by Karen Crawford
Remember the savage way a people could be removed of their moccasins, their tribal blankets, the very land on which they stood? Remember the metal binds of human cargo crammed inside the belly of a groaning ship, the stench of shame, a hunger for mutiny? Remember the quiet roundup of families armed only with Kimonos and cardboard suitcases, the guards, the roll calls, the barbed wire, the dust? Remember, I really don’t care, do U? The whitewashed hands that tore a child from its mother’s arms, the mesh wire cages? Remember the tired? The poor? The huddled masses? The forgotten? Remember the lines crossed.
Karen Crawford is a writer with Puerto Rican roots who lives in the City of Angels. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee and was included in Wigleaf’s Top 50 Longlist 2023. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Okay Donkey, Heavy Feather Review, Five South, Roi Fainéant Literary Press, 100 Word Story, and elsewhere. You can find her on X, @KarenCrawford_.
Your storytelling has allowed you to enter a greater consciousness. Keep helping me grow.
Brilliant flash story.