Roman - African American Romance

By Nia Shaw

Although Vylette has been studying photography at USC and is finally about to graduate, she's not from Los Angeles and is still green as far as local etiquette about things such as art, public transit, and men. She's been living with Malik for two years, but their relationship is not exactly romantic. 

One day during photography class, the criticism Vyllette gets from professor Danteridge is almost too much to take, but Roman, the guy sitting next to her, offers relieving jokes and comments to make her feel better. Over the weekend, while looking for inspiration for her next assignment, Vylette stumbles across a graffiti artist vandalizing a public garage, and the encounter turns into a run in with the police. They escape to the artist's den hidden in a nightclub, and Vylette learns that the artist is none other than Roman. 

*** Standalone short story, no cliffhangers. ***

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nia Shaw
• Release date: Nov 12, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386432340

Book preview

Roman

Chapter 1

Professor Danteridge stands at the podium, his face blank as he clicks through our portfolios. The photos are projected for us on the large pull-down screen, and the current photo is an extreme close-up of a flower. It’s part of another student’s portfolio, a series on flowers, and this one is white, its petals open wide like a parachute, its center true orange.

A bush mallow, how nice. Where was this taken, Hector? Professor Danteridge asks the photographer.

In Santa Margarita, Professor, Hector replies.

Superb collection, Professor Danteridge says. Simple and elegant as always.

Although I enjoyed the pictures of Hector’s flowers, the way each extreme close-up attempted to give the plant a face of its own, it is still nothing I haven’t seen before.

And up next we have Vylette’s collection from last week, Professor Danteridge continues.

My cheeks instantly prickle. I hate having my work exposed in class, especially when it was so hard for me to even find a topic. I wish I could skip the whole thing entirely, because frankly I feel like my collection is a waste of the other students’ time. I don’t have the opportunity to go to Santa Margarita, or anywhere else scenic for that matter, so I have to work with what is around me in Los Angeles.

I look away from the screen to avoid seeing my photos. I wonder if the guy next to me hears me groan. There are probably sixty other students in this crowded classroom, and I’ve barely ever spoken to any of them. USC is a huge campus, and even though there are so many creative people here, I can never get up the nerve to ask someone to collaborate. I know I should branch out and try to network or even do some kind of volunteer work, but it’s hard when I have to work all the time to pay for school.

The little room we’re in feels sterile—just another cookie cutter room with white walls, wobbly tables and chairs that leave streaks on the floors. This is not the place I envisioned myself blossoming as a photographer when I was working at Olive Garden in Detroit. I pictured developing photos from film in a dark room, and tasteful or historical architecture that inspired creativity. Instead, I moved across the country for a room with a generic PowerPoint projector.

The white screen flashes with a click from Professor Danteridge and the first photo of my collection illuminates all the faces in the classroom. My heart races, my gut drops. I can’t believe I actually went through with it. To my surprise, nobody says a word. I look around and their expressions—some of them have their lips curled in curiosity, others with a single eyebrow raised controlled surprise.

Professor Danteridge clears his throat before saying, Well, Vylette, this is a very interesting... I finally face the screen while he searches for a description. There it is, a photo of me, sitting on the ground naked, my arms curled around my knees and my face buried between them. In the photo I am sitting in profile to the camera, my body facing the left side of the frame. My sepia brown skin is now just another shade of gray—separate from the walls and the floor, darker than my short, copper hair. Professor Danteridge brings me back to the moment when he clears his throat again, finishing his description. ...Self-portrait?

His eyes bounce over to me. I go still because I wasn’t expecting him to call on me. Yes, it was a picture of me, but no, I hadn’t thought of the collection as a self-portrait.