#afro drill

[fivepercentgodsandearths]

[conkreetmonkey]

Let's build a Splatoon OC! pt. 12

So far, this character is an extremely tall (over 6'6"), very fat (obese, pear-shaped), dark-skinned Octoling tgirl with purple ink, tentacles with cyan tips and red spots, and a style of dress combining elements of stoner and scenemo culture.

I figured that since the two perfectly tied and were pretty harmonious (looking at you @fish-at-fish-fish-resort), I could just combine the two lol. She smokes an unadvisable amount of seaweed and shops at Squid Hot Topic, what's not to understand?

I really think we're nearing the end here. idk where to go after this one aside from adding "flair" (piercings, skin markings, visible disabilities, scars, sanitization/fuzzification, etc). Suggestions are welcome!

Oh shit wait I never did eyes lmao guess I still have to do that

If it needs a follow-up poll it will get a follow-up poll, y'all know the drill at this point. It's impossible to encompass all possibilities within one itty bitty poll, since I'm limited to just 12 options. Sorry :(

Be honest, would you even be doing this poll if the character wasn't going to be a towering obese woman, lmao

[corvidist]

Plentiful Copper Today and Long Tomorrow is a mining hub based around the old Human city of Madrid. The site, operated by a fleet of unitary airships traveling routes along western Afro-Eurasia, is renowned for its mineral output, but more well known as a result of the immense controversy generated by its harm to nearby communities, environmental damage, and the destruction of archeological sites. A similar story has played out across much of First Home, though especially in less inhabited regions, forming a rare point of sometimes violent confrontation between clusters of terrestrial communities, airships, nomadic groups, beacons, and more.

Here, an older mining craft completes the startup process. The connecting sites are secured, the surrounding area is vacated, and an airship-mounted drill bomb is fired into a small, pre-drilled mineshaft. The subsequent explosion carves out a larger space within which mineral extraction can occur.

The process is quite dangerous. Even if the airship is designed to handle it, the recoil, not to mention the risk presented by firing high explosives at a small target so close to the ground, makes this among the most dangerous occupations to join. Throw in the high rate of community collapse and even inter-community conflict that occurs within and between these craft, and you have a form of mining in a state of decline turned plunge by the development of direct bioengineering. Soon, the growing practice of off-planet mining will be the death knell for much of the remaining industry on First Home.

[comradekarin]

Black people (specifically African Americans) will never win… if we wear braids/afros /dreads, have long nails, big earrings, obnoxious makeup, wigs/weave, or durags, we’re ghetto and ratchet and hood, but other nonblack groups should be able to “represent” our culture and make it trendy and beautiful and hip and popular while AA men and women are shamed? Black people listening to rap/drill music is seen as uncultured and aggressive and worse than the systemic effects of racism (???), but other nonblack groups can use aave and be HEAVILY inspired off of black artists’ music, swag and style, and they aren’t shamed like black folk are? Black culture has now become synonymous with pop/gen z culture, and it’s absolutely sickening. Black people express discomfort over nonblack ppl wearing box braids? Gaslighted and bullied and shamed for “gatekeeping”. Black people express discomfort over anti blackness rampant in other communities that still miraculously love their culture? Told they aren’t the only group to experience racism and shouldn’t be that mad. Black people express their personal experiences with racism, colorism, police brutality, weariness over whight people, or any type of experience showing how they’re still suffering from this country’s issues of systemic injustice, dehumanization, and brutality, and they’re told their experiences aren’t valid, to get over it, and to just be accepting. And if we DO get support, it’s a trend and a hashtag you can just put in your bio and forget about the next day. Black people are NOT costumes you can put on and choose when to hang up in your closet. Black people should NOT be expected to carry the plight of other nonblack groups’ trauma especially when other groups will never do the same for us. Black people should be able to be treated with respect and dignity without you erasing our black skin. Black people should be able to talk about our own issues without being bullied for not speaking on others (no one would dare do this to another community). We can’t win. And I’m tired.

[aftersamu]

HAIKYUU BOYS AS [MODERN] HIGH SCHOOL BOYS a/n: i'm talking about a level of realism that has been ignored for so long, but super accurate because i am in high school and i know everything. keep in mind, they are teenage boys! they're not angels! they're evil incarnate.

ATSUMU ➢ the guy who carries around the speaker it's the big jbl speaker with the strap. always playing drake, uzi vert, carti, the weeknd, or 21 savage – sometimes there's a sprinkle of UK drill or afro beats. on the way to class there's always something playing.

HANAMAKI ➢ the guy who never shows up we all question how he managed to graduate. the last time he's attended a full week of school was when he was 15. he skips days on end, and shows up on his study hall days.

MATSUKAWA ➢ the plug he's stocked up. disposable vapes, e-liquid, cigarettes, weed. whatever his friends, or underclassmen needs, he's got. he pockets all his lunch money, is not stingy with prices, but always has the best flavours.

SUNA ➢ always late to class he walks slow. in the morning, he takes a detour around the school showing up 25 minutes late and blames it on the bus. always late to exams, and teachers have given up on him.

KUROO ➢ the whore he pulls, and is famous for it. a sort of playboy with charm but bad pick-up lines and doesn't know how to flirt. it's amazing how he gets by with the lack of game.

YAMAGUCHI ➢ the guy who gets adopted by a group of girls there's always one. it's a group of girls that have made him their own, he gets invited to the girls nights in, he knows all the gossip and drama. he watched pen15 when he was younger, and now realised how accurate it is.

IWAIZUMI ➢ dry as fuck don't try to talk to this guy. he doesn't speak unless you're close friends. he's super quiet and just kind of stares. he is dry as fuck, there's no way anyone – other than the bros – can have a proper conversation with him.

OIKAWA ➢ takes P.E / gym too seriously we get it! you like sports, but calm the fuck down. when people find out they're sharing a class with him, they groan and dread it. he's too competitive for his own good and easily becomes the enemy.

AKAASHI ➢ the IB student. complains about work load and getting a five on his summative. hates CAS but consistently meets expectations, wrote his extended essay in a night. says he needs to study but spends more time partying on the weekends. he can be an academic and still be a normal (popular) high school guy, remember that.

[magical-grrrl-mavis]

Need to figure out how to draw more interesting hair in my style. French braids, drill pigtails, dreadlocks, afros. All I got right now is anime girl hair.

[ceph-the-ghost-writer]

WIP Extract

Using the excuse from @autumnalwalker to share a snippet from the New Year's vampire poll thing.

Gently tagging @vacantgodling @space-writes @calicohyde @chauceryfairytales @k--havok @pertinax--loculos @angsty-prompt-hole @sam-glade

Content Advisory: alcohol mention

Ben went looking for trouble in the parlor first. Upbeat ragtime—he didn’t recognize the tune—covered him pushing open one of the doors and peeking inside. He spotted Micaela sitting at the piano first thing, no surprise there. She’d put on a backless silk gown the color of moonlight for the occasion, a pair of matching opera gloves on the bench next to her while she played. Little white flowers from the front garden dotted her afro like stars. On the sofa behind Micaela lounged Desmond and Theodore, dressed to the nines too, tapping their wingtip shoes as they listened. Ben hoped it was anything but brandy in their glasses. Grinning, he pushed the door open all the way, went in, and had a seat on the piano bench.

Desmond and Teddy’s stares drilled into his back, but the only thing that mattered was the smile that appeared on Micaela’s face. Her fingers didn’t miss a beat across the ivory keys. Slender and strong. A musician’s fingers, a surgeon’s fingers. Fingers that didn’t hesitate on the trigger of a rifle either. She hit the last note and let it hang. He took the opportunity to drape an arm across her shoulders.

“Evening, Ben. Happy new year,” she said, grinning herself when there was a growl of disapproval behind them.

“Hey, Mickey. Lookin’ smooth. How about we get out of this clip joint and go shoot some bottles out back? After we empty them, of course.”

[bitchapalooza]

Was talking with a coworker yesterday and it reminded me of this incident that happened in freshman year JROTC. It's the first week of school/class and one of the students, a black boy, is told he had to get his dreads taken out because he can't have that hairstyle in the uniform, makes it difficult to wear the hat. He acts like it isn't a problem—he was one of the students who already planned to join the air force right after graduation anyway so he was taking the class very seriously. So he got his dreads taken out and was left with his natural hair. But then the drill Sargent says he can't have his natural hair like that either, no afros. He again says no problem and got it all shaved down to the scalp—but then we look at this white boy who had long hair and was just told to put his up in a bun like the female students. Now this made us all raise a brow. But none of us said a word because we were all freshmen, besides like I think 3 students, but we didn't know if we COULD speak up. After all, we were going by military regulations AND the kid was following directions perfectly, like I said he was taking the class seriously, especially since we went up two ranks and I think he got offered a certain position (where next year he would like oversee inspection? I honestly forget, THAT was at the very end of the year). Now the other kid actually dropped out within the first month and transferred into PE, further reason why none of us knew if we could speak up about how unfair it was.

I'm pissed about this shit all over again tbh it didn't feel right. I get if it was official military regulations but something about the way she, the Sargent, treated the situation felt off and we all agreed. We just didn't know how to approach the situation so we stayed quiet.

[izvmimi]

when u get this, list 5 songs u like to listen to, publish. then, send this ask to 10 of your favorite followers or moots (positivity is cool) 💖

hii!!!

thank you for sending! i'll probably open tag here, and here are a random assortment of songs (truly random and not by genre) that i've been listening to that i haven't posted in my music tag!

[spearzreloaded]

22nd of Jul. 2k24 - Raw

Really liking the MMA Horsewomen 2.0:

*Sonya setting up Lyra for a DEEP drilling

*Such a confusing spot

*Cocky, confused, Afro-Latina bedwench. Cant wait to see the new Horsewomen squash her. Pity Stark couldn't get the job done :

*Sweet juicy, Trini ass. Vega's tights ate that nite !

*I'd lick Vega's navel until I lose all my tastebuds.

[sparrow-mask22]

The Umbrella Academy Story of The Mothers (1/6) sparrow edition: Gilda

TW: Childbirth, plane crash (sort of), coerced adoption

(won’t be including Ben's birth since we already saw it go down. Also with the exception of Ben, the sparrows' birth moms are all my OCs so please don’t use them without my permission)

October  1, 1989. Babahoyo, Ecuador.  47 seconds before noon.

Gilda Mosquera was a 19 year old Afro-Ecuadorian girl, working as a flight attendant for the now-defunct national airline, AeroGal. She had always been fascinated by the stars, and she often found herself gazing up at the night sky, dreaming of one day exploring the vastness of space. Little did she know that her dreams would come true, albeit in the most unexpected of ways.

On this fateful day, Gilda was on her way to Babahoyo, a small town in Ecuador, to visit her grandmother. As she boarded the plane, she couldn't help but feel a sense of excitement and anticipation. Little did she know that her life was about to change forever.

"Hey Gilda, you feeling nervous about this one?" asked one of her colleagues, Luisa, as they made their way down the aisle of the small, rickety plane. Gilda forced a smile and nodded, trying to appear calm. In reality, her heart was racing and her palms were sweaty. This flight was different. She could feel it in her bones.

The plane took off without incident, and as they reached cruising altitude, Gilda found herself drawn to the window, unable to tear her eyes away from the sky. The sun was setting, painting the clouds in shades of orange and pink, and she couldn't help but imagine herself floating among the stars.

Luisa, sensing Gilda's distraction, patted her on the shoulder and smiled reassuringly. "Don't worry, kiddo. We've got this under control." But as they continued their approach to Babahoyo, a strange sensation began to overtake Gilda. The world seemed to slow down, and she felt as if she were floating outside of her body.

"I do remember there was this one guy in high school," Gilda said, her voice distant as she relived the memory. "He was always at the gym, and he would just... he would throw his sweaty gym towels into other people's faces. And the girls would fawn all over him. Like, I don't get it. He was so gross, but they all thought he was so hot."

She paused, her gaze unfocused, as if she were seeing something else entirely. "I guess it's just... I don't know. You never really know what people find attractive. Sometimes the most unlikely things can make someone's heart race."

Luisa smiled sympathetically, trying to lighten the mood. "Yeah, I guess you're right. But don't worry about it, kiddo. I'm sure there's plenty of guys out there who'd find you just as irresistible."

As they continued their descent, the plane began to shudder violently, throwing both women off their feet. "The plane is going down." The pilot stoically said over the intercom. Panic ensued as passengers screamed and cried. Gilda felt a surge of adrenaline course through her veins. She found herself back in high school, during a fire drill. The same gross guy was there, pushing past everyone else, trying to be the hero. She remembered thinking how funny it was that he, who couldn't even remember to wipe his own sweat, thought he could save anyone else.

"No, not down down, we’re not crashing! Just an emergency landing, that's all you numbskulls!" The pilot shouted, trying to calm everyone down. But the fear was still palpable in the cabin. Gilda found herself gripping the armrests, her knuckles turning white. She couldn't help but think of the gross guy from high school again. He would always act so tough, so confident, even when he was clearly out of his depth. She wondered if he would be able to handle a situation like this.

As the plane touched down roughly on the runway, the engines screeching in protest, Gilda closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She tried to focus on the feeling of the seatbelt digging into her skin, the vibration of the wheels against the tarmac. Her heart was racing, but she forced herself to remain calm.

As Gilda regained her composure, she glanced around the chaotic scene outside the plane. Emergency vehicles were already racing towards them, their sirens wailing. The pilot and flight attendants were helping passengers off the aircraft, their faces etched with concern. But she couldn't tear her gaze away from the man who had been sitting in the row behind her.

"They think it could’ve been an equipment malfunction," someone nearby muttered, their voice tinged with fear. Gilda glanced over at the man who had been sitting in the row behind her. He was already up and moving, helping an elderly woman gather her belongings from the overhead compartment. His movements were efficient and calm, almost as if he were used to being in situations like this. She wondered how many emergencies he'd been in before.

It wasn’t until twelve pm that Gilda stood up and instinctively reached for her belly. She gasped as a sharp pain coursed through her, and she doubled over. "Oh my God!"

Luisa rushed to Gilda's side, her eyes wide with fear. "Oh, Gilda, what's happening?" She asked, her voice shaking. Gilda, doubled over in pain, could barely respond. "I... I think... I think I'm having a baby."

Luisa’s heart dropped all the way to her stomach as she watched Gilda clutch her midsection in pain. "But you can’t have a baby, you’re not pregnant!" she cried, tears streaming down her face. "It's not possible!" The airport staff was now swarming around them, their faces a mix of confusion and concern.

Gilda let out a sharp gasp as another contraction wracked her body. She couldn't believe this was happening. "I... I don't know what's going on," she managed to say between gasps. "But it feels like something's really wrong." The man who had been sitting behind them, the one who had remained so calm during the emergency, suddenly stepped forward. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with kind eyes and a reassuring voice.

"I'm a doctor," he introduced himself. "My name is Brayden. I'm going to help you, okay?" His voice was calm and reassuring, and for the first time since this nightmare began, Gilda felt a tiny bit of relief. The other women on the tarmac, sensing that something was truly wrong, instinctively gathered around them, forming a circle of support and protection.

Brayden knelt down beside her, his eyes scanning her face as he asked her questions about her medical history and any pre-existing conditions. He gently palpated her abdomen, feeling for any abnormalities, while the other women tried to find a way to make her comfortable. Someone placed a jacket under Gilda's head, while another found a blanket to cover her shoulders.

"I've never been pregnant," Gilda managed to say between gasps. "I've never missed a period. I don't understand what's happening." Brayden continued to examine her, his brow furrowed in concentration. "I think we need to get you to the hospital as soon as possible," he said gravely. "Your symptoms don't add up to a normal pregnancy."

(Yeah, no shit, Sherlock. We all know that. But you didn't write that part. You just reminded us. So, let's move on...)

Inside the airport, the staff was waiting for them, quickly leading them to an ambulance that would take them to the hospital. As they hurried down the hall, Gilda felt another contraction coming on. "I... I don't think I can make it," she gasped. Brayden nodded gravely, and with the help of a nurse, gently guided Gilda onto a stretcher. He began to administer oxygen to her, while the other medical professionals attached monitors to her body.

A cry rang out through the airport terminal as the paramedics delivered the news: the baby had been born. Gilda's eyes widened in shock and disbelief, her body still trembling from the pain of labor. She looked down in confusion, struggling to comprehend what had just happened. "Is... is it a boy or a girl?" she managed to ask. The doctor, his face lit up with pride and relief, gently wiped the newborn's face with a soft cloth.

"It’s a boy," the doctor said, beaming with pride as he placed the newborn in Gilda's arms. Tears streamed down her face as she looked down at her son, his tiny fingers wrapped around hers. She could feel the weight of his body in her arms, and it was then that she realized she had given birth. On the tarmac. In the middle of an airport.

The paramedics had wheeled her out of the terminal and onto the runway, where they had set up a makeshift delivery room. The medical staff had worked quickly and efficiently, guiding her through each contraction as they assisted her in bringing her child into the world. As she held her son close, she couldn't help but marvel at the strength and resilience of both him and herself.

When Luisa arrived at the hospital room, she was shocked to find Gilda alone, and the baby nowhere in sight. Her first thought was that something terrible must have happened. Panic rising in her chest, she hurried to Gilda's side, gently taking her hand. "Gilda, what is it? Where's the baby? Is everything okay?"

Gilda looked up at her friends, tears streaming down her face. "He... he was taken from me," she managed to say between sobs. "That old man... he adopted him. He said that if I ever tried to contact him or see him again... he'd have me killed. He had me sign papers, and I had no choice... I had to do it."

Luisa's eyes widened in shock as she took in this information. "But why would he do that? Why would he take your baby from you?"

Gilda shook her head, unable to answer. "He said... he said that he would give my son a better life than I could ever provide. He would have a good education, a loving family. He said that I was just a worthless teenager who didn't deserve anything. That my baby would be better off without me." Her voice cracked, and she began to sob uncontrollably.

Luisa felt a surge of anger rise within her as she listened to Gilda's story. "That's not true, Gilda! You're a wonderful mother, and your son will grow up knowing that. We'll find him, okay? We'll find a way to bring him back to you." She squeezed her friend's hand, trying to offer some comfort.

Gilda looked up at her, tears streaming down her face. "You don't understand. The man signed all the papers, and they were filed. There's nothing we can do." She began to sob uncontrollably, her body racked with sobs. "I just want my baby back. I want to hold him again."

Luisa felt a mix of anger and helplessness rising up within her. "We'll find a way, Gilda. We'll make sure he knows who you are, and we'll get him back somehow. We can't just let this man take him from you like this." She squeezed Gilda's hand, trying to offer some comfort.

"What was the man’s name, Gilda? Do you remember?" Luisa asked, her voice steady despite the fear that gripped her.

Gilda looked up at Luisa, her eyes red and swollen from crying. "He said his name was... Reginald Hargreeves."

The name sent a chill down Luisa's spine. "Reginald Hargreeves?" she repeated, trying to keep the shock from her voice. "Are you sure that's his name?"

Gilda nodded, tears still streaming down her face. "Yes, that's what he said. He... he took my baby away from me."

Luisa's heart ached for her friend, and she struggled to keep her own emotions in check. "I'm so sorry, Gilda. I can't believe this is happening. But we're going to find a way to get your son back, I promise."

[gh0st-kittie]

Just finished watching Wakanda Forever.

This beautiful story is filled with so much hurt and pain. A perfect encapsulation of the hurt and pain that the natives as felt, hispanic and latin people. Of the hurt and pain the Black people have felt, African Americans and those of mixed Afro ethnicity. Of the hurt and pain that Asian people have felt, Asian Americans and the natives of the Hawaiian islands. The hurt and pain that Jewish people have felt. The hurt and pain that we continue to feel today... In the "land of the free"

And in our pain we have clawed our way out. We have fought kicking and screaming to have our basic human rights. Rights that still to this day are ignored in favor of the system of white supremacy.

And in our pain, in our fight we have kicked down others who are equally oppressed. Allowing the colonizer to pit us against each other. When we should be our strongest allies.

And today, while there is still a struggle, we move more and more towards a future where we 100% have each-others backs. We share each other's stories, sign each others petitions, walk together in protest.

But that doesn't mean that with every step of the way the system won't fight back. Abortion rights, the pipe lines and oil drills. Schools banning books on the Lgbtqia+ community, Black and native history. Police brutality. Anti-Semitism. Hate crimes against APPI. Police raiding peaceful protests and arresting water protestors, POC, trans individuals. All for using their human right to speak their voice against destruction of their land, against violence and abuse again their communities.

We have a long way to go but its not FUCKING OVER!!

[blueiight]

Do you happen to know a good book about black americans in France before WWI? Around the Belle Epoque?

i cant think off the top of my head anything specific but i like these sources taking a look at the belle epoque [sections pulled under readmore] ..if anyone has specifically what this person’s looking for id love to see

In the northern quarter of the Bois de Boulogne in February 1891, not far from the bridle paths where the fashionable women rode à l’amazone, an Englishman called John H. Hood positioned thirty-eight men and women from the Kingdom of Dahomey in West Africa in an animal enclosure in the zoological gardens. “Ethnographic exhibitions” were guaranteed money in the pot—crowds were always up a third, more francs clattering through the cash registers. Since one showman brought fourteen “Nubians” as foils to his wild animals in 1877, there had been Samis, Kalmuks, Araucanians, Somalis, Ashantis, and Senegalese. Their appearance was organized by the French government to pique the public’s interest in colonial expansion. The Society for Anthropology came to measure skulls and complain, in 1881, that they were not permitted to examine the genitals of the Tierra del Fuegians. In January 1891, the Nouveau Cirque’s pantomime was La Cravache (“The Whip”), featuring Chocolat [the stage name of Rafael Padilla, an Afro-Cuban man born into slavery turned famous performer in France during the Belle Epoque] as a servant arrested by a policeman who thinks he is a Somali escaped from the zoological gardens. That year, the zoo offered punters the female Dahomey soldiers, or N’Nonmiton, whom they called Amazons. “These famous warrioresses, strange and legendary, who appear to us like a fantastical vision,” enthused the pamphlet that accompanied the show, “in I know not what troubling vapors of an African mirage, are here, under our eyes, with their picturesque uniforms, their deadly weapons, their dance and their war games, their savage and valiant demeanor.” The N’Nonmiton wore long striped skirts and strings of beads that crisscrossed their torsos, and duly waved scimitars and muskets in drill, while the Parisians watched from outside the enclosure. The previous October, France had defeated Dahomey in a first colonial war. (from the second link)

This period saw the blossoming of print cultures in Africa and the African diaspora, particularly Anglophone areas, which ‘saw an explosion of writing and print, produced and circulated not only by the highly educated and publicly visible figures that dominate political histories of Africa but also by non-elites or obscure aspirants to elite status’, as the work of Karin Barber has outlined. These figures included ‘waged laborers, clerks, village headmasters, traders, and artisans’ who ‘read, wrote, and hoarded texts of many kinds’; ‘[l]ocal, small-scale print production became a part of social life’. What we observe here are not simply ‘isolated examples of the uses of literacy scattered across the continent but the history of a remarkably consistent and widespread efflorescence – a social phenomenon happening all over colonial Anglophone Africa at the same time and with comparable features’ (Barber 2006: 1–3). This flourishing of print cultures was not isolated to the continent. Following Reconstruction in the US there was an explosion in African American literacy and newspaper production: between 1865 and 1900, over 1,200 black newspapers were established (Marable 1991: 8). African American illiteracy rapidly dropped from seventy per cent in 1880 to 30.4 per cent in 1910 (Detweiler 1922: 6). During the early twentieth century, a largely bourgeois postbellum African American press gave way to an increasingly radical mass-circulation media. ‘Never before had so many African Americans purchased and read newspapers produced by and devoted to the interests of their race’, observes a study of this press. ‘Never before had the printed word had as much impact on the everyday lives of middle- and lower-class Blacks’ (Digby-Junger 1998: 263–4). The implications of this efflorescence of print for political affinity – as with the other movements of the period – are far more complex than the ‘nationalism’ allowed for in Benedict Anderson's original formulation. (from the first link)

[selektakoletiva]

MAPIANU Nº2

Entre drills, traps e boombaps de fina estirpe, soltamo mais uma edição de MAPIANU com os lançamento do ano.

CHELSEA REJECT - BUBBLE GIRL

Terceiro álbum de estúdio deste jovem talento de Nova York, berço de grandes nomes do Hip-Hop. Aqui nesse trabalho, segue o bom trato nas linhas e na escolha dos beats, que imergem em um universo própria da rapper.

Transitando entre o boombap, trap e beats mais experimentais do que o costumeiro, Chelsea deslancha entre uma das emcees mais embaçada, quando o quesito é flow e barras. E o híbrido repertório sem perder a postura só vem pra confirmar isso. 'Bubble Grl' tem 10 faixas e conta com a participação de CJ Fly, Anthony King, T'Nah & LIFEOFTOM.

BIG BLLAKK - ERREJOTACULTDRILL, VOL. 2

Se formos falar de Drill no Brasil, temos obviamente que citar nome do rapper carioca Big Bllakk, uma das grandes referências nacionais. Mas nem tudo são flores, muito menos pra quem vem de baixo, e para que Bllakk chegasse até aqui, um longo e trabalhoso caminho teve de ser percorrido. Depois de singles com certo estrondo na mídia e feats com SD9 e produções de Apoena, foi com Derxan, em uma parceria digna de Romario e Edmundo para o Brasil Grime Shows, que as a melhoria começou a piar. Foi também com o mano Derxan que soltou sua primeira mixtape, 'Músicas Para Fumar Balão', lançada pela Pineapple Storm Records. Big Bllakk solta agora a versão 2.0 do EP 'Errejotacultdrill', que já tinha enxamiado a cena, em agosto de 2021. Com flow mais afiado e a dicção em dia, Bllakk retrata as noites e rondas pela 'cidade purgatório da beleza e do caos.'

O Extend-Play de 7 faixas e +1 bônus, com participações cirúrgicas de Juyè, LEALL, Sant e MG CDD. Já os beats, que trazem também um pouco a atmosfera da orla carioca, com sambas e bossas sampleadas e contrastando com as letras de Big. Os instrumentais são assinados em sua maioria por $amuka, que em collabs com produtores do calibre de Ávila No Beat, Erick Di, Nansy Silvvz, Babidi e Pedro Apoema, fazem o disco crescer ainda mais. Mais um bom lançamento do MC carioca, e mais uma da família Rock Danger!

KURT SUTIL - ME PERGUNTA COMO FOI MEU DIA

"Pergunta Como Foi Meu Dia" é o terceiro disco do manaura Kurt Sutil, um dos artistas mais criativos da nova safra de rappers, se destacando no underground brasileiro, sobretudo nortista. Carlos Wendel, vulgo Kurt Sutil, 22, é um cidadão que como qualquer um tem suas ascenções e crises, mas como é sabido, as condições de raça, classe e geografia atravessam o globo. E no Brasil, terceiro mundo, não seria diferente. No álbum - o artista que se inspirou em Kurt Wagner, o Noturno dos filmes X-Men - desenha bem em linhas e flows agressivos as dificuldades de um jovem afro-índigena. Com 11 faixas, o terceiro disco do rapper não trata só de questão de raça e das mazelas do povo do norte, mas também de amores, relacionamentos, exaltando também a sua área, e os seus, consequentemente. Entre boombaps e traps, "Pergunta Como Foi Meu Dia" conta com participações pontuais de Keys Carvalho, Greeg Slim, Will o índio, Ligeirinho AM, Andreww e os camaradas Bêonin, Bukana e DaPortela em duas faixas cada. Beats de JXX$, RVL$, Vittor Clover, Wander Reiss e a parceria de Rob & Dotghostit. O seu faixa Custic também assina 4 faixas no disco, além do mago do norte VXamã Goldfingah. Abençoado por tupã, Kurt segue... de Tapuá pro mundo!

PUMAPJL (FT. SONOTWS) - AUTODOMÍNIO

Mais um trampo da dupla do Febre90's, um dos grandes destaques da cena do Hip-Hop Brasileiro. Puma já se garante por demais, com Sono na retaguarda lançando as pedras, aí já é certeza de qualidade....

Com todos os instrumentais assinados pelo paulista de Jundiaí, o carioca do morro da Mangueira traz um flow de malandro posturado, como de praxe, tratando das vivências pós-sucessada do seu último trabalho, também com TWS, "Naturalidade EP".

O disco, apesar de curto, é objetivo. Se antes, em Naturalidade, pumapjl rimava sobre os balões no morro, e história de sua infância, personagens de sua vida e afins, hoje ele põe no papel as vivências de autocontrole e autodomínio nessa nova fase da sua vida artística e pessoal, com perspectivas totalmente diferentes de quando surgiu na cena. E segue contrariando estatísticas nessas 7 faixas, conseguindo dialogar com seu trabalho anterior, sem cansar flow ou lírica, e ainda estourar com um som não habitual entre o mainstream, sujo e mais orgânico, cheio de picotadas de jazz, música brasileira e batidas crocantes. Aliás, a drumkit do tio Sono, é brincadeira....

É isso, espero que tenham curtido. Até uma próxima!

Kelafé!

[casspurrjoybell-17]

HEART'S FATE - CHAPTER 1

*Warning: Adult Content*  

‘Flora, Nico, Rio, Miguel. Hurry up. It’s almost time to go.’

Following his own advice, Martin Hunter, hastily packs four lunch-boxes into four identical lunch-bags as he listens to his kids scramble through their morning routine. 

As usual, his daughter, Flora finishes first and arrives downstairs with her exuberant curls pinned with her favourite flower hair-clips and her backpack full of books on her shoulder.

‘Do you have your homework?’

Flora rolls her eyes at her father, a recently required skill.

‘Of course. The others have theirs too. I checked.’

Dropping her school-bag by the door, she sits at the dinning table and serves herself some scrambled eggs and toast while her father pours her a glass of juice.

‘Nico got a math problem wrong but I helped him fix it,’ she says. 

‘And Miguel made a bunch of spelling mistakes but luckily he wrote it in pencil so it was easy erased and corrected.’

‘You know that if you do their homework for them, they won’t learn,’ Martin says.

‘I don’t do it for them,’ she says, rolling her eyes again. 

‘I just show them how to do it right.’

Martin hides his smile. 

At eleven, his daughter reminds him of a young, Afro/Latina Hermione Granger, brilliant, motivated and a little bossy. 

She’s his right-hand man and helps keep her three brothers in check. 

Miguel arrives next, plopping into the chair next to his twin sister with a sleepy mumble that sounds almost ‘Good morning Dad’.

‘Morning, sweetheart,’ Martin says, ruffling his messy hair as he sets a glass of juice in front of him. 

Miguel is his sisters opposite, shy, quite and happiest when he’s alone with his sketchbook.

‘Ready for school?’

Martin interprets Miguel’s monosyllabic sound as a ‘yes’. 

His younger set of twins arrive in a rush of running feet and joyful shrieks as Rio chases Nico with a toy snake. 

Martin catches Nico before he crashes into the table and plucks the rubber snake from Rio’s grasp.

‘Breakfast boys,’ he says sternly. 

‘And the snake stays here. I do not need another mid-morning call from your teacher.’

‘Yes, Daddy,” they say in chorus and sit down at the table to serve themselves breakfast. 

Martin’s heart warms a little as they wolf down their simple meal and he sighs a breath of gratitude and relief he always feels when he has all his children, safe and happy in one place. 

When the Hunter children finish they rise and carry their plates to the sink. 

Flora pauses before placing her plate in the soapy water.

‘Did you have breakfast, Dad?’ she asks.

‘Not yet. I’ll eat in a bit.’

Flora eyes her father, solemnly.

“Alright. Make sure you do. Nutrition is important, you know?’

‘Yes ma’am,’ Martin says, smiling and teasing her a little.

Flora is observant for her age, a little too much so, sometimes and smart as a whip, just like he mother. 

Fortunately she’s also kind and caring, not like her mother, at all.

‘You guys have been really good lately,’ Martin tells his children, leaning on the table while they gather up their packs and head for the door. 

‘Keep it up and I’ll take you all fishing this weekend. What do you say?’

A chorus of voices give resounding approval of this plan and even Miguel looks exited.

‘Alright, alright,’ Martin laughs. 

‘Now get moving or you will be late. You know the drill, hold hands, use the crosswalk and don’t talk to strangers. Got it?’

‘Yes, Dad.’

In an instant, the Hunter children are out the door and down the street. 

It’s barely a five minute walk to school, one reason why Martin chose this house but it had taken his a year before he let them take it by them selves. 

The urge to follow them and see them safely in their classrooms is still strong but he resists. 

Doctor Vance said it was good for them to develop some independence and good for Martin to trust them. 

Still, he had asked their teachers to call him right away if they were more than three minutes late and he won’t really relax until they are home again in the afternoon. 

In the meantime, he has work to do. 

The real-estate agent had warned him that the house was a ‘fixer-upper’ but the size, price and location had been too good to be passed up. 

Gradually, Martin had come to understand that what he had saved up front he’d pay for in other ways. 

The plumbing was old and leaking, the wiring was outdated and the roof needed repairs. 

Something was always broken and the place rained dust. 

Still, it was cosy and warm, nothing like the cold sterile house the kids had grown up in and for better or worse, they loved it. 

Maybe because it had nothing of their mother here. 

Now they just have Martin and of course their three uncles that live nearby, his brothers, Dane, Noah and Monty who despite everything he has done had welcomed him and his family here. 

The three Hunter brothers and their mates had all offered to help with whatever they needed, babysitting, grocery run a extra pair of hands, now and then but he couldn’t bring himself to ask for what he thought he didn’t deserve. 

The last time Martin had talked to him, Dane had suggested hiring someone to help with the house work but the single Dad wouldn’t pay for something he could do himself, either. 

He had a strict budget, bills, necessities and whatever the kids needed. 

Everything else went into the college fund. 

Their mother could have put them all through medical school twice but their mother could have killed them, as well. Martin was perfectly happy never to see another dime of her money. 

Meanwhile, as long as the kids were safe and happy, then Martin would be happy enough, too. 

He made sure they had clean clothes, got to school on time and did their homework. 

He made sure they came to a place they felt loved and that they always had food on the table. 

He made sure they laughed and had things to look forward to and made good memories to look back on. 

Martin Hunter felt he had failed his children in just about every other way imaginable. 

He would rather die than fail his kids, again. 

The pain in his chest comes suddenly, a sharp stab behind his ribs that makes him gasp and grab the back of the chair for support. 

It fades over the course of the few steady breathes to a dull ache and his alarm subsides. 

It’s nothing new. 

It started when his mate broke their already weak bond with her betrayal but it’s been happening more frequently in the past week or so. 

Nothing to worry about, Martin tells himself, as a wolf with a broken mate-bond, it’s just something he has to live with, the last way his wife Elena will ever hurt him.  

After a few breathes he carries on with the list of daily chores. 

When he is finished with the housework, the single dad runs errands in town, good exercise, since he doesn’t have a car. 

Then he accesses the house and triage repairs based on propriety, a patch on the roof, the leaky downstairs bathroom faucet and the light above the stove. 

Lastly, there is his pet project and future investment, the free standing garage. 

With no vehicle to store in it, he’s been slowly turning it into a separate apartment and loft. 

Someday he’ll rent it out to college students or an Air B&B or something and make an income on the side. 

But for now it’s low propriety and all he’s manage to do is take a few measurements before it’s time before it’s time to start thinking about a snack for the kids and what to make for dinner. 

Later, once they are in bed, he’ll ‘go to work’ which fortunately he can do almost anytime and anywhere. 

Elena used to mock Martin’s career as a writer of crime novels, his income only being a fraction of hers but he’s proud to say it’s enough to get by on, for now. 

In a few years Flora and Miguel will be teenagers. 

They will want, at least one car and stylish clothes and a larger allowance and... 

Martin’s cell-phone rings and his heart leaps in his chest when he recognizes the phone number of the children school.

‘Hello?’

‘Hello. Is this Mr Martin Hunter?’

The voice on the other end is male and very softly spoken.

‘Yes. Speaking.’

“Hi. I’m Skylar West. I teach Art at your son’s school.’

‘Oh. Which one? I mean, which son?’

‘Well, actually I teach all grades but today I’m calling about Miguel.’

Martin’s heart kicks into high gear with images of horrific pencil-sharpening accidents or whatever may happen in an art class, flash through his brain.

‘Is he okay. What happened? Is he hurt?’

‘No, no. It’s nothing like that. I’d just like to talk to you about... his art.’

‘Oh. Well, as his father, I’m obviously biased but he is quiet talented,’ he says, holding the cell-phone away from his face briefly to catch his breath.

‘I agree,’ the quiet, mellow voice replies. 

‘However, it’s not the quality of his work that concerns me but the content. Have you seen his sketchbook.’

Martin’s heart quickens, again. Miguel is eleven but he can’t imagine him drawing anything inappropriate. 

He’s more interested in pond scum than in girls or boys. 

‘No. Not recently,” Martin admits.

‘Well, usually children's art is merely that, art from the minds of children. Adults often read too much into it. But in this case the persistence  that worries me. Some of the scenes he’s drawn are fairly violent and contain people that Miguel says are his family. And for some reason he’s drawn them all as wolves.’

‘Has he?’ Martin asks, his voice cracks and he clears his throat.

‘Yes and I’m honestly a little bit concerned and I’d like to speak to you in person, if you don’t mind.’

‘Of course. When?’

‘This afternoon. If you have time.’

‘I can come right now.’

‘Good. I’ll be in the art room. See you soon.’

The phone-call disconnects and Martin hangs his head, dragging his fingers through his short dense curls. 

Raising four children, by himself is hard enough. 

Raising a little pack of werewolves comes with a whole different set of challenges.