Royce such a POS that he had us rooting for a white woman, abeg
Dying to Live
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Soapy
- Posts: 16633
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Dying to Live
"Fuckin' with good people make good people go to bat"
Royce such a POS that he had us rooting for a white woman, abeg
Royce such a POS that he had us rooting for a white woman, abeg
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16870
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
He said he can’t hit no women so they getting hitCaptain Canada wrote: ↑04 May 2025, 18:02Boy took that Alix frustration and took it out against the Longhorns, shit.
Royce is a traumatized young Black man who is a product of his environment. You rooting for a white woman by choice.
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16870
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Stay Out Your Own Way
The parking garage downtown felt colder than usual, its echo swallowing the sound of Royce’s footsteps as he moved toward Billy’s office building. His hands were jammed into his hoodie pocket, jaw tight, headphones in—but nothing playing. He’d been doing that a lot lately. Carrying around silence like it was safer than any song that might remind him of her.
He passed a flower shop on the way in. Pink roses in the window. For a split second, he thought about Valentine’s Day—how last year Alix had laughed because he gave her a plant instead of flowers. “At least a plant fights for its life,” he’d said, half-serious. “I can relate.” She’d rolled her eyes but kissed him anyway.
Royce swallowed and walked faster.
Inside the building, everything felt like a showroom—too clean, too still. The kind of place where nothing could hurt you, but nothing lived either. He nodded at the receptionist and barely heard her buzz him through.
The elevator ride up felt longer than it was.
As he turned the corner to Billy’s suite, he nearly collided with Chance Delpit.
Delpit looked up from his phone, already clocking the shift in Royce’s energy. He tucked the phone away, not missing a beat. “Didn’t expect to see you here today.”
Royce gave a small nod. “Just signing some paperwork.”
Delpit stepped to the side, but not far. “Good. Gotta keep the machine running.”
Royce moved like he was going to keep walking, but then Delpit added, quieter now:
“Your body language screaming at everybody, even when your mouth closed.”
Royce froze mid-step. He hadn’t realized how clenched his shoulders were until Delpit said it.
“Fix it,” Delpit said, voice level. “Or the wrong people’ll read it first.”
Royce shrugged, eyes low. “Ain’t that deep.”
Delpit didn’t buy it. “You leaking pain, son. Whether you realize it or not. And in this business, that’s like bleeding in the water.”
Royce exhaled, slow and shallow. He didn’t argue, but his jaw ticked.
Delpit didn’t press further. “I’m not asking. Just naming it. There’s a difference.”
He gave Royce a light pat on the shoulder, then moved down the hallway like nothing happened.
But something had.
Royce watched him go, lips parted like he wanted to say something back. He didn’t. He wasn’t sure what he would’ve said anyway.
In Billy’s office, the scent of fresh paper and carpet cleaner hit him first. Billy was hunched over his desk, flipping through two folders with a red Sharpie tucked behind his ear. There were contracts, calendars, appearance deals—stuff Royce usually moved through without a second thought.
“You’re early,” Billy said, not looking up.
“Delpit said the same thing.”
Billy smirked. “Maybe you’re finally learning time is money.”
Royce sat down in the chair across from him, but didn’t speak. He stared at the edge of the desk, his fingers tapping a slow rhythm on his thigh. Billy glanced up.
“You good?”
Royce didn’t answer.
He reached for the pen. Started signing.
But his head wasn’t here.
It was back at his apartment. The box he left on the bed. Her silence when he shut the door. The last time she said his name like it meant something. Every part of him had told himself it was fine—he’d been through worse. You don’t miss people who choose to leave.
But Delpit had seen it.
Royce’s body felt heavier these days. Even breathing felt like it took more energy. He wasn’t sleeping. Wasn’t eating right. Couldn’t stop replaying the things he didn’t say, the things she did.
He signed the last page and slid the pen across the desk.
Billy gave him a once-over. “You sure you’re good?”
Royce looked him dead in the eye.
“I’m surviving.”
Billy nodded slowly, eyes narrowing like he knew that answer wasn’t the same as being okay.
“Surviving’s better than drowning,” Billy said carefully. “But not by much.”
Royce didn’t respond.
He just stood up, thanked Billy under his breath, and walked out.
In the hallway, his phone buzzed. A group chat from the team. Some meme. He didn’t open it. Didn’t care. He scrolled anyway—half-hoping, half-dreading that Alix might’ve texted him.
Nothing.
He shoved the phone in his pocket and walked toward the elevator, back straight, jaw set.
But Delpit was right.
He was leaking.
And he wasn’t sure how much more he had left before something cracked.
~~~~~~~~~~
The box didn’t feel heavy, but Alix’s arms ached by the time she reached the gate to her parents’ backyard. The cardboard edges had gone soft from her grip, one side bent inward where she’d accidentally stepped on it getting it into the car. It was duct-taped shut—too sloppily, she thought. Like if she’d tried to neaten it, the whole thing might’ve spilled.
It was cooler than usual, a lazy overcast afternoon that didn’t seem to have made up its mind. Somewhere inside the house, the dull sound of a game echoed from the TV. Marc must’ve left it on low. Out back, he stood near the grill in his white company hoodie, one hand on the tongs, the other resting against the patio post. Darius kicked a ball lazily toward the fence, half-engaged.
Alix hoped they wouldn’t notice her.
She should’ve come earlier. Or later. But something about the daylight made it easier to pretend she wasn’t hiding. Still, her steps slowed as she rounded the corner, the box balanced against her chest like it might fall apart if she let it shift too far in any direction.
Marc saw her first. Then Darius.
Her little brother blinked and looked at the box. “What’s that?”
Alix stopped walking. She tried to smile, but it felt flimsy on her face. “Just dropping something off.”
Darius tilted his head. “Is it from Royce?”
The question landed sharper than she expected. She felt it in her stomach.
Before she could speak, Marc’s voice came low but firm: “Darius, go on inside.”
“But—”
“Now.”
Darius grumbled but obeyed, dragging his feet as he disappeared into the house, the door slapping lightly behind him. The yard was quiet again, save for the low hiss of the grill.
Alix took a breath. “You can say it.”
Marc turned toward her but didn’t respond.
“That you told me this would happen.”
Still nothing. Just the sound of him stepping off the patio and walking toward her. She hadn’t realized how tight her grip had gotten on the box until he gently took it from her arms.
She let go.
She expected some lecture. Something fatherly. Maybe a disappointed sigh. But Marc didn’t give her any of that.
He just carried the box across the lawn like it was filled with anything but her first real heartbreak.
They reached the shed together. It creaked open—still too low to walk into without ducking. The air inside smelled like dust and grass seed. An old tarp lay folded in one corner, next to Darius’s outgrown football cleats and a cracked lawn chair nobody had thrown out.
Marc didn’t ask what was in the box. Didn’t need to. He found an open space on the highest shelf and slid it there with careful hands. As if it might crumble if touched too roughly.
Alix stood in the doorway, arms crossed.
“You want me to throw it away?” Marc asked, quiet.
“No.” Her voice came fast. Too fast. She shook her head, slower this time. “Not yet.”
He nodded. Didn’t press.
She lingered, staring at the shelf. The box looked small now. Harmless. Like it wasn’t full of birthday cards, a hoodie that still smelled like him, Polaroids from a trip, the bracelet he bought at a gas station just because it had her birthstone. A lot of stuff he’d bought after the NIL money started coming in.
She turned to leave, but Marc’s voice stopped her.
“You okay?”
It was the first real thing he’d said.
Alix didn’t answer at first. She wanted to say yes. She wanted to lie. But something about the way he asked—like he already knew she wasn’t—made her stop pretending.
“I don’t know,” she whispered.
Marc just nodded. “That’s alright.”
The shed door creaked shut behind them.
And the box stayed there, tucked high and quiet, waiting on time to do what it always promises—and rarely does.
…
Alix stood in the kitchen, knuckles tight around the folded flaps of an empty box. The scent of the shed clung to her—dry grass, mildew, heat soaked into old wood. It was done.
Now she rinsed her hands under cold water, not because they were dirty, but because they felt hot. Like her skin still remembered every item she packed into that box.
Sharon was sitting at the table when Alix walked in, her reading glasses perched low, a tea mug beside her half-finished crossword. She looked up, expression unreadable but alert.
“Hey,” she said.
Alix nodded. “Hey.”
“You want something to eat? I was about to make a sandwich.”
“I’m good.”
Sharon studied her for a beat, then folded her glasses and set them down. “You been sleeping?”
“Here and there.”
Sharon gave a soft hum, neither agreeing nor pushing. “I saw the box.”
Alix looked down at her hands. “Yeah.”
Sharon’s voice was calm, but not casual. “You ready to talk about what happened?”
Alix paused. She wanted to say no. She wanted to say it didn’t matter. But the words surprised her when they came.
“He forgot I existed. He cheated.”
The room seemed to hold its breath. Sharon didn’t react with shock—only silence, followed by a slow exhale.
“I knew,” Alix added quickly. “I knew when he started staying out late. When he stopped looking at me and started performing like I was just… part of the scene. I was going to stay if he hadn’t stopped seeing me.”
Sharon sat back in her chair, her expression soft but coiled. “Do you know who?”
Alix paused. “Does it even matter?”
“No,” Sharon said, after a pause. “Not really.”
They let the quiet settle for a moment. The sound of the old fridge humming filled the space between them. Outside, the shed stood tucked behind the flowerbed, summer vines curling around its side like hands that didn’t want to let go.
“I kept waiting for it to make sense,” Alix murmured. “Like maybe I did something wrong. Maybe I wasn’t enough. But that’s not it. He just didn’t want to be held accountable. Not to me. Not to anyone.”
Sharon reached for her mug and took a sip. “There’s a kind of man who loves what you give him… until he has to give something back.”
Alix’s eyes welled, but she blinked hard, refusing to let them fall. “I should’ve listened when Marc said--”
Sharon interrupted gently. “Marc’s been wrong before too. You weren’t stupid for loving him. Don’t let anybody, not even yourself, convince you that you were.”
Alix stared at her mother for a long time. “Why does it still hurt this bad if I know I made the right decision?”
“Because the right thing doesn’t always come with relief,” Sharon said, her voice quiet. “Sometimes it just comes with silence.”
Alix looked away, toward the back window. She could see the outline of the shed, could almost feel the weight of that box still in her hands.
Sharon reached out and touched her daughter’s wrist, light but grounding. “You did the hard thing. That counts for something.”
Alix nodded. She didn’t say thank you. She didn’t need to.
Outside, the box waited on a shelf neither of them would reach for again anytime soon. Inside, a girl sat across from her mother, finally allowing herself to grieve what never got to grow past its beginnings.
~~~~~~~~~~
The corner store door creaked open, its bell giving a lazy jingle that no one inside bothered to look up at. Poochie stepped in, his hoodie up despite the Baton Rouge heat, hands stuffed deep in his pockets. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like they were tired too, casting a sterile glow over the dusty chip racks and coolers humming with condensation.
He moved with a practiced rhythm—back corner, third row, second shelf. Same honey bun he always grabbed, soft and collapsing inside the wrapper. Gatorade came next—red, always red. He didn’t look at the clerk as he placed the items on the counter, just nodded once, head low.
The clerk didn’t speak either. Just scanned.
Poochie slipped his card from his wallet and slid it forward.
Declined.
He cleared his throat, eyes still down. “Try it again?”
A pause. The beep again.
Declined.
Poochie forced a smile, small and tight. “One more time. Probably just bein’ slow.”
The clerk glanced up but didn’t say anything. Another beep. Same message.
Poochie let out a breath through his nose, slow and measured like he hadn’t just felt his chest tighten. “Cool, cool,” he muttered, reaching into his pocket for a crumpled wad of bills. A five. Two ones. Enough. He peeled them off, laid them on the counter, and took his stuff without another word.
The bell jingled again as he stepped back outside, squinting against the late afternoon sun. His car sat slouched near the side of the lot, old paint dull, one hubcap missing.
A kid in a navy Mercer hoodie was walking toward the door, phone in one hand, keys in the other. He paused when he saw Poochie and held the door without thinking.
“Appreciate it,” Poochie said, voice low.
They nodded at each other, just two strangers on different orbits.
But Poochie lingered a second too long, eyes tracing the car the kid came from—a clean little sedan, maybe two years old, no dents, no rust, just reliable.
“You go there?” The question slipped out before he could stop it.
The kid turned. “Nah, unc, my girl does. Volleyball.”
Poochie nodded again, swallowing something thick and invisible. “Cool, cool.”
The kid squinted, friendly but cautious. “You went there or something?”
Poochie stared past him for a moment, like he had to reach back through fog. “Used to.”
The kid offered a polite smile, one of those tight ones people give when they don’t quite know what to say. “That’s what’s up.”
He slipped inside, and a moment later, the sedan pulled out of the lot, its engine quiet and unbothered.
Poochie stood there, bag in hand, staring at the space where the car had been. The sun was starting to dip now, shadows growing long across the cracked pavement. A breeze passed, lifting the edge of his hoodie.
He didn’t go home.
Instead, he walked to his car and slid in behind the wheel, not starting it. The air inside was stuffy, windows streaked with fingerprints and dust. He opened the driver’s side door just enough to let some air in, let the light spill across his lap. Unwrapped the honey bun slowly and took a bite.
Sweet. Soft. Familiar.
He chewed slowly, eyes fixed on nothing in particular. The gas station lights buzzed on overhead, flickering like they couldn’t quite decide how bright they wanted to be. His Gatorade sat unopened in the cupholder.
From the rearview, something dangled—a fraying navy and orange lanyard, the Mercer logo barely visible anymore. He stared at it for a long time. His jaw clenched.
Then, without a word, he reached up, yanked it down, and shoved it into the glove compartment. Slammed it shut.
He stayed like that for a while, hunched in the silence, door cracked, wrapper half-open, just another car in a lot nobody looked twice at.
Because sometimes the hardest part of losing your future isn’t when it ends—it’s when you run into someone who still has theirs.
The parking garage downtown felt colder than usual, its echo swallowing the sound of Royce’s footsteps as he moved toward Billy’s office building. His hands were jammed into his hoodie pocket, jaw tight, headphones in—but nothing playing. He’d been doing that a lot lately. Carrying around silence like it was safer than any song that might remind him of her.
He passed a flower shop on the way in. Pink roses in the window. For a split second, he thought about Valentine’s Day—how last year Alix had laughed because he gave her a plant instead of flowers. “At least a plant fights for its life,” he’d said, half-serious. “I can relate.” She’d rolled her eyes but kissed him anyway.
Royce swallowed and walked faster.
Inside the building, everything felt like a showroom—too clean, too still. The kind of place where nothing could hurt you, but nothing lived either. He nodded at the receptionist and barely heard her buzz him through.
The elevator ride up felt longer than it was.
As he turned the corner to Billy’s suite, he nearly collided with Chance Delpit.
Delpit looked up from his phone, already clocking the shift in Royce’s energy. He tucked the phone away, not missing a beat. “Didn’t expect to see you here today.”
Royce gave a small nod. “Just signing some paperwork.”
Delpit stepped to the side, but not far. “Good. Gotta keep the machine running.”
Royce moved like he was going to keep walking, but then Delpit added, quieter now:
“Your body language screaming at everybody, even when your mouth closed.”
Royce froze mid-step. He hadn’t realized how clenched his shoulders were until Delpit said it.
“Fix it,” Delpit said, voice level. “Or the wrong people’ll read it first.”
Royce shrugged, eyes low. “Ain’t that deep.”
Delpit didn’t buy it. “You leaking pain, son. Whether you realize it or not. And in this business, that’s like bleeding in the water.”
Royce exhaled, slow and shallow. He didn’t argue, but his jaw ticked.
Delpit didn’t press further. “I’m not asking. Just naming it. There’s a difference.”
He gave Royce a light pat on the shoulder, then moved down the hallway like nothing happened.
But something had.
Royce watched him go, lips parted like he wanted to say something back. He didn’t. He wasn’t sure what he would’ve said anyway.
In Billy’s office, the scent of fresh paper and carpet cleaner hit him first. Billy was hunched over his desk, flipping through two folders with a red Sharpie tucked behind his ear. There were contracts, calendars, appearance deals—stuff Royce usually moved through without a second thought.
“You’re early,” Billy said, not looking up.
“Delpit said the same thing.”
Billy smirked. “Maybe you’re finally learning time is money.”
Royce sat down in the chair across from him, but didn’t speak. He stared at the edge of the desk, his fingers tapping a slow rhythm on his thigh. Billy glanced up.
“You good?”
Royce didn’t answer.
He reached for the pen. Started signing.
But his head wasn’t here.
It was back at his apartment. The box he left on the bed. Her silence when he shut the door. The last time she said his name like it meant something. Every part of him had told himself it was fine—he’d been through worse. You don’t miss people who choose to leave.
But Delpit had seen it.
Royce’s body felt heavier these days. Even breathing felt like it took more energy. He wasn’t sleeping. Wasn’t eating right. Couldn’t stop replaying the things he didn’t say, the things she did.
He signed the last page and slid the pen across the desk.
Billy gave him a once-over. “You sure you’re good?”
Royce looked him dead in the eye.
“I’m surviving.”
Billy nodded slowly, eyes narrowing like he knew that answer wasn’t the same as being okay.
“Surviving’s better than drowning,” Billy said carefully. “But not by much.”
Royce didn’t respond.
He just stood up, thanked Billy under his breath, and walked out.
In the hallway, his phone buzzed. A group chat from the team. Some meme. He didn’t open it. Didn’t care. He scrolled anyway—half-hoping, half-dreading that Alix might’ve texted him.
Nothing.
He shoved the phone in his pocket and walked toward the elevator, back straight, jaw set.
But Delpit was right.
He was leaking.
And he wasn’t sure how much more he had left before something cracked.
~~~~~~~~~~
The box didn’t feel heavy, but Alix’s arms ached by the time she reached the gate to her parents’ backyard. The cardboard edges had gone soft from her grip, one side bent inward where she’d accidentally stepped on it getting it into the car. It was duct-taped shut—too sloppily, she thought. Like if she’d tried to neaten it, the whole thing might’ve spilled.
It was cooler than usual, a lazy overcast afternoon that didn’t seem to have made up its mind. Somewhere inside the house, the dull sound of a game echoed from the TV. Marc must’ve left it on low. Out back, he stood near the grill in his white company hoodie, one hand on the tongs, the other resting against the patio post. Darius kicked a ball lazily toward the fence, half-engaged.
Alix hoped they wouldn’t notice her.
She should’ve come earlier. Or later. But something about the daylight made it easier to pretend she wasn’t hiding. Still, her steps slowed as she rounded the corner, the box balanced against her chest like it might fall apart if she let it shift too far in any direction.
Marc saw her first. Then Darius.
Her little brother blinked and looked at the box. “What’s that?”
Alix stopped walking. She tried to smile, but it felt flimsy on her face. “Just dropping something off.”
Darius tilted his head. “Is it from Royce?”
The question landed sharper than she expected. She felt it in her stomach.
Before she could speak, Marc’s voice came low but firm: “Darius, go on inside.”
“But—”
“Now.”
Darius grumbled but obeyed, dragging his feet as he disappeared into the house, the door slapping lightly behind him. The yard was quiet again, save for the low hiss of the grill.
Alix took a breath. “You can say it.”
Marc turned toward her but didn’t respond.
“That you told me this would happen.”
Still nothing. Just the sound of him stepping off the patio and walking toward her. She hadn’t realized how tight her grip had gotten on the box until he gently took it from her arms.
She let go.
She expected some lecture. Something fatherly. Maybe a disappointed sigh. But Marc didn’t give her any of that.
He just carried the box across the lawn like it was filled with anything but her first real heartbreak.
They reached the shed together. It creaked open—still too low to walk into without ducking. The air inside smelled like dust and grass seed. An old tarp lay folded in one corner, next to Darius’s outgrown football cleats and a cracked lawn chair nobody had thrown out.
Marc didn’t ask what was in the box. Didn’t need to. He found an open space on the highest shelf and slid it there with careful hands. As if it might crumble if touched too roughly.
Alix stood in the doorway, arms crossed.
“You want me to throw it away?” Marc asked, quiet.
“No.” Her voice came fast. Too fast. She shook her head, slower this time. “Not yet.”
He nodded. Didn’t press.
She lingered, staring at the shelf. The box looked small now. Harmless. Like it wasn’t full of birthday cards, a hoodie that still smelled like him, Polaroids from a trip, the bracelet he bought at a gas station just because it had her birthstone. A lot of stuff he’d bought after the NIL money started coming in.
She turned to leave, but Marc’s voice stopped her.
“You okay?”
It was the first real thing he’d said.
Alix didn’t answer at first. She wanted to say yes. She wanted to lie. But something about the way he asked—like he already knew she wasn’t—made her stop pretending.
“I don’t know,” she whispered.
Marc just nodded. “That’s alright.”
The shed door creaked shut behind them.
And the box stayed there, tucked high and quiet, waiting on time to do what it always promises—and rarely does.
…
Alix stood in the kitchen, knuckles tight around the folded flaps of an empty box. The scent of the shed clung to her—dry grass, mildew, heat soaked into old wood. It was done.
Now she rinsed her hands under cold water, not because they were dirty, but because they felt hot. Like her skin still remembered every item she packed into that box.
Sharon was sitting at the table when Alix walked in, her reading glasses perched low, a tea mug beside her half-finished crossword. She looked up, expression unreadable but alert.
“Hey,” she said.
Alix nodded. “Hey.”
“You want something to eat? I was about to make a sandwich.”
“I’m good.”
Sharon studied her for a beat, then folded her glasses and set them down. “You been sleeping?”
“Here and there.”
Sharon gave a soft hum, neither agreeing nor pushing. “I saw the box.”
Alix looked down at her hands. “Yeah.”
Sharon’s voice was calm, but not casual. “You ready to talk about what happened?”
Alix paused. She wanted to say no. She wanted to say it didn’t matter. But the words surprised her when they came.
“He forgot I existed. He cheated.”
The room seemed to hold its breath. Sharon didn’t react with shock—only silence, followed by a slow exhale.
“I knew,” Alix added quickly. “I knew when he started staying out late. When he stopped looking at me and started performing like I was just… part of the scene. I was going to stay if he hadn’t stopped seeing me.”
Sharon sat back in her chair, her expression soft but coiled. “Do you know who?”
Alix paused. “Does it even matter?”
“No,” Sharon said, after a pause. “Not really.”
They let the quiet settle for a moment. The sound of the old fridge humming filled the space between them. Outside, the shed stood tucked behind the flowerbed, summer vines curling around its side like hands that didn’t want to let go.
“I kept waiting for it to make sense,” Alix murmured. “Like maybe I did something wrong. Maybe I wasn’t enough. But that’s not it. He just didn’t want to be held accountable. Not to me. Not to anyone.”
Sharon reached for her mug and took a sip. “There’s a kind of man who loves what you give him… until he has to give something back.”
Alix’s eyes welled, but she blinked hard, refusing to let them fall. “I should’ve listened when Marc said--”
Sharon interrupted gently. “Marc’s been wrong before too. You weren’t stupid for loving him. Don’t let anybody, not even yourself, convince you that you were.”
Alix stared at her mother for a long time. “Why does it still hurt this bad if I know I made the right decision?”
“Because the right thing doesn’t always come with relief,” Sharon said, her voice quiet. “Sometimes it just comes with silence.”
Alix looked away, toward the back window. She could see the outline of the shed, could almost feel the weight of that box still in her hands.
Sharon reached out and touched her daughter’s wrist, light but grounding. “You did the hard thing. That counts for something.”
Alix nodded. She didn’t say thank you. She didn’t need to.
Outside, the box waited on a shelf neither of them would reach for again anytime soon. Inside, a girl sat across from her mother, finally allowing herself to grieve what never got to grow past its beginnings.
~~~~~~~~~~
The corner store door creaked open, its bell giving a lazy jingle that no one inside bothered to look up at. Poochie stepped in, his hoodie up despite the Baton Rouge heat, hands stuffed deep in his pockets. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like they were tired too, casting a sterile glow over the dusty chip racks and coolers humming with condensation.
He moved with a practiced rhythm—back corner, third row, second shelf. Same honey bun he always grabbed, soft and collapsing inside the wrapper. Gatorade came next—red, always red. He didn’t look at the clerk as he placed the items on the counter, just nodded once, head low.
The clerk didn’t speak either. Just scanned.
Poochie slipped his card from his wallet and slid it forward.
Declined.
He cleared his throat, eyes still down. “Try it again?”
A pause. The beep again.
Declined.
Poochie forced a smile, small and tight. “One more time. Probably just bein’ slow.”
The clerk glanced up but didn’t say anything. Another beep. Same message.
Poochie let out a breath through his nose, slow and measured like he hadn’t just felt his chest tighten. “Cool, cool,” he muttered, reaching into his pocket for a crumpled wad of bills. A five. Two ones. Enough. He peeled them off, laid them on the counter, and took his stuff without another word.
The bell jingled again as he stepped back outside, squinting against the late afternoon sun. His car sat slouched near the side of the lot, old paint dull, one hubcap missing.
A kid in a navy Mercer hoodie was walking toward the door, phone in one hand, keys in the other. He paused when he saw Poochie and held the door without thinking.
“Appreciate it,” Poochie said, voice low.
They nodded at each other, just two strangers on different orbits.
But Poochie lingered a second too long, eyes tracing the car the kid came from—a clean little sedan, maybe two years old, no dents, no rust, just reliable.
“You go there?” The question slipped out before he could stop it.
The kid turned. “Nah, unc, my girl does. Volleyball.”
Poochie nodded again, swallowing something thick and invisible. “Cool, cool.”
The kid squinted, friendly but cautious. “You went there or something?”
Poochie stared past him for a moment, like he had to reach back through fog. “Used to.”
The kid offered a polite smile, one of those tight ones people give when they don’t quite know what to say. “That’s what’s up.”
He slipped inside, and a moment later, the sedan pulled out of the lot, its engine quiet and unbothered.
Poochie stood there, bag in hand, staring at the space where the car had been. The sun was starting to dip now, shadows growing long across the cracked pavement. A breeze passed, lifting the edge of his hoodie.
He didn’t go home.
Instead, he walked to his car and slid in behind the wheel, not starting it. The air inside was stuffy, windows streaked with fingerprints and dust. He opened the driver’s side door just enough to let some air in, let the light spill across his lap. Unwrapped the honey bun slowly and took a bite.
Sweet. Soft. Familiar.
He chewed slowly, eyes fixed on nothing in particular. The gas station lights buzzed on overhead, flickering like they couldn’t quite decide how bright they wanted to be. His Gatorade sat unopened in the cupholder.
From the rearview, something dangled—a fraying navy and orange lanyard, the Mercer logo barely visible anymore. He stared at it for a long time. His jaw clenched.
Then, without a word, he reached up, yanked it down, and shoved it into the glove compartment. Slammed it shut.
He stayed like that for a while, hunched in the silence, door cracked, wrapper half-open, just another car in a lot nobody looked twice at.
Because sometimes the hardest part of losing your future isn’t when it ends—it’s when you run into someone who still has theirs.
-
Soapy
- Posts: 16633
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Dying to Live
just rob Royce, poochie
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16870
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16870
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Almost Told Them
The open mic was held in a low-lit coffeehouse tucked between a tire shop and a Caribbean market, the kind of place with mismatched chairs, thrift store couches, and walls covered in crooked art and quotes written in chalk. The air smelled like espresso and incense, and murmurs floated through the room like music with no melody.
Arianna sat near the back of the small stage, surrounded by her new group—people who wrote about trauma like it was scripture and treated metaphors like currency. She liked them. Liked how they didn’t flinch when things got raw. Liked that they asked about process more than performance.
But tonight, her hands wouldn’t stay still.
She’d brought a piece. A new one. Scribbled in fits and pieces, edited in the margins of textbooks and notes from class. The title still felt like a bruise pressed too hard: What I Never Said to My Cousin.
But the notebook stayed closed on her lap.
The host, a tall woman with waist-length braids and a laugh that made people listen even when they weren’t trying to, gave her a nod from the mic. “And next up, someone y’all should get used to seeing. Give it up for Arianna.”
Applause rose in waves, warm and expectant.
Arianna stood, smoothing the thighs of her jeans like it would calm the pulse in her chest. The notebook stayed in her hand as she walked to the mic, but she didn’t open it.
Instead, she smiled and said, “Actually, I’m not reading mine tonight. I want to introduce someone else—her words moved me, and I think they’ll move you, too.”
She read a piece by a girl in the group named Niyah—something about a sister lost in a crowd of expectations. Her voice stayed steady, measured, even when the lines made her throat tighten. The room was quiet in that reverent way spoken word crowds can be—where silence feels heavier than noise.
When she finished, the applause came again. Respectful. Grateful.
But as Arianna stepped offstage and back into her seat, someone leaned toward her—a guy named Drew who wore his hair in a puff and always smelled like tea tree oil.
“When are you gonna get up there again?” he asked, voice low.
Arianna shrugged, her smile faint but not fake. “Maybe when I’m ready.”
Drew nodded once like he understood, but his eyes lingered for a second longer than necessary. Like he saw the notebook still clutched too tight in her hand. Like he heard the pause in her voice when she said maybe.
The night moved on. More poems, more snaps. Laughter when it fit. Silence when it hurt.
On the ride home, the city blurred past the windows—streetlights stretching like threads, headlights flickering like thoughts that wouldn’t stay still. She sat in the backseat of a friend’s car, forehead leaning against the cool glass, the murmur of music in the background.
Her phone buzzed once—an email reminder for a scholarship application. She ignored it. Opened her Notes app instead.
Scrolled.
Found the unfinished piece.
What I Never Said to My Cousin.
The title alone made her stomach shift.
She stared at it for a while. The blinking cursor looked impatient. She could still see the last line she'd written:
"I loved you most when you didn’t know I was watching."
She read it three times, thumb hovering.
Then she hit delete.
No warning. No backup.
Just gone.
The car turned onto her street, and she sat up, sliding her phone back into her pocket. Outside, her porch light was still on, casting a soft pool over the front steps.
Maybe next time, she’d say it all out loud.
But tonight?
Tonight she wasn’t ready.
~~~~~~~~~~
It was nearly midnight when Royce’s phone buzzed on the nightstand, splitting the quiet of his apartment like a fault line. The name on the screen pulsed in the dark: Kevon (Collect Call).
He just stared at it at first. The TV was on, muted—some West Coast NBA game limping toward the final buzzer. A glass of water sat untouched by his bed. The weight in his chest hadn’t lifted in days.
The phone buzzed again.
He nearly let it ring out.
But something in him cracked—barely—and he swiped to accept, jaw clenched. The recorded prompt played. He didn’t wait for it to finish. Just pressed “1.”
Kevon’s voice came through the static. “I ain’t gon’ waste time. Reg ain’t doing good.”
Royce leaned back against the headboard, already feeling the words sliding off him. “So?”
Kevon exhaled. “They sent him home, son. Said it could be tomorrow. Or today. Ain’t no more time to put this shit off.”
Royce pushed the heel of his hand into his eye, grinding away the sting. “I don’t owe that man nothing. Or you. Or ma. None of y’all. Y’all all turned your fucking backs on me.”
“I’m not saying you do,” Kevon said calmly. “I ain’t calling for Reg. I’m calling for you.”
Royce scoffed, sitting up now, pacing. “You don’t get to play peacemaker from prison.”
There was a pause. Then Kevon’s voice, slower. “I’m not. I know what I am. I also know that when Reg dies, you gon’ be the only Lafitte man still breathing on the outside. That don’t mean nothing to you?”
Royce stopped pacing. The silence between them stretched out.
“I ain’t asking you to forgive him,” Kevon said. “I’m asking you to be a man. Show up while you still can. You ain’t gotta cry. You ain’t even gotta speak. Just be there.”
Royce looked down at the floor, fists curling at his sides. “Why you care now? You didn’t give a damn when you were out here running poison through our name.”
Kevon didn’t flinch. “’Cause I see it clear now. I see you clear. You walking around like you made of stone, but it’s gonna catch up. It always does. You think you above regret? You not.”
The call ended a few seconds later. Royce hadn’t said goodbye. Just stood in the dark as the line went dead.
…
The next morning, Royce lay on his back, wide awake, phone still resting on his chest like a weight.
One voicemail.
He played it.
Kevon’s voice again, quieter. “You hurting. I get that now. No one ever asked how you was doing. But don’t let it be the only thing you carry forward. Reg… he ain’t never gon’ say sorry the way you want. Maybe he don’t know how. But he’s dying, and you still here. And when that time comes, when it’s just you out here carrying the name… that silence gon’ get heavy, son. Don’t let that be the thing that eats you.”
Royce replayed the message.
Then once more.
After the third time, he stared at the screen until it dimmed.
Then, without a word, he tapped delete.
The screen went black. No messages. No missed calls.
Just his reflection staring back at him—tired, unreadable, and alone.
The open mic was held in a low-lit coffeehouse tucked between a tire shop and a Caribbean market, the kind of place with mismatched chairs, thrift store couches, and walls covered in crooked art and quotes written in chalk. The air smelled like espresso and incense, and murmurs floated through the room like music with no melody.
Arianna sat near the back of the small stage, surrounded by her new group—people who wrote about trauma like it was scripture and treated metaphors like currency. She liked them. Liked how they didn’t flinch when things got raw. Liked that they asked about process more than performance.
But tonight, her hands wouldn’t stay still.
She’d brought a piece. A new one. Scribbled in fits and pieces, edited in the margins of textbooks and notes from class. The title still felt like a bruise pressed too hard: What I Never Said to My Cousin.
But the notebook stayed closed on her lap.
The host, a tall woman with waist-length braids and a laugh that made people listen even when they weren’t trying to, gave her a nod from the mic. “And next up, someone y’all should get used to seeing. Give it up for Arianna.”
Applause rose in waves, warm and expectant.
Arianna stood, smoothing the thighs of her jeans like it would calm the pulse in her chest. The notebook stayed in her hand as she walked to the mic, but she didn’t open it.
Instead, she smiled and said, “Actually, I’m not reading mine tonight. I want to introduce someone else—her words moved me, and I think they’ll move you, too.”
She read a piece by a girl in the group named Niyah—something about a sister lost in a crowd of expectations. Her voice stayed steady, measured, even when the lines made her throat tighten. The room was quiet in that reverent way spoken word crowds can be—where silence feels heavier than noise.
When she finished, the applause came again. Respectful. Grateful.
But as Arianna stepped offstage and back into her seat, someone leaned toward her—a guy named Drew who wore his hair in a puff and always smelled like tea tree oil.
“When are you gonna get up there again?” he asked, voice low.
Arianna shrugged, her smile faint but not fake. “Maybe when I’m ready.”
Drew nodded once like he understood, but his eyes lingered for a second longer than necessary. Like he saw the notebook still clutched too tight in her hand. Like he heard the pause in her voice when she said maybe.
The night moved on. More poems, more snaps. Laughter when it fit. Silence when it hurt.
On the ride home, the city blurred past the windows—streetlights stretching like threads, headlights flickering like thoughts that wouldn’t stay still. She sat in the backseat of a friend’s car, forehead leaning against the cool glass, the murmur of music in the background.
Her phone buzzed once—an email reminder for a scholarship application. She ignored it. Opened her Notes app instead.
Scrolled.
Found the unfinished piece.
What I Never Said to My Cousin.
The title alone made her stomach shift.
She stared at it for a while. The blinking cursor looked impatient. She could still see the last line she'd written:
"I loved you most when you didn’t know I was watching."
She read it three times, thumb hovering.
Then she hit delete.
No warning. No backup.
Just gone.
The car turned onto her street, and she sat up, sliding her phone back into her pocket. Outside, her porch light was still on, casting a soft pool over the front steps.
Maybe next time, she’d say it all out loud.
But tonight?
Tonight she wasn’t ready.
~~~~~~~~~~
It was nearly midnight when Royce’s phone buzzed on the nightstand, splitting the quiet of his apartment like a fault line. The name on the screen pulsed in the dark: Kevon (Collect Call).
He just stared at it at first. The TV was on, muted—some West Coast NBA game limping toward the final buzzer. A glass of water sat untouched by his bed. The weight in his chest hadn’t lifted in days.
The phone buzzed again.
He nearly let it ring out.
But something in him cracked—barely—and he swiped to accept, jaw clenched. The recorded prompt played. He didn’t wait for it to finish. Just pressed “1.”
Kevon’s voice came through the static. “I ain’t gon’ waste time. Reg ain’t doing good.”
Royce leaned back against the headboard, already feeling the words sliding off him. “So?”
Kevon exhaled. “They sent him home, son. Said it could be tomorrow. Or today. Ain’t no more time to put this shit off.”
Royce pushed the heel of his hand into his eye, grinding away the sting. “I don’t owe that man nothing. Or you. Or ma. None of y’all. Y’all all turned your fucking backs on me.”
“I’m not saying you do,” Kevon said calmly. “I ain’t calling for Reg. I’m calling for you.”
Royce scoffed, sitting up now, pacing. “You don’t get to play peacemaker from prison.”
There was a pause. Then Kevon’s voice, slower. “I’m not. I know what I am. I also know that when Reg dies, you gon’ be the only Lafitte man still breathing on the outside. That don’t mean nothing to you?”
Royce stopped pacing. The silence between them stretched out.
“I ain’t asking you to forgive him,” Kevon said. “I’m asking you to be a man. Show up while you still can. You ain’t gotta cry. You ain’t even gotta speak. Just be there.”
Royce looked down at the floor, fists curling at his sides. “Why you care now? You didn’t give a damn when you were out here running poison through our name.”
Kevon didn’t flinch. “’Cause I see it clear now. I see you clear. You walking around like you made of stone, but it’s gonna catch up. It always does. You think you above regret? You not.”
The call ended a few seconds later. Royce hadn’t said goodbye. Just stood in the dark as the line went dead.
…
The next morning, Royce lay on his back, wide awake, phone still resting on his chest like a weight.
One voicemail.
He played it.
Kevon’s voice again, quieter. “You hurting. I get that now. No one ever asked how you was doing. But don’t let it be the only thing you carry forward. Reg… he ain’t never gon’ say sorry the way you want. Maybe he don’t know how. But he’s dying, and you still here. And when that time comes, when it’s just you out here carrying the name… that silence gon’ get heavy, son. Don’t let that be the thing that eats you.”
Royce replayed the message.
Then once more.
After the third time, he stared at the screen until it dimmed.
Then, without a word, he tapped delete.
The screen went black. No messages. No missed calls.
Just his reflection staring back at him—tired, unreadable, and alone.
-
Soapy
- Posts: 16633
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Dying to Live
A man that don't take care of his family can't be rich.
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16870
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Half Frame
The lights in the classroom were low, the hum of the projector blending with the quiet murmur of students shifting in their chairs. Prints lined the walls—snapshots in color and grayscale, moments caught between breath and blur. Effie sat near the back, legs crossed, camera bag slumped at her feet, listening as her professor moved methodically from image to image.
When he stopped in front of hers, the class hushed.
“This one,” he said, gesturing to the black-and-white photo clipped on the corkboard, “has weight.”
It was a portrait of an older woman sitting alone on a stoop, arms slack over her knees, eyes unfocused and distant. A weathered screen door hung crooked behind her. The stoop was cracked, one shoe missing a lace. Her gaze didn't meet the lens—she was looking at something no one else could see.
Effie kept her expression neutral.
The professor turned slightly. “Effie, tell us what pulled you to this.”
Effie shrugged, slow and deliberate. “She was just there,” she said. “I liked her silence.”
A few heads turned her way, uncertain whether it was an answer or a deflection.
A girl with a cropped denim jacket and a voice that always carried raised her hand. “The composition’s a little off-balance,” she said, almost apologetic. “The stoop takes up more space than her. It feels…cropped too tight. Like it’s crowding her.”
Effie nodded once, gaze still on the photo. “Grief doesn’t center itself for you,” she said.
That quieted the room.
The professor glanced back at the print and tapped his pen lightly against his lip. “Sometimes discomfort is the point.”
He moved on.
Class ended ten minutes later, but Effie didn’t rush out. She gathered her things slowly, waiting until most of the students had cleared the hallway. Her feet carried her to the third-floor stairwell—one of the few spots on campus where the buzz of traffic and chatter softened. She leaned against the wall and pulled out her phone.
Her camera roll was a mosaic of lives not her own. Faces and sidewalks and flickers of stillness in motion. But she knew what she was looking for.
She stopped when she found the one of Paz.
Her little sister was mid-laugh, head thrown back, one hand covering her mouth. The photo was blurred just enough to catch the motion—half her face smeared like a memory trying not to be forgotten.
Effie stared at it for a long time, thumb hovering near the screen, not swiping forward or back. Just… there. Caught.
Then she locked the phone and slid it into her jacket pocket.
Outside, the air had turned colder. The sun was starting to dip, casting long shadows that pooled around her boots. She pulled her scarf higher around her neck and walked home alone, hands in her coat, shoulders slightly hunched against the wind.
Halfway down North Street, she passed a mural on the side of a brick laundromat—a tiger mid-roar, outlined in bold yellows and blacks, its eyes exaggerated and full of fight.
She pulled out her phone again and snapped a quick picture. The image flashed onscreen, and for a moment, she was ready to walk away.
Then she looked again.
In the reflection of the glass storefront next to the mural, barely visible, was the faint outline of her own face. Ghostlike. Not centered. Just there.
She didn’t retake the photo. Didn’t try to crop herself out.
She just kept walking.
~~~~~~~~~~
The television screen glowed in the dimness of the room, casting a blue tint over the hardwood floors and the edge of a marble coffee table. The anchor’s voice was smooth and practiced, just earnest enough to suggest civic pride without crossing into sentimentality.
“—announced today that the North Baton Rouge Revitalization Foundation will receive a $250,000 grant, approved by the Metro Council in a unanimous vote late last night. The funds will go toward the construction of a long-awaited community literacy center near Plank Road, a neighborhood long underserved by traditional library access.”
The screen cut to a still image of the proposed site—an abandoned lot ringed with a chain-link fence, crabgrass growing through the cracks in the concrete.
Then back to the anchor.
“Advocates say the center will provide reading programs for children and adults alike, as well as workforce training, digital resources, and after-school support. No official timeline has been announced, but construction is expected to begin early next year.”
The camera panned slightly as the anchor moved on to the next segment: a viral video of a man rescuing a cat from floodwaters. The tone lifted; the moment passed.
But the man standing across the room didn’t move.
Chance Delpit stood with his hands in the pockets of his tailored slacks, blazer unbuttoned, collar open. The morning light was soft behind him, filtered through floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the edge of the Baton Rouge skyline. His apartment was silent, save for the low murmur of the news and the occasional creak of settling wood.
His face betrayed no pride. No smile. Just a quiet stillness that looked like patience—but was something more calculating.
On the counter behind him sat a cup of black coffee gone lukewarm.
The phone buzzed in the inside pocket of his coat. He didn’t check it right away. He waited until the segment had fully changed, until the anchor had begun introducing an interview with a local chef, before pulling out the phone and glancing at the screen.
A name flashed across the display: Bradley - Council Office.
He answered with a clipped, “Delpit.”
“Just wanted to say congrats,” the voice on the other end said, slightly out of breath, like he was walking between meetings. “It passed easy. No pushback. You pulled the right strings.”
Chance said nothing.
The caller went on. “People are already saying it’s your project, even if your name’s not on it. You might want to think about making it official—give a quote or something for the website. Could be good optics.”
Chance’s tone stayed even. “The work is the quote.”
A short pause on the other end. Then: “Understood.”
He ended the call and placed the phone facedown on the table, next to the cooling coffee. His eyes lingered on the screen for a beat longer, as if considering whether to pick it up again.
Instead, he walked to the window and stared down at the city below.
From up here, the streets looked quiet. Commuters slid past stoplights. Kids waited at bus stops. Somewhere in a forgotten corner of the city, a crumbling lot would soon be something else. Something new. Something permanent.
He wasn’t the one who’d be thanked in the press release. There’d be no ribbon-cutting with his name engraved on a plaque. That wasn’t the point.
The point was momentum.
He exhaled slowly, hands still in his pockets, shoulders loose beneath the fabric of his coat. Not relaxed—never that. Just measured.
Below, the city turned another page.
And Chance Delpit, as always, stayed off the cover. But not out of the story.
The lights in the classroom were low, the hum of the projector blending with the quiet murmur of students shifting in their chairs. Prints lined the walls—snapshots in color and grayscale, moments caught between breath and blur. Effie sat near the back, legs crossed, camera bag slumped at her feet, listening as her professor moved methodically from image to image.
When he stopped in front of hers, the class hushed.
“This one,” he said, gesturing to the black-and-white photo clipped on the corkboard, “has weight.”
It was a portrait of an older woman sitting alone on a stoop, arms slack over her knees, eyes unfocused and distant. A weathered screen door hung crooked behind her. The stoop was cracked, one shoe missing a lace. Her gaze didn't meet the lens—she was looking at something no one else could see.
Effie kept her expression neutral.
The professor turned slightly. “Effie, tell us what pulled you to this.”
Effie shrugged, slow and deliberate. “She was just there,” she said. “I liked her silence.”
A few heads turned her way, uncertain whether it was an answer or a deflection.
A girl with a cropped denim jacket and a voice that always carried raised her hand. “The composition’s a little off-balance,” she said, almost apologetic. “The stoop takes up more space than her. It feels…cropped too tight. Like it’s crowding her.”
Effie nodded once, gaze still on the photo. “Grief doesn’t center itself for you,” she said.
That quieted the room.
The professor glanced back at the print and tapped his pen lightly against his lip. “Sometimes discomfort is the point.”
He moved on.
Class ended ten minutes later, but Effie didn’t rush out. She gathered her things slowly, waiting until most of the students had cleared the hallway. Her feet carried her to the third-floor stairwell—one of the few spots on campus where the buzz of traffic and chatter softened. She leaned against the wall and pulled out her phone.
Her camera roll was a mosaic of lives not her own. Faces and sidewalks and flickers of stillness in motion. But she knew what she was looking for.
She stopped when she found the one of Paz.
Her little sister was mid-laugh, head thrown back, one hand covering her mouth. The photo was blurred just enough to catch the motion—half her face smeared like a memory trying not to be forgotten.
Effie stared at it for a long time, thumb hovering near the screen, not swiping forward or back. Just… there. Caught.
Then she locked the phone and slid it into her jacket pocket.
Outside, the air had turned colder. The sun was starting to dip, casting long shadows that pooled around her boots. She pulled her scarf higher around her neck and walked home alone, hands in her coat, shoulders slightly hunched against the wind.
Halfway down North Street, she passed a mural on the side of a brick laundromat—a tiger mid-roar, outlined in bold yellows and blacks, its eyes exaggerated and full of fight.
She pulled out her phone again and snapped a quick picture. The image flashed onscreen, and for a moment, she was ready to walk away.
Then she looked again.
In the reflection of the glass storefront next to the mural, barely visible, was the faint outline of her own face. Ghostlike. Not centered. Just there.
She didn’t retake the photo. Didn’t try to crop herself out.
She just kept walking.
~~~~~~~~~~
The television screen glowed in the dimness of the room, casting a blue tint over the hardwood floors and the edge of a marble coffee table. The anchor’s voice was smooth and practiced, just earnest enough to suggest civic pride without crossing into sentimentality.
“—announced today that the North Baton Rouge Revitalization Foundation will receive a $250,000 grant, approved by the Metro Council in a unanimous vote late last night. The funds will go toward the construction of a long-awaited community literacy center near Plank Road, a neighborhood long underserved by traditional library access.”
The screen cut to a still image of the proposed site—an abandoned lot ringed with a chain-link fence, crabgrass growing through the cracks in the concrete.
Then back to the anchor.
“Advocates say the center will provide reading programs for children and adults alike, as well as workforce training, digital resources, and after-school support. No official timeline has been announced, but construction is expected to begin early next year.”
The camera panned slightly as the anchor moved on to the next segment: a viral video of a man rescuing a cat from floodwaters. The tone lifted; the moment passed.
But the man standing across the room didn’t move.
Chance Delpit stood with his hands in the pockets of his tailored slacks, blazer unbuttoned, collar open. The morning light was soft behind him, filtered through floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the edge of the Baton Rouge skyline. His apartment was silent, save for the low murmur of the news and the occasional creak of settling wood.
His face betrayed no pride. No smile. Just a quiet stillness that looked like patience—but was something more calculating.
On the counter behind him sat a cup of black coffee gone lukewarm.
The phone buzzed in the inside pocket of his coat. He didn’t check it right away. He waited until the segment had fully changed, until the anchor had begun introducing an interview with a local chef, before pulling out the phone and glancing at the screen.
A name flashed across the display: Bradley - Council Office.
He answered with a clipped, “Delpit.”
“Just wanted to say congrats,” the voice on the other end said, slightly out of breath, like he was walking between meetings. “It passed easy. No pushback. You pulled the right strings.”
Chance said nothing.
The caller went on. “People are already saying it’s your project, even if your name’s not on it. You might want to think about making it official—give a quote or something for the website. Could be good optics.”
Chance’s tone stayed even. “The work is the quote.”
A short pause on the other end. Then: “Understood.”
He ended the call and placed the phone facedown on the table, next to the cooling coffee. His eyes lingered on the screen for a beat longer, as if considering whether to pick it up again.
Instead, he walked to the window and stared down at the city below.
From up here, the streets looked quiet. Commuters slid past stoplights. Kids waited at bus stops. Somewhere in a forgotten corner of the city, a crumbling lot would soon be something else. Something new. Something permanent.
He wasn’t the one who’d be thanked in the press release. There’d be no ribbon-cutting with his name engraved on a plaque. That wasn’t the point.
The point was momentum.
He exhaled slowly, hands still in his pockets, shoulders loose beneath the fabric of his coat. Not relaxed—never that. Just measured.
Below, the city turned another page.
And Chance Delpit, as always, stayed off the cover. But not out of the story.
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16870
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Real Tigers
-
Soapy
- Posts: 16633
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Dying to Live
struggling to beat mizzou? GGs in the chat, might as well get ready for the draft, bucko