as·sort·ed (as'sôrtid), Adjective: Of various sorts put together; miscellaneous
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Preview:
'Change', they say, 'is the only constant thing in life'. Change is an interesting dynamic which is obviously seen in all works of life and human dealings on a day-to-day basis. Manufacturing, banking, oil and other relevant sectors of countries of the world experience change. Life is epitomized by the forces of change. Usually, in the form of winds, changes in situations of things engender the good, bad and ugly.
In this context, Winds of Change parades a matrix of stories, depicting experiences of people in different countries of the world and conveying their situations as good, bad and ugly(at the discretion of the reader). The ageless material contains stories that touch the hearts of (concerned) individuals and explores various 'well dones' and ills of the society. Good, funny and sad endings underscore the profundity of the literary material.
The work title, 'Winds of Change' explores different categories that have to do with man; relationships, juvenile delinquencies, drug trafficking and other social relevance's, distinguishing itself from its contemporaries. Thus, branding it is tantamount to being referred to the 'book with a difference'. The uniquely accounted anecdotes makes possible for readers to rate the work piece; 'five over five'.
Students, teachers, professionals, religious scholars, literary critics and readers ,generally, will find this classic helpful as an intellectual depressant from various stresses encountered in exerting the creative life forces in their daily endeavors.
The reader is advised, therefore, to join the writer as he explores through the life of people in the various recognized interests or dealings. He intends making the stories real such that they (readers) can relate them with their personal lives (If they apply). It is the hope of the writer that the stories carry significant (didactic) lessons that the reader will appreciate via learning.
Mr. Ben
DEDICATION: To all students at the University of Life
AKNOWLEDGEMENT: To God, the Chief Orchestrator behind this ageless piece, I say 'thank you, Abba Father'. Also, thanks to all of my family members, friends, relations and well-wishers. You are indeed more than wonderful!
Introduction
Winds of Change is a must-read and must-have literary piece that merits consideration to all individuals whose of the school of thought reads;' no matter how certified you are in your chosen endeavor, you are still a student of life'. Exploring life situations in a mirrored form of story writing, the classic goes the length to colorfully asserting make-believe plights of people around the world, particularly in various continents in a way that it, not only entertains the reader but also create a platform to learn significance lessons.
From social ills to relationships, from decision to contemplation, from religious to secular interests, this book brings to the attention of readers winds of fascinating stories that reflect on each of the stated recognition. It makes known the winds of dynamism of change in the lives of individuals. With catchy titles (as we will see at the Table of Contents section), Winds of Change unequivocally streams stories that will stand the test of time.
It bridges the gap between the rich and the poor, the upper and lower class of people, the destitute and the well-taken-of and other categories of people in various ladder steps of the society. Irrespective of social, cultural, economic and political differences, Winds of Change cuts across all barriers, offering readers a variety of options (stories) to center their reading energies as they interest them.
Worthy of Note: The characters, scenes and countries mentioned in this classic are borne out of the author's creative prowess and are never intended to constitute negations to people who may be affected. Rather, as said earlier, it is intended to entertain and enable readers picture themselves in the light of the situations and more importantly, learn significant lessons from them.
'Stories are accounts of situations and events, involving the entirety of mankind, plants and animals, living and non-existing entities, in real and fabricated or make-believe forms, which are meant to be communicated in the form of writing, oral statements, verbal expressions, signs and symbols and other known and unknown methodologies, to targeted and general audiences with the intention to entertain, create debates and discussions, mesmerize, cause tears of joy and excruciation and enlightenment.'
Mr. Ben
Table of Contents
Chapter One: The Love of Money
Chapter Two: Crazy in Love
Chapter Three: The Community Fighters
Chapter Four: Little Beginnings
Chapter Five: The Drug Lord
Chapter Six: A World of Wickedness
Chapter Seven: Between the Devil and Deep Blue Sea
Chapter Eight: Religion by choice
Chapter Nine: My Only Girlfriend
Chapter Ten: What a Life!
Conclusion
Author's thought Factories and Bibliography
Chapter One
The Love of Money
'The love of money, the Bible warns, 'is the root of all evils', an early-morning ministration by Craig to his family before setting out for the affairs of the day. Soon after the morning devotion was completed, the family was ready to go; Craig was well-dressed to meet pressing needs at his work place, his children wore school-mode clothes and best of corporate feminine outfit best described his wife's dressing -prepared to face the uphill tasks to be encountered at the office where she was manager. After carrying out necessary household chores, Craig and his family mounted their 'family' car-Craig mounted the Driver's seat and to his side at the right was his gorgeous wife…his children took the backseat. He drove his children to school, his wife to her work place and subsequent headed straight to his office.
Indeed, Craig was a happily married man- an elevating career, a loving wife, Sarah and four 'wonderful' children-two boys (Mike and John) and two girls (Antonia and Michelle). Ahead of his time in his engineering profession, Craig, under the space of one year after his employment, got steadily promoted to a chief executive officer of his construction company, where he worked. His loving wife, Sarah, was a woman of understanding and substance; her unbridled professional image and amazon disposition edged her contemporaries. This was reason she was positioned as manager of the humanitarian organization. His children were uniquely different. Mike, being the first child of the family, had a flair for music, though he had exceptional grades in school. John, the second child, was very good academically but had a great interest in fashion. Antonia, the first female child of the family, aspired to be a nurse, though she did exceptionally well in Math and Geography. The baby of the family, Michelle, though very loquacious, wanted just to be a good mother in future. Both Sarah and Craig cherished the most Mike because of his sense of purpose, good character and distinct voice: his voice mesmerized the listening orchestra audience in the various music events he attended, his will-power was unbridled (a 'never-say-die' person he was) and never pride himself above his colleagues (in and out of the classroom-orchestra and school rooms), very respectful to his elders and surprisingly, his younger ones. Indeed, Mike was an epitome of good character; every Tom, Dick and Harry within the neighborhood and regular school and orchestra music environments talked about him-he was goodness-personified!
Lived in the outskirts of Akosombo, Ghana, the magnificent duplex single-handedly built by Craig was really befitting. Under the watchful eyes of well-planted trees came the refreshing cool breeze, beautiful garden came an abode for relaxation and some light refreshment. The large compound space gave room for John, Mike, Antonia and Michelle to play football and table tennis and afforded Craig and Sarah the opportunity for reflections at their convenient hours. The towering gates were an assurance of beefed-up security. Around to play with were their pet dogs; Puffy and Snicky. Uniform Painting with a blend of complementary colors added aesthetics to the building's exterior. The interior segments were characterized by a silver-coated passage that led to the rooms occupied by Sarah and Craig and visitors/guests at the down floor. Upstairs, there were five rooms with each of their children occupying the rooms, using the extra as the store-room. Here, the passage was made of modern ceramics. Sandwiched between the living and bedrooms at the door floor was the modern standard kitchen, filled with what a kitchen should contain. The beds were well constructed to meet their sleeping demands! In short, it was a magnificent edifice!
Despite the comfort of his abode, Craig was not a materially satisfied man. He wanted to be, from the days of his youth, a man of stupendous wealth and substance, passing his father's records of been the richest man ever in his homeland, Afflao. However, he was shown the exists by men of the underworld, disguised as transparent oil business experts, who lured him to investing his money inherited into a white elephant project; investing in oil offshore (a scam orchestration). Craig was duped by the mischievous men. This development worsened his health predicament that it took the very intervention of his doctor friend, Khumalo and Sarah's undying help to 'bring back to life' the almost dead Craig. By and large, he went through the thick and thin to ensure he acquired some fortune and with the unrelenting succor by Sarah, he earned it. Considering what he would have become if the business were genuine and pulled through, Craig, though admitting his aim of being richer than his father would have been reached, took a tough decision that he will, given the resources at his disposal, together with his wife, nurture to any lengths the well-being of their children(from infanthood to adulthood) . Indeed, Craig and Sarah did succeed! The only 'but' in the life of mike was that Craig and Sarah never observed Mike's 'big eyes' for materialism. This discrepancy would tear apart the existence of every member of the family.
Mike, John, Antonia and Michelle were sent to the best of schools in the city, all through their school years from the elementary to the final tertiary stages of education. As a matter of fact, Craig and Sarah were prepared to sponsor their education up to the Masters and PhD levels. Mike graduated with a first class in financial accounting and a second class upper in classical music (minor). Antonia, not only did she come out in flying colors as best student in her department, she was a certified first-class holder in nursing. John came out tops in his class, taking with him an overall 'grade A' in fashion studies. Michelle, 'the mish girl', as she was nicknamed, scaled through the hard nut to cracks of family studies to become the best student of that department. Mike's case was a bit penultimate in that Mike's love for classical music was his obsession. Interested in furthering his studies in music, Craig decided to fund Mike's two-year Masters in classical music at the London School of Music. This would change his thinking for the rest of his life…
After all necessary procurements were made, Mike set to depart the shores of Ghana to Heathrow International Airport, sojourning in Big Ben and learning an entirely different culture. Under the watchful eyes of the Romanian virtuoso, Adrian Peterscu, Mike became a force to be reckoned with in classical music, in and out of the classroom. His mastery of classical music attracted the attention of Prof. Adrian, as he was fondly called. In no time, they became best of friends. Mike would find out the person of his Romanian friend.
Adrian Peterscu was a die-hard Satanist whose fore-bears were high-level witches and wizards. His recently passed-away mom, Mia, was a satanic minister. Wealthy, of course, Adrian, through his music forte, had been initiating his students for decades into the dreaded cult known as the Hood of Dragons; a confraternity which he has been a member of since his students days and known for the best of music rendition in all genres (producing great and very-wealthy instrumentalists, singers, vocalists, song writers and composers) with intents of communicating via sounds reversed psycho-subliminal messages to audiences, within and outside the school campus. Through the outright worship and daily acknowledgement of devil worship, Adrian became wealthy. The initiation rites were characterized by gross blood-cuddling rituals, torture of newbies, incantations of all sorts and subsequent blood sacrifices for fame and fortune.
A bosom friend Mike was, Adrian decided to empty his can of worms; the secrets of his success. Mike was shocked to hear the ugly facts regarding his would-be mentor's success ladder. To convince Mike on how the principle works, he meta-physically positioned Mike in a trance configuration. Mike saw himself in a situation where the whole world was under his feet; the money flowing like the infinite streams of a waterfall, the women flocking around like ants feasting on grains of sugar and fame personifying his name. Mike's happiness took a better of him that when he gained consciousness, he was a little crossed at Adrian. 'This is tip of the iceberg', Adrian said, 'of what you will hugely benefit'. 'All you need do is to simply join the Hood of Dragons', he continued. In exuberance, Mike jumped into this golden opportunity without necessarily deeming it fit to inform his parents in Ghana of this development.
After a two-week period, Mike made up his mind to have himself engrossed in the initiation rites of the Hood of Dragons. He had to endure the excruciating pains experienced during the course of initiation. Finally, on the completion of the initiation, Mike was asked what he wanted. Mike replied: 'I want to stupendously have money, fame and amass for myself and family in future enduring material and financial legacies'. 'What a lofty wish!' Adrian exclaimed. 'Do you know the direct sacrifice you have to offer to the altar of his Holiness?' asked Adrian. Mike was not able to answer the question because of the mystery that encompassed it. Adrian showed Mike through the revealing Trans vision of whom he would sacrifice at the moment (Else, he will lose his life in the process, should he decline to the instruction). Sadly, he saw in the Trans vision a moving car carrying Sarah, Craig, John, Michelle and Antonia. Adrian instructed Mike to blow a kiss (The Kiss of Goodbye as an intricate recognition of the Hood of Dragons) on the rectangular-sized Trance vision screen. After Mike did what he was told, Adrian, together with the rest of the old initiates (past and existing students), parted him on his back, a symbol of the brotherhood identity. Mike, in the next six months, would be made to realize that his worth weighs more than half a billion dollars!
The news from Ghana that his entire family-Craig, Sarah, John, Antonia and Michelle were involved in a fatal car crash got to Mike. In response to the development, Mike tabled the matter to the Hood of the Dragons. Under the watchful eyes and direction of Adrian, Mike was instructed on what to do to get over the shock and preclude him from the shades of suspicion by other family members. Mike did what he was told…And the result of that decision?
On return to Ghana, he headed straight to his family house his dad, Craig, built. In consoling other family members, being the first child, he shed crocodile tears to put the sympathizers on, in compliance to the instruction given by his fraternity. After the rites of passage and other traditional activities were observed by practically paying their last respect to the deceased family members, Mike was set to jet out of the country and return to his London base to complete his Master's program in Classical music.
He was warmly received at the Heathrow International Airport by the members of the Hood of Dragons. Knowing what had happened, Mike and the rest of the society members double-celebrated, on grounds that the next day will be the day of convocation and an Advance Merriment of the financial bounty that is to come. The D-day came and everyone in the confraternity; current and past were present to make it a memorable day for Mike. An after-party was held by the brotherhood, recognizing in advance the anticipated wealth Mike will acquire. The songs of joy swept from the crown of his head to his souls of his feet, knowing well that fortune, fame and wealth were about coming into his life.
Six months later, after observing certain ritualistic follow-ups, saw a text, a credit alert, reading a balance of five hundred million dollars. At this point, Mike was in a hard-and-fast-rule state. He went haywire and decided to 'calm his nerves' by taking some bottles of alcoholic drinks and later surrendered to sleep. After long hours of sleep, still very exuberant, called his fellow members, dashed to his car and drove to their rendezvous. The spontaneity of the celebration caught the party -mode of the members. Every Tom, Dick and Harry connected with the fraternal group extended The Hands of Congratulations, following Mike's giant stride to Life's Acquisitions in Phases. Adrian was excited seeing Mike's breakthrough but was unfair to obliging his bosom friend of subsequent (tougher) sacrifices to improve his newly acquired status or sustain his current situation, at least. This would lead to a tragic passing on of Mike to the world beyond. Afterwards, his music studio, Record Company Label, My Soul and Music school were commissioned in Essex and Tema by Major McCartney and Senator John Mensah respectively.
His business acumen saw him through. His prudent spending was a force to reckon with. Judiciously, Mike was able to invest in stocks, bonds and shares, gold, landed properties in his homeland and acquire some buildings in Accra, Kumasi and certain outskirt areas of London. He also reserved some money for extravagant spending on his fellow members at the clubs and to lavish the rest on bevy of ladies that flunk around him on a daily basis. Along the line, he met a damsel who he later knew as Maria, in Manchester City. He told the rest of his group about his newly found love and with Adrian's consent, he was given the green light. Adrian delegated three representatives to accompany Mike to his native Ghana for the wedding occasion.
Maria was a London-based Ghanaian who had sojourn in London since the age of eight. Mike fell in love with her and they both agreed to walk the aisle in their native Ghana. Two weeks after they arrived Ghana, all roads led to the homeland of Maria, Kotoko. All traditional wedding rites, from the introduction to exchange of gifts from Mike's kinsmen to her family at her father's compound, were observed. With the approval of her ailing and ageing parents, the 'main' wedding was about to kick off. The 'white' wedding witness a gathering of the society's 'who is who' and a mass attendance was recorded. Though it was a red-letter moment for Mike and Maria, it would signal one of the last of Mike's bliss on earth. After the wedding, the couple set off to Paris, France, for their Honey Moon. A week later, Maria, upon medical observation was confirmed pregnant. It was at this point Mike persuaded Maria to call quits their Honey Moon. Unhappy she was, she had the Hobson's choice than to accept. They took a flight directly to London, Mike's base.
While in London, Mike's business empire steadily grew and with the support of his fellow members, enjoyed all accolades and awards, gained more fame and popularity. He was on top of the world, not knowing that his waterloo was imminent. He made more money and his record company, music school and studio were flourishing in Tema, Ghana and Essex, London and became Ghana's talk-of-the town edifices.
On a fateful morning, just about the time Mike was set to leave for work, he got a call from his Personal Assistant, Mark, that his music studio, record label and music school were raided by armed robbers and possessions worth billions of dollars were missing. Shocked to the marrow, Mike wanted himself swallowed by the ground. In the heat of the emotional unrest, he ran straight to the home of Adrian, his 'god father' in the Hood of Dragons and related his predicament. Unperturbed he was, Mike, surprised at his reaction, wanted quick answers as to why he's empire is crumbling before his eyes. Adrian told him to look at the Trance Vision screen and what he saw was exacerbating: the urgent need to offer his wife and his born 7-month-old pregnancy. Else, he will dig his early grave. Out of anger, he hurriedly left Adrian's house and dashed home.
At home, he had no clue as to how he could pull the bull by the horn and inform Maria his predicament. Two months later, to make matters worse, a friend of Mike, Charlie, who jetted from Ghana to London on a study permit, spilled an item of news with sour contents; his businesses in Tema were completed gutted by fire and nothing was recovered. Mike was left between the devil and deep blue sea-what to do next became a riddle. Again, he went to Adrian's abode. Still, Adrian kept to his word-the inevitability of offering as sacrifices Maria and her 7-month old pregnancy. Knowing that his life would be in danger, should he not do it, Mike vowed he will resuscitate himself from the mess he was in, no matter what.
Maria went about her daily duty as a store keeper in a big-time pharmaceutical, a stone throw from her house. To her surprise, she met a completely messed Mike bed-ridden and stinking. His body was seriously decaying and it became very obvious that Mike will experience excruciation before leaving his wife. On his death bed in tears, Maria asked: 'dear, what suddenly took over your body? What was responsible for this mystery? Who did this to you? 'In a slow tone, Mike replied: 'never worry yourself about my predicament. It's fate I die this way. My time is really up. I became rich by offering my entire family as blood sacrifices for my fortune, fame and money I acquired. Now, the Hood of Dragons, the cult I joined since my schooling days where I first performed my first ritual, wanted me to use you and my unborn child for another sacrifice so that my acquisitions will be sustained. But I refused. They struck me with this deadly ailment as a way of getting back at me for violating the fraternity's law. Always tell my unborn child that dad loves you and he wants you to always remember what the bible says: the love of money is the root of all evil' He breathes his last and gave up the ghost, with his decaying hands wrapped around his wife's fist.
End of Chapter One
Winds of Change by Mr. Ben
Title: Acrocanthosaurus - The Bones of Contention
Author: Russell Ferrell
Publisher: Malloy
ISBN: 978-0-615-43814-6
Website: thebonesofcontention.com
Reviewer: John Helman, M.A
So many kids dream of dinosaurs. Stories of these giant beasts and the magnificence of the time when they dominated the earth fill more fantasies than any age of man. Even this reviewer would pick up rocks, and still does, and examine them for traces of a past of which only dreams can be made. Oh so few people actually do stumble upon remnants of creatures that may have lain the seeds of our greatest legends of prehistory.
Cephis Hall, a self-described country boy, and his partner Sid Love discover an intact femur bone of a rare and massive prehistoric predator on property owned by a major corporation. The author intricately describes the attempts of these two locally known fossil hunters to circumvent the involvement of the corporation that owned the land containing the fossil, but as the importance of the find became known it most assuredly drew the attention of the landowner as well the eyes of those in academia who are naturally skeptical of new finds which question the status quo. This is when the true story begins.
Russell Ferrell has crafted an exquisitely detailed account of the journey of this collection of old bones. It is much to his credit that he doesn't shy away from the ploys of Cephis to gain some sort of permission at the lowest level possible to carry out his dig. The resulting legal and academic circus caused by Cephis' shortcuts and short-sightedness is quite accurately and somewhat excitedly portrayed by the author.
Whether or not the reader agrees with the contentions of the author on the ability of fossil and mineral hunters to use public and some private lands for their own purposes, this book does make for an interesting read. It provides ammunition for both sides of the discussion.
This is this author's first published work and shows a dedication to his craft and a great feeling and passion for his subject. This book is available through booksellers everywhere.
Allbooks Review International works with authors from all over the globe. Our promotional package is one of the most reasonable on the web. Join us and promote your book. For information and submission guidelines, please contact us.
Title: Last Stop Freedom
Author: Ann Nolder Heinz
Publisher: ebooksonthe.net/Write Words Inc
ISBN: 1-59431-925-1
Website: www.fictionbookmates.com
Reviewer: Wendy Thomas
When we first meet Julia Bigsby, she is running for her life through the swamps of South Carolina as she is chased by hounds and a tracking party. Someone wants Julia back. This is a far cry from the Reverend's daughter who up until recently had lived with her widowed father tucked safely away within the church's boundaries.
It all started with a letter addressed to Miss Julia Bigsby, Troy, New York from her Cousin Mary in 1851 inviting her to visit with members of her Aunt's family. Julia, whose daily entertainment includes mending her father's robes and writing his sermons, longs for the excitement and adventure such a visit would bring. With a little bit of cunning on her part, she wins the argument with her father and sets off to join "the wealthy side" of her family and one which her father - a man so frugal he limits the coal for heating not on the temperature but by the calendar- abhors for its constant displays of wealth.
During her visit, in order to escape the torment of returning to live under her father's rule, Julia agrees to marry Nathaniel Hamilton, a plantation owner in South Carolina. Little does she know that this decision just moves her from one house of repression to another. Her only source of comfort at the plantation becomes the black slave in the house; Fanny who listens to her and gives her emotional strength. When Nathaniel threatens to sell Fanny, Julia must step up and make some decisions in order to take back control over her life.
What follows is an intriguing story of cultures and morals clashing including - North vs. South, men vs. women, black vs. white, and religious doctrine vs. free will. Ann Nolder Heinz does a wonderful job of weaving all of these points of view into a solid story filled with beautiful imagery and accurate historical facts.
Heinz deftly shows us the inner turmoil of her main character as she struggles with what is allowed, what is expected of her, and with what she knows is the right thing to do. With a quick pace and nice use of credible dialogue, Heinz brings us along as Julia, who had only wanted to be out in the world to have adventure and escape her father's rule, matures into a young woman of strength who becomes committed to a cause that although not popular, and is dangerous for all involved, is the absolute right thing to do.
Heinz who has also written: Will Thou Be Mine, Final Victim, Free Fall, and Extreme Influence, is an accomplished and prolific writer who does a wonderful job of bringing us along to watch Julia's awakening, as she moves from being the child of her father, to becoming the strong, independent woman she is capable of being.
Title: Color Me Jazzmyne
Author: Marian L. Thomas
Publisher: L.B. Publishing Atlanta GA
ISBN: 9780615270678
Website: www.marianlthomas.com
Reviewer: Yuke Man
This encouraging tale on a heartbreaking universal subject begins with the heroine, Naya Mona, preparing herself emotionally and mentally to meet with her grown-up son for the first time. The author, Marian L. Thomas, uses the colors in a box of crayons to take us through Jazzmyne's, (Naya's stage name), life journey as she looks back at her complicated life to answer the perplexing question of: "Who am I?"
Naya, now elderly, had previously chosen and successfully managed to keep her box of crayons tightly closed. She now has to confront and re-live all the "colors" of her past, exposing her deepest secrets and facing the reality of her heart-wrenching youth. She uses each color to express the different emotions, strengths and weaknesses which have made her into two persons: Naya, with a happy childhood, but a rotten teenage life; and Jazzmyne, a sensational jazz singer and successful real estate owner.
Naya's father, who had loved her as a child, began raping her when she was 13. As a result of such appalling incest, she gave birth to a son. Shockingly, she discovers that her father had given their son, right after his birth, to be adopted by his wealthy but cold-hearted parents. She also discovers that her mother is also her father's daughter who lost her mother at birth. That means that her mother would actually be her half-sister and her son, her half brother!
At 17, Naya manages to escape from her father, but is innocently drawn into the treacherous world of show business. Her first husband is murdered, and her best friend betrays her. The plot thickens and you won't be able to put the book down until the very last page, or skip pages for you will miss the intricacies of the storyline. It is that intriguing and absorbing!
This book is beautifully written. It is neither overwhelming nor morose even though the subject matter is horrific. It is easy to read, covers the entire length of the heroine's life and has a satisfying ending. I would recommend this book to anyone who loves a good read.
Title: Bloodrose
Author: Tom Keith
Sold by: Amazon Digital Services
ASIN: B006RUTX2S
Reviewer: Yuke Man
Bloodrose author, Tom Keith, has given us an exciting, fast moving, suspenseful story with a view of America in the not-too-distant future. It is the most dangerous time since the War Between the States. The economic depression is worse than the 1930s. The country cannot afford law enforcement. Chaos reigns. Communist China and other Asian countries have used slave labor to rob America jobs. Islam has a death grip on world petroleum supplies and has siphoned billions of dollars from the American economy. Both of these evil powers are on a mission to enslave the world's population. Communism and Islam control the world's wealth. Islam wants to subject the whole population of the earth to Sharia law. They are cooperating to bring about America's downfall? Imagine an America void of sovereignty, deep in poverty, and dominated by foreign power. Then see an awakening, a rebirth of the American spirit, a revolution by people willing to lay their lives on the line to regain freedom. That is the setting for Bloodrose. The story follows the lives of Tyler and Juanita who meet under unusual circumstances. The only thing they have in common is being fugitives. Romance blooms, but can it survive? Readers will enjoy heart-pounding excitement and page-turning suspense as the characters in Bloodrose struggle through the most perilous of times. Along the way they find love in the midst of hate, friendship in a time of betrayal, and hope rising out of despair. The characters are fictional. The events could happen. Pray they don't! Click on the Amazon links to start enjoying a great read. For Kindle e-book; for printed book
Preview:
Travelogue with Twists
My friend Simon has been a 'quaddy' for just over 30 years. He broke his neck in a paragliding accident. Pivoting from the elbow and with some difficulty, he can raise a spoon to his mouth with his right hand, but only if it's strapped onto the palm round his knuckles.
Simon is lucky to still have this one below the neck discretionary able bodied function, which also enables him to manually control his wheel chair and computer. But the fact is, he still needs a support team to do all the other stuff; a combination of dear hearts from the local community who are paid a pittance by the government, his aging parents and his friends.
He has the coolest wheelchair, with all the latest do-dads, including a press button urine leg bag eliminator that dumps on the road when we are going for a stroll to the local pub. As an older man, I do so envy his freedom in this department.
His Apple computer is also 'out there', with a really good speak/write program that does his otherwise painfully slow correspondence for him.
Talk about spoiled!
Simon runs an alternative energy blog, which is how we met. I was getting stuck into the local anti-wind farm/climate change denier lobby in the local press of an adjacent municipality. In the course of his regular press survey work, he picked up on my letters to the editor. This prompted him to find my phone number and ring.
We quickly warmed to each other's point of view and continued a lively email correspondence. He is such a font of information about anything to do with energy and the politics that comes with it. My letters to the editor became a lot sharper with the better information that he would supply.
He lives in a really vibrant little Australian country town. It is nestled towards the bottom of a range of hills that drop precipitously down to a wide coastal plain that boasts some of the richest dairy country to be found anywhere, as well as one of the country's iconic National Parks; a stunningly beautiful walking and camping park that attracts visitors from all over the world.
Like a lot of rural communities that looked like they would molder into the landscape not so long ago, it has grown of late; lots of retirees, people escaping the big cities, artists, artisans, intellectuals, the ubiquitous welfare recipients who need somewhere cheap to live (though rising Real Estate Prices and rents means they are starting to move to less expensive climes) and of course, droves of tourists in the warmer part of the year.
And all these live cheek by jowl with the traditional rural people, like Simon's parents, who in their younger days were dairy farmers.
It has the atmosphere of a village. Whenever Simon goes trundling down the street, there are greetings left and right and social diversions aplenty. A person can waste a whole heap of time there, chatting about everything from the price of milk to the latest good books in the town bookshop-cum-espresso bar.
Simon is an active pro-wind energy campaigner within his community, working strenuously against a very aggressive, even if small opposition group, whose hostility is focused mainly on the wind farm on the bluffs overlooking the coastal plain near a small township about ten 'klicks' or 'kays' (Australian for kilometers) further east. He is well known for this and is at times regarded by some of the older denizens, as a bit 'controversial'.
I started to cycle to Simon's town to visit him about twelve months ago, when I bought my first Human Powered Vehicle, which is a streamlined three wheeled version of his wheelchair, with a pedaling chain wheel pod sticking out the front. It was a two hundred kilometer (one hundred and twenty miles for the unmetricated: in the ratio of five miles to eight klicks) round trip training run for a much longer expedition of some six hundred kilometers, planned for later in the year. Twelve months later, I have returned
These journeys have their beginning in my home town of nearly five years, in a foreshore 'village' further up the coast towards the State's capital city.
During the later nineteenth century, it was a coastal timber port on a very tidal and shallow Bay. Flat bottomed barges would come to the pier to take the timber that had been brought down a tramway from the hills above the town. The barges would lie in the mud in low tide, but once loaded, at high tide would be towed away to the state capital.
In the early days, particularly in winter, the only access to The State Capital was by sea. At that time of year, the coastal swamps were known to swallow stage coaches and drays, haulage animals and all.
The timber ran out in the early twentieth century and the town shriveled into a husk that is only now starting to sprout again. The timber stripped hills above it have a haunting, bare and windswept beauty, complemented by dairy cattle that balance precariously on their steep slopes.
It has lots of Real Estate agents (Realtors), food shops to attract passing tourist traffic, a servo and the beginnings of an industrial area, but still waits for a supermarket and tavern, after twenty years and several false starts. We have a developer ready to go with this project, but the recent near death experience on world money markets has put him on hold.
I and my dearly beloved, but frequently almost divorced Greek Wonder Woman Wife of twenty-five years, own the local caravan park on the foreshore.
It caters mainly for permanents rather than passing tourist trade, which generally goes on another twenty kilometers down the coast to the flesh pots of the main island that part blocks the entrance to our bay.
Winter is a good time in this industry to take a few days off, but is not ideal cycling weather. And while we haven't had the usual drenching quagmire producing rains for the last dozen years, the weather can still turn on heavy showers and the consistent winds that make it a wind farm Mecca.
Leaving my dear wife, who waves and wonders whether I will return in one piece, I start my journey going round the roundabout at the seaward end of our street, which is a short access road that joins the main highway two hundred meters inland.
I watch the seas flop and belch against the sea wall, note the cappuccino breakers froth with the mud that is no longer held down by sea grasses, for they were mined out for house insulation back in the nineteen fifties and sixties. I wave to the fisherman at the end of pier waiting for bottom feeding mud dwellers that are all that is left of the fish stock after the long nets went in and the mangroves that bred their prey were torn out, leaving naked mud flats for nearly a kilometer at low tide and the coastline eroding exponentially at its height.
Windswept Tales from the Coast by Christopher Nagle
Anthologies 1 edited by Nivedita
Synopsis: This book is not just for the poetry lovers but for every one who loves to read as the verses are easily accessible and provide the perfect introduction to the poetry of four up-and-coming poets from Merut, Hyderabad, and Germany. The book canvasses poetry of different authors and their thoughts. Ranging from varied topics, the book reflects on joy, compassion, love and peace, transcending borders, giving insights and finding new words for everyday and universal issues. In form the poems range from meticulously crafted haiku to masterful rhyming metrical verse and thought- provoking free verse. Public acclaim has so far come from India, Australia, Canada and Germany, from university professors, eminent poets, teachers and peace activists. Join the Buzz on Facebook to know more.
It's My Divorce Too! By Marina Lombardi
Synopsis: There have been many books written by adult experts about divorce and its impact on children. However, ten year old Marina Lombardi set out to express this impact from a child's perspective after a limb on her family tree broke off. Now, as a young woman six years later, she knows with certainty the importance of sharing her story and letting other kids know that they can prevail in the rough waters of their upbringing. Interviews and ordering information can be accessed HERE.
Forever Jocelyn by Lara Biyuts
Synopsis: Set in Rome and island Aeolica, the novel is a sequel of the novel La Lune Blanche, story of the English boy of the name of Jocelyn Lindenridge-Blanche. Order from lulu.com and smashwords.com
Preview:
There is a lot to say about the poet, hard workingman, hard drinking intellectual named Henry Charles Bukowski (1920 - 1994) however; those snob-nosed literary critics will point to the contrary. To the critics, those traditional stalagmites of old lore, good ole Hank, as called amongst those closest to him, is nothing more than a thorn in the side of the university English departments and traditional writing system this country was so founded. Nevertheless, he is here to stay, the thorn that keeps poking, stabbing, and sticking, even in death. He was a man of the streets whom spoke the words of and for the street. He did so for a good many years, and shall continue for a good many more. He was not afraid to show or write truth, live in the clothes of the truth, fight, or die for the truth, a rare commodity these days.
I first discovered Bukowski through a friend of mine roughly fifteen years ago. I went to visit him during one his many jobs at that time-overnight counselor for some halfway house-and we began talking about our favorite subject, writing. He was not writing much then as he was more involved with the job, and quite frankly, so was I. But, we both had a thing for reading too much and discussing the craft instead of doing it. It is easy to get wrapped up in the nostalgia of greatness rather than the push to overcome the obstacles that present the blockade. Much hard work and rejection lay in wait of the poor, unsuspecting writer that it becomes most daunting to even try. Bukowski would often comment on that, on those who dreamed too much and worked too little. The dream is far better than the reality. Anyway, there we were, jabbering on about our craft, how we need to become more serious writers, how much work it entails, how much we admired our heroes, and what we are currently reading. At the time, I was reading Céline's, Journey to the End of the Night, and my friend was reading a few books, which names escape me, but the one book that I do remember, was Charles Bukowski, Run with the Hunted.
I borrowed the book from my friend, chatted a little more, than split. It had gotten late and I had to work in the morning. Now, at the time, my friend did not care much for Bukowski. In fact, he said he did not like him, and that I could keep the book. I read it cover to cover three times before I gave it to another friend of mine who took it with him on a vacation to India. I told him to keep it, that it would help to inspire him and bring him great fortune with his writing endeavors. To this day, that copy of Run with the Hunted has been around the world, in the hands of others, twice.
Ten years passed and I still did not take my craft very serious. I traveled the country, caused trouble, ran from trouble, lived on the streets, crashed cars, made great friends, lost great friends, encounter beautiful women, canceled engagements, expanded my mind in every way possible, read books, acquired and lost fine materials, made thousands of dollars and spent the same…did everything but write. Later, I learned through my readings and studies that my hero behaved similarly. I could not help but to formulate some sort of bond with him and his lifestyle. I never looked at my heroes as dead heroes. For me, they lived and breathed, walked and talked, just as I did, and still do, even now…they live on.
Bukowski did not write for a period of ten years or so. Where I had put down the pen at twenty, he did at twenty-four. But these small similarities were not what drove me to permeate this great man of literature; it was his easygoing style, his word and way. I could relate to him, feel as he did, walk his path in his shoes…not an easy thing for a writer to accomplish. Yet, he did it. He made me feel as if I were the main character, or a bystander watching from the barstool, the next room, the same room, or following a few steps behind. He took me from the darks shadows of the world, onward and into the sunshine.
Humor was a key factor in his work. Although he wrote of the tragic, ill hearted, suffering, living-dead zombies called the working-class, he never lets you forget that he too was once the same dead-fish stinking in the alleyway, gnawed upon, stepped over, cast to the wolves, used, misused, dismantled and forgotten until physical death claims thy worthless corpse…. Bukowski opposed this willful resignation of life and wanted no part of it. He worked when he had to and did not work when he had to because he understood, truly understood, the concept of freewill and put it to the test. As his employers would think him a raving lunatic, he cashed the last check, filed unemployment, drank, wrote, sexed, and bummed until the next job called to him.
Another wonderful detail about Charles Bukowski was the lack of self-pity. He never cried for the poor, misbegotten, beat child, pockmarked, abused person of his past. The more I delved into his work and life; I realized the humility of the man. I realized the strength and courage it took to live with a daunting past but never let it drag you down. If only every man could bear such character. As he walked the path of the lonely, so he wrote that same path, and although most of it a painful journey, he tells those tales with a smirk and a shrug.
Ode: To The Last Great Giant by Jake Sullivan
Prickly Scots Part 1 by S P Mount
Synopsis: A fantastical tale set within the realistic context of everyday life in Scotland, Prickly Scots delivers with rich detail and verisimilitude a story to get your teeth into. A descriptive epic written in two parts, it is essentially a comedy delivered via the quirkiness of its many main characters - human and otherwise: irascible plant life, a space faring castle, new breeds of aliens and a motley crew of finely nuanced characters in three time periods, each with their own agenda, get caught up in the time traveling, inter-dimensional adventure of one family's ancient curse. Order from Amazon
Preview:
A Play in One Act
Characters:
- CRISPIN---Plump male human hotel exterminator dressed in a red jumpsuit with a large, threatening looking water gun filled with deadly insecticide.
- CARIS ---- Plump red female bed bug, smart and saucy.
- MACUL--- Plump red male bug very macho; the sharpest thing about him is his spear-like penis.;
- CIMEX--- Plump red sexually confused and effeminate male bed bug intensely attracted to Macul.
- VOICES OF A HUMAN MALE AND FEMALE HOTEL OCCUPANT.
TIME: The Present
PLACE: A Hotel Room
SCENE: CRISPIN spins around, drops to the floor and crouches into a prone firing position in front of a mattress, inhaling deep sniffs that combine terror and exhilaration, a combination not uncommon to hunters who track dangerous prey.
CRISPIN
( slowly rises, addresses audience)
They're hard to see. By you can smell 'em. (Sniffs) Yeah, they're here alright. This is their most favorite room in the entire hotel..
(He runs off the stage and down the aisle, waving his water gun weapon threateningly at the audience, as if on a search and destroy mission. He peers up and down the various audience rows, literally trying to sniff out the enemy.)
CRISPIN (cont.d)
(Sniffs) Smell that? (Sniffs) It's like rotting raspberries wrapped in a stanky sheet. You can smell it, right? It's the odor of indecency. Thought I got 'em all last week. Or most. At best. And no one comes better (pauses, takes three quick, deep breaths) than Crispin Colvin, exterminator extraordinaire! Damn straight! Know what my motto is? (beat)) "My extermination clears a path to your liberation." (nods head) Yes. (points at audience) Your liberation, from fear and suffering and infection.
I know what you're thinking. You're thinking why does that fool spray all that deadly chemical and not wear a mask? A mask? I don't need no friggin' mask. I ain't got nothing to hide or be ashamed of. Purity protects me. Purity of essence!
You doubt me? You think I've sniffed too many fumes and delude myself that spirit is superior to body? My body of work speaks for itself. And I'm here to protect all of you (raises clinched fist above his head,) and that means you (points), and you (points), from the evil that goes by many names--- chintzes, mahogany flats, red coats, wall louse, crimson ramblers. Yes, I'm talkin' bed bug. B-E-E-E--D B-U-U-U-G. And if they're in this bed then they're also right where you are, probably hiding in the chairs you're sitting on. Bed bugs are never more than 100 feet away from where they feed, and they damn sure been feeding on this here mattress. Those little demons are masters of deception. (He removes a credit card from his pocket, reads it, shakes head) This one's expired. (He pulls out another card) Anywhere you can slide a credit card a bed bug could fit. They can flatten themselves down to fit in any crack or crevice. (Laughs) Feeling itchy my friends?
(CRISPIN scratches his neck and leaps back on stage with a war yelp, brandishing his weapon)
I'm like a freakin' suicide bomber, willing to die for a cause or a reason in any season in order to flush away all of their bloodsucking trauma and filth. Filth, you say? Don't all the magazines and newspapers stories make a point of telling us that bed bugs aren't attracted to dirty, unclean, grimy places? (Nods head) It's true. They don't even inject any dangerous diseases in the warm succulent flesh they feast on. Your flesh. That's not their brand of torment. The filth I'm talking about is PERVERSION! A filthy perversion of body and soul! Your body and soul!
(CRISPIN sprays the mattress and in a crouching position, crawls across the stage, identifying and spraying potential bed bug nests.)
Do I hear snickering? Go ahead, laugh. Laugh and show your ignorance. There's a national epidemic of bed bugs in these United States of America and not because of physical filth. It's because of moral filth. Within the fabric of American life are the crevices where these gluttons skulk and hide, waiting for the opportunity to siphon your blood to fuel the most despicable acts of sexual depravity this side of a Tiger's wood! You ever hear the label scientists put on bed bug mating rituals? They call it TRAUMATIC COPULATION! (nods head) That's right. And do you know why they call it traumatic? It's because the male ignores the female's genitalia. Rejects her pathway to creation. He refuses to gently place his sperm into a female opening. Oh no. If they did that it would mean the males would have to court the females and show them respect by trying to please or appease them. (He does a mock bow, blows a kiss) The pen may be mightier than the sword, but not in the wicked world of bed buggery!
A male bed bug's sex organ is a weapon greater than my own. (He strokes his water gun) It's a long sharp spear with a hypodermic hook attached at the end. The male pounces on the female (he demonstrates), holds her firmly while she struggles, and then rapes her by stabbing his razor sharp hook over and over into her back, her stomach, any exposed area on her body. He stabs and squirts these huge doses of sperm directly into her mutilated flesh. If she's lucky enough that this mating wound doesn't develop a serious infection and kill her, then his seed swims to her ovaries. Every time he gores her flesh it leaves a scar. I ask you, can a society that treats its females like this be less deserving of extinction? I am a warrior for righteousness.
Brace yourself, my friends. There are even more shocking perversions male bed bugs commit against all that is decent and true in nature. They indulge in bestiality. (Nods head) You heard right. Bestiality. Twenty percent of their sexual encounters are with foreign animals. The little hopheads will bang anything that even looks like a bed bug. These perverts have sex up to 200 times a day and they don't give a damn who it's with. These gangsta bugs spend their whole lives just stabbing and shooting, (he mimics them) stabbing and shooting. They stab anything that moves with their pointed pricks and shoot a disgusting amount of splooge into whomever or whatever they gash (mimics) and slash. If a male bed bug were human in size, he'd be shooting seven gallons of man milk with each ejaculation. (Shutters, as if being drenched in liquid) It ain't human and it ain't decent. Killing them is a sacred privilege.
(CRISPIN raises his gun and dervishes while sing song chanting that emphasizes each syllable)
Domination! Abomination! Proliferation! Irritation! Aggravation! Defecation! Fornication! (Stops chanting) And Homo-gen-iz-ation of an entire generation of male miscreants!
Yes! Yes! Yes! (Shouts Orgasmically) These bloodsucking fiends engage in homosexuality more than any other depraved sexual activitiy. Fifty percent of their illicit intercourse are the rape of other males who have just sucked-your---blood. And when the sperm of the rapist enters the male victim the jism searches for ovaries. When none are found it mixes with the raped male's man gravy and is passed on in his next encounter with a female. Sick. Sick. Sick.
You wanna scratch? You feel them chewing on your tender skin? Where's the itch? The itch is in their lust for your blood. They cannot indulge their dirtbag dicks without feeding on your juicy red plasma. They must feed on your flesh and steal your lifeblood energy in order to satisfy their corrupt desires. It's the warmth of your bodies and the sweetness of your breath that draws them to your vibrant flesh.
I smell them! I watch them! I listen to them! (softly) And wait...
Bed Bugs & Beyond by Mark Blickley
The Musings of an Idiot by Anominus
Preview:
One day I was just kind of sitting around, thinking. I was just thinking; not thinking and working, or thinking and drinking, or any of the things one might otherwise be doing alongside of deep thought. I was doing it, even though experience had clearly demonstrated to me on numerous occasions that it was a bad idea.
But I did have a problem.
All of my life, I've been writing things for other people, just because I was willing, and I suppose, because I found it easy to do a reasonably decent job of it. And besides, I enjoyed it. As long as nobody was looking over my shoulder and telling me how, I've always found it to be a fun thing to do. My meddling probably set my kids back, because whenever they'd had difficulty with a home writing assignment, I'd rapped something off for them and they'd gotten an "A". A time or two, my writing had opened someone's eyes. More than one human resources person has asked me who had helped me write my resume. So that's not misconstrued, I will add that one of them also suggested that I'd had it prepared by a professional. If I look stupid, that's another matter that doesn't fit into this issue at all.
And then there was the website thing. At my work, I wrote up a description of our workplace, our goals, our history of meeting those goals and our vision for the future. Once it was posted on the front page of the website, I received a lot of compliments for it, right before my semi-literate bitch of supervisor cut the guts out of it, and re-posted it.
So because I am getting older, and because the know-it-alls that administer our work unit have no idea what I do, and because I make more money than most of them, and because the economy is tough, I can see that I will very likely be eliminated long before I'm going to be finished needing a job. Maybe they'll advise me to retire so that I don't get fired. It doesn't exactly fit the ordinary meaning of workforce reduction by attrition, but they'll add my one to that particular statistic when I leave, nonetheless. That is if I'm lucky, I suppose.
Once I had realized all of that, it didn't take me long to try writing something to sell. If I was going to have to find a new way to make some money, it might as well be something I like to do, and it's better yet if I can sit on my ass while I do it. Once upon a time I wouldn't have wanted that, but it's become more appealing, of late. It's like a lot of things that fit the model. It doesn't hurt when you do it, and soon you find yourself doing it more and more. So it's probably safe to assume that it has some appeal, of one kind or another.
So I put on my old-guy sweater, you know, the kind that still buttons up the front, made myself a warm cup of coffee, downloaded and installed Open Office, and went to work. If you think the sweater buttons down, I don't want to hear it. I'm single now.
I couldn't think of a damned thing to write. It couldn't be writer's block, I reasoned, because I'm not a writer, yet. You don't suppose the writer's block gremlin affects you just because you're going to try writing? Aha, maybe it's because...I really am a writer, and I'm the only one who doesn't know it!
Well of course that made me feel better right off, so I celebrated by driving over to Dunkin' Donuts and picking up a half-dozen glazed crullers and a large coffee, because their coffee is better than mine. That's the ticket. Sitting on your butt and eating crullers. I needed a new direction, and that sounded like a winner. Bear with me, I haven't gotten to the problem yet.
So obviously the interlude and the crullers didn't do a damned thing to help me out, because not only could I still not think of a thing to write, now I needed a nap. I made a mental note, no crullers to end writer's block, and I went and got a Coke from the fridge. You know, they should advertise that stuff. It helped right away. Had to go take a leak, though.
So then I got down to it. Just kind of out of the blue, I envisioned Charles Schultz's Snoopy sitting on top of his doghouse, typing It was a dark and stormy night. Nobody was looking, of course, as I live alone, so I typed exactly that. It was exactly the right thing to do.
A story unfolded before me. The ideas came so quickly I started to jot down notes so I wouldn't forget any of them. The storm was a snow storm, the location, the top of a mountain. A picture formed in my mind. A plot developed, and the story itself took over. I wrote from my own experiences, I wrote from my heart. I put things down on paper that I'd never even thought about before. I did web searches to check my facts. I sat back, ruminated for a moment, and returned to writing.
It was only the beginning. I was going to write fiction, and I couldn't stop. I'd once believed I'd had a fairly narrow existence, but it turned out I had sold myself pretty short. I understood things that these 15- to 25-year-old kids were asking about, all over the web. I could see right through political ploys, and it turns out, a whole lot of people can't. I've watched the progression of technology and I understand most of it, and how and why it has happened as it has. I know why progress is or isn't made in negotiations, or in just about anything. And any facts or exact dates or locations I'm spotty about, I can easily get the straight stuff right from the internet. As long as I watch my sources, of course.
Four Play: An Erotic Romance Sampler by C. Margery Kempe
Synopsis: An erotic romance sampler from C. Margery Kempe, author of CHASTITY FLAME, LOVE ME LIKE A REPTILE, TEXT PLAY and many more saucy tales of love. The four tales follow a variety of lovers including a pair who take an unexpected detour from the golf course, another couple who see each other for the first time in many months since their initial tryst, two old friends revealing secrets with a childhood game of truth or dare, and a first meeting in the library with unexpected sizzle. Sexual content: scorching hot! Buy from Amazon.com
Void by Ronald Fischman
Preview:
I. Insta-MED, summer 1989
"Jag, did you see that?! If you had a highway exit that offered no services, would you place a sign to that effect?"
"It depends if your goal was truth, or marketing!"
"Make a note of it, Exit 29, Mile Run, " I interjected, not asking my partner the meaning of his koan. "If the show in Queens goes well, we'll stop on the way back, and I'll run a mile at Mile Run. I bet it'll be marked."
Jagannadham was a short, round, friendly man from Andhra Pradesh. He had a MS degree in biomedical engineering, which he had barely used, because he liked to see what effect he had on people, not products. He had gotten the engineering degree for his mother, and to get a green card if he needed, or wanted, one. When he laughed, his whole torso laughed with him. He had lured me away from a competitor on the basis of that laugh alone, I think. I remember ruminating on the facts - his car, a Caprice Classic, was two years older than my Buick Regal, and his wasn't even turbocharged. Well, he has a wife and two kids, I thought out loud. Besides, we were travelling in my car now, and I'd let them hear the turbo from Mentor to Marietta if I had to.
"How can I help make this a success, gentlemen?'
Kamal, who looked more Calcuttian than Kerulen, was an observant Muslim. Other than the occasional annoying habit of bursting out in prayer, prone, with blood-draw customers lined up, Kamal was a model worker. Three religious men, one Hindu, one Jewish, and one Muslim, (NO THEY DIDN'T GO INTO A BAR) created a business model. It was accepted to the level that we measured Rt. 80 between Kamal's prayers and not the mileage markers.
It was Kamal who actually recognized Mile Run first. Barefoot, I fumbled about in my gym bag masquerading as a briefcase to put shoes, stockings, and football on the same toes. 1.6 miles into the run, I came to wonder if the score was Figurative Language 3, Fischman nil.
Giving up on finding a mile run, we took off our clothes, faced Mecca (just in case) and sat on the great rock maintaining an amateurish excuse for freedom.
"You look like two yogis sitting there on that rock," Kamal observed his two partners, sitting naked on the great rock 1.6 miles down Mile Run Road from the exit to I-80.Kamal was sitting askew from the other two, in shorts, facing Mecca. The Jew and the Hindu meditated there, and offered prayers to Ganesh to support ther initiative. Kamal prayed toward Mecca. The rock was big enough to handle all three.
II. Ganesh trumpets off-key
I-80 rolled through my life for another year. Jag had gotten caught in a novel capitalization scheme. Kamal, sorrowfully learning that neither he nor the son of Family Guy would become rich by associating with Jews, found honest work, while I was moving confidently in the direction of musicianship and poverty-ship (which had the engine and which had the side car was never clear). Kamal had said once, in passing, that he had put his ears up toward Mile Run and thought that Ganesh's nose was a little stuffed up, and was that a bad omen for Insta-MED. I replied, "Maybe Ganesh just met the Prophet? Or are you going Hindu on me?"
I assured him that Jag was doing well enough in prison, thank you, and that I would have to find a way to be an artist myself, because like many creative types, I was a mess with money. I declared myself the artist, and gave the Universe the task of coming up with the adjective.
Remembering Mile Run, I gathered up a sketch or twelve that I had been working on while moulding myself into a musician. One in particular kept returning to the top of the pile. so-la-ti-do, so - mi - re, do-ti-do, la-sol-fa-sol. Ok, so it was an Irish shanty. I looked up a few hundred. No luck. I wrote some Irish folk music historians. The consensus was that it was very familiar, but no one could point a finger at it. So if it were plagiarism, it was clever, indeed.
I am Jacks Close Eye by Anand Dubey
I am Jacks closed eye. I function solemnly, occasionally showing my presence and feeling some light. Light hits me hard; I hate the glare hence I try not to get exposed. As I am closed for most of the time... Jack is rarely awake. But it doesn't apply that he is asleep when I am closed... that guy is screwed up big time... suffers from insomnia and what not diseases you and I can imagine. I tried to check out with his brain but it seems to be a bit upset from me for not transferring the signals and making Jack appear blind to the outside world, although it's too tired to process anything more as Jacks been thinking too much crap, worrying, being cupid, cultivating greed and rendering it useless. However it's not my fault, its Jack's relaxing orbicularis oculi, bloody culprit, which keeps me shut.
Moreover its good for him if he keeps me closed... you see (hope yours are open) the world ain't no sunshine... there is war, people killing each other, medley of crime; fighting for what even they don't seem to figure out, god men fooling around in the name of religion, hedonism, people cashing on differences, corporate running governments and governments running down on peoples' lives, envy and grudge even among so called friends.
It is not that I was called so ever since... but... we were buddies that orbicularis oculi and I. Wherever we went, smiling i.e. open and contracted... we saw shit. People with dull and long faces, my weak and torpid peers decrepit because of hours of television, unhappy folks running around the shopping malls with stuff, cadging not for satisfaction or happiness but for faux recognition... filling their homes with garbage cans, women chasing fashion, trash able newspapers with bloodstains, friends with fake smiles and enemies with handshakes.
Even Jack's brain was so smart then... he worked incessantly and earned more... you know he was wealthy and socially more accepted and of course "reputed". Even when he got back home after hours of work he never used to close me. I dimly focused for him those 500 fast drifting channels on his latest LED T.V set. Though it was tiresome yet amusing- because all of them had different versions of the same thing... yes you know it... advertisements. And they really pissed him off... they made him unhappy. He was living in bleak oblivion... they told him all the different ways in which he was uncool and what he should do to be cool; how to please the milieu- simple and easy - he was supposed to buy. They told him he is completely out of fashion, he makes his hair badly, has a pale face, too fat to be fit, dresses slovenly, eats crap, uses 18th century technology, even breathes the wrong air... every bit of his existence was anachronistic ... and after mirroring him all the ways he wasn't good they were generous enough to provide the solution.
So Jack worked extra-time to earn more so that he can buy more. Ah! Brain is such a smart ass. And so he went to "the mall"... to buy that latest t-shirt.
He returned tired; with lesser time and energy to do anything he switched on the helpful and chivalrous television set again... with more advertisements... repeated prescriptions. So he kept running the race... one which was not to end anytime soon; being obsequious being consumer. But I thought it wasn't a race... Jack knowingly ignored the fact that he was running on that giant unremitting wheel of consumerism. It made look like a madman, running around "things"... yet it wasn't odd- as it was the way of the society. It was the way they proclaimed to be acceptable; "consume or thou shall perish". And so he spent his life, a sheep in societies herd; being one more of the crazy breeds. He kept seeking baubles but not tranquility, projecting a pilfered image from numerous T.V shows and movies to the folks who don't even give a damn but are busy with their own colossus, expropriating all the sanity; incarcerated in avarice.
Presently Jack is on the bed with white sheets beside a stand with inverted bottles and I am quite relaxed. He looks sick, uninspired and ... much older than he actually is, with sunken cheeks and spiritual capitulation, he must have ointment and pills for that. But he is so smart... has booked himself a bed in that infirmary with Tuscan style furnishing and ebony colored curtains with regency sofa units; he saw in that interior decor magazine last week.
I am Jacks closed eye signing off.
CAUTION: Not to be mistaken for sniveling but a warning to purge for the posterity.
2012 Anand Dubey
Warped Mirrors by S P Mount
Synopsis: Long infatuated by his erstwhile best friend's higher echelon connection, one day hoping to climb the socioeconomic ladder by his own merit, Julian Abercrombie is whisked from his impoverished existence to find himself special guest of honour in a place that he's only ever seen on a waking plane; a Scottish country mansion. But it soon proves to be much more than the upper-crust experience he bargained for as he teeters on a tightrope between the two classes; what he didn't expect, was to be at the mercy of his sinister hosts. Putty in the hands of one, Julian's hormones go into overdrive to cause some embarrassing situations as he
falls in lust with an older woman; a femme fatale for whom he has a constant erection. Simultaneously, he tries to deal with the ominous purpose that her boyfriend, a man purporting to be his older self, has for inviting him in the first instance; presented with a dire ultimatum; sacrifice his soul or be responsible for the deaths of everyone around him the very next day. Overnight, with the help of a peculiar housekeeper whose entire family has disappeared, Julian must decipher the complexity of an unusual Mayan globe originated from an alternate universe together with a mysterious board game steeped in the tradition of the ancient culture - one that manipulates time, dimension and weather and the key to averting the life-changing threat. With the board game in play in any outcome, Julian thinks he has a plan to avoid imminent disaster, but a childish act by a bully changes his reality forever as it all goes awry to cause a tragic accident that brings the families together in an unlikely pairing - but a situation that still leaves us questioning Julian's morality as he grows into adulthood. Order from Amazon. More information may be found at S P Mount's website.