my mind is distracted

so you quit your words

i'm always led back to

insignificant feeling.

we've got a fear of stagnant

and really living

that binds us together

in the unholy places.

i bow my head

and your prayers are answered

just sit back and relax

and let me unzip those pants.

lies keep us smiling

where were you

and you tell me somewhere different

i don't know the difference.

but if i do we'll fight like rabid

dogs and then we'll

sweat like texas while we

fuck like jack rabbits.

this is a pose

hold it

stop that noise upstairs

or get me a gun.

i can't believe we are moving on

packing our shit

like we're on the run

and escaping what we only had just begun to learn.

1. forget about all the yourselfs you've lost in empty hotel rooms that nobody paid for,

forget they even existed.

you are the only yourself that the world will ever need.

2. if you wake up in the middle of a sleepless night

sitting cross-legged

on the edge of your bed,

gun pressed to your head,

fingers clenching like the blinking stars of our hands

when we were five and sang twinkle twinkle little star,

know that i love you

and please remind yourself

which side of the gun

you should be on.

3. your arms around me

are enough.

they always will be.

4. if you can feel a panic attack

coming,

please don't lock yourself in your room

and turn the music up

just a little bit

and check, frantically,

that the curtains are closed

and press your eyelids shut

as if they were hands pressed together in prayer.

breathe slowly and ground yourself:

find five different things you can see,

four things you can feel,

three things you can hear,

two things you can smell

and one thing you can taste.

take a deep breath with each thing you find.

5. i know it's never nice to lose yourself,

but sometimes it happens

so you can become stronger.

6. your favourite flower

is the yellow chrysanthemum.

7. you matter.

8. in the end,

you are your own hero.

you don't need wings

or a cape

or a wish

to fly.

9. don't be scared.

10. i love you, i will always love you, i have always loved you. now and forever.

11. i'm sorry.

#poetry #fiction

it is cold and i stand on the verge of maybe,

feet curling over the edge.

before me lies the sea

and behind me stone.

before me it is dark and the waves move endlessly.

before me beckons,

because whether the fall kills me or not

i can trust in the water to bring me home.

before me is so wide and distant and alone;

i think it needs a friend.

behind me is the graveyard

where we used to talk through the night,

huddled in the wings of an angel statue-

when we were young

and didn’t yet know the name of fear.

behind me is my childhood,

the weathervane in the shape of a flying dove

that i painted when we were seven,

the braids i tied in your hair when we were eight,

the flower crown of wildflowers i made

when we were nine.

i’ve been here some five thousand times

and i’ve never been able to take the step.

make the jump.

leave the rock and stone behind

for the embrace of the water.

now it’s the last time and i look to the night sky.

all the things that i am stuck in-between –

the water, the rock,

my childhood, my possibilities –

they stare up into the same apologetic sky.

there are no stars,

no moons,

no suns.

maybe it has made space for me.

maybe it is waiting for me.

maybe it doesn’t care about the water or the rock.

maybe it won’t tell me how to love.

maybe it’ll teach me how to dream.

i step off the verge of maybe,

my arms reaching out as if to fly.

for a moment the air catches me with outstretched hands,

as if it was holding me

one last time.

then i fall

and

the water becomes my world entire.

it is cold and i feel infinite.

#poetry

-History is not about showcasing the differences between us and those who lived before us so that we can feel superior; it’s about revealing the similarities so that we may feel gratitude and humility. -Unknown

Chapter 1

Harlem, New York, September 1929

Harlem stares at the sky hypnotized by colors of orange and blue blending together forming the most exquisite view. Although no matter how beautiful a sight it is, her mind is still filled with thoughts of death, her death. For the life of her she can’t figure out why she’s had this strange feeling that death is imminent.

Feather light traces of the wind blow against her skin giving rise to goose bumps, grabbing her sweater she throws it across her shoulder’s shielding them. She begins twisting the band on her watch, looking at it every few minutes or so. Staring around fearfully she begins to wonder what could possibly be taking Josephine so long, she’s now fifteen minutes late.

“Where the hell is she?” Harlem exclaims, right as Josephine is pulling up in her breezer beside the curb.

She is so small she can barely see over the steering wheel.

“Hey doll! Sorry I’m so late” Josephine says behind a gorgeous smile.

Her hair in a ponytail and she has on a beautiful dress that fits snug around her nimble physique.

“Tell it to Sweeney. Josie, you know I hate waiting, if you tell me a certain time then I’m waiting for you to be here at that time.” Harlem reminds her.

“ Pipe down, I said I was sorry you don’t have to be such a bearcat, Harlem.” Josephine snaps back.

“You’re right! Butt me, Harlem responds to Josephine’s surprise.

“Look in my bag, there’s a half pack in there somewhere.” She says pointing towards the back seat.

“It’s my birthday baby I’m ready to get bent!” Harlem yells, stretching her arms wide letting the wind blow through her hair.

Calming down she takes a draw from her cigarette and gazes aimlessly out the window.

“So where are we headed?” She asks curiously.

“To the Shack over in Jungle Alley” Josie responds with a devilish smile.

“This should be interesting” Harlem smiles, but inside she’s afraid.

She’s a long way from home, and those days of longing for this moment are a thing of the past.

“A Lady never smoke cigarettes” her mother's voice invades her mind.

“Sit up right, with your back straight. A lady never slouches” She continues

“You will remain covered at all times when in the eye of the public. If a Lady is to find a suitable husband, she must always have respect for herself.” She continues

A chill descends along Harlem’s spine, her mother’s words piercing through her soul. It's as if she's right there riding alongside her.

It’s too late to turn back now. Even if she could, she wouldn't. Why would she? She's been waiting for this monment her entire life. Besides there's nothing left for her in New Orleans, anyways.

They reach their destination and Harlem is dismayed. Some of the buildings look like they’re about to give out at any moment, she steps out of the car onto a side walk of filth and this foul odor lingering in the night air. People are hanging around soliciting, some rushing to catch the next street car, others making their way to catch the subway that's rumbling underneath the city. Despite it all, she longed to experience whatever Jungle Alley had to offer.

Entering the building, the two ascend the stairs, passing two lovers caressing each other in the hall, the women have no shame. Their behavior is acceptable: here in the Jungle. Fifty cents later, their access was granted. As Harlem looks from one end of the room to the other, the low glow from a red light dimly illuminates the small jammed packed space. She makes her way to a few folding chairs that lay sprawled against the back wall.

“I’m going to get some hooch”, Josie says before she walks off.

“Bring me two” Harlem shouts behind her as she takes a seat in the back corner.

The crowd is alluring her to dance as the spellbinding music permeates the tiny space and she desperately wants to be a part of the mix. Josie returns with the moonshine and Harlem takes the first shot straight to the head. “What the hell it’s my birthday!” she yells standing to her feet. She begins gyrating to the music as she sips on her second drink.

Josie joins her and the two dance to the music without a care in the world.

William

“You gotta light?” The low seductive voice calls out from the darkness

“Who’s there?” Williams asks nervously

“It’s just lil' ole’ me, don’t worry mister I ain’t gon' hurt nobody” The voice responds jokingly as she steps into the dim light from the street lamp.

“What’s a sweet doll like yourself doing out here all alone?” William questions.

Utterly fascinated by her beauty he fumbles around in his pocket in search of his lighter. Finding it, he lights her cigarette and steps back to admire her from head to toe. A single rose peaks out from the side of her hair that's pulled to the right side of her face, flowing beautifully. She has on a white sleeveless blouse that teases him revealing only the top part of her breast. He wonders how they would taste on the tip of his tongue, but he immediately pushes the thought from his mind. Her mulatto skin looks smooth as silk. Her skirt is skintight yet she still leaves everything to his imagination. Her voluptuous curves are so inviting he has to fight the urge to pick her up straddling her legs around him, kissing her passionately on her full red lips while he takes her right there on the side walk. William cannot seem to understand why this woman has such an effect on him. He's met plenty of women, bedded more than he can count, but there was something different about her. Something he couldn't put his finger on.

“So may I ask your name or should I just continue to call you mister?” She asks with a devilish smile, tracing her finger down the middle of his chest. She wants him too.

“William, but everybody ’round here calls me boogie.” He manages to release the words from his mouth without stuttering. “What should I call you?” He asks

“Harlem” She says as she leans in closer now touching him body to body. Using her finger she glides it from his earlobe to his collar bone and then whispers in his ear “I would love to knhow why they call you boogie”. She says teasingly

William’s blood is boiling and his once limp member is now hard as a rock. He adjusts himself and plays it cool. He has never let a broad see him sweat and he wasn’t about to start now. He grabs her by the hand and leads her back into the club. It’s almost daylight and the once hyped crowd has calmed down. Everybody’s drunk and singled off dancing slow as boogie’s counter-part T-bone strokes the keys on the piano. Harlem turns to William placing her arms around his neck staring him deep into his eyes and begins grinding her hips slowly against him. Her chestnut eyes have him lost in a trance. He wants her bad and she knows it. She bites down on her bottom lip and turns her body around grabbing his arms placing them on her hips, now twirling her ass all over him. Overcome with his intense passion for her without any warning he releases her from his grip.

“I gotta jet sweetheart,” He says coldly. Puzzled Harlem looks him in the eye

“So when will I see you again?” she questions.

He smiles slyly touching her slightly on the cheek “Wherever there’s a party, you’ll see boogie.” He says as he turns and vanishes out of her sight.

Harlem

On the ride home Harlem could not understand why he became so cold and indifferent towards her. There was definitely something between them she could feel it and she knew he could too. Why did he leave so suddenly? “Maybe I came on too strong,” she thought. Even if she wanted to come on to him any less, she couldn’t have. It was something about him and she was pulled to him, like a moth to a flame. Embarrassed by her behavior, she holds her head down in disbelief. “How could you be such a slut?” She scolds herself. They ride in silence for a while until Josephine breaks the tension. “Why so blue Harlem? I thought you would have enjoyed coming here for your birthday”. “It’s not that Josie, I really enjoyed myself. I just have a lot on my mind right now that’s all.” She answers not revealing anything. She leans her head back on the seat and closes her eyes, letting her mind drift back home.

Marie

“Ma’Ma I want a marriage filled with love and passion. I can’t. I won’t marry for money. I refuse to be Nicolas’s concubine. I am not like you and grand-ma’ma.” Harlem blurts out.

Before she could take it back her mother’s hand was crushing down across her face.

“Don’t you ever disrespect your Grand-Ma’ma or I again. All the sacrifices we’ve made for you. For you to stand here in your beautiful dress and have the audacity to think you have the option to choose who you can marry, only further details how naïve you really are. Nicolas comes from a very powerful family and his wealth will keep you comfortable for the rest of your life. You will never know what it’s like to work for someone else. You are a very privileged young lady and you have an opportunity to live a life most women of color only dream of.” Marie explains

Harlem stares at her mother blankly, her emotions running rampant, her thoughts no longer in the present. She loves and respects her mother dearly, but this is her life and there's no way she’s living it for someone else.

"Ma’ma I love you, and I know Pa’Pa loves and respects you. I'm so sorry for disrespecting you and grand-ma’ma, and I want you to know that I appreciate the sacrifices you’ve both made for your family, but Ma’ma this is my life. I am leaving. I have to figure this out on my own.” Harlem explains

Marie stares at her beautiful daughter and her heart aches for her. What she wouldn't give for her to understand that she only wants the best for her. Without saying a word Marie turns around and walks away.

Her grandmother estelle walks in.

"Read this and take care of it. Then maybe you'll understand our way of life. She says as she hands her an old worn down book that looks like it has been passed down through generations.

Harlem

Josie stops the car and lightly taps Harlem on the shoulders. "You're home doll."

Startled Harlem jumps out of her daze. Stretching her arms, she yawns and gets out the car. "Thanks Josie, I had a great time." Harlem yells into the cars as she slams the door and walks into the hotel.

Once setttled she opens her suitcase and pulls out the book her grandmother gave her.

Diary Entry 1

Brookhaven, Mississippi Winter, 1811

This pain runs from the soles of my feet up to the lower part of my back, and then settles right on top of my shoulders. Carrying that heavy basket up over my head all day, is really wearing my body down. The weight of the basket forces my body deeper into the ground, but each day I continues on, placing one foot in front of the other, drawing on my inner strength to push me forward. I wanted to stop many times today to rest my aching feet, but I don't have the luxury of comfort. Master says there's always work to be done. After I weighed my load for the day, I headed in to the cabin to start the fire for dinner: bean soup and cornbread. After cooking dinner I was worried 'casue the sun went down hours ago and Joshua and Isaiah still hadn't walk through the door. But just as I was about to plate the food the door opens and in walks the both of them dirty and sweaty from a hard day’s work. I breathed a sigh a relief and smiled because we all will live to see another day.

As usual Josuha walks up to me and kisses my belly talking to it. “How's my baby doin’?” rubbing his hand over belly, he looks up at me and smiles. Despite all we're going through, his smile gets me through each day. He's so full of life and happiness. He never lets nothing get him down. "Woman, your stomach so big, looks like you swallowed a ball.

“Yeah, I'm takin’ it one day at a time, but it’s gettin’ harda and harda ere’day Joshua, Ion know how much longa I can go befoe my body gives out on me”. I tell him.

“I know Sophia, don’t worry I gots a plan, and soon you won’t haft to worry bout workin’ in dem fields no more, you hea me Sophia?” Joshua explains while he massages my tense shoulders.

“Joshua dere you go wit yo big dreams, I don’t won’t you goin’ an gettin’ yo self killed like da rest of dem fools. We got a nice life hea, and I don’t need nothin’ messin’ dat up, do you hea me?” I remind him.

“Woman, don’t you worry yo pretty lil head bout dat, just let me handle ere’thang, you just worry bout dem babies” Joshua says while resting his hands on my arms.

He kisses me on the forehead and walks off to wash his hands. We sit around the small wooden table holding hands as Joshua blesses the food. We eat dinner in silence and end our night to begin another long day tomorrow.

Suddenly a loud noise wakes us and Joshua gasps for air and instantly jumps to his feet. His eyes wide and his heart clobbering away at this chest, he looks frantically at the door now off its hinges. Two men charge towards him, he darts his eyes from left to right and is reminded there's only one way out.

Overwhelmed with fear, he desperately pleads for his life. "No! Please don't kill me".

His pleads fall on deaf ears, the men grab and sling him outside the cabin onto the dirt. He coughs uncontrollably from inhaling too much dust. Laying on his stomach, he pushes his body up off the ground to get some fresh air. A whip comes crashing down against his back and he falls back down. 

"Did I say you can move boy", slurs one of the men right before spits his tobacco laced saliva in Joshua's face. 

Wincing in pain, Joshua digs his fingers in the ground desperately trying to crawl away.

The tip of a boot connects with his face, and he screams in agony. "Have mercy", he mumbles. Both men let out a sinister laugh as they grab both his legs dragging him towards the back of the cabin. 

Joshua closes his eyes as he braces himself for what's to come. 

"You and you, strip him naked." The two men yell into the crowd of gathered slaves waiting to bear witness to Joshua's betrayal.

Without a word they hastily oblige.

Tar is then doused over Joshua’s body searing and melting his skin. As Joshua screeches and squirms in agony his body is covered with feathers. To prolong Joshua’s suffering each of his legs are then tied to a different horse faced in opposite directions and his body is ignited. As everyone watches and listens in horror, Joshua’s body is consumed by the flames. To finish him off the horses are violently beaten causing them to pull and tear poor Joshua in half. They murdered the love of my life right in front of my eyes. Not satisfied master uses his bullwhip on all of us watching. His only purpose is to instill fear in us, permanently searing in my mind forever that he is the master, the ruler of my life and he controls when we all live or die.

Harlem

Harlem sobbs for Sophia as she continues to read on.

Diary Entry 2

New Orleans, Louisiana, Summer 1820

The days turned into weeks, weeks into months and months into years, but I still can't rid myself of all the anger and resentment that has slowly consumed me. I'm no longer a full of life, but a body without a spirit, numb and void from the pain. Physically I'm here, but mentally I'm weakened. Our leader and protector is gone and now I'm left to take care of the family on my own. I'm willing to do whatever it takes to survive, even if I have to raise my children to be loyal, respect and to depend on the enemy. My only goal is to keep them alive by any means necessary. When the shock of Joshua’s horrid death passed, reality hit me like a ton of bricks. I was somehow able to accept things as they were and move on, but deep down no part of me could really accept the truth. Joshua was my rock, my lover and my best friend and now he's gone. By the hands of a cruel man trying to make a statement. I must stay strong for my children, so every day I put on a brave face for them as I suffer through this loss all alone, revealing my pain to no one. Some days I wish I had someone to be strong for me, that's the hardest part.

Most nights I comfort myself by wrapping my arms around my body real tight and rocking back a forth, crying silently, until I drift off to sleep. Why does God let such terrible things happen to good people? There is no way I can do this without Joshua. Who will raise John to be a man? The regret seeps in like a monster hiding under a child’s bed, tormenting me day and night. Some times I think that maybe we could have made it to the first safe house.

Things on the Xavier plantation aren't so bad. The children and I sleep in the big house because I'm a good cook and I take real good care of Madame Xavier and her eight children. The other salves are jealous because were “house niggas” as they call it. Every chance Madame Xavier got she rubbed it in their faces, “Oh thank you Sophia Darling, I don’t know what I would do without you” She’d say constantly implying that I was some how better than then them. It’s not like she treated me better than the rest, she just wanted them to remember their place and to create envy in their hearts, because envy is always stronger than respect and the point was for them to worship, trust, and respect her, never each other.

Title: Harlem’s Renaissance

Genre: Historical fiction

Age range: Young adult and older

Word Count: 65,000 - 70,000

Author Name: Dominique King

Why my project is a good fit? There are many stories that showcase history of slaves in the United States, but none show that there were people of color that were free as well during slavery. I’d like to tell the story of those group of people and I think history buffs would enjoy it.

The hook: Throughout the colonial and antebellum periods, the Gens de couleur Libre. A French term meaning "free people of color”, had existed as a separate class, distinct from the dominant whites as well as from the slaves. This is there story.

Synopsis: The story centers around a young free woman of Color, from New Orleans. Since she was born she has been raised to be a proper lady so that she can marry a man of status, but Angelique has other plans for her life. She wants to marry for love, not money. The era that she lives in women of color don’t have the privilege to live a life that’s being offered to her. Both her mother and grandmother were slaves and they fought very hard to get where they are now and she doesn't appreciate or understand all they went through so she could have choices and live the life she is accustomed to. The protagonist doesn't care about that. She wants to love, travel and dance. This is a time when everybody is going to Harlem. The Jazz age. She leaves home, changes her name to Harlem and leaves New Orleans for New York. On her journey of discovery, she goes to Harlem and meets William. They fall in love and have a very passionate but turbulent love affair. She also learns more about her family history through an old diary given to her by her grandmother. Through learning more about her past and by experiencing the world that her mother tried so desperately to shield her from, she learns lessons of love, pain, struggle and even death and through it all she realizes she can’t have both love and privilege and must choose between the two. In the end, she realizes that her mother was right and she returns home and is received with open arms. She marries a wealthy man and eventually grows to love him.

Target Audience: Readers who enjoy historical fiction and romance, with a little intrigue and drama.

Bio: 33-year-old, single mother. I live an hour outside of Atlanta, GA. I enjoy reading, writing and I love period pieces that have a connection to our real history.

and i'm spinning, arms grasping at the sky, body rocking forwards and backwards,

turning and turning

only because i don't know how to stop anymore.

i'm tired of dreaming with my eyes open.

they say god sits with his legs hanging out

of the hood of my car,

singing at the top of his lungs

as his toes dig lines into the asphalt road

like sticks in sand.

i say it's true

because the man that sits there

smokes colour

until it fills the sky each morning-

but it's only ever blue-

maybe god needs a friend.

so do i.

and now i'm running, a kid in the dark,

chased around a tree

by a shadow

and i can smell him

and he smells like flowers

and teeth.

people tell me:

you are young

so please enjoy it.

don't be reckless.

be careful.

and i will, i will, i will,

i am spinning round myself,

i am a dying flame

and i will.

#streamofconsciousness #poetry

he doesn't know how to love

but he's been trying for twenty years.

it is a cold winter night and he sits, legs hanging out the window of his third-floor apartment room. what if this is the end? what if he slips off the ledge and breaks something and they find him, cheeks flushed, body splayed as if making snow angels on the hard grounds? 

he sighs, retracting his arms and legs until he is perched on the windowsill. there is no space in his small world for another dead body. it will have to wait.

the apartment is rather big and his family lives there. 

a father. a sister. him. 

in the slow ticking of the two clocks, like an insufferable, mocking applause from an audience of one (may it be god), he finds his animus.

it becomes the reason he wakes.

the reason he eats.

the reason he sleeps.

the reason he dreams.

the reason he loves.

he walks to the kitchen and sets aside half of the takeaway for his father when he is sober. his sister is at a friend's house, living out her childhood. he begins to clean the house. is this called love?

upon finishing he sits down to eat by himself. palms pressed against each other, he says a prayer the way he was taught to since youth. he's since forgotten the name of the god he prays to. is this called love?

at two am he checks the kitchen to find the food gone. he stands outside on the balcony and makes five wishes, one for each friend he's ever lost, a sixth one for mother. is this called love?

he goes to sleep to a silent house.

maybe love

is the faint blue empty space

behind his eyelids

where he loses himself

during sleep.

maybe love

is nothing much.

maybe love 

won't fix his life-

but nobody's willing to tell him.

so he goes on, trying,

in a world that's long lost hope.

Life is a prison

And you're trapped in it

You've got a life sentence

So you haven't got much spirit

You know you're stuck

And there's no way out

But for some reason

You can't sit about

You try to fix

This mess of a life

But you know you can't

Not even with a knife

So you look out the bars

Plea with the guards

You beg and beg

You play all your cards

You know it won't work

They'll never let you go

But you try and try

To see the rainbow

In the middle of the night

You try to escape

Through the metal bars

But it wasn't your fate

You're an oldie now

After years of trying

You haven't got long to go

And it leaves you crying

But life's a prison

And you've been trapped in it

You had a life sentence

And you've served your bit.

they were indeed, beautiful,

the roses you sent.

such a shame,

for each petal, maliciously torn off,

thrown into the blistering hot water,

to be sacrificed for my own self-indulgent.

skin moist,

as i stepped into the bubbling water.

deeper and deeper i let it swallow me,

'till my face was completely enveloped in the warm womb.

the bubbles rising above me,

the petals blurry from this view.

how i thought to myself,

"when did i let it get so unbearable?"

each petal reminded me of the many hours i spent in your presence.

the days we cried.

                      hugged.

                            laughed.

i began to count the petals above me,

lulling myself to sleep,

as if i were a child -

laying in my parent's bed unable to fall into deep, magical, childhood slumber.

counting sheep until i slowly drifted away.

and as it did so back then,

it did so now,

as i pictured your delicate face,

and drowned in a bath of rose petals.

maybe he didn't want heaven.

maybe it hurt him

when you spit onto his face 

upon seeing his newly painted rainbow walls.

maybe it hurt him

when he saw the cigarette burns on his brother's collarbones

and heard you when you said 'He was never my son.'

maybe it hurt him

when the beer bottle you threw

drew lines of red against his arm.

maybe it hurt him

when you told him please don't cry,

you're acting like some stuck-up bitch. act like a man.

maybe it hurt him

when you hit his boyfriend,

the only thing he'd ever loved 

in this wretched, hopeless world.

maybe it broke him,

finding all his clothes and belongings

in a cardboard box

outside the front door.

maybe it broke him,

knocking once, twice, fifty times,

wanting just to say i love you

one last time

because he was kind enough to still love you

after all you'd done.

maybe it broke him,

slowly dying on that small suburban street,

listening

to your happy dinner conversation

as if he had never existed.

maybe it killed him

when his boyfriend left after that.

when you laughed

into the phone.

when he slept in that youth shelter,

alone

and afraid,

crying on a metal-barred bunk bed.

maybe it killed him,

everything you did,

everything you called love.

maybe he left to find heaven.

-r.i.p. freddie