True Confessions by Electa Rome Parks

Twenty-eight year old Kennedy Logan is gorgeous, educated, talented, and in love. Unfortunately, Drake Collins has other ideas about the true state of their relationship. Kennedy hopes to turn him around; Drake just wants to turn her out sexually. Kennedy is also searching for her biological mother, who gave her up at birth. She wants answers and she has tons of questions. The enormous weight of these predicaments leads to a failed suicide attempt.

Her overprotective and overbearing mother, Dorothy Logan, moves in with Kennedy and makes it her mission to get her daughter's life back in order. The first step is getting rid of Drake Collins once and for all, but that's easier said than done. Drake has no intentions of going anywhere. Kennedy's ever loyal and fun-loving best friend, Taylor, and her absentee father join forces to help support Kennedy in her time of need.

At her psychiatrist's advice, Kennedy uses writing as her therapy. She starts to keep a daily journal detailing the erotic circumstances and family drama that led up to her despair. Through very personal, funny, and graphic entries, readers will share her confessions. Brace yourselves for a very steamy journey!

Prologue True Confessions by Electa Rome Parks

(Erotic Fiction)

My reality is surreal and happens in super, slow motion. A nervous giggle escapes my chapped, dry and parched lips. I lick them to restore moisture. Then, there is utter, deadly silence. If I listen closely, I can hear my heartbeat beating away at an accelerated pace. My senses are heightened and I marvel over the brilliant, bold colors of my bedroom as I inhale my favorite fragrances, from their spot on my antique dresser, colliding into one another with their potent allure. Even my sense of touch is different somehow. Everything is magnified to the nth degree. It’s like I’m looking down at myself from a huge movie screen with surround sound as I ready myself for the big finale---the final shot and then fade to black.

I’ve never been good at saying goodbye, even on short, weekend trips. I keep the handwritten note short and sweet and pray to God that mother will understand, and hopefully, one day, forgive me.

I don’t mean to hurt her or cause her any fresh pain. I sincerely don't. I hope she understands that this isn't her fault, that I love her with all my heart and being. No matter what, that fact will never change. I’m so thankful and forever grateful that she chose me to be her daughter out of all the orphaned babies in the world. She chose me. I told myself over and over again that that made me special. I needed to feel special instead of unwanted and discarded.

I’ll miss mother the most, but the hurt I feel inside is too unbearable and indescribable. It is too painful for me to continue, day in and day out, with just a hollow emptiness that erodes and corrupts any happiness that briefly surfaces. The dawn of each new day only brings me more heartache and renewed memories. Some memories are like leeches. They latch on for dear life and slowly, ever so slowly, suck and drain all the blood, all the living out of you. You are left with just a shell of the old you and that's no way to survive. Not for me, anyway.

When they find me, I want it to look like I’m sleeping, peacefully. Just like Sleeping Beauty who only needed a handsome prince to kiss her and awaken her from the darkness that engulfed her. However, for me, there won't be a handsome, charming prince to wake me, save me, and ride off into eternity. All my so-called princes were monsters in disguise with their own hidden agendas that attempted to crush and stamp out my self-esteem. Yes, just blessed sleep awaits me.

I chose pills. I couldn’t subject mother to a messy, bloody scene that comes with slitting one’s wrists or shooting one's self. I refuse to take my final breath with that heavy on my heart. I don't think my heart could handle anything else weighing against it. As it is, I feel like I have three hundred pounds weighing me down. Crushing the life out of me.

As I settle myself comfortably on my queen-size bed, slowly pull the red, satin comforter up to my chin and stare at the full bottle of prescription pills carefully nestled in my right hand, I can’t imagine not waking up in the morning.

What will it be like to not see the rising sun? To not hear my alarm clock going off announcing it’s time to get ready for another day of work? Not hitting snooze to give myself another fifteen minutes? Not rushing to finish my morning rituals before I dash out the door and into rush-hour traffic? What will that feel like?

More important to me now, though, is will it hurt? I hope not. I have never been able to tolerate too much pain, physical, mental or emotional. Yet, that’s what Drake has caused me for the last year of my life. Pain. Intolerable suffering.

I only wanted to love him and for him to love me in return. Simple enough. Was that asking too much? My part of the equation was accomplished, effortless. Drake claimed he loved me, but he really didn’t. Probably never could. Didn't know how to love or receive it. After what happened last week, I know he didn’t. Yet, I gave him everything: my heart, my body, my soul. Now, I have nothing left to give myself. I'm empty inside.

As tears slowly flood my weary eyes and blur my vision, I look around my cozy bedroom for the last time. Ever. It used to be one of my favorite rooms in my small two bedroom, one bath apartment. There was nothing better than lighting several fragrant candles, drinking a little white wine and cozying up with a good romance novel. Yes, that was heaven. Simple things excite me. Always have. Watching a sunrise or sunset, waking up to birds chirping in the treetops, walking hand in hand through the park with the one I love, all these things brought me great joy.

Mother will have to understand. I left her a note, propped up on the nightstand, in full view, that explains how much I love her and daddy. What will she think when she can’t reach me tonight? I would love to hear her soothing, loving voice one last time. Yet, I know I wouldn’t be able to go through with my plan if I did. I’d give away my intentions over the phone or mother would pick up on my foul mood and that would be that. I’d wake up another day with this aching, dull pain inside, tearing me apart, bit-by-bit. Pain that dulls and diminishes every ounce of my strength, all the way down to my pores.

Drake Collins. His name leaves a bitter taste on my tongue. Just the thought of him brings bile to the back of my throat. I will forever regret the day I met that man. If I could turn back the hands of time, do it all over again, I would have called in sick that day or run for the hills. I was just fine with my life the way it was. Sure, it wasn’t exciting or glamorous, but it was enough for me. Drake came with the charm, movie star looks, glitz and high drama and reeled me right in like a bass caught at sea. I gladly jumped into his net.

I say a silent prayer of forgiveness as I place one, then two colorful pills on my tongue and swallow dry. I didn't think of getting a glass of water. I can't think. The lump in my throat quickly diminishes. There’s no turning back now. Just like there was no turning back when Drake turned me out. The countdown begins. Ten, nine, eight. . . I've lived a happy life. I have tons of good memories. I've treated others the way I wanted to be treated.

I hope this happens quickly. I steadfastly place three, four pills on my tongue and swallow again. Hot tears start to spill forth and stream down my cheeks as I realize the final result of my actions. Seven, six, five. . . It’s for the best. I need to stop the pain. Will he even miss me? Or will he just move on to his next victim? Will all this be in vain?

I guess I’ll never have that family now. The one I used to daydream and write about in my journal. The family with the almost perfect mommy and daddy and two kids, a boy and girl. The boy would be the oldest, and he'd look out for and protect his younger sister. They'd have cute, adorable names and they'd know they were wanted and loved and cherished by their parents. They'd never feel unwanted.

Four, three. . . I swallow a handful of pills this time. I've lost count as to how many I've digested. As spittle escapes from my mouth, I gag. I wipe the overflow away with the back of my hand and keep right on shoving pills in my mouth until the orange-brown medicine bottle is empty. I look inside, in awe, shake the bottle, and can’t believe the pills are gone so quickly. Just like the illusion of love. If you blink, you'll miss it.

I wonder if Drake even realizes how much I loved him? Now, I wait for blessed relief and peace to take away my hurt and pain. I’m so tired. Tired of loving the wrong men. Tired of giving my all, coming up empty, and getting absolutely nothing back in return. Good sex isn’t the end all to everything. Drake taught me that lesson.

Two, one. . . It won’t be long now. I faintly smile and lay back against my down pillow.

I welcome peace. In my mind, I start silently repeating Psalms 23. I shall walk through the valley of death; I shall fear no evil, for thou art with me. I’m so sleepy. I can barely keep my eyes open. I can feel myself giving in to the fog that slowly invades my mind. Maybe if I close my eyes for a few moments. Yeah, just rest them for a few minutes without seeing Drake’s face behind my heavy eyelids.

Suddenly, I feel lightheaded, like I’m floating on a big, fluffy white cloud, bouncing up and down, giddy with not a care in the world. This is a different sensation that I literally reach out my right hand to embrace and never let go of. Not a care in the world. Nothing matters but blessed, uneventful sleep. I close my tired, weary eyes as the countdown ends. Fade to black.

###

True Confessions by Electa Rome Parks

ISBN-10: 1601622392

ISBN-13: 978-1601622396

Purchase from Amazon.com

http://www.amazon.com/True-Confessions-Electa-Rome-Parks/dp/1601622392

Purchase from Barnes & Noble.com

http://search.barnesandnoble.com/True-Confessions/Electa-Rome-Parks/e/9781601622396

© 2010 All rights reserved. Book Excerpt Reprinted by Permission of Electa Rome Parks, author. Do not reproduce, copy or use without the author's written permission. Copyright infringement is a serious offense. This excerpt is used for promotional purposes only. Share a link to this page or the author's website if you really like this sample from True Confessions.

About the Author

Electa Rome Parks lives outside Atlanta, Georgia and is the best-selling author of six acclaimed novels, The Ties That Bind, Loose Ends, Almost Doesn't Count, Ladies' Night Out, These Are My Confessions (anthology) and Diary of a Stalker. Dubbed a "book club favorite," avid readers have embraced Electa's true to life characters that tackle prevalent and heavy hitting issues that take them on an emotional roller coaster.

The self-proclaimed Queen of Real, Electa has been a frequent guest on radio shows, nominated for many industry awards and interviewed by numerous newspapers and national magazines. Electa is currently following her passion and working on her next novel and first screenplay.

Connect with Electa Rome Parks online at:

Email: novelideal@aol.com

Website: http://www.electaromeparks.com/

Facebook: www.facebook.com/electaromeparks

True Confessions by Electa Rome Parks

Twenty-eight year old Kennedy Logan is gorgeous, educated, talented, and in love. Unfortunately, Drake Collins has other ideas about the true state of their relationship. Kennedy hopes to turn him around; Drake just wants to turn her out sexually. Kennedy is also searching for her biological mother, who gave her up at birth. She wants answers and she has tons of questions. The enormous weight of these predicaments leads to a failed suicide attempt.

Her overprotective and overbearing mother, Dorothy Logan, moves in with Kennedy and makes it her mission to get her daughter's life back in order. The first step is getting rid of Drake Collins once and for all, but that's easier said than done. Drake has no intentions of going anywhere. Kennedy's ever loyal and fun-loving best friend, Taylor, and her absentee father join forces to help support Kennedy in her time of need.

At her psychiatrist's advice, Kennedy uses writing as her therapy. She starts to keep a daily journal detailing the erotic circumstances and family drama that led up to her despair. Through very personal, funny, and graphic entries, readers will share her confessions. Brace yourselves for a very steamy journey!



Prologue True Confessions by Electa Rome Parks
(Erotic Thriller)

My reality is surreal and happens in super, slow motion. A nervous giggle escapes my chapped, dry and parched lips. I lick them to restore moisture. Then, there is utter, deadly silence. If I listen closely, I can hear my heartbeat beating away at an accelerated pace. My senses are heightened and I marvel over the brilliant, bold colors of my bedroom as I inhale my favorite fragrances, from their spot on my antique dresser, colliding into one another with their potent allure. Even my sense of touch is different somehow. Everything is magnified to the nth degree. It’s like I’m looking down at myself from a huge movie screen with surround sound as I ready myself for the big finale---the final shot and then fade to black.

I’ve never been good at saying goodbye, even on short, weekend trips. I keep the handwritten note short and sweet and pray to God that mother will understand, and hopefully, one day, forgive me.

I don’t mean to hurt her or cause her any fresh pain. I sincerely don't. I hope she understands that this isn't her fault, that I love her with all my heart and being. No matter what, that fact will never change. I’m so thankful and forever grateful that she chose me to be her daughter out of all the orphaned babies in the world. She chose me. I told myself over and over again that that made me special. I needed to feel special instead of unwanted and discarded.

I’ll miss mother the most, but the hurt I feel inside is too unbearable and indescribable. It is too painful for me to continue, day in and day out, with just a hollow emptiness that erodes and corrupts any happiness that briefly surfaces. The dawn of each new day only brings me more heartache and renewed memories. Some memories are like leeches. They latch on for dear life and slowly, ever so slowly, suck and drain all the blood, all the living out of you. You are left with just a shell of the old you and that's no way to survive. Not for me, anyway.

When they find me, I want it to look like I’m sleeping, peacefully. Just like Sleeping Beauty who only needed a handsome prince to kiss her and awaken her from the darkness that engulfed her. However, for me, there won't be a handsome, charming prince to wake me, save me, and ride off into eternity. All my so-called princes were monsters in disguise with their own hidden agendas that attempted to crush and stamp out my self-esteem. Yes, just blessed sleep awaits me.

I chose pills. I couldn’t subject mother to a messy, bloody scene that comes with slitting one’s wrists or shooting one's self. I refuse to take my final breath with that heavy on my heart. I don't think my heart could handle anything else weighing against it. As it is, I feel like I have three hundred pounds weighing me down. Crushing the life out of me.

As I settle myself comfortably on my queen-size bed, slowly pull the red, satin comforter up to my chin and stare at the full bottle of prescription pills carefully nestled in my right hand, I can’t imagine not waking up in the morning.

What will it be like to not see the rising sun? To not hear my alarm clock going off announcing it’s time to get ready for another day of work? Not hitting snooze to give myself another fifteen minutes? Not rushing to finish my morning rituals before I dash out the door and into rush-hour traffic? What will that feel like?

More important to me now, though, is will it hurt? I hope not. I have never been able to tolerate too much pain, physical, mental or emotional. Yet, that’s what Drake has caused me for the last year of my life. Pain. Intolerable suffering.

I only wanted to love him and for him to love me in return. Simple enough. Was that asking too much? My part of the equation was accomplished, effortless. Drake claimed he loved me, but he really didn’t. Probably never could. Didn't know how to love or receive it. After what happened last week, I know he didn’t. Yet, I gave him everything: my heart, my body, my soul. Now, I have nothing left to give myself. I'm empty inside.

As tears slowly flood my weary eyes and blur my vision, I look around my cozy bedroom for the last time. Ever. It used to be one of my favorite rooms in my small two bedroom, one bath apartment. There was nothing better than lighting several fragrant candles, drinking a little white wine and cozying up with a good romance novel. Yes, that was heaven. Simple things excite me. Always have. Watching a sunrise or sunset, waking up to birds chirping in the treetops, walking hand in hand through the park with the one I love, all these things brought me great joy.

Mother will have to understand. I left her a note, propped up on the nightstand, in full view, that explains how much I love her and daddy. What will she think when she can’t reach me tonight? I would love to hear her soothing, loving voice one last time. Yet, I know I wouldn’t be able to go through with my plan if I did. I’d give away my intentions over the phone or mother would pick up on my foul mood and that would be that. I’d wake up another day with this aching, dull pain inside, tearing me apart, bit-by-bit. Pain that dulls and diminishes every ounce of my strength, all the way down to my pores.

Drake Collins. His name leaves a bitter taste on my tongue. Just the thought of him brings bile to the back of my throat. I will forever regret the day I met that man. If I could turn back the hands of time, do it all over again, I would have called in sick that day or run for the hills. I was just fine with my life the way it was. Sure, it wasn’t exciting or glamorous, but it was enough for me. Drake came with the charm, movie star looks, glitz and high drama and reeled me right in like a bass caught at sea. I gladly jumped into his net.

I say a silent prayer of forgiveness as I place one, then two colorful pills on my tongue and swallow dry. I didn't think of getting a glass of water. I can't think. The lump in my throat quickly diminishes. There’s no turning back now. Just like there was no turning back when Drake turned me out. The countdown begins. Ten, nine, eight. . . I've lived a happy life. I have tons of good memories. I've treated others the way I wanted to be treated.

I hope this happens quickly. I steadfastly place three, four pills on my tongue and swallow again. Hot tears start to spill forth and stream down my cheeks as I realize the final result of my actions. Seven, six, five. . . It’s for the best. I need to stop the pain. Will he even miss me? Or will he just move on to his next victim? Will all this be in vain?

I guess I’ll never have that family now. The one I used to daydream and write about in my journal. The family with the almost perfect mommy and daddy and two kids, a boy and girl. The boy would be the oldest, and he'd look out for and protect his younger sister. They'd have cute, adorable names and they'd know they were wanted and loved and cherished by their parents. They'd never feel unwanted.

Four, three. . . I swallow a handful of pills this time. I've lost count as to how many I've digested. As spittle escapes from my mouth, I gag. I wipe the overflow away with the back of my hand and keep right on shoving pills in my mouth until the orange-brown medicine bottle is empty. I look inside, in awe, shake the bottle, and can’t believe the pills are gone so quickly. Just like the illusion of love. If you blink, you'll miss it.

I wonder if Drake even realizes how much I loved him? Now, I wait for blessed relief and peace to take away my hurt and pain. I’m so tired. Tired of loving the wrong men. Tired of giving my all, coming up empty, and getting absolutely nothing back in return. Good sex isn’t the end all to everything. Drake taught me that lesson.

Two, one. . . It won’t be long now. I faintly smile and lay back against my down pillow.

I welcome peace. In my mind, I start silently repeating Psalms 23. I shall walk through the valley of death; I shall fear no evil, for thou art with me. I’m so sleepy. I can barely keep my eyes open. I can feel myself giving in to the fog that slowly invades my mind. Maybe if I close my eyes for a few moments. Yeah, just rest them for a few minutes without seeing Drake’s face behind my heavy eyelids.

Suddenly, I feel lightheaded, like I’m floating on a big, fluffy white cloud, bouncing up and down, giddy with not a care in the world. This is a different sensation that I literally reach out my right hand to embrace and never let go of. Not a care in the world. Nothing matters but blessed, uneventful sleep. I close my tired, weary eyes as the countdown ends. Fade to black.

(continues in the book)

True Confessions by Electa Rome Parks
Order your copy today!



© 2010 All rights reserved. Book Excerpt Reprinted by Permission of Electa Rome Parks, author. Do not reproduce, copy or use without the author's written permission. Copyright infringement is a serious offense. This excerpt is used for promotional purposes only. Share a link to this page or the author's website if you really like this sample from True Confessions.

About the Author
Electa Rome Parks lives outside Atlanta, Georgia and is the best-selling author of six acclaimed novels, The Ties That Bind, Loose Ends, Almost Doesn't Count, Ladies' Night Out, These Are My Confessions (anthology) and Diary of a Stalker. Dubbed a "book club favorite," avid readers have embraced Electa's true to life characters that tackle prevalent and heavy hitting issues that take them on an emotional roller coaster.The self-proclaimed Queen of Real, Electa has been a frequent guest on radio shows, nominated for many industry awards and interviewed by numerous newspapers and national magazines. Electa is currently following her passion and working on her next novel and first screenplay.


Connect with Electa Rome Parks online at:
www.electaromeparks.com
www.electaromeparks@blogspot.com
www.facebook/electaromeparks.com

 Don't  Blame the Devil  by Pat G'Orge-Walker

Walker's latest hilarious faith-based romp spotlights a devilish diva who finally realizes that, although she might look like Lena Horne, she "ain't Lena Horne."  But in Walker's world, second chances at happiness are not only possible but probable, even at 63. Almost 40 years have passed since Delilah Dupree Jewel left her husband, Deacon Thurgood (aka "Thur-no-good") and put their two-year-old son, Jessie, in foster care in order to pursue a career in showbiz that took her all the way to California.

Back in New York, running out of money (but not out of smarts) and licking the wounds of her failed shot at stardom, she asks Jehovah for help. Ask and ye shall receive: she runs right into Thurgood at Harlem's New Hope Assembly Church. Now 70, but still sporting the same hairstyle he wore in his youth, Deacon is mortified; he doesn't want Delilah to know that he's befriended Jessie, now a widower, but he's never told Jessie that he's his real father. But the truth finally, and humorously, comes out. Walker shines a little light on a wacky family reunion with her usual inspirational, knee-slapping style.
-- From Publishers Weekly Book Review




Hang on to your seat as Pat G'Orge Walker spins a hilarious, inspiring novel of mistakes and second chances, heartache and love, sin and salvation...

Appearances mean everything to Delilah Dupree Jewel. So after hearing of her daughter-in-law's sudden death, Delilah decides that coming to the rescue of her long estranged son Jesse and her granddaughter Tamara would be a good look . . . though Lord knows she-ll have to dig hard to find her maternal instincts.

But Delilah quickly discovers Jesse wants nothing to do with her. And Tamara, who's following in Delilah's musical footsteps, isn't interested in her career advice, especially since Delilah got ahead using the singing couch. And Delilah's old flame Deacon Pillar, an ex-convict who-s traded in his gangster ways for a Bible, is stirring up a past that-s sure to shock.  Now, all Delilah knows is that she'd better hold on to her faith, because she needs God now more than ever. . . .


Don't Blame the Devil  by Pat G'Orge-Walker
BOOK EXCERPT:

“Okay, that’s enough!” Tamara said finally. “I think I want a DNA test done before I believe that I’m carrying any genes from you two. Damn!”

“Hold up young lady, didn’t I tell you before that you can’t cuss. You got too much class for such language.” The deacon rose from his seat to put emphasis on what he’d said. Pointing to Delilah, he continued, “Now Dee Dee only pretends to have a lot of class. That’s why she has the potty mouth.”

And then Delilah and the deacon went for round two. They were scrapping like two old champions and several times, they each laid a verbal T.K.O. One acted as if they knew more than the other did when it came to God’s word.

“Stop acting like this Dee Dee. Baby Girl knows Christians don’t fight like cats and dogs.”

Well stop acting like God didn’t have a mafia in the Bible, Delilah barked.

Delilah turned to her granddaughter and smiled. “Tamara sweetheart, I know you’ve gone to church probably a lot more and longer than me.”

“I know I sure have.” Deacon Pillar muttered.

“I don’t care if I’ve only passed by a church or only seen a picture of it,” Delilah snapped, “I still know about God. So you two can’t tell me that you don’t know that God gave permission to some of his folks to kill or maim other folks.”

Delilah’s supposed words of wisdom hung in the air like a mushroom cloud. “Y’all need to read up a bit more from your Bible. Try reading the Old Testament. There was a lot of retribution going on. I don’t know how y’all call yourselves a deacon and a church girl and don’t know about God’s mafia. God had a hit list too. In fact, if I recall Moses was one of God’s biggest enforcer’s just like that Mafioso Tony Soprano on television.”

Delilah grabbed a nearby broom and threw it to the floor. “You know Moses took a broomstick and turned it into a snake and then he sure turned that Pharaoh into a punk. He did all that after God gave him the go-ahead. And you think David would’ve killed Goliath if God hadn’t wanted it to happen?”

Both the deacon’s and Tamara’s jaws dropped.

Tamara leaned over and whispered to Deacon Pillar.” She’s not kidding is she?”

“She’s as serious as Obama was about becoming President.”

 ###

 About the AuthorPat G'Orge-Walker is the Essence bestselling author of Somebody's Sinning in My Bed; Somewhat Saved; Cruisin' on Desperation; Mother Eternal Ann Everlastin's Dead; Sister Betty, God's Calling You, Again!; and contributed a short story to the anthology Proverbs for the People.

Growing up a preacher's kid gave G'Orge-Walker a quirky perspective on the church community and inspired her to create a one-woman comedy show centering on Sister Betty, an elderly super saint whose un-Christian-like behavior blocks her blessings. With the success of the Sister Betty comedy show, G'Orge-Walker turned her humor and imagination to writing. She resides in Long Island, New York, with husband Rob. Visit her online on Facebook, http://www.sisterbetty.com/ and http://www.patgorgewalker.com/


ISBN-10: 0758235429
ISBN-13: 978-0758235428
Sequel to Somebody's Sinning in My Bed

Purchase your copy  of  Don't Blame the Devil  at Amazon today!
http://www.amazon.com/Dont-Blame-Devil-Pat-GOrge-Walker/dp/0758235429

Purchase your copy  of  Don't Blame the Devil at BN.com  today!
http://search.barnesandnoble.com/Dont-Blame-the-Devil/Pat-GOrge-Walker/e/9780758235428

The Lonely Wife: How Did We Get Hereby Tweedy Poole

The Lonely Wife is an intriguing, mind-bending novel.  You’ll bring to life each character, as they find themselves engulfed in a realistic twist-of-fait.  A story of sex, lies, abuse hatred and envy.  Many of them are in  a place they choose not to be.  Forcing them to make decisions they don’t want to make.  This must read will caputure your full attenion.  “Don’t let the title fool you.”

Book Preview -- The Lonely Wife: How Did We Get Here http://www.audioacrobat.com/note/CRMgpywQ

  
EXCERPT:  The Lonely Wife
How did we get here?  Somehow or another, life has drawn a wedge between us.  What once began as a life of love and laughter has now become a life of assumption.  How did we get here?  There is not another woman and certainly not another man.  So what is it?

Was it when you left the toilet seat up and I fell in? Or was the time you left the damp towel on my side of the bed and I had to sleep in the wet spot?  Oh, maybe it was the time you shaved and didn’t clean off the sink?  No…none of that.

This is the man I prayed for day after day.  The only man I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.  No one can talk like him.  No one can make me smile the way he does.  No one can hold me like he can and sureley no one can…well you know.  Now the very thought of him touching me has become repulsing.  Why?
Life has put me in a place, where I choose not to be.  Demanding things I don’t want to give.  Forcing me to make decisions I don’t want to make.  Now I ponder.  I question.  I complain.  I’m angry.  But…Humph, there’s that word again.  But…a word that confounds us.  It almost makes us who we are.  According to it, there should be a contingency play.  Insinuating a plan “B”.  Well guess what?  I don’t have a plan “B”.  How did we get here?

Buy now: http://tweedypoole.com/content/books/the-lonely-wife

About TweedyI grew up in Baltimore and now reside in Greenville, South Carolina.  Never would I have thought I’d be a southern girl, but I actually like it here.  I am married to a wonderful loving man of God that completes me.  My family and I have a lot of fun together.  They are determined to turn our home into sitcom.

I am a former State of Maryland employee and am now working in the engineering field.   Though I love my job, writing is my passion.  I started my first book in 2004 and release it, but after a series of events in my life I pulled it.   Never would I have thought I’d be doing what I am doing,  yet here I am.

It was New Years day 2004, and I was sitting in my office cleaning out some things when I switched from doing my budget sheet to actually typing a book.   I actually had an outer body experience and when I came to myself the printer was going and I had typed five chapters.  I must have sat at the computer for about 6 hours not realizing the time.  Oh and by the way, I removed my budget sheet from chapter three. Lol.

My desire is to help those who have lost hope.  Many of us have had our life experiences, but the key is moving on from them.  I bless God for trusting me to do this.  I would never be able to do this without Him.  So many people are lost and broken and have just given up not only on others, but also themselves.  I welcome you to become apart of what God is doing in this hour.

This fiction novel will rock your world.  It’s unlike anything you’ve ever read.  So sit back, fasten your seatbelt and enjoy the ride.  Don’t even bother to pump the brakes, trust me, they won’t work.

» Join Tweedy Poole Readershttp://www.facebook.com/pages/TWEEDY/146783219875

»  "The Lonely Wife, How Did We Get Here"Website:  http://www.tweedypoole.com/
ISBN: 978-1-4507-1874-5

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:http://www.freado.com/read/6568/blackface-a-novel



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!http://www.artofficialmedia.com/urban-media-store.html


Author Biography
Q.B. Wells is the author of Blackface and Doughboy. Currently he is the editor of http://www.urbaniamag.com/ 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 @ qbwells@artofficialmedia.com.
Stay connected with the latest information on publishing, book marketing and writing @ www.twitter.com/qbwells  Stay in touch with Q.B. Wells and interact as he talks about books, publishing and life.