#and lawrence is like huh what no??? you have land to inherit still!!! | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

buttsnax · 6 years

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I have written an original work of fiction ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Sonny was driving. He had left San Francisco to be far away from the job that he no longer had. It was dark and he was upset because of the thing about his job that was mostly his fault. He thought about all the money and personal growth he would never have and felt sad. He was so sad that he did not see the deer crossing the road in front of him in Montana, which is where he was when this story began. He was understandably confused, because there aren’t deer in San Francisco where he lived, and he didn’t know what to do about it. He went to hit the brakes, but his foot slammed on the gas instead for reasons that were beyond his comprehension. Beyond his comprehension, perhaps, but not beyond the comprehension of Promise Spreckles, the deer in front of him with a computer-generated name that was using her psychic powers to compel Sonny into becoming the agent of her own self-destruction. Spiraling into a suicidal depression for reasons that would only be understandable to a hyper-intelligent deer-sorceress, she had used her psychic powers to make Sonny the agent of her own self-destruction, which I already told you about. His smooth, nondescript South Asian good looks (Spreckles was generalizing because deer have no concept of race or geography) and above-average penis length he inherited from his mother did not sway Spreckles from her decision. In fact, she took no notice of such things, because she was a deer and her psychic powers did not apply to the vaguely ominous domain of foreshadowing. Regardless, he mowed her down at 75 miles per hour. Did you know that Montana has several stretches of highway that have speed limits of 75 mph? You do now. That’s not actually relevant because he was in a 55 mph zone when it happened. Preoccupied with thoughts of losing his boring software job for doing a thing that made rich people mad, he wasn’t able to react in time. Also the deer was controlling his mind. “Oh no,” he cried out as he smashed into Spreckles, showering the empty highway with a splattering of deer viscera. He immediately pulled over and ran to what remained of the body. He cradled the deer’s head in his hands. “I really fucked you up,” he said. “Just like I fucked up my own life.” He reflected briefly on his relationship with his father. “That’s fucked up, too,” he said. He thought about all the times his father has been there for him except for the times his father abandoned him. Sonny felt the deer’s head arteries spurt hot blood onto his jeans. They were $200 jeans because he was from San Francisco. He tried to comfort the deer, singing to it. He tried to sing Bob Dylan’s “Boots of Spanish Leather” but couldn’t remember the words or the tune. It ended up being “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.” He thought the deer wouldn’t know the difference, but he was wrong. The headlights of an oncoming car made Sonny look up. Braking hard to avoid the smear of cervine blood and guts spread across the pavement, the driver pulled over just before the car reached the red stain. Sonny watched as a man who looked like a portlier Josh Brolin from any Josh Brolin movie climbed out of his car. “What in tarnation,” exclaimed the newcomer, who had an agriculturally adjacent profession and was allowed to talk like that.

But he had no idea how deep into tarnation he had stumbled. Offended by the broken song and awakened by the raw sexual energy of two men who had nothing in common and no reason to interact with each other, Promise Spreckles called upon the forbidden energies that were ceded to her at the dawn of time when she had been formed from the primordial promise of spreckles. It looked a lot like that scene from Prometheus. You know the one. The stranger took one look at Sonny cradling the severed deer head and got back into the car. At that moment, the deer pulled itself together, reconstituting itself in a brilliant flare of eldritch deer energy, reassembling itself organ by stomach-turning organ before their very eyes. “Jesus Mary Joseph,” the stranger muttered before driving away. Sonny wondered what Josh Brolin was doing all the way out in Montana. After the deer had pulled its body back together at a molecular level, Sonny stood up and got back in his car, continuing his drive to the cabin he had rented before this story was written. He had initially rented this cabin in the middle of nowhere, which was Montana, to get away from the crushing defeat of his own failure, but now all he could think of was a guy he had seen for maybe a minute and a half, tops.

Which was super great when that guy showed up at his door. “Hey,” said Lawrence, which was that guy’s name. “I just thought I’d check in on that deer.” “Oh,” said Sonny. “I think she’s fine.” “That’s gravy,” said Lawrence. “Country gravy. Because I’m from the country. I live in a trailer. I poop outside.” Sonny nodded. He was from San Francisco where they mostly pooped indoors. “It’s just,” Lawrence continued. “I was kinda hoping I could have its skin, if it was still around.” Sonny eyed him with an analytical gaze he had failed to apply to his job. “I think the skin is still in use,” he said. “Alright,” said Lawrence. Lawrence then left to do some things.

Sonny pondered this interaction, but not to the extent that Promise Spreckles did. She had exerted her psychic power to bring them together and yet they resisted. She thought back to what her friend Gambat had said:

“You can’t make two men fuck. Not until they are really awkward for a bit.” She had questioned his wisdom then, asking why this should be. “You see,” Gambat had replied, “men like to fuck, some of them each other. But if they do it right away, your story comes out to maybe two hundred words.” His teachings had stuck with her, even years later, long after he had died of a strain of Bat Syphilis that only affects bats, which is what Gambat was. And thus she had used her powers to bring Lawrence and Sonny together. She wormed her magic into Lawrence’s mind, leading him to Sonny’s cabin, showing him the lonely road where it could be found. For she had planted the seeds; a raw spot on her flank, red and bare, that burned with pain when she touched it. A necessary sacrifice for the greater work.

For Sonny had not seen, but Lawrence had. Oh, how he had seen. The scrap of fur and hide still clung to Sonny’s boot, and its bloody essence called to Lawrence. He had seen it from the doorway of the cabin and it would not leave his mind. It was not long until he returned from the things he had been doing that were now done. Spreckles was waiting under the eaves of the house when she saw the lights of his approaching Land Rover Discovery and heard the rumble of its three-liter LR-TD6 diesel engine. Lurking under the window—which was completely unnecessary because she could read thoughts, but she was old school in this way—she heard Lawrence introduce himself once more.

“Hi,” he said. “I’m Lawrence.” “I know,” said Sonny. “You look like an agricultural claims adjuster.” “That is factually correct,” said Lawrence, who wanted to waste no time on small talk that was irrelevant to the larger narrative. “I am indeed a claims adjuster,” he continued. “But more importantly, I am an amatuer skin enthusiast, and I can’t help but notice that bit of hide clinging to your boot.” Sonny was nonplussed. “What, this?” he asked, pulling it from his boot and holding it to the light, missing the way Lawrence shifted his hips when he caught full sight of it. Yes. Thought Spreckles. All is proceeding according to plan. “Uh huh,” said Lawrence, breathing heavily. “That looks like the skin of a doe.” “Wow,” said Sonny. “You really know your skin.” Lawrence moved into the doorway. Sonny didn’t protest. He thought Lawrence smelled like Josh Brolin if Josh Brolin were dipped in butter, then dipped in butter a second time. “Yessir,” Lawrence said, taking the scrap of hide from Sonny’s fingers. “What are you going to do with it?” managed Sonny, if not a little seductively.

Lawrence recognized Sonny’s intent. “You know what they say,” he replied, fully aware no one knew what they said. “Females are for wearin’, males are for fuckin’.” “That's not weird at all,” said Sonny. “I like normal not weird men that smell like my dad.” Lawrence took off the hat he was wearing that was never previously mentioned. “It would be my greatest pleasure to fill the void your old man left in ya. Let me just change into my other skins . . .” He was interrupted by Spreckles, who had determined it was time. SUBMIT! she cried into their minds. She unfurled her penises. YOUR SO CALLED AUTOMOTIVE “ACCIDENT” HAS BIFURCATED MY GENITALIA; YOU MAY BOTH NOW RECEIVE MY PENETRATIVE GLORY. ACCEPT MY SEED, MORTALS. Spreckles was only somewhat surprised to find they offered no resistance. “So,” Lawrence said to Sonny as he was penetrated by a transcendental deer phallus that glowed with psychic energy. “Tell me what went down with your last job, which I only know about because of the psychic penis inside of me.” “I was fired,” Sonny ejaculated as Spreckle’s massive penis penetrated his entire body. “But the reason why doesn’t matter now because we only exist to pleasure our cervine overlord.” “I agree,” said Lawrence, who thought this also. VERY GOOD, thought Spreckles. I AM COMPLETE.

#gravy #original fiction #sherlock BBC #montana #m/m #gay #josh brolin #butter #who still follows me #skin

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eyez-ff-blog · 7 years

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○○ eyez | thirty-seven

November 13, 2017

Janiya squealed as she laid on top of Beija, who was lying in the middle of the Nursery as music played from the pink Beats Pill speaker she had sitting on top of Niya’s dresser. She glanced down at her daughter, who was busy shuffling and moving on top of her. “You’re gonna fall, baby girl. You gotta chill,” She chuckled before Janiya rolled off of her stomach and onto her back. Niya let out a loud laugh, and Beija giggled as she slowly helped her back onto her stomach. “Just a busy body,” She said as she heard Niya babble softly. “Yeah, don’t be talking no mess.”

Beija could hardly believe that her daughter was six months old now—it seemed like just yesterday she was bringing her bundle home from the hospital, worried and ridden with guilt. Beija’s guilt fueled something else now, however: a need for protecting her own. She pushed herself to make sure she was the best mother she could be, and balanced with the right medication and therapy, she was beginning to feel right again. But she just wished that she could live in peace.

It had been months, and they were still within the imminent threat of someone stalking and bothering Jermaine. Everyone around them had been questioned for the longest and the signs were going nowhere fast. Beija had her own suspicions, but she kept them to herself for the most part. She didn’t want to cause unwanted controversy when her life was already complicated enough, but she had kept her circle small for a reason and she would continue to do so. She really just wanted to be able to be in the mindset that people weren’t watching her. She knew that Jesse or Kevin wasn’t too far, but that meant that they were watching for something more sinister. It was unnerving, but she was determined not to let it take over her life too much.

She yawned softly as she slid a hand behind her head, watching Janiya, who was attempting to sit up on her stomach. Niya was once a small baby but she was growing healthily, much to Beija’s gratitude. Her skin had deepened into a mixture of Jermaine’s bright and Beija’s deep brown. She had Beija’s smile, and Jermaine’s soul searching eyes. Her hair was already filled with curls that threatened to thicken at any point. She was constantly on the move, or at least tried to. And when she heard music she couldn’t help but to wiggle. “You trying to sit up already—oop,” Beija caught Janiya before she could fall backwards, laughing softly. “Not yet, mama. You’re close though!” She said before she glanced up and noticed the familiar tall figure entering the room. “There’s daddy!”

Janiya looked up and squealed at the sight of Jermaine, bouncing lightly on Beija’s stomach before he picked her up off of the ground. Beija chuckled softly to herself as she watched him kiss the side of Niya’s head. “Hey, babygirl. You and mama chilling, huh?” He asked, and Beija smirked as she watched Niya tug at his beard gently. “I just got off the phone with Marquis—he said he and the family’s coming up here for Thanksgiving. Apparently, you’re gonna be the cook this year,” He said.

“Says who?” Beija rolled her eyes as she placed a hand on her hip, watching as Jermaine rhythmically bounced Janiya in his arms, his body smoothly moving to the music playing.

“Your mama,” He chuckled. “’She finna be married. I’m passing the torch,’ She said. So yeah, that seems like the final word,” J licked over his lips. “The food finna be everything, I know that much,” He said.

“How, when you don’t eat nothing?! I have never met anyone who doesn’t like turkey or dressing. You make my nerves bad,” She chuckled as the music was interrupted with the ringing of her phone. Unhooking it from the speaker, she answered the call before pressing the device to her ear. “Hello?”

“Hello, is this Beija Demarco?” The female voice came over the line, and Beija raised her eyebrows cautiously.

“Yes? May I ask who’s speaking?”

“This is Elizabeth Sharpe, I’m the current principal of Alief Taylor High School in Houston, Texas. According to my records, you previous went to our school,” The woman began, and Beija leaned against the dresser as she watched Jermaine place Janiya into her crib.

“I did; how may I help you?” Beija watched as Jermaine approached her, and she leaned into him slightly as he wrapped an arm around her waist.

“Well, we’re having a seminar for some of our young ladies on campus, and I’ve already booked a couple of other career women. I’ve researched some of your work and I wanted you to be a part, especially considering that you’re an alum of our campus,” Elizabeth seemed to be excited as she spoke, and Beija couldn’t help but to smile at the fact. “The seminar is on December 5th, and we can talk about payment if you decide to take the opportunity,” She explained.

“No need for payment—if you can make a donation to the Dreamville Foundation, I will gladly come and talk with your students,” Beija didn’t need anyone’s money at this point, so she figured this could be a charitable endeavor.

“I can do that, gladly! So I will have Vice Principal Lawrence send you the information you will need and I will call you a week beforehand to give you a concrete rundown of how things will go as well,” Elizabeth explained.

“Awesome, I’m looking forward to coming down to you guys,” Beija said her goodbyes before she hung up the phone.

“Who was that, and what deal did you just land?” Jermaine chuckled as he played with one of her curls.

“Well! I will be speaking at a seminar with young girls in December at my old high school,” She said before she raised her eyebrows. “Can you believe it? They wanna talk to me,” She chuckled lowly.

“I believe it. You’ve got a good story to tell, and advice to give. Those girls will benefit,” J smiled softly before he kissed her temple. “So proud of you,” He mumbled.

“Thank you! But now I’ve gotta figure out what the heck I’m even going to say or how to prepare for questions. Will you come with me? I’m sure it’d be cool to show you my old school and stuff,” She said.

“Oh, of course. And we can bring Niya along since she’s old enough to get on planes now,” J said as he scratched his head. “Then she can visit her grandparents again. They’d like that a lot,” He added.

“Oh yeah! Okay, sounds like we’ll have a mini vacation,” She chuckled a bit. “But before that, we’ve gotta fgure out what I’m going to cook for Thanksgiving,” She cut her eyes in Jermaine’s direction, and he laughed.

“Hey, it’s not my fault! I’ve never been a fan of it,” He shrugged softly.

November 24, 2017

The Cole household was the embodiment of the holidays—Beija made sure of that. She was a holiday girl, so after Halloween she was making sure that she could turn wherever she lived into a warm space of togetherness and holiday cheer. It was a little harder to do when she was living in her New York apartment, but in she and Jermaine’s home, it was pretty much a blank canvas for her to be able to do what she wanted to do.

The outside of their home was decorated with white and blue lights, with some minimal yet jovial decorations to prepare for Christmas. Inside, while she worked on the dinner, Jermaine was decorating the Christmas tree and entertaining Janiya as she sat in her small playpen. The usual dining room table they had was sat in the garage and replaced with a longer table to hold a larger amount of people. Between both of their families and their respective extended family members, the house would soon be full of individuals.

Beija had all of the desserts already finished, but now she had the birds—turkey for everyone else, and fried chicken for Jermaine—in the oven to keep warm, and she was working on the sides. She looked in each pot before she allowed everything to simmer for a moment before she went over towards the living room area, seeing that Jermaine was nearly done with the tree. The lights were a icy white, and the blue and silver ornaments on the freshly trimmed tree. She looked down at Janiya, who seemed to be entranced by the lights; she couldn’t help but to smile because she knew that her baby’s first Christmas would be perfect and something to remember. “And...done,” She glanced up as Jermaine had topped the tree with a sparkling star, and she grinned as she clapped her hands. Janiya emulated the motion, clapping as well.

“It looks beautiful, baby! Didn’t Daddy do a good job, Niya?” Beija looked down at Janiya, who squealed at the mention of Jermaine, holding her arms out slowly.

“Thank you, thank you,” Jermaine picked Niya up into his arms, and he gently kissed her cheek, hearing her babble excitedly. “I know, right?” He answered as if she was speaking coherently, and Beija laughed softly as he walked over to her, kissing her forehead. “So what’s on the menu today? You got the house smelling nice,” He complimented.

“Okay so...I made the turkey and the chicken. I took the dressing out to cool, and I have green beans, collard greens, sweet potato casserole, mac and cheese, and creamed corn. Then,” Beija took a breath dramatically, causing J to laugh. “I have the honey butter rolls, by popular request,” She laughed. When she told Jermaine about the rolls recipe she had inherited from Alisha, who got it from her own mother, he pretty much begged for them to be made. All of Beija’s brothers loved the rolls too, so she made sure to make plenty.

“And dessert?” He asked.

“Sweet potato pie, pecan pie, lemon pound cake and then a cookie assortment because I know Logan’s gonna want cookies and ice cream,” Beija nodded as she tied her curls back into a ponytail.

“We’re gettin’ fat today, Niya. Are you ready?” He asked, and Janiya laid her head against her father’s shoulder, playing with the back of his hair. “Not too hard,” He mumbled as she tugged at his hair, and Beija laughed softly.

“Well, we need to get ready. And yes, you have to get a little dressed up. You go shower and I will attend to this one,” She took Niya from Jermaine’s hold, and he nodded as he headed towards their bedroom to get ready. Janiya whined softly before reaching out in the direction that Jermaine had went in, and Beija shook her head slowly. “Nope, not right now—we’ve gotta get you together,” Beija walked through the house before heading to the Nursery first to get Niya’s bath things.

After giving Niya a bath and washing her hair, Beija did what she could to dry her active daughter off and got her in a diaper, then got her dressed in a comfortable dress and a pair of soft leggings before slipping on a pair of comfortable matching booties. Beija hated to dress in the frilly and lace ridden dresses when she was a child, so she wouldn’t dare dress Janiya similarly. The dress was a warm fabric material with a small leather drawstring bow at the front; gold balls hung at the end of the strings, and the gold accents in the shoes matched perfectly. Now that she was dressed, Beija grabbed some of her hair things and sat Niya in her lap, trying to keep the little girl still as she applied some child-friendly curl cream into the girl’s hair to make sure the hair on her child’s hair was perfectly in place. Once Beija was finished, she wiped her hands with a paper towel and picked Janiya up before standing up, taking a look at her daughter. “Ooh, girl!” Beija giggled, and Janiya smiled to emulate the face of joy. “You looking all cute! All the babies are so jealous,” She sat the baby in the crib before Janiya laid back, babbling quietly. “Just sit right there a minute while mama cleans up,” Beija began to clean the room and put Niya’s essentials away before she heard heavy footsteps.

“This alright or what?” She looked up and she took in Jermaine’s appearance, a broad smile crossing her face. His black sweater and slacks combo was pretty simple yet suitable for the occasion. She glanced down at the gold accents on his loafers, along with the gold watch on his wrist.

“You look so good!” Beija chuckled as she walked over to him, gently running her hands down his chest. She looked up at him, and he smiled softly before she shook her head. “Now, can you watch babygirl while I get ready?” She requested.

“Go ahead and get ready so you can outdress me,” He laughed before kissing her cheek. “Or maybe Niya finna get us beat—your mama got you looking all nice,” He commented as he headed for the crib, and B laughed to herself as she left the room.

She made her way to the bedroom before shutting the door, and she undressed out of her lounging clothes before she threw the garments into the hamper. She turned on the shower and made sure it was nice and warm before she got in and started up her process. After exfoliating with her Dead Sea scrub, she washed off grime of her skin before she washed off with her coconut oil soap. After washing off her body, she washed her hair before getting out of the shower.

She dried her hair with her trusty old t-shirt, and dried off with a bath towel before she started on drying her hair with the combed hairdryer. Once it was dry, she oiled her scalp with a mixture of Jojoba, Argon and Sweet Almond oils that she had made for her hair. After some thought, Beija decided to keep her hair curly, so she placed some curl cream in her hair and teased it until her usual mane came back to life.

After washing her hands and cleaning up the bathroom, she exfoliated and washed her face with her proper scrubs before she rinsed off her face and proceeded to brush her teeth. Once she was satisfied with her hygiene, she put on some deodorant and cleaned the bathroom before she exited into the main bedroom area. She applied some cocoa butter to her body before she slid on a pair of panties and a bra. She retreated to the closet to grab her black and gold sweater dress, sliding it on before sliding on a pair of sheer leggings. Topping the look off, she slid on a pair of black ankle boots that came with a gold chain accent that matched with the rest of the outfit.

After getting her outfit on, she approached the vanity before putting on her cover-up and started to work on her make-up. Most of the look gave off the natural looks that Beija enjoyed, but she did applied a bit of gold highlighter for a bit of a dramatic look. She slid on a pair of gold earrings, a chained bracelet and a matching necklace before she checked herself out in the mirror. She nodded before she sprayed a small bit of Bois des Iles perfume before she stood up, walking over to the body-length mirror.

The diet that she had been on seemed to be working wonders—Beija couldn’t remember being this shapely since she was in high school, but she knew that today would be the day that she’d have to throw that out the window. Either way, she couldn’t help but to feel confident from how she looked. Her curves were still pretty much in place, but she could tell that places that used to be thicker seemed to slim out. She nodded before she headed out of the bedroom.

She could hear Janiya ‘talking’ in the living room, so she headed that way once she closed the door behind her. She walked into the living room to see Jermaine sitting and playing with Janiya as she sat in her playpen, and she smiled once J took a glance at her, laughing when he took a quick second glance. “Damn,” He mumbled, his eyes slowly scanning her from head to toe. She thought it was amusing that no matter what she had on, he seemed to be in awe of her. But the way he looked at her at the moment reminded her of how he looked at her when they met.

“Watch your mouth,” She said before she went towards the kitchen to check up on the food. “Don’t want my baby to be talking filthy,” Beija nodded once she realized all of the food was done.

“I’m sorry but—wow,” He laughed. “You really trying to kill me. And you’re trying to give Niya a sibling,” His last part was mumbled, but Beija heard it anyway.

“Boy,” Beija laughed softly as she heard the knock on the door. “Control Lil’ Cole and go answer the doggone door,” She said with a shake of her head.

Eventually, the house filled with people and the once quiet house was once again a bustling atmosphere of warmth and familial unity. New children filled the house, giving Janiya a chance to ‘meet’ some of her new cousins as well. While the men talked smack about the current football game that was on over beers, the women seemed to be in a frenzy over Beija’s upcoming wedding and of course, Janiya herself. The little baby was the star of the show and although she seemed to be friendly to everyone, she was more than partial to being attached to her Nana Alisha.

Once all of the food was finally finished, Beija and her step-sisters set the table and it was eventually filled with food. Everyone gathered around the table and held hands to prepare for prayer. “Who praying this year? I did it last year,” Marquis let it be known that he wasn’t going to do it this time around.

“Boy, shut up—how about we let Beija do it? This is her home,” Alonzo suggested.

“Somebody do it, because I’m starving,” Kieran mumbled.

“Right?” Zachary said just as softly, and Beija snickered when Kay elbowed his side.

“How about we let Jermaine do it? He’ll soon be one of us so we’ve gotta see how much we need to train his meal prayer skills,” Mekhi’s tone seemed serious, but Beija could see the playful look on his face as he glanced over at who would soon become his son-in-law.

“Sure, I can do it,” J chuckled softly before everyone bowed their heads. “Dear Lord, thank you for this food that we’re about to receive. And thank you for everyone at this table—we’re all together here and that’s a lot to be thankful for. May this food fill us up and nourish our bodies, and of course...bless the cook, because I know this food’s about to be good,” The table let out a soft laugh as Beija cut her eyes at him briefly. She caught his gaze, and he grinned before he closed his eyes. “May you bless us today and even afterwards, because I wanna see everyone here next year. In Jesus’s name, amen.”

“Amen,” Everyone took a seat at the table before everyone began to make their plates.

“How’d I do?” Beija glanced at J before she smiled, nodding slowly before she accepted his kiss.

“You did fine. But you know what’d be so much better?” She asked, and his raised his eyebrows slightly. “If you tried my turkey and dressing,” She said, and he twisted his lips to the side.

“Nuh-uh. Don’t be using those mind tricks on me,” Beija pouted slightly, and J let out a small grunt. “B,” He complained.

“Just try a little for me,” She gently placed a hand on his knee before she smiled up at him, almost laughing at the disgruntled look on his face. “Please, daddy? For me?” She was being so unfair for coaxing him as she did, but it was one of the rare times where she’d take it there to get what she wanted.

“Fine,” He mumbled. “Give me a small bit,” Beija happily gave him a piece of the breast and a spoonful of dressing. “No cranberry sauce. That’s where I draw the line,” He said before she could put it on the plate, and she laughed before she passed the plate back to him. She continued to make her own plate before he took a bite, and she watched as he chewed slowly, furrowin his eyebrows. “This ain’t bad...not bad at all,” He said.

“What did I say? You gotta trust me,” She laughed. “You want some more?”

“No,” He said instantly, and Beija laughed as he took two chicken wings and sat them on his plate. “I’ll stick with my chicken. It’s good, though. It ain’t dry so I don’t mind it,” He said.

Beija glanced back to see Janiya in her high chair, nearly falling asleep with her bottle in her hand. She shook her head before she took the bottle from the girl and sat it on the high chair’s small table. “It’s the butter I used under the skin,” She said.

“You gotta start teaching me stuff, baby. I wanna cook next year,” Jermaine said.

“Absolutely not. I’ll teach you but God, you are not about to be in there killing our families next year,” Beija started to laugh a bit as she started to eat her food.

“Wow,” J stretched out the word dramatically as Beija continued to laugh.

December 5, 2017 – Houston, Texas

“Okay, so is this nice enough?” Beija and Jermaine sat in her old bedroom as she modeled off the outfit she had put together for the seminar she had to attend. The high wasted jeans were so darkly washed they nearly looked like slacks, and with her flat boots and tucked white t-shirt, the look was simple. “Then, I’ll have my old letterman to slip on for the cool weather. Yeah?”

“Yeah. You look good,” She fixed her ponytail before she dusted herself off, nodding before she sat down on the bed next to him. “You nervous?” He took her hand, and she nodded slowly.

“I always am,” She chuckled before she looked down at their hands, watching as J’s thumb gently brushed against her knuckles. “I don’t have an idea of what I’m going to tell these girls. What if there’s a question I can’t answer?” She asked.

“You tell them what you know, baby. You can do this,” She smiled a bit as she watched him kiss her hand. “You know you got it, too. No need to worry,” He glanced down when he heard his phone vibrate, and he grabbed it from his pocket to check the time. “Ah, it’s time to go. Get your game face on,” Beija stood up to grab her jacket, laughing when she felt the light swat at her behind.

“Nigga,” She scolded.

“It’s for good luck!” Beija looked back at Jermaine, who burst into laughter. “It is!”

The couple headed down the stairs to the first floor of the Demarco home and notified Beija’s parents that they’d be off to her old school to fulfill her commitment, and made sure that all was well with Janiya before they left. They headed towards the car they rented, and were soon off to head to the school. While Jermaine drove, Beija was within her phone, answering emails and texts. “Okay so—we just got invited out to New York for New Year’s Eve. Are we going or no?” She asked.

“Yeah. It’s Ib’s party, right?” He asked, and B nodded quickly. “Let’s head on out there, then,” He said.

“Hey, speaking of Ib, he said I should invest in a publicist. Just in case,” B tilted her head before she shook her head. “I really don’t know if I should,” She outwardly thought.

“Why not? What if you get more opportunities like this? It’d be good to have somebody to help you fish out the right opportunities,” J kept his eyes on the road, glancing at the GPS system every so often.

“True. I’ll have to think about it for a while. I don’t want to suddenly be treated like some...entertainer. I’m behind the scenes,” She said.

Soon enough, they got to the school and they parked around the back before Beija led Jermaine to the best entrance they could get through without interrupting the students that were still in school. Beija took a look around and she smiled a small bit before she was given a huge wave of nostalgia. When her parents finally allowed her to go to public school, she was zoned to this one out of the four schools she had to choose from—because of her pristine grades, her parents wanted her to go to Kerr’s college prep program, but Beija craved a taste of what it’d be like to be around kids that looked more like her and grew up differently from her. It was the best decision she had made in her young life; Beija not only gained lifelong friends and memories, but it was here that she truly realized that music was her passion and that she’d spend her life doing it in some way, shape, or form. Everything seemed so updated but the same, and she couldn’t help but to think about the future. She wondered what kind of life Janiya would have once she got to high school. Maybe it was silly to think so far ahead, but she couldn’t help it—daydreaming was her specialty, and her dreams had led her this far.

“Here’s the main offices,” Beija whispered before the two walked inside, and they approached the secretary’s desk. “Hello—...”

“Oh, Ms. Demarco! Great, you’re here. Right this way, Principal Sharpe was just about to leave her office,” The secretary smiled before she stood up, and led Beija and Jermaine to Elizabeth’s office. Once they walked inside, Beija smiled and waved at the woman sitting at the desk.

Elizabeth had a ‘principal look’ about her—her suit was tailored almost perfectly, her dark brown hair was in a small but thick afro, and her dark brown skin seemed to almost glisten in the light. She was attractive and Beija was appreciative of the woman who seemed to be in charge of over a thousand students within the hallowed school walls. “Ms. Demarco, it’s such a pleasure to have you,” Elizabeth shook Beija’s hand, and Jermaine’s next. “You as well, Mr. Cole. Now, right this way—we have our other guests in the gym getting ready for the girls.”

“I think I’ll stay in this office—just to keep the heat off me. Go ahead,” J kissed Beija’s temple, and she nodded before she followed Elizabeth through the hallways and towards the gym.

Beija almost wanted to cry at how familiar everything seemed to be, and she saw some of the other women who were sitting in the chairs that were stationed in front of the opened set of bleachers. “Okay, our last guest is here—the girls should be here within the next 10 minutes, so everyone just get comfortable and don’t be nervous,” Elizabeth smiled before she left the gym.

Beija spent the 10 minutes networking; several of the women were doctors, some were lawyers, and a couple, like herself, were members of the music industry. Before long, she could hear some of the noise from outside; children were making their way to their classes, and she looked down at her phone as it vibrated in her lap. She opened her Twitter feed and could see thousands of tweets from students about her rumored appearance at their high school. She smiled to herself before she turned off her phone, and waited for the girls to arrive.

The 50 selected girls were a mixture of faces from all races and places: all seniors, all making stellar grades and nearing the top of their class rank. Beija was nothing short of impressed, and by the looks on their faces they were elated to see B and the rest of the women who were there to give advice, empower and enlighten. Even as B sat back and watched the other women talk and converse with the girls, she herself was elated. She liked the idea of helping other girls with their lives.

Soon enough, it was her turn to speak. “Lastly, we have today an alum from our school; she was just like you all at one point. She graduated number #20 in the class rank, with honors and as head of the cheerleading squad. She went on to graduate from New York University with a masters in Music Industry Management, then to become the new Director of Label Marketing at Dreamville Records. Without further ado, please give a hand for Beija Demarco,” Elizabeth had done her research, and in her introduction made Beija realize just how much she had achieved. She couldn’t lie—she was impressed with herself.

Beija stood up as the young women clapped, and she smiled as she took the microphone from Elizabeth. “Well, that was a lovely introduction. Made me realize just how much I’ve done myself,” Beija chuckled softly. “But yeah, that’s kind of the basis of my life. I grew up right here in Houston—my parents live right up the road,” She explained. “I decided to come here to Taylor when I switched over to public school and it really helped me build my foundation for my future. I’m so happy to say that I’ve done so much and it’s very much because of my years here,” She said. “But enough about me; I wanna hear your questions!”

A black girl raised her hand first, and Beija couldn’t help but smile. The girl had long braids that were pulled up into a bun, and she clearly was a fan due to the label branded hoodie that she had on. Beija nodded to acknowledge her. “Okay, I hope I’m not being too personal; I know that you’re basically balancing work, being a mother, and your relationship with J. Cole,” She began, and Beija took a deep breath. She knew it would come, so she had been prepared to answer whatever she needed to or what would be appropriate when it came to her life with Jermaine. “What’s that like for you? How do you keep it all together?”

“Well, I’ve learned to breathe, and always ask for help. I’ve realized that I cannot do everything,” Beija decided that the best course of action was honesty. “Nothing about my life is easy, no matter what the blogs may tell you, or even what Instagram photos I decide to share with the world. I am just like any of your mothers—just working to make sure that my family is situated. But I’ve learned to make time for myself and my health, and to ask for help when I need it,” She answered.

A Hispanic girl with a pixie cut and alluring grey eyes raised her hand next. “What advice would you have for somebody who suffers from depression?” She asked.

“I have no real advice...” Beija licked over her lips briefly. “All I can say is that the first step in maintaining proper mental health is acceptance and openness. Be accepting in the idea that you are dealing with a problem, and be open to the ideas that come your way to control that problem. Depression does not go away, but you can control it. How you do that is up to you—you have to do what is best for you,” She said.

The Caucasian girl that raised her hand was the smallest girl there—she was petite and pale, with dark brown and bushy hair. “What made you want to become an A&R? That’s what you did as a job before, right?” She looked every sort of nerdy, but her brown eyes were glowing as she spoke.

“Yes; I still do A&R work, but I basically am the boss of the other A&R scouts that represent Dreamville Records. But I guess you can say music has been a part of my life ever since I was a little girl. I remembered the way music made me feel, and the memories that tied within those songs. I wanted to bring those feelings back to music. I know you all love your usual radio stuff; but there’s so much more out there, and I wanted to find it,” She explained.

Another black girl raised her hand, and Beija noticed the small scar that slid over her right eye. Even with it, she was a beautiful girl with an afro to rival Beija’s. “Any tips on how to survive as a black girl in this world? Because we really need to know,” Some of the other black girls murmured in agreement.

“Don’t let anyone dim your light. Anyone. I know what the TV says, and what the radio may tell you. I know who Hollywood puts in their movies, and who magazines sit on their covers but know this—we are a powerful force. We have done so much in this world, and I want you to know that you are special. Light skinned, dark skinned, fat, skinny; it doesn’t matter. You’re absolutely one of a kind, so when life tries to get you down, you live in that emotion it brings. If you’re sad, cry. If you’re mad, scream. If you’re scared, tremble. Then, you formulate a game plan. Get motivated; surround yourself with other black girls and uplift one another. Remember that the world wants you to be divided, so beat that assumption. Stick together and push through those barriers. Survival is no good if we aren’t surviving together,” She said.

One last girl raised her hand—she was South Asian, slender and curvy even with her modest clothing on. “Uhm, I want to know; do you ever feel like you are in J. Cole’s shadow?” She adjusted her hijab before she grew still again.

“No, I don’t. That is the main reason why he and I work together so well—he had never gone out of his way to diminish what makes me who I am. Sure, we’re a couple and I’m the mother of his child. But he is well aware that there is so much more to me. No matter what I may be to him, or to you all, or the rest of the world, I am still Beija Demarco. He has always known that, and he respects that. And that’s what I want you all to remember...please remember this,” Beija cleared her throat before looking out at the girls, feeling an emotion washing over her that she had never felt before. They truly were listening to every word she spoke, and they seemed to be wrapped up in what she had to offer. She was afraid of what she’d do or what she’d say in this moment, but it felt so natural to tell these girls the truth, and what needed to be said. She started to wonder why she was ever nervous.

“Don’t ever put a man’s needs before your own. I know that it seems like girls who are submissive seem to get the guys, but I’m telling you—any man who would rather have a trophy or a doormat for a mate isn’t worth having. Be graceful, learn to compromise, show compassion, be passionate, be loving...but always, always put yourself first. Self-respect is not about how covered or uncovered your body is, or what dances you like to do, or all that other trivial stuff. Self-respect and self-worth is about knowing how beautiful you are without verification. It’s knowing your worth, and knowing what flies with yo and what doesn’t. It’s knowing when to walk away from something that isn’t healthy for you. The man who knows that and respects your rules and boundaries is a real man, remember that,” She said, and even the women behind her seemed roused enough to applaud her.

“Thank you so much, Beija! That was a wonderful quote to end on,” Elizabeth had stood up, clapping for her as she took the microphone. “The school day is almost over, so I’d like to give you all a chance to briefly meet with our seminar guests today. I hope they were all able to answer your questions.”

Soon enough the girls were out on the floor of the gym with the women, and Beija met up with some of the girls that approached her. The last of them to approach her was the black girl who branded the scar on her eye. The girl didn’t even say anything—she just reached for a hug. Beija embraced the girl and hugged her tightly. “Thank you for coming,” The girl said.

“I’m glad to be here,” Beija said with a smile before the other black girl with braids approached as well. “Hi! I hope I answered your questions,” She said to them both.

“Sure did. Thank you, Beija. We love you and Cole so much—y’all are so goals,” The one with the braids said excitedly, and Beija laughed softly.

“Can we get a picture, please?” The other young lady ran a hand through her afro, and Beija nodded before they huddled together to take a selfie.

#j cole fanfic #j cole fanfiction #j. cole fanfic #j. cole fanfiction #j. cole ff

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newstfionline · 7 years

Text

In Kiron, Iowa, pop. 229, life, death and another cup of coffee

By Stephanie McCrummen, Washington Post, April 16, 2017

KIRON, Iowa--Russell Paulson had already heard by the time he arrived at the Quik Mart for his afternoon coffee. Walt Miller had died.

“Died last night, huh?” someone was saying as Russell pulled up a chair.

“Yeah, last night,” another man said.

Russell listened; he had known Walt. At the age of 80, he knew almost everyone in Kiron, a town of 229 people, one of whom is U.S. Rep. Steve King, who has a house on the edge of town. Russell knew King, too, knew that he was the sort of person always stirring controversy, often by raging against what he called “cultural suicide by demographic transformation.” More recently, King had said that “we can’t restore our civilization with somebody else’s babies,” a comment embraced by prominent white supremacists and widely condemned around the country as demonizing Latino and other non-European immigrants.

There was little controversy across King’s district, though, a swath of rural America made up of tiny towns with tiny, aging white populations that routinely elected King with more than 70 percent of the vote. In Kiron, people brushed it off as King being King, a man they all knew, expressing a plain truth they all understood: The white population was shrinking, and towns like theirs were vanishing, with the few exceptions being places such as Denison, a pork-processing town 20 minutes down the highway where population growth was being driven by immigrants from Mexico and Central America.

Kiron, meanwhile, was losing steam. According to the most recent census figures, the population included nine Mexicans; the other 220 were all white, and their numbers were decreasing by 10 or so each year, and now, on a Wednesday, by one.

“Oh, Walt Miller? He did pass?” Dwain Swensen, 67, said, sipping his coffee.

“What’d he have, pancreatic cancer or something?” said Ron Streck, 70.

“Liver,” said Herman Kohnekamp, also 70. “I think that’s what it was, wasn’t it, Russell?”

“I knew he passed but didn’t know any details,” Russell said.

It was a quiet afternoon, the ritual 3 p.m. coffee in a place where, as one regular put it, “you can figure out Steve King by understanding all of us.” Every day but Sunday, the bell on the front door rang as they arrived. The wood-paneled backroom was waiting. The Bunn-o-Matic and the Styrofoam cups. The space heater humming. The clock with the squinting Merit cigarette man on one wall, the calendar on the other, the cracked blinds dangling over the window where the view through the slats was a sea of farm fields, and on a hill in the distance, a stand of evergreens where the cemetery was. Now the bell on the front door rang again, and Russell looked up.

“Oh,” Ron said under his breath, seeing who it was. “Here comes trouble.”

It was Kevin Lloyd, 52, who came in occasionally, and had been in the day before, all riled up about the latest Steve King situation, waving his hands and going on about how people had misunderstood what he’d meant about “other peoples’ babies.”

“If you’re American, you got to take care of America!” he had said then. “I love that people want to come here from Mexico, from Ukraine, from the Middle East, but they need to come here legally.”

Dwain, Ron, a woman named Jane Gronau and Russell had been there, sipping their coffees, as Kevin had continued that he had no idea why people would call King a “white supremacist,” or, for that matter, why people would call President Trump racist. “Now, is Barack Hussein Obama a Muslim? In my opinion, yes,” he had said, and that had brought him to the other thing he figured King meant about babies. He had meant Muslim babies of the Muslims that Obama had allowed into the country.

“And here, I’m going to quote a great president, Abe Lincoln,” he had said. “He said the fall of America will come from the inside. Well, if you’re allowing all these children in, and if they hate America, how long is it going to be before we’re not the United States of America anymore?”

Jane had nodded: “If you study the number of Muslims, there are going to be so many here, and they’re going to have so many kids, they’re going to be able to take over that way.”

Dwain had nodded: “They say ‘freedom of religion’ but if you’re Muslim, and you become Christian, you’re ousted. Sometimes, they kill ‘em.”

“They behead ‘em,” Kevin had said into a quiet Iowa afternoon.

“I think what King was trying to get across is, look: We can only grow so many hogs, so much beans and so much corn,” Kevin had said. “If we let everybody in, we’re going to be without a food source. And what happens when that’s gone? Then we’re all in trouble.”

The next day, Russell had his morning coffee and got into his car.

He stopped by the bank where he’d been going since the 1940s.

“Hi, Russell,” the one teller said to her one customer.

He got back into his car and drove one block to the edge of town, turned onto the two-lane highway, then one long gravel road after another, straight lines stretching out into still-fallow fields.

“Some of the roads have been abandoned,” he said. “Because there’s not as many people living out here, the roads just disappeared.”

He knew the roads better than anyone. His own family’s roots in the area stretched back to the 19th century, when the U.S. government was aggressively removing Native American tribes to make way for one of the largest immigration waves in American history. The Swedes came, the Germans came, the farms, the towns and generations of babies, one of whom was Russell Elmer Paulson, born in 1937. He was raised on his mother’s family farm in rural Kiron and never left other than a stint in the Army, and one in Dubuque.

He and his wife, Glenda, inherited land when Russell’s parents died and lived on it until they retired and moved into town. Russell’s work had been farming and insurance adjusting. His culture was being a Methodist and a Mason and listening to polka, though most of that had fallen away. The church he and Glenda had gone to “died for lack of people and money,” he said. There were hardly any Masons left. Polka was not enjoying a revival. His kids had left for jobs in other areas. Glenda had died last year.

“See that ridge? That’s the old railroad bed,” he said now, driving along, squinting through his gold-rimmed glasses.

“My aunt bought this,” he said, passing a stand of trees where farmhouses had been.

“Walt would go there,” he said, pointing out a repair shop where Walt Miller had coffee, and soon he turned onto a narrow dirt road leading to the farm where he and Glenda had lived, a collection of storage buildings where Russell now kept his old tractors, and one he used as an office, where he went these days to work crossword puzzles or just sit and think.

“Commune with God and the birds,” he said. “Well, not too many birds now.”

He glanced around at the old buildings, now shuttered and locked, though someone had broken into one of them recently.

“They stole a bunch of tools and such,” Russell said, pulling back onto the gravel road. “No need to get all worked up about it.”

He passed a rotting barn and a bird on a stretch of barbed wire, and after a while, a gray house with a huge American flag.

“This is Steve King’s house here,” he said, looking at it.

He had known King a long time and saw no reason to be bothered by something or other he said. He supported King--“I have no reason in the world to dislike the man”--but wasn’t one to rant about politics. He had no computer, no smartphone. His television had no cable. He watched a half-hour of national news, a half-hour of local, followed by “Wheel of Fortune” and Lawrence Welk. He ate chicken tenders and food he described as “American.”

“He’s just kind of one of us,” Russell said of King, driving on past a field where a church had burned down, and the home of a man who’d died last year. It began to rain.

“When it comes down like it’s doing now, it’s just wonderful,” he said.

He drove past fields and more fields until he came to another stand of trees on a hill.

“This is the cemetery,” he said, pulling in.

He drove slowly past the headstones. “A lot of these people I knew,” he said and began reading names.

“Larson.”

“Lind.”

“Gustafson.”

“Paulson--this would be my folks right here,” he said, and then he noticed the time, almost 3 p.m.

He headed back to town, pulling onto Main Street where a wooden sign said, “Kiron, Blessed with the Best.”

After King had made his comment about babies, some out-of-town protest group had put up another sign below that one that said, “White Supremacist.”

The sign didn’t make any sense to Russell, and, after it was removed, his main worry was that the protesters might have damaged the town sign, which had started to rot a few years ago.

Russell had taken on the job of maintaining it. He had trimmed the tree branches that had grown through the wood. He had taken down “Blessed with the Best” and repainted each of the letters. He went to a lumberyard and had a new K, I, R, O, and N made, painting each letter several times and spraying them with wood preservative. One year, he and Glenda had planted a bed of petunias and geraniums.

“I don’t think we will ever have a better display of flowers,” he said now, and soon he was pulling up to the Quik Mart for the afternoon coffee. As he walked inside, he saw a funeral notice on the front door with a photo of a smiling man in gold-rimmed glasses.

“Oh,” Russell said, pausing for a moment. “There’s Walt.”

The next day, the bell rang as the door with the funeral notice swung open, and it was Dwain, then Bob James, then Herman, then Russell. The Merit cigarette clock showed a few minutes after 3 p.m. Russell got the coffee pot and poured. The bell rang again, and it was a man named Glen Ballantine.

“Time for plowing?” Herman asked the 84-year-old farmer.

“Two weeks,” Glen said, sitting down.

Bob was reading the paper. Russell was sipping his coffee, looking out the window.

“Got the visitation tonight,” Herman said.

He didn’t have to mention Walt Miller’s name because they all knew what he meant.

They went back to talking about plowing, and Glen was saying how different farming was now than when he was a young man, which for some reason reminded him of one of his first jobs, digging graves.

“For 18 bucks,” he said.

“You dug a regular grave for 18 bucks?” said Dwain.

“Oh yeah, and we had to fill ‘em back up again,” said Glen.

“I helped dig one once,” said Russell. “You know, manually. Only one. I don’t know what I got paid. But. That’s a long way down to the bottom of that.”

“If there was frost in the first foot, you got $1 more,” said Glen.

“What’d you use to get through the frost?” asked Bob.

“Pickax and sledgehammer,” said Glen. “And when we’d fill ‘em, we’d fill ‘em in 14 scoops. We were just little kids, more or less.”

“We had more dirt than we needed,” Russell said. “And had to --”

“Had to haul that away,” said Glen, finishing his sentence.

“Had to put that on the pickup,” said Russell, and they went on talking like that until Herman got up to leave. It was after 3:30 p.m.

“Funeral home starts, what, at 4?” Herman said.

“Four till 7, it says on there,” Russell said.

The funeral home was in Denison, and the sun was going down as Russell turned onto the two-lane highway toward one of the only towns in Steve King’s district that was growing, and which appeared in the distance as a cluster of lights and rising steam from the pork-processing plant.

Russell turned by the Walmart, bustling on a Friday payday, and turned again into a neighborhood where Latino kids were playing in a yard. Up a hill, he parked in front of the funeral home, where people were still streaming in near 7 p.m.

Russell made his way through the receiving line, his hat off, comb lines visible in his gray hair. He shook hands with Walt’s family, who thanked him for coming, and inched forward until he reached the open casket.

He stood there a moment. He looked at Walt. He looked at the light-blue satin lining and the farm scene etched into it. A man stood next to Russell.

“Went fast,” he said of Walt, who had passed away soon after his diagnosis. “That’s what you hope for.”

“I do,” said Russell, still looking at Walt, and soon, he headed back to Kiron.

The funeral was the next day at Zion Lutheran Church in Denison, and more people came from Kiron and other vanishing towns like Odebolt and Ida Grove. They sat in jeans and dresses and suits on the wooden pews of a church founded in 1872, and read about Walt in the program, where it was said that “farming and fixing equipment and household items were his favorite things to do,” and soon the church bells began ringing.

The pews creaked as everyone stood and watched the pallbearers roll in the coffin draped in a white cloth with a red cross, and a procession of dozens of family members that included exactly one baby, a girl with a black ribbon around her head.

“Your world has changed,” the pastor began.

When it was over, people got back into their cars and drove 20 minutes up the highway to the cemetery in Kiron, a long procession of headlights passing through fields and more fields, then turning right, then heading up the hill to the stand of evergreens, and afterward, at 3 p.m., the bell on the Quik Mart door began ringing.

It rang for Herman, who arrived with a loaf of homemade bread. It rang for Dwain, for Bob, and for Charlie, who shuffled into the backroom and said, “Buried a nice guy this morning.”

It rang for Russell, who poured his coffee, walked back into the wood-paneled room, and pulled up a chair.

“Strawberries come to life this time of year, Russell?” Dwain asked.

“I don’t know,” Russell said.

They talked about the frost, and when spring might arrive.

“Well, I better get moving,” Charlie said and headed out.

“I got things to do, too,” Russell said, but then he didn’t leave, not yet.

He got up and sat where Charlie had been, closer to the window.

“Well, I gotta go,” Herman said.

“See you, Herman,” Russell said.

“Bye, Herman,” Dwain said, and now there were just the three of them left.

Dwain cleared his throat. A car passed by. The space heater hummed. Bob finished his coffee. Russell swallowed the last of his.

“You want more coffee, Mr. Bob?” Russell asked.

“Do you?” said Bob.

“Yeah,” Russell decided, and walked over to get the coffee pot.

He poured some into Bob’s cup. He poured some into Dwain’s cup. He filled his own and sat down again. He tapped his thumb on the table. Eventually he stood up and walked toward the door, where Walt’s funeral notice no longer was.

“See ya, Russell,” said Dwain.

“See ya, Russell,” said Bob.

“I hope so,” Russell said.

#Kiron Iowa #Steve King #rural towns

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