Rumor has it there's a Publish America book going around out there with my name on it. The title is My Little White Geraniums. Yes, that's me. It's an urban fantasy horror novel that got butchered by a POD publisher after I fell for a scam by a shoddy agent. Lost money, ruined book. Great combo, but lesson learned. I'm over it. It was funny because a year later was when all the scam articles came out: what to watch for, things like that. I was naive and wanted to believe at the time, so an acceptance was an acceptance. Anyway, I highly recommend staying away from it. It is poorly written and not worth the read. Besides, I rewrote the entire thing word for word, added a couple hundred more pages, and retitled it Snapdragon. When will this might epic be released at 250,000 words? That's a good question. Seems first time authors and large books don't mix very well. Anyway, that's the story behind it, but it as a true tale I sincerely love, and definitely a brighter side of me. Believe it or not, it has a happy ending, lots of them, in fact.
Also, for those who don't know, I will keep you posted on the updates of Donny's Day, a novella of mine that will be released in December 2009 by Damnation Books. If you like demons, this is the story for you. I'm partial to the little buggers myself. Anyway, that's the gist friends, and we'll see you next time. Leave the lights on, but only if you have to, my little crypt dwellers. Nighty-night.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Empty Space
I am just a ghost, flitting across empty space. Nothing matters here. Nothing lives here. I am the face you see, the haunted one, the one with the long, hollow expression. I used to feel, I think to myself, I used to be. You cannot see me. I do not matter.
There was a life there once, a time long ago, when beautiful things happened, but I don't know what happened to them anymore. Like a dream, one that started just seconds ago, and is already over. I keep thinking I must've gotten in a plane crash, a car accident. That could only explain why I don't understand anything, why I don't see anything anymore, why I can't feel.
I haven't eaten all day, but I'm ghost. It doesn't matter. There is a sickness there, though, a haunting. Yes, ghosts can be haunted, too. Haunted by thoughts, by visions, the worst kinds, keeping me here, rooted to this spot. I couldn't eat, even if I was human, I think.
I do not touch the ground, not anymore. I flit across the walkways, the streets, parking lots. I see people everywhere I go. Happy faces, down by the creek, the library, the Creek Festival. I watch the couples hand in hand, heads on shoulders, laughter, and I cannot stop staring at those hands. I keep looking and looking and looking. I do not turn away. I used to have that, I think, a hand to hold, a girl to call my own, but none if it matters anymore. I lost her along the way. What happened? Does it matter? Didn't I try? Did I fail that badly, despite the love I had? Didn't love mean anything? Didn't my love mean anything? Doesn't Love mean anything at all?
I walk (or float rather). I watch the couples, and see the strollers, the children, the pregnant wives, and all I can think is, "How can you? How can you? Don't you see? Why would you bring something so precious into such a cruel and hateful world? What are the chances really of success, of love and happiness? Does anyone else have it that you know of? Why would you do that to them? Why take the chance they will come back, years later, not loving you?"
But it's useless. My words don't matter. They have no weight. They make no sound. They come echoing back like thoughts. It's even hard for me to hear them. I shake my head, what there is of it, but nothing matters. Nothing ever mattered. Nothing meant anything. Beauty didn't mean anything. Love didn't mean anything.
It's okay. I can see the blue sky, the green in the trees, but I can't tell what the temperature is. I cannot feel the warmth or the cold. But I can see the blue, and I'm glad for that. At least I can see that. What if it was black and white, what if--as a ghost--you saw in black and white? It wouldn't have surprised me.
You can't cry here, either, so just be warned. You can't feel, touch, or know much of anything, except why you're here. You came all this way, defeated, conquered so much, only to feel like this. It's not fair. And that's where you are trapped in the limbo of unfairness, the cruelty, the savagery. Life doesn't care about you. What made you think you were so special anyway?
So I flit through the empty space, and I scream to myself because there is pain here. That's what the empty feeling is. It's constant. It won't ever go away. Maybe in time. Maybe when the kids come home. Maybe when the dream begins again, if it ever does, if it ever will, and something makes sense again. Maybe when she leans over and lightly touches me, tells me she loves me, that she never wants me to leave, that she needs me there.
But that seems too much to ask. It might've never happened to begin with. Maybe it was just a dream I concocted in my head. I never had love at all. I never had anything. Nothing ever mattered. Nothing ever did, what we had, what we did, the things we said, whatever they were, whoever she is.
There was a life there once, a time long ago, when beautiful things happened, but I don't know what happened to them anymore. Like a dream, one that started just seconds ago, and is already over. I keep thinking I must've gotten in a plane crash, a car accident. That could only explain why I don't understand anything, why I don't see anything anymore, why I can't feel.
I haven't eaten all day, but I'm ghost. It doesn't matter. There is a sickness there, though, a haunting. Yes, ghosts can be haunted, too. Haunted by thoughts, by visions, the worst kinds, keeping me here, rooted to this spot. I couldn't eat, even if I was human, I think.
I do not touch the ground, not anymore. I flit across the walkways, the streets, parking lots. I see people everywhere I go. Happy faces, down by the creek, the library, the Creek Festival. I watch the couples hand in hand, heads on shoulders, laughter, and I cannot stop staring at those hands. I keep looking and looking and looking. I do not turn away. I used to have that, I think, a hand to hold, a girl to call my own, but none if it matters anymore. I lost her along the way. What happened? Does it matter? Didn't I try? Did I fail that badly, despite the love I had? Didn't love mean anything? Didn't my love mean anything? Doesn't Love mean anything at all?
I walk (or float rather). I watch the couples, and see the strollers, the children, the pregnant wives, and all I can think is, "How can you? How can you? Don't you see? Why would you bring something so precious into such a cruel and hateful world? What are the chances really of success, of love and happiness? Does anyone else have it that you know of? Why would you do that to them? Why take the chance they will come back, years later, not loving you?"
But it's useless. My words don't matter. They have no weight. They make no sound. They come echoing back like thoughts. It's even hard for me to hear them. I shake my head, what there is of it, but nothing matters. Nothing ever mattered. Nothing meant anything. Beauty didn't mean anything. Love didn't mean anything.
It's okay. I can see the blue sky, the green in the trees, but I can't tell what the temperature is. I cannot feel the warmth or the cold. But I can see the blue, and I'm glad for that. At least I can see that. What if it was black and white, what if--as a ghost--you saw in black and white? It wouldn't have surprised me.
You can't cry here, either, so just be warned. You can't feel, touch, or know much of anything, except why you're here. You came all this way, defeated, conquered so much, only to feel like this. It's not fair. And that's where you are trapped in the limbo of unfairness, the cruelty, the savagery. Life doesn't care about you. What made you think you were so special anyway?
So I flit through the empty space, and I scream to myself because there is pain here. That's what the empty feeling is. It's constant. It won't ever go away. Maybe in time. Maybe when the kids come home. Maybe when the dream begins again, if it ever does, if it ever will, and something makes sense again. Maybe when she leans over and lightly touches me, tells me she loves me, that she never wants me to leave, that she needs me there.
But that seems too much to ask. It might've never happened to begin with. Maybe it was just a dream I concocted in my head. I never had love at all. I never had anything. Nothing ever mattered. Nothing ever did, what we had, what we did, the things we said, whatever they were, whoever she is.
Armor Enough
What an erratic bunch of posts. And this one is no different. What a fool I have been! the old adage: Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. I might've been cynical, pessimistic, and reclusive for a lot of years, but I've learned some things along the way. You know them, too, but not everybody does, and not everybody cares. The world is a dark, horrifying, unloving and tragic place at times, but it doesn't have to be, not you're little corner of it. I've been working with people, the public, for a lot of years now, and the challenging ones come and go, but there are the rare, the spirited, the loving and caring, the magic, the gifted, the genuine. I've been writing dark things for a while, but I certainly don't adopt it into my daily routine. I've had my share of issues and I've conquered them one by one, and still have a few to go. At least that I'm aware of. I've prided myself on being someone who can appreciate and want to understand the dark and still be genuine and sincere in their daily routine. It makes me see myself in a brighter light, balanced. I'm okay. I have a lot of great friends, friends who don't judge, criticize, point their fingers, accuse. They would take a bullet for you, and I would do the same. It tells you a lot about yourself as a person with such an army on your side.
Life is too short. That's the next thing. When you're doing your best, being as loving, patient, and understanding as you can be, and receiving nothing in return but harshness, hostility, and coldness, then it seems the next thing is just to move on. Some people are just mean-spirited. They don't care about you, despite what they've said. They've typecast you perhaps as being just like everybody else. You know who you are, and you don't have to prove yourself to anyone. There are plenty of beautiful people who are loving and kind and wanting to share it with you. You shouldn't have to spend a single minute trying to prove yourself to people. You are who you are and that is a beautiful thing. That's it. I know who I am, take me or leave me, and I'm worth a hell of a lot more than someone's doormat for every time something goes wrong. That's okay. Mark another one off the list. My point here: It's sad, heartbreaking, insulting, even rude, that people would think otherwise. Sorry, but I believe in politeness, that old fashioned, dying ritual. We're all in this together, but we can also help each other along the way. Our own pain and tears is enough. Some have already made up their minds, the stubborn cruelty they've allowed to consume their lives. That's okay, too. We don't need them. You can't persuade them one way or the other. And that's sad, heartbreaking, but folks, that's the way the world is. Don't waste your time. There are a a million kind-hearted, beautiful people out there just waiting to shower you with sincerity, love, and acceptance. We just have to find each other. Leave the mean ones to their own devices, their own islands. You deserve better. I deserve better. We all deserve better. There is a huge, bright light out there if you want to be a part of it. You are not a doormat for the demons of life. As the bumper sticker says: Mean People Suck. And it's true. You shouldn't have to go through life having to endure them. They are not worth it. You have your self-respect, your pride. Your hope, your generosity. Believe me, my friends, that's armor enough for this mad world.
Life is too short. That's the next thing. When you're doing your best, being as loving, patient, and understanding as you can be, and receiving nothing in return but harshness, hostility, and coldness, then it seems the next thing is just to move on. Some people are just mean-spirited. They don't care about you, despite what they've said. They've typecast you perhaps as being just like everybody else. You know who you are, and you don't have to prove yourself to anyone. There are plenty of beautiful people who are loving and kind and wanting to share it with you. You shouldn't have to spend a single minute trying to prove yourself to people. You are who you are and that is a beautiful thing. That's it. I know who I am, take me or leave me, and I'm worth a hell of a lot more than someone's doormat for every time something goes wrong. That's okay. Mark another one off the list. My point here: It's sad, heartbreaking, insulting, even rude, that people would think otherwise. Sorry, but I believe in politeness, that old fashioned, dying ritual. We're all in this together, but we can also help each other along the way. Our own pain and tears is enough. Some have already made up their minds, the stubborn cruelty they've allowed to consume their lives. That's okay, too. We don't need them. You can't persuade them one way or the other. And that's sad, heartbreaking, but folks, that's the way the world is. Don't waste your time. There are a a million kind-hearted, beautiful people out there just waiting to shower you with sincerity, love, and acceptance. We just have to find each other. Leave the mean ones to their own devices, their own islands. You deserve better. I deserve better. We all deserve better. There is a huge, bright light out there if you want to be a part of it. You are not a doormat for the demons of life. As the bumper sticker says: Mean People Suck. And it's true. You shouldn't have to go through life having to endure them. They are not worth it. You have your self-respect, your pride. Your hope, your generosity. Believe me, my friends, that's armor enough for this mad world.
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