by Cedric Pierce Rufus Tooks was sixteen when a stray bullet pierced his forehead, cutting his life short. I was fourteen and forever changed through witnessing his murder. While everybody ran, I was paralyzed. I still remember the half cloudy moon, the barking of dogs, rapidly overshadowed by police sirens. He didn't die instantly, with his eyes open, sporadic breathing. I could hear him in pain. "Help me, Ced." Rufus died within 20 minutes. I've been constantly haunted by his demise. I'm unable to shake the image of his body lying on the cold gravel road. I still see the small bullet hole, with a slightly larger hole, with pieces of his platinum brains loosely hanging from the back of his head. I waited while the ambulance hauled his body away. Hypnotized by the white chalk lines. Where not long ago, a living, breathing human once lay. At the time, I was confused. Where was his soul? I half expected to see his soul exit the body. His precious soul, the essen...
"The smell of ink is intoxicating to me - others may have wine, but I have poetry." ~ Terri Guillemets