Smoocher's Voice is happy to welcome author, Jennifer Cie, to the blog. She is promoting her book Down on the Other Street Volume I.
Hi amazing readers, my name is Jennifer Cie, and, I am here to convince you to checkout my latest release Down On The Other Street: Volume I. I thought about writing an impassioned plea, or, promising you all a box or chocolate, but after considering shipping and handling—plus the fact if its good chocolate there’s no such thing as sharing, I thought I should just come forward with my top 3 reasons why you should Down On The Other Street:
- Honesty. The characters in this collection are so honest in how they feel and react, it’s as if you’re there through every heart ache, misunderstanding, and “this is it” kiss.
- Sexuality. The storylines in Down On the Other Street are tied around the themes of love and sexuality, particularly those defining moments of truth we normally hold on the inside, rather than screaming from the rooftops because they’re so dangerous, yet natural at the same time. This collection is all about jumping in and exploring those moments of self-discovery.
- It will touch you. I can’t guarantee it is the best book you’ll read all year ( we may be able to share some of that good chocolate I spoke of before if that is the case) , but you will definitely get something out of reading Down On The Other Street, and, I’m not talking about paper cuts or eReader headaches.
I want thank all of you for taking the time to say hello and considering reading my collection of short stories. Special thanks to Cam for inviting me over today, and hopefully convincing you to give my book a second look.
Now, I know I said I’d give you the top 3 reasons then scurry away, but just in case you needed a little more of a push, here’s a little taste of Down On The Other Street, Vol I:
FALL 1996: AMY PETERS—PENN’S LANDING
I don’t think I ever thanked you for my graduation gift. I know I sent out a card, but I could’ve done more. You weren’t on the clock or obligated in any way to come to my high school graduation, yet, you still put up with my family for six hours to congratulate me. I think that was the first time I felt ‘outside’ love. Seeing you out there cheering me on from the third row, wearing that stupid Ralph Lauren polo my mother insisted on, made me feel special—the way my bat mitzvah should have.
Honestly, I didn’t use it until I was four months into my freshman year. I had grown into my face a little better, and made a few friends my parents didn’t approve. I was having the experiences you said I would. I tasted the freedom of discovering myself for the first time. Stale beer and pretzels, that’s what it tasted like in Philadelphia.
It happened after the election, figures the one no one showed up to would be my first. I had gone down to Penn’s landing with Amy Peters. We were in the same physics class, but I hadn’t noticed her until the voter rally the week before. Something about her made me instantly uneasy. Looking at the red with streaks of brown hair billowing down her shoulders, washing out the freckles adorning her pale face made me feel fourteen again.
She wanted to walk me through the heritage trolley line. All of it, wires and poles, was gone by the time I had moved to Philadelphia. I should have been more excited. I should have embraced everything about that walk, instead of shaking in my pea coat from nerves and practically biting through my lip to keep from saying something stupid.
Around midnight we started heading back to campus. She had invited me over to her house for a night cap. It could have been an invitation to be mauled by bears and I would have said yes. I just wanted to be near her. So, there I was.
On corner of Spruce Street, after dropping her keys in a fit of laughter when I told her that Clueless was the last good movie I’d seen, Amy Peters kissed me. It was not smooth or artificially flavored. Her lips were chapped from the blistering winds, and the touch of her finger tips across my face made everything, even the hair in my ears, stand in attention.
Head plastered against her living room wall, I unhooked her bra as she draped her lips across my collarbone and unbuttoned my pants. I was glad I wasn’t drunk. There was such a surreal kind of happiness pouring over me when I felt her still chilled hands trace my panty line, then, plunge into me with more grace than her tongue had in my mouth. The bite mark she left on my neck before whispering, “Can I have you,” in my ear made me flush and harden all over.
My knees buckled when she bit my lip, tonguing down the cracked skin as her fingers wrestled more warmth to drip between my thighs. Her eyes had grown wide, she knew before I could tell myself…. [End Excerpt From Intellectuals Are Fools]
Long winded, unemployed, and timid, on the first date Brendan Bloom is already in love. Comfortably arched over his body, Ryan contemplates murder. Cold, necklace gleaming against the pale tint of her collarbone, the passenger could have mercy. Not a little black book, but a faded love letter out from under the sheets. Some romances ignite on sight, others flare at the base of waterless tubs soaked in agitation. Rooted in the South, this collection of short stories delivers five electric confessions of love, sexuality, and identity across time.
Print ($ 5.75)