The Wealth of Her Name

Martha Bell Marrow was more than a grandparent, she was the heart of my family and a symbol of grace throughout her long, wholesome life. As my last surviving grandparent, her presence carried the weight of generations, and her absence leaves a quiet space words can scarcely fill. Over my 42 years, I have only heard stories that speak of her kindness, strength, and unwavering love. Each memory reminds me that her life touched countless hearts, and that legacy brings comfort even in sorrow. For her memorial service, I wrote this poem. Writing from the heart is never easy, but when it’s for someone who meant everything to you and your family, it becomes a sacred act. I honor Martha Bell not only for the life she lived but for the love she gave, a love that will echo throughout lives forever.

Born in an era when tobacco fields sighed,
In a cradle of red clay, where dandelions cried.
She came into a world with more dust than gold,
But her spirit was fire, unbending and bold.

She walked through the south with bare feet and grace,
Sun on her shoulders, wind in her face.
Hard times were plenty, but so was her will,
She planted her roots on a Carolina hill.

A mother, a matriarch, a guiding star,
Her love stretched wide, reaching near and far.
Sunday dresses hung like hope on the line,
Pressed with care, stitched with hands divine.

She taught us to pray, to fight, to forgive,
To find joy in the small, and in service, to live.
She fed seven decades of children with soul,
Each meal a sermon, each bite made us whole.

She watched The Young and the Restless each and everyday,
Yet her truest stories were the ones she lived her way.
Eyes lifted from the screen to children at play,
Grandbabies growing, her love on display.

She never wore diamonds, but her smile outshone,
Every jewel in the crown of a queen on her throne.
She watched the world change from black-and-white days,
To color and chaos and digital haze.

But through every storm, she stood like a tree,
Rooted in faith, in love, and in legacy.
When she closed her eyes, the sky seemed to weep,
But we knew it our hearts, she’d earned her sleep.

Not rich in gold, but in hugs and in grace,
In every child’s laugh, in each loving face.
Now we gather, her branches, her bloom,
Filling the silence that echoes her room.

And though she has gone, her spirit remains,
In the songs that we sing, in the blood in our veins.
So here’s to the woman who weathered the years,
Who turned pain into wisdom, and sorrow to cheers.

Our mother, our matriarch, our heart’s gentle flame—
Forever we honor the wealth of her name.

excerpt from Lady Prime

From my first novella, Lady Prime started the “series” of the Be A Man book series. This lost gem in my collection was my first foray into writing something “different”. Here is an excerpt from Chapter One. Enjoy

	She died on a Tuesday. The woman whom I had loved for the last twenty-five years. We gave each other the best and most valuable moments of our lives. On the day her father walked her down the aisle to me, her beauty overwhelmed me as I stood at the altar. Her white dress and infectious smile brought both joy and fear to my heart. She would be the woman with whom I would grow a family and spend over half of my life. 
	When she left, I didn’t cry immediately. It was sudden, but my love’s passing gave me some peace in my world. It wasn’t that we didn’t love each other or that our marriage was in trouble. Her absence brought my world and career to a screeching halt. I was okay with that. I focused my energies on consoling our children, as our son had just had our first grandchild and our daughter was in the middle of her first year of college.
	With my career on hold and my personal life nonexistent, I relaxed in my office in the house my wife and I had built nearly five years before her death. Most of my days while I was home from the road, I spent in this oversized shrine to me and my childhood. My lair was a space designed and customized for me. Despite that, my partner-in-crime and I wasted many hours cuddling and sharing in this space. I even sat in there every week and challenged my son to 2K basketball games like normal when he was present, in college, or in his newly built house ten miles away while I put my career on the back burner.
	On the day I got back to my roots in writing, something special happened. No matter how many TV shows or movies I wrote for, I always loved writing my novels and short stories. My wife always fussed at me for having my word processing program open on one screen with my social media pages open on the other screen. She used to say it was a distraction. Six months after her passing, I needed one.
	Facebook’s messaging app wasn’t the first one I’d ever used. Thirty years prior, AOL Instant Messenger was the big thing for chatting. It got me into more trouble than I could ever have imagined. It was text messaging before text messaging, and you could originally only use it on computers. While I spent hours writing stories, poems, and papers in college, my AIM was always on until I got my original Blackberry. Even back then, I always preferred to talk to my special someone on the phone. On this day, I got an instant message from someone who used to be a special someone to me ages ago.
	Her message to me touched my heart, but what was more important was the fact that she spoke to me at all. Popping up at a time I was deep into writing a death scene for one of my beloved characters, Arielle’s message not only surprised me, but the volume of my computer was at its loudest. The sound of the message nearly stopped my already broken heart.

Arielle:
Hello, I know it’s been a long time since we’ve talked. I know I’m late, but I’m so sorry for your loss. Your wife was a beautiful woman, and my heart goes out to you, your children and your entire family.

	Her words were similar to the text I had sent nearly ten years to the day. The last conversation we had via the messaging program was one I said something similar when she lost her nephew. This woman was the first person to share her mind, body, and soul with me when we were teenagers. This woman was the benchmark for everyone I ever dated after her, and it wasn’t until my wife came along that I aborted the whole concept that this woman was and would always be “Lady Prime” to me.

Me:
Arielle, thank you so much!  This means a lot to me.

Arielle:
You’re welcome.

	This was the best we could say to each other to start. It had been a lifetime since we had had a real, meaningful conversation. At this time in life, it seemed like catching up with people meant saying, “You and your family are in my prayers,” and it was getting old for me. However, Arielle was different. Even during twenty-five years of marriage, I always low-key stalked Arielle to see what she had going on in her life. For her to reach out to me after all those years gone by, I had to capitalize on the opportunity.

Cooking Memories

I’ve been writing for the better part of 35 years. It’s surprising how many people think my fictional work is “autobiographical” in nature. I write by the “write what you know” rule, because my life is relatively boring. However, I like telling stories because people generally enjoy the stories I deliver. The story below is an excerpt from my next project that I thought I’d like to share. Though not by any means autobiographical, the exchange between the brothers is very relatable. Enjoy, and look for more.

	In the kitchen, two plates soaked in sudsy water. Flecks of brown gravy clung to the rims like stubborn memories. Mama’s rule: first one home cooks, last one home cleans. I was always last. I lifted the lid on the cast-iron skillet—steam ghosting up and smacking me in the face with exhaustion and nostalgia at the same time. The patties had cooled into little gravy islands marooned in thick gravy. My stomach growled, then promptly folded its arms in protest. Thirty seconds later, a second smell curled through the air—basil, crushed tomatoes, something sweeter than anything on Mama’s stove.
	“Rachelle brought you over some of her mom’s spaghetti if you don’t want that.” I damn near jumped. Travis had materialized, sock-footed, eyes wide, and his right hand holding an empty bowl of what looked like his own helping of spaghetti. Like Montell, this kid moved like a ninja when food was involved.
	“Where’s Mama?” I asked while I eased a container from the fridge. A handwritten note in Rachelle’s bubble letters was taped to the lid: Eat me before Coach Lee eats you.
	“In her room,” Travis said, opening the cabinet to hand me a bowl. “Feet hurt from the double shift.” Translation: the warehouse had her lifting boxes again. Another night she’d fall asleep before I could tell her about my day.
	I ruffled his teeny-weeny afro, instantly regretting it when my palm came back greasy, like he drowned his head in hair product. “Bruh, what the hell is in your hair?”
	He laughed, trying to rub his hair against my arm. Dry annoyance curled at the corner of my mouth, but the rest of my face couldn’t help smiling. Marcus used to tease me the same way—big-brother rites of passage handed down like family heirlooms nobody asked for.
	Amanda’s spaghetti was everything to me and, apparently, my brother, too. The one good thing about Rachelle’s mother was her ability to cook Italian food. Although her family wasn’t Italian, Russell told me that some of his best meals when eating with Amanda’s family were the Italian dishes her mother-in-law prepared. I softly shoved my brother out of my way to drop the spaghetti into the microwave. While I waited, Travis rattled off his day: spelling-bee practice, the coach making him run extra laps because he was heavier than the skinny kids, some fool in homeroom saying Pokémon was for babies. Typical nine-year-old storms that felt Titanic-sized when you were barely five feet tall. I stirred the sauce, half listening, half tallying my own storms—proposal tweaks, AP English essay Rachelle was typing, the ever-creeping shadow of the Brotherhood asking for another showdown.
	Ding.
	“Hell, yeah. It’s time to eat. This is the best stuff in the world, boy,” I said after getting the plate out of the microwave. I plopped down at the table, fork spinning Ms. Amanda’s noodles into a tight planet. The initial taste burst with sweet, spicy grocery store goodness, impossible to hastily consume. Across from me, Travis balanced on two chair legs, watching like I was unwrapping a Christmas present.
	“You want some, lil knucklehead?”
	“Nah,” he shrugged, but his gaze never left the bowl. “I just want some more of Ms. Amanda’s lasagna. Man, when Rachelle brought it over last week, I ain’t gonna lie. It was better than Mama’s.” Travis, despite hindering me, acted more as a junior companion. Last summer, he lacked the size and athleticism for our basketball games. This year, he showcased his natural skillset on the baseball field. Surprisingly, my brother had a knack for the sport. Teaching him which friends to avoid was a challenging task during our summer hangouts. Marcus had me spending time with all the wrong people back in the day. I learned whom to associate with and whom to avoid.
	“Yeah, boy. Rule number one,” I said, twirling the spaghetti like a mic cord, “lock down a girl who can burn it up in the kitchen. If she can sauté, you’re gonna stay.”
	Mama rolled in, tying her headscarf, eyes sharp enough to julienne my ego. “Don’t fill that child’s head with bullshit. A man who can’t feed himself ends up starving or married for the wrong reasons. Y’all got the Internet and microwaves. Figure it out for your damn selves.”
	Travis, never missing a beat, leaned back on two chair legs and smirked. “Or you can straight-up get somebody else to do it. Domino’s and Pizza Hut deliver. Don’t your friend Adam and his brother’s restaurant deliver, too? It’s all about economics, Mama.”
	I shot him a look. “Little Negro quoting capitalism at the dinner table? Mama, are you sure Marcus is your son?”
	“Boy, shut up! And Travis, put that damn chair on all four legs before you fall and bust your head open!”
	He plopped all four legs on the linoleum. “Dynasty, big bruh. I study the greats—you, Tommy, Mr. Russell, them cousins who taught me spades.”
	“Boy, you shut up, too. ‘Them cousins that taught you spades?’ What the hell is wrong with y’all tonight?” Mama snapped the dishtowel like a starting pistol. “Speaking of greats—Walton, did you check the envelope I left on your bed?”
	Instant dopamine spike. “Envelope? From where?”
	She nodded over the rim of her coffee mug with her name on it. “Thick one. Real official. Might want to open that before I go to bed.”
	My bedroom still smelled like Rachelle’s perfume. Posters of Tyra Banks and Michael Jordan guarded the walls; Rachelle’s old boombox dozed on the dresser like a retired guard dog. Right in the center of my quilt—the usual pile. It was nice to see the electronics and gaming magazines never missed a beat. Rachelle often caught the magazines before I could read them to familiarize herself with the video game world. My lady, less of a gamer than I, became interested in gaming following our first E3 trip with Tommy. However, at the bottom of the pile sat a white envelope stamped NORTH CAROLINA STATE UNIVERSITY in bright red. My knees went loose.
	Travis barreled in, almost tripping on my gym shorts. “Is that from State?”
	“Back up, paparazzi.” I cracked the seal using the slick chrome letter opener shaped like the Power Sword from the Thundercats, the show that kept five-year-old me glued to Saturday-morning cable. She’d found it at a Raleigh comic bookstore and said that every hero needs the right blade for his quests. 
	Tonight felt like a quest.
	I palmed the sword, its hilt cool, the metal etched with tiny runes that probably read “Made in China,” but I preferred to think they spelled out destiny. One clean slice along the white envelope and the flap fell away as neatly as if I’d just zapped an enemy in 16-bit. Thick pages peeked out—university crest stamped in metallic red. My heart pounded; halfway through removing the packet, a voice purred behind Travis.
	“Congratulations, Mr. Walton. You’ve been accepted to NC State University.”
	I spun, almost dropping the blade. Rachelle stepped into the room wearing her favorite red sweater—the exact shade as the Wolfpack logo—smile wide enough to dent gravity. “Girl, how did you even—never mind.”

On Deck: Finish strong

In the Be A Man Universe, one swing of the bat can carry more than just a ball—it can carry the weight of doubt, dreams, and redemption. This excerpt from an upcoming coming-of-age African American novel captures a pivotal moment in a young athlete’s life, where failure looms and legacy hangs in the balance. With vivid characters, raw emotion, and a pulse-pounding playoff game, this story invites readers into a world where manhood, identity, and resilience collide. Step into the dugout—and discover what it truly means to finish strong.

	The aluminum bat felt heavier than usual as I trudged back to the dugout, the sting of my third strikeout still buzzing in my palms. The scoreboard glared down like a judge—5-0, fifth inning. Playoff game. Lose this, and our season was done. With that, my high school career, too. With no guarantee I would walk on to NC State’s baseball team, maybe my entire baseball career is over, too.
	I kept my eyes on the dirt, each step kicking up little clouds that matched the storm brewing in my heart. Tommy caught me just before I reached the dugout. “Keep your head up,” he said, gripping my shoulder. “And don’t grab your glove. We’re not done.”
	His voice had that kind of weight that made you believe, even when you didn’t want to. I slid onto the bench, heart thudding, watching as he stepped into the box with Montell in the on-deck circle. One ding of the bat later, and Tommy was rounding first. Montell followed with a walk, his massive frame lumbering down the line like a freight train. He had earned the nickname Beast during the previous season, and the world was afraid of his power.
	Then came the switch-hitting Rocky—lined out to left. Two outs. Germaine stepped up, and on a 2-1 count, he sent a missile to right field. It slammed off the base of the wall, and the crowd erupted. I even heard Grandpa Walton screaming over everyone. Tommy scored easily. Montell, all three hundred pounds of him, was chugging around third like a runaway semi. He made it. The score 5-2.
	Zack walked. Adam dropped a blooper just past the shortstop’s reach. Bases loaded. Billy was up, and they gave him a free pass. Intentionally walked another run, an odd sight in baseball. The score 5-3. That meant Jason was next—our leadoff legend. And I was in the on-deck circle again.
	I couldn’t believe it. After three strikeouts, I was back here. Jason took a pitch to the ribs—another run. 5-4. We were down by one. The crowd was buzzing; the dugout alive. Tommy jogged over, eyes locked on mine. “Finish it,” he said.
	I nodded, but my stomach twisted. Lefty pitcher. Bases loaded. I hadn’t faced many southpaws. My glove work had been flawless—two double plays, a sliding stop deep in the hole, even an over-the-shoulder snag in shallow left. But none of that mattered now. The golden sombrero loomed.
	First pitch came in—a fastball, belt-high, tailing in. My sweet spot. I swung. And this time I didn’t miss.
	The ping of the bat echoed like a horseshoe striking a stake through the humid August air, slicing through the tension that had gripped the field all afternoon. For a split second, everything froze—my breath, the crowd, even the pitcher’s follow-through. Then the ball soared, a rising arc slicing across the sky, tailing toward deep left-center.
	I didn’t run. Not yet. I watched, just like I did my first home run.
	The outfielders turned and sprinted, their cleats kicking up dust as they chased the ball like it owed them money. But it was already gone—clearing the fence by a whisper, just enough to make the crowd erupt like a church choir catching the Holy Ghost.
	Grand slam. My first.
	I dropped the bat, not my bat, as I noticed I had grabbed the wrong one before going out into the on-deck circle. My trot, slow and deliberate, made the crowd go wild. My teammates spilled out of the dugout, screaming, jumping, pounding the fence. Tommy, already waiting at home plate, arms wide, grinning like he knew this moment was coming all along.
	As I rounded third, the weight I’d been carrying—the strikeouts, the doubt, the fear of fading out—lifted off me like steam rising from hot pavement. I wasn’t just finishing the inning. I was rewriting the ending, my favorite thing to do.
	We were up 8-5 now, and the energy in the stadium had flipped. Parents were on their feet, little kids banging the bleachers with empty soda bottles, and Coach was wiping his eyes behind his sunglasses like he’d just seen a miracle.
	When I stepped on home plate, Tommy wrapped me in a hug so tight I thought my ribs might crack. “Told you,” he said, voice thick with pride. “You finished it.”
	But I knew it wasn’t just about the game. It was about proving something—to myself, to everyone who ever doubted me, and maybe even to the ghost of every strikeout I’d ever taken.
	And as I sat back down on the bench, sweat dripping, heart still racing, I realized something: this wasn’t the end of my high school career. It was the beginning of something bigger.

Between a rock and space

This is from a work-in-progress (WIP) project without a release scheduled. Enjoy this as I have more coming in the future.

	I saw clouds embellishing the deep blue, partially obscuring the boundless void of space, as I faced the vast expanse of the sky. They drifted like wisps of cotton candy, delicate and ethereal, spreading thin in some places yet forming dense cumulus formations directly above me. The sky seemed both a sheltering dome and a boundless frontier, a paradox of confinement and freedom waiting for a majestic bird to spread its wings across to fly away.
	The asphalt beneath me was unforgiving. Hard, uneven, and the sole barrier between me and the dirt. Each rough edge and grain of gravel pressed into my skin, a stark reminder of my vulnerability. It felt as though I was filling in a cosmic sandwich, with the asphalt as the cheese below and the sky as the expansive, infinite bread above.
	Why was I lying on the ground? It was the force of Zane Reubens’ right cross that had put me there. It was the first time he and I had met face-to-face. The impact of his punch had sent me sprawling, a vivid blur of pain and disorientation. This was our first encounter, a brutal initiation that left an indelible mark. As I lay there, staring up at the heavens, I felt the weight of the moment pressing down on me, shaping the very essence of what was to come. 
	I recalled one of the last conversations I had with my father just a few years before, thinking while I was on my back about writing checks with your mouth that your butt can’t cash. Certainly, I had done so on this day. Even though he didn’t knock me out, I remained aware of the situation. The words he yelled while standing over me told a very different story than the one I had sold previously. I had never been hit that hard in my life. Gesturing to my new girlfriend that he was a better man for her than me, I felt disrespected. The first punch he threw, I was able to avoid. However, the second punch put me down. Once I hit the ground, I kept my eyes on him as he gloated over me. While his attention was mainly aimed at his Brotherhood, I knew I needed to make a statement. 
	By then, Montell and I had told our girlfriends, their younger sisters, and friends we met to retreat to their house before the confrontation could continue. My cousin and I were on a walk with our girlfriends, Rachelle and Brielle. We have both agreed to ensure that the girls left the area so we could protect them. Montell, two hundred fifty pounds of fury at fourteen, was initially timid to create a cloud of dust with the Brotherhood. But the moment he saw me sit up like the Undertaker or Jason Voorhees, my once shy and reserved cousin transformed into what we would later nickname him: the beast.
	Montell surged forward with a primal roar. His momentum drove Zane Reubens backward and away from me, nearly knocking him off his feet. The sheer force of the shove sent a ripple of shock through the gathering crowd. As I scrambled to my feet, fire coursing through my veins, three members of the Brotherhood closed in on me with menacing intent. They moved in unison, a well-practiced formation meant to intimidate and overwhelm. Their eyes gleamed with a predatory gleam, but they underestimated my will. My feet danced across the asphalt with a fluid grace, evading their strikes and lunges. It wasn’t about overpowering them, but outmaneuvering them with speed and finesse. Floating like a butterfly, my movements were almost as legendary as Muhammad Ali’s, a blur of motion that kept them off balance.
	Montell, too, faced the onslaught with a fierce determination. His raw strength and unyielding spirit were palpable as he grappled with Zane. Before the two could throw fists to test each other’s defiance and resilience, we found ourselves standing side by side, a united front against the Brotherhood. The dissonance of the battle surrounded us, the sounds of grunts, shouts, and pushing and shoving creating a symphony of chaos. It was our very first Brotherhood battle, and we were engulfed in it. Every sense heightened, every muscle taut. At that moment, we were fighting not just for survival but for our identity and the unyielding spirit that defined us.
	“You had to open your big mouth,” Montell said as the Brotherhood circled us. “We’ve got to fight our way out. Are you ready?”
	“I was born on 24/7. I was born ready,” I whispered.

Russy & Mandy precursor

This excerpt is ripped from my first novel, Be A Man, which delves into themes of identity, struggle, and the journey toward self-acceptance. It plants the seed for my 5th novel, Russy & Mandy: a Be A Man story, where the characters navigate their intertwined fates in a world that challenges their beliefs and aspirations. In this new narrative, readers will explore the depths of friendship, the complexities of love, and the obstacles that test the limits of courage. Check it out!

  I sat in a chair on the opposite side of the room where Russell was seated, and Rachelle sat in a chair that was between us. She did not know whether to sit beside her father or beside me. “I’ve already told Rachelle that I wanted to speak with you two before me and Mandy took our trip up to NYC. I certainly take a lot of stock in the relationship that you two have, considering that you two have been hardheaded and tend to do whatever you want to do. So, Mr. Burkett, how are things going between the two of you?” Mr. Arlene asked.

            “I’m just fine. I’m almost afraid that you might kill me if I said anything else,” I said. Then he started to smile. He put his elbows on his knees and put his hands together. I saw that he had a big ring on his right ring finger.

            “Don’t worry, Mr. Burkett, nobody is going to get hurt today. Maybe me, but I’m not in here to tell you what to do. I’m not your father,” Russ told me. “So where is your mother, Mr. Burkett?”

            “Daddy, I just—” Rachelle began before I interrupted her.

            “Babe, I can answer for myself. Mr. Russ, she had to go to work early this morning. With it being just her taking care of us, when there are slots open for overtime, she takes them whenever she can. But I have one question for you. Why are you calling me Mr. Burkett?” I asked him.

            “It’s just a sign of respect. You might be a generation younger than me, but I still have to show you the same respect that I want you to show me,” Russell said.

            “Yes, sir. Call me Walton or Walt,” I said.

            “Or KB1!” Rachelle added.

            “KB1? What’s that?” Mr. Arlene asked.

            “That’s one of the nicknames that we started calling him, Daddy,” Rachelle said. “But he wants me to call him the Great One. He must be crazy or something if he thinks that I’m gonna call him that.”

            “Well, KB1, just call me Russell or Russ. When I grew up, I grew out of my old nicknames,” he joked.

            “Yes, sir,” I replied as I figured that he wanted to get more comfortable with me. “So I see that you have shaved your beard. It looks good.”

“Yeah, Mandy was telling me that I look better without my beard, and I guess you know how that is by now with the Lawrence women?” Russ asked.

“I sure do. Rae is very persistent about everything,” I replied.

            “She got it from her mother,” Russell said. “Mandy and Rachelle are almost just alike at the same ages. Back then, Mandy got on my nerves all the time. What about this one?”

“You know,” I began, “it happens every now and then.” Even though I didn’t look at Rachelle, I knew that she was burning a hole straight through my head with her stare at me.

            “Well, Daddy, I’m sure that you got on Mom’s nerves as well,” Rachelle added while continuing to stare at me. “With the constant hanging out with your friends and riding everyone around town in your old Mustang and things like that.”

            “Well, you know, it happens.” Russell laughed. “Mandy is a handful, but I knew right when I placed my eyes on her after the first day of school back in Doraville, she’d be mine for the rest of my life.”

            “Well, Russ, when and where did you meet Rae’s mom?” I asked him.

            Russell paused for a moment before sitting back in his seat. “Well, that’s a good story, Walt. It was September of 1979, and it was the first day of school. School had just let out for the day, and I sat out in the parking lot with a couple of my boys next to my ’76 Mustang. Because we were only about ten years out of segregation ended in our town, there was still a little getting used to whites and blacks getting together for anything. One of my best friends was a guy named Tim,” Russell began his story.

            “Daddy, whatever happened to Tim?” Rachelle asked him.

            “We lost contact after we moved to Wake Forest. I really wish I knew where he lived because he was my best buddy,” Russell stated. “But anyway, Tim was complaining about breaking his new glasses and crying that his mother was going to kick his ass, when I spotted the most beautiful lady in the school waiting with her friends in the carpool area. Mandy was just sitting there looking elegant and pretty while I had my jaw dragging the ground as I marched over to her. Walking over to her made me think of all the best ways to get to her so I could lay some groovy lines down on this chick.”

            “Daddy, this ain’t 1979. Please speak like it’s 1998!” Rachelle told her father.

            “Rae, he’s fine. It gives his story a bit of historical meaning when he talks like a dude straight out of the ’70s. I can dig it!” I told my girlfriend. “While he’s talking, can you get us a drink of water?”

            “Sure, babe,” Rachelle stated before getting up from her seat to fetch me and her father a drink of water. “But you are coming over to connect my stereo to my TV after your aunt picks up your brother.”

            “No problem. I can do that for you,” I told Rachelle. “So, Russ, did you get a chance to talk to her?”

            “Yes and no. By the time I got to her, I didn’t know what the hell to say. I was too dumb to say anything worth remembering. Shortly after I approached her, your girlfriend’s grandmother pulled up in her brand-new Mustang convertible with the top down. I didn’t know it was her mother because Mandy’s skin was colored like caramel. Mrs. Hailey was white as chalk and very young. She was like thirty-five at the time. I stopped in awe of that beautiful car and the three beautiful women riding off in it,” Russell explained.

            “There were three beautiful women in the car. Who was the third woman?” I asked.

            “Oh, the other was Mandy’s best friend, Katie. Everyone thought she was kind of slow, but she was probably one of the smartest people in the school,” Russell replied. “But that doesn’t matter anyway.”

            “What year was the Mustang?” I asked Russell.

            “It was a ’78 and sounded great!” Russell exclaimed. “Every time I see that car, I ask Herbert if I could buy it from him.”

            “They still have the car?” I asked in shock that a car that was twenty years old could still be in the possession of Rachelle’s grandparents.
            “Yeah, Ms. Hailey loves that car. She said it keeps her young,” Russell explained as Rachelle reentered the room with two tall glasses of water.

            “Are you guys talking about Grammy H’s car?” Rachelle asked as she handed her father one of the two glasses of water before sitting closer to me than she did before. Before handing me my glass of water, she took a sip.

            “Yeah, she still drives that car like it’s brand new. It has just over two hundred thousand miles on it, and it has never broken down on them. But anyway, that next day at lunch, I introduced myself and talked my way into her heart,” Russell explained.

            “No, wait, Daddy. Mom’s story is much different. She said that you guys went out that weekend and she gave you the coldest shoulder in the world,” Rachelle explained.

            “Yeah, it was the worst date in the world,” Russell replied. “But at the end of the night, she saw me for who I really was. Even though she was rude to me and had no regards to my feelings, I treated her like a queen because that’s what she deserved. Amanda was special way back then, and I tried to show her that.”

            “What do you mean she gave him the coldest shoulder?” I asked.

            “Mom said that because of rumors spread throughout the school, she nearly lost Daddy. Mom said that she treated him like he was nothing during the date, but at the end of the night, he still opened the car door and walked her to her doorstep. While standing at the door with Daddy, Mom said she fell in love with him in an instant but knew what she had done to ruin their date,” Rachelle explained. “But apparently, the way that Daddy reacted around the family was even more special to her. She said that Granddaddy and Daddy had chemistry early on, and it meant something to her that they could get along.”

            “Hey, it worked,” Russell explained. “Now ask Mandy if it has been worth it. We’ve traveled to greater than thirty states, three countries, and almost two planets.”

            “Two planets, eh?” I sarcastically asked Russell.

            “Well, that’s how I do things,” Russell replied while laughing. “But that story is way longer than we have time for, but yeah, life with Mandy has been great. It was tough in the beginning, but we made it work.”

In a conversation between Walton, Rachelle, and Russell, they discuss familial relationships and storytelling. Russell shares memories of how he first met Mandy in 1979 and provides humorous anecdotes about their early days together, including a disastrous first date. Rachelle chimes in with her perspective, noting the contrast between her parents’ and grandparents’ experiences. The discussion highlights themes of respect, generational differences, and the challenges of relationships while emphasizing the bond formed over shared experiences and stories. Pick up your copy of Russy & Mandy: a Be A Man story!

excerpt from Chapter 1 of Lady Prime

She died on a Tuesday. The woman who I had loved for the last twenty-five years. We gave each other the best and valuable moments of our lives. The day her father walked her down the aisle, her beauty overwhelmed me as I stood at the altar. Her white dress and infectious smile brought both joy and fear to my heart. She would be the woman that I would grow a family with and spend over half of my story.

When she left, I didn’t cry immediately. It was sudden, but my love’s passing gave me some peace in my world. It wasn’t because we didn’t love each other or because our marriage was in trouble. Her death brought my world and career to a screeching halt. I was okay with that. I focused my energies on consoling our children as our son had just had our first grandchild and our daughter entered her first year of college.

With my career on hold and my personal life nonexistent, I relaxed in my office in the house my wife and I built nearly five years before her death. Most of my days while I was home from the road, I spent in this oversized shrine to me and my childhood. My lair was a space designed and customized for me. Despite that, my partner-in-crime and I wasted many hours cuddling and sharing in this space. I still sat in there every week and challenged my son to simulation basketball games like normal when he was present, in college, or in his newly built house ten miles away while I put my career on the back burner.

Dear Ma

I was the number eight grandchild.

Not in the streets with my brother running wild.

Into this world, I was brought in,

You gave me love like the other kin.

You treated me like an individual.

Although at times I acted like an imbecile.

You never called me out my name,

Even though at times I went insane.

I feel like the day that you spanked me,

It helped mold me into the man I was supposed to be.

But when you made that phone call,

And told me about the disease that would take its sprawl,

Across your mind, body, and soul.

I never knew the extent it would take its toll.

But that phone call haunts me,

Because I didn’t know what it would be.

It was the day you told me something very hard.

To understand what you were saying, I can’t discard.

You didn’t say it, but you said goodbye

But I don’t want to sit back, be sad and cry.

I’m sorry that it happened to you.

I wish there was more that I could do.

I’m glad you are still with us.

Maybe it’ll give us more time to discuss

Our hopes and dreams and goals and whatever else we got going on.

But the day we lay you on the lawn

I promise to recite a word to say so long,

But I promise I’ll stay tough and strong,

And continue the legacy that you built.

So, we wouldn’t let your words wilt.

I’ll never tell you goodbye,

Cuz I want your words to amplify

The greatness you gave the next three generations.

Thank you for giving my family these solid foundations,

And may you enjoy the rest of time,

And smile so big, it should be a crime.

I can’t bring myself to say adieu,

Because I will always love you.

Thank you, Ma! For everything!

The Fishing Archer

This is a simple short story used to help me develop some characters in the Be A Man series. This is not a part of any manuscript or storyline I plan to write, but this passage embodies the characters from a future title from the Be A Man universe.

            At fourteen and a junior Olympian, Shawn grew to be a world-class archer by the time he reached high school. The son of wealthy parents, Shawn, lived a privileged life until he got into trouble. Being the middle child of five kids, he often found himself mixed up in the troubles of his older brother and the tattletale rumors from his little sisters. With troubles, consequences always came afterward. Each time, I tasked Shawn to do manual labor to learn from his mistakes. I sent him and his brother to chop down trees and split wood, work the family farm, and even hunting with their uncles were life lessons he and his older brother needed as overly privileged children.

            The archer loved hunting. Not allowed to tote a gun, Shawn carried his compound bow with him during the hunts. On his first hunt with one shot, Shawn downed a twenty-point buck before either of his uncles could fire a shot from their rifles. Stuffed and mounted in the practice arena he shared with his mother, Shawn’s memories of his life as a hunter excited his spirit. With Olympic dreams and a love for his bow, Shawn always enjoyed a challenge. The next challenge was fishing with his uncles.

            I caught my first fish when I was five. My brother, Marcus, helped me bait the hook, cast the line, and reel the fish in. Exciting and fun, I enjoyed it very much. Yet, fishing with my family after was a rather lackluster task versus it being for leisure. Once my boys were of age, Marcus asked if he could take his nephews alongside him fishing. When I think about it, Marcus never invited me with him and my sons.

            My oldest son, nicknamed Twenty, had always been the more roughed between the two. When making firewood, Twenty made it a challenge on who could split the most wood. Although Shawn had the upper hand on Twenty with hunting with a bow and arrow, Twenty did actually down a deer before Shawn. Shawn was never the strongest, fastest, or smartest out of my teen boys, but Shawn possessed something his older brother did not: a level of resourcefulness most boys don’t develop until they are left in the woods by themselves with a pocket knife and their wits.

            The fishing trip with their uncles and older cousin happened during the middle of the 2020 pandemic. On a grand yacht Rachelle bought for afternoons on Falls Lake, five guys I shared some form of DNA with fished together on a hot summer day with no luck for my youngest son. While kicking back near the front of the boat, Dejuan and Twenty laughed at Shawn as he yelped while attempting to rig his hook with a nightcrawler. The disgust on Shawn’s face told the story. His brow frowned deeply, like when he was a baby when I first fed him chitlins before spitting the mouthful back at me. Shawn’s lips and cheeks made the worst frown, as if he was dissecting a frog. My grandfather said when Shawn assisted him and his friend with butchering the deer, Shawn died three times before toughing through removing the front quarter of the animal.

            “Shawn, hook it three times so it won’t be just feeding the fish!” Dejuan said to his cousin while seated next to Twenty.

            “I got it!” Shawn said while fighting his disgust piercing the body of the worm.

            “Bro, you don’t have to make that face,” Twenty said. “Just get it done and cast your rod out, dude.” Twenty and Dejuan relaxed with their rods baited and already cast in the water. Dejuan had his blunt fired up, and he was in a good place. Twenty had his phone in his hand while he texted back and forth between three girls who were all pursuing him. Between the puffs of smoke Dejuan bellowed and Twenty’s text message conversations, the two found time to irritate the youngest crew member aboard the SS Legacy.

            “Dejuan, hurry and smoke that thing. You know, your uncle probably got the cameras on this boat streaming to his office,” Marcus said to his son of his choice of intake for his cannabis as he walked past the two to assist Shawn. Both my brothers constantly teased me about things that made no sense in teasing someone.

            “Not yet,” Twenty said. “But don’t put it past him. He’s such a nerd.”

            “Yeah, a nerd that’s put us all in a good place right now. Don’t be talking about my uncle like that,” Dejuan said while also joking with Twenty.

            Marcus pivoted his attention to Shawn to assist him with baiting his hook before Shawn cast his rod for ten feet from the boat. “So, when you cast your reel, you’ve got to be one with your rod,” Marcus told his nephew.

            “Hey, I know how to do stuff like this. I’m a natural man,” Shawn said while reeling back his baited hook.

            “I’ll be damned!  You throw like a robot!” Travis said from the opposite side of the boat where he and Marcus had set up their rods and beers.

            “Bro, do it like you’re trying to turn the double play playing short,” Twenty said.

            “Twenty, I said I got it,” Shawn said. “This one slipped.” My son was proud. He never liked to receive help before he got it. When he cast his hook the next time, it was perfect. His hook traveled 25 to 30 yards from the boat, which prompted faux cheers from Travis and Twenty.

            “That’s how you do it, nephew,” Marcus said. “Take your time like that after you catch a fish. You’re going to be just fine.”

            While Twenty watched both his and Dejuan’s floats on their cast rods while Dejuan medicated himself, Travis and Marcus did what they did best: drink and tell lies about everything. The two were just missing their other brother to continue with the telling of the lies. Meanwhile, Shawn fished alone and felt the pressure to catch not only one fish, but the biggest fish. However, he struggled mightily. While Travis and Marcus reeled their fish in left and right, Twenty and Dejuan caught their fair share. With at least ten fish in the collective bucket, Shawn hadn’t caught one for the group yet. Shawn fought with the waters and the insults tossed from his brother to no avail as he tried his best to catch a fish.

            After five minutes in one area, Shawn would reel his hook in to check if anything touched his bait. Nothing. He re-cast over and over and over again. Looking frustrated, Travis switched places with his nephew as Travis had caught the most fish on the boat. Travis, also, re-baited Shawn’s hook similarly to how he did his own to ensure Shawn had the best opportunity to catch a fish. Almost immediately, Travis caught a largemouth bass before he could sit his rod down. This fish was Travis’ largest fish of his life as it weighed over ten pounds. This infuriated Shawn, as he had fished in the same area as his youngest uncle for nearly an hour.

            Ticked off, Shawn immediately marched inside the cabin after reeling his rod completely and sitting it on the deck. The fourteen-year-old angry at the situation had seen fish in the water but could not catch one. He was determined to catch not only a fish, but he wanted to catch the biggest fish. Initially, Travis and Marcus thought the easy to anger Shawn had given up, but Twenty knew his brother would only leave to recalibrate himself.

            With his trusty compound bow he used to hunt with his uncles, Shawn emerged ready to fire every arrow into the water at every fish that swam close to the SS Legacy. “Shawn, you can’t hunt for fish like that. We’re on a boat,” Dejuan said.

            “Quiet, you!” Shawn said as he walked with his head held high. “This archer is at work.” This boy was eager to fight for the win. From the battles with his brother as a youngster to the battles he had to endure overcoming a physical disability, my son always wanted to ensure his supremacy. After opening the case for his bow, Shawn went to work breaking and modifying the fishing rod with his bow.

            While he took his time strapping the reel to his bow, Travis walked by him to observe what he was doing. “Boy, what the hell are you doing? I know you ain’t done broke up that two hundred dollar fishing rod,” Travis said while Shawn went to work.

            “I’m catching fish the best way I know how,” Shawn said while not wavering from his work. He strapped and taped the bow and fishing rod together to make a makeshift fishing bow rig. My son had always been skilled at making his vision come to life from the construction of his Lego sets, but as he made use of the fishing rod, bow, and rope he found onboard the SS Legacy, Shawn impressed his two favorite uncles.

            “Do you know how hard it is to catch a fish like this from a boat?”

            “Nope, but we’re going to learn today.”

            Thirty minutes after he began engineering a bowfishing rig, Shawn stood on the side of the boat in an archer’s stance except he aimed his arrow at the water. The jokes and laughter around him soon turned to silence when Twenty realized his brother had his eyes on the prize. While Marcus and Travis continued to cast their reels and sparsely catch fish, Shawn struck gold. It took him one shot to spear the largest fish of the day. Reeling the fish up onto the boat, and with Dejuan’s help with a net, Shawn landed a sixteen-pound largemouth bass.

            Stoic and stern, Shawn displayed the maturity of a man three times his age as Marcus, Travis, and Dejuan celebrated the feat. While Marcus had never seen a largemouth bass that large, Travis captured Shawn’s feat at every moment. While holding the fish in his hands, Travis asked him how he was able to nab the large fish.

            “You know, I get my toughness from you. My resilience comes from Uncle Marcus. My determination, I get from Grandpa Russell, and my soul beams from both my grandmothers. When I saw that fish earlier, I needed it on the wall of the practice arena.”

            “You’re not going to try to eat it?” Travis asked.

            “I eat Chilean sea bass, bluefin tuna, and wild king salmon all the time. Why would I want to eat wild Falls Lake bass the size of my thigh? Uncle T, I’m good.”

            “That’s a big ass fish.”

            “How in the hell did you do that, cuz? I ain’t never seen anything like this before,” Dejuan said.

            “Remember who my parents are. My mom is the most resourceful woman in the world. She’s the female MacGyver. My dad, your uncle, and their brother made everything out of nothing. This is nothing compared to what Dr. Walton and Rachelle Burkett have been able to do for the world. I’m lucky to call them my parents.”

            “Hey, dumbass, you do know they make fishing bows. You didn’t have to jury-rig and tape up your bow and that two hundred dollar fishing rod. Mom’s gonna kick your butt!” Twenty yelled.

            Shawn smiled and nodded. Hearing aids on full blast, he could hear the wave crashing against the side of the boat. No scale could measure his happiness as the fish he captured made him proud to be a boy who downed a deer, snake, and fish with a bow and arrow. “So what? I proved something, though. I am the fishing archer!”