Always beware of the person who has the warped mentality that people are “disposable”. You know by the little things they say along the way and how they move on to the next “victim” after having taken advantage of someone’s generosity. Be cautious and discerning, as human beings should never be viewed in the same context as trash – used and then discarded.
A light drizzle spotted the dusty yard late that July afternoon. The small, blue house with wood siding was one of several on the four-acre land. Holding the tiny package wrapped in an off-white sheet, Marceline surreptitiously mounted the porch. She glanced around before carefully resting its delicate content directly in front of the old screen door whose rusty hinges had left the lower part slightly lopsided. Standing up again, she knocked on the front window as loudly as she could, then glanced around one last time before taking off into the distance. She ran as fast as she could in the rain that had now picked up intensity.
Inside the house remained quiet until the sound of footsteps approached the front room. The package lying at the door made a stir after the knocking, but there was no further activity. Through the screen door, Clea Jean immediately saw the rolled up sheet on the porch, and standing just inches away from the door, she noticed a slight stir coming from it which caused her to jerk. She aimed for a better look, unaware of what the mysterious package could possibly be; a series of unhealthy thoughts crowded her mind.
“Pierre, come here!” she cried, still staring through the screen.
A boy appeared moments later. He was fairly tall for his age and on the slim side. Also, he did not look a day below sixteen, although he had just a week prior seen his twelfth birthday. His eyes caught hold of what had drawn Clea’s attention. “What is it?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Could be some kind of voodoo trap.”
Pierre shook his head, thinking his mother was far too superstitious and also generally bad-minded, always believing the worst.
He saw a stir in the sheet. “It moved!” he exclaimed.
Then they heard a weak cry and Clea quickly opened the door and stooped next to it. She unwrapped the sheet only to find a partially clad infant grimacing, then the crying continued.
“It’s a baby!” Clea blurted, wide-eyed.
Pierre had joined her on the porch, and was gazing at the child. Clea carefully picked it up, and she and her son scanned the large property.
“Whose baby is it?” Pierre asked.
“How would I know? You saw me pick it up. Did you see someone here when I picked it up?”
Pierre didn’t perceive the question worthy of a response. “It’s white,” he said.
“Not white — half white,” Clea corrected him. She was still scanning the vicinity and no one was outside as far as she could see. “Let’s get it in before she catches a cold.”
She gently rested the baby on the couch, then she and Pierre stood staring at it as if in a daze.
“She’s got a dimple, Mommy, and her hair is so pretty.” He reached down to touch the baby.
Clea slapped his hand.
“Don’t touch it on its head! You just used the bathroom, boy.”
“I washed my hands, Mommy. You don’t think I know I must wash my hands after using the toilet?”
Clea gave him a feisty look as he again reached down to touch the baby’s head.
“You be careful, ya hear? She’s not a rugged boy like you.”
Pierre glanced at his mother, then focused again on the texture of the baby’s jet-black curls. The child’s eyes were darting across the room, but paid much attention to the teenager smiling down at her. Clea observed with an austere look.
She was in her late forties and life had not been easy in the village set on the tropical island of Nervesta. Neither had it been for many of her neighbors – immigrants who shared the common ground upon which their clapboard houses sat. Heavy rains on the low-lying property often posed a colossal nuisance, especially for Clea who generally found less to appreciate and much to complain about. Those closest to her swore she contended with OCD, despite not having a specific name for it. Instead, they referred to her as “picky”; sometimes “particular”; other times just “crazy”. Born and bred in Haiti, she found herself in the village where her husband, Jacques, also a Haitian refugee, resided before they were married. When he upped and left, she remained.
Pierre quickly shut the main door from the sudden downpour of rain.
“When it stops, we have to find out who had the nerve to leave an infant on my porch,” Clea said angrily. “I wonder what they expect me to do with it!”
Pierre looked at her. “Maybe whoever it was doesn’t want it.”
“So they bring it here—to me? What am I to do with it? Feeding and taking care of you is challenging enough. I swear, boy, when you finish school, you better get a good job and pay me back for all the years I had to invest my hard-earned money in you.”
“Mommy, stop talking foolishness! How can you tell your own son to pay you back for doing what you’re supposed to do as a mother? I didn’t ask to be here, remember?”
Clea fixed her gaze on the boy, temporarily forgetting the child that was now quietly sucking its thumb. “You mean to tell me you gonna just grow up and make your living, and think you don’t owe me nothing for as good as I’ve been to you? I raised you by myself. I worked and slaved for everything you have including those clothes on your back. They don’t belong to you; they belong to me! Ungrateful!”
Pierre shook his head. Clea tended to take things so seriously. “You need to lighten up, Mommy.”
“Lighten up? Lighten up? Where you get this talk from? Mixing with those other children at your school, I bet. You are Haitian. You have pride in your heritage, boy!”
Pierre sighed deeply. “You are going from one thing to the next, Mommy. First of all, I never said I wouldn’t help take care of you when I’m older and secondly, I am proud of my heritage. You think just because I don’t speak like you that I am not proud? I was born here, Mommy. You expect me not to speak like the natives?”
Clea cut her eye at him, then reached down and picked up the baby after she noticed it was getting restless.
“Get a clean sheet and fold it in half over my bed. Let’s lay the baby in my room ‘til the rain stops. It must be hungry.”
Pierre quickly heeded her instructions, then sat next to the bed watching the baby while Clea went into the kitchen.
“How will you feed her?” he asked.
“Don’t you worry. I know just how.” She was back a few minutes later with a small baby bottle filled halfway with milk.
“Where did that come from?”
“You,” she replied, sitting on the bed and scooping the little child into her arms.
“Me?” Pierre was baffled.
The baby sucked the old, light brown plastic nipple eagerly. “She’s starving,” Clea noted.
Pierre looked on. “Yeah and you finally referred to her as she.
“This bottle was yours,” Clea finally revealed. “I kept it all these years.”
“Why? You wanted more children?”
“No. No more children. You know I don’t throw away hardly anything. And it’s a good thing too because if I was any different I wouldn’t be sitting here feeding this child right now. Whoever she belongs to owes me for a can of milk.”
Pierre smiled at the comment. He knew her sour attitude and bossiness were the weapons of mass destruction that drove his father away – first to the bottle, then as far away from her as he could get. He was saddened by news that cirrhosis of the liver finally claimed Jacques’ life and never had a bad word to say about the man that walked out on him and his mother when he was just seven years old.
“You are such a smart woman,” Pierre said.
“I know,” Clea replied. “Tell me, who in this village just had a baby? This child must only be between five or six weeks old and two months.”
Pierre thought for a moment, then called a few names.
“Well, that’s four. If the mother of this child is from this village, one of the four is missing a baby. We’ll find out who it is very soon.”
Two hours later…
“Michel!” Clea shouted at the door. Pierre was standing behind her.
Within seconds, the front door screeched open and a tall woman with narrow features appeared on the other side. The look on her face was one of shock as she fixed her gaze downward.
“Is that a baby?” Michel Gilbert asked.
“What does it look like?” Clea brushed past her, inviting herself inside the small, cramped living space. Michel followed her over to the couch and Pierre closed the door after stepping inside.
“That… that looks like…”
“Who?” Clea asked Michel.
Michel’s astonishment overpowered her voice.
“We see we arrived at the right door,” Clea said.
“Marceline left Eva with you?” Michel probed.
“Not exactly. She left the child on my doorstep, just before the rain came pouring down. What type of human being does that?” Clea made no effort to hide her disgust.
Michel found the chair and slowly descended. “She did that?”
“You’re damn right she did! Where the hell is she?”
“She’s not here. She left already.”
“Left? Left to go where? When is she coming back?” Clea demanded.
Michel shook her head. “She’s not coming back.”
You can get your copy here: Amazon
Thanks to Yawatta Hosby for this Women’s Horror Month interview.
In celebration of Women’s Horror Month, please welcome my special guest Tanya R. Taylor, author in mostly the paranormal/supernatural genre. Please enjoy her insightful interview. 1. D…
New Release Tomorrow (Feb. 25th) by Tanya R. Taylor!
From the highly anticipated novel: ’10 Minutes before Sleeping’
A Cold Place in Hell – An Introduction
“I wasn’t supposed to end up like this. I know my dreams seemed impossible, considering how everything started, but I thought I could overcome the hurdles, the tongue-lashing, the insults I heard that never stopped ringing in my ears all these years later. I just wanted a happy existence with my Prince Charming, my kids, in a nice, cozy house with a white, picket fence all around. I know I didn’t deserve any of that, but it doesn’t mean I never thought I could have it someday. And for a little while, I did.
“I shouldn’t be sitting here right now. He and I had amazing plans for our future. So I have to wonder, how did I end up like this? How did ‘we’ end up like this? I also seriously wonder why I’m even bothering to speak with you. Does it matter at all? I mean…how could it ever make a difference after all that’s been said and done?
“You and I both know my life is over. I was a failure the moment I was conceived by adults who cared nothing about me. A father who was ashamed of me and a mother who had better things to do with her life than raise her only child. My children might be okay in spite of it all, but how will I ever know? Are you willing to help me or is this just a ‘story’ for you to tell — straight from the horse’s mouth?”
Someone cleared their throat from somewhere within the large, scantily-filled room, but other than that, one could hear a pin drop. The woman sitting at the opposite side of the table simply looked on, unaware for the first time in her thriving career what her response to a mere question should be. But Eva was clearly different from all the others she had deemed worthy of an interview. This thirty-two year-old Cuban-Haitian was no regular detainee. This woman had a story to tell and Trina Hines, undoubtedly sophisticated and classy in almost every sense, would step on anyone or anything to ensure that she was the first one Eva would tell it to.
This shouldn’t be missed. Reserve your copy today.
Barnes & Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/10-minutes-befo…/1124593188…
Okay, I’ve been so busy as of late, I barely came up for air. That’s why I wasn’t able to blog for a while. Decided to pop in and touch base as I’m very excited about my upcoming release that I’ve literally broken my own record with. Writing five or six thousand words in a day was something I could do without trying, but with 10 Minutes before Sleeping there was a particular day when I wrote nine thousand words – Yes, 9000! I had never written that many words in a day prior to that. The thoughts just flowed so freely. I was astonished – to say the least.
I’m clearing out my schedule now and getting ready for the release which will happen on the 25th of this month. I am also pleased with the response I’ve gotten to it already. Thanks to everyone who have been so supportive of me over the past couple of years. I can’t express how much I truly appreciate my readers. No words would be good enough. Nevertheless I say, with a humble heart, thank you. 🙂
Will touch base again soon with more Wisdom Keys. Please forgive me for falling behind on them a bit.
All the best!
A major local newspaper gave me a full page. Wow! I’m honoured. 🙂
There are some awesome projects in the making for next year – great collaborations with talented writers who pride themselves on telling an unforgettably good story. I am happy to announce one of these collaborations which will take place between myself and the very talented Diane Morasco. We will provide interesting and helpful content for aspiring writers.
It started with a whisper in The Granite State. It was this whisper that led Diane Morasco to take heed. Listening to the inner stirrings of her creative genius, she came up with an idea – she has a lot of those – and decided she wanted to give back to the community that rescued her from a chaotic childhood.
On June 30, 2016, she shared her vision with me and that day, The Art of Storytelling with Morasco and Taylor™ was created.
We know the importance of giving back and what better way is there than helping other writers cross over the bridge from aspiring writers to published authors.
Morasco and Taylor are Writers passing it on one word at a time!™
A wise person doesn’t just digest every bit of information he is fed. While listening, he is instinctively examining the source of that information (the person who is sharing it). The way he handles the knowledge–whether to believe, disbelieve, remain neutral or other–depends upon whether the source is a natural gossiper, back-biter, snake, or someone who is honorable and trustworthy. When it comes to information, always examine your source: It makes all the difference in the world.
Wisdom Keys for LIFE – AMAZON
How delightful this is for Diane Morasco to have revealed the cover of my upcoming Spring 2017 release.
My first introduction to the prolific storytelling phenomenon, Tanya R. Taylor was Haunted Cruise. Her thrilling tale led me to write “Tanya R. Taylor is the possessor of one of the most ingenious and infinite minds in the horror genre to come along since Clive Barker, Stephen King and Ruth Rendell.” Those words written in a review for Blogcritics caught the attention of America’s Most Haunted who tweeted, “With #HauntedCruise, author #TanyaRTaylor Joins Ranks of #Horror Greats.” High praise!
I am over the moon to reveal the cover for the second book in Taylor’s Haunted Series, The Haunting of Merci Hospital. I have been gifted a full circle moment with this honor bestowed to me by the enchanting wordsmith herself. And, yes, tears of joy are falling. Full. Circle. Moment.
Some children keep terrible secrets…
Book 3 of the Cornelius Saga from the author of #1 bestseller Cornelius.
Young Rosie Cullen has found a new friend in a mysterious loner named Cara. Rosie knows her only by her first name, but feels she has an obligation to be there for her in an otherwise lonely existence. Mira, Rosie’s gifted mother, allows the budding friendship for a time, but soon senses that something isn’t quite right.
Dark, disturbing secrets involving the strange little girl begin to surface and the Cullens will eventually discover that what they initially thought was a worthy deed has turned out to be an unforgettable nightmare.
Pre-order now at:
BARNES & NOBLE: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/cara-tanya-r-ta…/1124623761…
APPLE ISTORE: https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/cara/id1154602848?mt=11
Pre-order date for Amazon will be announced this month.