My Kevlar Vest

I’ve worn a Kevlar Vest for so many years I’ve lost count. I still remember the first time I put one on. The person holding the tape measure was far more comfortable than I. I was as nervous wreck. I’d never felt the need to wear one before, mine had been a straight forward, by the book kind of life. Yes, there were some days that were more trying than others, but I’d always been in total control of any and all situations. I always played close to the edge, but never intentionally and never with any conscious desire to cross it.

On that day, so, so, many years ago I found myself in unfamiliar territory. Was I sure I could handle this? I mean, this was a responsibility that I was sure many dreamed of, but few indulged in. An elite crowd, a closed group… the chosen few… but if they were chosen, who was doing the choosing? From where I stood, it wasn’t a choice, there were no check yes or no boxes. No matter how long or how hard you danced around it, knowingly or unknowingly, and no matter who the dance instructor was, you would eventually trip and stumble, and fate would be standing in the shadows waiting to catch you when you fell.

Little did I realize, measuring me was a mere formality. My vest was ready long before I arrived at this day. The maker, not the measurer, knew me. The maker also knew the challenges I would face once I accepted that unwritten invitation, the one that had been stamped on my heart since the moment I was conceived. They would be more than I could handle alone— and that would never be allowed.

 

Re-Blogging for feedback…

This is an excerpt from a short story I wrote a while back. I posted it in April 2015 and I decided to repost it today to see what type of feedback it receives.   
Not to worry, the brains behind Runaway Nuns and Leprechauns are NOT nestled inside the heads of crazy people, but we truly believe that a vivid (sometimes graphic) imagination is a terrible thing to allow to go un-exhibited

————————————————————————————————————-

So back to the hallway… having done this many times before Kai and I had developed a method of what we referred to as “self-preservation” mode. It’s a simple technique in which we tried not to get ourselves whacked by the crazies. The first thing I noticed in the hallway was a large metal object covered in red paint; at least that’s what it looked like at first glance. As we stepped closer for a better look, we realized, almost simultaneously, that we were looking at a knight in not so shining armor! It appeared to be an original uniform from back in the knight in shining armor day. We were so busy examining our find that neither of us noticed the guillotine in the far corner, that is, until we noticed the rancid smell. There is no disguising the smell of dead flesh, especially flesh that has been left dead, un-refrigerated and un-embalmed for way too long. When the odor hit us, the hair stood up on the back of my neck, and as we would discuss the incident later, Kai would report a similar sensation. I was immediately drawn to the corner, and as my eyes adjusted to the lighting in the dark, dank room, I was horrified to see a pair of blank eyes staring up at me from a bucket at the foot of the guillotine.

Please feel free to comment here or you can contact me privately at elitepottagold@gmail.com

.

A Dear John Letter to my Younger Self

Dear Younger Self,

I feel that it is my obligation, as your senior, to fill you in on a few things. I intend to speak in such a way that you should have no problem comprehending; however, in an effort to eliminate any misunderstanding, I will also use colloquialism most familiar to you.

I am in charge now and I will be sure and remain apprised of all important issues, including but not limited to, annual dental exams. (I run this. I’m the shot caller and you can trust and believe I’m gone stay woke on everything I need to, including keeping my grill tight). In the event that I go out, I will decide when I am to return home and I will not party until the wee hours of the morning. (I bail when I say so and I won’t be turnt when the lights come on.) As a responsible adult, I return all phone calls promptly, I socialize with people in my age group and I dress and behave accordingly. (I’m grown. I hit ‘em back on the celly when I can, I hang with my squad, my gear is always on fleek and I slay every time I hit these streets). Please understand that I enjoy a low key and private style of life where I make every effort to mind my own business. (I’m basic, not boujee at all, and I always stay in my lane). In the run of a day, I make no effort to belittle others – I’m not overbearing, loud or outwardly aggressive, and I never go to the extreme. (I don’t throw shade and I’m never extra.)

Also, I can honestly say that although I drink, I do not have my deceased father’s penchant for libations. (Ion stay lit). My dear younger self, through this letter, you should gain comfort in knowing that I am perfectly fine with where I am. You, on the other hand, are out of control. (Look bae, this letter should give you life. By the way you know you have zero chill, right?) So now, without further ado, I would greatly appreciate it if you would sit quietly in the memories of my subconscious and allow me to take it from here. (now that’s a wrap, bye Felecia!)

 

Yours Truly,

(Deuces,)

 

Your Older Self

 

#WRITESPIRATION #124 52 WEEKS IN 52 WORDS WEEK 28

Holiday Schmaliday-

We waited all year

Our plans were all set,

We waited in line

To board that big jet.

A tall woman walked over,

And asked for ID-

I sarcastically asked

Are you talking to me?

The taste of that carpet

Was dog crap I’m sure–

Next holiday season

I’ll be more mature!

 

 

 

 

Looking for an opinion…

Looking for an opinion and I apologize up front if this offends anyone. (By the way if you are in fact offended, then obviously, you’re one of those people I’m referring to and you’re apparently not smart enough to read between the lines and grab this constructive criticism by the horns and ride it’s ass to the ground)… which is what I think I’d do… but I’m not the one on the other side of this keyboard, am I?

Ever heard someone say, “know what I’m saying”, when conversing? I happen to have several friends who use that question.. or statement… or whatever the hell part of the English language it is. Now in true sarcastic form, which happens to be my chosen form of speech, I often respond by saying “uh-huh” knowing damn well I not only don’t know what they’re saying, I don’t even give a shit at that point. When the first “know what I’m saying” comes out, I know that there are several additional grammatical murderS to follow- so I check the hell out.

Living my life like it’s golden……

writing prompt… “The secret you just discovered”

(“We’re over half way through, can you believe it? It’s gone in a flash as always, 2017 is bringing 52 challenges over 52 weeks.

Your challenge is to write your story using the weekly theme/prompt and write it in just 52 words…. EXACTLY, no more, no less.”

The secret you just discovered http://sumo.ly/CsZg via @sacha_black)

I just discovered

That I can fly

Hush hush now good people

I tell you no lie

How can I humanly

Mount to the sky?

That is my little secret

I say and I sigh

Okay, just one hint

And a hardy goodbye

With pen and pad

You too can fly high.

 

 

 

Blocked

                                               Writer’s block

I’ve started and “un-started” writing several times today. Is this what’s referred to as writer’s block? But I thought you had to be a writer to get that. Oh wait, I  just finished writing my first short story- does that make me a writer or does it have to be published first? I have no idea how that goes so for now I’ll just say this—- I finished writing a short story yesterday and today I’m having a hard time writing a post for our blog. Since I’m new at blog writing too maybe this is normal “bloggers block”— At any rate I have several questions which I’ll list here then wait patiently for help…

  1. how many stories, books, articles, etc. do I have to write to be considered a writer?

  2. how many need to be published before I’m considered a writer?

  3. does the fact that I post to this blog make me a writer?

  4. if this is not “writer’s block” what is it and when will it go away?

  5. if this is “writer’s block” how long will it last?

Thank you so much for your input.