Inknbeans Press

Comments

1. Brianna Brown says

   December 17, 2015 at 11:55 am

   To Whom it May Concern,
   I stumbled upon your website via Google search and would appreciate if you would contact me with more information on what you do. I am looking to either publish poetry pamphlets or an entire book or even both depending on your prices. I would love to know how your editing, publishing, and pricing process.

   Please contact me at your convenience with information.
   Best,
   Brianna Brown

   brianna.brown.1492@gmail.com

2. Charles Tita says

   February 25, 2016 at 3:19 pm

   I am an author. The tittle of my work is : HOW TO GIVE. BIRTH TO VERY BRILLIANT ACTIVE CHILDREN. It is practical with experiments how to produce Brilliant offsprings, and how to produce female and male offsprings. I need a publisher

3. Ernest Pick says

   May 10, 2016 at 11:50 am

   A Mission
   Deronda steps down from the bus gingerly, open toes sinking slowly into the sand by the curb, turns to the driver to blow him a kiss. The driver looks away, closes the door and throttles forward, sand kicking up behind the bus. Deronda fluffs her curls, lowers her purse to the ground to smooth out her dress, then strides down the street towards a dingy grey bungalow. It has been an effort, her belly heaving in and out from the strain. She stops, looks up at the grey door with the green awning, scratch marks effacing the number of the house on a post. Standing before the bungalow, she does not mount the steps. Lowering her purse again, she sops away beads forming on her upper lip. Under the torrid sun, her great bronze arms begin to sweat. Finally, she decides to proceed. Clears her throat.
   —Gus, she yells. Gus! She waits one moment, then repeats her cry.
   There is no answer. Yet, Deronda can see a swirl of cloth sliding gently away from the window.
   —Gus, she cackles a bit louder.
   After a time, she stamps her feet. —It’s hot out here, she yells. Across the street, three kids come out to their porch and sit on a bench. They do not say a word to each other. Expectantly, they sit and watch.
   The door opens. —Whatcha want? Gus asks.
   —I gotsta talk to you, Deronda says.
   —Talk, Gus says. He is a tall, slender man with a white beard crowning copper cheeks. Talk.
   —You knows what I want, she croons, edging forward. The support payment you owe me. Owe me! She emphasizes.
   Gus snorts. His paisley suspenders crack as he stands up straight. —Owe you? The boy lives with me, woman. I pay the boys food and his gas, not you.
   Unimpeded, Deronda steps forward. —It’s fearsome hot out here. Let me come inside. We could get ourselves a chat.
   —No, no, Gus yells at her. Stay right there.
   —So, a glass of water, she pleads.
   —No, he says shaking his head firmly. No.
   —The court say you owe me the money.
   —But the court don’t know that Leonas be living wid me, do the court?
   —Don’t matter, Deronda replies. It’s the law.
   —Fuck the law, Gus snorts.
   Snickers. Folds her arms. —Fuck you too, Deronda shouts, gathering herself.
   —That ain’t gonna get you no money here, he says.
   —Lookee here, Gus. I could call the cops. You owe me the money. But I’m here asking for it nice like.
   —You ain’t ever getting a dime from me, Deronda, Gus intones, leaning on a pillar. Smiling now, he looks as if he were enjoying himself. Not a dime, he repeats softly.
   —I just want cigarette money, she pleads.
   —Shit, he says, that and money for crack. Or is it a different flavor this month?
   —No, no, she says, twirling her head, I ain’t usin’ no more.
   He laughs. —You always say that, Deronda.
   —True. I tellin’ the truth.
   —I don’t believe you.
   She stamps her feet. —It’s real hot in the sun. Gimme a glass a water. A little glass. Let me come in and drink a glass and get outta da sun.
   —No, Gus says, his neck rising. Step back on your bus and leave.
   —Then let me talk to Leonas, she says sullenly.
   —He ain’t here.
   —You lyin’, she says. He my son. Let me talk to him.
   —He went to the sto’, Gus says.
   —When he comin’ back? She asks. Pause. You lyin’, Gus. I seen his shadow behind you, she smiles triumphantly.
   —Listen, Gus says, I got a good mind to kick your ass. You get outta here right now and maybe you ain’t feelin’ heel marks on your butt.
   —Damn you, she trumpets, shaking the ringlets about her head.
   The front door opens and Leonas comes out. —Momma, he says gently, go on home now. You ain’t wanted here.
   —Leonas, she croons. My boy!
   —Yeah, Gus sneers defiantly, the same boy you deserted after you shot up for the tenth time. You wasn’t callin’ him my boy then, was you?
   —I love my boy, Deronda says. You know I love you. I come to see you, my boy. Leonas, help me out.
   —I don’t answer to that name no more, he says straightening up. He is just under six feet tall. For the moment, he appears stern, but this is a man who enjoys smiling and laughing, and when he does, he reveals two gold teeth on either side of his upper teeth. He wears a white t-shirt much too large for his frame, and over-sized black pants which he tugs at from time to time to prevent them from slipping.
   —I know you call youself Snake, she says. But that don’t change nuthin’ fo me, my son.
   —Go home, he says to her. You ain’t getting a hit here.
   She shimmies up to her full height. —I just askin’ for what’s mine.
   —What’s yours is in your veins, Momma, Gus says to her. He turns to Snake and ushers him back into the house. Now, Deronda drops her pout, hitches up her dress, turns and retreats slowly to the bus station on the corner. As she walks, she is assessing her situation. She has no money. She has no food. Shelter she has, if you call the underside of an abandoned warehouse shelter. Friends there. They understand her. Loves me, she says to herself. Women who understand me and helps me. And men who will give me what I need for just a little piece of ass. She shrugs. She knows she cannot go to the courts in her present condition. Drugs are draining out of her as she sits on the careening bus. She is holding onto a post, listening to women screaming at the driver to slow down, but he simply laughs. He turns at one stop and says he is late. —I want to get home in one piece, a woman tells him. He smiles a toothy smile and scratches his head. He always intended to get all the passengers home safely. Telling them this does not help.
   —Take your foot off the metal, a woman says to him.
   —Sure, he replies. Sure. But when the light blushes orange, the bus lurches forward as if pushed by some unsettled hand hurtling down the Atlanta streets, away from Bolton Avenue and towards midtown, towards her warehouse.
   At her stop, she lowers herself slowly onto the curb. Boiling and humid. She catches her breath. Down the street is home. The remains of a warehouse scheduled for demolition. Sweat on her upper lip. Now, only half of the lopsided mess has the look of a crater, shards of metal lying in heaps one on top of the other, fragments of red brick scattered about for a hundred yards, mud everywhere, plastic bags from Target, fast food wrappers. Outside of the demolition, the building has sunk partially into the ground as if some heavy steel boot had stomped it down. Towards the center, one aperture remains. Deronda lowers herself into the dim light, down into the crusty pathway, both sides of which are concrete walls with so much graffiti on graffiti she cannot decipher any, lowers herself onto the concrete path where furry denizens of the building scurry away in three directions. Scent of urine and feces. Moves on sighing. She no longer knows why she returns to this place. There is no other place for her. Shelters throw her out. She cries into the night when she is hungry for heroin, or she acts out, overturning tables and beds. Gus refuses to see her. Friends have abandoned her. She no longer even remembers their names, who they were, whether they were the same race or sex. She only clearly remembers the craving followed by the moment when the needle pierces her soul and soaks it with singular ecstasy.
   Now she locates the remnant of a cot, she slumps onto it, weary to the bone, hot, sweaty, craving, but, for the moment, too strung out to obtain, search, move. Perhaps twenty minutes slide by. Nor does she feel, yet senses, her underpants slipping away from her body, or the hand that moves onto her thigh towards her genitals. When finally she experiences it, she looks up, but for a moment sees nothing, nobody. A large body leans forward, over her, lays on top of her. The body has a face and the face is crowned with a beard. If he is entering her, she scarcely feels it, but for a second, a bit of joy flits about her face, because she knows that after she has given in to the bearded one, he will surely leave some goodie for her. Surely. While he is inside of her, she has no pleasure or pain, little memory but that of her little boy, Leonas, and how they were sweet together when he was a toddler. Walking him down Bolton Avenue along with the other mothers, laughing and playing. Chortling down Bolton Avenue with the young mothers as they wheeled towards the park chatting the mornings away. The young smiling, chatty mothers who playfully called her Deronda Straight. Yes, because then, above all the women in the neighborhood, she veered neither to the left nor the right…she was Straight.
   Above her, there is another. It belongs to another, a beardless man. She can barely distinguish his face in the yellow half-light. Smoking. Looking down on the scene. Immobile, the man seems not to be breathing. Inhales smoke, but does not seem to exhale. Perhaps he is a dead man, she thinks, but no, how could a dead man be smoking? She sees the butt come aflame from time to time so she knows he lives, but does not truly care that this watching man exists. On her neck, the beard is dripping moisture, his throat emitting labored gasps, his fist stabbing into her mouth, and she knows the man is about to release. His cries are half muted, they are always muted so that others will not know what he or other men are up to. Muted shields as these men come. Did she ever enjoy it? she wonders idly. Deronda doesn’t remember the last time she climaxed nor whether she emitted a scream of passion, nor does she care about it. Sex is a vehicle to greater thrills, more powerful visions, skyrocketing delights. Just for a moment, she looks up. The smoking man has left. The man on top of her rises without a word and leaves. He does not even zip up. He may know her name but he does not say it. Not even goodbye, Deronda. Once men who fucked her left words of thanks, one kissed her cheek. Sweet. But this body attached to a cock leaves nothing. He says nothing. She is pleading with a shadow seeping into darkness, but he will not turn, he will not waver. He slips into the dank blackness and disappears.

   A Mission
   Deronda steps down from the bus gingerly, open toes sinking slowly into the sand by the curb, turns to the driver to blow him a kiss. The driver looks away, closes the door and throttles forward, sand kicking up behind the bus. Deronda fluffs her curls, lowers her purse to the ground to smooth out her dress, then strides down the street towards a dingy grey bungalow. It has been an effort, her belly heaving in and out from the strain. She stops, looks up at the grey door with the green awning, scratch marks effacing the number of the house on a post. Standing before the bungalow, she does not mount the steps. Lowering her purse again, she sops away beads forming on her upper lip. Under the torrid sun, her great bronze arms begin to sweat. Finally, she decides to proceed. Clears her throat.
   —Gus, she yells. Gus! She waits one moment, then repeats her cry.
   There is no answer. Yet, Deronda can see a swirl of cloth sliding gently away from the window.
   —Gus, she cackles a bit louder.
   After a time, she stamps her feet. —It’s hot out here, she yells. Across the street, three kids come out to their porch and sit on a bench. They do not say a word to each other. Expectantly, they sit and watch.
   The door opens. —Whatcha want? Gus asks.
   —I gotsta talk to you, Deronda says.
   —Talk, Gus says. He is a tall, slender man with a white beard crowning copper cheeks. Talk.
   —You knows what I want, she croons, edging forward. The support payment you owe me. Owe me! She emphasizes.
   Gus snorts. His paisley suspenders crack as he stands up straight. —Owe you? The boy lives with me, woman. I pay the boys food and his gas, not you.
   Unimpeded, Deronda steps forward. —It’s fearsome hot out here. Let me come inside. We could get ourselves a chat.
   —No, no, Gus yells at her. Stay right there.
   —So, a glass of water, she pleads.
   —No, he says shaking his head firmly. No.
   —The court say you owe me the money.
   —But the court don’t know that Leonas be living wid me, do the court?
   —Don’t matter, Deronda replies. It’s the law.
   —Fuck the law, Gus snorts.
   Snickers. Folds her arms. —Fuck you too, Deronda shouts, gathering herself.
   —That ain’t gonna get you no money here, he says.
   —Lookee here, Gus. I could call the cops. You owe me the money. But I’m here asking for it nice like.
   —You ain’t ever getting a dime from me, Deronda, Gus intones, leaning on a pillar. Smiling now, he looks as if he were enjoying himself. Not a dime, he repeats softly.
   —I just want cigarette money, she pleads.
   —Shit, he says, that and money for crack. Or is it a different flavor this month?
   —No, no, she says, twirling her head, I ain’t usin’ no more.
   He laughs. —You always say that, Deronda.
   —True. I tellin’ the truth.
   —I don’t believe you.
   She stamps her feet. —It’s real hot in the sun. Gimme a glass a water. A little glass. Let me come in and drink a glass and get outta da sun.
   —No, Gus says, his neck rising. Step back on your bus and leave.
   —Then let me talk to Leonas, she says sullenly.
   —He ain’t here.
   —You lyin’, she says. He my son. Let me talk to him.
   —He went to the sto’, Gus says.
   —When he comin’ back? She asks. Pause. You lyin’, Gus. I seen his shadow behind you, she smiles triumphantly.
   —Listen, Gus says, I got a good mind to kick your ass. You get outta here right now and maybe you ain’t feelin’ heel marks on your butt.
   —Damn you, she trumpets, shaking the ringlets about her head.
   The front door opens and Leonas comes out. —Momma, he says gently, go on home now. You ain’t wanted here.
   —Leonas, she croons. My boy!
   —Yeah, Gus sneers defiantly, the same boy you deserted after you shot up for the tenth time. You wasn’t callin’ him my boy then, was you?
   —I love my boy, Deronda says. You know I love you. I come to see you, my boy. Leonas, help me out.
   —I don’t answer to that name no more, he says straightening up. He is just under six feet tall. For the moment, he appears stern, but this is a man who enjoys smiling and laughing, and when he does, he reveals two gold teeth on either side of his upper teeth. He wears a white t-shirt much too large for his frame, and over-sized black pants which he tugs at from time to time to prevent them from slipping.
   —I know you call youself Snake, she says. But that don’t change nuthin’ fo me, my son.
   —Go home, he says to her. You ain’t getting a hit here.
   She shimmies up to her full height. —I just askin’ for what’s mine.
   —What’s yours is in your veins, Momma, Gus says to her. He turns to Snake and ushers him back into the house. Now, Deronda drops her pout, hitches up her dress, turns and retreats slowly to the bus station on the corner. As she walks, she is assessing her situation. She has no money. She has no food. Shelter she has, if you call the underside of an abandoned warehouse shelter. Friends there. They understand her. Loves me, she says to herself. Women who understand me and helps me. And men who will give me what I need for just a little piece of ass. She shrugs. She knows she cannot go to the courts in her present condition. Drugs are draining out of her as she sits on the careening bus. She is holding onto a post, listening to women screaming at the driver to slow down, but he simply laughs. He turns at one stop and says he is late. —I want to get home in one piece, a woman tells him. He smiles a toothy smile and scratches his head. He always intended to get all the passengers home safely. Telling them this does not help.
   —Take your foot off the metal, a woman says to him.
   —Sure, he replies. Sure. But when the light blushes orange, the bus lurches forward as if pushed by some unsettled hand hurtling down the Atlanta streets, away from Bolton Avenue and towards midtown, towards her warehouse.
   At her stop, she lowers herself slowly onto the curb. Boiling and humid. She catches her breath. Down the street is home. The remains of a warehouse scheduled for demolition. Sweat on her upper lip. Now, only half of the lopsided mess has the look of a crater, shards of metal lying in heaps one on top of the other, fragments of red brick scattered about for a hundred yards, mud everywhere, plastic bags from Target, fast food wrappers. Outside of the demolition, the building has sunk partially into the ground as if some heavy steel boot had stomped it down. Towards the center, one aperture remains. Deronda lowers herself into the dim light, down into the crusty pathway, both sides of which are concrete walls with so much graffiti on graffiti she cannot decipher any, lowers herself onto the concrete path where furry denizens of the building scurry away in three directions. Scent of urine and feces. Moves on sighing. She no longer knows why she returns to this place. There is no other place for her. Shelters throw her out. She cries into the night when she is hungry for heroin, or she acts out, overturning tables and beds. Gus refuses to see her. Friends have abandoned her. She no longer even remembers their names, who they were, whether they were the same race or sex. She only clearly remembers the craving followed by the moment when the needle pierces her soul and soaks it with singular ecstasy.
   Now she locates the remnant of a cot, she slumps onto it, weary to the bone, hot, sweaty, craving, but, for the moment, too strung out to obtain, search, move. Perhaps twenty minutes slide by. Nor does she feel, yet senses, her underpants slipping away from her body, or the hand that moves onto her thigh towards her genitals. When finally she experiences it, she looks up, but for a moment sees nothing, nobody. A large body leans forward, over her, lays on top of her. The body has a face and the face is crowned with a beard. If he is entering her, she scarcely feels it, but for a second, a bit of joy flits about her face, because she knows that after she has given in to the bearded one, he will surely leave some goodie for her. Surely. While he is inside of her, she has no pleasure or pain, little memory but that of her little boy, Leonas, and how they were sweet together when he was a toddler. Walking him down Bolton Avenue along with the other mothers, laughing and playing. Chortling down Bolton Avenue with the young mothers as they wheeled towards the park chatting the mornings away. The young smiling, chatty mothers who playfully called her Deronda Straight. Yes, because then, above all the women in the neighborhood, she veered neither to the left nor the right…she was Straight.
   Above her, there is another. It belongs to another, a beardless man. She can barely distinguish his face in the yellow half-light. Smoking. Looking down on the scene. Immobile, the man seems not to be breathing. Inhales smoke, but does not seem to exhale. Perhaps he is a dead man, she thinks, but no, how could a dead man be smoking? She sees the butt come aflame from time to time so she knows he lives, but does not truly care that this watching man exists. On her neck, the beard is dripping moisture, his throat emitting labored gasps, his fist stabbing into her mouth, and she knows the man is about to release. His cries are half muted, they are always muted so that others will not know what he or other men are up to. Muted shields as these men come. Did she ever enjoy it? she wonders idly. Deronda doesn’t remember the last time she climaxed nor whether she emitted a scream of passion, nor does she care about it. Sex is a vehicle to greater thrills, more powerful visions, skyrocketing delights. Just for a moment, she looks up. The smoking man has left. The man on top of her rises without a word and leaves. He does not even zip up. He may know her name but he does not say it. Not even goodbye, Deronda. Once men who fucked her left words of thanks, one kissed her cheek. Sweet. But this body attached to a cock leaves nothing. He says nothing. She is pleading with a shadow seeping into darkness, but he will not turn, he will not waver. He slips into the dank blackness and disappears.