After finishing his chores, Gerald loaded chunks of coal in every pocket and raced to the Tulsa Street Railway yard, where he zigzagged between rows of parked street cars until he found the one he and his friends claimed as theirs. He was eager to whip the coal nuggets like snowballs at the boys living on the other side, hard enough to leave their mark, until their whooping and hollering brought the guard to chase them off—Gerald and his friends to their neighborhoods and the other boys to the Greenwood District, a place he’d never been, a place with their own schools, churches, banks, and movie theatres. Segregation. A word his mother said left a bad taste in her mouth.

Tonight, while he was changing into his pajamas, his mother stopped in the doorway.

“Where’d you get such nasty bruises? Did Daddy do that?”

He poked his head through the opening in his top and jumped into bed.

“Slipped on a rock by the river.”

Mama had a way of knowing his truth from his lies, but tonight, she let his lie live.

“Make sure to say your prayers,” she said before shutting his bedroom door.

His parents’ quarreling in the hallway woke him. Pale streams of moonlight lit the room. He climbed out of bed and cracked open his door.

“What’d those families do to you, William? Don’t be part of this.”

The white sheet that flapped outdoors yesterday morning on Mama’s clothesline was now draped in the crux of his father’s arm. She yanked that arm, attempting to stop him, but Daddy jerked away, pushing her aside, and rushed out. As she steadied herself, Gerald’s bedroom door creaked, and Mama glanced over. “Go back to bed.”

She followed him, tucking his crisp bedsheet up to his neck. It smelled of fresh air, he thought, pulling it over his face.

“Look, Mama, I’m Daddy.”

She snapped the sheet down, leaned forward, and gripped his hand. “Never grow into a man like your Daddy.”

The following afternoon, Gerald climbed his rail car. Overnight, the horizon had changed into a carving of charred remnants of homes, banks, and stores. A scorched church steeple still smoldered. Sirens wailed in the distance. Whole city blocks were reduced to ashes. He coughed breathing in the smoky fumes. His friends arrived two at a time, and they waited in silence for the boys on the other side.

Anne Anthony

credits her steady diet of comic books for her ardent belief in superpowers. Her work has most recently been published in Flash Boulevard, Flash Fiction Magazine, and Levitate Magazine. Her story “It’s a Mother Thing” was nominated for Best Microfiction 2024 by Cleaver Magazine. She is a senior editor and art director for the literary journal Does It Have Pockets.

Author’s website: https://linktr.ee/anchalastudio