simple as that. write a story in 300 words at least

"The current term is "flash fiction", a tale between 300-1000 words long. Longer than micro-fiction (10-300 words) but shorter than traditional short stories (3000-5000 words preferred by most magazines), flash fiction is usually a story of a single act, sometimes the culmination of several unwritten events"

i'll put one up i na minute
--------
photobloggin' it: http://richlouis.blogspot.com/
bloggin it: http://thehomelands.net/blogger.html

Grow. Get Free. Fly.

The Streets Are Watching. Don't Get Clipped.

It’s a simple as that. The story of Jean-Louis Middleton could be told as this: He was born, he lived, and then he died once at the age thirty then again at the age seventy. But of course dying twice warrants more than a blurb in a newspaper obituary.

When Jean-Louis was born in the Jamaica, Queens hospital that also bore all three members of RUN DMC – well that’s what legend says – the doctor, who after wiping off the womb juice that all babies come covered in, told his parents their son would die thirty years from today. Unfortunately for the doctor, his parents laughed in his presence but secretly called the police and had him arrested. He was never seen again.

Jean-Louis became a toddler, then a teenager and finally a young adult with a gift for finding lost things. So his first job out of college was working for pet detective agency, because he loved animals. He had a high success rate of finding lost pets until of course the FBI kidnapped him one night and offered him a job.

Jean-Louis became an FBI agent finding missing people, dead bodies, and unwittingly, militant civil rights leaders from the 70s in hiding. He was happy enough helping the government but as his 20s began to set he decided to quit the agency and in return his memories of all those years were wiped.

By his thirtieth year, Jean-Louis was homeless and back in his Queens neighborhood pushing around a grocery cart filled with empty bottles and cans. One day he found a lost little girl and took her home. Upon her safe return, her drug-crazed father took one look at Jean-Louis and shot him twice in the chest. Even in death, Jean-Louis was able to find his way back from the after-life.

How did he die the second time you may ask? He found the meaning of life and the shock killed him.

(c) Richard Louissaint
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photobloggin' it: http://richlouis.blogspot.com/
bloggin it: http://thehomelands.net/blogger.html

"... 'we have been trying for decades to clean up New Orleans public housing to provide decent housing for residents, and now it looks like God is finally doing it for us.'"


S.ave O.ur S.elves.
Eff a gubment!

--------
photobloggin' it: http://richlouis.blogspot.com/
bloggin it: http://thehomelands.net/blogger.html

"... 'we have been trying for decades to clean up New Orleans public housing to provide decent housing for residents, and now it looks like God is finally doing it for us.'"


S.ave O.ur S.elves.
Eff a gubment!

but is it funny though
thanks
--------
photobloggin' it: http://richlouis.blogspot.com/
bloggin it: http://thehomelands.net/blogger.html

"... 'we have been trying for decades to clean up New Orleans public housing to provide decent housing for residents, and now it looks like God is finally doing it for us.'"


S.ave O.ur S.elves.
Eff a gubment!

so why not, he thought.

the vinyl dashboard of his brown station wagon roasted under his drumming fingertips, the driver side door chiming the 'im open' bell. the door of the bank, shone w/ a mirror like finish in the noon sun. there wasnt a cloud in the sky, no wind to speak of. a paper bag rolled over itself like tumbleweed, coming to a stop next to the mans scuffed left foot as he sat, half in and half out the station wagon.

he smiled, and polished off the suds in the bottle of miller genuine draft, and reached down for the paper bag, sliding his bottle into it.

standing up, he walked over to the door, pulling his ski mask down over his sweating face. the door of the station wagon chimed in the now silent parking lot.


<---- til its over. 1986. WE REMEMBER


Mzungu Aende Ulaya — Mwafrika Apate Uhuru

If God does have mercy, Tony Shaw was a mottled example of it.

Tony was a gentleman and a scholar, an oddity in an urban safari. What by all estimates should have been a life of crime, belligerence, and poverty turned out to be one of the most mournful stories ever scripted.

A young black kid growing up on the corner of North & Milton Avenue, a poverty stricken, drug riddled, rat infested shithole on the eastside of Baltimore City, Tony could have taken the road familiarly traveled. He could have dropped out by age 14, smoked haze, fucked broads, and post on the corner like so many of the cats he saw on the daily but he didn’t. Tony wanted to make a change.

Tony was a gentle kid, he never wanted much. He just wanted an opportunity that was capable of meeting his ambitious needs. He wanted to follow in the footsteps of trailblazing, money making black folk he’d read about in the Baltimore Sun, making major moves. No Tony wasn’t referring to the dudes in the sports or entertainment section, Tony wanted to be like Dr. Benjamin Carson. Tony had no aspirations of being just another cog in the mundane wheel of life.

Unfortunately, Tony was shot dead at the age of 17. Two weeks before he was to graduate from high school, and 5 days after he received a scholarship offer from John’s Hopkins University, Tony was robbed for $12.49, a pair of tennis shoes, and a sliver of street credibility…

"... 'we have been trying for decades to clean up New Orleans public housing to provide decent housing for residents, and now it looks like God is finally doing it for us.'"


S.ave O.ur S.elves.
Eff a gubment!

classic. Too bad street cred don't pay the bills when ya' forty

…and crawled back to the car, one arm limp, legs useless. Blood and shit smell (no one ever mentions how the impact makes some people’s sphincters release – panic shit, terror shit, sense of oncoming death shit), and the smell of burnt linen. It was a long crawl, broken glass and parking lot asphalt digging deep into his one functioning hand. A fingernail came off. Air hit it like lemon juice, sweet sting sole reminder that yes, he was crawling, yes he was still here, yes he would make it, but only if his cell phone still worked and his wife were still home.

Sound of crunch-gravel-crunch-draaaaag-crunch-gravel-crunch-draaaaag; and he knew Sumner was back on his feet, big bastard’s leg the only casualty in their exchange. Ponderous wounded waddle left a soundprint that drummed like cannons in his ears; Sumner ever a stack of bricks crammed inartistically into a sloppy off-the-rack suit. Crawling, he still moved almost as quickly.

“Benny,” he heard, Sumner’s voice a half-drunken warble. “Where you think you’re goin’, Ben-knee.”

He told Sumner to fuck himself, but it came out a copper-tasting wheeze.

Crunch-gravel-crunch-draaaaag-crunch-gravel-crunch-draaaaag – he was picking up the pace. “Benny. Fucked up, Benny. Look over here.”

‘Keep fucking crawling,’ he thought, ‘make it to that fucking phone. She’s there. She’s waiting at the other end. This can all be fine. Just keep crawling.’ Reached the door, palm sweat and blood lapping at it with all the finesse of a dog’s tongue. Distantly, he heard crying, realized very acutely how much the voice sounded like his own.

“Benny boy,” Sumner said, “Had one shot, Benny boy. One good shot. Look over here, Benny.”

Door open, half dragged inside, one working arm flapping about with the strength of Solomon, accuracy of Ajax, phone discovered on the driver’s seat. Speed dial. Ringing. Sound of ringing at the other end and –

– nearby?

“Benny,” Sumner said, voice crisp as a New York autumn, mercilessly close. “Who do you think is in my passenger seat? And who do you think told me where to find you?”

"... 'we have been trying for decades to clean up New Orleans public housing to provide decent housing for residents, and now it looks like God is finally doing it for us.'"


S.ave O.ur S.elves.
Eff a gubment!

It works in stories.
You're kinda like that former alcoholic/drug-addicted New York Times best-selling author that I read about.
I can't remember his name, but his stuff his descriptions are very vulgar and grimy.

But I predicted the wife was either there or dead homie.

I'v just read too many comic books to know the twist of the story

« trifling ass nigga »

« trifling ass nigga »

Licked her lips, tasted sweet waxy sluice of lipstick and nervous sweat. The driver's side window was shattered, gave front row view of Charlie Sumner beating poor Benny Goldman to death with the tire iron taken from his own Volvo. Her cell phone rang absently on her lap, the caller ID flashing 'Benny' – her hands were shaking too violently to work the keys. Other hand stroking the nape of her neck.

"Gloria, for the love of – !"

Sumner showed no sign of slowing, arms rising and falling like a blacksmith's. Benny's voice was a slurred whimper.

"Why, Gloria? Why –"

Thick, metallic sound, like a miner's pick on stone; watery squish of boots on mud. Benny mud. A long pause, Benny's death defined by a long, high pitched whine. Sumner dropped the tire iron, resounding clunk as it hit the blood-warm asphalt.

"Whooo!" Sumner wheezed. "Whooo! We got a mess here, Gloria. We got a mess, that's for sure."

"Are... " she gulped. "Are you all right?"

"Me?" he laughed. "I'm fantastic. Whooo! Benny, though. Benny's a mess. Who'da thunk for such a little guy, he'd be filled with so much juice? Whooo! All over me! What a mess! you should see this!"

"I can see it all just fine, Charlie."

"What was he thinking?" he asked, snorting loudly. "I mean, what was he thinking? You gotta see this, Gloria. I mean. The little bastard stabbed me in the leg! What was he thinking?"

She stepped out of the car, phone gripped in one hand. "But you're otherwise all right?"

"Yeah, fine. Where the hell is that knife? Can't be leaving evidence around like that, y'know? Whooo! Such a god damned mess!"

"Let me take a look at that," she said. "Your leg. Let me –"

"Oh, yeah. Sure." She dropped to her knees, probing the red splotch on his leg. He rattled on. "Helluva a thing, little man like that gets the gumption to go after a man like me. I mean... no offense, Gloria, but the little jerk was an accountant, not a Green Beret. You see him go after me like that? Charged right in, right in like a bull, like – "

Never finished the sentence.

Benny's knife.

In his groin artery. Choking on his own tongue.

She smirked, taste of lipstick and nervous sweat filming her lips. "Like a man in love. Know the feeling, Charlie?"

As she dropped her car keys, she nervously thought: "WHY am I always so fucking late?! Why? Why?"

While bending to pick up the keys, she noticed a shadow directly in front of her. The owner of the shadow quickly retrieves her keys for her, hands them to her and smiles.

His smile is so breathtaking that for a second, she forgets to collect her keys from him.

The entrancing melody of his accent brings her back to reality, "You should 'low down, ma dearh. No'ting could bee dat important."

Finally, she remembers her manners, smiles and manages to say, "Why, thank you, kind sir. Eh, may ask, the name of kindest man in the world?"

He tips his hat and says, "My friends call me 'Handsome'. But my family calls me 'Madwriter's Pa'. You, ma dear, can call me "Sunshine" because I plan on waking you up in the mornings."



(madwriter's daddy is FIONE, yall!!!)

but my father has no soutern accent what so ever
--------
photobloggin' it: http://richlouis.blogspot.com/
bloggin it: http://thehomelands.net/blogger.html

and its a west indian accent not southern, btw.

I was speeding in the rain because I was late again. I saw her struggling with her umbrella in the storm. I had passed her before my brain process that it was she. The rain was coming down to heavily for me to stop suddenly. I slowing stopped about 100 feet ahead of her and put my flashers on. I watched in my rear view mirror as she approached. She discarded her umbrella and clutched her tote as she walked towards the car. When she was alongside the car. I rolled down the window and called out to her. She initially hesitated but once she recognized me she ran around and jumped into the car. I pulled off and waited as she caught her breath. 130lbs of shivering soaking wet english department grad student was drinking water all over my leather seats.

She told me where she lived, an apartment bldg a short walk from campus. I nodded and drove. For the first time that semester I noticed how young she was. She had to be in her early twenties. She started looking in her tote for something. When she couldn’t find it she got frantic. Apparently she had lost a file that contained the essays of the two english classes she taught somewhere in the storm. She yelled at me that she must have lost them while trying to get I the car. My irritated glance at her changed her tone from accusatory to apologetic. She said she wasn’t blaming me but would be in a lot big trouble if she didn’t find the papers. I gave her my phone and asked her to call the Department to cancel this evening’s class as I turned around and we drove back to where I had picked her up. “Great” I think to myself. If I had just ignored her and driven to class, I would be dry and joining the rest of class in invoking the 15 minute instructor absence rule and treating myself to an early evening.

When we get back I pull over and wait for her to get out and look for the file. She looks at me scared, wet and shivering. I curse under my breath as I unlooked the doors and we both get out to look for it. After being out just long enough to get soaked and get grass stains up my white sneakers she finds the file in the grass by the road. We get back into the car and drive to her apartment. We get to her apartments lot and she discovers that she has lost her keys. She had them in her hands before we went back to find the file. By the point I’m resigned to the fact that thanks to my conscience and professor idiot her my night was ruined. The rain is finally slowing down and she bursts into tears. I pull my car into a handicapped space and try to calm her down. I suggest knocking on a neighbor’s door and getting the number to maintenance. She nods and follows me silently still sobbing. We get the number, dial it and talk to the maintenance guy. As I hear the TV and children in the background I think even another evening ruined I say to myself.

I insist on waiting with her until he arrives. She still shivering so I give her a sweatshirt from the gym bag in my trunk. We sit on the floor in the hallway in front of her apartment. I feel her leaning into me as she falls asleep. I’m even more irritated at this point. I can’t move because I don’t want to wake her up. An hour later the guy with his young son in tow arrives to let her in. I nudge her gently to wake her up. She thanks me. I smile politely and leave as quickly as I can before she has a new emergency. As I pull unto the highway. I recall my last visual of her. Hair still wets, eyes red from crying, barefooted and still wearing my favorite sweatshirt - FUCK!



WYBMM? It's a movement fellas


http://zuitomedia.com/photos/Summer/

"... 'we have been trying for decades to clean up New Orleans public housing to provide decent housing for residents, and now it looks like God is finally doing it for us.'"


S.ave O.ur S.elves.
Eff a gubment!

October 15th. I dread this date. Dread it to the point where if I could erase it from the calendar I would. Actually if I could erase all the fifteens in the world I would because every time that number comes near, I feel colder. Why? Because I know what’s coming and here it came.

“It’s time, James.” Her voice entered the once still room because I was half asleep, trying to forget that it was the fifteenth. Cassandra never did and for the last three months she kept reminding me her memory was flawless.

I muttered, “You go ahead without me.” I heard slippers moving in my direction on wooden floors. It got louder as I could feel her five six frame near me. I could feel her standing over me. I could feel her five six frame bending slightly so her clinched teeth sentence of “Wake up, James!” could enter my ears. I stirred lazily and finally got out of bed so we can proceed with today’s event in the next room.

She tied her hair back and lit a white candle on the mini altar she made. She then placed a glass of room temperature water on the white tablecloth with red lining. Cassandra closed her eyes, held my hand, and whispered a prayer. All I could do was look at her. Look at how this once vibrant woman allowed herself to add what seemed like a decade to her age. All in a matter of three months, she went from laughing to sulking. In mid-prayer, I decided that I had enough of this so I moved close to her, putting my arms around her.

“Cassie,” I said as I held her, “Jah is not coming back. We have to move on and let what happened happened.”

Cassandra struggled to break my grasp, which I tightened with each shift of her body. Usually I would let her go so that she can continue on to feel whatever she was feeling. I know at times she resents me and I know at times she resents herself, blaming herself for the miscarriage. “Baby, I can’t try and say I understand what you’re going through. I’m not even going to play myself, but Cassie, we can’t keep doing this.”

“What do you suggest we do? Huh? What do you suggest we do?”

“Let’s honor him by living and trying again,” I answered. Her body went limp, but I still held on. I then took her hand and placed it on my cheek so that she could understand that I felt a loss as well. We both stood up and walked back to the bedroom to honor our lost son.


Grow. Get Free. Fly.

The Streets Are Watching. Don't Get Clipped.

Grow. Get Free. Fly.

The Streets Are Watching. Don't Get Clipped.

Grow. Get Free. Fly.

"What's a nubian?"
"SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

COMMERCE,Nigga! '05 and Beyond: The Movement.

And it don't stop.
www.northernarc.net

The important thing is that you wanted to get there after 12, but before 3. At 3 they started giving throwaway stale slices to the drunkards making their way to the outer-boroughs, but at 12 the manager came in. The manager, like all managers, gave hell to his staff of underpaid workers and was more than a bit unrealistic about the working conditions of a corner pizza shop. But he really did love making pizza the right way; something that, it had to be said, did suffer when his watchful, annoying eye wasn't on the operation. He would come in at 12 on nights like these to make sure no one tried to get funny with the female cashiers, make sure the teens weren't taking extra from the drawer, do three hours, and leave it to the younger crew to lock up.
His secret was that he didn't trust what he called "The canned shit." Instead of putting the sauce right on, he'd crush (hand crush) whole tomatoes and put miniscule bits of crushed garlic in the sauce, simmer for a few "goddamn" seconds, and then put it on the pizza. It wasn't a good "drunk" like your nightlife guides might say. It was just damn fine pizza that a few would acknowledge now and then.
So, he was a difficult man, but he cared about his $1.75 slices. You should stop in some time.

Ed sat down at the bar across the street and surveyed a room of 20 year olds playing 30. He never made any snide judgment or laughed under his breath, he just noticed that they wanted to be older than they were. Nothing wrong with that.
He was thinking about something. He scratched the upper part of his cheek as a bit of a nervous habit that started around his teenage years and never left him in the mid-30's that he was. A good friend of his always crowed about the fact that the cigarettes that left the bars of New York City hid the smell of body odor and vomit, but he never paid attention. One day there was cigarette smoke, the next there wasn't.
Judith interrupted his third beer, the sight of her. Things ended badly between them, mainly because they never started. He equated the whole situation to being patted on the head and smiled at, but never actually taken seriously. He could never figure out if he was ok with all this, but he had to be. She was disappearing the way that unrequited loves always do. They just start to vanish one day and you know you can't make a dent in the whole affair. He had that feeling.
They were both there to see the same person. If they'd arranged to meet together at any point, it never would have happened. Here, he never would have guessed to meet her. That was a bit unfair.
"Oh my God!" she was general excited to see him.
"How are you?" the same back, but with a hint of knowing sadness, to be a bit poetic for a second. He heard she'd be there, but there was something a bit odd about seeing her in the flesh outside of their usual situation.
They talked, people always do. But it didn't feel like anything. It was like reaching for something but not quite grabbing it. Oh well.
He had to leave. "Aren't you going to hang out for a bit? I miss you," she said.
"...I'm always going to miss you," he said, giving life to months of frustration.
So as these things go, she stood silent but smiling, pretending to not fully get his meaning, and he gave a hug and walked out. Down the street and under the lights of clean but depressing convenience store, Ed broke into hysterical laughter and finished his walk home.

One time I was at the pizza place around 2:30. I was slurring my speech by then, but I recognized the manager. I waved a hello, and he gave a gruff response much like I expected. Anyway, he looks over at a guy making a pizza for the 4 o'clock rush as he pours out the sauce onto the dough. "What? You want me to..." the guy says. The manager, without even turning around starts to walk out the door and says, "Do whatever the hell you want."

--Maurice

First time I've done fiction in a long time.

--Maurice

> The important thing is that you wanted to get there after
>12, but before 3. At 3 they started giving throwaway stale
>slices to the drunkards making their way to the
>outer-boroughs, but at 12 the manager came in. The manager,
>like all managers, gave hell to his staff of underpaid workers
>and was more than a bit unrealistic about the working
>conditions of a corner pizza shop. But he really did love
>making pizza the right way; something that, it had to be said,
>did suffer when his watchful, annoying eye wasn't on the
>operation. He would come in at 12 on nights like these to
>make sure no one tried to get funny with the female cashiers,
>make sure the teens weren't taking extra from the drawer, do
>three hours, and leave it to the younger crew to lock up.
> His secret was that he didn't trust what he called "The
>canned shit." Instead of putting the sauce right on, he'd
>crush (hand crush) whole tomatoes and put miniscule bits of

minor point...i would say something like hand crush, mind you...parentheses are kinda antiseptic

>crushed garlic in the sauce, simmer for a few "goddamn"
>seconds, and then put it on the pizza. It wasn't a good
>"drunk" like your nightlife guides might say. It was just
>damn fine pizza that a few would acknowledge now and then.

yeah, i dont get the goddamn and drunk part.

> So, he was a difficult man, but he cared about his $1.75
>slices. You should stop in some time.

this is kinda confusing on the second read, since he leaves later.

> Ed sat down at the bar across the street and surveyed a
>room of 20 year olds playing 30. He never made any snide
>judgment or laughed under his breath, he just noticed that
>they wanted to be older than they were. Nothing wrong with
>that.

i would rearrange this, and nix the nothing wrong with that, unless ed is saying it.

> He was thinking about something. He scratched the upper
>part of his cheek as a bit of a nervous habit that started
>around his teenage years and never left him in the mid-30's
>that he was. A good friend of his always crowed about the
>fact that the cigarettes that left the bars of New York City
>hid the smell of body odor and vomit, but he never paid
>attention. One day there was cigarette smoke, the next there
>wasn't.
> Judith interrupted his third beer, the sight of her.
>Things ended badly between them, mainly because they never
>started. He equated the whole situation to being patted on
>the head and smiled at, but never actually taken seriously.
>He could never figure out if he was ok with all this, but he
>had to be. She was disappearing the way that unrequited loves
>always do. They just start to vanish one day and you know you
>can't make a dent in the whole affair. He had that feeling.

i think you can shorten this, or do something to it, but i dont know what.

> They were both there to see the same person. If they'd
>arranged to meet together at any point, it never would have
>happened. Here, he never would have guessed to meet her.
>That was a bit unfair.
> "Oh my God!" she was general excited to see him.
> "How are you?" the same back, but with a hint of knowing
>sadness, to be a bit poetic for a second. He heard she'd be
>there, but there was something a bit odd about seeing her in
>the flesh outside of their usual situation.
> They talked, people always do. But it didn't feel like
>anything. It was like reaching for something but not quite
>grabbing it. Oh well.
> He had to leave. "Aren't you going to hang out for a bit?
>I miss you," she said.
> "...I'm always going to miss you," he said, giving life to
>months of frustration.
> So as these things go, she stood silent but smiling,
>pretending to not fully get his meaning, and he gave a hug and
>walked out. Down the street and under the lights of clean but
>depressing convenience store, Ed broke into hysterical
>laughter and finished his walk home.

is that really his character? you know him better than i do.

> One time I was at the pizza place around 2:30. I was
>slurring my speech by then, but I recognized the manager. I
>waved a hello, and he gave a gruff response much like I
>expected. Anyway, he looks over at a guy making a pizza for
>the 4 o'clock rush as he pours out the sauce onto the dough.
>"What? You want me to..." the guy says. The manager, without
>even turning around starts to walk out the door and says, "Do
>whatever the hell you want."

i think the guy should say more...like, i think it would make the end stronger. not much more, but just finish his sentence.

>--Maurice
>

It had a cadence- cut time. The rhythmic thud of steel into stone reverberated through the walls vibrating onto his state issued twin bed and pounding in his ear drums.

Moans of pleasure coupled with shrill shrieks of pain resonanated across the tiled floor. It felt like they were in the bed with him. He could hear her, smell them.

Just a few hours before Trevor and his parents joined hands with Dre’s family with heads bowed in fervent prayer for God’s guidance, and strength as they embark upon their freshman experience in a foreign city.
Now, the air hung heavily with the pungent mix of momma’s bread puddin and intercourse.


He can’t sleep. Tela’s “Blackhaven” pulsed in the background hardly masking that they’ve been going at it for nearly 40 minutes now.

Trevor could slap himself for allowing the opportunity to slip out the door unnoticed pass. Maybe they hadn’t noticed him in the room, Trevor thought.

He began to fidget with the light fixture above his bed hoping to discreetly make his presence known. No dice. Another 15 minutes pass. The Simpsons would be coming on soon. No longer able to hold his patienced Trevor peeps out of his blankets to see if Dre was done.

It was quiet. Trevor began to emerge from his sheets and then he notices something in the shadows. It was Dre. Dre motioned over to Trevor, but Trevor couldn’t make out what Dre was saying.

Dre then leaned over to turn down the stereo and asked him aloud- “hey, you want some?” Trevor’s mouth dropped dumbfounded as Dre pointed at the faceless figure lying in the bed next to him.

Her leg inched out just beyond the sheets gleaming with ebony sheen in the glare of the black light, “Sho’Nuff’s” synthesizer riff eased into milieu.
There was no doubt about it, she was fine. Trevor had noticed her silhouette as Dre led her into their room earlier. With grace she danced her supple form around the discarded boxes, books and tape haphazardly strewn about the space hastily from the move.

Dre waited impatiently for an answer as Trevor hesitated in confusion. He searched for an expression on her face. She seemed indifferent. Trevor’s mind raced as he thought of the possible scenarios: “ Is Dre playin? Do you have any protection? Do you really want sloppy seconds? Is this the way you want to lose your virginity?”

Sitting in the doctor’s office, reading an outdated issue of Time magazine “Testify” blaring on repeat- the djembe drum’s rhythm reminded him of that night. “Trevor Mohammed”, the nurse called. “It’s our turn”, Trevor whispered to his son “Trevor and Samir Mohammed, right? We’re right here”.

He glanced into his son’s eyes as they shone back him. Samir fiddled with the well worn wedding band on Trevor’s ring finger- his pudgy hands not yet nimble enough to grasp the elusive edges- cooing at the music pouring out of the speaker.

Trevor couldn’t help but smile as he placed the magazine back on the coffee table. Emblazed on the magazine’s cover was the story of a third hurricane on course to hit an already disaster stricken Gulf Coast.

The headline questioned “What now?” Trevor could smile in knowing that even in what seems like the worst of situations Allah will is at work and beauty can be found in the ugliest of human conditions. Samir and his five year marriage to a one night fling bear testament to that.



"... 'we have been trying for decades to clean up New Orleans public housing to provide decent housing for residents, and now it looks like God is finally doing it for us.'"


S.ave O.ur S.elves.
Eff a gubment!

WYBMM? It's a movement fellas


http://zuitomedia.com/photos/Summer/

"... 'we have been trying for decades to clean up New Orleans public housing to provide decent housing for residents, and now it looks like God is finally doing it for us.'"


S.ave O.ur S.elves.
Eff a gubment!

And if I'm correct on it being based on the old saying, that shit's clever lol.

What an...unseemingly sweet story.
lol

--------
photobloggin' it: http://richlouis.blogspot.com/
bloggin it: http://thehomelands.net/blogger.html

"... 'we have been trying for decades to clean up New Orleans public housing to provide decent housing for residents, and now it looks like God is finally doing it for us.'"


S.ave O.ur S.elves.
Eff a gubment!

I seen 'em.


"... 'we have been trying for decades to clean up New Orleans public housing to provide decent housing for residents, and now it looks like God is finally doing it for us.'"


S.ave O.ur S.elves.
Eff a gubment!

*begins writing story from class assignment*

any word will do....

try me next week

try me next week

I really feel for Jonathan. But I’m not sure whether my empathy is skin deep or whether it just turns me on more. I’m seeing his wife, but in a way sodomizing him. I saw him and his wife at the movies yesterday. I think they were going to see some love movie where the characters meet unexpectedly may have another significant other, have very different lives, but some how end up together. But that doesn’t happen in real life. In real life, people just fuck. And that is exactly what Janet and I have been doing for the last six months.

Six short, wonderful, ear popping, skin covered in baby oil having slippery sex months ago, we were at one of those company picnics. Not having a wife, 2.5 kids, or a dog in my backyard going woof woof, I went for the sake of appearances; Janet’s was not the least of them. The natural light of Silver Lake Park perfectly accentuated her hazel eyes, a mix of brown in green going neither her nor there. They were something so special that deserved more than a someone who’s life revolved around copy machines, interoffice memos, promotions, brown nosing, and the general bullshit of a company CFO, a title that’s getting thrown around nowadays to talk people into working longer hours. No, she needed someone who could fill in that time because they got off at 4:30 everyday, not including flex time, while your husband is steadily trying to meet the midnight deadline.


We exchange pleasantries. Jon asks me whether I’ve completed the TPS reports for tomorrow. Janet asks can I come over for dinner sometime. I tell her I’m much too busy, unless she can hook me up with someone as lovely as herself. I walked away smiling, knowing her the diamond encrusted ring on her finger means nothing more than a toy trinket to be found in supermarket bubble gum machines.

*HINT*HINT*HINT*HINT*HINT*HINT*HINT*HINT*HINT*HINT*HINT*HINT*HINT*HIN*

"... 'we have been trying for decades to clean up New Orleans public housing to provide decent housing for residents, and now it looks like God is finally doing it for us.'"


S.ave O.ur S.elves.
Eff a gubment!

>I really feel for Jonathan. But I’m not sure whether my
>empathy is skin deep or whether it just turns me on more. I’m
>seeing his wife, but in a way sodomizing him. I saw him and
>his wife at the movies yesterday. I think they were going to
>see some love movie where the characters meet unexpectedly may
>have another significant other, have very different lives, but
>some how end up together. But that doesn’t happen in real
>life. In real life, people just fuck. And that is exactly
>what Janet and I have been doing for the last six months.
>
> Six short, wonderful, ear popping, skin covered in baby oil
>having slippery sex months ago, we were at one of those
>company picnics. Not having a wife, 2.5 kids, or a dog in my
>backyard going woof woof, I went for the sake of appearances;
>Janet’s was not the least of them. The natural light of
>Silver Lake Park perfectly accentuated her hazel eyes, a mix
>of brown in green going neither her nor there. They were
>something so special that deserved more than a someone who’s
>life revolved around copy machines, interoffice memos,
>promotions, brown nosing, and the general bullshit of a
>company CFO, a title that’s getting thrown around nowadays to
>talk people into working longer hours. No, she needed someone
>who could fill in that time because they got off at 4:30
>everyday, not including flex time, while your husband is
>steadily trying to meet the midnight deadline.
>
>
> We exchange pleasantries. Jon asks me whether I’ve completed
>the TPS reports for tomorrow. Janet asks can I come over for
>dinner sometime. I tell her I’m much too busy, unless she can
>hook me up with someone as lovely as herself. I walked away
>smiling, knowing her the diamond encrusted ring on her finger
>means nothing more than a toy trinket to be found in
>supermarket bubble gum machines.
>

2. I like it, you have a way with description. It sets up a scene well...but I'm not sure that it's complete as a scene in itself? I'm a need somethin to happen, for there to be a conflict, a mini-climax. But I could see this being the opening, set-up scene in a film.

now go ahead and add me to your myspace

"... 'we have been trying for decades to clean up New Orleans public housing to provide decent housing for residents, and now it looks like God is finally doing it for us.'"


S.ave O.ur S.elves.
Eff a gubment!

- Copy edit for redundancy and grammar

- Line edit for consistency

Overall, I like the distant tone. I like his condescending thought pattern: despite what she has, he feels he has something on her and her lifestyle. Some of the descriptions were heavy-handed, in my opinion, but the ending was satisfying.

... i'm a harsh critic.

Good shit

It was a brisk day. The gold and amber leaves decorated the trees but hadn’t begun to fall yet. He had a slow stroll about him. His eyes managed to meet those of everyone he came across during his walk, and if for only the briefest of seconds they would exchange a smile.

Andrew Austin. The Wall Street Wonder kid is what they called him. Twenty-two years old and already made partner with the firm. He welcomed the daily visit to the trading blocks. He enjoyed the manic song and dance number. He lived for it.

He stood outside of the main building, with all of the other traders waiting for the doors to open. A group them stood huddled together in a circle, smoking their cigars and attempting to generate heat. He stood there in his pastel yellow business suit and waited. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out a gold watch. Looking down at the timepiece he noticed something on the ground. It was a crisp, mint green five-dollar bill. He held the bill up to the sun and tapped the corner of it with his index finger. He smiled at his find before the doors opened and he walked inside.

It was a rough day on the market. Fortunes lost. Paper giants crumbled. By the end of the day Andrew and his company were more than two million in the red.

Austin drove home a little slower than usual that day. He didn’t find himself singing along to the radio this evening. He eventually found himself at his house. As soon as he came in he was greeted by his wife.

“How was your day at the office honey?”

“Not bad honey, I made five dollars.”

We have a character who is an eternal optimist.

But also a character that can establish himself and his own identity instead of relying on something he is a part of.

Pretty cool.

Waking up was the last thing Larry wanted to do. For all he knew, this could have
been the last day of his life. It might be the first day of something new, a new phase, a
chapter. Moving one inch out of the warmth, with his girlfriend to his side, was not what
he wanted to do at that time, or at any given time. Moving the blanket, and heading
towards the bathroom for the morning ritual, he knew there was no way to turn back. He
had gone too far.

He looked around the sink and saw that the toothpaste was close to running out.
Larry was the kind of guy who could go for weeks without brushing his teeth, and he
would disguise it by eating his favorite stick of gum. He figured if he was chewing, his
friends and co-workers would see that he’s busy and wouldn’t bother asking him about,
well, anything. Larry was that kind of guy, devoted to his job but only for the paycheck
every two weeks. He’s the kind of guy, your normal every day guy, who enjoyed his job
simply to see the women everyday and the kind of clothes they wore. He wasn’t a
fashionable man, but always wanted to look nice and clean, that much he knew. But
when it came to other women, he wanted to see them dressed as best as possible, if only
to know what lurked underneath. Yes, Larry often said to himself, “I have a girlfriend,
but I love ankles”. He was also smart, and knew that ankles could never love him back.

Larry observed the images in the mirror, and felt he was ready to brave the brand
new day. He kissed his girlfriend on the forehead, not wanting to disturb her but...

“Oh, Larry, good morning. You’re leaving so soon?”
“Yeah”, he said to Cheryl, “I had heard on the news last night there was some
road construction on 82, so I want to have a few minutes before I may get caught up in
it.”
“Okay baby. You already had something to eat?”, Cheryl said, now sitting up
with the blanket covering her legs.
“Nah, I have an apple. I’ll see you later today, okay?”
“Sure.”

They kissed, this time on the lips, Cheryl’s lips now having the slight taste of
mint.

As Larry looked around him as he drove out of the garage, he had wondered for a
brief moment how it would feel to drive to work backwards. “I’m sure people have done
it before” he thought, “why couldn’t I?” To prove something to himself, he made it out
of his driveway, and attempted to go down his street backwards. Even at this time of the
morning, someone was out witnessing this unusual situation.

“Larry, bra. What you t’ink you doin’?”

“Oh no”, Larry thought, “it’s fricken Charles. Why can’t I go through a morning
without hearing him...”

*TAP* *TAP* *TAP*

“Bugga you, bra. Where you t’ink you going, ass backwards li’dat? You might
go huli ova da hill if you no watch out. You wen’ go okole maluna o’ wot?”

Ah yes, Charles.

“Hey Charlie, how you doin’?”

Charlie, which sounded more like Cholly, what friends, family, and neighbors
called him.

“Me, I go watta da yahd. I get donuts. I get coffee. I get milks. Me, I no worry
but I worry, because you know why?”
“Why Charlie?”
“Because you backin’ up, me back up watch you, then you back up watch. How
you goin’ on the freeway, at 70 miles po’ awa, withotu getting hit? I see you already, you
go too fas’ and den POOM! Bugga you, you not goin’ make it with Cherie or make baby
for see chirrens.”

“I just wanted to see how it would feel. I wasn’t going to go too far.”
“Too fa, too nea, too many, that’s the Polynesian law firm, t’ree bruddahs, all goo
fo nothin’. You goin’ work normal?”
“Yeah, I was going to turn around anyway.”
“Good for you”, said Charlie, a jolly, chubby man who always had a smile on his
face. He stayed home every day after coming out of the military and claiming disability.
He spend his days fixing cars and tending to his yard, while paying child support for his
daughter. His dialect comes from Hawai’i, and just like the comfort food he often talks
about during get togethers on the weekend, he said the way he talks when he feels good is
comfort talk. In a work or business situation, that pidgin English, or what he called
Hawaiian creole, would go into hiding for a bit.

“Hey, watch da roads, ah? I heard get constructions.”
“That’s why I’m leaving early today.”
“Goo fo’ you, bra. Take it easy bra, rock steady.”
“You too, Charlie”.

The freeway seemed fairly clear, so it looked as if Larry was going to have a
stress-free day overall. But then the thoughts came to him. Car payments, health care,
the rumored threat of people in his department being laid off, he faced roughly nine hours
of bullshit on a daily basis, yet it all boiled down to him being a foremen, and him getting
paid for being the boss. If he didn’t have to work, he would be fishing, or fucking. Or
both.

He turned on the radio, and was going to listen to Howard Stern when the radio
started playing a song he couldn’t stand.

“Oh baby, baby, how was I supposed to know
That something wasn’t right?”

“Shit!”, Larry thought. “How come these words pop up at the most unusual
times?”

Seconds later, Larry found himself behind some traffic, which fortunately was
close to the offramp he needed to get on. It was some time to think, as Britney Spears
danced in his imagination. It was temporary solitude for someone who worked too much
for nothing. But it was one less bit of worry he had to deal with, at least for now.







BRAND NEW T-SHIRTS: Support Our Loops
http://www.cafepress.com/mufalaka

http://www.john-book.com
http://www.myspace.com/crutmusic

THE RUN-OFF GROOVE: my column
http://www.musicforamerica.org/node/92853

THE AMPLIFIERZ: yes indeed

The Hawaiian Creole... thats good shit

And who hasn't thought about driving backwards on your street at some point

A lot of people in Hawai'i talk "pidgin", or "pidgin English", and a few years ago I had heard someone call it "Hawaiian creole". I had never looked at it that way, and it was not only pertaining to it being an exclusive language (and I guess in a way, anyone who understands a language makes it exclusive to them), but also referring to the mixture of people who speak it.

When I read this thread, I wasn't sure what to write but decided to give it a shot. Glad I did.



BRAND NEW T-SHIRTS: Support Our Loops
http://www.cafepress.com/mufalaka

http://www.john-book.com
http://www.myspace.com/crutmusic

THE RUN-OFF GROOVE: my column
http://www.musicforamerica.org/node/92853

THE AMPLIFIERZ: yes indeed

The examination of her wrists was methodical and spiritual at the same time. She imagined them marked red and streaking with precise incisions that wouldn't show in the casket. 'Maybe I can tie plastic bags around them so the blood won't get on the carpet. I can double-bag to make sure there are no leaks.' Her consideration for others betrayed her reason for an early departure. She was leaving a world where she mattered as much as no one and felt less than nothing. It would be weeks before anyone would even look for her or notice she was no longer around. 'Maybe the smell will attract them,' she thought.

She cleaned her apartment, threw out all the trash and anything that could spoil. She folded all her clothes and left them in piles with crisp, white pieces of paper laid on top of them saying which clothes were to be given to whom. She did the same with her shoes. She washed all the dishes and all her laundry. She sat down at her desk and over-paid all her bills, another act of consideration for those who never considered her. 'They may put me in a pine box, but at least they won't have to pay for my electricity or water. That would just be rude.'

As she walked around her apartment, looking over every nook and cranny, making sure everything was in its place, she prepared to write her final note...a note of explanation:

'I did this because I am no one. This is a world of people who are something. I'm sorry I failed, no one is responsible but me. Thank you and goodnight.'

She smiled at how legibly she'd written the letters and thought how pleasant it would be for whomever found it to read before they balled it up and discarded it in the empty trash receptacle. And then it was time. With newly washed cotton sheets under and newly washed towels underneath her arms, plastic bags in tow, she surgically made two incisions. And as her awareness of this world began to fade, she fancied one last thought - 'I forgot to let the cat out...'

"... 'we have been trying for decades to clean up New Orleans public housing to provide decent housing for residents, and now it looks like God is finally doing it for us.'"


S.ave O.ur S.elves.
Eff a gubment!

that's the most spontaneous writing I've done in awhile

this is a great post

last post like this I participated in. I don't know how long ago that was.


"... 'we have been trying for decades to clean up New Orleans public housing to provide decent housing for residents, and now it looks like God is finally doing it for us.'"


S.ave O.ur S.elves.
Eff a gubment!

kind of like a burrito

lol

"God give me a reason. I'm down on bended knee. Oooooh, I'll never waalk aaaaa-gaaaain...."

The Boyz II Men ringtone sang from Tasha's cellphone, interrupting her from applying her make-up in the bathroom mirror.
She knew who it was, and the song, at once devotianal, passionate, and somber, made her heart flutter her as she slowly made her way to answer it.

She cleared her throat to make her voice smooth as butterscotch.
"Hellooo?" she said.

"Girl, why you answerin the phone all crazy for? You aint sexy!!"

Oh, it was her best friend, Samantha. She tried to recover.
"Haha, I thought you were somebody else. And I AM sexy, thank you very much."

"Somebody else like who? You aint got no man."

"But I got a date."

"What?! With who??"

"This guy Brian." Tasha contempleted going further and then took the risk. "I've been talkin to him on the internet for a while..."

"The internet?! Lawd, you gonna die!"

"It's not like that, Samantha. We've been talkin for weeks. I saw a picture of him, and he is Grade A fine!! Like Morris Chestnut fine. Just dark, perfect teeth, beautiful skin."

"Well you know that the fine ones are always crazy," Samantha replied. "And on top of that he's from the internet? He's gonna kill your ass and then eat you with a fine kiante."

Tasha rolled her eyes. "Shutup, he's not a killer. Our conversations are great. He's smart, funny, and...." She closed her eyes and gushed. "He even calls me Baby. I think this is for real."

"Well, as long as you're happy. Just promise to carry your mase and let me know what happens."

"Haha sure thing. I gotta finish getting ready, I'll holla." Tasha hung up and threw herself on the bed, feeling the glee of a love-struck 16 year old, instead of the 22-year old cynicism that had plagued her in the past.
She had finally let herself feel vulnerable with this one- and she knew this fine, intelligent man would be the real thing.

"God give me a reason. I'm down on bended knee. Oooooh, I'll never waalk aaaaa-gaaaaiin...."

She shot up and glanced at the caller ID. It was Brian! She took her time answering the phone, letting the song seranade her, wrap its arms around her, promise her unconditional love.

She answered it on the last ring.
"Hey Baby," Brian's masculine voice floated like music to her ears. "I'm on the stairwell of your apartment right now, why don't you meet me halfway?"

"Okay, be there in a second!" Tasha blurted enthusiastcially and hung up. She dashed to the bathroom counter, applying a last coat of lip gloss to her already shimmering lips. Then came the decision on whether to go with heels or flats. What a fool, I didn't even ask him his height! she scolded herself.
She deliberated for 5 whole minutes before deciding to wear heels- afterall, his voice sounded like he just had to be tall, dark, and handsome.

"I'll never waaalk aaaag-aaaaiiin. Until you come back to me..."

She didn't bother to answer her phone this time; she knew he'd been waiting for too long. Shoving the mase in her purse, she ran out the apartment.
Oddly, he wasn't at her door on the 5th floor yet. Maybe he'd already left!!
She sprinted down the steps, screaming "Fuck!" and praying that she'd catch him before it was too late.

When she reached the 2nd floor stairs, she gasped and stopped cold in her tracks. In the darkness, she saw a man before her, legs limp as noodles and hands clinging to the handrail, pulling himself up the steps ever so slowly. He was 30ish and wore a dark denim jacket with matching jeans, which dragged along the steps as he slithered forward. He was a man, but in that shocking moment- in the darkness, in the isolation of the stairwell, in her hurry- he was an animal.

A visceral reaction compelled her to shriek at the top of her lungs at the assailant.

"Tasha? Is that you? You look great!" the snake said.

The attacker knows my name! she panicked. The horror of the implications sent a chill down her spine and another shriek from her lungs.

"Tasha, Tasha, it's me!" He laughed, trying to calm her. "It's me!"

Dazed, she focused enough to make out his face in the darkness. She knew that chocolate skin, those perfect teeth, that voice...

"No," she said, shaking her head, tears of heartbreak and fear forming in her eyes. "No!!"
She backed up the stairs, slowly. First step. Second step. Third...

"Tasha, please don't be scared. You knew this.

"I did not!" she sobbed.

"You did! I promise I don't bite. Please...Baby"

He extended his arm through the darkness. Tanya tripped over a step backing up, landing on her back, and able to see the snake descending upon her. She screamed and fumbled inside her purse. She grabbed her mase. The snake was upon her now, almost touching her. She let it spray. He screamed. She screamed. He fell down the steps. She ran up the stairs, reaching her apartment out of breath. She sobbed and threw herself on her bed.

"I'll never waaalk aaa..." The song played again, now haunting her.
She looked away from the caller ID and threw the phone against the wall in terror- in terror of so many things. Including who the animal truly was in the darkness.

now go critique mine you bastard

"... 'we have been trying for decades to clean up New Orleans public housing to provide decent housing for residents, and now it looks like God is finally doing it for us.'"


S.ave O.ur S.elves.
Eff a gubment!

--------
photobloggin' it: http://richlouis.blogspot.com/
bloggin it: http://thehomelands.net/blogger.html

I got shit to take care of first, but I'll reply just for a placeholder...

As my left foot reaches the top step, I begin smelling the welcome of candle & incense seeping through the hallway from our door. Shuffling eagerly for my keys & breathing slowly to keep my cool. After a long hard week of humdrum & the semi-insanity of her disappearance, I can’t wait. Dropping my satchel by the door a cool glass of water sits on the counter, the entire house is set low & dark like the hum of fireflies at night. My palms begin to sweat, my body wants to pace, but I have to remind myself to play it cool. This is the exact same reason she got the keys to my home & a free pass to come & go as she pleases.

I clear my throat as the water finishes cooling me inside & head for the bedroom in a sweeping pace, matching the croon of ‘Sweet In The Morning’ on the speakers playing syncopated in each room, so lowly & sultry, almost enticing me unbearably. I had every intention of having a conversation, but as I walked the lull of the music, trail of oranges & grapes hanging from the ceiling softened my shoulders & neck. My clothing began to fall off.

The room was dancing with an orange & red glow. The ashtray on my altar gave off an herbal balm that closed my eyes to a slit. Floating onto the bed her hands danced across my chest & shoulders down my thighs, naked I felt clothed in her acceptance & warmth.
We spoke no words, communicating through breath & grunts my memories of her flashed like an overwhelming current through me. My body shook & clenched to hold her without hands in places I couldn’t reach with the way our bodies twisted I…

I'm waiting for love.... India.arie *plays in background*

if this is taken as being tongue in cheek
i will dig this
cause it just made me laugh out loud
--------
photobloggin' it: http://richlouis.blogspot.com/
bloggin it: http://thehomelands.net/blogger.html

"... 'we have been trying for decades to clean up New Orleans public housing to provide decent housing for residents, and now it looks like God is finally doing it for us.'"


S.ave O.ur S.elves.
Eff a gubment!

He unlocks the door into his apartment, takes off his shoes, and walked into the bathroom. He took off his crimson stained shirt, and slowly began to wash the blood off his hands in the sink. Lost in his own thoughts, he hardly noticed the ringer on his cell phone going off.

"Yeah...Um hum...alright"

Those are the quick little guttural moans we make to let the person on the other side of hte line know that we heard them. Except in Chris's case, his mind was as far away from the conversation on the phone as it could be.

He flicked the top off the phone off, stared at the shower for a moment before deciding to watch some tv. He collapses onto the recliner and picks up the remote; he haphazardly flips through the channels. Image after image flashes in front of his eyes while he clicks away; a distraction for his body while his mind replays the night’s events over and over. This is how he unwinds and at least tries to free himself of the guilt. He has tried it all to help with those first few hours after a hard night's work, everything from sex to yoga. But only when he immerses himself in the events that took place that night, going over them, slowly peeling off any emotional ties to it, is he able to at least get a few hours of rest.

He clicks off the TV, and stands up He puts his tools away and locks them and walks towards the bedroom. He slides into his bed, turns off the light, and slowly begins to drift away. Right before that first snore hits him, he turns away the picture of the elderly woman towards the wall. He doesn’t need anyone else judging him tonight.

"... 'we have been trying for decades to clean up New Orleans public housing to provide decent housing for residents, and now it looks like God is finally doing it for us.'"


S.ave O.ur S.elves.
Eff a gubment!

I started writing it from the past perspective, then switched it towards the end and made a half assed attempt at fixing it.

My bad!

I like the human side of the story though, very cool

Carmen’s eyes narrows as she stares at the Figure in the doorway.

“So it’s gonna be liked this,” she says. She knew her time was limited but she didn’t think it was going be up this soon.

“Can you think of a better way?”

The Figure leans against the door, staring at her. He reaches into his jacket pocket, producing a pack of Kools. He removed a cigarette; put it in his mouth and lit it. The smoke drifted into Carmen’s nose. Her eyes watered.

“Could you not do that,” she asks as she wipes tears from her eyes.

“It doesn’t matter what happens at this point, besides this is the least of your worries”

Carmen knew she was nitpicking but it was worth delaying what was to come.

“Is there anything I can say to stop this?”

“No one has been able too yet. And the ones that have tried have been led to ruin.”

Carmen’s eyes once filled with drops, let go a river of tears.

“Don’t,” The Figure says softly. He reaches again into his jacket pocket, but this time brings out a handkerchief. He wipes away her tears. Carmen leans her face into his hand. She has never experience so warm be so freezing at once.

“You never know how this will play out. You might be one of the lucky ones…”

Carmen smirks. The Figure smiles at her, knowing exactly what she is thinking.

“But yes, it always hurts in some respect.”

The Figure brings his face close to Carmen’s. He brushes her curly hair back to allow him to put his mouth against her ear.

“You have to invite me in. It’s just the way it is.”

Carmen moves her head to look into The Figure’s eyes.

“Maybe I want to fight.”

“You won’t win, Carmen. You know that. You don’t what to know what happens when you lose.”

“But losing is better than the alternative.”

And with that, Carmen closes the door and her heart to love.

-----------------------------
"aut viam inveniam aut faciam" ( I'll either find a way or make one)

"Also, my mom said if I wasted anymore baby powder and lotion, I was going need my own cure for a sore ass."--Me

death, for some reason.


"I am existing. This is mine. This is this. O Beloved, even in such know illimitably."


www.myspace.com/whoislena

But maybe I should have not stated who the figure was and left it to the reader.
-----------------------------
"aut viam inveniam aut faciam" ( I'll either find a way or make one)

"Also, my mom said if I wasted anymore baby powder and lotion, I was going need my own cure for a sore ass."--Me

I'll get in on this one....

The intention was there, although the action behind the promise waned. Dale’s appetite was stronger this evening and his need to satisfy it mounted and soared. First, it crept upon him slowly but soon rushed him with an electric jolt. His mouth, buds alive and ready to explore, filled with a sweet and salty mixture; they were now trained for “her.” Replaying the scenes of bodies reeling, braided, and synthesized, he knew how it would all go down and ultimately end, as the fantasies took place in his mind, hours before he reached her house.

Everything was set and in motion. He had the necessary items: condoms, two Caffé Veronas, Altoids, the papers, and X (just in case she goes there like last time). Still there was a pull to divert the plan.

Hadn’t he set out like this before: destined, purposed, and convinced that it would be different and ultimately true this time? True that she would just be paid for her services and he could go home a better man or husband. For this go-round couldn’t he be all that his wife, Jayla, whispered so lightly under her breath and held captive in her subconscious? Be beyond all that Jayla scrubbed down the drain when she took to cleaning and trying to cope with the pain seared into her heart. Be all that she envied in scenes of lovers at peace, engaged, and fulfilled. Be all that he wanted to be himself. Be all that she deserved.

But no the affair was beyond knee-deep. Profits, shares, commodities were riding on this monthly extramarital exchange. What would Dana, aka “her,” the accountant, think if he suddenly called it quits? She held the key to his sex and controlled his pocket’s life expectancy more so than Jayla.

After all, the payoff was good loving and extra ends. Sexing the financial planner wasn’t such a bad move, no?

"I'm early this time is that cool?"

She woke up early on Sunday morning, almost gagging, to the taste of cheap beer and lime in her throat. Her clothes were in various stages of disarray, some of them hanging precariously on her company from the night prior. Kyle Jr. slept soundly, his sweaty chest heaving in and out. She followed the rhythm of his breathing as she waited for her contacts to moisten and adjust and her vision to focus.

Well, she thought smugly, I sure had a time last night.

She stared at her wall and sighed. Times like this, she wished there was a window so she’d have something to look at. Kyle rustled the sheets clumsily as he began to wake. She stared at him blandly; remembering their antics, knowing it probably wouldn’t cross her thoughts again.

With impatience, she reached for the shelf over his head and grabbed the cigar box. By first puff, he was gathering the last of his clothes and heading out of her room. She exhaled and vaguely wondered if her roommate was up yet.

Hours later, she began her slow walk along the desolate campus. Everyone else was sleeping off the escapism of the past two nights and she longed to be back in bed as well, instead of out here in this Gothic wonderland of dead trees and black iron bars against old white snow.

She arrived at the coffee shop and took special care to wipe her smart Black boots dry on the mat. They were an expensive gift from her mother, the only thing that made her feel like she belonged in this place, and she wanted to make them last as long as possible. The overhead bell rang as she walked in and she cringed in annoyance as she did a quick scan.

She felt him before her eyes saw. She felt his eyes pierce through her as if he could reach through time and drag her back with him.

What does he want? Why is he here? What do I care? I’m better, I’m better, and I’m better…

She could barely look at him, could not wade past the ten years that stood between them, past the anger that pulled her backward and settled deep in her throat.

Her father rose from his chair with a smile as she stood in front of the door. His smile dripped with undeserved sincerity and good intentions; with questions that had gone unasked for too long.

She lightly fingered the cigarettes in her coat pocket, feeling the need curdle in between her fear.

Finally, as this stranger stood waiting for her to join him, she turned away and walked out of the shop. By the time the overhead bell had stopped ringing, she was ankle-deep in brown-speckled New England snow, a small black figure encrusted in a sea of gray.

"... 'we have been trying for decades to clean up New Orleans public housing to provide decent housing for residents, and now it looks like God is finally doing it for us.'"


S.ave O.ur S.elves.
Eff a gubment!

i'll prolly add on later.

« trifling ass nigga »

This guilt that has grip of my soul has me teetering on the edge of irrepressible tears. I never meant to hurt him. I never meant to make him fall in love. I never did anything to avoid it either. He fell so fast, probably faster then any of the others but he fell just the same. The fact that he is one among many does not ease the guilt, in fact it enhances it. It’s made worst by the sincerity felt in his voice, the moisture in his eyes, and the pain and longing he put onto the pages. I want to love him with the same passion with which he loves me, if only to ease his aching. I do not take pleasure in his submissiveness. Maybe his submissiveness is the repellant that keeps me away. What disturbs me further is the certainty that at any given moment he’d gladly sacrifice anything to be in my good favor again.

I cannot control the direction these ephemeral unions taken, nor can I tame my emotions. I was undoubtedly an obliging party at the start of our short-lived union, but towards the end I could not contain my distaste for the kind of man he revealed himself to be. Why should I be unhappy? Why should he? He is willing to sacrifice his happiness for mine. Why am I so relentlessly unwilling to do the same for him? I may have lured him unassumingly into a false sense of comfort. I admit to playing the role of loving companion immaculately. Was I not sincere, not genuine? Of course I was, but something, some switch forever turned off within me and I became another person towards him. The truth is that had he taken the time to know me before he fell, he would have recognized the err of “love at first sight”. I cannot apologize for being all that I am, for this is all that I’ve known and all that I ever will be and know. I embody love; I am part and parcel of it. That knowledge does not ease the knot from my stomach.

The moment couldn't have lasted more than five seconds.

A blank, unapologetic stare appeared, his mouth clamped shut, his buttoned-down humor was nowhere to be found, and he repeated himself. This was the culmination of the conversation.

She couldn't believe what she was hearing. She looked at him as if she were trying to will some sort of humanity out of him but he glared back even more intently as if to resist any potential urge, almost daring her to say something to challenge him. He knew that if he stared hard enough, she would understand that questioning him was a wasted effort, because there's no sense of empathy to appeal to. Keep the conversation pragmatic at all costs, and don't even think about bringing conscience into it.

He didn't get to his position by pandering to abstract theories, and nowhere in this world was such a thing welcomed. Act accordingly within the rules, and leave the consequences for someone else to deal with.

Their eyes remained locked. She had a look of confusion and anticipation on her face, blindly hoping he was going to say something to put her mind at ease. She explored his eyes in hope that they would soften, but instead found something much more revealing. In that moment, it all made sense. Everything he said and did up to this point was consistent with how he's acting now.

She suppressed that empty feeling in her stomach. Her knees buckled and her hands trembled, but she instantly steadied herself. It felt almost euphoric for her, as her eyes hardened, her chest tightened, and her thoughts clouded. A sheepish smile crept over her face, as she realized that all that anguish was unnecessary, and she felt embarrassed that she ever questioned him to begin with.

Their stare lingered for one more breif moment, before he turned away and got back to work. She looked at her feet, sat down next to him, and put the TV on, the conversation they just had being the furthest thing from her mind.

"... 'we have been trying for decades to clean up New Orleans public housing to provide decent housing for residents, and now it looks like God is finally doing it for us.'"


S.ave O.ur S.elves.
Eff a gubment!

*does hand over head 'im a dolt' hand gesture*

woosh

I had something in mind, but I figured it'd be more interesting if people could create their own backstory for it

cause this is the first thing that I've read from you, but you are a very good writer of moments...not to say that you're writing as a whole isn't as good, but like I said, this moment that you've described is all that I've read, and it's very good

I appreciate the feedback

I love it, they read like a compilation of stories under the same cover

--------------------
http://www.myspace.com/thievinstealberg
http://groups.myspace.com/sevenpoint
http://dnegative.deviantart.com/

http://nintendogsracist.ytmnd.com/

the simple fact of the matter is, she just wanted a line. a hit. granted, she had just snorted a small mound in the ladies room of the posh club down on the lower east side, but that was 4, 5 hours ago, and...well...its was 3'oclock in the morning. the guy she had allowed to take her home was snoring contentedly, half on, half off his gauche waterbed.

gloria remebered clearly what had caught her eye about the guy, whatever his name was. besides the fact he looked just like john travolta in that disco movie that had just come out, he was high out of his mind and walking all over club 54 tapping out little mounds of bliss to every blonde on the second floor, hoping they'd go to the basement with him. coke the wonder drug. gloria had marched over to the guy, given him her best farrah fawcett hair flip and smiled. he didnt say a word, just tapped out a little bit on the meat between his finger & thumb and held it up to her. before they had even said hello, he offered her coke. what a great city, what a great life.

thing was, that little mound didnt really do much for gloria. she had gone down to the basement w/ the guy, maybe she'd have gone down there with him regardless after enough time, without the coke, but he told her he had a whole lot right in his apartment. after she blew him in the corner, and got some more to snort in the ladies room, she came out, her eyes on fire and demanded he take her home, right then. and now he was snoring, and she was looking for a hit, just a little line, something to take the edge off, then maybe she'd catch a cab back to queens.

the taste of the guys semen, mixed w/ the aspiriny leftovers of the coke to make her mouth feel like both dry and swollen. quietly, but carefully, she went from drawer to drawer, starting from the bedroom, radiating out to the living room. gloria knew her mistake had been not to see the coke with her own eyes BEFORE she let herself get pushed into the bedroom. when they got to the guys house, gloria wanted to settle down to some good peruvian snorting, but the guy had other plans. no problem. he wouldnt be up for awhile. but where was the package? his living room was full of that asshole asymettric look that all the magazines said was so fashionable, really it all looked like right angles and warhol pictures to her.

she went to the kitchen, naked as a jaybird in a strange drug dealers house. of course the guy had wine in the frezer, she uncorked it, and took a deep pull, and then saw a large stack of bricks, wrapped in aluminum foil and what looked like saran wrap. gloria almost lauhed out loud, and put the opened bottle of wine back on the counter. she hurriedly grabbed a stack of the bricks, knocking a box of baking soda off the freezer door as she pulled them out. and just like that, as all great ideas do, gloria saw exactly how she could get out of the apartment, with enough coke to last her for weeks. without the guy even knowing.

to be cont.

i think its a lil long, mea culpa, i got 'caught up' - ursher

<---- til its over. 1986. WE REMEMBER


Mzungu Aende Ulaya — Mwafrika Apate Uhuru

I likes

On a road somewhere between here and there, where sky and land seem to meet, and the sun is not a big yellow ball of light, but instead just a glow from beyond, you notice me. You are driving and I am riding shotgun with my bare feet on the dash, allowing a damp breeze to ease my cotton dress up my thighs. You glance over periodically noticing thick and dewy flesh. My fingers resting somewhere between knees and breasts, moving up and down occasionally, I convince you I am water and you are thirsty.
Your eyes ramble over the length of my body, from toes to knees, knees to breasts, and so on. You wipe your brow with a filthy napkin and steer with the other hand. You don’t want to loose control of the wheel, which is understandable. The desert is no place to loose control. No place at all.
Your hands rest on the wheel with fingers tapping languidly to some tune in your head. You glance over again and notice my hand hidden beneath the fabric, and suddenly you become interested in what is on the radio. With one hand you steer and with the other you turn dials. Nothing is on the radio in the desert. Not even the weather.
You return tapping fingers to steering wheel.
“Nothing’s on the radio,” you say, with hazel eyes sneaking around your face to mine.
“That’s a shame,” I casually reply, fanning my wet flesh with the other hand.
Faraway glow bows and evening rises and the cool breeze still rustles beneath the fabric of my dress.
“I should turn on the headlights,” you say, speaking just to be polite.
“Yeah, it’s getting dark,” I say, returning the favor.
You turn on headlights and a dim light illuminates the interior. You still see my hands and I watch your fingers.
“So, you come to many of these?” You ask, probably knowing the answer. We’ve worked together for two years in the same department. You’ve never noticed me until now.
“No…this is my first trip to Las Vegas. I usually travel to our other offices in Seattle.”
You nod your head as if realizing why you’d never noticed me. I smile to myself in a dark corner of my mind. I adjust my feet for leverage and your eyes pray they stay planted on the dash.
“Do you travel here often?” I ask, breaking restless silence.
“Yeah, once a month or so,” you say, watching my hand wiggle beneath the flimsy piece of cotton.
“I see.”
You swallow hard. You’re thirsty.
“How…much… longer… do we have?” I ask, in between breaths.
You look at the clock on the dash, but not before you allow your eyes to lick my knees.
“We have about an hour left,” you say, with bated breath.
“Mmmmm. That’s all?” I ask, resting the other hand on my knee.
You glance at me with curious eyes.
“Why?” You ask with eyes and lips.
“No reason,” I say, other hand disappearing between shaking thighs.
You turn on the air conditioner with windows still down. The cotton dress blows and hovers like a kite above my fingers. Your eyes bend forward to see what’s beneath. The arctic air tickles places that are wet and sticky. The dry wind from outside balances the temperature, but its still hot, and you’re still thirsty.
Both fingers dance beneath a red cotton kite. You lick your lips involuntarily. You wipe your brow again, but this time with your bare hand. You turn off the air conditioner because it doesn’t seem to help. The dress falls down softly above my hands and I realize I really like flying kites.
“So, what do you plan on doing once we get there?” You like making small talk.
“I don’t know,” I respond, spreading legs wider.
I hear you moan in your chest as you divert eyes to hands, wrists, and fingers.
You lick your lips again sensing that cool water is near. I grow tired of watching open road where sky meets land and recline my seat to a flat position. My feet walk up the length of the dashboard and rest on the windshield. My thighs open and close like clapping hands. My knees kiss and tell.
Somewhere between here and there you pull over under the cover of darkness. You gaze at my damp flesh in fluorescent interior light. Your eyes have thirst. You take your fingers and lift my dress for your view. You see my fingers rubbing, massaging, and covered in a slick gloss. You want to salivate, but you are too dehydrated to muster up saliva. You need water. You need me.
I understand.
“Get in the back,” you demand, in breathless anticipation. Your words are guttural, hoarse, and raspy. I close my legs and your eyes plead with me. I smile and languidly crawl over the armrest, stopping for a brief moment to allow you a touch…lick… drink.
I spread my legs, resting my left foot on the back of your seat, and the other someplace between headrest and roof. You reach for the dome light.
“No, don’t turn it off. I want to watch,” I say, gasping and trembling from anticipation. You agree. You want to see too.
You crawl down the middle and rest your chin on soft foam between my thighs. Your hands move up my thighs, to the thickest part, and lift the dress above my waist, breasts, and over my head. I am naked. Your eyes grow big. You take your finger and touch my lips. I take it in and suck. Your finger roams from my lips down my chin, circling my nipples, leaving each with their mouths open wanting for more. Your finger travels down the middle of me to the running faucet below. You take both your thumb and index fingers and spread thick, slick lips apart.
You can barely get your trembling lips to the fountain.
Your tongue is wide and thick as you glide it across its throbbing opening slowly and carefully. Every part of me moans which seems to make you hotter with thirst. The tip of your tongue teases the pert and swollen head of my clit. Your lips wrap around engorged flesh, pulling and sucking and drinking. Water pours from inside, drenching the coarse hair on your chin. Your tongue slides around aching lips and flesh, curling the tip when need be.
Then, you drink.
Your mouth swallows the mouth of me and your tongue pushes inside. You suck, swallow, and siphon away every drop I have to give, while folding and bending your tongue inside of me. I come multiple times in the cup that is your tongue. When your thirst is quenched, your lips brush the soft hairs that sit at the top of my valley. Your lips roam freely across the plane of my belly, between my breasts, and up to my mouth. You kiss me. You kiss me over and over again until faraway glow rises and sky seems to meet land.
(c)love_riot

I'm a writer-whore, I know. }(

Nothing stands tall in South Los Angeles. Even the projects lack the nerve to rise more than a few floors. It's a flat body sprawled out on the wrong side of downtown. A chalk outline. The Gods take advantage of this, perched only a few stories above streetlevel in palmtrees, watching the tragedy and comedy they've created. Watching the slaves of circumstance.

"My momma womb and my daddy nuts!" Charles snapped back. He had been waiting to say that, even though he says it everytime somebody asks him where he's from, something he's frequently asked.

"You hear this li'l nigga?" Toons asked, but none of his homeboys bothered to answer. They heard him. They all wanted to know what youngcuz had up the sleeve of his white tee, or at his waistline, to poke his chest out and show his heart in what was decidedly the wrong place and wrong time. Toons, who had an established rep as the not-to-be-fucked-with looney nigga, respected the upstart's G and honored the challenger with an offer.

"Catch my fade then, li'l homie."

"You can take y'fade to the barbershop, my nigga." Chuck said, hoping to stir up some residual sherm rage from his locc'd aggressor. "Nigga look like somebody spilled Cocoa Puffs in his kitchen."

Charles had a reputation too, and he stayed high off it. He earned the name Chuckems for how he threw them thangs. The Black Wesley Snipes they called him. So black that light refused to touch his skin, fearing it would never escape if it did. That's how he stayed cool in the heat of battle.

The Sun wouldn't fuck with Chuck, so it instigated Toons instead. How dare this nigga only 75% his size flex on him? Toons knuckled up, making small circles with his jab hand. Chuck followed the lead with a dance, knowing he had too much of a reach handicap to try any Ali shit. The gangster's swing was unpolished and young Charles shuffled in close to his partner. Up close he weaved in blows to Toons' kidneys and ribs, winding the big man. A few bobs opened the opportunity for a landing beneath the looney one's chin. He felt like Little Mac from Punch Out!! when his feet left the ground mid-uppercut. That was his last sensation before waking up on the black-top some indefinite measure of time later.

Gotta stay out his reach next time, Chuckems noted to self as he hugged the tar pavement like immediate kin.

"What you think, li'l man?" Toons asked with genuine curiosity, "You thought I was finna lose at shadow boxin'?"

« trifling ass nigga »

WHat I thought instantly when reading this.

« trifling ass nigga »

I have to find my copy of SWJ, but that was I thought the second I read your shit: same school of writing: street savvy high verbal.

where he's talkin about the Bronx layin on its side and shit?

i ain't even realize i was bitin.

« trifling ass nigga »

« trifling ass nigga »

The couple sat down for a blast of breakfast in the hot July air-conditioned air. They felt like they knew each other for at least a couple of months. In reality, they had only come to know each other the night before. Last night, the couple had engaged each other with such openness and honesty, and the potential rewards seemed imminent.

“MiMi, I got to tell you. Like, last night, something happened, like something that’s hard to explain…”

With a touch to the clenched fist pressed against his lips, “Stephen, I know what you mean…it was something.”

“Yeah, I mean, like last night, I felt something I have never felt before. I felt, like, inside of you.”

“Oh yes, Stephen, I felt like you were inside me too.”

“It was like these dreamy, meaty walls. Can dreams even come true under such closed and grinding circumstances?”

“Oh yes, Stephen, I believe they can.”

“But aren’t dreams made up of forceful breezes and open pastures and the unknown?”

“Yes they can be, Stephen. But sometimes our dreams are really things that develop when we as people find something that works.”

“Hmmm, it’s just crazy. I really felt what it was like to be inside of you. Forever, I’ve never been able to hold on to anything, bouncing from girls, jobs, lifestyles. It’s an amazing thing.”

“Yes, Stephen, it truly is. What we have is a truly beautiful thing.”

And so ends the beginning of the beautiful tale of Stephen, the man with the tiniest penis in the world, and Mimi, the woman with the tiniest vagina in the world. They had been searching forever for one another. Up in the skies, a melancholy God smiled. He grabbed the hand of his tranquil Goddess and regretted his decision to make all genitalia the same. He reflected on his original intention to make human genitalia like key-work, so each and every person could easily find their true love. God then began to become disheartened until he stared into the eyes of his Goddess. She stared into his eyes with such forceful bliss.

God knew exactly what she was saying and looked very deeply at himself and said, “Ah well, they’ll all have tiny genitalia in heaven soon enough.”

ted woke up with the sun shining full force on his face. blinking, he sat up, a gold nugget pendent dangled from his neck and sat like a small gold bird in his chest hair. slowly, the night before came back to him. 54. some blonde, sucked him off, he took her home. they partied. where was she....

'baby?' he called to no one in particular. no answer. she was gone. he stood up, nude. the waterbed undulated as he stood and stretched. he walked over to the silk slacks he had on the night before, reaching for his personal stash. Shit. The bitch must have taken it. fucking slut. it wasnt like the 8th she took was a big deal, it was just the principle of the thing. cocaine was making niggers out of white people.

ted strolled over to his component set, setting the needle in the groove of the record allready on the player. the hard drumming introduction to 'heart of glass' came pouring out of his hidden recessed speakers. ted boogied, by himself, into the kitchen, stepping over recent copies of hustler, embedded deep into his maroon shag carpet. then, he stopped cold.

the freezer door was wide open.

suddenly, ted felt a rush of something he hadnt felt before. an odd sensation, cold running down his back like his waterbed had sprung a leak during his sleep. the bitch couldnt have..could she?

slowly, disbelievingly, like a kid on christmas walking toward a barren tree, ted approached his freezer. and let out a huge sigh of relief. the packages were still there. the bitch hadnt been THAT stupid. or had she?

he looked closer. there were 8 packages there. thats good, but they were haphazard, as if they had been rearranged. he took them out, one by one, then noticed the baking soda on its side on the drainboard. angry, ted pushed the now empty container of baking soda onto the floor and dropped the packages onto the drainboard, where they landed in a cloud of white smoke.

teds eyes widened to the size of half dollars...and he ran a finger over the drainboard around the packages. gingerly, ted brought the finger up to his mouth and ran it between his upper lip and teeth, which immd went numb. his bowels loosened slightly, and Ted suddenly felt somewhat faint. the bitch had opened one of the packages and taken some of his product. looking down, one hand gripping the counter for support, Ted saw the empty box of baking soda.

out loud, to no one, Ted groaned.

'im a fucking dead man.' he said.

and Blondie played on

<---- til its over. 1986. WE REMEMBER


Mzungu Aende Ulaya — Mwafrika Apate Uhuru

Big D wasn't a very good astronaut, and he knew it, and the crew knew it, and Mission Control knew it.
Dave was known as Big D, even though he wasn't big. He was the opposite of big, five foot two, which was appropriate since his life was defined by opposition. He was an underachiever who accidentally achieved, a depressed mind inside a hyperactively optimistic person.

His hands were like spiders crawling over the controls. Every knob, switch and dial so familiar, like the moles on the arm of a lover, or the back of the toilet door at your parents house.
When he was younger, Dave didn't know what he wanted to be when he grew up. Now that he was older, he'd forgotten what it was like to be young, and he was surprised to find himself in the life that he had. He couldn't remember if he wanted to be an astronaut, and he was sometimes astonished to find himself doing this job.

Earth spun slowly below him. The air inside the Space Station was tired and stale, it had been breathed in, then out, then in again dozens of times already, filtered by the five sets of lungs that inhabited the cramped quarters. Dave wanted to go home.

Dave was too indecisive to decide when to stop, with the end result that he kept getting better at things. This culminated in honour degrees, Air Force medals, NASA training, and now this.

He was sitting inside a machine assembled by thousands of the best minds in the world, he was staring down from orbit, and he was constantly surprised that he was Big D.

But the world keeps turning below me, he thinks, so I must be doing something right.


(c)

"... 'we have been trying for decades to clean up New Orleans public housing to provide decent housing for residents, and now it looks like God is finally doing it for us.'"


S.ave O.ur S.elves.
Eff a gubment!

« trifling ass nigga »

so muhc to read
--------
photobloggin' it: http://richlouis.blogspot.com/
bloggin it: http://thehomelands.net/blogger.html

We come closer … invading each other’s personal space. Your phermones wrap around me as your scent envelops me. Your scent so familiar wakes up my olfactory senses and I feel the electric recognition travel down my spine, as if my every nerve was stroked as strings on a guitar. I am hyper aware of you … your breaths, your heartbeats. You touch my neck and cause my pleasure principles to soar. My nerve endings tingling and dancing like water on a hot grill. I have become so aware of you that I lose all awareness of my surroundings until I feel the first rain drop.

As more raindrops begin to fall, you move your mouth closer to mine and I can feel your breath on my face. The sheer anticipation of your lips touching mine causes the tingling down my spine to return and it settles in the small of my back. As our lips enter their initial collision, the more frequent raindrops bounce off my flush skin. Your kiss devours me and I feel like I am floating. As the rain continues to fall we are unaware … the only thing that exists at this moment is us. The kiss becomes more urgent … more exploratory … more invasive. I am swooning feeling light headed and in awe that one kiss could make me feel pleasure this intense. I want to get closer to you … I want to get so close that there is no you … there is no me … there is just us.

Time moves forward for everyone but is standing still for us. The weight of the kiss becomes unbearable. The rain is falling at a rapid pace, we are soaked and we don’t care. We slide to the ground our lips never relinquishing their hold on one another.

Sweltering… scorching… searing?…they were all words that could best describe the time. The year was 1968 and the resilient tensions between the races seemed out of place, as the crisp December wafts of air would blow through the city of Brotherly Love. Though surrounded by racial chaos, tonight Penn Square’s majestic presence felt tranquil amongst the wolves of bigotry. It was the stress and heaviness that led me here this night. I had to escape the weight that seemed to heave daggers at my back. I believed that this exact moment would be perfect for my search. A search for the innocence and inspiration that seemed lost with the times.

As I approached the secluded, almost peculiar placement of a park bench, I couldn’t help the feeling of optimism as it slowly began to pour over me like honey. I reached my temporary resting place with cautious steps, as I surveyed my surroundings looking for restlessness amongst the moonlit greenery. Relieving the weight off of my weary feet, I reached into my tattered satchel and retrieved my weapon of choice. Has it really been 35 years since my ole’ grand pappy left me his old brass sax in hopes of carrying on the Hytower tradition. A tradition my absent father ignored and forgot as bottle after bottle of liquid torment snaked down his throat and clouded his vision. Becoming repulsed by the memory of my fathers drunken stupors, I licked my lips as if to wipe away the nauseating thought and readied myself for renewal and the rekindling of my love lost.

“Bwwwoooo-eeep..bwwooouuu-eep..baadda boooooo…. “, the tarnished gold goddess resting between my calloused fingers sang into the hollow night. Her screams of love and lust for her lover, cut through the thick night air, exposing her vulnerability to all of Philadelphia. My foot began to slowly merge and join in unison with the wails of the saxophone. The unity of rhythm, potentially a perfect role model for the crisis affecting the nation, became hypnotic and soothing. “Tat-ttiity, Tat-titty, tat tat tat…Tat-ttiity, Tat-titty, tat tat tat”, my right foot drummed along. The golden goddess responded in kind to my comforting, yet impromptu beat with her own challenge. “Baa-da-doo doooooo…DE DE Daaaaaa!” she retorted. Any unsuspecting visitors would have been able to visualize two passionate lovers embracing after a heated argument. The presence of this unwanted guest would have gone unnoticed and ignored as the ole’ jazz player from Coffeeville, Alabama continued to discover new and old crevices of his love returned.

Mr. Coltrane would have been proud, staring down from saxophonist heaven among the stars. The passion and zeal exuding from that bench was reminiscent and as hypnotic as the chanting in Coltrane’s “A Love Supreme”. It could have easily reminded one, of the commanding voice of Sir Fredrick Douglass, as he caressed the masses like mist in the air. Reminiscent of lyrics sung from the Negro national anthem, giving one hope through adversity. “Yes Sir”, I said, with satisfaction as I slowly removed my love from my lips, as her last cry sailed into the night. I thought to myself with great hope, as it sailed away, that it may reach another frustrated and lost man. A man who has encountered great pain with the recent events gripping the nation. A man who almost forgot what love felt and sounded like. But I hope and pray that, like tonight, those lonesome souls will be able to find their LOVE lost…and embrace it.

He never wore watches. Well, never since I’ve known him. Can that be considered a never? He always thought that the concept of keeping track of time was stupid. “Time is a man made concept. All time is, is the earth moving around the sun. That all time is . Why do I care about that. If I keep track of that or not it doesn’t really matter does it.” He would say “This earth will keep spinning till Jesus comes back. Watch or not” That's what he said whenever he was asked the time. I stopped asking. Watches were the only gift he got from his family and friends on birthdays and Christmas. His top draw was filled with them. He rewrapped and gave them back on Christmas and birthdays. It became an ongoing joke. On this day he was walking to work. He didn’t really have a job but took it on himself to monitor the going on’s of his fair city Rochester Ny.

He often carried a bible, King James Version. He would cast demons out from the Liberty pole and the children getting lifted before they got on the bus to school. The kids called him Young man Jesus (his real name was Abraham). He called them heathens, and would proceed to plead the blood and quote a verse that address the moment.

He noticed one child with an extra fat joint positioned between his lips. He had seen him before and had conversed with the demon that had possessed him. The boys name was Eli and the demons name was Usid. He could see the battle for the kid’s soul play out in the space about his head. It was classic good vs. evil ,God vs. the Devil. Abraham had been fasting and praying for the past two weeks for this. He was ready for this. God had told him in the dream he had a few months ago. He stepped to Eli, knocked the joint out his mouth and started speaking in tongue. When Usid saw this he made his move and was forced to jump ship. He ran toward Cliton ave. Abraham was forced to give chase. Everyone at the Liberty pole saw all of it, but just thought Abraham was a little off. Talking crazy and messing up perfectly good joints. This is how I was introduced to Abraham.

"Eee!" He screamed in delight, hacking earthworms to bits, their indiscriminate insides littering the sidewalk. His mother, hollering "You stop that shit. Jesus, child." Whooped him right in the street, fat tears falling from his cherub face. The neighbor girls laughing, the older boys snickering, calling him punk, thinking faggot.

Never was like the others, that boy, his mama would say. He had grown thin as a rail, but his face stayed fixed in a look of naivete, with those big eyes and that globe head.

He tried, though, he tried to be like the rest of them. Then at 16, he found his head slammed up gainst a brick wall, red rivers flowing from his broken scalp.

Maybe he would've found his niche, if he'd been cute, or smart, or could sing or something. But he wasn't none of that, the girls turning from him, teachers giving up on him, and a voice that if lifted up to praise, God would silence.

One of those kids you'd always think you'd find one day, snapped neck dangling from self tied rope. Sometimes his mama'd think think, shit, he might as well do it, but that ain't right, and then she'd feel bad, cause of thinking that way.

He died crossing the street, running from some fool boys who aint have noone else to pick on. Left him there hard breathing, the little shits. Shame when kids get taken too young. Double shame when they had nothing to show for it.

its a good start on something longer imo

i prefer murderers to weaklings, but thats just me

pretty good


<---- til its over. 1986. WE REMEMBER


Mzungu Aende Ulaya — Mwafrika Apate Uhuruq

« trifling ass nigga »

"West 4th.", the taxi driver announced to his passenger.

A faint sniffle came from the backseat as Joely went to reach for her wallet, she inquired "how much?", the driver then answered "$9.40". Joely handed the driver $12 to be generous, the driver thanked her and drove off.

"WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU THROWING OUR MONEY AWAY LIKE THAT??", exclaimed Conceptíon.

Joely then replied "I was just being kind, damn. Can I do some good? There aren't enough good people in this world, I want to be one of the few who are good."

She enters her apartment where she's met by a fist to her face.
Punches continue to be thrown, her jaw broken and bloodied.

Joely cries out "NO! WHY DO WE HAVE TO GO THROUGH THIS EVERYTIME I'M NICE TO SOMEONE!", then cries uncontrollably while trying to collect herself from off of the floor.

"Nobody's ever nice to you, why should you kiss their ass? Why should you stoop to their level....you're a goddamned moron, keep letting the world fuck you over if you want to. You enjoy letting them take advantage of you, right? You like it? What about when I do it, you like it? ANSWER ME BITCH!", ranted an angered Conceptíon.

Joely stood their wimpering, her face starting to swell from the countless blows. Again she finds herself fighting Conceptíon off of her, Joely struggles to get away as Conceptíon holds her down ripping away at her blouse and raising up her skirt.

"NO! PLEASE DON'T!", cried Joely.
"Quiet..I'm just giving you what you want..you like being taken advantage of right? Why you fightin' me?", answered Conceptíon.
Joely then squirms and moans tearfully as Conceptíon enters her with two fingers, covering Joely's mouth to muffle her screams.

Mr. Rosenblum, the nosey neighbor from across the courtyard, peers into Joely's apartment and watches her lying on her living room floor masturbating and fondling herself.
_________________________________
¤I'VE GOT TOO MUCH COCOAmmmBUTTAH ON MY HANDS¤
down with avatars in the 06

_________________________________
¤I'VE GOT TOO MUCH COCOAmmmBUTTAH ON MY HANDS¤
down with avatars in the 06

_________________________________
¤I'VE GOT TOO MUCH COCOAmmmBUTTAH ON MY HANDS¤
down with avatars in the 06

_________________________________
¤I'VE GOT TOO MUCH COCOAmmmBUTTAH ON MY HANDS¤
down with avatars in the 06

« trifling ass nigga »

can i know a little bit more man?
_________________________________
¤I'VE GOT TOO MUCH COCOAmmmBUTTAH ON MY HANDS¤
down with avatars in the 06

but i didn't totally expect the ending. i thought it was leading toward a rape fantasy of some sort, some she's gotta have it shit, but i ain't anticipate her being alone. nicely done.

« trifling ass nigga »

thanks though
i was just looking for comments
i was hoping i wasn't just writing that for myself.
_________________________________
¤I'VE GOT TOO MUCH COCOAmmmBUTTAH ON MY HANDS¤
down with avatars in the 06

I really felt like this was an easy read, which means to me the writing was fluid.

I like the how you established the irony in the demeanor of abusive husbands/boyfriends. To me, that was the strongest point of the story.

Also, I noticed there was really no resolution to the story. You end the story with this sentence: "Mr. Rosenblum, the nosey neighbor from across the courtyard, peers into Joely's apartment and watches her lying on her living room floor masturbating and fondling herself."

Damn, that sentence really justs adds a whole new level of sadness. And that's what the reader is left with. Which is kind of troubling. But it also gives it this slice-of-life/realistic quality. Where the reader is kind of invited to watch what is going on.

There's no storyteller to end it for us. No voice to give a point made.

Question: At the very end of the story (last word), I noticed you used the word herself. Is this implying that the woman was masturbating? (Which to me would mean continued submission on her part.) If so, that adds yet another level of sadness.

This was deep and well-told. No doubt.

Edit: *WHOOSH* Just read Praverb's post....lol. Nicely done. That interpretation never crossed my mind. Never been one to pick up on these sort of things....lol.

her other half, Conceptíon, was raping her in a sense
i left it at that point because i was trying to stay within the 300 word rule even though i could've kept going, and i think i was running out of steam.

i wanted to start off with some sort of comedic story, but it turned into a situation i hadn't heard of before

a female schitzophrenic whose 2nd personality is a forceful lesbian that rapes her occassionally

i did it all on a whim & i have never, ever written a short story before, glad you liked it though.
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¤I'VE GOT TOO MUCH COCOAmmmBUTTAH ON MY HANDS¤
down with avatars in the 06

She hated going to work for the same reason she hated visiting her brother: the glass. It was bad enough she had to wash the deep-fry out of her hair extensions every night, but she was forced to give up eight hours of her life to that damn ballistic box every day. As if there weren't enough artificial barriers between her and the rest of the world already. She would have rather had the freedom to get shot than be forced into protective custody like that. Ain't no jobs in the traps but fast-food and check cashing though, and they all maximum security.

She may have been a wage slave, but she had them fugitive thoughts. The glass was her window to the outside and she refused to let customers get in the way of that. Since the distant voices from the speak-thru rarely required thoughtful responses she just emotionlessly recited the script, word for word, like when she had to say the Pledge in elementary school.

"Welcome to Golden Wings. My name is Chantelle. How may I serve you?"

"How you doing, Chantelle?" Charles hoped the question would get him some eye contact. It seemed to him she was already looking at his eye, but he couldn't see out of that one, so it ain't really count.

"I'm fine," Chantelle offered reluctantly, "How may I serve you?"

"Y'all got whiting, Chantelle?"

"Whitey who?"

"Whiting fish."

"The only fish we have is catfish, sir."

"Huh. I can't fuck with them bottom feeders. Lemme get a two piece meal, all white meat."

"It's a dollar extra for all white meat."

"I'll trick for it. The first is comin'."

"Will that be all for you, sir?"

"Naw," he said with a lopsided grin. The left half of his upperlip was still swollen from kissing the asphalt a few days earlier, but the right side of his mouth was bright and toothy. "Can I get a side of sweetpotato fries, family-size, a regular pink lemonade, and maybe a smile out of you, please?"

Chantelle twisted her torso to review the menu board behind her head before facing the glass and whatever she was imagining before Charles stuck his face in the way, "I'm sorry, sir, but my smile is not on the menu."

"I know. I was hoping you'd be able to slide it in with some extra napkins."

"Two-piece meal, all breast meat, family-sized sweetpotato fries, and a regular drink. Will that be all for you, sir?"

Charles gave up the battle and eight singles, sliding the dollars in the aluminum cash tray. Chantelle tightened the corners of her mouth to flex a smile into submission as she counted his change. He was looking all Quasimofo now, but she knew he wouldn't have to ask for smiles when his face healed. Still smiling as he waited for his order, Charles knew it too.


« trifling ass nigga »

« trifling ass nigga »

Cooking Lessons

With one eye on the clock above the stove, Morgan wiped her running nose on the inside of her wrist, careful to turn the knife away from her face.

Five-twenty-one.

In exactly eight minutes, the garage door would lift and retract, the click-click-click-CLINK of the panels rolling overhead giving her just enough time to place the silverware on the table, remove her apron, check her face, and pin a welcoming smile to her face.

Morgan finished cutting mushrooms into the salad and pulled the cheese grater from the utensil rack over the sink. Another tear wormed its way from the corner of her left eye, and chuckling, she brushed it away with the back of her hand. She could not stop her frantic, guilty look around the kitchen, afraid that, somehow, even in his absence, he’d heard her laugh without him. She leaned her head back and opened her mouth. Saliva, thick from silent weeping, webbed between her lips. She let her mirth break the webs, the chuckles steeped in anticipation, relief, and fear. Morgan used both hands to lean against the counter, lowering her head above the sink, breathing in and out until she felt she had regained control.

Five-twenty-eight.

Looking around to make sure everything was in place, Morgan snatched up the stereo remote and pressed the button that would send the blues of Muddy Waters drifting into the kitchen, mixing with the smells of steamed spinach, smothered pork chops, macaroni and cheese, and homemade rolls. She rushed to the hallway mirror and checked her make-up, particularly the thin coat of lipstick. Courtney liked her cosmetics light yet flattering. She wondered briefly if her lipstick was too bright, then decided it must be if she had a question about it. Isn’t that what Courtney always said? If you question it, correct it. Morgan moved to the bathroom to apply the right shade. She heard the beginning snicks of the garage door opening and aborted the mission of proper make-up.

Hurriedly, she retrieved the glass and filled it. She slid her hands into oven mitts and removed the macaroni and cheese, browned just the way she wanted it. She hung her apron on its peg next to the refrigerator and positioned herself in front of the door leading from the garage into the kitchen as Courtney entered.

As is his routine, Courtney rested his briefcase on the side table, placed just inside the door for this purpose. His eyes swept the kitchen, making sure everything was as it should be before his gaze traveled the length of Morgan’s body, taking in her practical, one-inch tan heels, her knee-length khaki skirt, and her sea green oxford shirt. She’d pulled her hair back into a sensible ponytail. Good. He checked her make-up.

“Dinner smells good. Your lipstick is too bright. Go take care of it and then fix me a plate.”

Morgan’s smile dimmed and she lowered her eyes as she tried not to run to do as he asked. No “hi, honey.” No “hey, sweetie.” Why would she think today would be any different?

She returned to the dining area and Courtney watched her approach as he shifted through today’s mail. She’d removed the lipstick altogether and now wore a light layer of gloss. Good. A small nudge is all she ever needs. Courtney moved to sit at the table, a sign Morgan knew meant she should begin preparing his plate. He pushed his chair more firmly beneath the table and Morgan silently gave him an iced glass of sweet tea. He unfolded his napkin and Morgan, again as quietly, eased his meal onto the placemat before him. She waited to his right while he tasted his food. She held her breath as he tried a several forkfuls of macaroni at once. She felt, rather than saw, him pause with the food in his mouth. He finally looked up at her.

“Everything is delicious… except for the macaroni. Didn’t I tell you once before that I don’t like it browned to a crisp? It’s damn near burnt. I only had to tell my mother once and she got it right. Do I need her to give you cooking lessons again, Morgan? It’s pasta, not pie. It should be al dente, Morgan. Al dente.”

“I’m sorry, Courtney. I’ll fix you another plate without the macaroni.” She reached out to take the dish.

“No, it’s fine this time. Fix your own food and come sit down. Let me tell you about my day.”

She did as he requested, and as she arranged her napkin in her lap, she felt him staring at her plate. She had no macaroni. Morgan raised her eyes to his face then let them slid them to the condensation on the pitcher of tea.

“Courtney, you know I don’t eat macaroni and cheese. The cheese, the way you like it, makes me sick at stomach.” The fork bit into her hand as she waited for his next comment, his next reprimand.

“Oh, yes. I always forget that about you. Anyway, at work today, Phillip was called out on the carpet because he forgot to get a client’s signature on a really important document. I’ll spare you the details because you wouldn’t understand much of it anyway, but suffice it to say, it was a major fuck-up. Gary gave Phillip’s client to me, and when I called her—a very nice, sweet, old lady—she was more than willing to list all of Phillip’s faults, all this stuff he’d done wrong. Yep, Phillip’s days are numbered, and I’ll be able to pick up a good portion of his clients. This is just what I needed….”

Morgan watched as he cleaned his plate of the “crispy” macaroni. She watched as he ran his hand over his throat and reached for his tea. She watched the frown appear between his brows. He began to pale, the gold of his skin becoming the sickly color of an invalid’s piss. The tea poured from his mouth, widening down the front of his navy blue French-cuffed shirt. He couldn’t swallow now and his hands clawed at the table. The frown was gone, his forehead smooth as realization streaked through his body more quickly than the poison and his unbelieving eyes found hers shining in a way he hadn’t seen since they were first married.

“I would love to have your mother over for dinner,” she said, and she stood and walked away, leaving her one-inch heels beneath the table.

« trifling ass nigga »

I'm usuall not a fan of stories with a twist but this one works well

ima put up a post
i can start editing stuff
and i can email people comments who wants to help out?
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photobloggin' it: http://richlouis.blogspot.com/
bloggin it: http://thehomelands.net/blogger.html

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bloggin it: http://thehomelands.net/blogger.html

« trifling ass nigga »

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photobloggin' it: http://richlouis.blogspot.com/
bloggin it: http://thehomelands.net/blogger.html

"them black jews that be dressed up like wizards and shit ...
no lie, they wear king tut hats that cover the ears wit long
black robes wit glitter and stars on em " - SPM

or should try to save it
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photobloggin' it: http://richlouis.blogspot.com/
bloggin it: http://thehomelands.net/blogger.html

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photobloggin' it: http://richlouis.blogspot.com/
bloggin it: http://thehomelands.net/blogger.html