Voyeur

Voyeur https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/249398

**Warning** Contains graphic depictions of sex and violence**Mature audiences only**

It's the year 1296. Sam Montfort is mounted on an armored horse, while fighting through crowds of bodies covered in steel. Sam is slashing the way toward a castle which holds the prize all this bloodshed will win: Morgan Saint-Claire.

After making way into the castle, battling through the guards inside, and fighting to the inner chamber, Sam finally comes face to face with Morgan.

"Samantha!" Morgan said with excitement as he ran to hug the woman who had fought to free him. They embrace, Samantha gives her beloved Morgan a sword, and they fight their way out. They return home to live happily ever after.

Not a conventional fairytale, is it? Did you picture a man saving a woman even though there was no hint to gender until Samantha's full name is given? It's not your fault, I would have been surprised too because that's what we are accustomed to reading. That's exactly the kind of thing I wanted to flip on its head with my short story Voyeur. We are used to seeing the damsel in distress while her prince risks life and limb to rescue her. However, it isn't 1296 anymore, and women aren't the only ones who need rescued. With research now showing that men are just as likely to be abused as women in a relationship (http://www.csulb.edu/~mfiebert/assault.htm) we are seeing a change in the conventional gender roles to which we are so accustomed. However, the male identity does not lend itself to throwing its hair out the window like Rapunzel so easily.

Such is the case in Voyeur. April Videre is in love with her best friend Simon George, but doesn't have the courage to tell him. Will things change once she finds out about the abuse Simon is suffering at the hands of his fiancee, Cecilia?

Sometimes it takes a critic to make you appreciate what you do even more. In this instance it comes from Smashwords user "hrhsophia" who commented about my short story saying:  "I know that women can also be abusive but this is a little unbelievable." User hrhsophia also rated The Last Princess of the Dream Dragons by Janet MacDonald with 5 stars. I guess dragons are more believable than men being the victims of abuse at the hands of a woman.

Two things: first the word "also", second the word "unbelievable." Saying women can also be abusive is basically saying men are the abusers by default. Good Lord, does it get any more sexist or ignorant?

Turns out yes. Saying that a man being victim to a woman is "unbelievable" is about as bad as it gets. People are victims to people. Period.  Man or woman, black or white, old or young- it doesn't matter. Should we dismiss every domestic abuse case from males on grounds that it's "unbelievable?" No.

It is for this exact reason, this exact paradigm through our culture of men never being the victim that I wrote this short story. I only hope that the words I write can serve to challenge someone's views, and if not then maybe the next time they encounter a woman abusing a man the words will ring a bell.

In closing I would like to urge you to watch this eye opening video on public reactions to men abusing women vs. women abusing men. It's well worth your time. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LlFAd4YdQks

Thank you for reading. Take care.

"Everybody Knows Not to Ever Go Wishing at the Oak"

Everybody Knows Not to Ever Go Wishing at the Oak- https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/250578

A Halloween narrative poem in iambic trimeter.

This took too long to write. Iambic is, to put it simply, ridiculously hard. I am not a kayaker(kayakist? Kayak enthusiast?), but I would say that writing in iambic is akin to kayaking through quicksand. You work, and work, and work, and then six hours later you have maybe four lines... which you will rewrite tomorrow after deciding you hate them. Maybe I am just bad at it. Yes, I most certainly am. I have a much deeper appreciation for metered prose after trying to write some myself. This makes me truly see Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet for the masterpiece it truly is. How anyone found the patience to write an entire play in iambic is baffling. But I guess that's why he's the soul of the age and I'm just a guy with a blog.

I'm embarrassed to say that this took me four weeks to write. I wanted to publish it by Halloween since I was attempting the horror genre. It's a tribute to my favorite poet of all time, Edgar Alan Poe, whose horror short stories still keep me up some nights.

I hope you enjoy the poem. Thanks for visiting my blog. Please come back often to read more. Take care.

For Better or Worse

For Better or Worse - https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/248964

Hello, everyone,

I wrote a play a few weeks back titled For Better or Worse. I have searched around for a way to publish it for free to everyone. Both Barnes and Noble, and Amazon have options for self-publishing, but the minimum cost is $0.99. I didn't want to scare anyone off from reading just because they didn't have an Amazon account with a credit card on file and all that garbage. That's just way too much hassle.

I found an incredible website, Smashwords, that allows any word document to be converted into Kindle, Nook, Sony reader, iBook, and .PDF. Because of this wonderful site, and their option to publish for free, I am able to bring you my latest literary effort for free onto your Kindle, iPhone or iPad, Nook, and just about any device you own at no cost. If you don't own any of these devices you can also read it right here on your computer with the .pdf format, that is, if you don't care if your eyeballs burn out of your skull. Just be sure you click to download the most recently updated edition which will be the topmost link after clicking your desired format.

All you have to do is go to the link above. That link will provide you with the option to download in any format. If you're viewing the page on your iPhone or iPad then using Safari you will be able to download the file, and open it with your Kindle, iBooks, and Nook app. If you want it on your actual Kindle then simply hook your Kindle to your computer with a USB and... actually if you own a Kindle then I'm sure you know how it works.

The play is inspired from my favorite play, Doctor Faustus by Christopher Marlowe in which a man makes a deal with the Devil in exchange for power only to repent the loss of his soul in the end. I took a lot from other storylines involving faustian bargains such as the movies Spawn and the The Devil and Daniel Webster, the aforementioned Doctor Faustus, Faust by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, and the episode of Futurama "The Devil's Hands are Idle Playthings."

I hope you will enjoy reading and come back often to read again. I promise to have this blog updated as much as possible to keep you all coming back for more and more free stuff to read.

Thanks for visiting and take care.

The Substitute

I had a teacher once, a substitute. He was only there for two days while our regular teacher was at home nursing a cold. He wore a white oxford shirt with a black tie, black blazer, black pants, and black shoes; none of which actually fit him, but rather hung around his frame. His thinning hair was slicked back, and he wore a pair of plain-rimmed glasses over his long nose. When I saw him in the classroom instead of the usual Mrs. Chafin, I immediately glanced at the chalkboard to see “Mr. Tramble.” I was relieved. He was very silent; sitting still at the front of the class in the teacher’s chair as we students poured into the room, took our usual spots in the hard, wooden desks, and retrieved from our Power Ranger and Cinderella backpacks the appropriate workbooks, paper, and pencils.

“Clear your desks,” he said in a monotone voice. Now, I was confused at first, but looking at the stack of papers in his hand I assumed it was a test. No substitute had ever given a test. Substitutes put on movies or let us play games. Having a substitute meant you got an extra recess, basically. He remained silent and stoic as he passed each of us a single piece of white copy paper, and a black no.2 pencil sharpened perfectly to a point.

He grabbed a small, hardback book from the desk. Its cover was falling off, and its spine was tearing. He opened to his bookmark, and wrote in chalk on the board beside his name, “’Spirits of the Dead’ by Edgar Alan Poe.”

 I was only in the fourth grade.

As he dictated we diligently wrote the words of Poe. He had to stop every few words as all the hands raised in unison to ask for spelling. Around five lines in he just started spelling most of the words. However, all requests for definition, of which there were plenty, were denied. “Look it up in the dictionary,” he said, without even looking his head up from the page.

 We were only in the fourth grade.

Just as he finished spelling the last word of the last line the bell rang. He closed the book, and didn’t say a word as we all ran out of the classroom in a mad dash for the double doors to freedom at the end of the hall. I got on the bus, and unfolded the white piece of copy paper. I read it. I read it again. I read it ten times on the way home, and twenty times before dinner. I couldn’t pronounce most of the words, but after finding a dictionary I did my best to learn what they meant. After dinner, I sat in the floor of my room with pencil in hand staring at that other side of the creased copy paper. I wrote line after line, doing my best to rhyme. I erased, I wrote, I erased, and then wrote some more. I worked hard until bedtime on a poem of my own. “Dead Spirits” I titled it. Granted, not the most inventive name, but I was quite satisfied. I went to sleep smiling with the knowledge that Mr. Tramble would read my poem and love it. I imagined him loving it so much that he would read it aloud to the class, who would love it also. He would run to other teacher’s classrooms, and read it to them.

They would all think I was so smart for a kid in the fourth grade.

Tomorrow passed with my masterpiece snug inside my pocket. I reached down several times to feel the paper outline just to be sure I had not lost it. I read my poem at lunch and recess, and each time I read it I loved it more. As we entered the last class of the day, Mr. Tramble was seated at the teacher’s desk again. I could barely contain my excitement as I walked over, pulled the creased, worn paper out of my pocket, unfolded it, and placed it on the desk in front of him. He picked it up, and read down the page in silence while his face showed no sign of approval or distaste.

“What is the 8^th line of your poem?” he asked. I had no idea. I rattled my brain for a moment, but could not answer. My smile faded. “How long did it take you to write this?”

“I wrote it yesterday after dinner,” I responded.

“So, one day?”

“Yes.”

He glanced over it one more time before handing it back to me. “You should have spent more time on it.”

I was only in the fourth grade.

I was crushed. During the rest of the class I could not think of anything other than how much I hated my poem. What was I thinking? I basically stole the words from the other poem, and rearranged them into something new. It was so stupid. I couldn’t believe the fool I had made of myself.

That night I read the poem to my parents. They loved it.

“Honey, can you believe how smart our kid is? And he is only in the fourth grade,” they said to each other.

The next day our regular teacher, Mrs. Chafin, was back to teach. I showed my poem to her, and she loved it. She went to all the other teachers to show them. They all stopped me in the hallway to tell me how great it was or how proud they were of me.

“I read your poem! Great job, kid!”

“Hey, here comes the next Dr. Seuss!”

"I read your poem! It was so good! You're so smart to just be in the fourth grade!"

I threw the poem in the trash on my way to the school bus. I should’ve spent more time on it.

The Pale Horse

A long stretch of beach.  A sun hung permanently halfway below the horizon of a crystal clear ocean among orange and red clouds.  Cold water washes my feet.  Every few minutes a swell surprises me, and washes my entire body in a cold bath that smells of salt.  Laying there I am content.

Laying there no shadow touches me.  I am alone to reflect on my every memory.  Everyone I have ever known passes through my mind.  Every kiss, and all the moments that came before it.  Every goodbye, and all the years leading up to them.  I can put everything into perfect perspective framed by forgiveness and understanding.  Yet, a great weight exists on my shoulders which fills my heart with sadness.  The burden of saying a final goodbye is too much to bear.

Turn my head to the left I see the lush green forest from whence I came.  The tall trees thick together in a mess of weeds, insects, and animals.  I hacked my way through in a fury in search of this beach.  I fought hard in the effort to reach the peace I feel now.  I spent all my time slashing through brush and thorns in search of something better.  Now, after all these years I have found it.  Turning to my right I see the cave where the sand ends.  A hole in the side of the grass-covered knoll which no light penetrates.  I know that I can't go back the way I came. As sad as that makes me I know life only travels in one direction.

What must be hours come and go. I can't be sure of what time has passed since the sun still sets in the same position in which I found it. Time seems to stand still as I simply rest, and take each second at a time in a manner of pure existence.  I know the next move, but I am too scared to make it.  I am stalling.

A pale horse emerges from the forest galloping along the wet sand, and kicking water up its legs defined by more muscles than I could care to count.  A long, white tail trails behind it like a stream of light behind a falling star.  He stops at me, kneels, and rolls onto his side to place his head in my lap as if he were an old pet I have known for many years.  I do not know him, but it would seem he knows me.

More time passes in a standstill. It all feels the same. I realize that no amount of time will ever make the inevitable easier. The horse seems to sense this epiphany inside me, and stands up to face the cave.  As the waves continues to bathe his hooves and my feet, I feel a different swell inside my eyes.  I look up at my newest friend full of questions the answers to which I know he can't give me.

 "Will there be a light at the end of the tunnel?"  As expected, he does not respond.  He only turns his head back toward the cave.

One foot at a time I pick myself up. I pet his mane of soft, white hair so long that it drapes down to his knees.  Reluctantly, I swing a leg over his statuesque frame, and place my hands on either side of his neck to balance.  He doesn't move at first.  For a moment he stands so perfectly still that I would have thought he stopped breathing.  Then his weight shifts on his back legs, and he begins to walk.  he slowly picks up speed as we  ride down the beach with the sun at our side and the wind blowing so furiously it seems to cut through us with its salty mist.  Faster, and faster he picks up pace.  I sink lower to his neck, wrapping my hands around him, and clutching his hair tight in my fingers.

The cave approaches quickly.  My fear grows, and my heart seems to beat right out of my chest.  For a moment I think to jump off and dive into the sand speeding below me. Instead I reaffirm my grip into his long mane, and hug his neck tighter as the darkness approaches both of us.  Closer.  Closer.  The rocky threshold is just before us when I close my eyes, ball my fists of his hair, and take in one final breathe.

"Leaving Selv"

I always forget where I am.

When I wake up to the bright fluorescent light

My expectations of seeing the ceiling of my childhood bedroom

come down hard like a judge's gavel.

Every morning is a disappointment in Selv Prison.

The cold tile meets my naked feet.

I am groggy, tired.

Reality settles into focus;

I remember how I got here.

A sliver of sunlight falls through the narrow window on my left.

I stand up, and cross the floor to rest my shoulder against the corner of the window;

My morning routine for 40 years.

I stretch, and yawn in the small rays of sunshine.

And though the space is too small for my body to fit through

My soul can escape to the world outside.

It is a taste of the life I used to have.

A life of freedom.

Against my view of the hall competes the metal bars.

The iron obstructed my will, at first,

Now I have no will, no desire.

Against the steadfast metal bars no free man can survive.

The only way one learns to live here is by giving up on everything.

Losing hope means keeping sanity.

But now my ears deceive me, I think.

The usual noise of the corridor is absent,

The guards I know by footstep are not stepping.

Silence.

I move to observe why everything is so strangely quiet.

Leaning against the bars of my heavy metal door

I suddenly find it moving forward with my weight; swinging open.

I stumble to my knee, then run back inside to stand against the wall

Like I have been made to do for years during inspections.

The open door seems to stare into my soul;

Blowing the flames of a fire long burned down.

I creep toward the exit.

Slowly, I walk on eggshells.

Standing in the doorway, I find

No guards walking, no inmates talking

The spirit of the place is gone.

Who knew this place could ever feel more hollow.

Now, I am truly alone.

I turn my head back toward the window,

It has got me through all this time.

I then turn my head at the exit sign,

Glowing red above the double doors on the first floor below me.

Truth is, forty years will prepare someone to be alone.

To live alone, laugh alone.

Die alone.

Now I can live the life I once feared.

Its the only life I know how to live anymore.

My desire for freedom was broken a long time ago.

I take my usual position by the window.

I don’t want the whole thing, I just want a taste.