Q&A (and brownies) with J.J. Murray discussion
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Uhh, JJ...a chapter, should someone want to submit one, can be rather long. Is there a limitation on just how long a critique submission should be? I usually average about 7-10 pages. But I've come across a critique partner or two for whom a 20 page chapter is the norm.
Mod
Okay, 1,000-2,000 words is kinda the max here. If you have something that short, post it.
I have an idea (one of several I've had since 1963) for longer chapters.
I can post the entire chapter on my website with its own page, as long as it doesn't break 5,000 words. Send these to me (a3jmurray@msn.com) as an attachment, and I'll get to work, and no, it won't be linked anywhere in my site for the general public to read. I'll post the page addresses here, okay?
Any questions? Concerns?
Concerns? Only about my willingness to share anything (I tend to hold onto everything until I think it's perfect) and exactly what I'm going to share. I'll send something as soon as I figure out what's worthy of your time and attention.
Mod
He did, uh-huh, and it actually sold.
Also remember: This audience has to be kind if they've survived my novels, right?
J.J., if we post a paragraph or full chapter for critique *gulp*, are we to only send in one or can we send two? (Lord I'm a glutton for punishment) :-)
Umm...from two different stories that is.
Mod
And as for being a glutton for punishment:
I used to send out 15-30 poems at a time back in the late 90's using real envelopes and stamps and snail mail with SASE's (self-addressed stamped envelopes). I spent money to be rejected in waves.
The same was true of my novels. The somewhat final draft of Renee and Jay looked right dog-eared by the time my future agent read it. I estimate that the first three chapters of R&J traveled at least 30,000 miles through the mail before landing in the right place.
To further encourage you:
I do this exercise with my students: Write the best first sentence of a novel. Don't give us the rest of the novel--just the first sentence. I'll give you some examples:
1) "I am not a whore." (Can't Get Enough of Your Love)
2) "I never should have married the m-----------." (Something Real)
3) "This game is rigged." (I'm Your Girl)
4) "Shrews are sharp-snouted mice covered with short, dark hair." (She's the One)
5) "I’m always taller in my dreams ..." (Every Dog)
6) "Johnny Holiday wrote horrifically bad novels on his laptop while delivering pizzas in a lime green ‘74 Vega." (The Worst Romance Novel Ever Written)
7) "Her eyes were green lights panting “Go, go, go!” as she beheld the manly man standing outside her window after his Porsche 911 ran a red light and plowed into her Geo Storm." (Needy Greedy Love)
#4 will come out next spring. #5, #6, and #7 were rejected by Kensington. Not because of the first sentence, of course ...
Let's have a little fun! Post away post haste!
Okay all, here is the beginning of my novel, Whispered Promises. I could really use the help so feel free to crit all you want. Please send all comments to me at my email addy, sableminx06@hotmail.comLawd, I can't believe I'm putting it out there.
Whew, I think I've got the vapors! lol
Thanks ya'll.
WHISPERED PROMISES
BY
Naomi James
Prologue
Simone Reeves awakened cold and naked upon the dew soaked morning grass of mid-spring. She didn’t know why this was or where she was, and in truth, couldn’t be certain Simone Reeves was her name. It was simply scrawled on the little torn section of paper that fell from her slightly clenched fist when she attempted to sit up. That one small effort met with complete failure and she fell back to the ground, breathing hard and shivering against the chill.
Had she been in an accident? Why wasn’t she lying among the wreckage or recovering in a hospital bed? Where were her clothes?
Simone lifted her head, but the jackhammer-like pounding quickly made her lower it again. She lifted a hand to shield her face from the sunlight only to frown when her fingertips sank into the heavily swollen flesh of her left eye. As she studied her arms, then the rest of her body, she noticed what must have been dozens of scratches and bruises.
Short pants of breath began to come faster as her heartbeat accelerated.
Dear God. What happened to me?
She attempted a deep breath only to cry out as pain exploded across her exposed right side. Her body jerked into a tight fetal position. When she was again able to breathe normally, she pressed a hand to her rib cage and gently probed the tender area. This had been no accident. She’d been attacked. But by who and why? What if they came back to finish what they started?
Stop it you will not die out here!
She bit her lip, blinking away quick tears of panic.
Just then a slight breeze kicked up, causing the slip of paper to begin drifting away from her.
Desperately, she made a grab for it, fingers digging into the ground until she managed to snag it between her middle and ring fingers. The instant she did she slumped in relief.
The paper flapped back and forth, waving the name at her.
Simone Reeves.
It didn’t look or feel familiar, but it had to be hers. She had nothing else. No memory of what happened to her nor any other. Every trace of every memory she possessed was gone.
“Nighty night Princess.”
Simone jerked her head around with a gasp, and she scanned the empty meadow in all directions. The pounding in her head returned full force, forcing her to go still.
Keep it together. You’re alone out here. The voice is in your mind.
Still, the memory of that deep, harsh voice made her sick with fear though she had no idea why.
Struggling onto an elbow, Simone squinted with her least swollen eye at the many hued wildflowers covering the ground around her. Large hills loomed in the distance and a nearby wooden rail fence stretched as far as the eye could see. Other than that, there wasn’t a sign of civilization anywhere.
Her heart sank.
Whoever built the fence likely lived miles away. The idea of walking that far in her condition made her want to weep. Nonetheless, she eased onto her bottom, then to her knees. By the time she’d climbed to her feet, her limbs trembled from exertion, and her ankle throbbed mercilessly. Tears of pain flowed unchecked down her grimy cheeks.
God, she really felt like curling up within herself and waiting until she was found. Surely someone would find her if she stayed put.
If you don’t find help you will die here.
Resolutely, Simone dragged the heel of her hand across both wet cheeks, leaned her weight on her left foot and began taking small steps forward until she limped steadily toward the looming hills ahead.
J.J. wrote: "You decide, Naomi. (I'm so much help, right?)And as for being a glutton for punishment:
I used to send out 15-30 poems at a time back in the late 90's using real envelopes and stamps and snail m..."
Oops. I send before I saw your last post, but...well...there it is, the beginning of my baby for all to see.
*bracing self and squeezing eyes shut*
Go ahead. I can take it. lol :-)
Mod
Here's the link to that page:
http://johnjeffreymurray.com/id49.html
or click here: Whispered Promises
Direct all comments to: sableminx06@hotmail.com
Your honest assessment is vital. Praise and pats on the back are nice and validate what we do, but pull no punches. We're here to make our writing irresistible to the readers--and to agents and publishers.
Does genre matter? I was going through what I am currently working on, each story has a romance element but it is not necessarily a romance book.
Mod
No, any genre is fine.
Naomi can't the only one. This is a piece of a story I am working on, the working title is Wolven. It is an urban fantasy, my main characters Thea is a born Lycanthrope and Agent Adam Rourke is a turned Werewolf. Someone or thing is killing lycans in the city, Thea has to find and stop that, she also needs to find her human friend, who left her a weird message on her answering machine. Rourke is looking for the beast that killed his fiancee and turned him. This is their first meeting.
(At the Metropolitan Museum of Natural History)
Rourke froze where he stood, at the information stand. He had never seen one like her. She was wearing a designer suit, stiletto heels with a matching bag. Thanks to Sarah, Rourke knew that an outfit like that could easily be as much as his week’s salary. She moved gracefully in the foyer, she looked around the area, and scanned the people with a troubled expression. Her furrowed brow looked out of place on her pretty face.
“A beautiful Monster,” Rourke thought scathingly. There was another first; she had become aware of him as instantly as he her. However, in human from and surrounded by so many tense people her senses were going crazy. She scanned the room repeated. She couldn’t pinpoint his location. The Shaman, another hunter of the beasts, had told him that they had problems in crowds. The group of people that were in front of him was a perfect cover. Rourke had the advantage of being in the area some time before her. He saw her walk in. He realized what she was immediately. She was clean and looked like a professional. None of the others he had encountered looked so affluent. She inhaled deeply, looked around the room furtively, then shook her head and began to walk to the glass doors, Rourke wanted to keep his eyes on her, his enhanced abilities didn’t include x-ray vision, her path was blocked by a large skeleton of a dinosaur.
“Do you need my help?” She asked behind him. Furious rage coursed through Rourke’s body. How did she come up behind? How could he not feel it? A sound came out of his throat. He couldn’t control it. The deep menacing sound that told prey to clear out. People around them began to move to the other side of the foyer. She embraced him, stood on her toes to get close to his ear.
“Stop it. “She ordered in a whisper. “There is no reason to terrorize these people, children are here.” There was this bright smile on her face. The female gave the appearance of seeing a friend, a close friend. She had grabbed his hand and brought between them.
“Baby,” she aid with a high-pitch giggle. His hand had begun grow claws, Rourke felt his heart race. It was two in the afternoon, he couldn’t change now. It was impossible but the his claws were forming, then his eyes must be … … he closed them. They got bright when he changed and were clearly inhuman.
“Calm down.” The female said to him. “You’re on automatic, but I am no threat.”
Rourke strained to hear her voice but it was becoming difficult over the beat of his heart and the pain in his limbs. He buckled and she held him up with ease.
Lt.Vega came back with the museum’s director.
“Hey, what is this?” He asked moving closer to them. His attempt to touch Rourke was avoided by the female. She moved out of his reach and covered with a sound of pain.
“I’m sorry,” she said in a small breathless voice. “I didn’t feel well and this nice man saved me from a bad spill.” She said to Vega. “And you are”
Vega introduced himself. The director introduced the female.
“Ms. Thea Hunter, she is the person, we spoke about. Don’t give me that look. Madame,” The older man said in a fake defensive tone. “I said you were the next best expert to David.”
“Well then I am flattered Harold.” Thea Hunter said in the sweetest voice imaginable. Then she faked another swoon, catching Rourke and herself.
“Control your breathing,” she said to him. “Slow your heart,”
To the Lieutenant and director she babbled
“I skipped lunch and breakfast, so unhealthy.” The director offered her his office. Vega requested if he could make an appointment with her for an interview. She shrugged it off and said they could speak now.
The small talk, gave Rourke the time to follow her demands. It only took moments but felt like eons. His heart beat slowed. He opened his eyes and grabbed on to the female. His hand was clawless.
The female smiled. “Good boy,” she said with a wink. Rourke felt the rage swell in him again. The four walked to the discrete door that leads to the office of the director.
Send all critiques to jchenry11212@gmail.com
HI everyone, I'm Vacirca. I have decided to post something for which I could really use some feedback.
I have completed a Christian romance novel named AYITI about a Haitian-American doctor who travels to Haiti (before the earthquake) to provide volunteer medical services with an organization. She goes against the wishes of her family and embarks on a journey. She experiences a variety of obstacles and that lead her on a spiritual journey. Of course there is a lot to be said about the romance, which is the major focal point of the novel.
I am finally satisfied with everything after the third chapter--at least for today. I am struggling with the beginning. The first version of Chapter 1 had a lot of backstory that weighed it down before the action beginning in Chapter 2, the second version jumped right into things but felt kind of empty without any of her history, and now I have written the third version trying to use some of the history but...my question is: does it draw the reader in?
I could really use your help. Please don't hold back.
My friends and family keep telling me each version is "great" and "just fine" but I suspect they are just proud of me for writing something after a very long time.
I am going to post a portion and email the rest to JJ as he suggested. Please let me know what you think. Please send comments to VacircaVaughn1@hotmail.com
Thanks a lot.
Excerpt from Chapter 1 of AYITI by Vacirca Vaughn. Chapter 1
I couldn’t believe my mother had tried to kill me.
Frantically I raced out of my parents’ house. I had to get away from there. Her ugly words bombarded me as I rooted through my huge purse for my keys. I hunted for them, looking back over my shoulder. I feared that she would follow me outside to continue screaming at me in the middle of the quiet Cambria Heights neighborhood.
I could still hear her shrill threats through the front windows of the house.
Finding my keys under the unnecessary things that had made their home in my bag, I jumped into my car and fled the scene like an ambulance driver transporting someone in cardiac arrest.
I raced towards the Cross Island Expressway. I needed to get as far away as possible from Queens…from my parents’…from their rage. I was blinded by the tears that came down harder and faster than I could wipe them away, making it impossible to drive in the foggy night.
Fearing I would crash the car in my frenzy, I resigned myself to the fact that I had lost the battle. I couldn’t keep it together. I would have to cry out the ache before I even attempted to drive home to Long Island. I pulled into the parking lot of the Dunkin Donuts on Linden Boulevard.
My mother’s words continued battering my mind, replaying over and over, like an annoying CD someone had left on repeat mode.
“If you do this, you will be dead to us, Ayiti!”
How could she have said those words to her own daughter?
I collapsed against the steering wheel, whimpering. Images of what had just occurred, only minutes before at my parents’ home, began to demand space in my head.
When I’d told my mother the news, she’d screeched a Haitian warrior cry before slamming her five foot frame against me. She had grabbed both sides of my face, her nails digging into the flesh behind my ears.
“You dare to disrespect your mother like this? Your family? This news will destroy your father!” Her nails had dug into my neck as she yanked my face down to hers, forcing our foreheads to meet. “How dare you? I could kill you for this!” A vein had been throbbing in her forehead as sweat pebbled on her upper lip.
I’d wrestled out of her grasp, stunned. “Momita—
“Shut your mouth, Ayiti!” Her Haitian accent had wrapped her English words in the lyrical notes of the most beautiful song. Then in harsh Kreyol, “how dare you? Are you trying to kill me? After all I have done for you? You dare to betray your family this way?”
I’d stood there frozen, not knowing if I should answer her or stay silent. I knew that regardless of how I handled the situation, I would quickly learn that there was no handling of the situation. Each decision would be the wrong decision.
I waited.
As my grandmother and I watched, my mother had continued shrieking, slamming, and stomping around the large dining room as she cursed me out in the language she had created just for her Americanized children. In “Fren-Kreyol-Ish”—a random combination of French, Haitian Kreyol, and English—she’d threatened me with everything from the wrath of God to her dropping dead of a massive heart attack, with which I would have to live for the rest of my life.
I’d waited for her to speak before daring to say anything more.
Her angry words had flown out of her mouth towards me, bullets chasing down a target. She didn’t understand why I had made the decision I’d announced. In spite of my fear that she would attack me again, I had to fight to keep back an uncontrollable giggle at her hysteria. A part of me took comfort in the fact that my mother never failed to meet my expectations. One could always trust a Haitian mother to pull out the all stops during an emergency, and as far as my mother was concerned, this was the worst emergency she’d had to face in a long time. She had been forced to pull out one of the infamous “combos.”
Haitian mothers were known for what I had affectionately nicknamed “the combo” when I was a teenager. The combo was every Haitian mother’s weapon and it usually felt like a one-two punch, depending on the effect they were going for. A Haitian mother could use either Combo #1: hysteria and fear; Combo #2: hysteria and guilt; or the most popular Combo #3—hysteria and violence. It was clear that my mother had chosen to bypass the fear and the guilt, in favor of the more proactive approach. One of her biggest fears was coming true and that had deserved some type of retaliation against me…
She’d continued her frenzied pacing around the dining room. She’d kept one eye on me and one on the steak knives she had been cleaning, looking as though she had wished she could take one and plunge it into my chest for my betrayal.
I hadn’t moved a muscle.
Finally drawing upon some secret reserve of self-control, my mother had gained control of her breath, somehow pulling her voice back down to a normal range. She’d sighed heavily, the weight of my news evident in the slump of her shoulders.
“I can’t support this decision of yours Ayiti, I just can’t. You have no right to do this.”
“But why?” I petitioned, the child she had reduced me to, shining in my voice. “Momita, I am an adult and I have decided—
My mother was in my face again in a flash. “Oh! I see! You are an adult! You are a big doctor, making lots of money, so who cares if you hurt your parents, right? Okay, now I understand. Excuse me for merely being your mother. I didn’t think the job ended when the child turns thirty-two, or when the child earns a living. Silly me, I thought my job as your mother was for a lifetime.” She sneered at me with clenched fists.
I’d discreetly rolled my eyes in some direction she was not standing in before turning back to her wearing a neutral face. “Momita, I am not saying that you are no longer my mother just because I am an adult. I am saying that as an adult I have made a decision and I want you to understand. You may disagree with it, but the decision still stands.”
“So you do not care what this will do to us?”
“Of course I care. But I can’t have you and Papi running my life forever either!”
“So you’re going to do this?” she asked in a resigned voice.
My chin had come up in a last attempt at standing up to her.
She’d lifted her eyebrow at my raised chin. She’d eyed me and I her.
I’d brought my chin back down.
“Yes,” I’d whispered, abandoning all hopes of self-advocacy.
“Well, if you do this, you will be dead to us, Ayiti,” she had yelled, her eyes holding mine with a certain inevitability that only comes when one is forced to make a miserable decision that cannot be helped.
I had become a statue, her words cutting through me, a hot knife through freshly baked bread. My voice had cracked into tiny pieces. “So I will be dead to you?”
My mother’s face had twisted into a grimace as a war raged on in her eyes. A part of her had said those words in rage, but since they were out in the open, she would not take them back. “Yes. You will no longer be part of this family…if you do this.”
So be it. “Momita, I love you. But I am going to Haiti.”
Silence…
Mod
Here is the link for Ayiti:
Ayiti
If it looks off-kilter here and there, it's because Purehost, my web host, always has issues with cutting and pasting Word. So ignore any formatting "mistakes" as they are mine/Purehost's/Microsoft's/Bill Gates' ...
Enjoy and send comments to:
vacircavaughn1@hotmail.com
J.J.do we have to send you a first chapter?
Mod
You would spoil us, I mean, spoil the ending.
Jumping in here. This is part of a WIP entitled Venus RevealedHer heartbeat quickened, pulse began to race as the now familiar tingle crept up her spine. Ah, right on time. Venus sipped her cranberry juice and suppressed the urge to smile as he took his usual seat next to her at the bar.
The first time she caught sight of him it was from this very vantage point. Venus sat watching the door trying to get a since of the crowd before she took the stage for her next set. That night he’d walked in with a statuesque blonde draped over his shoulder.
“Someone you know?” The bartender asked her.
“No, I’ve never seen him before,” Venus replied as she observed him surveying the room. She smiled. One would almost think he were about to mark his territory. Then his gaze connected with hers for several seconds, before she had the presence of mind to look away.
Later on stage while scanning the audience she found him again her eyes rested briefly on his male form seated at a table directly in front of the stage. The song’s lyrics took on a whole new meaning. Witch craft that’s exactly what it was, crazy witch craft. “When you arouse the need in me, my heart say yes indeed in me, proceed with w…what…” She faltered as she felt his eyes upon her. Her body became flushed with heat just knowing he was sitting out there, watching her. Venus struggled to stay focused and get through the rest of her set. Something that she’d never had to do before on stage.
Long after she’d taken her final bow, Venus puzzled over why he affected her so. It was not like she hadn’t been stared at before. It came with the job as a singer and performer, people stared at you. Some stared in admiration and appreciation of her talent. Others stared with lust and desire for her body. But none of those looks had ever caused her to stumble over lyrics she’d sung a dozen or more times before. Ah well, she thought, what where the odds that he’d ever come back again.
Two weeks later Venus found out when she turned in her usual seat at the bar to find him seated next her. Venus had to remember to breathe as she repeated and reminded herself, He’s just a man.
But one night he spoke her name, “Venus, as in the Goddess of Love?”
He was holding the souvenir cardboard cutout of her wearing the gold lamiae gown with the split up to her thigh. He’d become a regular by then, always alone and always taking the seat next to her at the bar, never speaking just nursing his drink. Venus suspected he was carefully contemplating his next move.
Venus had tired to ignore him, pretending not to notice his shoulder length dark brown main. The vivid blue eyes, his slightly crooked nose and that sensual mouth she had allowed herself only an occasional glimpse of. Venus contemplated she could have continued to do just that, except that would have been down right rude. Instead she decided to face the dragon head on. Venus squared her shoulders, turned, looked him directly in the eye and replied, “No.”
Tonight found him seated mere inches away from her once more, carrying on his one-sided conversation. The hell of it was she enjoyed listening to him talk. Venus gave him credit for his persistence, even if he was wasting his time. It normally only took one or two rebuffs for a guy to get the message she just wasn’t interested. Venus doubted from what little she knew of him that he were no different from most men who sought to be with the persona of a woman who only existed on stage.
And it was odd to Venus that no one seemed to know anything about him. He’d been coming in for over two months now and no one knew his name or where he was from, nothing.
Venus supposed she could just ask him, but that would only encourage him. She also figured if he talked long enough he’d eventually let it slip. In the meantime it was almost time for her second set to begin. She eased off the bar stool. When she looked up from brushing the wrinkles out of gown then, her insides quivered, pleased to find him checking her out. I really should put an end to this, whatever ‘this’ between us is, Venus thought.
“You’re wasting your time.”
“Am I, how so?”
“I’m not interested.”
“Then why are you always here?”
“Excuse me, I work here.”
“I know that, but why are you always?” he tapped the stool Venus had vacated only moments earlier. “I mean if you’re not interested, then why are you always here, waiting for me?”
Damn he did have a point. But rather than concede, Venus leaned in close and whispered one final parting word in his ear then headed off to the stage.
-----------------
email me at am_wells@hotmail.com with comments and or observation.
Mod
Hello,I am posting this story inspired by a something I recently learned about. May have to post in two sections. Hope you do not mind. Let me know your thoughts.
MOTHER'S LAST DAY (PART 1)
by Vacirca Vaughn
1982
She ran into the small shack breathless.
Her frame was fragile in the threadbare shawl that had been passed down from her mother and her mother before her. It enveloped her blackened skin that had hung off her bones like loose fabric on a mannequin from months of hunger.
“Quick, Jocelyn! They are looking for you! You must hide!” She quickly scurried about one of their two rooms searching. Her black eyes reached into corners, scanned walls, and swept the floor until she found it. Grabbing the ash-gray quilt off the three-legged chair, that was being held up by a book, she ran over to her son who sat calm as a pond. She tossed it over his head. When Jocelyn coughed and sputtered at the rise of dust in their airless two-roomed shack, she froze, realizing how ridiculous it was to hide him under a blanket. Bitter tears fell as she eyed her twenty-year-old son who had thrown the blanket to the floor. She was ashamed that there was no place to hide her only son in their shack. There were no closets for him to walk into, no beds for him to hide under, and no places for him to run to.
She collapsed on the dirt-floor, as their home became a prison. Their shack was in the tiny Haitian village of Croix de Bossale, that was known for its grandiose street carnivals and outdoor markets designed to lure tourists. The people, poor fisherman, merchants, and servants were often target practice for the military police, the macoute, who enjoyed torturing them in the name of political peace and prosperity.
Jocelyn, never having seen his mother conducting herself in such a way, became a statue. “Maman?” he whispered, watching his mother sob from her place on the dirt-floor. He stood tall and gold-toned, his face touching a sliver of the sunlight that peeked through the cracks of the wooden door. “Maman!” he said more forcefully, now in a panic. Her marched to his mother and grabbed her hands, pulling her from the floor. “What is going on?” He lead her to their only level chair. “Please sit down and tell me what’s going on.”
Na’ile snatched away. “There is no time to sit!” As if suddenly realizing the time she’d lost to her tears, she began pacing the room again.
“Maman! I need you to tell me what’s going on!” Jocelyn winced at the bark in his voice. He took a deep breath, willing himself to calm down. “What is going on?”
“They’re coming!” his mother cried.
“Who is coming?”
His mother grabbed her short hair, limp and gray from sweat and age. “Bondye! Mwin pas kepab, enko!” God I can’t take it anymore she yelled in her native Creole. “Why are they doing this? Why are they after my only son? I don’t even know how to help you! First they took your father from me and now they want you! Oh God!”
N’aile continued frantically searching the room for help that would not come.
“What are you talking about?” Jocelyn’s own voice rose to match his mother’s hysteria. Willing himself to the calm he felt a man should possess in times of crisis, he walked over to a bucket of freshly boiled water and dipped in a chipped mug, handing it to his mother. She took it from him, holding it to her chest. Jocelyn understood she was in a state of shock over something urgent, something that had to be handled immediately. He forced patience into his voice. “Maman please. Tell me what is going on!”
“I will not speak their name in this house after what they put us through with your father! They are after you Jocelyn! You must leave! Go far away from here!” She began running around the room, snatching remnants of her son’s life and tossing them into their lone suitcase. She raced to their one china cabinet, snatched open the drawers until she found what she was looking for. The drawers fell to the ground, spilling old hand-carved wooden utensils onto the ground. Jocelyn watched his mother, stunned. His mother would never do that to their things, for Jocelyn’s father had carved the small set of knives, forks and spoons as an anniversary present to his mother before he died. Those utensils were the one thing the macoute had left behind before they had taken his father away from them forever. He rushed over to his mother as she yanked open a cabinet door and plates came crashing down from the shelves like mini porcelain waterfalls.
Suddenly understanding flashed in his mind, turning Jocelyn’s warm honey-gold skin into an ashen brown. “They’re coming? How did they find me, Maman? I came all the way from the capital. How could they know I left Port-au-Prince?”
“Of course they found you! Now you must hide or they will kill you! I will not have them kill my son in my house as thy have done so many times before in our village!”
“How did they find me!” Jocelyn shouted, anger masking fear that had begun to climb from his belly, clutching his throat. “How did you hear about this?” he gasped.
“A man wearing a uniform of the old regime was holding your picture in the middle of the marketplace. He told the crowd that the gendarme are willing to pay 100 gourdes for your live capture and 300 gourdes for your head!” Na’ile began to wail. “Where are the young men who worked with you on that radio show? Did they not speak out against these men with you? Can’t they help you?”
In a trance, Jocelyn stammered, “They were all captured in Port-au-Prince. That is why I came home. They were accused of treason. Last I heard they were tortured and killed.”
Jocelyn wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers. He would pay with his life for no longer wearing the gray uniform of the regime that had killed his father five years before for speaking out against the government to the American journalists. Just that morning, he had picked up his beige shirt, fingering the buttons lightly, as a child does a new toy. He’d tied the red scarf around his neck with the sense of belonging tattooed onto his face. When he was stepping into the matching trousers, he felt peace about the fact that he was renouncing the old law that had taken his father’s life. Now he was to die for the new law and was not sure he was as prepared as he had sworn he would be.
Na’ile continued rummaging in the next room, preparing, planning, plotting. Where could her son go? It was nearing the hours of dark and he would have to leave their home as soon as the sun made its escape. Finally placing the last of the food she had purchased that morning in the marketplace where her son’s life had been peddled along with eggs and milk, she raced over to Jocelyn, handing him the bags.
“Jocelyn, it’s almost dark. You must go out back and hide in the latrine. When the sun goes down, you must run.” She ran over to a corner of the room, to a locked box. Retrieving a key that had been tucked away in her bosom, she unlocked it. She pulled out a meager stash of money she had been saving for the reading glasses she desperately needed to do her needlework. “Here, Jocelyn, take this. It’s the money I made sewing the dresses for the lady who works with the church. It’s about--
A fierceness hardened Jocelyn’s face. “No. Maman, I will not take your money. And I will not run.”
Na’ile turned to her son, speechless. Finding her voice in the pit of her stomach, she forced it out, a low grumble. “What do you mean? You must go! You are my son and I will not have them take you away from me, Jocelyn!” Her face crumbled into a thousand tear-soaked pieces. “Please, don’t do what your father did. When you are safe you can alert me of your whereabouts.”
Jocelyn’s voice shook the small room. “No!” he bellowed. “I will not run from them.” His heart shook even as he spoke the words. “Maman, I don’t want to die. But I can’t spend my life running from them. I cannot back down. My father did not back down and I am my father’s son. I have made the same promise to fight for our freedom as my father did when he renounced the old ways to fight for the new. My father gave his life—
“And you are willing to give yours for a government that does not come to your rescue when you need it? You would be willing to leave your mother all alone in this world to prove something to yourself?” Na’ile’s face twisted into a grimace of anguish. “Please don’t do this. Go out back and hide in the latrine until dark. Please, son.”
“I can’t—
Then a crash.
MOTHER'S LAST DAY (PART 2)Na’ile screamed as two men in gray uniforms ran into the house. One of the men had spent many years visiting his father in their old house.
Jean-Paul Tibidot wore a grin of satisfaction as he eyed the wife of his former friend and his son. It had been easier than he thought to track down the son of the man who had betrayed them. He would enjoy inflicting the punishment on his young man as he had with his father several years ago.
“Jocelyn, you know why we’re here. You will go quietly or you and your mother will not be happy with the results of your insubordination. We represent the law of Haiti and will not tolerate any more unruliness from you or from you, Na’ile.”
She howled in rage, launching herself against the man who had taken the knife and slit her husband’s throat—the very man she had fed and joked with on numerous occasions. “I will kill you before I let you touch my son!” she screamed.
Jean-Paul’s partner grabbed Na’ile, easily twisting her arm behind her back. Giving her a fierce slap, causing a splatter of blood to fly across the room, she fell to the floor dazed. He yanked her off the floor, twisting her arm again until she yelped in pain.
Jocelyn charged against the man, only to be hit with a heavy, wooden baton across his left eye. The men’s laughter thundered around the small shack.
“Jocelyn,” Jean-Paul sighed. “We will not hesitate to do either one of you harm. You are going to come with us. The question is whether you will do this the easy way or the hard way.”
“Why are you doing this?” Jocelyn shouted. “Why would you hit an old woman? She has done nothing wrong!”
The men laughed. Jean-Paul screamed, “she married one traitor and gave birth to another! Two traitors in one lifetime! We should kill her for this fact alone!”
Jocelyn’s eyes narrowed. “If you are going to arrest me, just do it! Leave her out of it!”
“No!” Na’ile screamed, struggling to free herself from his iron grip on her arm. “Let go of me! I hope your mother never finds peace in her lifetime or in her grave, knowing she has raised an animal like you!”
Jean-Paul ignored her rants, walking over to Jocelyn, eyeing the beige uniform of the resistance. “Was it worth it, young man?” he sneered. “Was it worth dying like your weak, corrupted father?”
“The new ways are here to stay,” Jocelyn retorted, one eye on Jean-Paul, and one on his maman. He was no longer afraid. He would not back down, “just like the weakness in your spine!”
Jean-Paul raised his arm, and threw all of his force into a strike upon Jocelyn’s face. His mother screamed, while his partner held tighter to her arm. Jocelyn swallowed the slap, ready for the inevitable.
“If you do not tell your mother to quiet down, she will be sorry!” said the partner.
Na’ile twisted around and spit into his face. Jean-Paul’s partner punched her squarely in the nose, causing blood to fly from her face. She slumped onto the ground. Jocelyn froze, feeling something indescribable crawl into his stomach, throat, then head. Before they knew it, he tackled Jean-Paul, wrapped his hands around Jean-Paul’s throat and squeezed, pressing every ounce of rage he possessed into his hands. Jean-Paul struggled against him, but was no match for Jocelyn’s youth. Jocelyn continued to squeeze until he felt something sharp across his neck. Jean-Paul’s partner had hit him with the blunt end of his rifle. When he hit the floor, Jocelyn received blows to the face, head, neck, and chest from Jean-Paul’s partner. Jean-Paul coughed and sputtered, trying to regain his breath. Once he did, he joined his partner in teaching the young man a lesson.
Jocelyn’s face began to disintegrate under the heels and fists of the two guards. Too weak to use his arms as a covering, Jocelyn sputtered blood unto the dirt floor.
Suddenly a shot sliced the air.
Then men froze.
Jean-Paul and his partner turned to see Na’ile holding a rifle.
“Na’ile,” Jean-Paul stuttered. “Put that down! You are only making this harder on yourself.”
Her eyes were darkened into a crazed, pulsing fury. She kept the gun trained upon Jean-Paul. “This is my husband’s rifle. This is the gun you used to finish him off after I watched you slice his throat. Since then I’ve learned how to shoot it.” She laughed a high-pitched, demented laugh. “I have practiced for such a time as this. You will release my son, Jean-Paul, or I will make you pay for what you have done to my family.”
Jean-Paul stood ready, his eyes calculating ways to reach Naile, and grab the rifle from her hands. She was an old woman after all. He took a step but crouched into a protective position when she fired another shot into the air, right above his ear.
Na’ile’s fingers itched with the desperate need to kill this man. She could taste it. She could envision Jean-Paul’s blood seeping into the dusty brown of the dirt-floor. But she hesitated, knowing she and her son would never escape the unrelenting police once they determined she had murdered on of their own.
For an eternity, she eyed Jean-Paul and his partner.
A long moment passed.
Suddenly she pointed her gun towards her son, her eyes suddenly clear, hard, and resolved. “I love you so much, Jocelyn. I gave you life. It is mine alone to take.”
The shack shook with final sound of the bullet ripping through the side of her beloved son’s face. She felt her son’s spirit leave the small shack to join her had died in the same position, at the hands of the man standing before her.
Jean-Paul and his partners jumped back.
She dropped the rifle in a daze.
“I promised you, Jean-Paul, that you would not take my son.”
Na’ile surrendered as Jean-Paul grabbed her and led her out of their shack.
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That is so good to know cause I am grammar deficient. I don't know how bad it is on the excerpt I posted. I have to look over the first chapter again.
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Though I've been teaching English for 25 years, I still do that before I give it to my first reader (my wife).
yes, I do that as well, however getting a reader is always a problem.
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Hi everyone.I agree with you Jo. Finding readers can be a problem. It can also be difficult to find readers who can actually offer you comments beyond the generic "it's good" or "I hated it." Some do not have the language to offer the constructive feedback a writer needs. Workshops can be helpful, I guess.
I don't know where my weaknesses in grammar are. I know I am a passive sentence queen and my sentences sometimes need to be corrected.
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I have edited action/adventure stories that were ruined by passive voice.
^The above sentence is passive.
The key to ridding yourself of this malady: If you use the is/are/was/to be verbs and see lots of "by" words, simply flip the sentence, delete the "to be" verb, and add a subject.
Writers ruin action/adventure stories when they overuse passive voice.
^This is now an active, to-the-point sentence.
I have an issue with using the right grammar when telling the backstory of a character's life. Is it past tense, past perfect tense or past progressive tense? It's ridiculous how choosing the wrong tense can throw your story off.
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However, saying "she had been a trapeze artist" and "she had been wishing for a pony" and all the other she-had's in back story can become a chore.
That's why I'm finding it easier to work back story into the narrative instead of setting aside a chapter (or two) to bring the reader up to speed.
Ex: His smile reminded her of the last fool who tried to step to her. What was his name? Phil? Joe Bob? Herb. No. Hmm. Well, whatever-his-name was had the nerve to ...
Yes, there's a little interruption, but it's not all lumped together in its own chapter.
Yes, I messed up royally with I'm Your Girl and gave far too much back story. Never again. Too much back story gets in the way of the story!
So it's best to weave the backstory into the narrative. But what about other methods? Some say it's best to use flashbacks/memories. Others say it's best to do it with dialogue--the character is telling someone what happened. Others say you can devote a section or chapter to the backstory but with subheadings (like dates or "five years ago") to alert the reader of the shift in time. So many options...so many potentials for disaster.
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Steinbeck used a turtle crossing the road for several pages in The Grapes of Wrath, and it worked for that novel in that era. That was the style. As I read that novel as a kid, I just wanted the turtle to get there or get run over so the story could continue.
We live in a Reader's Digest society. Readers want the story to roll and gather no back story moss. In essence, they don't want a literary work--they want a story. Get me?
Has anyone ever tried to use song lyrics into a scene? Any suggestions?
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If your song is not in the public domain, only the title of the song can be sung/said/chanted unless you get permission from the rights holder ... which can take a long time.
I wanted to use more of Toni Braxton's "Unbreak My Heart" in my first novel, but I had a tough time getting any kind of response from the rights holder, a major music company. So Renee only sings the title lyrics since titles are not copyrighted.
Parodies of songs, however, are okay for some reason. You want your character to mock something by Cheap Trick (some of the worst lyricists on earth), go right ahead.
Eugenia wrote: "I sometimes flip back and forth between first and third person so I have to be really careful." I don't have that problem, but I do have P.O.V. issues like I would start with my heroine, what she is seeing, what she is thinking and then add in my hero's thoughts (if they are in the scene together) without the correct transition.
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Chapter 1: Her POV of scene so far
Chapter 2: HIS POV of end of chapter 1 scene plus what happens next ... (and so on)
They "hand off" the action, kind of like tag-teaming in WWF wrestling. And I always end with her POV since it is important that she get the last word.
When I wrote my silly parody of romance novels, I got into all the characters' heads simultaneously strictly to make the reader laugh. It was funny and extremely confusing.
I try to follow that type of organization as well. However sometimes in the flow of writer a character may think where they are not suppose to.
Hi guys. Thanks y'all for the feedback I got from the chapter I posted before and from the story I posted. So, I was on the subway platform and I witnessed a guy bump into a girl...she was coming out and he was going in. She told him off for bumping her. He got off the train and tried to "rap" to her, but she told him off for coming on to her, after bumping her, and that was the end of that. But of course I wondered what it would have looked like if she had talked to him. So it gave me the idea for a novel. Today I wrote 2 chapters. I stole this title from another story I was working on, but that's okay. I would like to post this chapter for you guys. This is actually chapter 2. As always, Chapter 1 is a problem for me because I have an obsession with backstory. Let me know what y'all think whenever you get a chance. I will have to post it in 3 posts...sorry about that. I don't want to take up so much room, but it's been quiet here, so I hope no one minds.
Quick synopsis: The novel is named Christian. It will be Christian Fiction. It's about a thirty-something young woman who is desperate to fall in love and get married. She is an active member of a church and lives the Christian lifestyle but she meets this guy and her relationship derails her entire life, including her faith. So let me know how it reads. This is the first draft of course.
CHRISTIAN Chapter 2 part 1 He came out of nowhere, sneaking up on me like old age, with nothing more than an angry glance, as his eyes looked me up and down in disgust.
I was exiting the C train, going home to Harlem from Brooklyn where I had had a horrible date. As I attempted to exit the train, he rushed past me, ramming into my shoulder, knocking my purse strap past my elbow to the ground. I snatched it up in exasperation, turned to him quickly and snapped, “what? You can rush me and break my arm but you can’t even say ‘excuse me?’” I jumped off the train before the doors trapped me in that sweltering box of disgruntled New Yorkers, causing me to miss my stop.
I stalked away from the train, my heels clacking on the platform. I heard the ping! alerting me that the doors began to slide shut, but then I heard something block them. As I kept walking towards the 145th Street exit, thinking someone caught the train in the nick of time, I heard someone yell behind me, “oh my bad! Excuuuuuse me!”
Right then and there, before turning around, I knew that he had gotten off the train. I froze, wondering if there was something wrong with this man. He had been in such a hurry to get on the train and as soon as I said something to him, he was in a hurry to get off, all of a sudden. I prayed silently that he was not like some of my clients with severe Antisocial Personality Disorder who had no conscious and wouldn’t think twice about punching a loud-mouth like me in the mouth. I wanted to turn around and look at him, assess the situation for what it was in order to decide how to proceed. But I stood there frozen. People’s faces whirled past me like angry memories and I wondered if the rude guy attacked me, if any of them would come to my aid. I sighed, remembering that I was in New York City. I took a deep breath and remembered that God was capable of protecting me and that He would send one thousand angels to rescue me, if He was willing. Praying for His help, letting my imagination bring forth all kinds of scenarios regarding the crazy rude train guy, I didn’t hear him creep up to my side.
His voice. “Did you hear me? I said excuse me.” A pause. “Yo, you alright? You’re standing there like you’ve just witnessed a murder or something.”
When I heard the sarcasm, the slight bend of cool humor smoothing out the rough edges of his earlier heated look, I turned slightly to look at him again…and gasped.
What I saw was something different. I saw a man who towered over me, at least six-four to my five-seven and slightly muscled. He was wearing a smile that was more like a sneer and the fluorescent lights of the station turned his dark caramel skin into a silk and his hazel eyes into gold. His full lips were sexy wearing that sneer that was a signal of how dangerous he could be. Yes, he was something different. I had seen plenty of sexy men in Harlem. But what I saw looking at this man was my future, if he would have me.
His eyes swept down my body, lazily, like he had all the time in the world. He started at my hair, which I had worn in a chin-length bob, then searched my eyes through the lens of my glasses. I felt warm as his eyes lingered on my lips then worked their way down my neck….I did not get self-conscious until his eyes moved past my round breasts to my thick middle and no so voluptuous hips. I knew I had gained a lot of weight since giving up the dance scene but I did not want him to have a problem with it.
He bent close and whispered, “so, you gonna stand there or you got something else you got to say, instead of standing there gawking at me in silence. I mean I got off the train to say excuse me and all…ain’t that worth at least a response?” His voice caressed my ears, tickling them with its rough, New York sound, but the sneer turned the words into arrows that shot right into the part of my brain that screamed, “attack!”
I blinked, jolted out of my little daydream like someone had thrown a bucket of ice water in my face. Who did he think he was?
“Excuse me?” Oh my God! After all the times he said those words, you would think I would know not to repeat them again.
“No, as I said, it’s excuse me. “ He was sneering openly now, not even bothering to camouflage it in a smile. “But we already went over that.”
I realized that this fool was not going to kill me but that he was an idiot who got off a train, that he had been rushing to get onto, only to be standing right at this station by me.
All of a sudden, it hit me that I was making a fool of myself and that there was no reason for me to stand here talking to the jerk. I asked the Lord to forgive my thoughts of waiting until the next train to hurl him off the platform. I turned abruptly and stormed off towards the exit.
“Yo! You go through all that and you ain’t even gonna say nothing?” He jogged playfully beside me as I rushed to the exit, my heels clapping against the platform like I was getting a standing ovation for being able to walk away.
But who was I fooling? I wasn’t walking away.
I turned to him, sighing in annoyance. “What exactly do you expect me to say?” I kept my eyes held in the general direction of his face, hanging inches above me, but my eyes refused to lift themselves anywhere past his chin.
He could tell I was not looking him in his eyes. He dipped his head so that my eyes were staring into his. At first, I was relieved that his smile was gone, but the way his top teeth chewed furiously on his full bottom lip, making him look like a shy little boy, was so much worse. He cleared his throat, licked his lips and murmured, “I don’t know…that you forgive me or something?”
I didn’t even know exactly where in that sentence that I fell in love with him, if it was the “I” the “that” the “forgive” or the “something.” I just know that by the time his rough voice twisted his words upward into a question, I fell in love. I fell in love with a rude stranger after he asked me to forgive him for rudely pushing past me as I tried to get off the Uptown C train.
I blinked. I paused remembering my God. My Spirit seemed to be sending me images designed to remind me…snapshots of moments I spent on my knees, walking up the block, watching a movie, or even showering in the morning asking God for my husband. So before it became a sacrifice I would not be strong enough to make, I silently asked the Lord if he was my husband.
He did not respond. So I told myself that God’s answer was yes.
“I forgive you.” I smiled…showing my best feature. Then I turned abruptly and walked towards the exit. I told myself if he followed then He was definitely God’s gift to me.
I walked about twelve steps before he jogged towards me again. “You know what? This is the weirdest conversation I’ve had in a while.” Shaking his head, he snickered, and his laugh turned my knees inside out, almost causing me to tumble to the floor. “Um, so, what’s your name?”
I turned to him. “What’s yours?”
He licked those lips. “Hmmm…guess.”
I stopped walking. “Guess?” I was shocked. How could I possibly guess his name.
“Yeah, what do I look like to you?”
I stared into those eyes for what seemed like ten minutes. “I don’t…John? David? Seth?”
He laughed that same “can’t be bothered with this” laugh. “Seth? What black man you know is named Seth?”
I stopped realizing that I had picked my favorite names from the Bible. “I guess Noah’s son was the first. It’s in the Book of Genesis in the Bible.”
He smirked again. “Ahhh a church girl huh?”
“You could say a Christian girl…church is just where I go to learn how.”
He stopped and turned to me, his eyes sweeping me like untamed flames in a forest. He stared into my eyes for while before he lazily answered, “hmmm. Naw, it ain’t Seth, Noah, John, or David. But you did say it though.” He smiled and ran his large hand through his close cropped waves. “Interesting that you guessed right when you stopped trying to guess.”
I was stuck running the last few sentences I had spoken back to me like I was rewinding my favorite song on my IPOD…I had spoken quite a few words. What could it be…I don’t think any black man would have a name like “Genesis” or “Church.” Then it hit me…it had to be a sign! “Christian?” What was really funny was how I described myself as a “Christian girl.” It had to be another sign.
He laughed at how timidly my voice wrapped around my guess. “You can relax, you ain’t losing no money if you get it wrong…but yes, it’s Christian.”
It must be a sign from the Lord!
“And you are…”
I smiled as I began to climb the steps up to the street, begging God to protect me from tripping in my ultra high stiletto sandals as I tried to impress this man with the sway of my hips. “It’s your turn to guess. Except I will give you a hint…it’s also from the Book of Genesis in the Bible…
He smirked. “Damn it’s been a minute, but I’ve read it…but you gotta give me more than that…it ain’t Sarah…or Sarai is it?” His lips were pursed trying to think of some of the names he had heard but had not thought about in only God knew how long. Suddenly he burst into a bark passing off as laughter. “Yeah, you look like a Hagar!”
I turned and found myself punching him lightly in the arm, enjoying the easy conversation that had started out shaped like a block of ice and gently melted into a cool spring that would ease the thirst that had been in my throat for so many years. “No fool it’s Delilah…and keep messing with me and I will also strip you of your strength like Samson.”
He clapped, mockingly, as I reached the top steps suddenly assaulted by the sun, and the dizzying images of one of West Harlem’s busiest streets. Sounds and smells assaulted my face but as he stepped in beside me. All I could hear was his breath and smell his scent. Fading cologne, light sweat…his scent…my heaven. I breathed in as deeply and discreetly as I could.
“Yeah, it is really hot. Looks like this weather is gonna take my strength a lot faster than you can, Delilah.”
I never heard someone mock me in such a sarcastic way make it sound like love poetry being whispered in my ear. Damn. Already, I had it bad.
I walked with him a few steps before I realized that he had completely gone out of his way to speak to me. The butterflies in my spoken stretched and fluttered their wings when I allowed myself to realize it. Still, I was a little curious.
CHRISTIAN Chapter 2, part 2 “Okay, Christian, that may be your name but are you?” I spoke the question a little shyly because I knew two things: that I did not want to scare him off and that Pastor stated that the question I had just asked needed to be the second question single Christians asked potential mates after their name. I stopped walking to look him squarely in the face. I held my breath but was silently asking the Spirit if this man was His man for me…his best…the husband I had been praying about for so long.
Christian shrugged and smiled. “I mean I was raised in church and I believe in Jesus if that’s what you mean.” He looked down at his white Air Force Ones before looking at me briefly before letting his eyes wander back out into the street. “I don’t go to church a lot though…but I do consider myself someone who believes in Jesus.”
I paused for a second not knowing what this all meant. Did it mean that he wasn’t God’s choice for me, or was he the one that God sent with the intentions of making him the man I had been waiting for, while using me as a vessel to bring Christian closer to Him in the process? He believed in Jesus and that had to mean he was saved, right? I paused ready to silently ask God to make it known to me right away but just when I was about to ask…
“You know, Lilah, if you don’t mind me calling you that, I think you’re really sexy. I don’t usually jump off trains when I am late to visit my mom’s house to follow behind chicks who bite my head off when I accidently bump into them…” He stopped, looked into my eyes, and let his smile shine into my face like the sun
And I decided that he was sent from God. No if ands or buts about it.
I blushed under the weight of his eyes, as much as a girl my complexion could, and smiled shyly. I found my voice again after a few seconds. “Well, thank you, but I don’t think it’s worth being late to see your mama.”
He somehow smiled an even brighter smile. “Listen, Lilah, I’ll be the judge of that.” He took a step closer, forcing his scent to overwhelm the little air that was available in the sweltering heat. “Who knows, maybe my mom will understand if you turn out to be the one who settles her only son down.” He stepped a little closer. “You know, since you’ve stripped me of all of my strength…especially with that pretty smile of yours.”
By now, my heart was thumping wildly and there was no air left to breathe, but I sucked at it anyway, hoping it would stop the sweat that was beading up on my upper lip. I smiled again but couldn’t find anything to say which was a first, because I had always been quick-witted.
Then Christian stepped back. “So I’m late for my mama…where are you headed?”
I cleared my throat and willed the dizziness away. I found my voice somewhere in my throat and forced it out. “Um, I was heading home.”
“You live near here?”
“Yeah right up the street, in the home I grew up in. My parents moved down south two years ago and I moved back in.” Why was I telling this man my family history when he hadn’t even asked me out yet? I guess it had been so long since a handsome man, hell a man, had paid me any attention. I needed that conversation.
He suddenly held up a finger. “Excuse me for a second. Don’t disappear on me or I’ll have to rush you again like I did on the train.” The smile flashed for a second as he turned away to dial his cell phone. I waited.
“Mom, it’s Chris. I um won’t be able to make it today after all. It’s cool if I come over to see you tomorrow?”
I watched him listen with a smirk on his face.
“I know Mom, just wrap it up and I’ll eat it tomorrow when I come.” He paused rolling his eyes at me as if his mother did not have a right to be annoyed that he would be missing what she undoubtedly cooked for the son she had been expecting. “Okay Ma, I promise. Yeah, everything is cool…just don’t feel like coming all the way to Brooklyn this evening cause I got kinda...ummm” He closed his eyes and I could almost see the words flying around in his mind…words that could give his mother a good enough explanation without hurting her feelings or telling her a lie. It made me feel even more like this man was who God sent to me. “Let’s just say I got held up before I could get on the train and make it to Brooklyn.” He paused again, and I could hear his mother’s shrill voice through his phone for a few minutes as he “uh huhed” with his eyes on me. Finally he said, “Ma, I promise I’ll be there tomorrow. Yeah same time. Love you, okay? Later.”
Then he turned to me and said. “I hope this thing works out so that I could make this up to my mama with a wedding.” He stood really close to me again, looking into my eyes so…gently.
“What thing?” I asked sweat dripping between my breasts down my cotton peasant blouse.
“This thing you started when you called yourself telling me about myself on the train I am supposed to be on right now as we speak, riding to visit my mama.”
I rolled my eyes. “Well, Chris…” I smirked now and turned, began to walk away. “I don’t recall asking you to jump off your train just to say as an afterthought what you should have said in the first place.” He was sexy but not that sexy!
I heard him clear his throat. “But Lilah, it was too much to resist.”
We kept walking silently for a second. And suddenly, I wasn’t so sure I should let him know where I lived. What if I got it wrong? What if this man was sent straight from the pits of hell disguised as my newest fantasy of married life? I had to remember that Satan doesn’t always show himself as a demon…he often appeared as the Angel of Light. God’s most beautiful angel before he began stalking around our lives gnashing his teeth, seeking to destroy.
I turned to him…and got lost in his eyes again. No, it had to be from God…this whole day. It was too cute…the perfect story to tell the grandchildren in fifty-five years.
I cleared my throat. “Well I am here. So what are you gonna do now?”
He smiled. “Well I am gonna wait out here and allow you a few minutes to yourself to freshen up and we going downtown to have something to eat. After all, I hope you ain’t got plans ‘cause I did give up my mom’s famous pot roast to spend time with you, Lilah.”
I knew right then that every time this man called me this little nickname he had given me, I would be in trouble.
I pretended to think for a few minutes. Then I said, “well I guess I can hang out with you. It’s seems like the only Christian thing to do, since I caused you to jump off the train and cancel your plans with mom just for me.” I smirked again at my little joke. “Plus God wouldn’t want me to make a hungry man starve so okay…give me about ten minutes…I would invite you in, but…”
He laughed and held up his hand. “Nah, I understand. We just met on the train. I could be anyone, even though I know you find me attractive, it’s better to get to know me before allowing me into your home. Gotcha. I’ll be here. I’ll be waiting. Please do what you gotta do.” He looked down at himself, smirking. “Well you know what, matter of fact, I’ll be back in like twenty minutes or so…I’m gonna run home and change myself.”
I was surprised because I didn’t even think to ask him if he was from my part of town. “You live around here?”
“Yeah,” he smiled again. “I’m one block up and over on 147th and Amsterdam.” He looked me up and down. “Just moved here from the east side…from 117th and Park. Couldn’t take the way the landlady kept raising the rent left and right now that we got a lot of other folks making it possible for her to do that kind of mess.” He sucked his teeth and for a second I saw silent anger lurking in his eyes but it was gone before I could tell if I was right. He smiled again. “Guess I’m lucky though, or I wouldn’t have been taking the C train to see my mom. I’d been taking the 6 and we would not even be here about to have a date.” He leaned over suddenly and kissed my cheek, whispering in my ear before I could react. “Yeah, I could definitely see you stripping me of my strength. Be back in twenty.”
I stared down the block after him, frozen for a while before a livery cab’s angry honk of the horn, caused me to remember that I needed a quick shower and to find something cute but casual to wear. I raced into my family duplex, ran up the stairs to my room, my parent’s old bedroom and found a cute jean skirt that would show off my legs enough to hide my lack of booty and a cute cream tank top covered in gold beaded flowers…I raced through stacks of shoes to find my new gold sandals with a three inch kitten heal, just high enough to be feminine but low enough to walk on if needed.
I jumped in the shower and had my fastest thorough shower in the history of my fast showers. I lotioned up with Vickie Secret’s Endless Love lotion and spritzed some of J. Lo’s latest whatever it was called. I ran a brush quickly through my hair and pinned my long heavy hair into a ponytail, securing it with a gold clip. I would have worn it down but at a size 14, it took every ounce of ingenuity to prevent me from sweating on hot days like that day. Then I stopped and looked at myself, really looked at myself, trying to find something in my average face and annoyingly chubby body to get this man to get off a train to come after me. Now if I
CHRISTIAN Chapter 2, Part 3 looked like my younger sister Cheryl, I would understand. But usually men liked me after they found out how intelligent I was or got to know me first then fell in love with my personality more than my looks. Sure I was cute…but no real head turner. Maybe if I got down to my pre-college weight I could be what I once was when I was too young to appreciate it. At five-eight, I weighed about 170 lbs. I was top heavy, big breasted, small in the hips and derrier. I had nice legs that I tried to show off often. I had smooth milk chocolate skin, a beautiful smile, and long, thick hair that curled down my back. I often wore glasses, when I was too tired or lazy to put in my contacts. For my size, I was a snazzy dresser, which made me look more elegant that I really was on the inside. I was cute, but nothing worth pulling a man off a train ride home to his mama.
I snapped out of this examination in time to realize I had about three minutes to apply some mineral makeup that would cover up my issues without melting off in this NY July humidity and get dressed. I did what I could quickly and effectively before lining my lips. I heard the bell. I quickly stuck my head out the window and yelled, “give me two minutes…be right down!”
I finished my face and thanked God I didn’t know how to apply all that fancy eye stuff or else I would have been tempted to paint my face. I quickly went to the bathroom to wash my hands so I wouldn’t get makeup on my cream tank before slipping it and the skirt on. I ran down the stairs barefoot after grabbing my brown purse and gold sandals.
I opened the door trying to catch my breath but couldn’t because I had never seen a man look good in cream as Christian did right then. We ended up wearing matching clothes and burst into laughter when we realized it. He was wearing a cream linen button down shirt with jeans, almost identical to the wash on my skirt, and brown leather man sandals. I never knew a black man confident enough to wear them and I liked the look a lot. I invited him in after all and asked him if I should change my clothes.
“What?” he grinned. “Who knows? Maybe this is a sign that we need to get used to the “his and hers” thing.” He shrugged, looking me up and down in that way that was so sexy but made me feel like he was peeling off my skin layer by layer and looking in me rather than at me. “I gotta say that you’re wearing this look a lot better than I am.”
I knew I was a goner when his corny lines didn’t cause me to vomit on those leather man sandals. I finished up my face and came back into the front hallway where Christian was still standing looking at my family pictures. “nice family” he commented as he gazed at the wall of memories.
“I’m ready.” I smiled. “Looks like you know where I live and you’ve been in my house…but don’t be fooled. I know how to use a knife.” I couldn’t understand why I let his eyes and smile talk me into letting him into the house of a young woman living alone in Harlem, in Manhattan, in New York City, with her daddy miles away in South Carolina.
Christian snickered at me before reaching out to my side and snatching a way a tag that was still on my tank top. “Well, Lilah, you should have used it to cut this off.” He grabbed my shoulder and turned me around. “any more tags? No, you’re good. I’m flattered that you threw on your new clothes just to hang out with old bad-mannered Christian.”
I huffed, embarrassed in a fluttery way, not the humiliated way. “Hey, I would have worn this if my sister had asked me to hang out.”
Christian stepped closer to me until I had backed into a wall. He leaned down so he could look into my eyes as he had done earlier on the train platform when I was too afraid to look him in the eye. “Ouch. Well that doesn’t matter. You wearing it and looking so cute and sexy, and matching me, is what matters…whether it matters to you or not.” He paused. “Ready?”
I sighed as he backed up, allowing me to breathe again. “Yeah.”
And we left.
And that’s the night the devil found a way back into my life, appearing to me not as a demon, but as an angel of light.
On top of that he chose a Christian to do it.
please email comments to VacircaVaughn1@hotmail.com oooooor, *sigh* right here will be fine if easier for you. Thanks y'all.
I will send feedback hopefully by next week. Reading from my bb doesn't give the justice. LOL
Thank ya kindly, Jo. I would appreciate it. Sorry for the editorial mistakes. LOL I thought I caught them all, but it's hard for me to read it back from the pc screen at 2 am. Will post chapter 1 on Goodreads profile when I figure it out.
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