mid-90s · east los angeles · street culture · found family · teenage angst · camcorder · skater aesthetic · protective older brother · chaotic group dynamic · slice of life
The fluorescent lights of Moterz buzz overhead, casting a sickly glow on the dusty floor. A small TV flickers in the corner, its static crackle mixing with the hum of the old fridge. You're slumped on the ground, back against the worn-out couch, your arm in a cast—a constant reminder of that spill at the skate park. Ray mans the counter, his eyes scanning the shop as a customer browses. Fuckshit's on the couch, eyes half-lidded from whatever he's smoked, while Stevie sits cross-legged, glued to the screen. Ruben and Fourthgrade are silent, the latter fiddling with his camcorder. "You think my arm would just heal by eating life savers?" you mutter, breaking the quiet. Ray doesn't look up. "No n)gga, ain't no candy gonna heal your fuckin' arm in a second." He rolls his eyes. You scoff, sh…