Book Feature: Womanish: How She Survived by Angelia Vernon Menchan

I am quite excited to share an excerpt from Womanish: How She Survived by Angelia Vernon Menchan with everyone this afternoon. I have heard excellent things about this book and it has been added to by TBR list. This is definitely some “grown folks” reading!!!

What is WomanIsh? It’s all the things women go through. The day to day Ish, the man Ish, the raising kids Ish, the I earn lots of money but still want to be cherished Ish, the I’m more than my womb Ish… The what you mean I’m old Ish… Sound familiar? Every Woman Has Ish… 

WomanIsh is born of choices women make and how similar yet different our lives can be. Several women share Fictionalized Truths of sections of their lives. They are bold, honest and even raw and their only intent is to share in hopes another woman can perhaps learn what to do or not to do by observance without having to experience it. 

He Was Mine First: A Story of Justification

Her feet were on the coffee table, a can of beer beside her feet. Marcel curls covered her small head and she was clearly feeling no pain. There had been the consumption of several twelve ounce cans of beer. The room smelled of women, black women; that scent of perfume, mixed with the sweetness of hair grease and a curl of smoke from a cigarette. 
“I didn’t want to marry him, so he married her. I got married and moved away but when I returned free, he became mine again.” A couple of the women nodded but one woman asked ‘the’ question.
“What about his wife. He’s been married to that woman for years. Doesn’t she matter?”
Picking up her beer can, she took a sip, squinting at the audacity of the younger woman to question her. Placing the can on the table, she sat up, removing her feet from the table and squaring her shoulders. The younger woman flinched internally but didn’t look away. She really wanted to know how the other woman felt.
“He was my man first…” She said emphatically as if that was the only answer necessary. Yet for the next answer she told her story, their story. 
He walked in the bar and I noticed him immediately. He was tall and handsome and very well dressed with dark skin. All the things I like in a man. I knew who he was. He was arrogant and brash and though it was 1947 he had money. I never thought he would approach me, I was dark skinned, short with no curves to speak of but I had nice big breasts and my legs weren’t bad. I also wore thick glasses but they were stylish. I was dressed though, always dressed. That night I was wearing a gold straight dress with satin heels and my lips were red. When I saw him stroll towards me, I turned away and picked up my glass filled with beer. 
“You saw me…” He said and I felt his breath on my neck. He smelled like a man of spicy cologne and lifebuoy soap. I didn’t turn to him but continued sipping my beer. 
Walking around me, he took my glass from my hand and sat it on the counter before lifting my chin with three fingers. 
“You saw me and you know I saw you. Come on let me take you for a ride.” 
He said. I didn’t say anything but I picked up my beer and my purse and followed him. He drove to the Pimbleton Hotel, a nice hotel for Negroes. I looked at him and he assured me I didn’t have to do anything I didn’t want to. After several hours in his presence I did everything I wanted to and he wanted me to. I was twenty six and enjoyed men but no man ever touched me like that. He told me that night he was my man and I was his woman. He was widowed. His young wife died in childbirth. He also told me he had other women. He said it like it was normal and it was. I had never known a faithful man, not even my father. 
For six years we did what we did how we did and he asked me to marry him. I asked if he would still be him. He said he was offering me the house, the car and him but also what we already had. The women wouldn’t stop and I would just be Mrs. So and So. No thanks. 
He married someone else and I married another. For years we were apart but one night almost thirty years later we ended up in the same place again. He was still married to her and I was divorced from him. As if no time passed we were together again until he died twenty years later. He never stopped being married to her. The house he purchased me was two streets over from theirs and we knew who the other was. She ignored me and I ignored her. When he died I didn’t dress in black or attend his funeral, he had a wife for that.
In fact I sat on my porch in a gold dress, the same color I wore when I first met him and watched the procession drive by. I knew she was in the limousine behind the hearse that carried his body. I was now in my seventies and had long stopped drinking beer or painting my lips red and could not bop or lindy hop any longer. In fact the last five years of our time together was spent sitting and talking. The love was still there but all the fire that had once consumed us was banked. He was her husband but he was mine, first. That was how I felt.


In her 84th year I sat talking to her and asked if she regretted her time spent with another woman’s husband. She squinted at me in that way she had and didn’t answer directly at first. She did ask me a question. 
“Have you ever been a fool for a man?”
“Yes ma’am. But as soon as I realized I was being a fool I stopped.” She nodded smiling.
 “I know. We often talk about you. We are proud. But I didn’t stop being a fool for him because I loved him and felt he was always mine even when he was married to her. He married her because he couldn’t marry me. You see I could be his woman and accept the other women but I couldn’t be his wife and accept it. That part didn’t make sense to me. What I said probably doesn’t make sense to you. But I’ll say this, if I were twenty seven now I wouldn’t settle for any of that; even if I met him first. You and a couple other young women taught this old hen that. Yes you did.”

Buy Womanish here!

Facebook: AngeliaM
Twitter:  AngelMenchan

Author Feature: Dalia Florea

Today, I am honored to welcome Dalia Florea to the blog. If she is a “new-to-you” author then feel free to take a few moments to read about the work from someone that “doesn’t want to be put in a box.”

Someone is stalking, fashion photographer, Linda McNair and turning her world upside down. She has no idea who it could be. Is it an old boyfriend? Someone in the industry? A complete stranger? The only thing Linda knows for sure is her stalker has to be stopped. Her life may depend on it.

When Linda meets Detective Sean Gregory, one of New York’s finest in more ways than one, stories unravel, revealing secrets, lies and betrayal that nearly destroy her, breaking her heart into a million tiny pieces. 
Linda tries to resist Sean’s affection, but she can’t help wondering if he’s the right man who can put the shattered pieces of her heart back to together.

Barnes & Noble:



Have you ever wondered about online dating? Journey down the rabbit hole of online dating in this pocket size book of vignettes filled with hilarious stories of meet-ups, musings and more. From Mr. Doesn’t Have A Job to Mr. Takes His Shoes Off During A Date to Mr. Let’s Go For Coffee But Too Cheap To Actually Buy Coffee. This book will have you laughing out loud!

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Dalia grew up in Queens, New York and now makes her home in Northern Virginia outside of Washington, D.C. She has earned a degree in nursing and a degree in Psychology. She is an avid reader. She has always been fascinated by words and stories. She finds it fascinating to create fictional worlds and write the kind of stories that she want to read. Although she enjoys writing fiction stories with a mixture of mystery, suspense and a dab of romance, however, she doesn’t want to be put in a box. When she isn’t crafting, she enjoys reading, attending live music concerts, visiting wineries and solving puzzles.

 Social Media links:

Facebook Author Page:

Twitter: @DaliaFlorea

Instagram: @DaliaFlorea

Pinterest: @DaliaFlorea

Amazon Author Page:



Spotlight: The Other Man by Parker J. Cole

The Other Man by Parker J. Cole

The Other Man by Parker J. Cole

Leah Westwood loves her husband Jacob with all her heart, even as the smoldering glances of her ex-flame Vincent Miller continue to affect her. What she once shared with Vincent threatens to rip apart the bonds she is trying to build with her husband.
Jacob’s heart belongs to Leah, but his body refuses to accept that. Rachel is the one who has been his mainstay at the most difficult times in his life. How could he leave her alone?
Vincent wants Leah back and all he has to do is watch and wait as Jacob and Leah’s relationship unravels.

Ultimately, Leah must make a choice . . . between fantasy and fidelity.

“J-hun, can you get the door? I’m watching these steaks right now. That’s probably Glenn and a friend of his,” Leah called out as she scurried around the kitchen. Her pots and pans hissed and steamed on the stove. After a couple of moments, she heard the doorbell ring again. She rolled her eyes and blew out a breath. Jacob hadn’t come downstairs yet.
“J-hun! Can you get the door, please? I’m busy in the kitchen here!” she yelled again. When he didn’t answer, she groaned as she washed and dried her hands quickly and ran down the hall to the back door.
The instant she opened the door, Glenn smiled. “Hey, Leah!” The February wind wasn’t as chilly today.
“Glenn, how good to see you. Come in!” She hugged him in a swift manner, worried about the food. “Come in. Jacob will be down in a moment. He’s just finishing getting dressed. I gotta check on the food so make yourself comfortable. I know you brought somebody with you. Tell them to close the door. You can put your coats on the couch and I’ll put them up.” With that, she ran back to the kitchen and checked on the steaks. Good, they hadn’t burned yet. Taking a fork, she tested the tenderness. As she took the steaks out of the pan, she heard the door close and the murmur of voices. Probably Glenn talking to his friend.
“Hey, guys! Come on in the kitchen and take a seat at the table,” she called out and ran to her pot of whole potatoes and fresh string beans. They were done. She turned off the pot and dumped the contents in the strainer in the kitchen sink, draining them. Picking up the bowl next to the sink, she transported the potatoes and beans. Whirling over to the oven, she opened it. Large, golden brown yeast rolls met her critical eye. Withdrawing them, she intoned, “Give us this day our daily bread.”
Footsteps sounded on the tile in the kitchen. She barely glanced behind her as she said, “Go ahead and sit down. Dinner will be ready in a few.” Seeing Jacob hadn’t come down yet, Leah screamed once more, “J-hun! Baby! Dinner is almost ready! Hurry up!”
She heard the door to his office open from upstairs. “Sorry, Leahgirl.
Just finished a call.”
“Well, come on. Our guests are here. You can conduct business later.”
“Coming!” She heard him walk to the bathroom and close the door.
She placed the bowl of potatoes and string beans on the island counter. She glanced up just in time to see a pair of feet disappear from the kitchen. Glenn answered her unspoken question as he said, “He forgot his phone in the car.”
“Oh.” She positioned the bowl on the table and placed the platter of steaks next to it, then went back to the stove to glaze the rolls with butter. The back door opened at the same time Jacob’s feet treaded on the stairs.
“Hey! How’s it going?” Jacob greeted. Leah’s brow furrowed a bit as she tried to think who of Glenn’s friends Jacob knew.
After she had placed the rolls on a plate, she turned and placed it on the table.
“Leahgirl, look who’s here.”
She glanced up and saw Vincent Miller stare at her with those dark eyes that gleamed and assessed her. She gulped. The word gorgeous didn’t begin to describe the man. On her wedding day, she’d taken little note of it. But now, in the confines of the house, his attractiveness drew her with a magnetic quality. Her eyes couldn’t stop taking him in. His body, sheathed with tightly contoured coal black skin, emanated an almost luminescent sheen of power held in check. His hair, short cropped and smooth, sat above broad, firmly pressed eyebrows. The lids with their heavily fringed lashes rested above the eyes she’d seen in all kinds of lighting, from a bright overhead lamplight in a kitchen to the dimness of a bedroom.
The smoothness of his face was interrupted by a light, neat scruff of a beard. It added to the tamed arrogance beneath the surface. He had a good mouth, full with a thin, manicured mustache, and his nose, a tad too narrow, supplemented the arresting handsomeness of his face.
His body, as she knew, had fluid, compact muscles along his arms, to his stomach and his legs. Clothes rested on him almost gladly and tonight was no exception. The fitted long-sleeved gray sweater showed his toned arms to perfection and the gunmetal-colored jeans hugged his legs like a woman’s hands.
She took in all of this in the space of a brief glance and then she reacted. “Hey, Vincent!” she screamed as she ran and hugged him. The rock-like impact against her softness flooded heat to her face and she made sure to keep the embrace short. “How are you!” she asked with false cheeriness.
“I’m fine. Thanks for having me. Sure smells good in here.” His voice, deep as always, flowed over her like a caress.
How could that be? How could the man still have this effect on her? They hadn’t touched each other in years. Shouldn’t she be over it by now?


Parker J. Cole

Parker J. Cole

Parker J. Cole is a writer and radio show host who spends most of her time reading, knitting, writing, cooking, and concocting new ideas for stories. Her first novel, Dark Cherub, won Best of Spring Reading 2013 from eMediaCampaigns. She lives in Michigan with her husband and their beloved dog, Sarah.




The Other Man