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 I am a single thirty-four year old female, mother of three who is an avid reader of anything good and I would love to become a published author someday. I am currently a senior at Roosevelt University in Chicago, IL and my major is sociology, the study of human social interaction. Most of my stories are fiction but some are nonfiction. I hope everyone enjoys my stories and I wish love and happiness to all. Life is short and sometimes difficult and everyone should try to accomplish whatever dreams they have.
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MY ACCOMPLISHMENTS:
- Raised three children by myself in the urban area while working and going to college, graduating in September 2006.
- Starting college at the age of thirty-one and maintaining a 3.6 average throughout my college academic career.
- Receiving not just one but two academic scholarships to Roosevelt University in Chicago, IL.
- Not allowing myself to get caught in the ghetto drama and bullcrap that has so many minorities in the inner-city in a rut leading to nowhere.
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MY FAVORITE LINKS:
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BOOKS PUBLISHED:
Everyone knows her. There is a girl like her in every neighborhood. She's the one that's hanging in the park after dark, drinking on a forty, talking loud, with the extra short skirt on. She's the chick girls love to hate and the boys love to be with, just not in the daytime. The girl people talk about in that smug way when they are feeling superior about something or someone.
Everyone thought she was a stupid slut. She didn't finish high school or have a job. Her only occupation in life was a different man every night of the week. Not quite good enough for the local boys to bring home to mama, but good enough to screw. Not good enough for the stuck up little bitches in the 'hood to be friends with, but good enough to call over to someone's porch to find out some gossip. Yeah, everyone thought she was stupid. But she had them all fooled. No suspected she was leading a double life.
Normally, she would play the role of the ignorant hood-rat with nothing on her mind but a high and a new man. However, for the last two weeks, it had been different. She had put on her longest dress, pulled her hair back in a neat bun, and she went to church. Each week, a different church. The first week it was bible study, this particular week, revival time. While there, she would be swept up into the drama of it all, and would stand up to declare her sinfulness to the world, begging for someone to rescue her from her this life of depravity. Ironically, it would be some allegedly righteous man, who saw that beneath the long dress was a body that was full, and voluptuous, and would pretend that he wanted to help this poor, misguided young woman. There would be the conversation, the
"Everything was going to be okay. Now that you are here in the house of the Lord, He would make it better. All you need is the love of a good man and everything would be just fine."
She would smile sweetly and look up at him as if he was her reason for being. Still looking up, she would say, "I walked here because I didn't have any money for carfare, could you give me a ride?" Naturally, he said yes. How could he resist such a young tender girl with eyes that were so beseeching and yet so inviting? Of course she would have to meet him on the next block, couldn't have the hens of the church clucking. Always the same behavior, just dressed a little bit nicer. She used the same routine last week. Amazing how gullible men could be.
On the ride home, she would act like it so hot to her. She needed some air and would ask oh so politely could they go to the beach. It was so emotionally draining, telling all her sordid secrets to all those people and some fresh air would feel good. Naturally, he was down with that. It was in the fall and not too many people would be there.
At the beach, she would talk about the series of disappointments that had been her short life. The mother who showered her with love and affection, until she reached an age where her mother saw her as a predator looking for the same prey, men. The father who was gone so long she could not remember his face. Her mother's boyfriend who took away her innocence and left her with a loathing for self and a knowledge too much for her to understand.
She would also talk about the men who made her feel like a queen at night, but would not speak to her in the daytime. The girls with the fake cheerleader smiles and serpent like personalities. The school system who had no time for disturbed little girls who need nurturing, not more emphasize on state wide test scores. Then the tears would pour, real tears of pain, over the half-life she had been leading on this planet.
Always the arm going around her shoulder, the accidental on purpose brushing of her breast, the awkward first kiss. She would let the kiss deepen to get things going. Slowly they would fall into the sand, and by careful maneuvering, she would end up on top. She would make him feel so good, so great for that moment. Then, with a quick, savage movement, she would slash his throat deeply. There wouldn't be time for a struggle, his basic instinct for survival being thwarted by his sexual need. He never saw the tiny switchblade that she hid in her hair, the hair she had loosened from the bun she wore earlier. He never saw the look of calculation in eyes because he was busy looking at other things.
Afterwards, she would watch him for a few minutes, making sure he was dead. Then she would drag his body towards her car, the car, she had hid near the area she would make her kill. She deliberately went to this part of the beach because it was very secluded. She would take the towels and blanket out of the car, the car her victim never knew she had, and with care, cleansed the blood from his body.
Unruffled by the night, she rolled his body into the blanket. With a strength most people had grossly underestimated, she put the body in the trunk of her car, closed it, rinsed her hands off, and got in her car and drove away. She went to the outskirts of town, and dumped his body there, into a shallow grave she dug earlier. The other time, she used the city dump.
Last week was the first time she had killed someone. She did it the first time just to see if she could actually kill someone in cold blood. Everyone thought she was such a dumb, pathetic, excuse for a human, with the intelligence of a slug. To kill, one had to be cold-blooded, methodological, concise, and cunning. No one knew about the deep-rooted resentment and hatred lurking in her. No one cared.
Of course, her heart was cold. Her mother pretended to love her until her natural jealousy of other women turned her against her own flesh and blood. She knew dude was screwing her daughter. She just didn't give a shit; she was too busy getting drunk and fucked. She felt the girl brought it on herself, walking around with her tits bouncing everywhere
The girls in the neighborhood felt the same way. The girl was the first to develop, with a cute face and how they hated her for that. The boys were always skinning and grinning in her face, although they talked about her like a dog to them. What was so special about her anyway? Bitch.
Men! From the moment she developed, they wouldn't leave her alone. The old bastard who had warped her sexuality before she even had the chance to warp it herself. The boys in the 'hood who pretended they liked her but only wanted some ass, and wouldn't even acknowledge her if it was daytime.
Especially, these last two self-righteous, horny shits she found in the church. Going around pretending as if they really cared about her. Ha! What a joke. They deserved to die. Going to church with their wives and families, pretending they were so holier than thou and then using the church as a trick service. It made the decision to kill so much easier.
The ability to kill had given her a thrill and a thirst. Next time, she would have to change her routine. People might catch on. No, of course not. Everyone thought she was so stupid. She had killed twice and hadn't been caught. They had better watch out. She was out there.
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