Jack$Boi: A Tale of Urban Terror by Darrell King - Great Flash Fiction!

This story was inspired by the song, Stick up kid...

“No, but you will never forget me after today... Any last wishes, brotha?”

“Last wishes? ... you must be trippin--” 

Before he could finish his sentence, Jungle had him by the neck, lucky knife pressed up against his throat. He struggled, but Jungle elbowed his balls, making him double over in pain. He clenched his jaw and stayed still. “Now as I was saying, any last wishes, man? I want you to look at my face and remember me for the rest of eternity.” Before the pimp could make any objections, Jungle slit his throat, cutting his head clean off of his shoulders. He then patted his pockets and took all the money he had. He left his insignia at the scene, a palm tree with the word Jungle on it, and turned to leave. 

He then noticed the hooker still kneeling on the pavement, staring at him in shock. He swaggered over to her, bent over, and whispered in her ear: “You lucky you cute, Mama. Go home and don’t tell nobody what you seen.” He then slapped her ass one good time and walked away from his newest crime scene.

~~~ 

Jack$Boi:

A Tale of Urban Terror

By Darrell King

Jungle is not your average boy from the hood. He was born in Haiti and at the age of 11, he was given a knife by a commander of a youth army, which he called Shakita. He was smaller than most of the other boys who bullied him so Jungle worked hard to become one of the best. His stealth skills won over his lack of size and soon he was a stone-cold assassin. His reward, he showed those bullies that their claims that he would be out before training was over, was...totally...wrong... He had 50 kills thanks to Shakita...

Then the warlord over the group of boys was overtaken by NATO. He was taken to Baltimore, Maryland, and put in child care... We all know he was placed in a situation so alien from where he had been that he wound up being moved from place to place because of his fighting and troublemaking.

Jungle had been sent to therapy due to what was happening  in the various places he temporarily lived...he had never found a home... I noticed almost immediately that the book had not said that his therapy was aimed at what had happened to him in Haiti... Duh...

This is my first reading of Darrell King, but I understand he's "king" of flash fiction. He just might be... I thought there was sufficient content and topical coverage to completely tell the story the writer wanted to share.

Now those of you who have not read urban or street lit should be aware that the language and violence is graphic...but not so much in the flash fiction that it became a problem for this reader.

Especially since the story turned out as it did...

Jungle's night life is a secret so that he's also working daily, but at low paying jobs. He uses his skills to stick up individuals in the evening, for their money...Sometimes, such as when he came upon a pimp beating up his prostitute, he decided Shakita would take care of this bad dude. Sooner or later, readers begin to realize that he is going after the guys who are not good for his neighborhood... Kinda ironic, but soon I was seeing the real Jungle come out in the open... For instance, he didn't do night work on Sunday just in case God was really real, so he'd try to not mess up a possible relationship with Him and keep his sacred day holy...

Then he met a prison guard who seemed to take him under his wing and walked with him as he cleaned...Jungle was feeling like he might have found a friend to share with when the guard started talking about a group of bad cops who were killing or roughing up Black teens...

I loved Janay, a perfect counterpart, as Jungle's sometime girlfriend and loved how their relationship evolved as the story went on... But nothing really had given me any indication of how the story would end. It was perfect, in my opinion...

This story is well written and I believe it is the best street lit short story I've read so far... Darrell just might be the Flash Fiction King, after all...Let me know what you think of the story!

Highly Recommended.

GABixlerReviews

Novelist/Journalist, CEO and Founder at Darrell King Productions, Inc. Earlier, author at American Book Publishing.

Darrel King has been writing ever since the age of eight. His first published work of fiction was penned during the fall of 1976 as a student of Mary Field’s Elementary School on South Carolina’s Daufuskie Island. This effort was an adaptation of J.R.R. Tolkein’s “The Hobbit,” that he also wrote and illustrated. It was published in the school’s quarterly periodical, “The Daufuskie Kid’s Magazine.”

Darrel King has written stories and numerous poems, several of which were published in the 1995-1996 “Poetry Anthology” by the National Library of Poetry in Owings Mills, Maryland.

During the 90s, Darrell King became inspired by and attracted to the lurid tales of inner city crime. Dramas he read in novels by great writers such as Donald Goines and Iceberg Slim captivated his attention. These tales prompted Mr. King to begin his literary career writing his very own stories of urban crime and inner city drama.

Tesla Still Looking - Flash Fiction by Julia Madeleine...

Times Square (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The Hotel

By Julia Madeleine

Room 3327. I knew something was wrong as soon as I stepped inside. It was in the very structure of the room. Something about it felt odd. A jagged sensation like a low volt of electricity passed through me for a brief moment. I hoisted my luggage onto the bed. I went to the window and pushed open the blinds. It had turned dark outside, ominous clouds swallowing the sun. Thirty-three floors below, yellow taxis crawled the streets like shiny beetles. I cracked open  the window, let some warmth into the air-conditioned chill, the sounds of New York city, and the smell of rain.

Behind me, someone cleared his throat. I spun around to see a tall man standing in front of the bed with a gaunt pasty face. Hair the colour of ashes. He gazed at me with wet eyes like an old dog. And yet there was a smile in them.

“You might enjoy feeding the pigeons while you’re here, Miss,” he said, his voice as dry as dead leaves blowing in the wind. “There’s plenty of them in the park.”

“Thanks,” I said. I hadn’t seen him when I checked in. He hadn’t helped me with my bags. He stood there expectantly in a black suit that hung limp on his spindly body, as if waiting for a tip. Who the hell was this guy?

“Have a pleasant stay.” He bowed, actually bowed. Then he turned and left. I crossed the room, locked the door behind him.

I was tired and had an early day in the morning with numerous homeland security officials. So I had a bath, watched some TV, read for a few minutes and then turned out the lights. I fell into a deep sleep only to be woken up shortly after by a dull thumping. Was someone at the door? I turned on the lamp and stepped out of bed. I looked through the peephole. The hall was empty. I went back to bed, turned out the light. Drifting on the edge of sleep, disconnected images and thoughts flashing in my mind. Then a voice. A man’s voice. Yelling from far away it seemed.

“My papers! I can’t find my papers! They’ve stolen them!”

Was I dreaming? I heard the door slam. My door. I turned on the light and stumbled out of bed, sleep pulling at my limbs. The deadbolt was locked. There was a strange ringing in my ears. My vision narrowed. A charged feeling cut through me. I turned the lock and swung open the door. There at the end of the hallway. The man in his black suit, turning around a corner. What the hell was happening?

The next day, I spent the afternoon in meetings, fighting jetlag, a migraine and a sense of foreboding that hovered over my shoulder like a shadow. I navigated my way around unfamiliar streets and made it back to the hotel by dusk. An old woman with black eyes, magnified by cat-eye glasses,  turned to gawk at me in the lobby. She sat in a chair, a wooden cane propped up next to her. The rest of the lobby seemed to be abandoned.

“Have a pleasant stay,” she said to me in a shaky voice as I passed, her words echoing across the lobby. That was the same thing the old man said to me yesterday. I thought of that voice, waking me from sleep, screaming at me.

“He check out in 1943, you know?” the old bat said.

“What? Who do you mean?” I asked, turning to her.

“The man who lived in your room,” she said, a lopsided grin stretching across her wrinkled face. Her eyes behind her glasses didn’t at look me. They looked in two different directions. I wonder how she could even see. She looked half mad. “He was here for ten years.”

“What are you talking about? What man?” I took a step toward her, studying those crazy eyes.

“He made a death ray machine.”

Now I knew she was loony tunes. She was probably some homeless crazy they let hang around once in a while out of pity. Maybe gave her the odd cup of coffee and a sandwich. She  looked harmless enough.

“They stole his papers. After he died. The plans for the death ray. They were stolen.”

I felt my jaw drop open as I gazed at her, the echo of the man’s voice waking me from sleep. “My papers! I can’t find my papers! They’ve stolen them!” It was then I noticed what was in her lap. A fat gray pigeon. She was stroking it like a cat.

“There’s a plaque right on the door. Did you not look at it?”

I sighed and scanned the lobby. Where the hell was everyone? Earlier the place was crackling with life, Ethel Merman playing from the speakers above. Now it was like a morgue. The hairs on my arms prickled. I turned and hurried toward the elevators. Static electricity zapped my finger as I hit the button.

I took deep breaths as the elevator lifted me, it’s mechanisms whirring and bumping inside the walls. It made a soft ding and the doors parted on the 33rd floor. I dragged myself down the carpeted hall, thinking a hot bath might take the tension out of my muscles. I took the key from my pocket and looked at the plaque on the door of room 3327 for the first time. There was a picture of him on the plaque. A younger picture. But it  was the same man. The same smile in his eyes. The man who’d yelled at me during the night about his stolen papers. Nikola Tesla.

Related articles

• The Lost Papers of the Tesla Death Rays

Reading: Unbound Boxes Limping Gods: Anastasia Merevija

Unbound Boxes   
  Limping Gods:

Anastasia Merevija

By Cheryl Moore


Time Line: 4018, Poland

Right Now! Cheryl is on vacation in Ireland! Wow!

Anastasia was stolen from her family when she was five, and forced to live as a concubine. From the age of fourteen she has produced children for the Amanojuko Lord, Ichitumbu. The Amanojuko are a race of immortals who have the ability to regenerate. They are no longer human, but Anastasia’s mother,Alexand Merek’s blood, is poison to them and can turn them into ‘What isn’t’. Amanojuko scientists are using Anastasia to attempt to find a cure for the poison in Alexand Merek’s bloodline. Anastasia has no concept of death and therefore no concept of murder. “What wasn’t” is an Amanojuko term for human and “What could be” refers to the potential for Anastasia producing an Amanojuko child. So far she has failed and her husband isn’t pleased.

Ichitumbu is an immortal, from a race of people called The Amanojuko. Chop his arm off, it’ll grow back. He is the husband of Anastasia Merevija, the abducted daughter of Alexand Merek. He spends his life moving from one country to the next, attempting to prevent Alexand and her sister Heyem, stealing Anastasia back from him.

As earlier, readers may wish to click over to Cheryl's Blog to more easily read the linked stories!

My Thoughts:

This time I've read beyond the time frame I've been following--I had to read about this man Ichitumbu who abducted his wife, Anastasia, but finds it frustrating that her mother and aunt follow/track them, wanting to free her. He is immortal, but seems afraid of them, else why should he run.

Anastasia exhibits the trait of believing what she has been told by her abductor--she believes Alexand  did not want her. I wonder whether he links their constant relocations or knows that they are constantly pursued, her mother hoping to free her.

I am intrigued by the "blood" of Alexand being poison to the immortals... I would think that both Ancilla and Anastasia carry the same blood even though Ichitumbu threatens his wife's trade for her sister. It is hard to understand her seeming(?) acceptance of her husband's constant murder of her children when they are born human

Bringing in immortality for characters is new...are they the more traditional gods like Zeus, etc., or are they more vampirish... At first I didn't understand the "paintings" that were not yet accepted...then I got it. Can you imagine repainting parts of the world? 

Questions for Cheryl:

These two stories bring in immortals...can you share a little more about this world without giving anything away from your novels? Also, the poison of this bloodline to the group...Again, not asking for you to go beyond what you can share at this time.

I must comment on your creativity and imagination...I know that anybody can "conceive" of ideas...but how do you go about taking a concept from the idea into full bloom...and then use it, as you do so well, to take that to then branch off into more and more unique and new concepts. I'm still not clear how you chose to go so far into the future and decide to "drop" your stories into different countries and times. In your novels, do you have a more traditional beginning and ending, free-standing...or will they be truly a series that will stop and force readers to wait until the next book is out to know what happens?

Related articles

• Reading: Unbound Boxes Limping Gods: Heyem Merek (gabixlerreviews-bookreadersheaven.blogspot.com)
• Reading: Unbound Boxes Limping Gods: Ancille Merevija (gabixlerreviews-bookreadersheaven.blogspot.com)
• Entering the World of Cheryl Moore... (gabixlerreviews-bookreadersheaven.blogspot.com)
• Reading: Unbound Boxes Limping Gods: Alexand Merek (gabixlerreviews-bookreadersheaven.blogspot.com)
• Reading: Unbound Boxes Limping Gods: Samuel Merevija (gabixlerreviews-bookreadersheaven.blogspot.com)
• Reading: Unbound Boxes Limping Gods: The Floating Asylum (gabixlerreviews-bookreadersheaven.blogspot.com)
• Reading: Unbound Boxes Limping Gods: Farokh Merek (gabixlerreviews-bookreadersheaven.blogspot.com)
• Reading: Unbound Boxes Limping Gods: Jarad Vijay (gabixlerreviews-bookreadersheaven.blogspot.com)
• Starting to Read: The Guild Master's General by Cheryl Moore (gabixlerreviews-bookreadersheaven.blogspot.com)
• From the Personal Blog of Cheryl Moore... (gabixlerreviews-bookreadersheaven.blogspot.com)