Excerpt: Connections

Connections – Date of Publication: July 2008

(Romantic Comedy)

Connections is a romantic comedy that’s perfect for today’s world where love is often found in Cyberspace.

Monday through Friday, for one hour a day, newspaper reporter Christianna Dayne’s life is wonderful. Despite her hectic life, she always manages to spend her lunch hour at Cyber Town where she can catch up with her best friend Samantha, grab a bite to eat, and most importantly, hook up with her cyber boo online. Christianna is definitely feeling LitGuy66, but she’s too afraid to meet him because she doesn’t want reality to come crashing down around her. What Christianna doesn’t know is she’s not in control; fate is, and when fate puts a flesh and blood man before her – a man who just happens to not only be her possible Mr. Wonderful but also her ultimate scoop – Christianna must decide whether to flee or stick around and pursue the endless possibilities.

EXCERPT

I smiled when I noticed my girlfriend, Samantha, working. I waved, skipping over to her.

“You’re awfully giddy today,” she said as she handed a customer his change.

Approaching the counter, I leaned over, widening my smile.

“Actually, no,” I replied. “I’m tired, pissed, and cold as hell, but you know I couldn’t miss my lunch date.”

“What did Dave do this time?”

Samantha and I laughed. Dave was brothers with Samantha’s stepfather, so she knew all the dirt on him—even what wasn’t fit to print.

“Sam, he has me doing yet another mission impossible which means I won’t be able to hang with you this week.”

Sam’s icy blue eyes widened before she slapped the counter and chuckled. “Um, excuse me,” she said in her hard born-in-New-York accent, which so contrasted with her epitome-of-American-beauty blond hair, blue eyes, and model figure. “When was the last time we went out? You never go out.” She wiped the counter and nodded, her long blond hair dipping over her shoulders. “Which explains why you haven’t dated in how long?”

I raised my eyebrow. “Sam, I didn’t come here to be reprimanded for being a spinster.” I sighed. “Besides, dear old Mom already beat you to this convo over the weekend.”

Sam reached across the counter and patted my hand.

“I’m sorry, chica,” she said. She brightened and added, “But you do have your date today. How long has this been going on, two months now, right?”

I broke into a jaw-hurting smile. “Yeah,” I said as if shy.

“Why don’t you two just get over it and meet? It’s not like it’s a crime to meet someone on the Internet these days or anything.”

I pushed my thick, wiry hair back from off my face and blew into my hands. “I never really thought about it. I mean, he sounds too good to be true, and this one hour of my day makes me so happy. I would hate us to meet and negative vibes pop off. Then, I wouldn’t have this…” I lifted my arms and spun in a circle before I pointed to my favorite spot in the café.

Sam’s eyes moved toward my PC in the corner and then back to me. “Chris, you need to stop playing what if. I mean this could be the guy for you.”

“What’s gotten into you, Sam?” I asked, laughing. “You’re hardly the advocate for Internet romance. I often wonder why you even work here because I can bet you that a lot of these people come here to talk to people they are interested in romantically.”

“I guess I just see you in here, every Monday through Friday, talking for your hour, and floating out of the door because you’re so happy. Maybe I’d like to see you happy for more than one hour a day, five days a week.”

I smiled at my girl, taking her hands in mine and giving them a squeeze. I glanced at the contrast of our hands—hers being alabaster and mine the color of cinnamon. I chuckled, thinking of how people often looked at our color; raised brows at our loud, usually not politically correct discussions; and refused to see that we were sisters beyond our hues. Since we hooked up and lucked out as roommates our first year of college, Sam and I had been joined at the hip. Not even full-time jobs or the daily grind of life could keep us from staying connected.

“Thanks, Sis,” I said. “I know you’re just worried about my so-called love life. Not all of us can be graced to have a love like you and Jake.”

“True, but you know Jake and I have our problems…”

I gave Sam a serious look, before asking, “So how are things, between you, Jake, Jax, and Jamaica?”

“It’s going,” Sam said, sighing. “Jake and I can do nothing but continue loving each other and watching out for Jax. Jax is so young. I don’t want to hurt her with her mother’s crazy issues. If Jamaica is going to act up, then we’ll just have to deal with it then. She’s been okay since we talked to her, but you never know.”

I nodded. Our conversation was halted as a guy approached the counter. Wow, I thought, he’s cute. I knew Sam was thinking the same thing because she offered me a smirk before helping him.

“What can I do for you?” she asked.

“Uh, yeah,” he said, looking rushed, “can I get a cup of coffee and a turkey Swiss croissant?”

“Sure thing.”

“Ditto on that order, Sam, but make my coffee a caramel latte, please.” She nodded and turned away. I drummed my fingertips along the counter, catching glimpses of the guy out of the corner of my eye.

“Hi,” he said, catching me glancing. I turned toward him, a blush rising in my cheeks.

“Hi,” I replied, embarrassed. Now looking directly at him, I was like Elvis, all shook up.

He was gorgeous, in that artsy kind of way, and his Hispanic heritage just added to his machismo factor. He had the most beautiful pair of brown eyes—after my own—and a nice full mouth. He ran his hand over his slightly spiky brown hair and offered the other to me.

Want to know what happens to Christianna and her cyber boo? Pick up a copy of CONNECTIONS today – it’s only $1.95 – enjoy it over a sweet latte.

This e-story by Shonell Bacon can be purchased via (Lady Leo Publishing)!

Once you read it, go check her out and let her know what you think! She'll post your comments!

If I Don't Call...

Q: Does it mean that i dont care?

A: No it doesn’t mean you don’t care, however, it can/may convey to the person who wants to hear from you that you’re not willing to step outside your comfort zone to let them into your thought processes. A lot of space in between phonecalls during a time of newness just sends a message of disinterest.
It also depends on who or what this person is to you, did you mention up front that you’re not really a phone person, are you using that as an excuse to not really be bothered to exert the energy?

The same way you wish to know without a shadow of a doubt that someone’s into you… the same way, the other person would want to know.

I’m a firm believer that one makes time, or does what one doesn’t necessarily like to do, if one decides that the other party merits it or not.

Granted, in every relationship, it seems as though one party ends up with the onus of keeping it going. There’s one person that will call more often, one person that will say, I haven’t heard from … in a while, let me see what’s up. I guess with every relationship, you decide… which one you’re going to be or evolve into.

For a relationship (any type) to grow or go anywhere, it takes some nurturing, some time and some sacrifice… ergo, so if the phone is not it… you betta be an emailing so and so, a texting so and so, an IM-ing so and so or a postcard mailing so and so… do something so the other party knows they’re not in this thing… alone.

Jus my two cents.

Contest: The Next Top Poet of MySpace!

..
Comment | Copy This

The Man On His Way

Emotional
mind all over the map
angry,
affected, rejected, dejected
I almost elected
to withdraw from the fray,
caught up in patterns of yesterday
totally unrelated
nevertheless projected
negativity had its hold
your character tried
and unprotected

Rational
mind fought the good fight
God's word to me
brought my flaws to light
no assassination
allowed on His watch
He said to me
With a gentle touch

All in all
I'm proud of me
Hanging like Zaccheus
up in the tree
Scared I might fall
but willing to hold on
Cause I want an audience
with the man on his way
who really has so much to say
that I want to hear
come what may

The above represents the audio and written versions of my entry into the NEXT TOP POET (MNTP) COMPETITION hosted by Yasmin Coleman of APOOO Books. I chose this poem because a friend whose opinion I value highly, thought it was the bee's knees. It's usually hard for me to judge because I don't consider myself to be a poet(ess) just a writer/author who loves words and the challenge of seeing how many I can make rhyme in a row and still make sense... lol.

Every once in a while, if I feel strongly enough, or the Holy Spirit inspires me... I come up with a true gem. The above was engendered by an online relationship. (What... surprised? Come on... I am the author of Age is Just a Number: Adventures in Online Dating lol)

The party did a disappearing act and I began to doubt my judgment and his character. The above was my attempt to explain to him, how his unexplained silence was judged... by me, initially.

He thought I was slamming him and felt hurt... go figure... I thought I had worked that out by the time the third stanza came around... but maybe not?

Anyway... I hope you enjoy and I'd love to hear your comments and/or feelings about the piece. And if, and only if, you deem it worthy. I'd appreciate your show of support by voting for it/me on May 4th.

Peace,
~D

Figment

To my brothers and sisters who have been brave enough to step outside the box and try this new thing we call "Online Dating"

If you've been at it for any length of time, you will have perhaps encountered folks who think you're crazy, desperate or just plain don't understand the idea of it. Maybe you began with entertainment purposes in mind and then one day, a profile spoke to you and you reached out, made contact and became hooked. Or maybe that's just me? Let me know if you feel me.

Peace,
~D

~*~*~*~*~

Figment

Sometimes I think you're a figment of my imagination
Sometimes I think I'm in it all by myself
Just when I've convinced myself it's over
or wonder had it ever been
You type up a response and then hit "send"

Recognition sets my heart aquiver
Then all of me begins to shiver
Even as I acknowledge my susceptibility
I immerse myself in thoughts of possibility

Perhaps this time things will be different
Steady and strong not intermittent
Your words will not become a song
My hopes won't just be dreams gone wrong

Not that I want to call your words a lie
They just don't come true even when I try and try
The disappointment then becomes a trend
Seems even closer than my dearest friend

You give me just enough to keep me hooked
All the while your calendar reads "booked"
You've helped me to work past my fear
Yet all the while your own is still there

The frustrating part of this whole plight
Is that you see me and what you see you like
But years and years of self dislike
Has made you forsee only slights

So I know it is time to call it quits
Deal with the real of what this is
Made up, contrived: a figment, a wish
Served hot or cold, it's an unpalatable dish

I collect my thoughts and view the screen
Curtailing my hopes with all my being
I remind myself just how long it's been
Then I resolutely click "delete"

(c) 2007 by D.S. White

Author of Age is Just a Number: Adventures in Online Dating (09/06) and Love Quest: Looking for Love in Cyberspace ... coming November 2008

Publisher of Incremental Stages by Karen Baker (12/07)

Age is Just a Number - The Serial is Back! - Vol II

Hi Folks,

For those of you who purchased, reviewed, proof read or commented on the blog posts for Volume I. Volume II is now about to begin.

Well actually the preamble began during NaNoWriMo 2006, however it fell by the wayside. So I’m now getting back to the vehicle that helped me create the first volume: blogging!

So every Thursday, I’ll begin posting the latest or edits of the previous chapter.

So without further ado, here’s the preamble - (Unedited so please don’t hold that against me):

Thursday, November 1, 2006, 8:00 p.m.

I never thought I’d be one of those twenty-five … again folk because I’m so grateful to be here, plus I’m so used to folk saying, “You have a twenty-one-year-old daughter? Stop playing!” that I got caught out there when it happened:

There I was minding my own business standing outside of the neighborhood Wal*Mart when the words I thought I’d never hear were spoken, “Excuse me ma’am?”

Ensconced in the surety that I wasn’t the one being addressed, I kept on searching, my eyes peeled for the “I heart Jesus” license plate that would signal the approach of my brother-in-law’s van when the words came again, “Ma’am, ahem, excuse me ma’am?”

Annoyed now that whoever was being addressed was being so rude, I whipped my head around to give that person the evil eye, when directly in my line of vision was a teenager looking hopefully at me.

I looked past him, sure that he needed my help to gain the attention of said ma’am, but alas there was no one close enough to us to whom he could have been referring but … me!

Pushing the ramifications of that to the back of my mind I focused on the stocky teenager as I asked, “Were you talking to me?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He answered. “Do you know what time the next whirly bird (our local bus) will be coming?”

After a quick glance at my watch, I pointed to the left and said, “The next bus will be by in fifteen minutes, but you’re standing in the wrong spot, the bus stop was recently moved you need to go down there, where all the other people are standing.” And in full parental mode I added, “Do you have exact change for the bus? It’s fifty cents to ride one way and two dollars if you need to transfer.”

“Thanks, ma’am, I’m good.” He said then jogged on down to where the other bus riders were lined up.

Now that he was gone, I could safely pull out that word and examine it. In less than five minutes, I’d been addressed as Ma’am four times … count it … four times. Yes, I know there are weightier issues, the upcoming elections, the plight of the poor, Jesus’ return – I get that but you see Ma’am just isn’t me.

I’m the cool parent, the one my daughter’s friends wanted to hang with. The one who had so much stamina she could dance all the teens under the table, show them how to do round offs, cartwheels or flips without batting an eye. Attend dance classes with teens and hit that split with nary a problem.

Ma’am is some overweight, forty-something woman, who’s not down with the slang of the day, has no clue as to the latest clothing or hairdo trends, wears shoes for comfort instead of to enhance the shape of her legs and doesn’t care if she’s wearing make-up or not.

I looked down at myself, cool boots—check, bootleg cut jeans—check, passed my hand through my locs—check, looked at my coat—okay X, licked my unvarnished lips—okay X … again, slang meter—check, weight—okay X, age—okay X again.

So by my own meter, created when I was ooooh about his age, I’d unknowingly metamorphosed into “Ma’am!”

What can I do to reverse that? When did it happen? Was it when I moved from New York to Pennsylvania? In my attempt to fit in had I compromised on my citified edginess?

I mean, just three years ago, I was the famous “Divine” of Age is Just a Number: Adventures in Online Dating fame. Younguns were coming out of my ears… well not sixteen year-olds … (don’t wanna get reported for child abuse … LOL) but twenty was not at all a stretch. Of course I verbally spanked them and sent them back to their mamas, but still … there was no “ma’am” on the horizon.

Is this what turning forty is about? If so … who do I have to annoy, bribe or pay to get off this rollercoaster to the land of decline?

Seriously though, I am thankful for every year that I’m here, for at fourteen with the onset of bipolar disorder I was ready to end it all, but for God’s intervention. However, how do I deal with the in-between stage in which I now find myself?

To hear me tell it, I’m still a hip, happening fool, however, when I use slang in her presence, my daughter quickly says, “Umm, mom … please don’t do that again.” Or when I attempt to go exercise in exercise clothes (brilliant blue spandex with a sweat shirt no less) she bars the door and asks, “You’re not going outside like that, are you?” When did spandex (exercise clothing) become déclassé?

Well, if this is what turning forty-one has in store for me … I would rather reminisce a bit more. After all my past had much to recommend it: not only was I thirty-seven and thinner–everyone (the men and young men, i.e.) thought I was only twenty-five and were not shy in approaching me. What? I’m not kidding. Grabbing the journal:

My journal remembers…

Monday, April 21, 2003, 10:15 p.m.
PART XV: IS THAT A TYPO?

MEANWHILE, back at BV, I finally got around to reading the other note I’d received. After the disappointing outcome of my first attempt at dating, I was happy to see the words angel and music included in his alias, although the lost part made me wonder if I’d have to dig a lot to find him—or maybe he was looking for himself?

My fanciful imaginings aside, I clicked on the link and read the email. Well, let me tell you, it more than made up for the trespasses of Pete! It was complimentary without being effusive and poetic without making me gag.

He wanted to know how he could get to know me and if I would give him a moment of my time. I quickly looked up his profile and found that he was into music as well! A Christian to boot, but no pic—durn!

I continued reading. He had a management company and worked with Christian artists only. He had a link to his site which I, of course, clicked on. Upon viewing the site, I was impressed by his professionalism and straightforward, no holds barred attitude. That’s what I’m talking about, I said to myself, as I broke out in goose pimples.

I returned to his BV profile to get some more personal details. Six feet one inch, 185 lbs, Puerto Rican/Jamaican ancestry (waaa hooo) age 25, location, GA … Hol’ up! Twenty-five? Was that a typo? The three is right next to the two … maybe he hit two by accident—and when did twenty-five-year-olds start sounding so mature? Must be a typo.

I thought about it for a bit, did the math three times, but the outcome equaled a twelve-year difference every time. Must be a typo.

Well, only one way to find out. I penned an appreciative response, then segued to my main area of concern… the age thingy. Amid much kudos about the site and his witnessing I slipped in the question—“was that a typo?”—in such a way that it was quite clear that twenty-five was cute and sweet, but not in the running.

Strangely enough, I received no reply.

I checked back the next day and the day after that … nothing. In the meantime I re-read the email and his BV page, and you know what? After the third or fourth re-read, twenty-five was starting to not sound so harsh. Heck, I don’t even look thirty! (Or so folk keep telling me). He sounded so mature, and most importantly, he was a Christian and proud of it.

I re-read my response, and it did sound kind of condescending. So I sent another note, apologizing if I’d offended—I’d been caught off guard by the age thing. I guess that was the ticket, because a response came in mere seconds after I hit “send.”

He accepted my apology, and in essence told me not to get caught up in numbers, since age, after all, is just a number. He also included a few other numbers: his phone number at work…

Dang, I hate it when men do that… put the ball in my court by divulging their number first. I think it’s a new fangled strategy where they appear to be putting us in the driver’s seat, so that we feel safe or empowered. Personally, I just think it’s laziness on their part.

That occurred at 10:00 a.m. I spent an hour dithering over a promotional mailing to the subscribers on my mailing list, telling myself that I really wasn’t going to call. What would be the point? His age had been confirmed as a non-typo.

By 11:20 a.m. I was dialing the phone number. I got a voice mail for someone named Christine and dropped the phone like a sixteen year old. Dang, I’d already begun regressing. I’d swept right past twenty-five to arrive at sixteen.

Pressing the phone receiver against my hot cheeks while berating myself (you are soooo sad), I composed myself and redialed the number. This time I left a message stating that the message was for Bachelor Music Angel, and left my phone number.

I spent the next twenty minutes working frenetically. I jumped at every car horn outside my office window. Finally, the phone rang. Just to be sure, I answered it in my business voice: “Div’s Book Nook.”

It was him! He sounded so cute—voice all soft, sweet and melodious. We talked for about thirty minutes and then I had to take a business call. I promised to call him back.

Business taken care of, I returned his call. Twenty minutes into that conversation, he had to go. He then called me back. I asked him if all this phone time wouldn’t be a problem, and he said he was cool. He was just on a subcontract assignment while someone was out. (Okay … that explained the Christine on the voice mail.)

Next I addressed the fact that he had no picture on his profile. He told me that he used to have one up, but got too many crazy emails so he took it down.

Alrighty then! “So how does a sistah go about seeing one of those make-a-woman-lose-her-mind pics?” I asked.

He chuckled, “Just ask and it shall be given unto you.” Ooooh … Biblical flirting! I can get with this! I thought to myself. We continued chatting, while I waited for the pics to hit my inbox.

To Be Continued…

11 Things Women Don't Know About Men

Plus one thing they probably do know, but won’t admit

By Evan Marc Katz Special to Yahoo! Personals
Updated: Jul 18, 2007

1. Getting angry at us for not reading your mind is like getting angry at yourself for not being able to fly. It’s not just futile, it’s physically impossible.
2. Yes, we do think Jessica Alba is hot. Sometimes we’re even dumb enough to admit it.
3. Don’t ask us to understand your shoe fetish. Asking us to respect it is even sort of pushing it.
4. You do look good without makeup, just not as good as you look with it.
5. Ever notice how we don’t fight with our male friends? That’s why we get so frustrated when we fight with you.
6. You care what you’re wearing infinitely more than we do. In fact, if you’re naked when you open the front door, you won’t hear an argument from us.

To read the entire article, click here.