He stared at me, hidden and protected by all the dropped heads looking at their phones in the crowd. He looked like an officer, but most white men do to me. He had a gun snuggling against his hip though. But he didn’t have a uniform on, just a faded shirt that said FBI: Female… Continue reading Black-handed
I’m not racist but, who was that lunatic? I should have thrown his hands behind his back and frisked him. But then people would accuse me of racial profiling. There’s been enough war between white cops and the black community. I didn’t want to deal with the heat I would receive for questioning this dangerous… Continue reading Undercover and Armed.
My day started with a gun. I didn’t know where it came from, what it was doing on top of my backpack, or why I needed it. But, there was a message etched into its cold, black, side in peeling white-out, maybe from all the sweaty and anxious palms that have caressed it, that said… Continue reading Heavy Metal.
My name is Maxwell Smith, age 40, white male. But call me Max. Whatever you do, do not call me Mad Max or Mental Max like the rest of the world. When you write about me and cite me, call me Max. Just Max. The Warden took this hour for the interview out of my… Continue reading Live Inside the Prison with Mad Max.