Greetings Readers, Writers and Precious Patrons! In case you were unaware, May is National Short Story Month. As part of this month, representatives from the All Authors Publishing House will be stopping by to share snippets of their short stories.
Today Da’Kharta Rising has stopped by, to share a bit of her short story “Inside Me”, which was part of the first book in the Divergent Ink anthology series “Crackles of the Heart”.
Da’Kharta Rising may deem herself as the Slightly Anti-Social Socialite, or SASS, but there is nothing non-engaging about the biology of what she writes. Her philosophy is somewhat of a throwback: systematically creating an air of mystery, intrigue and drama designed to keep the reader not only hooked, but using one’s imagination to follow a rich plot from beginning to end.
Da’Kharta Rising’s body of work includes independently released titles “Vocal Remedy”, “Boundless Limits” (Book One of the Transcendent Choice collection), and “S.K.A.R.” (Simi’s Komma: Amplified Reminiscence), along with participation in anthologies Continuous Drips, Concordant Vibrancy: Unity, and Crackles of the Heart (Divergent Ink 1).
To keep up with all of her projects, please visit her website, her Google +, or follow her on Twitter.
About Crackles of the Heart (Divergent Ink 1)
Divergent Ink is the mesh of different frames of thoughts, various interpretations of one core question that yearns for universal expansion. Although the subject matter may change every year, the purpose of the Divergent Ink series will remain the same.
The first book in the Divergent Ink anthology series, “Crackles of the Heart”, centers on the following question: Can the hot, handsome guy fall for the average, awkward woman?
The journey can start with five simple words. Da’Kharta Rising’s story “Inside Me” gives a snapshot into male and female interaction.
I did not know if it was on purpose. For her to say that thing, in exactly that way. All I know was in that moment, those words were the most important on Earth. They were all that were left. Those syllables strung together to form a sentence that wiped out all else.
She applied the final layer of her black eyeshadow. Her gaze made me temporarily forget essential functions, like breathing and swallowing. She pointed, then nodded.
It was time to go.
I kept my pace steady and my distance consistent. If I walked too quickly, unnecessary alarm would ensue. If I stepped too slowly, assumption would lead to disinterest. Either reaction was disastrous for me.
My best friend said she wasn’t my type. What exactly is a type? A mere tool used to segregate, to keep people trapped in tidy boxes.
She didn’t have the bouncing flowing tresses of most women. Her deep red mohawk was braided and had black beads on the ends. Her small nose was lost in her angular face, giving her a slight masculine look. Her chest was none most men would drool over—they were definitely an A cup, B if I wanted to be generous. Even her ass wasn’t defined enough to where one could classify as pear, apple, or onion.
In that same conversation, he kept asking me why. Why would a guy like me, who had movie star looks and hordes of women around me on the daily, seek out what he considered a wretched creature—one that even the Devil rejected?
To that I said, Why not?