The Flower Boyz

"A modern-day revolutionary lives inside this author's old soul," Hakim Zafir, author of A Businessman & A Gangster "A psychopath's manifesto should make us appreciate the criminal justice system." Leondrel Prince, author of The Blood Money series & The Tommy Goon Series. "While reading this series, I found myself getting goosebumps. The unknown facts revealed within the storyline make you reassess your thoughts on religion, politics, and the underbelly of this country" - 302Look Magazine. "A love story wrapped inside heart-wrenching loss that is drenched in blood." Street Knowledge Publishing!" AMERICA... THIS IS THE EFFECT!" The New Black Panther Party" After reading all three books, you arrive where it all begins... just look outside your bedroom window." Carry My Own Weight.com

I want this at the end of book one; it's a little of series 2: Mitten glanced to the rights for the briefest seconds of Agent Powers coming out of the service station. He looked back at Damone, and his eyes bulged in surprise as he saw Damone leveling a semi-automatic at him. His instinct was to shield to his right but felt something nip the left side of his head like an angry bee had banged off his skull. He never heard the blast but felt the burn as his mind recoiled from the idea of being shot in the head. Another shot slammed into the pump's clear cove, breaking glass inches from where his neck had been. He drew his weapon and peaked around the opposite side of the pump in time to see Agent Powers draw his service weapon. He watched in horror as Agent Power's jaw evaporated in a burst of red flesh. A second shot through his neck, creaking a fountain on the left side of his throat, pouring blood. He was dead on his fleet. It was that sound that slammed into Mitten's ear like a sledgehammer. "Screeeeeech!!"... the black conversion van fishtailed before the rear wheels dug into the pavement and rocketed away from the bank of pumps. "Ting... Ting... Ting..." three shots slammed into the lower half of the pump again, inches below Mitten's leaking face. He dropped completely to the ground. He peered under the burgundy conversion van to see a pair of feet facing Agent Powers' direction. It was then that he realized someone on that side of the van had shot Agent Powers; simultaneously, he noticed the growing tide of gasoline creeping across the 15 feet that separated him from Damone. He saw the hose on the ground with the lever locked in place. "Shit!" he shouted as he lunged up from the ground. He turned towards his SUV, at which point he noticed that the rear window on the driver's side was shattered. He saw Agent Deshields slumped forward with her head against the back of the driver's seat. "Fisssssssswooh!" Mitten turned in time to see a rocket-propelled grenade launched from the roof of the service station shoot across the lot and slam into the fourth Suburban parked just inside the parking lot. The force of the RPG tilted the SUV completely over on its side in a fiery explosion. "What the fuck have we walked into," Mitten thought as he squeezed off two quick shots at the furtive figure on the roof. He glanced back quickly to where Damone had been standing. He was no longer there.

Several days ago, I went to get my annual eye exam. As the optometrist examined my eyes on the phoropter and worked her way through the various lenses that alternately made my vision blurry, then clearer, and finally crystal clear, I was struck by how artistic expression is similar to this process it has long been accepted that art imitates life and life gives us a vast array of artistic expressions. Music, film, dance, writing, and more provide a lens through which we can experience life. I have always loved to read. That love started in my youth through my love of animals. Dogs, cats, and various reptiles led me to animal stories. "Where The Red Fern Grows," "White Fangs," "The Call of The Wild" and Old Yeller" Were some of the first books that took me beyond The Riverside Housing Projects I grew up in Wilmington, Delaware. I ran through The Ozark Mountains with Big Dan and Little Ann on the trail of a smart old raccoon with as much enthusiasm as I fought to survive the rough housing projects I found myself in, just like White Fang did in Jack London's Yukon Territory. As I grew, I learned that artistic expression worked in several ways... while it allows people to experience different aspects of life beyond their own world...it also acts like a two-way mirror that allows one to see, hear, and digest the world from the artist's perspective. As a young man, I realized that writing, as a form of artistic expression, gave me the opportunity to exercise my frustration and anger in a healthy way. In October 2002, I was convicted of 1st Degree Murder and sentenced to a Natural Life term of imprisonment and immediately transferred to The Supermax Housing Unit(SHU) at The James T. Vaughn Correction Center in Smyrna, Delaware. I spent the next eight straight years in Supermax in a cycle of violence, rebellion, and ignorance. The Flowers Boys was written over the span of 4 years during my isolation in Supermax. The Flowers Boys afforded me the opportunity to travel into the darkest recesses of my mind and soul to uncover some of the issues that had shaped my thought processes and motivated my actions. It is the truth...Hurt People, in turn, Hurt People. A deeper truth is that many hurt people do not realize how hurt they are because they've grown desensitized to the pain, anger, and heartaches that have molded their lives. While The Flowers Boys is a work of fiction, my hope is that it reflects some of the elements that shape the mentalities of young men and women of African descent in America. I pray you to enjoy and thank you for your time. Damone Flowers