Enslaved. What a man, what a story. "Come on you negro", the blacksmith said, swinging and swinging his whip. Even after the Civil War, the racism wouldn't end. Black people would still be enslaved either in jail because they were walking in the streets in search of a job for more than 50 cent labor on a white man plantation for 23 hours a day. To make their businesses and companies they use prison labor and the inmates would get $0.50 every 20 hours, so what's the difference? Don't follow the white man's rules, you get imprisoned, possibly killed, beaten and serve free labor while still having to pay for your food. 

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So once upon a time a black man named Lusife was searching for a little fun.

​

"I wonder if them white folks named the White House cause they dislike our folk?" Lusife starts. "Well, hell, I don't see no Black House."

"Hmm, never thought of it that way bu…sh!sh! Them folk coming, " His friend Lee said. One of the retired blacksmiths, now leader of his plantation, comes walking down with a long, rusty, loaded gun, ready to shoot on sight, watching and staring at everyone like his own life depended on it.

"Stop the chatter, I got my gun, don't make me use it.”

"Now looky here, we’re not ya slaves any more, so stop treating us like we are, ya hear…”

"Shh,stop, stop he gonna kill ya," Lee whispered aggressively.

"Now YOU looky here, boy." The blacksmith said, grasping his gun tightly. "I ain't looking for trouble but I'd be damned if you start trouble and I don't make an effort to end it.”

"If we can talk, WE CAN TALK, yah heard, or do we have to talk some more."

"Ay, stop, right now, you could get arrested and be enslaved again. They might even put me in prison for breathin next to ya, never mind talking to ya," Lee quickly whispered.

Lusife sighed and turned his head from the retired black smith in shame and pity of himself.

"Yeah thats right ya negr…"

POW!BOOM! Next thing you know there's the blacksmith plummeting to the ground with his right bleached cheek slowly turning blood-red, flattening the tall cotton bushes where his cheek encountered a hard, pocky rock as cold as him. Lusife shook his hand, trying to shake the pain off of his red knuckles, bobbling up and down, switching feet. He stared at the retired blacksmith’s numb body as he slowly held his cheek and put his hand in his eye socket to see a lake of dark red blood dripping down his cheek. The air became crisp and he quickly grabbed the nastiest look, along with his long gun, rusty from all his colored victims' blood and pulled the trigger.         

  Boom.

A cloud of smoke filled the air along with an ocean of blood overlapping the white and plush soon-to-be red and silk cotton and everyone's dusty bare feet. Screams and cries and fear polluted the air, but not one sign of shock.

They all expected this, even the children. He was so outspoken, so brave, so funny, so truthful but at that time, those traits never seem to live and neither did the people.

Lee was traumatized, lost, and searched for some way to reverse time. He knew in seconds, his blood would be a part of Lusife’s river.

Would Lusife and his blood be another rust on his gun, another tainted bucket of water-blood soaking the cotton, another 12 o'clock waiting for its 2? Just as grandfather always said, "2 equals justice and 1 equals life, together they are 12. The former slaves can't be both. That's why it's best standing up for good. Even if you die, you are one when you're alive but two if you died for what's right and if you didn't die for what's right you are nothing." Lee didn't want to be nothing, he didn't want to be a one or a two, he wanted to be a one AND a two.12.

The blacksmith grabbed his gun and redirected it to the tip of Lee's nose and cocked it while his finger began pressing the trigger. Tighter and tighter every microsecond.

 

BOOM!

 

     Lee pushed the gun down to the blacksmith's foot, the blacksmith’s blood had joined the Lusife River of artificial, dark red, watery, ketchup.