Wednesday, December 21, 2016

Writer Wednesday Featuring Janae Marie

Good day folks. As promised, I'm back to adding to the blog like I never left! It's been a while but it's Wednesday's time for another "Writer Wednesday" feature. This week, I'd like to introduce you to Janae Marie who was kind enough to allow me to interview her. Enjoy and please, follow the links to show her some love.

Author Janae Marie - Writer Wednesday Interview Questions

1. What is the first book that made you cry?
Hmm, I don’t think I can remember a book that made me cry but I did enjoy the Coldest Winter Ever by Sister Souljah.

2. Does writing energize or exhaust you?
Energize me! I grow excited by the scenarios the characters take me to. Writing has always been my form of recreational drug.

3. Do you think someone could be a writer if they don’t feel emotions strongly?
Yes, but you have to pull passion from somewhere. To me, writing is all about passion and emotions. And having a creative mindset.

4. If you could tell your younger writing self anything, what would it be?
To have started publishing WAY SOONER!! Stop worrying about the thoughts and opinions of others. Just do it!

5. What was an early experience where you learned that language had power?
Probably when I was in junior high or high school. I wrote a poem about the use of a pen. And a teacher told me I really had a unique gift with writing.

6. How many hours a day do you write?
It depends on my mood. Sometimes, I’ve done two. Others I’ve done four-five.

7. What’s the most difficult thing about writing characters from the opposite sex?
Haha, The most difficult thing is making sure their dialogue is believable. Like, would a guy actually say this? So I try to mirror the dialogue and actions of my male characters with the males in my life.

8. How do you select the names of your characters?
I try to base their names off of people in everyday life.

9. Do you read your book reviews? How do you deal with bad or good ones?
I do read book reviews. I try not to let them impact me anymore. When I first started writing I was very critical of myself but now I just read it and take it in but not let it affect my confidence.

10. What was your hardest scene to write?
Two scenes, Daddy’s Home when Danielle (main character) is being molested by her father. And my upcoming book, Sleeping with The Enemy, my character has an awkward sex scene with a character of the same sex.

11. How long on average does it take you to write a book?
Depends on my zone or my busy life schedule. Sometimes 2 years others a few months.

12. Do you believe in writer’s block?
Yes, I don’t force myself to write. I have to step back and come back to it later. That’s usually when the juices start back flowing.

13. What is the most difficult part of your artistic process?
The hustling and marketing process. Getting the word out and talking about my work. 

14. Does your family support your career as a writer?

Yes, my mom is a writer herself. But she will go up to a stranger and wave my books in their faces! And be mad at me for not doing it first! 

Author Janae Marie

Janae Marie,
CEO of JMPublications
Publisher of Young Urban Voices Magazine

Tuesday, December 20, 2016

Death in the City - Prologue

Good day folks. I apologize for being gone for so long from the blog. (It won't happen again....I promise.) Writing "Death in the City" consumed all of my days and my nights for months. To be honest,  I didn't have any creative juice left to write any blogs. Those of you that have been waiting for my next release will be happy to know that it's finally done. As soon as I receive my 1st shipment, I'll be sending out autographed copies to the readers who were supportive and pre-ordered the novel. I loved writing it so, I hope you guys out there love reading it! Here's the prologue. (Keep checking back as I add samples from some of my favorite chapters.) Enjoy. 

“It’s called The Greatest City in the World. Murderers, monsters and innocent folk all fight for their lives within the confines of its concrete walls, in the shadows of skyscrapers, all trapped by their circumstances with very little hope or real chance of escape. I know all of their stories and where they all end. I see The Grieving Mother who turned her back on her God and abandoned her mourning husband as she struggled with her own pain. I’ve watched The Detective, unable to solve his own mysteries as he fought to face his own ghosts, real and imaginary. I understand the mad dance of All the Criminals and petty peddlers of false paradise as they pirouette and twist around in endless, senseless circles that all lead to the same terrible place. I hear the screams of Victims as they cry out so loudly that they become just as savages as those who ravished them. I’ve witnessed The Seductress gamble recklessly with The Heartless Assassin and offer her life as a bargaining chip to a man who end’s lives for coins. I understand the world as The Madman sees it, even though, to everyone else, he appears completely insane.
I’ve always disliked the big cities the most because most of those I come to collect see my face after hard lives that ended in sad and very undignified deaths. People in quieter parts of this place die much more peacefully, absent the panic, desperation or the infernal stench of regrets. A simple life often ends in a tranquil passing. Those who dwell in the sprawling, monstrous, Gothams die slowly and painfully under the crushing weight of their struggles, constantly reminded how small and insignificant they are in relation to the phallic structures their oppressors erected as a blasphemous insult to the heavens. They die from awful diseases, choking on the fumes produced by the unnatural industrialization of their overpopulated homes. They fight to feel important while drowning in a sea of people who mostly won’t be remembered two generations after the time I claim them. Great-grandparents become old photographs that future generations hardly look at while their bodies decay under the ground until all that is left are old bones that will eventually become dust in graves that no one will ever visit.
I observe their lives and wonder if it would be more merciful if they were never given this mortal life to live at all. They exist in constant fear of the finality that I represent because once they are gone, it won’t be long before it will inevitably be as if they never existed. So, before their lips meet mine for that final kiss, they do everything in their power to leave immortal footprints. I often wonder if they even realize how little any of it matters.” – Death
Copyright © 2016 Keith Kareem Williams
All rights reserved.

Tuesday, September 27, 2016

"Death in the City" Sample Chapter - Part 4 - Chapter 4

As you guys know, I've been working hard on finishing up "Death in the City." As I edit the manuscript, I realize that the storyline is completely different but, it has the same feel stylistically as my 1st novel, "Water Flows Under Doors." That makes me smile. Here's a raw, unedited sample from Part 4 of the novel. Enjoy and as always, feel free to leave comments.  

4 Hard Words & Harder Goodbyes
The first half of nurse Jeanie’s work day went by faster than she expected despite the emergency room being relatively quiet that evening with the exception of a few crying children who were sick with the flu and a few loud confrontations between hospital security guards and homeless men who kept having to be escorted out of the building for loitering. It was freezing outside and they were seeking somewhere to sleep and get warm but the hospital didn’t want them inside the building unless they were there for medical treatment which, by law, they couldn’t deny them. There was also a grumpy, rude, perverted old man suffering from an asthma attack that kept wheezing inappropriate requests directed at the female nurses. He seemed to be obsessed with how their butts looked in their nurse’s uniforms and insisted on telling them, in graphic detail, what he wanted them to let him do to those butts. He was obnoxiously loud but otherwise, the doctors, nurses, orderlies and everyone on duty that night were all appreciative of the not-so-busy night in the E.R. for a change. Everyone seemed to be drowsy and moving at a snail’s pace because of the sleepy vibe that hung in the air like a thick fog.
Jeanie hadn’t brought any food from home so on her break, she decided to buy dinner from the West Indian food truck that was always parked on the side block of the hospital. She loved Jamaican food and they always had delicious jerk chicken which she happened to have a craving for that evening. She placed her order at the window cut into the side of the truck, then rocked and swayed to the old school reggae that softly poured out of the truck’s speakers. She made pleasant small talk with the chubby owner of the food truck as he prepared her meal but only because it would have seemed rude if she hadn’t. He politely passed her the spicy chicken wrapped in aluminum foil and Jeanie smiled at how delicious if smelled. She wished him a pleasant night before her turned away to walk back to the hospital. That’s when she heard a familiar voice behind her.
“Why’d you call me and hang up?” Jeanie’s ex-husband asked.
Angry and annoyed by the sound of his voice, Jeanie spun around to face him. The last thing she was in the mood for was an argument with him on the street outside of her job. When she looked at him, she was shocked by his appearance. He had always been a neat, well-groomed man. He cared so much about the way he looked that she often called him pretty, or vain so it was surprising to see him disheveled and un-kept. Even in the shadow that the hood of his sweatshirt cast over his face, she could tell that he hadn’t shaved in weeks. He wasn’t exactly filthy but, his jeans were just dirty enough to let her know that he had been wearing them for some time without washing them.
“What’re you doing here Nate?” she asked.
“I haven’t seen or heard from you in a month and a half. I’ve tried to  reach out to you but you won’t take my calls,” he said.
“Because there’s nothing to talk about,” she interrupted.
Nate felt her animosity towards him like a gunshot to his chest but he was determined to keep talking because he had no idea when he would have the chance to speak to, or see her again.
“I was surprised to see your number pop up on my phone, and then I got worried when you just hung up,” he explained.
“I hung up because I didn’t want to talk to you,” she quickly answered.
“But you must have wanted to talk because you dialed my number…unless you called me by mistake,” he said, questioning her sincerity.
“Listen Nate…I had a really rough day and I was having a really hard time sleeping so I dialed your number. I’m not even sure why but I hung up because I changed my mind,” she explained without sharing the whole truth with him which made her feel bad because she had always believed that selective, deliberate omission was the same as lying.
“Well, what had you shook up enough to reach out to me all of a sudden? In all the years I’ve known you, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you afraid or unsure, or even restless. You’ve always been a woman of faith,” he said.
“Not anymore,” Jeanie answered. “ I gave all that up after our son was taken from us.”
“Well, your faith isn’t the only thing you gave up on after he died,” said Nate.
“He didn’t die! He was killed….and I don’t want to talk about this,” she snapped.
“Why not? Why can’t we talk about our son? Why can’t we talk about us? We were supposed to be there for each other…to get through this. What the fuck happened to our marriage?” Nate yelled so loudly that more than a few people passing by turned their heads to see what was going on.
“Because there’s nothing to talk about!” she shouted and the veins in her neck bulged as she yelled back at the top of her voice.
“Nothing? Twelve years of marriage and you think there’s nothing to talk about?” he asked and grabbed her arm as she tried to walk away from him.
“No…nothing!” she said through gritted teeth as she yanked her arm away from him and continued on her way back to the hospital.
“So…it’s really just that easy for you to throw it all away…to throw me away?” he asked.
Nate’s question made Jeanie turn around and storm right back towards him. His aggressive demand for answers had triggered an anger inside her that she had kept bottled up for so long that it had become more harmful to her heart than her grief. There were things that she needed to say but had  avoided saying just to spare Nate’s feelings but now that he had chosen to relentlessly pry, she decided to let him have it all.
“Yes, it WAS that easy. You want to know why I stopped loving you?” she asked while poking her finger in his chest. “I stopped loving you the day you stood up on that podium, in front of all those news cameras, right alongside the police commissioner, calling for peace, asking everyone to stay calm, begging the people who were angry and outraged about what happened to OUR boy not to turn the city upside down. You stood side-by-side, shoulder-to-shoulder with the people who were protecting and defending our son’s murderer. You stood there…asking everyone to protest peacefully and I just stood there with you and let you speak…and I hated you…and I hated myself too. While you were trying to help them save this place, all I wanted was to watch it burn like the hell it is. That’s when I stopped believing in you…stopped loving you. That’s when I stopped believing in everything I was taught about faith…and forgiveness, I have neither one of those things left in me. Do you get it now? Do you understand now? Now…leave me the fuck alone,” she told him coldly before she turned her back and started to walk away again.
“I lost a son too. I miss him too. I hurt too!” Nate yelled after her.
“Obviously not as much as I do,” she answered without turning around to look at him.

Copyright © 2016 Keith Kareem Williams
All rights reserved.

***I hope you enjoyed this short excerpt. You can still pre-order autographed copies HERE. ***

Wednesday, September 21, 2016

Writer Wednesday featuring LeTara Moore

Good morning guys and gals. Welcome to another installment of "Writer Wednesday." This week's author is LeTara Moore. Get to know her work, follow her links and show her some love. Enjoy.

Author LeTara Moore
Author Bio:
Since childhood LeTara has been crafting pieces of art via her vocabulary, beginning with a class play in elementary school, venturing off into poetry and blossoming into her first published book. She is a poet, an essayist, blogger, occasional ghostwriter and author. All of her work is published independently.

Her style of writing tends to cross genres, mixing a little romance with inspiration, suspense and supernatural with a moral to almost every story. The characters in her stories are deeply layered, with even the simplest things being dissected and connected to things much greater.

An excerpt from her debut release Reflection in the Music:
“It needs just a tad more garlic, I think,” Pea said when she tasted filling for Omar’s stuffed pasta shells. “I can definitely see where you’re going with this, but there’s still a couple of elements missing for it to really be what I’m guessing you want it to be. Garlic is it. And maybe a little something to add a little kick. You know…zing!”

“Hmmmmm. Kick,” Omar responded thoughtfully. He grabbed a few spices from the cabinet and examined each before he decided which one he would use.

“Garlic and red pepper might work,” Pea suggested. “Your specialty is desserts, but you said you’re trying to branch out from the sweetness right?”
Omar considered Pea’s suggestion then spoke as he added a dash of red pepper and a few shakes of garlic powder to the mixture, “You’re right.”

Pea tasted it. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to taste every ingredient he had put into it. Knowing how hard he had worked at perfecting his cooking skills beyond baking, Pea always offered encouragement and her taste-testing services. It was the least she could do considering how often he encouraged her to research opening her coffee bar and lounge and how often he’d compliment her.

“What do you think? You’re not going to hurt my feelings,” he asked.

“I think I’m starting to taste Omar’s goodness in this,” Pea smiled.

The knocking on the front door jolted Pea from her memories, but not off of the floor. Her brain refused to tell her body to move. Her brain refused to leave Omar alone, even to answer the door. To Pea’s relief, she heard the doorknob turn and footsteps approach her.

“What the hell?!” Sherri’s voice said from above. Pea remained motionless as if she had heard nothing.

LeTara's books can be purchase at

LeTara Moore, Poet/Indie Author/Essayist

Wednesday, September 14, 2016

WRITER WEDNESDAY featuring Aja Graves

Good afternoon to all of you awesome, amazing ladies and gents who follow the blog. Welcome to another installment of "Writer Wednesday!" This week, I'd like to introduce you to one of my favorite author friends and a very talented writer, Aja Graves. Enjoy and please...follow her links to show her some love.

Author Aja Graves

Aja is the writer of sensually erotic women’s fiction. Her stories allow readers to experience realistic, inspiring and soulful interactions between her characters and intense passion between couples overcoming life’s challenges.
Raised as an only child, using her imagination to create stories came naturally to her. Writing her first book in the first grade encouraged her doting and supportive mother to enter her into writing contests to help her hone her craft. Inspired by soulful music and sensual art, she crafts her stories on a whim, using the snatches of time her characters grace her with and stringing them together for completion. She loves prose but has been known to be poetic which can be found, if looking, in some of her published work.
When she’s not writing, reading and most importantly, loving her family, she is looking for a beautiful beach to watch sunrises, sunsets and listen to the ebb and flow of the remarkable waves. For more information about Aja and her work you can reach out to her by email at or on her blog or you can follow her on social media at .

Here is an excerpt from her novel, "Breaking Her Rules."

Joseph had spent the past few minutes going over the advice Amara had given him when he dropped off Noah. He had not planned on being cornered in the living room of the suburban Edgewood five bedroom, two-and-a-half-bathroom home that their parents sold to the newlyweds for almost nothing. No, he definitely didn’t intend for Amara to know anything about how he and the yellow dress woman were involved but not really involved if he were honest. So he spent ten minutes going over the background of what went down on the island during their wedding, though he had a feeling Amara knew most of it. It was something about how she had to try to look surprised during his speech and when he would look over at his brother, who conveniently had lint on his crisp navy blue shorts that seemed so much more interesting than this interrogation of the brother he supposedly loved. This is why he was still sitting there thirty minutes later, hoping Amara would let him go. Amara sure could ask questions when she wanted information. “If you like her, take it slow. She has a lot to lose if she pursues anything with you.” “And I don’t?” “Okay. She has a lot more to lose. Trust me. And most companies have fraternization policies that could lead to termination. Do you want her to get fired? Do you want to get fired, Joe?” No, he didn’t but he wanted her. After observing him for a few moments, she said “I see that look in your eyes. It reminds me of how your brother looks when he makes up his mind. And I didn’t stand a chance and neither will she. Just remember that she would be putting everything at stake to be with you, if she wants to be with you, and you don’t even know that…” “Oh, I know it.” Amara’s mouth opened and then she shut it before starting over, “Okay, take it slow. Don’t make her run.” Finally the quiet Noah, added, “Like you did.” “We are not talking about old stuff, Noah Farrington. I haven’t run in quite a long time, right.” “Nah, you ain’t going nowhere.” The two lovebirds were staring each other down like they needed to let off some steam and Joseph didn’t want to be witness to it.

“Okay, enough you two. I’d like to keep my breakfast down.” They just smiled at each other before Amara went to sit on Noah’s lap. “But I’m not always quoting policies like its scripture.” She said as Noah wrapped his arms around his wife’s waist. “I can’t tell,” Joseph interrupted. “Like I was saying,” Amara said while smiling, “Love has a way of finding its way.” Amara went on and on about how she and Noah found their way despite her fears and despite a possessive boyfriend and a crazy assistant at work, but Joseph had tuned it all out. He was still stuck on the word love. Amara had said love would find a way and he didn’t scream and run out of the house. What if this was love? He surely couldn’t stop thinking about her and even now he wondered what she might be up to on this Saturday and rather than watching a ballgame with his guys, he wanted to chill with her or do something silly with her. If only this work problem wasn’t a problem anymore. “You alright, Baby Boy?” He just nodded at a smiling Noah who seemed to know just where he was mentally but wasn’t going to call him on it.
So that happened and afterwards, when he was on his way home from their house, he sees bright orange to his right. When he looked a little more closely, it was Savanah, looking more like the Chaka he met on the island almost two months ago. He would not miss the opportunity to talk to her while she was relaxed like this. Her hair was out and all over her face, her skin glowed in the sunlight and she was wearing adorable little tong sandals. He pulled up beside her. “Are you lost?” He teased. “No, I’m looking for my cat.” He looked at her strangely, but didn’t remark, just invited her to get in so they could search for the cat. “You look pretty,” he remarked after a few blocks of silence. The way the compliment was issued made her blush, if blushing was something she could actually pull off with her complexion. She turned to him and smiled, “Thank you, Joseph.” “You can go back to calling me Joe, Savanah.” “Okay, Joe. Thank you.” “Why aren’t you relaxed like this any other time?” he asked. “Well, I’m usually at work when you see me.” “True.” It was clear that he liked the woman he met on the island and Savanah wasn’t sure if that meant he didn’t like the person she was here in Pittsburgh. So she asked. “You don’t like who I am here?” “I do, but I do miss the time we shared and would like to have that time again. If you were down for it.” She was down for it all right; she just knew she shouldn’t be. “Come on. It’s just us and work is two days away,” he coaxed with his grin and those dimples. He was so damn sexy. “Okay,” she said on impulse, choosing to forget about her rules and about the lost Dorothy. That cat would find her way home…again.

Thursday, August 25, 2016

DEATH in the CITY by Keith Kareem Williams - Part 3, Chapter 4 - Hotel Room

Excerpt from PART 3: How to Save a Life

Chapter 4 Hotel Room

The early morning sunlight slipped through the narrow gap between the closed curtains to slightly brighten the dimly lit, fancy hotel room. The winter winds howled outside but the sun’s warm beams shined down onto the virgin-white linens that were perfectly spread on the king-sized bed that no one had slept in yet. At the foot of the bed sat a chair, and in that chair, with her hands tied behind her back with a plastic zip-tie, sat a very sexy woman in a skimpy red dress. Her hair was a mess, her mascara had run like black tears and there was a gruesome, purple and black bruise on her cheek. Her bottom lip was split and she could still taste blood in her mouth. Her head hung down as she stared at her own exposed creamy thighs while she tried to recover from the dizziness that still had her woozy and disoriented.
On the opposite side of the hotel room, there was a well-polished oak desk on top of which sat a gun with a silencer attached to it. Seated in a chair at that desk was a contract killer who was doing his best to get completely wasted with the bottle of Jack Daniels firmly in his grip. Every few gulps, he looked up from the bottle to stare at the woman in the skimpy red dress. He couldn’t completely see her face through her wild tangle of hair but he could see her shapely curves. He was ashamed that his cold heart felt a twinge of pain because, in a few moments, he would have to end her life, not because he wanted to but because he had been paid to. Like he had told her at the poker table just a few hours before, Tragedy after tragedy.
“So, what are we doing in this nice hotel room?” Alicia asked Mr. Crowe.
She had been unconscious when he brought her into the room, propped her up in the chair and zip-tied her hands behind her back. She assumed that he must have passed her off as drunk to get past the desk clerk without arousing suspicion or, he might have simply bribed whoever was stationed at the front desk. Money planted in the right pockets and palms usually stopped people from asking questions. The right amount of coin also came in handy when it came to concealing evil deeds which spoke volumes about the corruptible nature of most human beings.
“I see that you’re finally awake,” Mr. Crowe answered grimly. “I was hoping that you wouldn’t be for what happens next but, don’t worry…it’ll all be over soon,” he told her.
“So, you really are going to kill me?” Alicia asked.
“That’s what Enoch and the fat man paid me to do. I tried to convince them not to. Enoch almost changed his mind but Sammie Slim would hear none of it. He already murdered your waitress friend himself. I’ve never seen someone enjoy hurting another human being the way he enjoyed what he did to her. I guess he wasn’t going to be satisfied until he got his hands bloody. He really is an unpleasant cunt,” Crowe told her.
“Did she suffer for long?” Alicia asked, her lip quivering after hearing of her accomplice’s demise at the hands of a very cruel man.
“Yes, she did. I saved you from what he did to her because I’m a professional, not a butcher. With me, at least you’ll die quick…and clean,” he answered.
“I heard part of your discussion before Slim knocked me out. Are you going to fuck me before you kill me like that fat pig said you should? Is that why we’re in this expensive hotel room and not in some filthy back alley somewhere?” Alicia asked.
“No,” Mr. Crowe answered before he took another swig of the dark liquor. “A thing as pretty as you deserves to die in a pretty place…even if you are monster just like the rest of us.”
“You could have shot me in the back of the head in a field of flowers. That would’ve been a pretty place too but here we are…in this hotel room instead. I’m guessing that you need time and privacy to do whatever those two fuckers paid you to do. I suppose you’re going to beat me, torture me and then kill me like they told you to. Am I right?” she asked, afraid in her heart but sounded just as brave as she had at the poker table the night before. “You know, I didn’t peg you for the type of man that would prefer to beat me than fuck me. You don’t seem like the sadistic type that gets off on that sort of thing,” she said.
“I’m not,” he answered, turning his eyes away from her.
“But, they’ll want proof that I suffered before I died,” she pointed out.
“That’s why I’m going to shoot you in the head first. After you’re dead, I’ll do what I need to do to give those fuckers their proof,” he explained plainly as if you were describing some ordinary, routine task like taking out the trash or washing dishes.
“Is that why you’re getting lit before you kill me, so you can be numb to the fucked up shit you’re about to do?” she asked.
“No,” he answered.
“So, you’re just a hard-core alcoholic then?” Alicia asked.
“Yeah, and my aim is much better when I’m drunk. The liquor helps me focus,” Mr. Crowe answered coldly.
Alicia kept quiet for a while as her life slowly flashed in front of her, as if she were watching an old black and white movie. She saw everything creep by in slow-motion, from her earliest childhood memories right up until the present as Mr. Crowe continued to gulp down his liquor. There was so much more than Alicia wished that she had been able to do but never got a chance to. She almost broke down and bawled like a baby as she realized that she was almost at her end. She imagined that she could feel the Reaper’s bony fingers around her throat as her heartbeat involuntarily quickened. Her hands were numb from the way to zip-ties had cut off the circulation of blood to her wrists. The same wave of panic that must have washed over all trapped animals came crashing down on her and almost drowned her in despair. She felt helpless. Then, the same stubbornness that had risen up inside her when she was staring down the barrel of Enoch’s gun at the poker table rose up in her again. She might not have stood a chance of fighting her way out of her current predicament with force but, she wasn’t about to go out whimpering and begging like a coward. She refused to simply accept that this was how she died…not after all that she had been through and survived before. In her mind, she adjusted the crown on her head and spit in the eye of death. Not yet, she thought, over and over again. She wasn’t ready to give up her life without fighting her type of fight. She chose her words carefully before she spoke again.
“We’ve met before you know,” Alicia told the intoxicated Mr. Crowe.
“Yeah, we did…last night and the back room of Enoch’s club,” he chuckled like a lush who just told a joke that only he thought was funny.
“No, I meant before last night. We met once before,” she told him.
“I doubt it,” he answered, looking directly into her pretty brown eyes, made even more gorgeous because of her long eyelashes. Even the mascara that had run down her cheeks couldn’t diminish her beauty. “No, I would’ve remembered if I ever met you before. You’re not the sort of woman I’d lay eyes on and then forget,” he answered, unable to hide how awestruck he was by her looks.
“Maybe that would’ve been true if you hadn’t been completely wasted that night when I served you about fifteen shots of strong liquor,” Alicia told him.
“Really? And in which seedy nightclub was this?” Mr. Crowe asked, his curiosity suddenly stirred.
“It was the Platinum Lady Gentlemen’s Club…you know the one near the water…downtown Brooklyn,” she told him.
As soon as Alicia said the name of the club, Crowe immediately remembered the only night he was ever there. As much as he enjoyed titty bars and strip clubs, he hadn’t gone there for pleasure. That night, he had been there for work and he never forgot a job, no matter how hard he tried by attempting to chase away his memories with liquor.
“I remember that night,” he answered, his voice barely a whisper.
“So do I. I’ll never forget it,” said Alicia. “It was really crowded that night but I remember you looked when you walked in. You were really handsome, well-dressed and well-built, even if you weren’t very friendly. You were clean-shaven then…you didn’t have this beard that you have now. There was something quietly powerful about you that I couldn’t help but notice. Everyone who came near you got a sense that you weren’t to be interfered with. You came and sat down at my bar and I started serving you drinks. What I remember most, even more than your eyes, was the glass castle you built in front of you with all of the shot glasses you had emptied. You put a paper umbrella at the top of it like a flag and you smiled, so proud of what you’d built. It was the first time I had seen you smile all night. Whatever it was that made you so happy about that glass castle didn’t last very long though because I remember how serious you got all of a sudden. It was like somebody died. You gave me a big tip, more than what your entire tab was for all the drinks you had. I tried to give you a smile and thank you but you were distracted, looking at a picture you had taken from the front pocket of your dress shirt.”
“I was there for a man. I had been paid and given the name of a man I had to kill…a man who was Enoch’s rival,” Mr. Crowe confessed as vivid images of violence and bloodshed entered his head, crystal-clear in spite of the alcohol-induced haze he had been in on that night.
“So, it really was Enoch who sent you. I mean, the streets were whispering the same thing but no one had any real proof…and nobody really dared to make a big issue of it because everybody knows that’s how people disappear in this filthy city,” Alicia said, her voice low as if she still didn’t want anyone to hear her speak of such things, as if her life wasn’t already forfeit.
Mr. Crowe remained silent as his mind continued to replay the events of the night that Alicia spoke of.
The loud music, the booming rhythm of the base that pounded in his chest and even the lyrics to the song that was playing when he reached into the crotch of the slacks where he had stashed his gun, right next to his privates. Most bouncers were reluctant to grab another man’s dick so that was how he had managed to smuggle it inside the club even though he had been searched at the door. He remembered how all of the shots of liquor had made his penis just as hard as the cold steel that was stashed right beside his warm flesh. He didn’t understand how he could’ve forgotten Alicia’s face but he remembered turning from her bar after he tipped her to scan the club for the man whose life he had come to claim. It didn’t take long for Mr. Crowe to spot his target, Mr. Jean Etienne, on the second level of the club, above the dance floor in the most exclusive VIP section.
Crowe remembered how wobbly his legs were as he waded and pushed his way through the bouncing, gyrating bodies of drunken patrons on the dance floor. The heat, flashing laser lights and the liquor had his head spinning by the time he got to the bottom of the stairs that led up to the VIP section where his target sat enjoying his night with wild women of all shades, white lines of cocaine and bottle after bottle of expensive alcohol. There were people partying on the stairs, all with high hopes of getting invited behind the guarded red velvet ropes that surrounded Etienne’s private gathering of friends. On shaky legs, Mr. Crowe remembered how he marched past them as he ascended to where two very large security guards dressed in tailor-made black suits were posted.
At the top of the metal staircase, one of the burly security guards reached out and put his hand on Mr. Crowe’s chest to stop him from going any further. That’s what triggered the imaginary switch inside him that made him such a savage. It always did at just the right time, in exactly the right moments and that’s what made him so good at what he had been contracted to do. With one fluid, forceful, upward motion, he punched the bouncers elbow which forced the man’s arm to snap like a chicken wing at the joint. He saw the man’s mouth open wide and wondered how the tough guy’s wail might have sounded if he could have heard it over the loud music. Before the second guard could come to his partner’s aid, Mr. Crowe callously flipped the bouncer with the broken arm over the railing and down into the sea of unsuspecting bodies below. Before the bouncer landed on the partygoers below like an anvil, Crowe broke the kneecap of the second security guard with a single, vicious, malicious, perfectly placed punch before the man had a chance to wrap his clumsy, beefy, hands around Crowe’s throat. Then he shoved that guard down the stairs and caused what could only be described as a human rockslide, like boulders sliding down the side of a mountain. After that, Crowe only had two more bodyguards to deal with before he could conclude his business with Mr. Jean Etienne.
When the guards who were standing close to Etienne noticed the commotion, they reached into their suit jackets for concealed weapons. Unfortunately for them, Crowe had already retrieved his from his boxer shorts and had it aimed at them. People began to scream and scatter in a wild panic once they saw the raised guns. Crowe could have easily cleared out the people who inadvertently blocked his line of fire with a few well-placed bullets but he was a professional, not a mad dog that gunned down random strangers. He stumbled a bit as he pushed a woman aside which probably saved his life and hers as a bullet whizzed by, courtesy of one of the armed guards. It barely missed his head. That didn’t save the young man behind Crowe who got hit in the back with that same bullet while trying to escape the chaos. Initially, Crowe had only intended to kill Etienne as he had been paid to do but when the bodyguards continued to recklessly let hot slugs sing through the crowd as they tried to stop him, Crowe changed his mind. The first bullet HE fired that night didn’t miss. He shot the first bouncer in the mouth and blew off his lower jaw. With a look of disbelief in his bright blue eyes that were about to go dead forever, the first bouncer fell backwards, stiff as a tree that had fallen from a lumberjack’s axe. The second bouncer turned his head, either to tell Etienne to run or to witness his comrade fall. Crowe’s second, well-placed bullet entered the second bouncer’s head through one ear, ripped through his brain and exited out of his other ear. He was also dead before he hit the ground. Only Etienne himself was left, trembling in fear on the VIP section’s red leather couch with a gun in his hand that he would never get a chance to shoot. Crowe put two bullets in each of Jean Etienne’s eyes before he had a chance to pull the trigger.
“Speak no evil, hear no evil, see no evil,” Crowe remembered mumbling after his work was done.
He was about to turn to leave so that he could quickly escape in the midst of the chaos that had ensued when, from the corner of his eye, he saw that one of the half-naked women who had been partying in the VIP section had reached for the gun that was still clenched firmly in the grip of Jean Etienne’s dead fingers. Crowe turned to look directly into her face, cocaine residue still on the tip of her nose. Their eyes locked and he shook his head to warn her not to try him. She foolishly tried him anyway. As she raised the gun and started to point it at him, Crowe shot her. Above the ruckus all around them, no one could hear her scream as she stared at the bloody, gruesome hole the size of a marble in her hand.  A bullet through the middle of her forehead would have put her out of her misery but he chose to spare her life. He’d had his fill of killing for that night. The job he had been paid to do was done and it was time for him to clock out.
“That night was insane. I’ve never seen anything like what you did that night…not even in the movies,” Alicia told Mr. Crowe.
“I’m good at what I do,” he answered coldly.
In his tone, Alicia thought she sensed a bit of self-loathing, as if he wasn’t exactly proud of what he did for a living. Most people might not have picked up on that but she did, because she always had a gift for reading men, understanding them and figuring out exactly what they needed. That gift was the reason why she had been able to trick, manipulate and take advantage of them for most of her life. With great cunning mixed with seduction, she knew how to enslave their minds, bewitch them with her lips and trap them between her thighs.
“But…you don’t seem like you’re glad to be good at what you do. You don’t seem proud of it,” she said.
“That’s because I’m not…but we are what we are…and we can only be what we were made to be,” Mr. Crowe answered and in his dark, brown eyes, Alicia saw a deep sadness. They stared at each other for a moment before Crowe turned his attention to the gun with the silencer attached that he had set down on the dark brown wooden desk where he sat. “Are you ready?” he asked as he prepared to pull the trigger.
“Yes,” Alicia answered as she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Then, something unexpected stirred inside her and she realized that she wasn’t ready to die just yet. “No…wait,” she pleaded.
“Listen. I’m sorry that you got yourself into this mess but now that you have, there’s nothing you can say or do to stop this from happening. You need to accept that these are your last moments, on your last day. Make peace with that…quickly…so this can be over,” he suggested as nonchalantly as a schoolteacher trying to convince a student that they deserved an F on a quiz.
“Well, if I can’t convince you not to kill me, can I ask you for one favor before you do?” Alicia asked.
“What would you have me do?” Crowe asked, anxious to get things over and done with as soon as possible.
“Can you come over here and take off my shoes? They’re killing my feet,” she requested while purposely stretching out her long, shapely legs for him to see. The short red dress she wore barely covered her thighs and it didn’t escape her notice that her flesh had caught his eye.
“Are you serious?” Crowe asked. “What does that matter now?”
“If I’m going to die, I wouldn’t mind being comfortable,” she answered. “We only wear these torture devices on our feet to impress you men, kind of like the way you guys buy fancy cars to impress us. Seems like I haven’t impressed you at all because you’re still going to shoot me so I might as well get out of these damn heels that have been crushing my toes all night,” Alicia complained.
“Fine,” he grumbled as he stood up and prepared to oblige her.
Mr. Crowe was no fool so he crossed over to her side of the room cautiously with his gun in hand, fully prepared to pull the trigger if she tried anything slick. Alicia may have been as pretty as a flower in bloom but he was also aware that she had more than just thorns. She was nothing less than a Venus fly trap that would eat him alive given the chance if he wasn’t careful.
“Oh my goodness…thank you,” Alicia sighed with relief when he unstrapped and removed the first shoe. “That is so much better,” she moaned once her left foot was free.
Alicia’s perfectly-pedicured feet were impressive and sexy but it was something else that caught Crowe’s attention as he slowly removed her right shoe. He was a man with warm blood coursing through his veins and as such, his eyes naturally followed the path that went up her smooth legs until his gaze landed on the magical place between her thighs. The way her plump vagina lips pressed against her panties was impossible to ignore and immediately, against his own better judgment, both of Mr. Crowe’s heads became filled withAs lustful thoughts. Then, as if she could read his mind, Alicia spread her thighs a little wider to give him a much better view.
For a split second, Crowe became frozen in that surreal moment where she seemed to be teasing him and appealing to his baser instincts. He forgot that he was a contract killer and lost sight of the fact that her hands were tied behind her back as she awaited execution at his hands. Suddenly, he was only a lustful man with carnal desires and that played right into Alicia’s plans.
“Can I ask you to do one more thing for me?” Alicia asked as she gently raised her leg and gently ran her pretty toes against the coarse hairs of his beard.
“No!” he answered sharply and seemed to snap out of the trance he had been in. He stood up and pointed his gun at her face.
“But you haven’t even heard what I was going to ask you,” she said as seductively as she could while trying to hide the panic she felt pounding in her chest.
“I don’t care what you were going to ask me,” he told her and began to gently ease back the trigger of the gun.
“But I was going to ask you to go down on me,” Alicia blurted out a split second before a bullet would have put a hole in the middle of her forehead if Crowe had pulled the trigger.
“What did you just say?” he asked in disbelief.
“You heard what I said,” Alicia answered, relieved that he had at least taken his finger off of the trigger momentarily.
“You couldn’t have just said what I thought you just said,” he told her while shaking his head.
“I saw you looking. I read your eyes and I know what you were thinking. You liked what you saw and I know you want to taste me. Don’t lie and pretend that you don’t want to see me without my panties,” she told him and slowly wet her lips with her tongue.
“Are you insane?” Mr. Crowe asked in shock, trying to pretend that he didn’t feel his nature rise in his slacks when he heard what she was asking. Under normal circumstances, his face would have been between her legs already. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever been alone in a room with.
“No, I’m not crazy. I’m afraid to die. I don’t want to die but if there’s no way I’m going to leave this room alive, I’d like to cum one more time in this life, really hard before I go. Now, do you think you’re man enough to take care of that for me?” she asked while closing her thighs and then crossing her legs as if she had to pee. “I can see that you’re thinking about it…and I’m already wet…so what are you waiting for?” Alicia asked.

Copyright © 2016 Keith Kareem Williams

All rights reserved.

*** I hope you enjoyed this excerpt and are eager to read what happens NEXT! The title of the following chapter is......
"5 Soul Food & Dangerous Desert" promised, here's the link to order 
your autographed copy of "Death in the City"

Wednesday, July 20, 2016

Writer Wednesday featuring Teresa D. Patterson

Good day guys and welcome to another edition of "Writer Wednesday." Today I'll be featuring a good friend of mine who is not only extremely talented but has also been consistently supportive of my movement. Through many of the tough stretches that I go through as a full-time author, she's been there for me to give her advice and encouragement. As a full-time author herself, she understands what i go through and how difficult it can be for me sometimes. I can always count on her to share information and opportunities. Basically, what I'm saying is that she's awesome. I hope you read about her and then show her some love. 

Teresa D. Patterson

Author, blogger, entrepreneur and proofreader


Teresa D. Patterson is known for writing books in the urban fiction genre that are filled with steamy sex scenes and tons of drama. She also writes erotica, romance, and young adult fiction.

The writer inside Patterson emerged when she was in the fifth grade. Her spelling teacher would have the students choose a title and construct a story that they'd have to read in front of the class. Patterson's stories captivated the class, and they would excitedly anticipate what she would come up with the following week.

Even though Patterson had poetry and short stories published over the years, she didn't become a published fiction author until 2005. Consequently, she learned not to deal with vanity presses and unknown publishers. In 2009, she felt it was time to take her writing career in her own hands and formed Edit Again Publications to self-publish her works.

Patterson has written twenty-three novels. Some of her popular titles are, Project Queen, The Real Hood Wives of St. Pete., They Call Me Mr. G-Spot, and Ex-boyfriend. A Bitter Pill to Swallow, was co-authored with thriller, suspense, and crime novelist, Keith Gaston. Patterson's latest release is All of Me Loves All of You.

Patterson lives in Florida, which is the setting for most of her novels. She has three children.


Stacia nodded at Vanessa and went back to braiding her client’s hair. She would be there all night and that was fine with her. She couldn’t stand her living situation at the moment. She just needed to have patience. With only eight hundred dollars in her checking account, she couldn’t really afford to move from her mother’s house just yet. She would try to give it another two months and save every cent she made, but it was getting harder and harder to put up with her mother’s rage.
This morning had been a prime example. She’d left the twins alone long enough to go take a shower and when she’d returned, her mother was giving her the look.
“Stacia, I was kind enough to let you bring your ass back here and to bring your little bastards with you. But I’m not going to tolerate them fucking up my shit,” she snapped, holding out a tube of red lipstick. “That little trifling bitch wrote on my damn wall with this lipstick. What are you going to do about it?”
“I’ll clean it up, Mama. I’m sorry.” Stacia began to tremble inside with fear. Once Grace got crunk up, there would be no stopping her. “I’m sorry,” she apologized again.
“Yes, that you are,” Grace spat, her eyes slanting. “You’re a sorry piece of shit.” Her right hand came up and she proceeded to repeatedly slap Stacia in her face until she was satisfied she’d gotten her point across. “Don’t let it happen again. Keep your little monsters in line,” she hissed. “I shouldn’t have to look after them. They’re yours, not mine.”
“Okay, Mama. I will,” Stacia sobbed, holding her stinging jaw. “I’m sorry.”
“Get out of my sight before I go upside your head again,” Grace growled.
Stacia rushed into the bedroom that she shared with her children. She hurriedly wiped away the tears so they wouldn’t see them. However, they could pick up on the feeling that something was wrong. Both of them went over to their mother and gave her a hug.
“Is grandma mad again?” Titianna asked.
“She’s always mad,” Terry said. “Mama, why do Grandma hate us? What did we do?”
When Stacia stared down into her children’s sad faces, she couldn’t stop the tears from trickling down her cheeks. She didn’t know why Grace Watkins hated her children, but she did know why her mother hated her.


If you’d like to read Unpretty Secrets, it can be purchased from the following:

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Paperback copies are available on my website

Enjoy reading romantic comedies? Check out my new novel, All of Me Loves All of You. You will never think of pole dancing the same!

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