Current Project... "Black Man's Song," the Introduction

This story is very long, very dramatic, and very difficult to write. It's also very necessary.

We all know Frederick Watley. He's your brother, your father, your uncle, your coworker, your friend, maybe he's YOU. This story is a love letter to all Black men in America. Please read the introduction I've posted below. I'll keep all of you updated on the progress. 





Detective Ed Phillips walked under the caution tape that was wrapped around the gate surrounding the old house. His partner, Holly Strong, hurriedly walked out the front door and nearly bumped into him.

"Hi, sir."

"Have you found the weapon?"

"Yes, Detective, it's in here." Holly held up the clear storage bag. Inside, there was a 22 caliber pistol. "Detective, I'm so sorry."

"Thanks Holly. Your job's done here."

The tall, slim, handsome detective entered the rickety old house, the wooden floorboards creaking loudly under his black leather oxfords with every step. He looked around.

The house was so old and rundown, but full of childhood memories. He remembered all the times he spent the day hanging out with Freddie, all the fun they had as kids. Freddie and Eddie. He was Freddie's only friend growing up.

He walked upstairs to the master bedroom. The bedroom was the same as Freddie's mother left it before she died. A little dusty, but everything in its place.

He went down the hall to Freddie's old room. The room was very tidy. Not the way it was when Freddie was a teenager. The detective remembered how Freddie's mother used to yell upstairs at him to clean his room before he was invited into the house. But Freddie would tell her he was done, and she would never check, she just invited Eddie in to go upstairs. The detective chuckled, thinking back on how sweet and naive Miss Watley was.

He walked further down the hall to the third bedroom. The room they were never allowed to go into as kids. This room was the guest room back then, but Freddie took it as his room when he moved back home.

The other investigators were scouring the room for more evidence. They saw Detective Phillips walk in and stood; most had worried expressions on their faces. They all knew Detective Phillips' connection to the deceased.

He saw the chalk outlines. Both of them. He pulled out his notes.

"Identification of the deceased," he asked.

"Frederick Watley and Tyron Watley were both identified by Julia Watley, wife of Frederick and mother of Tyron."

"Time of death?"

"Both at approximately 5:30 pm, sir."

"Cause of death?"

"Both,  gunshot wound."

"Any witnesses?"

"None known, sir."

"Responsible party determined?"

"The deceased, sir. Frederick Watley."


It felt as if time stood still.