What Time Is It?
By Michael Wayne Hunter
A tap on my cell door. “What?” Hard Core’s face appeared in my window.
“What time is the game?”
“Just a few minutes. 10am.”
Tick tocks later, he came back. “Lucky says one.”
“That’s East Coast.”
“Never believed in that East Coast time stuff,” he barked, “jus’ cuz it’s thousands of miles away. Rode my Harley to Seattle, long trip, same time there as here.”
“Seattle is North. Only East and West matter. The earth spins, so the sun hits the East Coast three hours earlier.”
“Never believed that stuff. Telling me the sun’s millions of miles away. Use your common sense, Mike, probably more like thirty or forty miles max. Christ, you can see the sun. It’s gotta to be close!”
Wondering how I got in this conversation, I went for the exit. “Game’s coming on now, Hard Core.” Pulling on my headphones, I watched the kickoff.
Free
By Michael Wayne Hunter
My four plus decades in custody have mostly been on death row or maximum security prison. The past few years I’ve been housed on a medium security facility, allowing more freedom of movement. After breakfast, I scavenge discarded meal trays, fill a plastic bag and head outside. I’m assigned to the Canteen starting at 8am, but my boss doesn’t show ’til 8:30 so I drift.Shaking the bag, birds flock, seagulls are the most aggressive, bullying pigeons. Sparrows are timid, staying perched on chain linked fences circling the yard. I scoop handfuls of bread, flinging them faraway to the seagulls who won’t come close. Pigeons push right up on my feet, so I drop their bits straight down. While the seagulls and pigeons squabble and feed, surreptitiously I toss morsels to the fence where sparrows dart down for their share. When done, the birds explode into the air without a backward glance or a thank you, and I gaze at their intricate group patterns, flowing, wheeling in freedom across the morning sky.
No Comments