Saturday, May 28, 2016

Guest Author: Voodoo Man: Part 1








For a few months, Rivaflowz.com will be taking four guest authors #fromblogtobook. Each week you'll be able to read a new installment from unique aspiring authors. This tale is from Deja L. Jones. Enjoy!     
                                            ____________________________________
Prologue
9 oz sweet red wine
Patience, understanding, honesty
9 cloves
Love, respect, intelligence
Rose petals
Funny, thoughtful, ambitious
Few drops of my blood
Magic of the Mardi gras
        “Repeat after me.”
“Let the one who drinks this wine, shower me with love divine, love potion number nine let his love be forever mine, as long as he loves me before midnight chimes and the new moon shines, his love will forever keep the magic alive.”
Terrified, with hands covered in blood June had wandered into the dark and hazy swamps of the Bon Temp bayous. She was a long ways from the magic of New Orleans; she was an even further from her studio apartment in East Harlem. She hid behind a moss covered tree in fear for her life. Her hands pressed into the moistness of the old tree. Black magic always came with a price and she had but a drop left of the potion given to her months ago by Madame St. John, the witch doctor who told her she could create the perfect man or so she thought.
Short of breath, she remained quiet as she whispered the love spell over and over again. The sound of feet splashing in the swampy water drew closer and closer and then there was complete silence. She could hear the crickets; she could hear the frogs and feel the mosquitoes chewing away at her sprained ankle. She ducked lower praying the smoky sheet of fog would make her invisible from what was lurking.
Suddenly, a strong hand clamped down hard on her shoulder as she let out a blood curdling scream…there was nothing perfect about him.
Nine Months Earlier
        Hurled over her desktop, with tear blurred eyes, June tried to make sense of the email she had just received. This was the day she had feared. After six long years of putting up with Trevor’s complacency and waiting for him to step up and be a man, he had finally cut the thin piece of string that was holding them together. Funny thing is, June saw it coming; she just didn’t think it would happen the day before their vacation with friends. She couldn’t bear to face her them and their permanent expressions of judgement and disappointment. It seemed like all of her friends were getting married, engaged or happily committed and June wanted that. She just chose the wrong guy for it. Maybe he was just the right guy at a different time in her life. She and Trevor have been college sweethearts. They met on move-in day in Tinsley Hall at Rutgers University in New Brunswick, New Jersey. It was her freshman year and after hours of lugging suitcases, boxes and dorm decor up several flights of steps with her family, she had finally met her RA, Trevor.
        He was a junior and finance major with ride-the-bull-wall-street dreams. As June got to know him, she loved how smart he was. She loved how excited he got when he told about numbers and money, she didn’t understand it, but she knew passion when she saw it. He had dreams of becoming a stock advisor and whenever it was his turn to plan their dorm events, it was always a powerhouse film like Wall Street with Michael Douglas or some Martin Scorsese “hot shot” film. No one ever showed up, but June and it always turned into a night of deep intellectual conversation over a classic film. It became obvious that she had a thing for him to the dismay of her roommate and first college friend Deanna. Deanna didn’t like anybody at their college. She was always paranoid about the quality of men at Rutgers and felt that most were too full of themselves while others seemed to keep a revolving door of women in and out of their rooms. Trevor wasn’t like the boys she was used to from her dilapidated city. He wasn’t like the boys who loitered in the front of the neighborhood bodegas, rapping the latest trap song ridiculously loud and hustling drugs; he wasn’t like the boys who cat called from the tinted windows of their Oldsmobile as they rolled down the streets in cruise control with tires too large for their cars. Trevor was a man who had a plan. He was educated, came from a great family and was extremely sexy. After a semester of late night study sessions, dinner dates in the cafe and dorm sleepovers, he’d finally asked June to be his girlfriend. He wasn’t her first boyfriend, but he was her first real relationship. They had a genuine connection.
        She loved him, even though he didn’t follow his dreams of being a Wall Street maverick. However, the more they grew as a couple, the more Trevor became complacent in their relationship. He was fine with his low income job working customer service at the city bank. He was fine with his frat boy roommates since he spent most nights with her. He had lost his spark, his drive, the very thing that attracted June to him, but still, she couldn’t imagine life without him and no matter how bad things got she knew she had to make it work.  
        She sat up as she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand smearing her eye shadow. She read his email once more and couldn’t stop herself from dialing his number. He didn’t have the decency to tell her to her face after six years, she thought the least he could do was answer the phone.
        “Hello?” Trevor sounded as if he were just waking up. June wasn’t surprised.
        “Is it really over?” June’s voice was shaky as she tried to keep herself from bursting into tears.
        “June, you know I love you. I just can’t deal with the nagging anymore.” Trevor let out a sigh. She remembered the argument they had that morning about him missing the deadline for the management application at the city bank.
        “Trevor…baby, I just wanted the best for you!” June couldn’t see the fault in her wanting a better life for someone she cared about.
        “Why can’t you just accept that I’m happy where I am?” Trevor blurted. “I’m sorry I didn’t become some rich, old soul, money man, but I’m fine.”
        “But…” June tried to interrupt.
        “It’s just not me June. I think we’ve given it our best shot.”
        “But Trevor what about our trip?! What am I supposed to tell everyone?” June couldn’t hold back her tears any longer. Her mother told her to never let a man break you, but all June could think about was everything she had invested in Trevor and all she had sacrificed to make their lives comfortable. It was her that bent and broke her back to provide for the two of them and all she asked for was simple appreciation.
        “Is that all you care about? A trip?”
        “Maybe we can….work this out?” June was near begging at this point.
        “June take someone else. I’m sorry.” Those were the last words he said before he hung up. June listened to the dial tone for a bit trying to process what just happened.
        Take someone else? June thought. She didn’t have anyone else. She had made Trevor her whole life. Dating another guy had never even crossed her mind. She did the only thing she thought would help in this situation, she wailed. She wailed painfully and cried loudly and didn’t care if anyone on her work floor heard her. She knew deep down inside that Trevor wasn’t the one for her. She had worked so hard and they had built so much together that even though she knew it wasn’t going anywhere and they had grown apart, she wasn’t ready to let go yet. She hadn’t emotionally prepared for this. She hadn’t gotten her heart ready. So she cried. She hoped that if she cried hard enough he would feel the pain he’d caused her. She thought that if she cried long enough she would shed enough tears to fully cleanse herself of him, but it was too soon.
        “Ms. Adams?” said a timid voice over even softer knocks on her frosted glass window. It was her assistant.
        “Yes?” She struggled to make herself sound alright. She wiped her face and fixed her clothes and wondered how long she had been standing there watching the train wreck of a mess she had become in less than a few minutes.
        “Your 4 o’clock meeting is here.”
        “Shoot! Give me five minutes to gather my things and have them meet me in the boardroom.” June was a top advertising executive for a small boutique firm. It wasn’t a fortune 500 company or anything, but it did afford her an office and a couple of vacations a year. She had been planning a couple’s vacation with her friends since last year and hoped that afterwards it would’ve prompted Trevor to think about marrying her. She didn’t realize that her hinting and nagging was putting pressure on him.
        “Are you alright?” Her assistant whispered.
        “Yes. Meet me in the boardroom with bottled waters.” She stood up, checked her face in her closet mirror, fixed her make-up, gathered her notes and portfolio and made her way to the conference room like nothing had even happened. She had a deal to close with a luxury cosmetic brand and it seemed that work was the only thing she could get right in her life and besides, somewhere in the Lower East Side there was a grapefruit martini waiting for her.

______________________________


Deja is a lifestyle writer and digital content creator for some of your favorite sites such as Madame Noire and Upscale Magazine. When she's not writing loves getting lost in the world of fiction specifically crime, mysteries and thrillers. She believes that sometimes the best and cheapest vacations are in between the pages of a new book.

Wednesday, April 27, 2016

Guest Fiction Series: Vinnie, Part 9


For a few months, Rivaflowz.com will be taking four guest authors #fromblogtobook. Each week you'll be able to read a new installment from unique aspiring authors. This tale is from R. Preston Clark. Enjoy! Read all parts, here.      
                                            ____________________________________

It must pain him to sit back here without the distraction of driving. Without the immediate excuse of needing to watch the road that prevents him from making eye contact with his single fatherhood. Our limo driver took that away from him. Rid him of his ever-so-useful excuse. Now he must make eye contact with the one thing he has never attempted to understand.
I stare at his face. The muscular ridges of his jawline. His cautiously furrowed brow. His flared nostrils. His stern chin. All attributes he held back from me. He could not imagine giving me something that was so integral to what made him, him. What gave him the ability to walk into any room and garner the respect of all those that entered, all those that stayed. His expressions were that of a man who beat pain into submission, hurdled obstacles with grace and dignity, who did not put his failures in the laps of others, rather he just refused to fail at all. Made it easier that way.


He is fighting an unnatural feeling now. That feeling of failure. He failed as a husband. A protector. A lover. He is failing as a father, though the latter is not a psychological locale he will rest in just yet. It is still up to me to invite him to his inevitability. Do not worry. I am working on it.

“Are we almost there?”

Nothing. I knew this would happen but I still felt the need to question him in some way, even if it was of the small talk ilk. At least he could never say I did not try. I try. I have tried.

“Do you know why they call it a repast? Seems like a word with a lot of meaning behind it. Traditional. Historical, even.”

He looks left. He looks right. He looks down. He looks around. He never looks at his son.

“I’m hungry."

That inhale-exhale was earth-shattering...

“Shut up. Just – shut your mouth. I do not want to hear you. I do not want to see you. I do not want to breathe you. I want to rid you of the half of you that is me so I can stop blaming myself for who you have become. For you are my fault – at least in part.”

He looks at me now, with a sacred disdain only used for a certain kind of hatred. Derived from a place of love. One cannot hate something as strongly as something they once loved. That thin line is through and through. I do not return his eye contact. I wanted it only a moment’s prior but it is now unnecessary. He said what he said. I heard every word, every enunciation, every syllable.

The limo slows to a stop.

“Your answer.”

He opens the door. Sunlight floods the interior, burns where he once sat. I sit there for a second, wait for the heat to evaporate my father’s scorn. The seconds become minutes as the palpability of such an emotion proves itself steady. It will not dissipate by simply being patient. It will not fold simply by my own sheer will. It will need to be destroyed, brought to its knees before ever considering an attempt at its rebirth.

But first, I must exit.

Sunlight bounces off my pearly white garb, blinds onlookers as their black skin and attire absorbs every ounce of heat it can. They starve for what already nourishes me.

I enter the facility that holds all the remaining funeral goers as they await to partake in the repast. In normal surroundings, I would question the necessity to eat food following the burial of a loved one, but funerals are selfish occasions anyway. They are for the living. The loved one is dead and gone. Sometimes for over a week of time. The grieving has begun well before we take the time to bury someone. Yet, we still gather together to celebrate a life. It is done only to be seen. We want others to know just how much we cared. How much devastation we are enduring. It is odd, in the least. It is scary, at the most. It is tradition, in the end.

Eyes find me. I have not forgotten what just transpired at the burial. I am aware of what I have done. Glares pierce my every step. I will not be alone again as long as we continue the celebration of my mother’s life. I will be a target. This I accept.

I take my place in line. A few elders motion me to the front of the line. Tradition states that the family of the deceased eat first. I listen to tradition. My plate reflects all that is black about this occasion. Chicken. Mashed potatoes and gravy. Ham. Green beans. Collard greens. Buttered roll. A plate of celebration. It was supposed to replace the sadness of the day with the small talk of the hour. Here, at the repast, I was supposed to engage my fellow mourners in conversation that either further mourned my mother, or completely forgot she died in the first place. Either way, I was supposed to slowly start putting a smile on my face. My mourning ends with this meal. That is the only reason I could come up with for me to be eating right now.

Oh, and tradition.

I take a seat one spot down from my father. This was an odd selection on my part but necessary. I stare at my plate. Everything looks delicious. If only I were hungry. Only thing I starve for is understanding. Why was I still here and mother was gone? Why was I left here to deal with my father on my own? Why was this food in my face like it was going to satisfy any level of my grief?

Anger builds in me at a steady pace. Confusion chokes my sanity. I cannot eat this. I move my food back and forth. It mixes together into a farm boy’s slop. Its aesthetic ruined.

“Anger builds in me at a steady pace. Confusion chokes my sanity. I cannot eat this. I move my food back and forth. It mixes together into a farm boy’s slop. Its aesthetic ruined."

Eyes never left me. More eyes join in. My father moves his food around as if he did not hear me. He heard me. He listened. Intently. And what he heard was worrisome. But I doubt he is worried about the proper thing.

I must not partake in this conclusion of my grief. I must not. My grief is not over. Your grief might be over. Their grief might be over. But my grief is not over. You cannot tell me to eat this.

“I must not partake in this conclusion of my grief. I must not. My grief is not over. Your grief might be over. Their grief might be over. But my grief is not over. You cannot tell me to eat this!”

I realize I am standing. I have been standing for some time now. My mind and mouth no longer singular entities.

My plate. In my hand. Launched at the wall. Its remnants splatter amongst the shock of my action. I was not shocked at my actions. Nor was I surprised at the rising stench of my father’s fury piercing my nostrils, his loathing soaked in his inability to pass me off to another person.

My mother is dead…

I am his problem now. This much is true.

____________

R. Preston Clark is an educator, screenwriter, poet and open mic host with too much to say in too many ways. Find him on Instagram & Twitter

Tuesday, April 26, 2016

Teeth Like Confetti: An Ode To Lemonade



What's black, white, and red all over? 

Me. 


It's 2 am. The accents of our living room are black and white. He'd told me that I could take liberty with how I adorned the place. In fact, I was told to take liberty with most decisions about "our" life. This was a clear indicator that he did not intend to be a factor, he wasn't here to stay. 


But I was blind. 

I was in love...lust, like...something. 
I was too excited to be in a relationship.
Too ecstatic at the prospect of a prospect. 
Too infatuated with an idea, instead of a person. 

I was red all over. 


Black and white pillows propped by back, while I wrote my latest freelance article for an outlet that sent checks with the speed of a tortoise. We needed the money, however late it might've arrived. I was making up for two incomes, a lack of stamina, the dependency his mother wove deep into his spine. 


He lay on the sectional, next to me, fast asleep. He'd spent the day perusing the internet for potential positions in his field. Full stop.


I'd spent the day running curriculum, from building to building in Harlem, conversed about National Common Core Standards over martinis at the end of the day, wrote a brainstorm in my iPhone notes on the train ride home, and wrote our way into groceries and rent, until the wee hours of the morning. 

I'd come home at 11 pm, and he was still asleep. The garbage was still in the bin, the dishes weren't washed, the painting I asked to be hung sat on the floor. I had finished the tasks before I headed to my computer to write. 


Midnight. 


I was finally writing. 

I was writing a dating series about past lovers and wrongdoers.
I was pushing a pen cap through the parts of my box braids, trying to conjure a story. 
I needed to make magic in this Wordpress template.

This was a difficult task because I was in a relationship. I wasn't single and roaming as the column implied. The stories were true, but they were happening in the past. I was building a time machine with my words. 


I wasn't lying. 

I wasn't a liar.
Someone was a liar, but it wasn't me. 

1 am. 


His phone rings. 

I ignore it. 

I keep writing. 


I was writing about this military boy named Carlo I'd met during my tenure at my HBCU. He paraded the campus with a bookbag and a smile like he attended with us and not the Naval base nearby. He had Jamaica tatted down the side of his abdomen and a slight patois accent. He reminded me of home but was the furthest thing from it. 


My boyfriend insisted that I take the writing job to tie up loose ends. I asked him if it bothered him that I was writing about other men, like Carlo. He said no, "You went on dates with them. That's it, for most. I think it's dope that you're getting paid to delve into your nostalgia."

I took the job.

I wrote until my fingers were numb and our fridge was full, and our love wasn't in danger because of financial instability. 

I keep writing.

Carlo's name was changed before he was introduced to the world. He saw me as a "friend," someone he'd prompt, like a shuck-and-jive in front of onlookers, "Yo, read a poem for my boys. She's like a famous poet and sh-t, listen y'all."


This made for good context. 
I wrote that, too. 

Full fledged.
F-boy.

I reread the document and made my edits. 

I ended it with something powerful, something that made it seem like the wound was closed.

His phone rung again. My ex slumbered.


1:45 am.

1:50 am.
1:55 am.
2:00 am.

He did not rise. He was a heavy sleeper. I shook him. Still, no answer. 


So I answered it, "Hello? Hello? Who is this?"


"Hello, is Terrence there? This is his girlfriend."

I had no desire to wear her skin, but I understood warsan shire's metaphor dripping from Beyonce's tongue. It was sour and sweetly familiar. I'd been there.


What did she have, that I didn't? 


"If it's what you truly want ... I can wear her skin over mine. Her hair over mine. Her hands as gloves. Her teeth as confetti."


"Time" was his reason. 
He wore it proud, like a crown of f-ckery pressing thorns into his common sense.

"You never have time. You're never home." 

& I tried to pinpoint when I'd started to go missing. 

I did this same thing when a drunken, mansplaining co-worker approached me , after learning I was no longer going to get married. 

"It takes two to cheat," he said, vodka and arrogance on his breath. 

I'd heard this before, and in some cases there was validity to it. There was sometimes a partner in the union who'd been screaming all along, one that tried to express that the relationship wasn't headed in the direction they thought it would be. 

When I tried to explain that lumps, covered in velour blankets, and Netflix could not speak, he asked me to think deeper. He told me that there was something I wasn't giving, causing my partner to cheat. 

& it was time. Straight from the horses mouth. 

He was right. 
I spent my time trying to be loyal. 
I carried our deficit on my back while pulling him to his feet and telling him continuously that he was love and light. 
I told him that it was feasible for him to illuminate his way back home. 
I pushed. 
I pulled. 
I loved him, without regret, without blame.
I made his hunt for his revolution easier. 
I told him I'd find the money, while he found his way. 

I was mistake. 
I was not letting him be a man. 
I was making lemonade.
I was making stone soup. 
I was trying to amalgamate all the good we had left, hoping it would find us together. 
I was black woman. 
I was one day hoping that he would love me, with more of a force than a pat on the back. 


& when he was dust to dust. 
A blur on the Long Island Railroad tracks, back home to his momma...
I wrote, again. 
I wrote, in the present. 
I wrote to heal. 
I wrote to feel full & whole. 

I made lemonade. 
I still make lemonade. 

Sometimes, with no lemons.
Sometimes, with my palm.
Sometimes, with rain water, tears, and the sweat under my bosom.
Sometimes, with my momma and lemon substitute. 





My mother always scurries, when my father announces his impending arrival. She throws magic on to the stove, she makes leftovers into new dishes, she turns cocktail shrimp into gourmet. Sugar and lemon concentrate, with not enough time to go to the store. I watch her, silently, from a stool in the kitchen. It's the same stool, that I paint from. She stands behind me and with each stroke she nods. It's my mother who purchased my first briefcase of pastels, hands covered in color and grime.

"It's a mess in here, but I love your new work."

She raised me to cater and create, all at once. She taught me that I was womb and warrior. 

"Grandmother, the alchemist, you spun gold out of this hard life, conjured beauty from the things left behind. Found healing where it did not live. Discovered the antidote in your own kit. Broke the curse with your own two hands. You passed these instructions down to your daughter who then passed it down to her daughter."

I have been immersed in think pieces: Some folks think that Beyonce's work is inspired by her marriage to Jay-Z, some think that she's speaking to all of us who've been hurt, others find her to be a vessel for indie and incredible artists to get to the mainstream, and some aren't here for her revolution at all. 

I'm here for the healing. 
I'm here for the acknowledgment.
I'm here for the anthem of my skin. 
I'm here because healing sometimes takes the form of narrative. 

I am living proof of this. I have friends that are also the poster-women of tribulation, lacing their articles with their hurt and hoping someone can rectify via their errors.

I'm here for any song, strum, speech, dance, heartbeat, scribe, that lifts us, that tells us it's okay to be wounded; that tells us it's okay to get angry about it.

Sometimes resonation is enough.
Sometimes it is a starting point.
Sometimes it sparks a movement.

I'm here for Lemonade because I've been there.
Magic making, without recipe.
Sour across my tongue.
Blood on the chopping board.
Citrus in the wound.
Scars and all.




Monday, April 25, 2016

Guest Fiction Series: On The Other Side, Part 10



For a few months, Rivaflowz.com will be taking four guest authors #fromblogtobook. Each week you'll be able to read a new installment from unique aspiring authors. This tale is from Verina Wherry. Enjoy!


(Read all parts here.)


“Kamaria, what’s this about an all-expense paid trip to Los Angeles? Did you call them back?”

“I did. It seems legit. I’ll go by there tomorrow morning and see if everything checks out. I’ve never been to Los Angeles. I think it would be fun.”

“So you’re just going to leave the kids here alone so you can have fun?”

“They’ll be fine. Besides, they’ve wanted to spend more time with their friends. Being stuck in the house all of the time isn’t good for anyone.”

“Well, you don’t get out much. Maybe it will be good for you. The kids can spend the night with their friends while you’re gone so if I have to work late, they will be okay.”

“So I can go?”

“Of course babe. Maybe we need some time apart.”

“Wait, apart how?”

“Just a vacation, babe. We can clear our heads. We’ve been bumping heads a lot lately.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. Was he going to let me go without a fight? Was he serious?

“You’re right. Are you going to be okay without me? You haven’t cooked in years.”

“You know I love takeout. I’ll be fine. Just enjoy yourself. Did he say when you would be leaving?”

“No, he didn’t. I was under the impression that I could choose the dates, though.”

“That would be good. That would give the kids time to prepare before staying with their friends.”

“You’re right. I’ll find out tomorrow.”

I wanted to let Ahmad know that it worked. But I knew that it wasn’t a good idea to call him while Martin was in the house. So that conversation would just have to wait. Since Martin knew that I would be going to see about the tickets the next morning, I had an excuse to see Ahmad.


“Good morning beautiful.”

Ahmad was the first embrace that I felt the next morning in a nearby coffee shop.

“Good morning. I guess when you say you’ll handle something, you do just that huh?”

“ I’m a man of my word. I told you I would take care of you. I meant that Kamaria.”

“At least someone is trying to take care of me.”

“Hey, don’t do that.”

He grabbed my chin and placed a kiss upon my lips. I knew that he cared, but he was extra gentle lately, and I liked it. It had been a while since anyone had embraced me, without me expecting a blow to follow. But there he was, giving me all the attention that I hadn’t felt in years.

“Never underestimate the amount of love that you deserve. There’s that smile I haven’t seen in a while. I can’t stand to see you upset. Let me make you happy. Come to Chattanooga with me.”

“When? Martin is already okay with me taking a trip. Just tell me when.”

“What about tomorrow?”

“Woah, isn’t that a little too soon?”

“Not to me. My week is free. Come with me.”

“Okay. Let’s leave in two days. Give me time to prepare the kids.”

“That works.”

We ended the conversation, and I headed home. I was excited. I knew that things could often be too good to be true. I didn’t want to get my hopes up too soon. So I didn’t get too excited.  I would just go home and pack before Martin got there.


I had a few hours before anyone would be home. I needed to pack, and I used that time wisely. I picked clothing that wouldn’t look too suspicious if Martin were to go through my bag. The last thing I needed were red flags to go off in his mind. I refused to go away with bruises. If Martin wanted to keep me from meeting anyone new, he would give me a reason to stay inside. That was his way of handling things.

But not this time. I refuse to let him ruin my vacation. I need this more than anything right now. Ahmad knew it, Martin knew it, and Amari knew it. Maria was oblivious to the whole thing. I liked it that way. I didn’t need to ruin her innocence too. Amari already carried many of my burdens. I hated that. He has such a beautiful heart, but it often caused him a lot of pain. I can no longer count on my fingers how many times he has slept in bed with me because he was worried about me. He wanted to protect his mom. I couldn’t blame him. It seemed as though I needed protection. He shouldn’t be the one protecting me, though.

When Martin got home that night, I told him that I would be leaving in two days. I told him that the sooner, the better and that the kids would be fine. He agreed, however, hesitant.

“What’s wrong?”

“I feel like you’re leaving me.”

“I’ll be back before you even have the chance to miss me.”

“I miss you already.”

What’s making him so loving now? Getting him to give me a compliment is usually like pulling teeth. They say that you don’t miss your water until your well runs dry; maybe he’s getting thirsty. He realizes that I can go out on my own. I can travel without him. All I need is a little push. I need this vacation.

“I miss you too babe.”

We spent the rest of the night watching television, enjoying each other’s company. The kids spent the night with friends, so we had the house to ourselves. We talked, we laughed. It was nice. We fell asleep in each other’s arms.

As I fall asleep in his arms, I can’t help but think about the upcoming weekend. I know that if Ahmad is as serious as he seems, this weekend will be perfect. I can imagine falling asleep with him. He’s safe; He’s secure. This marriage is not. I’ll remain in the arms of the man that has chosen to love me in ways that I would never feel again, at least I hoped not. Maybe Ahmad would be everything I ever wished him to be. Maybe love wouldn’t hurt this time.


____________________________________



Verina Wherry is a writer, poet, and aspiring author who spends her free time listening to music, shopping for incense and watching Criminal Minds reruns.