Muzzle flashes lit up the twilight street. Kelvin never heard the shots.
The gunman wearing a red bandana disappeared into an alley like smoke into darkness.
A young boy in a blood-soaked “Be Humble” t-shirt stared at the urban sky with glassy eyes, his legs folded beneath him like a broken puppet. His new bicycle lay twisted beside him, clicking like a dying heartbeat.
Familiar screams echoed off the surrounding bungalows. Kelvin floated toward the sound. His mother’s anguished wails pierced the night as she cradled his body, and Kelvin whispered words she would never hear: “Please forgive me, Mama.”
B.G. Smith 