Selma vs Ferguson

Recently I saw a trailer for Selma and began to wonder what's the difference between then and now.  Here's my take on it.
People loved Dr King because, although he was not perfect, he did not call for violence even when it was thrust upon him. He frowned upon the violence and looting and condemned those that did it.
He didn't call for dead cops or make any threats. He held actual peaceful protest where people were singing and praying as they walked.
He was actually a preacher and not just in title only, unlike the two Reverends that claim to follow his example.
That's the difference between now and what happened in Selma. We need to go back to those methods.  Peaceful protest does not mean setting fires, beating people, or causing shut downs of businesses, which is a disturbance of the peace.
Dr. King was feared, not because of the damage he could cause but because of the love he projected.  He was willing to die for his beliefs but he was not going to physically provoke it either.
A lot of change can come if we actually followed his teaching of love rather than hate, brotherhood rather than divided by racism. Again, Dr. King was by no means perfect but he did set the bar. It's not set high but it's still achieveable.  We owe it to him to try.

#icantbreathe #drking #handsupdontshoot #protest

Do I Need A License?

Do I need a license to:

1.      Go to church?
2.      Worship any God I choose?
3.      Speak my mind freely?
4.      Write my opinion for all to see?
5.      Gather with likeminded individuals peacefully?
6.      Question those in power about the policies they make?
7.      Be exempt from having a soldier live in my home by force?
8.      Be exempt from searches or having my property seized without criminal cause?
9.      Be able to refuse to answer questions?
10.  Only be tried once for a crime?
11.  Not be denied life, liberty, or property without due process?
12.  Have a speedy and public trial?
13.  Have an impartial jury?
14.  Know what I’m being tired for and to face my accuser?
15.  Have counsel and witnesses in my defense?
16.  Have a common law jury if I so choose?
17.  Be exempt from excessive bail or fines?
18.  Not have cruel and unusual punishments inflicted upon myself?

The answer to all these questions is NO, I do not need a license for any of it.  Why?  Because these rights are given to every American, criminal or not, they are protected and can not be taken away under any circumstances.  So why is the 2nd Amendment the only one that is?

#gunsense #HB195 #OpenCarry2015 #ConstitutionalCarry #ConstitutionalCarryAcrossAmerica

Google Play

I finally have my books on Google Play.  That is all of them. I have my books on every major book selling sight.  I was told I couldn't do it on my own and self publishing would get me no where but look at me now. I'm excited to say that I worked hard and did it my way.  Thank you to all who believed in me and my work. I could not have done it without you.

From My Daughter

Taken from the revised Lost Inside
When my daughter was born I hoped and prayed that my demons would not passed onto her.  I did not want the childhood I lived through for her.  When she was two years old I could see that my prayers were answered with an ear shattering NO.
I knew she would be in for a tough adolescence and the only thing I could actually do for her is let her know I would be there if she needed to talk.  I knew hard conversations were ahead of me, full of tears and heartache. 
Being that she has inherited my gift for expressing emotions into words I tell her to just write out what she feels and the darkness will not be able to consume her as long as she keeps letting it out.  At age eleven she started writing and now, at fourteen, she is a much better writer than I am.
The following is her work, in her own words, expressing how she feels and dealing with the emotions that plague her.  Her demons may try, but they will not defeat her.


To Those Who Hear But Don’t Listen

As kids we’re lead to believe,
You need a reason to be sad.
And we’re taught by society,
That it’s okay to make fun of,
Those who are.

I once asked,
“How do I explain depression,
To people who’ve NEVER experienced it?”
Just because you’re sad doesn’t mean you’re depressed.

Depression is the feeling of drowning,
While everyone around you,
Can clearly breathe.

Like walking down the street
And it suddenly decides to swallow you whole.

That nightmare of that dark creature
You never knew but were scared of.
THAT’S depression.
The coolness of a blade as it slices your skin,
Is what some people rely on
To take away the pain.
It causes physical pain,
But mentally,
It’s as if everything bad
Trickles away with every single
Drop of crimson.
Everything wrong and cruel
Fades away in that moment in time.
People don’t realize that it’s not
Cowardness that pushes
People toward suicide.
They are brave.

Knowing you’re leaving and never coming back.
Knowing you’re hurting those that care.
Knowing you’re doing this and won’t know what happens next.
Walking into this blindly and being able to push the fear away.

They aren’t cowards looking for a way out,
They are brave enough to move on.

As I was once wisely told,
“No one wants to die,
But everyone wants to go to heaven.”

Whoop 'Em

Growing up I use to get my butt whooped.  I can laugh about it now but I’ve been beat with whatever was within arm reach, shoe, flip flop, belt, hair brush, and I’ve even broken a couple of wooden spoons or four.  For the psychological torture I would have to go get my won switch and then skin it before handing it over.  When I got in trouble the amount of whippings I received depended on where I was at the time I got in trouble.

While all my loving aunts say they did not whip me because I was the “Angel” of the group my bottom begs to differ and thankfully my cousins can vouch for the beatings my butt took.  I have to admit I deserved a third of the beatings I got but didn’t get half the beatings I should have, so by my mother’s logic, and grandmother’s for that matter, it all balanced out.
Now, as an adult, with a child of my own, I can freely talk about those whoopins and laugh about it.  Don’t get me wrong, I’ve always been told that you are never too old to get whooped, but honestly, we wore them out to where the fire that fueled our beatings is now smoldering ashes.  That’s okay because now it’s my turn to be the discipliner.
My parents, were the great discipliners for sure.  Everyone agrees that my siblings and I were the well behaved ones and the “good” ones or “special” ones, and those words come with a hint of resentment when spoken most times, and when I see that look of disgust and calling us the “good” ones I laugh.  We were the “good” ones because of what would happen to us if we misbehaved.
Why do I say all of this?  Well, as appose to when I was growing up I have noticed that most parents refuse to discipline their children, one mother going as far as to tell me she does NOT tell her child No and how dare I grab her son.  Well, your son that you never tell No to was about to fall of the second floor balcony and by me grabbing his arm I pulled him back from the edge just as he was going over.  I told him No, because I’m not afraid to, and he said okay and ran back to his friends like nothing had happened.
I see it on a daily bases, parents who look like they don’t care and are afraid of their children.  I also see the ones who have given up and don’t care anymore.  I shake my head because the solution is so simple, whip their butts when it’s needed.  Trust me, they will learn and listen.  And for those who say you’re hurting the kid mentally every time you hit them, guess what, NO YOU ARE NOT!!!
I was whooped and I turned out fine.  I have a cousin who was not whipped and she turned out fine too, but her argument is invalid because notice I said, as needed.  She did not need spankings because she truly was a good child.  My own child, has only been whipped twice in her life and those were, again, as needed.
Now it’s, “Cough cough, I don’t want to go to school,” or “I just don’t feel like going to school,” or “I don’t want that.”  I cringe when I hear that because of what I have been conditioned to hear what comes next and then, it never comes.  The response I would have gotten was, “Are you dying? Get your butt to school,” “I don’t care if you don’t feel like it, get your butt to school,” and “You can either do it with or without tears, but you’re going to do it.”
Parents need to remember that your child is your CHILD, not your best friend.  You can not discipline your best friend.  When that parent/child relationship is no longer defined as it should be then all other relationships break down.  The lack of respect in the family unit has gone out the window.
I hear child call their parents, their aunts or uncles, and sometimes even their grandparents, by their first name without a title before it.  I had this problem when my daughter stated talking and she would call someone by their name and I would correct her, “I can call him by his but you call him Uncle.”  Then Uncle would say, “It’s okay, she doesn’t have to.”  To which my response was always, “Yes, she does.” Leaving no room for arguing this point.  That’s how I was raised and it was with respect.
If I ever called one of my aunts or uncles by their first name only a slap would soon follow, either across the face or up the back of my head, it came, then I had to say their name properly, according to what it was to me.  My nieces and nephew, grown adults and with children of their own, still call me with Uncle before saying my name.  Their children do the same, even if they do not want to, they know what will happen if they don’t.  I won’t hit them per say but I will ignore them until they call me by my proper name according to them.
Why do I say all of this?  Because this is a major part of why this country is going to hell in a hand basket.  I will give you a chance to discipline your own child and if after a while you do not I will tell you something.  If you can’t play well with others in society then leave but I’m not about to let it go without something being said and if you choose to set me straight rather than your own kid then you need to be taught a lesson and I will gladly be the instructor.  I care about your child’s wellbeing, even if you do not.  They need to be taught, it is not automatic and if nothing is ever said then nothing can ever be taught.  By not saying anything you are contributing to the downfall of our youth.
This rant has been brought to you by a well-adjusted member of society who got his ass whooped.

Saying Goodbye

It's 4am and I'm awake. Not because my body is ahead by two hours but because my soul is trained to wake up at 4am when I'm under the same roof as my grandmother. For an entire school year I had to wake up at four am so I could shower and get ready for school. There was six of us, one shower, and all had to be ready to go by 7 o'clock so I will let you do the math.
Each morning as I walked out of my bedroom, with sleep still in my eyes, I would say, "Good morning grandma," and go take my shower. When I got out she would be waiting for me at the kitchen table, coffee in one hand and the Stockton Record in the other. Breakfast would be sitting on a plate across from her and I would sit there eating my breakfast in silence as she read her paper.
Sometimes she would read me a story and ask me what I thought or she would start with, "You know..." and go off to ranting her wisdom. She is a passionate person, my grandmother, and that passion lives on in us, her grandchildren, as I witnessed with my cousins yesterday, one of them triggering my grandmother's passion as she lovingly scolded her.
Now it's 4:45 in the morning and the only ones awake are me and the cat. I keep waiting for her door to open, her walk into the kitchen and start the coffee pot and start making breakfast but her time is nearing and she isn't able to do all that she once was. Which is why I'm here, why all of us are here, to say our goodbyes, to see her and kiss her and hug her, but not too tightly for fear of breaking her and then who ever did it would really get a whoopin from the aunts who swear they never hit us like we remember them hitting us.
While to some that may sound morbid, saying your goodbyes to someone who is still alive, oddly enough, in this goofball family, it's perfectly normal and a lesson I've learned from her. Reality is she will pass, it's a part of life, so let's not kid ourselves. When she goes then everyone's last memory of seeing her will be a sad one. By coming now, we get to see her and make new happy memories and more important she gets to see all of us and keep those memories fresh in her mind.
Sitting here alone in the dark, it's now past 5am and as I type the tears flow of the memories I made yesterday, the ones I will make today, and for the ones I won't be able to have in the future but those are mine and mine alone. At least I can say yesterday was a good day, full of laughter, smiles, good food, minus the tamales I was promised, but it's okay because we all ate home made tortillas like we did as kids, hot, fresh, and will lots and lots of butter. THAT is a memory I would not trade for the world.


 I have a stalker. He follows me everywhere I go, lurking in the shadows, waiting to attack me when I'm most unaware and defenseless. His mark last long after he's gone and the sting is deep. I wish he would just die. Mosquito is his name.

I Am Bipolar

“Now there's some sad things known to man
But ain't too much sadder than
the tears of a clown
When there's no one around” – Smokey Robinson

When I first heard those lyrics they did nothing for me.  Just another oldies song from my parents’ youth that I enjoyed.  Of course I was too young to understand what those words actually meant. 

My parents did the best they could at the time, I do realize that now.  Having to raise six kids not everyone was going to get equal attention.  By the time I was old enough to start helping out around the house my three older siblings were out on their own which left me as the oldest in the house.

My little brother and I were as opposite as could be.  On the surface I was the calm one and he was super hyper.  We also had nephews who were just as wild as the Tasmanian Devil.  To say we pushed my mother to the edge of breaking would be an understatement.  My mother was strong enough to endure the stress we caused her, however, I can not say the same for one of my favorite aunts.

All I knew was that she was “sick” and we should pray for her.  My mother had told me that she had enough problems with those younger than me so I wasn’t allowed to have problems.  I was the good child and I needed to help her.  I love my mother so of course I said yes.  Now the meaning of the lyrics became clear to me.

I became that clown.  My grandmother use to say, “Laughter is the best medicine.”  My family loves to laugh and I figured if I could be the cause of that laughter it could serve as medication for me as well.

Even though I was surrounded by people I often felt alone.  I felt I did not fit into my own family.  For years, once I found out what it meant, I actually thought I was adopted because I was so different.

When everyone wanted to run around and play outside, I wanted to sit and read a book.  When it rained and everyone complained about the weather I loved it and would be out in it if I could.  Everyone else could sleep for hours and I could never sleep longer than four hours.

I learned to burry my feelings deep inside.  I kept them bottled up as I projected a happy persona to the world.  I was helping.  My mother never had to worry about me, I took care of myself as well as those I was responsible for, my younger siblings, my nieces and nephews.  As the years went on the list grew and I was willing to do it if it meant keeping my mother sane.

Upon entering high school, unknown to anyone, I had attempted to kill myself three times, thinking the world would be a better place without me in it and no one would notice anyway.  As tough as I pretended to be on the outside, inside I was a coward.  Make no mistake, unless you have been to that point, you have no idea what real strength it takes to follow through on the act of suicide.  For those brave enough to succeed, I feel at peace for them, their suffering is no more.

Because I became an expert in hiding my feelings I was able to spot others attempting to do the same.  I knew what they were feeling and wanted them to know they were not alone.  I became a shoulder to cry on, and ear to talk to, a hand to pull them back from the ledge.  Helping others, all the while, unable to help myself, living in a constant state of fear.

That deep cold dark fear exist to this day.  After everything I’ve been through from those days to now, learning that I have clinical depression and bipolar disorder, learning how to control it, without medication, I thought I had overcome that fear.  One night, during a family discussion, I found out that that cold overwhelming fear never goes away.

A family friend had mention that his mother and sister has bipolar.  It was stated by my family that if someone who has bipolar is not taking medication then they are a danger to themselves and others.  When I heard that my stomach dropped to floor and an ice cold chill ran up my spine.  Fear wrapped around me and bundled me tightly in its grasp.  I was afraid, genially afraid in the one place I should have felt safe, surround by the people I should never fear.

My life from childhood to present flashed before my eyes in an instant, fear threatening to consume me.  Suddenly anger took over, quickly burning away that fear.  I was ready to explode, but that was due to having anger issues that is deeply rooted in my family.  I was ready to fight, a product of both sides of my parent’s families.  I was being pulled in many different directions, a product of my bipolar.  All of this in a time span of five seconds.

“I have bipolar,” I found myself saying.  “And I don’t take medication for it.”

Silence filled the air briefly then the conversation continued on, with me sitting back not saying another word on the subject.  It took three days for that fear to subside but I realized that it’s still there, lingering in the shadows of my mind, never to leave me.  I took a deep breath and a few other realizations came to me.

I know that some people do need medication, they can not function without it.  Others, however, do not.  It’s easier to take the medication and go through life without seeing the real world around you but what kind of life is that?

I am friends with both types of bipolar.  One needs the medication.  I can tell when it’s not taken because there is a slight change in attitude and while most people will never see that change, it’s clear to me as night and day.

Another friend was in that state of the world passing by.  Trusting the doctor, medication that was not needed was being taken.  Just like any dependency, there were withdraws as they slowly came off the meds, having them reduced.  It was an adjustment but a weight was being lifted as they understood they were not alone when they needed to weather a storm.

Either option does not take away the fear we live with.  Will those I love understand when I say I’m bipolar or will they look at me like the monster I know myself to be?  Will those I interact with daily treat me differently, afraid themselves of what they do not understand?  Worst yet, will I be taken away somewhere, locked up like a caged animal, no longer a human being?

These fears are very real for us but another thing I realized, we need to educate non M.I.s about our condition.  We do not need to live in fear because living in fear is not living at all.

Whatever your M.I. do not keep it to yourself, tell someone.  Talk about it, answer questions they may have.  You will feel a huge weight lifted if you do.  I know it’s hard, it’s hard for me, but we can do it.  I’m tired of living in fear, aren’t you?


Artist Solar-citrus made this meaningful comic about depression and how it can effect anyone, anywhere. Don't be afraid to talk about it and seek help if needed, and don't forget those around you may be suffering in silence. Here are a few more important words from the artist followed by the comic...

“You would be surprised with how many people in your life could be going through depression at this very moment. People hide it like a paper bag over their heads out of fear of being judged, made fun of, seen as weak, or just not taken seriously. Depression should not be taken lightly, it holds us down from our purpose and potential in life. Those who tell you that it doesn’t exist have never experienced depression in their life, therefore not understanding the symptoms and how it’s something that cannot be fixed in a day! So if you think you are depressed or if you think you know someone else who is, please talk to a friend, a family member, or anyone else in your life that you trust - never overlook the possibility of seeing a doctor for more professional help!! Your feelings are real, your feelings are shared upon millions. Don’t hide it, talk to someone about it. With the right help, you can rediscover your confidence and begin life anew with our undying love and support!

We are right here!!”


I Am An American

“I'm tired of being labeled. I'm an American. I'm not an African-American. I'm an American. I mean, I don't know where my roots go to. I don't know how far back they go. ... I don't know what country in Africa I'm from, but I do know that my roots are in Louisiana. I'm an American, and that's a colorless person, because we're all people. I have lots of things running through my veins.”

Recently Raven Symone made the comment above and has been attacked by the Black Community.  I find this sad but have to call into question as to why they are attacking her.

First of all people, you need to understand the difference between NATIONALITY vs ETHNICITY because there is a huge difference.

Nationality is where you were born.  It’s where you are from or where you call home.  Nationality can be changed because, as I said, it’s where you call home.

Ethnicity is your race and despite what people want to believe there are only three races: Asian, Black, and Caucasian.  When you learn the difference you won’t sound so stupid when you try to use labels, because after all, we are all human beings.

I have always like Raven, she is a great comedian and actress.  American fell in love with her on the Cosby show and from the sounds of it, she fell in love with America as well.  She came up in a time when you were PROUD to be called an American, when it meant something.

I agree with Raven, I am a human being and I am an American.  If you feel the need to add any more to that than you need to take a hard look at yourself and ask why?  If you use anything else in front of “American” then go ahead and stop at that word and leave American off, because if you are an American then there is nothing else that matters. I AM AN AMERICAN AND I AM PROUD TO SAY SO.

#IAMANAMERICAN #ravensymone

God Bless America

"God bless America,
Land that I love,
Stand beside her, and guide her
Through the night with a light from above.
From the mountains, to the prairies,
To the oceans, white with foam
God bless America, My home sweet home."
When I was a kid I was told it was against my religion to pledge to the flag but I should always respect it. I did as I was told.

Until I was in the 5th grade I had thought God Bless America was our National Anthem. Being the 80s I was told by all my adult figures how I was suppose to hate Russia. One teacher even told me those dirty Russians wanted to kill me, a kid, because I was a free American.

I learned to love my country, take pride in her, and know in my heart we lived in the best place in the world.

When we did "Duck and Cover" drills I was scared but my teacher would sing, God Bless America, and it soothed me like a protective blanket. I don't know if it was the lyrics or her voice but the song ALWAYS chokes me up to this day.

When I think about the lyrics today, however, I'm filled with a mixture of pride and sadness. My child will not know the same pride I felt at her age. Day after day I see my country slowly dying. She's bleeding out and it seems that no one can stop it.

We were great once so what happened? Where did we go wrong? Standing up to stupidity and bullies use to be a good thing yet now, the cry babies have taken over.

Advice I got from my parents, aunts and uncles use to be to STOP being a cry baby but now that's all we see.

I want my country back. I am an AMERICAN damn it! and that still means something to me.

From A Pilot's Point of View

Sitting in the cockpit of an aircraft, getting ready for takeoff. Your fingertips gently glide across the wheel, touching every smooth curve of the handles, firmly gripping it as your other hand drifts down toward the throttle.
A shutter flows through your body at the touch of the throttle. All this power at your fingertips and you are in control. Slowly you push forward, increasing the power to the engines. At first they whine, asking what is going on but just as quickly they are silenced at the knowledge that soon they will be where they belong, in the air.
You have been cleared to take the runway. It’s time to visit your second home, the clear blue sky. Excitement fills your soul as you pull onto the numbers at the end of the runway, the starting point for this journey. You’ve done this a thousand times before but the small flutter in the pit of your stomach makes you feel like it’s the first time all over again.
Quickly your mind races as you complete your checklist. You are moments away from flight, yet it seems like an eternity. There are hundreds of things that can go wrong but they are out of your control. You focus on the one thing that matters, taking flight.
You hear those magical words, “You’re clear for takeoff.” Moment of truth, time to fly. You push the throttle forward as far as it will go. The engines spring to life, roaring with excitement. The aircraft bounces up and down with joy, begging you to take your feet off the brakes so it can take to the sky.
“Not yet,” you whisper, knowing the power needs to build up just a bit longer. The time has come, the power is up, it’s time to set this bird free.
You release the brakes. The plane thrust forward, picking up speed with each passing second. The ground speeds behind you until it’s just a blur. Gently the aircraft lifts off the ground on its own, giving you permission to pull back on the wheel. Slowly, gently you take to the sky, flying, gliding through the air. Higher and higher you climb.
A sigh of relief escapes your lips as you turn gently away from the runway. You can’t help but smile as the sky welcomes you home with open arms.

The Storyteller

I ...believe the art of Storytelling is dying.  Not many people want to read a book anymore, finding entertainment by means of television or movies, but centuries ago, long before the written word, there were Storytellers.
These people told stories in such a way that when they spoke, everyone around them listened.  Children were both educated and entertained by the Storyteller.  Cultures passed down their history and heritage through Storytellers.
Not only did every village have their own Storyteller but there were also traveling Storytellers that brought stories from far away.
Many people would come to listen to the Storyteller as he told his tales.  The words would capture your heart as your imagination put you in the middle of the story.  Today, people who can tell a story like that are rare.
Writers today want to tell you every little BORING detail, in a sense taking the reader out of the story.  If a reader can not be IN the story, surrounded by the characters, living their lives, walking in their shoes, suffering along side them side by side then what’s the point of the story.
As a Storyteller I give you just enough to make you use your imagination to fill in any gaps, making the story unique to you and you alone.  No one else will see what you see, feel what you feel, smell what you smell, and wonder the way you will wonder.
When my story is done you will be left in awe, satisfied, yet wanting more.  Your imagination will grow hungry, longing to be fed and as a Storyteller it’s my job to feed that hunger.
Sit down and get comfortable for I’m about to tell you a story…

Life's Highway

I wrote this on March 27, 2011. I realized I never published this on my blog.  No I wasn't high on anything. I was on my way to work when this came to me. This is how I felt and I'm sure you can find many metaphors in this.  What is your opinion of this?

Life's Highway

I'm driving down the highway, fog surrounding me, Garth Brooks singing about a Dance on the radio, and I am the only car on the road.
As I fly along, going over the humps, I notice there is nothing around for miles. No entrance ramps, no exit lanes, miles and miles of lonely highway.
I look down at my speedometer and there is only one speed, full on 80.  Seems to me I’m going nowhere, fast. As I come over the next hump the highway splits off into three different directions
Straight, a whacky sharp curve to the right, and another whacky sharp curve to the left. My wheel can not turn so I continue on straight but I can see where those other two curves lead, up, over, and then back onto the main highway.
My heart begins to catch up with my car as I approach the hump. This time I fly forward at the sudden drop of the road, falling toward the highway, swerving as I touchdown.
Another hump come at me fast as the fog begins to lift slightly, allowing me to see just a little further away. Still miles and miles of nothing.
Another car comes racing by, passes me easily, before disappearing off into the distance.  Alone I drive on.
Things start popping up on the feeder road but I have no way to get to them.  They fly past me in a blur.
The song ends but starts playing over. Everything around me is a blur. Nothing but highway coming at me. My speedometer now reads 101.
My heart slows down but the highway does not. A light flashes across my windshield and I’m at a four way stop.  Where do I go from here?  Where do I go from here?

The Night Watchman Adventures

The Night Watchman Adventures is now available as a pocket size book.

From 2005 to 2009 I worked Security overnight. While there are a lot of misconceptions about what security can “actually” do compared to Law Enforcement I am here to tell you, I will not be clearing up ANY of those misconceptions.

While laws vary from state to state all of these stories take place in Houston, Texas and everything I did was perfectly legal, as some people who have heard these stories before called into question.

All these misadventures are 100% true. So sit back, relax, and prepare to have your funny bone tickled with the lighter side of Law Enforcement.

Do Grade School kids really "Graduate?"

Enough is enough people.  These “Graduations” that everyone is having is ridicules.  Have you lost your sense of reality?  What ever happened to encouraging a child to complete school so they could EARN a Diploma and Graduate?  Now we just hand them out like participation trophies and we HURT our kids, not help them.

Your child did NOT just graduate Kindergarten, First Grade, Second Grade, or the Fifth Grade, just like I did not, you did not, nor MY child did not.  We were promoted to the next grade.  We completed the task ahead of us for the year and are moving toward the next task.  See, THAT is how school works.

A person should “Graduate” at least once in their life, high school.  If they are lucky perhaps they can graduate from college or military training.

When I graduated high school it was a bigger deal for my parents than it was for me.  Yes I worked hard and earned my diploma but not getting it was no an option for them.  I was to be the first of their children to walk that stage.  It was something my father pushed me to do, reminding me that if I did not cross that stage it was no one fault but my own.  When I finally did, after five long years, yes I said five, I was proud of myself.  I never experienced that feeling before because I had not earned it until then.

Every year I was promoted to the next grade until I reached the ninth grade and failed it. I was crushed, devastated, but no one gave me a pat on the head and said, “Oh well kid.  Here’s a trophy for trying.”  That is not how the real world works and if we do not prepare our kids for the real world it will devour them when they enter it.

Webster defines “Graduation” as the award or acceptance of an academic degree or diploma and a “Diploma” is a document which shows that a person has finished a course of study or has graduated from a school.  Tell me what degree has a grade school child earned?

Please stop robbing the full experience of what it actually means to graduate.  Once you “Graduate” you are ready to face the world and concur it.

Lover's Lane - Based on Actual Events


“You’re not suppose to be here.”
The whispered plea was drowned out by the soft crashing of the surf.  The predawn breeze blowing cool and gently in rhythm with the Texas waters making their way onto shore, pulling away anything caught in its undertow.
“You’re not suppose to be here,” the harsh tear filled whisper kept repeating over and over.
The man made his way to the surf, clutching the bundle in his arms close to his chest.  As the water splashed over his feet, he fell to his knees and laid the bundle down in the water, silently begging the ocean to take this child.
The waters receded but the baby remained, crying out for help, pleading for its life.  The man muffled the screams with his hand, waiting for the next wave to come and wash over them.
But the waves refused to come, refusing to be a part of this evil deed.
“You’re not suppose to be here,” the man whispered one last time as his knife found its way to the baby’s throat, cutting clean through in one fluid motion.
A dark calmness washes over the man as he stands up slowly and fades away into the predawn shadows.

Chapter 1

“Detective Dasan?”
Devon Dasan didn’t hear the person calling his name.  He was in a haze, looking at the wall in front of him full of photos of people he never got to give peace to.  Every time he was unable to solve a case their picture went up on his wall.  There were not many pictures but for Devon just one picture was one too many.
“Detective Dasan,” the soft voice repeated.  “Detective?”
This time she touched his shoulder, breaking the haze.
“What,” he asked, startled as he turned around to see a young lady standing before him with a notebook clutched tightly against her chest.
“I didn’t mean to startle you Detective,” the teenager with the deep green eyes said.  “I’m Amy.  Amy Neal from LaPorte High.  You agreed to let me interview you for the school paper.”
“Yes,” Devon answered.  “I thought our appointment was for 12:30?”
“It was,” Amy answered.  “It’s 2 o’clock now.”
Devon looked down at his watch.  He lost time again.
“I’m so sorry Miss Neal.  Please forgive me.”
“I understand,” Amy smiled.  “You must be very busy getting ready for retirement.”
“Sadly no,” he answered, swinging from side to side in his chair, his open hands displaying an empty desk.  “They’ve already taken all my cases away from me.  I just have to sit here and look pretty for the next seven days.”
“What about those,” she asked, pointing toward the few pictures on his wall.
“Those,” he said, drawing the word out slowly, trying to think how best to answer the question.  “Those, to put it bluntly, are my failures.”  Seeing the blank look on her face he continued, “have a seat Miss Neal.  You don’t want to hear about those.”
“You can call me Amy,” she responded as she sat down.  “And I don’t mind if you don’t.  As Mrs. Gonzales always says, ‘A good reporter doesn’t just write a story, she follows it where ever it goes.’  There seems like there’s a story on that wall somewhere.”
“You’re a smart girl.”
“Top five in my class,” she blurted out proudly.
“And modest,” Devon said sarcastically.  “A noble trait.”
“Excuse me,” Amy said, sounding a bit offended.
“Nothing,” Devon answered.  “Shall we get started?”
Amy put her notebook down on top of the empty desk and started digging to her purse.
“Where did I put that damn thing,” she mumbled to herself.  “I swear every time I need it it hides from me.  I know it’s here some… Ah here it is.”
Amy pulled out her cell phone and started swiping the screen to the right as she looked for the app she wanted.
“Okay I’m ready,” Amy said as she laid her phone face down on the desk between Devon and herself.  “This is Amy Neal, interviewing Detective Devon Dasan of the LaPorte Police Department, Homicide.  Detective if you would, please speak clearly so the recorder can pick up your voice.  It’s not the best recorder but it’s the best I have.”
“Sure thing.”
“Thank you.  I see you have this wall with four pictures on it.  You just told me they are your failures.  Could you elaborate on that?”
“Weellllll, they are cases I could never solve.  Even though I never promised the families directly that I would catch the killer I always made that promise to myself.  Every case I got I worked hard to give peace the grieving families.  These were the ones that never got it.”
“That’s impressive though, only four out of hundreds of cases that must have come across your desk in your long career.”
“There’s nothing impressive about not finding a killer Miss Neal,” he snapped, not realizing the venom he spat out with those words.  “I’m sorry, that didn’t come out right.”
“No I’m sorry,” she said.  “That wasn’t what I mean to say.”
“Next question,” Devon said, trying to save them both.
“What made you want to become a Detective in the first place?”
“He did,” Devon answered, pointing at the picture of a baby on the wall.
“Who is he?”
“My greatest nightmare,” Devon answered, his eyes hazing over like they were when Amy first walked in.  “Daryl and I were just kids when he died.”
“Yes,” Devon said as he drew in a deep breath, blinking away the tears in his eyes and trying to regain his composure.  “Daryl was my best friend.  We did everything together.”
“What happened to Daryl?”
“He died in Vietnam,” Devon answered coldly.  “He could never get that image, that face,” he pulled the picture off the wall gently and brought it closer to himself, “out of his mind.  It haunted his dreams as it did mine.  One night he woke up, screaming from his nightmare and the enemy heard the screams and opened fire on his platoon in the jungle.  He died and I survived.”
“I don’t get it.  If you were a kid when this boy died then how did he affect you so much?”
“Cause we were the ones that found him,” he answered, tears filling his eyes again.
“We can stop if you want,” Amy said, not sure how to react to where the story just turned.
“No,” Devon took out a handkerchief and whipped his eyes.  “We can keep going.”
“It was Friday, April 21, 1950. The sun had just come up and we wanted to catch some fish before school. Daryl and I went to the beach at the end of Lover’s Lane.  We never caught anything but it was fun for us.  Mostly we would walk around the beach and look for washed up treasure.  It’s what boys did.”
“We would poke dead things with our fishing poles to see what would happen.  As we were walking up to the water we saw something rocking back and forth in the surf.  It was as if the water was rejecting it, not willing to carry it out off of the beach.”
“As we got closer we saw it was a bath towel wrapped around something.  There was blood on the outside of the towel so he figured it was something a fisherman left behind from the night before.”
“‘What do you think it is,’ Daryl asked.”
“‘Fish guts most likely,’ I answered because we saw a lot of that around the beach.  Excited we ran up to the towel and I kicked it toward Daryl.  That was the moment that changed both our lives.  The baby’s head had been completely severed from its body and flew into Daryl’s hands.”
“We both screamed, getting the attention of a couple on a morning stroll.  They came running over to see why we stood there motionless, screaming.  Daryl dropped the head in the sand and as soon as it hit the ground the surf pulled away.  It was like the water didn’t want to touch the baby now that it had been uncovered.”
“The police were called, as well as our parents, and we were taken home and questioned about how we found the baby.  We told them it was just lying there.  Nothing was ever done about it.  There was no DNA testing back then, no way of identifying the baby.  There was no case and it has haunted me everyday since.”
“If there was no case how did you get the picture?”
“My father was friends with the mortician and he gave my father the picture.”
“Do you mind if I take a picture of it for the paper?”
“Sure,” he answered, handing the picture over to Amy.
She picked up her phone and stopped the recording.  Opening the camera app she took a picture of the baby.  It looked peaceful, like it was sleeping.  The mortician had done a good job of sewing the head back on and covering up the wound.
“I think that’s enough for today,” Amy said as she picked up her notebook, dropping her phone back into her purse.  “If you don’t mind, I would like to make turn this into a multi piece article.  Can I come back tomorrow to ask more questions?”
“I don’t see why not,” Devon answered with a sigh.  “I’ve got seven more days of doing absolutely nothing.”

Chronicles of the Huntress - Rewrite

I have had a three different stories floating around in my head and this morning it hit me that they are all connected. This is why I was having so such trouble writing anything about these stories, until now. I have combined the stories so they all flow as one story.  Below is the opening scene.  Tell me what you think.

“It’s been said that when you die your life flashes before your eyes.  If that’s true then I die every night in my sleep.  Every time I close my eyes the nightmare begins again.  All the lives I’ve taken, all the faces, all the pleas for mercy, everything, it all comes flooding back.”
“I have often wondered if it’s true for those I’ve killed.  For those that died instantly without warning, was there a flash?  For those that died slow and very painful, was there a flash for them as well or was the pain to great, overshadowing the sins they were atoning for?”
“It’s a shame I will never find out.”
“Why do you say that,” a nervous voice answered, her hands chained to the stone wall behind her, she was unable to look away from the soft golden eyes staring deep into her soul.
“Because in seven thousand years I have yet to figure out how to truly die.”
“Is that what you’re going to do to me?  Kill me?”
“Why,” she asked with an evil grin, “have you done something that deserves me destroying your soul?”
“No,” the other woman snapped quickly.
“Yes you have,” she answered coldly.  “You have a stain on your soul so black that you want to die.  Otherwise you would not be here.”
The other woman looked away from those golden eyes, ashamed of herself as a memory flashed before her.
“You broke into this place to kill me,” she said as she lifted the other woman’s chin so she could look into her eyes once more.  “That was your first mistake, I can not die.  Your second mistake was thinking I am one of my children, who, unlike me, can be killed.”
She paused to let that statement sink in.
“Which one of my children were you trying to kill?”
“I wasn’t trying…”
“Come, come,” she snapped, cutting the other woman off.  “Lies will not be tolerated.  If you wish to become a Huntress, that is the first lesson you must learn.”
“Who… who are you?”
“I am Rosil,” the golden eyes woman answered.  “And I am the mother of all vampires.”
Horror flooded the other woman’s face at the word vampire.
“Relax my dear,” Rosil cooed.  “I am the mother of all vampires, I am not a vampire myself.”
“You lie,” the woman shouted, pulling against her chains, a renewed anger filling her. “I was right to come here and kill you.”
“And what a fine job you’ve done so far,” Rosil mocked.  “But I am not lying.  Have you forgotten the first rule of being a Huntress?  Lies will not be tolerated.”
Rosil looked down at the table next to her prisoner, drawing her eyes to the table as well.  There, spread out, were all weapons the woman had brought with her to the house.  A wooden stake, a plastic bottle filled with what Rosil assumed was Holy Water, and a machete.
“You do realize that none of this stuff will kill a vampire,” Rosil said, picking each item up, looking at it with disgust before setting it back down.  “Except this,” she picked up the machete.  “This will take a head off but it’s very messy and not very quick.”
“Why do I want to give a blood sucker a quick death,” the woman snapped.  “They all deserve to die slowly.”
“That they do,” Rosil answered softly, taking one last look at the machete before setting it back down slowly.  “But attempting to do so will only get you killed.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I am looking for a new apprentice and I see a fire burning deep inside you.  You have a desire to become a Huntress.”
Rosil drew her dragon katana and raised the blade to the woman’s neck.  The woman looked deep into Rosil’s golden eyes, the fear she displayed earlier gone.  She accepted her fate, she longed for death.
“That’s what I thought,” Rosil said with a smile.  She lifted the sword and tapped the chains, freeing the woman from the wall.  “What is your name?”
“Kara,” the woman answered.
“Kara,” Rosil repeated, “The Huntress.”