Sweet Potato Girl by Rob Hart « Nailed Magazine.
I read Rob Hart’s musings on growing up male and privileged, and how he wanted to be more. As a soon to be father of a girl, he wants her world to be better than the one he grew up in. Better for her.
So many of my female friends suffered from abuse and misuse by people they should have been able to trust. Around the world, women and girls are less than, as if their society fears females that could be more than. This treatment has been going on for centuries, which does not make it any more acceptable.
How much longer will we shrug our shoulders, murmur “Boys will be boys” and go on about our own lives, as long as it doesn’t affect our own daughters or sisters?
When will we decide this is the true dawn of the new era we’ve pretended to pay lip service to for so long?
What draws you into a book? Is it the cover, the back blurb, or is it something you read at random? If there’s a prologue, I tend to drift that direction, and hope it’s been included to give the book more depth. Teach Me To Forget was written with a prologue, then sent to Lauri at Black Opal with the option to remove said prologue since I’d included the information later in the book. She opted to include it, especially since there’s a brief scene at the end of the book mirroring the prologue, while resolving loose ends.
It was a storybook wedding. The elite of the world’s beautiful people crowded the groom’s yacht, cruising off the south French coast. The groom’s austere face was only slightly lined, the gray at his temples adding a distinguished air. His still trim body was clothed by the establishment which had enjoyed the patronage of every male in his family since his great-grandfather. Although he conversed urbanely with his guests, his possessive gaze never left his bride.
Framed in the lens of the ever-clicking camera, the bride had the lithe slenderness seen only in the very young and healthy. Delicate curves hinted at the woman she would one day become. Her short dark hair was gamine cut by the stylist who had created the look. Her make-up had been applied by the hands of the genius whose company had taken three generations of women from beautiful to gorgeous. Her lavish bouquet was of rare miniature white orchids, picked deep in the rain forests of South America and flown in for this ceremony. The lace for her veil had been created by devout hands in a convent which had produced lacework of this gossamer perfection for centuries.
The veil was secured by a pearl crown once belonging to a medieval princess. It framed a delicate, serious face dominated by enormous, hazy green eyes and a lush, slightly trembling mouth, and billowed down to hand made, four inch spike heels. By tradition the full length veil attested to the purity of the bride, leaving no doubt in the mind of anyone attending that day that this was, indeed, a virgin bride. The diaphanous covering enhanced her bridal outfit, personally designed by the hand of the dresser of royalty. Brilliant fire opals had been meticulously applied to the hand sewn, French-cut, white bikini.
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