Blackface by Q. B. Wells

Blackface by Q. B. Wells
Travel with Black and experience Blackface!

To protect his mother, teenager Demitris Zachery a.k.a Black must runaway from his home. Forced to mingle with the worst elements and conditions of urban life, he meets Face, Penny and Zero-together they fend for the American Dream. Inevitably, experience provokes Black to observe his friends, his lifestyle and his own aspirations. In his journey of self-discovery, Black must learn how to survive on the streets of Chicago, alter his life decisions or perish in the confusion of life.  Evocative, elegantly crafted and fast paced, Blackface challenges the reader and promises to be one an engaging read.

Read the full excerpt here:

Excerpt/Chapter One: Blackface

Black slouched his face in the bathroom sink and listened to the water drip down his earlobes as he waited for the rust to clear from the faucet. You ain’t never been nothing in the past and you won’t be nothing in the future; no good nigger, the thoughts from his mother reverberated through his mind.

Black threw his navy book bag against the rear of the tub and sat on the lid of the toilet, staring at the sink until the water overflowed and dampened his school supplies-I shouldn’t even go to school.

He stared into the mirror, picked up a bridle pad. Pouring a few drops of Palmolive, he wiped his face fierce, as if scrubbing a stain from the carpet. White suds foamed atop his fat forehead and his eyes burned, he closed them to splash water over his face. Black dreamed of lighter colored eyes, smoother light skin on his face, but nothing had changed in his physical appearance.

Reaching beneath the sink, Black grabbed a luffa, splashed bleach onto the surface and scrubbed his cheeks. His dark neck and broad shoulders heated as his eyes tiered from the fumes. Forced to rinse his face, he looked at the discoloration he caused, the skinny scars from the busted pimples of a grotesque face. He brushed his fingertips over his bumpy skin as if reading brail. The filthy black skin stenched and he resembled a homeless man. The red bone kids that have golden skin complexions all look better he thought. He grabbed the top of his head, just look at this nappy hair. It hasn’t been cut in weeks and everybody at school is going to heat me up, talking bought what I already know, I look like a big black guerilla.

No matter what, he couldn’t scrub off the part of himself that he hated the most. And he did hate his irritating black face, like an itch that he couldn’t reach in the middle of his back. But, like an itch in the middle of his back, if he could get to it- He’d scratch that itch, then scratch and re-scratch some more, until the itch ignited into a flaming sensation. Like mercury mixing in his bloodstream blood would bleed down the middle of his back. That would feel good Black thought as he spotted a book of matches.

Could the tar black skin burn off? "Clinton Ray," Ms. Dean, yelled, "You been in that bathroom too long, you better be ready for school." "I’m not going to school today." "Why not, do you feel sick or something?" "No." "Well then nigger, if you not sick, you better take your tail to that school." "I can’t go. I have knots in my hair and they going talk about me, just look at it." "So what, haven’t I told you that you go to school to learn?" "Yes." "Well then, why you worried about what they think about your hair?" "I don’t know. I just am." "Well boy, I don’t have any money to get you a haircut this week. You’ll get one next week."

Black opened the bathroom door prepared for school. His Chicago Bulls t-shirt reeked of bleach; his hair in thick knots, his face bumpy, and the backpack still damp as if caught in a morning shower. Staring at his mother in her robe, Black pleaded.

"They still gone say my shoes is talking, my pants is flooding and that I can’t buy a belt." Raising her hand, "Clinton Ray, if you don’t get out this house and go to school…"

"If I go, I’m just going to end up smashing one of them in the face for talking about me." Clinton walked toward the door and waited. "You just want to be a no good nigger. Let one of them school people call me and make me take off work today to come get you. I’m going to smash you in your face way harder than one of them little school boys."

 "I’ll hit them back." The room doubled as Ms. Dean backslapped Black’s face and he regained single vision. "I do not want to hear another word." Without another word, Black slammed the door and ran down the apartment stairs, weeping all the way to school. As he walked to the street he daydreamed of the past recalled illustrations of his mothers love.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Blackface by BPM:  B. Wells  is NOW available!

Author Biography
Q.B. Wells
is the author of Blackface and Doughboy. Currently he is the editor of and the C.E.O of Art Official Media LLC. He resides in Baltimore where he enjoys meeting readers, teaching writing courses and spending time with family.

To contact BPM:  B. Wells for an interview, event or book signing @
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