I am an American Writer and Illustrator under the pen name Saint James. I specialize in creative fiction works, including pieces in the Young Adult, Sci-Fi, Romance, and Mystery genres.
Find Me: https://linktr.ee/TheSaintjames
Mistress of the Mafia
The marquee flickered, the top row of bulbs missing, and the rest barely clinging to life. Nevertheless, the sign lit up enough to read The Flamingo. Light bounced off of my newly darkened locks and plump cherry lips. I looked nothing like myself in the reflections of the club’s windows, but I presume that’s the goal for a girl like me. The bouncer brought my attention back to reality when he placed a hand slightly north of my bosom where the strap of my black Dior met my collar bone.
Love in Hindsight
Lust was thick in the air when my eyes locked with yours that first day. Your eyes, two pools of glistening honey, made the perfect vessel for mine to melt deep into and never escape. You stepped into my world on a blisteringly hot day in July of 1969, and I knew I would never be the same. The Santa Monica street fair happened the first week of July every year since ’61, and I'd been every year. The festival line three square blocks with booths overflowing with a unique character operating only the shadiest carnival games. Street food venues littered in between the games and rickety amusement rides that had seen every inch of the country. It was the carnival of the year. You see, the street fair wasn’t a carnival for families, but it was a place for people of every shape, style, and spirit. Where once there was a wholesome weekend activity for families, no stood streets flooded with partially nude twenty-somethings and lovers taking solace in the bushes for privacy. Love was evolving for everyone in the '60s. It was given and received freely; there were no rules, no boundaries, and especially for me, no limitations. The fair was a place to explore, to dive into what love meant to you, without being judged.
Dancing On Corpses with Imaginary Friends
The stench of a funeral home has unforgettably stuck with me. Each one smells identically of rotting flesh, formaldehyde, and dying floral arrangements. The first time that smell gripped my nostrils was six days before my fifth birthday. My father made his way back to our home after leaving me with my Granny. His veins were racing with a Molotov cocktail of cocaine, Jim Beam, and rage. A mere hour behind him, my mother arrived home after a Sunday morning shift at the grocery store deli she worked part-time at to support my father's drinking and driving habits. She inserted her key into the front door, turned the worn brass handle, and stepped in through the storm door as she did every other afternoon. This step wasn’t like the others. My mother looked up to a black revolver staring at her forehead, my father’s dead eyes staring from behind it. His demons overtook him that day, convincing him to grab a handgun, usually stowed away in a small red toolbox in the back of his garage, and destroy everything in its path. It was in my mother's blood to fight, and as I was wholly unaware, slumped on my Granny's couch unable to help her, she did exactly that. She fought for her life. My father was still present somewhere deep inside the demon’s grasp, and in a final gracious gesture, sacrificed himself. After a struggle, the gun must've pulled back and turned on the evil that overtook him. I imagine that there was a glimmer of the man we had once known but hadn't seen in so long, looking back into my mother's eyes as a final selfless apology. His last bit of light pulled the trigger, and the gun fired. All of our worlds, and everything we had all known, simultaneously fell crashing onto the floor.