Ghetto Stories Novels & Stories

I went to study in the libary, even the thought of studying gave me the creeps but I wanted to- no I needed to get new information on this gang. This gang has been on the news everyday for the last 5 months, what was the big deal about them anyway? I decided it was best if I googled it, after all I'm not gonna find anything about this gang in books from the 1930s. I typed into g****e 'hunters gang; LA

Gavin said to Finn. The road they were going by was smooth, no potholes or whatever, but that was not what Gavin was pointing at. He was talking about the activities by the road. The smoking, the gangster-like dressings, and the open snuff of drugs into the body. Gavin continued what he was saying, "...This is a ghetto, and all sorts of bad things would be in place here. We have to be careful. Also, there are many people here, we can't fight them off."

No sideways remarks. That alone makes my skin prickle. Because silence from this group — terrifying as hell. “This story starts long before any of us were born,” Uncle John says. “With three boys who grew up in the ghettos.” He pauses, then takes a sip of water, like he needs lubrication to keep going. “George Garcia. Derick Grimm. Alexander Blackburn.” My stomach drops. “They had a rough start in life … abusive fathers, addicted mothers, shitty neighborhood —” Great. The trauma bingo card is already full.

Jamie My knees ached against the hard rooftop floor as I knelt in front of Lena, staring at her thick, glistening strap-on cock covered in my own creamy cum. “Clean it,” she ordered, voice low and commanding. She grabbed a fistful of my hair and slapped the wet cock against my cheek. “Taste how slutty your pussy is.”

Story written with a randomly generated story as the base. Street Dog looked at the delicious sausage in his hands and felt hungry. He walked over to the hole in his cardboard box where the snow-wet street reflected his dangerous surroundings. He had always hated the dark Slum with its disturbed, dull dirty. It was a place that encouraged his tendency to violence and always let him hungry as if no amount of sausage would ever fill the hole in his belly. He was a mut, he was street dog.

The smell increased more to his disdain, like two - months soaked clothes or a maggot - infested leftovers. "Could it be our semi-toilet closet? " he thought to himself. If he were to see an apartment with cheap rate, he would venture into leaving the slum but for houses being affordable in ghettos except if life has blessed one with much. And the ghetto houses was one popular area known to all. If there's no leaking roof with buckets lined up in one's tiny living room or tiny droplets of rainwater dropping on one's head as one hurries with a bucket, then it will be the full-loaded pit with a repugnant stench occupying the entire surroundings.

His stern voice, low and menacing, whispered into my ear like a death sentence: “Open your eyes and look at the garbage and sewage beneath this shiny city. If you were born into a poor family, you’d have a gambling father and a p.rostitute mother. They’d sell you to a nightclub after your first period, then take the money and leave you to die. You’d spend your life in a dark, filthy nightclub, where the manager would f.uck you in the name of discipline before you even got your first guest. They’d inject you with drugs, and you’d be dependent on them. If you died, they’d dump your body in an alley filled with filth, waiting for the garbage man to clean you up.”

One fateful night, I tiptoed out of the hut with my belongings, not leaving out my money box, of course which contained but just a few shillings. I took them all with me and dashed out into the night. I came to an abrupt stop when I stood face to face with a clubhouse full of people who were partying so hard as though there was no tomorrow. They were all jollying and rocking with bottles of beers and wines in their hands while the women were seen almost naked doing their lucrative businesses, servicing the men. Men from the city usually came to the ghetto clubhouse after work every night because of the women prostitutes that Ajelli bred, to unwind.

That complicated things indeed. Giovanni was also higher up on the drug dealing chain. That allotted him certain perks. He no longer had to deal in the worst parts of the ghetto. Metal Row was a shithole which smelled like death, because the abandoned buildings often had decaying bodies inside. It was the worst part of The Fringe for OD’s left to rot that no one missed or cared a fuck about. Ninety-percent of the buildings closest to the city walls had been condemned and were now the hub of those homeless, drug addicted, untreated with mental illness, and often with all three combined.

The place I am telling him to take me is not anyone in our circle will go there in their right mind. The west side of Chicago in the area of terror. They also know this place as the Ghetto. More like the lower-class people build their houses in that part of the city. All kinds of criminals live here, they grow up here and gather here, drugs, robbery, theft, a murderer is the resides in the slum.