Irene Nichole Harris
About the Author
Irene Nichole Harris is a native of Florida and the oldest of eight brothers and sisters. She went to Divine Mercy Elementary School, John F. Kennedy Middle School and went on to Cocoa High School. She credits her mother’s love of poetry and the ability to create an imaginative world out of words as the driving force behind her talent. During her senior year of high school, Ms. Harris began her first novel, but due to personal setbacks, the piece would not be completed for several years. After graduating high school, she attended the University of Florida as a pre-med major however after she took her first class in African-American Literature, she could not deny her passion for writing. At the same time, Ms. Harris harbored a desire to serve her country. In 1996, she enlisted in the Army and pushed her writing career aside. She has been in the military for seven years and currently a Sergeant. In February 2002, she focused all energies on writing. She completed Bottom Heights—the novel she began in high school--in 2003 and Surviving The Storm will be published April 2006. Ms. Harris has written several articles for Brown Diva, pieces for 4LoveofPoetry and Aspire2Write, and is a member of the Black Writers United and the Mighty Write Literary Association. When not in military uniform, you can catch Ms. Harris sporting her full Afro in front a computer or pencil and paper in hand creating her next masterpiece. Ms. Harris believes that too often writers fall into the habit of conforming to what everyone else thinks they should write, but it takes real courage to express individualism and originality. She is also majoring in Human Resources and Business Management.
Irene's first published book, Bottom Heights, is available at Amazon.com and other online bookstores. Excerpts from her upcoming books, Surviving The Storm and Smelling Concrete Roses are provided below for your reading enjoyment. Also, be sure to return to this website for excerpts from her book of poetry called A Chocolate Diva's Journey: The Bitter & The Sweet on shelves Summer 2006. Please feel free to contact her with your comments or questions about what you have read since it is a work in progress:
Surviving The Storm
“You have to read this!”
“What are you doing here, Maria?”
“This is going to blow your mind! And you actually get paid!”
“Excuse me, Colonel Gray.” Jeena got up from her desk and grabbed Maria by the arm.
“Ouch!” They both walk outdoors to the break area. “Is right now not a good time?” asked Maria with a naďve grin.
“I am busy! You can’t just come in here flying off the handle any time you get ready! This is my job and I am not going to feed into another one of your occasional tangents!”
“Look,” started Maria, with a mixture of concern and irritance in her voice, “you have been actin’ real messed up lately. I admit I am a little high strung at times, but I am doing this for you! I’ve watched you sit around the room for months depressed and out of it. All you do is sleep all day when you are not acting like a total bitch! So, I thought, just maybe this would help you or at least get you out of the room away from whatever it is that is screwing with your mind! But, hey,” she said crumbling up the flyer and dropping it in a nearby trash can, “stay psychotic for all I care!” Maria turned and rushed away to her truck.
Jeena sat down on the bench and pondered the words of her concerned roommate. Admittedly she had been acting strange, but no flyer could possibly help her solve her problem. At this point, she felt nothing could.
“Sergeant Wilcox,” called her supervisor, “Colonel Gray is still waiting!”
“I’ll be right there.” She took a deep breath and walked into the building. Before the door closed behind her, she rushed back out to the break area and grabbed the crumbled flyer from the trash. She then hurried to the office.
“Sorry for the delay, Sir,” she hastily said as she shoved the crumbled flyer into her purse.
“That is quite alright, Sergeant Wilcox. You are helping me retire so I will wait all day if I have to,” he smiled. “One of those days, huh?”
“One of those years, Sir,” Jeena replied as Colonel Gray laughed.
“Sergeant Wilcox, can I speak to you after you have completed Colonel Gray’s paperwork?” asked her supervisor.
“Sure, Staff Sergeant Farrell. I will only be a few more minutes.” Jeena knew this conversation was coming and frankly a little overdue. Jeena was a good soldier and did her work more efficiently than anyone in her office. In fact, for only being at her station for six months, she adjusted very well to the workload of the office. But her personal life was another story.
******
Smelling Concrete Roses
Life reminds me of an ocean wave: the crest is so beautiful as it reaches the highest point but it has to eventually come crashing down with no regards to what it might destroy. You just never know how life will turn out. One minute I had a mother who loved me dearly (even if I had a father who didn’t want me) and the next she was gone. My mother, Trinity LaToya Jones, was one of those liberal mothers—well, as liberal as you can be in the 1970s. For instance, from time to time she allowed me to call her by her first name because I loved the sound of it so much. She gave me her last name instead of my estranged father’s. She told me up front that there was no Santa Clause, Tooth Fairy or pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. She was also open with the most intimate details of her life. And she never hid the fact I was conceived in Summer County in an old country barn with the help of the most popular boy in her high school—not to mention the finest. You see, my mother may have been poor, but she had the looks of a Goddess and a heart of a warrior. But not even her looks could keep her in the arms of a promising young man with a bright future ahead of him. Trinity didn’t care, though. She had a seed growing inside of her. She even knew I was going to be a girl before I even came out. Her father was so embarrassed by her pregnancy; he wouldn’t get her a prom dress or take her to the prom for that matter. She did not let that stop her. She walked to the prom! Can you picture a six-month pregnant sixteen-year-old walking three miles in a homemade teal prom dress?
When I was born, her father and Trinity took me to my father’s house. As my mother tried to convince his parents that he was the father, he hid like a coward in his room. I guess I shouldn’t be so hard on him. I mean he was only eighteen and about to go in to the military and everyone makes mistakes, right? I can only imagine what Trinity went through after he dismissed her like a street whore. My momma had more class and intelligence than anyone I know. He should have considered it a privilege to even kiss her. I look at her now in that coffin and imagine how much more I could have learned from her—but will never learn from her. I don’t know half the folks up in this funeral parlor! They are just waiting for the chance to go to my momma’s house and take what they want. If Granddaddy were alive, he would beat all of them to a bloody pulp. What’s going to happen to me now? Whose going to raise me into what she would have wanted me to be?
 Free Webpages at Webspawner.com |
Yahoo Quick Search
Send E-Mail to: harrisire@hotmail.comCopyright © 2000 Irene Nichole Harris. All Rights Reserved