If Beale Street Could Talk

If Beale Street Could Talk

Read this book. Please, please, please read this book. It is beautiful in its grit, rawness, and despair because despite all the foolishness the central characters have to deal with, they love each other. This is a black man (James Baldwin) writing about a black woman (Tish) who is so very loved by a black man, (Fonny) and vice versa (because apparently we can't do that anymore). They are not beautiful people. He isn't tall with rippling muscles and a six-pack. She doesn't have curves that rival a mountain road and she wouldn't be gracing any Cosmos anytime soon. They are simply two young-adult black people in the '70s who love each other. He has nothing to offer her but his love, but I swear to all that is holy, I'd rather have a man like Fonny Hunt than the world's wealthiest and most handsome CEO. And the fact Fonny is in some serious trouble and Tish loves him. Tish's family rallies around him, so does Fonny's father. These people aren't wealthy. They all have rough edges. They cuss. They drink. They steal. But they love, and they love HARD and they love genuinely and they love true.

He stopped and looked at me, very quiet, very hard: there was a hardness in him I had barely sensed before. Within this hardness moved his love, moved as a torrent or as a fire moves, above reason, beyond argument, not to be modified in any degree by anything life might do. I was his, and he was mine--I suddenly realized that I would be very unlucky and perhaps a dead girl should I ever attempt to challenge this decree. (p. 76-77, Vintage)

Can I write like that when I grow up? Lawd, just . . . read this book. You won't regret it. It's not a romance, it's a love story, the kind that just makes you really thankful that there is such a thing as love despite all the other foolishness life can throw at you.

This Writing Thing

It's going to happen for me. I'm claiming that right now. It's already happening, but it WILL happen even more. All these discussions about stats and "backup plans" . . . I can't be worried about those right now. I have one goal--to be a successful author. I'm a GOOD writer, and someone in NYC will figure that out and be willing to take a chance on me. 2008, y'all better be ready for it. And when I get low and full of doubt, I'm coming back to THIS POST to remind myself that there is greatness ready for me to claim it, and I do. None of that soft-footedness of last year. This year, I'm not going to be afraid to be great, and I'm not going to be ashamed of the fact that I AM a good writer (it doesn't make sense, I know, but that's how I felt). I'm not. So, be ready for me.

New Year, New Updates

Happy New Year!

A year ago I dusted off this blog to keep people updated on what was happening to me, because I decided to publish Being Plumville. A year later, I have not one, but two books out now, and I'm working on many more to release for publication. It's amazing how quickly that all happened, and how wonderful it's been to meet so many people who actually like my work! I'm humbled and excited about it, and I hope to never disappoint.

As I'm sure most of you know, SYG voted for Vietnam Story for updates, and I uploaded chapters 4 and 5 there. It's restricted only to that group, but I'll put up announcements here to let you know when a new chapter is out. I decided to do this to keep readers abreast of something that I'm writing, since it is uncertain when publishers/editors will accept my writing, and I don't want people to be in limbo. I've also decided I'm actually going to start some chats and discussions to keep the group viable. I learned a lot by joining other groups by authors I enjoy, and I'm going to do better about etching out time to handle my writing business. This is my ultimate goal, and everything I do must feed into this goal--including the job I have that allows me to pay bills and live in an apartment. This writing thing isn't easy, but I know nothing else I could do with as much passion as I do this. Maybe singing, but I'm not extroverted enough to make a living from that! lol

Anyway, thank you so much to the readers here and on my group and those who bought my books! I appreciate it so much, and I hope 2008 will be extraordinarily great!

New Release: AJ's Serendipity

Available Now!

The last thing Greek Alejandro Melonakos expected to
find when shopping for food for his restaurant was the
love of his life, but that was exactly who he found when
he spotted Black American Samara Grossman across the
marketplace. Will he be able to convince her of his love
and gain hers in return during her five days on vacation,
or will his serendipitous find be all for naught?

Yes, I decided to release this as a bona fide book based on all the wonderful responses I got from it during the summer. Thank you so much for your input. I really appreciate it. This version is essentially the same, except cleaner and more fleshed out. Once again, thank you so much to Aliyah Burke for creating such wonderful characters such as AJ Melonakos and loaning them to me. And it's so rare to read a romance completely from the male perspective, so I think it's something fresh for the market right now. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it for your first, or second (or third or fourth . . .) time and don't be afraid to let me know what you think!

Sav

And the Winner Is . . .

Which unfinished story would you like for me to continue on the Google Group?

The Blueprint 0%0 Gym Story 34%24 NaNo '07 3%2 Trust Fall 6%4 Vietnam Story 57%40

Total Votes : 70

Wow! I'm kind of sad The Blueprint got NO love. :( And *laughs a little* y'all are going to have to wait awhile, because all the chapters I've written for Vietnam Story are already up on the group! Well, hopefully one day you'll all get to buy these lovely stories because I've a.) finished them! and b.) an agent/editor liked it so much they sold it to a publisher. Thanks so much for voting! And hopefully VS's muse will come back so I can start writing it again!

Poll: Which Story to Continue on the Google Group?

This poll will close on Sunday.



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Winna!

I have to say something about yesterday before I move on to the main topic of this post. My mother, Adrenee Gwenell Glover Freeman, died on November 28, 1992 at the age of 42. That's fifteen years ago. Yesterday was definitely one of those "some days are harder than others" days, but I thought I should say something here in commemoration.

So . . . segue, anyone?

50,234. Yeah, I won NaNo 2007. So I'm four for four. This one is still yet untitled, but I'm proud of it. I think I actually see my growth as a writer with this one, so hopefully now that the pressure's off I can still write on it and find more excitement for all the other writer I let drift (hello, Vietnam Story and Gym Story and Trust Fall and The Blueprint and I'm going to stop now before I depress myself lol). Anyway, I posted chapters 1-3 on the Google group, but here's a nice excerpt of chapter 3 to entice.

I hope everyone had a good week.

~~~

Three

It was as if the sun had decided to rise inside the cabin, it was so hot and bright to Deborah. She groaned and burrowed underneath the covers, knowing that would do little to muffle Aunt Flora’s calls for her to rise or to stop the sun from shining, until Deborah realized no one was yelling at her and she was so warm. Normally she was shivering as she awoke.

She pushed the covers from over her head and sat up slightly, a little confused why her body shook from such effort. Her chest ached. Nothing looked familiar. She wasn’t in the kitchen as she normally would be. There was no Aunt Flora bustling about getting mush ready and complaining about how Deborah would sleep the day away if her aunt didn’t wake her up. She looked down and recognized nothing she wore, other than the fact it was too large for her frame. She clutched the fabric and breathed slowly, knowing it wouldn’t do to lose her wits. She was certain she hadn’t been sold off, so why—?

She spied her original clothes to her left, neatly folded with a brown glass bottle lying atop them. She remembered her errand, the storm.

Owen.

She didn’t see him anywhere. The space next to her was empty and cold. In fact, she didn’t even remember him sleeping next to her. As soon as he had pulled the covers over her form, her eyes had closed and sleep had claimed her. Truth be told, it was one of the best sleeps she’d had in months and one of the most comfortable.

She really didn’t want to get up . . .

“Mister Owen,” she called, knowing she would have to anyway. She should earn her keep; she wasn’t anyone’s mistress, after all.

Silence answered back, and Deborah eased into a sitting position. She breathed heavily, slightly winded, but at least she could hold her body up, but she did scoot her way to the sofa to help brace herself. She let out a long sigh and pressed her hand to her head. It ached mildly, but it wasn’t anything she couldn’t handle. Thank goodness it stopped snowing, too. Maybe she could find her way back to the farm.

She heard tree branches pop under the weight of the ice, and a faint crack pierced through the air. Deborah hoped Owen was all right. Even at her usual strength, she knew she didn’t have the ability to bring him to safety as he had with her—at least without a mule and some rope.

A burst of winter suddenly invaded the room and she shuddered, grabbing the blankets and wrapping herself tighter.

“Deborah?” he called out.

“I’m awake,” she told him, shifting so she could look behind her. He was closing the door and holding something in his hands.

When he met her eyes his smile widened, and he held up his hands. “Rabbit!”

Her stomach growled. “Rabbit?”

“You look better,” he said, going into the kitchen. “Do you feel better?”

“I do,” she assured him.

He returned with a tin cup filled with water. “Drink.”

She took the cup with a bemused smile. “Normally it’s me tellin’ Miss Luella to drink. She likes tea with syrup in it. Aunt Flora’s in the kitchen makin’ mush and then I go feed the animals—”

Owen tipped the rim of the cup to her mouth, and she parted her lips just in time to let the water slide through them. After a few swallows, she pulled the cup away and glared at him. “I can’t believe you did that!”

“You weren’t drinking!” he said, giving her a wink.

“I was talkin’,” she muttered, and took another drink so she could hide the smile that was trying to emerge. When she finished drinking all the water, Owen took the cup from her with one hand and squeezed her elbow with the other.

“There’s a whole heap o’ snow out there,” he said, his eyes looking gray in the sunlight. “Not nearly so cold, but it’s hard to walk. Good thing it’s also hard to run or else we would be eating those beans again.”

“That rabbit big enough to feed both o’ us?” she asked skeptically. It didn’t even look like enough to feed him, let alone both of them!

Owen looked toward the ceiling and gave an exasperated shrug. “If we do it right—”

“One meal, at most,” Deborah said. “But I’ll be fine on the beans—”

His fingers were cool as they touched her lips. The contact felt nice, especially since her skin was still a bit chapped, though they didn’t hurt like before.

“I found the witch hazel,” he mumbled, pressing his thumb against a corner of her mouth. That explained why her lips felt better; he must’ve tended to them while she slept. She blushed at the realization, and harder when he smiled at her. “Among other things. I figure we might be here for a while.”

“Thank you,” she whispered. “A while?”

He nodded. “Like I said, a lot of snow. Everything is white. No markers to let us know if we were going the right way anyway. Do you have any idea where we are?” Deborah shook her head. “Well,” he sighed, his fingers now drifting over her jaw and heading toward her scarred cheek. “One day at a time.”

“One day . . .”

Writer's Digest Self-Published Book Awards

I didn't become a finalist *woe*, but I did get a very pleasant judge's rating and comments, and a shiny certificate for my participation.

Oh, hello.

It's been a month. Heh. Things have been full of me spiritually regrouping, so to speak. Now it's National Novel Writing Month, so I'm currently working on that right now. 50K words in a month sounds pretty daunting, except I've done it for the past for years, starting in 2004 with Being Plumville. That worked out fairly well, didn't it? ;). I've won every year I've done it. 2005 was The Blueprint, although that novel isn't done, and last year it was Manna Tree, which is. This year's NaNo is called NaNo07. It has no title, but I'm thinking that I tend to like historical settings for NaNo, except for last year's of course. This one is set in the mid 1850s, surrounding the events of Bleeding Kansas. That's all I'll say about it at the moment, but I got the idea during my day job as I was proofreading an American history textbook. Go figure. Anyway, right now I'm currently ahead of pace, and hopefully it'll stay that way.

At any rate, this is just a note to tell everyone I am still alive and writing my own original fic. Want proof? Here's the first single-spaced page of NaNo07. It's not beta'ed or spell-checked or anything, as one of the rules not to edit (yes, I do fudge it a little, sue me!) I hope you enjoy!

Sav


~~~~~~

One

The heavy dark clouds had besieged the sky like an invading army, and its cavalry of freezing rain, sleet, and snow attacked with merciless precision. Deborah thought she’d left the farm early enough to beat the storm, but Mrs. Fogg had started talking so, asking how Miss Luella was getting on; and if Mister Grayson was going to try for Kansas City and a proper doctor now that he had gotten that wheel on his wagon fixed; and she how couldn’t wait for another one of Aunt Flora’s buttermilk pies. She’d bounced on the balls of her feet, her bottom lip tucked between her teeth as she gave wary glances to the sky through the window just above Mrs. Fogg’s head. Nevertheless, she had nodded and given appropriate mews of agreement when Mrs. Fogg had poured the brewed remedy in the brown glass bottle and promised to pray for Miss Luella’s cough to go away. The illness had gripped poor Miss Luella since before Thanksgiving, and the remedy had been the only thing that had managed to ease it. Though the remedy hadn’t been low, Mister Grayson had wanted to get more before the storm arrived. It had smelled like a big mean one; yesterday, the air had been so still and silent even Miss Luella’s coughs had whimpered out her body as if afraid to hurry tempest along. Deborah would’ve fetched the remedy yesterday, but Mister Grayson had to go into town to pick up supplies for the oncoming storm, and Mrs. Fogg lived three miles in the other direction. Mister Grayson didn’t feel comfortable leaving his wife with only Aunt Flora to look after her, the woman older and not as mobile as Deborah was, and since the ground was already snow-dusted from an earlier, yet gentler snowfall, Deborah would be much more able and quicker to retrieve help. Had Mister Grayson not sold off her husband Isaiah a few months before they had moved here year ago, he would’ve stayed with Aunt Flora and Miss Luella while she went off to Mrs. Fogg.

At the rate she was currently going, however, Deborah doubted she was making any better progress than Aunt Flora would have. It felt as if she was sinking into snow and earth and not moving forward at all, instead just marching futilely in place. Cold speared its way through her threadbare wool coat. The snow melted and pooled in her too-big brown pegged brogans, saturating her holey socks and making water squish between her toes with each step she made. The remedy bottle tinged from each pelt of freezing rain, but the squalling winds soon drowned out the sound, joining the snowy brigade and conspiring against her quest home. They lanced frigid precipitation against her naked face, though she’d gratefully her nose and ears had lost sensation early in her trek. Though she’d tried to hide her hands in the sleeves of her coat, they still tingled with the retreat of feeling. She had to get back, though. Miss Luella still needed the remedy, and with this storm going like it was, it would be a long time before Mrs. Fogg could gather more ingredients for another brew, or for anyone to go to Mrs. Fogg’s cabin to get more should she make more. Not only that, Miss Luella had always been so kind to her and Aunt Flora, and Deborah didn’t even want to think about what Mister Grayson would do should his wife become worse. He loved Miss Luella dearly . . .

Deborah’s calves and thighs burned, growing leaden, as if the muscles swelling and constricting simultaneously against the fierceness of the storm. Her head ached, frozen raindrops and snowflakes falling upon her head like mallets. Another squall and an unseen ground hazard sent Deborah stumbling into the snow. Icy shock seized her body, and though her brain demanded her arms to lift her body, she was too exhausted to heed the command.

“Oh, Lord, help me,” she whispered, forcing her panic into a tight ball deep in her belly. She prayed the bottle didn’t break, though she wouldn’t be able to tell because her entire body was soaked and she could no longer feel her hands. A traitorous sob stole from her mouth, but she clamped her chapped lips close together so that more wouldn’t follow. She was stuck outside an unforgiving tempest and had no idea where she was. She didn’t know if she’d past the point of no return . . . didn’t even know where that point would be. Everything around her was gray, white, and dull. She recognized nothing.

Meh

I didn't get chosen to continue to the second round of the Gather.com contest and I've gotten another rejection for RJC. Yes, it smarts, but onward. I had one agent months ago say she loved RJC, but I haven't heard from her since. I'm going to start scoping out more possibilities and start again. Maybe I should start sending out others, for works that aren't done? I don't know.

Rejection's the name of the game, folks. Some days it's easier to take than others.rjc

Updates and Reviews

I have been doing writing, just none of it original. So, I've been on a mini-hiatus, re-reading old works to hopefully get myself back into the swing of things. I've also entered a Contest on Gather.com, bit late notice since the voting for Round One ended two days ago, but I figure I should tell you anyway. Again, I've pretty much been avoiding anything having to do with writing in order to get a creative refuel so to speak.

Finally, I have a review from Cocktail Reviews for Being Plumville. Go check it out and spread the word about Being Plumville or me in general :-P.

I hope everyone is having a great day and wearing black to support the Jena 6 (I am.)

I am . . . (or what I discovered in Maui)

A literary fiction writer with an emphasis on romance, according to Manus & Associates, anyway.

Romance: Romance is unabashed escapist fiction, following the love story of a (usually female) protagonist, and intended to sweep women readers away from their day-to-day
problems. The Romance Writer's Association defines its genre simply as "a love story with an optimistic and emotionally satisfying ending." However, also key to Romance novels is an absence of moral ambiguity. Courage saves the day, justice triumphs, good defeats evil, and it is always readily apparent who and what is good and who and what is evil. Almost uniformly, Romance involves the "taming" or "civilization" of a wild man by a woman. Sub-plots and minor characters are kept to a minimum; these are not multi-layered works. Romance readers are seeking to relax and enjoy. Romances should be easy to read, but should strike strong emotional chords. Marriage is almost without exception the desired goal of a Romance plot.

Literary: Literary is, of course, a qualitative term, arrived at not by formula or definition but by aesthetic judgment. But, in general, a literary novel tends to be much more character driven than a commercial novel. But just what qualifies a book as literary is difficult to identify, and open to debate even among well established literary writers. Some cite moral ambiguity, an effort to grapple with dark and light and to see a situation in its full complexity, as a key characteristic. Others might point to layers of meaning, or resonance, of the careful use of language itself. Many speak of the "truth" of a novel, of an ability to address the human condition. Still others might stress universality. A dozen other qualities of "literature" might be discussed, but with most of them, whether a book possesses it and in what degree can never be an objective matter.

That fits me, right? The type of work I do? I don't think my romance is escapist, although there is much romance and love an intimacy. I don't tend to, or like, for that matter, escaping from real-world problems. It grabs me more when the real world tries to impede, but the characters, somehow, someway, make it through those problems to their "happily ever after", even if that "ever after" is peppered with more trials and dark times. Those moments do not outweigh, strip, or even diminish that happy ever after. How else can people know they are happy without the sad times to highlight and underscore it? The hope is the happy days are far more numerous than the sad, and that is the arc I want the characters to have; the hope and see that hope come into fruition, or at least the beginning of it.

At the Maui Writers Conference, I had the ability to talk with agents, editors, other fellow writers on the continuum of the writing enterprise. There were screenwriters, LGBT writers, Inspiration writers, Horror writers, Nonfiction writers, Romance writers, and me. LOL. I didn't know what kind of writing I did, although I knew I wasn't fitting as neatly into romance as I apparently I should've been. Few of my "favorite" books were written by romance writers. To Kill a Mockingbird certainly isn't; Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry isn't, but there is love in those stories, hope. They spoke to me because they moved beyond romantic love, they wrestled with the humanity of things, the good and bad, but somehow, they managed to end on that bend of hope. When I spoke to the agents, editors, and fellow writers about my writing, I always said "I THOUGHT I was a romance writer, but . . ." They helped me work through my confusion, the murky area of why couldn't I place myself in one genre or another. One agent told me to put myself in the broadest genre possible and let the publishing houses figure out the rest, and though romance is pretty broad, it's not broad enough.
Or at least not yet.

Another thing agents and editors said was writers should think of themselves as a brand. Shoppers tend to buy by brand, or buy products that complement or are comparable to each other. A big thing is P-n-Ls (Profit and Loss reports). A house isn't going to buy a book unless they think it will sell, and the best indicator of that is when an author writes a book of a similar brand to another author. In romance, for example, Susan Edwards and Cassie Edwards are comparable brands because they both write historical romances with mainly Indian men/White women as the theme. For me, that is hard, because I don't know of many writers who do similar things as I do. And when you are a writer who has a hard time finding comparable authors, it makes you that much more of a risk to an agent or a house. They want originality, but not TOO much originality. Understandable because it's a business. Frustrating as hell because I'm a writer.

True, there are many who write IR fiction, but there is the "don't mention race" school and the "only mention race" school. There is the "old school" IR and the "new school" IR. There's paranormal IR and very few historical IR. It's all over the place. With my writing, I try to pull from all the schools into one. There is something I like about each school, but as a reader, I want all (or as many of) those YES! buttons pushed, not just some of them. The button that pushes me the most, however, is style and how an author puts words together to make my reaction visceral, whether it's a good/pleasant reaction or not. If I don't, I come away with, "it's all right . . .". I don't like that feeling, and I try not to leave my readers with that feeling. I'm well aware some of my stories will be more successful at not leaving that feeling than others, and I have MUCH more to learn, but that's my goal.

Anyway, Maui is gorgeous. The hotel was beautiful, Wailea Marriot Resort and Spa. It was a very, super-quick weekend, but I learned much about myself and met some wonderful people and got great advice. God willing, I'd go again. This conference was just what I needed to get me excited about writing again, especially since I have more of an understanding of what kind of writer I am.

A Six Minute Short Story

This is an exercise I did while in Maui. It is unedited and raw. I promise to share more about what I learned, but I won't be able to decompress until this weekend. In the mean time, I hope you enjoy!

~~~

The chords didn't sound right to him, the dissonance painful instead of uncomfortably soothing. He pounded his fist against the keys, and his ears twitched from the racket he caused.

"Damn it!" he cursed, rubbing the red key prints on his hands.

"Caress the keys," a smoky feminine voice said in his ear.

He jumped, surprised. He'd thought he'd been alone all this time.

She smiled at him, his mentor's daughter, and stood next to him at the piano. She stroked the keys almost erotically, and her fingers fell into place. The chord she played made him shiver with delicious discomfort, the seventh just perfect and accessible to her whereas it'd been elusive to him.

"Sheet music, my ass," she chuckled, patting him on the head before sauntering away.

Growling slightly, he took the paper down.

Where did the past twenty-five days go?

I know it's been a while since an update. I apologize. I've been busy, busy, busy, and trying to write and all that jazz. Right now, I'm a little over three hours away from getting on a plane to attend the Maui Writers Conference in Hawaii. I've never been to Hawaii, and I'm going alone. I'm nervous, and excited. Hopefully, I'll make some very good connections in the writing world to help me break through. It's hard with the constant rejections, knowing you have a good piece of writing, certainly no worse than much of the stuff published now. If the people have a face to the name, perhaps that would be better? I don't have a bad face, and my haircut is fierce, if I do say so myself!

I'm working on projects still. Gym Story and Vietnam Story are in a semi-hiatus because I haven't had the time necessary to work on them, and I've been trying to write shorter stories to post, but those have turned into longer stories. Funny. Anyway, maybe this trip will inject some "hop-to-it" in me. I hope so.

I entered a contest on Gather.com for Romance First Chapters. I encourage everyone to join and then vote for me! :-D You loff me, I know ;). It's free, but in a probably "shooting myself in the foot" move, please only vote a ten if you'd like to see the next chapter. Also, please comment. I'd like to know what people think, since I don't know how you specifically vote. You don't have to tell me, but comments are nice :).

The novel I chose was Manna Tree. Was that a good choice in your opinion? Let me know!

Finally, I wish all my US folk a happy and safe Labor Day. Can't believe the summer is basically over. What's up with that?!

Aloha!

Sav

Nice (June 29, 2005)

I'm trying to find inspiration, and for me, sometimes that means reading old writings/stories/logs, etc. This one is old, two years old to be exact, written based off characters not completely of my own creation. Fan-fiction-esque as it was. Anyway, it's a bit . . . racier in terms of what I usually post on this blog, but I stumbled upon it again this weekend and I actually liked it. Shock. I did write this one, though, which is why the fact it is old is important, back when I was more shy about this type of writing than I am now (still shy, just not quite so shy). Anyway, some of you may recognize it, but I hope you enjoy it anyway. Happy Monday!

~~~~~~~~~~~

His hand is warm on her bare back . . . warm and large, and she smiles as she feels her skin drag across her back muscles, nestling her head in the pillow her arms hug to her face.

His lips kiss her shoulder blade—whisper-soft like a snowflake—and she purrs at the delicate action.

“What are you thinking?” he asks against her skin, that warm, large hand sliding across her back and underneath to her stomach. His fingers play with the area around her navel, dipping inside and causing her to clench her abdominal muscles. The cotton sheets slide lower down her body as she stretches out her leg, bringing her stomach more fully into his hand and touch.

She hums. “This is nice . . .”

His lips are now at the nape of her neck, using his free hand to smooth the hair away and expose her flesh to him. His tongue darts out, warm and moist, and she thinks briefly of the tropical Bahamian sun she experienced when she was 18. She loved that sun . . . wishes she had the opportunity to experience again.

“Nice?” he asks on a chuckle, the hand at her stomach sliding up to cup a bare breast. “Is that all?”

His front presses against her back, and she feels the male curves and valleys of his body. Smooth chest, shredded abs, hard penis all in concert to bring her body and mind into a new awareness of him. His thumb on her nipple also serves that purpose.

“You sound disappointed,” she says, muffling a giggle, eyes still closed as the hand now travels south to the juncture of her thighs. His fingers meet no resistance, her body growing accustomed to the pleasure his gives hers, and wanting more of it. She sighs, spreading her legs a little wider so his fingers could have better access.

“I was hoping for bloody brilliant,” he admits with a laugh, his teeth closing over the shell of her ear as his tongue soothes away her injury. She shudders at the sensation of a wet mouth on her ear and his fingers inside of her. Soon, that mouth blazes a trail to the crook of her neck, and she feels his tongue tracing . . . something . . . and she shivers again.

“How do you know ‘nice’ isn’t ‘bloody brilliant’?” she asks, peeking at him over her shoulder. “Perhaps I was only trying to be efficient . . .”

“Efficient,” he mutters in her neck before kissing it again. “There’s no need to be ‘efficient’ now . . .”

Indeed not, for they have been lazing in bed for the better part of the morning. Usually, she is up with the sun, taking a walk in the park to get her ready for the day. Now the thought of leaving the bed . . . leaving him . . . is entirely unacceptable.

He applies pressure with the hand on her stomach, and she complies, turning over so she lies on her back. He stares at her as if seeing her for the first time, and she says nothing. His eyes caress her almost as effectively as his hands do, roving over her eyes, nose, cheeks, ears and lips. They move down to her neck and he licks his lips before tasting the area where her Adam’s Apple would be if she had one. The tongue trails down to the valley of her breasts, and his nose nuzzles one nipple, then the other, before flicking the last with his tongue. She moans, spreading her legs so he could settle between them, his length hard and pulsing against her inner thigh. She winces at the feel of him because she’s still tender from their first joining—her first ever—but the wincing dims in comparison to the pleasure he has given her . . .

Those large, warm hands, drag down to her hips before cupping her bum, bringing her pelvis closer to his, making his heat touch hers and making them both groan.

“I can’t stop touching you, love,” he whispers against the underside of her breast, meeting her brown eyes with his. His teeth nip her before kissing away the injury, and her hands rake through his black hair, now spiked every which way from sleep and other activities.

“You don’t have to,” she says, the last word on a gasp as his maleness slips into her womanhood. She clamps around him immediately, loving the sensation of him filling her.

“Even if I touch you here?” he asks, letting her know where “here” was as he thrust into her.

She giggles, the sound husky, and brings his head down to hers. “Especially there . . .”

He grins and kisses her, his tongue sliding inside and mimicking the thrusts he makes into another pair of lips. She has always loved his kisses, the feel of his tongue against hers, his lips on hers, his arms holding her . . .

He shifts positions, pushing himself to the hilt inside her before getting on his knees then on his bum, the new position causing him to swell and go even deeper inside her.

“This is new,” she says, partly on a moan as her body adjusts to him.

“Just trying to keep it fresh and not-so-efficient,” he says cheekily, pressing a chaste kiss to her lips before pumping his hips again.

She hugs him tightly, her lips hovering above his and one hand clutching the hair at the back of his head while the other grips the small of his back. She works her hips, trying to get the best friction or to make him go deeper or for him to stroke her just there . . ., all the while trying not to explode at the feel of his mouth and tongue now at her neck, tracing the word she finally recognizes:

Mine.

She is his—completely now—just as he is hers . . . whether he knows it or not. She kisses and bites his shoulder alternatively before clasping her to him and trembling violently as she succumbs to the bliss he gives her.

“Guh—” She doesn’t know what she wanted to say—the pleasure removing all ability to think at that moment—but it was probably his name . . . or God’s name . . . she buries her face into his shoulder.

He continues to pump and she continues to let him, for although she’s reached her peak he hasn’t, and quite honestly, she loves the feel of him inside her. His breath is now ragged and harsh in her ears, and she caresses the space behind his because she knows he’s extra sensitive there. She whispers, “come for me” against his lobe.

He grunts, hisses, and then slams into one last time before she feels jet after jet of his release hit her inner walls.

She pulls back, wiping away the moisture from his face, and her lips pull into a smile. His follow hers, and he rests his forehead against hers.

“Nice,” he says. “That was nice.” His hand sweeps against her sweat-slicked back, bringing her closer to him even as they remain intimately locked together.

She giggles and kisses him, nodding when she pulls away. “It was . . . and it is.”

It is the first of many nice moments.

Just . . . Something . . . forgive errors

Utopia

Neither had thought to bring a blanket, so the fresh-cut grass itched their skin a little bit, and random ladybugs and other insects used them as pathways, and thankfully little else. She’d had the foresight to search for anthills and dog poop, and he had smiled at her consideration for him.

After all, he was to be her pallet for that afternoon, anyway.

She was sleeping, snoring softly. Her breath was warm against his chest, tickling him slightly. Her body curved around his so completely, their legs tangled, her arms around his torso, her cheek atop his beating heart. Some of her hair had fallen out her chignon, and he brushed it behind her ear. Her hair, her skin, everything about her was soft and pliant, and when she snuggled further into him, he smiled and kissed the top of her head.

It was moments like these, contraband and dangerous, that were so precious to him, not only for their rarity, but for their substance. Now, he was just a boy and she was just a girl, his girl. There was nothing but the sun and a breeze with them, along with buzzing of flying insects or the sporadic calls of birds as they flew above. No need to keep up appearances now.

A large cloud passed overhead, darkening the shadow they were under even more. Soon they would have to make it back. It didn’t take that long for her to go to the post office, and his parents would be home soon. It wouldn’t do well if they arrived to an empty house.

“Baby,” he murmured against the top of her head. She barely stirred. “Darlin’, wake up.” He shook her shoulder gently.

She nuzzled her cheek into his chest before she opened her eyes. He tilted his head back as she rested her chin where her cheek had been. She gave him a drowsy grin.

“Mornin’.”

He chuckled low in his throat. “Afternoon.” A kiss to her forehead. “We have to go soon.”

Her face crumpled right before she placed it in the crook of his neck. “Five more minutes.”

Her lips were soft and slightly moist, and he felt his body shudder from the point of contact throughout his body. He slipped his fingers to her nape, the heavy plait she wore brushing against his knuckles.

“A lifetime,” he murmured, resting his forehead to the top of her head. “Unfortunately, that cannot start now.”

“Or this lifetime,” came her muffled response.

Sighing, he pulled her face away from his neck. His thumbs caressed the swells of her cheeks, her brown eyes sad and wistful. He hated he put this expression on her face, especially when not minutes before it was the perfect picture of peace.

“Sweetie,” he breathed, brushing his nose against hers, then tilting his head so his lips grazed hers. She clung to him and deepened the kiss, grinding her hips into his in reaction. He groaned low in his throat, knowing his body was more than ready to give her what his heart, in good conscience, could not. He would not take her innocence from her. That belonged solely to her and to her husband, and unfortunately, he could not be the latter.

They linked fingers together as they broke their kiss, and he placed their joined hands over his left breast. He looked down at their connection, she dark, he light, and he saw nothing of the ugliness and the abomination folks in their town saw.

“Beautiful,” he whispered. He ran his thumb along her knuckles and his blue eyes met her brown ones. “Absolutely beautiful.”

She smiled brightly at him. “Can we be beautiful for five more minutes?”

He didn’t answer her, instead returning to his prone position and cradling her body back atop his.

No smart man should ever be in such a hurry to leave his utopia, no matter how fleeting its time there actually was.

~~~~~~

Can be anyone, but yes, I did have a couple in mind. I hope you enjoyed it.

Quagmire

That's been my life for the past week, so I apologize for dropping off the face of the proverbial earth. Yes, this week was sent Priority mail from hell, complete with getting more rejections for Manna Tree and RJC than I ever thought possible, so I'm going to need a weekend to recover. All e-mails and such will be answered, now that I have my computer back *snuggles*, and maybe, just maybe, I'll gathered the tatters of my imagination and creativity and write something worthy of posting.

Don't hold breaths, though.

Two bright spots--saw a dear friend of mine at the bus stop yesterday. She's in town for a year, yay! That makes me happy. Also, RAWSISTAZ gave Being Plumville a five-star review on Amazon. I'm not upset at that, either :).

Anyway, I hope everyone's week has been way better than mine.

Oy.

I need an infusion of inspiration in the worst way. I cannot write, though I so want to write, but I am stuck. I am a sputtering car, and I can't go anywhere even in neutral. I don't know how I'll get that inspiration back, but all of my personal creativity has been sucked completely dry. I detest the feeling. I don't like it. Now that the free read is completed, I do miss it, and I've opened up just about all of my WiPs and . . . nothing is biting. Maybe I need to reread some, I don't know. I just need to get back to writing, or I need something to happen so I don't feel so suspended.

Well, anyway, I hope things are going well with you out there.

The Book Squad Interview

Check it out! I'm on around minute 17 or so. I will say I enjoyed the interview! Karyn and Wendy were very fun and their show is fun as well. I encourage you to check out their show every Friday at noon EST, I don't think you'll be disappointed at all! I think I'm getting more used to talking about my work, although I still find it a little uncomfortable because I am shy and I am not generally my favorite subject, but I do know if I want to"turn this hobby into a career" as my uncle says, I'll have to bite the bullet on numerous things, this being one of them.

I am a beautiful woman and a good writer.

That has been my mantra for weeks now, especially when I'm often the only person who will ever say those things to me on a given day.

But anyway, I hope you get a chance to listen and that you enjoy!

AJ's Serendipity 12--Finale

It's finished! :'(. I'm a little sad about it, actually, and a whole lot more relieved! I would like to thank Ms. Aliyah Burke for letting me use her character for this "fling" of a story, and I want to thank you all for sticking with me! This is it. I doubt there will be more, and there will be no Frankie or Spyros story. Sorry! That was never in the plan and it still isn't. Just AJ and his Samara. Anyway, I hope you enjoy and please forgive errors. For one final time, please check out Ms. Burke's site or go to SYG to read the final chapter.

Enjoy!

~~~~~

“Samara?” he asked cautiously. What did this mean? She wasn’t dressed to go out, but given the time, it was after eleven-thirty at the very least.

Samara made to stand, and he helped her, grasping her hand gently in his. He didn’t let go once she was settled on her feet.

“I told Frankie I wasn’t feeling well,” Samara said quietly and without preamble. “It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t a complete truth, either. I needed time to think.”

AJ felt as if his lungs were in a vice, and he squeezed air out and sucked it into his body. “Okay . . .”

A deep breath. “Instead of me coming with you, why don’t you come with me . . . to meet my family?” Samara said in a rush.

Involuntarily, his hand squeezed hers in surprise. “What?”

“I asked if you wanted to meet my family . . . my parents . . .”

“What are you really asking me, Samara?”

Samara blew out a breath and glared at him. “Look, I don’t know if you know this or not, but women don’t like ultimatums, especially Black women. Shoot, we can do bad all by ourselves, and most of the time, it’s not even a choice. But you listen and listen good, Alejandro Kyriakos Melonakos. Just because I love you, don’t think your shit don’t stink, got it?”