keeping the story going.

while the calls for SINNERS prequel and sequel films have yet to cease, i’ve further solidified my belief that only a prequel novel would be able to quench our thirst to know more about the vibrant and complex characters ryan coogler has written. he constructed the original screenplay in a way that feels adapted – each character feels weighty when you meet them, with a backstory you’d love to know immediately but gladly accept learning in drips until the film’s very end. ryan’s writing displays his skill in showing us who each person is through their actions during the 2hr17min runtime rather than using lengthy exposition or extensive flashbacks and displays his confidence in the audience’s willingness to soak up as much information as possible no matter when or how slowly it was shared. with all that said, i didn’t plan to write anything. i thought about the prequel novel abstractly – something someone would write for me to read eventually, and surely not something i felt capable of embarking on personally, even temporarily.

but. a big but.

smoke and stack have been on my heart from my first watch all through the nearly 30 trips i’ve made to the theater. who they are as men, their relationship with one another, their relationships with the people around them – none of it has left me yet. not sure that it ever will. so, i wrote. i wrote them. through ryan’s characters, i’m taking a step i’ve never taken before: sharing my fiction with the world at large. using my own voice to expand and deepen the world. i hope my words about the men elijah and elias were feel fitting of the men they are onscreen. and i hope you enjoy reading!

little rock, AR. 1922.

elias splashed cold water on his face, avoiding looking at the filthy shard of glass they had to call a mirror. he considered using his handkerchief, but why destroy the fabric when he didn’t want to face himself? she gone, he thought. the threat of the klan had subsided for now, he hoped, at least until he hopped on that train. so why was there still a lump in his throat? a rapid beat in his heart? he checked his pocket watch. someone yelling outside made his head snap up.  “you makin shit from scratch in there, nigga? some of us got to take a piss.” stack scoffed. they ain’t know who was on the other side of the door. he wasn’t sure he knew either. no sense in picking a fight because of a broken heart. he looked down at his suit. his hands. his shoes. is that what it was? he chuckled bitterly. a younger mary flashed in his mind. a younger him too. a sticky tuesday in august, letting his hands graze up her thighs underneath her dress. a ragged gasp escaping his life as she eagerly widened her legs guiding him to a place soft and wet, a playful greedy smile shining on a too sweet face. she wanted to eat him alive and he let her. that was someone else’s smile now, he supposed. adjusting himself as though he had to conceal the want from anyone else in the room. the loud banging he expected finally showed. “i’m comin, i’m comin”. his first check in the mirror before leaving arkansas for good. sunken eyes shimmering. he opened the door to exasperated sighs, clearing his throat. he pushed past, ignoring the enraged glares, suitcase in hand, fedora in the other. on the platform, he finally pulled out the handkerchief. clutching it as he stared up at the hazy sky. it’s better this way, he thought. willing the tears back into his eyes. willing elijah to hear the truth amidst his lies.

clarksdale, MS. 1930.

a muggy morning ahead, annie lay in bed staring up at her ceiling. shallow breaths coming, she held a hand to her heart. elijah was out there somewhere, needing her, she could feel it. she was here needing him. forcing herself to sit up, she pulled a lovingly worn envelope from her till book by her bed. a small sad smile grazed her lips. it’s not like she needed to read the words to remember them. she’d memorized them years ago. an elijah before this pain was added to all the rest. the one running to her instead of away. she always imagined where he was when he wrote it. he’d never tell her of course. not out loud. but in his letters…brief and harrowing and true. he was hers. craving her so naturally it felt like breathing, so desperately it clawed at his throat. swirling with the ravages of war singeing his eyes. a different elijah had returned. not yet cold, but a biting chill. he talked in his sleep, the fear and the fury and the fire working their way through him. the ghosts on what he’d seen buried in wrinkles on a too young face. eyes too familiar with pain. but there was hope too.

this letter was longer. used to smell like some flower he’d plucked too many years ago miles and miles away. a cornflower maybe. the bright blue wisps had tumbled out the envelope, like pieces of some hopeful sky they’d seen on a morning they’d feared they wouldn’t make it to.

rhine river, germany, 1919.

smoke pulled out a worn journal, haphazardly ripping pages from it. “again, elijah??? you gon send it this time?” stack’s grin gleamed from beside him, meeting smoke’s already signature glare. “i ain’t even done nothing yet,” he spat back, oddly grateful the streaks of blood and dirt littering his skin hid the flush making its way up his neck. of course he was writing to annie again. what if this was it? in a dark muddy trench, the smell of rotting bodies swirling around them.

“go to bed, elias.” “you watched first last night.” another glare in the dark. “aight aight!,” stack said with his hands up. “i’m goin. and tell her i want some of her cookin when we get back too — you ain’t the only nigga here.” smoke didn’t even pretend to hide rolling his eyes. “sleep.” laying on his back and attempting to get as comfortable as he could, elias resting his head on his pack. elijah softly passed his hand over his brother’s face, closing his eyes, elias smiling at the familiar contact. “love you.” “love you too.”

how many times had they done this dance? as boys and now men. running on 4 hours of sleep and borrowed time? would it always be like this? he’d let elias sleep longer tonight.

sleep never meant rest for him anyway. the big brother. dreams of freedom chasing him like spectors. nightmares, really. what good is hope that only forms when your eyes closed? he stifled a deep sigh, letting himself feel the weight on his shoulders. didn’t chance a look at the starry sky, starry eyes would follow. removing his hat, he returned to the task at hand. annie. the letter.

my annie:

i know you hate me asking how’s home because don’t nothing change, but how’s home? how you been? i’m here. alive.

war is war. dying and trying not to die. keeping stack alive worrying me more than the germans. he good too — causing trouble and getting us outta some when his head on straight. he filling out, you should see him. gobblin up the rations and still begging for your cookin. he ain’t the only one missing it.

and not just the cooking, woman. i’m missing you. tired of these ships and trains and trenches. made up my mind now, annie. i want some little ones underfoot. stirring shit up with stack and hiding my cigarettes. following behind their mama day and night, just like their papa.

you know you mine. don’t go fussing bout it neither. me and stack gon make our way back. don’t know when, but we coming home. i’m coming home.

i love you.

yours, elijah

smoke folded the note tight. too small. something to tuck into one of her dresses and keep close. from his breast pocket, he removed a blue flower, placed it gently into another scrap of paper, slipped it into his journal, and pressed it tightly. each palm covering the worn leather, he prayed it too would make the trip back to her.