Window Shopping
The boutique smelled like lavender and starch—pressed dresses, polished mannequins, and the low hum of curated calm. Everything was soft. Controlled. The kind of place where music floated instead of played, and the salesgirls spoke in lowercase voices. Alix walked a step behind Ashlee, letting her best friend’s excitement take up space. She was good at that now—slipping into the background, offering soft nods and little affirmations while she kept her own thoughts wrapped tight like old letters in a box.
Ashlee already had a dozen hangers looped over one arm, the silk and tulle swaying like a bouquet of future memories. The color scheme was unmistakable—blush, cream, dove gray, slate blue. Shades of hope. The kind of palette that lived on Pinterest boards titled Soon.
“I just want something that feels… y’know,” Ashlee said, spinning slightly in front of the mirror, dress fabric swishing. “Not too loud. But still like—‘wow.’ Like proposal dress wow. You know?”
Alix smiled, easing a hanger back onto the rack. “Definitely ‘wow.’ But like, whisper-wow.”
Ashlee let out a laugh, bright and grateful, and ducked behind a dressing room curtain, arms full of chiffon and satin and the unspoken belief that something beautiful was on the way. Alix stayed outside, running her fingers across the rack near her. The clothes were cool beneath her hands—expensive-feeling. Aspirational. She didn’t register most of them until her hand paused on a white halter dress with a delicate lace overlay.
Simple. Elegant. Familiar.
Her breath hitched before the memory even fully landed. She didn’t have to try. It found her.
Royce had shown up with a garment bag over his shoulder like it was a joke he wasn’t sure she’d laugh at. “Try it on,” he’d said, smug and grinning. “You’ll look better than a bride.”
She’d rolled her eyes, pretended not to care. But she’d unzipped it anyway. Just to humor him.
And then she’d stared at herself in the mirror, fabric hugged around her hips, a bit too dressed up for a wedding that wasn’t hers, heart beating like it was. He’d kissed her shoulder before they left that night, his voice quiet in that way he only got when he was telling the truth.
“You look like home.”
She used to think about that dress all the time.
Not the way it looked. But the way it made her feel—wanted in a way that was simple and certain.
Her fingers slipped from the hanger like it had burned her. She moved on.
Inside the dressing room, Ashlee’s voice rang out, slightly muffled. “This one’s giving doily. In a bad way.”
Alix grinned. “Want me to bring you another?”
“Nah, I got one more. The one I really liked.”
A minute passed. Then the curtain tugged open, and Ashlee stepped out, hesitating only slightly like even she couldn’t believe how good it looked. The dress was champagne satin, smooth and fitted, cinched just right at the waist with a gentle flare at the hem. It didn’t demand attention. It welcomed it.
Alix’s smile came easily this time. “That’s the one.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
Ashlee turned to the mirror, pressing her palm to her stomach, a nervous little gesture. “You think Caleb’s gonna cry?”
Alix tilted her head, leaning against the wall. “You think he’s really gonna do it?”
Ashlee’s lips curled upward but didn’t quite settle. “He’s been acting weird. Nervous. Asking weird questions. And he asked my sister what kind of rings I liked.” Her voice dropped, almost like she didn’t want to hear it out loud. “I don’t know. I just… I think it’s coming.”
Alix watched her friend standing there in a dress that looked like it belonged to a life just one step away. Hope radiated off Ashlee like body heat. And Alix felt it all—joy for her, real and deep. And something else. Something smaller. Tighter.
Not jealousy. Not exactly regret. Just a quiet ache in the shape of what-could’ve-been.
There was a time Alix had imagined her own dress. Her own soft-spoken moment. A proposal over a home-cooked dinner or maybe in a place that meant something, like their first road trip or the parking lot outside Trader Joe’s where he’d first made her laugh that stupid hard. But lately, she didn’t think about white dresses anymore. Not the way Ashlee did.
Not at all.
She slipped her phone out of her bag, thumbed over the screen. There was a new message from Renee—client prep notes, a timeline update. Alix answered it quickly. Efficiently. Like someone who was going somewhere. Then she looked up again, anchoring herself.
“You ready to get this?” she asked, her voice light, smooth on the surface.
Ashlee nodded slowly, eyes still locked on the mirror. “Yeah,” she said. “I think I am.”
And Alix smiled, steady and sure, even if there was something in her that still hadn’t fully unclenched.
“Then let’s go.”
They walked to the register together, Ashlee still clutching the dress to her chest like it might disappear if she let go. Alix held the door open for her friend and stepped into the sunlight behind her, squinting as the light touched her face.
It felt like a new chapter was starting for someone.
And for the first time in a long while, Alix was starting to believe hers might be starting, too. Just in a different shade. One that didn’t need lace or promises. One that didn’t look back.
~~~~~~~~~~
The house was already full before they stepped onto the porch.
Voices floated through the screen door, low and easy, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the occasional clang of a pot lid in the kitchen. It smelled like roast and rice dressing, like somebody’s Sunday meal stretched into the weekend. A breeze moved through the bare trees lining the street, crisp and cool for Houma in November. Toni pulled her jacket tighter as Deshawn knocked once and pushed the door open.
“Y’all don’t lock nothin’ around here,” he muttered with a half-smile. “Auntie better not be mad if I show up hungry.”
Inside, the air was warm and damp, thick with steam and seasonings. Coats were piled on a side chair near the entryway. A Saints game buzzed low from the living room TV, but nobody was really watching. Cousins were posted up in every direction, red cups in hand, elbows on the backs of sofas, perched on armrests and kitchen stools.
Deshawn’s aunt waved a wooden spoon at him from the stove. “You late, baby.”
“Traffic,” he lied smoothly, then turned to Toni. “This her. Toni.”
A few heads turned. Some offered polite nods. One of the older cousins stood and grinned. “Well damn, we finally meet the mystery girl.”
Toni gave a small smile, the polite kind, and nodded. “Nice to meet you.”
They made a plate together—Deshawn guiding her with too many instructions: “Get the cornbread first or it’s gone.” “Auntie make the gravy thick so don’t drown it.” “Don’t skip the sweet potatoes—she’ll clock that.”
They sat down at the kitchen table with three other people she hadn’t caught the names of. Toni chewed carefully. Laughed when everyone else did. Offered a “mm-hmm” when someone addressed her directly. Deshawn's hand found her knee beneath the table. She didn’t move it.
The conversation buzzed around them. Local gossip. A recent fight outside the Walmart. Trash pickup delays. LSU’s chances to beat A&M. Someone’s cousin just got out again.
Then a cousin leaned back in his chair, pointed his fork at Deshawn, and grinned. “Man, you got her trained like a rescue dog. Real quiet. You feedin’ her right?”
The table burst into laughter.
Toni’s smile came slow—and left even quicker. She felt her ears go hot. Deshawn chuckled and leaned in, rubbing her thigh like he was proud. Like she was his.
She took another bite of potato salad she didn’t taste. Nodded along. Waited for the topic to change. It did. But the silence in her chest stayed.
Later, after the dishes were cleared and dessert offered, Deshawn walked her to the car under the yellow porch light. The sky was deep and cloudless. The night smelled like cold grass and woodsmoke.
He slid his arm around her shoulders. “You good?”
Toni gave the smallest nod. “Just tired.”
He kissed the side of her head, satisfied.
Inside the car, Toni sat with her hands in her lap the whole ride back. Her phone buzzed once in her purse. She didn’t check it. Just stared out the window at the quiet streets of Houma, the trees bare and bony, the houses dark and ordinary.
And somewhere beneath it all, she counted how many times tonight she’d swallowed the words she wanted to say.
~~~~~~~~~~
The apartment buzzed with the kind of energy that came out after midterms and cheap drinks—trap music bleeding from a phone speaker propped in a red Solo cup, lights dimmed just enough to blur the line between flirting and mistake. Bodies pressed together in the living room and spilled into the kitchen. Everyone looked like they belonged here. Everyone except Royce.
He stood near the back wall, nursing a half-warm beer, the collar of his hoodie loose around his neck, eyes scanning the room without focus—until they landed on her.
Natalia wasn’t in the crowd. She didn’t have to be. She stood angled just away from it, leaning against the side of the fridge like it was her post. White tank, jeans that fit like they were tailored, hair slicked up into a clean ponytail that still managed to look a little wild. There was a calm around her. Or maybe it was boredom. Either way, she looked good.
Royce didn’t move at first. Just watched. Let himself wonder, for a second, what the fuck she was doing here. She wasn’t the party type. At least, not this kind of party.
She caught him staring. Didn’t look away.
He pushed off the wall and moved through the bodies like a current, slow and certain. When he got close, he kept his voice low.
"Didn’t think I’d see you here."
Natalia raised an eyebrow. “Guess I could say the same.”
Royce looked around like he was sizing the place up. “This crowd don’t really seem like your speed.”
She shrugged. “Sometimes you need noise to drown out the quiet.”
Royce gave a crooked smile. “Or maybe you're just tired of sitting home while your man out here wilding on some Pablo Escobar shit.”
That got a response. Her mouth curved, almost grudgingly. “You don’t know what the fuck you talking about.”
“I don’t,” he agreed easily. “I just know you don’t look like somebody who’s being taken care of.”
Her jaw flexed, like that one hit something.
She glanced away, then back. “So, what—this your game now? Slide up on girls you know belong to somebody else?”
Royce chuckled, soft but edged. “You ain’t belong to nobody if you gotta keep reminding yourself who you with.”
That silence between them started to feel dangerous.
He probably shouldn’t flirt with her. Poochie was down on his ass. This was only twisting the knife. That should’ve stopped him.
But it didn’t.
Natalia didn’t push him away. She took a slow sip of whatever was in her cup and let the silence work. Royce stepped closer, their arms brushing.
"You ever get tired of being the reasonable one?" he asked.
Natalia looked up at him. “I’m not.”
“I don’t think you believe that.”
She didn’t.
Instead, she said, “Come on,” and pushed off the fridge.
He followed.
They ducked into a back bedroom—half-lit, someone’s hoodie tossed across the foot of the bed, a mirror cracked at the corner. The door shut with a soft click. Natalia turned to face him, breath tight in her throat, eyes darting like she wasn’t sure if she was about to fuck up or save herself.
Royce didn’t rush her.
He just stood there, waiting.
When she stepped into him, it wasn’t tender. It wasn’t soft. Her hands gripped the sides of his hoodie like she was holding back a scream. Their mouths met like they didn’t have anything to say. Just breath and pressure and the sound of something cracking underneath both of them.
Later, Royce sat at the edge of the bed, pulling his shirt back over his head. He didn’t look at her when he stood. She didn’t ask him to stay.
Out in the hallway, the music picked back up—something bass-heavy, muffled by drywall. He adjusted his chain, shoulders loose like none of it touched him.
And then he saw him.
Poochie.
Frozen across the living room, cup in one hand, blunt in the other. Eyes locked on Royce like the party around him had gone dead silent.
Royce didn’t say anything.
He just kept walking. Down the steps, past the porch, out into the Baton Rouge night. Didn’t look back once.
But Poochie did.
And something in him shifted. Quiet. Sharp. And very much awake.
Dying to Live
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16855
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
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djp73
- Posts: 13184
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Dying to Live
punani gon kill him one way or another
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16855
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16855
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Showdown
The glass-walled conference room at Roux Interiors always made Alix feel like she was being watched, like everything she did was magnified and scrutinized. But this morning, it didn’t bother her.
She adjusted the cuffs of her blouse one last time, smoothed her palm across the front of her slacks, and took a steadying breath. Her heart wasn’t racing like it used to before big moments—it just beat. Strong, even.
Renee sat at the far end of the table, flipping through the mock-up slides on her tablet with a glassy-eyed client beside her. The woman—Carolyn Lattimer, founder of a wellness startup—had the kind of poised, effortless glow Alix imagined came from drinking imported water and never missing a skincare routine. Her husband, seated next to her, nodded intermittently, clearly less interested in pendant lighting than his wife was.
“All right, Alix,” Renee said, glancing up with a small nod. “Let’s walk them through it.”
Alix stepped forward, sliding her iPad open as the flatscreen came to life behind her.
She spoke clearly, confidently—no fidgeting, no stumbles. Every design element had a reason. The warm neutrals were meant to ground the space; the mixed textures were an emotional cue to softness without fragility; the floating shelf detail in the meditation room? Intentional. Everything intentional.
She let her voice breathe between sentences. Let the silence fill with trust, not doubt.
When she finished, Carolyn was already smiling.
“I love it,” she said, folding her arms like the decision had just crystallized. “This is exactly what I was hoping for. You captured the spirit of the brand, the calm—it’s all there.”
Her husband nodded too now. “Even I could chill in a place like that.”
Alix let out the breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding and smiled—not overly wide, just enough.
Renee was next to speak. “Alix led the full creative on this one. Client touchpoints, moodboards, 3D modeling. I just… supervised.”
Carolyn’s eyes widened a little. “Wait, she’s your intern?”
“Technically,” Renee said with a shrug. “For now.”
The meeting wrapped a few minutes later with smiles and handshakes. Once the Lattimers were gone, Renee closed the conference room door behind them and turned to Alix.
“You crushed that.”
Alix gave a small, pleased nod, biting the inside of her cheek. “Thanks. I wasn’t sure if—”
“No,” Renee cut in, holding up a finger. “None of that. You were in control of the room. You knew your work. You didn’t oversell it, and you let it speak for itself. That was some real senior designer shit.”
Alix blinked. “Really?”
“Really. So—” Renee lifted a folder from the conference table and tapped it against her palm, eyes warm behind her wire-framed glasses. “We worked out the budget. It’s not full-time just yet, but we want to bring you on as a contractor after your internship ends. If you're interested.”
The words landed like a stone skipping across water—shock, joy, disbelief, pride—all in fast, overlapping ripples.
“I…” Alix started, then laughed once, breathless. “I mean—yes. Yes. Just point to where I need to sign.”
Renee grinned and handed her the folder. “Take it home, read it over, don’t rush. But it’s yours if you want it.”
Alix held the folder like it was made of something heavier than paper. She looked down at the cover, then up again.
“Thank you. For believing in me.”
“I didn’t believe,” Renee said, shouldering her bag with a smirk. “I knew.”
The office cleared out slowly after lunch, coworkers slipping away into the quiet hum of early afternoon. Alix sat at her desk for a while, staring out the window, Baton Rouge blinking under soft cloud cover.
Her phone buzzed.
A notification: On this day, one year ago…
She swiped it away without opening it.
Because she didn’t need reminders anymore. Not of the past. Not of him. Not of what it took to get here.
Alix turned back to her desk and pulled open a fresh notebook. The first page was blank.
And for the first time in a long time, that didn’t scare her.
It thrilled her.
She began to write.
~~~~~~~~~~
The building was quiet. Not silent—never truly—but quiet in the way a place gets when it's emptied of urgency. The glowing LSU seal on the wall above the entrance cast long shadows across the floor of the ops center. It was late enough that even the janitorial staff had clocked out, and Royce moved like a ghost through the hallways.
He didn’t text anyone. Didn’t want to see Demar’s half-ass grin or Jay’s attempts to joke the nerves away. This was something he needed to do by himself.
Inside the film room, Royce dropped his backpack with a soft thud and slid into the middle seat. He opened up his tablet and brought up Texas A&M’s last two games. Their offense. Their tendencies. All the shit he should know already but still needed to see for himself. Needed to feel it sink in.
The plays rolled by. The quarterback’s footwork. The left tackle’s reach. The way the tight end chipped before leaking out.
Royce’s pen scratched quietly across the edge of his notebook.
Double motion = jet sweep or QB power
RB slips backside blocks
WR2 key in 3rd down sets
He leaned closer to the screen. He wasn’t just watching anymore. He was hunting.
But halfway through the second quarter of their game against Florida, his eyes drifted. His hand stopped moving.
A window still open on his laptop caught his attention. A folder he hadn’t clicked in months. Romeo – Hudl Archives.
Royce stared at it, jaw set.
He shouldn’t. Not tonight.
But his hand moved on its own. Clicked. Loaded.
The footage filled the screen—grainy, sideline shot, low angle. Terrebonne vs. Destrehan. Their junior year. Romeo in a #4 jersey, chinstrap dangling, eyes locked ahead.
Royce exhaled through his nose. Sat back.
The first play was simple. Dive up the middle. Romeo slipped through traffic like he was dipped in oil, shoulders low, knees high. He took contact and spun off of it, then kept going. Twenty yards. Then thirty.
Royce remembered that game.
Romeo had kept telling everyone his brother was just as good. "Just wait," he’d said. "Twin’s gon’ run the whole state when he get a chance."
And then Romeo was dead two weeks later.
The same shooting that tore Royce’s body apart took Romeo’s heart. Right there on the sidewalk outside their home. Their sixteenth birthday had been six months earlier.
On the screen, Romeo ran with joy. Not just speed—joy. Like it all still meant something.
Royce pressed pause. The frame froze with Romeo mid-stride, turf flying from his cleats.
He didn’t blink for a long time.
Then he reached into his backpack, pulled out his own flash drive, and popped it into the side of the machine. Brought up a different window—his own film from U-High. The season after. His senior year. The comeback.
He played the first clip. A goal line stop against Rummel. He remembered the pop of the pads, the way the crowd lost their minds, the sweat that dripped into his eye when he screamed at the sideline.
But watching it now?
It felt hollow.
He exited the clip.
Then sat in the dark, staring at nothing for a full minute.
Eventually, he stood up. Packed his bag. Swiped the sweat from under his eyes even though he hadn’t really broken one.
And just before he left, he looked back at the screen.
“Should’ve been you out there too,” he said quietly.
He killed the power and walked out into the hallway, where his footsteps were the only sound. Game day was coming.
And it was still hard to breathe.
~~~~~~~~~~
The wind had that edge to it—the kind that rustled more than just leaves, the kind that crept down your sleeves no matter how tight your coat was zipped. Arianna buried her hands deeper into her pockets as she cut across the sidewalk on her way back from the coffee shop, eyes half-lidded against the cold, mind elsewhere.
She almost didn’t see it.
Taped unevenly to the bookstore’s front window, half-curled at the corners, was the poster. Bright white paper, bold block letters at the top: “Voices of the South Showcase – Featuring New & Emerging Poets”. Her name, small but there, was listed on the third line down. Arianna Williams. Black ink. Plain font. No frills.
She stopped.
It had been weeks since the performance—weeks of avoiding eye contact with anyone in the poetry group who asked her when she’d read again. She always said she was “still writing.” Still healing. Still figuring out what she wanted her voice to sound like.
But here it was. Proof that she'd spoken. That she’d let it out. That she’d been heard.
Arianna reached for her phone and took a picture through the glass. The reflection of the street behind her blurred across the image, softening the edges of the poster.
She stared at the photo for a long beat, then lowered her phone and kept walking.
—
Back at her apartment, the heater clanked like it was protesting every ounce of effort. Her roommate wasn’t home—still at her night class, probably—so Arianna moved quietly through the space, her steps slow, her energy low but steady.
The photo sat lit on her screen again. She enlarged it. Cropped it.
Printed it.
She didn’t have much in the way of décor. A few thrifted prints. Some old snapshots from a summer road trip she no longer liked to remember. But this—this felt different. Earned.
She slid the photo into a simple black frame and placed it on the edge of her desk. Then paused. Looked at the blank stretch of wall above her bed. Thought better of it.
Instead, she set it on her nightstand, beside the lamp with the chipped shade.
It wasn’t bold or showy. But it was there. A quiet reminder. She’d spoken. She’d made something real.
As she sat on the edge of the bed, her phone buzzed once with a notification, then went dark again.
She picked it up.
The screen lit to the same message thread that had been open for days. Weeks, really. Her finger had hovered over it more than once.
Toni
The unsent message blinked in the composition box like it had been waiting all this time for permission to exist.
I wish you’d been there that night.
She read it again. And again.
Then locked the screen.
In the reflection of the framed photo next to her, the glow of the phone faded, leaving just her face, ghosted in the glass.
She leaned back against the pillows, pulling her knees up to her chest, and exhaled.
She hadn’t said it.
Not yet.
But she hadn’t deleted it either.
And for tonight, that was enough.
The glass-walled conference room at Roux Interiors always made Alix feel like she was being watched, like everything she did was magnified and scrutinized. But this morning, it didn’t bother her.
She adjusted the cuffs of her blouse one last time, smoothed her palm across the front of her slacks, and took a steadying breath. Her heart wasn’t racing like it used to before big moments—it just beat. Strong, even.
Renee sat at the far end of the table, flipping through the mock-up slides on her tablet with a glassy-eyed client beside her. The woman—Carolyn Lattimer, founder of a wellness startup—had the kind of poised, effortless glow Alix imagined came from drinking imported water and never missing a skincare routine. Her husband, seated next to her, nodded intermittently, clearly less interested in pendant lighting than his wife was.
“All right, Alix,” Renee said, glancing up with a small nod. “Let’s walk them through it.”
Alix stepped forward, sliding her iPad open as the flatscreen came to life behind her.
She spoke clearly, confidently—no fidgeting, no stumbles. Every design element had a reason. The warm neutrals were meant to ground the space; the mixed textures were an emotional cue to softness without fragility; the floating shelf detail in the meditation room? Intentional. Everything intentional.
She let her voice breathe between sentences. Let the silence fill with trust, not doubt.
When she finished, Carolyn was already smiling.
“I love it,” she said, folding her arms like the decision had just crystallized. “This is exactly what I was hoping for. You captured the spirit of the brand, the calm—it’s all there.”
Her husband nodded too now. “Even I could chill in a place like that.”
Alix let out the breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding and smiled—not overly wide, just enough.
Renee was next to speak. “Alix led the full creative on this one. Client touchpoints, moodboards, 3D modeling. I just… supervised.”
Carolyn’s eyes widened a little. “Wait, she’s your intern?”
“Technically,” Renee said with a shrug. “For now.”
The meeting wrapped a few minutes later with smiles and handshakes. Once the Lattimers were gone, Renee closed the conference room door behind them and turned to Alix.
“You crushed that.”
Alix gave a small, pleased nod, biting the inside of her cheek. “Thanks. I wasn’t sure if—”
“No,” Renee cut in, holding up a finger. “None of that. You were in control of the room. You knew your work. You didn’t oversell it, and you let it speak for itself. That was some real senior designer shit.”
Alix blinked. “Really?”
“Really. So—” Renee lifted a folder from the conference table and tapped it against her palm, eyes warm behind her wire-framed glasses. “We worked out the budget. It’s not full-time just yet, but we want to bring you on as a contractor after your internship ends. If you're interested.”
The words landed like a stone skipping across water—shock, joy, disbelief, pride—all in fast, overlapping ripples.
“I…” Alix started, then laughed once, breathless. “I mean—yes. Yes. Just point to where I need to sign.”
Renee grinned and handed her the folder. “Take it home, read it over, don’t rush. But it’s yours if you want it.”
Alix held the folder like it was made of something heavier than paper. She looked down at the cover, then up again.
“Thank you. For believing in me.”
“I didn’t believe,” Renee said, shouldering her bag with a smirk. “I knew.”
The office cleared out slowly after lunch, coworkers slipping away into the quiet hum of early afternoon. Alix sat at her desk for a while, staring out the window, Baton Rouge blinking under soft cloud cover.
Her phone buzzed.
A notification: On this day, one year ago…
She swiped it away without opening it.
Because she didn’t need reminders anymore. Not of the past. Not of him. Not of what it took to get here.
Alix turned back to her desk and pulled open a fresh notebook. The first page was blank.
And for the first time in a long time, that didn’t scare her.
It thrilled her.
She began to write.
~~~~~~~~~~
The building was quiet. Not silent—never truly—but quiet in the way a place gets when it's emptied of urgency. The glowing LSU seal on the wall above the entrance cast long shadows across the floor of the ops center. It was late enough that even the janitorial staff had clocked out, and Royce moved like a ghost through the hallways.
He didn’t text anyone. Didn’t want to see Demar’s half-ass grin or Jay’s attempts to joke the nerves away. This was something he needed to do by himself.
Inside the film room, Royce dropped his backpack with a soft thud and slid into the middle seat. He opened up his tablet and brought up Texas A&M’s last two games. Their offense. Their tendencies. All the shit he should know already but still needed to see for himself. Needed to feel it sink in.
The plays rolled by. The quarterback’s footwork. The left tackle’s reach. The way the tight end chipped before leaking out.
Royce’s pen scratched quietly across the edge of his notebook.
Double motion = jet sweep or QB power
RB slips backside blocks
WR2 key in 3rd down sets
He leaned closer to the screen. He wasn’t just watching anymore. He was hunting.
But halfway through the second quarter of their game against Florida, his eyes drifted. His hand stopped moving.
A window still open on his laptop caught his attention. A folder he hadn’t clicked in months. Romeo – Hudl Archives.
Royce stared at it, jaw set.
He shouldn’t. Not tonight.
But his hand moved on its own. Clicked. Loaded.
The footage filled the screen—grainy, sideline shot, low angle. Terrebonne vs. Destrehan. Their junior year. Romeo in a #4 jersey, chinstrap dangling, eyes locked ahead.
Royce exhaled through his nose. Sat back.
The first play was simple. Dive up the middle. Romeo slipped through traffic like he was dipped in oil, shoulders low, knees high. He took contact and spun off of it, then kept going. Twenty yards. Then thirty.
Royce remembered that game.
Romeo had kept telling everyone his brother was just as good. "Just wait," he’d said. "Twin’s gon’ run the whole state when he get a chance."
And then Romeo was dead two weeks later.
The same shooting that tore Royce’s body apart took Romeo’s heart. Right there on the sidewalk outside their home. Their sixteenth birthday had been six months earlier.
On the screen, Romeo ran with joy. Not just speed—joy. Like it all still meant something.
Royce pressed pause. The frame froze with Romeo mid-stride, turf flying from his cleats.
He didn’t blink for a long time.
Then he reached into his backpack, pulled out his own flash drive, and popped it into the side of the machine. Brought up a different window—his own film from U-High. The season after. His senior year. The comeback.
He played the first clip. A goal line stop against Rummel. He remembered the pop of the pads, the way the crowd lost their minds, the sweat that dripped into his eye when he screamed at the sideline.
But watching it now?
It felt hollow.
He exited the clip.
Then sat in the dark, staring at nothing for a full minute.
Eventually, he stood up. Packed his bag. Swiped the sweat from under his eyes even though he hadn’t really broken one.
And just before he left, he looked back at the screen.
“Should’ve been you out there too,” he said quietly.
He killed the power and walked out into the hallway, where his footsteps were the only sound. Game day was coming.
And it was still hard to breathe.
~~~~~~~~~~
The wind had that edge to it—the kind that rustled more than just leaves, the kind that crept down your sleeves no matter how tight your coat was zipped. Arianna buried her hands deeper into her pockets as she cut across the sidewalk on her way back from the coffee shop, eyes half-lidded against the cold, mind elsewhere.
She almost didn’t see it.
Taped unevenly to the bookstore’s front window, half-curled at the corners, was the poster. Bright white paper, bold block letters at the top: “Voices of the South Showcase – Featuring New & Emerging Poets”. Her name, small but there, was listed on the third line down. Arianna Williams. Black ink. Plain font. No frills.
She stopped.
It had been weeks since the performance—weeks of avoiding eye contact with anyone in the poetry group who asked her when she’d read again. She always said she was “still writing.” Still healing. Still figuring out what she wanted her voice to sound like.
But here it was. Proof that she'd spoken. That she’d let it out. That she’d been heard.
Arianna reached for her phone and took a picture through the glass. The reflection of the street behind her blurred across the image, softening the edges of the poster.
She stared at the photo for a long beat, then lowered her phone and kept walking.
—
Back at her apartment, the heater clanked like it was protesting every ounce of effort. Her roommate wasn’t home—still at her night class, probably—so Arianna moved quietly through the space, her steps slow, her energy low but steady.
The photo sat lit on her screen again. She enlarged it. Cropped it.
Printed it.
She didn’t have much in the way of décor. A few thrifted prints. Some old snapshots from a summer road trip she no longer liked to remember. But this—this felt different. Earned.
She slid the photo into a simple black frame and placed it on the edge of her desk. Then paused. Looked at the blank stretch of wall above her bed. Thought better of it.
Instead, she set it on her nightstand, beside the lamp with the chipped shade.
It wasn’t bold or showy. But it was there. A quiet reminder. She’d spoken. She’d made something real.
As she sat on the edge of the bed, her phone buzzed once with a notification, then went dark again.
She picked it up.
The screen lit to the same message thread that had been open for days. Weeks, really. Her finger had hovered over it more than once.
Toni
The unsent message blinked in the composition box like it had been waiting all this time for permission to exist.
I wish you’d been there that night.
She read it again. And again.
Then locked the screen.
In the reflection of the framed photo next to her, the glow of the phone faded, leaving just her face, ghosted in the glass.
She leaned back against the pillows, pulling her knees up to her chest, and exhaled.
She hadn’t said it.
Not yet.
But she hadn’t deleted it either.
And for tonight, that was enough.
-
Captain Canada
- Posts: 7866
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
Ending this with Poochie putting his ass down for putting his dick in one too many women is crazy work 
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16855
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Broken Record
The roar at Kyle Field rolled like thunder, a sound that didn’t just echo—it pressed down, heavy and wide, like the sky was trying to bury LSU’s momentum in the soil of College Station. The Aggies were driving, or trying to. Down 17–14 midway through the fourth, the maroon and white sideline buzzed with urgency. They had crossed their own 40, facing third and four, the kind of distance that felt like breathing room to a crowd that had tasted blood before.
Royce stood at the second level of the defense, helmet tugged down just over his brow, hands twitching at his sides. The LSU defense was already leaned forward, low in their stances, tired but bracing. Coach Lanning’s voice echoed in Royce’s head—Don’t think. React.
A&M came out with trips to the left, a tight end stacked behind the slot, trying to pull someone inside. The running back stood offset to the right of Connor Weigman, who clapped his hands once for motion, then again for the snap. The ball popped off the turf into Weigman’s hands clean and fast.
The play was instant—an inside zone, no frills.
Royce exploded through the A-gap like he’d been wound up for hours waiting to snap.
The center leaned left, and the guard tried to reach across, but Royce ducked under his pad level with a hard, violent rip. He met the running back—Rueben Owens—just as he hit the crease. Royce’s shoulder thudded into his midsection, arms wrapping and driving, feet churning through the collision. He didn’t just stop him. He reversed him, sent him stumbling back into the mess of helmets and turf behind the line of scrimmage.
The whistle blew as Owens hit the grass.
Fourth and two.
Kyle Field stuttered—like someone had cut the power to the noise. A quick hush rippled, replaced by groans, a few claps, the distinct snap of frustration from the home crowd. The chains didn’t move. The referee jogged in, spotted the ball, and signaled short.
The Aggies hesitated. Their offense looked to the sideline. The coaches looked back. For half a second, it seemed like they might go for it.
But then the punter trotted on.
Royce stayed crouched for a beat, staring at the spot where he’d buried Owens, his chest rising in heavy, measured pulls. Then he stood, turned to the sideline, and jogged back with no celebration, no chest pounding—just a small nod, like he’d done what needed doing. Like that tackle wasn’t rage or redemption, just football.
From the sideline, Coach Lanning shouted, “Hell of a play, Five!” but Royce didn’t acknowledge it. He was already unbuckling his chinstrap, staring at the field like it owed him something.
Back in coverage, the LSU returner gave a small wave to signal the fair catch.
The punt sailed high into the Texas night.
…
“Welcome back to Kyle Field where it’s still LSU 17, Texas A&M 14 with just under five minutes to play in the fourth quarter. Tigers got the stop they needed, but now the offense needs to put something together—and instead, they go three and out.”
“Yeah, that was a missed opportunity, Chris. LSU had a chance to chew some clock, maybe flip the field again, but that drive just never got off the ground. A short gain on first down, an incompletion on second, and then Rickie Collins took a sack on third—coverage held up, and he didn’t have a checkdown.”
“And now Jay Bramblett jogs on to punt it away. Kyle Field back on its feet as the Aggies will get one more shot, trailing by just a field goal. You can feel the momentum starting to lean maroon again.”
…
“Aggies take over at their own 32-yard line, just under four minutes to go, down three. First and ten—Weigman in the shotgun, Owens offset left… here’s the snap—”
“Screen!”
“Weigman dumps it off to Rueben Owens in the flat—he’s got blockers—cuts inside at the 40—now he’s in space! Midfield! Shoved out by Ashton Stamps near the LSU 41, and just like that, Texas A&M flips the field!”
“That’s a beautifully timed call. LSU brought a delayed pressure and the Aggies read it perfectly. Got the ball into Owens’ hands with green grass ahead, and he did the rest. That’s the kind of chunk play you draw up in the dirt.”
“Gain of 27, and the Aggies are rolling. LSU’s defense reeling now—they’ll have to tighten up in a hurry.”
…
"Second and goal from the twelve—Weigman in the gun, three wide to his right, Tease alone to the boundary. LSU showing pressure… here comes the blitz—Weigman stands tall—fires it left side—"
"Got him!"
"Caught! Touchdown, Texas A&M! Micah Tease on the quick slant! He beat the press, got inside leverage, and Weigman put it right on the numbers!"
"That’s clinic tape right there. Tease set it up with the stem, gave a little shoulder lean, and broke inside clean. Weigman didn’t blink. Huge answer from the Aggies here in the fourth quarter."
…
The roar from the Texas A&M student section was still echoing through Kyle Field as the LSU defense trotted back toward the sideline—only Royce didn’t follow. He stopped at the ten-yard line, hands on his hips, eyes locked on Jyaire.
“You missed that,” Royce snapped, voice cutting through the chaos. “That was yours.”
Jyaire slowed, but didn’t stop. “He ran it clean, bro—”
Royce took a hard step toward him. “He ran it clean because you gave him inside. You ain't even put a fucking hand on him.”
Jyaire turned now, defensive. “I was playin' outside shade like we—”
Royce cut him off, pointing toward the end zone. “You know we don’t shade on the goal line. You know that. Man, we been running this all motherfucking year!”
A few teammates glanced over but said nothing. The crowd was deafening, but Royce’s voice rose above it, raw and sharp.
“Do your damn job.”
Jyaire opened his mouth to respond, but Royce was already turning away, jaw tight, helmet dangling from his hand. He walked slowly back toward the LSU bench, chest heaving—not just from the run, but from the weight of it all.
…
“And now LSU, trailing 21-17, trying to mount a response here from their own 30-yard line. Rickie Collins in the shotgun—hands it to Kaleb Jackson up the middle—and the ball is out! The ball is out!”
“Oh no—A&M’s got it!”
“Piled up at the 34-yard line—and yes, the Aggies say they’ve recovered it! The officials are digging in—and it’s Texas A&M football! Kaleb Jackson lost it trying to fight for extra yards, and disaster strikes for the Tigers!”
“You hate to see it. Jackson’s been running hard all season, but right there, he just didn’t tuck it in tight. That Aggie defender got a helmet right on the ball. Man, what a swing.”
…
“First down for the Aggies at the LSU 47-yard line. Weigman in the shotgun, trips right, single receiver left.”
“Snap to Weigman—LSU brings five—Weigman drops back—fires deep down the right sideline—Tease is open at the 10—catches it in stride—touchdown, Texas A&M!”
“Unbelievable! Micah Tease got behind the secondary—looked like a blown coverage. He was wide open, and Weigman delivered a perfect pass. That's a 47-yard touchdown, and the Aggies extend their lead.”
“The extra point is good, and with that, Texas A&M takes a 28–17 lead over LSU. What a turn of events here in the fourth quarter!”
…
Royce sat motionless on the sideline, helmet off, sweat drying on his skin under the glaring lights of Kyle Field. His hands were locked behind his neck, head bowed low. He stared at the turf, seeing none of it. Hearing nothing but the muffled eruption of the Texas A&M crowd behind him as the replay of the last touchdown blared across the jumbotron.
28–17. LSU trailing.
He didn’t see the throw. Didn’t need to. He already knew what happened—Micah Tease breaking loose again. Another busted coverage. Another game that was supposed to prove something slipping away in the fourth quarter like they always seemed to.
He stayed still, the pain settling in layers—ankle still stiff from earlier, helmet mark creased across his forehead, and that hollow thump behind his ribs that only ever came when he knew they’d blown it.
Then he snapped.
Royce stood suddenly, too fast, his bench clattering behind him. “You gotta be fucking kidding me,” he muttered, voice rising as he looked down the sideline.
Kolaj, still with his helmet on, was seated nearby, avoiding eye contact. Royce didn’t care.
“You let that shit happen again?” Royce shouted, pointing in the direction of the end zone like it could erase what already happened. “Same motherfucker beat you—again?”
Ashton looked up, tight-lipped. “We was in two, bro. I had help over—”
“You had help from who?” Royce cut him off, stepping closer. “Ghosts? You ain’t had shit but green grass behind you!”
A few teammates turned but kept their distance. The trainers backed off. Nobody tried to calm him down. Not this time.
Royce kicked a Powerade bottle across the sideline, the plastic crumpling as it skidded into a metal cooler. He wasn’t trying to rally anybody. He wasn’t delivering speeches. He was just furious.
Another big game. Another letdown. Another goddamn collapse.
He paced a few steps, pulled at his mouthpiece like it was choking him, then dropped it onto the bench and sat again. This time he didn’t put his head in his hands.
He just sat there, jaw clenched, seething in full view of a stadium that already knew how the story would end.
…
"...and that’ll do it. The final seconds tick away here at Kyle Field, and in a fourth quarter LSU would love to forget, it’s the Aggies who surge ahead—outscoring the Tigers 20 to 3 in the final frame—to close this one out. Final score: Texas A&M 34, LSU 17.”
“Man, you could feel it shifting. LSU had that 17–14 lead early in the fourth, looked like they might control their own fate. But turnovers, blown assignments, and just a flat-out loss of composure turned this into a tailspin they couldn’t recover from.”
“This loss... it's a gut punch. It knocks LSU out of contention for the SEC Championship Game. The Aggies are ecstatic--they’re headed to Atlanta. And for LSU? Well, the playoff hopes just went from murky to near-impossible. It’s not all out of their hands just yet, but it might as well be.”
“You come into a game like this—everything on the line—and you expect your leaders to show up. And I thought some of those kids gave everything they could. But this team collapsed around them. That’s what this was. A collapse.”
“No way around it. LSU finishes the regular season with heartbreak here in College Station. Again, your final: Texas A&M 34, LSU 17. We’ll take a break and come back with postgame reaction, but the Tigers have a long flight ahead—and a lot of questions to answer.”
The roar at Kyle Field rolled like thunder, a sound that didn’t just echo—it pressed down, heavy and wide, like the sky was trying to bury LSU’s momentum in the soil of College Station. The Aggies were driving, or trying to. Down 17–14 midway through the fourth, the maroon and white sideline buzzed with urgency. They had crossed their own 40, facing third and four, the kind of distance that felt like breathing room to a crowd that had tasted blood before.
Royce stood at the second level of the defense, helmet tugged down just over his brow, hands twitching at his sides. The LSU defense was already leaned forward, low in their stances, tired but bracing. Coach Lanning’s voice echoed in Royce’s head—Don’t think. React.
A&M came out with trips to the left, a tight end stacked behind the slot, trying to pull someone inside. The running back stood offset to the right of Connor Weigman, who clapped his hands once for motion, then again for the snap. The ball popped off the turf into Weigman’s hands clean and fast.
The play was instant—an inside zone, no frills.
Royce exploded through the A-gap like he’d been wound up for hours waiting to snap.
The center leaned left, and the guard tried to reach across, but Royce ducked under his pad level with a hard, violent rip. He met the running back—Rueben Owens—just as he hit the crease. Royce’s shoulder thudded into his midsection, arms wrapping and driving, feet churning through the collision. He didn’t just stop him. He reversed him, sent him stumbling back into the mess of helmets and turf behind the line of scrimmage.
The whistle blew as Owens hit the grass.
Fourth and two.
Kyle Field stuttered—like someone had cut the power to the noise. A quick hush rippled, replaced by groans, a few claps, the distinct snap of frustration from the home crowd. The chains didn’t move. The referee jogged in, spotted the ball, and signaled short.
The Aggies hesitated. Their offense looked to the sideline. The coaches looked back. For half a second, it seemed like they might go for it.
But then the punter trotted on.
Royce stayed crouched for a beat, staring at the spot where he’d buried Owens, his chest rising in heavy, measured pulls. Then he stood, turned to the sideline, and jogged back with no celebration, no chest pounding—just a small nod, like he’d done what needed doing. Like that tackle wasn’t rage or redemption, just football.
From the sideline, Coach Lanning shouted, “Hell of a play, Five!” but Royce didn’t acknowledge it. He was already unbuckling his chinstrap, staring at the field like it owed him something.
Back in coverage, the LSU returner gave a small wave to signal the fair catch.
The punt sailed high into the Texas night.
…
“Welcome back to Kyle Field where it’s still LSU 17, Texas A&M 14 with just under five minutes to play in the fourth quarter. Tigers got the stop they needed, but now the offense needs to put something together—and instead, they go three and out.”
“Yeah, that was a missed opportunity, Chris. LSU had a chance to chew some clock, maybe flip the field again, but that drive just never got off the ground. A short gain on first down, an incompletion on second, and then Rickie Collins took a sack on third—coverage held up, and he didn’t have a checkdown.”
“And now Jay Bramblett jogs on to punt it away. Kyle Field back on its feet as the Aggies will get one more shot, trailing by just a field goal. You can feel the momentum starting to lean maroon again.”
…
“Aggies take over at their own 32-yard line, just under four minutes to go, down three. First and ten—Weigman in the shotgun, Owens offset left… here’s the snap—”
“Screen!”
“Weigman dumps it off to Rueben Owens in the flat—he’s got blockers—cuts inside at the 40—now he’s in space! Midfield! Shoved out by Ashton Stamps near the LSU 41, and just like that, Texas A&M flips the field!”
“That’s a beautifully timed call. LSU brought a delayed pressure and the Aggies read it perfectly. Got the ball into Owens’ hands with green grass ahead, and he did the rest. That’s the kind of chunk play you draw up in the dirt.”
“Gain of 27, and the Aggies are rolling. LSU’s defense reeling now—they’ll have to tighten up in a hurry.”
…
"Second and goal from the twelve—Weigman in the gun, three wide to his right, Tease alone to the boundary. LSU showing pressure… here comes the blitz—Weigman stands tall—fires it left side—"
"Got him!"
"Caught! Touchdown, Texas A&M! Micah Tease on the quick slant! He beat the press, got inside leverage, and Weigman put it right on the numbers!"
"That’s clinic tape right there. Tease set it up with the stem, gave a little shoulder lean, and broke inside clean. Weigman didn’t blink. Huge answer from the Aggies here in the fourth quarter."
…
The roar from the Texas A&M student section was still echoing through Kyle Field as the LSU defense trotted back toward the sideline—only Royce didn’t follow. He stopped at the ten-yard line, hands on his hips, eyes locked on Jyaire.
“You missed that,” Royce snapped, voice cutting through the chaos. “That was yours.”
Jyaire slowed, but didn’t stop. “He ran it clean, bro—”
Royce took a hard step toward him. “He ran it clean because you gave him inside. You ain't even put a fucking hand on him.”
Jyaire turned now, defensive. “I was playin' outside shade like we—”
Royce cut him off, pointing toward the end zone. “You know we don’t shade on the goal line. You know that. Man, we been running this all motherfucking year!”
A few teammates glanced over but said nothing. The crowd was deafening, but Royce’s voice rose above it, raw and sharp.
“Do your damn job.”
Jyaire opened his mouth to respond, but Royce was already turning away, jaw tight, helmet dangling from his hand. He walked slowly back toward the LSU bench, chest heaving—not just from the run, but from the weight of it all.
…
“And now LSU, trailing 21-17, trying to mount a response here from their own 30-yard line. Rickie Collins in the shotgun—hands it to Kaleb Jackson up the middle—and the ball is out! The ball is out!”
“Oh no—A&M’s got it!”
“Piled up at the 34-yard line—and yes, the Aggies say they’ve recovered it! The officials are digging in—and it’s Texas A&M football! Kaleb Jackson lost it trying to fight for extra yards, and disaster strikes for the Tigers!”
“You hate to see it. Jackson’s been running hard all season, but right there, he just didn’t tuck it in tight. That Aggie defender got a helmet right on the ball. Man, what a swing.”
…
“First down for the Aggies at the LSU 47-yard line. Weigman in the shotgun, trips right, single receiver left.”
“Snap to Weigman—LSU brings five—Weigman drops back—fires deep down the right sideline—Tease is open at the 10—catches it in stride—touchdown, Texas A&M!”
“Unbelievable! Micah Tease got behind the secondary—looked like a blown coverage. He was wide open, and Weigman delivered a perfect pass. That's a 47-yard touchdown, and the Aggies extend their lead.”
“The extra point is good, and with that, Texas A&M takes a 28–17 lead over LSU. What a turn of events here in the fourth quarter!”
…
Royce sat motionless on the sideline, helmet off, sweat drying on his skin under the glaring lights of Kyle Field. His hands were locked behind his neck, head bowed low. He stared at the turf, seeing none of it. Hearing nothing but the muffled eruption of the Texas A&M crowd behind him as the replay of the last touchdown blared across the jumbotron.
28–17. LSU trailing.
He didn’t see the throw. Didn’t need to. He already knew what happened—Micah Tease breaking loose again. Another busted coverage. Another game that was supposed to prove something slipping away in the fourth quarter like they always seemed to.
He stayed still, the pain settling in layers—ankle still stiff from earlier, helmet mark creased across his forehead, and that hollow thump behind his ribs that only ever came when he knew they’d blown it.
Then he snapped.
Royce stood suddenly, too fast, his bench clattering behind him. “You gotta be fucking kidding me,” he muttered, voice rising as he looked down the sideline.
Kolaj, still with his helmet on, was seated nearby, avoiding eye contact. Royce didn’t care.
“You let that shit happen again?” Royce shouted, pointing in the direction of the end zone like it could erase what already happened. “Same motherfucker beat you—again?”
Ashton looked up, tight-lipped. “We was in two, bro. I had help over—”
“You had help from who?” Royce cut him off, stepping closer. “Ghosts? You ain’t had shit but green grass behind you!”
A few teammates turned but kept their distance. The trainers backed off. Nobody tried to calm him down. Not this time.
Royce kicked a Powerade bottle across the sideline, the plastic crumpling as it skidded into a metal cooler. He wasn’t trying to rally anybody. He wasn’t delivering speeches. He was just furious.
Another big game. Another letdown. Another goddamn collapse.
He paced a few steps, pulled at his mouthpiece like it was choking him, then dropped it onto the bench and sat again. This time he didn’t put his head in his hands.
He just sat there, jaw clenched, seething in full view of a stadium that already knew how the story would end.
…
"...and that’ll do it. The final seconds tick away here at Kyle Field, and in a fourth quarter LSU would love to forget, it’s the Aggies who surge ahead—outscoring the Tigers 20 to 3 in the final frame—to close this one out. Final score: Texas A&M 34, LSU 17.”
“Man, you could feel it shifting. LSU had that 17–14 lead early in the fourth, looked like they might control their own fate. But turnovers, blown assignments, and just a flat-out loss of composure turned this into a tailspin they couldn’t recover from.”
“This loss... it's a gut punch. It knocks LSU out of contention for the SEC Championship Game. The Aggies are ecstatic--they’re headed to Atlanta. And for LSU? Well, the playoff hopes just went from murky to near-impossible. It’s not all out of their hands just yet, but it might as well be.”
“You come into a game like this—everything on the line—and you expect your leaders to show up. And I thought some of those kids gave everything they could. But this team collapsed around them. That’s what this was. A collapse.”
“No way around it. LSU finishes the regular season with heartbreak here in College Station. Again, your final: Texas A&M 34, LSU 17. We’ll take a break and come back with postgame reaction, but the Tigers have a long flight ahead—and a lot of questions to answer.”
-
Soapy
- Posts: 16602
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Dying to Live
Captain Canada wrote: ↑12 May 2025, 18:52Ending this with Poochie putting his ass down for putting his dick in one too many women is crazy work
might fuck around and put something on the grill that day
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 7866
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
Goddamn, y’all got cooked like that??
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djp73
- Posts: 13184
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Dying to Live
Will be interesting to see how things shake out with the playoffs. Feels like yall can still get in but going to need to clean things up if you’re going to win any