The Johnsons: A Short Story

My heart ached for the Johnsons as I watched the news once again. It’s terrible what has been happening in Ferguson lately. It is such a shame they lost Zach for such incredibly mindless violence and hatred between the human kid. It disgusts me to think that those who are supposed to protect us are murdering the most innocent. I watch Tasha closely at the center, I can tell she is hiding her feelings. She was closest to Zach, the two spent a lot of time playing basketball at my center. To express my condolence I invited the Johnsons to dinner. I hadn’t seen them in a few years, I anticipated their arrival.

Tasha was the first to arrive. As she walked through the door, I could identify the scent of vanilla and flowers she often wore after

I could tell he was a very clean man. I smelled like aftershave and soap. He was short, compared to his children, thin and bald. His face was rugged and sharp with stubble. I could tell he had been crying. He greeted me like the others, his face was salty from his tears. I could imagine his taste buds grew used to the salt of his tears, he often wiped away not showing his pain about his son. He began talking as soon as he entered. I could tell he was a loving father who took care of his children while Hillary worked. Though he was a loving person, he grew angry and bitter because of the white man, he had good

Immediately, the smell in the room changed from vanilla and flowers to the suffocating smell of cigarettes. I had never met her before, she was always working. That women had two jobs and worked herself dog-tired, though they still suffered poverty. Hillary was a strong women. She was a large women. She had fair skin, black curly hair down her back, her eyes were dark and tired. She greeted me with a peck on the cheek, I returned the greeting. She tasted of cigarettes and pork chops. Her skin was rough from wrinkles, she was young but looked ten years older than her age, exhaustion will do that to a person. She said hi, her voice was raspy as if she had been sick.

Jason followed shortly behind her. He didn’t talk much, his voice was deep. He was tall, as high as the door, his arms were toned and muscular. I noticed a tattoo of a cross on his arm. He greeted me with a hug and peck, following the example of his mother, he smelled like the park, sweaty and dirty, his face was bitter, he had a fresh scar bitter from blood, his face was rough from scars. I could tell this boy ran with the bad ones, the one who fought in the