D.E. Eliot's Blog

What they don't tell you is that love isn't some perfect thing. It doesn't come dressed up in roses. Nor does it have an unique capability to sing. There's a lot of annoyance with love and it isn't free. You have to make sacrifices and when you refuse to sacrifice, you need to compromise. Not every kiss will have meaning and sometimes when they're gone you want them to stay gone. Then there are times, when they're gone, you hold your breath until they come home because the idea of living without them seems unbearable. My point is this... find your knight in shining armor, catch the girl of your dreams but understand that nobody is perfect, love isn't perfect yet together you two just might be

You gotta be willing to reach out and snatch what's yours. All these words, that are free to use, in order to build your story, to write your story, to tell your story. If you are unwilling to put in the work then you can never be mad that your dreams never come true. Writing is a gift for some, but what good is that gift if you refuse to utilize it. Keep grinding, keep hustling and as always....



Write On

As a black author, an African American writer, it feels at times that we are locked in these cages where freedom is just a made up word. The assumption is "oh you're black so you must write Urban Fiction... well I don't read Urban Fiction" or "oh you're a black indie author so your work must be filled with errors because the last indie book I read 5 years ago was". And that's just what I get from black readers. The lack of support is tremendous. I've actually heard black readers say "we need to support black authors because they get overlooked to much" but then in the next breath they say they don't read self-published books. Which is a oxymoron because most indie authors are black. But we have to keep grinding until Morrison, McMillan and Mosley aren't the only black writers black people know. I say black people because when you're black getting your own to support you is a difficult task. Now granted, for ME, support among my people has been pretty good but it's the little things that causes stress. The only author who has ever offered to show my work to her agent and publisher has been white. The only booktuber to post a video about my book has been white. This isn't just me crying but damn it is an eye opening thing. But as black authors black people think we shouldn't care if they overlook us, ignore us or hate on us when we ask for an opportunity. Then when we succeed without their support they are equally mad when our target focus isn't exclusively about them anymore. My word of advice to both readers and writers. Do you. But when you are sitting around wondering why there isn't a lot of books by black authors for you to read... remind yourself on how difficult it was for someone to get you to read black. Remember you can free us by reading us. Not some of us but all of us. Reading black authors shouldn't be just a trend for black readers.

OFF DAY...


Playing on my mental iPod: James Vincent McMorrow - Down the Burning Rope


On the surface, suburban life is about appearing routine. Like clockwork, at 5:00am, the water sprinklers in every yard clicks on, sounding like great a round of applause. 5:15am, Cindy Nolan, the accountant at some small firm downtown begins her daily run. Approximately five minutes later, the paperboy zooms onto our block. He doesn't reach our house until about 5:30am. Thomas Clap, the accident claims lawyer, you might've seen some of his ridiculous billboards around town which reads: "don't take a hit lying down", pulls out of his driveway at exactly 5:45am. Nearly five minutes to six I begin to cook breakfast.


6:00am... my husband, Robert, begins his journey. A 10 minute shower, followed by 20 minutes of grooming. I swear he'll spend most of that time pulling and cutting his nose hairs. His next 10 minutes is dedicated to dressing himself in the suit that I pressed the night before. Robert's slender build fills out a suit nicely and, although he is not as tall as one would hope, he knows how to work the 5'10 frame he was blessed with. He smells spectacular as I help him line up his tie.


"Be still," I tell him, as I try to keep a quarter cut of an apple between my teeth. He stands steady as I finally set him straight. When I'm done, he turns to the wall mirror to catch a view of my handy work. Satisfied, he kisses the side of my cheek.


"I'm gonna be late tonight," he says, mostly to the mirror than to me. I don't reply because I know what he means by it. I try like hell not to look at him in disgust or show any sign of emotion. I wasn't in the mood to fight nor did I feel like crying this damn earlier in the morning. The words he said to me last week echoed in my mind, replaying on a loop: 'I'm having an affair... I have no intentions of leaving you but I need to know if this is a problem for you?' Imperceptibly, I nod my head to acknowledge his plans for tonight. If he doesn't wanna be with his family or with me... I'm not going to force him.


6:45am... I walked into Zoey's room to see that she was already up, half naked, practicing her cheerleading routine. She gives me a look of annoyance when she notices me. We stare, silently, at each other for a long moment. We are so different: I love her because she is my child; she hates me because I am her mother. The stare between us confirms this.


"Breakfast is on the table," I say apathetically, knowing she won't eat it anyway. She is so deep in the bitch stage of her life I hope both of us can come out of it alive. It was the same with me and my mother. It's difficult for two vaginas to live in the same house.


"Don't you knock?" she says sharply.


"Excuse me," I stepped into her room, daring her to lose her mind again.


"Nothing," she sighed.


You damn right nothing.


6:50am... I have to hold my breath as I open the door to Jacob's bedroom. The smell could drop an elephant. The floor is completely covered in clothes and whatnots. I fear if I step on something with my bare feet I would suffer from hepatitis A thru Z. Jacob's alarm clock continues to ring. I grab a pillow from the floor and slam it into his face.


"C'mon mom... just five more minutes," he mumbles from under his covers.


"You slept through your five minutes a half hour ago. Now get up!!!" I pull the covers from him, revealing his skinny frame to the room. He bunches up into the fetal position. "Get up or when I comeback I'm bringing a bucket of water."


6:55am... I was back in Jacob's room tossing water onto the bed. It actually helped the smell... a little.


"SHHHHIIIITTTT MOM!!!"


"I warned you," I said with a chuckle. "Now get up."


7:30... everyone is finally out of the house leaving me alone to sleep in peace. Two hours later I wake up to the freedom of walking around my room naked as I gather my things for a shower. The warm water is soothing and peaceful to the skin, so much so, I damn near fall back to sleep. I wash clothes, run errands, before I meet with Tia Spears at Chipotle for lunch.


11:17... the line is fuckin' unreal and the guy in front of me keeps staring at my tits.


"Tell him to take a picture, honey, they are remarkable. I assure you he ain't going home to a set of chest pillows like your," Tia says in a loud whisper so that everyone around us could hear.


"Oh my God," I say timorously between clenched teeth. "Can you not, please?"


"What?" she replies indifferently. "Girl, you better take those looks while you can because you ain't getting any younger."


"And you are?" I asked as the line begins to move forward.


"Bitch I'm black," she says playfully, "we don't crack. I won't start looking 40 until I'm damn near 65."


And this, from what I've seen of her, is so true. I swear Tia is 42 years old and she still looks like a girl fresh out of college. She's tall, slim, with caramel skin and natural hair down to her shoulders. Her directness about shit is what keeps you on edge. She is no doubt a grown woman and a loud one at that.


"So your small dick husband is cheating on you," she says as we find a table on the outside patio. Tia doesn't even bother to lower her voice. A few women look up at us as we pass. I nod before I slump down into a seat, looking apologetic. "And you're okay with this?"


"Not really, no, but what can I do?" I ask as I wipe off my fork before stabbing it into my salad.


"You could throw some hot grease on his dick while he's asleep," Tia suggested. Her face didn't show a trace or hint of a smile. She was serious as fuck. "That's what my Aunt Robyn would've done. She got a few years for it but she is much more happier now."


"I would rather not go to jail," I tell her with a mouthful of chicken. "Besides, we've been together since high school. We don't struggle financially. The kids have their father; food is on the table and..."


"And you're sexually frustrated," Tia says, cutting me off. "Am I wrong? If he is openly having an affair perhaps you should secretly have one."


"I got more important and urgent shit to think about. Sex isn't a top priority."


"Says the side piece that isn't getting any," she chuckled.


"I'm not a side piece."


"Correction white bunny," Tia sings coolly, "you weren't a side piece until you allowed that motherfucker to walk into your bedroom and tell you he was having an affair. A wife would've hit his ass up side the head with a Dirt Devil vacuum cleaner. You just took it. As if you didn't have any options. It's not like you don't make your own money."


"I had other shit on my mind and you know that," I say surprisingly cantankerous.


"First of all check your tone besides I have something for you," she slides over a number.


"What's this?" I say, looking at the small piece of paper.


"My husband's cousin, Twit," Tia explains, "he just got into town and needs some work."


"I'm not a halfway house, Tia."


"Nope, you're not," she replies seriously, "but you are a woman that needs help moving product. He can help you. Never look a gift horse in the mouth, Zee."


2:30... I get back home to a quiet house. I finish washing clothes and decide to catch up on my shows: The Walking Dead, Scandal, and Chicago PD. By 8:00pm the house is still empty. I don't even bother fixing dinner for more than myself. The number Tia gave me is burning a hole in my pocket. I stare at it for about an hour, wondering how much deeper can I get myself into. If I call this number that will make all of this mess real. The thought of killing my son swims to the forefront of my mind but that thought is quickly erased as I enter my bedroom and stare at an empty mattress. I have never felt so old and alone. At 9:36pm I call the number only to hear a man with a deep voice say:


"Hello?"


"Ummmm hi, hello... my name is Zenobia Chambers... Tia gave me this number."


Playing on my mental iPod: Zero 7 - Waiting Line

Episode One: A Good Place to Begin...



Playing on my mental iPod: Kelly Rowland – Dirty Laundry

My name is Zenobia, I know, it's an odd name for a white woman. It was the name of the second wife of some king in Syria, which is equally ironic, since I appear to be the second woman my husband claims to love. We're what is known as the American family: my husband is a doctor; I'm a manager at a Home Depot; we have two kids and a large house in the suburbs. My story is not a sob story. I'm not here to convince you that my daily struggle is on par with the mess that goes on in the city, but allow me to show you how even out here it is easy to get caught up.

Let me start with my husband: Robert. At this very moment he's at his girlfriend's apartment, trying to calm her thee fuck down. Once a week, Amanda, has a spat after sex. Every time it becomes obviously clear to her that she is nothing more than a side piece. She wants my husband to leave me so she can enjoy the life I have. Do I have to say it... no, but I will. Her expectations are very low.

"Hold on, baby!" Robert bellows as the base of a table lamp zooms past his head. It smashed loudly against the wall behind him. Amanda scrambles among her belongings, finding a boot to toss next. "Wait a Goddamn minute. You think I would leave my wife for some shit like this. Are you fuckin' kidding me?"

Amanda froze in mid toss. She looked as though she could have been the poster of a NFL quarterback. She let the shoe fall from her grip before crumpling to the floor in tears. Robert walked over to her, kneeled down, then put his arms around her shoulders. If he wasn't my husband, the moment would've been quite endearing.

"Listen to me," Robert said in a calm voice. "You mean everything to me. That is why I risk it all to be with you. You understand? My wife don't have nothing on you, girl. That why I'm here. Do you understand? I'm here because of you. So are we okay?"

She nods.

"Yes," she agrees, "but if what you're saying is true... tell her about me."

I dare his ass to tell me some shit like that.

Next is my daughter: Zoey. Senior year of high school, captain of the cheerleading team, beautiful, smart, full ride to any college she wants, and she is still the dumbest kid I have ever met. I can hardly understand her when she talks.

"Mama?" she calls to me from across the plate of bacon on the kitchen table.

"Yes, honey?"

"I need a box of condoms," she said as though she asked for a sheet of paper. I dropped the dish I was washing into the sink causing soapy water to splash all over my face and blouse.

"What?" I rounded on her so fast I was surprised my neck didn't break. I plopped into a seat, my disbelief overwhelmingly apparent. "What do you need condoms for?"

"Well, it's obvious isn't it," she said, looking at me with a confused expression etched upon her face. I know this little shit didn't just roll her eyes at me. "All the girls at school are having sex. If I have condoms to pass out, then none of the girls on my squad has any excuse to miss practice because they got knocked up. Competitions are just around the corner and I don't wanna lose because one of my team members is carrying twins."

At this she got up from the table and stormed out. I watched her, completely amazed by her boldness. But you better believe I got her little ass them condoms. I'm too young to be friends with a grandmother. My son, he's 15, enters the kitchen as Zoey clambers on. He takes a sit down next to me.

"What's with you?" he asked, puzzled. "You look like you just seen a ghost. And why are you all wet?"

I stood up from the table, "Never mind that. Get ready for school."

My son: Jacob. What can I say about him? He has his father's good looks but half of his brains. To put it frankly... he's a teenage boy. And he is the very reason I found myself in the middle of a bind. Jacob is a trouble maker but he is soooo bad at it because he always gets caught. When he was ten, this little idiot took my check book to school. He bought a pair of used Jordans for 500 dollars by writing a check. He'd signed it: Fleek.

He never ceases to amaze me with the crazy shit he does. That is why, later that evening, when I received a text message from him that said, "About to die 911", I came running... to an abandon warehouse by the look of things. The moment I put the car in park, a vehicle with his headlights off approached. It pulled parallel to my window. A dark SUV with bright chrome rims. Music was booming from the back causing my mirrors to vibrate. The driver side window slid down revealing a handsome young black man. He eyed me curiously. I tried hard not to look scared but I was scared. No, scratch that... I was petrified.

"If you wanna see your son again... follow us," he said. For about ten minutes I followed him. Into the city, near the tracks where nothing good ever happens. We finally stopped. 3 men got out of the truck. The one that spoke to me walked to my window. "Get out and come inside," he ordered. I got out of the car. They escorted me into an apartment complex. I could hear dogs barking in the distance. We reached a red door. None of us spoke. I couldn't find the words even if I wanted to speak. The large man in the front knocked twice before it opened.

"MOM!!!" my son screamed before someone smacked him on the back of the head. He was tied to an old rail looking room heater. Without thinking I ran to him. "I didn't think you would come."

I put my hands on his face. He cringed at my touch. Jacob had been crying. He bared marks of being punched several times. "Are you okay?"

"He's fine," said the handsome young black man. "My name is Chris and..."

"What right do you have to put your hands on my son," I sneered, cutting him off. "What did he do to you?'

The large man that knocked on the door began to walk towards us, but Chris held up a hand to stop him.

"You have to forgive my friend Race. Aggressive voices make him a little jumpy," Chris said causally. "Now where were we? Awwww yes, my name. I'm Chris and I am pretty damn sure your son has never mentioned me. Ironic really, since he stole a few pounds of weed from me. The least he could've done was brag to his parents about it."

"My son doesn't do...," I stopped speaking when I realized that it was my own son I was talking about. I looked at Jacob. If I didn't love this little shit, I would've had Chris order Race to beat his ass some more. "How much does he owe you?"

"5 grand," he answered. I think my heart just fell into my stomach.

"5 grand? Are you kidding me?"

"Mom I didn't know," Jacob tried to lie but I wasn't hearing any of it.

"Shut up!!!" Chris and I said simultaneously.

"The money is the minimum of your problems," said Chris darkly.

"I can pay you."

"But can you replace the sells he didn't make?" he replied condescendingly. "Can you replace the new customers he promised me?"

"What are you asking," I said incredulously, thinking hard. I knew what he was saying. This was a drug dealer's way of a parent/teacher's conference. He wanted the dealer. The 5 grand was nothing compared to the money he thought he should have made.

"I think you know," he replied.

"Well I'm not selling to kids."

"YOU?" Chris and Jacob said together.

"Yes me," I said, giving my son the deluxe I'll kill you later stare. "I'll get you the new clients. I'll pay off the debt. Then we're square. Deal?"

Chris, yet again, stared at me curiously. He whispered something to Race before saying, "You fuck this up and we'll cut off a few of your son's fingers." Like magic, Race handed me a brown paper bag with 3 blocks of weed in it. "You got one month. Each month you fall short..."

He snipped at the air with a pair of finger scissors.

"Get them out of here," Chris said before walking out of the room.

Back in the car, I tried like hell not to punch my son in the throat. At least he was smart enough not to speak the entire way home.

"What in the hell were you thinking?" I said in a loud whisper.

"Tommy Knowles was having a party and..." he stammered wildly.

"You lied to a drug dealer to get his weed for a party?" I asked curtly, but it wasn't a real question and he knew that it wasn't. "Get out of this car, go to your room and If I see you, even by accident, I'll cut off your fingers off my damn self."

I took a shower as soon as I reached my bedroom. I tried like hell to wash the stank of guilt off of my skin. When I came out my husband, Robert, was there. He looked passive, probably from a long day of fuckin' and work. I sat on the bed in my bath towel. The moment I started apply lotion to my skin he spoke.

"I'm having an affair," he said not meeting my eyes. For some reason I kept lotioning my arms and legs. I felt as though if I acknowledge what he said I would scream. "Did you hear what I said?"

I nodded, still lotioning.

He continued, "I have no intentions of leaving you but I need to know if this is a problem for you?"



Playing on my mental iPod: Brooke Fraser - Ice on Her Lashes

They will never be ready for what you bring to the table. They want you to believe you're not good enough for them, that you hold no significant importance to them because it is easier to hate you than to venerate you. They shudder at the idea of you accepting better, of you demanding better, of you living better; their sole purpose is to leave you naked, stripped of all the things they envy about you: your hair (is too nappy), your butt (is too big), your skin (is too dark). And when their judgement of you didn't deter your drive to become educated they told you that being educated was the main reason men couldn't love you. When their obstacles didn't dissuade you from raising a nation without a man's hand they told you this was the main reason men couldn't court you, or respect you, or build a world with you. Daily, they continue to snatch from you, pick at you, constantly chipping away at you and they hate the fact that your skin doesn't crack, that your compassion doesn't bend, and that your WILL never breaks. It is easier for them to execrate you than it is for them to praise you. They've robbed you of your style, they've shoplifted your walk, they even stolen your words but they can't strut like you and they can't walk a mile in your shoes.... nor would they ever even try. Black woman is the only way to spell QUEEN

My name is Zinovia, it means harmony, peace and quiet. Trust me, the name use to fit until Michael entered my life and that my friends is where our story starts.

I met Michael in a private group on Facebook: "The Corners". It began innocent enough; casual chitchat, some flirting and a lot of sexual innuendo. We have never met in person before but I cannot lie, his words had a way of making me wet. I would look at his selfies absentmindedly, longing for his touch, only to find that I was touching myself when my gazed drifted upon him for too long.

About a month passed before he inboxed me. I did everything I could to play it off as a joke. Truth be told I didn't wanna come off as some easy THOT he could mess around with. Yet, I didn't want him to stop talking to me either. Nearly a week in, our messaging had become frequent. Good Morning; how's work; did you smile today. But once the sun went down so did our nobility. He would tell me what I wanted to feel. He reminded me on how I enjoyed being touched by a man.

"I would like to meet you," he had sent one Thursday evening.

"Now," I said as I typed the words.

"If you'd like to experience my craziness in person... yes?"

At half past ten, I found myself driving to his place out in West Chester. Bad move, I know, but this man had talked so much shit about what he could do to my cookie, I decided I was going to sit on his face. Michael's house was elegantly enormous. The driveway circled round to the back. I parked and ambled over to the door. Anticipation caused goose bumps to creep up my spine. Each step I took I could feel my heart pound harder.

Michael stood at the entrance. His dress shirt open, sleeves half rolled up, his shorts hung low, just above the pubic line. He looked delicious. It took everything I had not to fall to my knees right then and there. I think he knew it. His wicked smile said it all. 'Come get this dick.' And I had no intentions of disobeying.

The moment I entered his house, his strong hands were upon me, pinning me up against the hallway wall. His kisses felt as though he was trying to enter my soul through my mouth. He grabbed both my wrist, and with one hand he held them both over my head as his other hand moved down over my abdomen. I shivered as his kisses reached my neck, the very moment his free hand caressed on my lower lips. My breathing became so heavy I thought I was going to suffocate. Every good thought of stopping him extinguished.

"Let's do something different," he whispered. It wasn't until I nodded vigorously did he release my wrist.

Now look ladies, you know as well as I do, if a man got you so damn hot you could cook a pot of chili with your cooch, you're doing anything and everything he wants. My box was on fire and I was going to do whatever I had too to get his dick in me.

Michael picked me up and carried me into his bedroom. He tossed me onto the mattress. I couldn't help but giggle. I felt like a little girl. Michael walked to his dresser, slid open the top drawer and pulled out something that gleamed, even under the dim light of the room.

"Lay back," he ordered. His voice was like a song. I did as I was told. "Close your eyes."

I allowed my eyelids to slide shut. He clasped one of my arms and that's when I heard...

'Click'.

My eyes shot open. I look over and up at him. My wrist was locked in a pair of handcuffs. Before my mind caught up to what was happening, he had locked my other wrist into a pair.

"What the fuck," I stammered. I was limp tits in seconds.

"Shhhh," he said with an index finger over his lips. "You'll enjoy this I promise."

He locked in my legs before he climbed onto the bed. He started to lick over my lower lips as passionately as he had kissed me. Without meaning to, a moan escaped my body. I was writhing but couldn't move. It was nerve-racking not being able to adjust to prolong the sensation. The scream that left my throat was that of a stranger. I came so hard I squirted out, right into his face. That's what his ass get for handcuffing me, I thought devilishly.

Michael moved his body in between my legs. He was so hard, but my wetness allowed him to slide into me with ease. My God he was massive. I felt like if he went balls deep the tip of his dick would come out of my mouth. He clutched the sides of my stomach and began to pump into me. I pulled as hard as I could on the cuffs. The chains rattled each time he plunged forward. The metal cut into my wrist. Harder and harder his thrust became and after he cried out, his body collapsed unto me. He began to convulse violently. A gargling sound echoed in his throat. Then it all stopped. His entire body weight was pushing down on me.

"Michael?" I called to him. "Bae?"

OMG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Did this motherfucker just died on me, "MICHAEL! GODDAMMIT, GET OFF ME!"

Tears started to flow. Breathe and think, think and breathe. I wanted to scream but then the fear of embarrassment clung to my thoughts. The chances of this happening, seriously, he couldn't have been no older than 35. A small part of me was like "damn" my pussy that good it kilt a nigga. I pulled at the cuffs, hoping I could break the headboard.

"That's not going to work," said a voice by the bedroom door. "Trust me I found myself locked in those things a few times."

I lifted my head and over Michael's lifeless shoulder I saw a woman there. She was beautiful but her stare was mutinous. She bent down and rolled Michael's body off of me. Breathing instantly became easier. I watched the woman as she glared down at the dead man. She then, without warning, unfastened her jeans, pulled them down, squatted and began to piss on Michael's face. For the slightest of moments I thought he was going to wake up screaming, but he did not move. The woman stared at me the entire time. When she finished she stood up, walked over to the bathroom. I could hear her washing her hands. When she came out, I was surprised to see that she had a washcloth in her grip. The regularity was creepier than anything.

"I knew my husband was steppin' out on me but I never thought he would be dumb enough to bring one of his bitches home."

She walked back to the bed and sat as though all of this was as normal as rain in Seattle. With a dry corner of the cloth, she wiped away the tears streaking down my face.

"Now," she said softly, "what am I going to do with you?"

"I didn't know he was married," I said, trying to sound calm. I didn't want to come off aggressive. "This was the first time we'd ever met. It was stupid I know, but I was..."

"Horny," she finished. I nodded. "You bitches today... ya'll see dick and ya'll come running."

I had to bite my lip. It began to bleed. I was so damn pissed and afraid. I knew she would let me out, eventually. She hadn't... wait a minute, a lump fell into my throat. "You killed him?"

"Yes," she answered. "I poisoned his wine glass. I guess he didn't offer you shit to drink. You must be one of those broke bitches that don't require a man to do much."

"Look," I pleaded, even though I wanted to punch this chic. I wanted to fuck this bitch up, "just let me go. I won't say anything."

"Oh," she said darkly, "I know you won't. I gotta run."

And that's when I smelled the fire. The smoke billowed out of the bathroom.

"Are you fuckin' kidding me right now?" I bellowed at her. "You're going to leave me here alone to burn?"

"My dear, no," she turned back to me, "you're not alone. Michael will keep you company. Tootles."