african american soap opera

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Persistent thoughts of Lesli got scary for Keith



Lola’s pad truly was tripped out. Not surprising, since she, herself, was a trip without luggage. In a warehouse district, tiny joint, studio-like apartment decked out in retro-activist aesthetic — posters of Angela Davis, H. Rap Brown, Malcolm X.

In all corners loomed some of the strangest sculpture he’d ever seen, concrete renderings of melted wax faces and figures. The place was black as night. Day-glo lit. Continue Reading →

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A phone call interrupts Keith’s lonely night in Vegas



Keith was resigned to a lonely Sunday night in his Vegas hotel room without time to hook up with Lesli. He rang room service, placed a breakfast order — surprise, no grits — and turned on the stereo, looking for a station that played some good old-fashioned Chicago blues. Good luck. He got half a dozen country stations, some gospel, what passed these days for rock music, and gave up. The phone rang, startling him half out of his skin: “Who the hell…?!” Then, he realized it had to be one of the guys — or both — having opted to visit the watering hole after all. Continue Reading →

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