Dion E. Cheese's Blog, page 2

When Brok’n English Sounds Right

If you think that Urban fiction is being written primarily by street thugs who fluently speak broken English, and can’t spell a lick in order to save their lives then you my friend must live in an underground cave. Meet Sean Hicks who breaks the myth in half. He’s an edjumikated brother who is actually, –Well, let’s say, highly educated.

During our encounter I happened to see a man rob the diner where we sat. Fortunately, his efforts were thwarted when someone outside saw the robbery in progressed, called the police who arrested the man, handcuffing him, and  carried him away. However, before they escorted the man into the police vehicle I asked him, “Man, why did you do it? I mean, you’re blinged out like Lil’ John and ish. That’s crazy!”

The man simply looked at me and responded, “I gotta keep it real bruh. My next urban Fiction novel is due on my publisher’s desk in about two months, if i ain’t livin’ it then I can’t wrote it.”

“You mean write it? correct.”

“Nah, wrote. Like in I wrotes that shit. You’re just like dude who wouldn’t hire me for that job I needed to get in order to stay out on parole. I’m originally from Georgia so excuse my accent.”

“What do you mean I’m lost.” I stated.

“I mean,” he responded. “One day I was filling out this application, and I asked the guy standing behind me who happened also to be the owner of the factory. I was trying to answer the question on the application that says ‘When can you start?’  I then turned and asked the man behind me a question. I asked him, excuse me Chief, but do you know how to spell rat. He answered me smartly saying, ‘R-A-T.’ But that’s when I becomes infuriated and said, “Naw! Naw! Not the mousy kind. I mean Rat, like in Rat now! Rat then he asked me to leave his building so I left…”

The man left both me and Shawn confused. We were speechless, and just shook our heads. We ate, drank and left the premises. And, just for the record this did not happen at all. I’m joking, but Shawn is taking his career seriously. His voice is that of a new generation so please listen carefully to what he has to say.

Meeting up with Shawn Hicks I found him to be a bit reclusive, and yet masterful at the same time. Being educated on the Island of Manhattan, the original home of the chieftains, and a borough that is coterminous with New York itself. A city that defines swag, and promotes criminals at the same time with sensationalism. Just pick up any local paper in Manhattan and you’ll understands what I mean.  Shawn is perfecting his craft.

However, despite what some presume of the Urban genre. Shawn Hicks is a welcomed addition to the field of Urban Fiction. An educated African American soldier who is striving to break away from the stereotypical mainstay of run-of-the-mill urban stories that crowd the market giving his new audience something else to read and talk about. I was honored when he took time from his busy schedule to answer few questions about his life, his talent, and his future projects. Below is our brief chat about what he is doing and where he is headed.

DionCheese.Com: Who are you and where are you from?

Shawn Hicks: My name is Shawn Hicks, an author and a movie producer. I’m from Brooklyn, NY

 I see that you are the CEO of Broken English Publications. Can you share your educational background, and tell my audience why you started a publishing company?

 I have a AAS in Video Arts from the Borough of Manhattan Community College, and a BS in Television & Radio, from Brooklyn College.  As far as how I started BEP; I was writing screenplays at the time and while doing research for agents and other producers in the book The Writer’s Marketplace, I read in it that writing novels to accompany the screenplays would add value to the works. So I’m thinking, “Yeah, I’ll write the novels too. Won’t be hard” (LOL now thinking back)

Anyway, after finishing up some novels and looking for agents and publications companies, and receiving a bunch of rejection letters in between, I decided to study further the publishing industry on the do’s and don’ts  of it all. From there the progression of being a self publisher developed more nd more, to where I wanted to have full control of my works and efforts. There I created BEP.

 How long has your company existed? And, how many other authors are under your brand?

BEP have been existence since 2008. I’m the only author with BEP, as it is a vehicle for my works.

 How did you come up with your company’s name since it is the antithesis of your educational background?

Well, I think that stories don’t necessarily have to be grammatically correct to be great, as long as it is aesthetically. Every culture have their colloquialism and jargon and writing methods for communication, to peculate the setting and times of the novel. And whenever authors follow industry standards to cater to a particular demographic, it may lose its potency and meaning. I guess also it’s in response to the complaints on new authors within the urban markets that our stories doesn’t follow the typical stanzas, and that we have to conform and whitewash our stories to fit in. Overall, I named the company BEP to say, I write what I want, how I want, in any manner that I want. and it’ll be GREAT!

 Are you an author under your brand, and if so how many books have you written?

 My titles include: SCREAM (An Anthology of Sacred Thoughts), Product Of The Environment, dog’matic, SCREAM 2 (On The Verge of Being), and currently, Booshzee Gal.

 Do you see Urban Fiction evolving to become a corner stone to be reckoned with as compared to mainstream literature?

 

 Depends on how the landscape shapes out to. Ebooks have shifted the publishing paradigms drastically.

 Are there any upcoming events you would like to share with your fans?

I’m still working out my travel itinerary. But I’ll let you know when things are finalized.

Any final words for your fans, along with some advice for those on the come-up?

Anyone can contact me at www.facebook.com/broknenglishpublicat..., twitter.com/rabbitshawn, and at broknenglishpub@gmail.com. Thanks for your time.

Please show your love and support to the new era of urban Fiction by giving Shawn a read or two, and leaving a comment or review here or elsewhere. Thanks.

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Bio of Shawn Hicks

Shawn Hicks is the C.E.O and President of Brok’n English Publications, with the goal of providing a medium for telling his literary works. He received an Associates Degree in Video Arts from the Borough of Manhattan Community College, and his Bachelor’s Degree in Television & Radio from Brooklyn College. He currently lives in Brooklyn, New York.

He first came into the literary world with SCREAM (An Anthology of Sacred Thoughts). It’s a collection of poetry, opinions, and anecdotes that described a provocative view of the world.

 

His second completed work, and first full length novel, Product Of The Environment, is a tale about four young adults in high school, each one trying to prevail through extraordinary circumstances while living in a hostile and unforgiving urban climate.

 

Thus next novel, dog’matic, is a humorous story of three men and their chauvinistic outlook on love and sex, and the hilarious consequences that follows.

 

Next, following the success of SCREAM, came SCREAM 2 (On The Verge of Being), another collection of poems, anecdotes, and opinions.

 

Along with publishing, Shawn created Brok’n TV, as a avenue to produce media content. Works include 8 episodes of “Striver’s Row: The TV Show” and “From Obscurity to Infamy: The Literary life of David L.”

The post When Brok’n English Sounds Right appeared first on Dion Cheese.

Charlie Moore: The Adventurer

The Upcoming King of Spy Thrillers

 charlie
       MOORE Says,

“If it doesn’t leap out of the page and slap you across the face, I didn’t write it!”

Yes, You read it right! Charlie Moore is the upcoming king of Spy Thrillers!

Again, when I first was approached by the man who lives in the land of scorpions, stingrays,and stinging jellyfish  via Google chat, I was like “Hey, sorry Charlie but their are no Tuna here. Just us Sharks. We write Urban Fiction and this here is the real deal.”

Nevertheless Charlie laughed and said, “Let me just say this mate. My book is the real deal, and if the words don’t leap out of the page and slap you across the face then I didn’t write it.”

Indeed after a brief conversation and a few sample chapters I was totally convinced that Charlie was the real deal. In fact I was so intrigued that I read the book twice…hence my long await to write the review as you will see down below. Here on this site I gave him a Terminator’s thumbs up, and Charlie Moore is a force to be reckoned with, and is hereby Street Certified by DionCheese.Com. Hell, Charlie lived in Austrailia among the likes of  Steve Irwin AKA The Crocodile Hunter. Now I don’t know about you all, but, a man who lives among venomous snakes and spiders such as the Redback spider and so forth deserves the utmost respect in my book. Hell, all we mostly have to worry about here is a few bee stings and a gun. Over in Sydney, Charlie wakes up kicking a some deadly spider’s ass! So you better recognize peepz!

Within I have included a sample chapter with my review. So judge for yourselves if what Charlie says is true, and feel free to leave a comment or two I’m sure that he would appreciate it.

Against The Clock Synopsis

Shirin Reyes has come out of the cold with a vengeance. Determined to kill the men responsible for her husband’s death, she finds herself torn between her all consuming vendetta and the consequences her actions have on thoseshe cares about.

Unrelenting. Unstoppable. Uncompromising. Shirin ruthlessly hunts down each man, working her way to the top, never realizing she has penetrated the inner sanctum of a covert operation – entangled within an explosive web of scandal, treason, murder and government corruption.

AGAINST THE CLOCK is author Charlie Moore’s authentic action-packed expose of spies and counter spies. This is NOT just another espionage novel. So sit back with a double shot of smooth whiskey—neat—put your feet upand get ready for an exhilarating read driven by the most deadly, most intriguing characters brought to the page.

The Sample Chapter

chapter 1

 

 

“loss is the moment you find something worth keeping”
the book of seekay

10:08am

Trent Barratt looked away from his reflection in the shop window. What he saw there disgusted him. The small phone in his large hand was almost crushed between the force of his rage and the depth of his embarrassment. There was little he could do now but to report his failure.

“We lost her, sir…” he said into the phone.

A steely silence bellowed back at him.

There was more to report, and for a moment he considered keeping it to himself until he could somehow turn things around, but he was not a coward. He would admit his errors in full, then he would hunt her down and make her pay for his humiliation.

He took a deep breath and continued, “Three of my men are down, sir.”

A moment of pause let his failure hang in the air before he heard several loud smashes on the other end of the phone. The line went dead.

He returned the cell to his pocket and started planning his next step toward finding her. It troubled him that she had escaped his grasp, and it troubled him more that she had killed three of his men.

Barratt was seasoned. He’d survived too long in an unforgiving business to have a false sense of ability. He recognized that he was not the best operative in the field, but his track record also told him he was better than most. For this woman to have eluded him, indicated the reports on her ability and her resources were modest at best. He vowed never to underestimate her again.

But something else bothered him. He had caught a glimpse of her as she was crouched over one of his men. She was in her late twenties, wore black loose fitting jeans, and a floppy shirt two sizes too large. She looked homely, unremarkable at first glance, but he saw in her movements a woman capable of great speed and agility.

She moved with fluidity uncommon in most people, and she had a sense about her that screamed of an intense alertness. He understood those traits. He had them too.

Their eyes had met. There was something familiar in them. Something wild, hungry and unafraid. He felt challenged by them, and then, behind a flash of blonde hair, they were gone.

Her face had been a blur, obscured by movement, yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that he knew her.

He had moved toward her, angling to get a better view, trying to get within an accurate firing range for his pistol, when a car had driven past, obscuring his view for a moment, and by then she was gone.

 

10:09AM

Director Selig swept the debris of the shattered phone off the desk, ignoring the cuts and scrapes on his bare knuckles. Whoever this woman was, she had managed to stay one step ahead of his team.

As if on cue, a gentle knock came on the closed door, and April, his assistant, tentatively popped her head inside.

“Is there anything you might need, sir?”

Selig waved absently at the smashed phone strewn on the floor. “A new phone,” he said dryly. Already lost in thought, he added, “Thank you, April.”

With a nod, she quietly slipped away and returned moments later, unpacking equipment as she walked.

Selig barely registered his young assistant cleaning away the debris and hooking up the new phone. When she was gone, he picked up the receiver and made a call.

“Barratt lost her,” he said into the phone. His voice soft, monotone, barely concealing the rage that boiled inside him, “We need to get rid of him, then we need to get that girl.”

Measured carefully, the voice on the other end of the line spoke almost mechanically, “Barratt is a good operative. We could still use him. It’s time we seriously consider that this woman is in fact Shirin Reyes.”

“Impossible! She’s out! She’s been out for years.” But even as he spoke the words, Director Selig felt the seeds of doubt spouting in his mind. If this was Reyes, the danger to his mission, and the risks for himself, were considerably worse than he could have imagined. Selig fought to control the rage bubbling up in his voice and took a moment to settle himself before he continued, “Find out who this girl is. If it is Shirin Reyes, kill her. And don’t be nice about it. Just make sure she’s dead!”

The voice on the phone, the voice of the man known only as “Smith”, was quiet, without emotional inflection, “I have good reason to believe this woman is Reyes. And that she is back in play.” The voice paused for effect but continued before Selig could speak, “I had the agent guarding Bill Civic send me a screenshot from the security footage.”

“And?”

“I believe it was Reyes. The image is dark and grainy, but it was her. I’m sending you a copy of the photo now,” the voice said matter-of-factly.

Director Selig logged into his private email while the voice he knew only as “Smith” continued. “My man has spoken with Bill Civic, and he claims it was a girl by the name of Marisol Keplor. She had ID matching that name, sighted by my security man. Mr. Civic is adamant that this woman was clean. He says he had been watching her at his club for weeks. I am in the process of collecting recordings from the club for verification. He is also adamant that nothing had been touched or taken from his apartment. He says they had sex all night, and that she left in the early hours of the morning. My security team has confirmed that. Security cameras have her leaving the apartment at 0400. Her bag, and person, were searched before entering the apartment, and again when leaving. There was nothing of note.”

The photo had arrived in his email. Smith had been correct; the image was dark and grainy. Bill Civic was easily identifiable, whereas the girl was not. She was huddled under his arm, her face hidden.

“I have the image,” Selig said into the phone. Leaning closer to the screen he strained to discern any identifiable features of the woman. “What makes you so certain this woman is Reyes?”

“It’s her.”

Selig was not so convinced, but Smith had been a trusted, highly valued colleague far too long to dismiss his opinion so hastily. Instead, he said, “I’m sending you another team now. Track her, get me better pictures. We need to ID her quickly. Keep your man on Civic. I’ll have a forensic team there within the hour to go over his apartment. If this is Reyes, she had a reason to be there. We need to find out what it was.” He didn’t wait for a reply before ending the call.

Director Selig often considered the termination of a conversation as being the equivalent of solving the problem; he gave an instruction, his command would be done, his mind would be free to focus on the next task. But this time, terminating the phone call left him more unsettled than he cared to admit.

Reyes had been an unparalleled agent when she had worked for him. A pain in the ass, crazy as hell, and the source of many headaches, but she never failed; no matter the cost. In his world, that level of success was all that mattered. Regardless of rules, laws or intelligence protocols, success warranted certain freedoms. Freedoms that he had readily provided her.

But after the death of her husband, her missions grew reckless, her behavior dangerous. And then, she vanished! He had hoped she was dead but knew better.

It bothered him deeply that if this mystery girl was in fact Shirin Reyes, it would indicate she had been active for at least several months. But “active” on what? What was she doing? Who could she be working for?

Rubbing at the stubble forming on his chin, Selig started making mental notes on the phone calls he would need to make.

If she were truly back and in play, extra precautions would need to be put in place. Selig grudgingly conceded to himself that perhaps having her husband killed may not have been one of his best decisions.

 

10:24AM

Shirin Reyes stepped off the platform. Without looking back at the departing train, she walked through the terminal gates and out into the crowded streets of the CBD.

No one was following her, she was sure of it. But for the next hour, she would navigate her way through a labyrinth of shops, fitting rooms, and glassed store-front windows before returning to her safe house.

Her blonde wig lay at the bottom of a trash receptacle outside a Starbucks café, and her handbag, emptied into and deposited in the ladies room. She kept none of its contents.

The baggy shirt and black jeans she had been wearing were scattered through various waste bins on her shopping spree through the Grand Plaza.

The guns collected from the dead men were secreted within the pockets of a new gym bag. Wearing her newly purchased Lycra long-cut shorts, running shoes, and tight singlet top, she looked like one of many other young ladies on their way back from the gym.

Her breath had come back quickly, and the adrenaline of the encounter was just now ebbing slowly away. Sipping a tall, full cream cappuccino, she headed back to the train depot. Her mind worked quickly over the events of the last few hours.

The ambush had been well executed; a four-man team, three converging on her from intersecting planes, the fourth she assumed from a higher vantage point. She had identified two of the three quickly, the third soon after, but too late to slip free of their sightlines. Deciding to wait for a better opportunity, she let them get closer to her, steering them toward a busy outdoor café close by.

Hoping to obscure any field of vision for potential snipers or security cameras, Shirin had ducked under the outdoor canopy, walked through to the middle of the crowded café, and headed toward a small vacant table.

She paused at the table as a steward deftly cleared it, wiped it over, and set down new cutlery. She had taken mental note of where her pursuers would be and prepared herself.

She felt the firm hand on her shoulder before she saw it. It squeezed hard on the pressure point toward the top of her shoulder joint.

Before the man could whisper in her ear his practiced threats, encouraging her to do exactly as he said, Shirin thrust her arm up and slightly forward, releasing the pressure on her nerve. Gripping his wrist with her other hand, she pulled him in toward her while thrusting her head back violently into his face.

The impact had been fast and hard. She’d felt his nose give way on the back of her head, and before he could react she had his hand twisted up and out, opening him up, exposed to the brutal assault on the side of his neck.

Her fist connected with force, and as he buckled under the blow she followed through with an open palm strike to his throat. The trauma was instant. The blood flow to his brain stopped. His airway, crushed. He fell, dying.

The second man had pushed his way through the crowded café, only a few feet away and was drawing his weapon before the first man hit the ground. The silenced weapon had begun its sharp arc up from the folds of his jacket as Shirin hurled herself forward.

Her left hand reached for the cutlery on her table, gripping a metal fork while her right hand parried the gun up and away as she side-stepped fast to her right. She ducked under his raised arm and thrust forward and up into his neck with the fork. The first silenced shot bucked in his hand, sending the bullet wildly toward the sky. Still moving fast around his side, she stabbed the fork into his throat a second time while continuing to circle around him away from the gun.

His shock lasted only a moment before she left the fork dangling from his flesh, gripped his head and chin, and twisted vertically with a sickening crunch.

His body crumpled on the spot like a rag doll. He was mid-fall when Shirin caught the gun hand of the dead man, dislodged the silenced Glock from his grip and pointed it toward the third man as he stood momentarily stunned.

Four seconds had passed since the first man had gripped her shoulder; two men were down, the gun in her hand was pointed toward the third man, and the crowd snapped free from their initial shock and started screaming and scrambling away. The third gunman seemed uncertain which path to take – to continue after her or to run.

She gave him little choice and fired the silenced weapon at him quickly while running at full pace straight toward him.

The first shot missed its mark. The second shot found his collarbone, the third his bicep, the fourth his gluteus as he turned to run and the fifth ricocheted off the brick wall inches from his turned face.

Shirin bounded after him, chasing him onto the street. His vision seemed impaired as he stammered forward reaching out with his unwounded arm. His gun still gripped awkwardly at the end of his ruined arm. She was close enough to grab him.

Whack! His body flung forward, twisting and turning in the air. A speeding van had passed by, missing Shirin by only a foot, the sound of the impact reaching her moments later, and then the screeching of tires braking on the road, and the broken body falling, landing 20 feet away on the pavement, completely still.

Tucking the silenced pistol into the waistband of her jeans, Shirin ran toward the motionless body, hoping her baggy shirt would conceal the shape of the bulky gun.

He was dead. He would answer none of her questions now. In the distance the chaos of the café seemed to galvanize into a morbid curiosity. She worked quickly to search him for any signs of identification or clues as to who he was, and who had sent him. There were none. Even the labels of his clothes had been removed. A professional. Although, judging by his momentary hesitation earlier, new to the field.

Pocketing his gun, she peered into the massing crowd. She looked through them, searching faces, searching behavior, looking for the telltale signs of other killers out there coming for her. There were more of them, she was sure.

A big man loomed through the crowd, glanced at the two men dead at the café, then looked out, beyond the crowd. It was then she had seen his face. Their eyes had connected from a distance. It was Trent Barratt. She had recognized him instantly, turned her head, and then, she had left.

Two hours after the ambush, she found herself staring at the empty coffee cup in her hand as the train pulled to a stop. She exited just as the doors were closing, her mind still focused on how they had managed to know where she would be and when she would be there.

Her mind worked quickly over the possibilities. There were not many. Somehow, they had found her. Somehow, they had followed her. The burning thought in her mind, was how long had they been following her?

The arrival of Barrett also clung to her consciousness. She could never forget those eyes. Would never forget that man.

Barratt was muscle, the kind of muscle that made people disappear, and he was good. In a past life, she had known him well. She wondered if he knew whom he was hunting.

If they had sent him, it meant they wanted her gone. She had to believe they had not been watching her long. They wouldn’t take the risk that she would spot them and run. Barratt didn’t work that way. When he got the target, he worked quickly. Find them, track them, kill them. That was his way.

Crossing the road to a taxi rank, she considered for a moment what it meant that Barratt was tracking her. They had found her. And they either knew what she was doing or were scared of what she might be doing…

Letting them know that she was coming after them had always been part of the plan, just not so soon.

She had to assume they had found her safe house and the files she had kept there. It pissed her off that they had gotten to her.

She gave the taxi driver the address of a townhouse in the suburbs. She knew where they would be now. Time to hurt them.

 

___

 

Director Selig sipped instinctively from the cup of coffee on his desk. It was cold. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d finished a coffee while it was still hot. His colleagues had joked constantly that when he died they would pour hot coffee on his grave. His reply was always the same: they’d be dead before him. He wasn’t joking.

It was nearing 10:30am, and he was expecting his secretive associate to contact him with an update on the Shirin Reyes/Bill Civic fiasco.

How it had come to pass that he relied so much on a man he had never met and didn’t really know was still robbing him of sleep each night. But as he grew older, he was beginning to see the merit of letting someone untraceable and unknown to him do much of his dirty work.

He had tried to find Smith once. He’d woken in bed with a knife to his throat and a warning. He’d not tried again.

Instead he had given Smith the tasks he could openly not complete. Over the years their relationship had garnered many successes. Selig had risen in the ranks within his agency, and they had both grown very rich in the process.

Selig’s private cell buzzed in his coat pocket. Without the pleasantries, Smith relayed the latest findings at the apartment.

“Mr. Civic remains resolute in his beliefs regarding this woman. My men believe him.” Without pause, Smith continued, “The forensic team you sent have found numerous finger prints throughout the apartment, but at this stage they have not been able to match any to the prints on file for Reyes. My man did find a miniature camera fixed to the outside of the office window. Mr. Civic is adamant that he was not aware of it. Whoever installed it must have rappelled down from the roof and fixed it to the masonry wall without triggering the sensors on the glass.”

Selig gripped the cell harder in his palm. He wanted to smash it to pieces. He knew of several missions where Reyes had used this same technique to monitor targets in the past. He calmly asked, “What could the camera see?”

“It transmitted wirelessly to a recorder. I’m told the range could be 100 meters, possibly more. We hacked into the wireless feed. The camera had an unobstructed view of the entire office. Given its positioning, anything on Mr. Civics’ desk could be clearly identified. The resolution and automatic zoom would have allowed the observer to see in finite detail anything that happened in that room.”

“Tell the forensic team to stop whatever they’re doing. I want that room stripped clean! Nothing left! Peel off the paint if you have to and look behind it. And I want Bill Civic either dead or talking!” Selig thumbed the “end call” button hard, looked at his watch, and stormed out of his office. He had someone to blackmail, and he was running late.

 

10:47AM

It took just over twenty minutes in the cab to get out of the city. The young driver had been talkative at first, his friendly nature infectious, but he soon understood Shirin’s focused look and silent responses.

She told him to take the next street on the left.

“The street you gave me is the next one after that…” he said, trying to be helpful.

“I know.”

He looked at her and didn’t argue. Her face seemed to have changed in an instant. Her eyes burned with a concentration that frightened him.

“Drive slowly,” she said calmly, “but don’t stop.”

They traveled down the long street in silence. She glared past the driver, out past the houses on their right. Her safe house was on the other side of the block, behind these houses. She could see its roof from the cab in the pockets between the houses, then, she could see the window of her ensuite, then the bedroom. It was only a glimpse, but she saw movement in them, then her line of vision to her townhouse disappeared as the cab continued along the road.

They were inside!

“Okay, turn right at the end, and then right again onto the street I gave you.”

The cab rounded the corner. Shirin saw it straight away. A dark blue van parked 100 meters before her townhouse, on the opposite side of the road. Its windows were tinted, the antenna coming from its roof unmistakable.

“See that blue van up ahead?”

“Yeah…?”

“I want you to keep driving slowly, and when I tell you to, hit the accelerator and speed past that van. Got it?”

“You’re really starting to freak me out, lady!”

Shirin looked at him and said “I’ll make it up to you.”

The cab drew closer to the van, she saw movement on the chassis; people were inside it. Her hand disappeared into her backpack, felt the comforting grip of the silenced pistol she had taken from one of the dead men at the café.

“Okay, get ready… not yet… Now! Hit it!”

Adam didn’t understand why he listened to her, why he obeyed her so willingly, but he did. His foot stomped on the accelerator and the cab lurched forward. The van was only meters away.

In her mind time slowed. She smoothly drew the gun from her bag, Adam’s eyes grew wide in shock, she struck him hard in the sternum, gripped the wheel, spun it hard to the left, opened her door, and jumped out. She landed in a full run and circled around the back of the cab as it continued in its trajectory, veering straight into the side of the van.

The collision was loud, and it rocked the van sideways. Its right wheels lifted off the ground for a moment before bouncing back down onto the road. Adam was stuck behind the wheel of the crumpled taxi, gripping his chest, struggling to breathe, his eyes wide and bulging.

Shirin crouched low as she circled around the front of the van. There was no driver behind the wheel. By the time she reached the rear axle, she could hear the men inside scrambling for their weapons and shouting at each other in preparation to exit the assaulted van.

Two men flew out of the back barn doors of the van, their guns at the ready. They looked clearly shaken. Holding their guns tightly, they scanned the unfamiliar area. They were looking in all directions, confusion painting their every expression, their guns pointed at the stunned and dazed cab driver. Shirin knew instantly they were not killers, they were techies.

She came up behind them fast, without hesitation. She shot the first man in the back of his leg just above the knee and followed through with an elbow to his head as he fell under his injured leg. She kept rushing forward, and as the second man spun to face her she delivered a quick bullet to his upper arm, then used her forward momentum as the powerbase for a flying kick to his sternum. He was flung backward, connecting hard with the stalled taxi, and sunk slowly to the tarmac.

Both men lay useless on the road. Their guns out of reach, Shirin wasted no time, turned, and jumped into the back of the van, gun drawn and ready. There were no other men inside. Instead a mess of computers and electronic monitoring equipment littered the inside. The internal access to the driving cabin was completely blocked. The impact of the taxi into the side of the van left more damage than she had anticipated.

She searched quickly over the computer towers, looking for portable memory cards or accessible hard drives. The monitors were off. All internal power seemed to have been reset from the collision. If there was information to be gained from the systems in the van, it would take more time than Shirin had.

Jumping from the back of the van, she scooped up the techies’ weapons and headed for the driver’s side door. As she tucked one of the collected guns into her waistband, she saw Adam struggling to get out of the cab. His door was jammed shut from the crumpled front end. Pointing her gun at him as she walked, she said, “Adam! Stay in the car! Do exactly as they tell you. Tell them everything. If you don’t, they will kill you.” She stopped, locked eyes with his. “Do you understand?” He nodded meekly.

Taking her eyes off him, she fired one shot through the window of the van’s driver’s side door, cleared a larger hole through the shattered glass with her gun, unlocked the front door, and slid in behind the wheel. The keys were still in the ignition; standard practice for a quick escape. The engine turned over on the second attempt. The radio squawked alive.

“Team Theta, check in.”

She recognized the voice instantly. Barratt! She put the van in gear, gunned the engine, and pulled away from the curb. The front fender of the cab clung precariously to the side of the van before tumbling free as Shirin did a sharp U-turn and left the street as she had come.

 

___

 

Barratt looked at his watch. They had been there too long, and with nothing to show for it, he felt the pressure mounting. He ran through the final communications checks with his team. All was good.

The two-story townhouse had yielded no results. It was frustrating but expected. This woman was clearly a professional. He didn’t expect her to return here after the failed ambush in the morning, but it was the only lead left to chase.

At first glance, it looked like any normal suburban home. It was nicely furnished inside, there were photos on the walls, pot plants growing, knick-knacks on bookshelves, and even shampoo bottles, toothbrushes, and towels left laying about. But what Barratt noticed more than these homely artifacts, was that there was no hair in the brush, no hair in the shower drain, and no fingerprints anywhere. It was as though the house had been lived in by a ghost.

His team had searched the house vigorously. There was nothing to find. He only hoped that whoever this woman was, she might return at some point, and then, he would have her!

He brought the radio transmitter to his mouth and gave the clearance for all teams to evacuate. This woman had chosen her safe house well. It was in the middle of a long, quiet street. Any surveillance here would be quickly discovered. It was the kind of neighborhood where all the neighbors knew each other. He made a mental note to interview them all if he couldn’t find her within the next few days.

Looking at his watch again, he gave the final signal for the surveillance van to swing past and pick him up. He made his way back downstairs.

From his encounter with the woman in the morning, to seeing her safe house first hand, Barratt knew in his gut that this woman was no ordinary threat; she was of a caliber he had not seen in years. Not since…

Crash!

Barratt heard it from the top of the stairs. It was from a good distance away, but it was still loud. He bounded down the stairs. Two of his agents met him at the door. They had heard it also. Something was wrong. He instructed one of the men to take up a position by the back door, the other to get a higher vantage point from upstairs while he took a look outside. He grabbed the transmitter from his belt and tried to contact his men in the van. There was no response.

Running onto the footpath, he saw instantly but could not believe. The van was gone, and in its place a taxicab sitting perpendicular in the street with a crumpled front end, but no van. As he reached the middle of the road, he saw the back panel and tail lights of the van disappear around the corner.

 

10:47AM

Shirin sped around the corner. They would find the van eventually, she knew. It was sure to have a tracking beacon attached somewhere. She didn’t plan to be around when they did.

She didn’t slow for the next corner but instead skidded deeper into it, accelerating out of the skid and racing down the long road. She was parallel to the street of her safe house, on the same road she had arrived with the taxi.

She pulled up outside the house that shared her own house’s back boundary and was already jumping out of the van before it had stopped moving.

She knew all the people in the properties surrounding her safe house. She knew them better than their own families, she was sure. This single-story home belonged to Loren and Dan Francis. They were both at work now. They had no dog. No external alarm. She raced down the side access, leaped over the six-foot gate, and skirted the Colorbond side boundary fence until she reached the back of the block.

She could see one man at the back of her safe house, near the laundry door, and another upstairs in her bedroom. Both men looked distracted but dangerous.

She deposited her bag in the corner of the side fence and back fence, behind the trunk of a gum tree. She needed to travel light, and fast. She took one pistol, tucked it behind her waistband, and leapt up and over the fence.

Her feet landed silently, she rolled, and was up, gun raised, waiting, listening, watching. She had not been seen yet.

She deposited the gun in her waistband again, and ran straight for the laundry door. Four strides from the door, she drew her weapon, let loose two bullets into the lock, and saw them splinter as her foot made contact with the door. It burst open, with the sound of splitting timber and she dove forward along the ground, sliding on her side, then rolling onto her back.

The agent near the door had been sideswiped by the force of the imploding door, his gun was drawn and finding its mark as Shirin sent two bullets in a double tap to his heart before her body had stopped sliding.

She rolled back to her side, found her feet and in one smooth motion was up and running toward the stairwell before the dead agent had hit the ground.

Running through the kitchen, she entered low. There was no one there, same for the dining room. She heard the dull footfalls of the man upstairs heading down. She turned the corner. A bullet snapped past her and buried itself into the wall. She fell back instantly and returned fire on instinct as she readjusted her body to curl and roll out of the line of fire.

The agent retreated back up the stairs. She had little choice. Abandon him and get out before back-up arrived, or chase him up the stairs and into his waiting crosshairs.

 

10:48AM

Barratt ran to the scene to find the driver of the taxi looking dazed and confused. His two men were sprawled on the street, bleeding, unconscious but alive. They’d both been shot. It was her!

He tried to reach his two men at the house on the radio. There was no reply.

He could hear the taxi driver trying to get out of the vehicle, pulled his gun, pointed at him and demanded, “Was it a woman?”

The young driver looked deathly pale from shock. All he could manage was a muted nod.

Barratt cursed himself. Cursed her. Then headed back to the safe house in a sprint. She would die for this!

 

10:49AM

The agent hid in a small alcove near the top of the stairs. He labored to control his breathing and his nerve. This woman was good. Better than him, he feared. But he had her now. If she came after him, he would pick her off like a sitting duck. If she didn’t, more back-up would arrive, and then she would die.

He didn’t know where Barratt was. Maybe she had gotten to him already. If so, it was one less thing for him to do. He had his instructions. If Barratt failed again, kill him.

Sweat formed on his forehead, but he dared not wipe it, his total concentration was focused on the sounds from downstairs, waiting for the woman to show her head.

A whisper of air wafted past him. He wasn’t sure if he heard it or felt it. Then the distinct thup thup sounds of a silenced pistol, the dull, wet pain in his neck, and then, nothing.

 

10:50AM

Shirin stepped out from the upstairs bedroom. The agent was motionless, dead. Her bullets had ripped cleanly through the plasterboard internal wall and lodged into his neck and skull.

He had not heard her exit the bottom floor, climb the lattice to the master bedroom balcony above.

She moved quickly to the front of the house, stayed clear of the windows, and peered down into the street from the side. She could hear sirens in the distance. And Trent Barratt charging across the front lawn toward the door.

She had less than a minute.

 

___

 

Barratt threw his radio mic on the ground. There had been no reply from his men inside. He bulldozed the front door down with his size and speed, then quickly backed himself against the wall as he surveyed the scene.

Down the long corridor he could see the back door shattered in, bullet holes, and one of his men lying in a pool of blood.

He ducked his head around the corner quickly. There was no one there. Toward the stairs, more bullet holes told the story of a gun fight he should have been there for.

Careful of where he placed his feet, he moved silently around the stairwell. Nothing made sense to him! Why had she come back? And once she saw the surveillance, why didn’t she just leave?

“You could move, but then I’d have to shoot you.” Her voice was calm, almost relaxed. Barratt froze. It took him a moment to identify where it had come from. He was out of position to draw his weapon in that direction and get a shot off without her bullet finding him first. She had out maneuvered him.

Barratt lowered his head. So this was it, he thought. “What next? You shoot me anyway?”

“No, but I would like to talk. Drop your gun so we can do that.”

Barratt did nothing. He stood there. Contemplating which way he preferred to die.

“Drop the gun, turn around, we’ll talk, then you can go,” Shirin said more forcefully. “I did not give your men that choice, and in a moment you won’t have it either.”

Barratt dropped his pistol. Ready to die, he turned around. His eyes clung to her face, they registered recognition, then shock, then, he said “Shirin?”

Two wires shot out at him. Hit him hard in the chest. He looked at them, looked at Shirin, then, 50,000 volts coursed through his body.

 

About The Author

Charlie Moore was born and raised in Sydney, Australia. He started work on his first full length novel at age 18. When running through final edits for the book, he put it aside; wanting to live and experience some of the adventures his characters were thrust into. He became an accomplished martial artist, winning his first full contact fight by TKO and gaining over 30 medals before retiring from competition. He traveled the globe, got lost in dangerous parts of the world, swam with sharks, jumped out of planes, and became a Private Investigator.

Resuming his passion for writing, Charlie started ghost writing to build and harness his skill, and in mid 2012 “Against the Clock” was born.

Charlie now shares his time between rock climbing with his wife, and writing deadly action-packed thrillers.

 

My Review

Charlie Moore’s book Against the Clock was one book we couldn’t wait to dive into! And as soon as we began turning the pages we wished the clock would stop! Can somebody please get us a bucket of water because this book is pure fire! A new king has arrived on the scene in the literary arena. Against the Clock is a book that’s so good that we could not turn Charlie away. I will explain more to you all later.

Yes, if your name is Robert Ludlum, James Patterson, or Tom Clancy which are three authors I greatly admire. To be frank as can be, what I am about to say might make your head spin, some may even consider it heresy. Yet here it is straight from the mouths of us here at The Urb.

“Sirs, could you all please slide your askmewhats to the left so Charlie Moore can present himself on the set.”

Yes, Charlie Moore, The Adventurer from Sidney Australia, home of the whatnots such as the Crocodile Dundee, Steve Irwin who wasn’t afraid of anything, and the Big A AKA Arnold Schwarzenegger, who came to terminate s**t! Charlie Moore’s first novel is a topnotch spy thriller that will have you hanging on the edge of your seat as soon as you open the first page one can purview that Charlie must have written this novel with a bucket of gasoline by his side and a flame thrower to ignite it. All I can say is, if Charlie was a prized fighter this novel; Against the Clock would easily be a first round knockout! The main Character in this espionage fiction maybe a light weight physically but is hell on wheels as she exacts judgment against those forces behind the murder of her beloved husband. This story most certainly gets a thumb up from me!

From the onset of this novel, the highly crafted prose will have you screaming WTF! As Charlie tells his exciting tale of espionage afresh. His character Shirin Reyes, will have you cheering for her like a high school cheerleader at a championship game as she executes her vengeful wrath upon the unsuspecting team of nemesis’s who consist of veterans within the spy world; a place of untold ruthlessness, cut throats, and backstabbing agents, and chiefs who won’t stop at nothing until they see Shirin lying 6 feet under with the daisies. At least that is their intent.

To sum up this great adventure without giving up too much detail let’s just say that Shirin is a character who is full of life, and is skilled as a cheetah would be in human form. Shirin Reyes delivers an action packed performance which reminded me of Angelina Jolie in the movie Salt. Shirin is as lethal as an Indian Gray Mongoose is to a 7 foot long Cobra

Yes, iurban.org is mainly about Urban Fiction indeed but we are not stupid enough to turn down this sumptuous feast of words delivered by a possible would-be king of Espionage Thrillers. Charlie Moore we tip our hats too you and are looking forward to part 2 of this thriller.

Show Charlie Moore some real love by clicking the link below if you like action packed novels and feel you need a break from the urban thrillers for a while. I will guarantee you that you won’t be disappointed…

The post Charlie Moore: The Adventurer appeared first on Dion Cheese.

Short Reviews: Kenya Moss Dyme

You will need 9 Dimes Plus 9 Cents to Cop This!!!!

Yes her smile is friendly but her penmanship is as vicious as a Tasmanian Devil on the hunt…and then some.

Did you ever meet an author whom you just wanted to look them in their eyes and say, “Can you please just shut the F**K UP!” And I mean it with a capital ‘F’. I mean they keep talking to you about that boring a$$ book they wrote saying, “You gotta read it.. It’s H-O-T!

But inside my mind I’m like “Yeah, it’s hot alright. I wish I had some lighter fluid and a match so I could burn them both up, then maybe  they will shut the hell up!”

Anyway, as I browsed within Facebook, Goodreads, Amazon, Reddit, Linkdin, Pinterest, iUrban.org, and so forth looking for new talent. I came across Kenya who of course was eager to burn my ears off which I often get from a lot of aspiring authors. Yes she talked, and Yes my ears were set ablaze. I was like “Hold up!You mean to tell me that your story is about a preacher who is what, and he isn’t Catholic! And the other involves a threesome and what in the hell?” I excitedly exclaimed.

And she was like, “Yeah muthaf**ka! Watch yo back Cheese because I will put my foot so far up your a$$ that every time you brush your  teeth you will shine my shoes, and you can take that to the bank. I ain’t scared of your big ass. You’re gonna read my book like you said you would or I will drive from Sub Zero/Lake City and take you out, and I don’t mean on a date neither!”

So, after a brief conversation. I asked her, “May I please call you back because this is getting hostile and I will beat a woman’s a$$ if you come knocking at my door. So is it okay if I just hang up because I don’t wanna be in the same situation as Dr. Dre and Dee Barnes.”

“Yes, you can hang up but I can tell you most assuredly I’m no Dee Barnes I know Whup a Niccas A$$ Jeet Kun Doo! You better read the chapters I send and get back to me pronto!”

“Okay.” I said.

Anyway to make a long story short, I called her back after about twenty minutes or so. I profusely apologized for my rudeness, and she in turn apologized for texting me over 60 times and for threatening to open up a can of whup ass on me for reneging on my word. Prior to the incident I forgot to return her call. I did deserve it, and I am honored to have read part of her stories which I am sharing with you all. I can honestly say they are worth the read and I am looking forward to reading the rest.

So Kenya, Please accept my public apologies once more, and without further adieu I give you: The Pulpit Chronicles: Prey For Me, and A Good Wife.

Support Your Urban Authors they work hard! You can Purchase Kenya’s work by clicking the book icons below. Read it! Rate It! Love It! Please feel free to add a comment below and tell me what you think. Let Kenya know if she should quit her day job…LOL!

The Pulpit Chronicles

CHAPTER ONE

 

“Good morning, Sister Hatcher!” Reverend Goody proudly showed all of his teeth when he spotted the thick-legged woman standing next to the racks of bread.  She spun around quickly and dramatically tossed the shiny curls of her Brazilian Remy weave back over her shoulder.  A smile beamed across her face when her eyes focused on the handsome man standing in front of her.  A big sexy bald-headed brown-skinned man – oooh Lawd!  She felt the stirring in her thighs just looking at his straight white teeth with that sexy gap in the front.  What a beautiful man!

Sister Hatcher – Sister Keynetha Hatcher – had to remind herself that this was the Reverend.  Not some man in the club.  Not some guy at her job working in the cubicle next to her calling people about their past due credit card bills.  Not the mailman or the cable man or the man who cuts her grass every week.  This was the REVEREND.  She should not be standing here in the grocery store feeling…moist.  This has to be a sin.  She told herself that she was going to get on her knees when she got home, get right on her knees and pray.  Pray to the heavens with her loudest voice, like the Reverend told them to do at church on Sunday.  She was going to read her bible and pray as hard as possible for the Lord to forgive her for her dirty thoughts about the Reverend.

The Reverend stepped closer and closer, and Sister Keynetha’s knees felt weak as he leaned toward her.  Is he about to…kiss me?

The Reverend gently touched the side of his face to hers and patted her on her back in a brief but friendly hug.  He released the hug and pulled back to look into her face.

“How are you, Sister Hatcher!  I missed you at church last Sunday – is everything okay at home?”  He was staring into her eyes so deeply that her legs felt like butter.  She couldn’t lie to him but she couldn’t tell him that she had stayed out late Saturday night drinking with her girls and she had a massive headache on Sunday morning.  There was no way she could make it to church, besides, she didn’t wake up until 3:00 that afternoon and services were already over.

“Oh, no, everything’s fine at home – I just had a late night and I wasn’t feeling too good on Sunday morning,” said Keynetha.  She had to break away from the Reverend’s stare because it was making her feel self-conscious – and turning her on.  Those deep dark eyes and thick black eyebrows, with his Jamie Foxx-looking ass.  Made no sense for him to be a man of God, she thought, because she could think of a lot of things she could do to this fine man.  She reached for a loaf of bread from the rack and pretended to read the label.

“I hope you’re feeling better,” said the Reverend.  “You should have called the church and left a message if you needed me to make a house call….and pray with you.”

Was he flirting back?  Keynetha’s head was spinning.  He better leave me alone before I drop to my knees and go to work on this muthafucka!  She laughed at herself as she wondered if he could hear her thoughts.  Of course he couldn’t, but the idea tickled her.  But again – was he flirting back?

“Thank you, Reverend, I’m fine now, I think I just needed more rest.  I should be there next Sunday for sure!”

The Reverend smiled at her and licked his lips.  Yup, he’s definitely sending me some vibes right now, I’m not imagining it!

“Good to hear, Sister Hatcher,” he said.  “There’s an Usher Board meeting Wednesday night and we’re short a few ushers since the Campbell family moved to Chicago.  They had three daughters on the usher board, you know.”

I’ll be your usher, Keynetha said to herself.  Whatchu gonna give me for it?

“That’s right,” she said, “I forgot about that – that was a big family!  Our choir is short like six people now since they moved!”

Reverend Goody laughed heartily, his eyes twinkling.  “You’re right.  Guess I need to do some heavy recruiting to fill in all of the gaps!”

“What time is the usher board meeting?  My godmother is on the usher board and she’s been trying to get me to join.  I think I’ll come and see where I can help out.”

“It’s at 6:00.  Come on by and join. We could use the help.  Seems like we got a lot of new members since I talked to that reporter on TV a few weeks ago.”

“Yes, we sure did,” said Keynetha.  “A few of my friends started coming to church just because they saw you on TV!”

This was true.  Reverend Goody did a brief interview on the local news, speaking about a twelve year old neighborhood boy and church member who disappeared on his way home from school, and suddenly the church’s phone lines blew up and a wave of new visitors started showing up every Sunday. It didn’t go without notice that these visitors were overwhelmingly women, ranging from their early twenties to maybe mid-fifties.  They seemingly came in pairs or groups, all dressed to show off their finest features – tight clothing accentuating their round asses, short skirts to display thick brown thighs, low cut tops that barely restrained their ample breasts.  They put on quite a show, shuffling around trying to get closer to the front of the church so the Reverend couldn’t miss them.  But the regulars and old-timers sat tight in their seats, refusing to give up their spots and give these new folks the satisfaction of being seen.

The older women turned up their lips at these new, young and sparkly women, glancing disdainfully at their long weaves and high heels as they tipped up and down the aisle looking for a place to sit.

“Okay, so that’s why it’s been standing room only out in the pews!”  The Reverend said, smiling sheepishly.  “I thought it was because Mother Waddles started baking cookies every Sunday after service!”

“Yeah, well, those cookies are the bomb!”  Said Keynetha.

“Don’t let me keep you, Sister Hatcher,” the Reverend reached out and touched her arm, ever so slightly, in a gesture of ending their conversation but Keynetha felt his fingers linger just a bit longer than he intended.  Was it all in her mind?

“I just wanted to let you know that I saw you – I’m picking up something to cook for dinner tonight,” he said and waved toward his abandoned shopping basket at the other side of the aisle.  Keynetha noticed how empty his cart looked with only a handful of items, and it reminded her that this good looking Man of God was also single and had no one to prepare him a hot meal.

She saw an opportunity and she went for it.  Clearing her throat, she took a step closer and looked into Reverend Goody’s face.

“You should let me make you dinner sometime, Reverend.  It just doesn’t seem right that you should be fixing and eating a meal by yourself when you do so much for the church.”

He laughed that big hearty laugh again and bent over to her cart and began moving her items around.  “I don’t know, let’s see what you bought here.  What can I expect if I come over?”

Oh, what I wanna give you ain’t in this basket, Reverend Theodore Goody.  Keynetha smiled as he picked up her bag of fresh collard greens in one hand and the shrink wrapped package of ham hocks in the other.

“Alright, alright, you’re off to a good start already!” he said, then he patted the bag of whole sweet potatoes lying against the side of the basket.  “Oh yes, Sister Keynetha, your basket is looking like you know your way around the kitchen!”

I know my way around other rooms of my house too, Reverend.

“Oh yeah, for sure, I’m a very good cook!  My momma made sure I knew how to cook before I even got to middle school.  I had to take over cooking for the family,” said Keynetha.  “You just let me know what you want and I can make it special for you.”

The Reverend stopped rambling around in her basket, which was good because she was afraid he would move the twelve-pack of bathroom tissue at the front of the basket and expose the big shrink-wrapped container of rat poison that she was buying to take care of some unwanted guests in her home.  There was a package of fresh catfish wrapped in brown paper pushed up against the bathroom tissue, and when the Reverend picked that up, Keynetha reached over and took it from his hands, making a joke to distract him and end his treasure hunt through her basket.

“Look if you’re gonna poke all around in my basket then you need to let me take a look in yours too, to make it even!”

She crossed the aisle and headed over to the Reverend’s basket which sat abandoned just a few feet away.  She could hear the Reverend rushing up behind her as she approached the basket.

“What’s this – you have some grandkids, Reverend?” Keynetha reached over and slid her hand across the four boxes of juice pouches in the basket.  To her surprise, the Reverend’s basket was full of snacks and treats – she saw gummy bears, some sugar-sweetened cereal with cartoon characters on the box, and several packages of cookies.

“You either have a bunch of grandkids or you’re running a daycare on the side or you have a sweet tooth that’s out of control!”  Keynetha joked.  The Reverend stepped between her and the basket, forcing her to move back.

“You got me, you know my secret, I do have a bad sweet tooth,” said the Reverend.  “Don’t let the ladies of the congregation find out!  They will be bringing me cakes and pies every Sunday!”

“You gotta watch that, Reverend, it’s funny but it makes me worry about you too.  You really DO need a home-cooked meal, don’t you?”  Keynetha saw a chance to make her move.  Going after the Reverend, girlllllll. 

“How about tomorrow night?  I’ll make dinner and dessert – all you have to do is show up with your appetite,” she offered.

“Now we can’t get the church talking, you know how rumors get started, Sister Key,” replied the Reverend, using Keynetha’s nickname, which told her that he was getting comfortable and probably ready to crack.  She couldn’t wait to get back in her car so she could tell her cousin TeeTee.  She wished she could send her a cellphone pic of the two of them in the store talking.  Would it be crazy to ask the Reverend to pose for a selfie?

“It’s okay, we all know you’re a good man, a God-fearing man, nobody would think anything impure about you, Reverend.  All anyone would think is that you’re coming to sit with me in prayer or do some bible study.”

“Alright, Sister Key.  If you insist.  What time should I be there?”

“Six o’clock?  That will give us time to eat and I really do need you to say some prayers for some of my family members after we eat.  Is that okay, Reverend?”

“Of course, I’ll be there at 6.  Thank you, Sister.  God bless you for being so kind and thoughtful.”  The Reverend put his hands on the basket handle and began to push away from her, moving down the aisle.

“Good day, Reverend,” Keynetha stood just a bit longer and watched him walk away.  She was looking at his ass under the flap of his long overcoat.  Doesn’t seem fair for the Reverend to have a nice ass.

She giggled to herself at her thoughts.  He is falling right into my trap!  Once he tastes my cooking, that nigga will never go home!  Wait, you can’t call the damn Reverend a nigga!

He’s still a man.  A bible in one hand and his dick in the other.  He’s still a man.  Keynetha returned to her basket and continued shopping with a smile on her face.  To passers-by, she might look like a crazy person, pushing the basket around the store with a huge grin on her face.  She was seeing visions of her and the Reverend rolling around in her bed, naked and sweaty, the room lit only by candles.

Oh well, if she was already going to ask for forgiveness then she may as well earn it!

 

 

Reverend Goody pulled into his driveway and hit the button on the remote opener.  The door pulled upwards, painfully slow, it seemed, while the Reverend tapped impatiently on the steering wheel.  He wondered, did the door always roll up this slowly?  Or did he just not notice before because he wasn’t this nervous?  He reached over and caressed his worn leather bible sitting in the passenger seat.  “Dear Father, have pity on those that seek to cause trouble, for they know not what they do.”

The garage door finally granted him entry, and he floored the pedal and rushed inside.  He shut off the engine and sat in the car in the dark garage after the door went back down closing him inside.  He wanted to go over the day’s events, to make sure it happened the way he remembered it happening, to make sure he hadn’t said the wrong thing or given the wrong signal.  Sometimes the women at the church would come on so strong that he struggled with striking that delicate balance between doing the work of the Lord and being friendly and keeping the communication open so they would know they could come to him for prayer and healing – but also not to feed into their lonely desires of the flesh.

The churches were always filled with lonely desperate women looking to become the First Lady, or just get a taste of what it was like to be the First Lady, even if it was just for one night.  He knew it all too well.  He had to continuously pray for strength from the pleasures of the flesh; after all, he was just a man.  He was simply a messenger of God and his flesh had urges like any other man.  It was only by constant prayer and meditation that he was able to keep from violating so many of these women with his urges.  If they only knew how hard it was for him to fight his urges, they would be afraid.  They would also be shocked to discover that his desires were not for the flesh of their thighs or the curves of their asses.  They had very little to offer him outside of an alibi, but he had to keep up the appearance by keeping them aroused and trembling and daydreaming.  Let them keep thinking that they had a chance, it provided him with the perfect cover for his true desires.

His urges sometimes hit him in the night like a freight train.  Roaring up from the soles of his feet as he lay in bed, running up his legs and through his thighs and then striking his dick like a bolt of lightning.  He remembered those days of being able to feed the urge without so much complication.  It was so easy back then, before the days of the internet and cellphones.  You might think those things made it easier, but no, that made it harder because of all of the tracking and digital footprints.  Sure, it was easy to locate, but not so easy to hide, and a man in his position needed to hide.  So he kept his desires under control the old fashioned hands-on way.  He didn’t go to porn sites or do online dating or get into sexting.  He couldn’t risk losing everything he had built by being careless again.  He’d had to run before and he wasn’t going to do it again.

“The Lord is my strength and my defense; he has become my salvation. He is my God, and I will praise him, my father’s God, and I will exalt him.”

Taking a deep breath, Reverend Good finally pulled the door handle and stepped out of his car.  He reached into the back seat and removed the grocery bags of snacks.  The weight of the treats was heavy in his hand and made him smile because he anticipated the joy the treats would bring, and how he might be rewarded for bringing them.

He entered the kitchen through the garage and put the bags on the counter, then reached in and pulled out one box of the juice pouches.  He took out two pouches and applied the straws, making them ready to drink.  Sitting the pouches on the counter, he took a paper plate from the cabinet and laid it next to the juices, then removed four of the sandwich cookies and placed them on the plate.  Pulling open the kitchen drawer, he took out a marker and wrote on each plate, “God loves you.  And so do I.”

He assembled the juice pouches on the plate, looked at his work and smiled.  He knew this was pleasing to the Lord because at that moment he felt strong and in control and the blood was rushing through his veins because he was excited.  The excitement caused his dick to harden and he wasn’t ashamed because he knew he was going to be rewarded soon for his dedication and unwavering service.

The door to the basement was just a few steps away from the countertop but he needed the keys to unlock the three deadbolts, so he retrieved the keys from the bottom of the planter in the living room, then returned and matched the keys up with each lock, grinning as he heard the familiar and satisfying clunk of each key releasing its lock.

Reverend Goody pulled the chain to the light at the top of the stairs and headed down, holding the plate in one hand and keeping himself steady with the rail in the other.

At the bottom of the stairs, he pulled another chain to light up another short hallway, at the end of which was another door to the storage closet.  His heart was beating fast and beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.

He prayed to the Lord to help him make his decision.  I want to do what is pleasing to you, Lord.  He heard a noise from behind the door and he smiled, recognizing that that was his signal to continue as always.

He turned the doorknob and entered the storage closet, pulling the chain to turn on the lightbulb in the ceiling.

The boy hid his face under the blanket when the light filled the tiny room.  The light hurt his eyes because he only saw it once a day, or once a night; he didn’t know anymore whether it was day or night.  He just knew that he only saw the light bulb turn on when the Reverend came in the room.  He wasn’t able to turn it on himself because a bright orange mesh belt tied him tightly to the bed rails and kept him from moving too far away from his bed.  It was crudely twisted over itself into a knot, then wrapped around his ankle and secured with a padlock, with just enough length to allow him to reach the waste bucket on the other side of the room.  Other times – if he was good – the Reverend took him upstairs to the bathroom and allowed him to soak in a bubble bath and watch 30 minutes of television – only if he was really good.

He wanted to be good again, but sometimes it was hard not to fight back.  Even when he knew it would end with him being hurt really bad by the Reverend’s fists.  He was learning quickly what was acceptable to his captor and what was not; what would earn him rewards and what would earn him beatings.  His will to survive kicked in the first night he woke up in this dark place, and he was determined to stay alive until someone rescued him and ended this nightmare.

Reverend Goody approached the bed with the plate in front of him like a peace offering.  His big bright smile was sickening in the context of where they were.

“I told you I would bring you a surprise tonight,” said the Reverend, loosening his belt as he got closer to the bed.  The boy grabbed for the cookie, he was starving.

“No!”  The Reverend snatched the plate back out of his reach.  “You know you have to pray before you eat.  Don’t be bad or I’ll have to hurt you again.”

The boy bowed his head and went through the motions of the prayer that the Reverend had taught him.  The Reverend smiled as he listened to him say the words that he wanted to hear, the words that reassured him that he was doing the right thing.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        

A Good Wife

Prologue

 

“Alesha, can you hear me?”

“Alesha, baby, please wake up!”

“Alesha!”

Alesha stirred and blinked to block out the bright light from the hospital window.  She tried to raise her arm to cover her face but found they were strapped to the bed rails with leather belts.  She jerked against the belts in a useless attempt to free herself but the woman standing next to her bed placed her hands over her wrists.

“Stop, honey, they’ve got you strapped down for your own safety.”

The woman’s hand felt so soft and comforting that Alesha stopped struggling and turned her head to see who these hands belonged to.  She didn’t recognize the older black woman standing there with a concerned look on her face.  Her gray hair was brushed back into a single long braid, and the color was in sharp contrast to her blue dress, and she wore thin silver-framed glasses down on the tip of her nose.

She could tell that Alesha was confused so she placed a hand over Alesha’s forehead to calm her.

“My name is Doctor Wayne, sweetie.  I’m the resident psychiatrist.  I want to help you, don’t be afraid,” she said.

“This doctor here is tryna help you girl!”  Alesha recognized the gruff voice of her father at the foot of her bed.  She raised her head a little so she could look at him.  He was standing there with his arms crossed and his usual angry expression on his face.  He had one of those faces that always looked angry, even when he was sleeping or watching television.  Growing up, the neighborhood kids called him Black Bert, because he favored Bert from Sesame Street.  Now Black Bert was in his least favorite place – the hospital – and this time he really wasn’t happy.

“Wake up and talk to this doctor so we can find out what the hell is wrong with you!” He added, glaring at her from underneath furry eyebrows.

“Calvin, calm down, she’s sick, don’t talk to her like that,” Alesha’s mother spoke up from the side of the bed.  She had always been the voice of reason in their 20-year marriage but now that they were divorced, her words didn’t have much of an effect on him.  She reached out and patted Alesha’s leg underneath the sheet.  “Don’t pay him no mind, honey.”

“I think your parents just wanted to make sure you were okay, but now if you’re awake, I’m going to ask them to step out in the hallway so we can talk for a moment – do you understand?” asked Dr. Wayne.

Alesha nodded.

“Why we gotta leave?  We ain’t heard the girl talk yet, how we know she alright?”  Alesha’s father was getting louder.

Dr. Wayne turned to him and hit him with that soothing stare that calmed you down and made you want to stretch out and tell her all of your problems.  It was easy to see why she was a psychiatrist.  She had a gift.

“Listen to me, Mr. Jones.  I understand that you’re worried about your daughter, and I understand that you need to be assured that she is safe and going to be taken care of.  I am here to give you that assurance,” Dr. Wayne reached out and rubbed his arm, and he moved closer to her.  Alesha could tell he was softening up.

“She can’t hurt herself right now and even though her eyes are open, she’s still a little groggy from the sedative that the doctor gave her.  However, I just want to get some information from her, and then I am going to let her get some sleep for the rest of the night.  Tomorrow, I will meet with you and your wife-”

“She’s not my wife,” said Mr. Jones stubbornly.  “We divorced.”

Dr. Wayne stroked his arm again, thinking to herself, what a piece of work this guy is.  No wonder the poor girl tried to off herself.

“I’m sorry, Alesha’s mother – tomorrow I will meet with you both and we will discuss Alesha’s situation.  Now I want you both to get some rest.  Your daughter will be okay.  I promise you.”

Alesha’s mom stood up and kissed Alesha on the forehead.  “I’m sorry I had to bring him,” she whispered.  “I’ll be back tomorrow, without him.”

She turned and shook Dr. Wayne’s hand.  Dr. Wayne covered her hands inside of her own, in that way that makes you believe the person really cares about your feelings.

“Sleep well, your daughter is on the road to recovery,” said Dr. Wayne.

“Thank you very much, Dr. Wayne,” Alesha’s mom grabbed her former husband by the sleeve.  “Come on, Calvin, let’s get out of here so baby girl can talk to the doctor. She don’t need you standing there looking at her like you crazy.”

Calvin snatched his arm, grumbling, and followed behind her.  “I just don’t understand this mess, its ridiculous!  Got babies at home and tryna kill herself.  Makes no damn sense!  She got that from YOUR side of the family!”

Dr. Wayne followed behind, wishing them a pleasant evening, and closing the door softly.  She walked back to the bed and stood stroking Alesha’s hair away from her face.

“Okay, my dear, it’s just you and I now.”  She tapped the leather wristbelts.  “I can remove these if you promise me that you’ll stay calm.  If I sense that you might try to harm yourself again, I’ll ring this buzzer -” she tapped on a plate on the wall with a large red button in the middle of it.  “- and nurses will rush in and subdue you, and they may sedate you again.  I don’t want that, and I don’t think you want that.”

A single tear rolled down Alesha’s face. “I won’t do anything, I promise.”

Dr. Wayne unlatched the clasps on the wristbelts and loosened them so Alesha could withdraw her hands.  She pulled a chair close to the bed and sat down, then began pushing the controls on the hospital bed to lower Alesha to her eye level.

“I heard your father say that you had babies at home, is that right?”

Alesha nodded.

Dr. Wayne took Alesha’s hand into hers and looked into her face.  “Then please tell me, Alesha, why did you try to end your life tonight?”

 

Chapter One

 

“Oh, baby, damn, you feel so good!” Malcolm moaned as he slid his stiff and swollen cock into Alesha’s pussy from behind.  He gripped her hips and held her body up to support the pounding he was giving her.  Pushing into her and pumping quickly and forcefully, he held still and let Alesha tighten her juicy walls around his cock, anticipating his next stroke.

“You know, you’ve got the best pussy I’ve ever had,” he leaned over and breathed into her ear from behind.  “I just love the way you grip me and squeeze me.  Nobody does that like you, Alesha baby.”

Alesha was shaking with pleasure as she craned her neck to hear his every word.  She maneuvered her body around so she could see his face, she loved watching him loving her; she loved the expressions on his face.

Sex with her husband was the most incredible, and she wanted to do everything he loved to give him the greatest pleasure he had known.  As much as he pleased her, she wanted to please him with the same intensity.  It was the one thing she knew they agreed on, that sex between them was exciting and toe-curling and she never found any reason to not want to enjoy the opportunity.  Malcolm spent a great deal of time caressing and pleasing her body before he entered her, and even then, he made it a personal challenge to make sure she achieved a mind-numbing orgasm before he allowed himself to erupt deep within her slick tunnel.  He always moaned in her ear terms of endearment and phrases of the nasty dirty things he wanted to do to her and what he wanted her to do to him.

So if it was so good to them both and they were, by all accounts, sexually compatible in every way – why did he want to bring another woman into their bed?  Alesha couldn’t understand.  She engaged him in every way and actively participated in his fantasies about having a threesome with a male coworker, or attending a swinger’s party and having group sex in a room with strangers.  She would tell him the dirtiest kinkiest stories she could think of while she slid her hands up and down on his stiff rod, getting him to the brink until he would grab her head and force her down to catch his fluid as it shot out of his cock.  She would even whisper in his ear while he was sweaty and pounding between her legs held up in the air, she would craft for him a story of being spread out on his desk with his coworker bent over between her legs licking her pussy while she cried out in pleasure.

“Fuck me good, Daddy,” Alesha cried out, egging him on.  She knew that kind of talk really helped push him over; he loved for her to call him Daddy when he was deep inside of her.

She did it all for him, whatever fantasy he wanted, she went along with it, and if it was something she didn’t know much about – like when he wanted to talk about having anal sex with her, something they had never done – she went on the internet to research it, read about it and watch videos, so she could better put together a sexy story to whisper at him while she was riding in his lap with his cock inside of her.

It was all good as long as it was just a fantasy.  They could say and do whatever they wanted as they shared the nastiest and freakiest stories of things they knew they would never actually do.  But when Malcolm dropped the idea in her lap, so to speak, Alesha froze mid-stroke.  She had been on top, grinding and riding on his stiff cock and using her hands to rub and squeeze her nipples, putting on quite a show for her lovely man.  Her head was thrown back with her thick Marley braids flying around her head and matted in sweat around her neck.  She knew how she looked and she knew by the look in Malcolm’s eyes that he appreciated her efforts.  Suddenly, he reaches around her and starts rubbing her ass and slapping it gently, then pulling her down into him so he could raise his hips and force his cock deeper inside.  The intensity of him going deeper caused her eyes to fly open and she moaned and looked down at him, their eyes locked, and that’s when he asked her, “Do you know what would make this moment perfect?”

Alesha couldn’t speak, she was caught on the edge of an orgasm that began its descent from the very pit of her cervix and she was almost frightened at the intensity it promised.  “What?”  she breathed.

Malcolm hesitated a moment and then she thought she heard him say, “If Traci was sitting on my face right now, and I had my tongue inside her sweet pussy.”  As soon he got out the sentence, his cock started quivering and Alesha began her climax at the same time.  But she froze at his words and her body stopped moving while the climax rippled up through her body and took her breath away.  Malcolm was groaning as his cock spurted out ripplets of cum deep inside of his wife.  He was totally unaware of the fact that she had stopped moving, since he could feel her pussy vibrating in an orgasm; he knew she was there with him.  He didn’t open his eyes until he had finished emptying inside of her and caught his breath.  When he opened his eyes, Alesha was staring at him.

“What did you say?” she asked, wide eyed, her heart beating hard in her chest.

Malcolm smiled and slid his hands up to her breast, where he began massaging them both in small circles.  That usually melted her resolve and helped him avoid any argument that might be brewing.  This time he could tell it would be different.

“I was just saying, you know how we talked about doing a threesome, I just thought that if we did it, we would want somebody we could trust, right?”  Malcolm wet the tip of his index finger with his tongue and moved it back and forth across her nipple.  “That’s not something you can just do with anybody, right?”  He flashed that wide bold smile at her with his perfectly straight white teeth.  Then he licked his other index finger and started on the other nipple; soon he was rolling both nipples between his fingers in tandem.  But Alesha was no longer aroused; she was disturbed by the mention of her best friend sitting on her husband’s face.

“I thought…I thought that was just one of our fantasies, you know, one of our stories that we tell each other for excitement,” she spoke softly, feeling the dread building in her stomach.

Malcolm chuckled.  “It was a fantasy, but why can’t we make it happen?  We have a lot of fantasies, we can’t make them all come true, I know that, but why not make just one come true?”  He raised his upper body off the bed and started licking her nipple, slipping it into his mouth and sucking on it.  “Mmmmm, I love your nipples.  You know I love you, right?”

For the first time, Alesha wasn’t joining him in his game.  She sat very still and stiffened her back, not giving in to him as she usually would.  She usually would raise her hands to run through his hair while he played with her nipples, she would moan and whisper his name to let him know how good he made her feel.  But not this time.  She wasn’t letting him off that easily.  Was he serious?

“What’s the problem?” Malcolm asked.  “I figured if we do it with somebody you can trust then it’s all good.  We can trust Traci, don’t you think so?”

“That’s not the point, Malcolm,”  Alesha said finally.  “Of course I trust her, but I can’t let you fuck my best friend!  This is crazy!”

Malcolm pulled her head down to meet his lips and kissed her deeply, probing her mouth with his tongue; Alesha’s body betrayed her by moaning into his kiss.  She didn’t want to give in but he had that kind of hold on her and she always wanted to make him happy.  She’d never considered that there might be limits to how far she would go.  They’d never tested the limits.  Anything they had not done was simply because they just had not done it yet, not because she ever said no.

Malcolm broke the kiss and grabbed her hair, forcing her to look into his eyes.  “That’s just it – we make LOVE, I make LOVE to you, I LOVE you, we LOVE each other.  I wanna FUCK her.”  And then he plunged his tongue into her mouth again.

Alesha felt his cock twitch and began to swell as he became aroused again.  It didn’t escape her attention that his own words had excited him.  He was hard again and her body was still holding his stream from minutes earlier.

“But…but, we FUCK too!”  She said weakly, feeling her resolve melt as his cock rose up to press into her belly.

He reached one hand between them and aimed the head of his cock toward her pussy and took his other hand and pressed on her ass to pull her into him.  He slid inside smoothly as she was still wet from their last session.

“Not like I wanna fuck her,” he said, looking right into her eyes as he went in as far as he could go.

Alesha didn’t want to feel good at that moment but she couldn’t stop it.  His words scared her and excited her at the same time.  A voice inside of her head screamed, what the fuck are you saying to me?  And she wanted to be angry, she wanted to slap his face, but she watched his eyes roll up in the back of his head as he began making love to her, and she could no longer fight the passion that she felt for this man.  No matter how outrageous his words were, that he wanted to fuck her best friend in a way different than the way he had her, she knew above all that she loved him and would do anything for him.  She was insulted, and offended, but at the same time she felt powerful.  And she realized how insane that concept was – to feel powerful in the face of her man telling her that he wanted another woman.  She felt powerful because he included her and asked her to agree and he didn’t go behind her back and cheat like so many other men would do.

She wouldn’t lose her man the way her mother lost hers.  She wouldn’t have Malcolm Jr. and Ebony growing up in a home without a father.

She wrapped her arms around his back and held on tightly, thinking, this is MY man, and I must give him anything he needs.

Author Bio

Kenya Moss-Dyme is a writer of fiction, originally from Chicago, now hailing from Michigan – land of the subzero winters and nuclear summers. She began writing short-form horror in her teens and won several scholastic writing awards for her creative work. She later realized a talent for also writing thrillers and erotic novellas.

“The only genres in which I don’t feel comfortable writing are comedy and romance. Whenever I try to write a romantic story, it ends up turning dark and the couple will go from taking marriage vows to going on a crime spree! So I tend to stay away from those genres altogether.  When it comes to erotic stories, I like to challenge myself and write a really good story that just happens to have a lot of incredible sex folded up inside.”

Kenya has several exciting projects in development for 2014 under the Royal Dynasty Publications imprint, including a novel about an urban zombie apocalypse, more from the Pulpit Chronicles series about “preachers with very unchristian behavior”, and a few stories that are a bit on the risqué side.

“I love zombies and the supernatural! But there’s nothing scarier to me than HUMANS and the unimaginable depths of depravity of which we are capable. You see it in the news every day and you ask yourself, ‘what kind of monster…?’ That’s what I love to explore in my writing, characters that are like the people you think you know – but you really don’t know after all. I create them – and then I like to set them free – does that sound a little strange?”

Kenya holds both an MBA in Business, and a Masters in Education; as well as undergraduate degrees in Marketing and Web Development.

The Pulpit Chronicles: Prey for Me is Kenya’s first full-length novel.

 

 

 

 

The post Short Reviews: Kenya Moss Dyme appeared first on Dion Cheese.

The Watch List: Up-n-Coming Authors: Deanne Smith

From on high to the streets and back again. Deanne shows the world why she’s in control of her destiny…

Seems though nowadays that Boston is not only known because of it’s delicious Boston Creme Pie delights, and singing sensation New Edition. On the contrary it appears that an Urban Fiction uprising is beginning to take place; a new Boston Revolution so to speak which is being led by non other than Deanne Smith who is blazing up the scene like a fire breathing dragon telling her no-holds-barred penned story; Acid Connections which is primarily based on her real life experiences which she entails through her on personal struggles.

Having spoke with her on numerous occasions I truly was fascinated by her life tales. Over the phone she candidly shared her life struggles from her innocence, to her downright spiraling travesty which she succumbed to, stemming from having a loving heart for the wrong man.

Nevertheless, I had the privilege of reading a few chapters of her her all-telling novel which I enjoyed immensely, and am looking forward to reading the rest. I must also add that meeting such a strong woman who is full of wisdom, faith, and lot’s of love was an honor and a pleasure. And without further adieu I introduce to you, Authoress Deanne Smith.

 

Acid Connections Book Trailer

Tina Turner Move over! Authoress Deanne Smith has a hellifying story to tell. There’s certainly no Ike beat Deanne going on up in here biatches!!!

DionCheese.Com: Tell me, what is the story behind your story?

Deanne Smith: There story behind Acid Connections is I wrote this book at the lowest point of my life. I was homeless, potentially facing federal criminal charges and in the mist of my storm I just sat and started writing, not even imagining that I would be here today. But I rebuilt my life brick by brick and today I am a new woman. This book seems to be the final chapter of everything coming full circle while also being the start the of a new chapter in my life. More then anything this book is like the representation of a Sankofa bird from me. It’s helped me to recapture my past and use it as a tool to carry me in to my future and what I am destined for – success

DC: Are you self-published are signed? Why did you choose the specific route?

 

Deanne:  I chose to self publish. There were pros and cons to both but when I weighed the options self publishing was a better fit for me. I put my blood sweat and tears in to writing my book and didn’t want to search and sell that my book was a good product so to please take a risk on me. I believed in my book it was like why not just go the extra mile to publish it and gain all the profit from my own work.

 DC: Has your local community shown you much support?

Deanne: Boston has shown me a crazy amount of support. It’s actually shocking because I find that Boston is NOT a place that backs there own. It’s sad to but they don’t and they have really made me say WOW with the support.  I have had people buy my book whom I know and don’t know, radio stations invite me for interviews, public speaking to promote it, as well as book stores looking to support
 and sell my book.

DC: How many book signings have you done thus far, and what is the most memorable moment for you to date?

Deanne: Unfortunately I haven’t done a lot of book signings. I had a really big book signing upon the release of my book at the beginning of April and sold out of all my books which was a happy moment. But I have gone to various places to speak and promote my book and the most memorable was a young lady coming up to me on the verge of tears telling me I inspire her, after listening to my personal story of how I came to write Acid Connections.

DC: How can people contact you, and what are you immediate future plans alongside of your long term goals?

Deanne: I am reachable through email at deannethewriter@yahoo.com I also have a website with a contact form and that is  deannetsmith.com I LOVE to hear from people and get back to everyone. Not to mention I am on every social network under “deanne the writer” My immediate plans are to get started on publishing part 2 of Acid Connections which is finished, while also starting to go to others states on the east coast to promote my book. My long term goal is to be able to become a full time writer and motivational speaker because I have a story that some young girl, lost and fighting to get back on track can benefit from.

Bonus Question: I truly find that aside from the Boston Massacre which was a horrific event that there is a second horrific event as well that has caused countless deaths across America and elsewhere around the world and that you my dear are a co-conspirator thereof. Putting this out there, my question is: Boston Crème doughnuts are extremely delicious and fattening. I eat about at least a dozen per week. Do you feel that your city is responsible for the many massively, enjoyable, yet deadly heart attacks induced by this irresistible treat?

 

Deanne: As crazy as this sounds, I am from Boston and have NEVER had a Boston Cream Doughnut so you will have to tell me!!!


Deanne’s Bio

I don’t care about any of Deanne’s blatant denials! She is responsible for my new gut! Damn you Boston Creme Doughnuts…

A sparkling diamond in the rough terrain of an urban life, author Deanne Smith’s childhood was as dramatic as her book, Acid Connections. Born to a Master’s Degree holding mother, whose own personal lifelong battles crippled her relationship for decades with her daughter, and a workaholic father who did everything to spoil and provide for his daughter financially, but failed to meet her emotional needs, Deanne may have been destined for failure. Miraculously, in stepped one woman – Deanne’s paternal grandmother –whose faith in Deanne sparked an undying flame and passion for life. It was because of her grandmother that Deanne grew up to a successful life — a far cry from what she was destined for. NaNa nurtured and raised her to not take “no” for an answer and to always press on with her dreams.

 

Throughout her childhood, Deanne used writing as an escape from the hardships of her life, but eventually her writing became a tool to realizing her dreams. “Writing is my passion, my peace of mind and what soothes my soul,” she confessed to a friend. Her love of Urban Fiction and a deep desire to write led her to author Acid Connections.

Deanne is the proud mother of two sons – Dylan and Ej.  She basks in the joy of motherhood and takes great pride in being a parent attuned to the needs of her children. Deanne’s personal and professional successes include earning a Bachelor’s Degree in Criminal Justice from Savannah State University in Savannah, GA, being born again and developing future legacies through her sons Dylan and Ej. Her proud determination is a testament to Deanne’s inner strength and power.

Deanne currently resides in her birth city of Boston, Massachusetts, where she keeps busy raising her children, working, and writing. Acid Connections is the first book in a planned trilogy.

The Book:  Acid Connections

The Sneek Peek Inside: One Click it. You won’t regret it.

Walking to the largest tank, Tavares was glad that she was just about done. She stopped in her tracks, blinking twice. She thought she had lost her mind. “We have to stop meeting like this,” the man said, looking at Apple and thinking he wasn’t happy to be seeing her like this, but he was still happy to have bumped into her again.

“You kill me,” Dollar laughed in a confident tone. “Your husband? Yeah, he’s your husband, but he’s everyone else’s man,” she laughed. “Only difference is you got a ring, but he’s slinging dick and dollars all across town,” Dollar taunted.

This morning was some fucking bullshit and it makes me say to you, where’s the limit? The bitches, your baby’s mother drama, you in the streets, late nights, the drugs, just all of it is too much. Just tell me why you would do something so reckless as to shoot someone out of a car and then give me the car?

Seconds later, Tavares heard a loud scream. Quickly turning around, she saw the cakes go flying in the air and off the table that was being pushed between her and Shaunda. Shaunda snatched a knife off the cake table and was storming directly toward her with it.

 

The post The Watch List: Up-n-Coming Authors: Deanne Smith appeared first on Dion Cheese.

Who Am I?… The Excerpt

Have A Sneek-Peek Before You Download or Buy…
Who Am I? The Chronicles of Cain

A word or two beforehand…Note that this book will have your head spinning in circles if you can decode the many hidden messages within. As the author of this work. I really enjoyed writing this book, and when I tell you (the readers) that this book is more than a novel; it really is. It’s an adventure that will take you to places where most will never dare to go.

Who Am I? Will be the most unique book you have ever read. Even within this chapter there is more than meets the eye… If you like to read more than just your everyday run-of-the-mill urban fiction novel, this book is it.Yes, the topic is familiar but the way the story is told, and the angles that are measured out have remained untouched that I can assure you.

Next, you may be asking yourself,  If this book is so good then why haven’t I heard about it sooner?  It’s because you don’t know who I am. But when you are finished reading my novel, the name; Dion E Cheese will be one you remember.

Enough said. Ciao bitches!

Not the original format…

Everyone from here to Toledo claims to love their momma But they still fuck with me knowing I bring the drama . . . Cain

DEAR MOMMA Beep! Beep! Beep! The alarm clock sounded off, awakening sixty-five- year-old Kindra Heralds from a pleasant sleep. Showing the time to be about 6:15 am, the alarm clock continued to ring, but she did not move. Instead of getting up, she lay lifelessly in her bed, allowing it to ring for another minute or so, knowing that it would automatically stop on its own. Having her head resting on a soft pillow, she began stretching her arms and legs a little before finally turning her head to the right. Looking across her bedroom through her window, she watched outside as the sun’s radiance began permeating the partially darkened skies of early spring. From her years of amassed knowledge built upon her intricate wisdom and experience of growing up on a farm in Birmingham, Alabama, she could easily tell that this particular day would be most pleasant. Already, she could discern that today’s temperature would be well above the low sixties because no morning frost covered her window. Ms. Heralds, even though she was in the early part of the sixth decade of her life, had been virtually healthy overall having no major health issues. As an attractive elderly woman, she was extremely pleasant to look upon. She gathered her thoughts while lying inside her bedroom with her full bloom of shoulder-length hair. Natural hair that was as straight as an arrow with its silken texture and shiny luster draping upon the mattress underneath her. Her comely face framed her soft features which still remained mostly wrinkled free except for a few small fine lines that ran across her forehead and along the corners of her mouth that were barely visible to the naked eye. Her beautiful brown skin, which often reminded everyone of the shade of almonds, covering her entire frame had otherwise been ageless and blemish free. She also possessed a bright

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warm smile that spoke volumes about her saying, “I maybe a mother and all that . . . , but I am still a beautifully aged queen.” Her eyes alone spoke of tenderness and compassion, qualities which she had shown toward many others throughout the years in addition to being well renowned for having an open heart that stood as an open testimonial for those who knew her. Many people throughout her neighborhood spoke favorably about her to others describing her as “the pleasant elderly woman who lived across the street.” Gently, she covered her mouth while yawning a bit just before she rose up from under the covers getting out of her bed wearing cozy pajamas. Looking up, she said a quiet morning prayer. “Thank you, Lord, for yet another wonderful day,” she said just before walking her light frame across the carpeted floor enjoying the lush feel of the plush fibrous material between her toes as she ventured toward her vanity mirror where she picked up her silk robe and slipped on a pair of house shoes. Putting on her robe, she began tying the garment’s loose hanging belt around her small slender waist. Afterward, she walked inside her adjoining bathroom to freshen up before heading downstairs out the front door and back inside her house. Down below inside her kitchen, she fixed herself a hot steaming cup of hazelnut-flavored coffee. Having poured the rich-flavored drink into her cup, she headed toward her kitchen table having the cup and a small saucer plate within her hands. She sat the cup upon the table, pulled out a chair, and sat down facing the window which gave her a beautiful view of her lovely backyard. Sitting there at the table, she reached out and grabbed a bottle of caramel-flavored nondairy creamer Coffee-mate and a little Truvia, an herbal sugar substitute which she added to her morning drink. Next, she picked up the cover off of a solid glass cake dish and removed one of the old-fashioned doughnuts, one of her favorites. Dipping it into her coffee, she began eating it. On the table before her was a copy of the morning paper, The Chicago Tribune. Picking it up, she began reading the paper immediately but only after she opened up the crime section first and foremost. Throughout the years as of late, she always found herself reading the crime section first. Ever since her son Mitch disappeared

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without a trace, she’d often found herself worrying constantly about her eldest son Big Richard as she would always call him. She made a habit of calling him that after the birth of her grandson about seven years ago in order to distinguish the two. But he shortened the name so that it would be more reflective of the money he was making and the street moniker stuck. Even though his son had died a few years back after he and his mother Lois Banks were in a fatal car crash when an eighteen-wheeler swerved in the snow along the Dan Ryan Expressway. The commercial vehicle had been loaded with slightly over fifty thousand pounds of office furniture when it hit a patch of snow during an ice storm as Lois and little Richard rode alongside it. The truck jackknifed when the driver suddenly hit the brakes trying not to rear end another vehicle that the operator thereof also unexpectedly hit the brakes after sliding over a black patch of ice. Lois had been unaware of what transpired between the two vehicles at the time as she was talking on her cell phone to her sister Kimberly when the phone suddenly went silent. “Sis . . . sis!” she had called into the phone over and over again only to look up at the television set in her house that played the morning news showing a sky-view picture of the accident from a helicopter live news cam. Several minutes later she saw a close-up of the vehicles involved which left her screaming when she realized that both her sister and nephew had been completely crushed during the fatal accident. The only good news that came out of the incident was that both Lois and little Richard were both instantly killed. Neither suffered any severe pain before dying. What happened then almost caused Kindra to have a nervous breakdown, and ever since the accident the closest person to Big Rich had been Mitch. Within her house, Kindra sat at her kitchen table, recalling her many talks with her only two children on the face of this earth. Constantly, she remembered telling them both on numerous occasions to “stay away from those streets.” As a rebuttal to her words of wisdom, they’d always sing the same old song telling her, “Momma, we’ve got this. Ain’t nothin’ ever gon’ happen to you or us. We be out there workin’ with Cain, and ain’t nobody crazy enough to cross him or us.” After hearing their same old reply again and again, Kindra gave up

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trying to persuade them both to give up on what she termed as “The Life” seeing that neither one of them would listen to her sound advice. Nonetheless, she made them promise to swear to her saying, “Now listen to me. I already know how stubborn and hardheaded the two of you are. You’re just like your daddy used to be . . . , out there loving them streets. Those loose women, the drinking and partying. But the least thing you two can do for your momma is to promise me that the two of you will stop by this house you both bought me at least once a week.” The house she lived in had cost them well over a quarter million dollars and was located somewhere nearby the Country Club Hills on the South Side of Chicago. Despite her acquisitioning of her house through Cain’s and Butters’s involvement with her two sons, she still considered herself to be blessed to live at her present location away from the violence and other hardships of the inner city. But as a loving mother, she couldn’t help finding herself being concerned about the whereabouts of her only living son knowing the fact he worked with Cain. Sitting quietly at her kitchen table reading her morning newspaper she retrieved moments earlier from off her front lawn she couldn’t help but wonder what or where that terrible, awful smell had been coming from. It had seemed as though it appeared out of nowhere. Only moments ago, she had smelled the fresh scents of spring drifting throughout her cozy home. But now—? The smell she smelt throughout her house stank so bad that it began to make her stomach feel nauseated. Although slightly familiar, the smell reminded her of a fatty pork smell mixed in with a sweet, acrid charcoal aroma. The smell certainly was not pleasant in any manner whatsoever, not in any shape, form, or fashion. It was quite unlike anything she’d ever known. In fact it became so strong that she could almost taste it. She began to gag as her tongue forced itself against the hard pallet of her mouth as an attempt to block off her gullet. No longer could she eat as the horrible smell infiltrated the confines of her house. Setting down the uneaten portion of her doughnut on the saucer which sat before her, she slid back her chair in an abrupt manner, stood up, and walked away from her kitchen table wondering, WTF! Is that terrible smell?

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Curiously, she walked toward the direction of the smell. Passing through her living room, the horrible odor became stronger and stronger as she approached her front door. Grabbing the brass handle on the door, she pressed the lever downward and opened it. Her pupils dilated as her eyes widened in fear as she saw her only son’s bodily remains burning within the midst of her front lawn. The sight of her son’s corpse burning in her neatly kept yard had been too vile and terrible as to make her scream. For some odd reason, not a horrid sound escaped from her mouth. Standing on her front porch, Ms. Heralds stood stonelike being in complete shock. Her startled mind became locked in a matrix of horror and fear as the raging fire continued to burn and melt away the flesh on Big Rich’s face making him look like some hideous, despicable, grotesque genre in the making thereof. Watching her son’s corpse burn like a burnt pot roast skewering in the oven being cooked by a terrible chef, Ms. Heralds’s body began to shake uncontrollably as her mind began processing the raw fact that it was her only living son who burned before her very eyes. She knew foul play had been involved just like her son Mitch’s death had occurred even though neither the police nor anyone else ever discovered his body. She knew inside her heart that somehow he had been killed and often wondered if Cain had been involved. When it came to Cain and his lifestyle, which she hadn’t known much about, she knew from her gut instinct that it was best to not ask questions about him. Every time she read the morning paper, she would read something about his name. And yet while others went to jail, he always got away unscathed. In the morning papers she read, the same questions always remained time and time again, “Who was he?” “Where did he come from?” “How much was he worth in the street market places?” And so forth as if he were some hot commodity worth billions of dollars in some illegal industry of some sort. Each time a new article was printed about him, more and more questions would arise such as, “And how much weight was he holding?” “Who else was he involved with?” From her estimates according to what she read she thought that he must be richer than Bill Gates . . . ? And if so, what did he want with my sons?

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Why bother with them or the poor street kids of Chicago? Shouldn’t he be hanging out working with all those rich people in Beverly Hills? Paris Hilton, Nicole Richie, or them other rich people who are always getting into trouble? Looking at her son, her heart became laden with a heavy sadness that only a mother could describe. And although she wanted to turn away from the horrible sight before her, she couldn’t. My Richard Henry Herald, Jr., is dead! her mind screamed out over and over again. Having left opened her front door behind her, someone quietly stepped in the back of her small framed figure. The strange individual had been wearing all black. The individual had been someone she had not known. Neither had the intruder covered his face, for he was just passing through. He only stopped by to pay her a brief visit and deliver a message from someone else she knew very well. Standing inches behind her, he reached out and tapped her upon her shoulder. Feeling the cold touch of his body against her back caused her to freeze up. Frightening chills quickly traveled up her spine. Despite being scared to death, Ms. Heralds slowly turned around to see the individual who stood behind her. The one who’s touch felt as cold as ice. It was a touch that didn’t feel quite human. Nevertheless, curiosity had overcome her fears, and she faced the stranger standing behind her although he hadn’t said a word to her. Yet she desperately felt that she had to know who this intruder was trespassing through her property uninvited. When she faced him, he spoke. “Hello, ma’am. My name is—” said the stranger. Oddly to her, the voice didn’t fit the character who talked. The person who pointed himself directly in front of her face sounded very educated, nerdy in a sense. Even his voice was whiny of sorts. While looking at him, her mind reeled backward in time. Although the stranger introduced himself, he needn’t bother, she thought. The stranger had wasted his time with the formalities, for she already knew of him. Heard his name whispered among her sons while they conversed with one another in the past within her presence thinking she had fallen asleep on the couch one afternoon while watching the soaps on the OWN network on cable TV.

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Although she never met him in the flesh, seeing him shoved up in her face the way they were positioned by one another refreshed her memory. Desperately she tried to speak. But fear now consumed every inch of her body like a deadly virus replicating itself on a good day. After a few seconds passed, she reached deep down inside her aged soul and found the courage to finally speak. “I . . . I . . . I,” she stuttered. “I’ve, hear-heard,” she gulped down hard. She then spoke in a whisper that was barely audible saying, “of you,” finishing her sentence. “I know that you have. I know that you have. Everyone knows me in one way or the other,” said the stranger in his uncanny, whiny type voice. “I’ve only been sent here to deliver you a message for someone else.” Who? she thought, but she never received an answer. Pffft! Pffft! were the last two sounds she ever heard as two bullets quietly exited from the barrel . . . of the intruder who violated her personal space. They were the last things she ever saw as the projectiles slammed into her skull piercing the frontal lobe of her brain, causing major hemorrhaging along with massive damage to the back of her skull, sending her into a catatonic state forevermore. On her forehead were two small-sized holes, yet the combination of the two bullets exiting through the back of her skull left a gargantuan orange-sized hole where the parietal bone pallet should’ve been. The heavy force from the bullets reeled her petite, 130-pound frame backward. She fell off her cement porch, down the stairs just before her body slumped to the ground like a lifeless heap. Lying on her back in the coolness of dawn darkness consumed her completely covering her like a warm blanket. Instantaneously, her entire world faded to black. Seeing her dead like her son, the silent killer casually walked over to her lifeless corpse and dropped a note. He stealthily disappeared as quietly as he had come. Roscoe “Baretta” James never stayed in one place too long, for he had a lot of killing to do. He left the scene of the crime, feeling no remorse whatsoever. In fact he loved killing, and he did it well. He strongly felt

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that he was created to kill. It was in his genes from the making, and simply put, he needed no excuse to kill. As a matter of record, he left the scene thinking, Hell, I was made this way.

The Trailer…

To read more or purchase click the book icon below. Enjoy!

The post Who Am I?… The Excerpt appeared first on Dion Cheese.

Having A Book Affair With Words

It’s An Affair That You Don’t Want To Miss!!!

 

Yes, her book is available. Cop it or I may abuse you…

Has anyone ever said something that nearly had you jumping off the ledge because it was just so unbelievable that you couldn’t fathom someone doing such a thing? If you answered yes, then you are one of the millions of readers who most assuredly are a lover of the urban fiction brand of books. Books whose words leave most of of us standing on the edge of anxiety as you flip through the pages of your favorite author’s latest forte. Having an affair with words has probably been one of the greatest inventions of mankind since vocal cords were allowed to emit words. The recent boom of urban fiction; albeit dark detailed stories, or haunting tales of murder, mayhem, crime, and much more. These are the written words that tell our stories, struggles and are a reflection of the lives we lived. Although Urban fiction has become extremely popular among the masses many new authors have not, and often more times than not urban fiction novels have been shelved deep within the recesses of stores only to be passed by unnoticed by the masses. Therefore in order to remedy the lack of shelf space due to biased mainstream bookstore chains, etcetera, and so forth. Many urban authors in particular have either searched diligently for other possible avenues, or have created their own platforms which offer an abundance of opportunity such as LJ Jameela Thomas has done in creating this spectacular, upcoming, book festival in the ATL. An event that will encompass some of the best Urban Fiction writers amongs many other genres, and other African American authors who are pursuing their literary dreams. Therefore, in order to better inform you about this opportunistic event for authors and fans alike I tracked LJ down like a lion on a gazelle’s ass in the hot plains of Africa. Hungry as I am for great opportunities to further help my fellow authors along. I decided to get the details straight from the horses mouth (no offense LJ your picture looks finer than any horse…LOL!). So, let’s all eat, drink, and be merry while selling a book or two. You never know who might be the next Zane, or Carl Weber.  Down below is where you will find the event that may be the start of a successful career for you. Support the cause, Think Urban! Get Involved! Contact LJ, and get your ticket to one of this summer’s hottest events.

LJ’s  Event:This Summer’s Hottest Book Fair

DionCheese.Com: I heard that you have a major event coming up that you are hosting with others can you please elaborate? LJ: Yes I have a book Fair which is a part of the Georgia Arts, Neo Soul & Poetry Awards and Expo. We have national recording artists performing, as well as nationally known authors, poets and others. There is a business expo, a banquet and the awards ceremony where renowned poet Hank Stewart and national personality Joyce Littel are being honored. DC: Where will this event be held and what made you decide to create such event in the first place? LJ: This is being held at the Georgia International Convention Center on Saturday, June 28, 2014. The address is 2000 Convention Center Concourse, Atlanta, GA 30337 General admission is only $10 I had my 1st book fair last June and decided that I wanted to make it an annual thing. This year, I was asked to participate with this program and I readily accepted. It is a great opportunity for authors participating in the book fair to gain more exposure. It is important to me to do this since it is often difficult for me to make it to events and I wanted to do something as a way of showing support for other authors. DC: Who is your targeted audience, and how will this event help push their interests further? LJ: This event caters to anyone who is interested in the arts, business and books. There has never been an awards program for the arts in this area. We feel it is about time and instead of waiting on someone else to do it, we have done it ourselves. G.A.N.S.P.A. (Georgia Arts, Neo Soul & Poetry Awards) has a mission of supporting artists year round through their education and mentoring programs.  They also spotlight excellence through the annual Awards Ceremony. DC: What sets your event apart from others of the same nature? LJ: The fact that we have one of the largest radio stations in the area as a media partner, V103 “The people station”. In addition, this book fair is a part of a much larger event and will therefore draw a larger crowd.  We are looking forward to continuing this book fair each year and the more the better. I want my book fair to be the largest in the southeast on day and I have hit the ground running to achieve this. I encourage authors near and far to attend this event. DC: How long will this event last, and where can people who are interested purchase tickets? LJ: The event is only for Saturday. Tickets for the individual events can be purchased at this link. http://www.georgiaartsneosoulpoetryawards.com/#!tickets/c14mz  When you click the link, you will see the price for each event and you can purchase them online. DC: Will there be marauders among the pack, such as myself, hunting down some good food that you will be serving because I can literally smell your good cooking as we speak? LJ: Lol… Well there will be concessions spots at the venue for the purchase of food for extra hungry individuals such as yourself. DC: Will author etiquette be involved or am I allowed to just grab money from the patrons’ hands and hand them a book? LOL! It is preferable that etiquette be displayed in the proper manner. As an author, we are held to a higher standard and should behave accordingly. LJ: It is preferable that etiquette be displayed in the proper manner. As an author, we are held to a higher standard and should behave accordingly. DC: On a more serious note, how will those who pay a premium price be featured within your special showcase, and how many people can fit into the arena? LJ: The convention center is huge. The Bronner Brothers have had their hair shows there. Therefore, we have more than enough space for our events. There are over 2,000 parking spots. So realistically, at a minimum, the venue will easily hold 2,000 people at one time. However, multiply that by 4 and you are still looking at 8,000 people being accommodated with ease. Remember, we have a book Fair, which will take place in the lobby. There will be the banquet in one of the Salons or ballrooms for honoring Joyce Littel, Hank Stewart and others. There will be an expo including entertainment stages, vendors and community organizations after the banquet. Then Saturday evening the Awards Gala Ceremony will be the finale. This will feature national recording artist George Tandy, Jr and other international, national and local artist. The show will be broadcast live to thousands via the web on a network of over 100 affiliate stations and local radio networks. For authors participating in the book fair, they will be featured in the program booklet and on the website. I must have a head shot, a brief bio and cover pic of the book. Since the tables are 5-6 feet long, they are welcomed to bring as many books as they would like.  In addition, any author who is unable to attend, but wants to have their books present, they can contact 404-590-2845 and get further details. Here is the schedule Doors Open at 12:00 PM Saturday – Award Banquet Time: 1:00 – 3:30 PM   Saturday – Book Fair AMB Industries Time: 4:00 PM – 7:00 PM   Saturday – Expo Time: 1:00 PM – 7:00 PM   Saturday – Awards Ceremony Doors Open @ 7:00 PM Ceremony: 8:00 PM – 11:00 PM  

Special Performances:

George Tandy Jr. & Heston Francis   (NOTE: Anyone who is interested in being a vendor or sponsor at this event can contact (404)590-2845)   DC: Is this event formal or casual, and what message or advice would you like to send to your future attendees who will show up at the event? LJ: The dress for the event depends on which one you are attending. For instance, it would not be good to show up to the banquet in shorts and tennis shoes.

The post Having A Book Affair With Words appeared first on Dion Cheese.

Crazy Ass Video: Getting The Scum Out of Your Life

Sex, Perversion, & Cleaning Up Your Act

Sometimes the scum you have will watch you as you clean up your act…No pun intended!

Have you been trying to get the soap scum out of your life? Has Onanism been a major problem for you (Gen. 38: 9-10); meaning does the bottom of your bathtub get a little bit extra slippery when you grab the soap?

Come on! You know exactly what I mean. Soaping up while in the shower has been something young and older lonely men have been doing since the invention of soap. Thanks Mr. Soap inventor man.

Seems like lathering up in the shower has become the new raving fad nowadays since the sudden increase of porno across the web. Hmmm?  You do know what I mean fellas? Sometimes you have to bust a few pipes in order to relieve the pressure. LOL! Yes Onan spilled his seed and a lot of you have done so as well catch my drift, and due to the fact the African-American community has been steadily decreasing in numbers thanks to the Chinese and cheap electronics…LOL!

Anyway, for the ladies this may be a totally different experience since they are more concerned with keeping the tub clean after most of you have mucked it up with your dirty onanisms. But what if someone cleaned up the tub only to find out that it’s full of little dark, bubbly, dirty little secrets. Secrets that you’ve been hiding while she you were in her absence. Find out what these secrets are and why we must clean up our acts in this Crazy Ass Video of the Week.

Oh, and remember, don’t drop the soap someone may be watching.

Enjoy!

Ciao bitches!

The post Crazy Ass Video: Getting The Scum Out of Your Life appeared first on Dion Cheese.

IUrban.Org and You

Rollin’ with the Urb will take you Higher than ever Before!

IF you clicked onto this post I know the first thing you are wondering is WTF! is an  iUrban.org? Many have inboxed me or emailed me concerning this question. What I can tell you is this; it’s the place where you will want to be if you are a writer, reader of urban fiction, and a lover of a panoply of info, blog talk radio, music, movies, health, new shows,  poetry, short stories, an ametuer writer with something to share, or just like hanging out in one of our upcoming fun communities such as Drunk At The Bar, Babylon City, and much more. Join us.

In much simpler terms iUrban.org is a hybrid Magazine/Social Site created primarily for Urban Fiction readers, and writers; but highly expansive because we know that just as Urban Fiction covers a myriad of topics so we offer a major platform for all to participate. Don’t let the music in our homepage video fool you. We are warriors in the field just as that particular theme music is from the iconic movie The Warriors by Joe Walsh. iUrban.org was created with an urban lifestyle in mind. For those of us who like to venture outside of the box and aren’t afraid to have fun while sharing our thoughts and ideas. The real site is coming soon.

Now, the reason I chose to write this article is because as I surf the web on a daily basis. I see people who thirst for the knowledge and are trying to succeed and grow. Yet, I found that most sites make it difficult for those who access it to share their thoughts completely. It shouldn’t cost you a penny to do so and you should be able to say what the hell you want to say without being curtailed. Meaning sometimes, excuse my French, but sometimes I like to say, “Damnit!” when expressing my opinions. Why, you may ask?

It’s because I’m a grown ass man! That’s why. There’s no need for excuses for me.

Aside from the above, I can easily see where most writers are confused thinking that simply by writing the greatest story ever told will instantaneously make them millionaires! Neither selling your book at 99 cents will get you more sales either, nor free giveaways if your book is not on the right platform. Knowing the consensus of the readers from research statistics, observation, and my own personal experience when it comes to choosing a book. The number 3 reason readers choose to read a particular book is due to reviews. The number 2 reason is because the author is a favorite of the reader per say, and the number 1 reason is due to belonging to a book club.

If one were to look at the three above reasons not one has to do with the price of the book. Yet, the common thread relies on knowledge of the author’s existence, and an underlying familiarity which can only happen through advertising, and word of mouth in tandem with a solid marketing strategy which will in turn give the readers access to an author’s particular work. iUrban.org was built to give authors and readers cross access to one another without the hindrance of having to surf the web for any particular book club, blog host, advertising, interviews, purchasing, etcetera of a particular product or author services while having a bit of fun along the way. On the Urb you will be able to upload your ebooks on your own, and set your own price. Why should we or any other set the price on a book you wrote? We weren’t there when you sat down at the typewriter to do so, or when you had pen and paper in hand.  So why should we dictate what you can and can’t do when promoting your book?

I say the above for a reason. The reason being while surfing Facebook I saw a discussion where someone proposed the question of how much would an author pay (They too were African-American such as I am) to have their book reviewed on a particular site?Many balked at the 100 dollar suggestion stating why should they pay for a professional review?  Many of the answers amazed me due to the stupidity and ignorance at hand I hate to say.

To address the issue at hand in a fair unobjective sense, I must say that the question was rather broad. Since there are several factors to consider before answering, such as is the site you are considering is the right platform for your specific genre? How does the site rank on search engines such as Google, Yahoo, Bing, etcetera (SEO). How many unique daily visits does a particular site have? And for those who doubt that reviews don’t matter, below is proof that they do. Also, take note that professional reviews are very time consuming. They are far more entailing than “It was a great book! Adventurous!”

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Sad to say, I also noticed which was laughable at best. I took note that these self-same authors were willing to pay Kirkus their standard 425 dollar standard fee, and yet balked at paying 100 dollars for a site which had well over 10, oo0 members. He never considered that Kirkus is not a great platform for Urban Fiction for it is as foreign to them as aliens from Mars are to every hood and ghetto in the US.

One author even stated that he would only pay a hundred dollars if his book were featured on Oprah’s book club. My mind instantly shouted, Get Real! For it costs a minimum of 50,000 dollars to be featured on Oprah as a basic ad. It is also even harder to get an interview with Oprah than meeting President Obama. So good luck with that one.

However if you are looking for a place to call home, that has an advertising budget for everyone from free to premium, or just a fun place to hangout with us and others,  then iUrban.org is for you.  Don’t let ignorance keep you from being the successful writer that you were meant to be. Join Us by clicking the footer icon at the bottom of the homepage or like us by clicking the FB icon below:

Like Us on FB! Let’s take Urban Fiction to the next plateau…

The post IUrban.Org and You appeared first on Dion Cheese.

A New Urban Queen Has Arrived

KC BLAZE

Having written one of the hottest books to date KC Blaze remains as one of the humblest authors i know…

 

Yes, the new Queen of urban fiction has arrive! Coming all the way from the streets to becoming an avid writer for her own online magazine (Urban Fiction News Magazine) dedicated to promoting Urban Fiction. KC Blaze aka Kessa Baylor is dedicated to improving the industry from the ground up by providing a platform for authors to share their stories, while learning about the publishing industry at the same time. Having won the Blogger of the Year Award in 2013. KC decided to leave the  blogging  business and take her following of 5,000 dedicated fans and build an even better  online platform in which to work her magic. Within the digital pages of Urban Fiction News Magazine both readers and authors will find a wealth of useful tips about urban fiction and get real reviews from both a reader’s and author’s point of view all rolled up into one. KC Blaze has been on both sides of the fence so she does understand real talk about the business giving you much more than no-frills information that would otherwise leave your brain begging for  2 Tylenol tabletsbecause of the bullsh*t.

Having done countless reviews, sharing tips, and promoting other urban fiction writers. KC Blaze has gained a wealth of knowledge which not only help her recieve internet acclaim which continues to grow exponentially. She has made friends such as Jerome Dickey, and Ben Burgess the author of the heralded novel Monster. Having known her for quite some time myself, I was indeed honored to interview her myself, and have a chance to review her novel before it’s actual release on JustWright Publications in March of 2014. I would bid authors to support her endeavors by contacting her  and visiting her beautiful site. Without breaking the bank UFN offers ads for as little as 15 dollars; which is pretty cheap when considering having your book exposed to 5,000 dedicated readers and lovers of urban fiction. With no further adieu I introduce to you The new Queen of Urban Fiction KC Blaze.

DionCheese.Com: Who are you and where are you from?

KC Blaze: I am a writer with a passion to share information. In so many cases I have noticed individuals gaining success, but never sharing what they’ve learned. I hope to build a literary empire done solely off of sharing what I’ve picked up in the game so far. I come from a semi-urban background. Most of my childhood was spent in West Philly surrounded by the ‘ghetto’ but far enough removed that I didn’t notice I was in it.

DC: Did your growing up in Philly influence your current book?

KB: Platinum Dust was influenced by the Philly lifestyle. Philadelphia has a tendency to be mildly flashy. You know when someone has money, but it’s not as over the top as some other cities. My story is set in the city of Philadelphia so I hope to speak true to the city’s heart.

DC: When did you first realize that you had a talent for writing?

KB: I was eight years old when I realized I wanted to be a writer. I had a passion for reading which was developed from watching my parents read a ton of books. When I read my first story that took my mind to a faraway place I was determined to possess that type of literary magic.

DC: Are you a full time author, and if not, when do you find the time to write?

KB: Every author’s dream is to get paid solely for what they love to do. I at this time am not a “full-time” author, but I do write and work full time. Most of my writing time is done when my characters have something to say.

DC: Is Platinum Dust your first novella? If not, what else have you written beforehand? When will it hit the shelves?

KB: Platinum Dust is my first published novella. I have written many fiction stories, but  none as diverse and 3 dimensional as this one. Platinum Dust is now available on Amazon and elsewhere.

DC: What is it about your story that makes it different from traditional urban fiction books?

KB: Platinum Dust is not a typical urban tale primarily because it doesn’t focus on the glitz and glam of the traditional told urban lifestyle. My main character is battling with a real inner struggle that is easily relatable to the reading audience.

DC: Here’s a fun question for you. Let’s just say hypothetically that you happen to make it on Oprah Winfrey are you going to Disneyland or do you have other plans (lol)?

KB: Just being on Oprah is like going to Disneyland. I think the first place I would want to travel to after getting that big check is the Caribbean. I love solitude and nature, clear skies, blue water and white sand with a large Mai Tai is my type of party.

DC: Where do you see yourself in the next five years as far as your authorship is concerned?

KB: In the next five years I see myself as a best- selling author of urban fiction. I also see myself as the go to person for all things Urban Fiction from publishing, marketing and promoting.

DC: I read that you have a Blog, and an upcoming online magazine in the works could you elaborate on that?

KB: That is correct!! Urban Fiction News online magazine was born from my blog with the same name. Both provide real information for authors at every stage of the writing game. It’s not like other sites because it doesn’t give you watered down information. UFN is determined to provide its followers with vital information that is real, tangible and easy to follow.

DC: How will your magazine site be different from all the others? I’ve heard it through the grapevine that you will have a reoccurring theme called ‘Scuse me your Crazy is Showing.’

KB: Urban Fiction News magazine is like an Author’s news site. It has some of everything from how-to, step-by-step to promotional opportunities. Eventually UFN will have a theme that allows anyone to share real life relationship experience ranging from crazy to bizarre.

DC: How do you feel about the current state of urban fiction, its current direction, and do you feel it needs to make any changes? Since I constantly hear people complaining. They state, “If you have read one story you have read them all.” How do you feel about that?

KB: Urban Fiction as it stands has room for improvement. There are many up and coming authors reading urban fiction tales and trying to reinvent the same plot. I think what needs to change is the imagination of the author. Be true to your own voice and write your story, your way. No one can tell a story like you so give me something new.

DC: Now, I am about to ask you one last very serious question, and please don’t be angry but it’s kind of personal. Is it okay that I ask?

KB: Sure.

DC: Can I please borrow a dollar because I’m getting thirsty, and this interview is done thank you. LOL!

KB: LOL!!!

If you would like to find out more about KC Blaze in order to purchase her book, contact her, or otherwise. Please click either of the two icons below:

 

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Book On The Brain Syndrome: Saving your Askmewhat?

Yes, this could be your book going the way to that Big Deletion dump up in cyberspace.

What is Book on the Brain Syndrome you may ask? And what the hell is an Askmewhat you may be thinking? Well, I will tell you exactly what they are. Book on the Brain Syndrome is a literary disease that all authors, and sometimes readers and viewers have as well. This disease consists  of forgetfulness, thoughtlessness, and sometimes a bit of ignorance that will cause one to shudder within, curse sporadically, causes high anxiety, and also drop to the floor while having a WTF moment, in tandem with why did I do that sh*t tantrum all at the same time. The Askmewhat part is when someone asks me what the hell was I thinking knowing that failing to follow the next few paragraphs will kill all your hard earned efforts.

I can assuredly attest to the type-written fact that if you don’t take one of these precautions you may find yourself in the midst of a literary heart attack after  you lose all of your hard work. Just the other day my primary laptop suddenly took that big leap into Cyber-Hell and the rest was history. Immediately after I went to the gym to work out with my personal trainer and friend Mustajab of the well-known CEO of Gorilla Taktics security. Upon my return, and without warning, my computer was dead. Usually I would have panicked in such an instance, but the majority of my important files was saved. Below I will provide you with a few useful tips you can put into daily practice so that you do not lose your hard work such as I have most assuredly done in the past.

Saving Duplicates

First things first is that as an author, I would assume that the majority of you are not writing for the hell of it just to see all of your hard earned work disappear into Cyber-Hell just because it’s a fun thing to do. So first on the agenda while using programs such as Microsoft Word, or Open Office, Wizard for Word, Google Docs, etcetera. First and foremost, make a second copy, and do not store it in the same place as the original. Also, be sure to give your secondary file a distinct name so as to distinguish the copy from the original because the copy will always be behind on the document you are currently working on until it is updated.

USB Stick Or (Micro) SD Card

A USB Stick and a Micro SD are two digital apparatuses which are very similar in nature.  USB stands for the Universal Storage Bus interface. It’s essentially just a flash drive, meaning it has no moving parts inside and all it can do is read and write data that is stored within. Most computers come with integrated portholes equipped for interfacing with the device. Some even come with built in security features that require a passcode which you create in order to get access to the data stored within. You can purchase a USB with different amounts of storage capacity from 2 Gigabytes all the way to one-terabyte which is enough space to store the Library of Congress within its Datasphere. The cost of such a device, usually ranges from under ten dollars up to several hundred depending on the maker, and storage capacity.

My nephew showed me this after I yelled at him for being bad…LOL

SD stands for Secure Digital Digital, and as stated before is very similar to a USB in concept. Yet unlike your computers Radom Access Memory (RAM) which is loss as soon as your power component is shut down an SD is non-volatile in digital nature, meaning the information is still accessible and will continue to exist when no power is available. Most SD cards are found in portable devices such as laptops, and micro SD cards are found inside of mobile phones whether they are internal or removable. I personally suggest that when purchasing an SD Card. Make sure that you get one that is at least carries a Class 4 rating or better, meaning; that it has a read/write  speed of  4 megabytes per second. Which is standard for handling 4g mobile speeds which theoretically can reach up to 672 megabits per second. So, if you have large files that you want to save quickly, use my recommendation when buying an SD.

Word Features

If you are using Microsoft Word, which is pretty prominent when it comes to writing Urban Fiction. You will notice that if you click on the options menu you will find a host of robust features available at your fingertips. Later, I will show you how these tips will help you save both time and money in the future. However, I want to share with you the built-in auto-save, and auto-recovery features that you can set, which will in turn automatically save the document you are working on if you accidently lose power or Lassie, Rin Tin-Tin, or your child happens to shut off your power, or if you have a bad-a$$ but adorable nephew named Amir J. who messes with everything he is not supposed to, causing you to normally lose everything you were so diligently working on at the moment and send it to yep, you guessed it; Cyber-Hell. But instead of me talking your damn ears off with my droning babble I will include some helpful links below from other sites that will help guide you visually as well as instruct you on how to use both auto- save, and auto recovery. But before I do, my personal suggestion is to set your auto-save counter to at least save your document every five minutes or so, and even as low as 3 minutes if you are anything like my friend Sonovia Alexander (an undercover Jamaican) who writes three novels per month… LOL! (She may kill me after reading this. Here are the links as follows (Click the blue words):

 

Auto Save, by clicking this button. As stated previously, you may not want to kill your bad a$$ but adorable nephew Amir. Rather, you will instead take him out for some ice cream, after finishing your work.

Amir the Terrible…Yes, he was only two when I first discovered that he was a criminal. Messing with everything he shouldn’t be, and yet he’s so adorable. SMH…LOL

 

Auto Recovery, by clicking here you will learn how to get back your document if you have a so-help-me- if-I-have-to-rewrite-this moment ever again.

Cloud Services

Cloud Services are basically in layman terms, available storage spaces other than your computer’s hard drive where you can safely store your data. For example, let’s say your computer is a house, and you typically store all of your important items within your basement and attic areas. Well, once these spaces are filled to capacity you begin to look elsewhere for spaces to store your valuables such as a safe storage facility, a warehouse, or wherever meets your specifications. Today, within the Cyberw0rld there are companies such as Google, Microsoft, and Yahoo who offer these services for free, offering you as little as 5 gigs up to 15 gigs of space for storing your digital data on their servers which for most urban fiction writers is plenty. These servers which are used primarily for storing data in remote facilities are called virtual clouds and are accessible from anywhere. Most of the above mentioned have apps that will allow you to access your information on your phone or any computer in which you have access to usually via an internet connection. Others, such as Google Drive will allow you to do so offline as well.

I personally store my important documents on both Microsoft’s One Drive AKA Sky Drive, Google Docs, Google Drive, and my Yahoo account folders.

Android Phone

The android  Google Play market has a host of apps available such as a free version of QuickOffice which will allow you to read any Word document that you have stored on your mobile smart phone. You can easily share your documents with others via Bluetooth, email, etectera. You can also edit your documents or create new ones as well. As an author I can personally attest that having this app on your phone is one definitely worth having in your tool arsenal.

In conclusion, I would urge each and every one of you Wordsmiths or otherwise working on important documents connected to your livelihood to practice the above mentioned in order to save yourself from becoming a nervous wreck.

I’m Dion Cheese and I bid you a warm adieu.

Ciao biaatches!!! Happy writing everyone!

 

In conclusion

 

 

 

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