Sunday, November 26, 2023

RITE OF PASSAGE - audio edition of short story

If you wish to read my short story RITE OF PASSAGE - head to this link where you'll find the text version in another post at A Line A Day. 

Prefer to listen to it instead? Simply press the play button below and hear it read aloud / performed by Erin Rogers Pickering and yours truly. I plan to record readings of other short stories of mine in future posts. Perhaps I'll convince guest readers to help me out with some of them. 


 

And here are some visuals to go along with the recording via TikTok.
@mudhousebooks

TikTok made for Rite of Passage - a short story by Roy L. Pickering Jr.

♬ Finesse - Bruno Mars





















HAPPY LISTENING - HAPPY WATCHING - HAPPY READING - 
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Sunday, November 5, 2023

Wrapping Up 2023

The year 2023 is drawing to a close and I'm doing what I can to wrap things up with literary flair. First up, I was contacted by Shepherd.com for the second time (here is my response on the first occasion) and asked to share my 3 favorite reads of the year. I gave it some thought (as did many other authors and readers who also contributed) and shared my Top 3 to date. Since there are nearly two full months left to go in the year, I can't guarantee that another book won't bump a title from the 3 seated throne. The one I'm currently reading is certainly off to a promising start. But as of this blog post...

Each November over the past several years, I have heard buzz in book'ish social media circles about National Novel Writing Month - aka NaNoWriMo. One of the first novels that I reviewed for my booktube channel Roy's Book Reviews was Water for Elephants, a book that began its first draft as a NaNoMoWri project. Sara Gruen ended up getting a publishing deal out of it, and later came a movie adaptation. THE DREAM - right? Usually I don't partake in online (or offline) group writing projects. Writing by its nature is a solitary pursuit, and while I am a sociable enough fellow, when it comes to crafting tales I typically operate as a lone wolf. But since I happen to be currently working on the first draft of my third novel, I figured I would join the fellowship of writers participating in NaNoWriMo 2023 as a way to keep myself motivated and my pen (yes, I still write first drafts longhand) continuously moving.




Another literary happening that I decided to participate in is the upcoming ALL BLACK BOOK AFFAIR sponsored by the Black AF Bookclub. A variety of writers from the full range of book genres/categories have chosen to make the Kindle editions of their books free or available at a discount on Amazon. The authors will all be Black and so will the primary characters of the works of fiction. It's an #AllBlackBookAffair spotlighting Black Indie Authors and I am thrilled to have one of my books be part of the event. 




Have you read many books by Black authors? If so, how many of them were indie authors? How many were male authors? Have you spread the love around across multiple genres? Here's a great opportunity to check off some of those boxes at little to no cost. Simply have your Kindle at the ready. Challenge yourselves to broaden horizons.






The Kindle ed. of Matters of Convenience will be FREE December 18th to December 22nd. Grab yourself a literary Christmas gift. Grab a whole bunch of them while you're at it. Say it loud - I read Black and I'm proud.




Any writer who has queried magazines or publishers or literary agents knows that the canned, informal responses that often come (I know, I know - they're VERY busy people who are inundated with submissions and simply don't have time for the personalized touch) can seem as if they were auto-generated by AI programs rather than human beings who actually took a few minutes to pay you any attention. But writers by necessity are resilient, and our thick skins sometimes yield hilarious results. For example...








I certainly was not going to be left out of the festivities. When life gives you lemons...it's lemonade time!



                                                                     *****

Last but not least, I managed to land a fantastic interview with an extremely dashing author that you can find featured at Roy's Book Reviews as well as below. Hope you enjoy it. Cheers, old sport (did you figure out that my Halloween costume this year was Jay Gatsby?).



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Sunday, August 20, 2023

Questionably ARTIFICIAL - Dubious INTELLIGENCE








 

Miguela


AI-generated Drake and The Weeknd song ‘Heart On My Sleeve’ has been submitted for Grammy consideration.
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Tuesday, July 4, 2023

Meet Marshall from MATTERS OF CONVENIENCE

 

                              Matters of Convenience


Marshall’s legs were burning but he peddled no less strenuously. He welcomed the pain because it gave him something to dwell on besides his last conversation with Audrey. Tangible hurt was preferable to a metaphorical kick to the gut. Then again, it mattered little what his preferences were. 

It was ridiculous for him to be jealous, especially since she had been kind enough to offer him a consolation prize as she was twisting the dagger of 94 her indifference into his heart. Grudgingly he’d allowed himself to be introduced to Sarah, found her to be as attractive as promised, and had a lunch date scheduled with her for the next day. He had been on the look-out for a diversion from Audrey, not expecting that she’d be the person to provide one. She was a dear friend, love of his life, and pimp supreme all rolled into one. Was it any wonder that he was consumed by her? 

Perhaps consumed was too strong a word. When Audrey told him she was not interested in him romantically six years earlier, he had been disappointed but not devastated. As they began spending time together as friends there was no ulterior motive on his part. He enjoyed her company for what it was. It took several months to realize that he was enjoying it a little too much, that he was harboring unreciprocated desire. He considered making his feelings known, and if rejected, the second time around he would have walked away for good, sacrificing friendship for the sake of his ego. But then Todd came along, rendering any professions of love moot. Eventually he grew accustomed to Todd’s presence without ever taking much of a liking to him. He was far from consumed by Audrey during those years, or so he concluded as he took an unnecessarily sharp turn on his bike, scarcely noticing as Brooklyn’s Prospect Park whizzed by. 

Thoughts of courting her resurfaced when she and Todd broke up. He would give her sufficient time and then express his feelings. Or would he? After five years he would not be able to breezily abandon their friendship. Sleepless nights were 95 spent wondering if he should keep quiet or go for broke. She was free, as was he, it was now or never. Yet he continued to procrastinate, to wait for a moment that was assuredly perfect. 

He had become a maestro at the waiting game. That’s what he had been doing while she was meeting some guy named James, waiting for her to show up and crush him. She did everything short of sending him an engraved invitation which read - Enjoy your coffee and cookies until I finally show up to make you feel like shit once more for old time’s sake. 

It was a stunning day, the sun at high beam as if to highlight his despair. But why should he feel badly, he asked himself for the hundredth time on his mindless bicycle race against invisible demons that could not be outpaced. He should have been used to the fact that they were not meant to be together. This James character had done him a huge favor by showing up when he did, sparing him the sting of rejection and the humiliation of standing by idly. Audrey had found someone new. She had moved on, would be giving happiness another go. As her friend he should have been glad for these things, especially since she was not the only one presented with an opportunity. Thanks to her intervention, he possessed one as well. Sarah was possibly the woman he had been waiting for. There was that cursed word again. Waiting. 

Fuck waiting. Screw standing still. It was time for a new plan of action. And he had at last concocted one. For however long his legs and lungs could stand, there was a single clear cut mission for him to accomplish. He would peddle, 96 and peddle, and peddle as if his life depended on it. If not his life, surely his sanity was at stake.  


MEET AUDREY

MEET JAMES


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Meet James from MATTERS OF CONVENIENCE

                                  Excerpt from Matters of Convenience


James played back phone messages received while he was out. The first was from Sonya, confirming their date for later that evening. He had met her a week earlier at a friend’s party, drawn to her high cheekbones, black hair that nearly reached down to her waist, and large opal eyes. She came from a wealthy Indonesian family, worked in corporate law, and was not the most riveting conversationalist. Nor did he relish the fact that she was a vegan. An ex-girlfriend of his had been committed to avoiding meat and a number of other culinary categories at all costs. The instructions she gave wait staff to make certain her dish passed muster often took a full five minutes to issue. This detracted from James’ enjoyment of his own meal, which much to Aisha’s dismay he preferred red blooded. 

Sonya had as many minuses going for her as pluses. Nevertheless, he elected to follow up on what had been started when he crossed the room to introduce himself to the exotic looking woman bathing in moon beams shining through the patio door. 

Fantasizing about the best case scenario of his upcoming date with Sonya was interrupted by the second message. It was left by his brother Craig, brief as usual, reminding him that he would be dropping by at three o’clock. Glancing at his watch, James saw that the appointed hour was twenty minutes away. He knew why Craig had 16 invited himself over, for he had done it often enough in the past, always with the same motivation - to hit his little brother up for cash. 

Craig was older by three years and less responsible by as many decades. Refusing to suffer the indignity of settling down at a stable job, he opted to invest in one get rich quick scheme after another. Whenever he was short of the necessary capital, usually due to some team not covering the spread, James was the preferred bank from which he withdrew. Craig was good about paying him back once his finances were back in the black. He would promise that this would be the last time, for his latest plan was foolproof and guaranteed to set him up for life. When things failed to work out it was disappointing, but to him, the risks he took handily beat working nine to five for a living. 

The final message was from his best friend who had relocated to Santa Barbara about a year ago. Their childhood was spent roaming the streets of the Bronx together, and for almost as far back as he could remember, Marcus had been talking about heading out to California someday. His master plan was to start his own hedge fund. Once it was up and running and raking in serious money, he hoped to bring James on board, reuniting the two Musketeers. 

James decided to wait until after his brother’s visit to return the call. Shooting the breeze with Marcus would put him in a great mood entering his date with Sonya. 

After pouring a snifter of brandy, he stood by the windows that wrapped around his apartment. His 17 vantage point from the 30th floor placed a generous portion of the city within sight. Once the sun went down, countless lights transformed Manhattan into a gigantic Christmas tree. 

James had done well for himself career wise, and his magazine layout worthy apartment with photogenic view was just one of the perks of success. He had always been dissatisfied with any grade less than an A, with any game that did not result in victory, with any goal, regardless of size and urgency that failed to be achieved. Lately his professional ascendancy felt stalled, frustration mounting due to others being rewarded for inferior results while his were overlooked. He was compelled to wonder if he had gone as far as a black man would be allowed to by his current employer. It wasn’t as if he was one of many African Americans who worked there. He stood out like a drop of ink floating in a bucket of milk. 

He was not predisposed to cast blame on racism or any other ism for what failed to go his way. Instead of making excuses, he refused to come up short. This mindset had been instilled by strong willed parents. They planted the seed and then fostered his passion to excel by enrolling him in private schools rather than poorly funded public ones where it was easier to drift into bad habits. He grew accustomed at an early age to environments where his smooth brown complexion was darker than the vast majority of his peers. He did not feel uncomfortable in such settings, for he recognized them as the places he needed to be. Nevertheless, there was a part of him which could not help but feel like a stranger in a strange land. He managed 18 to forget the differences between him and classmates and colleagues for long stretches of time, but inevitably, something or someone would remind him that they did exist.



MEET AUDREY

MEET MARSHALL


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Monday, May 22, 2023

A short story called Harry

                                                    HARRY

                                       A Short Story by Roy L. Pickering Jr.







In the pre-dawn hours of a brisk December Day, Harry walked the streets of Brooklyn, New York.  He traveled light, for he owned nothing but the tattered clothes he wore, the eight cents in his pocket, and a package carried in a plastic bag.  Ordinarily he would have been snoring in Grand Central Station at this hour, or on the 2 train if insomnia necessitated that he be rocked to sleep. But not today.  Though quite weary, Harry chose to put sweet dreams off for a while longer.  He wanted to behold the world with clarity, see beyond the veil that keeps truth hidden from all but the wisest of men before the next time his eyes were closed.

Alley cats hollered songs of love from the confines of a vacant lot that served in alternating shifts as a playground, bathroom, and brothel.  Harry was familiar with its utilitarian layout, for his footsteps had led him to the neighborhood of his childhood.




Those long ago days had been spent fighting a half dozen siblings over the insufficient room, nutrition and love provided for them.  Their fathers were each different men who were just passing through.  In exchange for either drugs or money to purchase drugs with, their mother gave what she had to give, a body she was poisoning one high at a time.

By the age of thirteen, Harry had developed a taste of his own for altered states of mind.  He needed to escape the wretchedness of his surroundings and nothing got him further away than crack cocaine.  It transported him to a world filled with light and beauty, devoid of suffering.

The last time Harry saw his mother she lay huddled on the kitchen floor.  For once her eyes did not reflect longing for the pipe of crystals she clutched onto, but for help.  There was not enough time to get her that help had he tried.  But Harry didn't try.  It was plain that the drugs were finally accomplishing what they were meant to do.  His mother’s anguish was coming to a merciless end. Harry simply waited to collect his inheritance from the palm of her hand.

A year later he met Julie.  She was a battered angel, sexually abused by her stepfather, as hooked on heroin as on oxygen.  Yet in some impossible to put a finger on way, a part of her remained untouched by the evil that men do.  When she learned she was pregnant, Julie decided to cleanse her body for the sake of the new life within her.  She begged Harry to do the same, but he vigilantly remained a lost cause. 

Rather than hanging around until he wreaked havoc in their lives, Julie vanished.  Perhaps she said goodbye the last time he saw her, but Harry was in no condition to take notice.  For a long while he expected her return, but eventually realized that she was gone for good.  He had blown what was likely his last chance at love.  He would never meet his child.  As usual, he was able to smoke his blues away.

Not long after Julie's departure, Harry became an official resident of the streets.  Too weak of body and mild of disposition to take money from others, he was left little choice but to beg for it.  The purest scores of smack failed to ease the crushing weight of his degradation.  For each coin placed in Harry's palm, a chunk of his pride was handed over.  He was pawning his soul piece by piece at bargain basement rates.

Harry did not fare well as a beggar, for he sang no songs, told no jokes, nor had so much as a decent hard luck speech.  Rather than attempting to entertain or to elicit sympathy, he would simply stand before subway passengers, hold out his coffee cup, and await donations.  They came few and far between, barely sufficient to keep him alive, if not exactly living.




His current tour was not undertaken for nostalgia's sake, but to reaffirm that his decision was the right one.  A single joyful memory may have shattered his resolution.  None came.  The years of his life blended in recall into a single interminable day spent wondering where his next high or meal, in that order of preference, would come from.

Harry picked up a piece of glass that was reflecting light from a nearby street lamp.  He sat on a curb and held the makeshift dagger over his wrist.  All was settled.  He would dispatch of an existence no longer worth the effort to preserve.  This was not the first time such a fatalistic decision had been reached by him.  But unlike the other occasions when it was no more than a vague concept rolled around his mind like a pair of dice, Harry was now determined to act upon it.

Three months earlier his friend Rico was stabbed while negotiating a freebie from a prostitute on tainted acid.  The murder gave Harry a permanent distaste for blood spill, and also for forming attachments.  Other homeless people were three dimensional reflections of everything that had gone wrong.  When his only companions were artificially enhanced thoughts, it was possible to imagine that his misfortunes were merely temporary.  But the passage of time discarded rather than judiciously spent made this illusion increasingly difficult to conjure.  Drugs could still elevate his consciousness, but no longer transported him high enough to reach the plane where hope resided.

Rather than hope, what Harry sought was an ultimate form of amnesia.  He wanted to erase all knowledge of who he was, who he had been, and what would undoubtedly become of him.

He flung the glass away.  Cutting his wrist would be painful, messy, and time consuming.  He might be found and saved by someone who didn’t know better.  There had to be a better way.

Harry rose and continued on his journey.  He wanted to be dead before sunrise, for the birth of a new day would needlessly delay the execution of his decision.  Daylight brought with it too many distractions.  The instinct for survival overpowered self-pity when the sun’s rays were in effect.  It was only natural that his desire for ultimate sleep bloomed under the cover of night.
 
 A car roared past at well over the speed limit, inspiring a plan.  The Brooklyn Bridge wasn't very far away.  He would walk halfway across and jump in front of the first car to come by.  

Pleased with this resolution, Harry picked up his pace and was at the bridge in ten minutes.  He positioned himself and waited for the vehicle of his demise to arrive.  The Subaru which came first left Harry safe and sound.  It wasn't going fast enough, he reasoned.  The same went for the Oldsmobile, wood paneled station wagon, and Volkswagen which drove by after.  The Mercedes would certainly have done the job, but Harry missed out because he was tightening his shoelaces as it passed.  Finally a truck came rumbling over the bridge like a stampede of elephants.  There would be no valid excuse to let this one go.  He waited until exactly the right moment, then jumped.  

A second later, Harry landed in the same spot he had been standing.  He couldn't do it.  The thought of meeting a fender head on for a goodnight kiss gave him the creeps.  His heart and mind were ready to go, but his body possessed its own opinion on the matter.  

Harry beheld the twinkling Manhattan skyline and could not deny that the view was breathtakingly beautiful.  But life was not nearly so pretty as it appeared from the Brooklyn Bridge at three in the morning.  He peered at the jet black water beneath him and realized it could grant him a perfect suicide, almost an artistic way to go.  Certainly more picturesque than being smashed to scattered pieces.  Harry wanted his body in one place when he died. The bottom of the East River was as good a location as any.

He swung a leg over the railing.  Hopefully the impact would at least knock him unconscious, if not kill him immediately.  He had never learned to swim and couldn't think of a more horrifying way to perish than by drowning.  The helplessness one must feel while sinking into murky depths had haunted him in nightmares since childhood.  It still terrified him.  This was the justification he gave himself for swinging his leg back to safe ground.  The East River would have to do without him for a snack.  It would not go completely unfed, for a nickel and three pennies fell from Harry's pants pocket and spiraled downwards like unanswered prayers.

Harry berated himself for his cowardice as he walked across the bridge.  He hated the weakness of his body that made the allure of crack cocaine irresistible.  He hated begging for survival.  He hated the way he looked, and smelled, and felt.  He abhorred when people viewed him with disgust, and even more when they looked through him as if he wasn't there.  It infuriated Harry that so much of his misfortunes had been predestined, that he was given only one legitimate opportunity to change the fate allotted to him. Yet he knew that one chance is one more than some people get, so his anger was ultimately eclipsed by regret.  He had begged for money and craved for drugs, but when the one thing which could have granted salvation was offered, Harry turned it down.  Through the densest clouds of poisonous euphoria he had been able to see that he loved Julie.  But love didn't seem all that important at the time.  Now he knew better.  He had learned that hate and anger could be enough to sustain someone, but regret did nothing but suck a person dry.

The temperature had dropped considerably since his venture got underway and a light snow now fell.  By the time he reached the city it was howling about him, transforming the night from black to white.  Harry didn't bother to head towards a subway station, for his legs felt as leaden as his spirits.  Instead he entered the corpse of what had long ago been a small but lovingly maintained park, and lay in the first place not already claimed by a rat.  He used the bag he had been lugging about as a pillow, its contents providing a fair cushion for his head.  

Inside of the bag was a rag doll found in a dumpster about nine months earlier.  One of her glass eyes was missing and nearly half of the stuffing had escaped from a rip that was now taped shut.  The doll was intended as a present for his daughter, in case he managed to find her.  His search had not been an active one, but one never knew who might be bumped into on the streets of New York City.  

Earlier that day, he had scribbled Julie’s name onto a piece of paper and placed it in the bag along with the doll.  In the event of the death he was resolved to bring about, Harry hoped his gift might somehow find the way to its intended recipient.  

As he always did before going to sleep, Harry tried to envision Julie and their child.  Once again he failed, for his daughter he had never seen and Julie's face he could scarcely remember.

Instead he saw his mother, her body and soul ravaged beyond repair, her eyes containing only a spark of humanity.  But sometimes a mere spark can initiate a conflagration.  After years of mercilessly pushing herself to a point inches away from death, in his mother’s last moments it was apparent that she wanted to redeem herself, to turn around and face the painful familiar rather than risk the unknown.  But she didn't have the strength to turn around. More often than not, a spark ignites no more than a millisecond of illumination.

“I hate her, Julie,” Harry had once said, back during a time when he had not yet abandoned the desire to make something of his life.  “We were nothing more to her than the amount of government assistance she got for each of us.  She kept getting pregnant so she could keep getting high.  She popped us out and then we had to fend for ourselves.”

“You’ve got to let your anger go, baby.”

“Why should I?”

“You’re going to be a parent yourself soon.  If you don’t forgive your mother, you won’t be able to care for your child.”

“I won’t have any trouble taking care of our kid.  I love our baby already, because the baby is coming from you.”

“I still say you have to clear the hate from your heart to make room for some love.”

“I love you and our baby plenty.”

“I know you do, Harry.  But you must also love yourself.  You got to at least try.”

“Shit, Julie.  Ever since you quit getting high you been talking like a shrink.  A shrink who keeps changing the subject.  I was talking about my mother, and nothing can fix the way I feel about her.”

“But look at all she gave you, honey.”

“All she gave me?  Are you out of your friggin’ mind?  Have you not heard a word I’ve said?”

“I’ve heard you, Harry.  But nothing you said, nothing she did changes the fact that she gave you life.”

“So?”

“So that means she gave you a chance.”

“So?”

“So use it.”  
 
Harry had proven to be a failure at both living and dying.  His sole consolation lay in the fact that at least there was always tomorrow.  He would have to find either the courage to kill himself, or a reason not to.  As long as the sun rose each morning, both remained distinct possibilities.  This thought made his sleep a peaceful one as the snow lay a natural blanket over him and he dreamt of days stitched with promise, devoid of pain.

The sun did indeed rise that morning.  Birds sang, cocks crew, alarm clocks sounded and rush hour officially began.  None of this disturbed Harry's slumber, for the frost had made his dream come true.  And though in life he wore the guise of a beggar, in death he was as stately as a king. 

                                                                                
                                                                      THE END


On a cheerier note, happy NBA retirement to Carmelo Anthony. It was a pleasure to watch you hoop brilliantly for my beloved New York Knicks.




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Wednesday, April 26, 2023

Quite The Week


@mudhousebooks Lookng for a book by an #indieauthor to read for #indieapril? Consider Patches of Grey. #booktok ♬ Creepin' - Metro Boomin & The Weeknd & 21 Savage
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