It's Lit is an online platform of a magazine that asks people send in Short Stories written by black authors for them to review and apparently they pay commissions for the best short story. https://www.theroot.com/bloody-mae-1823500565 <<< That is the link>>> My only hang up was the fact that if you not on Google+ then you will not be seen,
Which means they miss out on stories like this one:
Serial Lovers:
The years fly by when we are made to count them by the number of lovers.
This is the thought process behind my generation. The institution of marriage, commitment to one, until we both meet on the other side; is an ideal that has faded in time.
We have no regrets. No heritage either. Destined to wander from lover to lover, seeking validation until the other transpires. The lot of immortals; especially when we count the years by the number of lovers.
There was one family, that lived on a hill, far from the cares of the world. Separated by two highways, that connected two towns. A home for every member of the family. A place for every lover. A secret place that you'd never find. Would certainly miss, if your not looking for it.
He certainly wasn't.
When he met her, she was married. To keep with customs, he waited until death separated her from the vows, which kept her lips and hips from his. Sure she had daughters, five to be precise. To be committed to her was the prize; especially when you are made to count the years by lovers.
From a distance he cherished her. Made himself indispensable, just to be near her.
The five beauties were all perturbed; professing disgruntled annoyance that she should have so young a servant. "Shouldn't he marry? Why is he always at her side? Even after Papa died, in her dry spell, heart attacks and days of mourning, he remained?"
He has children. Two out of wedlock, so he no longer trusts women. He was never honest about how many he conquered. Forever counting the days by the number of lovers, can be a strain on a man.
We watched him from a distance. See him in the hills there, arguing with GOD over all he has seen, heard, lost. Demanding answers for what are impossibilities.
Some presume he counts the number of days by the number of women, because a siren of a lass bit him. Passed syphilis and it touched his brain.
Why else would he fly into rages when discussions turn toward the decriminalization and persisted legalization of prostitution, marijuana, and the coddling of heroin users. The castration of innocent men, and the sterilization of young women. Vaccinations that destroy our children's brains and the continued funding of vaccine research instead of the support needed to affirm natural detoxing exercises.
To fund the detox of sin is a dream he professes as he continues to count the days by the number of lovers.
Everyone used to lover to hear him orate.
Every lover, listened to his wisdom, amidst the nights of drunken stupor. Each loved the heart of the man, even if there was no room solely for them in it. Second to Jesus was fine; not to the whole world. What woman do you know of virgin thought would tolerate a man who's calendar is filled with dedications to the numbers of which he loved?
Of the five daughters only the widow loved him best. Some would suggest in her years of pious declarations this was nothing new. To love has the same flavors of the first. Eighty-four to his fifty years younger of date; she kept up with him as she counted the days according to their play dates. She will leave him nothing. But that is not why he loves her.
The curse of his immortality, rests on the charge of his soul; To conquer each woman till your no more; counting the days by the number of lovers.
The curse of the Serial Lover.