Summary from my upcoming novel: The Symphony of Life
The past will always mold the future. Kaley Anderson has done her best to escape her painful past. Pain and heartaches are all she’s ever known. To her dismay, both skulk around every corner, reminding her of things she’d rather not think about. Hell-bent on escaping the unfortunate legacy she’s been saddled with, she struggles through the stagnation of a mundane life. Deep inside, she knows there’s something better out there. A life that’s worth living. One where she follows through on her own decisions without listening to the ghosts of her past. Determined in finding her place in the world, Kaley soon sets out on a journey to find the peace in her life that’s always eluded her. If she’s to succeed in doing so, she’ll need to let go of old hurts and painful reflections in order to embrace the future that lies on the horizon. Only then, will she able to write her own symphony of life.
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When I’d returned home thirty-five years ago, I researched everything possible about Acrotomophilia. I also processed feelings and events from my childhood.
This obsession comes as no surprise. The environment I’d been raised in definitely shaped it. Born an only child in 1946, Dad had been a career military man and very strong willed, though gentle when he had a mind to be. My mother died when I was six years old. It had been hard, very hard. Understanding she was never coming back had been difficult to piece together. All I’d known was I wanted my mom. Daddy had done a wonderful job in raising me. After all, the entire responsibility had been thrown on him without warning or reason. It seems like yesterday, him picking me up, placing me on his strong knee, and whispering in my ear with his gentle, but confident voice. “The days will be dark and sad, but as time passes, it will get brighter and happier.” Not understanding how that could have been possible, I’d trusted him. Daddy would never tell me something that wasn’t true. Believing those words, I’d carried on. The days did get easier. Unfortunately, before getting better, things sometimes have to get worse. Weeks passed. I’d wake up running into the kitchen to hug her good morning, but all I’d find was sadness and an empty kitchen. No eggs frying on the stove, no empty cereal bowl on the table, nothing but my salty tears on the floor beside my bare feet. If I closed my eyes hard enough, I could still see Mom cooking breakfast, standing at the stove wrapped in a white terrycloth robe with her favorite black handled spatula flipping the eggs and pancakes. A little ouch would come from Mom’s lips when grease popped onto her hand while frying bacon. She’d slide the eggs onto Dad’s clean white plate once he sat down to drink his coffee. The memories seemed so real. I’d drop to my knees, clutching Kermit tight, while my tears cleansed the yellow tile. Months passed. I’d still smell Mom all over the house. I remember going into Mother’s closet and smelling her clothes. I’d fall asleep cuddled in her robe, surrounded by such comfort. Daddy would find me and take me back to bed. Many times, I’d cry myself to sleep, waking up with eyes so swollen, I resembled a boxer after a fight. Confused, I’d never understood why Mother was no longer there. Daddy spent so much time out on maneuvers overseas before Mother’s death. Within a month, he’d gone back on duty, and I’d gone back to school. A new normal developed, though change was just around the corner. A year after Mother’s death, Daddy shipped to Korea. Aunt Sally looked after me while he was gone. ---------------------- My name is Jack Mann. I love the army and teaching men to be leaders. I’m a Lieutenant Platoon leader. Soldiers always say that if you’re in a firefight, just follow the man. The men like to tease me about my last name. I’m not one to joke around with the men often. If things don’t run the right way, or if one of my men steps out of line, I’m an expert at redirecting them. Although hard, I’m respected. I’ve led my men into many firefights while here in Korea. I’ve gotten the majority of them back safe. I’ve lost some, but I’ve gotten most of them through the worst of situations, even if it means not getting through it myself. Harm finds me on July 5, 1955, while standing in the back of a jeep behind a mounted machine gun firing at Korean soldiers. The driver of the vehicle has been shot and killed by a sniper. Our jeep flips over several times, landing on my legs, crushing them to the point I’d almost lost them completely. Soldiers pry the jeep up enough to pull me out from under it. Three days later, I wake up in a VA hospital. Both of my legs are missing from mid-thigh. A few months later, I recover enough to leave the hospital and fly back home. On the flight home, I think about how Mary will react once she sees that I have no legs. Going back home to everyone terrifies me. I don’t know what the hell I’ll do for the rest of my life. At twenty-seven years of age, I feel useless. My flight soon arrives at the base in Memphis. It’s here where I meet Aunt Sally, who’s driving me home. The weather is bright and sunny. Severely depressed and fucking pissed at the world, I want nothing more than to hug my little Mary and forget everything else. Aunt Sally soon turns the huge Pontiac into the rocky driveway of our home. The ball joints pop on the right side of the car as if they’re going to break. Several neighbors wait in the driveway. All look eager and ready to check out the freak, the sideshow. The urge to holler at the top of my lungs consumes me. “This is what getting drafted by this country will do to you. I’m a fucking freak. Are you all fucking happy, motherfuckers? Fuck you!” Freddie, my next-door neighbor, opens the passenger door. Aunt Sally and another neighbor pull the wheelchair out of the trunk. Freddie and a couple of other fellows pick me up and gently help me onto the chair. At last, my sad, sore, and tired eyes focus on my daughter. I know I am a strange individual, most writers and musicians kind of are. So to confirm my strangeness, here are a few things I think about sometimes, or at least they pop in my head for no apparent reason. Read them and maybe you will ponder them yourself. Have a good Friday. ---Keith
Why does Bugs Bunny walk around the cartoon naked, but he puts a bathing suit on when he goes swimming? Why is common sense so uncommon? What was Captain Hook's name before he got the hook? Why do you park on a drive way and drive on a parkway? The State relocates me to a foster family who lives in another town. I move to another school and another family.
The worst part about being a boy, I hate everything about it. The clothes, my short haircut, and my name. Every time someone calls me Roscoe, I want to vomit, which I do often. I want to release every vile thing that’s happened to me. To flood the world with the foulness growing in my soul. My foster parents, Benji and Catherine Wells, have no idea how to handle the frequent trips to the toilet to puke. Thus, they decide to lock the bathroom door. “From now on, ask permission before you go to the restroom. This puking thing has to stop.” A fat, demanding, obnoxious oaf, Benji gets off on ballgames, beer, cigarettes, and training everyone in the house to cower at his presence. I’ve already been the recipient of his discipline. I absentmindedly sit down on the toilet, which is forbidden since I’m a male, unaware of the fact that Benji is awake. By the time I hear him coming down the hall, I’m in midstream. The door swings open. “I’ll stand up. I’ll stand. Wait.” I reach down to pull up my blue pajama bottoms. Benji’s hairy arm knocks me to the floor. I lie on the dirty, cold floor like a beaten dog. A seed of hate and rage rumbles below the surface. I’m not sure what happens, but something pierces me deep within. My world will never be the same. I don’t care if I live or die. I jump to my feet, my fists ready to beat the everlasting hell out of the brute standing over me. “Fuck you. Stupid shithead. This is how I use the bathroom. Leave me alone. I don’t want to suck your dick anymore, and you’re not going to make me. I’m gonna tell on you.” I hit him as hard as I can in the nuts. Benji stands in front of me, stunned. My foster mom appears. “Leave Roscoe alone,” she says. I glare at them. “I will tell on both of you. You’re going to have to kill me, or I’ll tell.” ---------------------- Bright and early the next morning, a social worker arrives, intent on taking me to my next foster home. It proves to be better than the last because my foster parents ignore me. Their doing so is perfect. By the time I reach adolescence, I’m an angry young man, determined in making sure no one abuses me again. I snarl at every adult who crossed my path. Most are afraid of me. A spiteful, disrespectful male, I enjoy wearing women’s clothing. Of course, I can’t afford to buy them, so I steal what I need from every department store I enter. Dressing in silk lingerie, I love the feel of the softness pressing against my skin. I spend hours lying in the vacant lot next to the school, fantasizing about dressing in seductive clothes with my long hair flowing behind me. Thoughts of being a gorgeous woman touching my breasts, and having others touch them, are enjoyable. The daydreams always end in a powerful ejaculation. I spend most of my time daydreaming about being a woman. I want to be a woman people admire. To have them look at me and wish they could touch each curve and orifice in my body. Most of all, I want the curse that forever engorges underneath my clothes to be no more. ---------------------- By the time I’m nineteen, the urge grows stronger. I often fantasize about dressing in a woman’s business suit. A cute, short green skirt with white stockings and a low-cut white blouse hugging my large bosom, revealing the crack between my gorgeous tan breasts. I imagine walking seductively into my boss’s office at his law practice. He’d study my sexy hourglass figure. I’d walk toward him with my blonde hair tied in a bun. My boss would snatch the barrette out of my hair, causing it to spill over my shoulders like a waterfall. I’d take my clothes off and press my red-painted lips against his sweaty neck. Then, I would seduce him into having sex with me on his desk, while people waited in the lobby for their appointments. I know nothing about gender identity, just that I’m different from other males. It isn’t about dressing in women’s clothes. I want to be a woman. A strong, internal wish, I realize it isn’t because my mother dressed me in girl’s clothes. I was born this way. I might not be a female on the outside, but someday, I will be. For the time being, I’m caught somewhere in between. Beautiful things in life that we shouldn't miss (according to Keith):
1. Sunsets 2. Sunrise 3. A plastic bag blowing in the wind. 4. A tumble weed blowing across the prairies. 5. A drop of water about to fall from a faucet. 6. Ants working. 7. The sound of a baseball card stuck in the spokes of a bicycle. 8. Watching a loved one sleep. 9. Sleeping with your bedroom blind open when their is a full moon out. 10. The feeling you feel inside yourself when you have noticed these things instead of taking them for granted. Have a good day. --Keith |
AuthorKeith Kelly currently lives in Rio Rancho New Mexico. Archives
October 2020
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