Readers: This work of fiction has explicit details about pedophilia/familial child rape, abuse, poverty, and neglect. If this is something you think you shouldn’t read, please do not continue.
What of little girls who have no heart and no shine? Who carries the pain for them when breathing isn’t easy? Where are their Gods? Where are you, God? Nowhere to be found.
Phara was ten when her daddy laid up with her for what seemed like the thousandth time. He shuffled in one night, late from work, with Seagram’s Gin fresh on his breath as he panted his way down…
Hi. I’m Clover. Clover Daniels. No middle name. Who are you? Lemme guess. Mama says our family gonna be coming over soon and I’ve gotta get my act together and clean house but . . . I can spare some time to speak with you.
That’s right! I’m guessing who you are . . . Are you the guy coming to interview my daddy, Linden Tillman or something like that? I bet you are! He ain’t here right now. My daddy’s got big plans for us. We’re supposed to be moving again. This time to someplace called Hopeulikit, Georgia. …
He used to call me baby, that was his way, until . . . Until he had to leave. I was twelve. Twelve years old, wondering what I did wrong. No one could tell me. I wasn’t old enough to be in the middle of the conversations birthed between adults. And as a Southerner, you listen to your elders. You heed their advice.
So, I thought my light had faded — if Daddy wasn’t calling me baby anymore . . . Who else would? Who else should? Was I even still deserving of that term of endearment?
My mom had…
When you step outside and breathe in the
world around you, do you not feel alive?
Living and breathing and embracing a new
day is a tangible gift we often fail to unwrap.
I love this present. I love its presence.
It would be easy for me to simply say, “Writing is the air I breathe” or “I can’t not write,” both would be true, their cliched existence notwithstanding, but there are other reasons why. I am a person who believes in expressing herself in the most honest way possible. Oftentimes, writing is the preferable method for me.
Nowadays if you’re not on one of the following dating apps; Tinder, eHarmony, Match, or Hinge (just to name a few), chances are, you’re still clinging to the traditional way of dating just as I am or I’d like to be. I did not have many miles behind me regarding the traditional way of dating prior to the Coronavirus, COVID-19 — it was the method with which I was most familiar.
If I wanted to, I could go to my local coffee shop, set up my mini workstation, order my favorite blend, and subtly eye God’s gifts that walked through…
Crack goes the whip and
every order or demand that
can break a camel's back —
thrown at us under a
noon day's sun and just
like that, the fun . . .
We've been asked to
pack our things, close
up shop, retire, put things
to bed and not wake up and
well, if you know us . . .
you know we're not going
Funny how money can shift
a mountain of growth
or how it can sharpen
the hardest edges especially
when the underdogs begin to
climb too high.
“Percy! How many eggs do I have in that Frigidaire?!”
Mama Jackie shouts from the top of her lungs to her on-again/off-again boyfriend Percy from the back of her cramped-up apartment.
“You got five eggs, Jackie.”
“Did you say five, Percy?!”
“Yes, I did. Five eggs!”
“Oh, good! That’s enough to make us some egg salad for lunch later.”
It is 07:30 am and Mama Jackie is already thinking about lunch. Breakfast hasn’t settled in their stomachs yet but this is her way — always shuffling on to the next thing. …