Black Caesar

“I’m a street nigga.” That’s my motto in life. I’m the nigga you wanna be and the same nigga yo bitch wanna be with. I’m the all American reject who goes after mine. I knew I was ready to be ‘bout that life when I had to turn to street corners and petty theft to feed me and my brothers. The only times my mama spoke to me and my brothers was when she was getting’ ready to drop us off at our grandmamma house. She’d come home late smellin’ like whiskey, sweat, and misery. Then she’d take one look at us and get our clothes ready.
“I’m taking y’all to y’alls mama house.” In her mind, my grandmamma was our real mama. She was just placed in our custody fa the time being. Our grandmamma didn’t see it that way tho. When our mama’s car pulled up in front of grandmamma house, she’d sit on her porch puffing a loosey while she rolled her eyes to the back of her head. Mama neva ain’t even get out her car either. “I’ll be back,” she’d say then drove off. That ho never came back.
When my brother Khalil came back from the army talkin’ bout gettin’ in the dope game, I was wit’ it. The petty shit I was doing, slingin’ nickel bags of weed wasn’t cutting it no mo. And wit’ all our connects, we was fixin’ to get paid.
I was cool being his foot soldier for a few years at first. He took over things when Rondo, the boss we was first rollin’ wit’, went into the witness protection program afta snitching on like twenty of his homeboys. As far as everyone else knew though, Rondo was dead. Wit’ Khalil running things, he always made sure I had money in my pocket. Bitches to suck my dick when I needed it. Roof over my head. Shit was nice. But then, Khalil started keepin’ secrets. Mo money was rollin’ in but my cut stayed the same. I was doing most of the work. I can understand not cutting Blue in, that nigga ain’t do shit. But, as many times I took the rap for his shit. As many times as I got this nigga outta trouble when he coulda been facing 20 to life. Then the dude wanna bring in some new nigga and make his ass a lieutenant. I’m blood. He got Vladimir’s bitch ass making drops, having private meetings wit’ em and shit. What the fuck. I see how it is. Khalil gotta do for him, well best believe Ima do for me.

New Title

Since "Black Caesar" sounds done to death (Black Friday, Black Christmas, Black Scarface, there's even another Black Caesar), I've decided to come up with a new book title. As I mulled it over, the title "Dealin' Broken Promises" came to mind. Then at the same time, the title "Dealin' Broken Dreams" came to mind as well. So, now I'm torn. Either way, "Black Caesar" is no more. It's hard though. I've grown attached to the original title. I'm sad to see it go but in my quest to stay original, I must let it go.
Which leads me to my favorite saying, "Let go, let God." So long "Black Caesar."
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Writing Process

A lot of people wonder what the process is to come up with a good story. For me, it involves a lot of seclusion. I can't focus on writing AND the world around me. I almost have to step outside myself and venture onto a journey of self discovery. If I leave room for distraction, I get lost on that journey and ultimately produce below average material. Writing is such an in-depth process that it's impossible to go in haphazardly. I have a love/hate relationship with writing. I love to write but the darkness that I have to yank into light every single time I write can be mentally draining. Still, I'd go insane without its nourishment.
I read this quote and felt,"Wow, this is it." This quote explains my writing process:

Writing is utter solitude, the descent into the cold abyss of oneself. ~ Franz Kafka

So now when my fiancé feels abandoned when I go on my writing excursion, he can have a better understanding of why I must do what I do.
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Black Caesar

Khalil said I had a job to do. Nothing out of the ordinary. Get to the spot. Get the dope. Bring it back home. Cut it then sell it. Simple and plain. Up until that point, all my responsibilities added up to driving people around, selling reefa, and from time to time shelling out a couple bags of ye-yo. So, to Khalil, this was just another day in the neighborhood; for me, it was a test of my character.
I went over the pick up in my head over and over. Drive to the spot, ask for Big Steve. Remember, there is no Big Steve. Steve is but a metaphor for five kilos of crack cocaine. Stand your ground. At first, they may deny Steve exists. He does. Don't play their game. Get the product, give 'em the manila envelope from your back left pocket. Don't smile, don't make small talk. Just get the job done and leave. Drive the speed limit. Don't give the police any reason to stop you, 'cause if they do, you're on your own.
The drive there was long. I wasn't nervous, just anxious. This was the first job that stood between me and my first big payoff. No more dead end jobs, no more living under my mama's shitty ass roof, and damn sho no more being broke. I sat outside the spot for eight minutes going over everything in my head. Big Steve, I'm looking for Big Steve. I looked around. The night was quiet and the air was thick. If I smacked my lips, I could taste the dewy essence of coldness and drugs. I took a deep breath and made slow steps toward the door. Be cool, was the last thing Khalil told me. Make these niggas play yo game.
I ain't have no game to play. I was just another nigga trynna get a cut. I knocked on the door three times. Not loud knocks, not short knocks; just three steady knocks. I stood there, waiting. Two seconds later, the door swung open and a big shadow walked through the doorway. He stood there staring at me, breathing in my smell, reading my face. He didn't say anything.
"I'm lookin' fo Big Steve." I said.
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More book excerpts to come. Stay tuned! ::Mobile Blogging test::
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Black Caesar

This is my introduction. I've been wording and re-wording this intro for the past few months. But this is what I finally decided on, for now...

“The streets can have you for all I care.”
Imagine yo mama shouting that to you while her boyfriend throws out yo clothes, yo shoes, everything out on the middle of the driveway. She doesn’t shout it out to yo face; nah, she ain’t got the balls for that. Instead, she yells it out from the kitchen sink as she washes the last bit of collard greens for her man’s nightly collard green fixin’. Yea, it seemed like my mama must have skipped out on the “how-to-be-a-good-mama-in-the hood” lesson every other hood-mama musta went to.
The streets can have me huh? Well, it has coddled me like a newborn some nights, shivering in its arms as the darkness tried to swallow me whole. You’d think people would show more love to a veteran. I fought for this country for damn near four years and not even my mama can show me some respect. All I ever had was the streets. Lately, the streets been asking me to come home every time I stepped to it; enviously watching me as I stepped back into my mama’s cold embrace night after night. I finally gave in. Streets, I’m coming. I sho have missed you.

Edge of Sanity

Postcard…

Sometimes, my friends, the ones that exist in the tiny breaths of my thought beats, like to call me Cleo. I tell them to stop. I rarely find myself frolicking in the midst of laziness. I never liked nicknames. I am sure this ‘Nick’ gentleman cares not for his name being used in such dormancy either. A name like Cleo belongs to a person with no dreams. Certainly not to a woman with stature like mine. Although my dreams can scare the hardest of patrons, I do dream. Cleo is an individual who lacks the basic potency of life. Yes, a soul like Cleo faintly passes through life, courteously moving out of the way for Caesar’s and Antony’s all the while hiding amongst thick shadows of the ignored aspirations that dry up and swell down in the dim lighting of her being. I am no Cleo. No,

never a woman like me…

Comments, Comments

I didn't know that I disabled the option for random comments. I was wondering why I NEVER received a comment on this page. I assumed that since my other blog allowed anyone to comment, the same settings would apply for this blog. I was sadly mistaken. My fault for assuming. My apologies for those who did want to comment but couldn't. Here's another post for your troubles. Happy reading!

Black Caesar

I haven't officially put this in my novel but I'm thinking about it. This sort of came to me in the middle of my writing process and I couldn't let it go. I had to get it down on paper because my mind has a funny little habit of forgetting great story ideas. I'm still kicking myself for forgetting an awesome idea I had for a book title. I hate the fact that I can't remember.

I'm hitting a wall--as I usually do when I get to the middle of my novels--and the fact that I was able to get this out is a good thing. I only hope that I can keep the momentum and catch the eye of prospective literary agent interested in representing urban fiction. I could only be so lucky...

Stupidity is like a disease. At initial contraction, it attacks the central nervous system, slowly eating away at your brain cells. Soon, the people around you will notice. At first, they’ll ignore it and equate it to you not getting enough sleep, or maybe just having a bad upbringing. But eventually, it will hinder your speech and motor skills. Stumbling through life, bumping into obstacles that a smarter you would’ve been able to avoid. When you talk, people will stare at you with confusion. Ultimately, the people around you won’t be able to ignore it. They’ll whisper behind your back questioning your motives. They won’t recognize your symptoms as signs of an ailment—repetitive actions while expecting different results, dumbfounded expressions, a deep wallowing emptiness that only grows as the disease spreads—rather they’ll instantly judge you, completely unaware of the disease that has now affected your immune system. Yes, that sick feeling you live with is the stupidity seeping into your defense mechanisms. Now, you are more susceptible to manipulation, lies, obvious ploys at emotional destruction that a brighter you would have caught on to by now. But it’s too late; the disease is terminal and you have forfeited all cures of advice to know better. Now, when you are left to pick up the pieces of the devastation your stupid actions have caused, you’ll have no one to blame but yourself.

Edge of Sanity

Dear Friend,

I hope you are reading still. I want you, or anyone for that matter, to know my story. I promise things will become clearer shortly; I can only hope. I’ll stop dilly-dallying. Onward march…

I arise. The area around me is cloudy and hard to make out. Journeys like these are odd because they always feel like I’m outside my body when I’m really in it. I am a dirty little voyeur that stands behind an imaginary window looking into an event that is transpiring, I think. It’s so hard understanding what’s going on because, it’s hard understanding if it really is going on. It matters none. It happens. No matter what thoughts seep through my brain, and no matter what clinks clank in my mind, it happens.

Two people sit at a breakfast table before me. One is a tall woman with long flowy hair, similar looking to the garden woman. The other person is a short, stocky bald man in a plaid shirt and tight jeans. Though they make the oddest pair, the look in their eyes says something to me. Honestly, they open their mouths, pull out a script, and start reading words to me. It doesn’t freak me out.

“Where’s Jasmin?” asks the woman. Her voice is as sweet as watermelons.

“Still playing with Herbert,” answers the gentleman. His voice was rough like sandpaper. Herbert?

“At times I think it’s odd how close they are.”

“Oh please, Celeste. Their both eight years old. They’re practically joined at the hip. They need some sort of companionship. Especially since their father is gone.” He takes a sip of his tea, “Besides, I remember a time where you were fine with their closeness and even scolded me for questioning it.”

The woman looks down at her hands and then up at the ceiling. I look up too.

“I do wonder what they do when they think we’re not paying attention,” she asks, squinting her eyes at the ceiling above her.

“It’s getting late. We need to get going,” he scoffs.

“Do you think I’m overbearing? It’s just, the amount of time they spend with each other and don’t you think it’s silly to let them share a room, a bed.” She drops her hands, “I mean it seemed normal at age four, but now they’re practically adults sleeping in bed together.”

“We don’t let them share a bed, they choose to, even after Jack and I built that beautiful princess bed. We can’t keep the two apart. At least they have each other.” He looks at his watch, “Look honey, are we going to bicker or are we going to get going?”

I wonder where they’re going. I want to come to. I’m sure they won’t let me; they can’t even see me for heaven’s sake but I want to go anywhere but here. Maybe even Mexico.

“Is the sitter even here yet? I hate to have to hire a sitter but since the accident, Herby requires so much attention.”

“Well, while you were pouting, the doorbell rang.”

“I wasn’t pouting I was asking questions that a Mother should ask. And as a father, you should worry too, I mean just even a little bit. This whole situation seems a bit awkward”

“Sweetie, I’m not their father. And please, after raising seven kids on my own I know a thing or two. Like, I know it’s okay for young twins to be unusually attached to each other regardless of the circumstance, especially with no father around anymore.”

They exchange awkward glances and shuffle around. The woman sighs and taps her left foot on the hard wood floor. She then scuffles through some indistinguishable papers on the countertop. I bang on the imaginary window. I can’t let them leave without me. But of course as I bang, the glass gets thicker and my vision gets cloudier. Shoot! I want to go with them, nowhere else.

Daddy Cool: Donald Goines

My novel Black Caesar is a book that goes beyond the realm of my reality of my writing. Hence, I was told to read Donald Goines books since he is sort of an expert on that style of writing. I'm exciting about writing Black Caesar and don't want to screw it up with unrealistic writing and ignorant plot twists. I enjoy Donald Goines's writing and appreciate the opportunity to assess his abilities.

Daddy cool noticed the man he was following turn the corner and start walking faster. There was no better time than now to make the hit. As long as the man stayed on these back streets it would be perfect. He only had to catch up with the man without arousing his suspicions. Daddy Cool started to lengthen his stride until he was almost running.
William had a definite goal. A long time friend stayed somewhere in the next block, but over the years he had forgotten just where the house was. In his haste to leave Detroit, he had left his address book on the dining-room table, so it was useless to him now. He slowed down, knowing that he would recognize the house when he saw it. It was on Newal Street, that he was sure of. It shouldn't be too hard to find in the coming darkness. Like a hunted animal, Billings' nerves were sharpened to a peak. Glancing back over his shoulder, he noticed a tall man coming around the corner. His first reaction was one of alarm. His senses, alert to possible danger, had detected the presence of someone or something in the immediate vicinity. As a shiver of fear ran down his spine, he ridiculed himself for being frightened of his own shadow. There was no need for him to worry about someone picking up his trail. Not this soon anyway.
Disregarding the warning alarm that went off inside his head, he slowed his pace so that he could see the old shabby houses better. The neighborhood had once been attractive, with the large rambling homes built back in the early twenties. But now, they were crumbling. Most of them needed at least a paint job. Where there had once been rain gutters, there was now only rusted-out packs of tin, ready to collapse at the first burst of rain.
William cursed under his breath. He wondered if in his early haste he might have made a wrong turn. It was possible. It had been years since he'd been up this way, and it was easy for him to get turned around. He slowed his walk down until he was almost standing still. Idly he listened to the foot steps of the man who had turned down the same street as he did. Unable to control himself, William turned completely around and glanced at the tall, somberly dressed man coming toward him. He let out a sigh as he realized that he had been holding his breath. He noticed that the man coming toward him was middle-aged. Probably some family man, he reasoned, hurrying home from work. He almost laughed out loud as he reflected on what a hired killer would look like. He was sure of one thing, a hit man wouldn't be as old as the man coming toward him. In his mind, William pictured the hit man sent out after him as a wild young man, probably in his early twenties. A man in a hurry to make a name for himself. One who didn't possess to high an intelligence, that being the reason he would have become a professional killer. It didn't take any brains to pull the trigger on a gun, William reasoned. But a smart man would stay away form such an occupation. One mistake and a hit man's life was finished.
Suddenly William decided that he was definitely going the wrong way. He whirled around on his heels swiftly. The tall, light-complexioned man coming near him stopped suddenly. For a brief moment William hesitated, thinking he saw fear on the man's face. The dumb punk-ass bastard, William coldly reflected. If the sorry motherfucker only new how much cash William had in the briefcase he carried, the poor bastard wouldn't be frightened by William's sudden turn.
"Don't worry, old chap," William said loudly so that the other man wouldn't fear him. "I'm just lost, that's all. These damn streets all look alike at night."
The tall, dark-clothed man had hesitated briefly; now he came forward quickly. He spoke softly. "Yeah, mister, you did give me a fright for just a minute. You know," he continued, "you can't trust these dark streets at night. Some of these dope fiends will do anything for a ten-dollar bill."
William laughed lightly, then smiled. He watched the tall man reach back behind his collar. Suddenly the smile froze on his face as the evening moonlight sparkled brightly off the keen-edged knife that was twitching in the man's hand.
Without thinking, William held out his hand. "Wait a minute," he cried out in fear. "If it's money you want, I'll give you all mine." Even in his fright, William tried to hold onto the twenty-five thousand dollars he had in his briefcase. He reached for the wallet in his rear pocket. He never reached it.
With a flash, the tall man dressed in black threw his knife. The motion was so smooth and quick that the knife became only a blur. The knife seemed to turn in the air once or twice, then became imbedded in William's small chest. It happened so suddenly that William never made a sound. The force of the blow staggered him. He remained on his feet for a brief instant while the knife protruded from his body.

I. Immortal

“I don’t know what other way to explain all this to you Doctor.”
He kept his eyes down as he jotted scribble upon his notepad. I questioned whether he truly was listening. After six psychiatrists and a four-month bout at a mental institution trapped in a small white room hugging myself in a straight jacket, he’d better be listening.

“I mean, the more I try to re-explain myself to everyone, I find myself losing my grip with reality.” I swallowed a large lump that formed in the middle of my throat. “What do you make of all this?”

He finished the last of his notes and looked up at me. His left index finger tapped his bottom lip as he struggled to respond. He couldn’t stay quiet. He had to make use of his doctoral degree boastfully hanging on the wall behind him. He took a deep breath. “What do you make of all this?” he asked.

I chuckled. He wasn’t listening. He didn’t even care. With all the media buzz around me, he just wanted the opportunity to sit with me. Is what everyone’s been saying true? Does she honestly believe that she’s discovered liquid gold; Ponce de Leon’s very own “fountain of youth.”

“What do you think you’re saying?” he asked.

“I thought that’s what I came to you to figure out,” I said, “Isn’t this your cue to start chiming in here?”

“I want to fully understand the scope of all this.”

“Isn’t that why I came to you? So you could tell me?”

He sat quietly. I asked a good question. All that left room for was a good answer. He pressed his index fingers together and stared blankly at me. He tried to determine the best way to approach all this without sounding like a moron. He wanted to help. He wanted me to confide in him so that he could be the guy that gets through to me. He yearned to be the person that can honestly say, “Hey, I figured her all out.” Truthfully, I wanted him to be that person too. It’d be nice to have someone else rummaging through my brain. I’d be grateful. He smiled.

“How about we start at the beginning.”

Good Christian Girls

I woke up to the harsh feeling of ice-cold water thrown in my face. I look up and noticed mama standing over me. I glanced at the clock beside me; 4:45AM. I remained silent. I didn’t know my transgression but I wouldn’t dare refute its existence.

“I got a call from your school today.”

I laid back in my wet sheets and braced myself. I thought Mrs. Bryan got the hint. Mama grabbed the fabric of my pajamas and pulled me to her face.

“What did I tell you,” she barked. My heartbeat quickened. How do I answer a question that isn’t meant to be answered. I open my mouth to let out the fear that welled up in my throat. Mama slapped it back inside me.
I held my face and screeched, “I’m sorry mama.”

“Yea you better be sorry. I got yo damn school calling the hospital for me while I’m making my rounds ‘cause yo fast ass wasn’t in school today.”
I hesitate at first then bite, “What?” I asked. Mama slapped the other side of my face.

“You heard what I said. I dropped yo’ lil narrow ass in the front of that school at 7:55AM, so it damn sho’ wasn’t my fault. So that means, that instead of sitting yo’ butt in class you should’ve, yo’ fast ass prolly ran off after I drove off so you can be with one of those dirty street boys.”

I was confused and delirious. Waking up in the middle of the night with ice-cold water in your panties can make the world pretty fuzzy. “But I was at school mama.”

Mama closed her fist and caught the side of my jaw. “You think I’m stupid? So yo’ school is the ones lyin’ to me then huh?”
I dropped my shoulders as I thought back to the previous morning. I remember walking into class and then Mrs. Bryan taking my arm and leading me into the teacher’s lounge so she could discuss my introverted behavior. Another teacher took role, she must’ve forgotten to mark me as present.

“I was at school mama. It’s just, Mrs. Bryan wanted to talk to me and—

“What did she want to talk to you about,” mama dropped the tone of her voice and pulled my face to hers. “What did you tell her?”

I swallowed the blood that filled my cheeks. “She…she just wanted to know why I been so quiet.”

Mama let my face go and stood there watching me. She placed her hands on her hips and tapped her foot. “You think I’m a bad mama?” Trick question. “Let the state come in here and put in the system.” She snickered wickedly, “You’ll realize how nice you had it after you end up in one of those ratty ol’ foster homes. Is that what you want?”

Anything has to be better than here. She dropped one hand from her hip and twisted her mouth.

“Answer me,” she demanded.

I quickly shook my head. She smiled.

“I know you don’t.” she took a deep breath, “what did you tell that—

“I didn’t tell her anything mama, I swear.”

She slapped her ring finger in the corner of my eye. “Don’t swear, either by heaven or by earth. Let yo’ yes be yes an’ yo’ no be no so you don’t fall under condemnation.”

With that, she turned on her heel and let me wallow in my offenses. It was colder than usual tonight. Mama must’ve turned on the AC and put it below 50 degrees right before walking in here. The sting of the cold water would hurt more that way.

As I Wait

Simone’s life was simple. She was simply a 34-year old real estate broker. She lived in a modest one story two bed/one bath home; she parked her car on the street since she didn’t own a two-car garage. She drove a 2001 Honda Accord with tinted windows, plain, factory accustomed hubcaps, and automatic locks. However, the most important factor to note in her description is that she is a woman. A woman with needs. A woman with yearns. A woman with the hope of finding that man who can make her mind wander while at work. A man who tells her that she doesn’t need to work because he can take care of her, but she still works because she needs to show him that she is an independent woman—but the simple gesture is enough to make her heart slide down her right leg and hit the floor. Yes, Simone was a woman who, like every woman, was looking for a man to please her.

She waited there. She waited there as her close friend walked away from her loneliness and into a better future. She waited as the initially warm breeze quickly turned into harsh and quick swooshes across her skin. Simone wrapped her arms around her waist and closed her eyes. She waited.

“Are you cold?”

Simone squeezed her eyes tighter hoping the deep voice that she imagined would come back if she wished hard enough. Her body jerked when she felt a soft palm on the small of her back. She opened her eyes.

“Are you cold, Miss?”

Simone turned her head and locked eyes with a Greek God, or so it appeared. His body stood tall and strong. His finely tailored Italian suit accented his broad shoulders and muscular arms. And his eyes…his eyes were like small portals into what women dreamt about. It was almost as if his eyes held the meaning of why women go through what they go through with all men.

Simone sighed, and then smiled. The gentleman smiled back.

Simone uttered, “I don’t know where all this cold came from.”

He chuckled. “I guess I’m the only one who watches the weather channel.”

Simone chuckled too. His smile; his smile was reminiscent of the gateways to heaven.

“I guess so,” said Simone.

“You can have my jacket if you want. I can even walk you to your car if you like.”

“I’m not parked too far from here.” Simone pointed ahead of them. “See, there’s my car right there.”

The stranger frowned.

He asked, “So, you don’t want me to walk you to your car?”

“Of course I do,” Simone thought. “I guess I’m trying not to be a bother,” she said.

“Oh it’s no bother at all.”

“I mean I don’t even know your name.”

“Kaiser.”

“That’s an interesting name. It sounds familiar.”

He smiled. “You’re probably thinking about the rolls.”

Simone giggled. “Oh yeah. I knew I heard that name from somewhere. Did your mother know she was naming you after bread?”

He laughed. “You’ve hurt my feelings now. No, I doubt she knew she was naming me after some rolls. The name Kaiser actually means “Leader.” Not many people know that part.”

“I’m sorry for hurting your feelings. How often do you get this reaction when you tell people your name?”

“Quite often. But since you’ve hurt my feelings, I think it’s only fair that you allow me to walk you to your car.”

“It’s only fair,” Simone tried to hide the fact that she was blushing.

“Do you want my jacket?” Kaiser asked as he slowly took off his jacket. Simone was too enthralled by his physique to have noticed his question, not to mention the cold air warmed up after their pleasant conversation.

When Simone noticed him handing her his jacket she snapped out of her trance and smiled. She wasn’t as cold as she was before but being wrapped up in his jacket was as close to being wrapped up in his arms as she could get. They walked, slowly.

“Here we are.” Simone stated.

“I like Hondas. I told my sister to get one.”

“Did she?”

“No, she got a Bentley instead.”

“Wow, that’s a big difference.”

He chortled. “I know. She’s eighteen. She just graduated from high school and rather than being practical like I was when I was her age, she wants to be a teen superstar.”

“Well, why buy a burger when you know you can get a steak.”

Kaiser smiled. “Touché.”

Simone paused. Then she asked. “How do you know the bridal party? I thought I knew all of Joanne’s friends.”

“Actually I don’t. I was just leaving my office from across the street and I noticed you shivering so I wanted to prove that chivalry wasn’t dead.”

Simone tried to contain her delight. “You noticed me from across the street,” she thought to herself. “Oh well, thank you for that. I appreciate it,” she said.

“I’m glad you did…you know you never told me your name.”

“Simone.”

“I like that. Unfortunately, for me, I can’t make a joke about a name as nice as that. I guess you’re lucky.”

“I guess.”

Kaiser smiled. Simone blushed. There was a brief silence. Then, Kaiser looked at his watch and then back behind him.

“Well it’s getting late and I should get back to my car.” He didn’t want to leave her but he did have other obligations.

Simone frowned. “Oh, ok. Well, thank you for walking me to my car.” Simone handed him his jacket and unlocked her car door.

“I hope this doesn’t have to end like this.” Kaiser quickly said, hoping not to lose a woman as attractive as Simone was.

“It doesn’t.”

Simone got into her car and rolled down her window. Then she pulled a business card from her pocket book and handed it to him.

“Here.”

He smiled. “Thanks.”

New Posts

I have tons of excerpts to post but it would mean tons of reading. I don't want to overwhelm anyone who visits so my frequency in posting may hinge on the traffic I receive. I've noticed that some people will stop reading if it looks like too much at one time. I want to give people the ability to catch up. So, get to reading!

Black Caesar

Shit’s getting’ to me. What the fuck am I doing? They say if you do what you love, you’ll never work a day in your life. They lied. I feel like I’m working everyday. I remember when I first met my man Rondo. I always knew ‘bout ‘em. He was like the ghetto godfather. He made the game look easy. When I was discharged, I had no work, no prospects, no fucking future. Jimmy kept tellin’ me that Rondo could get me some work. “He can set us up,” my brother said. Jimmy and Blue had been slingin’ chronic for Rondo for a while before I actually met him. Jimmy said that Rondo saw the potential in the three of us and knew we could turn his highest profit. Man, if it got me off these streets, put food in my baby’s stomach, gave me somethin’ to live for, it couldn’t hurt.

Then when I met him, I realized he had somethin’ else in store for me. “I’m trynna get out,” he told me. He was looking fa his replacement. He had been fooled by the bright lights, easy buckets, and obliging women. At first, it was like drug dealing was in his DNA. He had a sixth sense for sniffing out narks and undercovers. Slingin’ was all too easy to come by. Then he told me how the shit turns on you. One day you’re on top of the world, then the next day you keep checking to see if the world’s the one tappin’ on your window at night. You lose sleep over this game. Paranoia becomes your new sixth sense. Being a foot soldier is nothing. My brothers don’t know how easy they got it. Jimmy wanna be a boss so bad. I’m just trynna protect him; this business would eat him alive. One thing that Rondo told me that stuck heavy with me was when he said, “The longer you stay in it, the faster it tears through you. Yo soul starts to bleed out in yo sleep and ain’t nuttin’ you can do ‘bout it but get a rag in the morning to clean up the evidence.”

My girl got pregnant when I was in the army. When I got out, my daughter Sabrina was one. She was almost four by the time I became in charge of everything. Still too young to understand how daddy was making a living for her and her mama. She just knew that daddy and Uncle Rondo kept the lights on and the water running. My girl Audrey wasn’t too young though. In the beginning, she was apprehensive. She saw what the drug game could do to people. But when the money started rollin’ in, she was cool. Never in her life did she think she’d be rockin’ a mink in the ghetto winter. I was puttin’ diamonds in my baby girl’s ears. My grandmamma ain’t have to work to support her kids’ kids. Still, my soul was bleeding in my sleep, and I was running outta rags to clean it up wit.

Random: Another Day for Tina

To kick off my birthday month, I've decided to write a piece about that random article of clothing that you see when driving down the road. Every time I see that random shoe, button-down shirt, or ripped jeans lying on the side of the road, I always wonder what the story is behind it all. Hence, for all those curious minds out there, I'm here to give the story behind that random closet piece lying on the side of the road.

Tina's day was long. She'd awake in the morning at 5am, eat breakfast, make an hour long commute to work a ten hour work day, head home an hour later, cook dinner for her four kids and stoic husband, clean up then go to bed to wake up and do it all again.

This day, Tina awoke at 5:30am. She forcefully opened her eyelids and wiped the dried up sleep around her mouth. Her inexplicably warm and comfortable bed sheets made a failed attempt at tempting her to stay for another half hour; caress the snooze button like it meant to be caressed. She refused. She grudgingly dragged herself to her bathroom to wash her face. The tired out, sullen woman that stared back at her in the mirror appeared foreign to her. Nevertheless, she combed her hair back, half-heartedly brushed her teeth, then slipped into a simple work dress.
When she opened her refrigerator door, her head dropped as the empty egg containers and two strips of bacon haughtily greeted her. This morning would have to be a dry cereal and buttered toast day. She fixed six plates around the breakfast table and waited for her family to stroll in. As if the sun simply awaited their arrival, her kitchen lit up with the appearance of her three boys, blossoming daughter, and her working husband. They filed in and took their seats around their meals.

"Good morning, all." Tina said.

They all greeted her with quiet groans and lazy nods. Her children eyed their questionable breakfasts and sighed.

"Where's the food?" asked her youngest son. Her older sons eyed the youngest, silently wondering how he'd have the gull to question their mother so early in the morning. Still, they turned their heads to Tina with eyes that asked the same question.

"I forgot to go grocery shopping," she responded. Her daughter rolled her eyes and folded her arms across her chest.

Her husband sucked his teeth and pushed his plate away. "Are you serious?" he asked. "I have a meeting today. How am I supposed to remain focused with nothing to fuel my jets?"

"I have coffee on the pot."

Tina's husband stared her down and opened his mouth to respond to her weak attempt at pacifying his hunger. "We're gonna head to school early," interrupted her eldest son. "We can grab something extra to eat there." Her children gladly pushed their plates away and escaped the awkward moment shared between two over-worked, underappreciated parents.

Tina nodded and smiled, slightly. "Have fun at school," she said. They all nodded as they rushed out the door in pursuit of their bus stop. Tina gazed at her dry corn flakes and buttery wheat and then back up at her husband. He never took his eyes off her. In the beginning, he couldn't stop staring because her beauty captivated him. She was a walking personification of beauty and all he could do was stare. Now, he glared at the broken woman she's become. Forgetful, senile, unattractive, and weak.

He took a deep breath then stood up from the table. He grabbed a mug from the cabinet behind Tina and poured himself a gulp of coffee. No sugar, no cream, just a hard swallow of brewed coffee beans. After taking a glance out the window and watching the sun cascade over his freshly cut lawn, he placed his coffee mug on the stove and licked his lips. "I'm leaving you," he said. He waited for her to comment, she sat silently without turning to face him. "I've been seeing another woman and I've finally garnered the courage to leave this marriage and start a real life with the woman I truly desire to be with." Tina pushed her plate of food away. Suddenly, she had lost her will to eat dry cereal and toast that morning as well. Her husband continued, "I don't want to drag this out. The sooner we end this, the sooner I can get on with my life." He sighed when he noticed his wife shaking. He grabbed his keys from atop the kitchen table and headed for the door. Before walking out he offered a few words of encouragement, "Don't worry, I'm sure you'll find someone desperate enough to love you back." Without another word, he dipped out of their quaint home and drove away from her misery.

On her commute to work, Tina drove slower than usual. No rush to get to a job she loathed. Yes, she had to be careful not to lose her job with the lack of income her husband once provided. Still, she had good reason. Her hands shook as she gripped her steering wheel. Soon she'd be approaching the bridge that separated her from her employer's parking lot. She contemplated taking the long way. Bypassing the bridge and utilizing the back roads to reach her job. However, traffic was tight and she couldn't find the logic in cutting through five lanes of traffic.

The radio was off. No need to hear the rushed murmurs of the narcissistic djs who loved the sounds of their voices. She rolled the windows down to let the cool breeze hit her face. Soon, the pure aroma of the ocean tapped her nostrils. She smirked. She loved how the son peaked over the horizon and waved hello to her. The passive presence of the cars around her signaled to the uselessness of a husband who didn't love her anymore. The absent frown lines on her face suggested that she was still beautiful. Love would only be around the corner. She unlocked her doors and unbuckled her seat belt. Upon cutting through two lanes, she found herself peaking over the edge to watch the gentle waves beat against the bridge’s walls. She slowed down a little more and smiled. The first real smile she's had in years.

Tina removed her sweater as the cool breeze turned into a warm mist. She studied the fine detail of the sweater in her arms while stopped in traffic. Extravagant knit work, unique embroidery, and soft feel. Her husband had great taste. She wore that same sweater every day since he gave it to her for their twentieth wedding anniversary. She shook her head as she couldn't help but chuckle. She should've known those late nights weren't spent working over piles of paperwork. She squeezed the cotton blend in her hands then threw it out the window.

She sat there for a moment gripping the steering wheel, smiling. Then, Tina stepped on the brakes and rammed the car in front of her. Upon doing that she made enough room for her to reverse and crash through the edge of the bridge propelling her over the wall that stood between her and real freedom. Tina took a deep breath and laughed at how she forget to set her alarm the night before. She couldn't help but think how her day would've ended if she had awaken at 5am instead of 5:30.

Edge of Sanity

The door swings open. For a split second, I am reminded of my surroundings. I am alone in a white room with soft walls; enclosed from a world that at times forget I exist. I shudder.

“Jasmin. How are you feeling today?”
A tall figure walks in and closes the door behind it. It always does that. It gives me a glimpse of the world I’m missing and then snatches it away from me. I hate that stupid figure.

“How’s my girl?”
I rest my head on the wall and sigh.

“Good I hope,” it continues.
The subtle taps come back to the door. The tall figure rarely came too close to me. Some days I would jump up and bend over. Scared, the figure would brace itself, and then I’d chuckle and charge. Funny, chuckle and charge.

“I’ve got something for you,” it extends its arm and shakes a small cup of tablets. The rattling, the subtle tapping, the revolving clicking. I slowly feel my consciousness fading. Before I leave, I want to leave it with something. When I don’t move or show any signs of hostility, the figure comes closer. I twitch, it stops; I laugh.

I beat my head on the pillowed walls again. This part is always boring. The distant moment I have to experience. The short road between sanity and insanity. I rarely take the road less traveled; guess that’s why it’s called the road less traveled. I always shoot for my insanity. It’s the most stimulating place. When my body rumbles inside, I have the power to settle down, I just don’t want to. I want to act out; I want to free myself from my white prison. However, every time I try to break free I only imprison myself far worse than I was before. It’s almost pathetic. I hate myself some days and want to hurt myself the others.

“You ready?” it asks.

My eyes fall on a remote corner. I wish I were there instead of here. Before I knew it, I could feel a cold needle being pricked into my left arm. I look up and try to get a better look at the figure’s face, but it is much too late. My vision becomes cloudy. My thoughts are starting to slow down. Mouth…feels…like…cot…ton. I…keep…hear…ing…some…thing…ring…ing…

…“That a girl.”

Delve into my empire of sapience. Let go of all your belongings. You will have no use for your lackluster possessions in my home. I and I alone shall suffice. I shall be the queen of your acumen. Simply allow me to be. This will be my last request. My next move will be to dominate you. Take over your mind and make you bow down before me. Don’t you see that I am draped in the finest of silks, and preeminent of linens? Ignore the appearances of overbearing landlords and patronizing clinicians. I am the focal point; they have no dominion over me. You see, the rent man is but a figment of your imagination. An abstract creation of the boundaries and restraints that only you wish to place upon my life. But as I escaped his incessant poundings on the door of my existence, I will escape the shackles that you attempt to force upon me.

I have lost everything of the material world and have learned that my status exits primarily in the extent of your mentality. Don’t try to makes sense out of my words now. No, do not attempt to trouble your feeble mind before it is ready; before it is capable of comprehending a sovereign like myself. I will soon be master of all worlds including your own. Corrupting you and your scope from the inside out. Prepare yourself for my coming. It will surely be like no other. Ready yourself for me. A girl so desperately trying to make sense out of the myth I called my life. The reality that is nothing. The story that seems to be my own…

I, Immortal

“I don’t know what other way to explain all this to you Doctor.”

He kept his eyes down as he jotted scribble upon his notepad. I questioned whether he truly was listening. After six psychiatrists and a four-month bout at a mental institution trapped in a small white room hugging myself in a straight jacket, he’d better be listening.

“I mean, the more I try to re-explain myself to everyone, I find myself losing my grip with reality.” I swallowed the large lump in the middle of my throat. “What do you make of all this?”
He finished the last of his notes and looked up at me. His left index finger tapped his bottom lip as he struggled to respond. He couldn’t stay quiet. He had to make use of the doctoral degree boastfully hanging on the wall behind him. He took a deep breath. “What do you make of all this?” he asked.

I chuckled. He wasn’t listening. He didn’t care. With all the media-buzz around me, he just wanted the opportunity to sit with me. Is what everyone’s been saying true? Does she honestly believe that she’s discovered liquid gold; Ponce de Leon’s very own “fountain of youth.”

“What do you think you’re saying?” he asked.

“I thought that’s what I came to you to figure out,” I said, “Isn’t this your cue to chime in here?”

“I want to fully understand the scope of all this.”

“Isn’t that why I came to you? So you could tell me?”

He sat quietly. I asked a good question. All that left room for was a good answer. He pressed his index fingers together and stared blankly at me. He tried to determine the best way to approach all this without sounding like a moron. He wanted to help. He wanted me to confide in him so that he could be the guy that gets through to me. He yearned to be the person that can honestly say,

“Hey, I figured her all out.” Truthfully, I wanted him to be that person too. It’d be nice to have someone else rummaging through my brain. I’d be grateful. He smiled. “How about we start at the beginning.”

As I Wait...

“You scared of me?”

Langston popped his head back up and smirked.

“Excuse me?”

“If you are, I can understand that. It’s not that you don’t like me, you just fear me.”

“You must have lost your—

“As long as you at least respect me, I could care less if you fear me. I rather you feared me than—

“So because I choose not to kiss your ass and buy you coffee in the morning or a martini at night, I must fear you. You think that as a black man, I must feel some sort of intimidation from you because of what…you’re a white woman with some authority.”

“Oh, you finally did it! You pulled out the race card. I’ve been waiting for you to bring out that gun.”

“Look, I have a lot of work to do…”

“No, no, no. I want to get to the bottom of this. So, because you’re black and I’m white, there needs to be tension. Have times progressed that slowly.”

“There isn’t tension…”

“Please, Langston! Spare me the bull. Be a man. Be a strong black man and be real with me. If I weren’t white, if I were a black man that corporate hired to put in charge of your operation, you’d be fine. But since I somehow represent the systematic approach of the man trying to bring down the brothas you feel it necessary to try to prove your worth.”

Langston stood up and walked around his desk to face her. He didn’t appreciate the way this woman looked down on him trying to show him up.

“I don’t have to prove anything to you or anybody else. I’m a damn good employee. This place would crumble without me…”

“And I know that Langston! I see that. I’ve seen first hand the type of work you do for this company. I’ve seen it before I even got here. I never had any intention of letting you go. But for some damn reason since this is a black dominated business, as soon as someone white comes in with a little authority, everybody runs away scared.”

“Nobody ran away scared…”

“Then what the hell happened to Jody? He couldn’t even hack it one damn week.”

“I think it’s about time for you to go.”

“Everyone around here thinks that they have something to fear just because I’m here. Your employees will bring ruin on themselves if they continue to let their insecure little fears overpower what really needs to be done around here, and that does include you.”

Langston tensed his jaw and balled up his fist. He stepped back from her and walked towards his office door. There was a rage building inside of him and he wasn’t trying to act on it. Simply for the reason that it wasn’t a rage lit by anger but from an emotion he hadn’t felt in a while. He wasn’t comfortable with the fact that another woman could incite a rage like that. Lorelei could even feel it. She stood up and followed him to the door.

“Let’s go out for drinks, on me. You don’t have to kiss up to me, and get this; I’m not even a martini type of girl. We can just grab a couple of beers from my fridge and watch ESPN on my TV in my office when the day’s over.” Lorelei placed her hand gently on Langston’s elbow, “I just want us to get past whatever we just can’t seem to get past.”

Langston shook his head and opened his door.

“Like I said, I have to get home to my wife. I’ll see you later Lorelei.”

Lorelei sighed as she allowed her disappointment to read across her face.

“Don’t forget what I said, there’s nothing to fear.”

Langston nodded his head and stepped away from his door. Lorelei smiled slightly and walked off. Langston stood for a brief moment as she walked away. Then a vision of his wife came into mind and he sighed.

He said, “Lorelei.”

She turned around.

“Maybe just one beer.”

She smiled.

Edge of Sanity

Dear Friend:

To my sacred friend, my mysterious confidante who questioned the existence of my own sanity. Today is the first day of spring and I write to you today because I find myself having suffered through a number of unpleasant ordeals in my life that I can’t understand how I entered. I write to you because you are the only friend that didn’t seek out your own gain. Although you may not truly be my friend, only another diluted figure of my overactive imagination, if you find reason to read my story then you are more valuable than one can understand. You, like me, just want to know my legend. I am constantly poked and prodded and I just felt the need to write to a person whom I can trust. Now, I may not have all the answers, but I surely have majority of the questions. My life is more complex than I can comprehend, so I hope you can follow along. I’ll go from start to finish so you can fully understand my plight. Though I may go back and forth, I just need you to feel how I felt for quite some time.

I’d like to begin by giving you some nourishment for thought; this may help to cast you into my state of mind. So, I ask you, how often do we find ourselves plunged into the morbid chasm that is our souls? Constantly we tread these roads and walkways with brooding eyes and salivating jaws as our inner selves check out in an attempt to prowl around in our insides searching for new meaning within us. What senses do our essences contain? I suppose if I were to remove “senses” from the word all that would be left is es, which stands for “is” in Spanish. My soul is senseless if you will. Either that or my mind…no, no not my mind. See, for I am the goddess of wisdom reincarnated. Therefore, I am as mentally capable as they come. I am however, soulless.

My dear friend, I find myself confined to a room quilted with white walls. I at times discover myself losing where one corner ends and the doorway begins. You may ask what is the goddess of wisdom doing locked in a white, or maybe it’s an off-white bastille. Well, I ask my keeper Isis that many a day and she never responds. She is such a simple deity, so much where she can be so frustrating. Most of the time however, she cries. When the room is still, soft winds blow and if you listen closely, you can hear her docile moans and temperate whispers, “......” I’d tell you what they were if I knew the name she called out. I can tell you that her voice drips with lament. Yet, I wish she’d just shut up and get me the hell out of here. I am trapped dear friend, with no escape.

Be it all the same, I do enjoy the golden wreath that she rests atop my tangled locks. At night in the creases of my brain, I sit upon a glorious throne, capped in idolized gems and inestimable jewels. When I sit on my throne, I foresee the domination of all the worlds before me. Although gluttonous siblings lurk in the dark clouds around me, I shall reign supreme. However, what scares me most is the provoked asp that slithers around my fig baskets. The way he eyes me is unnerving. I grip my plush armrests as he gets closer and closer to my left breast. Hitherto, I have veered from the focal point, my soul; lost tragically in my wayward discernments, mislaid in my entrails. Woe truly is me…

Good Christian Girls

“Fayola.”

I gather my books quickly as to avoid any further conversation. She gently places the palm of her hand on my back. I tremble a bit. I hadn’t felt that type of comfort in what seemed like an eternity.

“Fayola, I’d like to finish our conversation in more depth, if you don’t mind.”

I knew what she wanted to hear. She wanted an explanation, a feasible one. It wouldn’t be long before others would catch on to my fabricated “fell down the stairs” stories. Either I was a major klutz or there was the possibility that someone else may have been pushing me down the stairs.

I sighed and shook my head. “Honestly Mrs. Bryan, I need to head home. I can’t be late.”

“Late for what?”

Why must she press so hard? I mean, I guess it was her right as my teacher to inquire about my bruises, Mama will have my head if she found out I took my coat off. I got hot, and I’ve grown so accustomed to the sight of my abraded self, I tend to forget that others have a general sense of concern for battered women.

I finally met her gaze, “I’m fine. Trust me, I’ll see you tomorrow.” I stared into her eyes as if to beg her to stand down. No good will come from her meddling. She stared back as if to challenge me. What kind of person would she be to ignore something as grave as this. I buttoned my jacket and tied it tighter. With my books loaded into my backpack and my assignment turned in, I was done here.

She fell back. “OK Fay, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I wanted to say, “…if you call mama to query my appearance today, you may not see me tomorrow.” Instead I said, “Our phone’s been cut off, so mama likes me home right after school; just in case.”

Mrs. Bryan nodded and pulled in her lips. She stopped believing my stories after I attended school with a black eye caused by a swinging door. She never knew of too many doors that swung like fists. I knew she didn’t believe this story, but she got the hint.

Black Caesar

Black Caesar is a story about Vladimir who gets into the drug game. After the army discharged him, he realized that the workforce wasn't too kind. So, he got in business with an old friend, Khalil. Soon, like most drug dealers, he realizes that this life is certainly not for the faint at heart. With money, drugs, love, and betrayal at play, anything and everything is possible.

“What it look like, Vlad?” asked Kalil. His left brow slid up as he patted the back of my right shoulder and laughed. I sat on a park bench staring into the fading sun. I sat there asking myself if my life would soon fade into darkness just the same. Only difference with me was I probably won’t rise the next morning.

Kalil and I met while we were in basic training. I guess we bonded over the fact that we both came from the same hood, almost three blocks apart. We were both trying so hard to get out the hood that as soon as we turned eighteen, the army seemed like the only home we could have. We eventually realized that we were the type of guys that would never find a home. We had to make our happiness instead of finding it; we would’ve still been looking. Khalil knew the streets almost as well as it knew me. I guess you could say he was like my maternal brother ‘cause the same streets watching over me were the same streets that looked after him.

“Ain’t shit,” I said.

He sucked his teeth slowly, “Aint shit ever is wit’ you.” Khalil was in the dope game. The same game I was trynna get into. When we got discharged, we both struggled to get into the labor force, tried to stay right. He gave up the search quicker than I did though. He became the streets’ foot soldier and now I wanted to enlist. five years later, I could tell this business was getting to ‘em though. It wasn’t meant to do for life. When you start knocking on 30, the younger cats start piling in—faster, hungrier; a good player knows when it’s time to get out. Still, he was getting’ paid. And although the look in his eyes was always dull and listless like the dark pavement that slowly sucked the life from him, I know I needed to feel the same rush he once felt on these streets. I needed it like a dopefiend itched for his next fix.

“You sho’ this the shit yo wanna get into?” he asked me.

I nodded my head and pulled the black ‘n mild I had hiding behind my left ear. I put it to my lips and took a deep breath. Khalil lit the end of it as I stood up to face him. I stood there sucking through the filter letting the smoke fill my lungs like oxygen.

Khalil smirked gripping the back of my neck, “Ight. Let’s get to work.”

Work huh? I snatched his hand away from my neck and stepped back. I inhaled another lump of smoke and then took a deep breath. I stood there assuring myself that this was the only way I could get to where I needed to be. Money, bitches, and mo money. Letting my black drop to the cement I said, “Let’s go.”

I, Immortal

Now she giggled. “I ask these questions because, if you’ve lived this life a million times over, emotions are still emotions. There is no cap to human emotion. Pain will always be pain. We just find new ways to channel it…or rather new ways to address it.” She picked up her steaming cup of tea, “So I ask you how’d it make you feel or what did you first think about to understand where in your emotions were you when this tragedy, if you can call that, occurred.”
I lifted my shoulders and sighed. “The first thing that came to mind was, “I wished I hadn’t cooked the roast tonight.”
“You’ve just discovered that your husband was having an affair and you thought about the roast?”
“Yes,” I smirked, I had no sorts of happy emotions, a smirk was the only expression my face could muster as the thought of that night came into mind…
“When did you start taking yoga?”
He stared up at me dumbfounded as I hovered above him at the dinner table. “Excuse me,” he said.
“When…did you start taking yoga?”
He folded his napkin three times over and then finally laid it upon his lap. He cleared his throat and leaned back in his chair. “I dunno…what exactly are you,” he lightly chuckled. “Where are you getting this all...”
I smirked as his words trailed off. “Your yoga instructor called.”
“Did she?”
I paused at his affirmation, “She did.”
“I mean…when did she, who are you talking…”
“Linda. Your yoga instructor called.”
“Are you sure—
“At first I thought she had the wrong number.” I refilled my husband’s glass with Chardonnay and stood there, gripping the nose of the bottle as I glared him down. “But she asked for you by name…but what was funniest to me was, she didn’t know my name.”
He sat quietly as his eyes darted back and forth while he fidgeted in his seat. “What did she want?”
“She wanted to reconfirm your appointment. But isn’t funny honey, she didn’t even know you were married.”
“Well honey I…I dunno how she could’ve forgotten—
“No, John. She didn’t’ forget. You never told her about me.” I gently placed the bottle of wine atop our glass countertop as I went back to the night my father discovered my mother’s affair. I took a deep breath and relaxed my shoulders. “Why would your yoga instructor not know you were married?”
“Honey—
“Rather, why would I not know that you had a yoga instructor to know that you weren’t married? When did you get into yoga? Why is she calling our home and—
“Helen, I understand—
“What struck out the most, I might add, wasn’t that she didn’t know who I was but really when she mentioned how easy it was talking to you the night before, you know, the night you were working late, and how she couldn’t wait to do that, and more, again...tonight.”
His silenced amused me. He slurped down half of his glass of wine. Wine that smooth should be sipped, never gulped.“Isn’t this supposed to be another late night for you?” I stepped back from the table and gazed into the kitchen. I shook my head and squeezed my fist. I stared at the slew of dirty dishes, cut up potato and carrot skins, along with spilled beef broth and baked in stains. I sighed and whispered, “I wish I hadn’t cooked the roast tonight.”

Edge of Sanity

I have a self published book entitled "Edge of Sanity." It's a story about two siblings, Jasmin and Herby, who both suffer from mental instabilities yet can't understand how they've reached their current states. The novel is written in epistolary format as if they were writing to each other at different points in their lives. The characters take the reader on a journey ofconfusion and uncertainty, unsure how to ever return to the reality that truly is.

I have reached a moment of clarity. That far off instance in my reality where I understand things. I question if these things have understood me first. But, I wonder…where have you been? I sit here, on my throne, reigning over my own domain, daring you to step into a world that you really don’t know, and never will, asking myself…where have you been? The young boy that left our placenta filled encompassing was not the boy that returned home with me. If there ever was a home that I inhabited. Well, my body surely occupied the cramped dwellings of despair and treachery, but me, my spirit…not Cleo, as some may call her, but I never truly stayed there. I, myself, was out searching for you. Maybe you did go to that home and searched for me there. However, we must have kept missing each other.

You, the body that holds me captive in this white—maybe off white prison cell is not the he that I seek, however. No, the you that watches me tempt the electric razor off the edge of its sanity and join me in but another electric shock therapy, is not the you or rather the he that I want to stand beside me as I overlook the worlds of my true reality. All my life was but a bad dream that I tried to awake from yet you, not the he that I hunt for, but you continued to feed me sleeping pills. My twin would never submit me to such a pass. I soon grew tired of searching. You surely are a master of hide and seek.

My body, my lifeless, senseless physical presence certainly underwent a number of tragic ordeals and though I wanted to help, if I really could, I needed my brother. Some nights I did visit, I would hold you at night, hoping that you’d come to the feel of my warmth. The sun would often set up camp within me, calling your moon to cool me. You never returned the call. I left messages and stressed urgency. But…back to my moment of clarity.

I took those tablets that you attempted to force down my throat. I felt like a wicked show horse, punished for simply trying to break free. Yet, her captors never felt the desire to show her the world that she could have. They only painted imitations of the world that they were prisoners of; I wouldn’t succumb to that life. Maybe the world lived in one’s mind truly is no different than the world lived within the walls of my asylum. My reality is what I make it to be. Stuck in a prison with no bars, guarded by two men in white suits who don’t exist. Maybe there weren’t two captors, but certain days I’d receive a double dose of falsehood. I get so confused in this brain of mine. Sometimes, it gets so dark in here; I can hardly see where I’m going. But, yes, I took a glance in the mirror and saw myself. The me that is self, and I realized that the you that I had been searching for, doesn’t exist in this reality. The truth that I rummage around for is nothing but a fabrication of the tapestry of your imagined world. I must stop searching for fiction; I’ll only find more circles that will lead me to where I began. It can drive a person mad, surely. So, I must depart. I can no longer pretend to be here, when there is nothing here to keep me.

When you see my brother, tell him that I was looking for him, he’ll know where to find me. If he never returns, then at least my search was not in vein. He’s probably where I am going. Before I leave though, I’ll leave you with this. You must refine the lines of your reality. The truth is never what you imagine it to be.

Goodbye dear friend.

I, Immortal

"I, Immortal" is a story about a woman who discovers immortality. Unfortunately, upon discovering it, she realizes that she may have made a mistake. Is life really supposed to be lived eternally? She spends the rest of her life attempting to answer that question for herself.

The drive home was long. Much longer than usual. People on the sidewalks watched my powder blue 1990 Ford Focus linger down the road as my back bumper trailed across the pavement after it. I could hear their silent rumblings. If she’s so great, why is she driving that ugly thing? She’s not that great. What did she really do anyway? I could’ve done that. I sighed. This sure was a long drive home.
When I pulled into my driveway, I noticed my husband’s car parked outside. I sat in my car contemplating my next step. He never parked his car outside the garage. Not his precious ‘72 Thunderbird. There was something thick about the air too. It rested on my skin like a heavy winter coat in the summer. Something was about to happen. However, with everything that had transpired in my life over the past four months, this made me slightly indifferent.
I stepped out of my car and jingled my house keys as I walked toward the front door. I swallowed the extra lump in my throat as I stuck the key into the hole. Before I had the chance to turn my wrist, the door flew open and there he stood. I would’ve thrown my arms around his neck if it weren’t for the two suitcases in his hands. I looked down at them then up into his swollen eyes. I stepped back and took a deep breath.
“I have to go,” he whispered.
I stared at his suitcases attempting to organize my thoughts.
He continued, “This is all a bit too much for me and I feel it’s best if I just go.”
“Wait,” I said, “Are you talking about leaving me?”
He sucked in his lips and sighed. His eyes said sorry but the way he gripped his luggage told an entirely different story. I should’ve known this was coming. I should’ve known his late nights meant more time spent away from me. He wasn’t trying to make more money to provide for us; he was setting up a getaway fund. My success had emasculated him and he was through playing second fiddle. When he threatened to leave the night at the Christmas party, I should’ve taken heed. Nevertheless, he stood here holding his belongings prepared to find what he surely couldn’t locate within us.

As I Wait...

"As I Wait" is a story that chronicles the lives of two couples. The reader enjoys the ability to ride the journey that leads the couples through different interwoven scenarios that catapult them into new and unchartered territories.

“I miss you Kaiser. Do you ever miss me? Do you ever miss the things we used to do together? Do you at least think about me?”

“Try not to.”

His answers were short. She knew he didn’t want to say any more than he had to. She hoped it was to conceal what he really felt for her, among other things.

“Is it because of this new woman you’ve been seeing?”

Kaiser paused. With a woman like Mae, he knew he had to choose his words carefully.

“How do you know about the women I’m dating?”

“Women? There’s more?”

Kaiser shook his head and put his hand on the doorknob.

“I have to get going. I’ll call you.”

“Who is she Kaiser? Is she the new replacement?” Mae’s voice began to get cold and glimmered with bitterness.

“Let it go. I’m leaving.”

“She won’t last. Your heart won’t let her; it still belongs to me.”

Kaiser looked at her and then walked out the door. Before he got far enough, Mae grabbed his arm and pulled him into her embrace. Kaiser reluctantly pulled away.

“Why do you do this every time I come here?” he asked.

“Reassurance.”

“In what?”

“Us.”

“There is no ‘us’ anymore. You messed that up, not me…”

“And I’m trying to fix things. We can get back what we had Kaiser if you’d just let go”

“There’s nothing to fix. There’s nothing to get back to. You’re trying to make this harder then it needs to be. We’re not getting back what we had. You need to let go.”

“We need to be together Kaiser. Don’t you see that we—”

“There’s no we anymore. That’s why this whole situation is so hard because you won’t let go of the idea of there ever being a we. I love you, yes, but we have to move on from this. I’m beginning to hate coming over here and constantly dealing with this.”

“You didn’t have a problem three months ago when you had my legs up on your shoulders and my breasts in your mouth. There was a ‘we’ that existed then?”

Kaiser shook his head and exhaled.

“That was my fault…”

“You didn’t feel the need to let go then.”

“It was a mistake! It was late, I was horny, you had me come over here thinking that something was up with Siran to find out that you let her stay the night with some other friend and then answered the door practically naked, what was I supposed to do. I mean,” he paused, “I knew better, I just…”

“You wanted me then, what makes you think you don’t want me now.”

“Because I don’t. It’s not like after that night I came to the sudden realization that I can’t live without you. I still felt the same way. I still agree with the divorce. I still don’t see a future with us. Nothing changed after that night.”

She paused. “You fucking this new woman?”

Kaiser clenched his jaw and took a deep breath. He thought, I wish I were. He looked at his watch and freed himself from Mae’s grasp.

“I’ll talk to you later.”

“Should that answer my question?”

Kaiser turned on his heel and headed in the opposite direction.

“She’ll never love you like I did,” she yelled after him.

He stopped and turned to face her.

He said, “That’s what I’m hoping for.”

They stared at each for a moment and with that, Mae turned around and walked back in her home. Kaiser looked down at the concrete and then headed back towards his destination, questioning in the back of his mind whether it was the right place for him to be.

Good Christian Girls

Good Christian Girls is a story about a young girl who struggles to identify with her spirituality while living in an abusive and destructive environment. To deal with her conflicting personas, Fay develops an alter ego. Soon she realizes the consequences of of her actions.

Momma always told me, “Good Christians girls don’t do things like that.” Like what? Well, when I wore that new mini skirt I bought, momma said, “Good Christian girls don’t show off their knees.” And when I put a second piercing in my left earlobe, she said, “Good Christian girls don’t need holes in their body.” Then there was the time when she saw me kissing little Jake form down the block, she said, “Good Christian girls…” her left palm roughly slapped across my glossy lips, she cleared her throat and tightened her jaw. Then she continued, “…don’t kiss little big headed boys who spend their days standing on damn street corners.” What can I say, I didn’t say momma was a good Christian woman.

What did daddy say? Daddy didn’t say much. He would simply sit in his rickety rocking chair and face the corner window watching the cars go by. When momma pounded my face into our brand new plush carpeting, daddy took another sip of his brandy. I’d wail and he’d watch and sip. Well, there was that one time daddy turned to us and said, “Mind taking this into another room?” You see daddy became so used to being momma’s punching bag for such long years, he’d grown tired of objecting. Rather he chose to let momma abuse me, instead of him, away from his quiet time. Maybe daddy isn’t that good of a Christian man either.