Rosalie O'Connor & DRA




Now taught in English classes at Cypress College, Cal State University Long Beach and Los Angeles City College!!










A woman attends her funeral and watches. A dangerous drug pusher adopts a 15-year-old homeless kid.  A short-staffed emergency room grapples with an extraordinary birth.  These and other stories come together in this series of interconnected gems whose characters converge on the imperiled future of a promising young man. A slice novel with a mysterious peek-a-boo narrator, "12:34" weaves diverse narratives to create a poignant journey that considers the permanence of human actions and their importance in the universe. 











A graduate of Southern Methodist University with degrees in Communications and Dance Performance, Jamal's foray into journalism began at The Daily Breeze Newspaper in Torrance, CA.  His work can be seen in the Daily Voice and Pulse Magazine. "12:34," Jamal's first novel, has become part of the curriculum in English classes at Los Angeles City College.


But here on this important street in Brooklyn, a little intersection that is only important because I don’t want you to forget it (I am a bit pushy love, I know), this young man is running out of rationale for how this fiasco came about.   He is still petrified, nevertheless as curious as the couple of folks who’ve decided to make the business of the dying man sprawled across Franklin theirs. 

Curiosity escaped into the air for a while to confuse matters the way it did when the teenager’s mother got him together years back.  He had made the mistake of wondering if the steam from water boiling in a pot might eliminate the odor of shit in the diaper of his baby sibling. The sting of his mother’s smack shocked him as much the fact that before he could feel his face burn she had snatched the baby from the dangling position over the water.  My goodness he was always this curious wasn’t he? Yes, yes, that’s why he grew so smart, keeping those questions going.  Well anyway now he was wondering about the woman whose ass jutted as she walked, whose hips were as wide as a watermelon. He couldn’t take his eyes off the teal skirt and the legs that held it up. There was the short blonde hair, shorter than his and starker against her darker-than-the-hour skin. She had on a tight corset-looking number with enough room to let the flesh around her cleavage jiggle with each click clack of her heels as she pressed toward the Fulton street C train. She walked right past the man desperate on the curb and looked at the frozen young man instead.  Read him up and down. Her head and chest seemed to leave her  behind behind as she said,  “Don’t worry about it sugar.   They call it a hit-and-run for a reason. What you still standing there for?”

He knew right away that he shouldn’t listen to her anymore than he should stand there dumb and watch a life perish because of his carelessness. He had to ignore the swelling at his pant zipper that happened, as if the contents wrapped with that teal skirt put the blood down there....

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