This is my last blog post…

Hey guys.

This will be my last post on this site.

I’ve decided that it will be more beneficial for me to switch from WordPress and will be blogging two to three times per week at:

I would love it if you would join me there!

I will not be deleting this site as there are many, many writings here which I will not migrate over to my new site!

The last five years have been amazing.

Goodbye for now! See you on the other side.



Eternal (excerpt from ‘Love Bites’)

Providence, 1734

Icy raindrops splattered against her upturned face and mingled with her hot tears before they fell, together, to the waterlogged earth. The footsteps and chants were louder now and Aimee could spot the torches dancing among the trees. They were so close. Aimee swallowed the scream that threatened to rip from her panic clogged throat. There was nowhere left to run. Still, she enveloped her small hand into his larger, roughened palm and whispered, “Let’s run.”

Ahmadou shook his head and her heart ached. He knew, as well as she did, that it was too late. Aimee’s body shook. The once silent tears took on a life of their own until she wailed along with the thunder.

“Please,” she begged him. “He’s going to kill you.”

Sadness shrouded his dark-brown eyes.  In the three years they’d managed to keep their relationship secret she’d seen many things in those eyes but this sadness was a first. Panic and fear lived in those eyes too. Aimee wanted to reach up and wipe them away but they both knew there was reason to be afraid. Her father would not suffer a slave to live. Not when that slave had laid his hand on his only daughter. It wouldn’t matter that she’d given herself willingly. Nor would it matter that when Ahmadou’s fingers moved along her body they left not only passion but also a trail of love. Her father wouldn’t understand love if it stabbed him in his heart.

“Let’s run,” she said again. Her plea bellied the defeat she felt. Ahmadou held her wrists and brought his forehead to hers.

“Mon Dieu, I love you.”

He kissed her slowly, sweetly and then the footsteps were upon them.

Ahmadou didn’t put up a fight as they yanked him from her and led him away with their torches blazing and chants ringing loudly in the air. She wanted to scream but nothing came. She couldn’t even move her leaden feet from where she stood.

“Let’s go Aimee.”

A strong hand gripped her elbow and navigated her through the trees and back towards the main house.

“Papa wants to see you.”

She shook her head fiercely, “I don’t want to see him.”

Her brother sighed. Jean stared at her for several seconds before he said, “You have to see him. He’s concerned for you.”

“What will they do to him?”

“What will they do to him?” she demanded so loudly that several men milling about turned to watch the spectacle developing. Jean grabbed her and pulled her up the stone steps and into the foyer.

Mustn’t shame the family any further, she thought bitterly.

Her father would avenge her ‘defilement’ but they all knew that the truth would always be whispered. Aimee Lareaux gave herself to her father’s field slave.

“He’ll be burned…”

She screamed, her green eyes flashing with the anger and hurt she couldn’t contain. She beat her hands against his chest until she couldn’t anymore. Defeated, she let them fall to her side.

“He’s bewitched you…”

“I love him.”

“Papa should have left you in France. I knew the colonies…”

She slapped him, “Damn you. Damn you both. I hate you. It doesn’t end like this.”


The rhythm of the house slowed during the hours Aimee lay in bed watching candlelight flicker shadows against her wall. She knew what she had to do. She imagined Ahmadou lying next to her, pushing her curly, red hair from her face and laughing softly at the preposterousness of her plan.

“Ma fleur,” he’d say. “This plan of yours will never work.”

She turned to her side hugging herself tightly as the tears escaped unto her pillow. It will work. It must.

When she could no longer hear footsteps or voices she moved to her wardrobe and pulled out a scruffy, hooded overcoat. Aimee scanned the outside of her window fearing that her father would’ve sent men to guard it. She breathed a sigh of relief when she could see nothing but the flowerbed below. With the same careful, precise steps Ahmadou taught her, she climbed down the mango tree that grew just outside her window. When her feet touched the ground she pulled on the coat and ran.

“Shivee,” she yelled when she finally made her way to a small hut at the far end of the plantation. One second, two seconds, three seconds passed before she heard the shuffling of feet.

Aimee still tried to catch her breath when the tall, slender dark skinned woman summoned her towards the hut.

“They’ve taken him,” she said. “They have him.”

The woman placed a palm on either side of Aimee’s cheeks and sighed, “I told you both sooner or later…”

“Help us,” Aimee pleaded. “Please.”

“There’s nothing I can…”

“Damn it. I know about your voodoo and I know about Beatrice and Eleanor. I know they meet with you and you practice things that got them transported from France. I know that’s why no one looks for you here. I know you have power.”

Shivee stared at her. Aimee resisted the urge to shrink into herself under her penetrating gaze. Instead, she stood taller.

“Ahmadou told me stories. I know you can help.”

“You love him.”

Aimee nodded wiping the tears away with back of her hands, “I do.”

“How much?”

“I won’t live without him Shivee,” Aimee said her voice a mere whisper. The older woman’s forehead creased but after several seconds she nodded.

“Nine. You’ll have nine chances to find him again.”

“How?” Aimee asked. She tried to turn the words over in her mind, tried to make sense of Shivee’s cryptic statement but nothing came.

“How much do you love him?” Shivee asked again.

“With everything I have,” Aimee responded more confused than ever, “I don’t…”

Shivee patted her cheek gently, “Nine chances.”

“But I don’t know what to do…”

“How much do you love him?” Shivee asked and this time without waiting for Aimee’s answer she strode towards the hut.


Aimee stood in the throng of the crowd, her vision blurred by the tears that wouldn’t stop falling. She was shocked at the size of the crowd that gathered. There were women in fancy dresses looking on with glee. Men puffed on tobacco. She wanted to scream at them. Could they not see that something horrendous was about to happen? Aimee seethed at everything… at God, herself, her father, at Jean but mostly at Shivee for refusing to help. She’d tried for the entire day to make sense of the cryptic statement but couldn’t.

“It’s the least Claude could do to avenge the honour of his daughter,” one woman said. “Poor child.”

Aimee pushed herself forward through the crowd trying to block out the snippets of conversations which all seemed to be some variation of the last. She wanted to scream at them to shut up and to beg them to understand. But, Aimee knew that it was too late for hope and that it was too late for dreaming. She’d failed. She couldn’t save him. She finally got to the front of the crowd and her world spun off its axis and crashed. She gasped at the sight of Ahmadou’s bruised and bloodied body. His head hung limply to the side. A stocky man was busy piling dry leaves at the base of the stick he was tied to. Then, he doused it with a liquid from a bucket.

Fear gripped her throat so that she could barely breathe. The stocky man threw the liquid from the bucket unto Ahamdou and he stirred. His lips were pulled down in a grimace of pain and fresh tears pricked at Aimee’s eyes. She was used to seeing those lips curved into a smile or placing kisses of her forehead. She caught his eye and he tried, but failed, to smile for her. Time hung between them like fog before the stocky man lit a piece of wood and handed it to Aimee’s father.

“Avenge your daughter.”

Her father dropped the stick unto the leaves and the flames roared. Through the loud chatter and applause Aimee heard Ahmadou’s screams. She looked away unable to stop the nausea that roiled in her stomach. As she looked off in the crowd she spotted Shivee frowning at her.

What have I missed? 

Shivee’s repeated question echoed in her mind, “How much do you love him?”

“I won’t live without him,” she whispered slowly. Realization dawned. She nodded in Shivee’s direction and watched as relief spread across the older woman’s face. Then she began to run towards her love, towards the flames.

© Rilzy Adams, 2014


Hello (a short story inspired by the return of Adele the Great)

It has been a while since I just had to write a short story but in the middle of listening to this song and regretting hurting exes I never even had it became necessary. Thank you Adele! I hope you guys like it!


“Hello from the outside. At least I can say that I’ve tried to tell you I’m sorry for breaking your heart.” – Adele

A short story inspired by Adele’s new single. Listen to it HERE.


Photo credit: per Rosen Georgiev.

She looked beautiful in lace.

He watched her look at herself in the massive mirror and wondered if she saw what he did. The creamy, off-white material kissed her mahogany skin in ways he used to kiss her goodnight. He admired the dress that skimmed her curves before falling straight to the carpeted floor. He wanted to be the carpet. He wanted to worship the very ground she walked on. He wanted a chance to take the last ten years back… to be given a chance to claim the gift she’d once offered him so willingly.

She reached over to the small table and picked up a diamond necklace between shaking fingers. He wanted to think that they shook with regret. He wanted to believe they shook because in less than half an hour this woman he’d taken for granted would walk down the aisle to someone else. Brady took two steps towards her but stopped. He could have grown roots in the carpet for just how hard it was for him to move forward. He wanted too much. But, then again, this wasn’t about what he wanted. He was here because he needed to be. He needed to tell her that he saw… he finally saw what she’d begged him to see.

He cleared his throat and she spun around. White lace swayed around her legs like ocean forth against the shoreline.


He heard everything he thought he would’ve in her voice from the shock to the panic, hurt and anger but he also heard the one thing he thought disappeared when he walked out on her all those nights ago, fondness.

“Steph,” he started but the words wouldn’t come. The words seemed stuck, as he did, in that cold night when he’d stumbled from her flat into the pouring rain while she screamed at him to come back.

You’re my first choice, my last choice, my every other choice.

She’d screamed those words over and over again while she begged him to stop – to turn around – to dare to fight for them. He didn’t, he wouldn’t and he hadn’t wanted to. But now he wished he had. It wasn’t easy to see what he was giving up when he walked away to his… freedom, his choice. But it was easy to see just what he’d lost in the dead of night with shadows dancing on his wall and Johnny Walker for company. It was easier still to see when Stephanie stood before him, dressed in white for another man, with more emotions flitting across her face than he’d allowed himself to feel in a lifetime.

“How did you get here?” she asked. “What are you doing here?”

In the movies he’d tell her he still loved her… that he never realized just how much he did until after he let her go and she’d come running into his arms.

“I tried to call,” he said.

With his tongue bitter with whiskey and regret he’d tried calling her on every number he could remember. She never responded and he never left a message.

“I didn’t want to talk to you.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “When I broke your heart I didn’t realize I was destroying mine.”

“You hurt me so damn much,” she whispered. “You never looked back.”

He glanced at the clock hanging on the wall. Each passing second reminded him that he was running out of time.

“What do you want?” she asked. Her voice was thick with emotion he didn’t want to place.

“You,” he said.

She started moving towards him then. When she was close enough to hold him, Stephanie wrapped her arms around him and rose on the balls of her feet so that she could whisper in his ear.

“You were my first choice, my last choice and my every other choice,” she said slowly. “But not anymore.”

She stepped away from him and Brady watched her go.

People, he realized, had to be careful with their goodbyes.

Sometimes there would never be another chance to say hello.


© Rilzy Adams, 2015


… on Genres and Boxes

I am a Romance author. When persons ask me what I write I no longer struggle with it. It rolls off my tongue – simply and easily, “I write Romance novels.”

Photo Credit: per arztsamui
Photo Credit: per arztsamui

Lately I’ve been wondering if I’m boxing myself into a cage. I didn’t start off with romance. I started off writing good old Epic Fantasy but eventually tapered off to Urban Fantasy. I ended up with Romance when I realized just how much I loved reading romance novels. Over the past couple weeks I’ve been doing some writing exercises using Urban Fantasy and it hit me that I love writing Urban Fantasy. Not to mention my catalogue of novels that never were in that particular genre. But as I was about to delve into my plot notes I stopped myself and decided to focus on my contemporary romance plots instead. After all, it would be silly to jump ship to another genre. Though strictly speaking if I were to jump ship this would probably be the best time. I don’t have a large following and I’m not well known in that niche market (yet!!). What happens in the next three to four years when I am (hopefully) known in that niche? Can you imagine putting out ten romance novels and then suddenly a Fantasy novel? That is one way to definitely confuse loyal readers. It hits me as I type this that I’ve possibly started realizing that at this stage writing is more than something I do for the love of it. It is a business I desperately want to break into. And, sometimes business decisions and creative lust clash. The obvious solution to this is to utilize another pseudonym but then I ask myself if it would be worth the effort of building the brand of “another writer”.

I’m Rilzy Adams and I am a romance author. I now wonder if I’ve locked myself in a box that may be hard to escape from.

Readers, what do you think about authors who write multiple genres? Writers, do you think writing across genres is every a good idea?



Pay it Forward

Photo Credit: per franky242
Photo Credit: per franky242

I’ve made a pact with myself to never refuse to help someone who tells me they are hungry. If someone asks for money it will largely depend on whether I have spare change. However if someone asks for food I will do whatever I can to help them out. If it means that I’d have to buy something with money I had for my own lunch, dinner, snack or whatever – I’d do it. You see I know that even if I go hungry for a couple hours I’ll always return home to a house with food. Not everyone has that luxury.

Last Sunday I stood by a flower kiosk at Victoria Station trying to decide which of the flower arrangements I wanted to buy for the wonderful family hosting me this week. It was a dead set competition between white and understated, colorful and vibrant and green and earthy. While I was lost in my thoughts a man walked directly to me. I’m not sure why he chose to approach me but a bit of me believes that it was because I was quite possibly the only person standing still in his immediate vicinity. I figured he was going to ask me for money and I started saying no before he could ask. I will confess that it wasn’t even because I didn’t have spare change. I was doing the judgmental thing. I was sizing him up, wondering if he would take the money and purchase liquor or drugs. I’d decided that he was and I thought that I wouldn’t waste my already limited spending money financing a drug habit. I feel shamed just typing that but in the spirit of frankness I had to put it in.

He stopped me as I started saying I had no change and said he didn’t want money but was asking for something to eat. I realized that there was something more important to be done than selecting the perfect bouquet so I told the woman at the kiosk I would be right back. I asked him to point out what he wanted and he took me to a stall and requested a sandwich and hot chocolate but when I asked him if he wanted anything else he politely declined. In those moments it was obvious he was afraid of asking for too much. Eventually he agreed to a chocolate muffin and a bottle of water as well. I paid and instinctively handed him the change. I don’t know what he will do with it. He may have used it for lunch or for dinner or for what I first suspected. In those moments it didn’t matter to me because for money I’d have probably used for something frivolous I was able to help someone in a less than ideal situation. And we’ve all been there. We’ve all had situations when we desperately needed someone to help us out. I may not have gone hungry but there have been moments when someone took time and effort to help me out of a tough spot. He tried to thank me but I told him I didn’t need it. We shouldn’t be patted on our backs or congratulated for being decent human beings. When I finally returned to the flower kiosk I chose the colorful and vibrant bouquet knowing that our world could be colorful and vibrant if we were all more compassionate.

I challenge you to try to perform at least three kind deeds per day. It need not cost us a thing. The kind deed may be a smile, a hug or a listening ear. Come on… pay it forward. There really isn’t much separating those who need help from those in the position to give it. Desperation is always one life turn away.



… when you know, you know. (#writingconfessionWednesday)

Photo Credit: per ddpavumba.
Photo Credit: per ddpavumba.

I spend a lot of time dreaming of the kind of unique turn of events that could push my books into the stratosphere a la 50 Shades of Grey.

Maybe all it would take to get the process started is a retweet from a famous person – maybe Rihanna, VB or Nora Roberts. There are times I also ponder a controversy with some organization or the other. But then I remember that I hate conflict so I move on quite quickly from that idea. Then there are my HONY moments. I sit and I think of how great it would be if Brandon Stanton spotted me, found me photo worthy and heard my tale of wanting to write romance novels for the world to read – inspiring hope in love for the love cursed like myself😀. But then I remember that I do not live in New York and I have no idea when I might end up there for a visit. Besides… Brandon Stanton stalking is probably not the best use of my vacation days.

And this folks is the difference between dreams and reality. The likely story is that I will continue selling my novels in a haphazard way while I build up a catalogue. Maybe eventually my novels will finance themselves but sometimes I’m not even sure that will be a reality. The thing is… despite this I cannot ever seeing myself giving it up. Because when you know… you know. When you have found your passion, you can’t abandon it. I once had a writing mentor who advised to write for the love of it and never for the sales. It is wise advice. I get excited for each sale or each free download equally. You might think that that is odd. I mean I don’t get paid for a free download. True. Each download, however, represents my book in the hands of someone else. My hugest dream is to share my stories with as many persons as I possibly can. I’ve learned though to not associate my writing success with the amount of sales or downloads I have. I associate it with each book I am able to nurture from an idea to published novel.

This mentality makes the process easier and more exciting but I wouldn’t turn down publicity from something like a retweet by Rihanna…

To all the writers out there – what keeps you motivated? What is your defitiniton of success?



Vagabond (#shortstorySunday)

This week’s short story is inspired by Ricardo Drue’s ‘Vagabond’. Today is the first day of the  Notting Hill Carnival and I was in a Soca mood. I hope you enjoy it!


Photo Credit: per stockimages.

Jaya tipped her head back and allowed the sunshine to wash over her as she moved her hips in slow, tight circles to the Soca tune pounding in her eardrums. She spent 363 days every year waiting for the two days when she could break free on the road in a cacophony of colors, feathers and rhythm. Those who knew her best often teased that they had no idea she hid a free soul under her sensible clothes, muted makeup, austere ponytail and very, very sensible shoes. She seemed, they said, to strip away her inhibitions much in the same way she stripped away her clothes for her bright, glittering mas costume. She accepted their criticism with the same steady grace she swayed her hips to the music. Music was her addiction; whining and wukking her freedom. Carnival Monday and Tuesday gave her enough to recharge for the rest of the year. It was cheaper than therapy and a better hit than cocaine.

Jaya chipped and shimmied down the road with Soca pulsing through her veins until she felt that, like Destra, she could really fly. She closed her eyes as she danced until there was nothing left in the world but her rhythm and the music beats. When her eyes finally fluttered open she found him leaning up against a concrete fence watching her. The movements stopped with an erratic jerk as she tried to catch her breath. Trey, predictably, wasn’t playing with a band. But Jaya wished he was. It would finally give her an excuse to push herself again his body and chase the rhythm with him. Her shock at seeing him lasted for only a few seconds before the music called to her hips and feet and demanded she took her whining elsewhere. Without much of a second thought she danced and sang along to Ricardo Drue proclaiming himself a vagabond. She was a couple of feet away from Trey before she turned around, walked slowly towards the sidewalk and smiled at him. Before he could greet her, Jaya turned around and planted her ass firmly against his body. Then, she got on just like the vagabond the artist proclaimed himself to be. It didn’t take long before Trey’s body moved along to the song. They danced together until her rhythm became his and his breath tickled the side of her neck. Jaya pulled herself away when the song switched to Drue boasting about his alcohol tolerance. Her body protested as she made her way back to her band but she paid it no mind. Carnival waited on no man. Not even six-feet, two inches of sex on legs. Nope. On those two days she answered to only one thing: the music.

© Rilzy Adams, 2015