i-Lit.com

A Special Announcement:

2009-03-04T00:07:00.003-05:00

The management of Bloggers’ Delight has decided to postpone the production of Volume 2 indefinitely at this time. We will post here as soon as we decide to recommence publication. All of your support has been greatly appreciated!

Keep reading & writing!

Enjoy Excerpts from: Bloggers' Delight, Vol. 1

2007-11-11T21:03:00.009-05:00

Negotiating Compromises, by April C. Hayes

One To Remember, by Rich Fitzgerald

Rey of Hope, by C. A. Paige

Smoke, by Diane Dorce'

The Mending, by D.R. Johnson

Toss-A-Cross, by Torrance Stephens, PhD

* * *

Thanks to all who supported the Book Release Parties:
Videos of all parties can be viewed by scrolling below.

*Saturday, October 11, 2008 in Harlem, NY

Please view images & videos at:
Still Images: BD2Write (courtesy of bloggers: Eb the Celeb & Dejanae)
Video: Celebration in Harlem

*Saturday, June 7, 2008 in Atlanta, GA
at The Grounds Coffeehouse.

Click names to see images & a video from the Atlanta event:
Diane Dorce', R. Fitzgerald & Cordenia Paige

*Monday, April 7, 2008 in Washington, D.C.
at Utopia Restaurant & Art Gallery.

Click names to see images & a video from the D.C. event:
Cordenia Paige, Diane Dorce', R. Fitzgerald (stills) and video by R. Fitzgerald.

*Saturday, February 23, 2008 in St. Louis, MO
at Lucas Park Grille.

Click names to see images from the St. Louis event:
Saadia Ali Aschemann, Diane Dorce', R. Fitzgerald and Cordenia Paige

~ Making Literary Connections ~

2007-11-08T15:15:00.008-05:00

Events and Great Resources for Authors who Blog:

To list your event or website here please send an email to:
bdbooks@i-lit.com.

Bloggers' Delight, Vol 1 Videos:

2007-11-07T23:31:00.005-05:00

Click Directly onto video to play. Enjoy!

In Harlem, NYC - October 2008:

In Atlanta, GA - June 2008:

In Washington, DC - April 2008:

In St. Louis, MO - February 2008:

Authors' Synopsis:

The Mending

2007-10-21T00:01:00.000-04:00

The Mending
by D. R. Johnson, Copyright 2007 Bloggers Delight Vol 1

“In other news, the President has announced that there will soon be a handing over of power, and a scaling back of troop strength in the recently established “New Democratic Iraq.” Opponents of his plan have made it clear that to leave now will further jeopardize American interests in the region, and that staying the course is the only option….” announced the news correspondent in a carefully measured pentameter that pecked at the edge of Abe Deaks’ patience.

“Hazel, turn that damn T.V. off! You know I can’t hardly stand to listen to it anymore” he grumbled.

“Sorry,” she sighed. “It’s just, you know, Jarl is supposed to be here tomorrow, and… this wouldn’t be the first time he’s told us he’d be coming home, and then have his release date pushed back” lamented Hazel with obvious frustration and concern.

“Will you relax with all that? The boy was there for a good reason. He’s protectin’ his country, our country from those terrorists” retorted Abe.

“Yeah, I know Abe, but I just wonder if it’s worth it.. I mean, so much killing… and for what? Oil?”

“We’ve been over this so many times woman! It’s not about oil, it’s about keepin’ us safe from gettin’ blown up. You saw those towers fall same as me.. it’s our way of life that’s under attack, and they’re not goin’ to stop until we’re all dead. Meanin’ it’s us, or them. Our boy has been over there riskin’ his neck to make sure we are OK back here! At least respect that enough to stop complainin’ about it for once.”

Abe was right about one thing, thought Hazel, the two of them had been through this same conversation many times over. In fact, it seemed to her that Abe never actually listened to anything she said to him about the war. At times his selected deafness was unbearable, but that was just Abe. When he made up his mind on a thing, there was no changing it, and she had learned to live with this aspect of his personality long ago. Despite her quiet resignation to bite her tongue, there was a part of her that could not help but blame Abe for their son’s enlistment. Maybe if he hadn’t spent so much time filling the boy’s ears with star spangled histrionics, maybe if he hadn’t spent so much time spouting off about the Holy War… just maybe her boy would have left well enough alone instead of rushing head long into that damnable war.

* * *

The Deaks lived in a small town in Southern Iowa, typical in many ways of most small American towns, having sprung up around farming, and eventually losing out to the push for modernization. There existed a strange dichotomy between old and new as large parcels of land were being sold off to accommodate the ever growing urban sprawl. The wealthy clamored to leave the big cities, and with them they brought their money, their neighborhoods, and their culture. Although the Five and Dime still stood on Main street, and farmers still gathered at the Plow & Feed to spend their Saturday afternoons chewing the fat, life had changed dramatically for their small town. Many businesses found it impossible to compete with Shop Rite’s prices, and McDonald’s speed, and in one generations time they had seen the landscape of their community drastically altered. While some folks frowned upon this strange marriage of modern money versus meager means, others viewed it as a blessing. To the newer residents of the little town, life represented an escape from the hustle & bustle of a nine to five, a reprieve from the smog, a chance to pretend all was right in the world. Yet for the younger generation, growing up here seemed devoid of potential with very few options. Sure there were plenty of opportunities to be had in town if you didn’t mind stocking shelves or flipping burgers, but aside from that the choice was farm, or find work elsewhere.

Jarl Deaks was among those who had grown up wanting to see the world beyond small town life, and visit those far off places he’d seen on television. He wanted to attend college, but his parents had made it clear that there was absolutely no way they could afford to pay for his schooling, and that he’d be much better off if he would set his goals to something more attainable, like helping out on the farm. However, this request would prove next to impossible for the boy. Jarl was a dreamer, and not a day passed by in which his father hadn’t felt it necessary to chide him with timeworn phrases like ‘take your head out of the clouds,’ ‘think before you act,’ and ‘be mindful of your responsibilities.’ Whether or not this had any influence over the boy’s state of mind, one thing was for certain, he could not stop dreaming about his future elsewhere anymore than he could force himself to want to follow in his father‘s footsteps and carry on the family farm. Life for Jarl was not about tractors, or praying that the corn would be knee high by July. For Jarl there was more to life than could be had in a small rural town, and this presented itself as quite a dilemma for the lad, because it seemed to him that there was no way out.

Then along came that tragic fate filled day that no one living in America would ever be able to erase from their memory. The nation stood still, as people everywhere gathered around their radios and television sets staring in shock as hijacked airliners rained down, crashing one after the other into the twin towers of the World Trade Center, and then into the Pentagon. They stood gaping in horror as the people who found themselves stranded in the upper levels of the towers hurled themselves out of windows to avoid being burned alive. As the towers collapsed, Americans sat and watched New York City as it was enveloped in a heavy blanket of ash and the fires spread. Buildings collapsed one into another like dominos, throwing the metropolis into a panic with no end to the chaos in sight . Days later, Americans continued to watch as the rescue workers with their cranes and dump trucks cleared away millions of tons of debris. They grimaced, sick to their stomachs whenever a firefighter removed a wristwatch, or someone’s wallet from beneath the piles of rubble and debris. They waited anxiously to hear each updated death toll, magnifying every report in their own minds a hundred fold. The U.S. government was quick to place blame. ‘We believe those responsible for the attacks on September the eleventh are members of an Islamic terrorist organization known as Al-Qaeda’ was the official line that played non-stop over the cable news circuit. In the midst of elevated “terrorist threat levels” Americans rushed out and bought guns in record number, and the red white and blue could be seen flying at nearly every house, on every street in America.

It was shortly after that gruesome chain of events, that the recruiters began appearing at every small town high school around the country, hoping to take advantage of a reinvigorated sense of national unity and patriotism. They preyed upon young men like Jarl, imploring them to ‘serve their country’ and to ‘be all that they could be.’ The National Guard recruiters made it sound like the American way of life was under attack, and able bodied young people were needed to protect her stateside, while the “active” branches of the military sped to defend her in the Middle East. What they failed to mention was that for the first time in American history, reservists and guardsmen would be called up to active duty on a massive scale, to mobilize and deploy indefinitely overseas. And so it was, amidst his mother’s constant pleas, and his father’s daily diatribes on Islam’s hatred of all things American, Jarl signed on the dotted line, offering up four years of his young life in service of his country.

Negotiating Compromises

2007-10-20T18:02:00.003-04:00

Negotiating Compromises
by April C. Hayes, Copyright 2007 Bloggers Delight Vol 1

I. OMAR ROBERTS
Falling like a torrential downpour, a barrage of thoughts moved through his head like a full-on assault. Images, memories, and questions demanding answers corrupted the morning’s meditation. Silent, Omar inhaled deeply, eyes shut, and just listened. To the beating in his heart, he listened. To the song of the Norfolk-Southern screaming wildly in the distance, he listened. Just outside, road workers serenaded the morning with their street opera; a cacophonous racket played annoyingly for those still in bed past 7am. Still, he listened. To the sound of the marble coolness beneath his
feet, he listened. He listened to the sounds of his past and the angles
of his future.

This moment, this was his church, his temple where daily, silent
prayer was held, and he nearly reached the place of absolutes when
the volatile question pervaded: what do you see? She had smacked
right into the door frame as she exited, elegantly, and he laughed to
himself as he rushed to catch up to her. Damn if everything about her
wasn’t elegant -- her abrupt stance when their interview was over;
the way she left the table, evaporating right out of her seat,
commanding silk and suede to obey the laws of place. There was
the way she turned sharply on tan stilettos, pausing momentarily
for her keys, smiling coyly at him over her shoulder, only to cat-walk
right out of the restaurant and into a door frame. She played it off
beautifully, he thought, taking a soft step back, touching a hand to
her chest to laugh at herself obviously. She let it be known she
wasn’t threatened, nor defeated by a whimsical error, and then she
laughed comically upon exiting.

His morning ritual was poisoned by everything he remembered
about her; a soft scar that folded into the corner of her lip, so thin,
razor-like, but its presence adorned her with a sincere, childlike
quality. Soft, natural curls framed her face like Venetian latticework
over laughing eyes. She reminded him of living artwork, a complex
canvas in motion; a living sculpture where no wall was good enough.

She took the digital recorder off the table quickly and thanked
him. Taken, he leaned toward her, grinned and said, “Ok, my turn.
I have a question for you -- just one.” Confidently he knew his line
would be bitten. Years of cerebral play, in and out of diminutive
encounters, had taught him much. After all, she was a reporter,
wasn’t she? What was it she said? Oh yeah, a humble writer with
an in depth in-your-business-complex. Besides, he mused, more
than anything, she was a woman. She was a black woman, a
bonafide sista, which innately meant a mystical detective. No
doubt, she would eagerly want to know what he wanted to
know about her.

“I suppose,” she replied slowly, to his surprise, carefully smoothing
the folds of her skirt as she began to evaporate into the air around
him, “I am to be captivated at the notion that you’ve got some
interest in me.” She placed her hands on the table and leaned into
him. “And, I suppose,” she continued, “this feigned attempt at said
mounting interest is supposed to have me excited with possibilities.”
Omar sat back smoothly, defenseless, to let her freely cut into him.
“Mr. Roberts, other than doing my job, this has become...well, in a
word…‘trite’, and I won’t bore you with the details except to say,”
she dropped her voice to a whisper, “I’m not interested.” And with
that she smiled coolly, dissolving elegantly into a one-woman play:
up, stop, pause, keys, last look-over-the-shoulder-baby smile, turn,
walk that walk, reigning -- right into the damn door frame. Though
it tickled him, even satisfied him to a point, he couldn’t deny that
even out-of-sight, his atmosphere was consumed with her. Well
done, he thought. She more than heightened his interest, she had
clobbered his sensibilities. She was a killer, he mused, a true,
erotically-witted, dyed-in-the-wool, natural born killer. Nothing
better. He went after her craving a new challenge. She was
formidable, a fortress to be penetrated, but chic cuisine, not eaten,
but savored. A drink never shaken but gently stirred. She was a
new elixir.

Posing for an invisible audience, Omar praised the reflection of
his looks: espresso-dipped torso blanketed by a sea of flat, wavy
black hair that draped like a silk sheath. He roughly massaged thick
fingers into the short, rib-like squares in full salute; all six, prized
and daily earned; pulling them in tightly while he stared at himself,
picking apart certain elements. He imagined her all over again.

He caught up to her waiting at the valet. Moving in stride, he
approached her casually. “In war, Ms. Lambert,” he said,” don’t you
think it rude not to at least declare impending doom before firing?
I mean, even in the game of golf they at least yell ‘FORE’.”

“I suppose you’re right, Mr. Roberts,” she quipped, smiling
nevertheless, “but are we at war?” She asked him this as though
she were perched on the precipice of danger ready to leap when
necessary. Slyly, the razor-thin scar betrayed that she was feeling
him; its softly cragged cut twisted into a cunning smile. She liked
him -- he knew it. They bantered about long after her car came, long
after his arrived. Two black coffees and dessert -- he insisted -- led
to four drinks, jazz and a delectable diatribe at the Carlyle. She was
from the Midwest, the Twin Cities, though in her mind there was
very little ‘twin’ about them. He had been to Chicago; had family
there. Yeah, she had been to Chicago--often--and regaled him with
veritable, impromptu excursions of: cutting out in a stolen Caddy for
a weekend with her homegirls ‘cause her cousin in Forest Park told
her about some party on the Southside, or the time they got caught
stealing shit out of Marshall Field’s department store and went to
jail. Cook County jail! He laughed genuinely when she admitted she
“woulda fucked devil cum outta somebody” just to get out, if but
one day earlier. They were out one day shy of a week.

Outside of Chicago, he admitted thinking that no other black
people existed -- just White Plains, cows and some old-assed
Indians. “Native Americans,” she corrected him, sweeping his slight
ignorance under the rug before telling him she despised pimps. “It’s
all a game of psychology,” he gently argued before leading her to the
dance floor. They argued in between sets, her openness jarring,
stimulating. Closing time left them hungry, more for the company
than food and at 4.a.m. they laughed into their breakfast at Waffle
House. She played too tired to argue when he insisted on following
her home and they both knew it was game. So ingrained into the
fabric of their beings was it, that they couldn’t help themselves.
She wasn’t tired at all. She was electric, imagining herself a killer.

Omar gazed into himself while bending over the sink ever so slightly,
pressing his palms into the marbled top, and then, with a hard turn
of the knobs, demanded water to splash his face, washing her down
his skin. Behind him, the sound of bath water getting away distracted
him and he quickly moved to shut it off. Disrobed, naked, open,
Omar sought solitude sinking heavily into hot water – shit, hot! Yet
it felt good, and with the stinging subsiding, his body adjusting to
the heat, his thoughts ran amok; and -- she closed her eyes, smiling
softly, smiling coolly, letting the wet from her tongue fall aimlessly
onto the head, bowed and kissed the baldness, then drank him in
deeply. Omar, struggling with a losing battle, gave up; the moment
was caramel, hard, soft, sweet and sweat; a beautiful carnival ride;
up he went, down she came, then round they went, spinning wildly,
spinning out-of-control…

Smoke

2007-10-20T17:00:00.000-04:00

Smoke
by Diane Dorce, Copyright 2007 Bloggers Delight Vol 1

It was Saturday night in probably one of the last places I wanted to be. In fact I could think of three or four different locations and better company than Smoke’s Bar and Grill. But I was trying to stop a murder and next to Superman, Smoke was the only man I knew who could stop a bullet.

“Jack okay with you?” Smoke hollered from the bar.

“Yeah,” I said, and watched while he poured two full-to-the rim shots of Jack Daniels. My mouth watered at the sight. Although I was not normally a drinker, on a day like today, I needed it more than I needed a woman or food (which was usually what I needed just about everyday, but not today). Today started off rocky at best and gradually descended into premature hell and with the gatekeeper by my side, I was sure I’d be meeting up with Satan any moment. “Hey, you alright?” I asked him, but I don’t know why; the boy hadn’t said two words to me since I picked him up at Georgia Correctional Institute—which, to me, sounded like a big, fancy name for jail.

“It stinks in here.”

Damn, he could talk…but he was right. That mixture of smoked meat, liquor and some other gaseous substance I couldn’t quite distinguish--but smelled a lot like funk--wasn’t exactly the kind of thing you wanted to breathe in on the regular.

“It will pass.” That’s the one thing I knew for sure; sit here long enough and you become used to it.

Smoke dragged himself from around the bar, pulling on his wood leg, like he had bricks tied to it. It didn’t seem like that long ago Smoke was jumping five foot fences in one sweeping motion, peg leg and all. Old Father Time had other plans though. Easily pushing sixty, Smoke moved like a man twenty years older--tired and at the end of his rope. After all these years, he still looked the same, wore the same part down the middle of his head like back in the day and dyed it twice a month so he wouldn’t go entirely white. I always thought it was foolish for a man to dye his hair, but I probably wouldn’t recognize Smoke without that black hair dye, let alone the part.

Smoke poured drinks, grilled ribs and fried fish from five to midnight on Saturday and every other Sunday. He had a diverse clientele consisting of pimps, players, drug dealers, prostitutes, politicians and cops (but not all on the same night). Smoke’s place was just above an average shack with four wobbly tables, twelve chairs, a jukebox and one bar stool that Bebe, Smoke’s step-sister, occupied much of the time. What the place lacked in décor, it made up in history and some of the best times I had ever experienced. Let Smoke tell it, some of the baddest dudes that ever ran the streets of Atlanta damn near lived in Smoke's. It was where we hung out, done deals-- even beat a few heads if need be. Bottom line, the joint was a staple around these parts, as much as Ebenezer Baptist Church, Auburn Avenue and the Martin Luther King Center. Just like the others, it had served its purpose over time.

Smoke’s eyes were still fierce and capable of a champion stare-down that would rival Mike Tyson’s. He never took his eyes off the boy. “You got a name?” he asked, placing the two shot glasses on the table and taking a seat across from me and beside the boy.

The boy seemed annoyed, like he wasn’t meant to answer to anyone, shrugging his shoulders and shifting in his seat. He struck that obvious bad boy pose with his head leaning to the side and his arms folded in front of him, then barked out his name “Mad dog,” he said.

Smoke downed his shot, coughed a little, and then shook his head. “That’s a muthafucking shame. Someone named this boy some shit like “Mad dog!” He looked over at me. “What you think, Willie?”

I could feel the hairs raise up on the back of my neck. This wasn’t going exactly as I planned--in fact, worse. I spoke up, trying to ease the tension, although I didn’t know what good it would do. “Boy’s name is Tyrell. I seen it on his release papers.” It was my job to get him and bring him here. I knew more about him than I wanted to know. I knew all about his arrest, how he botched up a simple robbery, and got caught holding the goodies. He grew up poor and--most times--on the street. His mama was a crackhead and his daddy ran off and left before the semen dried. Yeah, I knew more about Tyrell then he knew about himself, because…he was just a mirror image of me.

Tyrell sat with his head between his legs, not bothering to address either of us. I guess he didn’t really know what to say.

“Willie, go’on around the bar and grab us the bottle. Looks like it’s gonna be a long night.”

“The bottle” Smoke referred to was empty but resting comfortably on a shelf below the bar were rows and rows of liquor. Twenty or more so jam jars, filled with liquor and labeled specifically with its brand--Stolichnaya, Grey Goose, Hennessy, Martell and Remy to name a few. Smoke never carried the original bottles, always discarded them or simply didn't bring them into the establishment. This way, he had to deal with less break-ins and theft, and, with a little paper and lot of greasing hands, he operated without a liquor license because this really wasn't a bar. Well, it was our bar, and Monday through Sunday--sunup to sundown, we drank, sucked on rib tips, shot bones, and talked shit.

Bebe, Smoke's sister, sat in the corner nodding her head to an imaginary beat. She wore close to nothing, and the sight of her sagging breasts was enough to make you sick. She looked like life or some man had sucked the wind out of her, but, in reality, it was heroin that did her in. Bebe was in a world of her own--had been for many years. That song she was singing was her life playing over and over again. I felt sorry for her but didn’t let my eyes linger too long. I brought the bottle to the table and poured us two more drinks. Smoke downed his drink in one gulp. I sipped mine.

"So, Willie, what’s up? I thought you was still shakin’ them fools on Peachtree?"

"Naw man, I'm chillin’,” I said looking over at Tyrell, who looked down at the floor to keep from looking at Bebe. "He looking for a gig, man. Thought you could hook him up with something."

Smoke eyed the young man sitting at the table, his head hanging between his legs. Willie could tell he wasn't pleased with what he saw. The boy couldn't be no older than fifteen, sixteen at most, skinny as a rail, hair going every which way, and his clothes were dirty and stained. Smoke shook his head, grunted, and then sucked at his teeth. Something he always did when he wasn't pleased. "Man what I’m gonna do with this rugrat?" He sucked his teeth again. "The boy is weak."

Tyrell jumped up from his seat, almost knocking it to the ground. "I ain't weak motherfucker!” he shouted in Smoke’s direction.

Toss-A-Cross

2007-10-20T15:40:00.000-04:00

Toss-A-Cross

There is nothing more certain than that a man will be a man, and
that for his seed, he is the first line of defense…if there is no dog
outside. The simple truth is that such a person is never off guard;
his only fear is not being able to feed and provide for his children.
Unfortunately, this makes such an individual diabolical and
sinister--the worse attributes for anyone who feels that all his
children have in the world to protect them is his strength.

It was one of those nights in between spring and summer, but
this night seemed more reflective of winter than either of the
aforementioned. The only difference was that, unlike winter
months, the sun could still be seen allocating pastel hues into
the cloudless and anticipating dark. The crickets were also in
full sonic bloom; as if they were some species of perennial audibly
calling nature to order, and it was time now for the rest of the
flowers to catch up. The flowering trees stood at attention, good
soldiers in an eternal precision drill of beautiful growth, obeying
the crickets’ chirped command. They always seemed to be the
first to bloom, after the bulbs, and they flowered in the order
of the pink and purple crab apple tree, the white of the pear trees
and the opaque shades of the box woods--which were really shrubs,
but in his yard, the bushes were the height of a tree.

He was outside as usual. It was beverage time and a good time to
just enjoy life for its own sake. His cup held no distillate of the
Agave plant but rather, this time, sake--sake and a 24 ounce can of
Tecate beer. He walked out onto the “chat-rock” gravel road. In any
urban area outside his Georgia residence, it would be a driveway,
with the exception that it was 110 yards from his house. He, Jones,
Mac Jones often marveled at the oddity of the distance, since it
seemed strange…even to a Memphis nigga.

Mac walked inside; his glass was empty. His son and daughter were
in his son’s room. The boy was making music while his sister was
bellowing into the microphone. Unintelligible certainly, nonetheless
she was jamming. Mac peeked in then decided he’d walk to his room
on the other side of the dwelling. The house was large and gave any
stranger the semblance that the 4,000 square feet was divided into
wings. Upon seeing daddy, Mac’s daughter followed quickly, as
quickly as any child a few months before the age of two could waddle
in a straight line. To Mac, she walked like Bobby Cox.

On his floor in front of the muted television, Mac Jones sat down and
began folding clothes. He had been at work since early morning, and
his son’s baseball game was rained out. Thank goodness for
leftovers. But before he could finish the towels, his princess Bobby
Coxed in. She only had a few words in her vocabulary, but affection
was what she communicated best. Crawling over him and placing her
head on his chest, she wrapped her legs around his and started to go
to sleep.

When she went to sleep, Mac got up from the floor and placed his
precious girl down for the night. Again he returned outside, to the
crickets and the night air. The stars seemed to talk to him, but he
could not decide if it was the stars or the sake.

He looked over by his fruit tree. The backhoe was still there. The
plumber needed it to replace the drainage pipe--$1700.00 worth
of pipe. The thought of the cost made him sick at the stomach. But,
he had the lot, and it made his property better, more valuable he
was told, if he replaced the pipe. Mac worked hard for his dollar--no
slavery, just hard work--and he could handle the cost if it improved
his castle…especially for his children’s sake. The queen mother--well,
she earned her exile from home and its comforts. He had just broken
up with his woman. All he could repeat to himself was their last
verbal exchange.

“I’m gone have someone come out here and take care of you,”
she said, somewhere in between a manic rage and cynical rant.
"Well send them on,” Mac said, coolly while raising the nature of
the threat. “ If they come out here, let them play cowboy…and
I’ll make it the Okay Corral.”

He erased that from his mind and looked again to the stars. The
night’s emissaries of peace made him feel full, removing the restive
anxiety, while leaving Mac placated and at ease--a feeling he had not
felt in a while. He walked down the gravel driveway, sipping a fresh
cup of sake. A few rabbits ran-hopped across his path, but Mac was
undisturbed by their presence. He sat patiently in his stance looking
at the pine trees around him and the cars passing by.

It was strange to him, at this time of night, to see the lights of a
vehicle turn in his direction. Maybe it happened all the time;
perhaps he was just outside at the right time. This vehicle did not
seem like the others, as if it was a mistake--an accident. But, maybe
it was, for they waited and dimmed the lights. Maybe they’re being
respectful, he thought. Nonetheless, he went to his truck and pulled
his yellow bag from under the passenger seat and returned to his
musing spot. He had anticipated that the vehicle would have backed
up and turned around by now, but it had not. They, that vehicle’s
occupants, were still there, silently sitting, speaking an
unspoken threat. So, he stood, shoulders square and head high,
as if to provide the nonverbal locution that this was his
property--Mac Jones’ property.

Rey of Hope

2007-10-19T22:54:00.001-04:00

Rey of Hope

by Cordenia Paige, Copyright 2007 Bloggers Delight Vol 1

Antoine twirled his date on the dance floor and savored the view of her tight thighs as the yellow halter dress flared for his pleasure. In a very few hours those same thighs would be wrapped around his waist. He told his manhood to be patient: No embarrassing me here, now! Antoine smiled as her ample bosom pressed softly against his chest after this siren spun back to him. They hand-danced expertly, swinging and spinning hand in hand to the groove in true D.C. fashion. She flashed that stunning bright smile at him. Her hazel eyes coyly met his in an obviously practiced manner. Antoine could care less that he had not been and probably would not be the only one “up in her” this week; all he wanted was his chance to dip in it tonight.

The song drew to an end and he lead her off the dance floor. After paying the bar tab and heading toward the exit, Antoine proudly walked behind her as other men unabashedly admired her bountiful figure in passing. One or two even gave him "the nod and wink", the visual approval equivalent to ”dap”: that knuckle-to-knuckle greeting among male comrades. Antoine was feeling that 1991 was a great year to be a straight, Black man in the nation's capital. He was young, fun and full of… himself.

As they strolled hand in hand to his black Mazda RX-7 parked diagonally across from the club on 12th and K Street, Antoine thought he heard someone call his name, but he was focused on the matters at hand. Just as he settled her into the passenger's side and headed around to the driver's side he looked up and saw his brother walking towards him.

"Wha's up, Corey? What you doin' out here this late, man?" Antoine slapped his brother's hand and pulled him in for a quick hug.

"Just leaving the office." Corey shrugged.

"It's almost midnight. But, you know what you do is your business."

Corey smirked, "You know I don't roll like that. We got a big case coming up. Shit, I really have more work to do, but I gotta get home to my Lena. Speaking of, who's the young lady and why're you being rude?"

Corey cut his eye disapprovingly as he leaned down and extended his hand in through the driver's side, "How you doin'? I'm Corey."

"Sheila. Nice to meet you." she cooed and smiled.

"Likewise." Corey stood back up to his full 6'2" frame and looked Antoine in the eye. "Well, Li'l Bruh. I'm going home to my wife. Y'all be easy."

"Aiight, man. I'll see you at Ma's on Sunday."

Antoine sighed and rolled his eyes as he settled behind the wheel. He knew by Corey's look that he was gonna get beef on Sunday, no matter what their mother had on the menu.

"You alright, Boo?" Sheila asked as she stroked the back of Antoine's head and neck.
Antoine looked down at her and the promise of all to come...literally, shook off his brother's judgmental look and grinned, "Yea, Sexy. Everything is 'kool and the gang'." He started the engine, put the car into gear and headed toward her place -- sliding his hand beneath her dress and between her thighs.

# # #

"What the hell are you thinking?" Corey whispered into the phone. Though he was in his office, Corey kept his voice low because his secretary often came into his office without advance notice when he was handling a seriously important case. But, he felt the need to call his brother and get this off his chest. This could not wait until Sunday's dinner.

Antoine was on his way home and he did not want to hear this, now. He didn't want to hear it at all, really, so he figured he might as well get it over with. Maybe, if he was lucky, this early call meant that Corey wouldn't bring it up in front of the family. "What, man? Why you trippin'? You act like I'm stepping out on you. Damn! Is this what marriage does to a man: take his balls?"

"You lucky I'm at work. All I'm sayin' is, in a way you are stepping out on me. I'm the one who hooked you up with Reyna, remember? So, you know who gets the backlash? See, I should've known better. I thought you were ready to chill with one steady sistah."

"I do want one steady chick for public affairs. Look here, Big Bruh, you know I'm not getting married anytime soon if that's what you're crying about. Hell, I'm sure Reyna knows it, too!"

Corey inhaled slowly and exhaled as he calmed himself. "Look, Man. You been seeing Reyna almost a year, now. Y'all are in your mid-twenties and you don't think she's hanging in here for marriage? You really don’t know women, do you? You've got to break it off with her and now. I will not stand by and watch you do this to Reyna, and if Lena finds out that I actually know you're cheating on her… Let's just say the Sistah-hood is going to come down on me, hard. Maannn, Reyna's really good people who deserves a brother who will appreciate more than her regular willingness to be at your beck and call."

"I can't break up with her now, Corey. We're going out tonight. Maybe after Sunday dinner it'll be easier."

"Antoine, if Reyna shows up for dinner this Sunday, I'm going to tell her in front of the entire family. I know that would crush her, but I'm tired of you doing this to women. After Reyna, I won't care anymore. She was your nephew's first grade teacher for Chrissakes. I thought she could even turn a knucklehead like you around. She's smart, fine as hell and will make a great mother."

"Damn, Bruh, it sounds like you had a crush on Ms. Crabtree your dayum self." Antoine hoped his remark would get Corey to lighten up. It didn’t.

"Didn't you learn anything from Daddy's bullshit? Women today don't stick with you like that. If Ma were thirty years younger she would've been left Daddy and taken his kids and emptied his bank account. Save yourself and Reyna some headache. End it tonight…before you hit it. Can you do me that favor? Leave the woman with some shred of dignity. From here on I'll stay out of your social affairs."

"Bet. If this will get you to leave me alone, consider it ended."

"Thanks, Antoine. I'll holla at you later; the shit's about to hit the fan up in here with this workload."

"Cool, I'll see you later, Big Bruh."

Antoine clicked the end button on his cell phone with slight attitude. He was on his way home from Sheila's, and the last thing he had wanted to hear was his brother giving him grief about Reyna or anything else. He needed to shower again and get dressed to meet downtown with one of his real estate clients. Antoine sighed heavily and realized he was relieved. He had tried to keep his side women away from his family, but got too comfortable. Antoine knew Corey's law firm was near that spot last night, but figured it was way past the time when anyone with a day job would be out during the week. Honestly, Antoine knew it was time to break it off with Reyna, anyway. She was a sweet heart, but he had gotten complacent with her. His family loved her, so it made it easy to have her around them. Scrolling through his Rolodex mentally, Antoine decided that Sheila might be up for being his public showpiece. At least with her there would be no strings attached. She definitely knew what time it was.

One To Remember

2007-10-19T19:00:00.000-04:00

One to Remember
by R. Fitzgerald, Copyright 2007 Bloggers Delight Vol 1

Giving of one’s heart is never an easy thing to do, especially for a man. In fact, most men would rather opt for a life of sex than to truly give their heart over to a woman and have it broken into pieces. But, sometimes, love is spontaneous, and the heart doesn’t forewarn you of its intentions; it simply succumbs. Everett knew this all too well. The moment he saw Samaya James, his heart stopped. She was the one. Everything within him confirmed it. Yet, here it was, nearly thirty-six hours since Samaya left Atlanta for her return trip home, and he couldn’t fathom why she hadn’t called. All sorts of questions began racing through Everett’s mind.

Does she feel the same way I do about her? Maybe she hasn’t called because she is studying for her finals? Or, maybe she’s there with “them,” laughing at me. Maybe, this was all some big joke. A way to get back at me for all the dirt I’ve done in the past. Nah, that couldn’t be it. She’s not that type of girl. She would never do something like that.

His mind kept vacillating until he made a conscious effort to reassure himself that all was well. Besides, his playing days were behind him. He had to be out of karma’s reach by now, or, at least he hoped so. Their time together had been genuine; Everett refused to believe anything less.

Regardless of whether it was coincidental or intentional, Ms. James hadn’t called, and it was beginning to bother him. Everett wrestled within himself on whether he should leave yet another message; he was already up to three. He wanted to be cool but also caring. If she wasn’t feeling the same way about him -- there he was, doubting himself again -- he wanted to restrain his emotions. The problem: he already played his hand. It was too late to renege. He could feel love rising inside of him, and it was about to spill over. Anticipating the return of her love had him open. All she had to do was say the word, and he was hers -- forever.

Samaya managed to accomplish in a matter of weeks what some had worked months to achieve, but to no avail. Maybe it was timing, or, maybe it was the newness of love; but, whatever it was, Everett was sick over her. Literally. His body was filled with angst. He was sure the warm radiance of love didn’t feel like this. This sensation was more akin to a sickening, creeping feeling; an evasive nervousness that caused his heart to engage in rhythmic abandon. Panic, no doubt. He could feel it closing in like a speeding car in a rearview mirror, and, as the hours since her departure continued to escalate, he became a ball of nerves. He needed to hear her voice. He needed to know she was free from harm. He needed her to dishevel the thoughts that consumed him. He needed to know… that she, too…was falling in love.

Chapter 2

The eve of conception – summer of 93’

“Yo, Everett! Yo, Derrick!” Rob yelled from the asphalt parking lot. He was trotting in the direction of his “boyz,” Everett Goins and Derrick Roberts. The two friends had wandered onto the turf-covered field just off the Norman Hall parking lot. They were on the campus of University of Florida, Everett’s alma mater, catching up on old times now that the frat party held in Norman Gym was letting out. Everett and Derrick turned to see Rob Jenkins jogging in their direction while throwing up his hand, motioning to them to wait up.

“What’s up fellas?” Rob said as he extended his hand to Everett for a “pound”: their fists connected top and bottom in a duplicitous motion followed by the tapping of knuckles to the middle. Rob repeated the same greeting with Derrick as they exchanged the brotherly greetings of “whatup dawg” and “good to see you”. The guys had known each other since Everett’s sophomore year, when they all lived in Broward Hall.

“So, what’s going on man?” Rob said.

“Nothing much…just catching up with Derrick. What’s been up with you?”

“Same ole, same ole: just working, kicking it, and trying to get up on a few of these ladies in the process. So, what brings you to town?”

“I’m just here taking care of a little Army Reserve business, but, now that I have that out the way, I figured I’d take a stroll on campus.”

“Well, you should have come a little earlier because you missed a good party. The honeys were out in mass tonight.”

“Yeah, well, I just wanted to see a few faces. I’m not into partying as much as I used to be,” Everett responded.

“That’s hard to believe. I figured with you being in Atlanta, you’d be kicking it nonstop. I guess a couple years out of school make a big difference,” Derrick added.

“Well, if you remember correctly, I started making my descent before I left Gainesville. I still get out, but now, it’s in the form of concerts, festivals and plays. You know…adult fun.”

“I can dig that, but we don’t get much of that here…so I guess we’ll have to settle for chasing hoes,” Derrick said engaging them in a hearty laugh.

“So, check it: What are the ladies like in Atlanta? I hear it’s eleven to one. Those are some nice odds,” Rob said.

“It’s probably higher than that, but for real, you couldn’t tell; it’s still hard to find a good woman. There are a lot of fine chicks in Atlanta, but a lot of them are looking for a sponsor; and I’m not looking to take on baggage. I work too hard for my money.”

“I hear you on that, but does that mean you ain’t tapping nothing?” Rob inquired.

“Come on now. This is Everett you’re talking to. I can run ‘em with the best of ‘em, but I’m tired of macking. I’m looking to settle down.”

“I feel you on that,” Derrick responded “I’d like to find my better half as well, but that’s easier said than done.”

“Man, we’re still young. Ya’ll better do like me and get all you can, while you can,” Rob said.

“Been there; done that, dawg. I’ve had enough for you, me and the next man. Sooner or later, we all have to grow up. It’s more to life than just chasing.”

http://i-lit.com/googlehostedservice.html

2007-10-02T11:15:00.002-04:00

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D.R. Johnson

2007-09-01T23:33:00.001-04:00

D.R. Johnson is an aspiring writer currently pursuing his BA in Professional Writing through the Department of Writing, Rhetoric and American Cultures at Michigan State University.

Having spent more than a decade in the workforce, David decided it was time for a change, and returning to college, has set about reinventing himself. The Mending is his first national writing release. An avid blogger, Mr. Johnson has turned what started as just another way to practice his writing, into a dedicated passion.

His online presence is "Dave J" and you can visit him at

Wandering The Ether.

Rich Fitzgerald

2007-09-01T22:57:00.001-04:00

Rich Fitzgerald is a native Floridian and current resident of St. Louis, MO. He is happily married to his wife of 12 years and has 5 beautiful children.

Having spent most of his professional career as a Programmer/Analyst the University of Florida graduate has found a renewed sense of purpose as he embraces his love for writing.

The burgeoning author is currently working on multiple writing projects that represent a diverse set of genres. He anticipates releasing an anthology of Christian fiction short stories and his first novel in 2008.

You can find Rich Fitzgerald hosting his blog The Rich House
three times a week.

April C. Hayes

2007-09-01T22:00:00.001-04:00

April C. Hayes, better known as “April C”, is a freelance writer currently residing in Atlanta and much to parental chagrin refuses to leave.

April has published a number of articles for magazines and newspapers and has collaborated on two plays. She is currently at work on two novels, Negotiating Compromises and There Comes A Day.

You can mix it up with April C on her blog,

Literary Felonies

Diane Dorce'

2007-09-01T21:59:00.001-04:00

Diane Dorcé was born and raised in Gary, Indiana. The author of three acclaimed books, Loving Penny- 2001, Devil In the Mist – 2005, and her latest release 52 Broad Street.

Ms. Dorce’ has appeared at various conferences, most recently the 2007 BEA. She has been selected as one of the featured authors at the 2008 Book Club National Convention to be held in Atlanta, GA where she resides as a native.

She is currently busy promoting her most recent novel 52 Broad Street while also creating a new narrative which should also prove to be quite a page turner.

You can interact with Ms. Dorce' at her blog, Write for Life

or at her web site, Diane Dorce' Online.

Denea Marcel

2007-09-01T21:56:00.001-04:00

Denea Marcel is an expressionist artist and writer. She earned her bachelor's degree in Comprehensive Studio Art from Hampton University. An advocate of art education for children, Denea has participated in a number of non-profit children’s art programs and visited classrooms in Los Angeles to provide art classes for students who would not have otherwise had the opportunity to engage in the arts. She is a lover of life and a constant student. Denea Marcel currently resides in Miami, Florida.

She also authors the blog The Gallery Marcel where you can find some of her amazing artwork.

Torrance Stephens

2007-09-01T21:43:00.001-04:00

Mr. Stephens is a writer, poet, essayist, columnist, educator and doctor by trade. His insightful and sometimes hilarious, but always real articles has attributed to his non-traditional fame, attracting readers and fans from all walks of life, across the country. His work has appeared in print and publications such as NOMMO, Creative Loafing, Rolling Out (circulation approx. 1.5 million), Talking Drum, the North Avenue Review and other periodicals. Dr. Stephens has successfully published over 2 dozen articles in Medical Journals and reviews covering such range of topics as HIV risks, AIDs, Homelessness, and Sexual behavior amongst AA college students. He has a huge following both within the academic community and without. His travels beyond the borders of the US have garnered an international following as he continues to dedicate his life to improving the life of others. Stephens, a graduate of Hamilton High School (Memphis, TN), later attended Morehouse College where he studied, Psychology, Biology and Chemistry. He received a Master's Degree in Educational Psychology and Measurement from Atlanta University and a Ph.D. in Counseling from Clark Atlanta University.

Mr. Stephens currently resides in Atlanta with his two children. He is currently working on a book of essays and his next novel, both to be released soon. You can interact with Mr. Stephens at his blog

Raw Dawg Buffalo.

Saadia Ali Aschemann

2007-09-01T21:10:00.001-04:00

Saadia Ali Aschemann is a poet and the author of
lavish lines/luscious lies.

She has a bachelor's degree from George Mason University and a master's in education from the University of Illinois at Springfield. Aschemann lives with her husband and two sons in West-Central Illinois.

Visit Saadia at one of her many wonderful sites:

*All of her sites have different poetry

Saadia's World
Neurotica and Nonsense
Adventures in Drinking
Saadia On Xanga
Saadia Online (Book Tour Info)

Cedric Harris

2007-09-01T20:13:00.001-04:00

Cedric Harris is owner of Words Apart Editing
"Where Your Words Become Classic Literature and Legendary Speech"

Cedric currently resides in San Diego, CA
He can be reached online at Words Apart Editing
or his blog
A New Man

C. Paige

2007-09-01T02:11:00.001-04:00

A proud native of our Nation's Capital City, Cordenia Paige moved to New York City in August of 2001. She taught in prestigious private schools in Washington, DC and New York City for sixteen years. Cordenia's experience teaching grade levels PK to 12th grade focused on Humanities, Social Studies and Computer skills. She encouraged her students to take the risks to pursue their dreams and to live passionately. Cordenia is now taking her own advice and loving every demanding step.

Cordenia lives in The Bronx where she is at work on a novel, several short stories and educational material. With the help of The Creator her next labor of love will be published in 2008.

You can view samples of her writings and musings at:
The Intimate Side of CapCity.

CDR Enterprises

2007-09-01T00:01:00.001-04:00

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2007-08-01T05:30:00.000-04:00

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