Cedric

Being Seventeen....
GKJKJHGFD

((NON-FICTION))

I was playing pool with some blagger when this dark lad came in. He was short, stocky, and Cuban-looking, with cropped black hair on a round head. He spoke fair English with a French accent. When I potted the black he tried to grab the blagger’s cue but the blagger tried to blag him, saying it was the best of three. GIVE ME F**KING CUE OR I BREAK YOUR HEAD, Cedric said.

This was hardcore flophouse attitude. I liked him already. We would go to the local takeaway where he would order something that took yonks to prepare so he could chat up the young Chinese lady working there. I remember his food being stone cold by the time he eventually left her alone. I think she was as intrigued by him as I was.

He was brutally honest with people. He seemed to be anticipating challenges all the time. No one stepped up.

He showed me photos of himself posing by landmarks from various countries, including the top of the Statue of Liberty. He was a fearless roaming vagabond who was prepared to fight. A true lone wolf.

One day he came in with a packet of bacon. I thought he was ready to slap someone silly with it. We went to his room. He locked the door behind us. He sat on the bed and opened a portfolio. In it were erotic demons and beasts scribbled in pencil. Suddenly, I saw him in a different light.

Here’s the trick though. He opened another portfolio, but this was full of women from dirty magazines, carefully cut out and stuck together like jigsaw pieces. A zany collage of indecency. I’m telling, it was an absolute piece of art that must have took years in the making.

He gripped his crotch and howled, imitating an awesome orgasm. Then he opened his bacon and laid the rashers out in strips over his right hand. YOU GO NOW, ANDY, he said, making a w**king gesture.

I didn’t need asking twice! Fooking hell, Cedric!

MIKELA by Jamelia K

FLASH: TEEN

“I’d love to go back to my school days and do it all over again,” says Jamelia K, “you know how it goes, knowing then what I know now...but the funny thing is, I reckon I’d go right along and make all the same mistakes, only I’d enjoy them more this time.” Jamelia K writes last thing at night, before bed. The drawing nights gets her mind in gear for plenty of gritty urban characters and themes. “Seasonal change has a physiological reaction in the body,” she adds.

~~~

One moment the dark street was dead with only light rain present but the next I counted 17 kids giving it toes from one end to the other. The first was a boy clutching his arm, telling anyone who would listen that he’d been hit with a crowbar. The last was Michaela, probably spelt Mikela, knowing kids these days. She was taller than the others and had probably caused whatever had happened to happen. She had troublemaker written all over her pretty face. They all passed me standing at my front gate drinking my steaming coffee without a second glance in my direction. I’d always looked old for my age and hitting my mid-twenties did me no favours. Being clean-shaven would help if I wanted to mooch with the pups on my estate, so I dashed in, attacked my face with the Wilkinson Sword, and got into my new white Converse kicks.

5 minutes later at the end of the street, 2 police cars had dispersed the gang. A couple of BMX bikers pulled wheelies up and down while 2 sisters in pyjamas sat on the kerb. Mikela, the tough girl, was chit-chatting with a bobby, displaying all the front of an untouchable mafia boss. I lingered and hovered until able to catch a quick word with her.

“Hey M, what happened, someone get a beating?”

She asked her friend who I was. I’d overheard her name but maybe I shouldn’t have used it if I didn’t want her to think I was a stalker. Next time she looked at me, I took a risk and flashed a bottle of vodka from my inside jacket pocket. I smiled a friendly smile, trying to look as un-stalker-like as I possibly could. I asked the bobby if it was illegal to smoke dope on the street, playing about with him, but it was when I mentioned cocaine that I had Mikela’s undivided attention.

Soon after, Mikela and I were bombing it around the block in my convertible. Her friend Rachael was in the back. I had to tell her BMX cronies to f**k off after they disrespected me with some foul insults, and half-expected to return home to find my windows bricked. I hand-brake skidded outside the offy to buy some Rizla and Pepsi. Mikela rolled a perfect cone while I refilled half-emptied cans of the pop with cool clear vodka. After a few rounds of cocaine sniffing off the tip of my house key I pressed the pedal to the metal again, our throats well and truly numbed with 50 Cent booming from my base box.

“You’re the dude at number 34 who always watches us in the park from your front gate,” Mikela said. I think the coke was making her horny because every time she addressed me, she called me dude, reached over and touched my leg. It was never my attention to get into her panties but I did start to get a tent in the crotch of my FatFace jeans. Despite this distraction, I told myself that my ‘no touching’ rule still applied. She wasn’t jail bait, but I still had seven years on her. I wasn’t out to ravage her on the 1st date: I wanted something that would last.

I was bored and lonely and seeing her dossing about the estate so often up to all kinds of foolishness took me back to when I was that age without a care in the world. I hated the fact that I was leaving those days behind for good and chilling with her stopped that from happening. She released natural endorphins and serotonin between my ears. She was suave and dapper and trendy and moody and naughty and lippy and sexy. She had bags of bad bitch attitude, she called me dude, and she wore makeup like a woman twice her age. If I could pierce her rhino skin and get in with her on some kind of emotional level, she would start coming in mine and we could get to know each other. I’d be her boyfriend, if she wanted, no worries about that, I’d tap it till the morn’, but I’d also be her pal, big bro, and guardian to boot. You might think of it as drug-pushing, but in my eyes I am doing her a favour by saving her money.

I will always be the one who gave her her very 1st driving lesson on a farmer’s field while high. The only thing is, she ruined the occasion by becoming distracted by constant text alerts on her £15 phone. She demanded that I drop her off in the shadiest corner of the estate. The guy who dragged me out of my car and gave me three blows to the head with a crowbar may have been her ex or pimp or relation or who knows what, but after being left in a mess in the gutter and robbed for all I was worth, labelled a pervert and a sick kidnapper, Mikela either couldn’t hear me or couldn’t care less as I lay there broken, calling her name over and over, until she was just a distant shadow under a street light, and her laughter was just a sound effect of the wind.

© J.K MMX
DNM Fiction®

Another one from Jamelia?

http://piebald77.blogspot.com/2010/08/kiss-it-better-by-suicide-mistress.html