THE DRAGON
Six months ago, while standing on a corner of a street within our village, I’d been discussing the existence of dragons with a colleague of mine. He’d seemed a tad skeptical when it came to such creatures and the lore behind them.
“I’ve heard stories about dragons all my life and have always considered them to be mythical creatures. I’ve never known anyone who’s seen one,” he’d said.
We’d spoken at length about the possibility of their being real. Not once, did anything he’d said dampen my curiosity.
Deep inside, I couldn’t help but wonder if such creatures truly existed. They must have, since a good many often spoke about them. Where did a person find one was the real question.
One evening, I skulked across rocky terrain in search of the Lost City of Zencha. The realm’s two suns lurked high above, emitting a beautiful yellowish-orange glow. A slight, refreshing breeze blew across my face with every step I took. The suns’ rays comforted me.
Unexpected squeals, reminiscent of those belonging to the Triple-Headed Slooch, echoed in the distance. The nine-winged birds were noisy and disruptive creatures, always breaking the monotony of what one would consider a peaceful morning. They were quiet this morning, however.
To my surprise, a dragon stepped out from behind a rock.
My heart raced. The mere sight of it blew my mind. I confess I hadn’t been looking for it, though deep inside and on a good many occasions, I’d hoped for such a thing to take place.
Small in stature, no wings were prevalent upon its body. Its breath was atrocious.
Other explorers must have made up the stories I’d heard about such creatures. It looked quite different from what ancient legends dictated. They’d also failed to document the fact that dragons could talk, for the one standing before me spoke in a Scottish accent. Although many species of animals could speak English, they probably thought it wasn’t worth mentioning.
“Top o’ the morn to ya.”
Gathering a hold of my emotions, I licked my lips and drew a deep breath to steady myself. “Are you a dragon?”
Its eyes opened wide. “I think so. That’s what I’m told.”
“Wow.”
“Good to meet you, Wow. My name is . . . Well, I guess it’s Dragon.”
“No, sir. My name isn’t Wow. It’s Ethar. Ethar Theslo. Where are your wings? Can you breathe fire for me?”
The dragon stared at me with exasperation. “Wings? Fire? What do you mean?”
“Legends say that dragons have wings. They also breathe fire.”
A look of disappointment spread across its face.
“I’m afraid I can’t breathe fire, for only air fills my lungs. As for wings, I have none.” Its rancid breath fanned across my face.
I inwardly recoiled from the onslaught, though I kept my face impassive. “I see. That’s a shame. I’m an explorer searching for the Lost City of Zencha.”
“Let me save you some trouble. The lost city doesn’t exist. Lies, all lies. They were started many years ago by a fellow named Haconious. He made it up. Nobody knows why. Some say he was bored one day and wanted to see if he could get a folklore legend started. Looks as though he did.”
“In that case, can I ask you some questions?”
“Sure. Tell me what a question is, and I’ll do my best to help you.”
“Where are you from?”
“I’m from the City of Quencha, and I’m fifty-years-old. Though I’m small for a dragon, others are much smaller. None of us breathe fire. Dragons aren’t such a big mystery. We’re not that interesting at all. Stories passed down through the ages make us seem like we are. In truth, we’re no more interesting than the common bird.”
Despite the fact that he was a dragon, he was quite a nice fellow. I had to agree with his assessment. He appeared to be boring. Nothing about him interested me.
“C’mon, Dragon. There must be something else you can give me. What about any other lost cities? Do you have any interesting relatives?”
“Sorry, Ethar, but I have nothing. I suppose I could take you to my cave. You can meet my family. Maybe they’ll have something you can put in your journals. Although, I doubt it.”
“Sure. Take me, if you will.”
---
Dragon led me across the terrain, traipsing through dirt and rocks in the direction of his cave two miles away. Upon our arrival, he introduced me to his parents, brother, and sister.
His father towered above me. “The only thing interesting about us dragons are the legend and folk stories that aren’t true. We eat, drink, sleep, crap, and tell jokes. That’s it. We don’t even have names.”
I frowned and shook my head. “That’s boring.”
Disappointment coursed through my veins. The knowledge they’d bestowed upon me would change history books forever. I couldn’t report the news to my superiors who’d sent me on this exploration.
How could I tell them about the fact that there wasn’t a lost city to be found?
They wouldn’t take kindly to being told that dragons were boring.
What would become of future generations if I told the truth? What would become of my reputation?
I needed to fabricate a story. One Dragon and his family would be able to back up. Once I convinced them to do so, of course.
---
That evening, I lay by the fire, listening to the family laugh and tell old stories. The monotony was boring and made me sleepy.
It wasn’t long before they fell asleep. Their loud, annoying snores filled the cave.
The sound echoing in my ears reminded me of a stampede of buffalo.
I decided to continue the legend about dragons breathing fire. I couldn’t say they flew because they didn’t have wings. They couldn’t smash boulders when it came to what most believed to be their huge size because they weren’t big to begin with. People would eventually come to realize this fact upon their coming face-to-face with them.
Perhaps I could build wings out of skin. Have them jump from a cliff in a windstorm, document it, and invite my superiors to witness it with their own beady eyes. That wouldn’t suffice. There weren’t any strong winds in this part of the land.
I could easily make up a story, but people would want to see proof. They’d demand it.
I couldn’t show them dragons flying or breathing red, wicked fire. Nor could I show them what I’d found. They’d be disappointed in these creatures as much as I was.
Somehow, they needed to live up to the legends people had spoken of about them. Most especially when it came to breathing fire.
The first thing I needed to do was give this family of dragons names. Once I got that out of the way, we’d figure out how to make them fly. There was no other way around it.
Throughout history, these creatures were known to breathe fire and fly. This was a must. I wondered who’d come up with the myth. Because of that person, I now needed to prove the legend was real.
Gee, why me? The future of mankind now lies upon my shoulders.
I renamed Dragon, Rolly. His father would be known as Dennis. His mother I would name Fletcher, his sister would become Thessa, and his brother would take on the name of Harold. Perhaps it was unnecessary to bestow upon them a specific label. Nevertheless, it would make me feel better if I could refer to them by name.
“In society—human society, anyway—people are identified by names. It would be helpful to me, and to each of you, if we used the ones I’ve chosen for each of you instead of referring to you as dragons. It’s been a tradition since the beginning of human existence. As you know, my name is Ethar.”
The dragons sat in a circle comprised of dust and rocks. They looked at one another with confusion before glancing at me, and then at each other once more.
Darkness surround the entire cave. Cold permeated through every inch of it, seeping into my bones.
Birds screeched loudly outside.
The excessive sounds made it difficult for me to hear what they were saying.
The dragons whispered amongst themselves. All the while, they kept their gazes focused upon me. They shuffled about, changing positions. Minutes passed before the whispers ceased.
Dennis moved to his original position on the north side of the circle.
The constant clouds of dust wafting through the air enveloped me. Sand soon coated the back of my throat. I coughed, struggling to breathe.
Dennis cleared his throat and looked down at me. “We’ve made a decision about what you’ve said. We accept the names you’ve chosen for us.”
---
My mind raced. I thought about the implications of who and what they were. I lamented the absence of wings upon them. Sewing some type of leather or skin onto their arms wasn’t prudent. It would be much too heavy for them when it came to flapping the appendages back and forth. The weight would pull them back down to the rocky earth.
I took the bogus claims made throughout centuries about the existence of magicians into consideration. If any of it was true, I needed to find one and convince them to give the dragons wings, as well as the ability to breathe fire.
How would I go about finding a magic man?
It was against the law to practice magic in this land. Nevertheless, this was an extreme case.
For me, anyway.
---
“So, Rolly, what do you think about me teaching you and your family to fly?”
His eyes opened wide. “We don’t have any wings. How would we do so?”
“I was thinking of finding a magic man, if they do indeed exist. He’ll give you wings, and hopefully, you’ll be able to fly.”
Rolly stared at the ground. He sighed. A look of frustration spread across his face.
“Why are you so set on wanting us to fly and breathe fire?”
I scratched the top of my head before pressing my hands against my hips, gathering my thoughts. “Because that is your legend. It must live on forever.”
Dennis chuckled. He gouged two grooves in the dirt with his hind legs.
“Why would we care about a silly legend?”
I approached him and sat down on a rock. “Well, you wouldn’t, but to those who’ve read about dragons and study them, it could be the biggest mystery to the world since God.”
---
Rolly and his family discussed the matter amongst themselves.
I listened to them, unwilling to interject unless they addressed me.
“Okay, family,” Dennis said. “What are your thoughts on this? My wife, you can speak first.”
“I feel it’s important for our reputation, if it’s the one what Ethar speaks of, to live on. We must uphold it.”
“And you, daughter?”
“I want to fly, Father. I want to learn many new things. I say we do this.”
I poked a stick into the fire, praying they wanted to proceed.
Rolly was the last to speak.
“Father, I think we should take advantage of this for future generations.”
“OK, family. You have spoken.”
Dennis turned and faced me.
I set the stick down and looked him in the eye.
“Ethar, we accept this. I know of a supposed magic man in the North Village—Horatio Gambit.”
“I’m happy to hear that, Dennis.”
I looked around the fire.
The entire family gazed into the flames. Glazed, faraway looks spread across their faces.
“At first light, Rolly and I will go to the village and search for him.”
If I found him, I needed to convince him to give the dragons wings and to bless every generation afterward with them. We had to do all of it without getting arrested for witchcraft. When, and if, Horatio agreed, I would then ask him to give them the ability to breathe fire.
---
I found a cave for Rolly to hide in until I returned for him. I then continued the short walk into town. Sand puffed from underneath my sandals, like smoke from a fire with every step I took.
A buzzard circled above.
Hot and bright, the sun burned my forehead.
The birds weren’t singing either. It was like they were too hot to be bothered with waking up.
I soon arrived at the village. There weren’t that many people milling about. Thus, I took the opportunity to snoop around, carefully asking anyone I encountered about the man I was looking for. Several minutes later, I walked into a barter shack and approached the proprietor.
“My good, sir.”
The place was unusually bright. An old man leaned against a stick wedged underneath his arm. He towered over a table, folding rabbit skins. Not once, did he look up at me.
“What can I do for you?”
Someone scurried around in the back room.
Nervousness enveloped me. My heart thumped deep inside my chest. Sweat soon beaded my forehead.
“Can you tell me where I can find a man by the name of Horatio Gambit? I hear he’s a skin trader in town.” I couldn’t say he was a magic man, so I’d fabricated a small lie in order to gain people’s trust in the hopes of finding him.
The man spit at the ground. He stopped folding the skins and leaned on the stick, limping in my direction.
The deer skin stretched across the entryway was a pushed aside. A woman appeared. She looked at me, her eyes opened wide.
“Yes, sir. He lives in the last shack on the left at the end of town. Be careful. He’s a grumpy, old cuss. He’ll fire rocks or bones from his slingshot at you. He has a good aim.”
“Thanks for the warning, my good sir.”
I turned and exited the shack. Sand wafted into the air. I glanced in the direction he’d indicated, eager to find the man I was looking for.
Six months ago, while standing on a corner of a street within our village, I’d been discussing the existence of dragons with a colleague of mine. He’d seemed a tad skeptical when it came to such creatures and the lore behind them.
“I’ve heard stories about dragons all my life and have always considered them to be mythical creatures. I’ve never known anyone who’s seen one,” he’d said.
We’d spoken at length about the possibility of their being real. Not once, did anything he’d said dampen my curiosity.
Deep inside, I couldn’t help but wonder if such creatures truly existed. They must have, since a good many often spoke about them. Where did a person find one was the real question.
One evening, I skulked across rocky terrain in search of the Lost City of Zencha. The realm’s two suns lurked high above, emitting a beautiful yellowish-orange glow. A slight, refreshing breeze blew across my face with every step I took. The suns’ rays comforted me.
Unexpected squeals, reminiscent of those belonging to the Triple-Headed Slooch, echoed in the distance. The nine-winged birds were noisy and disruptive creatures, always breaking the monotony of what one would consider a peaceful morning. They were quiet this morning, however.
To my surprise, a dragon stepped out from behind a rock.
My heart raced. The mere sight of it blew my mind. I confess I hadn’t been looking for it, though deep inside and on a good many occasions, I’d hoped for such a thing to take place.
Small in stature, no wings were prevalent upon its body. Its breath was atrocious.
Other explorers must have made up the stories I’d heard about such creatures. It looked quite different from what ancient legends dictated. They’d also failed to document the fact that dragons could talk, for the one standing before me spoke in a Scottish accent. Although many species of animals could speak English, they probably thought it wasn’t worth mentioning.
“Top o’ the morn to ya.”
Gathering a hold of my emotions, I licked my lips and drew a deep breath to steady myself. “Are you a dragon?”
Its eyes opened wide. “I think so. That’s what I’m told.”
“Wow.”
“Good to meet you, Wow. My name is . . . Well, I guess it’s Dragon.”
“No, sir. My name isn’t Wow. It’s Ethar. Ethar Theslo. Where are your wings? Can you breathe fire for me?”
The dragon stared at me with exasperation. “Wings? Fire? What do you mean?”
“Legends say that dragons have wings. They also breathe fire.”
A look of disappointment spread across its face.
“I’m afraid I can’t breathe fire, for only air fills my lungs. As for wings, I have none.” Its rancid breath fanned across my face.
I inwardly recoiled from the onslaught, though I kept my face impassive. “I see. That’s a shame. I’m an explorer searching for the Lost City of Zencha.”
“Let me save you some trouble. The lost city doesn’t exist. Lies, all lies. They were started many years ago by a fellow named Haconious. He made it up. Nobody knows why. Some say he was bored one day and wanted to see if he could get a folklore legend started. Looks as though he did.”
“In that case, can I ask you some questions?”
“Sure. Tell me what a question is, and I’ll do my best to help you.”
“Where are you from?”
“I’m from the City of Quencha, and I’m fifty-years-old. Though I’m small for a dragon, others are much smaller. None of us breathe fire. Dragons aren’t such a big mystery. We’re not that interesting at all. Stories passed down through the ages make us seem like we are. In truth, we’re no more interesting than the common bird.”
Despite the fact that he was a dragon, he was quite a nice fellow. I had to agree with his assessment. He appeared to be boring. Nothing about him interested me.
“C’mon, Dragon. There must be something else you can give me. What about any other lost cities? Do you have any interesting relatives?”
“Sorry, Ethar, but I have nothing. I suppose I could take you to my cave. You can meet my family. Maybe they’ll have something you can put in your journals. Although, I doubt it.”
“Sure. Take me, if you will.”
---
Dragon led me across the terrain, traipsing through dirt and rocks in the direction of his cave two miles away. Upon our arrival, he introduced me to his parents, brother, and sister.
His father towered above me. “The only thing interesting about us dragons are the legend and folk stories that aren’t true. We eat, drink, sleep, crap, and tell jokes. That’s it. We don’t even have names.”
I frowned and shook my head. “That’s boring.”
Disappointment coursed through my veins. The knowledge they’d bestowed upon me would change history books forever. I couldn’t report the news to my superiors who’d sent me on this exploration.
How could I tell them about the fact that there wasn’t a lost city to be found?
They wouldn’t take kindly to being told that dragons were boring.
What would become of future generations if I told the truth? What would become of my reputation?
I needed to fabricate a story. One Dragon and his family would be able to back up. Once I convinced them to do so, of course.
---
That evening, I lay by the fire, listening to the family laugh and tell old stories. The monotony was boring and made me sleepy.
It wasn’t long before they fell asleep. Their loud, annoying snores filled the cave.
The sound echoing in my ears reminded me of a stampede of buffalo.
I decided to continue the legend about dragons breathing fire. I couldn’t say they flew because they didn’t have wings. They couldn’t smash boulders when it came to what most believed to be their huge size because they weren’t big to begin with. People would eventually come to realize this fact upon their coming face-to-face with them.
Perhaps I could build wings out of skin. Have them jump from a cliff in a windstorm, document it, and invite my superiors to witness it with their own beady eyes. That wouldn’t suffice. There weren’t any strong winds in this part of the land.
I could easily make up a story, but people would want to see proof. They’d demand it.
I couldn’t show them dragons flying or breathing red, wicked fire. Nor could I show them what I’d found. They’d be disappointed in these creatures as much as I was.
Somehow, they needed to live up to the legends people had spoken of about them. Most especially when it came to breathing fire.
The first thing I needed to do was give this family of dragons names. Once I got that out of the way, we’d figure out how to make them fly. There was no other way around it.
Throughout history, these creatures were known to breathe fire and fly. This was a must. I wondered who’d come up with the myth. Because of that person, I now needed to prove the legend was real.
Gee, why me? The future of mankind now lies upon my shoulders.
I renamed Dragon, Rolly. His father would be known as Dennis. His mother I would name Fletcher, his sister would become Thessa, and his brother would take on the name of Harold. Perhaps it was unnecessary to bestow upon them a specific label. Nevertheless, it would make me feel better if I could refer to them by name.
“In society—human society, anyway—people are identified by names. It would be helpful to me, and to each of you, if we used the ones I’ve chosen for each of you instead of referring to you as dragons. It’s been a tradition since the beginning of human existence. As you know, my name is Ethar.”
The dragons sat in a circle comprised of dust and rocks. They looked at one another with confusion before glancing at me, and then at each other once more.
Darkness surround the entire cave. Cold permeated through every inch of it, seeping into my bones.
Birds screeched loudly outside.
The excessive sounds made it difficult for me to hear what they were saying.
The dragons whispered amongst themselves. All the while, they kept their gazes focused upon me. They shuffled about, changing positions. Minutes passed before the whispers ceased.
Dennis moved to his original position on the north side of the circle.
The constant clouds of dust wafting through the air enveloped me. Sand soon coated the back of my throat. I coughed, struggling to breathe.
Dennis cleared his throat and looked down at me. “We’ve made a decision about what you’ve said. We accept the names you’ve chosen for us.”
---
My mind raced. I thought about the implications of who and what they were. I lamented the absence of wings upon them. Sewing some type of leather or skin onto their arms wasn’t prudent. It would be much too heavy for them when it came to flapping the appendages back and forth. The weight would pull them back down to the rocky earth.
I took the bogus claims made throughout centuries about the existence of magicians into consideration. If any of it was true, I needed to find one and convince them to give the dragons wings, as well as the ability to breathe fire.
How would I go about finding a magic man?
It was against the law to practice magic in this land. Nevertheless, this was an extreme case.
For me, anyway.
---
“So, Rolly, what do you think about me teaching you and your family to fly?”
His eyes opened wide. “We don’t have any wings. How would we do so?”
“I was thinking of finding a magic man, if they do indeed exist. He’ll give you wings, and hopefully, you’ll be able to fly.”
Rolly stared at the ground. He sighed. A look of frustration spread across his face.
“Why are you so set on wanting us to fly and breathe fire?”
I scratched the top of my head before pressing my hands against my hips, gathering my thoughts. “Because that is your legend. It must live on forever.”
Dennis chuckled. He gouged two grooves in the dirt with his hind legs.
“Why would we care about a silly legend?”
I approached him and sat down on a rock. “Well, you wouldn’t, but to those who’ve read about dragons and study them, it could be the biggest mystery to the world since God.”
---
Rolly and his family discussed the matter amongst themselves.
I listened to them, unwilling to interject unless they addressed me.
“Okay, family,” Dennis said. “What are your thoughts on this? My wife, you can speak first.”
“I feel it’s important for our reputation, if it’s the one what Ethar speaks of, to live on. We must uphold it.”
“And you, daughter?”
“I want to fly, Father. I want to learn many new things. I say we do this.”
I poked a stick into the fire, praying they wanted to proceed.
Rolly was the last to speak.
“Father, I think we should take advantage of this for future generations.”
“OK, family. You have spoken.”
Dennis turned and faced me.
I set the stick down and looked him in the eye.
“Ethar, we accept this. I know of a supposed magic man in the North Village—Horatio Gambit.”
“I’m happy to hear that, Dennis.”
I looked around the fire.
The entire family gazed into the flames. Glazed, faraway looks spread across their faces.
“At first light, Rolly and I will go to the village and search for him.”
If I found him, I needed to convince him to give the dragons wings and to bless every generation afterward with them. We had to do all of it without getting arrested for witchcraft. When, and if, Horatio agreed, I would then ask him to give them the ability to breathe fire.
---
I found a cave for Rolly to hide in until I returned for him. I then continued the short walk into town. Sand puffed from underneath my sandals, like smoke from a fire with every step I took.
A buzzard circled above.
Hot and bright, the sun burned my forehead.
The birds weren’t singing either. It was like they were too hot to be bothered with waking up.
I soon arrived at the village. There weren’t that many people milling about. Thus, I took the opportunity to snoop around, carefully asking anyone I encountered about the man I was looking for. Several minutes later, I walked into a barter shack and approached the proprietor.
“My good, sir.”
The place was unusually bright. An old man leaned against a stick wedged underneath his arm. He towered over a table, folding rabbit skins. Not once, did he look up at me.
“What can I do for you?”
Someone scurried around in the back room.
Nervousness enveloped me. My heart thumped deep inside my chest. Sweat soon beaded my forehead.
“Can you tell me where I can find a man by the name of Horatio Gambit? I hear he’s a skin trader in town.” I couldn’t say he was a magic man, so I’d fabricated a small lie in order to gain people’s trust in the hopes of finding him.
The man spit at the ground. He stopped folding the skins and leaned on the stick, limping in my direction.
The deer skin stretched across the entryway was a pushed aside. A woman appeared. She looked at me, her eyes opened wide.
“Yes, sir. He lives in the last shack on the left at the end of town. Be careful. He’s a grumpy, old cuss. He’ll fire rocks or bones from his slingshot at you. He has a good aim.”
“Thanks for the warning, my good sir.”
I turned and exited the shack. Sand wafted into the air. I glanced in the direction he’d indicated, eager to find the man I was looking for.
1
LIFE IS LIFE
As humans, we are exposed to the human condition. In my experience, life doesn’t care about this fact, throwing issues, happiness, and sadness at us every day of our lives. We cannot control this. All we can do is learn to handle it in the healthiest of ways.
One’s ability to deal with life stems from their personal experiences. An event is an event. It’s how we cope with what’s happened that makes it an issue.
I’ve experienced years of therapy, many years of meditation, and my fair share of depression and anxiety. Many times, I’ve been engulfed by those emotions, feeling despair.
Meditation is how I deal with what I’ve experienced. Some deal with it by immersing themselves in alcohol, drugs, or other destructive forms. I’ve spent many years as an alcohol and drug counselor helping them.
Life doesn’t give a shit about what we encounter. It doesn’t owe us anything either. Many times, we believe it does.
“Life on life’s terms.” This saying is so true. The sooner we accept this, the more content our lives will be.
Throughout the life I’ve lived, I fought this frequently. I still do. The result is life wins every time without fail, yet we still try to beat it.
Life occurs with or without us. It existed long before we arrived and will continue to do so long after we reach the golden shore. There is a lesson to be learned, of which we come to its realization later on.
Existence comes and goes. It passes and slows down with or without us, no matter how special we think we are. Take a second to view this on a global level. Compared to how vast the universe is, Earth is undetectable. Though we believe we are so important, in the overall scheme of things, we are nonexistent on a universal level.
In five hundred years, it will not have mattered whether we’ve lived or not. It will be as if we’ve never existed. Julius Caesar, William the Conqueror, and Alexander the Great lived so long ago, yet does it matter whether they lived? They were prominent within our history. Thus, we recognize who they are. The majority of people don’t know what they’ve done. They’re nothing more than a name to them. We are not famous, so in reality, nobody will remember us.
Let’s get off of the negative. There is a ripple effect after our death. Perhaps it’s something we’ve been taught that will filter down to others. They might not realize where it comes from, but it has to do with us. More importantly, we touch people throughout the lives we live, and we do make a difference.
The present is what is essential. I wish life would stop for you and me, but that will never happen. Living never emerges according to our plans. It turns out according to God’s agenda, or whatever higher power you believe in. If we’re lucky, it’ll turn out according to our goals. We always want what we want when we want it, though life has different plans.
We need to be careful what we ask for because we might get it. We might prefer something, but when it happens, we realize we’re better off before ever receiving it.
God has a strange sense of humor. I think He answers our requests. Sometimes, the answer might not be what we wish it to be. Sometimes, we don’t realize He’s answered our prayers until the moment has passed. When He feels comical, He’ll give us what we ask for. Of which we’ll think, “WOW! Awesome.”
He teaches us valuable lessons by showing us that what we asked for is something we didn’t require, which leads to regrets. Still, we learn the differences between what we need in life and what we don’t.
Years ago, I wrote a feature about this very fact. A man appealed for something, got it, and then regretted it. I titled the story, Jackson and the Motorcycle Man.
LIFE IS LIFE
As humans, we are exposed to the human condition. In my experience, life doesn’t care about this fact, throwing issues, happiness, and sadness at us every day of our lives. We cannot control this. All we can do is learn to handle it in the healthiest of ways.
One’s ability to deal with life stems from their personal experiences. An event is an event. It’s how we cope with what’s happened that makes it an issue.
I’ve experienced years of therapy, many years of meditation, and my fair share of depression and anxiety. Many times, I’ve been engulfed by those emotions, feeling despair.
Meditation is how I deal with what I’ve experienced. Some deal with it by immersing themselves in alcohol, drugs, or other destructive forms. I’ve spent many years as an alcohol and drug counselor helping them.
Life doesn’t give a shit about what we encounter. It doesn’t owe us anything either. Many times, we believe it does.
“Life on life’s terms.” This saying is so true. The sooner we accept this, the more content our lives will be.
Throughout the life I’ve lived, I fought this frequently. I still do. The result is life wins every time without fail, yet we still try to beat it.
Life occurs with or without us. It existed long before we arrived and will continue to do so long after we reach the golden shore. There is a lesson to be learned, of which we come to its realization later on.
Existence comes and goes. It passes and slows down with or without us, no matter how special we think we are. Take a second to view this on a global level. Compared to how vast the universe is, Earth is undetectable. Though we believe we are so important, in the overall scheme of things, we are nonexistent on a universal level.
In five hundred years, it will not have mattered whether we’ve lived or not. It will be as if we’ve never existed. Julius Caesar, William the Conqueror, and Alexander the Great lived so long ago, yet does it matter whether they lived? They were prominent within our history. Thus, we recognize who they are. The majority of people don’t know what they’ve done. They’re nothing more than a name to them. We are not famous, so in reality, nobody will remember us.
Let’s get off of the negative. There is a ripple effect after our death. Perhaps it’s something we’ve been taught that will filter down to others. They might not realize where it comes from, but it has to do with us. More importantly, we touch people throughout the lives we live, and we do make a difference.
The present is what is essential. I wish life would stop for you and me, but that will never happen. Living never emerges according to our plans. It turns out according to God’s agenda, or whatever higher power you believe in. If we’re lucky, it’ll turn out according to our goals. We always want what we want when we want it, though life has different plans.
We need to be careful what we ask for because we might get it. We might prefer something, but when it happens, we realize we’re better off before ever receiving it.
God has a strange sense of humor. I think He answers our requests. Sometimes, the answer might not be what we wish it to be. Sometimes, we don’t realize He’s answered our prayers until the moment has passed. When He feels comical, He’ll give us what we ask for. Of which we’ll think, “WOW! Awesome.”
He teaches us valuable lessons by showing us that what we asked for is something we didn’t require, which leads to regrets. Still, we learn the differences between what we need in life and what we don’t.
Years ago, I wrote a feature about this very fact. A man appealed for something, got it, and then regretted it. I titled the story, Jackson and the Motorcycle Man.
Chapter 1
Emma Colburn was born in 1885 on a small farm in Nebraska. Her parents, Fitzgerald and Thelma, felt overjoyed that they birthed a healthy daughter. They were poor farmers on a modest farm. Fitzgerald’s mother, born into slavery, was one of thirteen slaves in Nebraska in 1855. Fitzgerald’s father was his mother’s master. Little Fitzgerald was born light-skinned, Thelma, his wife, a white woman. Genetics blessed their offspring. Fitzgerald knew two things. If Emma looked black, she would have a tough time in the world, and if she looked mixed, it would be worse. Emma, being born looking like a white baby, he saw as a blessing. They never had much, but they had love.
Fitzgerald and Thelma never thought about God or religion until their daughter’s birth. They began reading the Bible and holding worship in their house among neighbors. Many farms and people struggled to make ends meet, needing miracles and searching for anything to help them. Fitzgerald began the Smithville Church of Christ, which set up a long-lasting tradition in his family. Fitzgerald and Thelma worked hard to make sure Emma always had food, clothes, and love. Neither of them had an education and quit school in the sixth grade to help on the farm. They vowed that Emma would get her learning.
As Emma grew, she became her daddy’s little girl, going everywhere with him. In the summer, she went with him to the fields to farm instead of helping her mom with household duties. Emma never wanted to be out of her father’s sight. She loved her mother, but she became particularly close to her father.
One Christmas, Emma remembered receiving a gift, despite there never being extra money for gifts. That Christmas, however, when she was six, she awoke to find a peppermint stick in her stocking. She quickly dumped the sock’s contents out on the floor, and instead of the usual apple falling out, a huge bright red and white peppermint stick hit the floor. She immediately ran and hugged her father. She carried this memory with her until the day she died.
At six years old, Emma already knew a lot about growing crops and riding horses. She and her father would race across the plains on the way back from town. Emma loved going into the small town of Smithville. The only time that Fitzgerald wouldn’t take her into town was on Thursday afternoons. It was years later before she realized why she couldn’t go with him. That’s when he visited the saloon to drink and spend two hours with Ida Lee, the Madam. Ida seldom worked the rooms, but for Fitzgerald, she looked forward to it. There were four girls, including herself, in the barroom. The Madam took care of them like a mother and loved them. She protected them against drifters who came into town. Tommy Snark, the saloon owner, ran a tight operation and didn’t put up with any ruckus, just as Ida Lee didn’t put up with any mistreatment of her girls.
Emma liked Ida Lee. Every time Ida Lee saw her in town, she would give her a piece of candy. Ida was one of the friendliest women Emma ever met. Ida Lee adored Emma. Emma noticed her dad and Ida Lee were friendly towards each other. The two of them would talk, laugh and stare eat each other. Emma was too young to understand this, but she learned her father and Ida Lee had fallen in love over the years.
Ida Lee had broken many cowboys’ hearts over the years. To her, it was a job, except with Fitzgerald. She would have quit it all to be with him. He loved her, but he also cherished his wife. They both knew he would never leave Thelma. The only man to break Ida’s heart was Fitzgerald.
Ida’s girls brought a lot of business to the saloon, and Tommy paid them decent wages for it. All the girls had broken a cowboy's heart or two, that’s for sure. Claire, nineteen years old, with the look of an angel, beautiful in every way, wandered into the barroom on a windy Tuesday afternoon, just a girl, when Ida Lee took her in as her own. A tornado hit as Claire’s family crossed the Kansas plains. Claire survived by hiding in a ravine. When she closes her eyes, she can still see that massive black tornado ripping and shredding brush in its path. Almost a clear sky all around this swirling cloud devouring the blue canvas above. And the sound, like a flying train.
Sissy was the oldest of Ida’s girls at twenty-five. She lived in a tiny house on the edge of town and was the only one who lived outside the saloon. When younger, Sissy married a man from El Paso. After he killed a Sheriff for the fun of it, she met a man on a cattle drive. As they passed through Nebraska, he left her in Smithville. Then there was Sue, the wild type that many of the cowboys liked. She was born a pastor’s daughter in East Texas among the piney woods.
Ida Lee was thirty-five years old. She had been working at the saloon since the age of fifteen. Tommy Snark and his bride took her in when they saw her walking the streets of Smithville, skinny, hungry, and wild. She had no recollection and still doesn’t know how she ended up in Smithville. The only thing she recalls is a man hid her in some bushes by the river when she was tiny. She remembers hearing Indian chants. She figures they killed the man who hid her.
Emma was more intelligent than the average kid, so she picked up on her father and Ida Lee's feelings for each other. This dawned on her because Fitzgerald looked at Thelma the same way as he looked at Ida Lee. Emma knew he loved her mother, so she concluded he loved Ida Lee as well.
Thelma, Emma’s mother, showed her how to keep up a house while her father taught her farming. Emma was a social kid and made good grades in school; she knew more about her subjects than her teacher, Ms. Smacks. Emma wasn’t shy. She talked to everyone, and people found her pleasant. Many times she told Bible stories to the congregation of Smithville. She liked school and playing with her friends. Sometimes one of her friends would come home with her after school to play marbles or jacks.
Often Emma and her friends would go to Mr. Hanson’s store after school for a pop. Mr. Hanson was a jokester, always playing tricks on the kids by telling them there wasn’t any candy, or he’d take his teeth out telling them he ate too many sweets and lost them. Also, he would hide rubber snakes behind the candy bars. Mr. Hanson meant it in good fun. He was a good-hearted man and decorated soldier from the Civil War. Emma wasn’t sure what war or decorated meant but figured it important because everyone respected him.
Emma enjoyed a decent life in Smithville even though they didn’t have much money. There was plenty of love in the household. That all changed when Emma turned fifteen. Two weeks after her birthday, on a hot summer August evening, she woke to the smell of smoke. Emma coughed as feelings of terror raged throughout her little body. She screamed for her parents. Little Emma could see smoke coming from under her bedroom door and knew not to open it. Suddenly, she heard a man calling her name, and then he grabbed her, and they got out through her bedroom window. It was Mr. Hanson who saved her. He was passing by and saw the house engulfed in flames. The only room he could reach was Emma’s. She was the sole survivor. Afterward, Emma carried her mother’s picture and her father’s watch everywhere. Emma had dark circles under her eyes from crying, begging God in her prayers to bring them back. She couldn’t imagine what her future would be like.
“Where will live? What will I do?” The world was still spinning, and she felt lost and alone. Emma stayed with Mr. Hanson and his wife for two weeks when Ida Lee took her in to live with her.
Emma liked living with her. She was a good woman even though many churchgoers didn’t care for her way of living. Ida Lee made sure Emma remained in school to get her high school diploma. All the other kids had to drop out of school to help their parents on their farms. Ida Lee did her best to raise Emma. For those five years, Ida Lee did her best to keep Emma away from the saloon. Emma always wanted to hang with the girls. Ida Lee hoped she would never be one of the whores, but Emma began as a working girl by taking cowhands that would drift into the saloon on cattle drives.
“You are much too smart for this,” Ida Lee would tell her.
“I have to make money. I can’t sit around forever,” Emma would respond.
Ida Lee prayed for a man to take her away from Smithville or at least away from the saloon.
***
Over the years, younger and prettier girls came through the saloon. The older ladies had fewer admirers. Emma had many but wanted more in life, wanting to marry and have a family. Ida Lee urged her not to get tied up in the saloon with one of those cowboys, or she would grow old there. Emma already felt old at eighteen. She missed her parents, wishing she could see them one more time for closure. She never got to tell them goodbye, only goodnight.
Emma Colburn was born in 1885 on a small farm in Nebraska. Her parents, Fitzgerald and Thelma, felt overjoyed that they birthed a healthy daughter. They were poor farmers on a modest farm. Fitzgerald’s mother, born into slavery, was one of thirteen slaves in Nebraska in 1855. Fitzgerald’s father was his mother’s master. Little Fitzgerald was born light-skinned, Thelma, his wife, a white woman. Genetics blessed their offspring. Fitzgerald knew two things. If Emma looked black, she would have a tough time in the world, and if she looked mixed, it would be worse. Emma, being born looking like a white baby, he saw as a blessing. They never had much, but they had love.
Fitzgerald and Thelma never thought about God or religion until their daughter’s birth. They began reading the Bible and holding worship in their house among neighbors. Many farms and people struggled to make ends meet, needing miracles and searching for anything to help them. Fitzgerald began the Smithville Church of Christ, which set up a long-lasting tradition in his family. Fitzgerald and Thelma worked hard to make sure Emma always had food, clothes, and love. Neither of them had an education and quit school in the sixth grade to help on the farm. They vowed that Emma would get her learning.
As Emma grew, she became her daddy’s little girl, going everywhere with him. In the summer, she went with him to the fields to farm instead of helping her mom with household duties. Emma never wanted to be out of her father’s sight. She loved her mother, but she became particularly close to her father.
One Christmas, Emma remembered receiving a gift, despite there never being extra money for gifts. That Christmas, however, when she was six, she awoke to find a peppermint stick in her stocking. She quickly dumped the sock’s contents out on the floor, and instead of the usual apple falling out, a huge bright red and white peppermint stick hit the floor. She immediately ran and hugged her father. She carried this memory with her until the day she died.
At six years old, Emma already knew a lot about growing crops and riding horses. She and her father would race across the plains on the way back from town. Emma loved going into the small town of Smithville. The only time that Fitzgerald wouldn’t take her into town was on Thursday afternoons. It was years later before she realized why she couldn’t go with him. That’s when he visited the saloon to drink and spend two hours with Ida Lee, the Madam. Ida seldom worked the rooms, but for Fitzgerald, she looked forward to it. There were four girls, including herself, in the barroom. The Madam took care of them like a mother and loved them. She protected them against drifters who came into town. Tommy Snark, the saloon owner, ran a tight operation and didn’t put up with any ruckus, just as Ida Lee didn’t put up with any mistreatment of her girls.
Emma liked Ida Lee. Every time Ida Lee saw her in town, she would give her a piece of candy. Ida was one of the friendliest women Emma ever met. Ida Lee adored Emma. Emma noticed her dad and Ida Lee were friendly towards each other. The two of them would talk, laugh and stare eat each other. Emma was too young to understand this, but she learned her father and Ida Lee had fallen in love over the years.
Ida Lee had broken many cowboys’ hearts over the years. To her, it was a job, except with Fitzgerald. She would have quit it all to be with him. He loved her, but he also cherished his wife. They both knew he would never leave Thelma. The only man to break Ida’s heart was Fitzgerald.
Ida’s girls brought a lot of business to the saloon, and Tommy paid them decent wages for it. All the girls had broken a cowboy's heart or two, that’s for sure. Claire, nineteen years old, with the look of an angel, beautiful in every way, wandered into the barroom on a windy Tuesday afternoon, just a girl, when Ida Lee took her in as her own. A tornado hit as Claire’s family crossed the Kansas plains. Claire survived by hiding in a ravine. When she closes her eyes, she can still see that massive black tornado ripping and shredding brush in its path. Almost a clear sky all around this swirling cloud devouring the blue canvas above. And the sound, like a flying train.
Sissy was the oldest of Ida’s girls at twenty-five. She lived in a tiny house on the edge of town and was the only one who lived outside the saloon. When younger, Sissy married a man from El Paso. After he killed a Sheriff for the fun of it, she met a man on a cattle drive. As they passed through Nebraska, he left her in Smithville. Then there was Sue, the wild type that many of the cowboys liked. She was born a pastor’s daughter in East Texas among the piney woods.
Ida Lee was thirty-five years old. She had been working at the saloon since the age of fifteen. Tommy Snark and his bride took her in when they saw her walking the streets of Smithville, skinny, hungry, and wild. She had no recollection and still doesn’t know how she ended up in Smithville. The only thing she recalls is a man hid her in some bushes by the river when she was tiny. She remembers hearing Indian chants. She figures they killed the man who hid her.
Emma was more intelligent than the average kid, so she picked up on her father and Ida Lee's feelings for each other. This dawned on her because Fitzgerald looked at Thelma the same way as he looked at Ida Lee. Emma knew he loved her mother, so she concluded he loved Ida Lee as well.
Thelma, Emma’s mother, showed her how to keep up a house while her father taught her farming. Emma was a social kid and made good grades in school; she knew more about her subjects than her teacher, Ms. Smacks. Emma wasn’t shy. She talked to everyone, and people found her pleasant. Many times she told Bible stories to the congregation of Smithville. She liked school and playing with her friends. Sometimes one of her friends would come home with her after school to play marbles or jacks.
Often Emma and her friends would go to Mr. Hanson’s store after school for a pop. Mr. Hanson was a jokester, always playing tricks on the kids by telling them there wasn’t any candy, or he’d take his teeth out telling them he ate too many sweets and lost them. Also, he would hide rubber snakes behind the candy bars. Mr. Hanson meant it in good fun. He was a good-hearted man and decorated soldier from the Civil War. Emma wasn’t sure what war or decorated meant but figured it important because everyone respected him.
Emma enjoyed a decent life in Smithville even though they didn’t have much money. There was plenty of love in the household. That all changed when Emma turned fifteen. Two weeks after her birthday, on a hot summer August evening, she woke to the smell of smoke. Emma coughed as feelings of terror raged throughout her little body. She screamed for her parents. Little Emma could see smoke coming from under her bedroom door and knew not to open it. Suddenly, she heard a man calling her name, and then he grabbed her, and they got out through her bedroom window. It was Mr. Hanson who saved her. He was passing by and saw the house engulfed in flames. The only room he could reach was Emma’s. She was the sole survivor. Afterward, Emma carried her mother’s picture and her father’s watch everywhere. Emma had dark circles under her eyes from crying, begging God in her prayers to bring them back. She couldn’t imagine what her future would be like.
“Where will live? What will I do?” The world was still spinning, and she felt lost and alone. Emma stayed with Mr. Hanson and his wife for two weeks when Ida Lee took her in to live with her.
Emma liked living with her. She was a good woman even though many churchgoers didn’t care for her way of living. Ida Lee made sure Emma remained in school to get her high school diploma. All the other kids had to drop out of school to help their parents on their farms. Ida Lee did her best to raise Emma. For those five years, Ida Lee did her best to keep Emma away from the saloon. Emma always wanted to hang with the girls. Ida Lee hoped she would never be one of the whores, but Emma began as a working girl by taking cowhands that would drift into the saloon on cattle drives.
“You are much too smart for this,” Ida Lee would tell her.
“I have to make money. I can’t sit around forever,” Emma would respond.
Ida Lee prayed for a man to take her away from Smithville or at least away from the saloon.
***
Over the years, younger and prettier girls came through the saloon. The older ladies had fewer admirers. Emma had many but wanted more in life, wanting to marry and have a family. Ida Lee urged her not to get tied up in the saloon with one of those cowboys, or she would grow old there. Emma already felt old at eighteen. She missed her parents, wishing she could see them one more time for closure. She never got to tell them goodbye, only goodnight.
TITLE: Tomorrow Is The Last Day
AUTHOR: Keith Kelly
RELEASE DATE: September 10, 2021
PUBLISHER: Lysestrah Press
GENRE: Literary Fiction, Contemporary, Social Issues, Addictions
BOOK DESCRIPTION:
Tomorrow is never promised.
For years, Chad Owens has given everything within himself to help those in need. His career has had its ups and downs, many of which he could have done without. Despite this fact, he’s lived the best life possible.
Looking forward to his upcoming retirement, he soon finds himself reminiscing about the life he’s led. His stroll down memory lane is a tumultuous one, reminding him of an imperfect past. One he often wishes he could change in the blink of an eye.
Determined in embracing who and what he is, he realizes he’ll need to accept every aspect of the life he’s built for himself and his beloved family. The pain, heartache, and numerous disappointments are often hard to let go. Most especially when they cross paths with his hopes and dreams. Nevertheless, he’ll do his best to do so if he’s to succeed in moving toward the next phase of his current existence.
PURCHASE LINKS (Currently not available.)
EXCERPT:
ONE
VALLEY POINTE
“DOES YOUR WIFE know the good you do here, Chad?” Jerry asks me before the Recovery Tools class begins.
I turn and look at him. Damn, in all my years of counseling, nobody has ever asked me this question.
“Well, Jerry, I honestly don’t know, but I’ll ask her.”
The addiction business is quite misunderstood, unless you work in the field, like I have done for so long. The average person doesn’t know what it’s like to live with an addiction. It’s a disease, but for someone who doesn’t work around it every day, it’s something they don’t comprehend.
I don’t blame people for not understanding this disease. If I didn’t work in the field, I probably wouldn’t either.
After a discussion with this young man, I think about how the average person doesn’t understand the life of an addictions counselor either. To begin with, I spend a ridiculous amount of time on useless paperwork that pulls me away from my hands-on work with patients. I constantly fight with insurance companies to keep them paying for a patient’s stay in the facility. It pisses me off how people pay their insurance premiums, and when they need the benefits the most, it doesn’t cover shit, and to top it off, the insurance companies don’t care.
Those fucking bastards!
Myself, as well as every other counselor in the field, are the ones who must go to the patient and tell them they have to leave the program because their insurance company won’t pay for more. This is after meeting with administration to see if any funding is available. The answer is always no, so I end up talking to the patient and breaking the news.
Meetings are another part of my job, which consists of two or three a week. Clinical team meetings can last up to two hours, discussing budget, funding cuts, and complaining about everything. If any time is left, patients are discussed. At best, twenty minutes is spent for thirty of them.
An addictions counselor also attends an unbelievable amount of training classes to keep up with continuing education units. These are an incredible waste of time and money where I learn nothing. Most of the time, I find people ask stupid questions just to listen to their own voices. Then, we have the actual treatment for the patients, such as groups, classes, and individual counseling sessions. In all of my years of alcohol and drug counseling, I have heard every horrific story about the human condition.
Drug use, drug abuse, misuse, and excuses, you name it. Once I’ve heard their story, my job is to dig deeper into why a patient has been using drugs in the first place. This is when the story gets quite grim.
Some patients have suffered rape, committed murders, seen murders, seen rapes, have been molested, and have been perpetrators. Girls raped by their fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, and cousins, with ice picks, coat hangers, all sorts of other instruments, and beaten with water hoses. Boys penetrated anally by their fathers, brothers, uncles, and cousins, resulting in blown out anal sphincters.
Parents have taught their children how to shoot up, smoke, and snort drugs, as well as shoplifting, killing, stealing, and raping. Generational drug use is passed down to the patient, starting with the grandparents or even further back.
The stories wear me out. They wear the counselors down in the long run. It’s common to want to hug the patients and comfort them, but it’s considered inappropriate. It’s common to want to continue to help them after they leave the facility with further counseling, but it’s unethical. Patients have to be referred to an outside therapist.
Many times, I say to a patient, “With your story, no wonder you use drugs. Shit, I would, too.” How these people survive amazes me.
The hardest thing I contend with, which causes me so much frustration, is when I see so much potential in a patient and they don’t see it in themselves because of their low self-esteem. I’m excellent in helping individuals to realize and find their self-esteem. Even more frustrating is when my patients have potential, but they have no wish to change their negative lifestyles.
The generational drug use that’s passed down to them leaves these individuals not knowing what else they’re supposed to do. Using is all they know. It can make any counselor resentful toward the parents. In most cases, the patients are a product of their environment. Not to say it isn’t up to them to change their circumstances, but they didn’t ask to be born and raised in the chaos that surrounds them.
Every patient is a case-by-case basis. Many years of days like this have come and gone. At night when I go home, I can’t tell anyone of what’s transpired throughout the day because it’s considered unethical. Thus, I’m left alone to deal with the fallout and all of my emotions.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Keith Kelly has been writing poems, short stories, and playing the guitar since he was fifteen years old. He’s had the opportunity of living in many different areas of the United States, and has been fortunate enough to travel, meeting many different individuals that have contributed to his life, experience, and writing.
Keith has authored five novels and two books of poetry. His short stories and poetry have been published in several issues of Common Sense 2, A Journal of Progressive Thought, as well as several issues of C C & D Magazine, and in two C C & D books of poetry and prose. He’s also had stories featured in a collected works edition published with Fountain Blue Publishing of California.
He lives with his partner, Shirley, in Rio Rancho, New Mexico. He holds a Bachelor’s Degree in Psychology, and is a licensed alcohol and drug abuse counselor.
SOCIAL MEDIA LINKS
WEBSITE
https://keithkelly1.weebly.com
FACEBOOK
https://www.facebook.com/KeithKelly0
TWITTER
https://twitter.com/KellyDarrow1
GOODREADS
https://www.goodreads.com/user/show/12614561-keith-kelly
EMAIL
[email protected]
AUTHOR: Keith Kelly
RELEASE DATE: September 10, 2021
PUBLISHER: Lysestrah Press
GENRE: Literary Fiction, Contemporary, Social Issues, Addictions
BOOK DESCRIPTION:
Tomorrow is never promised.
For years, Chad Owens has given everything within himself to help those in need. His career has had its ups and downs, many of which he could have done without. Despite this fact, he’s lived the best life possible.
Looking forward to his upcoming retirement, he soon finds himself reminiscing about the life he’s led. His stroll down memory lane is a tumultuous one, reminding him of an imperfect past. One he often wishes he could change in the blink of an eye.
Determined in embracing who and what he is, he realizes he’ll need to accept every aspect of the life he’s built for himself and his beloved family. The pain, heartache, and numerous disappointments are often hard to let go. Most especially when they cross paths with his hopes and dreams. Nevertheless, he’ll do his best to do so if he’s to succeed in moving toward the next phase of his current existence.
PURCHASE LINKS (Currently not available.)
EXCERPT:
ONE
VALLEY POINTE
“DOES YOUR WIFE know the good you do here, Chad?” Jerry asks me before the Recovery Tools class begins.
I turn and look at him. Damn, in all my years of counseling, nobody has ever asked me this question.
“Well, Jerry, I honestly don’t know, but I’ll ask her.”
The addiction business is quite misunderstood, unless you work in the field, like I have done for so long. The average person doesn’t know what it’s like to live with an addiction. It’s a disease, but for someone who doesn’t work around it every day, it’s something they don’t comprehend.
I don’t blame people for not understanding this disease. If I didn’t work in the field, I probably wouldn’t either.
After a discussion with this young man, I think about how the average person doesn’t understand the life of an addictions counselor either. To begin with, I spend a ridiculous amount of time on useless paperwork that pulls me away from my hands-on work with patients. I constantly fight with insurance companies to keep them paying for a patient’s stay in the facility. It pisses me off how people pay their insurance premiums, and when they need the benefits the most, it doesn’t cover shit, and to top it off, the insurance companies don’t care.
Those fucking bastards!
Myself, as well as every other counselor in the field, are the ones who must go to the patient and tell them they have to leave the program because their insurance company won’t pay for more. This is after meeting with administration to see if any funding is available. The answer is always no, so I end up talking to the patient and breaking the news.
Meetings are another part of my job, which consists of two or three a week. Clinical team meetings can last up to two hours, discussing budget, funding cuts, and complaining about everything. If any time is left, patients are discussed. At best, twenty minutes is spent for thirty of them.
An addictions counselor also attends an unbelievable amount of training classes to keep up with continuing education units. These are an incredible waste of time and money where I learn nothing. Most of the time, I find people ask stupid questions just to listen to their own voices. Then, we have the actual treatment for the patients, such as groups, classes, and individual counseling sessions. In all of my years of alcohol and drug counseling, I have heard every horrific story about the human condition.
Drug use, drug abuse, misuse, and excuses, you name it. Once I’ve heard their story, my job is to dig deeper into why a patient has been using drugs in the first place. This is when the story gets quite grim.
Some patients have suffered rape, committed murders, seen murders, seen rapes, have been molested, and have been perpetrators. Girls raped by their fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, and cousins, with ice picks, coat hangers, all sorts of other instruments, and beaten with water hoses. Boys penetrated anally by their fathers, brothers, uncles, and cousins, resulting in blown out anal sphincters.
Parents have taught their children how to shoot up, smoke, and snort drugs, as well as shoplifting, killing, stealing, and raping. Generational drug use is passed down to the patient, starting with the grandparents or even further back.
The stories wear me out. They wear the counselors down in the long run. It’s common to want to hug the patients and comfort them, but it’s considered inappropriate. It’s common to want to continue to help them after they leave the facility with further counseling, but it’s unethical. Patients have to be referred to an outside therapist.
Many times, I say to a patient, “With your story, no wonder you use drugs. Shit, I would, too.” How these people survive amazes me.
The hardest thing I contend with, which causes me so much frustration, is when I see so much potential in a patient and they don’t see it in themselves because of their low self-esteem. I’m excellent in helping individuals to realize and find their self-esteem. Even more frustrating is when my patients have potential, but they have no wish to change their negative lifestyles.
The generational drug use that’s passed down to them leaves these individuals not knowing what else they’re supposed to do. Using is all they know. It can make any counselor resentful toward the parents. In most cases, the patients are a product of their environment. Not to say it isn’t up to them to change their circumstances, but they didn’t ask to be born and raised in the chaos that surrounds them.
Every patient is a case-by-case basis. Many years of days like this have come and gone. At night when I go home, I can’t tell anyone of what’s transpired throughout the day because it’s considered unethical. Thus, I’m left alone to deal with the fallout and all of my emotions.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Keith Kelly has been writing poems, short stories, and playing the guitar since he was fifteen years old. He’s had the opportunity of living in many different areas of the United States, and has been fortunate enough to travel, meeting many different individuals that have contributed to his life, experience, and writing.
Keith has authored five novels and two books of poetry. His short stories and poetry have been published in several issues of Common Sense 2, A Journal of Progressive Thought, as well as several issues of C C & D Magazine, and in two C C & D books of poetry and prose. He’s also had stories featured in a collected works edition published with Fountain Blue Publishing of California.
He lives with his partner, Shirley, in Rio Rancho, New Mexico. He holds a Bachelor’s Degree in Psychology, and is a licensed alcohol and drug abuse counselor.
SOCIAL MEDIA LINKS
WEBSITE
https://keithkelly1.weebly.com
https://www.facebook.com/KeithKelly0
https://twitter.com/KellyDarrow1
GOODREADS
https://www.goodreads.com/user/show/12614561-keith-kelly
[email protected]
Excerpt:
Chapter 1
Woodstock
Working at a pizza restaurant delivering pizza is an excellent thing for a high-school kid like me to do. Driving around town getting paid is cool. I am in the 10th grade, and this is how I make my spending money. The year is 1983, and I am 15 years old, enjoying my first real job. It enables me to memorize the streets, so I can deliver pizzas fast to the customers. Several of my buddies work at Mr Gravits pizza, and they talked to the manager about giving me a job. Randy, my friend from school, mentioned that they were hiring at the restaurant, so I applied, and the boss gave me the job.
Mark, Barry and Rod are my other friends who work here. Randy got them the job as well. Drivers get paid $3.35 an hour, which is the minimum wage, plus 50 cents per delivery. The more deliveries, the more money the drivers take home at the end of the night. The trick is getting several pizzas moving to the same area of town. Barry is the master at this.
I drive a ’76 Mercury hand-me-down that Kenny helped me buy from a neighbor. Kenny is the man who has raised me. I consider him to be my father. I spend nights driving the city streets, trying to deliver as many pizzas as possible. Some nights when I cash out, I have 80 or more dollars. Most of us drivers arrive at work at 4pm. and get off around 2am on the weekends. After work, we often sit around drinking and playing the video game Galaga until the sun comes up. I go home, sleep, and do it all over again. Trenton, my supervisor, is in his mid-twenties, but that seems old to us.
Kenny applied for a work permit for me, and they granted it. The state also allowed a hardship driver’s license for me to drive during working hours.
Darla, Kenny’s daughter, is 18 and works at a fashion boutique. It’s doubtful Darla will ever get out of Werchet. She is what people around Werchet refer to as white trash, but actually she is a wonderful person, just a bit misunderstood.
Monday mornings are tough because I don’t get off work until 11 on Sunday night and then go to school next morning. I often doze through Mrs Brown’s first-period record-keeping class. The teacher likes me, and I like her, but she rides my ass. She even went to Kenny’s work once, telling him how I am throwing my talent away because I don’t apply myself. I’m not super-intelligent or anything, but bright enough to recognize what I have to do to pass the 10th grade. The only interest I have is just getting by.
Kenny was my mother’s best friend when they were in kindergarten until she died in a car crash on my first day of school in the first grade. The principal and the school counselor came into the class to get me that morning. As they walked me to the office, I felt the principal’s hand on my shoulder as he walked by my side. I thought I was in trouble for something, and I did my best to think of something wrong I had done, but nothing came to my mind. I remember hearing the principal’s heels clacking on the tile floor as he walked. I liked the sound and, looking down, I saw he was wearing brown dress shoes with shiny gold-colored buckles. We reached the office, and my grandparents and Kenny were waiting. My grandparents were sitting in front of the principal’s desk, Kenny was standing looking out of the window. When I walked in, Kenny walked over to me as my grandparents stood up. The principal walked behind his desk, taking a seat in his huge leather chair. Kenny dropped to his knees, making eye contact with me, and he told me the news.
“Woodstock. After your mother dropped you off for school this morning, she had an accident with another car. She passed away. Do you know what that means?”
“Like my dad?”
“Yes, hon, like your dad.”
The news devastated me, and I cried and screamed as I fell to my knees. The anguish was crippling and suffocating.
I lived with my grandparents for the next year until I was seven. Grandpaw and grandmaw were getting old, so Kenny asked them if I could live with him. I loved Kenny and had been around him my whole life, so I wanted to. I went to stay with Kenny and his daughter Darla. Kenny always embraced me. He is a great man. After two years, I started referring to Kenny as Pops. Kenny treats me like a son, so calling him Pops makes sense. The man is the only father I’ve ever known. Kenny is a good provider for Darla and me. I see unhappiness in his eyes and I wonder if he feels stuck in Werchet. I want to get out of Werchet some day, but I don’t hate the town. Darla does. She fucking despises this place. Guitar playing I see as my avenue out so, hopefully, I will never be stuck here. However, if I stay here, I will not necessarily view it as being stuck.
Mrs Brown, my record-keeping teacher, always says I am quite the dreamer.
“Yes, I am,” I respond.
She thinks the world of me as I do her. Students see her as hip. Mrs Brown is always going to Kenny’s garage, talking to him.
A fling may be in their future. It doesn’t bother me any. Pops needs to get his like the rest of us.
I pay close attention and realize most people are unhappy. Most search for more in life, regardless of what they have. Some use alcohol and drugs, hoping to fill a hole in themselves. Well, I ain’t clear what life does to a person but, based on what I’ve observed, I ain’t sure I want to be an adult. It seems adults find jobs, which they hate, get married to a wife or husband they aren’t happy with, and bitch about each other until they die. Many adults appear miserable. At least my friends and I think so. One day after class, I asked Mrs Brown what was the matter with adults. She responded by saying: “The youth of the time. That’s what’s wrong with us.” She loves to be sarcastic. Then she asked me what I meant, and so I told her they all seemed unhappy, aside from her.
“Mrs Brown, why do you seem happy when no other adults do?”
“Why do you assume most adults are unhappy?”
“The way they look and carry themselves. Even people I deliver pizzas to look unhappy.”
I told her how I heard couples fighting, cursing each other like dogs when I made deliveries.
“So you think I live a peaceful life?” she asked.
“Yes. What do you do to be happy?”
“Simple. I feel content and thankful with what I have, and I don’t owe more than I make.”
“That’s it?” I asked.
“That’s the answer.”
“Wow! Rock on.”
I thought about what she said, not owing more than she makes. Mrs Brown is right. As I drive through the neighborhood looking around, I notice that people have so much shit in their garages that there isn’t even enough room to park their cars in them. That’s what Mrs Brown meant by having a bunch of crap you can’t manage and don’t need. Mr Watkins, my neighbor, is a sanitation worker with a new Mustang. Ain’t no way he can afford that on his salary. At this moment, I decide as an adult I intend to be like Mrs Brown. On Monday, I will tell her my goal as it will make her happy. She will still fail me in her class, however, for not doing the assignments. That’s OK because I don’t need her class to graduate. I am just taking her class because she is so rad. Mrs Brown always asks me if I know what I am doing credit-wise. What she means is, am I sure I have calculated everything correctly. I’ve added up the credits and understand what I need to pass the tenth grade and high school.
I ask if she will go over the credits with me.
“Hell no, that’s your problem, not mine.”
Mrs Brown has looked at my credits, however. The student office aide is my cousin, and she said she saw Mrs Brown with my file one day.
Mrs Brown always seems calm, but I saw her get mad once. My friend Stan and I were sitting in our cars in the parking lot drinking beer during lunch. Stan had one or several too many, and when he returned to class, he heaved up all over his desk. Mrs Brown fumed. The stench of puke and alcohol captured the room. She sent him stumbling down the hall to the nurse’s office. Mrs Brown never told the principal, I guess, because Stan never got in trouble. She acts cool like that; she understands kids.
This incident was the talk of the school. I told my friends that Stan and I were drinking baby buds in the parking lot, and Stan drank too many, and he threw up all over his desk in class. We laughed so hard for several minutes. The next day, the principal called me to his office. Mrs Brown was there also. I got suspended for having alcohol on school property.
“Why did you report me and not Stan?” I asked Mrs Brown.
“Stan will never amount to anything. With him, it doesn’t matter. If you have guidance and discipline beginning now, you will. That’s why.”
***
It’s Friday evening, and the rain is pouring down in sheets, which means work will be busy. Every person in town will call to have a pizza delivered. I should make good money in tips. The first pizza to hit the delivery shelf is for Mr Lazaro, and he is a big tipper. He lives over on Warren drive, about 10 miles from the pizza place. The old dude seems to be a good man in his sixties, and he’s the only person I’ve ever met who served in the Second World War. Mr Lazaro was a prisoner of war. Randy, my co-worker’s dad, knows him, and he says Mr Lazaro suffered torture and beatings by the Germans for more than a year. You wouldn’t think it, although I ain’t sure what a beat man is supposed to act like, it is strange to think someone would torture Mr Lazaro. His wife was a teacher at my high school. Mrs Lazaro retired the year before I entered.
Mr Lazaro always orders a large pepperoni with extra cheese, and he has me stop and get him a six-pack of beer. Mr Lazaro calls and tells the owner of the Quick Stop to sell beer to the pizza-delivery kid. Once or twice Mr Lazaro has given me a beer.
I arrive at Mr Lazaro’s house in good time.
“Hey, how are ya, Woodstock?”
“Fine, and you?”
“Not bad for a rainy night.”
Mr Lazaro gives me the money for the pizza and beer and a three-dollar tip. Driving out of the neighborhood, I plan to take a round or two uptown before going back to work. Uptown is a strip that we kids cruise called Victory Drive. It is about three miles long, beginning at a roundabout by Kroger’s, going west with a detour through the Sonic. It continues west to the Dairy Queen, where we turn around and drive the opposite direction where it starts over, and we do this for hours. There is also a store parking lot where we will pull in to talk with one another. Cops come through and keep us from assembling. It’s known as the pig lot.
The point is that if I didn’t fuck around so much during deliveries, I could make more money. Sometimes I make special deliveries that generate more money. These deliveries comprise a pizza along with a bag of weed to specified individual customers. Customers requesting special distributions are clients of my employer. I bring the bills back to Trenton, and he gives me 20 per cent, which means I end up with extra dollars a night added to the gas pay and regular tips. I am the only one that my boss trusts for special deliveries.
Another regular customer who calls in on Friday nights which Trenton almost always delivers himself is the Corral Club. This place is open during football season and it’s where all the high-school kids go after the games. It has live music, air hockey, and pool table games. A woman named Mrs Hawthorne runs it. She runs a tight ship. Only 11th and 12th graders can go out into the parking lot. Everyone else has to stay inside. Mrs Hawthorne knows what grade every kid is in. There is no sneaking anything by her. My boss delivers her pizza because, if any of us delivers to the Corral Club, we will hang out and lose track of time and be late returning from a delivery. Trenton is only 25. I think he likes delivering there to see the high-school girls.
Mrs Hawthorne’s husband is a coach at the local college. Both do a lot with youngsters in the community, keeping kids busy. When Trenton can’t deliver for some reason, he sends me to the Corral Club to make the delivery. Girls always ask me to dance when I go, but I don’t know how, so I don’t let myself into that situation. Something I like about the club is Skip Hankins plays rhythm guitar in the band. What a fantastic guitar player. Skip dated Darla for a while. One time I walked into her room and she was going down on him.
“Did you enjoy it?”
“Fuck ya,” she responded.
Darla is easy, a good girl but has slept with every boy in her class and mine.
Everybody loves Darla. One night, after closing the pizza place, we were all sitting around drinking when Trenton, my boss says: “Woodstock, does your sister have a boyfriend?”
“No, why?”
“I would love to knock the bottom out.”
“Darla will let you whether she has a boyfriend or not, but you are like 25 and she is 18. Can’t you get someone your own age?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Just ask her to screw. Cut through all the crap,” I said.
Rod’s older brother comes into the pizza place to bullshit sometimes. He says not to waste time giving a girl many lines – just come right out and ask her to do it. I thought about that approach, but I don’t have the guts. He says it works and I suggested Trenton use this line with my sister Darla.
Darla isn’t my real sister. I refer to her as such because it makes things less complicated. If I tell people she is the daughter of Kenny, the man who raised me, I have to go into the whole story of losing my mother and father when I was little. I miss my mother and think of her often. I can’t remember much of my dad. Almost everything I know about either of them Kenny has shared with me. I do remember a special moment walking through town with my mother one day when I was very young.
Chapter 1
Woodstock
Working at a pizza restaurant delivering pizza is an excellent thing for a high-school kid like me to do. Driving around town getting paid is cool. I am in the 10th grade, and this is how I make my spending money. The year is 1983, and I am 15 years old, enjoying my first real job. It enables me to memorize the streets, so I can deliver pizzas fast to the customers. Several of my buddies work at Mr Gravits pizza, and they talked to the manager about giving me a job. Randy, my friend from school, mentioned that they were hiring at the restaurant, so I applied, and the boss gave me the job.
Mark, Barry and Rod are my other friends who work here. Randy got them the job as well. Drivers get paid $3.35 an hour, which is the minimum wage, plus 50 cents per delivery. The more deliveries, the more money the drivers take home at the end of the night. The trick is getting several pizzas moving to the same area of town. Barry is the master at this.
I drive a ’76 Mercury hand-me-down that Kenny helped me buy from a neighbor. Kenny is the man who has raised me. I consider him to be my father. I spend nights driving the city streets, trying to deliver as many pizzas as possible. Some nights when I cash out, I have 80 or more dollars. Most of us drivers arrive at work at 4pm. and get off around 2am on the weekends. After work, we often sit around drinking and playing the video game Galaga until the sun comes up. I go home, sleep, and do it all over again. Trenton, my supervisor, is in his mid-twenties, but that seems old to us.
Kenny applied for a work permit for me, and they granted it. The state also allowed a hardship driver’s license for me to drive during working hours.
Darla, Kenny’s daughter, is 18 and works at a fashion boutique. It’s doubtful Darla will ever get out of Werchet. She is what people around Werchet refer to as white trash, but actually she is a wonderful person, just a bit misunderstood.
Monday mornings are tough because I don’t get off work until 11 on Sunday night and then go to school next morning. I often doze through Mrs Brown’s first-period record-keeping class. The teacher likes me, and I like her, but she rides my ass. She even went to Kenny’s work once, telling him how I am throwing my talent away because I don’t apply myself. I’m not super-intelligent or anything, but bright enough to recognize what I have to do to pass the 10th grade. The only interest I have is just getting by.
Kenny was my mother’s best friend when they were in kindergarten until she died in a car crash on my first day of school in the first grade. The principal and the school counselor came into the class to get me that morning. As they walked me to the office, I felt the principal’s hand on my shoulder as he walked by my side. I thought I was in trouble for something, and I did my best to think of something wrong I had done, but nothing came to my mind. I remember hearing the principal’s heels clacking on the tile floor as he walked. I liked the sound and, looking down, I saw he was wearing brown dress shoes with shiny gold-colored buckles. We reached the office, and my grandparents and Kenny were waiting. My grandparents were sitting in front of the principal’s desk, Kenny was standing looking out of the window. When I walked in, Kenny walked over to me as my grandparents stood up. The principal walked behind his desk, taking a seat in his huge leather chair. Kenny dropped to his knees, making eye contact with me, and he told me the news.
“Woodstock. After your mother dropped you off for school this morning, she had an accident with another car. She passed away. Do you know what that means?”
“Like my dad?”
“Yes, hon, like your dad.”
The news devastated me, and I cried and screamed as I fell to my knees. The anguish was crippling and suffocating.
I lived with my grandparents for the next year until I was seven. Grandpaw and grandmaw were getting old, so Kenny asked them if I could live with him. I loved Kenny and had been around him my whole life, so I wanted to. I went to stay with Kenny and his daughter Darla. Kenny always embraced me. He is a great man. After two years, I started referring to Kenny as Pops. Kenny treats me like a son, so calling him Pops makes sense. The man is the only father I’ve ever known. Kenny is a good provider for Darla and me. I see unhappiness in his eyes and I wonder if he feels stuck in Werchet. I want to get out of Werchet some day, but I don’t hate the town. Darla does. She fucking despises this place. Guitar playing I see as my avenue out so, hopefully, I will never be stuck here. However, if I stay here, I will not necessarily view it as being stuck.
Mrs Brown, my record-keeping teacher, always says I am quite the dreamer.
“Yes, I am,” I respond.
She thinks the world of me as I do her. Students see her as hip. Mrs Brown is always going to Kenny’s garage, talking to him.
A fling may be in their future. It doesn’t bother me any. Pops needs to get his like the rest of us.
I pay close attention and realize most people are unhappy. Most search for more in life, regardless of what they have. Some use alcohol and drugs, hoping to fill a hole in themselves. Well, I ain’t clear what life does to a person but, based on what I’ve observed, I ain’t sure I want to be an adult. It seems adults find jobs, which they hate, get married to a wife or husband they aren’t happy with, and bitch about each other until they die. Many adults appear miserable. At least my friends and I think so. One day after class, I asked Mrs Brown what was the matter with adults. She responded by saying: “The youth of the time. That’s what’s wrong with us.” She loves to be sarcastic. Then she asked me what I meant, and so I told her they all seemed unhappy, aside from her.
“Mrs Brown, why do you seem happy when no other adults do?”
“Why do you assume most adults are unhappy?”
“The way they look and carry themselves. Even people I deliver pizzas to look unhappy.”
I told her how I heard couples fighting, cursing each other like dogs when I made deliveries.
“So you think I live a peaceful life?” she asked.
“Yes. What do you do to be happy?”
“Simple. I feel content and thankful with what I have, and I don’t owe more than I make.”
“That’s it?” I asked.
“That’s the answer.”
“Wow! Rock on.”
I thought about what she said, not owing more than she makes. Mrs Brown is right. As I drive through the neighborhood looking around, I notice that people have so much shit in their garages that there isn’t even enough room to park their cars in them. That’s what Mrs Brown meant by having a bunch of crap you can’t manage and don’t need. Mr Watkins, my neighbor, is a sanitation worker with a new Mustang. Ain’t no way he can afford that on his salary. At this moment, I decide as an adult I intend to be like Mrs Brown. On Monday, I will tell her my goal as it will make her happy. She will still fail me in her class, however, for not doing the assignments. That’s OK because I don’t need her class to graduate. I am just taking her class because she is so rad. Mrs Brown always asks me if I know what I am doing credit-wise. What she means is, am I sure I have calculated everything correctly. I’ve added up the credits and understand what I need to pass the tenth grade and high school.
I ask if she will go over the credits with me.
“Hell no, that’s your problem, not mine.”
Mrs Brown has looked at my credits, however. The student office aide is my cousin, and she said she saw Mrs Brown with my file one day.
Mrs Brown always seems calm, but I saw her get mad once. My friend Stan and I were sitting in our cars in the parking lot drinking beer during lunch. Stan had one or several too many, and when he returned to class, he heaved up all over his desk. Mrs Brown fumed. The stench of puke and alcohol captured the room. She sent him stumbling down the hall to the nurse’s office. Mrs Brown never told the principal, I guess, because Stan never got in trouble. She acts cool like that; she understands kids.
This incident was the talk of the school. I told my friends that Stan and I were drinking baby buds in the parking lot, and Stan drank too many, and he threw up all over his desk in class. We laughed so hard for several minutes. The next day, the principal called me to his office. Mrs Brown was there also. I got suspended for having alcohol on school property.
“Why did you report me and not Stan?” I asked Mrs Brown.
“Stan will never amount to anything. With him, it doesn’t matter. If you have guidance and discipline beginning now, you will. That’s why.”
***
It’s Friday evening, and the rain is pouring down in sheets, which means work will be busy. Every person in town will call to have a pizza delivered. I should make good money in tips. The first pizza to hit the delivery shelf is for Mr Lazaro, and he is a big tipper. He lives over on Warren drive, about 10 miles from the pizza place. The old dude seems to be a good man in his sixties, and he’s the only person I’ve ever met who served in the Second World War. Mr Lazaro was a prisoner of war. Randy, my co-worker’s dad, knows him, and he says Mr Lazaro suffered torture and beatings by the Germans for more than a year. You wouldn’t think it, although I ain’t sure what a beat man is supposed to act like, it is strange to think someone would torture Mr Lazaro. His wife was a teacher at my high school. Mrs Lazaro retired the year before I entered.
Mr Lazaro always orders a large pepperoni with extra cheese, and he has me stop and get him a six-pack of beer. Mr Lazaro calls and tells the owner of the Quick Stop to sell beer to the pizza-delivery kid. Once or twice Mr Lazaro has given me a beer.
I arrive at Mr Lazaro’s house in good time.
“Hey, how are ya, Woodstock?”
“Fine, and you?”
“Not bad for a rainy night.”
Mr Lazaro gives me the money for the pizza and beer and a three-dollar tip. Driving out of the neighborhood, I plan to take a round or two uptown before going back to work. Uptown is a strip that we kids cruise called Victory Drive. It is about three miles long, beginning at a roundabout by Kroger’s, going west with a detour through the Sonic. It continues west to the Dairy Queen, where we turn around and drive the opposite direction where it starts over, and we do this for hours. There is also a store parking lot where we will pull in to talk with one another. Cops come through and keep us from assembling. It’s known as the pig lot.
The point is that if I didn’t fuck around so much during deliveries, I could make more money. Sometimes I make special deliveries that generate more money. These deliveries comprise a pizza along with a bag of weed to specified individual customers. Customers requesting special distributions are clients of my employer. I bring the bills back to Trenton, and he gives me 20 per cent, which means I end up with extra dollars a night added to the gas pay and regular tips. I am the only one that my boss trusts for special deliveries.
Another regular customer who calls in on Friday nights which Trenton almost always delivers himself is the Corral Club. This place is open during football season and it’s where all the high-school kids go after the games. It has live music, air hockey, and pool table games. A woman named Mrs Hawthorne runs it. She runs a tight ship. Only 11th and 12th graders can go out into the parking lot. Everyone else has to stay inside. Mrs Hawthorne knows what grade every kid is in. There is no sneaking anything by her. My boss delivers her pizza because, if any of us delivers to the Corral Club, we will hang out and lose track of time and be late returning from a delivery. Trenton is only 25. I think he likes delivering there to see the high-school girls.
Mrs Hawthorne’s husband is a coach at the local college. Both do a lot with youngsters in the community, keeping kids busy. When Trenton can’t deliver for some reason, he sends me to the Corral Club to make the delivery. Girls always ask me to dance when I go, but I don’t know how, so I don’t let myself into that situation. Something I like about the club is Skip Hankins plays rhythm guitar in the band. What a fantastic guitar player. Skip dated Darla for a while. One time I walked into her room and she was going down on him.
“Did you enjoy it?”
“Fuck ya,” she responded.
Darla is easy, a good girl but has slept with every boy in her class and mine.
Everybody loves Darla. One night, after closing the pizza place, we were all sitting around drinking when Trenton, my boss says: “Woodstock, does your sister have a boyfriend?”
“No, why?”
“I would love to knock the bottom out.”
“Darla will let you whether she has a boyfriend or not, but you are like 25 and she is 18. Can’t you get someone your own age?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Just ask her to screw. Cut through all the crap,” I said.
Rod’s older brother comes into the pizza place to bullshit sometimes. He says not to waste time giving a girl many lines – just come right out and ask her to do it. I thought about that approach, but I don’t have the guts. He says it works and I suggested Trenton use this line with my sister Darla.
Darla isn’t my real sister. I refer to her as such because it makes things less complicated. If I tell people she is the daughter of Kenny, the man who raised me, I have to go into the whole story of losing my mother and father when I was little. I miss my mother and think of her often. I can’t remember much of my dad. Almost everything I know about either of them Kenny has shared with me. I do remember a special moment walking through town with my mother one day when I was very young.
TITLE: The Instruments Of Life
SERIES: The Symphony Of Life; Book 2
AUTHOR: Keith Kelly
RELEASE DATE: May 26, 2021
PUBLISHER: Lysestrah Press
GENRE: Literary Fiction, Contemporary
BOOK DESCRIPTION:
Life, love, and relationships are never what we make of them.
From the moment Kaley Anderson sold the store her parents had bequeathed her, she knew her life would never be the same. She’s learned to love and accept the things she cannot change, becoming a better person with every step she takes.
Kaley’s world is soon turned topsy-turvy when she learns of her lover’s secrets. Secrets that soon lead to a path of destruction and heartache.
Unsure if she’ll be able to withstand what’s headed her way, she makes a decision that sets her on a path she never intended to take. One that ultimately allows her to play the instruments of her own life.
Excerpt:
ONE
UNEXPECTED CLARITY
KALEY
Another busy day, I have a series of stories appearing in a magazine. My deadlines for the drafts are due this afternoon. I have so much to shuffle to keep my career and this house functioning. Nevertheless, I make do.
Not too long ago, I’d signed publishing contracts for five of my stories. The first one scheduled to be published is titled, Her Laugh Broke The Silence.
The story allows the reader to explore the mind of what a therapist thinks about during a therapy session. I’d gotten the idea while sitting in my own therapy sessions.
Within a month of submission, the magazine responded with an acceptance letter and asked if I would submit more of my stories to them. I sent in four others I’d previously written. I’m in the process of finishing the edits for Her Laugh Broke The Silence today.
Monica helps me with my writing. She thinks a break is coming my way.
My college classes and tutoring the women at the prison also help me when it comes to my own writing. Monica has turned that position over to me since she’s begun to teach more classes at the university.
She’s busy, I’m busy, and we keep Carrie busy. In true retrospect, we’ve a busy household.
To my dismay, Carrie, Monica’s daughter, has come down with the flu. I check on her throughout the day to make sure she’s taken care of. In between, I work on my deadlines.
“Kaley!” Carrie hollers from upstairs. “Can you bring me an orange juice?”
It’s been long day already. She’s suffering from a fever of a hundred and two. I can’t leave her in the bedroom to fend for herself.
I save what I’m working on and stand, making my way to the kitchen. Rummaging through the refrigerator, I grab the carton of orange juice and shut the door, moving toward the counter. I grab a cup and fill it with juice before stowing the carton in the fridge. I then head back upstairs in the direction of Carrie’s room.
“Here you are, Carrie. How do you feel?” I ask, handing her the cup.
She accepts the offering and takes a small sip. “Better. Are you writing?”
“Yes, I have an upcoming deadline.”
“Sorry to disturb you. Thanks for the juice.”
I nod at her and smile, ruffling her hair before making my way back downstairs. I sit in front of the computer and reopen the document. I’m working on the last of the submission when the phone rings.
“Hello.”
“Hey, Kaley Baby. How’s it going?” Monica asks.
“Hello, hon. I’m writing.”
“I wanted to tell you I’ll be late this evening. Gerard is coming over to cut the grass.”
“OK, Monica. I’ll be watching for him,” I say before setting the receiver back onto its cradle.
I wish she’d hire another gardener. Gerard is gorgeous. He and Monica flirt every time he comes over, which makes me jealous.
She admits to flirting with him whenever possible. I’ve even asked her if he comes on to her, would she sleep with him? Monica says no, but I doubt it.
I tend to worry about things that usually never happen. Often, I create scenarios when it feels like I’m losing control. I tell myself over and over that she loves me and wants me in her life.
Distracted, time flies by. I haven’t gotten most of my work done. To top it all off, I have to listen to Gerard run the lawnmower all afternoon. The mower is the noisiest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.
TITLE: The Symphony Of Life
SERIES: The Symphony Of Life; Book 1
AUTHOR: Keith Kelly
RELEASE DATE: December 29, 2020
PUBLISHER: Lysestrah Press
GENRE: Literary Fiction, Contemporary
BOOK DESCRIPTION:
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.
EXCERPT:
ONE
KALEY
KALEY
The second of July, 1984 is a day I’ll never forget. I stare at the sun melting into the horizon. The evening air smells ripe with a sultry thickness southerners are accustomed to, like tasting sweet iced tea and annual visits to the cemetery.
Mother drives me home from the airport.
I settle back against the seat, aware of its comfort, and close my eyes, intent on shutting out the drudge of the last four days. I want nothing more than to think about getting out of my sweat-drenched clothes, which feel horrible on my skin, and washing off a long day of airports and flight changes.
Mother convinced me that I’d needed to go with her to Atlanta for a small business seminar called “Mind Your Own Business.” The whole experience has been ridiculous and trite as the title.
Truth is, I’ve resented our family business for as long as I can remember. I never intended to be stuck between the isles of groceries and shelves of bagels and donuts. My grandparents willed the store to my parents, and the business became the favored child.
Like a dutiful child, I spent every day after school, every weekend, and every summer day exhausted and looking after the shop. Spending a week of my two-week annual vacation bored as hell at a seminar is the farthest thing I’ve wanted to do. The only bright spot over the course of these four days has been the fact that the presenter became ill and cancelled the last two days of the seminar.
If I’d known my life would be full of depression several hours later, I would have stayed, found a cheap place to rent, and buried my head under the covers.
I open my eyes.
We round the corner and come to a stop in front of the house.
I focus on the lights shining through the living room window. “Dammit, Roscoe, you chicken!”
I clumsily step out of the car, bid Mother goodbye, and walk up the sidewalk, deciding not to chastise Roscoe for keeping the lights on. He’s afraid of the dark. We’ve had the “why do you keep every light on in the house?” conversation so many times throughout our six-year marriage.
No lights shine from the bedroom. I surmise that he is likely asleep, which is perfect. Chitchat isn’t what I want right now.
Walking into the house, my cold fingers find the switch. I flick off the lights, walking down the long hallway leading to our bedroom. I maneuver my way through the darkness, my nails scratching along the wall and making a hideous sound with every step I take. Minutes later, I walk into the room and kick off my shoes, turning on the small desk lamp on the dresser. I glance at the outline of a body lying across the bed. The meager light makes it difficult to see, however.
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SERIES: The Symphony Of Life; Book 1
AUTHOR: Keith Kelly
RELEASE DATE: December 29, 2020
PUBLISHER: Lysestrah Press
GENRE: Literary Fiction, Contemporary
BOOK DESCRIPTION:
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.
EXCERPT:
ONE
KALEY
KALEY
The second of July, 1984 is a day I’ll never forget. I stare at the sun melting into the horizon. The evening air smells ripe with a sultry thickness southerners are accustomed to, like tasting sweet iced tea and annual visits to the cemetery.
Mother drives me home from the airport.
I settle back against the seat, aware of its comfort, and close my eyes, intent on shutting out the drudge of the last four days. I want nothing more than to think about getting out of my sweat-drenched clothes, which feel horrible on my skin, and washing off a long day of airports and flight changes.
Mother convinced me that I’d needed to go with her to Atlanta for a small business seminar called “Mind Your Own Business.” The whole experience has been ridiculous and trite as the title.
Truth is, I’ve resented our family business for as long as I can remember. I never intended to be stuck between the isles of groceries and shelves of bagels and donuts. My grandparents willed the store to my parents, and the business became the favored child.
Like a dutiful child, I spent every day after school, every weekend, and every summer day exhausted and looking after the shop. Spending a week of my two-week annual vacation bored as hell at a seminar is the farthest thing I’ve wanted to do. The only bright spot over the course of these four days has been the fact that the presenter became ill and cancelled the last two days of the seminar.
If I’d known my life would be full of depression several hours later, I would have stayed, found a cheap place to rent, and buried my head under the covers.
I open my eyes.
We round the corner and come to a stop in front of the house.
I focus on the lights shining through the living room window. “Dammit, Roscoe, you chicken!”
I clumsily step out of the car, bid Mother goodbye, and walk up the sidewalk, deciding not to chastise Roscoe for keeping the lights on. He’s afraid of the dark. We’ve had the “why do you keep every light on in the house?” conversation so many times throughout our six-year marriage.
No lights shine from the bedroom. I surmise that he is likely asleep, which is perfect. Chitchat isn’t what I want right now.
Walking into the house, my cold fingers find the switch. I flick off the lights, walking down the long hallway leading to our bedroom. I maneuver my way through the darkness, my nails scratching along the wall and making a hideous sound with every step I take. Minutes later, I walk into the room and kick off my shoes, turning on the small desk lamp on the dresser. I glance at the outline of a body lying across the bed. The meager light makes it difficult to see, however.
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https://www.goodreads.com/user/show/12614561-keith-kelly
[email protected]
When Ben and his Grandson Charlie build a fort out of blankets one evening, little Charlie feels the fort is magic. They fall asleep in the fort, and little do they know the next morning they will wake in a magic land.
Humans are brought to this land for a specific purpose. Charlie meets a new friend who turns up missing and through their journey searching for that friend, they will discover their purpose for being in the magic land. Ben and his grandson meet several other inhabitants of this strange land on this adventure, making friends that will last a lifetime.
The Magic Blanket Fort - book excerpt
Chapter 1
Mid-morning on September 11, 2009, my Grandson Charlie arrives into the world, weighing a healthy six-pound eight-ounces. Our faces are streaked with tears as they river themselves down our cheeks. My wife, my daughter and I are beside ourselves with contentment, peace, and joy to meet this wonderful gift of life. My wife and I stand around my daughter's bedside, looking down at her. My wife's hands caressing my daughter's forehead as she holds this bundle of joy close to her chest, smiling proudly, knowing she is a mother. My offspring had a rough go of it, being on bed rest the last couple of months of her pregnancy. All of us experience relief when Charlie is born. My name is Ben and from the instant holding this little breathing life in my arms, he becomes my best friend.
People say they witness love at first sight; that's true because I am in love the minute I see this little guy. Charlie is a good baby, eating and sleeping well, and never crying at night. Sue, my wife, and I keep him as much as possible as we love him being around. He spends the night often.
As Charlie grows, he smiles, frowns, and laughs when he hears familiar voices. He observes everything. The moment we turn on the television or music, that little boy looks towards it and smiles. He loves music. When the radio plays, he hums to the music with his baby sounds. Charlie tries his best to sing.
I have forgotten how hard and tiring it can be taking care of a little one. Just as we relax on the couch, he cries, and one of us has to get up and go check on this baby. Usually, we both get up and creep down the hall to spy in to see what he is doing. Many times, he is looking at the ceiling kicking his little legs all around, his blanket thrown to the corner of his crib.
***
Time zooms by, and Charlie can sit up on his own. Sue and I take so many pictures as we are proud of him. Even at this young age, he likes to come to Grandma and Grandpa's to spend time with us.
Soon enough, he crawls, getting into everything. This is when I have to childproof the house by covering the plugs and such. Perhaps a little overprotective as our place is like Fort Knox secured from any harm to our little grandbaby. Since the moment he crawls, showing autonomy, he doesn't like anyone holding him and will squirm his way loose, and off he crawls. I figure his character will be that of independence, freethinking, and curiosity.
Charlie begins walking at an average age for children and moves quickly. The wife and I take him out in the backyard, and he takes off, running as fast as his little feet will carry him. Believe me, it feels exhausting chasing after him, making sure he doesn't trip and hurt himself. Charlie spends the night with us every Tuesday as Geri, my daughter, works the night shift. By the time Charlie falls asleep on Tuesday nights, my wife and I are ready for bed as well.
Charlie is a late talker. He knows what various objects are but doesn’t voice what they are. When he wants his sippy cup or a toy, he points to it and grunts. Even though he doesn’t talk much, he has a keen sense of observation. He notices everything from a new picture on the wall to flowers his grandmother just placed on the table.
When he finally does start speaking, his first word is Mom, which brings my daughter to tears. Shortly after, he peers at my spouse and says, "Grandma." A week or so later, bouncing him on the bed, he looks at me and says, "Pah Pah," then I cry. Kids always come up with their own names to call their grandparents.
One evening, Charlie and I are rolling a ball back and forth on a blanket spread out on our front yard's grass. Charlie laughs and giggles as he swats at the ball, doing his best to roll the ball back to me. Sue and Geri sit nearby talking when Charlie points towards the city, which is visible from our front yard and says, "Albuquerque." He says this word so clear; it is impressive that such a complicated name is his fourth word.
"Did you hear that?" I ask them. They stop their chatter and listen.
We ask him to repeat it, and he does. After this, the kid talks non-stop.
Being a writer and telling him stories, it isn't long before Charlie becomes a storyteller. The names this kid makes up in his head, such as Sneener, PoPo, and Meno, are fantastic. Another character of his creation is Goo Goo Ga Gus. When I ask about these characters, he says they are his friends. He insists that Sneener and Goo Goo Ga Gus are boyfriend and girlfriend. I enjoy playing along with these tales and made-up characters.
Charlie has such a vivid imagination and God's given the benefit of creativity to this boy. At first, his stories consist of general things that boys make up in their imagination. However, around six years of age, his stories become very exact, more specific than what matches his age. Charlie describes scenes and characters beyond his age group's imagination. I ask where he gets these ideas, and he says they are real. I play along. What am I going to do? Tell a six-year-old little boy I don't believe his fables. Charlie has a blessed gift. I will never discourage it by suggesting I don't believe him.