6.16.2012

Love is war

photo of cherub, covering his eyes.
Excerpt from the novel Small Pleasures: Mya's Story. The Kindle version of the novel is FREE, today at Amazon.com!


The ceramic statue of Jesus crashed to the floor. Wounded from an earlier misfortune, it was weak. The head reattached with glue, now lay separated from the body. Jesus survived the first fall, a few days prior. He had fallen off the baker's rack and onto Chestnut’s head. When it hit her, the head of the statue broke from the body. This fall left him shattered in great chunks like a kindergarten jigsaw puzzle. The head remained in good condition, lifeless staring eyes. Lips frozen in a Mona Lisa smile.
     I stared at it angrily, listening to the sounds of grown folks waging war. Our Mother fighting back, playing the harlot, as the Word called it. Protecting her face from the unmerciful blows of a man who fiddled with fatherhood and loved Mother so much he called her “Snow.”
Violent thoughts took flight inside my head; after all, I am my father's daughter. A butcher's knife on the counter in the kitchen had a star on its edge. Twinkle, twinkle. I bet myself that if I wished hard enough it would magically appear in my ten-year-old hand. While wishing, I hoped for the skill of Zorro for I had never maneuvered a weapon through the carcass of an animal. I had the simplistic skill of carving seasoned meat with a helpless steak knife but nothing more. No amount of wishing brought it to my hand. I was in too much pain and anger to reach for it.
     On top of Jesus abandoning me and my Mother fighting for her life, cramps rose like oceanic waves in the southern region of my stomach. I almost welcomed the new pain; it took my mind off the reduction of Mother's womanhood. I had never witnessed Mother out of control, sweating, yelling and screaming, in her bra and panties with the scar on her stomach still fresh from the surgery two days before.
     He hit over and over, dedicated and focused, as if she were a punching bag for sport. Whether she fought back or not, he was determined to whip her into the shape he desired.
     This is love.
     This is love?
     His body moved like the men who work on chain-gangs, like a man in the ring fighting for the championship belt, like men in the streets battling for a spot against a storefront wall, like a man leaping from a ledge swinging his arms wildly while going down down down.
     Grown folks making war. Grown folks making love. All is fair. Jesus was there with his head removed, pieces of body strewn about the hard wood floor.
     I rose from my slouching slumber and pounced. Underneath shoeless feet, I made sure he would rise no more teasing me with unrealistic promises. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Though sharp and jagged, I crushed the remaining pieces beneath tender feet and did not shudder at the sight of blood. I did so, until the statue was reduced to powder. Like my father, I was determined to whip the pieces into the shape I desired.
     Footprints in the sand?
     I don't wanna hear it!
     You said you'd be there, in my darkest hour. Where were you? Hiding in the closet with my sisters? Sitting on a baker's rack next to a cow filled with chocolate chip cookies?
     Did you die on the cross long before my sister killed you with her hard head? Don't say you interceded, Mother still walked away with a black eye, self-esteem held together by the threads of a shredded dress torn from her body by a man you created in your image. Don't say it made me stronger, because it didn't kill me. There are other ways to die!
You said if I cast out demons in your name, it would be so. Yet, time and time again the demon returned; day and night, driving a Lincoln Continental, following us on this Earth until we reached its oceanic end. Only to bring us back to the other side again. You said you'd be and all I saw was a statue, so weak and frail that I, in my developing-womanhood, crushed you to powder beneath bare feet.


(Excerpt from Small Pleasures: Mya's Story. Copyright 2011 Darnishia Bolden)

When Men Need Healing

(Small Pleasures: Mya's Story, a novel - Kindle Version is FREE today (6/16/12): 


Sterling Addison, M.D.:
“Women don’t need my help. Some women play the victim when it offers opportunities and I don’t make time for such games. On the other hand, there are a multitude of options and assistance for women. Not so for men. When a man hurts, he has no one to turn to. Even when men hurt other people, there only option, most often, is jail – punishment, instead of therapy. People expect men to regenerate mysteriously after experiencing trauma. The expectations for a man to “know better” are unfairly unrealistic; the double standard is never addressed. When a male, regardless of age, IS a victim, his symptoms and disease are never treated nor is he granted with opportunities . . .”

Eating the deaf ear of a hog (Excerpt from Small Pleasures: Mya's Story)

The Kindle version of the novel is free today at Amazon.com: Small Pleasures Mya's Story.

With suitcases in hand, Grandmomma prepared to walk out of the front door. I begged her to stay in the midst of a scuffle and desperate plea. She rolled her dark, drunk eyes at me and pushed past with bags clenched in her hand. As she widened the already opened door, I heard her mumble something about a fast thang. Then seconds later . . .
Smmmmock! The slippery smack of a fist on face. Crashing breakables. Horrendous screams. A symphony of horrible sounds that would haunt me even in my dreams.

Eating the deaf ear of a hog was the excuse. Surely a human being would not desire to live a life of hedonism without influence. Possession was the meat of swine and the ear had to be deaf, spawning the cause for ignorance. This tainted supper turned Grandmomma into a witch, a new breed harlot. An example of what a woman shouldn't be.

(Excerpt from Small Pleasures: Mya's Story. Copyright 2011 Darnishia Bolden)

6.15.2012

Free for two days!

"I am my father's daughter," is Mya's mantra as she prepares to abort another fetus, one she had contemplated carrying to full term after a botched abortion. Afterall the abortionist's message had been terrifying and clear: "It might have no head, no arms." Mya Sheppard, the most beautiful of Donovan Sheppard's daughters, cultivates careless and restless behavior traits. Killing is simply one of them. She and her beguiling sisters emerge from a home where love is dictated by a Father who lost his dreams to Vietnam. Love to them is a shadowy figure trapped and twisted among sweet and wicked, fairytales and religion, mother and father, God and Satan. Depending on the sister, truth is destorted by the grieving memories of unfinished childhoods. The family secrets (rape and domestic abuse) assign each girl a fate of love, fear, hurt, and destruction.

The book, Small Pleasures: Mya's Story