Even Sinners Have Souls TOO

by Joy, E. n.

  Even Sinners Have Souls TOO

  darrell king

  tysha

  victor l. martin

  michel moore

  Introduction by k'wan

  Edited by e.n. joy

  Smashwords Edition

  Big Homie©Copyright 2009 by Darrell King

  Ghetto Luv©Copyright 2009 by Tysha

  Shana's Smile©Copyright 2009 by Victor L. Martin

  Ya Reap©Copyright 2009 by Michel Moore

  Published by End of the Rainbow Projects

  P.O. Box 298238

  Columbus, OH 43229

  Typsetting by Kevin J. Calloway

  kraycool2002@yahoo.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system without prior consent of the publisher, except for brief quotes used in reviews.

  ISBN: 0-9706726-5-9

  First Published September 2009

  This is a work of fiction. Any references or similarities to actual events, real people, living or dead, or to real locales are intended to give the novel a sense of reality. Any similarity in other names, characters, places and incidents is entirely coincidental.

  Submit Orders to:

  End of the Rainbow Projects

  P.O. Box 298238

  Columbus, OH 43229

  614-806-6204

  Library of Congress Catalog Number 2009925011

  DEDICATIONS

  This project is dedicated to Anthony Jamal Morgan of

  Columbus, Ohio

  December 6, 1988 - Mother's Day 2007.

  Rest In Heaven.

  Big Homie is dedicated to all the lives of black men, women and children senselessly lost in the seemingly never ending street wars of South Central Los Angeles and abroad. I also dedicate this short story to documentary filmmaker Stacy Peralta, NBA star Baron Davis, as well as Stephen Luczo, who together have produced perhaps, in my opinion, the most poignant documentary film about the undisclosed world of two powerful and deadly gangs...Crips and Bloods: Made in America. An excellent, must see film!

  -DARRELL KING

  Ya Reap is dedicated to those always struggling to do 'what is considered right'. I want to thank the Almighty Creator for His hand in guiding me time and time again in the correct direction. He and He alone knows my true heart. Pray 4 Detroit.

  -MICHEL MOORE

  Ghetto Luv is dedicated to the memory of my cousin, Dwayne (Twin) Smith, who was my biggest fan. I also dedicate this project to my two sons, Je'Vohn M. Hill & Je'Ronn M. (Reese) Hill. You both encourage me to improve, have faith and to never settle for less in life.

  -TYSHA

  Shana's Smile is dedicated to my mother, Sandra J. Martin,

  sisters Angela R. Martin and Tremika Smith, niece Jizzy Martin, nephew Dominique Covington, future brother-in-law Alexander A.K.A. Duke, and my future wife... you know who you are. I love you all. Revelation 2:10.

  -VICTOR L. MARTIN

  Oh, Sinner Man

  Intro by K'Wan

  Ya Reap by Michel Moore

  Big Homie by Darrell King

  Ghetto Luv by Tysha

  Shana's Smile by Victor L. Martin

  Good and upright is the LORD: therefore will He teach sinners in the way.

  -Psalm 25:8

  "Oh, Sinner Man"

  By K' Wan

  "Oh, sinner man, where you gonna run to all on that day?. . .Run to the Lord. . . Lord, won't you hide me all on that day?" -Nina Simone

  Every time I heard that song I always felt like Nina was speaking to me, and when I got old enough, and wise enough, to reflect on my life and see the kinks in my armor, I realized that she was.

  Liar, thief, sinner, animal. . .I've been all of these things at one time or another; while growing up and even now. Sometimes it's an accurate assessment, but in most cases it's just folks being bitter because I'm trying to make the most out of the time we're allowed here on earth. For those of you who aren't familiar with me, my name is K' Wan. I'm blessed enough to say that I'm the author of almost a dozen novels, most of them bestsellers, and a contributing author to three anthologies at the time of this writing. But I'm not here to talk about me. You can figure out who I am on your own time.

  When Joy reached out to me about contributing to this project I thought she had fell and bumped her head. With as much dirt as I've done, what could I possibly have to contribute? I turned down a spot in the anthology, but I've known Joy as well as some of the authors featured for a long time, and I wanted to help out, so I agreed to do the foreword. The funny thing is that after I signed on to do it, I found myself at a loss for words. Can you believe it; the so-called master of the pen couldn't lay his game down? It was the first time since I've been writing that I couldn't muster a thought.

  So I found myself staring at a blank page for the next few days. Then the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months. It got to the point where I started to think that I had sold these people a dream, and I wouldn't be able to deliver. But as with all my work, failure is never an option. See, with street books, it's second nature. The animal is never too far removed from the jungle, so I could draw on it for inspiration, but this was different. The theme of this project wasn't really about the game and hard luck; it was about the human soul; something that still to this day confuses me to no end. To truly bless this project, as I was so entrusted to do, I had to not only analyze my relationship with Him, but my relationship with me.

  For as long as I can remember, I've rebelled against religion, or anything else that represented order for that matter. My father taught me and put me on the path of Islam when I was born, and my grandmother quoted the Bible between his frequent trips to prison. I was twisted from the beginning, so it's little wonder that I managed to slip through the cracks. I've always believed in a higher power, but to keep it 100 with you, the only thing I worshiped back in those days was a dollar. The sun shined out of the butts (of course, this wasn't the term K' Wan used) of the cats with bread, while the broke folks were forever destined to sit in the shade. As a shorty, I wanted to get rich quick and I didn't too much care about the tab I was running up in the process. . .until the devil came to collect.

  Most of my friends sold drugs, but I didn't have the patience to stand around and deal with all of the drama that came along with that, so I jacked for mine. I'd rather have ganked it than earned it, not like slinging poison is the equivalent of a nine-to-five, but you know what I mean. I got into so much foolishness as a teenager and young adult that I could fill this whole book up talking about it, not because I was such a brilliant criminal, but because I was too stupid to understand that I wasn't! God and I both know that if physics ruled over divine intervention, there'd never have been a Gangsta to launch my career, because I'd have gone on to my reward a long time ago, but I'm here. I lived life leaning on my rabbit's foot, sleeping on what was going on around me. But with the turn of the century, I got my wake up call.

  Some say that one life leaves the world for another, and it played out similarly with my mother and daughter. One left in pain so that the other could come in joy; exchanging faces with the transfer of souls. With my mother being diagnosed with cancer, and the impending birth of my first daughter, I fell into a deep depression. During this time, I welcomed the harsh burn of alcohol more than anything else. Those were hard times for me, and more often than not, the long sleep looked more appealing than the long walk into manhood.

  The problems in my life were so overwhelming that I felt like I couldn't breathe, and the more I drank, the lower I sank. I needed to dump this load that I was carrying or it would surely consum
e me, so I turned to one of my mother's favorite past times-writing. I had toyed with it a time or two prior, but writing never motivated me like it did my mother. But as my mother got weaker, the voice in my head begging to be heard became louder. I didn't know it at the time, but this would be a defining moment in my life.

  At the start, it was little more than ramblings scribbled on torn paper bags. . .then a spiral notebook. Eventually, these ramblings turned into coherent thoughts on a computer screen. All I did was drink, write and make trips to the hospital. Between my writing and my drinking, I had found a place where I wasn't hurting and where I could express what I was going through without fear of judgment. This was my memoir, the story of my life, my grief and my dreams. This was Gangsta.

  I won't bore y'all with how it went down and how I ended up being the first author signed to TCP (Triple Crown Publications), because it's a story that's been told a million times. What I will address is the change that getting my work published caused. I was still doing dirt when Gangsta was on the best sellers list, but my heart was no longer in it. Seeing my work in print caused me to finally dream bigger than I had been. I hadn't intended to write more than one book, but my head began to fill with more stories. I was addicted to my craft, and I still am to this day.

  As a published author, I now had something that I hadn't in the past; purpose. I looked around my hood and saw the ugliness that I hadn't really paid attention to before. Living conditions were becoming worse, the killers and the Mommies were getting younger and no one really seemed to care. So, I took it upon myself to be an advocate for the streets and a voice for what was going on.

  This genre that had been dead for over twenty years was getting its second wind, and I breathed deeply. With each book I was becoming stronger and my name was becoming more recognized. I was thrilled with all the new found attention, but it wasn't all positive. As with anything alien to the general public, the media was trying to knock Urban Fiction. They were, and are, saying that it was little more than a glorification of sex, guns and drugs. That's the biggest crock I've ever heard. Granted, the things we write about are very graphic, but it's a reflection of life in the inner city. So if you think reading about it is offensive, then can you imagine what it's like to live in it?

  Speaking from a personal stand point, my novels are as raw as they come. The reason for this is because I want to paint a very clear picture for urban youth and adults as to what's waiting for us behind door number two. There is no glory or rewards in the fast life, only heartache and death. Take it from someone who knows. In my books I take you through every dimension of the underworld so you won't have to experience it first hand to know it's all bull crap at the end of the day.

  To me, this is my way of paying forward my blessing and letting my life and struggles serve as inspiration to others in similar situations. Nothing, no matter how easy it seems, is without a price, and sometimes the price is way too heavy. These stories are more than just ink on paper; they are a warning to the curious or ignorant.

  People read my stories and think that they know me, or my character, based on what I've laid down between the pages. They have no idea how wrong they are. I was once no different than the lost souls you scoff at, but my craft and my blessing have provided me with a purpose. That purpose is to continue to entertain and enlighten people about the ills of everyday life. My intentions are to use these stories to bridge the ever widening gap between parents and children, so that the parents who are too far removed from what's going on in their children's everyday lives can really know what's going on. Can you say for sure that your kid isn't in a gang? Do you really know what it's like to grow up as part of this generation? So before you judge me because of the things I write about, get to know my soul. I think you'll be thoroughly surprised by what you'll find. These stories within this anthology are not just words; they are legacies, legacies that will be here long after you and I are dust.

  -K'Wan

  YA REAP

  by

  Michel Moore

  Chapter One

  "Quick, bring him into trauma room four!" The emergency unit nurse motioned to the paramedics as she ran beside the stretcher. "The doctor is already waiting!"

  "His pulse is dropping rapidly and we can't get a heartbeat!" one of the paramedics responded with urgency as his rubber gloves shook, full of clotting blood, knowing their gunshot victim was clinging to life. "Y'all better hurry! It ain't looking good!"

  "Oh no!" Arnita screamed out in painful denial, watching her teenage son appearing to lose his battle to see another sunrise. "Please help him! Please, please! He's my baby!"

  The nurse, sympathetic in tone, held up one hand. "I'm sorry, Miss, but you can't go back there." She stopped the anguished mother dead in her tracks at the swinging metal double doors that led to the operating room. "Don't worry. He's in good hands. And just as soon as we know something, the doctor will be right out to speak with you," she assured her.

  "Why did this happen?" sobs echoed loudly throughout the walls of the crowded building as she collapsed into her aunt's arms who solemnly led her down the hall into a dimly lit room. "Oh, my God! Why? Why is this happening to my baby?" she cried out, hoping that sooner than later, God would answer her cry.

  Auntie Bell sat in the drably decorated hospital chapel, clutching her Bible while wiping away Arnita's tears with an old tattered handkerchief. After somewhat calming her down, she suggested to her niece to take her pleas to God Himself, or the closest thing to Him for the moment, the hospital chapel.

  "Even at my age," Auntie Bell reflected, "it's simply amazing to me how things can go plum berserk so quickly. I mean one minute you're riding sky high on top of your game, and then within a momentary blink of the eye, your soul is practically scraping the ungodly rock bottom of this wretched earth."

  "Why? Why? Why?" the weeping Arnita continued as she anxiously awaited any news about her only son who was merely yards away with two gunshot holes in his chest the size of golf balls. "Oh, God, why?"

  "Stop all that crying! Just stop it." Auntie Bell hated that she was getting so frustrated with her niece's weeping, but surely Arnita didn't need God to reveal to her all the reasons behind her query. "You reap what you sow!" Auntie Bell snapped. "And you best trust that the good man upstairs will make you a believer in that." Auntie Bell preached, testifying with certainty as she wrapped her arms around her sister's child. "Now tell me, Sweetie, was all that rotten blood soiled drug money your first born showered you with worth it?... Was it?"

  Arnita sniffed and didn't hesitate to respond, "No, of course not, but why in the world is God doing this to my baby? Making him suffer?" Arnita questioned, looking up toward the ceiling, arms folded as she rocked back and forth. "He could stop all this and just save my son's life if He wanted to. After all, He is God, right? He can do anything, at least that's what you're always quoting from that Bible of yours." Doubt and sarcasm laced Arnita's tone.

  "Arnita, you best hush up that mouth of yours, questioning the Good Lord! Don't you dare blame Him for this tragedy." Auntie Bell jumped to her feet, shaking her finger at her niece. "This is entirely your fault, not God's! Now what you need to do is think back to the role you done played in Little Ro turning out the way he is," she proclaimed. "Truth be told, you might as well have pulled the trigger of that gun yourself!"

  Arnita sat speechless at her aunt's hurtful words. But as her mind reflected back over the years, she couldn't help but question whether or not her aunt's words might have held some truth.

  Chapter Two

  Five years earlier

  "Little Ro, call your father and tell him dinner will be ready in twenty minutes," Arnita ordered her son. "Oh, and tell him I cooked his favorite. Fried chicken, sweet corn, biscuits and gravy."

  "Okay, Ma, I will," the eldest of Arnita Mills' two children sighed, answering back as he stood over his little sister, Patrice, making sure she washed her face and hands before sitting at the table.

  "O
h, and please tell him to try and not be too late either."

  Roland Dean Mills Jr. was only twelve years old, but shouldered a great deal of responsibility for a boy of his age. Being the namesake of a stern but fair father was sometimes more than the rambunctious youngster could handle, yet he never wanted to disappoint the man he deemed as his time to time hero. Although, truth be told, making the usual shameful call night after night, summoning his dad home from his boy's house, was fast becoming a habit that was growing old with Little Ro. Each evening before he went to sleep, he'd pray his mother would get the courage to stand up for herself and stop being his father's doormat.

  God, please give Momma strength to stop Daddy from going over to that nasty, stank looking lady's house all the time. I hate her and her dumb-dumb son. Amen.

  The man of the house, Roland Sr., a carpenter by trade, was a tall muscular man in stature that everyone on this closely knit block on the west side of Detroit knew. Highly regarded wherever he went, whether it was out of fear of his quick fire temper or just plain respect, he was a force to be reckoned with. Migrating from Alabama, Roland Sr. had a swagger and southern charm that made him the perfect gentleman.