To finish my Into the Web themed week, I’m spotlighting an author I’ve enjoyed for the last six years or so, an author who has mystery on the mind and a chica sleuth who always seems to find herself sucked into … Continue reading
As most know, my short story “Fellowship at Hardee’s” is part of the anthology Oil and Water and Other Things That Don’t Mix.
Over at the Oil and Water blog, I talk about how the idea of “Fellowship at Hardee’s” came to me and why I decided to submit it for possible publication in the anthology.
Check it out [now]!
The summer of 2010, six women decided to join together and accomplish the goal. The goal was for each women to write an 80k novel between June 25, 2010 and November 25, 2010. The group used Google Wave as their major communication tool, using it to make updates, share excerpts of WIPs, hold monthly whine fests, get advice, and receive encouragement and inspiration through the journey. Life got in the way–a lot, but ultimately, each woman learned a few things while riding out this journey…
Why did you agree to be a part of the GWave Writing Journey?
What’s so funny is that my sistergirl (you, i.e. Shonell, LOL) was on Facebook talking about the writing journey, and I kind of sort of invited myself to be a part of the journey, and I’m so happy you all allowed me to join.
How did friendship and sisterhood help/hinder your writing during the journey?
The sisterhood formed throughout this journey is indescribable. Here you have a group of women who all feel the same about writing, so of course it was a very positive experience. We got to gripe and complain, all the while uplifting and encouraging each other when we had weak moments in the journey.
How did the use of GWave help facilitate conversation amongst the group during the journey?
I loved the way GWave helped facilitate conversation because we were able to check in with each other on the regular while sharing our work.
What were some of the successes and or pitfalls that occurred for you during the writing journey?
Some of my successes were that I really started learning about the CRAFT of writing. See I have this issue of waiting too long into the story about how to introduce my hero and heroine. Being on GWave I was able to pick a couple of the ladies’ brains and they helped me through it. Some of my pitfalls were on days when I didn’t have time to write, it really put me behind because I got preoccupied with other things.
What did you learn about yourself through the writing journey? As person and as writer?
What I learned was that my writing has improved tremendously over the course of seven years. I’m not the same writer I used to be, I’m learning daily, and I love it!
Well, supposedly, you wrote during this journey…what do you plan to do with what you’ve written?
What I plan on doing with Perfect Proposition is publish it before the end of 2011.
Chapter Seven
Mia exhaled an orgasmic moan, savoring the rich flavor of hazelnut and whipped cream as the delicious sexy coffee tickled her palette. Toes curling, Mia gripped the edge of the table, swallowing the tepid latte as it flowed down her throat, warming her insides. Peeking out the side of a lowered lid, Mia smiled relieved that no one was in earshot to witness her moment. She just couldn’t help it, her girl Stacia Robinson owner of the Latte Lounge a trendy hip eclectic coffee shop, put her foot in the designer lattes that always seemed to keep people in the neighborhood begging for more. On some days depending on the featured latte and spiced bread it would be standing room only.
“I see someone’s enjoying Hazelnut’s Kiss a little too much.” A throaty female voice joshed. A blush rose in Mia’s cheeks when she spotted Stacia, sisterlocks flowing down her back all smiles.
“Stacia, oh my God,” Mia felt herself growing excited, “I think I have a new favorite latte.” Mia raised her oversized mug of Hazelnut’s Kiss toasting her good friend of two years.
“And just think,” Stacia wiped her hands down her skinny jeans her silver bangle bracelets jingling, “you were so adamant about sticking with your normal Vanilla Bean Dream.” Stacia stuck her tongue out.
“I know. I know.” Mia shook her fist in a mock tirade, “It’s just if I stick to what I know, then there’s no room for disappointment.” Mia admitted making sure she placed her drink away from her MacBook.
“Girl,” Stacia flicked her dreads over her delicate shoulders, “stop being so boring, trying something new never hurt anyone. It’s time you step outside the box. Live a little. I did.” Stacia replied referring to her opening up about her sexuality to Mia and Phoebe two years ago.
“Yeah.” Mia shrugged pacifying Stacia. “You’re right.” She said shyly. “Maybe I will live a little.”
“Oh who’re we kidding, we both know you’re just blowing smoke up my ass.”
The two friends cracked up.
“Stacia.” Mia whined wiping the tears from her eyes.
“By the way cute outfit,” Stacia pointed out admiring Mia’s stylish get up that consisted of coffee colored carpenter pants, crisp white button down blouse and matching suspenders. A brown bonnet topped off her look.
“Thanks sis.” Mia smiled.
“Girl, I just came over here to bug you for a minute. I see as usual you’re slaving over some article.”
“Yeah.” Mia nodded to her lappy, eyes volleying between Stacia, and the words she was trying to formulate for the Toxic Bachelor piece.
“So what are you and the infamous Phoebe working on?” Stacia’s cheeks flushed a shade of crimson at the mention of Phoebe whom she couldn’t deny she had a crush on. Her feelings were hurt, the moment she learned Phoebe wasn’t a lesbian.
“Well,” Mia lowered her voice leaning in closer to Stacia, “If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you.”
“Girl, you’re a nut.”
They erupted into a fit of giggles.
“Hey honey bun.” A cute brunette with an Ellen Degeneres haircut, donned in Dockers, a polo and Chuck Taylors rolled up on them.
“Hey bae,” Stacia cooed lovingly pecking Docker chick. Mia couldn’t help but be enthralled by the drastic contrast of their skin tones as she watched Stacia’s deep milk chocolate skin intertwine with Jane’s pale alabaster one. “Bae stop,” Stacia emitted a girlish giggle as she wiped her lipstick from Jane’s lips.
“Mia,” Stacia faced her friend, “I want you to meet Jane, Jane this is my homey Mia.”
“Hi Jane.” Mia stood extending a hand.
“What’s up?” Jane smiled revealing a perfect set of straight white teeth, and noticeable gap, as she gripped Mia’s hand.
“Bae, Mia just tried Hazelnut’s kiss.”
“That’s nice, baby.” Jane replied licking her lips, totally ignoring Mia. Jane was throwing Stacia looks that said, “girl you’re the last latte up in this lounge and I’ll be damn if anyone but me is going to indulge in a sip.”
“Well listen,” Stacia said, interlocking her fingers with Jane’s, “sis I’ll talk to you later, and remember I want to know everything about this classified article you’re working on.”
“‘K. Bye you two.” Mia waved as she watched the lovebirds disappear to the other side of the lounge.
Eyes lowering to her laptop, Mia regained her focus and began typing once again.
Arrogant. Cocky. Self-righteous. Annoying, but undeniably sexy. Oh yeah, I’m sure you’ve all had your fair share of him ladies. He’s the man you’d love to hate, but for some sickening reason, you can’t seem too. You’re drawn to him like a moth to a flame. There’s something intriguing about his commanding presence and you can’t get enough of him.
Dashing good looks, charismatic smile, and mysterious eyes, you can’t seem to stop staring into because your head and your body betraying you is telling you he could potentially be the stuff juicy fairy-tales and happily ever after’s are made of except there’s one thing; he’s no prince charming and you ain’t Cinderella.
He’s a toxic bachelor. You know he’s no good for you, and you should probably get the heck out of dodge before he makes a move on your heart, and you get attached. His goal is to strip away the wall you may have encased around yourself due to prior mishaps in previous relationships. He wants to have you at the point where you’re raw and no longer have the upper hand in the situation. It may have started off that he was the one doing the chasing, but if you fall into his game too soon, you’re going to find yourself doing all the calling, texting, and chasing while he sits back not answering or making up some lame excuse as to why he couldn’t hit you back. Toxic bachelors like to promise things in the heat of the moment they know they have no intention of committing too and leaving you heartbroken to pick up the pieces.
The summer of 2010, six women decided to join together and accomplish the goal. The goal was for each women to write an 80k novel between June 25, 2010 and November 25, 2010. The group used Google Wave as their major communication tool, using it to make updates, share excerpts of WIPs, hold monthly whine fests, get advice, and receive encouragement and inspiration through the journey. Life got in the way–a lot, but ultimately, each woman learned a few things while riding out this journey…
Perhaps, but writing is also turning one’s worst moments into great reads for readers and personal understanding for the writer. I’ve written many stories that began from a “worst moment” in my life. Because writing has always been so cathartic to me, it seemed natural that I would weave my real-life angst into creative fodder. In writing stories, I can explore the whys and hows of my situation through characters, allowing me to take a step back from the situation and see things from another perspective. Every good story starts with a conflict, and if I can develop a story that satisfies readers while working through my “worst moments,” then to me that’s a win-win situation.
Why did you agree to be a part of the GWave Writing Journey?
I began pursuit of my Ph.D. in August 2009, and my creative writing took a major back seat. I wrote during the 2009 NaNoWriMo, but I knew that particular piece of writing would never be something I would go back to. I was ready to really get into a project and write something that truly mattered to me. And I knew the only way I could do it while also doing the 50-11 other things in my life would be to have other people working with me and holding myself accountable to them.
How did friendship and sisterhood help/hinder your writing during the journey?
Because of the friendship, of the sisterhood, I finished. This was bigger than me and my story. I fail me all the time, but I hardly ever fail others and because I started this with five other women who were attempting to do the same, I knew I had to keep on keeping on. They inspired me to keep on; their friendship enabled me to keep on.
How did the use of GWave help facilitate conversation amongst the group during the journey?
Needless to say, I’m sad that GWave is phasing out. I LOVE it. I’m sure there are other spaces that do what GWave does, but I really liked the format and structure and our ability to hold group chats, to save chats, to send a group documents and attachments and create threads for different lines of conversations. At any one time, I was in one thread reading someone’s excerpt and making comments, in another thread asking a sisterfriend about TV news advice for my story, and in another thread in a gripe session. It was nice to move across threads to seamlessly.
What were some of the successes and or pitfalls that occurred for you during the writing journey?
Actually, there weren’t many pitfalls. I was very busy with academic work over the summer, yet I got the writing done. When the fall semester kicked in, I thought I would be writing less, but I actually wrote more and finished my 80k weeks early and finished the book at about 92k before the deadline. The success truly came from two places: my girls from the GWave Writing Journey and from those people on Twitter and Facebook who encouraged me to push it and get the writing done. The experience allowed me to see that if I focus myself, I can get the job done. And considering this is the first book I’ve ever written without an outline, this achievement is even more important for me.
What did you learn about yourself through the writing journey? As person and as writer?
As a person, I’ve learned to not doubt myself. At times, I would mentally add up all the things I had to do in my life and kept saying things like, “I HOPE I get my writing done,” instead of telling myself I could get it done. It was a lot of work, but once I got into a groove, I realized that I could do it and get everything else done, too.
As a writer, I learned that I could write a book without an outline. I started with characters and the first two, three chapters outlined–and even those chapters didn’t get written as outlined, LOL Although I learned I could write without the net, I also learned that I don’t like that way too much! LOL I like my outline and the freedom it gives me. Writing without a net gave me way too much freedom and there were days where I sat, wondering what I would write and where I would go instead of having the footprint of an outline to help me.
Well, supposedly, you wrote during this journey…what do you plan to do with what you’ve written?
Well, I wrote a sequel to my book Death at the Double Inkwell. Book two is titled Into the Web. I’m planning a Double Inkwell series featuring my twin mystery novelists and sleuths, Jovan Parham and Cheyenne Parham. I was done revising but computer crashed before all the revisions could be saved, so I’m back to revising again. Hope to be done that within the next two weeks. From there, I plan to submit it to my publisher and see what happens next. I loved DDIW, and it excites me that I actually love Into the Web more. I hope it’s as good to others as it is to me!
Chapter One ~ October 21
Take down.
Those words rang in Jovan Parham’s mind as she danced around the ring, staring into the eyes of Derryck, her kickboxing trainer.
“Come on, Jo,” Derryck said while holding up his padded hands. “Pay attention. Jab left, cross right, jab right.”
“I’m doing it,” she said, her voice nearing a whine.
“You look lazy.” Derryck’s left hand made its way to Jovan’s headgear. She just managed to move, but heard the sound of his fist whizzing by her face. “I haven’t tagged your face in nearly four months.”
Jovan smiled and took two jabs to the side of Derryck’s face; the second one connected.
“And you didn’t get me this time either,” she replied.
The two continued to spar, sharing words and punches and kicks, but Jovan’s mind was still stuck on two words: take down.
She woke up in the middle of the night after a horrific nightmare, one she had almost every month since she moved into her new condo a year ago. The nightmare was always the same: she watching as a host of characters took part in killing her. She lay, shackled to a metal table, dressed in a white loose gown that had been ripped to shreds. Every few minutes, someone would come into the dimly lit room and cut her with a sharp, curved blade. No words were ever exchanged. She screamed with each flick of the blade, begged for her life, but it was all for naught. Cordell came in and took a chunk of her. As did his mother. As did his brother. Alisha took her share as well, as did Sarah, which broke her heart more than Cordell wanting to kill her. She had thought Sarah was her best friend. Finding out she had slept with Cordell and carried his child tore at her heart. To know that even in her nightmares Sarah wanted to hurt her more nearly broke her.
The last person to come in was always Linda Hayes. And unlike the others, who were more like automatons, coming to do their robotic bidding, Linda had a sparkle in her eyes, a curl of her lip, and extra dig of her cut when she took her swipe of Jovan. She had hoped that her time at the altar during service that morning, where she begged God, begged him to remove the nightmares, might give her a night of respite, but it wasn’t to be. If she actually took time to think about it, she’d realize that her continuous thinking about them would only create more of them.
When she woke up last night from the nightmare, Jovan rushed to her office—a place that held warm, soft thoughts for her as it was the place where words took to life. She reached for the small blue bible she kept on the desk and rifled through the pages before landing her finger on Luke 10:19, I have given you authority …to overcome all the power of the enemy; nothing will harm you.
The words brought her peace, but she had an even better way of using her authority to overcome her enemies. She took out a pad and pen, and spent a good hour creating a list of people she needed to take down.
Linda Hayes was at the top of that list. For going on two years, the Trés Chic head reporter-now executive producer had been relentless in her pursuit to find something bad to report about Jovan. Even after everyone else had put the murder of Jovan’s husband and the fallout of it behind them, Linda was determined to continue to bring up Jovan’s painful story: Cordell’s murder. Cordell’s affair with Alisha. Cordell’s affair with Sarah. The baby Sarah carried. The complex scheming and plotting that revealed Cordell’s drugged-out brother was supposed to kill Jovan but instead killed Cordell. Jovan’s reaching out to Mark, Sarah’s husband, in a time of need and the subsequent relationship that continued long after Cordell was buried. The justice (though not peace) that was brought to Jovan and her family.
In all parts of the world, Jovan’s soap opera of a life had come and gone as new, crazier stories unfolded. But in Baltimore, where she and her twin Cheyenne were deemed stars for their bestselling-authors status and their charities, Jovan’s story continued to live—mostly thanks to Linda Hayes.
And somehow, she had managed to overcome her anger at Linda and this ferocious, tenacious need Linda had to break her down.
But then yesterday arrived, and Jovan became undone.
She had tried to go about her day. She went to a speaking engagement for her solo inspirational non-fiction, Picking up the Pieces, a book that detailed the story of her life with Cordell and the aftermath. She met with Cheyenne to work on the outline of their next mystery, Vanishing Keys. She even got ready to meet Mark for a dinner date down at the Inner Harbor.
Not once did anyone in her inner circle mention the significance of the day: the second anniversary of Cordell’s death. They knew it wasn’t needed. They knew Jovan would have stayed up the entire night prior, still crying over the loss, still angry over the betrayal, still unsteady on what to do with her life. She was still fragile from the coming and going of Cordell’s birthday nearly three weeks ago. She had spent that day in quiet reflection, wondering why, yet again, she couldn’t find out about Cordell’s lies before anyone had to die. She still felt like an idiot over believing Sarah was her friend. She had spent hours talking to Sarah, telling her about the decline in her marriage—never realizing that her supposed friend was sleeping with her husband.
Any normal person, knowing what she’d been through, would have given Jovan this day to grieve, to feel, to think in her own personal space.
But not Linda Hayes.
Jovan had expected to hear from her. After all, she saw commercials regarding Linda’s anniversary special. Linda had her assistant call her earlier in the month, trying to get her to talk about Cordell on the day of his birthday. Jovan had told her to “Go read Picking Up the Pieces if you’re so damn interested in learning what I’m willing to say about Cordell. Other than that, leave me the hell alone, Miss Hayes.” It was only a matter of time that Linda would call her again, trying to get some comment to use for her latest special.
The summer of 2010, six women decided to join together and accomplish the goal. The goal was for each women to write an 80k novel between June 25, 2010 and November 25, 2010. The group used Google Wave as their major communication tool, using it to make updates, share excerpts of WIPs, hold monthly whine fests, get advice, and receive encouragement and inspiration through the journey. Life got in the way–a lot, but ultimately, each woman learned a few things while riding out this journey…
Why did you agree to be a part of the GWave Writing Journey?
Accountability. I work from home, alone.
How did friendship and sisterhood help/hinder your writing during the journey?
It made me more competitive. On the days I did not make time to write, I would think of everything going on in everyone else’s life and realized they made the time. When I returned to writing, I would do my best to catch up.
How did the use of GWave help facilitate conversation amongst the group during the journey?
I believe the group allowed us to cheer one another on as well as share what worked for us during the writing process. GWave also allowed me to peek into the lives of the ladies writing with me.
What were some of the successes and or pitfalls that occurred for you during the writing journey?
I overscheduled during this process. Between GWave, writing work, editing work, school, home, family, etc. I bombed.
What did you learn about yourself through the writing journey? As person and as writer?
I re-learned that a first draft should be fluid, off the cuff or you will lose yourself in the process of writing instead of the story.
Well, supposedly, you wrote during this journey…what do you plan to do with what you’ve written?
I plan to pitch my story at the 2011 Faith and Fiction Retreat. If I don’t attend I will pitch to a few editors and/or agents.
Nervous her plan had failed, Terilynn checked one more time to see if she had missed a call. She had not. Maybe Roman wanted out of the marriage as much as she wanted it to work. Maybe he was glad she left home. It would surely give him enough time to get on Facebook to flirt with anyone who would participate. Her mind drifted to the last set of emails he had sent to an ex-girlfriend from high school.
How could someone so loving be so unfaithful? Terilynn asked herself as she pulled over into the Arby’s parking lot.
She could feel herself becoming emotional. It was her excuse for everything lately. The pain she carried from her marriage had begun to spill over into every other area of her life. She was good at her job but found herself passing on more and more of her work to her executive and virtual assistants. Terilynn had been so distraught, simple tasks like driving her children to school welled up and caused excruciating panic attacks. For the most part, she sounded like Samuel L. Jackson: constant and unnecessary outbursts.
Terilynn could only apologize after she had hurt someone’s feelings and then retreated to her office, bedroom, or shower to let the tears flow. Tonight was no different. She sat in the parking lot and sobbed. The crying did not come from Roman not following or calling her. Nor did it come from facing the fact that her marriage was near its end. She cried because she was lonely.
From the outside, her relationship with Roman looked like the epitome of the African-American Dream. The Matthews were an attractive and accomplished couple with no outside children, a beautiful home, and not one financial problem. Really, they could buy anything they wanted and go anywhere they dreamed. In public, Roman was a doting, loving husband whose wife was the absolute apple of his eye.
In private, Terilynn lived with a moody, uncommitted man who made it absolutely clear that since he paid all of the bills he could do whatever he wanted. He demanded privacy and things that belonged strictly to him. Most of the time he used his privacy to find ways to cheat and maintain inappropriate relationships with other women.
There was nothing she could do. She allowed everyone to believe that her life was perfect and she could not tell a soul it wasn’t. Terilynn had permitted the perception of others to trap her not only in a loveless marriage but in a state of solitary confinement where it seemed that no one, not even God, could hear.
Terilynn’s desolate sobs were interrupted by Fur Elise, the ringtone on her cell phone. Knowing it was Roman, for a split-second she thought to ignore the call and abandon her plan. But, she decided to go through with it.
Terilynn took a deep breath, grabbed her recorder, turned on the radio and said, “Hello,” in a soft whisper.
“Hey,” Roman said and then waited.
With smooth jazz playing in the background, Terilynn responded, “What’s up?”
“Hey beautiful, what are you doing over here alone? I’m waiting for you,” an unfamiliar man’s voice blurted from the background followed by shushing from Terilynn.
“Who is that?” Roman asked suspiciously.
Terilynn abruptly answered, “That’s just the radio. I gotta go. Love ya.”
Who is she with? Roman asked himself knowing he would never find out. He really did not blame his wife, but she had no right being with another man. She’s a Christian. Roman knew he did not deserve his wife’s faithfulness, but he could not stand the thought of anyone else touching her. It was probably the reason he had never filed for a divorce.
He was not kidding anyone. Deep down inside Roman loved his wife. She was kind, gentle, and forgiving. He had messed up so many times and Terilynn always forgave him. Granted, her forgiveness usually came with a few months of anger, resentment, and hurt. Nonetheless, she forgave. However, his behavior never changed.
From Roman’s perspective, he did not have to. Every man he knew and respected had cheated on his wife with other women. He was just being a man. He had never had sexual intercourse with another woman, but he often received blow jobs from the women with whom he flirted.
What if she is …? Roman could not finish his thought it was so disgusting. He could not allow himself to go there, but he could tear the town up looking for her.
The summer of 2010, six women decided to join together and accomplish the goal. The goal was for each women to write an 80k novel between June 25, 2010 and November 25, 2010. The group used Google Wave as their major communication tool, using it to make updates, share excerpts of WIPs, hold monthly whine fests, get advice, and receive encouragement and inspiration through the journey. Life got in the way–a lot, but ultimately, each woman learned a few things while riding out this journey…
Pascal’s talent of turning words into phenomenal stories and pieces of art is one that is infectious. Pascal’s publisher, Pam Osbey of Osbey Books, Inc. solidifies this: “With words that pierce your soul and beg you to enter the temple of openness and curiosity for life, Onika Pascal’s pen commands your attention at first glance,” Osbey explains. “Working with this inquisitive soul whose spirit is unique through a lens all her own, I have been honored to see the progression of a writer who has only touched the surface of her literary purpose.”
When she’s not writing, Pascal serves as an event coordinator and a youth mentor with the Misunderstood Youth Development Center, a non-profit organization that provides a place for youth to express themselves. It is here that Pascal has shared the wonders of poetry with the teens in her group.
Why did you agree to be a part of the GWave Writing Journey?
I agreed to be a part of the GWave because I felt like I was slipping from the writing world. I was losing my zeal, and the GWave Writing Journey/group helped stir up my hands and story idea.
How did friendship and sisterhood help/hinder your writing during the journey?
The friendship and sisterhood helped tremendously. The constant support, motivation and encouragement played the role of that little “ummph” that you’d need to complete a project. When life took reign, the sisterhood was there to help push you on.
How did the use of GWave help facilitate conversation amongst the group during the journey?
I was introduced to other readers, and the use of GWave helped me to feel comfortable, and see that I wasn’t the only one with some doubts. We were all in this together. When I saw the excitement and pride the other group members had for their work, it was a clear indication that the decision to be in the group was worth the journey. Birds of a feather flock together. Right!
What were some of the successes and or pitfalls that occurred for you during the writing journey?
Success, I started. I researched and believe I have a plausible plot. Pitfall, I stopped. Life happens. It’s the best way I can sum it up. I always say to myself, “I don’t have a writer’s life.” My career is a bit demanding, and many times I have to succumb to it, and my writing gets tossed on the back burner. Though I didn’t complete my journey, it is NOT forgotten.
What did you learn about yourself through the writing journey? As person and as writer?
The journey helped me to learn/see that I am NOT disciplined. That I allow too many incidents to occur and take away from my writing. And I’ll be honest in saying my fear of criticism is what creates that wide enough gap to slip away. But the group helped me see what it takes to get the job done.
Well, supposedly, you wrote during this journey…what do you plan to do with what you’ve written?
I did write. And though I haven’t finished, I plan to complete it, and take a chance at shopping it around, or possibly self publishing. Writing isn’t about keeping it bottled up inside. It’s about putting it out there for the world to see…a polished product is a proper product. And it takes hard work.
PROLOGUE
He didn’t imagine that his feet knew the way. His mind surely didn’t. The Cassandra Hills wasn’t one he’d quite known. But fear makes a man do anything. He chased after Cobra like death chased an ailing man. Destined. He was out of control. He was possessed. Demonesqued, almost. He saw his way without guidance. He didn’t map his step but somehow knew where he was going. His breathing was fueled by something other than a natural movement. His eyes were wide, glaring, with no sympathy, and somehow shone its own light to the darkened hill top. The trees, grass and creatures once told in folklores didn’t seem to matter. All he knew, was that he was on a mission. His target was the only thing on his mind, and he was out to fulfill what needed to be done.
His already ripped used Dockers, barely-there shoes and gray stained with-the-past t-shirt finally took on a new person, when he saw the body movement before him. And in the pull of the trigger, the night air was filled with bellowing shots. Loud. Incandescent. Frightful. Twelve.
After the last shot, he ran cold. His blood stopped pumping through his veins. And as if he too had been hit by one, or more, of the 12 shots he’d just fired, so did his heart. The heat from the Beretta didn’t bother him, but the scent of the gun powder burnt his nose. A scent he’d smell for the rest of his life. He blinked slowly. Not sure what he’d see when he re-opened them, but he did. He looked down and saw Cobra’s twitching body flicker like a fish on land, then coming to a still, stiffened object. There were still had beads of sweat on his victims face, and for a minute the shooter had hoped he’d get up and start running again. He just had too. But the body laid there on the wet leaves, twigs, stones, and worms. His eyes stared at his assassin as if he didn’t want to lose sight of his face. The pistol left the hands of the assailant and dropped to the earth. His hands opened as if to let the breeze blow away his sin. He looked at his hands, and his body shook like the wind was whirling around inside him.
Thick blood flowed from the dead body and touched the toes of the now shaken man. The warmth of it made him jump back into the trunk of the tree behind him. The bats fluttered from their resting spot and danced around the listless body, like they knew he was the one that disturbed them. The fear of what he just did and the bats, all made him lose his manhood for the first time, in a different way. Wet and warm.
He hoped that it was a nightmare. His life flashed before his eyes. A brave man never second guesses his movements and re-opened his eyes swiftly. He opened them and confirmed that he’d be running again. Running from the corpse, running from his own life. He’d be running from everything he had, his family, his home, his way-ward lifestyle, but running as a fugitive.
He’d never killed a man, and never imagined killing one that was so close to him.
He kept seeing the same face, same blood, same veins, but saw a different path in life. To him, he had shot himself. And as far as he was concerned, whatever took over him then, told him that he too was no longer alive. And he ran.
He laid as stiff as the very same dead body amongst the stench, fish nets, bait buckets, and hooks used by the fishermen. He knew at that hour no one would be around and he would be safe until dawn, when the fishermen would return. Right before he felt the twinge of the cramp in his neck from the entangled position he was in for the last 5 hours, he heard the horn of one of the steam ships. And his mind mapped out how he’d keep running. He’d have to jump ship.
The water made a pocketing sound. Cupping the little bit of space between air & the surface of the water to the bottom of the boat. He could hear the fishermen get ready for their day. “Boy, hear nah, if I doh ketch real fish today, my wife tell me doh come home”, said one of the fishermen. He couldn’t see who, the position he was in didn’t give him room to make out any one. But the voices were groggy and heavy, and thick with the country’s accent. “Doh come home? My wife cyah tell me dat. Dis fish here is we bread and butter. I ketchin dis here, not she. Bout doh come home! Woman not supposed to talk to man so. NOT in dis day and age. We run tings in de household.” The other was quite stern with his words. The man’s voice alone led Tennessee to imagine his physique. He was tall, strapid, dark, probably bald, maybe a mustache, and with arms like a tree trunk.
In between some hearty laughter & heckling among the seamen, he smelled what his stomach wasn’t able to avoid. Food. Smoked herring, probably spread in between freshly home baked bread. Or it could have been placed neatly on the side. He also caught the aroma of freshly grated cocoa as he heard the crunch of one of the men’s thermos opened.
He was reminded that he hadn’t eaten for two days, and two days too long. So hungry, he forgot about his getaway. He couldn’t move his head far enough to see if the steam ships were there or gone. Last he remembered was the sound of the horn, but uncertain if it had docked or left the pier.
As he closed his eyes to rid himself of the hunger pangs, he remembered why he was there. It was a memory he didn’t want to relive. The scent of the gun powder replaced the food. It petrified him. His heart banged on the inside of his chest. Shaking him a bit weaker than he already was.
To calm himself, he bit into his bottom lip until he tasted the warmth of his own blood. As his blood dripped and coated the inside of his mouth, he built the courage to get out of his hiding place without being noticed. He unfolded from his pretzel like position, promising himself to not make a sound with the fishing equipment entangled around him. And like a magician, he managed to slip out from the space and slip under the pier, and hunched over, as to not his head on the boardwalk above him. He stood shivering in the iciness of the water. It’s unpleasantly cold, bitter, angry temperature awoke him instantly. At 4am, the seas water holds a chill, just as the mind holds a dream.
He delicately and smoothly stroked through the waters. Making sure to not wake a ripple, nor splash a sound. The piers and waters of Chaguramas were heavily guarded as it was owned by the Americans. They owned that part of the country as well as the mindsets of some of his fellow African brothers. With the strong tension in the country, getting caught would end his life, just like he ended a brother’s life.
He had to make his way before the soldiers saw him. He no longer had his shield made up of the seamen’s nets and hooks and bait and buckets.
It was time to move on.
Now, Dr. Fairway has decided to take on a new adventure in her practice by serving a group of characters all from a single mind. In this case, it is her very own creator, Miki Starr. Unfortunately this is a much greater undertaking than the good doctor could have ever suspected. Between the troubles with her own relatives, a family filled with arrogant, self-serving doctors, her bickering clients, and her quest for true love – Dr. Fairway is doing all that she can to hold on to her sanity while trying to help her clients find a piece of their own.
Seventeen-year-old Olivia Kalaath, has heard this story since childhood and rejected it for just as long, despite at times being accused of being this prophecy come reality. After all, she has the golden skin tone and the extraordinary instincts synonymous with the mythical figure. Either way, being different has its price. In order to keep herself and her mother below the Shadow Realm Allegiance’s radar, she practices the age-old art of concealing, a survival technique she learned as a child. But when her best friend goes missing, Olivia must decide what she believes in once and for all.
You don’t want to miss this feature! Miki Starr offers insightful responses to our monthly questions regarding “good” books and on top of that gives us two juicy excerpts to her novels! Head to All the Blog’s a Page [NOW] to read more!
The summer of 2010, six women decided to join together and accomplish the goal. The goal was for each women to write an 80k novel between June 25, 2010 and November 25, 2010. The group used Google Wave as their major communication tool, using it to make updates, share excerpts of WIPs, hold monthly whine fests, get advice, and receive encouragement and inspiration through the journey. Life got in the way–a lot, but ultimately, each woman learned a few things while riding out this journey…
30 Days is a short moment in twin sisters’ lives when they are grieving for their mother differently. It is a pivotal moment where both acknowledge the other’s pain and how they choose to carry on without their mother’s presence.
Why did you agree to be a part of the GWave Writing Journey?
I felt being a part of the journey would hold me accountable to my gift. I also love being a part of a writing sisterhood as well.
How did friendship and sisterhood help/hinder your writing during the journey?
I don’t think it hindered me; I hindered myself-not purposely though. Friendship and sisterhood helped because there were times when my story was going no where and you all encouraged me to either continue or chuck it and start something different. Not to mention being able to discuss life and how that ALWAYS got in the way of writing.
How did the use of GWave help facilitate conversation amongst the group during the journey?
GWave gave us a medium to share ideas, what we’ve written, and give/get feedback. GWave could have been more helpful if we could have accessed it from our cellphones. There were times when my computer was in one of its bi-polar episodes and I couldn’t get on and I can’t lie, I felt a little lost and out of the loop.
What were some of the successes and or pitfalls that occurred for you during the writing journey?
My successes were that I built up quite a few story ideas and the pitfalls were I had a few traumatic life occurrences that stopped my writing dead in its tracks.
What did you learn about yourself through the writing journey? As person and as writer?
I learned through this journey that as much as I love to write, I may not be writing in the correct medium. I no longer feel a pull to write novels as much as I feel to write screenplays and poetry. I think it’s time for me to develop my talent in that area. When I see things and write them, my visions play out like movies and I want to take my talents to that arena, 
As a person, I learned that I’m my worst enemy, that I need a certain type of validation to continue writing. And I’m not sure that’s what any writer should really need just to write. Of course writers want the validation of their target audience, just not initially since writing is such an intimate and often lonely act. This is also one of the reasons I need to remix it, figure out where my skills and ideas fit best. I also find out that I need instant gratification. I’ve lost the patience it needs to build a good story. I just want to see it, write it, and it happen at that moment.
Another important thing I learned about myself was that I abandoned my first love, poetry. I plan to return with a vengeance. For some reason I let poetry escape me, but I recall being less stressed, more able to handle life’s hiccups when I wrote poetry.
Well, supposedly, you wrote during this journey…what do you plan to do with what you’ve written?
I plan to publish a non-fiction work called They Don’t Speak about Us, which delves into the psyche and experience of a young grandmother-to-be. Out of all the things I’ve attempted to write throughout this journey, this piece is most important and most needed. I haven’t decided if I’d write the entire thing myself, compile an anthology, or create a stage play with it. But I know it needs to be heard/seen.
November 10, 2010
I relied on auto-pilot this morning. Woke up. Covered my hair. Got kids ready for school. Drove them to school. Returned home to my couch and sat. I wasn’t quite sure if just sitting was serving any good, but each time I rose, I had so many thoughts that I just sat back down. Overwhelmed by the simple act of thinking.
The night before, before I fell asleep, had been filled with community and sharing of libations with my sisters and mother. Though I was present, I stayed out of all the pregnancy conversations. At this point, I’d minimally spoken to my daughter; there was nothing to say until she made her decision, quieted her fears, examined her future, absorbed all the discussions she’d have to endure-tonight and for time to come.
That’s right. Times are different and I knew there would be discussions for me as well: Why wasn’t she on birth control? You can’t LET her have this baby! What are YOU going to do? The difference was, I could choose whether or not to indulge in those discussions. And my answer was, “Leave me alone. It isn’t my problem.” I also had determined that I would only seek opinions and advice from wise women whom I cherish and trust and am supportive of and supported by.
While at the impromptu wine night, I’d learned, for certain, that my daughter was unsure of whether or not she should bring forth life. Instinctually, I knew she was pregnant all along. And I knew she was confused about how to feel about being pregnant. She examined every aspect of her short life and categorized how she felt about the father, about them raising a child, and sadly her heart would overrule her head. This was natural. At her age, 17, all that matters are emotional connections; not what your mom, dad, grandparents, aunts, or uncles taught you. No matter how many positive people I placed in her life, I knew ultimately she’d choose her own path. That’s what life is about sometimes. I’d been there before; her shoes were mine exactly 17 years ago.
All of the women around her had varied opinions and varying experiences. They leant her a moment in their struggles with parenthood. Even those with no children. They were able to speak about the baby fresh freedom she would soon be required to give up. Though some had no children of their own, they’d witnessed many sisterfriends and family members sacrifice the freedom she now takes for granted.
She listened and absorbed every syllable like she wanted to take in as much of this moment as the good Lord allowed. And I watched her. I watched her be confused, afraid, and happy in a matter of minutes. I couldn’t help her; I knew that. But what about us? What about teenage mothers who birth teenage mothers? There is no where for us to go, share, and get or receive support and feedback. There are no books to read on how to handle something like this. But the emotions are real, the problem is real, but there is no real entity for guidance. They just don’t speak about us. But we’re here. This is what consumed my thoughts this night. Once again, I relied on auto-pilot. I drank, played cards, and promised everyone new hair-do’s the next day; if I woke from this nightmare. But the nightmare was still there this morning.
The summer of 2010, six women decided to join together and accomplish a goal. The goal was for each women to write an 80k novel between June 25, 2010 and November 25, 2010. The group used Google Wave as their major communication tool, using it to make updates, share excerpts of WIPs, hold monthly whine fests, get advice, and receive encouragement and inspiration through the journey. Life got in the way–a lot, but ultimately, each woman learned a few things while riding out this journey…
Why did you agree to be a part of the GWave Writing Journey?
I remember when we first started throwing around ideas about giving our writing the time it deserves because we are so passionate about writing. Writing can be addictive and very lonely. Knowing that I had a support group cheering me on when I felt like I had nothing left in me to write is the reason why I agreed to be a part of the GWave Writing Journey.
How did friendship and sisterhood help/hinder your writing during the journey?
I gained a deeper appreciation for the friendship (a word I don’t use lightly at all) of each individual person and also the sisterhood of the entire group. Sometimes just when I started beating myself up for not writing, because I didn’t feel like writing anything, and/or I had spent my writing time staring off or doodling…a message would come through. Someone else would share their progress on their writing and I would get excited for my friends. Sure enough, there would always be one other person saying they didn’t get a chance to write because of xyz, and I wouldn’t feel so bad or alone anymore.
How did the use of GWave help facilitate conversation amongst the group during the journey?
The conversations were so lively because of the real-time aspect of GWave. We didn’t have to send emails back and forth. Being able to respond to an exact statement made it easy to follow the conversation if for some reason I was unable to take part at the time it was happening. The ideas we bounced off each other was stored some place we could return to.
What were some of the successes and or pitfalls that occurred for you during the writing journey?
My success is that I was able to focus on a story that I was enjoyed writing. I didn’t want to feel like it was a chore. The mere fact I was writing was a great success, but the fact that most of it was really good, in my opinion, made it a better success. My pitfall, boy is it a doozy, I wrote myself into a wall twice. Which made me have to go back to the beginning, read and rearrange, add in or take away from what I already had. I felt conflicted because I was getting nowhere and fast.
What did you learn about yourself through the writing journey? As person and as writer?
I learned that I do most of my writing when I am really upset about something, doesn’t matter what. I can write really fast, but with a burning desire to control the situation. However, when I’m happy or content, I write slower with a lackadaisical passion. I also realize that unless others are depending on me I am a huge procrastinator. I will do everything else but write. Once it’s time for me to write, I’m usually too tired to do it. I need to develop a tight schedule that I will stick with to get my writing in at a more reasonable time.
Well, supposedly, you wrote during this journey…what do you plan to do with what you’ve written?
I intend to complete my manuscript and then have it edited. I know I said in the beginning this would be the book that I would shop around in an attempt to find a publisher, but I’m still thinking about that.
“LaShae, I’m sorry that Nana behaved the way she did. However, once we get inside, please don’t start anything with Derek.”
“You blame me for everything,” she said. “Bet you blame me for my father taking his things and high tailing it out of here.”
Every time she spoke of her father, a little more of my shine got sucked out of my spirit. “No, I don’t,” I said in a hushed tone. I hated when she brought him up.
That man left on his own free will. He never gave a reason and I never sought him out to get one. The truth was I didn’t want to hear him say anything negative about me. What upstanding man would walk away from his beautiful daughter? Just her sheer innocence alone would be enough to keep him focused on being in her life. The obvious divider would be me. Didn’t want him to tell me that. I let him go without a fight. I didn’t even seek him out for any type of child support. The support I had needed and wanted at the time he obviously didn’t want to give me, so I let him off the hook without any consequences.
“Please, just say hello to Derek and you can do whatever you’d like for the remainder of the evening.” I didn’t feel like putting out yet another fire. Once today was enough.
“Fine, you won’t even know I’m here. If I had my own phone that would make it even easier to disappear,” she said. Why were teenagers so pessimistic?
“I hate when you say things like that. Adjust your attitude while I think about getting you a phone.”
LaShae’s face lit up as if I had already agreed to buy her a cell.
She entered the house first. I took a deep breath before entering behind her. Derek was sitting in the kitchen with no lights on, holding on to a bottle of soda. I walked over to him and attempted to kiss his head, but he moved out of my reach.
“Do you have any idea what time it is?” he asked. He didn’t even bother to look in my direction. He stared at the closed refrigerator door. Then his head turned to the right, acknowledging the fact that the stove was also without food.
“Sorry, honey. I’m going to get you your dinner right away.” All my bags were thrown into the corner by the pantry door. Under normal circumstances, I would have placed them in my office, but tonight was not the time to keep Derek waiting to do such a menial task.
I washed my hands and quickly took out the flank steaks I had in the refrigerator. Instead of the mashed potatoes I originally planned, I decided on a potato hash.
That would cook faster.
Derek was still sitting in the same spot he was in when we got there. The muscles in his jaw were working. The tension was building in the room as the heat from the stove went up a few degrees.
I would be lying if I said that I was still hungry after eating at my mother’s house. However, Derek hated eating alone, so I put a small tasting on a plate for myself.
With both plates ready to be placed on the table, I grabbed the water jug from the refrigerator. Derek’s eyes finally met mine as I rested the plate in front of him.
The old, if looks could kill saying jumped into my mind.
I sat across from him and waited for him to begin eating. That way if he needed something else I could get it for him without being interrupted. The sound of the plate hitting the ground startled me.
“I asked you did you have any idea what time it was?” he said. His hands were balled into fists. “In this house we eat at seven-thirty, not one minute after. You waltz up in here without so much as a phone call and no explanations. Do you think that’s ok? Do you think washing your hands will get the stench of whomever you were with off of your skin? Who knows what germs you have mingling with my food.”
I rushed over to where the pieces of the plate and the remnants of the food landed and took a handful of paper towels to clean up the mess.
“Derek, I was at my mother’s. She insisted that I eat with her. Come on, you have to understand how my mother is, no is not an answer she will easily accept.”
“And you think it’s something that I should take with a cool drink of water.” My heart was pounding. For some reason I sensed that trouble was brewing for me again.
Between my mother and Derek, I could hardly ever please them both. I felt like they were tugging me in two different directions wanting me to conform to their ways only. I had no idea what I could say or do to get out of the trouble I was in.
“That’s not what I’m saying. But she’s my mother.” I pleaded with his sympathetic side.
“It’s coming to the point where you need to choose which one of us is more important to you. I’m not playing second to anyone. Not even your mother. Hell it’s not like she cares for me at all.”
Guess his sympathetic side was on vacation because he was being unreasonable. “You can’t be serious,” I said.
“You think I’m not…well waltz up in here late again because of her and see how much of a joke I’m playing.”
He always said stuff like that, so I wasn’t too worried he would really do anything drastic. Derek had a hot temper, but was a very rational man.
He walked out the kitchen. When he reached the entry to the hallway, he turned back and said, “Hurry and clean the kitchen; then get in here and take care of my needs. Don’t keep me waiting.”
Brett Kerrigan is a smaller than average cruiserweight wrestler who loves to entertain the crowds, giving it all for his fans throughout the world. In spite of his size, Brett proves he can be as strong, quick and fierce as his larger competitors. Away from the spotlight, he struggles with being taken seriously as a wrestler, backstabbing co-workers, and power hungry management.
Pittsburgh-based sports journalist Karen Montgomery has followed wrestling since her teens. An acclaimed article printed one year earlier won a prestigious sports press award, and, when several attempts to arrange a personal interview with Brett are thwarted, she almost gives up attempting to meet her idol without the help of her editor, Greg Sullivan. One fateful night after a wrestling event, Karen has an unexpected encounter with Brett in a hotel lounge – ending in getting her sought-after interview with him.
Head to All the Blog’s a Page [NOW] to read more about Carrington’s novel and to get her take on a GOOD book!