The Disillusioned

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DeeBooks Publishing, LLC, New York and Delaware  

Copyright ©1998 and Copyright ©2012 by A. Yamina Collins 

All rights reserved

ISBN: 978-0-615-65751-6

Book cover design by Rebecca Swift

This is a work of fiction. All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, either dead or living, is purely coincidental. 

To obtain permission to excerpt portions of the text, please contact the author at yamina@yaminatoday.com.

Follow the author on Facebook and on Twitter, and visit the author at www.yaminatoday.com

 To Mommy, Devorice Jean Collins (1944-2010) 

Thank you for always believing in me . . . with eternal love and hope of seeing you again at the Resurrection, Yamina

The Dream

I'd like to plant a garden, see? 

Where humpback whales meet human flesh 

Then dive inside the mouths of sharks  

And mock the watery, tortured corpse

Where babies cry, all plump and brown 

In naked stumps of oak wood bark 

While Mrs. Strumler calls to me 

"I saw your mother in the clouds!"

And as for Casper's peeling skin 

And as for suns that skip the East 

These garden-fingered lullabies 

They pound their chests at Heaven's feet

I'd like this garden fresh and rosy 

Green and pink and sinewy

The smell of dew grass, wet and blue 

The honeysuckle's dying hue

This dream I have will weep and churn 

I'll pray and drink the bloodied wine 

Then gnash and tear and stroke the Beast  

And turn-unmoving-in my sleep

The Disillusioned

Ladies, you hold onto ideas too much. Honestly, you overfantasize about everything to do with domestic bliss, and obviously I'm talking about men. 

Take this girl Melly Sturgess I know (not her real name). She's still holding onto a loveless marriage with a man who both beats her and has another woman on the side. I don't understand it. And I tell her this all the time, too. I say, "Melly, girl, I just don't understand it." 

But all she can do is hold her head down and groan; then she'll burst into tears and tell me to shut up and leave her alone-like she did two weeks ago over the phone!  

She's friends with my editor, see, and I guarantee you that if we hadn't met while palling around in the same circles I'd never have become acquainted with someone like her. To put it in plain English, she's a romantic idiot, a love-soaked carpet men get to walk all over, and I just don't have a whole lot of tolerance for people like that. 

Then again, most women fall into the romantic idiot category, and as the author of several relationship books, I know this to be a fact-but I still get tired of the nonsense. Ladies, it's time to grow up and grow smart. 

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