I haven’t always lived in the nice part of town, like I do now.
I’ve lived in the posh areas, but I’ve liked in the ghetto as well.
3AM, you hear the helicopter above your house, the huge light sweeping the streets, and over the loudspeaker they say, “lock all your doors and windows, we’re looking for someone with this description…”
People will joke around and say, “I’m in the ghetto, ratatata!”
They haven’t been scared for their lives, it does something to you…
Ontario, California.
That’s where I lived.
40 minutes east of L.A., not the nicest place.
Homeless people screaming bloody murder at the top of their lungs.
Others skipping down the street, arms intertwined with the demons only they can see.
Always having a baseball bat ready by the front door just in case.
You never know who’ll be on your doorstep when you least expect it.
You learn not to make enemies, to keep your head down, to always have some sort of protection when walking down the street.
That’s what my life was like 8 months ago.
I hopped on a plane to Charlotte, North Carolina.
Best decision I’ve ever made.
Now I live in a two-story house in Ballantyne, it even sounds fancy.
I don’t have to worry about being kidnapped like before. I can walk down the street without fear.
California was a crazy experience, although, it gave me an interesting backstory!
I might not be the typical "normal" but who is normal?
And that’s the truth, the real me.
Who's the real you?
About the Creator
Zae Johnson
Hi! I'm a young writer in the process of writing a trilogy. I write fiction, non-fiction, and stories based on my life experiences. I write to entertain so I hope you enjoy all of my work!!!
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The Fire (Part 2)
It was 12pm in Domino’s. Recently, we’d been assigned to try out some new “shrimp bites.” as the head chef, of course I tried. Odd for a pizza place, I know. Ideas make money, even if they’re crazy, I guess. But instead, they’d burned, crackled, and exploded in a shrimpy mess, lighting the deep, wooden walls of the place on fire. The cooking knives had clattered to the floor as the flames licked at the floor, igniting the manager’s desk and the cutting boards. The air tight door had shut on itself, locking me inside as I was the last one left in the deep, abyssal cooking room. I sit in this lost darkness, lit by the flames of sin, as I give up my resolve to escape here, death in this sad pizzeria. I grab the hot knife from the floor, examining my sweaty face in the glare of the knife dripped with deep red jam from desert experiments. Maybe it’s guilt I feel, maybe tragedy. Maybe it’s because it’s not actually jam on the knife. Usually, I’d have someone else here with me. But instead, they burn parallel to me in the singe of fire. I wonder if this endless inferno, fear, and heat I feel consuming me is what she felt when she died in that fire I trapped her in. I wonder if this is revenge.
By Zae Johnsonabout a year ago in Poets
WHATEVER HAPPENED TO ELLEN MARIE
WHATEVER HAPPENED TO ELLEN MARIE *** just had to know *** ++++++++++++ As Mike drove through the town he hadn’t seen in about twenty years, he wondered about those he’d left behind when he left for what he thought would be “greener pastures.” He wanted to make his mark on the world. Determination drove him and the little town of Meadowville wasn’t where he wanted to be.
By Margaret Brennan7 days ago in Fiction
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