Summin' I wrote...

This is tha' start of a story/book/piece (don't really know what it's gonna be, if anything truthfully lol) that I wrote and I wanted to share. Any feedback is welcome and appreciated...and if this is in tha wrong thread any mod can feel free to move it...Peace




“Damn it feel good out here tonight. It’s like 70 degrees outside.” I start laughing to myself as I think of one of my favorite skits off an old Wu-Tang album.”Tha’ outdoors...Tha’ fresh outdoors. Hahaha. Yo’ Tha’ WU ” shaking my head, reminiscing....”Tha’ Wu was my ? back in tha’ 90's son. Word up.” as I slap my boy, Walt, a pound. Walt’s a tall, slim kid that was born and raised in the south, but share’s my love of Hip-Hop. We’ve been cool for about 15 years now. He got my back, and I got his.
“Yo G Who dat?” Walt asks me as a silver Mustang pulls up. “Ay, you know this cat pullin’ up?”
“Naw Walt. You just p-noid cuz you high fam. Every time we burn, you get on some... ‘Everybody wanna’ get us ’...type ? . You know what? You can’t smoke wit’ me NO MORE Hahaha. All you do is blow my high. Just put ya’ gun on safety, Wild Bill.” I say sarcastically.
“Yo ? MOVE!! ” Walt pulls out his silver 380 and pulls the trigger. BLAW BLAW
Off of instinct, I pull out my all black 9mm, and turn to shoot. I see three people running at me with bad intentions. They’re running through my mom's neighbor’s yard, headed right towards me and Walt. These dudes were either some stick up boys, or 5-0. Either way, it wasn’t gonna’ be good. I get off three shots quickly. BLAM BLAM BLAM!! My heart is beating all the way up to my throat. I’m sweating and heated that somebody is trying to take me out, in front of my mom’s house. MY MOM’S HOUSE!! As I’m heading up the front stairs,I go to plant my foot down and stumble up the stairs. Walt grabs me by the hand and pulls me up. I turn to point my gun and shoot again, I realize I can’t move my arm. When I look down, I see a whole in the right side of my crispy white Polo tee shirt. As I scan down further, I see blood pouring out of my grey Polo velour sweats, dripping on my red and grey Jordans.
As I lay on my mom’s porch, fading in and out of consciousness and bleeding from bullet wholes, I can’t help but think back to my mid to late teens.
You couldn’t tell me the world didn’t begin and end with the Wu-Tang Clan. I put Wu-Tang symbols on every piece of paper I turned in in high school. You see, I got shipped down south after a rough childhood in the streets of New York. Brooklyn to be exact. I wasn’t so much,”molded”, by the city I grew up in, as much as I was, “possessed”, by the spirit of Hip-Hop. So every paper, test, or even pop quiz I turned in to a teacher had some sort of Hip-Hop tag on it. Being down south, tagging papers with strictly East Coast lyrics on it didn’t exactly sit well with my teachers. Come to think of it, my mom hated that ? too. I didn’t care though. I was Hip-Hop and Hip-Hop was me. Now that I think back, Hip-Hop and street life have been fighting a never ending war inside me for as long as I can remember. I think it probably started back in ‘86, when I was 10, running the streets of Brooklyn............

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It was a steamy summer afternoon in Brooklyn. It had to be 95 degrees if it were 10 degrees. Fire hydrants on every block were spewing massive amounts of water everywhere. All the local kids were embroiled in water games on every corner. The older kids were fulfilling their teenage urges of ? . Playing in the water with the girls, getting cheap feels on the future mothers of America on any opportunity. Some of the older kids sit on the sidelines, more concerned with their tough image then youthful angst. These kids are your stereotypical, wanna-be drug dealers. They don’t have the heart to sell drugs, but they are very much infatuated with the mere thought of it. Further down the block are the real “street soldiers”. They keep an eye on all the younger kids, making sure no one is harmed on this sweltering dog day afternoon. They live by a different code from others in society, yet they still fall into the old cliche, “It takes a village”. The stoops are also full of silver haired baby boomers, many of whom have never even left the cosy confines of the borough Brooklyn. Yep, just another average day in New York City’s biggest borough.
My name is Genovese Castellano. Everybody calls me GC or simply G. I’m not what your thinking either. My mother is Italian, while my father is black. So I look Spanish, but have an Italian name. I live in a, shall I say, multi-cultural environment. There are Black, Jamaican, Dominican, Italian, Puerto Rican and African people all on the same block. For the most part, they all got along too. Notice I said, for the most part. We definitely had our fare share of problems. Like this one summer day we were just talking about.........
“Yo Don’t even think about gettin’ my sneaks wet click-click!!” yells a stout, 19 year-old Puerto Rican kid. “You wet me up, it’s gonna’ take more than a ? ’ spear to keep me from ? ’ you up ” Pablo was a wanna-be tough guy. He always had harsh words for the African kids that lived on the end of the block. “I’m tellin’ you ROOTS don’t ? wit’ me today!"
"Yo chill Pablo!! Them kids not ? ' wit' you. Leave'em alone before I come throw YOU in tha water B!" Pablo looks to see who's stickin' up for tha' African kid when he sees it's Nomar posted on a nearby stoop. Everybody calls him Pop or Papi. He's pretty much commander and chief of this area of Brooklyn and definitely not to be played wit'. "I was just ? ' wit'em Papi. I wasn't gonna do nuttin' to him. Go on kid. I was just playin'." A visibly shaken Pablo offers tha kid his hand for a pound but tha' boy sticks his tongue out and runs back towards tha water. Papi laughs while he continues scannin' tha' block from his stoop...





That's all I got so far...not even sure if I'm gonna go back to it but I figured I post up anyway...