Tag: Women

Gothic Horror Fans: I Got You!

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A Book Review

The Keeper of the Key by Nicole Willson. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt

This book review feels rather special to me. Why? The author is a writer I grew with as we both wrote fiction for a publication on Medium called Hinged.press, formerly, The Weekly Knob. I always envied her delivery and the way she weaved tales of horror and thriller stories. She is a beast with the pen and has this uncanny way of shoving years of hauntings and mysteriousness into compact vignettes that anyone can enjoy.

We were both featured in the publication’s “Author’s Gold” segment and you can find our features here and here. What I love about Nicole’s writing is she creates believable characters any of us can be or may have been in the past. She pulls you into their lives and then tragically scares the living shit out of you just as you’re learning to love who they are. Every time I read one of her books, it’s a wild ride, which is icing on the cake of writing.

Below is the review I did for her most recent novel, The Keeper of the Key:

“I Felt Connected To Rachel & Her Family

And I know it is because the author, Nicole Willson, made them so believable and relatable.

The Keeper of the Key is a page-turner with wrath, vengeance, horror, gore, love, and resilience blended into every page.

I found myself yelling with Rachel and siding with her regarding her insouciant stepfather, Geoff. I cheered Gram on when she set her daughter, Tara straight about marrying Geoff too soon.

Morgan House is a terror and Nick is the reason. I knew from the beginning he would be trouble, and Nicole doesn’t disappoint. That house needed to wither away in ash form, and I was happy it did.

Towards the end of the book, I wanted to rip Nick’s eyes out and throw them away. I was rooting for Rachel and the many ways she manipulated him and maneuvered herself away from him in the end.

She, her mother, and grandmother survived turmoil and their ultimate demise.

If you’re looking for a thriller with a touch of gothic horror mixed in, I highly recommend The Keeper of the Key.

You will be jolted and thrashed into a world of mysteriousness and of a haunting good time.

Be forewarned!“

Tidepool and The Shadow Dancers of Brixton Hill are two other books authored by Nicole. I’ve read and reviewed them both. I vouch for this writer. She is in a class all by herself. And when you read her work, you’ll definitely understand why.

Her Substack.

Three Years Later . . .

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Free Verse Poem

AD & I (left = Me. Right = AD), Saturday, December 21, 2024: Charlotte, NC. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt

I dig into hearts–tear away walls,
and break down the turmoil
festering in a tired and weary soul.
She wasn’t trusting before me . . .
It’s hard to let someone in when
the past has shown you more
pain than joy . . . but we are
m a n a g i n g.

We have deep conversations about
life and the difficulties it places
upon us, and I always love
these discussions.
“Life is a conveyor belt
of challenges,” our Pastor
says, and I commit it to
memory because why not have
something encouraging to
share when the proverbial
shit hits the fan?

We chilled. We relaxed.
We appreciated the presence
of the other and Jernee basked
in the glory of her other favorite
person’s smile while I kicked back
and allowed the comfort of the
thick and inviting couch to
envelop me.

Three years later, we glide on
wobbly knees, still cautious of what
to say and often alerted to think
before speaking.
“You are a genuine person. You’re
safe for me.”
I get this . . . I’ve always gotten this–
and it is important to be a place
of peace for people who need it
most.

So, we continue to tread lightly,
but eager to grow into
two human beings blessed by
the beauty of the other–learning
from the other daily.
And as time passes, I pray
we have the strength to
fight the battles brewing in
life’s crockpot of danger.

Lord knows we’re strong
enough to do anything.

Have you gotten your copy of my new book: a collection of serial tales & flash fiction, Séduire (E-Book and Paperback) yet?

gravitate

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we’re living in the last
days of working together
and both of us are losing
peace, but we don’t want
to admit it.

she thinks my leaving would
cause me to gravitate toward
another or forget her or let
go of what we’ve built, and
I’m shouting from the highest
of heights that this is
false.

we are connected in a way
that cannot be damaged.
she knows this–holding on
makes her feel like she’s
letting go.
“We are so much more than
work-related. This environment
doesn’t define us.”

and she sees, then hears
those words, but fear is
still a marker I have to fight.
“I say what I mean, and I mean
what I say. We will still be us.”

I know insecurity lies
in the depths of her beating
heart and at the base of
her troubled mind, but I’m
giving her my word.

“You can’t say I haven’t kept
my word. For as long as
you’ve known me, I have
never disappointed you.”
she admits the truth of this,
yet I still have to kick through
past culprits to show her
I am who I say I am.

tomorrow is a day we don’t
want to see.
there are mixed feelings, but
an inkling of happiness
caresses my heart.
I am changing even though I’m
scared to death.
I am moving on from a place
I’ve known for years . . .

and she thinks the gravity
of the intensity of this
change will move me away
from her, too.
try as I might, I can only
do what I have been doing.

I cannot make her believe.

Hello, God. How Are You?

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Remember me?

WordPress AI-Generated image of an African-American couple in deep thought, anguish, and regret.

I know you do. I ask
Not for a response, but
Rhetorically.
I received news that has
Broken me–torn my heart
Into thousands of pieces, so
I’m coming to you.

I always come to you–in
Sickness, health, during times
Of Sadness, and of joy.
This time, though . . . this
Time is different.

A feeling of worthlessness
Washes over me. I have
Been abandoned, neglected,
Rejected, and looked over for
Second bests and thriving
Environments are rising over
These selections.

Am I not worthy of coupleship?
Am I not worthy of a legacy?

Oh, God, the dog sleeps and
The tortoise has buried itself
Under its bedding in its cave.
They do not hear my cries.
The dog is deaf and the tortoise
Could care less, so I come
To you.

Four months later, he tells
Me of a baby girl he hasn’t been
Able to share . . . hasn’t been
Able to whisper to me of her
Name. Who we were stopped him.
We didn’t want marriage. We
Didn’t want children, but we
Loved them.
He married. He now has a child,
And four months later, he speaks.

About her . . . about the beauty
Behind her eyes.
My phone floods with pictures
Of this sweet and precious soul,
And I see him in her, his mother,
And his father, and then he says,
“We need to talk, but I’ll have
To find time to do so freely,
I didn’t want to
Tell you like this.”

And I break down.
Not from sadness about the
News. Not because I am
Not “The One.” But because he
Felt like he couldn’t tell me.
But because he felt like our
History–our trauma from our
Upbringings would crush his
Words.

How do you tell the
One you didn’t marry, you didn’t
Have children with because you
Both were afraid that you now
Have crossed off the second
Thing y’all never wanted to do?

I put on his shoes.
I take a walk in them.
I try to understand.
I take long, deep breaths, and
Then, I cry.

God, we are where we are
Because of the decisions
WE made. We ran. We felt
Like we would mess up
Just as our parents did.
We didn’t want to fuck up
Children–break the cycle,
Shift the curse . . .

Fear will make you miss out
On life. And it did. With us.
Keep him safe. His wife, too.
And now, his baby girl.
Please, God. I know you will.
I know you can.

And the pain I feel now
Will not be with me next year.
I will be free. I will accept
What is and what will be.
I know that my life as it is
Now will not be what it is
In the future.

Whatever you do, God,
While you’re remembering my
Prayers for him and his family,

Please remember me.

“Who’s Gonna Tell Him?”

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Because I felt like sharing a little something that sat down in my spirit and had itself a peaceful rest.

Michelle Obama and one of her many clapbacks. YouTube Short

Long, Overdue Venom: One-Lined Poem

Lady Obama spews long, overdue venom in the direction of a
man who believes Black people aren’t suitable for various
jobs birthed of and around their upper echelon counterparts;
and it’s a clapback doused in class.

Happy Friday, beautiful people!

When You’re Asked To Be a Spanx Helper, You Help

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This was not my calling, but I was called anyway.

WordPress Free Images

It was a humid Sunday morning, and I was washing my hands at the sink in the women’s bathroom of my then church. A fellow usher/acquaintance came thundering through the door.

Her glasses were tilted slightly, her forehead had several beads of sweat congregating on it like the people in the pews of the sanctuary. She huffed and puffed and nearly blew the walls down, and then loudly said to me . . .

“Tre, girl!!! Help me!”

Before I could respond, this acquaintance lifted up her form-fitting black dress to her hips and tugged at a modern-day corset that seemed to be making its way down a path it was not supposed to go.

I stood there for a few seconds with wet hands, perplexed by this human who was exasperated and waiting for my assistance. I quickly dried my hands.

This was new territory for me. So many questions were running through my mind. What do I do? Where do I start? Should we just remove this thing altogether?! Why is she even asking me for help?!

So, I did what any nervously questioning human being would do. I slowly stepped behind her and said, “What do I do?”

WordPress Free Images

She began pulling her dress up even further and then called instructions out to me military style. This isn’t the kind of company I’d normally keep and at this intimate level of care, I worried that I was going to do something wrong.

“Pull the Spanx down, while I shimmy out of it.” Everything floated through my highly anointed yet VERY bisexual mind as I listened to this attractive woman in obvious discomfort instruct me on how to remove a conflicted piece of clothing from her voluptuous and striking body.

DO WHAT?! YOU WANT ME TO DO WHAT?!

I coughed to signal nervousness and then cleared my throat. “You want me to do what now, Jewel?!”

“Pull it down while I try to shimmy free. But don’t pull at it hard, pull slowly. Be gentle. Don’t tear the sides.”

UM . . .

This was my first real encounter with Spanx. The way my brain works is I began wondering why she put this God-forsaken thing on in the first place. Let your curves be free, love . . . is what I truly wanted to say. But she was wearing a form-fitting black dress, in church, during the summer months, and maybe there was something beneficial I didn’t know about to this torture.

I tugged at what felt like leather hide for minutes while she wiggled her hips feverishly to escape the clutches of the manufactured bone-crushing fabric. What seemed like forever, but was probably more like five minutes later, she was free.

She pushed her glasses perfectly on her nose, smoothed her dress down, tidied up her bun, folded the Spanx up and slapped them in her purse, then called to me . . . “Ooh, Tre! Girl, you are a lifesaver! Thank you!”

I shook my head in total disbelief but I didn’t want to be rude. “Cool beans, Jewel. You’re most welcome.”

After she left the bathroom, I washed my hands again, stared at the mirror, and said to myself, “What in the world just happened?”

A fellow usher/acquaintance was being tortured by a piece of clothing, and well . . . it was my calling to help.

*Names changed for the purposes of privacy and respect.