Kincaid Jenkins
Bio
Author of "Drinking With Others: Poetry by the Pint" available at https://redhawkpublications.company.site/Drinking-With-Others-Poetry-by-the-Pint-p470423761 and for purchase on Amazon.
Instagram: kincaidjenkins103
Stories (52)
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Red Light, Green Light
She sat backstage in a darkened corner absently clutching and rubbing the doll in her hand. All around her people were moving with purpose to make sure everything was set and ready. This was to be televised and there were lighting issues and wardrobe and makeup to consider. Mary had no interest in any of this. She was thinking about what she would say. How she would counter. If she could remain composed. She had asked for this and the Congressman to his credit had obliged her. He likely saw it as the perfect public relations opportunity. To stand before the crowd and acknowledge their pain, feign empathy with their suffering and get his face on television. He didn’t expect to sway anyone to his way of thinking and he wasn’t concerned with losing any of his constituents. All that mattered in a political career was staying relevant. Whether they love you or hate you once they forget you it’s over.
By Kincaid Jenkins5 years ago in The Swamp
The Graduation Present
He awoke at first light and flung his arm over the edge of the bed in a panic and felt for her. She was where he had left her the night before. She had not stirred nor moved. He pressed his face against the pillow with all the hope and dread of the world joined in an infinite second and laid flat his palm to her belly and cast aside his atheism to approach prayer. Her soft fur rose and fell, briefly and shallow but a breath at that. He looked over the bed and stared longingly at her and she on her side half turned her head to meet his gaze and ask of him what he wanted.
By Kincaid Jenkins5 years ago in Petlife
Love is Long and Deathly
The kid crested the hillside at night with the fires of the city flickering over his shoulder and the screams of people fading in the distance. He sifted through the darkness with his hands outstretched. It was a void he could not be birthed from. Branches grazed his face and neck and entangled his tattered clothes. He became so lost and without hope that there were times he would sit on his knees and place his head in his hands. Often tears came. He felt above his eye and found something sticky between his fingers. He brought it to his lips and tasted his blood. He wiped his sleeve across the cut and moved about in the darkness.
By Kincaid Jenkins5 years ago in Fiction
