What’s up, y’all?
So, Beyoncé’s new album, COWBOY CARTER, inspired this piece I began working on yesterday. It doesn’t have a name just yet, but I’ve written about a chapter for it. If I were to complete it, it would range from a short story to a novella (7,500-40,000 words), but not a full novel (50,000+ words). It would also likely be something released at once, so no weekly updates. You’ll get it all upfront whenever it’s been thoroughly edited and completed. If it comes out to over 30,000 words, it’ll likely be released on Kindle Unlimited or through Amazon for less than $5.
Give the first 1,000 words of the ROUGH draft a read, and let me know what you think through the following poll or comments!
SHILO
I tilt my cowboy hat down as the dirt of the prairie whirls around me. The wind rushes powerfully against my leather chaps, screaming that a storm is coming. This arid town has been due for a downpour, but not one as nasty as this. After seven decades of standing sturdy, Earl’s Neighborhood Mart may finally crumble to dust. No boarded window can stop the destruction that’s coming to all of us. Anyone and anything that ain’t been prepared will be flipped, fucked, and hung wet by nature.
“What do you see, Shi?” Momma asks from behind me. Her voice carries the weight of concern. An unfamiliar sound coming from such a fearless woman.
As the world around me settles, I gaze upwards at the sky adorned in God's prettiest blue. The sun shines brilliantly, casting its radiant light; even the rattlesnakes slither joyfully in its presence. Contrarily, this supposed heavenliness is nothing more than a mirage. Before a fatal strike, there is always a sense of peace. It’s the natural order of life. Eventually, everything beautiful fades, and the end arrives.
“I’ll put up the horses,” I say. “Then I’ll head into town, go ‘round and see who needs help. It’s gon’ get bad.”
My eyes sweep over the acres of our land, capturing the charming farm life, the bountiful cornfield, and our stately colonial residence. The builders created our grand home with wood as the primary source. That was more than a hundred years ago before the enslaved negroes orchestrated the uprising of The Carson plantation. Over the years, the historical structure has undergone plenty of renovations. It’s currently made of brick and stone. Regardless of the changes, my ancestor's pain and triumph swamp the land as if it’s still the 1800s.
As I stroke Mary-Mabel's silver mane, I become lost in the weariness in her brown eyes. Even after all these years, her chestnut coat feels smooth under my touch. These precious moments with her are becoming scarce, and soon, I'll no longer experience her gentle and calm nature. Mary-Mabel has been a constant source of support for my family, even before I was born. She and my sister, Janine, entered this world just days apart, creating a deep bond I've always envied. It's hard to fathom how a human and an animal can have a sisterhood stronger than blood. Leaning against her, I hum a bittersweet farewell, wondering if there will be a joyous reunion for her and Janine in the heavens above.
“I’ma go check on Earl and ‘nem, Momma,” I say. With a quick flick of my fingers, I adjust the sheriff star on my denim jacket, ensuring it reflects authority. I ain’t really the sheriff of St. June, Texas, but I do more than the folks who claim they’re the law. “You need something?” I carefully position my hat over the neatly braided cornrows cascading down my back.
Momma shouts from the kitchen. “I’ma gon’ head and fix us somethin’ that’ll last us! I only need some Jiffy mix—if you want some cornbread!” A hint of humor is woven into her birdsong voice.
She knows damn well I want some cornbread.
With elegance and speed, I gallop to town on my magnificent all-black stallion. While a Portuguese Lusitano horse is foreign in these parts, Onyx is well-known among the locals. My boy wouldn’t kick at a bothersome swarm of bees. Upon reaching downtown, folks wave, and those who welcome us receive a heads-up about the brewing storm.
Each generation of the Blackwater family tree has a clairvoyant. My cousins, aunties, uncles, and Momma have their inclinations, but no one gets vivid visions like me. I don't just witness or sense; I live through the future before it happens. As one of the oldest families in St. June, folks know not to diminish my warnings as nonsense—at least the Black folks do. Either the folks receive it, or they don’t. I don’t waste my breath convincing fools.
I hitch my horse to the post outside of Earl’s Neighborhood Market. Before I walk in, I stomp my boots on the “Don’t bring your dirt into my shit” welcome mat. Old man ain’t gonna curse me out today. I got shit to do. Folks to see. Lives and businesses to save.
“Ey, dere, Co’n Earl!” I announce myself as I walk in. No one says anything back, possibly because two girlies are bickering at the register.
Where in tarnation in Earl? And why is Big Betty about to beat some poor girl up?
Betty's commanding height and broad physique mask the mysterious, sassy voice that's cussing her out like a bad habit. I ain’t time for this. With my thumbs hooked in the belt loops of my Levi's, I stride towards them. “Now, what bitch bug is pinching you hussies?” I ask. Two women scowl at me, their glares more intimidating than twin-drenched panthers.
“Who the hell are you calling a ‘hussy?!’” they shout simultaneously.
“And what the fuck is a bitch bug?!” The short stranger adds.
She ain’t from here.
From the sound of her, she must be from Houston, maybe Atlanta. Somewhere truly southern, but not a small town like St. June.
From the looks of her, she must be a divine angel sent from heaven.
Her precious dark skin lassos my lips, tying them from responding.
“Fuck that,” the mysterious woman says, fixing her messy bun. “I ain’t never been happier to see the police show up. I was about to catch a murdering charge.” Her eyes snap towards Betty as she enunciates, “First degree.”
Betty and I used to go to school together, so I’ve tussled with her big ass a few times. She is the reigning champion of mud wrestling, regardless of gender. If a scouting agent for one of those professional fighting leagues somehow moseyed down here and saw her scrap, she’d be in somebody’s ring making millions.
“This nigga got a gun and a star, but she ain’t no damn sheriff,” Betty informs the foreigner. “So, if I were you, I’d correct that nasty ass tone.”
“You need to correct that nasty ass funk that’s conducting a tearful symphony from your hairy-ass armpits!” The woman, in fact, does correct her tone. Instead, it gets nastier. She’s from NOLA. “There is deodorant on aisle three!”
So, would y’all keep reading from here? The main protagonist is Shilo Blackwater, a lesbian Black clairvoyant who can experience the future before it happens.
I love this! 💜🩵