Sharee Hereford, Author at Sharee Hereford

Behind the Pen 2018: Authors Pre-Order Information

by Sharee Hereford | Jul 19, 2018 | Behind the Pen, Black Literature, Sistah Girls Book Club

Behind the Pen 2018 is Coming! Sistah Girls, Behind the Pen 2018 is less than a month away–where did the time go? If you will be joining us in New York City be sure to check out the participating authors who have pre-order forms. The great thing about pre-order forms...

Stay consistent & Push the envelope: AN INTERVIEW WITH B.M. Hardin

by Sharee Hereford | Jul 17, 2018 | Black Literature, Interviews, Sistah Girls Book Club, Sistah Girls Podcast

Stay consistent & push the envelope B.M. Hardin is a Black contemporary author, who has published at present over 30 books independently. I came across Hardin’s work looking for something to read, her cover for her latest novel, Give Him Back, stuck out like...

Short Story: #loversfriendsandfoes by Tiera M. Jones [READER’S VOTE]

by Sharee Hereford | Jul 16, 2018 | Black Literature, Black Writers, Short Stories, Sistah Girls Book Club

#loversfriendsandfoes by Tiera M. Jones “Y’all have been knowing each other since the 90s,” Shaila said in between sips. “What’s your point, Shai?!” I snapped cuz I already knew where she was going with her semi-drunk statement....

Short Story: The Midnight Knock by Mary B. Banks

by Sharee Hereford | Jul 16, 2018 | Black Literature, Black Writers, Short Stories, Sistah Girls Book Club

The Midnight Knock by Mary B. Banks The little girl showed up on my crumbling doorsteps looking like a tragic tattered ghost baby doll. Her French braid was undone. Blood was smeared on her cheeks. When she opened her mouth, I saw that both of her front teeth were...

SHORT STORY: Laundromat by: Purple [READER’S VOTE]

by Sharee Hereford | Jun 15, 2018 | Black Literature, Short Stories, Sistah Girls Book Club

Laundromat by: Purple I’d washed everything but his shoelaces. All with bleach, even the colored shit. I’d only missed the laces because they were still tied in knots around the bedposts in our bedroom where he’d turned me into the object of some sick, twisted...