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I Can See Clearly Now

Act 1 – Chapter 1
Title: "The Storm Knows My Name"

The storm had already swallowed most of the sky by the time Charity Woods reached for her coffee. It loomed over the city like a threat disguised as weather; gray, seething, ancient. Outside the penthouse windows, jagged veins of lightning fractured the clouds. Thunder murmured like a prophecy, and the rain came, soft at first, then sharp as needles.

Charity froze.

The ceramic mug trembled slightly in her hands. She hadn’t yet taken a sip. She wouldn’t. Not anymore.

Rain never arrived without demanding something in return.

She set the cup down and exhaled, slow and controlled. The morning had started with her usual routine, yoga at 5:30 a.m., almond protein smoothie, a scan of The New York Times. But that had been before the clouds rolled in, before her body began to hum with that strange, vibrating dread she couldn’t name. Not fear exactly. Not panic either. Something quieter, deeper. An echo.

From somewhere inside, her heartbeat stumbled.

She turned away from the window and stared at the polished marble floor of her Manhattan penthouse, eyes tracking the trembling reflections of raindrops against the glass. She should be packing. Her flight to Atlanta left in three hours, and the Delta Sigma Theta Founders Gala didn’t care about her unresolved grief or unspoken memories. But the storm had rooted her to the floor, one bare foot tucked behind the other, shoulders tense, pulse skipping.

Then came the smell.

Wet wood. Char. Burned paper.

It wasn't real, couldn't be, but the scent was so vivid it wrapped itself around her throat. She closed her eyes, and the air in the room shifted.

Crack!

Thunder rolled across the sky. And just like that, time folded.

She was seven again.

The hallway was filled with smoke. A man’s voice was shouting her name, Charity! Run! Her hands were pressed to her ears. Her ballerina slippers were wet. Ava was screaming in the distance. The flames hadn't reached her room yet, but the heat had begun to seep through the door frame. She was crying, but no tears came. There was no water. Only fire.

The smell of her mother’s perfume; Pleasures for Woman. Her father’s cologne, Cool Water. The mirror over her dresser had cracked from the heat. In its shattered surface, she’d seen her own eyes wide with terror, unable to move, locked inside a memory that would later vanish.

Rrring…

This time it was real.

The sound came from her phone, ringing on the kitchen island. She blinked, stumbling out of the trance. Her vision sharpened just enough to make out the caller ID: Tina Spivey.

Her sorority big sister. The one who never missed a check-in, especially when galas and memories collided.

Charity grabbed the phone like a lifeline and answered on the second ring.

“Tina.”

“Girl, you sound like a ghost. Don’t tell me you’re backing out again.”

“I’m not,” Charity said, barely above a whisper.

“You sure? Last year you canceled two hours before boarding. The year before that, you ‘forgot’ your garment bag. Don’t play with me.”

“I said I’m coming.”

Tina paused. “You alright?”

Charity looked around the kitchen; everything immaculate, sterile. Her hands were still shaking.

“Yeah,” she lied.

“Charity.”

The silence on the line grew soft with worry.

“Just…weather,” Charity said finally. “Storm’s messing with my head.”

“I figured. It’s pouring in Atlanta, too. But the gala’s still on. We got new honorees, a jazz quartet, and even Malcolm said he might show up this year. You don’t want to miss that.”

Charity’s lips twitched at the mention of Malcolm. Her steady colleague. The only man in her life who saw through the scaffolding she built around herself and chose to stay anyway.

“I’ll be there,” she said, more to herself than Tina.

“Good. Your Uber’s already en route. I booked it. You have twenty minutes. Don’t make me call the concierge like last time.”

The line clicked.

Charity placed the phone down slowly, as if it were still smoldering from the call. The sound of rain intensified. It pulsed against the windows in rhythmic bursts, as if knocking to be let in.

She turned to leave the kitchen but stopped at the hallway mirror. It was one of the few reflective surfaces in the apartment she hadn’t removed or covered. At least not yet.

Her reflection stared back at her; tall, poised, with a posture so straight it looked brittle. Her black turtleneck and slacks gave her the appearance of invincibility. But her eyes told another story.

She touched the mirror with one fingertip.

In a blink, the reflection changed. The glass rippled. The adult woman vanished, and the child returned.

Little Charity. Hair singed at the ends. Smoke in her lungs. She was holding a pink ballet slipper. Her eyes were wide and red-rimmed.

Charity yanked her hand back.

The image disappeared.

She stumbled toward the bathroom, flipping on the faucet. Cold water. That’s what she needed. Something to snap her back.

She splashed her face, but the chill only deepened the fog in her mind.

Behind her, the mirror began to fog. She didn’t look at it. Couldn’t.

The knock at the door saved her.

A crisp, polite tap, tap, tap. It was her kind doorman, informing her of her Uber.

Charity dried her face, grabbed her coat, and moved through the penthouse like a ghost in her own life.

As the elevator descended, she stared at her reflection in the steel doors. Her face was composed again. Presentable. Marketable.

But inside, something was unraveling. The storm hadn’t just arrived outside. It had entered her. And it wasn’t done speaking.

To Be Continued…

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I Can See Clearly Now: White, Mr. DeVon: 9798317675868: Amazon.com: Books

The Harder They Fall

Chapter 1: The Weight of Books

The walk home from school was always the longest part of Taylor Wilson’s day.

Not because the distance was insurmountable, or the sidewalks particularly arduous. Rather, it was the silence that accompanied each step, a quietude that cloaked her in a sense of isolation. Her backpack, a hand-me-down far too large for her frame, seemed to grow heavier with each passing moment, laden with textbooks and notebooks that offered far more comfort than the company of her peers. Her algebra book was bound together with a rubber band, its spine long since surrendered to wear, but Taylor valued it, nonetheless. Numbers were consistent. Words, even more so. They did not turn against you.

The route she traveled was familiar, etched in muscle memory. And yet, every afternoon, it felt foreign, as though her existence along that path was tolerated rather than embraced. She kept her head bowed, eyes cast downward, shoulders tucked in, as if to render herself invisible.

Behind her, laughter sliced through the air.

“Taylor-Timid.”

The nickname, cruel, childish, and undeserved, had taken root. It followed her through the corridors and into the daylight, whispered with amused contempt by those who thrived on hierarchy.

“I imagine she organizes her bookshelf alphabetically and color-coded,” one voice remarked with mock sophistication, followed by a chorus of insincere laughter.

Taylor chose not to respond. Retorts only invited escalation. Her silence was not born of defeat but of careful calculation. It was the quiet dignity of someone who had long since decided that their worth would not be debated by those incapable of understanding it.

By the time she reached the modest home she shared with her mother, the scent of dinner, drifted through the open window. It was the kind of smell that evoked comfort and nostalgia, a symphony that reminded her she was, at the very least, cherished within these walls.

The porch welcomed her with a creak, the screen door screeching slightly as she stepped inside.

“Is that you, Taylor?” her mother’s voice called, warm and reassuring.

“Yes, Mother,” she replied.

“Dinner is nearly ready. How are you?”

Taylor hesitated. She could have explained the events of the day, the laughter, the mockery, the fatigue that weighed heavier than her bag. But she knew her mother’s heart already bore too much.

“I am. Just a bit weary,” she said softly.

Her mother emerged from the kitchen, apron tied neatly around her waist, hands slightly flour-dusted. She took one look at Taylor and said nothing. Instead, she approached and gently cupped her daughter’s face, brushing her cheeks with quiet affection.

“Go freshen up. I’ll prepare your plate.”

Taylor offered a faint smile before ascending the stairs to her room. There, she unzipped her backpack and laid its contents across the bed: textbooks, notepads, and a journal adorned with pressed violets and a satin ribbon.

She opened it to a fresh page.

“Today, I faded into the background once more. The sting lessens with each occurrence. Perhaps I am becoming adept at being unseen, invisible.”

She closed the journal and held it close to her chest. Outside, the setting sun painted its silhouette on the walls. Taylor sat on the edge of her bed, allowing herself to remember.

Her father.

His voice was her earliest lullaby, a soothing baritone that read her everything from encyclopedias to poetry. He believed knowledge was not only power but refuge.

“Words are like constellations, Taybird,” “Even when the night is darkest, they can guide you home.”

She remembered his laughter, warm and infectious, and the gentle way he used to place notes in her lunchbox, each inscribed with a phrase of encouragement. She had kept every one. They were her private inheritance.

Then came the day he collapsed, suddenly, silently. The hospital offered no real answers. But Taylor knew. It was heartbreak that claimed him. After her two elder brothers were lost to the war, something inside of him had withered.

Grief became the nightmarish houseguest that didn’t knock; it just entered without invitation and never departed. It settled in the corners of rooms and in hidden spaces.

She reached for her English book, pressing her fragile face against the worn cover. A tear, then another, then another slid down her cheek, being absorbed by the pages of the book nestled to her cheek. As if finding comfort without feeling the emotion of guilt.

She would not shatter. Not now. Not yet.

She turned off the lamp and drew the covers up to her chin. In the darkness, she whispered, “You are not invisible. You are not irrelevant.”

And for the briefest moment, she believed it.

Sleep came gently, and with it, a dream.

Her father stood at the end of her bed, his eyes kind, hands tucked into the pockets of his favorite cardigan.

“Still bearing the weight of the world, Taybird?” he asked, voice tender.

She nodded, overwhelmed.

He approached and kissed her forehead. “You are stronger than your sorrow. And one day, the world will see you as I do.”

The next morning, she rose before the sun, methodically dressing in her school uniform. She tied her hair with the blue ribbon her aunt had given her last Christmas and stood in front of the mirror. The reflection that met her eyes was quiet, but no longer tentative.

She opened her journal once more and wrote:

“This will be the last day I allow the voices of others to weigh me down like an anchor. This day, I shall carry only my own banner. Be my own light. Discover me.”

To Be Continued…

Purchase your copy on KDP.Amazon.com

The Harder They Fall: White, Mr. DeVon: 9798285575269: Amazon.com: Books

The Prodigal Son

Chapter 1: The Departure

DeMarco had always believed he knew best. Rules were suggestions. Advice was noise. Even love, when it came with expectations, felt like a leash to him. So, when he stood across from his father one quiet evening and asked for his trust fund, he wasn’t seeking permission. He was making a declaration.

His father didn’t answer right away. The air between them was still, thick with the unspoken. The older man sat in his armchair, elbows resting on his knees, eyes fixed on the carpet. The weight of the request pressed on him, heavier than the years had ever managed to do.

“I’ve done what you asked,” DeMarco said. “School. The business internships. Everything. But I need to find out who I am, on my own. I’m not meant to follow a blueprint someone else drew for me.”

Still, no response. Only the soft ticking of the wall clock and the hum of the refrigerator down the hall.

After a long silence, his father finally lifted his head. His eyes were red-rimmed, tired in a way DeMarco had never seen before. “If I give you this,” he said slowly, “you must remember one thing. If things fall apart out there, if nothing works out, you can always come back home. No shame. No lectures. Just come home.”

DeMarco nodded, but only half-listened. His heart had already left. He heard the part about the trust fund, not the part about returning. The idea of failure didn’t register. In his mind, he was already beyond the walls of this house, past the reach of anyone who thought they knew what was best for him.

That night, he packed lightly. A couple of bags. Some clothes. A notebook. He didn’t even bother with things that had once mattered. Trophies. Photos. Childhood mementos. None of it felt relevant. Tomorrow didn’t feel like a new chapter. It felt like a brand-new book. One, he could finally write himself.

He slipped out before dawn. The house was quiet. The city was still dark and half-asleep. He didn’t leave a note. He didn’t say goodbye. He didn’t think he needed to.

His father, however, had hoped for a miracle. He had gone to bed thinking maybe sleep would soften his son’s resolve. Maybe the morning would bring clarity. Maybe love would win.

At first light, he rushed to DeMarco’s room. His heart beat fast as he climbed the stairs, hope barely holding together his worry. He opened the door, expecting to see his son curled under the covers, maybe irritated but still home. Instead, the room was stripped of life. The drawers were left half-open, the closet nearly bare, the bed unmade. The morning sun cut across the room through a gap in the curtains, spotlighting the emptiness.

He stood frozen. Then he stepped forward, almost in disbelief, and picked up the comforter that had fallen off the bed. He pulled it close to his chest and inhaled deeply. It still smelled like DeMarco. A mix of laundry soap and something boyish he could never quite name. That scent alone broke him.

“He’s gone,” he whispered. “He left. Without a word.”

The grief came in waves. He clutched the comforter like it was his son himself, rocking slightly, eyes glazed and wet. He didn’t even notice Cameron in the doorway until his older son stepped into the room.

“Dad,” Cameron said, his voice low.

Their father didn’t answer. He just kept repeating it. “He left. He’s gone. My son is gone.”

Cameron’s jaw clenched. He had seen this coming. DeMarco always had a way of making everything about himself. Drama followed him, and this time, he had dragged it right into the heart of their family. Cameron didn’t cry. He couldn’t. Not for someone who didn’t have the decency to say goodbye.

“This is just like him,” Cameron muttered under his breath. “He doesn’t care who he hurts.”

He turned back toward his own room, trying to shake the image of his father in the center of that torn-up room. But something gnawed at him. A weight he couldn’t ignore.

Later, as he dressed for the day, Cameron kept checking the hallway. His father hadn’t moved. Still standing there. Still clutching that comforter. Still whispering the same words to no one in particular.

Cameron stepped back into the room, softer this time. He walked over and wrapped his arms around his father, hoping that maybe touch could do what words couldn’t. But the old man didn’t lean into him. His eyes stared past the wall, as if trying to find DeMarco through sheer force of will.

That day stretched on endlessly. Their father didn’t go to the office. He didn’t return calls. He didn’t eat. He barely spoke. The silence in the house was louder than anything Cameron had ever known. Every time he passed by DeMarco’s room, his father was still there. Sometimes sitting. Sometimes standing. Always holding that blanket.

Grief took shape in real time. It etched itself into the lines of his father’s face. It drained the color from his skin. It dulled the sharpness in his eyes.

By nightfall, Cameron stopped pretending to be angry. He started feeling something else. Something heavier. He realized that what his brother had left behind wasn’t just a broken family. He had left behind a man who had spent his life trying to protect his sons, and now had no way to protect himself from the ache of loss.

And no matter how furious Cameron felt, he couldn’t unsee it.

His father fell asleep in DeMarco’s room that night. Not in the bed, but on the floor beside it, wrapped in that same blanket like armor. Cameron checked on him every hour, unsure of what else to do.

He didn’t pray. He didn’t cry.

But for the first time, he began to worry that maybe his brother wasn’t coming back.

To Be Continued…

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The Prodigal Son: White, Mr. DeVon: 9798288039263: Amazon.com: Books

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