AN OPEN LETTER....

In a recent news story, MSNBC’s Melissa Harris-Perry recited a powerful open letter to Indiana’s Senatorial Candidate, Richard Murdoch toward the end of her self-titled show on his recent remarks of how it was God’s will for a woman to get rape and pregnant by her attacker. The video of Ms. Perry was so inspiring that I've decided to express the same sentiment. Yet my open letter is not to Mr. Murdoch but to a group of people that I've met during my lifetime—my attackers.

Dear Sad and Unfortunate Ones,

After going through years of counseling and prayers, I've come to terms as to why every relationship I've been in went awry; or why I end up in inappropriate affairs, or why I accepted being the second option, the backup, and the two a.m. booty-call. Every relational decision I've made, every tear I've cried, every how-did-I-get-into-this-situation rant, every self-loathing, suicidal thought and guilt, all stems back to you—the cowardly attacker.

However, I won’t give you the satisfaction of placing all of my bad choices firmly on you because the key word in this sentence is CHOICE. The backbone I should’ve grown to end that madness was a part of me. The only thing I place squarely on you is most likely you've been abused yourself—either sexually, physically, or suffered some type of neglect—but it doesn't matter. What you've endured on me, I didn't inflict on someone’s child—I didn't continue an ugly cycle of lifetime pain and mistrust. I'd chose to move on with my life the best way I knew how, despite carrying that shame and guilt. My personal hell was mine alone, but that was less I can say about you. Your choice was based on selfishness, and didn't give a flying fuck about the consequences.

But that wasn't what it was about, wasn't it? Rather, it was a few minutes of lust to sooth your pleasure. To make you feel superior next to my vulnerability. Just because you suffered abuse with the images of whomever had hurt you playing your head, you chose to inflict that same hurt on the defenseless. Releasing your anger and rage by fondling my sacred parts or elevating it by penetrating deep into my innocence--you flat out didn't care as long as you got it. Then after you reached your shameful point, you knew how much you've hurt me—the window to my soul was transparent. You went your way and I went mine, as if nothing had happened.

The salutation in this letter, however, is plural, and yet I’m treating this as one act because the guilt and shame I wore for years. At the tender age of eight I was confused with her inappropriate touch that left me wondering, this is wrong but why does it feel good? Then my confusion turned into fear two years later when he crushed any trust I had in men—and then that mistrust turned into self-hatred when I was sixteen…I became the train at a party.

So to you, Sad and Unfortunate people, please don’t take this open letter as pity. My words are my strength. Your few minutes of perversion only gave me temporary grief. I chose not to swim in your bullshit but gathered any strength I had to not let the past define me—or you define me. I chose to wake every morning and rejoice on the future; I chose writing as my therapy to blossom into something more; I’ve chosen happiness; I’ve chosen the free will God gave me to use my gift as awareness for lost souls like you—and more importantly, I’m choosing not to be the victim or just surviving but to thrive. I’m holding the keys now and not you.

Sad and Unfortunate one, this may come as a shock to you but I do forgive you. Though, I’m not doing this for your benefit but for mine. I have to free myself from your psychological bondage to love myself the way I should’ve done years ago. You, however, need to do the same to whoever hurt you. That person had planted your seed of a pedophiliac life. So I’ll ask you this, when will it ever stop? When will you fight those personal demons and stop the cycle? Although you cannot go back in time and return my innocence, you should rectify the wrongs by opening your eyes at you've created. At least facing them is a start and to understand what you've become.

As an author of Zion’s Road I do believe in second chances—everyone no matter how much they screwed their lives or to others—they, too, deserves a chance to get their life right. So, I’m going to leave it up to you with your thoughts and the past. There’s nothing you can do to me. I’m too empowered to even worry about the yesterdays because your selfishness didn't break me; it only strengthened me.

You see, I’m still standing.

Sincerely,

Imani Wisdom

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BLOG EXCLUSIVE: Daniella's Story

 I’m usually afraid of thunderstorms. The loud crashing of its thunder rocking the sky used to make me tremble enough to go and seek the comforts of my mommy. I would lie next to her while she read one of her favorite books on the corner of the couch and soothed any fear I had toward the bad weather. “Thunderstorms won’t you hurt, Daniella,” she chuckled as she paused from her reading. This was followed by her motherly smile and the soft pats near my single ponytail.

It had just been me and my mommy for years until the day she met my stepfather. He was nice to us at first by taking us to fun places like Chuck E. Cheese, the park, or Disneyworld. He would take mommy to nice, grown-up places like fancy restaurants and overnight vacations to expensive hotels. Everything was going fine with the three of us until my stepfather, who was no taller than mommy, came home one night and began to hit her. The sounds of his hand hitting against her skin still makes me cringe.

Later that night I played alone with my baby dolls on the living room floor. At seven years old, I sat between the couch and a recliner chair combing the kinks from one of my doll’s hair. As I hummed a tune I learned in school mommy shouted from the kitchen, “Daniella, dinner will be done soon.” I smiled back at her since she could see me from the stove. Whatever it was she was cooking smelled awfully good and it made my mouth water with excitement.

 Then my stepfather suddenly returned home and he didn’t look too happy. He slammed doors shut and pouted like a little kid before he sat on his recliner. Plopping his feet up he rubbed his dark colored forehead and let out an unhappy sigh. This was his usual routine night after night.

Looking into his eyes used to bother me because all I saw was someone who didn’t care. My stepfather’s vibes rubbed the nicest people into the saddest, but I grew used to his mean personality. Mommy told me all the time that mean people weren’t born mean they were made. I would quickly answer her with, “Isn’t that tiring for a mean person to stay mean forever?”

 Then my stepfather moved on to the next step of his routine. He went to the kitchen with mommy and pierced his eyes through her as if he wished she wasn’t his wife. I knew mommy felt what he was going to do by how nervous she acted, but she been used to it for three years. Stepfather would come home mean, pick fights with mommy, and hit her for no reason at all! That’s how it has been. I learned to find ways to live with it even if I had to hold in my tears.

Next thing I knew he was yelling at her like she did something wrong. Rushing behind her while she tried to cook he pulled her hair back to force her to look him in his eyes. “Why are you doing this,” she cried. “I didn’t do anything wrong!” She was right. Mommy never caused the fights. She only tried to be a good wife.

“Shut up,” he yelled.

“Please, stop!”

“Did you hear what I said? I said shut up!”

His routine continued as he slapped mommy hard making her fall to the floor. She crawled underneath the kitchen table to get away from his grip and was crying for him to stop. Part of mommy’s routine was trying to trade for the beatings to stop and then she would give him anything he wanted. Sometimes it worked and sometimes she got beat more. That night he ignored the bargain and the beating continued.

I turned away from the madness to play with my dolls and hummed any tune I could think of. That night the slaps were so loud that I focused on the booming sound of the thunder.

“Why can’t you do what I say,” he yelled as he continued to beat her.

With each blow to her face I could hear mommy’s echoed, blood curdling screams. She screamed so loudly I almost couldn’t hear the pounding noise of the thunderstorm anymore. “I’m sorry,” she pleaded. My stepfather didn’t say a word. He only moved to another phase of his routine which was calling her names.

            I still faced away from the beating. Tuning them out was all I could do. If I cried he’d remind me that I could get it too. I did that before and remembered the terror he gave me. I didn’t want to be black and blue like mommy. Maybe I should’ve worn a brave face and shed tears for her, but after the fact when I saw mommy lying on the floor bloody, broken, or bruised I feared he would’ve done me like that too.

While I heard her crying he told her, “You think you’re going to leave me? Think again!” Then the routine suddenly changed. My stepfather went to the hallway closet and began to throw coats, shoes, and boxes out of his way, but there was one box that stood alone behind the other clutter. I saw him grab a small shoebox and load a small gun from the corner of my eye. I knew this was bad. He was usually just waving the pistol at mommy to make her cry, but this was different… much different.

He stomped toward mommy with his hand on the trigger and then pushed the barrel of the gun to her face. “Are you going to leave me now,” he grunted.

“Please don’t,” she sobbed. “I’m sorry!”

“Shut up!”

“I’ll do anything for you to stop. Please, no more!”

“Oh really,” he said as he turned my way giving me a freakish grin. “Anything,” he asked mommy.

 Her eyes widened as she suddenly realized what he meant by anything. She scooted, crawled, and even got dragged by him while he walked towards me.

“I didn’t mean Daniella,” she screamed while trying to rush to me.

He raised the back of his hand to my mommy and slapped her back to the floor. With the pistol still in his hand and his freakish grin he stood above me and my dolls.

“Your mom said anything, Daniella.”

‘Anything,’ I wondered. Saying anything could mean all kinds of things. Does he want me to say anything to keep him from hurting mommy or does anything mean to beat me too? At the time I clearly didn’t understand the word anything, but I knew by his devilish grin that it wasn’t good.

“Come to Daddy,” he softly said.

The way he said ‘Come to daddy’ skipped beats in my heart. The creepy tone behind his soulless eyes made me fearful of his next move like mommy. With my dolls in my hands I used my fists to crawl to another safe area in the room. ‘He’s not going to get me’, I said to myself.

“Daddy is not going hurt you,” he said “Come here, Daniella.”

 Then out of the blue mommy screamed. She ran toward my stepfather as if she had a mission, hopped on his back, and scratched his face with her nails like she had cat claws. “Stay away from her,” she yelled. He tossed her over his shoulder and she landed on her back.

All of this was getting to be way too much. For the first time I stopped playing with my dolls and sprung from the comfortable living room floor yelling, “Why are you doing this to my mommy?” That made things worse because he told me to shut up or I’d get it too as he pointed the gun toward me.

“Now, if you want to look like your mother I’d suggest you stay quiet,” he ordered.

I wanted to call for help but I was frozen. Then I looked out the window through the thick fog from the rain praying that someone could see through our window.

After that mommy grabbed the gun and told me to leave the room, but again I was frozen and scared of what would happen next. All kinds of things rushed in my mind like ‘if the gun goes off and mommy dies, who would take care of me?’ Mommy didn’t have contact with her parents. I guess they didn’t like her life choices so they cut ties from us. ‘What if the gun goes off and kills my stepfather? Should I cry or pray? Should I even mourn if he has a soulless heart? Or should I really care about what happens to him at all?’ This is not the first time I saw mommy fighting the man who tried to beat the life out of her for three years.

“Daniella go to your room,” she demanded once more, while wrestling the gun from his hand.

This time I did what she said, but as soon as I began to leave the room I heard this thunderous boom different than the sound of the storm outside. The deafening silence surprised my mommy and my stepfather, and I didn’t understand why they stopped fighting. Then I felt a weird pinch in my back. I thought it was him trying to hurt me like he does with mommy, but before I could ask mommy was she okay my legs fell asleep and I buckled to the floor.

“You shot my baby,” I heard her cry.

I heard the sound of her footsteps by my side. Then I felt warm kisses on my forehead and remember her begging God not to take me. I guess her begging didn’t make it to him fast enough because everything suddenly turned black and it felt like my body rose like a cloud. Mommy knelt by my body crying loudly while my stepfather held the gun with the smoke still lightly rising from the barrel. He was speechless as if there was nothing left to be said.

“I’m okay mommy,” I tried to tell her, but she didn’t hear me.

 Everything turned black once again and that was the last time I felt my mommy’s hands on me.

Since then I’ve been in Heaven watching the earthly days go by and now realize so much more. You would think from that night a person would learn from their mistakes. Well, unfortunately someone didn’t get the message. After my stepfather served a few years for my murder mommy went back to him. She lives every day being black and blue and the same old cycle goes on like when I was alive. I pray for her to get some common sense. Just because I’m in Heaven doesn’t mean prayer have to stop or that I can’t forgive the people who brought me here.

The only things I miss are the warmth of mommy’s love, her holding me tenderly until I fall sleep, and getting her sweet goodnight tuck in kisses. Too bad I won’t ever experience a senior prom, learn how to drive, go to college, get married, or have a family. I was robbed of all those things because someone hated rejection, but it may end sooner than later because as the cycle goes on history will repeat.

I want my voice to ring through this text to remind everyone that anger is a letter short of danger. Due to one person’s action time stood still for me and I will never experience anything past the age of seven that normal people do. My mommy’s self-esteem is so low she feels she doesn’t deserve to be loved by someone who respects her. Now I have to get ready to greet my loved ones because they haven’t learned from my death. Like me, mommy has to bury my new little brother. He suffered the same ill-timed fate and most likely he’ll repeat this same story with the very same ending.

©2011, Imani Wisdom

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Imani's "How to" Moment: You're a Writer Dammit, Just Write!

Have you ever sat in front your computer, trying to figure what you’re going to write, but all you have in front of you is the dreaded blinking cursor?

Its six o’clock in the morning on a Friday, and my intentions for getting up this early is either two things: workout and writing—which the first one I’ve done successfully.

Since I’m facing with a case of writer’s block, I thought back earlier in the week when I was asked how do I solve a dry writing spell. I simply told these couple of people to freewrite, freewrite, and freewrite some more.

Since my ideas are dried up like a desert wind, I’m taking my chances to write anything that comes to mind. If my mind goes blank—I would type blank, blank, blank until an idea has sparked—and at this point, it has.

Perhaps this post should be titled, freewriting for all of you aspiring writers and/or authors. Everyone suffers from writer’s block…I mean everyone! It’s a normal part of being a writer. You want to convey your thoughts and your imagination onto paper but it goes blank immediately when type or write the first letter. Then it comes…but wait a minute…there it goes. You get frustrated as you stare at the annoying black slit they call a cursor—reminding you that your dry spell exist. Your mind tells you to relax and do other things like check your Facebook or Twitter pages—which are huge time wasters. And yes, I’m guilty of that too.

So now I’m typing for the Hell of it. Allowing my fingers to tap against keyboard as the rhythmic thud puts in me in a trance. It’s a beautiful sound, isn’t it? Once you feel the groove, then you start to feel productive. The smile comes back and all of your ideas begin to pour like a waterfall. And there after your frustration—and not to mention you started to feel a bit depressed—you’ve did it. Your freewriting had turned into a post. And maybe this particular post wasn’t much of a post—but nevertheless, I feel effin’ great!

My Imani’s “How to” Moment: When you feel as though as you’re stuck in the mud put your thought process into second gear and shift your mind in another direction. I’ve stayed up the night before brainstorming on what to write for this post and nothing, of course. Let this blog be an example for you writers out there. Freewrite your ideas without stopping or pressing the backspace button—let every word pour through your fingers. Imperfections will be perfected once the final draft has been finalized.

So stop stressin’, it’s all a part of being a writer.

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The New You Series: The Perfect Lie

It was ten minutes until six a.m., and I sat on the side of my bed shaking off any lingering sleep. I glanced to the sheer curtains as the dimmed violet sky was greeting to a new day. My body felt as though as it wanted to curl back beneath the covers. So I forced myself to perform a series of stretches, changed into my workout attire, and left for my run.

Minutes from my house was the getaway I grew accustomed for two years. The spacious trail is enough for people from any walks of life to enjoy the same benefits of clean air, great scene, and a chance to run/walk/bike ride to a new body. And since the day start out with virtually an empty trail, I move with the wind—lightly treading for the first five minutes and then escalating to a good sprint. The light traffic hadn’t broken my focus, it only helped with an inner peace to do a couple of my favorite things—pray and meditate.

As I run, I thank the Lord for giving me a second chance to become the Imani I should’ve been a long time. The kind of woman that realizes beauty is a mere superficial façade that changes over time and perfection is a falsehood of the mind. Bruce Lee said it best—showing it off is a fool’s idea of glory. Being perfect does not surmount your true purpose of life, because when you least expect it, the unrealistic surface you hold dear will leave you.

I also give thanks for being placed in a situation to learn humility and patience. Not only I allowed the lies of superficiality to drive me to the point of depression and gain a ton of weight, but living a life when putting myself first became last. The tireless effort I’ve put into assisting people who weren’t able to take care of themselves has been a life lesson itself. The numerous times I complained about life, I should’ve got on my knees and thanked Him quietly for working me. His creation became the result of what I am today—a woman that uses her inner strength toward her advantage.

Me, Before

I then added another thanks. It’s something I’m truly grateful to which I’m still blessed to have—my legs. When I lived a life of obesity, I suffered a great deal with painful limbs. From my hips to the tip of my toes throbbed to the point I didn’t want to get out of bed. And standing at five feet two, it made walking unbearable. Ultimately, I took the initiative to do something about it but I needed to appreciate a lifestyle change based on mental as well as physical transformation. And though it wasn’t easy, I achieved to what I thought was an impossible feat.

I may have made it through the storms but there’s still an occasional rain shower. Every morning into the night, I wrestle with lingering demons of my past as self-doubts would tap my shoulder. So my daily run is more than physical. It’s an inner workout to shed the mental weight. When some people start a weight loss program, they tend to forget their mind and soul are just as important. A person cannot open a new door until they’ve closed the one from their past. Essentially, you can lose all weight you want while ignoring that unfinished business, but I guarantee your successful weight loss could potentially come back. I know this, believe me!

Meanwhile as I ended another three or four mile journey, I walked back to my truck recollecting the new ideas I developed for my projects. That pathway I set out every morning is an access leading to many stories I’ve written as well as major business decisions concerning Pink Noire. So what I do at the crack of dawn is just another part of my business day. My mission is not superficial—it’s a regeneration of what’s to come.

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BLINDED TRUTH

I woke to a darkened room as my eyes met to an empty ceiling. The traffic lights from a nearby window temporarily brightened the room from each passing car.  “What happened” I asked myself while lying on the floor near the bed. I carefully got up, holding the side of the head as if I was trying to control the room from spinning.

After shaking the grogginess, my eyes adjusted to a disheveled room.  Clothes were spilled from the closet, leaving a trail of dysfunction to the dresser, the nightstand, and bed.  While tiptoeing over pile, I saw broken glass shattered into fine pieces as another passing car light created a minute shimmering reflection. “What the…” I gasped. 

I sat on the bed in befuddlement, trying to figure what could have caused this mess.  Then I stared at the cracks of the broken mirror on the dresser as another car headlight passed and I quickly saw my image.  My appearance seemed as if I let life defeat me.  The teal blouse I bought a few years ago still remained crisp, except for a few wrinkles.  Then another set of headlights drove pass, and I caught a glimpse of my eye makeup smudged with lingering black tears of mascara.  Something had happened in this room, but what?

With growing curiosity, I widen my eyes among the darkness to help conjure a memory to this mystery.  The darkened gloom obscured my vision, but I knew where everything stood—the simple paintings, the plasma television, and even the alarm clock, which surprisingly was not working. It was dark just like the room. The only thing felt tangible was a cute pink chain that sat around my wrist with dangling trinkets. I cracked a smile with a sudden memory. It was given to me by my six year old daughter, Renee. “I will wear this forever, sweetie” I remembered.

After thinking of my babygirl, I got up to feel my way through the murky room toward the hallway.  It was just as dark as my bedroom.  As a matter of fact, the whole house was in total darkness.  Unlike anything I’ve seen.  We always kept at least one light on downstairs, and another one upstairs. “Maybe the power is out” I wondered as I made my way to Renee’s door. I creped the door open to discover the first light I’ve seen since waking up.  It came from outdoors of a street light blaring through the blinds. The neighboring light echoed beautifully against Renee’s mahogany round face, sleeping peacefully without a care in the world. I couldn’t disturb her slumber, so I tiptoed back to the hallway and stood on top of the stairs to force a new memory. “Let’s see” I carefully thought, “I woke up next to the bed to a ransacked room.  Maybe I misplaced something that could be why the clothes are scattered everywhere”.  Yet, I couldn’t explain the broken mirror. 

To ease this odd situation, I marched to the door of my bedroom to get answers. My hand felt around the wall near the door frame to find the light switch—but before my fingers touched the outlet—I heard the door slamming shut downstairs. Then a face had instantly had came to pass.  The only person who could have come home at that hour was my husband, Jerry.

“Ashley” he shouted, “I’m home”.

Out of the seven years of our marriage, I’ve never been so happy to hear the sound of his voice. I ran down the stairs hoping to rush in his arms.  “Baby, you’re home” I cheered.

The mystery of the lights were finally solved, they were on shining on top of his low faded haircut.  Jerry sat inside the kitchen at our three seat dining table, resting his scruffy five-o’clock shadow against the palm of hand. He sighed as if his day were long and tiring. “Ashley” he called out again, “You hear me…I’m home”.

“Jerry, I’m here” I answered with a reliving smile.  I couldn’t help but to smile with glee as I noticed how handsome he looked. It seemed as if he never lost his bedazzling charm since the night we’ve met at an off-school college party. My husband set his eyes on being an Architect, and I was this young, ambitious nursing student. He said to this date that it was love at first sight—and I believe it.  I fell hard in love with him too. This man wasn’t the best looking one among the party-goers, but it was something about him that had put a spring in my heart.  He knew how to make me laugh when that night, I didn’t care to laugh. I remembered I had stacks of homework to study for my nursing exams, and attending to any party wasn’t on the schedule.  Though, thanks to a friend, she convinced me I needed to relax and be around other people. Even though she and I lost contact, I thank her for bringing this man into my life. I couldn’t imagine what life would be like without him.

Meanwhile as Jerry remained quiet at the table still wearing his gray hoodie jacket, I walked closer to see the sadness in his eyes.  It looked as though as he’d been crying. Yet a sudden feeling overtook me—something wasn’t right. The smile I had minutes ago, fell to into doubts. Still, the uncertainty since I woke beside my bed gnawed at the pit of my stomach. This helpless feeling needed to stop.

“Baby” I sighed while standing in front of table, “I don’t know what happened an hour ago, but whatever I did I’m sorry…at least I think I did something wrong. I’m not sure. I know I woke to a dark room next to our bed, and don’t have any knowledge of what happened before then”.  I sighed once more, and turned reaching toward the cabinet to grab a couple of cups to brew some coffee.  “Are you hungry” I continued.

Then suddenly Jerry leaned back in the chair to release a heaving a sigh. “Ashley, what are we going to do?”

His question quickly stopped my quest to enter the cabinet. I turned to him in shock to wonder why he would ask me such a random query. “Baby, what are you talking about?”

“How can you ask me something like that?” I asked him. “I mean, I know we had problems in the past, but we always got past them. Look, Jerry, I love you more than the day I said I do. If you feel we need more counseling, then I’m all for it, okay?”

Jerry eyes floated in my direction, and then wandered around the kitchen like he was trying to regain his thoughts. He knelled his face back inside of his palms and grunted, “I don’t know”, and quickly slamming them to the table and stormed upstairs.

I was speechless and didn’t know whether to follow him or stay put in the kitchen. The demeanor he had carried was unusual. The only time when he exhibited that much tension was after our heated fights.  Though it never became physical, our arguments got so heated that the police were called to the house a couple of times.

While standing in the kitchen to sort out our martial problems, Jerry voice echoed downstairs with a terrifying scream. “ASHLEY…OH MY GOD…ASHLEY” he cried.

I ran upstairs to our lighted bedroom to find him on the side of the bed where I woke an hour ago. He was on his knees crying hysterically with his hands covering his mouth. “ASHLEY” he tearfully muttered, “WHY…”

“Jerry, I’m here—what is it” I pondered.

For the first time, I went to the side of the bed where I woke in the darkness to discover a surreal sight. It was me, lying in my pool of blood with a gun clutching in my left hand. My eyes were frozen in stone silence as blood drooled from the side of my head from the opened temple wound, drenching onto my lovely teal blouse.

I felt as though as I woke to a nightmare. I’m witnessing my husband sobbing over my lifeless body, pleading for me wake up. “Oh Ashley, why” he screamed.

“Jerry, I’m here…I’m here!”

“Ashley, why did you have to go and kill yourself” he spoke to my corpse, “We could’ve worked it out”.

Then it hit me.  I remembered everything before I pulled that trigger to side of my skull. We were arguing in the bedroom about the usual—finances. I never thought we had a problem with money, but Jerry would say I was spending too much on unnecessary things. So we fought over it. Actually, I knew he was using money as an excuse of the real issue.

After he bitched of how I was draining our life savings, he blurted out he didn’t love me anymore and wanted a divorce.  It seemed to him our marriage was shit to him. I recall the same sinking feeling I had in my gut earlier.  Now I know how the room became a mess, it’s because I’ve thrown all of his clothes demanding him to get out. I yanked all of his best suits, belts, and sweaters. I even tossed the alarm clock toward his ass, breaking the mirror. “This is thanks I get, Jerry” I remembered angrily shouting, “You want a divorce after seven years of marriage. What it is…another woman?

“No” he replied.

“You’re bored?”

“No”

“Really, what is it?” I asked him.

He pierced his eyes without blinking and confirmed he didn’t love him anymore. “What’s the point of being in a marriage, if it’s no love?” he continued.

My world went from sixty to zero within seconds. Everything I thought I had didn’t exist anymore—a marriage, a good man by my side, and a great life. It became apparent according to Jerry that our marriage was lie as well. He left the room and not bothering to ask if I was okay. When the door to our bedroom closed it signified was our marriage over. 

Meanwhile, Jerry was sobbing over my dead body as he kept crying, “Why Ashley”. I was speechless, and all I could do was to stand there weeping at the scene. The disarrayed room and the broken glass all showed how much pain he’d afflicted on me. The more I watched him cry, the angrier I became. ‘Things can go just like that, Jerry’ I sarcastically muttered. Suddenly, I heard a soft voice speaking, “What’s going on?”

It was Renee and she stood groggy inside the doorframe rubbing her eyes. “Daddy, I had this strange dream” she said. While she proceeded to explain, I remained on the bed gazing at the blood oozing from my remains. “And momma was in it” I heard her continued.

All of the sudden, Jerry eyes grew wide with shock. “Oh my God, Renee!” he gasped.

He ran through the Renee’s image, straight to her bedroom. It had taken him no time to discover our daughter’s dead body. As I said earlier, Renee laid peacefully like a sleeping angel. She died in a respectful manner, unlike me. All it took was one pillow.

“Renee” screamed Jerry, “Oh my God, Ashley what have you done?”

“Momma, why is Daddy crying?” puzzled our daughter as she joined me on the bed. She had peered to my lifeless body, and then shrieking with fright, “What’s going on here?”

“Baby, momma had to do what had she had to. That’ll teach Daddy not leave me!”

“But Momma, does that mean…we’re…”

I looked to her and smile as if I hoped she understood what had taken place. “Yes, baby” I replied, “Yes we are”.

©2011, Imani Wisdom.

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READ BETWEEN THE LINES...

If you read between these lines, I hope my words can express the burning anticipation that’s been withheld for so long.  The anxiety of my declaration churns from the pit of my stomach wanting to tell you in the simplest of words. Yet this utterance is more than a confession, but an unyielding deep attraction. I cannot say there’s anything more since the closure of your heart exists. Fear has become your bondage, and trust is a reciprocal feeling. It's mutuality beyond any magnetism.

If you read between these lines, you need to understand where my heart is coming from. It’s been shredded into million of pieces, and tossed like yesterday’s garbage. Fear for me is draped with a cover. It cloaks to keep this emerging feeling in darkness. Although I want to shout among highest mountains and to the lowest valleys, I need to say simply its time to unlock our hearts. Let it all go.

If you read between these lines, my words aren’t faux to your imagination. There are real as the air you breathe, or the softness of your skin, or when you smile it lights up a room. Your soul is an angelic creature. It’s as if as your wings flew into my life, dashing me to places I’ve never been before. The unrealism has now become an unbelievable reality.

If you’re still reading between the lines, these words are all have. I’m pouring every syllable and vowel through this text. I’m risking more than the comforts of a locked heart, but mortification. But before you go, I want you to close your eyes and imagine me leaning against your ear to gently whisper some sweet indulgence. What I say is between us. You know there’s no need to express them here. These lines, well, I’m sure you already know…

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MEET BRYAN BILLINGS

Bryan Billings, the powerhouse running back that lived the life many often dream.  This two-time MVP lived just as hard off the field by endless partying with women night after night. Then everything had changed when he met stiff competition--and it wasn’t from the opposing team--it was from the new love of his life. 

All of his old habits soon became unimportant until one day everything he thought knew changed by one announcement.

Imani’s Thoughts…

Choices are a part of life. Though at one point, we have to make prudent decisions that change the course of our future. This particular story is no different.

According this short story—THE MISSION, Bryan sits among the running back greats like Marshall Faulk, Len Swann, and the late Walter Payton. I wanted to convey that no matter how high you are in life things can swiftly change. More importantly, it’s how you handle the situation.

So Bryan will loose the love of his life with his news? Or, will he persevere through the storms and catch the light at the end of the tunnel? Find out in July 3 on PinkNoire.com.

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WHO'S SHAKING THEIR POM-POMS FOR YOU?

Michael Jackson’s character from the 1978’s cult classic, The Wiz, said it best—success, fame, and fortune, they're all illusions.

You may be frowning right now at this quote and asking, “Be who wouldn’t want to be successful, famous, and rich?  That’s like the American dream!”

Still, they’re illusions when you don’t have that support system in your corner.  Trying to pursue any endeavor alone is overwhelming.  You’re going to need a good cheerleading section in your corner.  Do you have your own handful people shaking their pom-poms for you?

I can safely say I have at least five people who are in my corner: my sister, two long-time friends, an aunt, and a good friend from Facebook.  These five individuals have become my “groupies”, who are willing to help me at any given moment that involves with promoting and selling my book, sport around my t-shirts, or just keeping it “real”.  These ladies are a blessing. 

Though, the point to this blog is more than cheerleaders cheering in your corner.  It’s when you have to rely on your number one cheerleader which is, YOU.

I have been driving myself crazy with promoting my short story collection entitled, UNTIMELY REVELATIONS, working on this blog, and taking care of my personal life.  Everything but everything came at me like fastballs pitches.  I realized something had to give.  No, it’s not giving up my writing career. I have to be either drunk, high, or insane, or really all three to do something asinine.  Nope. I’m taking a vacation…mental vacation.

What’s a mental vacation?

Since my pockets are too light for a real vacation.  I’m taking a break from the craziness of the internet to rejuvenate my mind. The hot of bed of my creativity is moving in slow motion. So I’m unwinding mentally by redefining myself offline.  People, believe it or not, there’s a life outside our computer screens.  You know life before there was ever a Myspace, Facebook, or, Twitter? 

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not knocking them.  As a matter of fact, Facebook and Twitter are the place to be to promote your work.  It’s just “I” need this, or I’ll lose myself in the process of the hustling and bustling of author and entrepreneurship. Otherwise, I won’t be any good for my cheerleaders, this blog, or my writing. 

Okay, it’s time for me go and enjoy this week of tranquility.  Before I sign off, I want to let you know that Tamyara Brown will be contributing to this Friday’s post. She’s a beast with her erotica.  Y’all be sure to show her some love and to visit and follow her blog (here).  Not only she’s talented writer, but has a beautiful soul.

See ya, pretty people...*Blowing kisses*

Next destination: Sitting on a cabana on a warm beach to wherever, shaking my pom-poms. I’ll happen...sooner or later. :)

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UHMMM, SOMETHING TO PONDER...

I've read it all on the internet from those same survey bulletins, to political blogs, and to someone's interesting life that you and I can learn a valuable lesson.  Yet there’s something I’ve read as of lately that has got me wondering.  Ready? Since this is Erotic Friday, I feel I can let loose and say this.

B*** JOBS!

Now please don't freak out because I’ve typed a word the majority of men get a giddy when they think about wanting, dreaming, and visualizing.  They even go as far to Vaseline themselves up to do—the do.

After reading a few blogs about this matter, I felt as a woman I need to express of what women have asked themselves since the beginning of time, why can't the tables be turned?...Purrrrr, my kitten...Make my cat go, meow! 

Its some men out there, somewhere, that is willing and able to lay some sweet satisfaction without expecting to get done first.

What’s wrong with exploring the womanhood that attributes the canal of life? We are hardworking mothers, college students, lawyers, doctors, politicians, nurses, blue collar workers—and yeah, even teachers need some revitalization. You know, it should be national day of it, National Please Kitty Kats Day.  I know guys who are reading this thinks if woman have a day, then men should have one too.  What are you going to call that day, National Blow Job Day? Ewww, that whole phrase sounds ucky—our just sounds better.

Ladies close your eyes and think about when the last time a man left you feeling, wow, zow, and kapowed—good enough to put you in tears for the right reasons. Honestly, I remembered feeling like that once.  Then later my ex became a taker and not a giver. When he did play with Miss Jenkies, he pecked like some broken-neck chicken.  I think I accidentally dozed off that night.  He couldn’t tame the kitty!

So on this note before I close out, sexploring (foreplay) is underrated. I wish more men would take the time to satisfy a woman needs.  I also understand why some guys are apprehensive to travel down south if there a lingering odor of fish—trust me, I understand. So ladies if you want purring satisfaction, then keep the kitty clean.

Yes, I know this is an unusual blog, but it's a blog that needs address this purrrrr-ing issue.  It's a woman turn to get empowered with their miss soing-so's. There's nothing wrong with giving pleasure with your special someone, but be sure to tell your man to give back.  After all it's the American way!

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MEET ELIJAH BAKER

He’s not the ordinary face of shattered innocence…

Elijah Baker suffered a dark past as a child growing up on the Northwest side of Indianapolis.  The oldest along with his twin sister, Elisha and two younger brothers, Elijah long nights in his bedroom was grim by the hands of a trusting individual. Fear was his emotional bondage for several years until he left home at the age of fifteen to live with his Aunt.  Two years later, after constant encouragement by his Aunt, Elijah decided to move to New York to pursue his dream in the music industry.  He went from squatting from apartment to apartment into an international music and entrepreneur mogul. 

Above his fame and fortune, Elijah had to face another challenge—a shattered past.  Will he learn to put the past behind and move on?  And could the distance between he and family ever be resolve?  Find out this December with his story, THE SHATTERED MOGUL and four other narratives in the short story collection, UNTIMELY REVELATIONS.

In Imani’s Words…

On a cold February morning I finally had typed the last sentence to this near 10,000 word tale with relief.  It wasn't the type of sigh meaning I finished of what I had started, but sighed that I finished this story for a purpose. 

There are so many people—men, women, and children—are walking this earth with heavy burdens.  I lived with the burden of my innocence being shattered.  It had taken me years to realize his actions did not define of who I am.

That’s why I find this story important for all to read. Not just for survivors, but to educate who had never experience the kind of shame and guilt that ones feels. 

I feel so strongly of this storyline that I’ve converted this into a play. I hope I can start the ball rolling in early 2012.  THE SHATTERED MOGUL needs to go beyond the pages of the book onto a stage. This is one of my quiet endeavors.  I’m praying more will come out of this project.

As I say all the time, this is only the beginning.

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CHANCE MEETING



There was a little boy wearing his angelic wings.

He was roaming in heaven until he noticed a somberly something.

It was a black man sitting on heaven's bench.

He had tears in eyes causing his face to drench.

The little boy noticed and asked as he wiped the man's eye,

"What's the matter?" And then the man sighed

And replied

"I don't know if my dream will ever come alive"

Then the boy frown and asked, "Why?"

The man look at the boy with his manicured moustache, and slowly

Wiped a tear on his eyelash

"Don't you see what went on earth since I died?

I thought my dream will blossom and thrive

Little black girls and boys and little white girls and boys had been learning

together

I know this had change the complexity of racial lines forever.

I also noticed that equality has progress in many aspects.

I have seen a rainbow people had learn to tolerate and respect.

I remember before '68,

There were barely any black faces that had won political races.

Now it's an overflow all over the  United States.

They are on Congress, and Senators

They are Mayors, and Governors,

There's a Secretary of State not only one but two".

Then he slightly chuckled and added, "Who ever knew?"

"More blacks are homeowners with an influx of revenues

And because of that, we were able to go to any college to expand what knew.

The little boy had continue to frown as he scratched his head

"These sounds like great things, so why are you crying?" he said.

The man glanced at the little boy with his bountiful cheeks.

He replied, "Son, my dream wasn't just black and white.

My dream was a rich and colorful sight

And it was beyond just civil but a human rights".

"Look" as he pointed below the clouds.

"Look at these people with a weakened disparages frowns.

It's the poor all over the world.

And famine and war that deeply affects little boys and girls.

This beyond the  USA.

This is happening all over world everyday.

And in Africa, the Motherland of Motherlands, it's indescribable.

Folks don't know it, but most Africans living conditions are incomparable.

And there are more wars and rumors of wars that threaten earth's rotating globe.

One voice has to stand out, but I don't think anybody knows

……how to establish their voices to be heard

I wish some activist would shy away from cameras and truly put people first.

As the boy intently listen he asked, "But isn't black folks are better off than a long ago".

The man answered, "Oh yes, but they say more things change, the more that stay the same.

We had to overcome through treacherous mountaintops and through the rugged plains.

The black man on earth still gets has it hard that one virtually still remains.

But although there's still that long dream road

I wish someone would voice this because this needs to be told.

We had past that mountaintop, but there are heavy terrains on the way.

Our people need to realize this today.

We can be detrimental to ourselves.

And my people need to pray".

Suddenly the man went silent, there was not another word to say.

Then the black man had got up from heaven's bench still blue.

Then the angelic boy ask, "Mr, who are you?"

The black man had finally cracked an infectious smile.

The boy again said, "Mr, why don't stay awhile?"

The man answered, "Son, I got go, I have already seen what I need to see.

And there's a long way to go, and seeing it is too much for me.

The boy then grabs the man hand and asked, "Can you tell me your name, please?"

The man looked down at the boys eyes, and said, "Son, I'm King, Martin Luther King"

© Imani Wisdom, 2006

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IMANI'S "HOW TO" MOMENT: Pursuing What's Yours!

"When you feel in your gut what you are and then dynamically pursue it - don't back down and don't give up - then you're going to mystify a lot of folks."
— Bob Dylan

Those are the immortal words of the great Bob Dylan.  As I recalled, he received scathing reviews on his vocals when he began his music career.  Did that stop him?  Obviously it had not. He kept pursuing his dream.  Now, he’s a living legend. 

This 70-year-old, known to many as a storyteller, is perfect for this Imani’s “How to” Moment.   Of course, I can relate since I’ll always consider myself a storyteller.  Regardless when my book gets release in this winter, I’ll put author second on my literary resume.

Why? 

I’ll explain in a moment, but first let me clarify why I posted the quote.

I’m sure many of you who are reading this are striving toward a dream.  Whether you’re a writer, author, musician, actor, or just want to be a better person, it takes commitment and patience.  An overnight success is a rarity.  In reality, you’re going to have to put on your boxing gloves and fight your way to your dream—punching the garbage of negativity with a Tyson right hook. 

I’m not just referring to your naysayers or haters because really, those are the same individuals who envy you for even going for it.  I’m saying the biggest obstacle for anyone pursuing their aspirations is overcoming their self-doubts. 

Listening to our so-call haters is one thing, but we don’t need to subconsciously have their words embed into our psyche. If you and I do, we might as well stop pursuing whatever we’re trying to do.  If they can get to you that easy, what do you think a critic will do when they tear your work or performance in pieces?  

I’m sure your favorite vocal artist, actor, or author, went through several bouts of fighting through the bullshit to get to where they are now. 

My Imani’s “How to” Moment, be a duck and let folks negativity roll from your back.  I had to learn over the weekend that some people can’t or won’t understand what I’m doing is another job.  I may not see a profit, but it’s a committed routine same as clocking into a nine to five profession.  I work on my manuscript, write and edit for my blog, and promote myself all in the name of a dream.

Writing is something I love to do.  When write I feel like ecstasy.  I feel as though as the pen is my sword and with it, I can overcome anything.  That same freedom when I do write helps bring to life amazing stories.  Having the title, Author is a privilege, but telling a great story is truly a gift.  So hence, I’m a storyteller.  And I wouldn’t have it any other way. 

In conclusion, other people’s negativity should be your motivator.  Don’t try to prove them wrong, just use your gifts to achieve greatness.  Who knows, your motivation could inspire them to conquer their own fears to achieve their dreams. They’ll thank you later.

"You got a dream, you gotta protect it. People can't do something themselves, they wanna tell you that you can't do it. You want something? Go get it. Period." — Pursuit of Happyness (Click here to see the video)

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