#Johnnyc - Twitter Hashtag

5 days ago

Harriot Fletcher #johnnyc · Commonwealth Summit, Antigua AI-assisted fiction (SNVL). Parallel universe. Africa would be a shithole, if it weren’t for the women. Same here in the Windies, only the numbers are better. That’s why I like being in the islands. The women still know what a working country looks like, and still work for the country. The terrace is almost empty when she arrives. Harriot Fletcher moves through the tables like she still owns the place — which, in a way, she does. Forty, melamin, widow of the last governor who mattered, and still the best thing on the island. The dress is black too, cut so the moonlight has something to work with. Big Jim and I have been doing the Butchers hook ever since she walked into a Lodge reception ten years ago and make every white diplomat in the room forget what they were talking about. “Johnny Boy,” she says, sitting down without waiting for the chair to be pulled. “Yuh early. Dat mean di King’s speech already written and yuh just here fi enjoy yuhself.” “Both.” I pour for her first. “Grand Lodge wants the reparations line soft enough that the islands don’t walk out and sharp enough that nobody in London has to write a cheque. I’m the translator.” She watches the wine, then me. “An’ what yuh telling him ’bout we?” “That the West Indies already won.” I keep my voice low because the waiter is still hovering. “Higher standard of living than any country in Africa. Cricket as a free gift. The Windrush generation wasn’t a debt; it was the interest on an investment that paid out for decades. Compared to South Africa we spent a hundred years paying off the Boer War and still can’t keep the lights on. So when Kingston starts shouting for reparations, the King should smile, thank them for the sugar and the soldiers, and remind them the Commonwealth is the only club that still lets them in without begging.” Harriot’s face doesn’t move, but something behind her eyes does. She takes a slow sip. “Dat a very tidy story,” she says. “Reparations nuh ’bout di ledger yuh keep in yuh head, Johnny. Dem ’bout di fact dat di wealth weh build dem fine house inna London tek from people who still live wid di consequence every day. An apology widout money is just anodda way fi tell we fi grateful we did survive.” I lean forward. “I’m not here to insult anybody. I’m here because the alternative is worse. Take Africa. The islands still function. That’s the difference.” She looks past me at the water. For a moment I think she’s going to let it go. Then she says, “Yuh still smoke dat Jamaican nonsense when yuh working?” I take the joint from my pocket, light it, and offer it across the table. She accepts, two careful pulls, then hands it back. The smoke sits between us. I watch the way her mouth looks around it and feel the Ambassador stiring — the one that has nothing to do with politics and everything to do with the way she moves when she thinks no one’s looking. “Merits are simple,” I tell her. “It takes the edge off the speeches and puts it somewhere more useful. You want the rest?” She doesn’t answer. Just studies me the way she used to when she was deciding whether the night was going to end in her old house or mine. The steel band down the beach is playing something soft. The restaurant has cleared out around us. Harriot sets her glass down. The sound is small and final. “Yuh nuh even trying fi hear yuhself tonight.” “I’m trying to be accurate.” I reach for her hand across the table. She doesn’t pull away at first. Her skin is warm. “Charm’s for when I’m not working. Right now I’m working. Later I’m not.” She looks at my hand on hers, then at my face. Whatever was left of the usual invitation dies in her eyes. She stands. The dress does what it’s paid to do. I stay seated because standing would only make it worse. “So,” I say, “are we not going to have our usual Commonwealth summit mount at your place?” She looks down at me, one hand already on her bag. The moonlight catches the line of her throat. “Mi looking fi something bigger tonight,” she says. Then she walks. The heels click once on the stone, then disappear into the sand. The waiter finally approaches, careful. “Another bottle, Mr Rhodes?” “No,” I say. “Just the bill.” The moon is still doing its job on the water. Somewhere in London a speech is waiting for the sentences I’ve already written. Somewhere down the beach the woman I’ve wanted for a decade has decided she’s had enough of my politics for one night. Both of those things are useful. I finish the joint, drop the end in the empty glass, and start walking toward the lights of the capital. The summit opens in the morning. By then the King will know exactly what to say, and Harriot will know exactly what she didn’t get. That’s the deal. Always has been.

philipdc's tweet photo. Harriot Fletcher

#johnnyc · Commonwealth Summit, Antigua
AI-assisted fiction (SNVL). Parallel universe.

Africa would be a shithole, if it weren’t for the women. Same here in the Windies, only the numbers are better. That’s why I like being in the islands. The women still know what a working country looks like, and still work for the country.

The terrace is almost empty when she arrives. Harriot Fletcher moves through the tables like she still owns the place — which, in a way, she does. Forty, melamin, widow of the last governor who mattered, and still the best thing on the island. The dress is black too, cut so the moonlight has something to work with. Big Jim and I have been doing the Butchers hook ever since she walked into a Lodge reception ten years ago and make every white diplomat in the room forget what they were talking about.

“Johnny Boy,” she says, sitting down without waiting for the chair to be pulled. “Yuh early. Dat mean di King’s speech already written and yuh just here fi enjoy yuhself.”

“Both.” I pour for her first. “Grand Lodge wants the reparations line soft enough that the islands don’t walk out and sharp enough that nobody in London has to write a cheque. I’m the translator.”

She watches the wine, then me. “An’ what yuh telling him ’bout we?”

“That the West Indies already won.” I keep my voice low because the waiter is still hovering. “Higher standard of living than any country in Africa. Cricket as a free gift. The Windrush generation wasn’t a debt; it was the interest on an investment that paid out for decades. Compared to South Africa we spent a hundred years paying off the Boer War and still can’t keep the lights on. So when Kingston starts shouting for reparations, the King should smile, thank them for the sugar and the soldiers, and remind them the Commonwealth is the only club that still lets them in without begging.”

Harriot’s face doesn’t move, but something behind her eyes does. She takes a slow sip.

“Dat a very tidy story,” she says. “Reparations nuh ’bout di ledger yuh keep in yuh head, Johnny. Dem ’bout di fact dat di wealth weh build dem fine house inna London tek from people who still live wid di consequence every day. An apology widout money is just anodda way fi tell we fi grateful we did survive.”

I lean forward. “I’m not here to insult anybody. I’m here because the alternative is worse. Take Africa. The islands still function. That’s the difference.”

She looks past me at the water. For a moment I think she’s going to let it go. Then she says, “Yuh still smoke dat Jamaican nonsense when yuh working?”
I take the joint from my pocket, light it, and offer it across the table. She accepts, two careful pulls, then hands it back. The smoke sits between us. I watch the way her mouth looks around it and feel the Ambassador stiring — the one that has nothing to do with politics and everything to do with the way she moves when she thinks no one’s looking.

“Merits are simple,” I tell her. “It takes the edge off the speeches and puts it somewhere more useful. You want the rest?”

She doesn’t answer. Just studies me the way she used to when she was deciding whether the night was going to end in her old house or mine. The steel band down the beach is playing something soft. The restaurant has cleared out around us.

Harriot sets her glass down. The sound is small and final.

“Yuh nuh even trying fi hear yuhself tonight.”

“I’m trying to be accurate.” I reach for her hand across the table. She doesn’t pull away at first. Her skin is warm. “Charm’s for when I’m not working. Right now I’m working. Later I’m not.”

She looks at my hand on hers, then at my face. Whatever was left of the usual invitation dies in her eyes.

She stands. The dress does what it’s paid to do. I stay seated because standing would only make it worse.

“So,” I say, “are we not going to have our usual Commonwealth summit mount at your place?”

She looks down at me, one hand already on her bag. The moonlight catches the line of her throat.

“Mi looking fi something bigger tonight,” she says.

Then she walks. The heels click once on the stone, then disappear into the sand. The waiter finally approaches, careful.

“Another bottle, Mr Rhodes?”

“No,” I say. “Just the bill.”

The moon is still doing its job on the water. Somewhere in London a speech is waiting for the sentences I’ve already written. Somewhere down the beach the woman I’ve wanted for a decade has decided she’s had enough of my politics for one night. Both of those things are useful. I finish the joint, drop the end in the empty glass, and start walking toward the lights of the capital.

The summit opens in the morning. By then the King will know exactly what to say, and Harriot will know exactly what she didn’t get.

That’s the deal. Always has been.

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川崎のシオン @obi_wan_eclipse

about 1 month ago

#Hipstamatic #JohnnyC #Inas1935 #猫式 #猫 #cat #ShotoniPhone #ねこ #保護猫 #猫カフェ

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Lottie (◺˰◿)💭 Z? @Sp0ntanverkehr

3 months ago

#JTHM #JOHNNYC #jhonenvasquez Which one should I finish first hmmmm?

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Lottie (◺˰◿)💭 Z? @Sp0ntanverkehr

3 months ago

#JTHM #JOHNNYC #jolly - - Awww why are you so HAPPY nny?

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😈🍬Candys Killer!! 🍬🍭 -Commissions Open! 🟢 @candys_killer

3 months ago

BRAIN FREEZE STICKER DESIGN!! 🥶 🍧 🟢 Commissions Open!! #jthm #johnnythehomicidalmaniac #johnnyc #johnenvasquez #nny

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Lottie (◺˰◿)💭 Z? @Sp0ntanverkehr

3 months ago

Hi JTHM art fit you all 🖤💭🌈 - - #JTHM #nny #JOHNNYC #deviD

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Lottie (◺˰◿)💭 Z? @Sp0ntanverkehr

3 months ago

Aww nny why are you MAD?? #JTHM #nny #JOHNNYC

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Nocturnal Midnight Motorist @xMdniteMotorist

3 months ago

I did two submissions for the jthmzine on tumblr #jthm #johnnythehomicidalmaniac #squee #johnnyc #ToddCasil

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Paul.E/Pollyredis @Pollyredis

6 months ago

Oh my God, I'm going crazy, I love this art so much. I posted it EVERYWHERE. #artㅤㅤㅤㅤ #Jthm #Johnnythehomisidalmaniac #Johnnyc #Nny

Pollyredis's tweet photo. Oh my God, I'm going crazy, I love this art so much. I posted it EVERYWHERE.

#artㅤㅤㅤㅤ #Jthm #Johnnythehomisidalmaniac #Johnnyc
#Nny https://t.co/TBqbcW2y4l

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THE OPINION

@DaHoodFave

7 months ago

Oh he read for blooooodddd!🩸 #johnNYC tears #taesplatform a new one after Tae spoke on him. John states Tae st*bbed his ex boyfriend (Kevin) side piece, and went to jail behind it.👀 This is true, because #RichZaee also had Kevin. 🔥 #BQU #BIGO #TIKTOK