I met Sheila Jackson about two years ago. Here’s a picture of us from an event in 2009.
Sheila Jackson and Shelia Goss
She has a gentle spirit and she’s genuine. I’m proud to showcase her today as she releases her brand new book - Through the Eyes of God.
Through The Eyes of God,exposes the people and places —community, family, friends, and workplace— that are responsible for causing feelings of unworthiness, self-hatred, and an identity crisis in those that are seeking acceptance and love. It gives healing to the overall person —mind, body, and soul. It is universal, in that it crosses all socioeconomic backgrounds, races, classes and genders; because we all have struggled at some point in our lives with the need to be validated by others.
Excerpt from Through the Eyes of God
If you would just take a moment out of your busy schedule to watch
and observe the people that you come in contact with from day to day, you
might see that many of them are suffering from depression, an identity
crisis, and/or weight issues. You do not have to be a psychologist to realize
that something has gone terribly wrong in the world in which you live.
More than ever, people are confused as to who they are and what is considered
to be beautiful. Even the television shows and magazines are consumed
with issues of this nature. You see what the world wants you to see
and feel about yourself. You have been programmed and brainwashed into
the world’s system of beauty.
Drug addicts and alcoholics in Hollywood are setting false examples of
what real beauty is, when in reality, most of them are not happy with who
they are. If they were, rehabilitation centers would not be accepting them at
an alarming rate.
We have allowed celebrities who are breaking the law, driving drunk,
having babies out of wedlock, engaging in high profile infidelity, pill popping,
and getting intoxicated to set the standards of beauty for us. Has
anyone taken notice? These are the things that are captivating our young
impressionable kids. They are growing up in a society that cares more about
their rib cages showing through their skin than looking healthy and fit.
These are the images that our children are being exposed to everyday, and
we wonder why they are dying to be thin, hip, and cool. What they see
when they are looking at their favorite celebrities are those who are starving
themselves with unsuccessful fad diets or causing themselves to vomit so
they can fit into a size zero.
Society has become overly obsessed with self-image until it has resulted
in people taking extreme measures to be perfect and to meet standards that
are unobtainable. In the past, it appeared as though women were the only
ones that struggled with a low self-image, but today men are quickly following
the trail behind them.
MORE ABOUT SHEILA JACKSON
Sheila L. Jackson is the author of The Enemy Within and Through the Eyes of God . Sheila has penned many articles, such as: Only the Strong Survive, Count it all Joy, and Suffering in Silence. She lives in Shreveport, Louisiana with her husband, Timothy and two daughters, Brittany and Amber. Mrs. Jackson is an anointed speaker, teacher, and writer that utilize her gifts to meet the need of others. She serves as a Missionary in her church and community— carrying the Word of God to those in need of spiritual soul food. Website: www.sheilaljackson2.com
I’m a guest blogger over on AuthorsLatino.com. Below is an excerpt from my post titled “Add Black to Your Shopping Cart This Holiday Season.”
This Christmas season why not buy books for gifts. Whether the person likes romance, contemporary fiction, mysteries, science fiction or non-fiction, there’s a book out there to fit a variety of tastes. While doing your shopping don’t forget about picking up books by people of color. Many books by African-Americans and other nationalities sometimes go unnoticed unless it’s part of pop culture.
Electa Rome Parks is today’s guest. Her new book Diary of a Stalker is a must have for any book lovers collection. The book is a prime example of what happens when romance gets a little twisted.
What have you been doing since your last book release?
It has been almost 2.4 years since my last book release, Ladies’ Night Out. Wow, I can’t believe time has flown by so quickly.
What have I been doing? Well, I have been going through some serious professional changes. The kind where you want to pull out your hair, shed some tears, scream a few choice words, have a temper tantrum, start to second guess yourself and eventually realize all you can do is get down on your knees, pray about it and hand it over to God. Wow! I guess you were not expecting all that.
And, I’ve been doing what I always do—writing. Working on various manuscripts. Luckily, I’ve rediscovered blogging and found it to be a great therapeutic release. I pulled away from the literary industry somewhat because of disappointments, politics and frustrations that took their toll on me once I pulled off the rose-colored glasses. However, as much as I wanted to distance myself and take a break from writing, as usual, it consumed my soul and pulled me right back into the fold. It wouldn’t release its strong grip on my being and so here we are.
What was the last book you read that made an impact on your life?
I recently reread Push by Sapphire. I read it initially back in 1997/1998 when it was first released. It is such a raw, powerful story that almost dares the reader to walk away without feeling something within the depth of your soul. It speaks to the very core of of your heart and humanity. I’m so pleased and truly happy for the author; that this fabulous read was brought to the big screen with the support of Tyler Perry and Oprah Winfrey. It gives me renewed hope that you can’t keep literature that is true and real and powerful—that speaks to you, touches you and changes you somehow—down. It eventually rises to the top.
Sometimes books by Black authors are called Urban fiction regardless of the content. How would you categorize your new book Diary of a Stalker?
I would classify my book, Diary of a Stalker, as a contemporary erotic work of fiction. I’ve never been good with titles and pigeonholes that attempt to constrain creativity, box us in, and sap originality. The characters in Diary of a Stalker could easily be changed to non African Americans and the storyline would still remain strong and realistic with universal appeal.
Have you or someone you know ever been stalked?
I can honestly say that I’ve never, ever been stalked nor have I personally known anyone that has been stalked. Now, if you had posed the question a little differently and asked me if I had ever stalked anyone, you may have received a different and interesting answer. Just kidding, Shelia!
What’s one thing(s) you learned about yourself while writing this book?
Shelia, this is a great, timely question because I have discovered or should I say confirmed many facts about myself during the course of writing and completing Diary of a Stalker. First of all, let me say, I think this was one of the quickest books I have ever written. It was like there was a passion and fire lit underneath me that consumed me, that burned from within and I couldn’t tell the story fast enough.
Lessons learned: I’ve learned that writing is a critical part of my very being, much like breathing. No matter what changes the industry may bring, I’m still going to write. That’s an absolute, undeniable fact. I’ve learned that I truly do love writing and it loves me back ten-fold. I’m faithful to it and it rewards me by bringing unbridled joy and happiness to my life.
I’ve learned that I can try to run and hide, but it’s always going to seek me out, find me, much like a stalker, and remind me who and what I really am. That can’t be denied or taken away or diminished. Just like I’ll die an African American woman, I’ll also die with the spirit and soul of a writer.
I’ve learned that writing speaks to me like no other. . . regardless of whatever goes down, even if I have to write for free and for my eyes only, I’ll still rise because if you know who you are—all the rest doesn’t even matter. What’s meant for me is meant for me and no one or any entity can take that away. With a strong voice meant to be heard, I’ll strive and survive.
About Diary of a Stalker:
Xavier Preston is tall, dark and handsome and the problem is that he knows it. He’s a best-selling author who is accustomed to adoring female fans, both young and old, flirting with him, throwing themselves shamelessly at him and trying to get between more than the covers of his novels. And he has always been more than willing to accommodate their needs and desires. However, his womanizing days have finally ended. . . he’s engaged to a beautiful woman, Kendall, and he’s decided to walk the straight and narrow. Or has he?
From outside appearances, the very stunning Pilar has it all—a great career, a beautiful home and a trust fund that keeps her financially secure. However, looks can be deceiving. All that glitters isn’t gold. Pilar is searching for her one, perfect soulmate. And she thinks she has found him in Xavier. She believes in going after what she wants with a vengeance. . . and she wants Xavier. And that is not negotiable.
When Xavier meets his fanatical fan, Pilar, who declares herself his #1 fan, he gets much more than he bargained for. What starts out as a one-night stand quickly spirals out of control and into a dangerous game of obsession and pain with both parties playing to win.
Think you know what goes on behind the literary scene? Think again.
More about the author:
Electa Rome Parks currently resides outside Atlanta, Georgia. After successfully self-publishing her debut novel, The Ties That Bind, New American Library, a division of Penguin Group, bought the rights. Electa signed a three-book deal with New American Library. All three books were immediately chosen as Black Expressions Book Club main selections and embraced as Books of the Month by book clubs across the country. Dubbed a “book club favorite,” avid readers have embraced Electa’s true to life characters that tackle prevalent and heavy hitting issues.
Since then Electa has become a bestselling author of several other mainstream (Loose Ends and Almost Doesn’t Count) and erotic (These Are My Confessions and Ladies’ Night Out) novels with Penguin Group and HarperCollins. The self-proclaimed, Queen of Real, Electa has been a frequent guest on radio shows, has been nominated for many industry awards and has been interviewed by newspapers, AOL’s Black Voices, Vibe Vixen, Upscale Magazine, Today’s Black Woman, Rolling Out and Booking Matters, to name just a few. With a BA degree in marketing and a minor in sociology, she is following her true passion and working on her next novel.
To find out when and where Electa will be in your area, check out her website at www.electaromeparks.com or www.myspace.com/author_chick. To share your thoughts with Electa regarding her work or to schedule an event, please e-mail her at: novelideal@aol.com.
I’m a guest blogger on Novel Spaces this week. Check out the post when you get a chance:
The relationship between a writer and a reader can equate to a love affair. First it’s the courting period. Before the first date, the writer must introduce themselves and their book title. The title should be catchy; something easy for the reader to remember. Don’t be shy. Tease the reader with a short synopsis about your books.
Three things are certain on the current earth and they are life, death and change. In the past I experienced all three when dealing with the murder of my beloved brother, death of my grandparents, aunts, uncles, friends, student and cousins; through it all I had different experiences with each and everyone. But, one constant emotion arouse and that was anger towards God and when I expressed that anger to my Christian family guilt developed. My family often questioned my sanity to even think about being mad at God which caused me to question my emotions and my ability to be mad at the Most High.
My anger put me in a quandary of my faith. Through that process my journey began, to find answers to, death, grieving, God, healing and can I be mad at God. So, in 2007 to 2009 I went on a journey to research the bible. Through my path to research and healing I created a book to assist all people grow better in grief and grieving. My book entitled No More Good-Byes:What the Bible Say’s About Winning In Grief helped turn my anger into a closer relationship with my Father God through His Son Jesus. I know you may ask how can someone be mad at God and build a closer relationship? Through my anger I realized, God love for me never changed. That showed me God is not like man and He is big enough and strong enough to handle anything I may try to throw at Him, even anger. His love for me in spite of me caused me to love and understand my Father God more.
My healing drove me to action because according to the Word of God He comforts us in our day of trouble so we can comfort others. By God comforting me I was driven to comfort others by created the book, the free website www.JoyWillCome.com and now my documentary to assist others in their grief, grieving and healing process.
MAD BELIEVER
My new project is not that new I have been working on my documentary “Mad Believer” for over 5 years. Mad Believer will look at the life and murder of my 16 year old brother Daniel Tyrone Taylor. The film will also explore my anger towards God because of death and finding answers to grieving, healing and can I be mad at God? After years of struggle I have completed taping and is presently in the editing stage. Editing is a very expensive process and I am in need of any and all assistance to move forward. If you are willing to help please complete one or all of the following actions
Action 1 - Please pray that God continues to guide and bless me on this journey
Action 3 - Please order and/or sell book(s) to your friends, family and church (for further information read below in the How To Order Section)
Action 4 - Send a donation of any amount to the address Ruby L. Taylor/JoyWillCome
917 Columbia Avenue Suite 123 Lancaster, PA 17603
About Ruby TaylorMs. Taylor received her Bachelor’s in Social Work from Virginia Union University and her Masters of Social Work from Howard University School of Social Work. Her first book, “Aunt Ruby, Do I Look Like God?” was released in 2004. How To Order “No More Good-Byes” can be purchased online at www.joywillcome.com/store.html
For more information on the book and Ms. Taylor’s work, go to www.joywillcome.com or contact Ruby Taylor.
Mail Order forms and PayPal payments are available at www.joywillcome.com/store.html
The mail order form is at the the bottom of the page (complete information and click submit or send check, a letter with the amount of books and return address) your paypal payment is available by clicking in the middle of the store page the paypal buy now button.
A funny thing happened to me at the thrift store. As I was scanning the bookshelves for the latest literary cast-offs my daughter cried out to me after unearthing a slightly worn copy of my debut novel, Soon and Very Soon-with a signature, no less. I haven’t done many of these. This gave me pause. I was insulted. I felt the way I did when I found my favorite cassette tape of all time, New Edition’s NE Heartbreak album in the bargain bin at Sam Goody record store. Surely, it was a mistake. The owner must have been like those clueless sad-sacks who give away one-of-a-kind artwork only to find it out its worth later on the Antique’s Roadshow.
I made my daughter take me to the exact same spot where she found it. I examine the void it left on the shelf between an outdated volume of the Childcraft encyclopedia and another book as if it would give me some clue as to who could have given my baby away. I want to know this person’s identity more than anything. See, my book only came out seven months ago, and we were in my neighborhood. I was sure I could crack the case. That’s only a twenty-five to thirty mile radius to cover. Not exactly a case for Scotland Yard. I narrow the field of known residents that I had told about the book or sold the book to. Just when I think I have a list compiled, I think how ridiculous this whole thing is. How do you tactfully ask someone, did you happen to pitch my book out with your argyle sweater and Hammer pants? Was there no one you could personally give the book to? Ever hear of paperback swap, for goodness sake.
There had to be a logical explanation. The writer in me had me sit down at the kiddy desk set they were selling for just $7 to ponder a few possible ones. Maybe this person had a husband like mine who constantly threatens, “Don’t bring another book in this house.” But of course this person couldn’t resist my realistic tale about two pastors that marry and combine their churches. So she took the risk and discarded the evidence immediately after the last page. Yeah, that’s it.
Just when I thought I could rest a bit after a major signing at my sorority’s convention at the end of this month. Yeah, maybe I’ll do the Baltimore Book Festival in September, then the Capitol Book Festival. I’ve got a sequel to write. I can’t possibly create and promote simultaneously. Soon and Very Soon will do alright. Wrong. I got a few more calls to make, connections to follow-up on and weekends to book with signings.
“Look mommy, you’ve got that book.”
That’s my six year old who has gotten good at reading the spin of books. She gets caught up on the last syllable of Terri McMillan’s last name as she spots the hardback copy of A Day Late and a Dollar Short. I do own that book. I stood in line for hours while pregnant to get it signed at the crowded-to-overflowing Karibu books in the Bowie Town Center (Don’t get me started. That’s a whole nother lament). I would have loved to get it for $2.10. Just thirty more cents than my book was going for at the Waldorf Thrift Store.
God has a sense of humor. Just as I was about to grab my book up and discreetly pay for it at the counter like it was the last scandal sheet written about me left on the newsstand, I realized I’ve gotten some real good books here. I wasn’t thinking, poor Audre Lorde when I picked her book of poems up and added it to my library. I’ve found, read and treasured, Grisham, Jakes, Gaines, and Steele.
I could take it home, wipe the red colored pencil price tag off with a bay wipe and add it to the other books packed to go to Florida-for sale for $15 a pop. Generic signature could easily be personalized on the spot. Dead wrong-maybe, maybe not. ( I put this is print so I wouldn’t be tempted to do that)
I left the copy of Soon and Very Soon on the shelf next to the outdated volume of the Childcraft encyclopedia and the other book. God has plans for that book right there. My goal was that it would be widely read and that it would be a blessing to the reader. I couldn’t think of a better place for that goal to be accomplished.
### ABOUT SHERRYLE Sherryle Kiser Jackson is the author of Soon and Very Soon and the soon to be released novel, The Manual (October 2009), which is dedicated to her only living aunt, Janette. Her passion is to one day preserve the graceful elegance of her nine aunts and their churching traditions in a Black Memorabilia collection called Church Lady Ways. THE MANUAL: 304 PAGES/ ISBN: 1601629354/ OCT. 2009/ URBAN CHRISTIAN
Sherryle Jackson describes her novels as too real to be preachy, Biblically based, and out-the-Christian-box. She has also branded herself as a book club’s best friend, making sure to be accessible to book club’s either in person or by phone conferencing during her 2009 book tour schedule. To schedule speaking engagements, book signings, online/telephone conference contact Author, Sherryle Jackson at www.sherrylejackson.com or email: sherrylek@aol.com
“I’m pleased to have this opportunity to introduce you to CORNERED, my newest thriller, which hit stores last month. What’s the book about? I like to think of CORNERED as my ultimate, family-in-jeopardy suspense novel. It’s about a family man who has some very dangerous secrets in his past . .. and those secrets suddenly come back to haunt him and his family in ways he never imagined possible.
I’ve always strived to write a fast-paced thriller, but in CORNERED, I wanted to pull out all of the stops and write a story that was impossible to put down. Did I succeed? Pick up the book and find out!
In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this excerpt . . .”
CORNERED
by Brandon Massey
In Stores Now
With Nowhere To Run…
Corey Webb is living the American dream—successful business, beautiful wife, gifted daughter—but the dream he worked so hard to achieve is about to become a nightmare. When a chance encounter brings him face to face with the dark past he’d long since left behind, Corey knows the threat to his life and family could be deadly.
…It’s Do Or Die
Unpredictable, intelligent, and terrifyingly ruthless, Corey’s stalker will settle for nothing less than complete submission. He’ll stop at nothing, and sacrifice anyone, to get what he wants. There’s no point in running, no chance of hiding, and no hope for Corey and his family to escape unscathed…
Excerpt from Chapter 1:
The morning that Corey Webb’s past finally caught up with him, he was taking his daughter to a doctor’s appointment.
Tuesday, June 10, began hot, windless, and bright. The clear sky was cobalt blue, the blistering sun giving it the gloss of a glazed porcelain bowl. Although it was two weeks before the first day of summer, the temperature was forecast to peak in the mid-nineties, the heat worsened by a strength-sapping humidity that would guarantee thousands of air conditioners cranked to the max throughout metro Atlanta.
Cool air humming from the vents of his black BMW sedan, Corey navigated the crawling rush-hour traffic on Haynes Bridge Road in Alpharetta. His wife, Simone, and their nine-year-old daughter, Jada, were debating an R&B song that had been playing on the radio, a track apparently titled “Get Me Some.” Corey had changed stations within five seconds of hearing the song’s lewd hook—and had been treated to Jada singing the rest of it word for word in a pitch- perfect voice, drawing a gasp from Simone and a blush from Corey.
“I can’t believe you knew the words to that awful song, Jada,” Simone was saying. “And you tell me you can’t recall where you’ve heard it, which I simply do not accept.”
Corey had to admit that even after all these years, he got a kick out of watching Simone play mom. With her penny- brown eyes, jet-black hair styled in a cute bob, milk-chocolate complexion, and prominent dimples, she might have been a fresh-faced coed, not a thirty-four-year-old woman with a PhD in clinical psychology.
She was a great mother, though. He liked watching her at work.
Twisted around in the passenger seat, Simone subjected Jada to her penetrating gaze and awaited a satisfactory answer.
“Mom, I said somebody at school played it on their phone,” Jada pleaded from the backseat.
Keeping quiet, letting Simone handle this her way, Corey glanced in the rearview mirror. Jada had pecan-brown skin, gray eyes, thick dark eyebrows, black hair woven into tight cornrows. He’d once worn his hair like that when he was a kid. It struck him that the Corey from back then and his daughter looked so much alike they could have been twins.
“Who’s this somebody?” Simone asked. Her voice carried a gentle breeze of her Alabama accent. “Give me a name. I want to talk to their parents.”
Last month, Jada had completed fourth grade at Alpharetta Elementary. She currently attended a three-week summer program in Roswell for gifted students. Nevertheless, high-performing youngsters, like all other kids, obviously found the time to enjoy lascivious songs that would have shamed their parents, and they did it on their cutting- edge cell phones that performed every conceivable task short of whisking you to the moon.
Sometimes, when listening to his daughter talk about what she and her classmates did these days, Corey felt as if he had grown up in the Middle Ages.
“Somebody,” Jada said. “I don’t remember who it was. Everyone in class has a phone except me. When can I get a phone?”
Corey held back a smile. His girl was a clever one. When you couldn’t win the debate, change the debate.
“Don’t try to change the subject,” Simone said.
Jada frowned, caught red-handed. A chuckle slipped out of Corey.
Simone turned to him. “Why are you laughing? This is serious. Your daughter was singing about having sex.”
“No, I wasn’t, Mom,” Jada said. “I was singing about getting some till the morning comes.”
It took every ounce of willpower in Corey to hold back a laugh. Simone flashed him a deadly, don’t-you-dare-laugh glower.
Corey cleared his throat. “Umm, that’s not the kind of song you should be singing, Pumpkin. Seriously.”
“Why not?” Jada asked.
“It’s a song for adults, that’s why,” Simone said. “It’s not appropriate for you to sing. Understood?”
“Okay,” Jada said with a sigh. “Then I won’t sing it any more.”
“Good,” Simone said. “And if you hear one of your friends play it again on their phone or iPod or whatever else, you’ll tell me who did it, because none of the children in your class should be listening to that song, either.”
“Yes, Mom,” Jada said in a defeated voice. Then she piped up, “But when can I get a phone? Daddy said I could have one.”
Corey cut a glance in the rearview mirror again. Jada was grinning at him. Nine years old going on nineteen.
“You told her that?” Simone asked him. “I thought we had an agreement. No cell phone, at least for a few more years.”
Corey shrugged. “All of her classmates have them.”
“Yeah, Mom, everybody does,” Jada said. “Everybody except me.”
Simone shot him a rebuking look. “Baby, you know I don’t agree with keeping up with the Joneses.”
“Who are the Joneses?” Jada asked. “Do they live near us?”
“It’s just a form of expression, Pumpkin,” Corey said.
“It means getting something you don’t need, only because everyone around you has it,” Simone said. “It’s giving in to peer pressure, which we’ve discussed before.”
“But what if I need a phone?” Jada asked.
“You don’t need a phone, honey,” Simone said. “You want a phone. There’s a world of difference.”
“It could be a good security measure,” Corey said. “We could get one of those phones for kids that would call only the numbers we program into it—like ours and your mother’s.”
“But if we’re doing our jobs as parents and keeping track of our child, she would never have a use for a cell phone.”
“Things don’t always go as planned,” he said. “I like to take extra precautions. At the end of the day, better safe than sorry, don’t you think?”
Simone got quiet. They both knew she could never beat him in a debate about security. He was co-owner of a firm that installed alarms and surveillance systems in residences and businesses throughout the region, and their own house was a marvel of high-tech surveillance and monitoring. Debating the merits of security with him was like debating criminal justice law with a judge.
“You still shouldn’t have promised her a phone before discussing it with me,” Simone said.
“I didn’t exactly promise her a phone.” He looked in the mirror and caught Jada’s eye. “Pumpkin, did I promise you a phone? Didn’t I just say maybe?”
“Yes.” Jada nodded vigorously. “Daddy said maybe, Mom.”
“Didn’t I say that I’d have to discuss it with your mother, first?” he said.
Another eager nod. “Daddy said he’d have to talk to you about it, Mom.”
“See?” Corey grinned at Simone.
“You two co-conspirators are full of it,” Simone said.
She shook her head in what was meant to be an aggravated expression, yet a smile broke through the mask, accentuating those killer dimples. The disciplinarian role she played so well was only an act, Corey knew; her heart was as sweet and soft as melted caramel.
“So can I get my phone?” Jada said.
“Your father and I will discuss the subject later,” Simone said.
“Can you talk about it now?” Jada asked. “Please?”
“Later,” Simone said firmly.
Jada made a whiny sound, but Simone gave her a warning glare, and she fell silent. Simone settled back into her seat, mothering duties concluded for the moment.
Corey took Simone’s hand, squeezed. Glancing at him, she returned the squeeze, lips curved in a soft smile.
On mornings like that one, Corey felt like the luckiest man alive.
Growing up, he’d never imagined that he would one day have a life like this. A beautiful wife. An adorable daughter. A successful business. Most people thought they never got what life owed them, but he considered his own story as proof that sometimes you actually got more than you deserved, that God smiled on sinners and saints alike.
He’d been raised by his grandmother in one of Detroit’s toughest neighborhoods. He’d never met his father, didn’t so much as know the man’s name. As for his mother, she had abandoned him when he was three to follow some long- forgotten Motown crooner to California. She’d died twenty- five years ago with a needle in her arm in a seedy Los Angeles motel.
Grandma Louise, a big-hearted woman from Arkansas with a penchant for quoting Bible scriptures and packing snuff inside her cheek, had done her best to keep him on the straight and narrow, but her old-fashioned teachings couldn’t compete with the siren song of the streets. Considering the things he’d gotten into and the dangerous crowd he’d run with, he should have wound up either in prison, or dead.
But he’d been spared, had escaped the chasm that claimed so many black men just like him. Rarely did a day pass when he did not count his blessings.
Idly scanning the dashboard, he noticed that he had only twenty miles’ worth of gas left in the tank. A QuikTrip convenience store was coming up ahead, the fuel service islands busy as people gassed up on their way to work.
He turned off the road and parked beside the only available pump.
“That time again?” Simone checked the price of the gasoline, clucked her tongue. “My goodness, remember when it was less than a buck a gallon?”
“Those bygone days,” he said.
“Can I help you put the gas in, Daddy?” Jada asked.
“Sure, Pumpkin.”
“Don’t be too long, guys,” Simone said. “It’s twenty to nine. We can’t be late for our appointment.”
Outside the car, Corey let Jada slide his debit card into the card reader slot, enter his PIN, and select the grade of gasoline. He inserted the spout into the tank, and told Jada the total price he wanted to pay. Her gaze riveted on the digits climbing on the price display, she ran her fingers through her cornrows, absently adjusting the tiny black speech processor hooked behind her left ear.
Jada had been born with profound hearing loss. When she was two years old, Corey and Simone had arranged a cochlear implant, a modern medical miracle that served as a prosthetic replacement for the inner ear, electronically stimulating auditory nerve fibers to produce a sense of hearing. Years of intensive speech therapy had enabled Jada to attend mainstream school from kindergarten onward, and she enjoyed as active a social life as any girl her age—Girl Scouts, ballet, play dates, the works.
In spite of her social and academic success, she enjoyed hearing in only one ear, a condition that posed unique challenges when she was in environments where sounds came at her from all directions. That morning, they were taking her to a specialist in Marietta who would evaluate whether she was a good candidate for a bilateral implant: a cochlear implant in her other ear.
“Almost there, Daddy,” Jada said.
Corey squeezed in a few more cents and returned the nozzle to the pump. Jada handed the receipt to him.
“Can I go inside and get something to drink?” she asked.
“Actually, I could use some coffee myself.” He tapped on Simone’s window. “Want some coffee or juice, babe?”
Simone checked her watch; the doctor’s appointment was at nine fifteen, and she was a stickler about being on time. “If you can be quick about it, sure, orange juice would be great.”
“You heard your mother,” Corey said to Jada. “Let’s be quick about it.”
“Yeah!” Jada performed a happy dance.
Together, they went inside the minimart, Jada skipping beside him, her hand in his, swinging his arm around between them as if he were a piece of playground equipment. He directed Jada to the glass-fronted coolers at the back of the store, while he went to the hot beverage station adjacent to the cash register.
He filled a large Styrofoam cup with coffee and flavored it with cream and sugar. Checking his watch, he went to collect Jada.
Hands on her hips, she was examining the brands of orange juice inside the refrigerated display case.
“We’ve gotta go, Pumpkin,” he said.
“I don’t know what kind of orange juice Mom likes,” she said.
Corey started to reply that Simone liked Tropicana, when he noticed someone standing in an aisle a few feet away, observing them.
It was a colossus of a man. Corey stood about five-ten and weighed a hundred and seventy-five, and this guy had at least six or seven inches and a hundred pounds on him. Fairskinned— what Grandma Louise liked to call “high yella”— he wore faded denim overalls over a white T-shirt, muddy work boots, and a tattered Atlanta Braves cap cocked on an unkempt, bushy Afro. A stubbly beard made his pudgy face look soiled.
The guy’s brown eyes were oddly flat, as if they were painted on his face. But Corey realized the guy wasn’t looking at him at all.
He was looking at Jada. Gawking at her.
Jada was a beautiful child, but this man’s intense attention was far from that of an innocently admiring adult. His was the naked leer of a pervert, a parent’s ultimate nightmare.
Oblivious to Corey standing there, concentrating solely on Jada, the man licked his lips, his tongue leaving a glistening trail of saliva.
Disgust and anger wrenched Corey’s gut. He sat his cup on a shelf, grabbed Jada’s hand and pulled her to his side, shielding her from the giant stranger.
The pervert blinked as if awakening from a reverie, and only then did he look at Corey.
His stare was as empty as a scarecrow’s. A chill trickled down Corey’s spine.
Something’s wrong with this guy, he thought. Dude’s elevator doesn’t go all the way to the top.
“Daddy, what is it?” Jada asked. She hadn’t noticed the man.
“We need to go, sweetheart.” He nudged his daughter along with a firm hand on her back.
“But I wanted apple juice.” She looked over her shoulder.
“Don’t look back there. We have to go. We’ll get your apple juice later.”
He ushered Jada outside. The hot air was thick as cotton, but refreshing compared to the bone-deep chill he’d felt inside the minimart.
A man called out: “Corey? Corey Webb? That you, man?”
In midstride, Corey stopped. He knew that voice, that piercing falsetto. He had not heard it in probably fifteen years or so, but he would never forget it.
Could that be who I think it is? Corey wondered . . .
Today is the official release date for Mrs. Black by Angelia Menchan. After reading today’s excerpt, be sure to go order your copy.
Chapter One
“Cinnamon what are you going to do about Brown?” Cinnamon stared out at the lake surrounding her home. Malcolm Black, her best friend since high school and former lover stood several yards behind her, asking a question she wasn’t prepared to answer. She and William Brown had been married over thirty years and as with most marriages there had been ups and downs. Brown had been involved in a series of affairs, Cinnamon and Black had been embroiled in a love affair a couple of years ago. However, for the past eighteen months, she and Brown had focused on being faithful. Brown had fallen off the wagon. She had promised him almost two years before that if he compromised their marriage again she would divorce him. She had also promised Malcolm she would become his wife if that ever occurred. He had been living a celibate lifestyle waiting for her.
Turning to him, she looked into his handsome, dark chocolate-face. It saddened him to see the pain on her beautiful, toffee-colored face. He loved her more than anything in the world and he wanted her for his own. He’d warned Brown, his friend, on more than one occasion.
“What would you have me do Malcolm? I told him to leave our home and he has. Now I need some time to pray and ask God to guide me on this.”
“I understand, but, Cinnamon, you know how I feel about you and I want to marry you, make you my wife…”
“Malcolm, I know and when I marry again, you know it will be you. But right now my life is chaotic. My husband, the father of my children, has decided to have another affair. The husband of the woman decided I needed to know, he also decided to try and blackmail me, once he heard about my books, so what I pray is you’re patient with me.”
“Are you considering staying with him, again?” She could hear the pain in his voice.
“No, I’m not, but I need to plan what I’m going to do. I’ve been married almost thirty-two years. I need to find a way to tell my kids. Aura probably already knows. As the premier attorney in Center City, she might. Muhammad is planning to get married in two months and though Amy is only two years old, she loves her Papoo. I love you Malcolm and a part of me wishes I had been a better woman two years ago.”
“Better how?”
“I wish that instead of having an affair with you, I had left Brown at that time, allowing him to carry on with Khadijah, but I thought I knew best. As stupid as it may sound, I really thought that when he gave up traveling he would be faithful. But, why would he? He has a wife who has looked the other way for decades, taking him back and forgiving him over and over, so now, I finally have what I deserve. Not only that but I openly ran around with you and we’re still close. My guess is that Brown probably doesn’t believe we aren’t still sexual.”
Walking over, he pulled the woman he had loved for almost forty years into his arms. Immediately she started crying. His heart broke, because it took a lot to bring her to tears.
“It would be nice if you waited until the ink was dry on the decree before you moved into my house.” Cinnamon and Malcolm pulled apart at the sound of William Brown’s voice. Malcolm stared at his friend, choosing to say nothing. Cinnamon walked over to her husband, getting close to his face.
“William Brown, this is my home, it was bought with Dubois money. Please give me my key and leave!” He flinched at her words, she had never mentioned the fact that the home they lived in had been hers when they married, that and acres of land.
“Cinnamon, Brown, I’m going to leave now. Cinnamon if you need me, call.” Malcolm prepared to depart.
“That won’t be necessary Malcolm, William is leaving.” Looking from his wife to his friend, William Brown stood his ground. Malcolm nodded to him, placing a kiss on the side of Cinnamon’s mouth, before walking out.
About Angelia Menchan:
Angelia Vernon Menchan, wife, mother, mentor and former Job Corps
Counselor pens her first coming-of-age novel for emerging women.
Mrs. Menchan is the author of several other books and articles. Born
and raised in Ocala Florida, she resides in Jacksonville, Florida.
A quote from Pat about her books: “Any resemblance to those dead or alive is a doggone shame!!!”
Enjoy today’s excerpt from Pat G’Orge Walker’s new novel Somebody’s Sinning in My Bed:
He was so beloved, the thirty-five year old, powerfully built, ultra handsome, tawny-colored, mega church pastor, Reverend Grayson Young. And yet that irony was not lost upon him as he stood rooted to the floor tile of a sex den. At that same moment his cross that he’d normally worn around his neck fell from his pants pocket. He could hear the March wind howl through an open window, testifying no doubt, that finally, he’d emotionally and spiritually traded in his church pulpit for one of a different kind.
So with his legs parted for good balance, he took one last look around the Sweet Bush Lounge. As he shook with anger, his eyes appeared shrunken and he looked deranged. Then the Grammy Award winning, mega star Reverend Grayson Young, aimed the 357 Magnum at where he knew it would do the most good.
“Adulteress!” His head jerked back, a move that caused his smooth, black curly hair to fall about his ears and neck. Suddenly his sable-brown eyes, no longer sunken, went wide as he bellowed, “Wanton Whore!”
There was no turning back as the Reverend Grayson Young used one hand to tip over a nearby votive candle, which quickly ignited the covers on a velvet-backed chair. Satisfied that the fire would purify whatever evil was within the sex den, he turned around and used his other hand to pull the trigger.
When the scandal was over, where it’d served as media fodder for several weeks, there was only a slight shift in the church where there should’ve been outrage. And yet, when it came to the mindset of the flock, it mattered little that before the fatal inferno, and his suicide, just about every Sunday, for the past four years, they’d heard the self-righteous Reverend Grayson Young preach of the necessity to live Holy or burn in hell.
Even months after his death, when the reverend’s many abominations came to light, what he’d preached, and ultimately what he lived, still didn’t matter to the majority of the members. In about every conversation in the house of God, the reverend was still beloved, he was still a man, and he was still forgiven.
However, spiritual amnesia blanketed the congregation of Brooklyn, New York’s New Hope Church Assembly when it came time to forgive the sins of his widow the beautiful, yet fallen First Lady, Chyna Young. They would not forgive her, as God would.
And it didn’t matter that no one in that congregation was sin-free and could’ve thrown the first stone.
St. John 8: 3-11
About Pat G’Orge-Walker:
Pat G’Orge (pronounced Gee-or-jay) - Walker is in a league of her own. This accomplished Christian author and comedienne has an amazing mind and talent for turning her observations of church and black church life, in particular, into gems of sidesplitting humor. It is her own special gift from God that enables G’Orge-Walker to depict the often ridiculous antics of church folk. She does it without subverting the Good News or watering down the potency of its message.
Pat G’Orge-Walker has led a colorful life professionally, to say the least. She is a former music industry veteran who has worked for several major labels including Epic, Def Jam and Columbia. She cut her chops as a singer by performing with the legendary 60s girl group, Arlene Smith and the Chantels (“Maybe”) as well as with the gospel groups The Spiritualettes and The Heavenly Two. And she has written as well as acted in stage presentations.
Enjoy the excerpt from Eric Pete’s latest release - REALITY CHECK:
I returned from Miami officially engaged. Really engaged.
And I had the ring to prove it.
All of Lionel’s planning stood revealed. He had more than the proposal mapped out, as I found out later that evening. We had gone for a walk on the beach after dinner. Following the surf and sand, we returned to the room, where we made love.
I’ll tell you now, I’ve never faked an orgasm my entire time with Lionel—until that night.
As Lionel cradled me in his arms, I cried. They weren’t tears of joy, as Lionel probably figured. As I lay there, emotional, he informed me of his (and his mom’s) wedding plans.
Catalina Island.
It was the first place Lionel had taken me. He had already talked it over with his mother, Adele, and she was on hand to arrange everything for us once we selected a date. Hell, she would probably rent the whole fucking island. I knew she would have preferred a traditional church wedding with bells and all, being a Dunning, but Lionel knew how I felt about churches. My mom was supposed to be here for this.
“When do you want to do it, baby?” he’d asked.
I was still numb as I stared down at the diamond on my finger, and I blurted out, “No time like the present.” What happened between my mom and dad wasn’t me. This was going to work.
We were to be married in three months.
When the limo returned me to my apartment late Monday night, I had no idea of the rollercoaster in store for me on Tuesday.
I returned to work to find that one of the girls had walked off the job the day before and another was out sick. My desk overflowed with stacks of files, and I was to be wed in three months.
Tuesday felt more like a Monday than Monday ever could.
Mona and Charmaine rushed to my desk before I even had a chance to put my purse down.
Mona squinted at me disapprovingly. “Bitch, you came in last night and didn’t even call to tell me? Let me see that ring!”
I held it up for them to see. Charmaine was silent for a full four seconds.
A new record.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
“Oh my gawd! OMG! OMG! OMG! The size of that diamond. Do you know how much this must have cost?”
“I do,” Mona chimed in. An avid collector/recipient of diamonds and such, she probably did know.
“C’mon, y’all. It’s just an engagement ring,” I said, trying to convince myself. The immense piece of ice on my hand was a sobering reality that made me more self-conscious the more I tried to ignore it.
“Okay, okay. Enough about the ring. How many times did you do the nasty? Do you have a date set? We want the dirt.” Charmaine cackled with delight. Mona actually agreed with her this time.
“I’m not answering your first question, you nasty wench. As for your other question, well, the wedding’s going to be in Catalina . . . in three months.”
“Oh,” they answered in stereo, caught off guard with the announcement. Mona and I exchanged looks that spoke of our conversation at her condo that Friday night.
“Whew. All this work.” I sighed in an effort to change the subject.
“C’mon, Charmaine. Let Glover catch her breath. We’ll holler at you later, girl,” Mona said, letting me off the hook for now.
The rest of the day was less than peachy. Mr. Marx, the office supervisor, was on the warpath with us being understaffed. In addition to playing catch-up on my own desk, I was expected to fill in wherever needed. That, combined with the jet lag, did not make for a happy Glover.
Yep, a lot of shit on my mind.
Lionel called me from his office to see if I was up for lunch. I took a raincheck, needing to clear my desk as well as my head. Besides, we had a lifetime ahead of us. In a futile attempt to catch up, I decided to work through lunch. Charmaine and Mona, having no such notions, trekked off to do some shopping.
Lunch came and went in a blur. I was deep into my work while simultaneously lost in thought.
Did I love Lionel?
What’s an extra stapler doing on my desk? Who’s been sitting here?
Did I really love him?
These files don’t belong here. But where do they belong?
He never gave me any reason to doubt his love, so what was wrong with me?
Now, why couldn’t somebody return this call? That is pure lazy.
I guess I had issues.
“Excuse me!” he yelled as I stormed past the front of the office. Somebody had come in from off the street.
Damn.
I didn’t work the front and wasn’t up for the grief that came with it. I slowed down, considering whether I should keep on walking to the other side of the office. He didn’t really see me anyway. I moved too fast when I got wound up.
That wasn’t my style, though. I broke off from the direction I was heading and approached the front counter.
The voice belonged to one pretty good-looking brother. He was medium brown, not as tall as Lionel, but with some little bulges beneath his white dress shirt. Wondered briefly about another bulge that might lurk in his navy blue slacks.
Briefly.
He looked like he’d had a rough day at the office. Believe me, I felt him on that. I felt his tired eyes all over me as I approached, but he had something different in his accompanying earnest smile. Seemed a little less “wolflike” than most men, if there is such a thing these days. Strangely, it reminded me of the first encounter with Lionel.
“Can I help you?”
“Um, hi. I need an application.” He seemed a tad slow, and I had work to do.
“For . . .?”
He told me he was looking for the state employment applications. I apologized for not knowing where things were and explained about our being short-staffed and stuff. I really don’t know why I volunteered all that info. I found the application and handed it to him, reminding him of the Friday deadline and options for online filing.
“Oh, don’t worry. I won’t forget. I need the work,” he replied with that smile. He laughed, but it didn’t hide the exhaustion behind it. Poor thing.
“Well, I hope you find the work you’re looking for,” gushed from my mouth before my mind caught up. Why did I say that? My intention was to just be courteous, but it came out playful, almost kittenish. His facial expression didn’t change, so I was relieved I hadn’t embarrassed myself.
Unless that was his poker face.
“Later,” he said as he took the application from my hand and departed. My eyes went to lock in on his ass, but his shirt had come out of his pants in the back, blocking the view of his bum. I lingered at the counter for a second more for less than noble reasons.
I was grinning—until I looked down at the weight on my hand.
And on my soul.
Time to be a big girl again, as reality kicked in. He did have a nice smile, though, and I appreciated the brief escape from my issues, but it was time to finish the task I was doing prior to “smiley” interrupting me.
I moved on to the back, taking one last peek before he made it out the door.
Hmm. I never got his name.
Good.
About Eric Pete:
Eric Pete is an Essence best-selling novelist whose previous works include: Someone’s In the Kitchen, Gets No Love, Don’t Get It Twisted, Lady Sings the Cruels, Blow Your Mind and Sticks and Stones. He has also contributed to the anthologies: After Hours, Twilight Moods and On the Line. His upcoming release is Crushed Ice (January 2010). He currently lives in Texas where he is working on his next novel. His website is: www.ericpete.com.
Sheila Jackson and Shelia Goss
I’m a guest blogger over on AuthorsLatino.com. Below is an excerpt from my post titled “Add Black to Your Shopping Cart This Holiday Season.”
