Bøker av Crystal Evans

This book is a compelling narrative of resilience, growth, and victory. It shares real-life experiences of overcoming challenges that threatened to derail my journey, offering valuable insights and practical guidance for readers facing similar struggles. Through my story, discover how to confront past pain, navigate life's transitions, and ultimately find healing and empowerment.This poignant book chronicles my life journey from ages 12 to 24, revealing the trials and tribulations I faced. From the profound loss of my mother to navigating relationships and enduring unimaginable hardships, my story delves into the depths of survival and resilience. Through heart-wrenching experiences of seeking love, enduring abuse, and finding solace in faith, I share a testament to the unwavering presence of God in my darkest hours. This book serves as a beacon of hope, offering healing and inspiration, showcasing how divine intervention and personal strength can lead to triumph in the face of adversity.

That's where I fit in on your side.I was the team mascot.As the mascot am only there to represent, cheer on and run the sidelines...I ain't getting no plays... no plays on the court or field.Am there for entertainment, for everyone to laugh at.But even clowns get paid, check out premier league mascots in basketball and football championships.This is really below the bar.You were probably expecting some passive aggressive reactionsThis game strategy of yours.As intended and desired moldIt's takes an immense measure of strength to allow pain to surface and flow with it.If it wasn't for Dre, my dna would not be have been dramatically altered.I thank him.In hindsight he somehow prepared me for this life ahead.So you want me to stick around here.After you treated me as if I am worthless and invisible, as if I don't have say or place in your life...Ha...You are ambitious Dwayne.If it had to come that. I don't want it.Yea I volunteered for this, but this ain't what I signed up for so amma delist.StonewallingThe principle of catch and release.I like the most about all of this...Is how you taught me to value myself.I would have done anything for you but leave.And then you leave me without ever looking back.I felt that.Seeing how you could just walk away as if it's just nothing without a care for my feelings.Is exactly the bolster I needed to get over you .You were never confused.I am.You set a boundary from the beginningThat hiatus made me see that.

The Husband Shop, can Reese choose a good man in this dating Metaphor.

Saf and Jason's relationship is heating up.Saf is having second thoughts about Jason, she feels that he is a waste of her time.She is wondering if she can seek out other options. Jason is convinced Saf is the woman for his partnership, he is no longer looking for a romance, he wants a woman, he can build with.

My works are self portraitures, consumed with questions about how identity changes over time, how selves die and are replaced, and how the mask we confront in the mirror appears to ourself, and to others. A cornucupia of secrets too unseemly to remain untold. There is really no way to restore what has been lost.My work is directed by the needs of my unconscious. And through that dark, opaque process, I can restore what might otherwise be lost. In a novel, I can restore lost voices-usually a woman's-and give words back to the silenced. Saf voice is lost in the real world. In a world where obscenities, sexual debauchery and immorality thrives, Saf is the voice of the women who dream of wistful romance and of the females broken by love and abuse.I have to write. It's not an option. It is how i cope with this world that won't listen to my voice. It is how i tell people things, i am afraid to say to their face or utter in my reality. I write it down and i give it life. It takes me to that particular place. The course of history has never been changed by the many but the few who risked exposing facts reminds me always that the pen is a mighty tool.When I'm writing the way I want, the way I love, which is without thinking about what I'm writing, a strange thing happens: I feel simultaneously the most myself I could possibly be, and at the same time totally relieved of self. I become, I guess, a version of myself that isn't filtered through the detritus and clutter of experience. We can't control so much of what happen to us in life. Even our own actions unfold in time in ways we can't possibly imagine. But there is someone inside who remains untouched by all of that. That person may not really exist in the light, but she is there, waiting, in the dark.My stories lends a simulated reality to our world, it disentangles the observer from the observed, never once have we thought about why women remain in abusive, unhealthy and toxic relationships the way we have afte reading The Bunna Man Trilogy. Dre seems to think that Cerasee Road is the epicenter of life and nothing counts but the opinions of those of Cerasee road and he tries his endeavour best to live up to their ideals albeit he thinks he is better than them. Dre is like most people bounded by a particular cultural habitués.He is a real. It is mind boggling but the character is real with his rigidity and queer morality. Saf recollection of her experiences from a narrative standpoint is bleak and dark.

The car purred to life and the tall shadowy figure of the boy she had the most earthshaking sex with a few nights ago gaped at her with contempt from behind the glass. She wanted to go home but first she needed to be one with the wind. She listened to the sound of the cars whooshing by and drank in the bubbly nature of the people heading into the Chinese owned supermarkets and knew she was finally home. Home always found her in her moments of despair. It found her in the men she fell in love with, her preference of music and her basic outlook on life. Tom was a good man but he was safe and Kitty never liked safe, she was reckless and risqué like the malefactor blood that ran in her veins. She could not run from it. The Ghetto was not just a place; it was a state of mind. She always thought she was running from the Ghetto but the Ghetto was with her even to the deepest corners of the earth for the Ghetto was her. You could not run away from yourself.

Most women wanted their first child to be a girl but I prayed for a son and I believe it probably had something to do with my love for men. I have been accused all my life for "lubbing too much man". I loved men. Brown men, black men and bleachers; tall men, short men, wild men and Christians. Rich or poor, scammer, drug men, doctors and cane cutters; as long as it name "man", my teeth be grinning from ear to ear. My child's father, Jerr was the love of my life. I knew I wanted to be with him from the first day I spoke to him, tall, handsome, sitting on his blue Honda civic in a blue Hollister Shirt and matching Ralph Lauren Polo Pants. I saw him before on several occasions, ruggedly handsome with big Afro hair, decked out in either a white merino or V neck T-shirt driving his Suzuki Grand Vitara. My friends and I would literally stick our tongues out, panting like dogs at him, screaming Oohs and Awes at how mesmerizing and swaggarific he looked on those 22 inch Chrome rims.

The dogs ran through the yard kicking up ruckus outside. They said that dogs could hear a man coming down the road from a mile away due to their superior auditory mechanism. Something was coming and the dogs were afraid. Diamond rolled over in her bed and fell back into a deep sleep. She could have sworn she heard noises outside but then people always checking her Uncle early in the morning. She was falling back into a deep sleep when she heard a strong thud.Diamond looked out the window, the place was chillingly silent. She knew what that silence meant, she had experienced it several times over the years. It was the sound of catastrophe. She heard a pop, it sounded like a gunshot and then eight more similar ricocheting sounds and it was coming from her Uncle's house.

The club reeked of incense that killed the smell of weed, fuck and liquor. It was a rundown building in the midst of Kingston, on the back road where respectable men took their Downtown Girlfriends and came for the occasional ghetto slam. Men would be seen filing in and out of the club twenty four hours like an ATM and the Go-Go's came out in full swing to get some air in the daylight. It was a sight to behold, variety on top of variety of bodies from scrawny to mampy, every flavor of the week, different sizes and shapes for every male folk. This was not Fiction or Usain Bolts Tracks and Records, you did not need any status to be admitted to this makeshift sex shop. The cheap carpet had more holes in it than a test picture at a gun range, the sofas were scuffed with weed and cigarette burnt and the stools had seen more sexcapades than a porn director.

Franco ran down the dark streets of Red Lane with his shirt in his mouth. He had seen a shadow grabbed his friend around the corner and began ditching blows into his upper torso. Why Raty stopped to urinate at the junction was beyond him but he ran because he was sure that when he looked back at the shadows, Raty lay motionless on the ground and the creepy silhouette was running towards him with a shimmery object in his hand that illuminated into a spark when it hit the lights. He careened the deep corner, jumped into a yard and catapult onto the verandah. He crouched immobile on the ground, confident that this was the only way he would be able to escape the dark, quiet silhouette that he knew would soon creep up around the corner looking for him. He only hoped that the occupants at the house did not see him come into the yard and call the police. It would never work in his favor if the police came.