Sunday Story Time

The Cold Within

Six humans trapped by happenstance in black and bitter cold. Each one possessed a stick of wood or so the story’s told. Their dying fire in need of logs, the first man held his back, for of the faces round the fire, he noticed one was black. The next man looking cross the way saw one not of his church, and coulden’t bring himself to give the fire his stick of birch. The third one sat in tattered clothes, he gave his coat a hitch. Why should his log be put to use to warm the idle rich? The rich man just sat back and thought of the walth he had in store. And how to keep what he had earned from the lazy shiftless poor. The balck man’s face bespoke revenge, as the fire passed from sight. For all in his stick of wood was a chance to spite the whites. The last man of this forlom group did naught except for gain. Giving only to those who have was how he played the game. Their logs held tight in death’s still hands was proof of human sin. They didn’t die from the cold without, they died from the cold within.

When I was born, I was black
When I grew up, I was black
When I am sick, I am black
When I go out in the sun, I am black
When I am cold, I am black
When I die, I will be black
But you….When you are born, you are pink
when you grow up, you are white
When you get sick, you are green
When youare out in the sun, you are red
When you are cold, you are blue
When you die, you turn purple
And you ahve the nerve to call me colored

Nicole B. Age 12, Miami, FL