Seasons Change by Jennifer Lightburn aka @1writerlover: A Toast To Looking And Feeling Good

http://seasons-change-novel.blogspot.com/2011/12/toast-to-looking-and-feeling-good.html?spref=bl: Every New Years I’m overcome by the simple gratification that I made it. I’m especially pleased this year because I accomplished my resolu...

A Toast To Looking And Feeling Good

Every New Years I’m overcome by the simple gratification that I made it.  I’m especially pleased this year because I accomplished my resolutions.  I published my first book, Seasons Change, and after five years of struggling with my weight, I look and feel good again.  Oh, yeah, home-girl was squeezing out of her fat clothes.  I stopped stepping on the scale.  Even my own cousin told me to put my fork down at the family reunion, as I was trying to enjoy a piece of cheesecake.  Still, it wasn’t until Christmas 2010 that I realized how big I really was.  I bought a digital camcorder so I could create my own video ad.  I’d created a book trailer for my novel, so I figured, how much harder can a video advertisement be?  I wrote the script and practiced in the mirror.  I sounded “natural”.  I was funny.  Pleased as punch, I was ready to record.  So I setup my camcorder and tripod in the living room because the colors are warm and inviting.  I stumbled over my lines several times, so I deleted without first viewing the files.  Finally, I nailed it – dead on.  It was a wrap.  I pushed play.  When I saw myself, I said, “Shut the front door!  Who the hell is that?”  I looked like I was trying to store nuts.  My hips were spread out.  My breasts were everywhere.  Everywhere?  Everywhere.  I said, “Good God All Mighty!” and ran up stairs, took off my clothes and looked in the mirror.  I couldn’t believe my eyes.  Embarrassing.   I didn’t delete that video as much as I wanted to, but I didn’t look at it again either.  Maybe I will once I’ve reached my ultimate weight goal.  But I’ll tell you what, the other day I put on a medium skirt.  My hair was sassy and my makeup flawless.  I looked in the mirror, smiled and said, “Damn, girl, you’re looking good!”  My goal in 2012 is to look and feel even better. That and publish another book.  Wish me luck.

Toast to looking and feeling good.

Happy New Year!!

~ Jennifer

Kindness From A Stranger Made My Day And My Son’s Day Too

After my son graduated from superhero sneakers that lit up, which I could buy for $10 to $15, I passed the shoe buying task to my son’s father.  I just couldn't see paying fifty bucks for a pair of sneakers that he’d wear for maybe a year.

Well, when I picked my son up from football practice, he advised me that he needed a new pair of sneakers for P.E.  My first response was, “You’re crazy in your head.  You’d better take a rag and soap and clean up a pair in your closet.”

“I can’t.  They’re all small.”

“You’ve got like five pairs of shoes in your closet.  What do you mean they’re all small?”

With the apple not falling far from the tree, my eleven year old replied, “Do I need to draw you a picture?”

Now, if I said something like that to my mom when I was a kid, I’d be picking up teeth off the floor, but I let the comment slide because I was still trying to wrap my head around the facts.

My son walks around in his socks in the morning, and he leaves shortly after me, so I never see what shoes he’s wearing, and when I pick him up after work, he’s wearing cleats. 

“So the shoes you wear for PE are the same shoes that you wear to school?”

“Yes, and they’re really getting raggedy now.  Sooner or later people are going to start asking me why I only have one pair of shoes.”

“And you tell them to mind their damn business,” I said, thinking about how kids were back in the day.  These new and improved versions were down right ruthless

“Can I quote you?” he asked sarcastically.

“No.  Why didn’t you tell me you needed shoes?”

“I’m telling you now.”

I was tired as a dog, and wanted to go home, have a glass of wine and watch some TV, but I headed to the mall. 

So I wasn’t sticker shocked, when I walked into the store, I mentally prepared myself to have to pay up to $60.00 including tax.

When we walked into the shoe department at Dicks, I thought, cool, there are plenty of shoes in the $40.00 range.  My son picks up a pair of black and white Nike’s for $48.00.  I then see him eyeing a pair of Addidas AdiZero Ghosts for $59.00.  It’s more than I wanted to pay, but I was willing to spend a little extra to make my son happy.  We’d just have to go to Blockbuster Express instead of Multiplex this weekend.  Besides, he’s a good kid, and he does what he’s supposed to do… for the most part.  So, I ask the salesperson if she can help me find the shoes, and she asked me for his size. 

“Size nine.” 

She looked down.  “Wow, he has some big feet.”

My son smiled and I knew why.  This girl in his sixth grade class told him that boys who have big feet have "big dicks".  (Lord!)

“You need to look at shoes in the men’s section,” she said and steered me in the right direction. 

The only pair of shoes they had for less than $80 was Bo-bos (ugly shoes that you begged your momma not to buy).  The exact pair of Nikes that my son wanted in the kids section was forty dollars more in the adult section.  They didn’t have the Addidas in his size but they were $70.00.  I mean, seriously, how much leather are they using to justify that price?  I was having an internal fit. 

“We’ll have to shop around the mall,” I said.

We went to Footlocker, Champs and Finish Line.  Every nice pair of shoes came with an eighty dollar price tag.

We went back to Dicks, and I asked if they’d have a Halloween sale and the salesperson said, “Uh, no.”

Feeling completely deflated, I said to my son, “I may just have to take you to Walmart and get some Bo-bos that I can afford and have your dad take you this weekend to get some shoes.”

My son looked visibly disappointed.  I was thinking, getting a pair of Bo-bos is better than nothing.  Besides, wearing the same pair of shoes isn’t the end of the world.  Lots of people don’t have any shoes.  But it didn’t make me feel any better. 

When we got in the car, I said, “Let’s drive over to Sports Authority since we’re out anyway.”

My son’s chocolate face lit up.  “Sure!” he said.

We went into the store.  Sports Authority had the Addidas in my son’s size.  The price was the same as Dicks - $70.00

“Can we get them mommy?  Please!”

Try as I might, I just couldn’t justify spending that much money on shoes.  Shit – I didn’t wear seventy dollar shoes and I have a job.

“I’m sorry baby, but I can’t afford it.”

My son took off the shoes and put them back in the box, turned to me and said, “It’s ok mommy.  I can wear the Bo-bos.  Let’s go to Walmart.”

This little old woman was checking out some sneakers and must have overheard our conversation because she walked over to me and said, “If those shoes were in the fifty dollar range, would you be able to buy them?”

I nodded, and she reached in her purse and pulled out a coupon.  “I have two but I can only use one.  It’s for 25% off.  Go buy that baby his shoes.”

That kindness from this complete stranger really touched my heart.  She made my day and my son’s day too.  My son was able to get the shoes that he wanted, and I was able to buy them.

Seasons Change by Jennifer Lightburn aka @1writerlover: My son's challenge - write a scary book for kids w...

Seasons Change by Jennifer Lightburn aka @1writerlover: My son's challenge - write a scary book for kids w...: Finding His Head By Jennifer Lightburn Chapter One I hated my mother and father. Don’t get me wrong. I loved them dearly, but I hated ...

My son's challenge - write a scary book for kids with the title: Finding His Head

 Finding His Head

By Jennifer Lightburn

I hated my mother and father.  Don’t get me wrong.  I loved them dearly, but I hated them all the same.  They made us move… to the country to make matters worse.  They wanted us to get away from the city.  Like we lived in the city.  We lived in DC.  The last I heard it was the Nations Capital, not like New York City or L.A., and it’s not like we got into real trouble.  Jasmine was always a 4.0 student, and I brought in straight C’s.  We didn't get involved in grown people's business or hang around the “bad crowd”, but my mother and father were concerned about us getting caught up in the “fast life” and so they moved us down to Leesburg, VA where we could experience country living in the suburbs.

“Close enough to the city but far enough away from the chaos,” my mother, Jackie said.

I thought we’d be able to talk them out of this ridiculous decision.  Shoot, Jasmine, my twin sister, was on the debate team, but not even her eleventh grade vocabulary could convince my parents to think about the damage they’d bestow on their children.   I was in complete turmoil because Leslie finally said YES to the note about being my girlfriend that I passed her in class.  I begged my parents, but my fifth grade words sure weren’t helping, especially since we were in the sixth grade.  Gritting my teeth, huffing and puffing and having the most dramatic conniption inevitable only put my father’s belt around his neck, so I shut the heck up and said goodbye to Leslie and my friends after we loaded the last of the boxes on the U-Haul.

“I’ll miss you, Tyrone,” Leslie said before giving me a kiss on the cheek. My very first kiss, I must say.

“Don’t forget about us, yo,” KC said, trying to look as hard has he could, even though, I spotted a little tear in his right eye.

“T, don’t let the country turn you into a chump, homie,” LaJohn said, giving me some dap.

I said my peace and put my arm around my sister.  She said goodbye to her friends but couldn’t hold in her emotion and cried so hard that I had to force myself to stay strong.  Seriously, how would I look, crying like a girl because we were moving twenty miles east of town?  I held it together the best I could.

“You’ll like Leesburg, and you’ll be able to invite your friends over to stay a visit,” my mother said in her southern drawl.  

My father, who named me after him, completely abolished our sentimental moment.  “Jr., get in.  I want to get there so we have enough time to unload,” he said in his usual crass tone.  He jumped in the U-Haul and put his seatbelt on before we even stepped inside.

We squished into the front seat of the truck like sardines in a can.  Of course we had to role the windows all the way down because my father chose the truck with no AC to save fifteen dollars, and he ate a Big Mac knowing his digestive system couldn’t tolerate the grease.  By the time we got to Leesburg, my mother’s hair looked like she’d stuck her finger in a socket and my sister looked like the Heat Miser.

“This is it,” my mother said excitedly.

“Shizaam!  You have got to be kidding me.”

“Watch yourself boy!”

I really didn’t pay my father any mind.  I couldn’t believe my eyes.  We were moving into a place that could be used for a Frankenstein movie.  I swear there was a dark cloud looming over the house, but my father said the forecast called for rain.  In all my life, granted I was just eleven years old, I’d never seen it rain in one spot.

“You always were a dramatic kid.  Maybe I need to get you into theatre,” my father said.

For a moment, I forgot who I was talking to and I said, “Did you get a deal on this piece of crap?  Is that why you’re moving us out here?” before I could stop myself.

“One mo again,” my father said, and from experience I knew when he spoke those words, I’d reached his limit, and I knew without a shadow of a doubt that he was about a second away from socking me a good one.

My sister grabbed my hand as we walked up the sidewalk to the front porch.  I could hear creepy music in my head with every step.  My father wrestled with the key chain to find the correct key and then he opened the door.  A gust of wind forced us to hold our positions.

“Is that supposed to happen when you open a door,” I asked rhetorically.

My father gave me the look and my mother said, “There there.  Let’s give it a chance.”

I felt as if I was in an 80’s movie and the gust of wind was the sign to GET OUT.

The floors creaked.  There was a musty smell that chocked me.  I was drowning in funk.  The only way to survive was to breath in the foulness.

            My mother, who always saw the bright side of every situation said, “Oh, we just need to open the windows and air the place out.”

            “After we find and get rid of the dead body,” I replied.

            There was no warning.  My father plucked me upside my head with his middle finger.  “I told you about mouthing off.  Say something out of line again and see what happens,” he said.

            “Daddy, I’m sorry, but I’m with Tyrone.  This place gives me the creeps.”

            My father put his arms around Leslie’s shoulder.  “Don’t be scared baby girl.  Daddy’s here to protect you.”

Please Stay

Warm words floated through the air

As her back chilled my soul

Her shiny eyes begged forgiveness

But her mind wouldn’t let go

My arms could hold no comfort

So I bent on knees for heaven’s help

But she only walked away

Society’s rules wouldn’t allow her to stay

My eyes burned the color red

And as much as I begged

Mute were her ears from any sound

Knees to the ground fist pounding the earth

But it didn’t help

Not even the voice of agony

Mother

“The problem with you, Jennifer, is that you’re afraid to fail and so you just don’t try.”  I can remember my mother saying that to me when I was still in grade school.  I thought she was the smartest woman in the world and quite possibly psychic.  I don’t know why I was always afraid of life as a child.  I was shy.  Not the normal shy.  The awkward shy… so shy that I didn’t speak much… at least to adults.  I never raised my hand in school, and I absolutely hated when it was my turn to read aloud in class. 

I’ve come a long way, and Lord knows I took the long road.  I don’t know why.  For whatever reason I felt that I had to learn lessons first hand, even though, my mother told me different.  “Pay attention and you can learn by observing other people instead of making costly mistakes.”  I was a hardheaded child.  I always tried to take the short cuts.  It wasn’t until my eighteenth birthday that I started to take life seriously, and that was because my mother showed me the door and reminded me that she’d fulfilled her obligation as a parent.  (That just made me chuckle.)  Tough love, she called it.  I learned quick, fast, and in a hurry that day.  I miss her so much, but I’m grateful that I still get to see her in my dreams. 

I need a vacation

I need the water 

The smell of sea air

Sand between my toes

Heat on my back

A great book

Waves crashing on the shore

Snow cones and Boardwalk fries

A mild breeze with a hint of suntan lotion

Artistic sand castles

Boats sailing as jet skiers bounce off waves

That Frisbee catch that ties the game

Watching beautiful people walk by

Throwing bread to the sky

As the seagulls dance and dive

And everywhere you glance

Everyone is happy

© Jennifer Lightburn 2011

A journey to an end never known

A journey to an end never known

Wondering, praying, teaching, pleasing

Trying to survive while begging for love

Pleading with God from up above

To give direction, a tip, a hint, a sign

Finding clues to the puzzle before it’s time

To wake up in the morning and start wondering again

Discovering answers before your glorious life shall end

And there’s no door to open, no sky shining bright,

No rain, no love, no evil night.

© Jennifer Lightburn 2011

The City Park by Kenneth Weene

The city park

The homeless gather in the city park
to exchange the latest news:
where’s the best free lunch in town,
who’s giving away some shoes.
Children play a game of tag
to hide their hunger and their fears.
While a gang of surly teens
give a stranger angry stares.
They think it disrespectful
that he not avert his eyes.
But he is wondering whom he might know;
How long before he has no home.

© 2011 Kenneth Weene
http://www.authorkenweene.com

The Contract Killer - Chapter 5 – Partial Chapter - Rough

Dominique had the taxi driver drop her off in the heart of George Town.  The city, which was once an old western town with architecture that exemplified the Wild West, was humming with vehicles, people and music.  People of every culture walked down M St., a popular tourist attraction with all its restaurants, clubs, beauticians, and clothing boutiques.  Policeman on foot, horse, and vehicle were at every corner waiting for someone to break the law.  Dominique contemplated going to one of the officers for protection. She’d even thought to report the crime that she’d witnessed, but every time she neared a cop she got cold feet, remembering the horrifying experience of witness protection.  She couldn’t live her life through that torment and pain again.  She didn’t want to create a new identity and move to a foreign city.  She’d just gotten used to calling herself Dominique, and how many years ago had she changed her name.  Twenty?  Her mother was in no condition to go through the rigmarole of witness protection so she’d have to leave her behind, and she couldn’t be without her mother indefinitely.  What was she going to do?  The killer got a good look at her.  She knew he did because his face was etched in her mind.  She wasn’t one hundred percent sure, but she thought he looked just like the man that murdered her father.  He was older but had similar features.  He had brown hair with strands of grey and a dark complexion as if he constantly tanned.  He had a square jaw line with a dimple that reminded her of John Travolta and eyes so dark they looked black.  It was him.  She was convinced, but the police said they put him away for life.  Then again, life was a relative term and could mean twenty years depending on the state, the circumstances and good behavior.  Technically speaking, he could have served his time.  He could be a free man.

            She walked up three blocks, and bought a pay as you talk phone from a street vendor since she’d thrown her Sprint phone out of the window of the taxi cab while traveling over the 14^th Street Bridge, soon after she spoke to her mother.  She looked around, taking mental notes of her surroundings.  She was paranoid.  She felt as if a thousand eyes were set upon her and she couldn’t prevent from shaking.  The throng of people all around her only added to her anxiety, but she charged ahead.  She held keys in her hand to stab anyone that made a false move, but she was able to use them to open her townhouse door instead.  She turned off the alarm and closed all the blinds before she turned on the lights.  She tried to remain calm but she couldn’t keep her body from trembling, as much as she concentrated on being still.  She wanted to scream, so she turned on the television and went into the bathroom to grab a towel.  She pressed it against her face and released her emotions.  She screamed until she became blubbering mess.  Janice was dead and Dominique had the blood on her hands to prove it.  Why did this keep happening?  Why was she again the witness of a horrendous crime? 

To Be Continued...

The Contract Killer - Chapter 4 - rough draft

“What kind of person waters their roses at eleven o’clock at night,” Vinny Michaels said to himself as he pushed the button of the garage door opener.  He waived to his neighbor as he drove his car up the driveway to his custom home in McLean, Virginia.  He opened the garage door which led to the hallway near the living room and was greeted by his Great Dane, Luis.  “Daddy missed his baby boy today,” he said as the one hundred pound pooch jumped on his hind legs and licked Michaels’ face. 

He put his gun on top of the refrigerator, and snatched a Bud Light from inside then walked across his spacious living room with high ceilings and Arizona-styled, warm rustic furniture and opened the sliding glass door so Luis could do his business.  He grabbed four heavy pieces of wood from the side of the house and a lighter and charcoal burner from the shed, lit a fire in the outdoor fire-pit and used the same flame to light a cigarette.  He puffed on a Marlboro as he waited for the logs to get hot.  Then he removed his cloak and tossed it into the fire.  He jumped back as he watched the flames go up in smoke and stood in awe as the fire engulfed the fabric and produced a thick cloud of black smoke that reminded him of camp when he was a child.  He sat in a wicker patio chair and sipped on his beer, not at all worried about his neighbors violating his solitude.  He fixed that the first time he’d decided to take a swim in the buff and saw the guy next door taking a peak through a crack in the wood fence.  The next weekend he built an 8’ stone privacy fence, which required a special zoning permit and approval from his neighbors.  The late night rose waterier rejected his plan and acted as if she was ready to exchange blows until he wrote a check for a couple thousand dollars to shut her loud mouth.  The peeping tom signed on the dotted line when Michaels threatened to have a conversation with his wife.  “I’m sure she’s had her suspicions,” Michaels told him.  Recalling the look on his neighbor’s face caused Michaels to laugh aloud, as he watched Luis kick and strip away grass to clean his feet and cover his waste.  He stared at the dog until he was transfixed with the thoughts in his mind. 

He wondered if the woman who wore the locket remembered him just as he remembered her.  Regardless of if she remembered or not, he had to find her.  He couldn’t take the chance of her going to the police.  He’d pay his snitch to keep an ear and eye out.  It would cost him plenty since there were one or more police stations in every city in Northern Virginia and there were umpteen cities, but the price of freedom was far more valuable.  Michaels certainly wasn’t afraid of prison.  Some of his best days were spent in the joint.  Still, he enjoyed his luxurious lifestyle and the fine touch of a woman’s caress, which was not impossible to have but hard to come by behind bars. 

He squeezed more charcoal fluid to burn the remnants of fabric when his sliding glass door opened.  He turned around to see his dinner companion standing in high-heels and a camisole. 

“You’re not dressed for dinner,” Michaels said.

Sonya Wilson had dark auburn hair that flowed down the length of her back, eyes as blue and clear as the Bahamian ocean and skin as brown as a Copper Tone model. 

“Well, you have a choice.  We can go out to eat or you can eat me,” Sonya said in a sultry voice. 

Michaels put down his beer and removed his clothes.  As he walked to her, his body exhibited excitement.  She was beautiful and a true exhibitionist and he relished having sex with her outdoors.  Besides that, he loved black woman, and he especially enjoyed having sex with them.  But this girl… this girl was one he could marry.  She blew his mind intellectually when she wasn't blowing him physically. 

            Michaels turned on his Tiki lights that surrounded his Japanese garden and river shaped swimming pool, and he and Sonya made love in the shallow end under brightly lit stars and a full moon.  Nearly an hour later, after they exerted every ounce of energy, they cuddled in a hammock until mosquitoes forced them inside.  They showered together, washing each other with washcloths and their tongues, and when they finished steaming up the bathroom, Sonya put on a long, formfitting, silky nightgown that Michaels’ picked up at Victoria Secrets and she cuddled next to him in his handsome, king size bed.  Michaels loved his room.  He deliberately purchased a house with a fireplace in the master bedroom.  He bought custom made furniture, installed a marble wet bar and stole (not because he didn’t have the money but because he could) original oil paintings to decorate his room with remnants of the nineteenth century to impress women like Sonya.  However, she was his most precious piece, and she made his bedroom more stylish just by lying in his bed.  With her hair still damp and smelling like a garden of flowers, she quickly fell asleep.  He, on the other hand, was wide awake.  He turned on the television, hoping to catch the late night news but the only stations that were airing news were news stations such as CNN, MSNBC, FOX NEWS, and HLN.  He flicked through the channels hoping to catch a glimpse of local news but all the stations were focused on the verdict of Casey Anthony.  Michaels knew when the prosecutor told the jury that ‘she was afraid they wouldn’t use common sense’ that Anthony would get off scot-free.  If given the opportunity, he’d kill the bitch pro bono.  There was one thing that he hated more than anything else and that was people who hurt children.  Still, he found it ironic that the reason he was in his current predicament is because years ago he didn’t kill that little girl when he had a chance, but she was an adult now, and he had no qualms about sending her to meet her maker.  He grabbed his laptop from the desk in the corner of his room.  He went to http://www.msn.com/ and clicked on the local news.  His dick got hard after he read the headline. 

Arlington Businesswoman Killed at Home

Janice Smalls was found dead in her luxury apartment in Arlington, VA. 

“She received a single gunshot wound to the back of her head.  The police questioned neighbors who heard shots fired shortly after ten o’clock,” an anonymous police officer said.

            Michaels stopped reading right there.  He picked up his phone and walked out of the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

            “Marco.  It’s me.  I need a favor,” Michaels said when the call was answered.  Though the cop on the other end of the line had never met Michaels personally, he’d worked with Michaels throughout the years and knew his voice.  Michaels didn’t wait for a response.  “I need you to find out who that anonymous cop was that gave the media information regarding the businesswoman that was killed in Arlington today.  Also, I need you to spread the word to all the precincts.  If anyone should come forward with a positive ID of the killer, I want their name and address.  Got it?” he continued.

            “How much is it worth?” the cop asked groggily. 

            “Five G’s off the top.”

            “Bet,” the cop said and replaced the receiver. 

            Michaels flipped the top of his cell phone and headed back to the bedroom.  He sat in his bed and admired the beautiful woman next to him then turned back to the computer.  He typed in George Danielson at the Google prompt.  The first headline read:

Herndon Baseball Coach Murdered

Michaels read all fifteen stories relating to the death of the baseball coach, and in every story there was detail that the previous story did not contain.  One article mentioned that George Danielson retired from the military.  He had a wife and child.  He was a contracting officer (CO) for the state department.  He was accused of defrauding the government by awarding contracts to companies who paid him a generous fee.  But not one of stories mentioned that the coach’s daughter, the little girl with two pigtails who wore a gold heart locket, witnessed her father’s murder. 

The Contract Killer - Chapter One

It's seems like every other week, I'm starting a new book.  :0)  Well, I did finish Soul Brothas and am editing it, but I also just started yet another novel, Contract Killer... it's a working title.  I can't help it.  When I get an idea I start writing and I'll continue writing unless something else pops in my head.  ;0)  Well, one of my readers said I should call it The Locket.  I like that title... we'll see.  Anyway, please tell me what you think so far.  It's just one chapter - chapter one.  It's rough but I think you'll enjoy. 

Have a wonderful day!

~ Jennifer

The Contract Killer

By Jennifer Lightburn

“What’s up Menendez?  What’cha got?”

            Menendez nodded for the detective to follow him towards the bedroom of the victim’s apartment in Arlington, Virginia.  They stood in the doorway watching forensics snap pictures of the scene.  There was a bullet hole near the center of the door and a partial shoe print was adjacent the knob.  In the middle of the chaos that surrounded them was a woman’s body on the floor outlined in tape next to a king-sized bed.  She was wearing a black, silk cocktail dress and open-toe, black Patten leather pumps. 

            “Janice Smalls… DOA… 27.  From the position of her body and the cap to the back of her head, she probably didn’t know it was coming,” Menendez said.  “She was a pretty girl.  Smart too – graduated from Yale.  She has brides magazines all over the place – must have been planning her wedding.”

            Walking inside, Detective Tina Johnson looked around the enormous master bedroom.  She noted the crown molding, posh furniture, 52” flat screen TV, and a jewelry box on the chest of drawers.  There was costume jewelry that had to cost a fortune and gold and gemstone rings and necklaces that had to cost even more.  Johnson waited until the photos of the body were taken.  She put on her gloves and lifted the deceased woman’s hand, noticing at least a three carat diamond ring on the victim’s finger.  Couldn’t have been a robbery, she thought and then stood observing a blotch of red from across the room.  She walked over to the sliding glass door that led to a balcony.  There was blood on the door handle. 

            “We took a sample and we’re dusting for fingerprints now,” Menendez said. 

            Johnson couldn’t help notice that Menendez was sweating.  He tended to perspire without even the slightest overexertion.  Murder cases made his perspiration worse and thus his body odor.

            “Any witnesses?” Johnson asked.

            With an accent from New York or maybe Jersey, Menendez said, “Nosy neighbors were lining up to see something gruesome, but the couple from 3B said they heard a gun shot and shortly thereafter they heard a woman scream.  The guy next door said moments after the shot he saw someone run out of the apartment through his peephole.”

            “Male or female?”

            “He couldn’t tell.  The person wore a cloak.”

            Besides the count, how many men wear a cloak? Johnson thought.  “Just one gun shot?”

            Menendez combed back his wet hair.  “Yeah, there’s only one bullet hole and one casing,” he replied.

            That didn’t make sense.  Johnson walked back to the body, knelt down and tilted the woman’s head so she could get a better look.  She gently lifted the victim’s hair to see the entry wound.  Blood seeped out of one area.  She looked at the hole in the door.  Unless the killer screamed, there were more than two people in the apartment, and there had to be more than two shots fired, she thought.  Just as she was about to ask if family had been notified, she heard loud commotion from the other room.  She walked out of the bedroom.  In the foyer was an older woman dressed in a mink coat.  She wore diamond earrings and stood next to a man who looked as if he’d stepped off a photo shoot for GQ. 

            “This is my daughter’s house.  The neighbor’s called me.  I know something is terribly wrong,” the woman protested. 

            Telling family about the fate of a deceased loved one was what Johnson hated most about her job.  She walked to the distraught woman, trying to find the words to console her but realized there were no words in the English dictionary, and English was the only language she spoke.  As Johnson reached out to take the elderly woman’s hand, the woman collapsed on the floor.  Johnson turned around to see the stretcher with Janice Smalls’ body covered in a white sheet.  She helped the handsome man lift Mrs. Emily Smalls to her feet.  

            “I’m sorry, ma’am.  Your daughter is gone... she died,” Johnson said. 

            “What did they do to my daughter,” Emily Smalls wailed.

            “You may want to wait until the coroner has time to…”

            “I want to see my baby,” cried Mrs. Smalls.

            Johnson swallowed and looked into the woman’s sorrowful eyes.  Though she could empathize with the woman’s pain, something bothered her.  It was the way Mrs. Smalls responded to her daughter's death that made Tina Johnson wonder if she had an idea who was responsible.  Who are they that she was referring to?  Against her better judgment she nodded for EMS to lift the covering.  Mrs. Smalls would have to identify her daughter soon enough, Johnson thought.  It was difficult to tell the color of the Janice Smalls hair as it was dyed with red blood.  Still, she looked peaceful, as peaceful as one could look laying dead on a stretcher. 

            “Call another bus,” Johnson commanded as Mrs. Smalls lost consciousness. 

Dominique Watson didn’t have time to slip on her heals or grab her coat for that matter.  She barely had time to close the door when she saw the gunman standing in the living room.  She managed to shut and lock the door just before the bullet penetrated the wood bedroom door and skinned her hand.  She ran to the balcony, hastily climbed the railing and didn’t hesitate to jump to the oak tree.  She tore her stockings and broke her pinky finger as she clumsily fell down the side, barely able to grasp the oak for dear life.  She fell to the ground.  For a moment she didn’t know if she could move, but she got up.  She limped in the darkness down the residential neighborhood to 23rd Street.  People who stood outside the community restaurants and bars moved out of her way as if she was a vagabond.  She waived down a taxi.  The first driver took one look at her and sped by.  Normally she’d think it was racial profiling, but then she thought, if she were a taxi driver she may not have picked herself up.  The second taxi driver took his chances.  The middle-aged Pakistani needed the fare.  She looked a mess.  Her hair, which was neatly in a bun, was now shaggy and all over her face.  Her rich brown skin was dotted with blood and there was a cut on her face where a limb nicked her.  Her expensive dress and hosiery were torn and she was barefooted.  She was definitely in some type of trouble, but the Middle Eastern man learned a long time ago to mind his own business.  He was paid to drive people around not play social worker.  He had his doubts if he should pick her up, but she was a woman and he felt if worse came to worse he could handle her. 

            Dominique jumped in the car and scooted down into the seat. 

            “Let me see some money,” the driver said before he left the curb. 

            Dominique thanked God for listening to her mother.  On her very first date when she was a teenager, her mother told her to always keep money in her bra in case of emergencies.  She pulled out a fifty and tossed it to the front seat. 

            “Foggy Bottom.  Hurry!”

 

Vinny Michaels was hiding in the hall closet when Janice Smalls came into her apartment.  She turned the hallway light on and walked to the bedroom.  He heard her talking to someone and figured she was on the phone because he didn’t hear any response.  He tiptoed towards her bedroom, placing the silencer on his 45 as he reached the doorway.  Typically he liked to torture his victims with scare tactics and see the frightened look on their face as they took the bullet, but he had dinner plans and didn’t want to be late.  He shot her in the back of the head and turned to walk away, twisting the silencer off the gun.  Just as he got to the door, he thought he heard a sound… movement.  It couldn’t have been his contract.  There was no way she could have survived that close range bullet wound.  Pretending to leave the premises, he opened the front door and closed it, and he heard the movement again.  He walked towards the bedroom and saw a woman kneeling next to Small’s body.  She looked up, and before he could run inside the bedroom, she closed the door and locked it.  He shot the door, kicked it in and rushed inside, but the woman had already jumped out the window.  He saw her lying on the ground.

            It’s their lucky day.  They got two for the price of one, he thought.

            He walked outside to make sure the woman was dead, but she was gone.  There were only traces of her blood.  This unnerved him, but he did the job that he was paid to do.  That’s what he kept telling himself.  The problem was that he left a loose end, and even though he’d still get paid half a million dollars, he couldn’t live with the thought of doing such sloppy work.  He had a reputation to consider.  People paid him top dollar because he never left traces of evidence. 

            Michaels high-tailed it out of site before the cops arrived.  From a distance he saw them storm into the building like a stampede of wild elephants.  He’d always wanted to be cop, but his line of business paid more, and his father always told him to make as much money as he could.  He walked leisurely to his car, not able to get the woman’s face out of his mind.  She had large brown eyes, warm brown skin, high cheek bones and a button nose.  He’d seen her before.  But where?  He couldn’t place her face.  Just as he put the key in the ignition of his car, he remembered… the locket. 

Until Sunday

I miss my son, but I have to tell you that I really enjoyed this week.  It’s been nice just doing me, not having to cook a full course dinner.  Last night for dinner I had grits, bacon and eggs and I was completely satisfied.  I read my book in the quiet of my house.  There were no kids running in and out, no dog chasing after my son barking, no swatting flies because the door was left wide open, no TV so loud a deaf person could hear it.  No, mommy, mommy, mommy!  Just peacefulness.  My son will be home on Sunday.  He’ll come in the door with arms wide open and a big smile and say, “Hi Mommy!  I’m home!”  :0)

I love that boy!  

Soul Brothas

Prologue

She’d sworn with every fabric of her being to teach the kids in her neighborhood a lesson.  She was a witch and didn’t spook the neighborhood as much as the kids belittled each other with vulgarity and threats of violence.  It was a damn shame that in this day and age kids were acting as if they were living in the Jim Crow era, she thought.  So early that morning when she heard a five-year-old child say to another, “What chu lookin’ at nigga,” the old Indian woman nearly turned the boy into a frog, but she decided that turning him into an amphibian would not help the boy’s situation, so she changed his father into one instead.  She picked the frog up and zipped him in her housecoat pocket until she got home, and then she put him in a jar and she watched as he tirelessly tried to jump out.  She scolded him until he stopped hopping and listened as he promised with several croaks to amend his prejudice ways and teach his son to be respectful of all races.  Then with a twirl of her wand she set the father free, promising to change him back if he spoke a word to anyone about what happened.  That afternoon, she decided to take the path that ran along the high school and led to the store so she could buy worms for her soup.  As she was passing the high school, she saw the two teenagers in the parking lot.  They were the same two teenagers that she often heard swearing and talking down to each other when she was taking her evening stroll.  She watched as they got into fighter’s stance.  They each had their fist in the air.  Just as both gave each other an uppercut, she twirled her wand.  Lightning struck them and their bodies fell to the ground.

“What are you laughing at nigga?”

I couldn’t believe my ears.  Besides the nonchalant blaring of the word nigger on film and rap songs, I have only heard someone say it (using its malicious connotation) in front of me one other time.

That was twenty years ago.  A white guy in a group that I hung around decided to tell a racist joke with the N-word as the punch line.  I had never been so offended, and it shocked me how one little word could make me want to hall off and punch the guy in the face. 

The childhood adage: “sticks and stones can break my bones but words will never hurt me” was complete bullshit that day.

My boyfriend, Juan Carlos, had to hold me back.  I was outraged.

Later that day, I remember thinking about my mother’s generation and generations before my mother’s generation – having to hear that word roll off the tongues of people constantly.  And I didn’t understand why my own people would use it – especially openly or as a term of endearment.

Anyway, the white guy ended up apologizing to me.  He said he didn’t think I would get angry. 

Fast forward twenty years. 

I’m at the pool with my son.  There are kids selling lemonade across the street.  A little Spanish boy walked to the gate of the pool where we were sitting and asked my son if he’d like some lemonade.  My son said, “No, thank you,” and started laughing because we just saw Dennis the Menace the day before, and he remembered Dennis urinating in the pitcher and passing it off as lemonade.

So, the little boy said to my son, “What are you laughing at nigga?”

My son immediately stopped laughing.  He stood there shocked.  It had been the first time anyone called him that name.   

Being that I was older and experienced many vulgarities in life, I was not as outraged as I was twenty years ago, but I was hurt that my son had to experience such wickedness being spewed upon him.

The little boy didn’t see me initially because I was in a lawn chair with the back facing him.  So when I stood up and turned around, his eyes said what his mouth didn’t, “Oh, fuck!”

Children who heard the kid’s ugly words gathered around. 

I was juggling in my mind what I wanted to say to this kid, knowing that I had to speak carefully. 

In an authoritative voice, I said, “Young man, I am ashamed of you and you should be ashamed of yourself.”

This white pre-teen shouted, “Yeah, we don’t tolerate racism on our block.”

A Spanish kid said, “If you’re going to talk like that then you can’t play with us anymore.”

The little boy looked at me as if to say, please make them stop. 

“You need to apologize.  That is a mean and hurtful word.  Don’t you ever say that again,” I said.

(For those of you thinking he has the right to say whatever he pleases, I say, so do I ;0)

“Yes, ma’am, I’m sorry,” the little boy replied and then walked away.

The kids who were gathered around jumped in the pool.

My son walked over to me and said, “I couldn’t believe my ears.  I don’t care that he’s a kid; you should have cussed him out.”

I laughed and replied, “I can understand your anger, but two wrongs don’t make a right.”

OMG – My Baby Boy is Going to Leave Me

I wasn’t prepared for this.  My son said he wants to stay with his father for the entire summer.  Many single moms like me may have rejoiced with this opportunity. 

Shoot – I barely have time to use the bathroom in peace.  And my son wears out my name like that annoying child on The Family Guy.  Every time I turn around, it’s “Mommy can I…” 

If my son were to stay with his father, I’d have an entire summer with a clean house. 

I wouldn’t have to come home fussing about crap being everywhere it shouldn’t.  I would have quiet.  I’d be able to just do me without thinking of my son’s needs first. 

I wouldn’t have to cook dinner every night.  I could actually watch whatever program I wanted without feuding with him about turning the channel when a commercial came on.

But Lord knows I’d miss that loud-ass kid.  I’d miss him blasting some B-bop on YouTube.  I’d miss him hogging the big couch as he watched Nickelodeon.  I’d even miss him complaining about having to walk the dog that he begged me to adopt. 

I asked him why he wanted to leave, and he said he’d be bored.  With daycare costing a fortune and my son being a mature young man, he’d have to stay home. 

Instead he wants to work at his father’s company washing cars so he could make some extra money. 

How could I say no to him wanting to do something positive for himself?

How could I say no to him wanting to spend time with his father?

I suppose him leaving for the summer would prepare me for the day he actually leaves the nest and goes off to college.

After I sulked for a few minutes, I said into the phone, “But I’ll miss you.”

My son replied in his adolescent voice, “Daddy lives right down the street, and I’ll see you on the weekends, mommy.”

I laughed aloud but then thought, OMG – My baby boy is going to leave me!

A Date With Destiny - Fiction

I was summoned to come and say goodbye to my mother before she died.  Even though I knew for months that my mother was sick, I was ill prepared for such a phone call.  I simply wasn’t ready.  But then again, who is ready for death?  As much as I tried, I couldn’t wrap my head around the notion that, except for family photos and video tape, I’d never see her again.  I’d never be able to call her for advice and lean my head on her shoulders.  She was more than my mother.  She was my best friend.  Mournful of my impending loss, I strained my voice to tell God how much I hated him.  He is the all mighty and the all powerful.  How could he take her away from me?  For a moment, I was angry with my mother too.  Why couldn’t she fight harder?  How could she let her soul slip away?  How could she leave me here on earth to deal with life without her presence, encouragement, love and support?  These were only some of the feelings that violated my mind. 

Other thoughts made me cringe.  On the drive to the hospital I felt as if it was a beautiful day to die.  The sky was the most magnificent shade of blue, and at six o’clock in the morning, the weather was already seventy-five degrees.   I spent more time looking at the sky than at the cars that were racing in front of me, and for a fleeting moment, I considered accelerating to the point of dangerously losing control, but hurting someone else in the process of ending my own life kept my foot from flooring the accelerator. 

Somehow, without being mindful of my surroundings, I made it to the hospital.  My mother was lying on the bed.  She looked well older than her sixty years.  Her hand was cool; her body still.  I sat there, holding her and crying hysterically as the gurgling in her throat became even more intense.   And then I gasped and had a crazy sense of relief.  My mother smiled after taking her last breath. 

TO BE CONTINUED

End of Chapter One - Murder In Queen County

“Just give it to him,” Monica said.

Annette shook her head and then handed over her license. 

The Sherriff walked away.

“He can’t do that!” Annette said with her voice slightly elevated. 

Monica combed her hair back with her fingers and said, “Calm down.  He can and he did.  He’s just being a prick because he obviously has nothing better to do.”

“I’m not used to these backwards hillbillies.”

“And I am?  Look, we’re both tired and worn.  We’ll find a hotel and get settled and then go get a bite to eat.  Just let me do the talking.”

“Fine.”

The Sherriff came back to the car and threw the licenses in the open window.

“Handle it,” Annette said, turning to look out of the passenger’s side window.

“Are we free to go?” Monica said with pierced lips to the Sherriff.

“Yeah, you free to get out this town.  We don’t take kindly to strangers in these parts,” the Sherriff replied.

“Actually, we’re staying for awhile.  Thought this may be a good place to lay down some roots,” Monica retorted in an accent that mocked the Sherriff’s southern drawl.  “Matter fact, can you tell us where we might find a hotel to lay our head for the evening?”

“Ain’t none,” the Sherriff said.

“From the looks of this place, I know you don’t have a Taj Mahal, but you’re telling me that you don’t have a Sheraton, a Hilton, a Comfort Inn, a Motel 6?”

“Ain’t no need,” the Sherriff said.

“But they have a Bed and Breakfast,” Annette said, pointing to a wooden sign up ahead. 

“Ain’t no vacancies,” the Sherriff said.

Monica blew out a gasp of air and nodded.  “Ok, Mr. Sherriff man, you win.  We’ll leave.”

“And don’t come back now, you hear,” the Sherriff said, as he turned around.

Monica waited until he took one step and then put her gear in drive.  She spun around him and into a parking spot in front of the Bed and Breakfast.  “Wait here.  I’ll check us in,” she said to Annette, jetting out of the car.

Before the Sherriff was able to run into the lobby, the clerk at the Bed and Breakfast handed Monica a pair of keys. 

Monica turned around to face the Sherriff and waived the key.  “You were wrong Sherriff.  They had one room left.” 

Woman’s Festival

The Women’s Festival during the Memorial Day weekend in Charlottesville, VA was one of the best and worst times of my life.  I’ll start with the best.  I made new friends, and talked around a campfire/ campsite as if I knew them for years.  We told our most intimate secrets and laughed and cried together.  It was truly a three-day love fest.  There were women from every walk of life… the young, middle-aged, elderly, black, white, Spanish, Asian, Indian, Canadian… and all with a common commonality: Women coming together to meet old and new friends, to relax and enjoy a peaceful, fun-filled camping retreat while relishing the music, food and vendors and honoring United States Veterans. 

Though, I got more than my money’s worth by trying not to notice the sunbathers (God love them... I couldn't do it), the music was out of this world.  Watching the musicians play from the afternoon until the stars lit the sky was nothing short of pure delight.  I especially liked Sonia, who I video recorded for your listening pleasure (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KgCTXPAmdRc).  She is a hint of soul, a splash of folk and a sprinkle of blues.  All of which make perfection.  Ellis was awesome as well and very personable.  At present, I don’t typically like folk music, but she combines a beautiful voice, stupendous ability to pluck at strings, along with a goofy laugh that would make even a homophobe smile (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tBqeHs1rScg). 

Now, I’ll speak of the dreadfulness.  Although I didn’t have to haul all the camping gear (tent, sleeping bags, tarps, pillow, lanterns, barbeque pit, dishes, food, bug spray, water, clothes, alcoholic beverages, cigarettes, etc.) to the wooded site, because the crew attached a trailer to their three-wheeler and hauled it, I did have to put up the tent (and then later tear it down).  OMG!  Who do they get to write the instructions… foreign exchange students!  And a little hint of advice, always, and I mean ALWAYS come with enough daylight because there is no switch you can flick in the middle of the wilderness.  And please remember to bring a battery operated fan because there is no AC.  Also, you may want to be cute, but makeup and hot sweltering temperatures do not match.  And finally, there will be bugs and LOTS of them, including flying roaches (hence the worst time of my life), so bring plenty of bug spray. :0) All in all, I was a trooper and I roughed it out and became one with the wilderness.  All my bug bites can attest to that fact.

It’s sad to admit, I was a Brownie and a Girl Scout, but camping is not for me.  Still, I would come back to Camp Out every year, but next year, I might cut back on some bugs and stay in a cabin!  There's no shame in my game!  Bottom line, I had such a great time.  I'll have memories that will last a lifetime.