He dashed for the parking lot and the puke-green Buick. He heard the footsteps of the men just behind him and remembered from track not to look back. His testicles began to ache from flapping so hard between his legs. He heard a car starting up. The headlights swung around onto him; his shadow stretched before him, ghastly and distorted. He heard somebody say, “Jesus.” There was a low fence before him and without hesitation he leaped, leading with his right foot, leaning forward, the gun clutched tight in his hand. He cleared it gracefully, but he landed wrong on his right foot, and a pain shot through his entire leg. He heard somebody say, “Christ!” Ignoring the pain, he bolted for the car, which was a few yards away. The car door popped when he opened it, and as if to the rescue the voice came from out of nowhere saying: The gun, fool. Use the fucking gun.

Horace leaned over the car door and took aim at the fellow in the lead. He shot just before his feet, the bullet biting into the dirt. Somebody said, “Lord! That nigger’s crazy!”

He shot again, this time hitting the second in the foot. “Goddamn!” the man howled and hit the ground, clutching his foot.

Horace slipped down into the car seat, the coldness of the vinyl shocking him. He could hear the roar of the car coming to block his departure. He patted the accelerator. Turned the key. The car didn’t start. He turned the key again. The engine turned over. He slammed the gear into reverse and wheeled behind the car that was expecting him to go forward. He heard a rebel yell, and his blood ran chill. The other car was coming. A Ford. Horace could see the headlights. He jerked the car into first, swerving around the approaching car, which barely avoided the other, a Chevy. They both swung around after the Buick. The Ford at his left. Horace went to the right. The Chevy zoomed in from the right. He skidded left. The Ford came back from the left. Just like in the movies, he slammed on the brakes. Put the car into reverse. Arced around, bashing into the Ford. He shifted to first just in time to move away. The Chevy rammed into the Ford.

Not looking back, Horace zipped up and out of the parking lot, out the gate of the driveway, the tires making a screeching sound as he hit the highway and flew down the road at eighty miles an hour, listening to the demon laughing in his head, wondering exactly what that dark figure had actually been. Wondering if, perhaps, there had stood his salvation.

Old Demonology

Old Demonology

. . . And so forth.

Not that success, for him, is sure, infallible

But never has he been afraid to reach.

His lesions are legion.

But reaching is his rule.

—GWENDOLYN BROOKS

James Malachai Greene Confessions

James Malachai Greene

Confessions