Skip to main content

Boys Get Scared Too: Part 1 (Louis Toliver Jr-Austin, TX)

It's was a boys' sleepover. Their boys' sleepover. Jake, Kevin, and Lucas. Three very close high school friends at Kevin's house. 

"Who wants to say "Candyman" in the mirror?" Lucas laughed. 

"Please. Save the games for kiddies," Kevin began changing. He took of his shirt and jeans, leaving just his plaid boxers on. 

"Ugh, boxers are so gross," Jake took off his clothes revealing his black briefs. 

Lucas remained in a t-shirt and basketball shorts, "How about no underwear?" 

They left Kevin's bedroom and headed to the kitchen of the one story house. Kevin's parents were out of town so the boys walked around freely bantering with each other. 

"I don't want to play in that basketball game tomorrow. Coach is such a dick," Lucas poured a bowl of cereal. "I'm probably going to be on the bench cause of.....you know."

"Um, cause you got drunk before the last game and passed out in the showers...right after you jerked off in Bobby's gym locker," Kevin made a protein shake. 

"I hate Bobby Garvin. Douche." Lucas chomped on his cereal. 

"You gotta crush on the guy or something?" Jake grabbed a beer from the fridge. 

"Hey! Watch it! That's my Dad's," Kevin grabbed the beer. 

Jake grabbed it back, "He won't know. He's an alcoholic, besides I'll replace whatever I drink." 

The phone rang. The land line. 

"Aren't you going to get it?" Jake opened the beer and took a swig. 

"No, I got a cell. That's house business. My parents can deal with it when they get home," Kevin sat down at the kitchen table, legs, open, his abs flexed. "I'm kinda bored."

The phone rang again. 

"Maybe you should answer it," Lucas moved to the table. 

"They didn't leave a message. Number is unavailable," Jake checked the phone. 

The ringing stopped. No message. The phone rang again. 

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Lunatic (Lily Lechler - New Orleans, LA)

  “Lunacy” comes from the moon,  Who cycles through brilliance and darkness  Bipolarity’s patterns are not so easily assumed  Opposites not so well harnessed Who cycles through brilliance and darkness?  The girl who sits in bed, wrestling with  Opposites. Not so well harnessed As she thought, her brain gives reason the slip The girl who sits in bed, wrestling with Her body, depressed, her thoughts manic. As she thought, her brain gave reason the slip  And gives the gift of life in a dreamlike panic. Her body depressed her thoughts. Manic  Lunacy comes from the moon And gives the gift of life in a dreamlike panic  Bipolarity’s patterns are not so easily assumed

Louisiana Words Remembers Jorge Arturo

There’s nothing that hurts more than when we lose someone from our Louisiana Words family. But, the beauty of our writing movement is that the words of our loved ones live on with us.   On June 20th, 2023, Louisiana Words Allstar, Jorge Arturo, moved on from this world leaving our hearts broken. He was a charismatic and talented human being. Jorge resided in New Orleans, LA and had been active on Louisiana Words for over a year. To honor Jorge’s life and work, we will be sharing his writing and live performances all Summer 2023. Please help keep his spirit alive by sharing his work. We know that Jorge’s words will connect with our readers and we hope to keep his spirit alive.  Jorge’s first submission: “The Dog Show” debuted on February 6th, 2022 and is his most successful piece to date. In 2022, Jorge spent 10 weeks in the top with “The Dog Show,” “Weavers,”  “They Say Love Kills, This Time It Really Did,” and “If Hell is Real, It Looks Like an Airport.” His la...

Let That Fucker Burn (John Chenvert - Napoleonville, LA)

Let that fucker burn. Let the fire crackle like the whips once did— like bone meeting leather, like screams swallowed by the trees. Let the white columns crumble to ash. Not as tragedy— but as truth, unearthing itself from beneath generations of silence. Nottoway is not a mansion. It’s a mausoleum. A lie carved in stone to honor the hands that held the whip, not the backs that bore it. They called it the “White Castle.” A place of beauty. A place for weddings, for photo ops, for pretending that horror can be made elegant if the curtains match the guilt. But no paint can cover what happened there. Blood doesn’t wash out with white linens. And pain doesn’t forget just because you renamed it history. I’m not Black. And I won’t pretend to carry that weight. But I also won’t ignore it. My people—the Guanches—were taken too. Our language silenced. Our land stolen. Our names nearly erased. So yes, I know colonization. Yes, I know what it means to be disappeared. But I also know this— my skin ...