2nd Place

They call us the ghetto medics, 911 rig riders responding to emergencies in the 313. Bullets over our heads, gang fights by our trucks, drug seekers faking pain, and drivers trying to beat our lights and sirens; like they got something better to do. I didn't even mention the patients yet, shoot I didn't even start on the drama which is fubar; fucked up beyond all repair and I would say this patient right now is just that.
“Manny, what is you doin’?” my partner Paul scoffed at me as I run over to the first fallen patient.

His skin is a soft golden brown; sun kissed my mother calls it. "If the sun can't resist laying her lips on those summer boys, what chance do we have?" She is always saying things like this. I scrunch my nose at her not really caring what kind of boys she is interested in kissing. We are watching the television in the kitchen, my mom chopping carrots while I pour liberal amounts of dish soap onto the sponge, then lift a grime covered spoon and dip it into the water. Some ad is on with two young people dancing on the beach.

“You were supposed to be home hours ago. What happened to you helping me clean these photos?”

She looks up with her red-rimmed glasses at the tip of her nose. “I was doing homework in school; I’m here to help you now.”

I notice that today Nana’s hair isn’t in its usual bun. Instead it’s open, reaching her lower back, all grey and fading. I go to sit next to her. She hands me the photos and a blue album that will be their new home. I can tell she’s not focused on the old family photos, but on me.

“Did you do anything fun today? Buy some new groceries?”

Death, I think I saw him once, when I spoke against your orders. Your fist, it hit my head And so I saw the twinkling of star, of heaven and of afterlife.

Happiness came to me in sleep and gave me lies, Her hollow words. But how could she have understood? She never felt your hands as they slap against my face, Around my neck, Across my back. “You're not good enough.” My anthem and Your song.