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.