u/Faye-Faye33

For all the times I've been told to shut up Meg because none of my thoughts or feelings ever mattered. I proved them wrong.

I've never been intellectually inferior to anyone. They were too afraid of me being smarter. But because I didn't have a dick. And I didn't learn how to read until I was 10.

I was seen as lesser.

Now it proves everyone who has ever thought of me as stupid, wrong. I'm mother fucking smart and I deserved to support in my life.

My thoughts, the things I write there are people out there who want to listen. And I'm damn proud, I'm getting published and they asked for more.

Today, I got the news that the Labor Heritage Foundation will be publishing my poems! I'm a proud working class writer.

I love writing about working class experiences. Solidarity forever, and workers of the world unite!✊️🍞🌹

My brother's can suck my non-existent dick!

[In Progress] [On Hiatus while I edit] [70k] Western/Historical/Romance/Alternative Universe--Cowboy From Gold Mountain

— Looking for Beta Readers

The Cowboy From Gold Mountain is a Fallout: New Vegas Historical Western AU. I reimagined a minor character Colonel James Hsu into a Chinese immigrant who fled to America with his father and older brother after their mother passed away from child birth and the Taiping Rebellion. His father, brother, and railcamp get massacred by a white supremacist organization called the Legion. He's the only survivor.

He meets Lenore Calhoun the daughter of a Surgeon who served the Union. Her family gets massacred by Benny and she's left for dead. They meet in Durango and decide to work together.

I use AI to edit and for historical research. I've also done my own research through Ghosts of Gold Mountain, Angel Island Poetry, various library sources. I write the vast majority myself.

Word count: 70k

Genre: Western/Historical/Romance/Alternative Universe

Status: In Progress

Posted on AO3

Legion as ex-confederates, Child Death, Animal Death, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Sexual Content, Period-Typical Racism, Immigration Themes, Colonialism, Drug Use, Chinese Mythology & Folklore, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, cross-cultural romance, Interracial Relationship, Forced Proximity, Morally Ambiguous Character, Partners to Lovers, Shi are Tongs, Tong Wars, NCR as Rangers, Gender Disguise, Revenge, Xenophobia, Angst with a Happy Ending

Rating: M

The premise:

The year is 1887. A Chinese cowboy and a woman disguised as a man walk into a Durango saloon. This isn't a joke, and it isn't a tall tale.

Jiang Hsu was a railroad laborer before the Legion crucified his family; now he's a bounty hunter collecting a debt. Lenore Calhoun is a courier with a bullet scar, a borrowed name, and a vendetta, the Legion murdered her abolitionist family, and she means to return the favor.

The deal is simple: ride together, hunt together, survive. The road runs from the Colorado mountains to Salt Lake City, from the Yuma deserts to California's golden fields, through Tong wars and besieged towns and the brutal past that binds them.

No canon knowledge required

I'd appreciate feedback on:

- Pacing

- Characters and relationships

- Worldbuilding

- Plot and overall story

Logistics

Preferred return date or turnaround: flexible I've already posted the first 19 chapters so I am in no hurry. I've decided to put my fic on hiatus. I'm okay for the turnaround to be every week or bi-weekly.

Feedback format: inline comments on google docs.

Arrangement: Unpaid or paid, if permitted. I'm willing to read your story if posted on AO3 and leave encouraging comments on chapters with Action/Adventures, Romance, Westerns, and historical fictional, if that's alright.

NDA or confidentiality requirement: None

If interested leave a comment, please. No messaging because of scammers.

---

He set down his carving and knife. His fingers tapped a rhythm, then stilled. His lips turned down, his brows softened. "Are you well?"

She wouldn't tell him about the bath; that was her demon to bear alone. Nor would she wouldn't expose her soul to a stranger.

She turned her cheek avoiding his gaze. "What are you carving?"

"A bear."

"A bear?" She stepped closer, curiosity piqued. "Why a bear?"

"I like bears." He kept carving.

He stopped, sheathed his knife with a soft click, and stood. His broad shoulders filled the window. His boots echoed as he closed the distance between them.

The scent of sandalwood enveloped her, sweet and earthy. The tension in her back released. He held out the carving.

She looked at the crude, charming bear. Her calloused thumb brushed over its body, tracing the rough grooves of his knife strokes.

Her vision blurred. A piece of wood shouldn't hold such weight.

"Thank ya. You didn't have to." His hands slid into his pockets. "I wanted to."

34 year old woman as a late learner when it came to reading and writing English, it really impresses me that I love to write fiction and poetry. You'd think someone who started to read at age 10 would despise reading, or that learning proper grammar in high school would make me hate writing, but I love both.

It's sad that there are kids in poor families who also struggle with learning, who may never learn to read or write, and who could have natural talent.

I just had parents who didn't know how to handle a kid with ADHD and a mother who was neglectful. I personally can't sit there and say Americans are stupid. I've been one of those kids with an IEP, and the system isn't made for you to succeed.

I've had my share of teachers who saw me as flat-out special needs. We would sit in class coloring in coloring books at age 15, when IEP classes should help you with high school and college-level classes by figuring out the best ways for you to study and retain information.

I would pass tests with flying colors when we turned learning into a game, but nah, we were just used for school funding. That is the problem with American society.

This was back in 2006 before the AI scare. It actually pisses me off when people complain about AI making kids stupid.

If our government funded schooling like it does the Military Industrial Complex, then our infrastructure wouldn't be crumbling and people wouldn't vote for politicians like Trump or MTG.

It goes beyond just school funding. We need a livable wage where parents aren't working multiple jobs, so they can be active in their child's education.

Smaller classrooms so the teacher can work with those who learn differently. Paying teachers over 70k a year! Making classrooms safe.

Children aren't going to learn when they're worried about getting shot. A society that encourages intellectualism instead of anti-intellectualism.

But our government would rather bomb the Middle East or start another coup in South America, not tax the rich, no safeguards against monopolization, and no worker solidarity or a pro-union society.

The thing I can say I hate most about the United States is it's failure to the next generation of children. The government would rather make abortion illegal instead of creating a society where children are safe and have a healthy relationship with education.

It's not AI, it's all of the above problems. When children aren't given proper support and under stress. They will find the easy way out. It is a class issue.

And when people point to AI. You are ignoring a child's real needs. I compare blaming AI to gaslighting. I knew I was getting the short end of the stick and I see that same shorter end for modern children.

It's fake moral outrage. Kids only matter when the narrative pushes it.

As a late learner when it came to reading and writing English, it really impresses me that I love to write fiction and poetry. You'd think someone who started to read at age 10 would despise reading, or that learning proper grammar in high school would make me hate writing, but I love both.

It's sad that there are kids in poor families who also struggle with learning, who may never learn to read or write, and who could have natural talent.

I just had parents who didn't know how to handle a kid with ADHD and a mother who was neglectful. I personally can't sit there and say Americans are stupid. I've been one of those kids with an IEP, and the system isn't made for you to succeed.

I've had my share of teachers who saw me as flat-out special needs. We would sit in class coloring in coloring books at age 15, when IEP classes should help you with high school and college-level classes by figuring out the best ways for you to study and retain information.

My ADHD ass would pass tests with flying colors when we turned learning into a game, but nah, we were just used for school funding. That is the problem with American society.

If our government funded schooling like it does the Military Industrial Complex, then our infrastructure wouldn't be crumbling and people wouldn't vote for politicians like Trump or MTG.

It goes beyond just school funding. We need a livable wage where parents aren't working multiple jobs, so they can be active in their child's education.

Smaller classrooms so the teacher can work with those who learn differently. Paying teachers over 70k a year! Making classrooms safe.

Children aren't going to learn when they're worried about getting shot. A society that encourages intellectualism instead of anti-intellectualism.

But our government would rather bomb the Middle East or start another coup in South America, not tax the rich, no safeguards against monopolization, and no worker solidarity or a pro-union society.

The thing I can say I hate most about the United States is it's failure to the next generation of children. The government would rather make abortion illegal instead of creating a society where children are safe and have a healthy relationship with education.

It's not AI making your kids stupid. It's the society in which we live. When you blame AI; you're ignoring the child's needs.

The story I'm writing deals with the Chinese Exclusion era, Jim Crow, etc. Since I post a new chapter monthly, I can go back and make changes whenever.

I went to updated the epigraph to chapter 8.

I forgot to add a content warning for a depiction of lynching. I immediately updated the chapter with a content warning.

I try to disconnect myself emotionally while writing historical violence because researching about massacres, lynching, people being chased out of towns for the color of their skin, etc., will fuck you up.

I can only read a little bit at a time about boarding-schools, Indigenous peoples cultural genocide, Angel Island Poems, Chinese Massacres, and etc.

Idk how folks who major in Genocide Studies do it. I'm just a writer and it's a lot to take in. I don't even use a lot of the research it's just to understand the material conditioning and what my characters dealt with.

I will be adding content disclaimers at the top of heavy chapters going forward, and I'm working back through the story to add them where they're needed.

I can't take back the harm I possibly made, but I can correct myself moving forward.

I'm also going to speak to my therapist. If anyone is in Genocide Studies what are your coping habits?

I'm writing historical fiction set in the American West during the Chinese Exclusion Act. I look up Cantonese sayings for my story and sometimes stumble onto Mandarin pinyin instead of Cantonese romanization.

I'm beginning to recognize the difference, e.g., Mandarin pinyin uses X (pronounced like S/SH), whereas Cantonese uses S in Jyutping or Yale.

From listening to Frances Yip and Cantonese opera, I'm also starting to pick up on Cantonese phonology, though I'm still very much a beginner.

Jyutping uses tonal numbers at the end of each word, whereas Yale uses diacritics which confused me at first since I only speak English and some Spanish.

I've been debating about learning Cantonese properly for this story. It would be so much better to actually hear how my Chinese characters sound in my head.

This story keeps challenging me, so my hyperfocus keeps pointing out more I can learn. The research goes beyond language, I've been studying my characters' historical material conditions for that time period, folklore and 19th century Chinese history.

My character is from Daliang, Shunde, Guangdong, born 1856. Are there any resources for understanding 19th-century Cantonese vocabulary or the Shunde dialect specifically? And for writing romanization in fiction, do readers generally prefer Jyutping or Yale?

‐---------------

Thanks for the language help, here's some poems from Jiang's POV to show where the research landed.

Rail Camp

mountain and pine all around.

white canvas tents like sun-scorched bone.

my muscles scream from every load.

sloshing water over bucket rim.

child's work for a boy of ten.

an Irishman, a contractor, sneers

white devils get easy work.

foreign devils forced open my home.

weathered pipe, sweet smoke curled.

my country weakened.

long hairs scorched the countryside.

as flames consume father's schoolhouse.

my family, my clan are now poor.

guangdong an ocean away.

clicking, clacking, hammer to nail.

laboring for gold

wages spent on rice.

nitroglycerin tore the earth,

vaporizing twenty men.

thirty miles away, on the mountain summit.

calloused fingers smoothed bone prayer beads.

names unrecorded by the rail company.

countrymen wander as hungry ghosts.

a graveyard built on the future.

my eyes stung from dripping sweat.

headman shouts in toishanese.

clacking stopped, hammers dropped.

as the strike began.

---

The Golden Gate

the vast pacific surrounds us.

steam rises from smokestacks.

sea breeze nips my cheeks.

mist-draped golden gate greets.

our robes reek,

thirty days out at sea.

my chest tightens for lychee,

its sweet taste a memory.

baritone drums pound,

as dragon boats race through brown canals.

flames ate our schoolhouse,

curling smoke haunts.

my sister born breathless,

mother forever sleeps.

beyond endless horizons.

yet, no ancestral land waits.

claimed by famine and war.

I know this might sound silly, but my nerd brain is jumping for joy. I look up Cantonese sayings for The Cowboy From Gold Mountain and sometimes I stumble onto Mandarin romanization translations instead of Cantonese.

I'm beginning to recognize the difference. In Mandarin they use an X in pinyin, but it's pronounced like an S or sh whereas the Cantonese romanization is an S Jyutping or Yale.

Jyutping has the tonal numbers at the end of each word whereas the Yale doesn't which confused me at first since I can only speak English and some Spanish.

I've been debating about learning Cantonese for the story. I know this fic is gonna take awhile, but it would be better to actually hear how my Chinese characters sound in my head.

This story is always challenging me so my hyperfocus is pointing out more I can learn.

This research goes beyond language. I study the characters material conditions like did they grow up in a country that was ravaged by foreign wars and civil wars. What kind of conditions did they live in? Were they poor, a part of the gentry or scholar class. Did the upheaval take away their comforts or were they struggling, but struggling more.

With all this research it's shown me personally the difference between appropriation and appreciation.

Appropriation is the colonization taking or stealing of a different culture from yours whereas appreciation comes with respect and responsibility to stand beside a culture not your own.

It's a huge and important responsibility. In America minority groups get treated systemically differently compared to white people.

It's not that we shouldn't write about another culture. It's about the deeper systemic white privilege we have and understanding colonization can take many forms including artistic.

I don't want to be like Indiana Jones taking cultural objects and placing them in a museum. But the research doesn't just stay on the page.

There are times where I have to sit with anger, guilt, discomfort, sadness and so on then try to channel those feelings into my characters.

It's something, I've had to talk with my therapist about because the history is awful and it'll make me cry for a while like I'm mourning for people I've never met.

Update: I also forgot something so I added a paragraph.

A Body in Motion

I wrote this essay comparing two of the largest worker uprisings in American history. the 1860s Chinese railroad strike and the 1921 Battle of Blair Mountain. The Chinese workers were excluded from unions. The miners were organized union men.

I've been researching Chinese immigration history for a fiction project, and the more I dug, the more I noticed the connections. British and French colonialism forcing open China. American capitalism exploiting immigrants already wrecked by war and revolution.

The Transcontinental Railroad was built in earnest after the Civil War. Prior to the exploitation of Chinese immigrants via the Coolie Contracts, there was chattel slavery, where the body was owned as property. Africans were stripped of their names, heritage, and humanity.

Settler colonialism and industrial capitalism feed the same machine. Those railroads sliced through Native sovereign land and territory seized from Mexico under the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, where land was stolen from Californios and Chicanos.

Both approach labor history through the exploited body, how capital extracts more than profit.

"Mouth of Hell" draws from the Battle of Blair Mountain, written through a miner's body from the pit to the ridge. "Rail Camp" follows a Chinese railroad worker in the 1860s, from the Taiping Rebellion to the nitroglycerin deaths that built the Transcontinental.

Both groups were also put in similar living conditions. Chinese-American laborers were made to sleep in white canvas tents. Company towns evicted striking miners, and their families were forced into white canvas tents.

They repeated what was done to Chinese immigrants against Appalachian miners as a way of dehumanization and power reduction. If you're living in poor conditions and have nowhere to go, you'll stay.

You can compare it to an abuser: you want to leave, but they hold the finances and the fear of further violence.

Ultimately, capitalism creates the environment for racism. Race becomes a larger deal when class solidarity begins to form.

We can look to history: Chinese railroad workers were pitted against Irish workers in order to prevent solidarity across racial lines, even though both groups were seen as non-white.

Rail Camp

mountain and pine all around.

white canvas tents like sun-scorched bone.

my muscles scream from every load.

sloshing water over bucket rim.

child's work for a boy of ten.

an Irishman, a contractor, sneers

white devils get easy work.

foreign devils forced open my home.

weathered pipe, sweet smoke curled.

my country weakened.

long hairs scorched the countryside.

as flames consume father's schoolhouse.

my family, my clan are now poor.

guangdong an ocean away.

clicking, clacking, hammer to nail.

laboring for gold

wages spent on rice.

nitroglycerin tore the earth,

vaporizing twenty men.

thirty miles away, on the mountain summit.

calloused fingers smoothed bone prayer beads.

names unrecorded by the rail company.

countrymen wander as hungry ghosts.

a graveyard built on the future.

my eyes stung from dripping sweat.

headman shouts in toishanese.

clacking stopped, hammers dropped.

as the strike began.

Chinese immigrants set up an 8 day long strike. It was one of the largest strikes in American history for that time period, but the CPRR stopped it by cutting off food and supplies.

Now compare that to the Battle of Blair Mountain. It was a multiracial uprising to weaken the coal company, which failed because of state and company violence.

Mouth of Hell

mines suffocating,

narrow, damper than a trench,

darker than tobacco resin.

laboring my body away in hell's gullet.

i return every night.

sharp pain, void gut

breathing in black dust

shoulders sting,

dripping sweat.

pickaxe clinking, sparking,

for company scrip,

weighted burden,

clanking like a broken bell.

body dragging.

til that day Hatfield was slain.

union man through-and-through.

hot coal pressure spread from

chest to fist,

erupting.

days passed.

humid air weighed me down.

lungs strained by thickened air

clothes glued to my skin by sweat.

red bandanna tied around my neck.

rucksack heavy like black gold.

looked out over the vast ridge.

blair mountain towered over yonder.

bullets zipped by,

bombers hollered overhead.

choking gas, eyes burned.

returning fire,

we fought for days.

many brothers' blood,

quenched the hungry earth.

army marched in

hot coals simmered

shoulders slackened

we slipped off our red bandannas

and laid down our arms.

Both groups were stopped either through state or company violence.

Here comes the kicker! We can compare those historical events to modern times, but instead of forcing people into white canvas tents, they trap us through employer-tied insurance, gutted government aid, and at-will employment. Companies hold the same power, if not more, compared to the Robber Barons and coal companies.

Large news organizations are always pointing the finger, guess who, at the immigrant, the LGBTQ+ person, and the person of color in order to keep the working class slicing each other's throats, just like what was done 150 to 100 years ago.

This country is putting Chicano descendants in camps when half this land was originally Mexico. The same government that broke treaty promises and stole land is now deporting and imprisoning the people whose ancestors were here first.

It is the same machinery that built Japanese concentration camps in the 1940s and the Angel Island detention center, where Chinese immigrants were imprisoned for weeks, months, or years.

Things have changed, but the methods haven't.

This is why our governmental institutions don't invest in public schooling or teach the actual history of America.

They fear us just as they feared the miners, the exploited and excluded Chinese immigrants, the emancipated African Americans whose rights were diminished after Reconstruction failed, and Indigenous peoples who fought against settler colonialism during the Indian Wars.

It cuts into their capital, which isn't just natural resources, but the American people themselves.

I've worked factory jobs for twelve years. I'm currently on medical leave, back problems, partly the work, partly my own body. These poems come from that same place.

--‐----------------------------------------------------------------------

"We call the laws of gravity Newton's law, but everybody knows that Newton cannot invent that a body falls at the rate of g = 9.807 m/s². Any man, any woman sitting in Timbuktu just observing the laws of gravity will come to the exact same conclusions as Newton: a body in motion tends to stay in motion unless stopped by an outside force. In an identical manner, the myth of Karl Marx as the inventor of socialism prevents our people from pursuing a scientific analysis of their struggles. They think that Marx and Lenin invented the science known as Marxism-Leninism. Marx and Lenin did not invent. They merely observed and recorded. That's all they did. They're no different to Newton." --- Kwame Ture

Update: I changed the formatting to integrate the poems within the essay.

So I started getting into free-verse materialist persona poetry. There are only about two American working-class publishers. The Labor Heritage Foundation and The Blue Collar Review.

Everything else I can find is UK-based. The UK-based working-class publishers only publish poems from the UK which is understandable their working conditions and labor movements are different then ours.

As a factory worker, I want more representation, but everyone in America is an embarrassed billionaire. The US used to have the WPA, but that was gutted a long time ago.

I sure as fuck don't have the money to attend an MFA, and I kind of don't want to.

MFA removes all culture. Plus, they make everything abstract and at times, I think exploitative to the working-class. They'll take the factory worker or the miner turn them into a symbol of perseverance when like that's not the case. I gotta eat and life didn't workout for me. I'm not ashamed of that.

How even mental health is treated within the MFA community. It's about healing and overcoming. You can't overcome CPTSD. You learn how to cope or try to.

This country makes it hard to move up. The vast majority of us who were born working-class will die working-class.

I want to write historical labor poetry because that stuff is fascinating.

Yesterday, I broke down and decided to send The Labor Heritage Foundation two of my poems that focus on labor history The Battle of Blair Mountain and one focusing on a Chinese Immigrant in the 1860s during the building of Transcontinental. I'm kind of shaking and hope they get published.

Rail Camp

mountain and pine all around. white canvas like sun-scorched bone. my muscles scream from every load. sloshing water over bucket rim. child's work for a boy of ten.

irishman sneers a contractor. white devils get the easy work.

foreign devils forced open my home. black pill sweet smoke curled. long hairs scorched countryside. flames consume father's schoolhouse.

my family, my clan now poor. guangdong an ocean away.

clicking, clacking, hammer to nail. laboring for gold wages spent on rice.

nitroglycerin tore the earth, vaporizing twenty men. on the summit, thirty miles away.

names forgotten by the rail company. calloused fingers smoothed bone prayer beads. countrymen wander as hungry ghosts. a graveyard built on the future.

my eyes stung from dripping sweat. headman shouts in toishanese. clacking stopped, hammers dropped. the strike began.

---

Mouth of Hell

mines suffocating, narrow, damper than a trench, darker than tobacco resin.

laboring my body away in hell's gullet.

i return every night. sharp pain, void gut breathing in black dust shoulders sting, dripping sweat.

pickaxe clinking, sparking, for company scrip, weighted burden, clanking like a broken bell.

body dragging, cruel sick joke.

til that day Hatfield was slain. union man through-and-through. hot coal pressure spread from chest to fist, erupting.

days passed.

thousands gathered with rifles, machine guns, and explosives. to mine the company line

humid air weighed me down. lungs strained by thickened air clothes glued to my skin by sweat. red bandanna tied around my neck. rucksack heavy like black gold.

looked out over the vast ridge. blair mountain towered over yonder.

bullets zipped by, bombers hollered overhead. choking gas, eyes burned.

returning fire, we fought for days. many brothers' blood, quenched the hungry earth.

army marched in hot coals simmered

shoulders slackened we slipped off our red bandannas and laid down our arms.

Today, I broke down and decided to send The Labor Heritage Foundation two of my poems that focus on labor history The Battle of Blair Mountain and one focusing on a Chinese Immigrant in the 1860s during the building of Transcontinental. I'm kind of shaking and hope they get published.

I forgot here are the two entries.

Mouth of Hell

mines suffocating,

narrow, damper than a trench,

darker than tobacco resin.

laboring my body away in hell's gullet.

i return every night.

sharp pain, void gut

breathing in black dust,

shoulders sting,

dripping sweat.

pickaxe clinking, sparking,

for company scrip,

weighted burden,

clanking like a broken bell.

body dragging,

cruel sick joke.

til that day Hatfield was slain.

union man through-and-through.

hot coal pressure spread from

chest to fist,

erupting.

days passed.

thousands gathered with

rifles, machine guns, and explosives.

to mine the company line

humid air weighed me down.

lungs strained by thickened air

clothes glued to my skin by sweat.

red bandanna tied around my neck.

rucksack heavy like black gold.

looked out over the vast ridge.

blair mountain towered over yonder.

bullets zipped by,

bombers hollered overhead.

choking gas, eyes burned.

returning fire,

we fought for days.

many brothers' blood,

quenched the hungry earth.

army marched in

hot coals simmered

shoulders slackened

we slipped off our red bandannas

and laid down our arms.

---

Rail Camp

mountain and pine all around.

white canvas like sun-scorched bone.

my muscles scream from every load.

sloshing water over bucket rim.

child's work for a boy of ten.

irishman sneers a contractor.

white devils get the easy work.

foreign devils forced open my home.

black pill sweet smoke curled.

long hairs scorched countryside.

flames consume father's schoolhouse.

my family, my clan now poor.

guangdong an ocean away.

clicking, clacking, hammer to nail.

laboring for gold

wages spent on rice.

nitroglycerin tore the earth,

vaporizing twenty men.

on the summit, thirty miles away.

names forgotten by the rail company.

calloused fingers smoothed bone prayer beads.

countrymen wander as hungry ghosts.

a graveyard built on the future.

my eyes stung from dripping sweat.

headman shouts in toishanese.

clacking stopped, hammers dropped.

the strike began.

Original I wrote this:

The enforcer pulled out a long pipe from his saddlebag, a folded piece of parchment paper, and a long metal needle. He unfolded the paper, gathered honey-colored opium on the needle, and leaned forward towards the popping fire.

The opium began to sizzle and pop the longer he held it above the flame. Once it was heated he rolled it into a small bead, dropping it into the pipe, and holding it above the flame. He then leaned back taking a long drag while it bubbled.

Deepseek editing my work:

The enforcer pulled a long pipe from his saddlebag, along with a folded square of parchment and a slender metal needle. He unfolded the paper, gathered a dab of honey-colored opium onto the needle’s tip, and leaned toward the popping fire.

The opium began to sizzle and spit the longer he held it above the flame. Once it softened, he withdrew the needle and rolled the drug into a small, glistening bead.

He thumbed it into the pipe’s bowl and cradled it over the heat. Then he leaned back, slow, and took a long drag while it bubbled.