Lemonade!

There was rain in my sunshine when I woke that morning. I thanked the Heavens and called it “thrilling” while thinking of childhood and the joy that comes along when dancing underneath raindrops and playing in puddles of mud. But someone came along and tossed me a lemon. He thought my skin was thin . . . or maybe he was not thinking. I am sure he is the thought less kind. Yet I believe he cannot care so deeply as to think at all. But I must divulge too that though my skin is a bit thin, it is also easy to bruise. Still, it is a canvas – adored, loved and worshiped.

I am no magician but there is magic in hope, in love, in belief. In my belief, I held this lemon high, high within my thoughts; right up there with love and hope who bravely sliced it into three perfect circles. “See here,” they explained: “This isn’t about you at all.” Then love swelled inside of me and hope rained down like sugar to sweeten the bitter and quiet the sting. Oh what a wonderful sweet juice this makes, I thought while laughing and standing underneath the downpour of Heaven’s blessings. How could I ever think of a sour word, a sour thought the same . . . ever again? I realized then that no matter what bitterness was said or thought of me, I had enough love inside to overcome it. There is enough! There is more than enough! For you too!

My cup runneth over! Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days . . . all the days . . . all the days . . .

Updated!

Lulu.com author page has been updated:
Darnishia's author webpage.

Kisses for Fifty-cent Pieces

At the age of twelve, preacher eyes open wide at the sight of you. Sometimes ten. Fifty-cent pieces are pressed into palms as a tithe. The gum is wrapped in paper sunshine!

They never say "Don't tell" because the preacher men choose the pretty girls belonging to tired mothers: "Lawd, I'm so tired. Girl go outside and play."

Memorial Drive, MLK and Metropolitan are terrible roads to cross. No place for a girl child to play. Send them to Sunday school where they will be safe. Let the preachers lay hands on them. Turn them into little whores.

There a many whores.

There are whore wives, women who give it up for a last name. Then whore wife opens her legs, cooks meals, and cleanses briefs of skid marks, among other whore wife duties. Wives get the trouble. the worry. The soiled underwear. The last name legitimizes her existence otherwise, she still gets fucked. ...

Back to writing .. .

With three ideas for books vying for attention inside my mind, it is time I returned to WRITING! I am unsure as to the reason for this inspiration or what pulled me back to the passionate embraces of novellas and short stories but since putting away the camera, at least for a time -- for photographs tell stories just as well as words, I feel compelled to compose a novella before the year ends or at least for the beginning of the year.