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Weekly Contest #285
I remember it was a cold, stormy night—let’s say around Christmas Eve. The kind of night where the wind howls like a banshee and the icy rain slaps your face like an unpaid debt. The streets of Harlem were slick and dark, the street lamps barely holding back the night. My fur-lined coat did little to fend off the chill as I clutched my trumpet case, my fingers numb and shaking, though not just from the cold. Poppa had just been readmitted to the hospital, coughing up his lungs thanks to all those damn cigarettes he swore he'd quit. I begged ...
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