Saturday, September 29, 2007
Friday, September 28, 2007
Need the real truth on the Book Industry?
- Believe that book stores are the ONLY way to go?
- Believe you aren't REALLY an author if you are independently published?
- Want to know the really skinny?
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Introducing Penelope Flynn!
ARE YOU BEING “VICK”TIMIZED?
With the fervor of the Michael Vick dog fighting scandal on the wane, I thought it would be a good time to discuss the real issues…the important issues that have sprung fully-formed from the media circus.
Now, I am no hater of dogs. I have some four-legged friends of my own but my focus is not on the dogs but on the man who got “dogged-out”.
Early on when the story just started receiving national attention, Michael; Vick was quoted in some periodical saying:
"I'm never there. I'm never at the house," Vick said. "I left the house with my family members and my cousin. They just haven't been doing the right thing. The issue will get resolved."
By law, Vick is accountable for his property even if he was not present and could still face charges.
"It's unfortunate I have to take the heat behind it. If I'm not there, I don't know what's going on. It's a call for me to really tighten down on who I'm trying to take care of. When it all boils down, people will try to take advantage of you and leave you out to dry. Lesson learned for me," Vick added.
Sound familiar? To way too many of us it does. You know…despite all the trials and tears you go through to succeed, no matter how many hours you put in and the levels of sacrifice you suffer, there’s always that cousin or brother or friend who can’t wait to tell you how easy you’ve got it. They’re the ones who are always “crying poor mouth” and can’t seem to stop reaching for a handout. And God forbid if you ever say “no” to one of their requests. Then you’re the stuck-up bitch, the hatin’ sell-out, the selfish arrogant asshole.
Imagine poor Michael Vick, still trying to “keep it real” with people who’d just as soon sell him out as they would change their clothes. It’s not too much of a stretch to believe that all those hangers-on secretly hated him. They were most likely jealous of his talent, jealous of his money, jealous of his fame. They probably couldn’t wait for him to fall from grace so they could say, “See you’re no better than we are. All your money, your talent, your fame. It didn’t protect you from this shit.”
And of course Michael was right. He was left standing high and dry. No one even knows the names of the self-serving turncoats who lived off Michael’s dime then pointed their greasy fingers at him when the water got hot. But they’ll all remember Michael.
Now the real homework is to flush out the parasites in your own life…to kick over the rocks and reveal those scurrying creatures to the light of day and send them packing. You know the ones in your life that only support you when it’s beneficial to them. Or who always need help but never seem to offer any to anyone else. How many of these people are sapping away your energy, you life’s blood, your happiness? Take a long hard look at the people in your life and ask yourself…Are you being Vicktimized?
~A Penny for your thoughts… Penelope Flynn
© Penelope Flynn
With the fervor of the Michael Vick dog fighting scandal on the wane, I thought it would be a good time to discuss the real issues…the important issues that have sprung fully-formed from the media circus.
Now, I am no hater of dogs. I have some four-legged friends of my own but my focus is not on the dogs but on the man who got “dogged-out”.
Early on when the story just started receiving national attention, Michael; Vick was quoted in some periodical saying:
"I'm never there. I'm never at the house," Vick said. "I left the house with my family members and my cousin. They just haven't been doing the right thing. The issue will get resolved."
By law, Vick is accountable for his property even if he was not present and could still face charges.
"It's unfortunate I have to take the heat behind it. If I'm not there, I don't know what's going on. It's a call for me to really tighten down on who I'm trying to take care of. When it all boils down, people will try to take advantage of you and leave you out to dry. Lesson learned for me," Vick added.
Sound familiar? To way too many of us it does. You know…despite all the trials and tears you go through to succeed, no matter how many hours you put in and the levels of sacrifice you suffer, there’s always that cousin or brother or friend who can’t wait to tell you how easy you’ve got it. They’re the ones who are always “crying poor mouth” and can’t seem to stop reaching for a handout. And God forbid if you ever say “no” to one of their requests. Then you’re the stuck-up bitch, the hatin’ sell-out, the selfish arrogant asshole.
Imagine poor Michael Vick, still trying to “keep it real” with people who’d just as soon sell him out as they would change their clothes. It’s not too much of a stretch to believe that all those hangers-on secretly hated him. They were most likely jealous of his talent, jealous of his money, jealous of his fame. They probably couldn’t wait for him to fall from grace so they could say, “See you’re no better than we are. All your money, your talent, your fame. It didn’t protect you from this shit.”
And of course Michael was right. He was left standing high and dry. No one even knows the names of the self-serving turncoats who lived off Michael’s dime then pointed their greasy fingers at him when the water got hot. But they’ll all remember Michael.
Now the real homework is to flush out the parasites in your own life…to kick over the rocks and reveal those scurrying creatures to the light of day and send them packing. You know the ones in your life that only support you when it’s beneficial to them. Or who always need help but never seem to offer any to anyone else. How many of these people are sapping away your energy, you life’s blood, your happiness? Take a long hard look at the people in your life and ask yourself…Are you being Vicktimized?
~A Penny for your thoughts… Penelope Flynn
© Penelope Flynn
Get Ready, Penelope Flynn about to heat up the house!
Hello guys! Author Penelope Flynn will be my next guest on my Global Blog Tour. She'll be making her presence known later on today. So sit back and relax 'cause Ms. Flynn is an erotica/romantica author whose writing will give you a "love hangover."
Smooches!
Smooches!
Monday, September 24, 2007
Payback, Inc.- 2nd installment
Here is part 2. Oh, you MUST read part 1 to understand Part 2. :)
***************************************************
Slippery pussies.
Sweaty balls.
Perfume floating over the musk.
Cigarette smoke.
The odors blended, wrapped around me as I opened the bar door. My nose twitched, head throbbed harder. Wished I’d swallowed an aspirin, drank a V8 and hit the bed. But I’d taken the cheddar so it was time to do the do.
The bar was crunk. Booty clapping. Slow grinding. Laughing. Indecent propositions.
The smoke choked, invaded hair, clothes and pores. Music thumped, the speakers obviously turned up to LOUD AS HELL.
My head pounded harder.
The shuffling crowd on the dance floor got my attention as I positioned my hips on the stool.
They hovered around a couple. Spotlit. Jamming by themselves. The man, damn what a specimen he was—huge, dark and nattily dressed. His partner was no slouch either. Every man in the room would give her the street title, dimepiece. Their bodies writhed, contorted to the pulsing samba beat.
Touch. Back away. Brush. Hump.
But this samba wasn’t the usual. They’d put added some Caribbean flavor in the Latin dance—exaggerated pelvic movements and thrusts. Dry-fucking.
My labia twitched as the man’s tongue slid down the woman’s neck, saliva trail glinting in the dim light. Long fingers massaged her stomach before skimming up, cupping her fabric-encased breasts.
I crossed my legs, stopping the sexual impulses trying to grab a foothold. Why waste time on shit going nowhere? Besides, I wasn’t here to get laid but to do a job on Mr. Hunk himself. John Pendergast. The mark. A cheating husband who I’d being paid—very nicely, I might add—to get the goods on by his wife. My partner, Schi, was the woman he was all over. The dumb fuck.
Lick.
Nibble the ear.
Squeeze the ass.
Whisper sweet bullshit in her hair.
That’s it baby.
I sipped my Singapore Sling and snapped shots of their antics with my spypen. I had two back up pens in my purse. No client will ever say we underwhelmed them, that’s for sure.
The music ended with the John’s lips pressed obscenely between the valley of the Schi’s tits.
This joker been at this crap so long, felt his game was so tight he didn’t look around; try to hide. His dirt was out front where any one vaguely interested could witness it for themselves.
The hair rose suddenly on the back of my neck.
Cold fingers scratched up my spine.
My nose lifted, became one with its mammalian cousins.
Sniffed.
Cayenne pepper. Fecund earth. Metal. Blood.
The scent was no stranger to me. It meant only one thing: Trouble.
I straightened as I scanned the room, my hand lightly fingering the shank in my purse. Flat, hard plastic with an edge grinded down to razor thinness, it breezed past metal detectors but could slice to the bone.
My radar honed in on one specimen striding confidently my way. Strobe lights illuminated his form in snatches.
John Coffey in The Green Mile.
Gone dark tan.
Plus an earring.
Satan in a suit.
Danger seeped from his pores, fluoresced like neon daggers.
I let my eyes slide past, turned back to the bar, uncrossed my legs, fingered the shank again. He took the stool next to me. Cologne teased my nostrils. A hand was placed open-palm near mine.
Looking up, my eyes were captured by a pair of hazel ones surrounded by a goateed, caramel face.
“I’m Meylon. Let me buy you a drink?” The voice and exterior didn’t match. He looked GQ smooth but what I heard told another story. Gritty. Rough around the edges. Hood gone to school. Gutter been upgraded. Menace to society cloaked in a high end suit.
An unwanted distraction.
“Mo, and I’ll have another Singapore Sling.” Ignored the hand and tossed back the last of my drink, my brain screaming Watch his ass!
I should be scared…but I’m not. Cassieta Modine ain’t afraid of too much. Just God and a gun and he’s neither.
He glanced at the sweaty couple leaving the floor. Bodies fused.
“Know them?”
“No.” Taut, fake smile.
“Can’t tell.” Voice rumbled, hardened. Street trying to come out.
“They put on a good show and I don’t want to miss the encore if there’s one.” Eyebrow lifted. A dare.
“Ahem. A voyeur.” He stroked his goatee.
I held his eyes. “Hey, if they don’t mind fucking in front of me, I’m damn sure gonna watch.”
“Touché.” His hands moved downward, stroked my exposed back.
This is a bold brother here. Playing me cheap.
I stiffened, removed his hand. That door had been welded shut for a while.
“My bad. Guess I’m moving too fast for you.” Palms in surrender. A seasoned playa’s move.
“For yourself, too.” Read my mind: Playa be gone.
Smirking now, Meylon turned to the bartender. “Freshen our drinks, would you?”
I shifted away, watched the couple now situated in a booth. Still at it. John’s hands were inside the V of Schi’s dress, obviously pulling her nipples, his tongue licking her lips.
I maneuvered the spypen up and in their direction, clicking imperceptibly.
Meylon followed the direction of my eyes. “That your man or something?”
I turned back to my fresh drink, kept the couple in my periphery. “What do you think?” I gave him a hard step-the-fuck-off stare.
“Looks like you’re more interested in some Bama and his woman than this hot-blooded sexy mothafucka in front of you. Not cool. Not cool at all.” Eyes like diamonds. Gutter swarmed just beneath his skin.
I scanned him from his closely cropped head to his indented waist down to his Kenneth Cole encased toes. He’d probably been told he was all that and a few buckets of KFC too. Since his groupies had already given him the 4-1-1, no need for me to add to it. “Like I said, I don’t want to miss any encores.”
He leaned closer, liquor-sweetened breath bathed my face. “Hell, we could be the encore. Mo…I so want to—”
I held up my hand. Cut him off. “Please. Give it a rest. Okay?”
I was not in the mood for some new variation of a trite come-on and I think I’ve probably heard them all. “Baby you are so fine” or “When my eyes met yours, I knew you were the mother of my children”, only problem is, they forgot to add the “So…let’s fuck tonight” to the end of them. And that’s all they wanted to do. But, I’m not interested.
Nostrils flared.
Dark pools bored into mine.
Hood was about to make my acquaintance.
Stalemate.
John and Schi suddenly rose from the booth, coats in hand.
Showtime!
Without another word, I swung from the barstool and strode towards the door.
“Hey!” Meylon called after me.
I didn’t even break stride. I had work to do.
“Hey! Mo! I know you hear me!”
Closer.
I kept walking until a hand grabbed my upper arm; stopped me in my tracks. With ease of practice, I grabbed his thumb, twisted and lifted upwards. He cussed in pain. Seeing a chair next to us, I gave him a solid punch to the solar plexus. He grunted and slumped forward. I caught him, roughly pushed his gasping body into the chair.
His eyes spoke volumes as they bored into mine.
Time shifted.
Tugged.
I tore my eyes away and without another glance, walked out the door and onto the street, Meylon’s eyes haunting me as I began the second phase of my night work.
I jogged over to my nondescript Crown Victoria and cranked the engine while watching the door. John’s Mercedes was parked five cars up.
They exited the club still doing the “my new Boo” shit, hugged up tighter than welded metal. Schi gave a discreet “thumbs up” sign before he seated her in the car. I let a few vehicles pass by before I pulled out to trail them. A busted taillight— courtesy of yours truly— made surveillance an easy task.
Ten minutes of riding, plotting…trying to rid the memory of Meylon’s eyes from my mind before they pulled into the Grommet Hotel. I whistled. This hotel started at two-fifty a night. That John Pendergast would spend that kind of money on a woman he just met spoke volumes.
I parked across the street from them, grabbed my suitcase purse and strutted towards the entrance. The attendant opened the door, a pleasant greeting sliding from his lips. John retrieved his key from the desk clerk. I strode towards the elevators, my progress hidden from the front desk. They followed on my heels, entered together.
“Floor?”
“Ah…” John looked down at the key, “ah…twelfth.”
I pushed the correct button. John ignored me, began fondling Schi before the doors closed completely. That’s all right. His exhibitionist ass will know who I am in a few.
The elevator slid smoothly upward before stopping with a ding. I held the door open button, watched as they shuffled out, arms wrapped around each other like a cocoon. I followed, stopped and stared at the arrow signs. Made it appear to anyone watching I was trying to locate my room.
The cocoon ambled down the hallway to my left. John fumbled with the key then finally got it right. I retraced their steps.
Adrenaline was surging. It was the put-up-or-shut-up point of the game. If our plan played out like I hoped, John should be washing his balls, anticipating Schi riding his swollen dick.
A light knock.
Schi immediately opened the door. No words. None needed. The toilet flushed as I sat my bag on the nightstand.
John stumbled out, erect cock leading the way. Pulled up short when he spied me.
“Who the hell…what the hell…” Confused eyes vacillated between me and Schi. “What’s going on here?”
“Baby, I thought we’d finish the night off with a bang!” Schi walked over, boldly began massaging his pole through his shorts. Girl might be many things but shy ain’t one of them. Kisses rained down his neck and chest for added persuasion. “I thought you’d enjoy a threesome. Hell! What man doesn’t?” Laughter.
He closed his eyes. She pulled his rod free. The war in his head played out on his face then, his traitorous body overrode his sensible mind; consented to anything and everything.
That’s my boy.
Schi maneuvered him onto the bed. I joined the party, rubbed him all over his chest, ran my fingers through his bush. Rough hands pushed into the neckline of my dress, freed my tits. John moaned low while Schi stroked, bit his chest.
While John sucked my tits, I reached behind me, removed two sets of handcuffs. Schi never stopped biting as I passed one set over John’s closed eyes. I mouthed the numbers.
Snap.
John’s eyes flipped open. Before he could fight, we snapped the other end to the iron headboard.
That was good. Ropes could be messy.
Pupils dilated. “What the fuck is going on! I don’t do no freaky tying up shit! Turn me loose!”
We ignored him, grabbed a leg, planned to handcuff his ankles to the footboard. This joker read our minds. He thrashed out; feet swinging wildly.
“Watch out!” I yelled just before his foot connected with Schi’s chest. She thumped onto the floor. Hard.
“What’s this shit about?!” Spittle flew onto my face.
This beyotch better be HIV negative!
I was angry now, punched his punk ass in the stomach, silencing him. Grabbed a now-complacent foot and handcuffed the ankle to the footboard. Repeated with the other ankle before checking on Schi.
She was shook up, but otherwise unhurt.
“What…is….this…about?”—gasping now, eyes wide—“My… money… is… in… my…wallet.”
I tsked him. “This is not about money, at all.” Not from him, anyway.
“Well…what is it about?” Voice grew stronger, meaner. “I mean, I pick up this bitch at a bar,” –eyes darted to Schi— “and you join us and tie me up. If it’s not about money, then what the fuck is it about?”
Funny thing about me and Schi. You can think we’re bitches all you want. Just don’t call us one.
Schi shimmied over to my bag, retrieved a short whip.
“Wait, girl. Don’t mark him up!” She was a take-no-prisoner witch when angered. And calling her a bitch will do it every time.
“I’m not gonna mark this asshole up. I’m just making sure that Mrs. Pendergast gets her money’s worth. Grab the damn camera!”
I did so with a smile.
“My wife!” John sputtered. “What the hell does she have to do with this?” We waited. Head finally cocked to the side; realization dawned. “I’ll pay you double what she’s paying you! How much is it?”
“Save your money, sweetie. After you called me a bitch…I’d do this for free.” Schi’s saccharine smile didn’t reach past her nose.
“You bitches, you! I’m gonna get you for this! You don’t know who you’re fucking with!”
I shook my head. Screw yourself into a tighter corner.
John pulled, pushed and wiggled in an effort to free himself. Waste of time. We were that good.
“Ready?”
“As ever.”
I positioned the camera. Schi slapped John’s exposed rod with her bare hand. His mouth opened in anguish. Schi positioned her fat nipple close—but not too close—to his open mouth. I chuckled as I snapped. It looked like ole boy was taking a break from sucking, ecstasy etched on his face.
Schi sat on his chest, inched her body forward. John bucked, knew what was about to go down. She stopped scant inches from his mouth, thigh-locked his face. On celluloid, it’d look like he was going downtown, especially when Schi arched her back and palmed her own breasts.
My panties wet as I watched.
John panted, watched me. Smelled my sex, his deflated erection rising to attention.
Schi changed positions, leaned towards the stiffening cock. John pushed upwards, fooled himself into believing this shit was real. Schi’s hair fell forward, shielded her lips and the top part of his rod. From my sideview: straight up fellatio.
And half of the estate goes to Mrs. Pendergast!
Schi wrapped the whip around the base of his rod, gave the shot a sex-frenzy feeling. Like he and she were really into this thing. John grunted, shifted around, tried to locate her mouth obviously was really into this thing.
After filling up two memory cards, Schi slid off the bed, began putting on her clothes.
“What? That’s it?” Frowns sprouted. “I’m really not getting any? This is really for my wife?” Fear returned to his voice.
“Yep. You’re not and it is.” I returned the camera to my purse.
“What about the keys? You aren’t going to just leave me here like this, are you?”
Eyes vacillated again, until finally discerning the answer.
Let the groveling begin!
“Please. Please. Don’t do this.”
John rattled the cuffs, arched, yanked and pulled. I never turned to look at him, my job now finished.
His anger returned like a tsunami.
“I’ll get you bitches! I’ll cut your hands off and slit your throat! You don’t know who you’re fucking with!” John screamed at my back.
Give me a dollar for every time I’ve heard that statement or one of its variations, and I’d be a damn millionaire.
“Ready, girl?”
Schi straightened her clothes and stood.
“Ready.”
We walked out the door without another glance at John. He continued shouting obscenities at out back. The door clicked shut, we high-fived each other and sista’ strutted towards the elevator.
Ahhhhhhhh. Another lying/cheating/philandering asshole bites the dust.
We were hugging when the huge shape rounded the corner.
Face hard.
Eyes locked on mine.
Intent: obvious.
The alarm clock screamed.
***************************************************
Slippery pussies.
Sweaty balls.
Perfume floating over the musk.
Cigarette smoke.
The odors blended, wrapped around me as I opened the bar door. My nose twitched, head throbbed harder. Wished I’d swallowed an aspirin, drank a V8 and hit the bed. But I’d taken the cheddar so it was time to do the do.
The bar was crunk. Booty clapping. Slow grinding. Laughing. Indecent propositions.
The smoke choked, invaded hair, clothes and pores. Music thumped, the speakers obviously turned up to LOUD AS HELL.
My head pounded harder.
The shuffling crowd on the dance floor got my attention as I positioned my hips on the stool.
They hovered around a couple. Spotlit. Jamming by themselves. The man, damn what a specimen he was—huge, dark and nattily dressed. His partner was no slouch either. Every man in the room would give her the street title, dimepiece. Their bodies writhed, contorted to the pulsing samba beat.
Touch. Back away. Brush. Hump.
But this samba wasn’t the usual. They’d put added some Caribbean flavor in the Latin dance—exaggerated pelvic movements and thrusts. Dry-fucking.
My labia twitched as the man’s tongue slid down the woman’s neck, saliva trail glinting in the dim light. Long fingers massaged her stomach before skimming up, cupping her fabric-encased breasts.
I crossed my legs, stopping the sexual impulses trying to grab a foothold. Why waste time on shit going nowhere? Besides, I wasn’t here to get laid but to do a job on Mr. Hunk himself. John Pendergast. The mark. A cheating husband who I’d being paid—very nicely, I might add—to get the goods on by his wife. My partner, Schi, was the woman he was all over. The dumb fuck.
Lick.
Nibble the ear.
Squeeze the ass.
Whisper sweet bullshit in her hair.
That’s it baby.
I sipped my Singapore Sling and snapped shots of their antics with my spypen. I had two back up pens in my purse. No client will ever say we underwhelmed them, that’s for sure.
The music ended with the John’s lips pressed obscenely between the valley of the Schi’s tits.
This joker been at this crap so long, felt his game was so tight he didn’t look around; try to hide. His dirt was out front where any one vaguely interested could witness it for themselves.
The hair rose suddenly on the back of my neck.
Cold fingers scratched up my spine.
My nose lifted, became one with its mammalian cousins.
Sniffed.
Cayenne pepper. Fecund earth. Metal. Blood.
The scent was no stranger to me. It meant only one thing: Trouble.
I straightened as I scanned the room, my hand lightly fingering the shank in my purse. Flat, hard plastic with an edge grinded down to razor thinness, it breezed past metal detectors but could slice to the bone.
My radar honed in on one specimen striding confidently my way. Strobe lights illuminated his form in snatches.
John Coffey in The Green Mile.
Gone dark tan.
Plus an earring.
Satan in a suit.
Danger seeped from his pores, fluoresced like neon daggers.
I let my eyes slide past, turned back to the bar, uncrossed my legs, fingered the shank again. He took the stool next to me. Cologne teased my nostrils. A hand was placed open-palm near mine.
Looking up, my eyes were captured by a pair of hazel ones surrounded by a goateed, caramel face.
“I’m Meylon. Let me buy you a drink?” The voice and exterior didn’t match. He looked GQ smooth but what I heard told another story. Gritty. Rough around the edges. Hood gone to school. Gutter been upgraded. Menace to society cloaked in a high end suit.
An unwanted distraction.
“Mo, and I’ll have another Singapore Sling.” Ignored the hand and tossed back the last of my drink, my brain screaming Watch his ass!
I should be scared…but I’m not. Cassieta Modine ain’t afraid of too much. Just God and a gun and he’s neither.
He glanced at the sweaty couple leaving the floor. Bodies fused.
“Know them?”
“No.” Taut, fake smile.
“Can’t tell.” Voice rumbled, hardened. Street trying to come out.
“They put on a good show and I don’t want to miss the encore if there’s one.” Eyebrow lifted. A dare.
“Ahem. A voyeur.” He stroked his goatee.
I held his eyes. “Hey, if they don’t mind fucking in front of me, I’m damn sure gonna watch.”
“Touché.” His hands moved downward, stroked my exposed back.
This is a bold brother here. Playing me cheap.
I stiffened, removed his hand. That door had been welded shut for a while.
“My bad. Guess I’m moving too fast for you.” Palms in surrender. A seasoned playa’s move.
“For yourself, too.” Read my mind: Playa be gone.
Smirking now, Meylon turned to the bartender. “Freshen our drinks, would you?”
I shifted away, watched the couple now situated in a booth. Still at it. John’s hands were inside the V of Schi’s dress, obviously pulling her nipples, his tongue licking her lips.
I maneuvered the spypen up and in their direction, clicking imperceptibly.
Meylon followed the direction of my eyes. “That your man or something?”
I turned back to my fresh drink, kept the couple in my periphery. “What do you think?” I gave him a hard step-the-fuck-off stare.
“Looks like you’re more interested in some Bama and his woman than this hot-blooded sexy mothafucka in front of you. Not cool. Not cool at all.” Eyes like diamonds. Gutter swarmed just beneath his skin.
I scanned him from his closely cropped head to his indented waist down to his Kenneth Cole encased toes. He’d probably been told he was all that and a few buckets of KFC too. Since his groupies had already given him the 4-1-1, no need for me to add to it. “Like I said, I don’t want to miss any encores.”
He leaned closer, liquor-sweetened breath bathed my face. “Hell, we could be the encore. Mo…I so want to—”
I held up my hand. Cut him off. “Please. Give it a rest. Okay?”
I was not in the mood for some new variation of a trite come-on and I think I’ve probably heard them all. “Baby you are so fine” or “When my eyes met yours, I knew you were the mother of my children”, only problem is, they forgot to add the “So…let’s fuck tonight” to the end of them. And that’s all they wanted to do. But, I’m not interested.
Nostrils flared.
Dark pools bored into mine.
Hood was about to make my acquaintance.
Stalemate.
John and Schi suddenly rose from the booth, coats in hand.
Showtime!
Without another word, I swung from the barstool and strode towards the door.
“Hey!” Meylon called after me.
I didn’t even break stride. I had work to do.
“Hey! Mo! I know you hear me!”
Closer.
I kept walking until a hand grabbed my upper arm; stopped me in my tracks. With ease of practice, I grabbed his thumb, twisted and lifted upwards. He cussed in pain. Seeing a chair next to us, I gave him a solid punch to the solar plexus. He grunted and slumped forward. I caught him, roughly pushed his gasping body into the chair.
His eyes spoke volumes as they bored into mine.
Time shifted.
Tugged.
I tore my eyes away and without another glance, walked out the door and onto the street, Meylon’s eyes haunting me as I began the second phase of my night work.
I jogged over to my nondescript Crown Victoria and cranked the engine while watching the door. John’s Mercedes was parked five cars up.
They exited the club still doing the “my new Boo” shit, hugged up tighter than welded metal. Schi gave a discreet “thumbs up” sign before he seated her in the car. I let a few vehicles pass by before I pulled out to trail them. A busted taillight— courtesy of yours truly— made surveillance an easy task.
Ten minutes of riding, plotting…trying to rid the memory of Meylon’s eyes from my mind before they pulled into the Grommet Hotel. I whistled. This hotel started at two-fifty a night. That John Pendergast would spend that kind of money on a woman he just met spoke volumes.
I parked across the street from them, grabbed my suitcase purse and strutted towards the entrance. The attendant opened the door, a pleasant greeting sliding from his lips. John retrieved his key from the desk clerk. I strode towards the elevators, my progress hidden from the front desk. They followed on my heels, entered together.
“Floor?”
“Ah…” John looked down at the key, “ah…twelfth.”
I pushed the correct button. John ignored me, began fondling Schi before the doors closed completely. That’s all right. His exhibitionist ass will know who I am in a few.
The elevator slid smoothly upward before stopping with a ding. I held the door open button, watched as they shuffled out, arms wrapped around each other like a cocoon. I followed, stopped and stared at the arrow signs. Made it appear to anyone watching I was trying to locate my room.
The cocoon ambled down the hallway to my left. John fumbled with the key then finally got it right. I retraced their steps.
Adrenaline was surging. It was the put-up-or-shut-up point of the game. If our plan played out like I hoped, John should be washing his balls, anticipating Schi riding his swollen dick.
A light knock.
Schi immediately opened the door. No words. None needed. The toilet flushed as I sat my bag on the nightstand.
John stumbled out, erect cock leading the way. Pulled up short when he spied me.
“Who the hell…what the hell…” Confused eyes vacillated between me and Schi. “What’s going on here?”
“Baby, I thought we’d finish the night off with a bang!” Schi walked over, boldly began massaging his pole through his shorts. Girl might be many things but shy ain’t one of them. Kisses rained down his neck and chest for added persuasion. “I thought you’d enjoy a threesome. Hell! What man doesn’t?” Laughter.
He closed his eyes. She pulled his rod free. The war in his head played out on his face then, his traitorous body overrode his sensible mind; consented to anything and everything.
That’s my boy.
Schi maneuvered him onto the bed. I joined the party, rubbed him all over his chest, ran my fingers through his bush. Rough hands pushed into the neckline of my dress, freed my tits. John moaned low while Schi stroked, bit his chest.
While John sucked my tits, I reached behind me, removed two sets of handcuffs. Schi never stopped biting as I passed one set over John’s closed eyes. I mouthed the numbers.
Snap.
John’s eyes flipped open. Before he could fight, we snapped the other end to the iron headboard.
That was good. Ropes could be messy.
Pupils dilated. “What the fuck is going on! I don’t do no freaky tying up shit! Turn me loose!”
We ignored him, grabbed a leg, planned to handcuff his ankles to the footboard. This joker read our minds. He thrashed out; feet swinging wildly.
“Watch out!” I yelled just before his foot connected with Schi’s chest. She thumped onto the floor. Hard.
“What’s this shit about?!” Spittle flew onto my face.
This beyotch better be HIV negative!
I was angry now, punched his punk ass in the stomach, silencing him. Grabbed a now-complacent foot and handcuffed the ankle to the footboard. Repeated with the other ankle before checking on Schi.
She was shook up, but otherwise unhurt.
“What…is….this…about?”—gasping now, eyes wide—“My… money… is… in… my…wallet.”
I tsked him. “This is not about money, at all.” Not from him, anyway.
“Well…what is it about?” Voice grew stronger, meaner. “I mean, I pick up this bitch at a bar,” –eyes darted to Schi— “and you join us and tie me up. If it’s not about money, then what the fuck is it about?”
Funny thing about me and Schi. You can think we’re bitches all you want. Just don’t call us one.
Schi shimmied over to my bag, retrieved a short whip.
“Wait, girl. Don’t mark him up!” She was a take-no-prisoner witch when angered. And calling her a bitch will do it every time.
“I’m not gonna mark this asshole up. I’m just making sure that Mrs. Pendergast gets her money’s worth. Grab the damn camera!”
I did so with a smile.
“My wife!” John sputtered. “What the hell does she have to do with this?” We waited. Head finally cocked to the side; realization dawned. “I’ll pay you double what she’s paying you! How much is it?”
“Save your money, sweetie. After you called me a bitch…I’d do this for free.” Schi’s saccharine smile didn’t reach past her nose.
“You bitches, you! I’m gonna get you for this! You don’t know who you’re fucking with!”
I shook my head. Screw yourself into a tighter corner.
John pulled, pushed and wiggled in an effort to free himself. Waste of time. We were that good.
“Ready?”
“As ever.”
I positioned the camera. Schi slapped John’s exposed rod with her bare hand. His mouth opened in anguish. Schi positioned her fat nipple close—but not too close—to his open mouth. I chuckled as I snapped. It looked like ole boy was taking a break from sucking, ecstasy etched on his face.
Schi sat on his chest, inched her body forward. John bucked, knew what was about to go down. She stopped scant inches from his mouth, thigh-locked his face. On celluloid, it’d look like he was going downtown, especially when Schi arched her back and palmed her own breasts.
My panties wet as I watched.
John panted, watched me. Smelled my sex, his deflated erection rising to attention.
Schi changed positions, leaned towards the stiffening cock. John pushed upwards, fooled himself into believing this shit was real. Schi’s hair fell forward, shielded her lips and the top part of his rod. From my sideview: straight up fellatio.
And half of the estate goes to Mrs. Pendergast!
Schi wrapped the whip around the base of his rod, gave the shot a sex-frenzy feeling. Like he and she were really into this thing. John grunted, shifted around, tried to locate her mouth obviously was really into this thing.
After filling up two memory cards, Schi slid off the bed, began putting on her clothes.
“What? That’s it?” Frowns sprouted. “I’m really not getting any? This is really for my wife?” Fear returned to his voice.
“Yep. You’re not and it is.” I returned the camera to my purse.
“What about the keys? You aren’t going to just leave me here like this, are you?”
Eyes vacillated again, until finally discerning the answer.
Let the groveling begin!
“Please. Please. Don’t do this.”
John rattled the cuffs, arched, yanked and pulled. I never turned to look at him, my job now finished.
His anger returned like a tsunami.
“I’ll get you bitches! I’ll cut your hands off and slit your throat! You don’t know who you’re fucking with!” John screamed at my back.
Give me a dollar for every time I’ve heard that statement or one of its variations, and I’d be a damn millionaire.
“Ready, girl?”
Schi straightened her clothes and stood.
“Ready.”
We walked out the door without another glance at John. He continued shouting obscenities at out back. The door clicked shut, we high-fived each other and sista’ strutted towards the elevator.
Ahhhhhhhh. Another lying/cheating/philandering asshole bites the dust.
We were hugging when the huge shape rounded the corner.
Face hard.
Eyes locked on mine.
Intent: obvious.
The alarm clock screamed.
Payback, Inc.- 1st installment
Well guys, while I'm waiting for my next guest to arrive, I wanted to get some feedback on my WIP entitled, Payback, Inc. Would love to hear if you think my main character is too "masculine." But here it is:
CHAPTER 1
The atmosphere in the bar was electric. Smoke hugged the ceiling like smog; strobe lights barely penetrating. The speaker’s volume was obviously turned up to LOUD AS POSSIBLE. It took great effort to think, much less converse.
The crowd on the dance floor was gathered around a couple. Center stage. The floor all to themselves. The man was extremely tall, dark and impeccably dressed as was his partner, an equally tall, mocha-colored, blonde bombshell. Their bodies writhed to the samba music. Swing in. Swing out. Twirl. Spinning tops whirling across the floor. But this samba wasn’t the usual. They’d added an African flair to the Latin dance—exaggerated pelvic movements and thrusts. Dry-humping.
My lower lips twitched as the man’s tongue followed the curve of the woman’s neck, saliva glistening in the light. Fine-boned hands massaged her stomach then skimmed up, ever…so…slowly to cup her fabric-encased breasts. I crossed my legs in agony; gave the barstool a futile private lap dance.
As the hormones zinged through my body, I reminded myself of why I was there in the first place. Him. The mark. The errant husband sexing it up with whoever, whenever. This whole scene was courtesy of his wife — the one footing my bill.
Hands shaking, I snapped a few shots of the couple’s antics with my spypen. The music ended with the man’s lips—succulent lips meant for licking, biting, sucking, kissing—pressed deep between the valley of the woman’s breasts. In fact, his lips had me so ensnared, I failed to sense the danger behind me.
Big danger.
Turning back to the bar, I found my eyes captured by a pair of hazel ones surrounded by a goateed, enigmatic face. Cologne teased my nostrils. Strobe lights illuminated him in snatches. From what I could see, I liked—caramel, tall and built like a male brickhouse. Danger should have been tattooed on his forehead like a neon sign. He was the kind of man your mama warned you to watch out for...the kind of man you wanted to sheet wrangle without even knowing his name.
I should be scared, but I’m not. Cassieta Modine ain’t afraid of too much. Just God and a gun and he’s neither.
He glanced at the couple leaving the floor, bodies fused. “Know them?” His deep voice rumbled like a cello plucking my backbone.
My eyes darted to the couple then back. “No.”
Who is this man?
“Looks like you want to.” No facial expression. Danger pheromones strummed my nerves.
“Naw. They were just putting on a show. I don’t want to miss the encore if there’s one,” I flipped, determined not to be ruffled by this unnerving stranger.
“Ahem. A voyeur.”
I coughed over my drink before regaining some composure. “Not really. But, hey, if you don’t mind screwing where I can see, I’m damn sure gonna watch.” I struggled to sound confident.
“Touché.” His hands lightly touched my exposed back.
This is a bold brother here. Putting his hands where nobody asked him; assuming was okay with me…I don’t tell him to remove his hand.
“I’m Meylon. Let me buy you a drink.” His lips parted; showed blinding white teeth that belonged on dentures.
“I’m Mo. I’ll have another Singapore Sling,” I tossed back along with the last of my drink.
He placed the order while his fingers continued their light assault over my back.
“Mo, huh? The only Mos I know are guys. Is that short for anything?”
Here we go. I usually get this question when I give them my name and it always rubbed me the wrong way.
“Meylon. Is that short for anything?” Sarcasm dripped from my voice.
“No. It’s the name my mama gave me. You?” Eyebrows lifted, daring me to lie.
“We’re in the same boat.” The lie slid from my tongue easily.
I glanced at the couple now situated in a booth. Still going at it. The man’s hands were now inside the V of her dress, her tongue flicking over her lips.
Damn!
My stomach clenched involuntarily. I needed another photo but how the hell was I gonna get one with Mr. Meylon breathing my air in as I breathed out?
Meylon followed the direction of my eyes. “You sure I’m not intruding?”
I turned my legs back to the bar, keeping the couple in my periphery. “No. Why’d you say that?”
“Looks like you’re more interested in them than me. That’s a first,” he laughed, motioning to the bartender to refill my drink.
Waiting for my next drink, I scanned him from his closely cropped head to his indented waist down to his Stacy Adams encased toes. His statement was probably true.
I sipped the potent nectar before replying, “Like I said, I don’t want to miss any encores.”
He leaned closer. “We could be the encore. Excuse me for being so forward, but Mo…I so want to be up in you.” His liquor-sweetened breath caressed my face.
Goodness!
Two pairs of eyes locked on each other; smoldered with sexual energy. My pelvis tilted; the alarm in my head screamed. I squeezed my thighs tighter, gulped of my drink, tried to hide my jangling nerves.
Then he licked those lips.
Goddamnit!
Mental images of his unclothed physique made my body flit hot, cold. Flashes of his lips nibbling
on my earlobe, my neck, up and spine, my toes, my ni—Stop it, girl! Stop it!
I inhaled and exhaled slowly, the AC cooling the flash sweat coating my upper lip, rimming my
hairline.
My attention was mercifully diverted as the couple suddenly rose from the booth, coats in hand.
“Your friends are leaving,” Meylon said in my ear, his breath searing my lobe.
I leaned back; slowed the pace. “They aren’t my friends,” I emphasized.
He straightened and opened his jacket. “Mine either,” he growled just before the nose of the .45 cleared his coat.
Shit!
Guns, particularly ones I’m not holding, are something that do scare me.
Then, the couple was upon us.
Meylon ignored me as he slid from his stool, stopped in front of the man.
“What the hell are you doing?” My body tensed, eyes looked for any opportunity to disarm him quickly.
Meylon sneered, aimed the gun at the mark’s chest. “Oh, this how it is? You think you can run around and screw my woman and this woman and that? I’ll kill you!”
Someone screamed, “He’s got a gun!” People surged towards the exits.
The man’s face was contorted in fear. The woman’s, a portrait in fright—eyes wide; mouth in the proverbial “O.” The man roughly pulled the woman between him and the gun.
You chickenshit, you!
I had to get control of the situation.
Front kick to the gun hand.
Chop to his exposed neck.
He grunted but he held onto the gun.
Damn!
I punched his head, his neck and chest; felt the solid thuds.
But…they didn’t seem to faze Meylon.
It was a confirmed fact when he pimp-slapped me with the gun. I flew backwards; thudded into
the bar. Crazed eyes pinned me to the floor.
“Bitch, you’ve lost your damn mind!” he snarled.
I knew this wasn’t a Matrix moment as I watched his finger slowly cock the gun, my fight or flight instinct suddenly…paralyzed.
What about our conversation?! What about how you wanted to be all up in my stuff?! my mind screeched.
His eyes held mine, a muscle twitching along his cheek.
His shoulders relaxed; he stared at the floor then back at me.
Then he shook his head.
I relaxed, felt a reprieve, readied mentally for my next attack
A smile, showcasing those beauteous lips and teeth which…morphed into a snarl as his hand lifted; finger squeeze the trigger—
SSSSTTTOOOPPP!
The dream ceased.
Breathe.
Everyone knows that if you die in a dream, you’re dead for real.
Breathe.
The curtains fluttered from the central air; the luminous second hand on my clock ticked on my nightstand, affirming I was still alive.
Breathe.
Suspended between consciousness and sleep, unable to will myself to move, speak or even open my eyes. Ineptness. A state in which I’ve always been afraid. Scared of…I don’t know. Maybe ghosts communicating with me. Maybe the devil holding me captive. Maybe of being suspended in this state…forever. I pushed those thoughts to the side; willed myself to not be afraid because I knew I was alive. The incessant ticking was a constant reminder.
Breathe.
Yet, I almost died. A black belt in judo, numerous self-defense training sessions and I…choked. This helplessness gnawed my brain, worried my soul. Would I fail when I needed me the most?
Breathe.
Get it together, Mo! What was that sissypunk crap you just pulled? You badder than this! You ain’t never ever been nobody’s punk!
Correct.
I slowly calmed; heart rate followed suit as the dream world slowly pulled me into its depths.
Rewind...
CHAPTER 1
The atmosphere in the bar was electric. Smoke hugged the ceiling like smog; strobe lights barely penetrating. The speaker’s volume was obviously turned up to LOUD AS POSSIBLE. It took great effort to think, much less converse.
The crowd on the dance floor was gathered around a couple. Center stage. The floor all to themselves. The man was extremely tall, dark and impeccably dressed as was his partner, an equally tall, mocha-colored, blonde bombshell. Their bodies writhed to the samba music. Swing in. Swing out. Twirl. Spinning tops whirling across the floor. But this samba wasn’t the usual. They’d added an African flair to the Latin dance—exaggerated pelvic movements and thrusts. Dry-humping.
My lower lips twitched as the man’s tongue followed the curve of the woman’s neck, saliva glistening in the light. Fine-boned hands massaged her stomach then skimmed up, ever…so…slowly to cup her fabric-encased breasts. I crossed my legs in agony; gave the barstool a futile private lap dance.
As the hormones zinged through my body, I reminded myself of why I was there in the first place. Him. The mark. The errant husband sexing it up with whoever, whenever. This whole scene was courtesy of his wife — the one footing my bill.
Hands shaking, I snapped a few shots of the couple’s antics with my spypen. The music ended with the man’s lips—succulent lips meant for licking, biting, sucking, kissing—pressed deep between the valley of the woman’s breasts. In fact, his lips had me so ensnared, I failed to sense the danger behind me.
Big danger.
Turning back to the bar, I found my eyes captured by a pair of hazel ones surrounded by a goateed, enigmatic face. Cologne teased my nostrils. Strobe lights illuminated him in snatches. From what I could see, I liked—caramel, tall and built like a male brickhouse. Danger should have been tattooed on his forehead like a neon sign. He was the kind of man your mama warned you to watch out for...the kind of man you wanted to sheet wrangle without even knowing his name.
I should be scared, but I’m not. Cassieta Modine ain’t afraid of too much. Just God and a gun and he’s neither.
He glanced at the couple leaving the floor, bodies fused. “Know them?” His deep voice rumbled like a cello plucking my backbone.
My eyes darted to the couple then back. “No.”
Who is this man?
“Looks like you want to.” No facial expression. Danger pheromones strummed my nerves.
“Naw. They were just putting on a show. I don’t want to miss the encore if there’s one,” I flipped, determined not to be ruffled by this unnerving stranger.
“Ahem. A voyeur.”
I coughed over my drink before regaining some composure. “Not really. But, hey, if you don’t mind screwing where I can see, I’m damn sure gonna watch.” I struggled to sound confident.
“Touché.” His hands lightly touched my exposed back.
This is a bold brother here. Putting his hands where nobody asked him; assuming was okay with me…I don’t tell him to remove his hand.
“I’m Meylon. Let me buy you a drink.” His lips parted; showed blinding white teeth that belonged on dentures.
“I’m Mo. I’ll have another Singapore Sling,” I tossed back along with the last of my drink.
He placed the order while his fingers continued their light assault over my back.
“Mo, huh? The only Mos I know are guys. Is that short for anything?”
Here we go. I usually get this question when I give them my name and it always rubbed me the wrong way.
“Meylon. Is that short for anything?” Sarcasm dripped from my voice.
“No. It’s the name my mama gave me. You?” Eyebrows lifted, daring me to lie.
“We’re in the same boat.” The lie slid from my tongue easily.
I glanced at the couple now situated in a booth. Still going at it. The man’s hands were now inside the V of her dress, her tongue flicking over her lips.
Damn!
My stomach clenched involuntarily. I needed another photo but how the hell was I gonna get one with Mr. Meylon breathing my air in as I breathed out?
Meylon followed the direction of my eyes. “You sure I’m not intruding?”
I turned my legs back to the bar, keeping the couple in my periphery. “No. Why’d you say that?”
“Looks like you’re more interested in them than me. That’s a first,” he laughed, motioning to the bartender to refill my drink.
Waiting for my next drink, I scanned him from his closely cropped head to his indented waist down to his Stacy Adams encased toes. His statement was probably true.
I sipped the potent nectar before replying, “Like I said, I don’t want to miss any encores.”
He leaned closer. “We could be the encore. Excuse me for being so forward, but Mo…I so want to be up in you.” His liquor-sweetened breath caressed my face.
Goodness!
Two pairs of eyes locked on each other; smoldered with sexual energy. My pelvis tilted; the alarm in my head screamed. I squeezed my thighs tighter, gulped of my drink, tried to hide my jangling nerves.
Then he licked those lips.
Goddamnit!
Mental images of his unclothed physique made my body flit hot, cold. Flashes of his lips nibbling
on my earlobe, my neck, up and spine, my toes, my ni—Stop it, girl! Stop it!
I inhaled and exhaled slowly, the AC cooling the flash sweat coating my upper lip, rimming my
hairline.
My attention was mercifully diverted as the couple suddenly rose from the booth, coats in hand.
“Your friends are leaving,” Meylon said in my ear, his breath searing my lobe.
I leaned back; slowed the pace. “They aren’t my friends,” I emphasized.
He straightened and opened his jacket. “Mine either,” he growled just before the nose of the .45 cleared his coat.
Shit!
Guns, particularly ones I’m not holding, are something that do scare me.
Then, the couple was upon us.
Meylon ignored me as he slid from his stool, stopped in front of the man.
“What the hell are you doing?” My body tensed, eyes looked for any opportunity to disarm him quickly.
Meylon sneered, aimed the gun at the mark’s chest. “Oh, this how it is? You think you can run around and screw my woman and this woman and that? I’ll kill you!”
Someone screamed, “He’s got a gun!” People surged towards the exits.
The man’s face was contorted in fear. The woman’s, a portrait in fright—eyes wide; mouth in the proverbial “O.” The man roughly pulled the woman between him and the gun.
You chickenshit, you!
I had to get control of the situation.
Front kick to the gun hand.
Chop to his exposed neck.
He grunted but he held onto the gun.
Damn!
I punched his head, his neck and chest; felt the solid thuds.
But…they didn’t seem to faze Meylon.
It was a confirmed fact when he pimp-slapped me with the gun. I flew backwards; thudded into
the bar. Crazed eyes pinned me to the floor.
“Bitch, you’ve lost your damn mind!” he snarled.
I knew this wasn’t a Matrix moment as I watched his finger slowly cock the gun, my fight or flight instinct suddenly…paralyzed.
What about our conversation?! What about how you wanted to be all up in my stuff?! my mind screeched.
His eyes held mine, a muscle twitching along his cheek.
His shoulders relaxed; he stared at the floor then back at me.
Then he shook his head.
I relaxed, felt a reprieve, readied mentally for my next attack
A smile, showcasing those beauteous lips and teeth which…morphed into a snarl as his hand lifted; finger squeeze the trigger—
SSSSTTTOOOPPP!
The dream ceased.
Breathe.
Everyone knows that if you die in a dream, you’re dead for real.
Breathe.
The curtains fluttered from the central air; the luminous second hand on my clock ticked on my nightstand, affirming I was still alive.
Breathe.
Suspended between consciousness and sleep, unable to will myself to move, speak or even open my eyes. Ineptness. A state in which I’ve always been afraid. Scared of…I don’t know. Maybe ghosts communicating with me. Maybe the devil holding me captive. Maybe of being suspended in this state…forever. I pushed those thoughts to the side; willed myself to not be afraid because I knew I was alive. The incessant ticking was a constant reminder.
Breathe.
Yet, I almost died. A black belt in judo, numerous self-defense training sessions and I…choked. This helplessness gnawed my brain, worried my soul. Would I fail when I needed me the most?
Breathe.
Get it together, Mo! What was that sissypunk crap you just pulled? You badder than this! You ain’t never ever been nobody’s punk!
Correct.
I slowly calmed; heart rate followed suit as the dream world slowly pulled me into its depths.
Rewind...
Friday, September 21, 2007
Ms. Minnie continues to do her thing!
I fell in love with The Seduction of Mr. Bradley and worked it until it breathed. It is a love story between conflicted individuals. Bill Bradley is bisexual. I learned an interesting development while writing this novel. Brokeback Mountain—a film from a short story by Annie Proulx about “...a forbidden and secretive relationship between two cowboys.”—won three Oscars in 2005.
According to IMBC.com, Ms. Proulx was born August 22, 1935. I was born May 16, 1936. She finished Brokeback Mountain December 2005; I completed my first draft of Mr. Bradley near that same period and published November 2006. In the end, my hope is that this novel blazes a path to a greater understanding of and by humankind.
Thank you so much for reading my Hist/story. And Thank You, Sydney for the opportunity!
Minnie E Miller
Author of The Seduction of Mr. Bradleywww.millerscribs.comwww.myspace.com/minnie_ewww.msprissy-dreamweaver.blogspot.com/
According to IMBC.com, Ms. Proulx was born August 22, 1935. I was born May 16, 1936. She finished Brokeback Mountain December 2005; I completed my first draft of Mr. Bradley near that same period and published November 2006. In the end, my hope is that this novel blazes a path to a greater understanding of and by humankind.
Thank you so much for reading my Hist/story. And Thank You, Sydney for the opportunity!
Minnie E Miller
Author of The Seduction of Mr. Bradleywww.millerscribs.comwww.myspace.com/minnie_ewww.msprissy-dreamweaver.blogspot.com/
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Ms. Minnier E. Miller continues...
My flavor for the paranormal manifested in my spiritual soul while attending the première musical, The Phantom of The Opera. That little outing was very very expensive—I took two others with me—but well worth it...
I saw sooo many possibilities in Phantom. It was as if my muse took flight. I just hung on and followed it. I was already working on a manuscript titled Precious Angel; I changed the titled to Blue Lady Rising. I've been writing that MM for 10 years! I'm still rewriting it. I put her aside and started writing Catharsis, a book of three short stories: two were about vampires and the third, Connecting, was a love story. I'm not too pleased with that one. Catharsis was my first venture into self-publishing. It kicked my butt, and made me question my sanity, but I put it out there anyway.
Minnie E Miller
Author of The Seduction of Mr. Bradley
http://www.millerscribs.com/
www.myspace.com/minnie_e
www.msprissy-dreamweaver.blogspot.com/
Monday, September 17, 2007
Minnie Miller Continues to Shine!
My creativity had pushed to the forefront of my mind in 1976. I enrolled in The Chicago School of The Art Institute—the “Tony” art school.
At the school, my activist mind came alive. African Americans were being ignored, although there many very, very talented artists in our groups, especially our young men. I was mad as hell and said, “I’m not taking anymore,” and left after a three semesters. I met an African American lawyer while working at the ACLU. I became his secretary. In his private practice, he was the lawyer for the Black Panther Party. That's a book in itself. I have years of journals hidden away. I won’t go into it here.
Minnie E Miller
Author of The Seduction of Mr. Bradley
The Seduction of Mr. Bradley
http://www.millerscribs.com/
www.msprissy-dreamweaver.blogspot.com/ www.myspace.com/minnie_e
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Let's Welcome Author Minnie Miller to the Stage!
I have been writing for many more years than the fourteen I consider my serious literary period. A little history about me.My last full time job was with the Office of the Mayor of San Francisco as special assistant to his press secretary. While there, I coauthored The San Francisco Mayor's Summit for Women, Summit Report 1998. I retired in 1999, left San Francisco, landed in Atlanta, Georgia, and worked in the City Council's Communications office as a freelancer. Heeding a whisper from my subconscious, I returned home but couldn't sit still. To my amazement, NBC5 Chicago, WMAQ TV hired me part-time in the newsroom. The news junkie in me loved it.
Minnie E Miller
Author of
The Seduction of Mr. Bradley
http://www.millerscribs.com/
www.msprissy-dreamweaver.blogspot.com/ www.myspace.com/minnie_e
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Simply Sydney Global Blog Tour!
Get ready to be entertained, folks. Beginning next week, I'll began my Simply Sydney Global Blog Tour. That's correct, beginning next week, I'll have a myriad of fellow authors, publicists and book affectianos here talking about, what else? BOOKS!
And don't forget, I have a few other blogs, so I'll keep you informed of who is starring where. It should be a load of fun and will introduce you all to great new reads. Hope you'll stick around for the ride.
Syd
And don't forget, I have a few other blogs, so I'll keep you informed of who is starring where. It should be a load of fun and will introduce you all to great new reads. Hope you'll stick around for the ride.
Syd
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