The Return/Part 3 of The Sixth Degree

Sol-o-mon's back and I'm better than ev-er! I couldn't resist. I wrote "I'm back," and the Hess Truck song popped into my head, so . . .
Anyway . . . part three of THE SIXTH DEGREE!!

Yolanda Martinez turned on her computer and drummed her fingers impatiently as she waited for it to warm up. Maybe I should buy a new computer, she thought as she ruefully eyed her six year-old desktop. ’Course, the kids gotta come first, as the sound of three year-old playing tag wafted in through the open window of her study. It wasn’t really a study, more of a closet, down to the shelf a foot above her head. And the window wasn’t really a window, more of a hole cut in the wall with a hacksaw by an ex-boyfriend, coerced into doing it by the act that had produced the three kids playing outside.
The computer booted up and Yolanda wasted no time in going onto the long-distance schooling website, where she logged in and started her math lesson. I know it’s not the best way to get an education, she thought, but it’s all I got.
The door of her study banged open. Her oldest son, Samson, stood in the entrance. The thirteen year old boy had always been the child that had given her the most grief, and now she was afraid that he would get caught up in this nonsense with the Bloods and the Crips.
“Moms, I’m goin’ out.”
“Where?”
“To Mr. Houston’s house. I still have that job mowing his lawn for the rest of the month.”
Yolanda glanced at the clock on her computer. “Okay, but you gotta be back by five.”
“A’ight. See ya.”
He left the door open on the way out.

The Sixth Degree (Part 2)

Note to Readers:

Certain sections of this serial, THE SIXTH DEGREE, can be read in any order. When you (the reader) need to have read a previous section, I (Solomon, the author of THE SIXTH DEGREE) will put in one of those sections that say "Previously on THE SIXTH DEGREE . . ." and then everybody will be happy, and if you're not, then go to hell, you f*cker.

Charlie Kingston gripped the baseball and slowly pulled it out of his mitt. He eyed the man at bat, his best friend, Glen MacDougal, and lifted his right leg slowly, the way his idol, Randy Johnson did it on TV. He drew back his left arm and held it there for second, then whipped it forward and let the ball escape his grasp. The red-stitched ball flew through the air and was met by the aluminum bat as Glen hacked forward and hit the ball, more by luck than anything else.
The ball quickly sailed high into the air, over the fence marking the boys’ baseball field and landed in the lake, startling a placid fisherman, who quickly recovered and began yelling obscenities to the boys, much to their enjoyment.
Charlie looked over at Glen and saw that instead of running the bases frantically, or laughing at the fisher’s displeasure, as the other boys were doing, he was instead looking at the fence. Charlie looked and soon understood Glen’s fascination: Daniela Cortez was standing there, with her girlfriends, watching the game. But as Charlie turned to look, she about-faced and began to leave the field.
Charlie jogged over, abandoning the fallen apart game, and patted his friend on the back. “Come on, dude. You’ve been after her since summer started, but you haven’t said a word to her.”
“Yeah, but what could I say?” Glen sighed. “We ain’t got nothing in common, ’cept the fact that we’re both minorities, an’ so is everybody else. You’re the only white kid here.”
Charlie looked around. “Well, you both . . . like . . . to . . . .” He trailed off.
Glen bent down to tie his shoe. “C, give it up. You know I ain’t got no chance with her.” He stood up. “You’d have a better chance askin’ her out than me, even though you sweat like a dog when you talk to a girl.” He pushed up his glasses. “I’m outta here.”
Charlie watched him go, his friend’s muscular frame noticeable as he pushed through the smaller kids, watched him pass an old, scruffy man as he went through the gate on his way home, watched until he turned a corner and was out of sight.

New Thing

Okay, it's been a while, but I'm back, AND I have posts, not some mother f*cking public service announcement begging for ideas. My creative fires are stoked, my literary engines are on, it's go-time baby! So let's get this second coming started! I'm doing a serial and it's called, (drumroll) please) duhduhduhduhdudhduhduhduhduhduhduhduhduhduhduhduhduhduh . . . . . . SIXTH DEGREE! (tentatively titled, in case any copyright infringement lawsuits come up ) Anyway, here's the first installment:

James Olwegenae paced the waiting room. My FUCKING sister, he thought angrily. Why the FUCK couldn't she get married and settle down and have some OTHER bastard have to go through this shit of waiting for her bastard child to get itself born. And why the HELL am I here? God knows I don't owe the slut nothin', especially after her FUCKING retard mutt trashed my place. Why the FUCK couldn't she get herself fucked by the wrong person an' die, or get the shit beat outta her, like happens to half the ho's out there? SHIT. God knows I got other things to do more important than waiting for my sister's baby to get born, so she can get it into the foster care system.
James' train of thought was interrupted by a scruffy-looking, bearded, white man in a light blue suit and a green and purple striped tie who shambled into the empty waiting room, took out a newspaper and sat down. James offered a polite "Hello," that was gruffly returned. James resumed his pacing and his thoughts.
The command came from nowhere. "Sit down." James stopped and looked around, but there was no one there but the bearded man and himself. He continued his pacing, thinking he had been mistaken.
"Sit down." This time, there was no mistaking the note of command in the voice. James stopped in his tracks. Then he sat.
The bearded man hrumphed and continued his reading.
At that moment, an orderly came out of the waiting room and stammered, "Mr. Ole-wedge-, I mean, Mr. Old-wejen-, no, sorry, Mr. -"
"Olwegenae," James supplied.
"Right. Mr. Ole-wej-in-eye, your nephew has been born. Would you like to come . . . in . . . and . . . see?" The orderly stopped and watched as James hefted his 6'6" frame out of the tiny waiting room chair.
"No thanks." James left the room.

Communication

OK, readers. Sorry about the long gap between posts. I have just been STRAPPED for ideas. So, to help keep the blog alive, if you have an idea for a blog, please send it to me. And don't, I repeat, DON'T start your own f*cking blog and blog about it yourself. Be generous and send ideas to ME!

Tears of Gaia

How do you feel about the Earth? Have you never really thought about it? Do you think that this global warming stuff is a load of bullsh*t? Do you think that people should stop using plastic bags and cars and oil and fossil fuels and if you don't plant at least one tree, you're a total a**hole, not worthy to be a part of Mother Earth? Well, I've watched Al Gore's An Inconvinient Truth. I believe that global warming is real. And I think that we, as the supposedly most advanced species on the planet, we need to do more for this planet, because it's our f*cking home, and even if we were going to leave it tomorrow, we should still clean it up and leave it better thane we left it. Our species has overpopulated this rock, dumped our sh*t into the lakes, rivers and oceans, taken its resources and f*cked up the air we breathe. We, homo sapiens have effectively signed our own death warrant, as well as the death warrant of every other creature on this planet. But we aren't dead yet. We can change our ways, get off the path we're headed down, and fix our mistakes. But we have to do it soon, before all the sh*t we've done turns our path into a one-way street, with no exits. So, un-f*ck this planet, before our bastard child of the apocalypse is born. Think about it.