Micro Story #7: I Am Not a Tablerapper
Updated: May 6
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.