Catcher in the Rye meets The Silver Linings Playbook in this coming of age tale.
Life is complicated for nineteen-year-old Miles Henderson. He was supposed to go to community college, graduate, and leave his crime polluted community for good.
But...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"Reality leaves a lot to the imagination."
- John Lennon
I have no idea why people call St. Ellis the "Happiest City in New York."
Every day, I would see cop cars cruise up and down the neighborhood, arresting arrogant criminals and drug dealing vagrants.
On several occasions, CNN or Fox News would give a brief summary of the crimes occurring in St. Ellis. But even so, there are millions of innocent bystanders who killed in drive-by shootings-including my obnoxious, ten-year-old cousin, Matt.
To everyone around the world, St. Ellis is another ghetto town filled with brutal drug dealers, cocky gangbangers, and desolate prostitutes.
But to many passionate activists, the victims have families, friends, and no involvement of crime.
They tried peaceful protests, interviews, and writing news articles complaining about how broken the system is.
Nevertheless, the world still refuses to listen to their cries.
Maybe that's why my neighborhood is ridden with despair: we lie to ourselves that change will come until AIDS, homelessness, and hate ruin our lives.
Since this is my first time characterizing my thoughts to you guys, I have to apologize for my bleak tone.
Sometimes my mind plays dubious tricks on me; therefore, I have a hard time separating reality from fiction.
Tossing my burnt cigarette on the dreadful gray sidewalk, I trudged across the colorless world, maneuvering around pessimistic civilians donning bleak clothes and carrying large umbrellas.
Slipping my hands inside my torn jeans pocket, I couldn't care less about the pouring rain or the gray powder staining my black hoodie.
What I need is an outlet-something that will keep me sane for just a little bit longer.
Just then, I saw a woman in her early twenties, dropping her prized collection of expensive vinyl records on the gritty floor.
Long, dark chocolate dreadlocks glide against the woman's medium brown cheeks like judicious serpents.
The bright mustard yellow floral print top, denim jeans, and leather brown shoes secured her ballerina figure as the woman attempts to pick up her records.
Gentle light fills her youthful brown eyes with tender and ease. The woman's fingers gently caress the cover of Stevie Wonder's album like a long, lost companion.
Like cogs in a machine, no one takes notice of the young woman picking up her vinyl records. In fact, they avoided her like she contracted a contagious disease.
Flustered, I begin helping the blissful woman picking up her fallen records.
