Let Freedom Ring: Trayvon Martin
“Green? Gross!” He tosses the skittle back inside the package, digs out another color. “Reeed! More like it!” he says, throwing the sweet treat to his tonsils, forgetting to chew the flavor. His fingers fumble inside the bag, scoping out the next letter of the rainbow. ROY-G-BIV. “Grape! Yes!” He shovels it in, forgetting about the “Green again! Ugh! “Aw damn! Didn’t realize there were only three left! Shoulda saved the grape for last.” He scrunches the wrapper and shoves it in the right pocket of his hoodie. He pulls up his hood as a light breeze strokes his cheek gently. Florida winds always feel like summer time. Even in February. Beady eyes squint out in the twilight behind a gun glinting underneath the single shine of the street lamp. “Hold still,” the voice of the beady eyes projects. Hands up as he had learnt from television and movies, or from the innate consciousness of the tone of his skin,...