable.

My wings crush the backseat door, and I have flown out of the vehicle before it completes its swerve.

The wind roars against my reddened cheeks as I collapse into my routine of flying home after an eventful night.