Welcome to something?
2.2.24 | Spite.
The how of writing comes from a song or silence
Where the words sing the newest hymn to a gospel just learned
Yet the words given are stained with venom
As each word only lingers heavy in spite
Drafts come and go
Edits leave me high and dry
But the reason I push on to learn
Is because I want to see me in fiction.
In fantasy.
In crime noirs where I am not the jive speaking, magical negro.
But as the hero that white writers give to white readers.
But as the villain that has a reason and isn’t tacked in because of race.
But as the curious adventurer, seeking a reason in life.
I write with the music blasting or someone softly talking about internet histories
but also with the intent to learn and extend myself to pursue that craft that others like me simply can’t.
Why I write is the how.
Because no one else will tackle that problem head on.
Why not me?
2.26.24 | Gunshot. / Freeform
A pop. A crack. Never like lightning. Never like thunder. Echoes like voices in an empty room, leaving a hollow reverb and sharp crackle to follow.
A chorus is heard. Lights of red and blue. People dressed in black either for work or a funeral. They’re always there when you hear that noise, looking for the source everyone else was looking for. Always finding the end of the story face down in a busy park with blank eyes staring forward, cameras up at the end.
2.17.24 | A Mobster and a Writer have a conversation.
prompt: Here / Language chosen: AAVE properly.
Alexis sighs and Mason glances between the mobster and the wheezing henchman. There’s pressure on the clans now and Mason knew that, but not as clearly as the two men with him had. He wasn’t a part of any gangs, nor did he truly care about their plight. To Alexis, he was just another mystery writer who was a little too nosy and wanted his characters to be a little too real. However, in situations like this where the heat started to raise and the idea of bloodshed began to loom overhead, the writer grit his teeth with an uncomfortable smile, both excited to finally see them in action, but also terrified to be in the middle.
His opposite was, of course, the opposite. Alexis avoided neutral zones for a reason. Outside of his own territory was nothing but an unprotected police city. He’s seen the police roaming through the city like conquering soldiers with guns rested at their shoulders and heads held high and the false sense of peace echoing through the streets. Eventually, his own would be hit. He hadn’t thought it would be so soon. And yet, as his begin to go down, the war of the city against him would eventually grow into a bloodied mess… again.
At least this time he was prepared.
“Another gang?” Mason frowns, “You could just fight back.”
Alexis holds his hand up, “What happened?”
“A’ight, so, boom! We ain’t doin’ shit but gettin’ a little fruity drink with Toni. Ain’t no one doin’ nothin’ but talkin’ish.” He’s expressive, that henchman, the way he speaks with his hands, hitching the crotch of his jeans with and enunciating every other word with his hands. Mason can’t help but squint. “We out’chea ki-ki’ing and, on my mama, 5-0 just came thru and lit up, like they cowboys and shit, all cuz mo’fuckin Koji an’em just there.”
Mason shakes his head, fingers pinching at the bridge of his nose. Nothing out of this low rank made any sense to him. “Where… were you?”
“On everything I love, bro, we was at the fruity drink place!”
“What the fuck is the fruity drink place?”
“Corner of Main and Layfette. Black Star Café.” Alexis has taken off his glasses by now. The forces that came to watch cared nothing of this being neutral ground. If any of the big four crime families had been spotted, there had to be a reason, right? They were up to no good and uniting to bring corruption to an already corrupt state… Again. To see other clans and gangs minding their business and keeping their weapons free from sight was common and to keep the peace was a unified thought. But then again, they were the imminent threat. And a fight breaking out was always presented by the cops, and as of late, the state. “Did you see Koji when you went in?”
“Nah, fam, nah,” the henchman shrugs, “I ain’t even try to look for no one but Toni and Tae. Tae ain’t even deserve that. Swear fo’ god, we finna spin the block on that pig an’ his goofy ass shooters.”
Cameras on every corner. Cops watching their every move. They knew better than to start problems and get civilians involved. Granted behavior like that is how he even got this far up in the first place. However, now older, Alexis knows it’s better to plan out an attack than to go blazing through the city, weapon in hand, causing problems made for everyone.
“Don’t do that,” Alexis starts, “that’s going to make everything worse, but we’ll get retribution for Tae.”
“You deadass? Nah. That’s cap, boss. Tae cold and all you wanna do is be besties with these lames? Nah, boss.”
“You are a mess. Emotion will only get you killed. I will handle it. Go to Toni. She needs you right now.”
There’s sympathy for a gangbanger that Mason doesn’t understand and perhaps it’s not meant for him to fully understand. He’s witnessed gangs make a mess of everyone and everything, but never once had he seen someone in an extreme place of power talk to their underlings as if they meant more than just a piece of paper on the street.
“I don’t know how you understood any of that. You hear that shit in movies, and they just act like that?” Mason laughs, “How do you even know how serious that was?”
He’s fiddling with his glasses now, blindly looking around trying to seek an idea to pull him and his clan out of the fight the police have now put them in the middle of because now? This was no turf war; this was a hit with an attempt to drag as many innocent lives as possible into the pit with them to showcase how evil they were. “One of mine is dead and all you can do is equate it to a movie? Where is your sympathy?” A brief moment and he slides his glasses back on, and stares at the other man as he quickly turns pink from shame? Embarrassment? Alexis couldn’t care. “You took this… job to improve yourself and learn the lives of those who are different from you. You could have gone to any other person for any other position—maybe a Black lawyer, yeah? A Black detective? But you came to me instead. So, you have to know that I came up just like they did—nasty parts of town, in a gang that hated their people and used us for fodder. Our language and manner of presenting varies from there. Either it’s over the top like his or calculated and dulled down. But it’s nothing to hold surprise over. He needs to grieve and his way of expressing that is to yell. Do you understand?”
“I think?”
“I think?”
“No.” The mobster nods and slaps a hand at the shoulder of the writer and flashes a slanted half-grin that flashes his teeth. Mason can’t help but take in how large the man is in comparison, looming over him like a physical threat. He’d be lying if he said he couldn’t understand why people were afraid of him. “What am I supposed to understand?”
“That you don’t understand. We’re entirely two different types of people. I speak French. Je parle couramment français. I don’t expect you to know that, you see what I mean? The language shared here is united in different dialects, it’s just that you don’t get it. Hang around the teams a bit, they’ll warm up to you. You just have to understand that you’re the foreign body here. Don’t worry, it’ll take time to understand their behaviors and the way they speak to each other. Just… Don’t get shot.”
MONTH, DATE, YEAR.
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