Favorite Blackwater

I cannot even begin to describe how stupid I looked when I received a twitter notice that I won this award. My mouth was agape, and I'm pretty sure I scratched my head. I don't get it. How is it that the story I worked the least on and care the least about won an award? Maybe because there are no nerves involved. Maybe because people like to read ridiculous stories about Jacob. Or maybe it's because there are not many Blackwater stories to choose from. I'm gonna go with the latter. I'm truly flattered that I was nominated and that I won, but please for the love of Pete read something of mine that's actually worth reading like Run with Me. Thanks, Purely

And now for your entertainment . . . an excerpt of this nonsense  from Chapter 3. . .

“I’m turning 18 next Friday.”

“Yuh-huh, you said,” she responded, taking a bite out of her microwaved dinner. She was watching one of her TV shows and not paying a lick of attention to me. It was getting annoying, but I knew if I said anything about it, she’d cut me off from her lips that night. So, I just suffered through it.

“Can you at least pretend to care?” I said, trying to make a joke out of it. Yeah, joking would work. It worked better than trying to actually say something serious to her. We never quite got the hang of actually talking to each other, which was a bit of a problem.

Leah pushed pause on her DVR and turned to face me on the couch. “Oh, sweetie, poopsie, honey pie, poopoo head. I‘m so happy dappy that you’ll be 18. We should have a weally fun party. Don’t you think so, baby pie, sugar doodle, munchie bunchie?”

“You’re such a…”

“Queen?” she guessed, batting her eyelashes at me.

“Exactly. Seriously, it’s my birthday and I was hoping for something special for my birthday. From you.” The addition was not subtle. Oh well.

“Like what? New shorts? ‘Cause you need some. I can see your junk all the time when you walk around in these shabby things.”

“No, I wasn’t thinking shorts. I was thinking more along the lines of something for you and me.” I didn’t mean to, but I drew my bottom lip into my mouth and probably made hungry eyes at Leah. Woops.

“Like sex?” she asked bluntly.

“Er . . .”

“You can’t even say it. How will you do it?”

“I think I’ll be fine,” I mumbled.

“No you won’t. You won’t even be able to talk dirty to me.”

“You don’t want me to talk dirty to you. The last time I called your boob a ti-”

“Don’t say it. I hate that word. But the point is if I wanted you to, you couldn’t. You’re still a baby.”

“Uh, the massive knob in pants that comes to the party every night tells a different story.”

“Well, there will be no coming at your party. So just forget it. No wicked birthday for you.”