This Isn't Bragging; It's Updating

I recently moved my books that are not priced free to a new publishing platform in addition to smashwords. It handles distribution to Amazon, Google Play, iTunes, Barnes and Noble and Kobo. I'm finding that people prefer to shop at Amazon than anywhere else because that was the fastest turnaround I've seen in publishing to first sale since I started self publishing. Well...at least for my paid books.

For the free ones, I'm happy to say that The Swamp is Full of Mystery was in the top ten highest downloaded books on free ebooks.net within a week of my posting it. Which is great. I love it. The more exposure the better. And the fact that people are choosing to download my book, among the however many thousands there are on the site?...Awesome.

There is another book of mine that is doing really exceptionally well on all sites it's on. It's a real puzzle to me because first of all, the story is like...eight pages. I wrote it in about half an hour for a competition (I haven't heard back from them and I can't remember the results date or even the site); and I decided to post it because why not? And now it's been on free ebooks like for five minutes and a hundred people have downloaded it. I am truly stymied. There is just no predicting this shit.

I'm thinking maybe I should expand it to a full fledged novel. Just go to pacemaker and make out a six month plan for writing and editing. I don't know. Do I have more story? Of course I have. It's like, a given at this point. The question is, do I want to write it? I'm in the middle of Child of Destiny - Marcus Deveraux which I've kind of put aside to concentrate on work and promoting the other books first; kind of get the momentum going....

But.
Yeah.
So hit me up if you've read it and let me know what you think I should do.
The story is called Cinderella By Any Other Name.

NaNoWriMo

It might say NATIONAL novel writing month but the truth is its should actually say Worldwide because trust me there's people from everywhere participating. I thought maybe about fleshing out the Bulitia story for this one but on further reflection, I didn't think I could get 50,000 words out of him, much as he's a great character. So I decided to do my CINDERELLA BY ANY OTHER NAME story about a girl called Shadya who is a refugee from Somalia living in Kenya. Its not as sad and oppressed as it sounds...yet, it is. Its really about family and how far one would or should go to give of oneself to one's family. Wow, I managed to summarise. Awesome.

I'm going to leave a small excerpt here, and what I need from you is to ask me and remind me and push me to finish this story within the month of November. Nanowrimo books are generally free and mine will be the same I think. Follow my progress here, on smashwords and on the wrimo site. 

Life is A Bitch and then...

The beat of the music was like a hammer to her brain, pounding and pounding until her nerves felt like ash. She wanted to get out of this place but Amina was still busy flirting with the dude in the pretentious green fedora and yep - Shadya peeked downward - he had white shoes. I mean…everyone knew that any guy worth their salt never wore white shoes. Amina was giggling at what ever the guy was saying.  Shadya caught sight of his friend sidling toward her out of the corner of her eye.

Nope. She was not going to play this game. She wasn’t the spare, or the co-pilot, flight attendant; whatever people called the friend one went with when they were going to hit on people. She was here strictly to make sure Amina behaved herself. It was the only way to make sure they weren’t both married off to the nearest willing chump forthwith. Shadya had every intention of completing her degree before she agreed to be anyone’s wife. And sure her father was willing to entertain her fancies for now; but if he ever caught wind of any misbehaviour, both of their lives were over.

She hadn’t even wanted to come to this club. Amina had just really been wailing to her about how it was her friend’s birthday and they never got to go anywhere and yada yada yada. Until Shadya’s choices had narrowed down to strangling her right there and then; or give in to her begging and pleading. Shadya had really had to think about her options before she concluded that she really couldn’t kill Amina at this time. She hadn’t violated any sharia laws after all…not yet. Nothing requiring murder at least. Her mother might frown on her committing fratricide for any reason less than that.

The guy’s friend was sitting right next to her now. Shadya studiously ignored him.

“Hi”, the guy said. Shadya stared into the middle distance, willing the music to explode her head right now.

“I like your hijab. Very stylish”, the guy said leaning in to talk directly into her ear. Shadya turned her eyes only to give him a glare. Clearly non-verbal communication was not his strong suit. What did he even want?

“Leave me be”, she growled tossing her head the other way as she picked up her soda and sipped determinedly as she watched the dancers on the dance floor.

“Do you want to dance?” the guy persisted. Shadya contemplated pouring her drink  over his head. Amina was throwing glances her way that Shadya knew were reproachful. Her sister was always throwing herself at men; and she fully expected Shadya to do the same when they were together. It drove her mad. She didn’t deign to answer the guy.

“Look, Shadya”, the guy said making her stiffen and turn toward him. How had he known her name? “I don’t want us to start off on the wrong foot but I have to say that you’re being really rude right now”. Shadya could only stare at him in shock.

“Nobody asked you to talk to me”, she said in her surprise.

The guy frowned and glanced back at Amina, “Your sister asked me to”, he said, looking sincerely puzzled that Shadya wasn’t up to date with the news. Shadya laughed out loud.

“Well you can just go tell Amina thanks but no thanks”, She told him. He stuck his hand out.

“My name is Gregory Kariuki, ahsalaam aleikum”, he said.

Shadya looked at his hand like it possibly might be a hunk of bacon accidentally put on her plate.

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The Plot It Thickens

For this month's East African Friday Feature, I have been challenged every Friday, to write 1,000 words of a supernatural story. It can be an ongoing story, or bits and snippets but four times for the four Fridays of October. Now in honour of the release of my baby CHILD OF DESTINY on my birthday October 9th (So Y'all know what I want for a present...buy! buy! buy!) I'm going to do an outtake story that can be read on its own. As a nod to East Africa, I'm going to give the story of the ghost slaves in the wood - how they came to be there, and their hopes and dreams for the future. As a nod to my late father, my protagonist is named Bulitia. He's the slave ghost everyone from BDAH to The Swamp to COD keeps meeting and talking to.

“You are a medicine man are you not?” the woman said to him, “You know how to heal and how to…kill?”

Bulitia stared at her, wondering how she could possibly have come by that information. Nobody knew; not his fellow slaves, nor the slavers who caught him. He had been very careful not to give himself away.  For his own sake and that of his wife and child at home: if he had any hope of seeing them again he could not become essential or important to these people. He had to fade into the background, be forgettable. Looked like that plan was out of the window though. This monster knew, and whatever she wanted from him, Bulitia knew it was not good.

“I…have some herb-craft”, he said, “But…semanya ta.”

“Oh but you do my reluctant witchdoctor. You ‘manya’ a lot”, she said. Bulitia felt his heart go cold and shrivel in his breast.  Was she some kind of spirit? How had she come to know Bukusu? He knew it wasn’t commonly spoken here; most of his fellow slaves were from Hispaniola, St. Domingue, and from West Africa. They had strong juju there; and this…creature liked that.  So why him when she was so spoiled for choice?

“It has to be you my young prince. And you will know why soon. For now, I need to transfer you to another part of my ranch. I need you to keep watch for me.”

“Keep watch on what mistress?” Bulitia asked wanting to say no with every fibre of his being. Wanting to stand up and fight and scream and rage. Wanting to escape this place and go home.

“My erstwhile neighbour…Sylvester B. Devereaux,  he has a young boy; this boy isn’t very well behaved. Sometimes he wanders over the line to my side of the fence. I need you to keep watch for him. Make sure he doesn’t do that. Kill him if you have to.”

Bulitia kept his eyes on the ground, not sure he’d heard correctly. His master…wanted him to kill a young boy? A young white boy? Bulitia might be new to the continent but he already knew that shedding white blood was a death sentence.  And though he was willing to die… not like this. Not with the blood of an innocent on his hands. The ancestors would never accept him. He would be thrown into the empty. No; there had to be another way.  Bulitia resolved that very day to run. His first thought, to kill his mistress, was foiled by the fact that he did not know what she was; or if she could be killed.

Asha was cleaning the mistress’ bedroom when she came in and leaned on the doorway watching her. It always made Asha really nervous when her mistress watched her and she would literally do anything to make it stop. She turned around and curtsied prettily.

“Mama I did as you asked”, she said eyes cast down.

“Oh I know you did. And you did it well. I just might sell you to a brothel. You’re a natural”, she said proudly, “But that is not what I am here to discuss. I need to know; what is he holding on to? Why does he still resist?”

Asha bowed her head lower, heart speeding up with anxiety, “Mistress I do not know. I have tried to speak to him, draw him out…but he just turns away from me and goes to sleep. He won’t talk.”

“Perhaps you’re not trying hard enough Asha. Do you need to be motivated? Because I can motivate you. I am a wonderful mistress like that. Let’s see, I could cut that baby out of your belly and sell it to the shamans in New Orleans. They have so many uses for innocent blood you have no idea.” The mistress sauntered forward, running one long nailed finger down Asha’s abdomen. Her nails were sharp enough that Asha thought they could cut her open if they were so inclined. They seemed to grow longer and sharper the closer they got to her womb, where the baby she hadn’t known she was carrying lay vulnerable. Perhaps it would be better for the baby to be cut out while it was still growing.  Allah knew this was no life for a child. Or for anyone really.  But what of the child’s soul? Would it be trapped here if this creature got its hands on it; perhaps she would eat it. She looked like she fed on the souls of babies.

Not mine.

Something in her rejected completely the thought of giving up her baby to this monster. No, she would protect it to her last breath.

“I will try again mistress”, she said, “And this time, I will succeed.”

“Good girl, Asha. Now go; babies are hungry things and you have not eaten today.”

Asha hurried off, before the mistress could change her mind. The only advantage to being a house slave was the access to food. The mistress didn’t care what they ate; so long as she had food when she asked for it, and drink when she wanted it. So the house slaves were fairly well fed; her field slaves too. Still once in a while, one or two would disappear without explanation. They were not sold…Asha suspected that they were eaten. So did the others. They didn’t discuss it though, not even among themselves in their own languages. The mistress was all knowing – they all knew that. And they did not want to know what would happen to them if her red eye fell on one of them. So they kept their heads down and did as they were told.

“Asha”, Laila’s deep voice cut into her musings. She was a fat old woman who spent her days ordering the kitchen slaves about and grinding corn in her huge mortar and pestle.

“Yes mama?” she said.

Laila sighed, “This time, you have bit off more than you can chew”, she said sadly.

Asha looked at her, wanting to ask what she meant but fearing that Laila already knew what she had been sent to do. The thought filled her with shame. Her mother had taught her better. Still she was a slave; mother’s lessons meant less than nothing compared to what the mistress wanted.

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Amistad Ain't Got Nothin' on Me

For this month's East African Friday Feature, I have been challenged every Friday, to write 1,000 words of a supernatural story. It can be an ongoing story, or bits and snippets but four times for the four Fridays of October. Now in honour of the release of my baby CHILD OF DESTINY on my birthday October 9th (So Y'all know what I want for a present...buy! buy! buy!) I'm going to do an outtake story that can be read on its own. As a nod to East Africa, I'm going to give the story of the ghost slaves in the wood - how they came to be there, and their hopes and dreams for the future. As a nod to my late father, my protagonist is named Bulitia. He's the slave ghost everyone from BDAH to The Swamp to COD keeps meeting and talking to.

Bulitia looked up at the black hole that narrowed until there was just a small circle of blue at the top. This place was aptly named; Shimoni. Bulitia had never been anywhere so dank and dark and miserable. The woman lying next to him was dead. He knew she was because he'd been listening to her laboured breathing for the past three days. It was the chest illness she had; and no way to treat it down here. He didn't know if he would treat it if he could. The slavers looked out for such things. He didn't want to make himself more attractive to them. Perhaps when they were loading them into the ship, and they saw that the woman was dead, and threw her overboard...he could pretend to be dead too. His father, Mulungu bless his soul, had taught him to swim long ago. He could hold his breath under water for as long as it took. Then he could make his way back...back to his people and his new wife; his little baby that must have been birthed by now. Yes, Bulitia was motivated. If he had any leverage, he would have climbed up the hole to the sky. Perhaps enough people would die down here so he could pile up their bodies, climb over them and escape.

No such luck though; the slavers came for them before enough people were dead. They were led out, through a tunnel to the very edge of the sea. Bulitia had smelled it; but that was the first time he was seeing it. It was vast, endless and intimidating. A person could get lost just trying to find the horizon. How was he to get back if they took him away now? Bulitia rattled his chains, looking left and right frantically, trying to find a way; but he was securely tied between a woman whose baby was dead on her breast – yet she clung stubbornly to it – and a man with a potbelly so large it covered his nakedness quite effectively. Bulitia shivered; there was a cool breeze blowing in spite of the heat. The slavers were whipping their backs so they could get moving; get on the huge ship waiting on the docks. One last time Bulitia looked around, looked for a way out. But there was none.

The lady they sold him to scared Bulitia more than the slavers. There was something about her that wasn’t right. He could not say what it was but he knew in his bones she wasn’t all the way human. There were five others with him; all from his own tribe. They spoke Bukusu among themselves, speculating on what she might be, and what she would do with them. Bulitia hoped that it was something that would end in death. He was not about this slave life. It was not his destiny.

The woman took them to a plantation in the bayou where sugarcane grew high in the damp humid air. The air smelt sweet and cloying yet familiar to Bulitia. He’d been somewhere like this before, in the time of Nabongo Mumia he had travelled to his kingdom to trade. It smelled sort of like this. Only without the underlying smell of blood, excrement and death. Bulitia wondered why he wasn’t dead yet; he was starving, he had wounds from the whippings some of which were infected and he wanted to be dead. So why wasn’t he? Perhaps it was fate. Perhaps he would find a way to go home again. Bulitia didn’t share this thought with his companions; they would just laugh at him for his naiveté after all; there was no getting out of this life.

Bulitia was assigned to cattle pen; there were six cows on the plantation and one bull. He was to feed, water, and milk the cows and make sure that the bull remained virile and ready to serve. This was familiar work to him. On his own land, he had thirty cows and three bulls. He wondered who was looking after them now.

One day as he was cleaning out the cow pen in preparation for milking a shadow fell over him that made him cold to the marrow of his bones. He did not have to turn around to know who was there. He went down on one knee and tried to still his trembling.

“Mama”, he said submissively, hoping she would get whatever she wanted and go.

“I have been watching you, Bulitia”, she said in a low voice and he trembled. The slaves had been stripped of their names; they were nothing but numbers. How had she known what his was?

“Don’t be afraid”, she whispered coming closer her cold breath fanning on his naked shoulders. Bulitia wanted to shy away, to turn and run. But he could do nothing but stand there and wait to see what the creature would do to him.

“I think you were meant for greater things than this Bulitia, am I right?” she asked putting one hand on his shoulder in a light caress. Bulitia wanted to scream but he knew better. She didn’t know that they knew that she was some creature from hell. She thought her human disguise held. He could not show more fear than a slave would at being singled out by his master. But what was he to say to her? He had no words to answer. If he told the truth, then Mulungu knew what she would do. If he told a lie…she would know. He was doomed. So he kept silent.

She ran her hand slowly, speculatively down his back until she got to the crack of his ass. He tensed as her finger dug inward, sharp nails causing injury as she pressed into him. He bit his lip so as to not to make a sound but he couldn’t still the trembling.

Suddenly her hand was gone from him and she stepped away. He dare not turn to see why.

“You’ll do”, she said.

New Release: The Swamp is Full of Mystery

Leyla met Matia at the grotto, picking her herbs.

“Was this what you meant?” she asked tearfully, “When you said my loved ones were in trouble?”

Matia straightened up from her digging, “I am so very sorry for your loss”, she said softly, shaking her head, “I wish I could tell you definitively that the danger is past…but I can’t.”

“No!”, Leyla shouted, tears streaming down her face, “You can’t just give me vague warnings and then….and then…not..”, she choked as her crying overwhelmed her. Matia sighed deeply, and watched her sob her way to silence.

“You have no idea what I would give to not have had this happen. And it was my food that was poisoned…I don’t understand at all. Some bad juju was at work here”, she murmured mostly to herself.

“So now what? What do we do? Do we just go about life like two people weren’t just fucking…killed?”Leyla asked.

Coming soon on smashwords.

It's Heeerrreee! At Last.

Hi! Finally Between Death and Heaven is available for sale today at a new and improved price. Because I'm generous as hell, if you buy it in July, there's a 50% discount if you clink on the book link above. 
Furthermore, send me your purchase receipt and get The Swamp for FREE!

Writing...The Process, The Writer's Block, The Everything

So a few years ago a story came to me, and asked me to write it. It began with Mya, a black girl, high school age; a loner much like me, but a lot more sassy yet quiet with it. Wait a minute...that's also like me. Am I writing a story about myself? Except that I'm not seventeen and my name isn't Mya. I don't want to believe I have that level of 'M.Night douchieness' as one of my favourite fictional writer characters said, so I'm gonna go with no.

Anyway, Mya was having issues from being in the bulls eye of Small Louisiana Town's version of 'Mean Girls' to well, other more let's say universally relevant to humanity issues. So seeing as I need to come up with a publication date for this book and so you haven't read it; I'll stop there. What I wanted to say is that this book seemed to have grown, sprouted infants all over the place, taken directions I wasn't expecting but am helpless to follow...in other words, its slowly becoming its own alternate universe. A universe I hope to share with you and hopefully you'll get as lost in it as I have.

The challenge with getting everything out there like now, today, no waiting, is that the more I write, the more outside jobs I get to write. and sometimes, though not often, I have to eat. and sleep. People sometimes want to see me. It eats into that writing time that's so limited to begin with. We're getting there though. Stay with me.

Excerpt From The Next Book

“I can’t believe you brought me here to be healed by some wild-haired crazy old lady!”, Roy Lestrange complained to his mother as she pulled him impatiently along.

“I told you, she’s not just some old lady; she’s a witch and she can make you better.”

“The fact that you believe in witchcraft ma…I mean this is 1989”, Roy complained even as he followed her through the trees to the ramshackle house he could see through it. It looked like it was standing strictly by the Grace of God or maybe some magic the witch was using to hold up her residence. Roy didn’t get it; if she had access to all this magic and shit, why didn’t she just magic herself a mansion and a fortune? Why live like an animal in the middle of the bayou with her equally crazy granddaughter?

His mother reached the door and knocked tentatively. They waited nervously for someone to come to the door. It was opened by a wizened old woman with a halo of grey hair; she smiled at them in welcome as if she’d been expecting them…

“Come in”, she said and led the way into her house. Roy was expecting to see the skulls of babies decorating the mantelpiece, maybe with snakeskin covering the walls. But no, the furniture was threadbare but neat. An aubusson rug, clearly old but well kept lay on the living room floor. The couch was covered with throw pillows and a crocheted cover. There were old school pictures on the wall of men and women dressed in old fashioned clothing. A tantalizing smell of freshly baked something emanated from behind the wooden kitchen counter. Roy’s mouth watered and he wondered if the witch would offer them something to eat before the day’s business began.

She led them past the living room however, toward some narrow stairs. The led up to an attic where all the good stuff was. Animal skulls, and chicken feathers, an altar with some sort of statue on it surrounded by offerings of rice and tobacco, black coffee and yams, a straw hat and a cane, pennies, palm oil and roses. This was more like Roy was expecting.

“What can I do for you?” the witch asked her voice surprisingly soft and compassionate.

“My Roy is sick Nannane. Could you heal him?” Roy’s mother asked diffidently.

The witch held out her hand to Roy and he understood that she wanted him to put his hand in hers. He was scared though; he didn’t want to do it. But his mother narrowed her eyes at him and he stretched out his hand and tentatively touched the witch’s with it. She closed her eyes, humming softly under her breath. A warmth suffused his hand where she touched it and then spread outwards towards the rest of him. He felt himself become languid, relaxed and at peace. His eyes closed of their own volition. It was like receiving the gentlest massage in human history.

“You have the wasting disease”, the witch intoned, “What are they calling it…AIDS?”

Roy jumped in shock. Nobody knew that; nobody said that. His mama didn’t know, she couldn’t have told. How had this witch guessed? He opened his eyes and pulled his hand out of hers, standing quickly to leave. His mother was watching him; a sad look in her eyes. The witch’s eyes were serene. She sat watching him, waiting for him to do what he would.

“How do you know that?” he whispered.

The witch just smiled slightly and held out her hands, “I don’t know if I can heal you; that is not in my hands. But I can make you feel better”, she said.

Roy just stared at her, “You can’t…tell anyone. You can’t…”, he stammered.

The witch shook her head, “My work is just as confidential as any priest…or doctor. You need not worry that anyone will know of your illness from me.”

“What can you do for me that the doctors can’t?” Roy demanded.

The witch shrugged, “The doctor gives you medicine for your body. You should continue to take those. I deal with a more holistic approach – your soul, your mind and your body – I call on the healing spirits to help you to feel better, and give you herbs to help your body and soul open up to that healing spirit.”

“I don’t believe in that mumbo jumbo”, Roy said belligerently.

“Indeed”, the witch said, seemingly unperturbed.

“Roy, will you just sit and let the lady do what she can for you?” his mother cut in irritably.

Roy stared back at her with a frown but the habit of obedience was long ingrained and he sat back down, “Okay”, he said.