Chicken Little (An Urban Story) Vol. 1 Part 2

Chicken Little: Haunted Blood (An Urban Story) Vol. 1 Part 2

Copyright K. Omodele 2016

The minute Glass’ gun popped out, I realized – we got set up, plain and simple. How they, and them alone, get guns up in The Turntable?

Then, soon as Mongrel grabbed the tool from out coward-rass Glass’ hand, Bull got low and dashed for the bar. That man dove head-first like some Olympic diver, clear over the counter. And the same time Bull moved right, me, Doc, English and them girls took off to the left. Which exposed Shortman with that half-built spliff in his hand.

He looked up but it was too late. With his back against the wall, all he could do was duck as Mongrel and Boo aimed at him.

Then the shots thundered. BADAP! BADAP! BADAP! BRAP! BRAP!

Over and over, booming over the music, ’til even the music stopped dead.

Then, all you could hear was shots. BLAM! BLAM! BRAM!

People scrambled for the door. No screaming, just silent, frantic like ants. I turned sideways, squeezing myself behind a skinny post that couldn’t be no more than six-inch wide. Buddy-bye and Mammal ducked behind two tables. Doc and English and the rest of them? I didn’t even see where they’d run and gone.

Shortman was taking shots. He tried to run, but the shots penetrated, twisted and turned his body, like he doing the Rocking Dolly. Then he dropped, his navy-blue Sergio Techini sweat suit turning black with blood.

Then, all of a sudden, the shots stopped. Them dutty niggas backed up a couple steps, looked around like they snap out a daze. Boo turned and dumped two shots into the bar before all of them ran to the door, guns held high. Before they exited, Mongrel swerved his tool around, threatening.

Then they were gone.

Two, maybe three minutes; that’s how quick the whole bangarang played out – from the time Bull pointed them out to the moment they hauled rass out the door. Later, Shortman said that the first time he noticed something wrong was the instant Bull started yapping with Glass. Everything after that was a blur to him.

Looking back, it seemed longer; but that’s because I remember every little thing. I don’t panic, even in the middle of chaos. It don’t matter if it feels like you stewing in a pressure cooker, you can’t allow your emotions to swallow you up.

With them fools gone, the remnants re-surfaced from various crevices and corners. A set of girls ran out babbling, down from the DJ booth. My ears were buzzing and my eyes and nose were runny from all the lingering gun smoke.

I instructed myself: settle down! Find the crew! Don’t rush outside into another ambush like some lamb to a slaughter! I looked around the dancehall carefully.

English, Doc, Mammal and Buddy-bye gathered round and I saw adrenalin pumping through their temples and flaring open their nostrils. Bull stomped over from behind the bar and we began searching for Shortman, but couldn’t find him on the floor.

The Women’s bathroom door was wide open so, slowly, we peered in.

The dingy-white and black tiles had a path of smeared blood leading to a stall. Three girls squeezed together by a sink, flinching when they saw us. One of them hollered out.

“He crawled in deh. He in there!” Pointed at the stall.

Shortman was curled up, hugging the toilet like salvation. His head propped awkward on the side of the bowl, his torso tensed. He was dry-heaving and his sweatshirt  was soggy wet. His footballer’s legs lay sprawled like some pick-up stix. When Bull pried his arms from the toilet and pulled him out the stall, Shortman had tears streaming down his face but he wasn’t crying; his eyes just shifted looking around the bathroom.

I knew exactly what he was thinking – we got set up.

I nodded.

Bull grinded his teeth hard like he was chewing wire.

Shortman gurgled. “Water. Thirsty.” He struggled to breathe. “Gimmie some water.” His teeth pink with blood and slobber.

Suddenly, sirens wailed and someone yelled.

“The Beast.”

Everybody with us turned to exit, except Shortman, of course. Half of we had warrants, the other half, illegal; so, none of us wanted to take a check. As we filed out the bathroom, fire fighters streamed through Turntable’s front door, followed by a gang of police and EMS.

I pulled my Kangol brim low over my brows and walked out, calm and natural, right past them. I kept thinking, don’t freeze up. Don’t look away but at the same time, don’t stare at nobody! That ole crow see fear, it will take set and prey on you; might make this a longer, colder, sitting-behind-bars night.

At the door I turned and saw them people lift Shortman out the restroom and lay him on the floor in front Bob Marley, smiling with his guitar. I wondered what Bob might’ve been singing – Woman hold her head and cry??

The EMS converged on Shortman like a pack of wild dogs and cut his pants off him.

I stepped into the night and the air slapped me in the face. A news camera’s light blinded me. I looked down, brim down; said nothing, just kissed my teeth and sidestepped the bag of excitement. I darted down the alley to where I’d parked round behind the nightclub. Bull had done cranked up his whip and had pulled beside my beamer, waiting. D.C. was bout to run red. Board box under ground by time we done.

The Harshness had stolen our night.


Start from the beginning:

Chicken Little and the Carrion Crow

Chick Little (An Urban Story) Vol. 1 Part 1


Chicken Little (Urban Story)

Chicken Little: Haunted Blood (An Urban Story) Vol. 1; Part 1
copyright K. Omodele 2016
*(This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to actual people or situations is purely coincidental.)

It was Doc birthnight we had come to celebrate but every last one of us was tight and frost because, for the second week in a row, the club owner – Mackie, that battyhole, had some new security enforcing people from bringing gun inside The Turntable. So that night we marched into the little match-box dance hall club hard and fast like the Dirty Dozen and posted up in front we wall.

Now when I say “our wall”, I mean everybody and they mother know that every, single club night, that space up under the DJ booth balcony, from the edge of that larger-than-life Bob Marley mural over to the women’s restroom – all that space is our own. It bought and paid for with sheer testosterone and gun sulfur. Whensoever we popped in, people just slide over to the side and relinquish we space. Regulars knew that; next week, a baby going born in England and he going know that. No long story; no long talk; no big fucking deal.

So, we had we backs to the wall, women’s restroom ‘pon we right-hand side, dance floor straight ahead. Was me, my cousin Bull, the two brothers Shortman and Doc, Brixton, Dapper, English, Bim, Mammal, Buddy-Bye, Star Boy and Trigger. Buddy-Bye bored through the crowd headed for the bar.

Bull turned ’round grinning and shouted in my ear over the music. “Wha’ the fuck do Mackie? A few little shooting and now the damn Secret Service manning the door.”
I didn’t share the laugh. “I feel naked, no fuck.” I looked around the club.
Bull did the same. “Yo, Chicken. Culture and Joe not coming?”
I shrugged. “Ever since Lyla, Joe been acting certain way, like if he is the only man in the whole world raising a youth without a babymother.”
“I feel for him; that man have some real big man responsibilities now.”
I thought about it. But what about Culture and Ray-Ray and the rest of them? They don’t never miss no party.
I turned to Doc. “Blessed earthday, Bredren.”
Buddy-Bye resurfaced with a waitress and two wash basins full a Moet bottles on ice, plus two cases of Heineken and Guinness. Soon as he set them on the floor, hands plunged in and rummaged through the basin and boxes of beer. I came up with two Moet, for me and Shortman, who started crushing weed in his hand, preparing to build a spliff.
The whole crew was hyped. The spot down in Southeast was bubbling over thirty grand a day, more than triple the amount we made the first day we set up shop, which was a month before. Not bad for a set of teens – we was definitely flexing, smelling weself.

So, now we’re guzzling bottles. The music was pounding, the place ram-packed with tension and swagger. The air, hot and hypnotic from ganja smoke and spilled-liquor fumes and too many black people cramped in too small a space. Girls were winding up they waistlines, riding the booming baseline with perfect timing. Knowing full-well a man’s eyes would only linger on any one of them for a couple seconds, the winding competition between them girls was fierce; you hear?
But as man, we couldn’t afford to turn fool over pum-pum; so real road niggas’ eyes kept shiftin from predator to girl prey, like young lions scouting the savannah for enemies and food. That possie over there watching that one over there. All man under a constant state of alert.
Shortman reached across me and handed Doc the new-built, big-head spliff, then started building a next one. English roped in some girls, waving them in from off the dance floor. The music slowed to a crawl…then stopped.
Crowd movement settled.
Grammatica The Selector’s voice rang out through the speakers.
“Hold tight, all massive and crew. Here comes a chune by the one-and-only Junior Reid, a brand new thing mashing up Jamdung and Foreign. Turntable LISTEN!”

Junior Reid sing-jayed the Intro:
“Moder vamp-ires of the ci-ty/ haunted blood, blo-od/ You coulda come from Rema, you coulda come from Jungle/coulda come from Firehouse or you come from Tower Hill/One blood, one blood, one blood…”

When the baseline dropped in, the whole dancehall nearly tear down. It was bare bedlam. Lighters flicked on, aerosol-can torches spewing flames out like some ole, spit-fire dragons. Sirens sounded, a bomb warning wailed. Now, even the lions were prancing, bouncing with gun fingers in the air, busting blanks.
I was thinking, Mackie fucking lucky he stopped we from bringing guns in here tonight, f’real. The amount of gunshots that woulda burst for One Blood woulda turn his ceiling into swiss cheese.
With the drum and bass and the Moet talking to me, plus the smell of sticky girls and sexy ganja, I was sailing higher than a frigging kite. And right about that time, Bull turned around and said to me:
“Wrangla them over there by the Galaga.” He was gesturing behind him.
Soon as he said it, that ole, dutty, stinking crow cawed. Sobered me straight, right and fast. I had to rise up on my Bally boot toes to catch a glimpse over Bull shoulder but I spotted them in the corner by the video game in the back of the club. They were definitely watching us, plotting. And when our eyes locked, the four of them fanned out onto the dance floor, skanking like wasn’t nothing wrong.
And that was all wrong!

They spread out, bouncing around with some random girls, but we could see them lurking – Wrangla and Glass to the left, Mongrel and Boo on the right. I’m thinking: four of them; twelve of we. Ever since Lyla get licked down right outside the club, Mackie was not skinning or grinning with sercurity, nobody couldn’t even slip by the metal detector with piece of cigarette foil paper under their clothes. So, what they could try? We had the numbers.
But then, Glass dallied through the crowd, rushing our way. Off pure reflex and instinct, my gun hand dug down into my pants waist, knowing better, but still hoping to God for a miracle.
Shit! Heard that crow caw again. I definitely wasn’t high no more.

Let me tell you, Bull solid like a pillar or post, and it was hard to see over his shoulder. Next thing I know, though, Glass was standing with his hands buried in his jacket pockets, ranting and railing off, nearly chest to chest with Bull. I couldn’t hear a word for sake of the thumping music; but he was running off his mouth non-stop and I knew it was gun talk, wicked talk, cause he was screwing up his mouth like he sucking a green mango or something so. His hands were poking around in his pockets emphasizing whatever foolishness was coming out his mouth.
On my left, Doc and English inched wide. Shortman, on my right, ain’t notice nothing yet and his short rass definitely couldn’t see over Bull or the crowd, so he was still picking stems out the weed, preparing to roll.
And then, Mongrel and Boo squeezed through the crowded floor and drew up beside Glass, who on cue, backed a Glock .40 out his coat pocket and carried on chatting even more fuckery, going on like a real, big-pussy gyal, now that he had representation beside him.
I gripped the Moet bottle neck. Doc and English did the same.
Bull inched up, closing the gap between him and yappy-yappy mouth Glass. Which in, caught Glass in a place somewhere between disbelief and feeling disrespected. His eyes bulged with confusion.
Mongrel looked at Glass with sour disgust, spit some cuss words at him and snatched the tool right out his confederate’s hand. At the same time, Boo backed out a nine millimeter. In one fluid, in-sync motion, the two of them raised the machines and aimed.

Four Methods To Help Writers Get Started

Four Methods To Help Writers Get Started
By Sabrina copyright 2016
Special Thank to @TheAbeng #TheAbeng

Exploring and Mapping Potential Topics/Subjects

Here are four writing strategies for you to use to help you get started, exploring and mapping out potential topic/subject.

1.) Free writing: Try to write freely without stopping for a set period of time with the goal of writing the first thought that comes to mind. If you get stuck don’t stop, just push yourself and fill in with phrases like “mmm”, “then what”, “blah-blah”, or “what else”. Don’t be bothered with your grammar, punctuation or spelling for now. Let your ideas flow freely.

2.) Brainstorming: Like free writing only now you can take your time to stop and think as you create a list of your ideas. As you think about a topic or subject, write down words or phases that come to mind. Don’t spend time worrying about your spelling or grammar. You can proof read later when you finish.

3.) Clustering: Write a topic word or phase in the middle of your paper and circle it. Then write another word or idea related to the topic word or phrase. Continue and then look for patterns to see where the ideas seem to be leading you.

4.) Questioning: Think about your topic or subject as a news story and ask yourself those journalistic questions: who? what? when? where? why? and how? or what is involved? Where did something happen? Why and how did the situation change?


Please send all blog submissions to

The Reluctant Librarian: Black Coffee, No Bitches.

BTS Original: The Reluctant Librarian

The Reluctant Librarian: Black Coffee, No Bitches.
Copyright 2016 Kaya Omodele @TheAbeng #Abeng

7:30 am Monday

I shoulder-strapped my mesh gym bag, loaded with twenty pounds of notebooks, folders, and a year’s worth of Writer’s Digest, and lugged it through the morning chill, across the prison yard to the library, where I copped some peace and quiet behind the desk, by my damn self. I like being alone like this; I can hear myself think, hear pages turn, Jah know, I can even hear my Empress, a two-and-a-half-hour drive away in Atlanta, getting ready for work.

I absolutely love this time of day, blissful calmness before people start dropping in, dropping questions about books; dropping books in the book-return bin; dropping by to pick up books; and, worst of all, dropping by to chat a bag of fuckery that ain’t got no bearing on the price of tea in China.

Down here in the morning, it’s just me and my thoughts and this whole library of books stacked in order by the might of my very own hand. These books don’t trouble me; they don’t even try holding conversation with me; and they damn sure never grate my nerves, spitting guile all the while. Up there in the block, there’s way too much noise and empty barrels.
“Nigga, you see that bitch Nikki on the Hip-Hop awards?”
“My Nigga, I showed you my photos. I ain’t tripping on that bitch; I got bad bitches.”
“Stop! You ain’t got no Nikki Minaj-type bad bitch, tho, my Nigga.”
Nigga, Nigga, Nigga; Bitch, bitch, bitch… Dumb-ass dialogue be corroding my nerves like acid, coming like pestilence swarming out, devouring my tranquility.

So, savoring this solace, I sip a two-fist sized cup of 190-degree, commissary-gouged, 100% Columbian blend, which I always take dark and natural like I love my women-no sugar, no bleaching. Now all I need is the other side of this fence and my Empress- ain’t got no bad bitches.
You done know!

Kaya Omodele
The Abeng and My Conscious Pen


Have something to share? Send all submissions and queries to