My name is, Graham Bell.

I'm new to this. Blogging.  But, I wanted to share my experience as I journey through therapy.   Therapy.  There's a word I never imagined myself being remotely affiliated with on any level.  I sell high end real estate in New York city. I'm not only good at what I do, I'm the best at what I do. For the past 4 years I averaged 3 million dollars in commissions alone. 

My seeking therapy isn't job related.  At least, I don't see the connection.  I sought therapy after the second breakup with my then fiancée Ashley Green. She wasn't my fiancée the first time we split.  She was just my girlfriend.  Okay.  Allow me to make a correction.  We didn't split. I left.  Don't know why actually,  but whatever it was, I never reconciled the issue. Because 2 years later, I would do it again.  Only this time, we were engaged.   Yeah! I dumped my fiancée 2 weeks after the invitations were mailed out.

Sure, I had ample time to do it beforehand. But...there's no excuse for what I did to her.  She didn't deserve to be treated like that and for that,  I am truly sorry.   I'm sort of a dick...yeah, I'm not ashamed to admit that as far as men are concerned,  I'm a dick.  That's nothing new to me. You see, I've fucked around on every woman I've ever dated. Every last one of them.  I don't know. Maybe if I were to tally up the number of months I had been faithful in relationships over the past 10 years, I'm looking at 2 years of overall commitment. 

Yeah, it was a shitty thing to do. Thing is this, you see, I know women.  I know how they think, what they think about and why they make themselves so fucking miserable with all of that needless thinking.  They over analyze everything.  They do!  Men, we're not so complicated.  We are as basic as cable. We have a need, a desire unfulfilled,  a scratch not soothed.  We fix it!  Women fake orgasms but the majority of those fakers will never admit to fantasizing about having a threesome involving another woman.  So instead, she'll continue to fuck some fat out of shape bastard of a husband,  because according to the analytics,  it's the most sensible thing to do.  And this is where men and women differ. Because as a man, it's more sensible to just have the threesome instead of lashing out at someone who has no clue that sexually, you are a freak.

I thought about this the other day.  How would I describe marriage to an alien who didn't no dick about carbon based creature's social constructs? Then it hit me. I would point to the sun or moon provided what time of day this extraterrestrial social gathering was to take place. I would look into his huge, alien eyes and say, "man" as I'm pointing to the sun. Then, pointing to the moon, I would say, "woman".  That's how different we are. One's working his ass off to keep the universe warm and the other, is just sorta sitting there.  Too fucking beautiful to be taken seriously as a source of warmth and light.  The moon is nothing more then a cock-tease. She likes the idea of being chased by the sun, but in reality,  the sun, isn't fucking chasing her. She's like everything else in the galaxy.  Everything,  revolves around the sun.  Why? Because nothing can out shine the sun.  And a man with good looks and money, is the fucking sun.  Everything and everyone,  revolves around him. 

I've never had to pursue a woman. Women, pursue me. Doesn't matter if she's happily married or single or hell, considered herself a lesbian.  Women love shinny things and nothing outshines good looks and money. Emotionally,  women are in constant pursuit of true romance. Don't let them fool ya by saying otherwise.  They may say, its just sexual,  but after nights of having the best sex of her life, she now wants it all. But that's the paradox most find themselves in. Attempting to have it all.  You can't have it all. At least, in my personal experience,  you can't.  Why? Don't know!  For me, the woman I'm fucking for everything I'm worth, the woman I have doing things she promised herself she wouldn't do, you see, that's not necessarily the woman I would want to marry in the first place.  The idea of watching a woman who just had her lips on my balls, minutes later, placing those same ball smelling lips on the foreheads of my children, makes me cringe. 

I'm a compartmentalist, I can separate my needs from my wants.  And in doing so, I understand the futility of trying to have it all. It is an endless pursuit.  So, I get what I want, when I want it. Or at least I used to. My therapist,  Dr. Sheila Rhodes, has me on what she calls, and I'm not making this shit up, "a pussy diet".  That's right! I'm not allowed to be intimate with any women, past present or future until I've completed my therapy.  Upon our first meeting she forewarned me that her methods were a little,  off the rails.  She told she wasn't offering magic. "You either want magic or process" she said. "I'm offering process".
I told her how difficult it was going to be for me.

"Why?" She asked in her pretentious, snooty sort of way.
"I love women", I said proudly. 

The fucking bitch starts to laugh.  How fucking unprofessional. 

"You don't love women" she groaned. 
"You love yourself,  but you despise women and everything we stand for."

I was a little pissed. Its like, she was making it sound like I was some terrible,  wife beating,  bastard.

"No, I love women. That's my problem. " 
That's why I can't be faithful.  There's just too many of them.  Realistically,  I know I can't fuck em all. But, I'm just 36 years old, which means...I have 14 years left until my fucking skills begin to diminish.  So at the least, I can fuck as many as I can.

As I'm lying on the sofa I could hear doctor Rhodes adjusting herself in her desk chair. I now understand that when she does that, she's seated in like a crouched position.  Like she's a fucking lioness about to pounce upon her prey, ripping me a new asshole or something. 

"Mr. Bell,  you are in deed a very beautiful man. Hell, it wouldn't be a stretch to call you gorgeous.  But Sweety, and this is both my professional and personal evaluation.   You're a piece of shit. You lie, you manipulate, you promise,  you cheat.  You treat women like pocket pussies.  You don't love women. I know you don't have a fucking sliver of a clue about love.  You know what your problem is, you don't know shit about yourself. "

Aside from the abusive and anti male rhetoric,  I agreed with 33.3% of what she said.  I don't know much about love. See I understand.   Women,  don't love men like me. No! They love the IDEA of a man like me.  You see, for most of them, the obstructions aren't an issue.  Obstructions like,  a guy with a shitty job, or a guy with no car or money or his own place. See, these are things women feel like they can "fix".  And how do women fix things? Through nagging, bitching and belittling.  If a man is uninspired to fix things in his life for himself then she'll nag him. She'll bitch, she'll belittle.  And when surprisingly none of that works, she'll leave.  And although women will say size doesn't matter,  it does.  How do I know? This little model I met a while back placed me in her phone contacts with the title,  "Mr. Giffted". Anytime she's horny and picks up her phone to call a guy, who do you think she's going to call that night? Average Chad? Or "almost there" John C or "Mr. Come too fast" John T?  No! She's calling me. Mr. Giffted.  Because she knows that for the couple hours we're together,  she's going to have a good time. She's going to feel loved, desired and I will fuck her like she was my one and only. 

I never heard a single complaint from any woman.  In fact, they seem to enjoy it more. I never really measured it or anything,  but one woman told me it was in her estimation at least 13 inches in length.  That's flaccid.  Maybe it's much larger when it's fully erect.  Wasn't sure why she was so confident in her estimation but, I don't know. Maybe she watched alot of porn or something?

After suffering through more of Dr. Rhodes abuse,  she told me her goal for my therapy,  but then she said something that really disturbed me.

"Over the next 8 weeks, you're going to go out to dinner with each of the 8 women you fucked over.  You are not to hook up with them, you are not to have a follow up date or phone call afterwards.  You will only be allowed to ask two questions: "What happened to you after I hurt you?" and "How did my actions affect your opinion of men? You are to simply,  listen."

"I don't get it" I said.
"You don't get what Sweety?"
"What's the point in having dinner with my exes?"
"That's the surprise".

That's it. That's all she said.  Somehow, there was a big surprise in all of this for me.  Most of the women I haven't spoken to in years.  So, I couldn't see how any of this would be relevant to my desire to understand why I can't make a commitment to a woman.

"That's why im seated over here and you're stretched out over on the sofa" she reminded me. "If you knew why you do what you do, then you wouldn't be here."

After my first week of therapy,  I realized something.  It probably wasn't such a great idea to have a woman psychiatrist to divulge my sorted and sexually promiscuous past to.  Especially a psychiatrist name Sheila Rhodes.  A woman who despite her high credentials has a low tolerance for bullshit.  Unfortunately,  dispensing bullshit is also, one of my specialties.

Why this means so much!

In 2008, I was carrying a back-log of story ideas inside my head.  These were stories that I wanted to create music for, I wanted to write the musical scores for these 'ideas' that one day, somehow, some-way, a screenwriter would have magically written the identical stories, offering me the opportunity to score music(yes, I was really that short-sighted). Problem was, there weren't any screenwriters banging at my door suggesting that we work on our similar musings.
     But then, one day, something rather 'strange' began to take place. You see, prior to this I had been working on a little 'screenplay' about this guy who helplessly watches his wife dying from cancer.  I didn't think much of this 'tinkering'.  The way I saw it, in order to understand writing a 'film' score, one had to be somewhat familiar with a 'script'. Right?  But little did I know that this 'tinkering', would lead to the genesis of my very first novel.
     Let's face it!  I had NO idea what I was doing. This was painfully evident in the very rough version of the notes I had been taking on "Blindfolds". But in those 'badly' put together notes, was the catalyst of this stirring deep within my heart. The slow awakening of a long lost childhood dream. Becoming a writer.  I remember the look on my then girlfriend's beautiful face when I, ill-advisedly made my plans known to her.  I should've known better.  Most people's ideas of writers are that there are long periods of no money, struggling to pay bills, and always the promise to our loved ones that it'll get better.  "You just wait and see", I said. Besides the way I saw it, I was already 'struggling' just to maintain my one bedroom apartment with the job I had.  It couldn't get any worse, right?  BOY WAS I WRONG!!!  But now I'm getting ahead of myself.  Anywho, there I am slaving away at the first draft of "Blindfolds", and I must admit, it was HORRIBLE!   It was GOD FREAKING AWFUL!  THE CHARACTERS, THE PLOTS, THE TWIST AND TURNS!  YUCK!!!  So, I did what any rational writer would do in a situation like this, I considered taking my girlfriend's advice and become a Personal Trainer.  I mean, hey, its what I enjoyed doing for free.  Why not get paid for it?! But "Blindfolds" had other ideas.
     The damn story wouldn't leave me alone. It followed me on my runs, whispered in my ears at work, hell, it was even popping up in my dreams.  "I'm not a writer", I kept telling myself.  "I don't know what I'm doing".  "This was a stupid idea.  No one is even going to read the damn thing." The way I saw it, my chances of ever getting published was slim, to none. Sooo, after giving it some thought, I considered allowing "Blindfolds" to "sleep with the fishes". But then, one day while out on a run, something literally 'clicked' inside my head.  I had an idea. A different plot, from the one I had so badly mangled.  This new plot was 'smarter' and involved a great deal of imagination.  Quickly I raced home to begin anew.  But after months of trying to fashion this new plot into a 'reasonable' line of logic, it wasn't happening.  However, something else had began to take place. I noticed, my writing, had gotten better.  My characters, were actually becoming more interesting. But after 3 drafts, it just wasn't happening.  But in 2011, some changes in my life would allow me to have laser like focus on my writing.  I lost my place, my 3 year relationship was on the verge of crumbling, and I still hated my job.  At this time, I had all but giving up on "Blindfolds".  I had began to write other stories.  Some lead to novels, others became short stories.  One, was even published. In the course of a year, I had managed to write 3 novels, 3 short stories, and a novella.  All in a single year.  You see, I may have began "Blindfolds" in 2008, but in 2011, I had become a writer.  It was time to give my old friend one more look, before totally ignoring it.
     I worked on it some more, but again, it just wasn't there.  I knew the type of story this novel could be, but I wasn't seeing it in my writing. It just wasn't there.  In September of 2012, my short story, "Evelyn Thayer" was published by Etopia Press.  Excited, I had hopes of having more than just my short story published.  But after sending manuscript after manuscript, I got nothing.  I was growing frustrated. Then in January of this year (2013), I made myself a 'promise'.  I was going to have a novel published by June, 2013.  I didn't have a clue how this was going to happen, except, I was becoming more acquainted with 'self-publishing'.   I found a great editor to work with(Melissa Gray) who quickly got to work on the novel "Sword of Billum", which was the novel I had chosen to be published on my own imprint. After SOB had been proofread and edited, I was certain I was ready to dive into the full pool of self-publishing.  But then Melissa asked me a question, that would literally change everything for me.  We had spoken before about the troubles I was having with "Blindfolds".  She informed me that she had an opening coming up, and if I wanted to, send her "Blindfolds".  Now even though I had agreed to do so, in my heart, I knew that it wasn't ready.  But I figured, what the hell?!  Maybe she could work some sort of 'magic' on it.  However, her 'magic' wasn't required at all.  While going through the manuscript, I was still being greeted with the same frustrations.   But this time, something was different.
     You see, I could actually 'see' the problem, the source of my great frustration with this novel.  I have a tendency to pace around as I'm musing.  I literally stopped in my tracks, as the solution to this almost 4 year dilemma, bullied its way to my attention.  "He says, "No!"  Yep!  That was it!  This was the solution. Now armed with a new fire in my belly, I got to work on the 5th and final draft of "Blindfolds".  It only took me two whole days to complete it.  Instead of allowing my small 'beta' readers have a look at "Sword Of Billum"(Now titled, "Hand Of the Warrior Priest") I gave them "Blindfolds".  It would be the first time, anyone had read the complete story.  I was humbled by the reaction it received.  People actually 'loved it!'   Quickly, I made some adjustments.  "Sword of Billum" was pushed aside, and now, "Blindfolds" would be the very first published novel. But here's the thing: I knew this, two years ago.  I felt this two years ago, even before I understood how to resolve the issues I was having with it.  The timing involved in making the publishing even possible, is truly hard to figure at times.  Had someone told me back in January about "Blindfolds" being released in June, I would've laughed at them.  Had someone told me, that the avenues that weren't available to me then, would literally come out of nowhere, making publishing "Blindfolds" even possible, although plausible, I would question their confidence.  I sure didn't have any.  This novel, I believe, is just the beginning of some amazing writing I'm looking forward to doing. Bottom-line, you have to believe, even when it doesn't seem possible or even, feasible to reach for dreams that others may feel aren't within your reach.  You have to believe in yourself, don't wait for others to believe in you first.  And when everything seems to be working against you, that's when you have to dig down the deepest.  Tape your feet to the pedals and keep pushing. Grunt it out!  Don't lose focus.  I'm expecting 'big things' from "Blindfolds", because I'm expecting 'big things' from myself. Like the birth of your first born, you're expectations for them are set much higher than those for yourself. On  June 11th, My first born took his first steps and now, I can't wait to see when he begins to take large strides.  Leaping high into the air, and with the majestic beauty of an eagle, begins to soar, higher and higher.  RET :)

http://www.amazon.com/Blindfolds-LaSpada-ebook/dp/B00D9R5P2Y/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1372110246&sr=1-1&keywords=Blindfolds+%28LaSpada%29

The Mythology of the "Legend of Twells" series. Part 1: "Land of the 12 kings".

Millions of years ago, in the days before the The Throne created the Houses of the Golden Scepter, this period was known simply as The Wake. Because time had not been invented, no one is sure how long this period lasted.  The High elder, Fallon, after cursing mortals with the blood and incantations that gave birth to Vampires, Wolf and Cat creatures known as The Shattows, led a revolt with half of the 1,000 elders and half of the angelic like creatures known as  Myathians  against the Throne.
     The Throne was disappointed with Fallon and sought to have him removed from his seat of power which set next to the very Throne.  But having learned his power from the Throne, Fallon was proving to be more powerful than once believed to be.  In an unprecedented act never since repeated, The Throne removed himself from his seat of power to take hold of Fallon and cast him into the deep blackness of the Abyss. The Throne then called for the destruction of the elders and Myathians who fought alongside Fallon.  However, three elders had chosen not to side with Fallon or the Throne.  For this reason, the Throne spared them.
But chaos was upon the land of mortals as immortal creatures sought to gain power over them.  The Throne recognized that mortals were more than capable of having rule over themselves, but the Stellars, what the immortals became known as by the Throne, were to always be ruled by the occupants of the first of the three houses of the golden scepter.  But who would be suitable to have authority over the Stellars?  The throne left this decision with the chief Warrior Priest over the second house, known as the House of the Warriors Priests.  His name was Billum, and was chief over the six Warrior Priests who ruled over the house.  Billum allowed the Stellars to form their own Kingdoms, but only within the boundaries of their nation.  This nation was known as The Dark Nation. But after searching many years for one to rule in the first house that would bear their name, he turned his attention to a place that was always the target of the Dark Nation.
Twelve kings had made a bound to stand shoulder to shoulder against the Dark Nation.  Their Kingdoms were among the first to ever be established upon the earth and combined, had a citizenship of over 3 million citizens.
The kingdoms involved were: Menia, Pru, Vestige, Lutz, Twells, Placia, Dirks, Raison, Wull, Xen, Flanders and the chief among them all, Gorin.  King Gorin was a strong warrior who commanded an army of a million soldiers made up from the armies  of the other kingdoms.  Gorin put fear into the hearts of the Stellars.  But a vampire from the Dark Nation fell in love with the beautiful wife of Gorin.  Soon she found herself hopelessly in love with the very handsome creature.  Listening to her heart, she became a vampire and left to live among them in the Dark Nation.  Heartbroken, Gorin swore vengeance and launched an all out war to win the love of his life back into his arms.  But it was futile.  Gorin's army had been surrounded, soon leaving Gorin to stand alone against hundreds of hungry vampires.  After his fall, his son became king.  Billum was impressed with the wisdom and strength of the 12 kings, appointing them all to rule over the first house, coming to be known as The House of the Twelve Kings.  In return for the heavenly rule, Billum promised to personally watch over their kingdoms and its people. After thousands of years, Twells would emerge as the last kingdom to remain standing as one of the original kingdoms that made up the land of the Twelve Kings.

Legend of Twells series. BOOK ONE:"SWORD OF BILLUM"

It was knocked from the hands of the great Warrior/Priest, Lord over the house of the Warrior/Priests in a simple challenge waged high up in the heavens. It landed and was buried near the land ruled by a great Warrior/King. However the impact its legend will have over the lives of a banished Prince, a beautiful and wise Princess who becomes the last Queen of her Kingdom and a young maiden believed to be the daughter of a mystical people, will set the stage for a war that will endanger the lives of both mortals and immortals in an all out struggle for power.

Excerpt of the week: "Prince Darben of Onus":

Even his cry was unusual. It wasn’t the reflective, forceful wail that announced his arrival into the world, but an unbearable, high-pitched protest, which proved difficult to tolerate. Queen Dedra seemed to refuse the instinctive nature of all mothers to cradle the crying infant close to her bosom, but rather was holding the babe dressed in swaddling cloth in her weary hands like a heavy, burdensome stone, falling inside herself as if into a deep well rummaging among relics for a treasure chest of compassion. Unfortunately, the well of her heart didn’t run very deep.

She was pained with disappointment.

Searching for something within as she beheld the ‘stained’ face of the cursed cherub, hopeful her eyes could find something to adore. Had she been born a poor citizen of Onus maybe she would feel differently. Not all women were fortunate to have children, and of those who could, many died in the act of giving birth. Frail, young, malnourished bodies unable to withstand the trauma of childbirth being to blame. She would be angry with the ‘gods' had she believed in them. But she wasn’t a peasant born of low grade, she was a queen, and kings don’t marry beautiful princesses for beauty alone, but also in hopes of having handsome and beautiful heirs.

Without so much as a look at her servant Louisa, the truculent queen slowly placed the crying infant back into her unsuspecting arms. Unsure of what to make of the Queen’s actions, a baffled Louisa held out hope for her queen. She just gave birth , she thought. Surely she suffers from stress and great fatigue.

“Your Grace, he is still a babe; there is time still.”

But the naive smile of a young woman considered too old for marriage, only fit to remain in servitude to the crown, couldn't possibly understand. None of them could. Peasants! So critical of the The King and Queen. Try once to walk in the constrictive attire of Royalty.

She recalled the well-pleased smile of King Omron after the birth of Prince Omron II, and the jewelry he so graciously bestowed around her neck, commemorating the happy occasion. She recalled also the night he paced anxiously outside of her chambers at the arrival of Princess Octavia. His eyes couldn't drink deeply enough of her beauty. Now, it appeared his eyes had had their fill, at least that’s how it seemed. Maybe his eyes had had their fill of her as well. Absent this night was the sound of feet pacing outside of her door.

They could never understand what it was like to be a beautiful queen.

Despite Louisa’s words, the queen held to no such lofty delusions.

“Remove him from my presence,” she ordered curtly. Louisa’s gentle smile receded into an awful sadness as her eyes slowly fell upon the face of the child whose crying had subsided. The babe was now silent, and the queen observed with envy the comforting arms of Louisa wrapped around him. If there was a young maiden more suitable to providing loving care for her child, it was Louisa.

The young maiden’s sheer beauty only rivaled her own. But it was the order of things. She was born into servitude, and her common blood was never to mingle with that of Royalty. Beauty had many advantages, but overcoming servitude wasn’t one of them.

“You can never marry, Louisa,” the queen whispered, staring out into the blackness of night. “No children shall ever pass through your womb. However, this night, I have given birth in your place.” Her bottom lip quivered. “Maybe my heartache will bring you joy,” her voice cracked.

With her eyes, Louisa questioned those of the midwives, who were just as dumbfounded as she. Had the child been as handsome as Omron II or as lovely as Octavia, would the queen have been so generous with the fruit from her very own womb? Charity from the King and Queen was never expected, but charity of this magnitude was unheard of. She wasn’t a nurse, just a simple servant performing her duties to the crown. While holding the child close in her bosom, an obvious question came to mind.

“Your Grace, the child will need care. Seeing that I have never given birth, how shall I handle such a delicate matter?”

The raging storm outside the lofty walls of the Castle of Onus mirrored the storm of bitterness that swirled just as unpredictably within the queen’s own heart.

“Find him a breast to suckle upon among the peasants, and he shall be placed under your sole care,” she said. With her eyes, she beat back the judgmental glares of the two midwives. Old, silly women. Who were they to judge her?

“However, because his blood is Royal, he shall be treated as such. Is that understood?”

It appeared that even charity was conditional. Rolling over onto her side, her back faced Louisa holding the child.

“Now you all may leave me; I need rest,” she ordered.

The two caregivers mournfully looked over at a bewildered Louisa before bowing to the Queen and exiting the chambers, followed slowly by Louisa, cradling the newborn in her small arms, when suddenly she was struck by something and turned back.

“Your Grace, bid me to trouble you once more, yet, what shall we call the child?”

The madness of gods and old folk tales. If they were true, this night, they had cursed the queen. A flash of lightning illuminated the simple tears that ran down the face of the most beautiful queen as she silently gazed out into the night sky. She closed her eyes.

“Name him 'My Misery,’” she whispered. Now the gods shall be responsible for his care.

Louisa’s heart sank within her. She grabbed the lantern before bowing, slowly leaving with the child from the chambers.

She arrived at her quarters just down the hall from the queen’s. Maybe the queen will have a change of heart by morning, she thought. She placed the child on her humble bed. Louisa held the lantern close to the infant's small face, examining the scar more closely.

“It’s not so bad,” she whispered. The sweet face was interrupted by a scar from the bridge of his nose to his forehead, on the left side. She lay next to him on her stomach, slowly placing a kiss upon his ‘darkened’ cheek as her long, brown, curly locks covered the face of the babe. Her eyes weighed the pitiful things around her rather quaint quarters. She felt embarrassed. Not even the queen herself had ever been inside her quarters.

Surely, such meager accommodations were not befitting of a prince. Her face hovered above the infant's. “My lord,” she whispered softly, “I have very simple things, and my means are not much. But to you, I shall give my all.”

The sleeping child appeared to stir, responding to her voice. “What shall be your name?” she pondered greatly as she watched him sleep.

Usually the King himself would announce the child’s name, which would have begun with the letter O. But this was no longer meant to be. But what difference did it make what name she gave to the child? If the queen did not approve it, she would have to change it. Suddenly, a name came to mind. It was the name that belonged to someone she had once cared for dearly, but whose blood was much too rich to be mingled with that of a servant girl.

She softly rubbed his darkened cheek with her index finger. “My Prince, I shall hereby name you, Prince Darben of Onus.” 

"Safer In My Own Skin" by Ronn E Taylor

                                                            

        You've never loved Someone so deeply until they've
 consumed your entire being like a fine mist, covering every inch of
your nakedness.  You absorbed them in every pore, they live inside and underneath your skin. 

Their presence is so heavy in your life, that suddenly when they left your life, the entire atmosphere around you decompressed.  Making it difficult to breathe the imaginary sunshine, that surrounded them.  You ever loved like that?

When they leave your life, whether known to them, they take a part of you with them.  Doesn't matter how small or minuscule,but its a piece of you that you can never have again.   

Soon over time, others will come to carry away even more pieces until you're left a hollow shell.  Slowly reduced to be defined as a 'once' or 'other'.  You're never the same and can never be what you were. 

She was sun in my eyes.  I looked too hard, too deeply.   Now I'm blind.  Vision impaired, I've learned to embrace the subtle shades and shifting shadows of objects of past affections.  Hobbling about with mortal wounds seeping blood of optimism.  How was I made, to perish this way?  

We're all composed of odd textures and strange angles.  Constrictive shapes and harsh colors.  It was far easier to love the rough, wry edges of her, than to forgive the smooth, narrow lines that defined her.  Inside of her existed my beautiful place.  Aborted by the world and reborn inside of her, we slipped beyond our tainted selves, upside down inside the world.  Grasping tightly to anything resembling reason to keep from falling through the sky and being consumed in the heat of the sun.  

Love is insanity, a deranged arrangement; the struggle between passion and pride.  Outside of the self, exposed to harm and shame.  Free of control, free to fall apart and to re-assemble into a broken narrative.  a fragile sentence left to dangle wildly at the end of a quizzical paragraph.  I am now, the silence between the words.  Taking refuge in plain sight of the conversation without any obligation to define or struggle for clarity.  To withhold thought, to withhold opinion. 

I've abandoned that beautiful place inside of her, to wonder aimlessly.  I suppose inside every woman  exists a beautiful place.  However, now I prefer..the dry lands.  Nurtured from the stones and dust, wind nibbling feverishly upon the old bones of lovers from long ago.  I am determined to lick the very parasites from them that still contains particles of my DNA.  Maybe I can never be whole or what I once was.  But what I was, shall rest with me, not them. 

I have concluded, that no where is safer than the space of my own mind, the warmth of my own heart and the comfort of my own bed.  Fractured, yet whole, safely inside, my own skin..

To Book or eBook: Really?

Being a writer is..AWESOME!!!  Yep!  Sure I don't have the gravy to pour over the 'meat'
yet(Um, yeah, I just came up with this one), but who cares?!  My work is in print(OK, granted it's a short story), but I'm anticipating the release of at least two novels, early  next year.
Strange thing tho, when my short story,"Evelyn Thayer" was only available for Kindle, no
one I knew, (except a few close friends) seem to even care.

Honestly, interest in my short story didn't really peak for me, until it became available in print.
Seriously!  This phenomenon isn't just lost on me apparently.   A few fellow authors I have
become close with, have expressed joy, in having their work featured in an anthology, now available in print.  Once again, we're talking about short stories, mind you.  However, had it NOT been for a publisher specializing primarily in eBooks(Etopia Press), I wouldn't be a published author.

We have been conditioned as a society to embrace the tangible form of the printed word.  A book.
E-Books may well be the future and even more profitable for unknown authors, but nothing beats the feel and smell of a book.  Paperback or hardcover, the very placement
of it upon a coffee table speaks volumes.

I won't lie, it was a little disheartening to hear "I'll wait until it comes out in print", after informing others about the availability of my work as an eBook.   It was almost as if they were saying, "I won't call you an author, until I'm holding a book, with your name
attached to it".

Let's be honest, shall we?  There isn't an author whose first work was published as an eBook,
wasn't a little 'giddy' once holding a physical book of their work in hand.  I was(Pssshhh..
I'm still riding that cloud). Call it preference or conditioning, however, that has to change.
As authors, we can't expect the masses to run out and buy Kindles just to read our work.  Yet,
on the other hand, the masses can't expect to only find good, quality and creative work,
in paperback or hardcover.

The masses need to give eBooks and their authors the same look, as they would the
paperbacks on the racks of Walmart or Target.  And we authors, have to learn to
be more patient with e Publishers, who believed in our work enough, to put money
behind it.  YES!  Publishing eBooks cost both time and money.

I'm not advocating one form over the other, just simply pointing out, that both can co-exist.
I applaud the authors who use social media to promote the works available as eBooks.
Hopefully one day, rather your work was published first online or in paperback, the thrill
of being an author, won't change.  :)

Julia Kavan

'Dreaming, not Sleeping' by Julia Kavan,  is just one of twelve great short stories included in the horror anthology 'Touched by Darkness'.   Julia's story is haunting and I like it a lot.  There are other wonderful stories in the collection as well.  Also, be sure to check out her blog(link provided below) where I and others share our favorite short stories.   Don't forget you can pick up Julia's story or the entire collection which includes 'Evelyn Thayer' @ Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble and OmniLit.com

Julia's Blog

Excerpt from "Evelyn Thayer" published by Etopia Press.

      She dipped her hands in the sudsy water, feeling around for the loose silverware on the bottom of the sink. Placing them one by one onto a freshly cleaned linen towel to dry, lined up like soldiers off to assist in satisfying the appetites of the day. Counting the air-dried forks, spoons, and knives with her eyes, continuing to feel around in the sink as water sloshed onto her ankle length, candy stripe socks. Slowly pulling her hands from the water with a steak knife in her right hand. It was her favorite, easily distinguishable from the others by a missing screw that held the plastic handle the the stainless steel blade. 

The table accessory had been to her what a Swiss army knife was to a Marine. After careful inspection, she held it up to her usual sullen scowl. The crow’s feet around her eyes stretched further along her face. The knife was missing its tip. She hadn't noticed it before.

She felt a slight sting in her chest, a most inappropriate reaction for such a common object. Tears spilled down her face like fresh rain over a cracked desert floor. With damp hands, she brushed

the tears away as if they were insects crawling on her skin. The clock on the stove read quarter to ten. Margret would be over for breakfast soon. She had invited her over an hour ago. She set the table for two, walked over to the refrigerator, and grabbed a fresh carton of eggs. She reached for something in an unconventional wrapping along with a tube of Italian sausage and some onions, green peppers, and mushrooms. After sautéing her vegetables, she added her egg mixture. A few minutes later, everything was ready. 

There was a knock on the kitchen door. It was Margret. "Something sure does smell good, Evelyn" she said, hugging her curmudgeonly host. Evelyn haphazardly slung an arm around Margret's back and got a face full of her well-styled hair. It smelled amazing! Who in the hell gets all gussied up just to have breakfast? Evelyn thought. The bleached-blond Margret Smalls did. I bet all the girls wanted to be friends with her back in high school. Her nails and makeup were always flawless. Her ample breasts were more apparent now days. The “girls” needed little assistance from the rather pricey bras she probably wore. Rumor from the scamps around the crochet circle was that some slob bought her a new pair of boobs, as if she needed them. 

“Is Bill still here?" Margret inquired. Evelyn frowned. "Bill?"

Margret pointed with her well-manicured thumb towards the driveway. 

"Yeah, his truck is still parked outside. I thought he usually works on Saturdays." 

"His truck," Evelyn whispered, focusing on the door. She looked from the door back to a statue-like Margret, then held her head down as she brushed past to the stove. 

"He's sleeping in today," she mumbled.

 "Oh." Margret raised her tattooed eyebrows and slowly closed the door. She pulled a chair from the table to sit down, pitying Evelyn's roadside-diner-like attire with her eyes. “Evelyn, are you OK? You seem a little frazzled this morning.” 

Evelyn gazed into the gaunt set of eyes reflected in the silver coffee pot while she poured Margret a cup. "Yeah, I'm fine. Didn’t sleep much last night. Damn dog next door." Margaret poured cream and sugar into her coffee. "Well, I didn't hear a thing. I usually sleep like a baby." Evelyn rolled her eyes. Dumb bitch. Babies don't sleep soundly at night. She prepared a plate of scrambled eggs for Margret, then placed them in front of her. She sat down across the table. A plate absent of food lay untouched in front of the rather aloof Evelyn. She was having just a cup of coffee. Margret eyed her fork; the obvious hadn't escaped her. 

"You're not having anything?"

Evelyn placed loose strands of her hair behind her ear, looking a bit uncomfortable.

 "Later. I'm still trying to shake the cobwebs loose" Margret managed a smile through the masked tension, and picked up the fork from the table.

      Taking a careful sip of coffee, Evelyn's eyes fixed on Margret’s fork. She barely breathed as she watched the fork dig into the eggs, pause a bit, then carry them to the moist, lip-sticked lips of the twice-divorced diva. Strands of Evelyn's hair hung like graying drapes in her eyes, obscuring the harsh glare of contempt as her wrinkled lips part slightly. "Mmm," Margret moaned, closing her eyes and savoring the eggs as a slow menacing grin spread like corrosion beneath the long, unattractive nose of Evelyn Thayer. "Oh my God, Evelyn, these eggs are delicious.” Slowly Evelyn ran her tongue over her dry, chapped lips. "It's no wonder why Bill's been putting on so much weight," Margret laughed, bringing a genuine smile from Evelyn. Her eyes relished the motion of Margret's perfectly squared jaw, fascinated with every morsel of food her buxom dining guest swallowed. Margaret chewed her food slowly, visibly taken by the flavors that tumbled over her tongue. She stabbed at the brown bits with her fork. "What type of sausage is this? It's wonderful."

Evelyn’s eyes widened slightly. For a glimmer of a second, they appeared to hide a stifled laugh. She lowered her cup of coffee to the table and whisked strands of hair from her eyes. "It's homemade, from my sister and her husband." "Speaking of which, are they still interested in some land down in Monroe? I've acquired some from my divorce and I'm looking to sell, if I can get a pretty good offer for it.” Evelyn brushed her graying hair with her hand. 

"I don't keep up with their finances," she offered with a harsh glare. "But I'll ask the next time I speak with them.” Money, that's all she cares about. What’s wrong Margret? Running low on funds for your lavish lifestyle? Her recent divorce from second husband Peter had left her well off. He had owned a successful construction company, but after the divorce, she owned a large stake in it, along with two of the four homes he owned and six hundred thousand dollars from a savings account. But Peter should have known better. He was god awful ugly; he should have known that someone as pretty as Margret was only interested in his money. Margaret was talking, but Evelyn had stopped listening.

With her eyes she enviously fondled Margret's breasts, which bounced with each breath and jiggled from her slightest movements. Evelyn took note of how Margret leaned in toward the table as she spoke. Apparently it was a force of habit, probably

something she did often while conversing with men, offering a peek at her deep cleavage in her low cut blouses. Not a man on earth could resist the witty musings that spilled from her self-indulgent head like candy from a busted piñata. She was an honest hard working woman's greatest nightmare. A man would trade in a clean home and hot meals for a woman like her any day. She spoke with her hands. They were soft, delicate. They seemed regal, never allowed to hold or touch the tools of the commoner. Evelyn's eyes fell upon her own rough and worn hands holding the coffee mug and clasped them neatly in her lap, frowning upon them like way-ward children. A woman shouldn't have unattractive hands like a man.

 Margret had never worked, had never had a real job, unless you considered swinging around from a pole an occupation. A fool with money didn't stand a chance against the cunning charms of the sultry temptress. She was slutty enough to bait them, but too cleaver to be considered a whore. You either admired or hated a woman like Margret; but whatever you did, you never left her alone with your husband. That is, if he was successful.

Now she understood why after all these years she didn't have any women friends. They talked too damn much! Damn, woman! Breathe! A simple invitation for breakfast was turning into the torturous rants of a narcissist. 

Every so often, between the hopeful elusive pauses in the conversation, Evelyn

found herself glancing at the clock. 11:00. Time couldn't move fast enough. Margret wasn't educated, but she had managed to turn ignorance into an appealing charm. Men loved women who posed no threat to their sense of superiority. It was one thing to be beautiful, but it was another to be beautiful and street smart. If she had been frugal in any way it was in retaining the second hand knowledge that she stored. If a guy was a bank manager then suddenly she was an expert on mortgage rates. For her, wisdom must have rested on the tips of the many cocks she blew. Obviously for the former stripper, it was the fastest way to transmit the vast knowledge that successful men possessed. She was a locust; she used every inch and centimeter of a man's mind, body, and soul before moving on to the next. Evelyn recalled how she had taken a sudden interest in cement work, telling Bill how she could take his cement company nationwide. Idiot! He actually believed she knew what the hell she was talking about. Why are men so damn stupid? The sound of her fork being placed onto the empty plate brought Evelyn's mind back to center. Margret carefully dabbed her mouth with a napkin. 

"Evelyn Thayer, that was delicious," she said, smiling over at her not-so-sociable host, who held her cup with both hands now and simply nodded. "Glad you enjoyed it.”

The chair scrapped against the linoleum floor as Margret stood up. "I have to get going" reaching into her expensive handbag for her Louie Vuitton sunglasses. Evelyn stood up and neatly brushed the crinkles from her apron. "You have to let me take you out for breakfast sometime." Margaret smiled. It was a kind gesture that Evelyn had not anticipated, which inspired a rare softness in her usually stony veneer. Her rough hands were folded courteously in front of her like a waitress. She willed herself to smile. "A cup of coffee will do just fine." After another uncomfortable hug, Margret Smalls left. But the smell of her perfume still lingered in the small kitchen. It reminded Evelyn of something, and Evelyn’s attempt at a smile was soon washed away. Standing over the stove with a fork, she meticulously removed pieces of sausage from the skillet. Stealthily placed them in a napkin then inside the pouch of her apron. Cleared the table, and placed the plate and cups in the empty sink before heading up stairs.

Click the links below to Purchase.

On sale Now @ Amazon.com 

OmniLit Barnes and Noble

  

Touched by Darkness

"Evelyn Thayer" is also a part of

this fantastic collection of dark tales of Evil.

Available Friday, Sept 14th for download through Amazon.com, B&N and

Romance e-Book.

Evelyn Thayer

"Evelyn haphazardly slung an arm around Margret's back and got a face full of her well-styled

hair.  It smelled amazing!  Who in the hell gets all gussied up just to have breakfast? Evelyn

thought.  The bleach-blond Margret Smalls did." Excerpt from "Evelyn Thayer".

Available Sept 14th on Amazon.com, B&N, Romance e-Books. Etopia Press. 

The Baptism

    


The winds have licked the flames from underneath me,
 sending me crashing towards the earth, 
free falling and tumbling sideways.  Oh Lord, shall I be baptized?

Just as gravity holds the Earth in place, there was nothing 
 inside of me that was the center of my universe.
 The object of my deepest affections shrunk the view of everything that surrounded her. 
The delusion was that time stood still, the reality however, was that I had stopped progressing.

Understand that all joy is no mystery. The discovery for you is the misery of another. 
The space between a smile and a frown, is a day. Gladness of heart is not a remedy for sorrow.
 It has no remedy. It mourns beneath your temporal joy and sleeps during moments of laughter. 

What can the heart give in exchange for its sorrow? To eyes, tears.
 To the lips, a quiver. When the heart dies the spirit mourns. This is sorrow. 
Oh Lord, shall I be baptized?

I fell backwards into you.
free-falling sideways into a destructive bliss
as the sky fell from before me and the ocean moved underneath

to receive this shell.

The weight of your presence added momentum to my fall.
any moment now and I shall be baptized.
Maybe in a lucid dream the world ends. 
The sea spins and clouds are chased away by air that's thin. Angel's sing "smile in your sleep.
Dance in your madness.
Cry in your joy. 
When morning dawns, misery begins".

We were an augmented melody with confusing lyrics.
you made me so damn dizzy, intoxicated.  

Unpredictable, laughter and tears.
Fingers pricked by thorns, blood on the petals.
I knew the risk, a flower never meant to be handled so foolishly.

You were my breath and I held you until I could breathe
no more. I died in you yet you could not live inside me.

I lick my lips tasting your last kiss a new.
Closed my tear stained eyes as the smell of the sea
danced under my nose. I whispered a prayer and 

as I stood on the cliff.   I fell.

The fall was exquisite, the anticipated crash will be beautiful.

God forgive, that I cannot forgive.
Forgive what is most unforgivable.

Receive what is left of me o great sea.
Wash my remains upon the shores of time,
bring with me my wayward footprints left in the sand.
One last look at the sun.  One last wish from my lips.

Fall unto me my salvation.

Falling faster still and then....
baptism. I

 was cleansed by the truth of you.  

The parable of us, 
"And when all is said of love and dreams, the dream it's self arouses from sleep.

The bliss we imagined for self will teach,
That nothing in life is truly pure or sweet". 

I have been baptized..

   

Last 'Hello'

    We'll pretend that by strange coincidence, we have arrived at this familiar place once again.
We'll pretend that sadness is truly joy and that this unexpected meeting is 'good'.   This is the circle we have come together briefly to complete.  What began, now ends.

We'll discuss the small, the trivial.  Avoiding like sickness the more relevant, detailed morsels of our forward singular progression without the other.  We'll pretend that a familiar smile now offers nothing more, than a casual 'welcome'.  Un-chained from our dialogue are the words that pulled and pushed us together, then apart.  I'll even foolishly pretend that my heart is un-chained from yours.  But inside, the links cannot be broken.

We'll pretend that life is normal.  With a kind smile we'll separate, honoring the space we have reserved for another.  As I slowly turn to walk away I'll lie.  Telling myself that it wasn't as difficult as I had assumed it would be.  However strange, yet stranger still, I will be convinced that you felt the same.  We'll walk away, maybe to never see the face of the other again.  I won't look back.  Because I'll know, you won't look back.

Somewhere I'll get lost in the crowd.  Lost inside of me once again, the question of you.  The pendulum has swung, forever are we lost in the tension of it's silence.  I'll take with me all that you were, yet sadden that I will never have the chance to embrace, all that you'll be.  However I'm sure as we disappear into the business of life, we'll pretend not to remember us or moments etched in our hearts.  Your warm smile, your gentle laugh.  The beauty of the ocean that day and our foot prints we left behind in the sand.  As I turn the corner in the brisk air, I'll only be reminded that winter, is coming soon.  But winter, is here.

'At first sight'.

We see what we want to see.  A desire reflected back onto ourselves.
A beautiful woman.  A desirable vixen.  An honest heart.  We are conditioned to
 be swayed by the totality of a simple glance.  We imagine that nothing as fragile as beauty
can bring us any harm.  We imagine that the petals of all delicate flowers are the envy of our hands.
We are eager to kiss lips whether they fashion lies or spit into the face of others.

We long to search eyes that are short of sight and void of vision.  However, the most sinister
of us all hide behind the beauty of opulence and majesty.  The greatest evil is the death
that hides in a kiss.  The most poisonous venom is in kind words that renders us helpless,
unable to fight off the jaws that open wide to consume us.  A willing prey requires little effort
for a cunning predator.  We are willing to ignore the fangs concealed by a smile.

The devil isn't a monster.  No, but a wonderful tree with pleasurable fruit hanging from its limbs.
A rotten tree with rotten fruit is the home of flies, not beautiful creatures.
What resides within the heart, attracts what rests outside of it.


 The prize of the eyes are the reward of the heart.
 What the eyes drink in, the heart shall have its fill.  Pay homage to vanity and grasp the air. Pay homage to modesty and the wind of grace shall dance underneath your wings.
Lifting you to heights were passion cannot.  Inspiring the heart to compose lyrics that kisses
cannot.  

We see what we want to see, until it is too late.  A broken heart is the result of careless eyes.
Drinking in much, but understanding little.  We attribute no crimes to beauty.  Her alibi is the
innocence we give to it.  We attribute to it truth, honesty and grace.  Beauty isn't in the eye
of the beholder but in the heart, of the fool.   We see a beautiful woman, but in reality, a murderer who happens to be, beautiful.  We see soft loving eyes, but in truth, they mask a harsh unforgiving heart.
We see wonderful full lips, but honesty is not the language they speak.

If the eyes sail upon many waters, it shall return to the heart empty treasures.  May your heart set
a course for singleness of sight.

'Evelyn'

I wanted to make you beautiful.  Not the superficial stuff of models and horny teenage boys wet dreams.  But a small ray of sun light peeking through a gloomy sky.  But the 'pen' was mightier than me.  I imagined that as a child you weren't loved much, if at all.   Nothing fancy about the plain way you were your hair in high school or the thrift store clothes you were unmercifully teased for wearing.  You came from very little and was given only an ounce of that for yourself.

I wanted you to be my pain and anguish personified.  Perhaps you could represent what I have always so desperately tried to conceal about myself.  I made you a woman who bore the physical description of the ugliness I carried around in myself.  The self loathing of wasted opportunities, the stress of that appearing as a 'scowl' etched upon your face.  That scowl, I carried in my heart.  I gave that to you so that I no longer would have to carry it.  Was it fair?  Maybe.

I gave you a husband that made you his shadow.  Maybe it was wrong of me to allow you to become content with this rather pathetic arrangement.  But it was an arrangement I was most familiar with.  Loving from underneath the shadows of others.  However you took it a step further.  Further than even what I had anticipated.  You became his slave, his maid.  All the while, I was hoping that you would break free and leave with your dignity intact.  I was hoping you would prevail where I had not.  That you would reach deep inside of yourself and pull what was most important to your own personal survival.

However you allowed the bitterness and pain gut the inside of an otherwise kind and generous heart.  And then, she appeared.  She was everything that you weren't and never could be, Evelyn.  She was, beautiful.  But on the inside, she was a rotten bitch.  And you saw that, Evelyn.   The consequences of it all I was hoping you would avoid.  Maybe, I was very naive to assume that what took place came without consequences.  Maybe somewhere deep down, I was hoping that like me, you would just swallow that huge ball of pain and hide it in your heart.  The only consequences suffered, would be to your own self-esteem.  But I was wrong.  Sorry isn't enough.  However, know this Evelyn Thayer.  I never intended for you to be what you became.  I only wanted to make you truly, beautiful.