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I burn most of the time, if I am honest about things.
Not burning in a literal sense, of course, but in a metaphorical sense. When you suffer something that digs at your conscience and ebbs away at your self worth, you’re burning. Guilt, regret and shame make me burn daily. I’m not proud of what I’ve done in the past, or what I am certain I will do again in the future. Growing up like I did you learn it is vital to commit crimes to survive. I don’t break the law because I think its fun or to obtain some sort of social uplift, I do it to keep the blood coursing through my veins and the air racing into my lungs.
If you “go it straight” around here the chances are you’ll end up as a red-rimmed chalk outline on the pavement. You’ve got to ask yourself, is it better to carry a gun and not need it or need one and not have it? I carry a silver nine with a full clip and the serial filed off. Just to be safe. When you walk anywhere on a night you have to pull your hood up, lest you be accused of making eye contact with one of the gang members. There are three prominent gangs around these parts, the Harlems, a bunch of guys with pistols and baseball vests who sit around all day drinking hooch and shouting at kids who walk past. They’re not really a gang, just a bunch of jobless losers.
Then there are the Jackers, named so because they jack cars, mostly downtown. All the cars in this area are rusty contraptions, but they jack the nice cars downtown that the rich white folk drive. They sell them on to the local dealership, who prefer not to ask questions in case they sour the deal. The final gang are the River Street Posse; they’re the most established and selective of the three groups. They commit all sorts of crime, large and small. They jack cars, rob shops and commit murders, though nobody can ever prove it– if the police bothered to investigate the murders they might get some evidence, but they like the idea of us wiping ourselves out. Why do you think they place gun stores and liquor stores on pretty much every street corner in the hood? They’re urging us to kill ourselves, and it’s working.
I was jogging home one night after some petty shoplifting to feed my family and decided to take a short cut down River Street, hoping the gang would be busier with matters or greater illegality than to mug a passer by. I tip toed down the moonlit street, wishing they would bother to install streetlights in this district, trying to be stealthy. My heart skipped a beat when I heard footsteps stalking me down the road. I span around to face an empty street, my shoulders dropped and a small smile crept across my face. Nothing. I span back around to see the gold ring of a member of the River Street Posse embedding itself firmly into my cheek.
The first rule of getting mugged, do NOT get knocked down. Once you’re down they’ll kick you until you no longer move. If the worst comes to the worst, drag someone down with you and use them as a blanket to the torrent of kicks and stomps. I felt myself falling backwards as the fast collided with my face and so reached out in slow motion and grabbed the first thing that came to hand, a chain, and dragged it down with me. I span the guy attached to the chain onto his back, knelt on top of him and punched him square in the nose, bursting it all his face like soft fruit. I thrust my white knuckles against his cheeks and pressed my thumbs into his eyes until his hollow eye sockets overflowed with blood and his small O shaped mouth stopped howling.
The adrenaline had made me almost oblivious to the relentless kicks into my back. I turned around to try and knock him to the floor as well, but as rewarded by a size 10 boot in my mouth. I felt my teeth sink back into my mouth along with a stream of warm coppery crimson. Filled with rage I grabbed at my attacker’s legs and shook him to the floor. I knelt with my legs either side of his torso, pinning his arms down with my knees. I grabbed his skull in two arms and beat his head against the curb until he screamed me to stop. At this point I pulled my piece out and pointed it square at his head. “Turn over” I screamed. He froze.
“Turn the hell over or I’ll blow your f**king head off” I screamed once more. He flipped over and faced the curb.
“Open your mouth”, I took the safety off the gun, he did. I grabbed his bloody head and pushed his open mouth against the curb, one row of teeth on the top, the other row against the bottom.
“Don’t move.” I said sternly as I paced slowly away. He couldn’t move, he was frozen with fear. I turned around, got a short run out, and kicked him squarely in the back of the head sending bone and blood spraying in an even circle around his limp head.
It was hard for people like me growing up, having nobody to look out for me.
Violence was a way of life that had to be adapted to.
Survival of the fittest put into practise.
It wouldn’t stop until we all wiped ourselves out and the hood would be bulldozed and replaced with fancy villas for rich white businessmen.
This is my way of life, the only way I know.
I burnt that night, I burnt badly and will continue to burn until society reaches it’s reckoning or realises its misdeeds.
Not burning in a literal sense, of course, but in a metaphorical sense. When you suffer something that digs at your conscience and ebbs away at your self worth, you’re burning. Guilt, regret and shame make me burn daily. I’m not proud of what I’ve done in the past, or what I am certain I will do again in the future. Growing up like I did you learn it is vital to commit crimes to survive. I don’t break the law because I think its fun or to obtain some sort of social uplift, I do it to keep the blood coursing through my veins and the air racing into my lungs.
If you “go it straight” around here the chances are you’ll end up as a red-rimmed chalk outline on the pavement. You’ve got to ask yourself, is it better to carry a gun and not need it or need one and not have it? I carry a silver nine with a full clip and the serial filed off. Just to be safe. When you walk anywhere on a night you have to pull your hood up, lest you be accused of making eye contact with one of the gang members. There are three prominent gangs around these parts, the Harlems, a bunch of guys with pistols and baseball vests who sit around all day drinking hooch and shouting at kids who walk past. They’re not really a gang, just a bunch of jobless losers.
Then there are the Jackers, named so because they jack cars, mostly downtown. All the cars in this area are rusty contraptions, but they jack the nice cars downtown that the rich white folk drive. They sell them on to the local dealership, who prefer not to ask questions in case they sour the deal. The final gang are the River Street Posse; they’re the most established and selective of the three groups. They commit all sorts of crime, large and small. They jack cars, rob shops and commit murders, though nobody can ever prove it– if the police bothered to investigate the murders they might get some evidence, but they like the idea of us wiping ourselves out. Why do you think they place gun stores and liquor stores on pretty much every street corner in the hood? They’re urging us to kill ourselves, and it’s working.
I was jogging home one night after some petty shoplifting to feed my family and decided to take a short cut down River Street, hoping the gang would be busier with matters or greater illegality than to mug a passer by. I tip toed down the moonlit street, wishing they would bother to install streetlights in this district, trying to be stealthy. My heart skipped a beat when I heard footsteps stalking me down the road. I span around to face an empty street, my shoulders dropped and a small smile crept across my face. Nothing. I span back around to see the gold ring of a member of the River Street Posse embedding itself firmly into my cheek.
The first rule of getting mugged, do NOT get knocked down. Once you’re down they’ll kick you until you no longer move. If the worst comes to the worst, drag someone down with you and use them as a blanket to the torrent of kicks and stomps. I felt myself falling backwards as the fast collided with my face and so reached out in slow motion and grabbed the first thing that came to hand, a chain, and dragged it down with me. I span the guy attached to the chain onto his back, knelt on top of him and punched him square in the nose, bursting it all his face like soft fruit. I thrust my white knuckles against his cheeks and pressed my thumbs into his eyes until his hollow eye sockets overflowed with blood and his small O shaped mouth stopped howling.
The adrenaline had made me almost oblivious to the relentless kicks into my back. I turned around to try and knock him to the floor as well, but as rewarded by a size 10 boot in my mouth. I felt my teeth sink back into my mouth along with a stream of warm coppery crimson. Filled with rage I grabbed at my attacker’s legs and shook him to the floor. I knelt with my legs either side of his torso, pinning his arms down with my knees. I grabbed his skull in two arms and beat his head against the curb until he screamed me to stop. At this point I pulled my piece out and pointed it square at his head. “Turn over” I screamed. He froze.
“Turn the hell over or I’ll blow your f**king head off” I screamed once more. He flipped over and faced the curb.
“Open your mouth”, I took the safety off the gun, he did. I grabbed his bloody head and pushed his open mouth against the curb, one row of teeth on the top, the other row against the bottom.
“Don’t move.” I said sternly as I paced slowly away. He couldn’t move, he was frozen with fear. I turned around, got a short run out, and kicked him squarely in the back of the head sending bone and blood spraying in an even circle around his limp head.
It was hard for people like me growing up, having nobody to look out for me.
Violence was a way of life that had to be adapted to.
Survival of the fittest put into practise.
It wouldn’t stop until we all wiped ourselves out and the hood would be bulldozed and replaced with fancy villas for rich white businessmen.
This is my way of life, the only way I know.
I burnt that night, I burnt badly and will continue to burn until society reaches it’s reckoning or realises its misdeeds.
Just wait for the wave of SSC8 entries later this week, I think you'll be surprised.
We need more stories like this.
Simple as that.
Simple as that.
Damn it Paradox, you made me read a story thread :^P
That's a compliment I guess, after the first few lines I saw it was a story but kept reading anyway.
It burns.
That's a compliment I guess, after the first few lines I saw it was a story but kept reading anyway.
It burns.
*waves clenched fist at spell check's stupidity*
"pretty shoplifting" - images of Mike Tyson in a frilly dress. No, good one. Violent. Gritty. And all that.
An interestingly murky piece that always moved in leaps and bounds. The actual fight scene was described with such raw horror and aggression that it sounded like it came from Manhunt or something.
I find it hard to comment on this piece compared to some of your other stuff, it was a nice cast away, though, that read well throughout.
I find it hard to comment on this piece compared to some of your other stuff, it was a nice cast away, though, that read well throughout.
I burn most of the time, if I am honest about things.
Not burning in a literal sense, of course, but in a metaphorical sense. When you suffer something that digs at your conscience and ebbs away at your self worth, you’re burning. Guilt, regret and shame make me burn daily. I’m not proud of what I’ve done in the past, or what I am certain I will do again in the future. Growing up like I did you learn it is vital to commit crimes to survive. I don’t break the law because I think its fun or to obtain some sort of social uplift, I do it to keep the blood coursing through my veins and the air racing into my lungs.
If you “go it straight” around here the chances are you’ll end up as a red-rimmed chalk outline on the pavement. You’ve got to ask yourself, is it better to carry a gun and not need it or need one and not have it? I carry a silver nine with a full clip and the serial filed off. Just to be safe. When you walk anywhere on a night you have to pull your hood up, lest you be accused of making eye contact with one of the gang members. There are three prominent gangs around these parts, the Harlems, a bunch of guys with pistols and baseball vests who sit around all day drinking hooch and shouting at kids who walk past. They’re not really a gang, just a bunch of jobless losers.
Then there are the Jackers, named so because they jack cars, mostly downtown. All the cars in this area are rusty contraptions, but they jack the nice cars downtown that the rich white folk drive. They sell them on to the local dealership, who prefer not to ask questions in case they sour the deal. The final gang are the River Street Posse; they’re the most established and selective of the three groups. They commit all sorts of crime, large and small. They jack cars, rob shops and commit murders, though nobody can ever prove it– if the police bothered to investigate the murders they might get some evidence, but they like the idea of us wiping ourselves out. Why do you think they place gun stores and liquor stores on pretty much every street corner in the hood? They’re urging us to kill ourselves, and it’s working.
I was jogging home one night after some petty shoplifting to feed my family and decided to take a short cut down River Street, hoping the gang would be busier with matters or greater illegality than to mug a passer by. I tip toed down the moonlit street, wishing they would bother to install streetlights in this district, trying to be stealthy. My heart skipped a beat when I heard footsteps stalking me down the road. I span around to face an empty street, my shoulders dropped and a small smile crept across my face. Nothing. I span back around to see the gold ring of a member of the River Street Posse embedding itself firmly into my cheek.
The first rule of getting mugged, do NOT get knocked down. Once you’re down they’ll kick you until you no longer move. If the worst comes to the worst, drag someone down with you and use them as a blanket to the torrent of kicks and stomps. I felt myself falling backwards as the fast collided with my face and so reached out in slow motion and grabbed the first thing that came to hand, a chain, and dragged it down with me. I span the guy attached to the chain onto his back, knelt on top of him and punched him square in the nose, bursting it all his face like soft fruit. I thrust my white knuckles against his cheeks and pressed my thumbs into his eyes until his hollow eye sockets overflowed with blood and his small O shaped mouth stopped howling.
The adrenaline had made me almost oblivious to the relentless kicks into my back. I turned around to try and knock him to the floor as well, but as rewarded by a size 10 boot in my mouth. I felt my teeth sink back into my mouth along with a stream of warm coppery crimson. Filled with rage I grabbed at my attacker’s legs and shook him to the floor. I knelt with my legs either side of his torso, pinning his arms down with my knees. I grabbed his skull in two arms and beat his head against the curb until he screamed me to stop. At this point I pulled my piece out and pointed it square at his head. “Turn over” I screamed. He froze.
“Turn the hell over or I’ll blow your f**king head off” I screamed once more. He flipped over and faced the curb.
“Open your mouth”, I took the safety off the gun, he did. I grabbed his bloody head and pushed his open mouth against the curb, one row of teeth on the top, the other row against the bottom.
“Don’t move.” I said sternly as I paced slowly away. He couldn’t move, he was frozen with fear. I turned around, got a short run out, and kicked him squarely in the back of the head sending bone and blood spraying in an even circle around his limp head.
It was hard for people like me growing up, having nobody to look out for me.
Violence was a way of life that had to be adapted to.
Survival of the fittest put into practise.
It wouldn’t stop until we all wiped ourselves out and the hood would be bulldozed and replaced with fancy villas for rich white businessmen.
This is my way of life, the only way I know.
I burnt that night, I burnt badly and will continue to burn until society reaches it’s reckoning or realises its misdeeds.
Not burning in a literal sense, of course, but in a metaphorical sense. When you suffer something that digs at your conscience and ebbs away at your self worth, you’re burning. Guilt, regret and shame make me burn daily. I’m not proud of what I’ve done in the past, or what I am certain I will do again in the future. Growing up like I did you learn it is vital to commit crimes to survive. I don’t break the law because I think its fun or to obtain some sort of social uplift, I do it to keep the blood coursing through my veins and the air racing into my lungs.
If you “go it straight” around here the chances are you’ll end up as a red-rimmed chalk outline on the pavement. You’ve got to ask yourself, is it better to carry a gun and not need it or need one and not have it? I carry a silver nine with a full clip and the serial filed off. Just to be safe. When you walk anywhere on a night you have to pull your hood up, lest you be accused of making eye contact with one of the gang members. There are three prominent gangs around these parts, the Harlems, a bunch of guys with pistols and baseball vests who sit around all day drinking hooch and shouting at kids who walk past. They’re not really a gang, just a bunch of jobless losers.
Then there are the Jackers, named so because they jack cars, mostly downtown. All the cars in this area are rusty contraptions, but they jack the nice cars downtown that the rich white folk drive. They sell them on to the local dealership, who prefer not to ask questions in case they sour the deal. The final gang are the River Street Posse; they’re the most established and selective of the three groups. They commit all sorts of crime, large and small. They jack cars, rob shops and commit murders, though nobody can ever prove it– if the police bothered to investigate the murders they might get some evidence, but they like the idea of us wiping ourselves out. Why do you think they place gun stores and liquor stores on pretty much every street corner in the hood? They’re urging us to kill ourselves, and it’s working.
I was jogging home one night after some petty shoplifting to feed my family and decided to take a short cut down River Street, hoping the gang would be busier with matters or greater illegality than to mug a passer by. I tip toed down the moonlit street, wishing they would bother to install streetlights in this district, trying to be stealthy. My heart skipped a beat when I heard footsteps stalking me down the road. I span around to face an empty street, my shoulders dropped and a small smile crept across my face. Nothing. I span back around to see the gold ring of a member of the River Street Posse embedding itself firmly into my cheek.
The first rule of getting mugged, do NOT get knocked down. Once you’re down they’ll kick you until you no longer move. If the worst comes to the worst, drag someone down with you and use them as a blanket to the torrent of kicks and stomps. I felt myself falling backwards as the fast collided with my face and so reached out in slow motion and grabbed the first thing that came to hand, a chain, and dragged it down with me. I span the guy attached to the chain onto his back, knelt on top of him and punched him square in the nose, bursting it all his face like soft fruit. I thrust my white knuckles against his cheeks and pressed my thumbs into his eyes until his hollow eye sockets overflowed with blood and his small O shaped mouth stopped howling.
The adrenaline had made me almost oblivious to the relentless kicks into my back. I turned around to try and knock him to the floor as well, but as rewarded by a size 10 boot in my mouth. I felt my teeth sink back into my mouth along with a stream of warm coppery crimson. Filled with rage I grabbed at my attacker’s legs and shook him to the floor. I knelt with my legs either side of his torso, pinning his arms down with my knees. I grabbed his skull in two arms and beat his head against the curb until he screamed me to stop. At this point I pulled my piece out and pointed it square at his head. “Turn over” I screamed. He froze.
“Turn the hell over or I’ll blow your f**king head off” I screamed once more. He flipped over and faced the curb.
“Open your mouth”, I took the safety off the gun, he did. I grabbed his bloody head and pushed his open mouth against the curb, one row of teeth on the top, the other row against the bottom.
“Don’t move.” I said sternly as I paced slowly away. He couldn’t move, he was frozen with fear. I turned around, got a short run out, and kicked him squarely in the back of the head sending bone and blood spraying in an even circle around his limp head.
It was hard for people like me growing up, having nobody to look out for me.
Violence was a way of life that had to be adapted to.
Survival of the fittest put into practise.
It wouldn’t stop until we all wiped ourselves out and the hood would be bulldozed and replaced with fancy villas for rich white businessmen.
This is my way of life, the only way I know.
I burnt that night, I burnt badly and will continue to burn until society reaches it’s reckoning or realises its misdeeds.