We Can Protest It for You Half Off

I wrote these words. I got them from my brain, for sticker price.

By A.M. Hemingway.

(This is a voicemail recorded when Doug forgot to hang up the phone after calling his granddaughter Crystal for her twenty-fourth birthday.)

…dey used to be a,
uh, uh…a uniform warehouse,
dey sol’ uniforms, yunno? An’
whad dey do now is,
if you pay da fee,
or whadever, dey gatha up
all dey peoples and ged
dresse’ in diff’ent outfits. Dey’ll
go wherever wit’ da signs
an’ da chants, an’ snacks.
Dey bring snacks too, nod
jus’ for demselves, bud for
eva’body. Dey come for da
who’e thang, from stard to
endin’. Id look weird, dough,
wit’ all dem white folks
done up dad way. An’
I don’ mean dresse’ up,
I mean in adivis’ costumes.
Like I can’ see culuh.
You ain’ culuhless or invisible.
You white. Crystal might like
id for Dursday’s protes’, dough.
She in to dad sorda


A.M. Hemingway broods and writes. His work has appeared here, elsewhere, and in his head. His short story collection, A Ghost Hovers Where Time Shadows, both does and does not exist.


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