Sara Niles's Blog: Sara Nile's Blog - Posts Tagged "sara-niles"

The market is driven by supply and demand, whether the goods provided are housing and food or books. In the case of books, the veritable food for our literary souls, the publishing houses, until recently, gate-kept which authors were given the opportunity to breach the gap between books written and books read. The readers who originally set the tone of what was popular, often were fed what the publisher thought readers wanted, until a new author appeared on the scene who broke the mold and cleared the way for a new style of writing.

Two examples come to mind: Stephen King and Truman Capote. Stephen King presented publishers with an out of the box style of writing that was not initially accepted by publishers as they rejected King's submissions repeatedly with the notion that nobody would read that 'stuff'. King had written three novels that would go on to become bestsellers by the time he finally was accepted by one worn-down publisher, intent on getting King out of his hair. The rest is well known history, King was not only well received when his first book, Carrie was published in 1973, but went on to become one of the most successful authors of all time, with books selling in the hundreds of millions of copies.

Truman Capote, was another author who dared to think and write 'outside the box' when he produced In Cold Blood in installments posted in The New Yorker in 1965, detailing the 1959 murders of the Kansas family by the name of Clutter. The horrific crime took place in one of the most peaceful communities of the Holcomb Kansas area and was committed by two disturbed prisoners newly released from a Kansas prison. Capote meticulously researched each individual involved in this horrific plot, in order to not only tell a story but to reveal the characters as complex psychological beings who were molded by individual experience, personality and by societal influences.





It is particularly interesting as to how Capote broke out of the box with his writing by straying from the overused and common form of journalistic writing to use an innovative flowing narrative style that allowed In Cold Blood to be read like a fiction novel; in effect, Capote claimed to have created a new genre 'the nonfiction novel'.

It is this insight rich, detail oriented style of writing that made Capote world famous with the publication of the 'first' true crime book that read like a novel instead of a prolonged news article. Capote developed the characters of the Clutter family, enabling the reader to both understand them and feel deep empathy and compassion for the hardworking, upstanding family; while also creating a humanistic perception of the murderer Perry, the victim of the worst of societal evils, childhood abuse and abandonment. The conflict of good versus evil and man against man as well as himself if powerfully orchestrated into the story.

The reader is made to both understand how psychopaths are created by an unfair system and how society is ultimately faced with the monsters in the end. The societal conflict is reminiscent of Mary Shelly's Frankenstein and how the monster turned on its masters in the end. The problem with this story is the reader realizes from the beginning that the 'story' is not a story at all, but an actual historical happening skillfully recreated by the author, a fact that makes In Cold Blood all the more thought provoking.


The bottom line, is the play it safe approach that publishers have relied upon for decades is giving way to the modernistic writing styles of authors such as Stephenie Meyer with the Twilight series and Amanda Hockings paranormal romance novels; each a deviation from the average traditional plot.



In Cold BloodCarrieTwilightThe Torn Trilogy Volume II
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Published on February 03, 2012 20:36 • 84 views • Tags: author, books, carrie, in-cold-blood, sara-niles, stephen-king, stephenie-meyer, the-torn-trilogy, truman-capote, twilight-series
Art survives whole civilizations and it is what makes savage man civilized; art inspires, impassions and motivates the human mind and spirit to soar higher, to do better than ever before. Writers are artists whose words formed on paper create a literary canvas that lingers long after the writer is gone. If you doubt the truth of those words, call to mind the words trapped in the books of long dead writers, such as the works of Shakespeare, John Milton, Herman Melville, Emily Bronte, each well remembered for the artistry of their words and the depth of their storytelling.

But Art, is an individual thing, it is the visible and palpable exhibition of inner drives and imaginations, a literary Rorschach test for all to see. Writers expose their inner selves when the art of writing is performed by the authentic self. A few examples come to mind: Charles Dickens wrote of deep dark fears possessed by children whose lives were engulfed in poverty and abandonment and his childhood heroes and heroines were all victims of an unfair society that abandoned them to the degradation of work houses after snatching their parents from them. Fyodor Dostoevsky suffered exile as a debtor by a society that had little mercy or pity for the hapless among them, and so the author wrote of hapless souls whose spirits were governed by societal conflicts. In Dostoevsky’s masterpiece work, Crime and Punishment, one can almost feel the pain of the author who transposed his fears and anguish into the character of Raskolnikov whose ill formed conscious was not adequate for the moral conflicts he was tested with. In the famous American story To Kill a Mockingbird, the author Harper Lee writes of a social recluse by the name of Boo Radley and after the book gained international fame, the author slowing slipped from view and became a mystery to the world; perhaps too well aware of how Boo Radley felt and thus able to artfully portray him to the world.

Whether the art is created from words and music or words on paper, it still leads the patron into their own unique caves of emotion and enables them to see with new eyes. In the case of literary art, the imagery is sometimes created from simple words, sparse descriptions that wield powerful effects; or the words themselves can be artistically presented in such a way as to maximize the emotional and social experiences of the reader. The book becomes the stage and the words put on the play, the theater becomes a new world and the reader journeys into new insights.

Not all art is great and not all books are well written, but once in a while, a few great books come along that remain timelessly unforgettable, classics, true works of art, their authors immortalized forever by their work.

Sara Niles
Author of The Torn Trilogy
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Published on February 17, 2012 05:55 • 102 views • Tags: art, charles-dickens, classic, crime-and-punishment, harper-lee, ment, rash, rorschach, rorshachshment, sara-niles, to-kill-a-mockingbird, writing
British author JK Rowling's hugely successful Harry Potter Series has gone not only digital but Amazonian digital but without the Digital Rights Management (DRM) feature. What difference does that make you say?

Well for those of us who are unknowns, DRM is a godsend because it is a protection against digital thievery out there in cyberspace; however, JK Rowling is such a huge name and her books are so well known that digital thief would commit legal suicide if they stole Harry Potter books. R

The release of seven of Rowling's books caused an overload on the Amazon Kindle site crashing the site today according to news reports:
http://www.examiner.com/books-in-char...

It is no surprise that mass overload resulted when hundreds of thousands of Rowling fans rushed the Amazon Kindle site; after all The Harry Potter series is the best selling series in history selling over half a billion copies.

This is great news for Harry Potter lovers but this also may signal a drastic change for indie authors. The appearance of giants like JK Rowling will no doubt be followed by more of the big name authors. The Kindle market was an indie author's paradise at one time. The water was good and swimming was allowed. Perhaps the Kindle pool is about to suddenly become crowed just like the regular book market.

Time will tell.

Sara Niles
Indie Author
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Published on March 27, 2012 20:09 • 74 views • Tags: digital-rights-management, drm, harry-potter, indie-authors, jk-rowling, kindle, sara-niles, trend
Chapter 1


Thunder rattled the window- panes two stories high and lightning split the sky, it was as if the whole world was in turmoil that night. My nerves were keyed up as tight as piano strings and in a sudden moment of stillness and silence it felt as though my heartbeat was amplified ten times over. He was over a hundred pounds greater than I; nearly a foot taller and I knew he could move his muscled body into unbelievable sprints. Rain started falling in torrents, while the storm raged outside. I was not afraid of the storms of nature; it was the storm inside this night that I knew I might not survive.

Anticipation was so great that I wanted to scream at him to get it over with and true to my expectation he lunged for me, my body did not disappoint me, I flew down the stairs two at a time in my bare-feet. He stalled for mere seconds to enjoy his pronouncement of a death sentence upon me: “I AM GOING TO KILL YOU—YOU GOOD FOR NOTHING BITCH—STONE DEAD!!!!!!!” He screamed.

That was the night that I disappeared into a February rainstorm with five children and no place to go. I was twenty-nine years old.

Many people asked of me since that day many ‘whys’ and I gave many answers. It takes a lot of ‘why’s’ to make a life, mine being no exception. Maya Angelou said ‘you can’t know who I am until you know where I have been’; until you know the circumstances and people who contributed to the making of me, you cannot know me. We all are complicated mixes of many other people and life events. We are all of everything that has ever happened to us. If we suddenly got amnesia, we would cease to exist as who we were except in the memory of others. My pain is me, and thus my life that once was, is what made me now. I am the hungry little girl who sat in the sand over forty years ago waiting to be rescued by an ancient old man, I am Sara Niles and this is my story.


I was born in the bowels of the South where willow trees hang low over ponds and creeks surrounded by the lush growth of woody fern. My beginnings were in a place where knotted old oaks twisted their knurled boughs upwards, their majestic leafage allowing slithers of light to penetrate the shadowy forest floors to lend peeks upon the backs of huge Diamondback rattlesnakes; their gargantuan size owing to seldom meeting the sight of the eyes of man, if ever at all. I was born where the bottomland hoarded teems of wild boars known to rip hunting dogs open from end to end and where the narrow little graveled roads twisted and wound their way past humble mail boxes, usually the only evidence of the habitations miles into the forest, accessed by dirt tire rutted roads with a strip of grass ribboned in the middle. This was oil country, oil wells were scattered every few miles, their slow prehistoric movements signaling that the owners were receiving money. Neighbors lived far apart on beautiful little farms or in ragged shacks, with a Cadillac and a television or neither plumbing nor electric power lines. Depending upon which neighbor you were, you had plenty or nothing at all.

My mother had nothing at all, except seven hungry mouths to feed. She was by everyone’s opinion an exceptionally beautiful woman. Her mother before her was a French white woman from New York and her father was a black and Indian man; born, bred and still living in the same area. I never met my maternal grandmother, I strongly suspected that she mated with my grandfather on a purely business level. A business that is considered to be one the oldest vices, the one I have to thank for my very existence. My mother was a prostitute. I was an accident she had with a client, a rich white oilman who found her little shack a convenient stop on his trips from town and she found in him food for her children. Things may have been different for my mother, if a white man, living in a racist time, had not shot her first husband in the back for the unforgivable crime of stealing gas- Gas that he swore to pay for that evening when he left the billet woods. It was a time when racism ruled, a ‘cold war’ between blacks and whites established the climate, and therefore no trial ever took place.
It was nineteen fifty seven, the Little Rock nine were escorted to school by Federal troops under the order of President Eisenhower to counteract the attempt of Arkansas Governor Faubus to prevent it. Southern racial tensions produced a supreme irony: Federal troops against the National Guard. This visible strife between state and nation was one of the evidences of the racial turmoil of the times. The line of demarcation between blacks and whites was decided by color and I was born on the centerline. My bright light skin marked me as a product of the enemy, the white man in the black community. Black women drawled sweetly to my mother that my long wavy brown hair was so pretty in tones meant to be a reproof to her. I was unacceptable, too white to be black… too black to be white.

We lived in what our relatives fondly called ‘the old homestead’. It was the home built by my great- grandparents, a newly freed slave by the name of Henry Howell and his wife, a full-blooded Crow Indian bearing the European name Charlotte. Henry and Charlotte had twelve children, each born in the front room of this now dilapidated old house. Great old cottonwoods rattled their leaves noisily in the wind in front of the house and massive oaks guarded the back, dwarfing the little outhouse with its pitiful croker-sack door. The exterior of the house bore the aged gray look of hardwood that had never been painted in its century of withstanding the pelting rains and the great extremes of heat and cold. It was a tough, neglected old house, abandoned to my mother to house us in rent-free. She could ill afford to care for the ancient structure that needed attention so badly, or us. The job of watching and caring for us fell to my oldest sister, Francine. She was thirteen years old at my earliest remembrance of her, my brother was twelve, and the rest of our ages ran closely behind. I was four years old.

The house had three entrances. The front and back doors we children were allowed to use freely, but the side door facing the setting sun was off limits to us. It was the ‘business’ door, the door that the strange men used; some used it so often they even knew our names. On a rare occasion when my mother was absent, I was molested by one of these men while the noon-ish sun shone through the window. I knew nothing of what he was doing, he sounded friendly. Something was wrong, I felt some odd shame and my heart pounded with relief when my tigress of a sister burst through the door demanding that the ‘no good son of a dog’ take his filthy hands off me in a voice strong with authority and rage that was strange to hear in the voice of a child. He unhanded me without a word and fled as all my siblings ran up to flank her in the ranks. I remembered that incident, though I never once mentioned it again until three decades passed. I merely held my head self-consciously tilted to one side when I walked.

Nothing stood out in my early childhood worth remembering until the fateful day when the world kindly changed for me. My great uncle and aunt lived on a farm a mile’s walk through a wooded trail. Robert Howell was born in eighteen eighty-three to Henry and Charlotte Howell in the very same curtain-less room that my siblings and I slept in on the pallets and old mattresses. Although my mother was treated as an outcast in the family - never visited and quietly talked about by the conventional ones who may have feared their heavenly reservations may be cancelled if they dared come near her- my uncle Robert visited us daily. He cared little for convention and hated hypocrisy; he would not permit either to stifle his compassion for us. We looked for uncle’s visits just as faithfully as we expected the sun to rise, and just as faithfully, he always came. I never remember his coming unheralded by our squeals of delight because we knew he had candy or fruit if not both. Our yard’s stingy spattering of trampled grass wore a distinct trail that led to the East corner where a roofed water well crested the top of a steep red clay hill. Uncle Robert’s head would always appear first, on hot days his hatless bald head would bloom at the top of that hill prettier to us than any flower, He not only brought us gifts, he luxuriated us in his time by talking with each one of us. We loved Uncle Robert dearly and any one of us would have been glad to be taken home by him. I was selected.

The monotony of our lives made the mentioning of the names of days unnecessary so I don’t know what day it was when my uncle took me home, just that it was sunny and warm. I was sitting in front of the east steps in a pile of cream colored sand pouring it’s warmness across my legs when Uncle Robert came.

“I’m coming to take you home with me little Sara. Just let me talk with your mama for a minute. You’re going to be me and Mollie’s little girl” my uncle soothingly promised. I felt something that must have been excitement, although I had heard him say he would take me home before, this time was different. My brother and sisters gathered around the front door trying to overhear the conversation from within. We could hear the muffled conversation getting louder as my mother and uncle walked down the hall to the front porch.

“I’ll find her birth certificate later Uncle Robert. You just take her on home now” adding to “Tell Aunt Mollie hello for me”. And just like that, as easily as one changes shoes, I was given away unceremoniously without tears or protest from my mother. She never hugged me good-bye, nor did she come outside to watch me leave. My brother and sisters gathered around me looking sad, their bubbly excitement died as they followed us down the steep hill all the way to the ravine. They yelled ‘good –byes’ until we were out of sight. My uncle let me climb upon a stump so I could ride astride his neck since I had no shoes. Uncle Robert talked excitedly, gesturing with his hat in his free hand while holding one of my ankles with the other. I was holding his baldhead with both my thin dirty arms. I don’t remember much of what he said, only something about how happy my aunt Mollie would be and all of the things they would buy me. These golden promises meant nothing to me yet as I had no prior means of comparison and I was too distracted by apprehension mixed with unformed expectations.

I knew we had almost arrived when we reached the spring at the bottom of the hill. The spring bubbled up fresh water continually, the overflow created a branch of water that was covered with a plank bridge. Two thick, smoky black water moccasins raised their ugly heads up from the water and opened their cottony mouths in silent threat. I tightened my grip on Uncle Robert’s head. The roof of the house appeared first as we ascended the long incline. A large grayish brown farmhouse, surrounded by bright flowers, arose into view. My senses became acute, recording every minor detail, the smells of the flowers and fruit trees enchanted me as my uncle stooped to unlatch a peg lock on the back gate. My heart was beating faster and faster, my blood raced through my veins with such force that I became dizzy, my hearing muted and time slowed.

Fear ran through me as two large silky black Labradors ran toward us barking hysterically, the barking giving way to tail wagging and happy howls of joy at seeing my uncle. I could see an immense expanse of ordered property. There were pastures and barns, cows and a big-eared mule, chickens scattering across a fenced yard and New Guinea fowl shrieking in tropical song. There were huge tomcats sitting calmly upon fence posts. I was bedazzled. While my head whirled in excitement, I was gently stood upon the grounds on legs almost too weak to hold me. It was incomprehensible to my dazed senses that all of the commotion was over me.

My uncle yelled to my aunt to hurry out and see what he had and in an instant my aunt ran across the back yard with a spatula in one hand wearing a white apron across the front of the prettiest flowered dress I had ever seen. I was being smothered in hugs while my uncle and aunt both talked at once. The animals sensed the excitement and were howling in unison. I tried to see everything at once, such as the number three bathtubs hanging outside against the back porch wall, animals, a smokehouse and old farm buildings. I thought I had entered a new world when I smelled the most wonderful aroma of foods floating upon the breeze; my senses were overwhelmed as the hunger awakened in me compelled me to cry. I was fed while still caked with grime and dirt. “Robert, I’m afraid she’ll get sick. Don’t you think we should stop her from eating now?” Aunt Mollie asked uncertainly. “Nah. This child probably has never eaten her fill. Let her eat till she bursts.” He answered glad heartedly before they both melted into joyous laughter. For the first time in my life, I was home.

I was scrubbed in sudsy lather and wrapped in a towel. My only dress was so dirty that it was discarded. I stood behind my aunt holding the back of her chair while she sewed dresses and matching bloomers out of floral cotton flour sacks. She sang and talked as she wheedled her singer treadle sewing machine. I said nothing. I was happier than I had ever been. On Saturday, I remember because every day I was told to just wait until Saturday and we will go to town, we went to town. My aunt bought shoes, dresses, ‘britches’, baubles, and toys, everything that a little girl who had nothing would need. I remember the things I didn’t need, the candles and soda pops of all varieties and colors. All of downtown was comprised of one street covering a couple of blocks, so in a town of that size everyone knew Aunt Mollie. My aunt told every listening ear, both white and black, that she and Uncle Robert were like Sarah and Abraham, blessed with a child in their old age.

Relatives were notified, they came by the carloads to see me and brought and sent gifts. My Aunt Fannie from California sent two huge packages of clothing and toys from J.C. Penny, a habit she continued for the duration of my early years. Physically, I went from nothing to everything in one week. From no attention to being squabbled over; my emotions knew no precedent, therefore I was overwhelmed in joy. I began to talk incessantly, ‘like a jaybird’ as Uncle Robert said. There was so much to see and do, to taste and touch. I was experiencing the tastes of new foods almost daily. I became a whirlwind as I tried to enjoy everything at once in a frenzy of ecstasy.

My uncle took me with him to visit my brother and sisters each day, they were always so happy to see us, only now I knew that they did not have the good things I did. I used to ask Uncle Robert and Aunt Mollie to bring them home to live with us; I was too young to know what their sad faces revealed. It was impossible; they could only save one, the child most likely to suffer harm. My mother moved away when I was five years old without a word. We went for our daily visit and the house was vacant. A feeling of loss pervaded my happiness as we stood staring in disbelief. Years would pass between brief glimpses of any of them.

Nothing good was withheld from me, even moral guidance was provided as my uncle read to me nightly out of a King James red-letter edition Bible. “Them’s the Good Lord’s words in red,” he would say reverently. These lessons installed in me a sense of moral propriety and spiritual obligation that I would later misconstrue to my own detriment. The strength of character I gleamed from them would enable me to survive myself and all lesser foes.

For the next half decade, I lived on the ‘flower bed of Eden’ as Cousin Andrew called it. The days were never long enough; perhaps that is why I hated to sleep. Seasons came and went in a panorama of delight. The record ice storm of the early sixties was a great memory to me as I watched through steam fogged windows, warm and snug as the loud popping of snapping pine trees screamed with the howling winds. Nothing caused me to fear those years, I felt perfectly safe as I expected I always would.

Those days will be forever frozen in my mind. I can still see my uncle and aunt standing among the prized garden vegetables, four-foot tall collard greens reaching my aunts shoulders. I can see the tanned sinewy frame of my uncle stretching his short frame proudly towards the sky as he brags on the size of his watermelons. I can hear their laughter coming from lungs almost a century old and I can see the twinkle in Uncle Robert’s one good eye. I could never imagine him killing the man who gouged out his eye with a pool stick so many years before, though the relatives said that he did. I only knew that the blue glass eye looked odd with his one brown one set against his tawny gold skin. A semi circle of silky white hair matched his heavy white mustache. I can see the bright flash of his red plaid shirt through the school bus window years later as he walks hurriedly to the highway to escort me home the cold November day the house burned to the ground. Dirt and smut on his sad face. I can still see them. I will always be able to see them in the vivid imagery of my mind.

I used to wish with a fervor that I could have held on to the past and preserved all that was good about it, that I could have prevented my aunt the years of suffering as she lay dying bedridden with cancer. I used to wish that all the good years would have never ended; time cured the wishing as I realized that the fairy tale had to end. It was gone; I would never get it back. The sun would still rise, the seasons would still come, life would continue. I was thankful to have been a part of it; I would take the memories and savor them for the life ahead. I had been given the components that would comprise the fate of my destiny; they had aged into my soul so that part of the past would always remain with me. They would be there for me to draw strength from on days in my future when death would seem a triumph and life too hard to live any more.

It is strange how intricately life hangs in the scales, how unrelated events and single decisions alter the outcomes. Some remote land ten thousand miles from me, some land unfamiliar to me, held the key to my future. A foreign land of war, of helicopters, machine gunfire and mortars held a young man prisoner to its boundaries. A man I would never have met if my uncle had not become sick.

My uncle became acutely ill when I was fifteen years old and asked a young family that he was fond of to adopt me. Life had changed course for me again, the changes were becoming less kind as time wore on. I was about to be thrust into a situation where my lack of experience would affect my judgment and cause a permanent change in the person I would become. My future would become as uncertain and unstable as a howling wind in a wasteland.


The Torn Trilogy by Sara Niles
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Published on April 06, 2012 05:14 • 95 views • Tags: domestic-violence, indie-author, memoir, sara-niles, southern-united-states, trilogy
Thomas A. Edison, who was notoriously gifted with a creative mind, said that “genius is one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent perspiration”, which is a truth that most successful and semi-successful indie authors have discovered. I have certainly discovered having a creative mind or special talent for writing, is not enough in today’s highly competitive book market, there needs to be one more added element besides creative writing, that is vital to success: you have to perspire a lot. The days of sending off a query letter to a handful of hungry literary agents and subsequently landing a large writing contract, are long gone; with the rare exception of a few select breakaway newbies who have been extended the scepter of honor for the day.

The publishing world has evolved markedly since 1974, when Stephen King almost never was discovered. According to the story of King’s first contract, after continuous rejections from publishers and a last ditch effort on King’s part when his wife saved his manuscript out of the kitchen trash and urged him to mail it “one more time”, King was discovered as a great writer, and the rest was history (http://www.horrorking.com/biography.html ). Those were the simple days, before the massive onslaught of eBooks at the rate of thousands a day, not to mention the 43,000 plus eBooks available through the Guttenberg Project (http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/).

The frantic scramble to reach the top of the book pile, by relatively unheard of authors is both easier now, and more difficult. It is easier to become noticed, if you can break through the crowd before it closes in on you; but it is more difficult because the crowd of eBook publishers and indie authors, is growing daily, while the holes in the fabric of eBook marketing, are being filled almost as fast as they are created. Two Independent Authors who broke through the opening in the Young Adult genres, in a big way, were Amanda Hocking and Colleen Hoover, both were independent authors at the time, and both sold a million copies or more of their books. Hoover (http://colleenhoover.com/ ) made it to the top of the charts on Amazon with a number one bestseller and Hockings (http://www.worldofamandahocking.com/ ) was one of first indie authors to make it big. Many more are hot on their heals.

In the case of Hoover and Hockings, did either of these authors just get lucky? Although luck has something to do with it I am sure, from what I have seen and read, these two women worked off their respective glutei maximi; as I have discovered while following their tracks. Whew!

So what does it take to break through into the publishing world?
Creative talent= one percent
Perspiration= ninety-nine percent
Add perseverance and hope for luck!


Bio: Sara Niles AKA Josephine Thompson
Sara Niles is the author’s pen name, chosen for Torn From the Inside Out Torn From the Inside Out
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Published on July 11, 2013 15:52 • 42 views • Tags: ebook, edison, sara-niles, writing
A Most Unusual Life Wish:
A Bucket List to Remember
July 12, 2013

By Sara Niles (A.K.A. Josephine Thompson)
The term ‘bucket list’ is a term that was made more popular by the 2007 movie by the same title: The Bucket List and it means to list things that you want to do before you die. Most people list things that they never got around to, or special achievements that may have been lifetime dreams.

I have one primary thing in my life that has achieved a ‘do or die’, sacred mission status to me: it is the one thing I want to do, no matter what happens in my life. It is the thing that is of greatest importance to me, besides the most obvious and universal goal that most of us who are human share, that of putting family and loved ones first; but in order to clearly articulate why this one thing is so important to me, I have to tell a short version of my long life. The life altering, and consuming mission that I have been propelled into, was aroused by my own personal life experiences and cultivated by unfortunate circumstances along my journey.

In order to tell the story of my mission, I have to tell a snippet version of my life:

I was born to a country prostitute during a time when race relations in the southern United States were less than ideal and as a result, as a child of mixed race in the 1950’s, I was given away to my great-great uncle and aunt to raise, both of whom were in their eighties when I was barely past my toddling years. My relatives died while I was still a child and I married a man who was both abusive and mentally unstable, and about fifteen years and five children later, I found myself on a run for my life with five small children. After a traumatic upheaval, my children and I found an oasis of sorts in a small community in another state and life appeared to be grand.

To make a long story short and without telling the details, life was far from grand, as I discovered over the years. My five children had been damaged psychologically in ways that were not readily apparent, and it would take years before I fully understood the triple impact of domestic violence and abuse upon impressionable young children, or how childhood abuse affects them as adults. The impact of prolonged and extreme dysfunction is often triple and generational, successive generations are affected. I call this triple effect that predisposes victims toward drug addiction, trauma reactions and mental health issues, the ‘Three Headed Monster’.

My mission is to keep the Three Headed Monster at bay and my tools are my words: I wrote The Torn Trilogy, a monumental 1200 page work that is a testament of the power of the human spirit under fire, and as a long mission statement against family dysfunction and extreme domestic violence.

When my mission is completed, I want to visit one of the greatest mountains in the world:
Mount Kilimanjaro
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Published on July 12, 2013 13:22 • 52 views • Tags: bucket-list, memoirs, mission, sara-niles, trilogy, writing
He was dead, alright. The sight of death is an ugly and fearsome thing, I thought, as I absorbed the tragic sight in front of me. It was a man, ‘The man’ , who was lying in the road with blackish-red blood pooled around his head, and as he lay face down with his feet in his own yard, while his head and shoulders were planted in the street, he gave the appearance of a killed animal felled in its tracks by a hunter.

By the time I arrived, yellow crime scene tape was strapped around the trees, while blue and red lights flashed out of sync with each other, providing the warning surges of light emanating from the tops of police cars and through the windshields of undercover detective vehicles; while the ambulance was parked askew with the neat, uniformed workers eerily standing almost idly by, in no apparent rush to ‘save’ the life of the already ‘dead’ man. I had rushed over as soon as I got the phone call, alerting me to what I was seeing with my own eyes. The phone call had been from my oldest son Tommy who had reached me at the local shelter with the news: “He’s dead! Mama-somebody just shot him-right out in the middle of the street.” Tommy had tersely stated, as a matter-of -fact summation of a wasted and dangerous life. The man was killed within fifty feet of my adult son Tommy’s yard, so naturally I felt I had a license to investigate to see if he was indeed ‘really’ dead.

I received the phone call from my son, while only a few blocks away, so it had only taken a few minutes for me to arrive. I could see past the commotion of all the emergency workers, that my son’s hunter green Chevy truck was parked in his driveway. I had dropped my younger teen-aged son, Mikey off earlier that morning so that he could ’hang out’ with his brother and watch sports on television with him, which was what they were doing during the time of the murder. I parked carefully on the other side of the wide yellow crime tape and about two houses down from Tommy’s, and since there was no way for me to gain access to my son’s house without going under the crime tape, I walked up to the tape, as two detectives nodded at me (I knew them both) and allowed me to cross under the tape in order to walk the few feet over to Tommy’s house. I walked past the man’s bloodied head, taking care to keep moving. I took the time to take a good look at the man, I had to, it was as if some compelling force pulled me in that direction, a force beyond mere curiosity, I needed to see for myself, that he was dead. This body before me was the once loud and brash man, who used to stand out in the street and threaten me as I drove by, and who intimidated and menaced others, now appeared to lie in a permanent state of lifelessness, with not a twitch of movement coming from his body. He was dead. I felt a conflicting wave of relief, that he would not kill the two boys that I knew, nor their mother and I also felt a secondary feeling of reverent sadness, borne out of moral responsibility, simply because the man was a man after-all, a human who would never breathe the breath of life on this earth again. According to Tommy, there was no mystery to the murder since it happened in front of the entire neighborhood, therefore, finding the man who did it, was just a matter of wrapping up a few details. It would be brought to light later, that the task of bringing the killer of the man to justice was as easy as following a trail of crumbs.
But at that time, I did not know how the new murder case would turn out, but I did know that someone innocent would have died if ‘the man’ had not been stopped. The greatest mysteries in life are not the ones concocted for movies and television, nor the fictional stories made up as a result of a writer’s active imagination. The greatest mysteries happen every day, all around us; and in the case of the murdered man, lying post mortem, right out in public, dead in the same street that many local people traveled daily, the mystery was right in our front yard.

Homicide in the Street was taken from Out of the Maelstrom by Sara Niles

Homicide in the Street Free on Amazon:
http://www.amazon.com/Homicide-Street...

Out of the Maelstrom
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Published on February 23, 2014 04:38 • 96 views • Tags: homicide, nonfiction, sara-niles
https://www.goodreads.com/group/show/...
Is Domestic Violence a Societal Issue:
In response to ongoing dialogue:
"I second both of you in your powerful and accurately worded stances on societal views of domestic abuse.

People tend to examine the world from their own points of reference, which limits their understanding of some issues-that is-if they did not experience it to the same degree then they many not understand it-that in turn, limits the empathetic response and encourages apathy.

Another societal problem with abuse is that many former victims of childhood abuse think they need not think about it again-just move on, stuff it, and pretend it did not happen.This does not fix the problem with the individual, and it does not improve the collective health of society-instead it fosters the 'sweep-it-under-the rug' societal state of denial.

In addition to societal denial,there is societal 'projection' in which the victim is blamed for being 'stupid'....and of course if you can believe that what happened to 'the victim' happened only because they were stupid, then you only have to be 'smart' to not be victimized. The illusion of invulnerability is created and it helps people feel they have control when they say "I would never let that happen to me", not understanding the total dynamic involved. Just as individuals use such tactics to avoid feeling vulnerable-so do collective groups; and eventually, group attitudes become cultural 'norms'...that is what we have now.

In both cases,societal denial and victim blaming- the real issue gets ignored, which is the need to do something to change the cycle of abuse,
that affects huge numbers of children growing up who will have issues as adults. Changing cultural norms is part of what needs to be done (much like in the situation when slavery existed, and when gay people were considered outcasts).

Domestic abuse is extremely widespread and includes all forms of family dysfunction from emotional and psychological abuse by caretakers of both genders, to sexual and physical abuse.As you both stated-many children are affected and this is a BIG issue in our society.When you consider most people addicted to substances and negative behaviors, were childhood abuse victims-and most people in the prisons were childhood abuse victims-this is an issue of pandemic proportions. It is a societal issue, not just an individual one, and will have to be consistently addressed on a societal level in order to change things.

Public awareness and education is essential to changing public perception. The children absorb societal attitudes-and then the children grow up and become the 'new' society"

Sara

The Railroad
Torn From the Inside Out
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Published on March 22, 2014 07:59 • 107 views • Tags: discussions, domestic-abuse, domestic-abuse-issues, groups, memoirs, sara-niles, social-issues, society
https://www.goodreads.com/topic/show/...

I am Sara Niles, and Neil joined my new Domestic Violence group and posted a new thread using Torn From the Inside Out as the book to read.

The Group needs more people, so if there are readers who have an interest in Domestic Violence issues, please step forward.

You don't have to read Torn From the Inside Out to have an opinion on Domestic Violence laws; but if you request a FREE copy of Torn From the Inside Out, I will provide one for you-the only thing I ask is that you join the group...even if you don't actively participate.

Link to Group: https://www.goodreads.com/topic/show/...

Torn From the Inside Out by Sara Niles
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Torn From the Inside Out
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Published on March 22, 2014 17:12 • 132 views • Tags: book-discussion, child-abuse, discussion, domestic-violence, domestic-violence-laws, free-ebook, group-discussion, sara-niles
One paperback copy of Torn From the Inside Out (normally priced at $19.95) will be given away on Goodreads. The Free Giveaway ends on May 25, 2014.


https://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/sh...
Torn From the Inside Out by Sara Niles
Torn From the Inside Out

Chapter 1
The Garden of Eden

Thunder rattled the window- panes two stories high and lightning split the sky; it was as if the whole world was in turmoil that night. My nerves were keyed up as tight as piano strings, and in a sudden moment of stillness and silence it felt as though my heartbeat was amplified ten times over. He was over a hundred pounds greater than I, nearly a foot taller, and I knew he could move his muscled body into unbelievable sprints. Rain started falling in torrents, while the storm raged outside. I was not afraid of the storms of nature; it was the storm inside this night that I knew I might not survive.
Anticipation was so great that I wanted to scream at him to get it over with, and true to my expectation he lunged for me, and my body did not disappoint me, I flew down the stairs two at a time in my bare-feet. He stalled for mere seconds to enjoy his pronouncement of a death sentence upon me:
“I AM GOING TO KILL YOU—YOU GOOD FOR NOTHING BITCH—STONE DEAD!”He screamed like a crazed animal.

The date was February 13, of the year 1987, the night that I disappeared into a February rainstorm with five children and no place to go. I was twenty-nine years old.

Many people asked of me since that day, many ‘whys’ and I gave many answers. It takes a lot of ‘why’s’ to make a life, mine being no exception. Maya Angelou said ‘you can’t know who I am until you know where I have been’; until you know the circumstances and people who contributed to the making of me, you cannot know me. We all are complicated mixes of many other people and life events. We are all of everything that has ever happened to us. If we suddenly got amnesia, we would cease to exist as who we were, except in the memory of others. My pain is me, and thus my life that once was, is what made me now.

I am the hungry little girl who sat in the sand over forty years ago waiting to be rescued by an ancient old man, I am Sara Niles and this is my story.

The Deep South, 1957

I was born in the bowels of the South where willow trees hang low over ponds and creeks surrounded by the lush growth of woody fern. My beginnings were in a place where knotted old oaks twisted their knurled boughs upwards, their majestic leafage allowing slithers of light to penetrate the shadowy forest floors to lend peeks upon the backs of huge Diamondback rattlesnakes; their gargantuan size owing to seldom meeting the sight of the eyes of man, if ever at all. I was born where the bottomland hoarded teems of wild boars known to rip hunting dogs open from end to end, and where the narrow little graveled roads twisted and wound their way past humble mail boxes, usually the only evidence of the habitations miles into the forest. These humble country homes were usually only accessible by traveling down dirt, tire-rutted roads with strips of ragged grass running down the middle, like frazzled, green ribbon. This was oil country, so oil wells were scattered every few miles, their slow prehistoric movements signaling that the owners were receiving money. Neighbors lived far apart on beautiful little farms or in ragged shacks, with a Cadillac and a television, or neither plumbing nor electric power lines. Depending upon which neighbor you were, you had plenty or nothing at all.

My mother had nothing at all, except seven hungry mouths to feed. She was by everyone’s opinion an exceptionally beautiful woman. Her mother before her was a French white woman from New York, and her father was a black and Indian man; born, bred and still living in the same area. I never met my maternal grandmother, I strongly suspected that she mated with my grandfather on a purely business level. A business that is considered to be one the oldest vices, the one I have to thank for my very existence. My mother was a prostitute. I was an accident she had with a client, a rich white oilman who found her little shack a convenient stop on his trips from town, and she found in him food for her children. Things may have been different for my mother, if a white man, living in a racist time, had not shot her first husband in the back for the unforgivable crime of stealing gas- gas that he swore to pay for that evening when he left the billet woods. It was a time when racism ruled, a ‘cold war’ between blacks and whites established the climate, and therefore no trial ever took place.
It was the year 1957, a date that became a famous marker in the racial history of conflict between Blacks and Whites; when The Little Rock Nine were escorted to school by Federal troops under the order of President Eisenhower to counteract the attempt of Arkansas Governor Orval Faubus to prevent it. Southern racial tensions produced a supreme irony: Federal troops against the National Guard. This visible strife between state and nation was one of the evidences of the racial turmoil of the times. The line of demarcation between Blacks and Whites was decided by color, and I was born on the centerline. My bright light skin marked me as a product of the enemy, the White man in the black community. Black women drawled sweetly to my mother that my long wavy brown hair was so pretty in tones meant to be a reproof to her. I was unacceptable, too White to be Black… too Black to be White.

We lived in what our relatives fondly called ‘the old homestead’. It was the home built by my great- grandparents, a newly freed slave by the name of Henry Howell and his wife, a full-blooded Crow Indian bearing the European name Charlotte. Henry and Charlotte had twelve children, each born in the front room of this now dilapidated old house. Great old cottonwoods rattled their leaves noisily in the wind in front of the house and massive oaks guarded the back, dwarfing the little outhouse with its pitiful ‘croker-sack’ door, made of rough burlap. The exterior of the house bore the aged gray look of hardwood that had never been painted in its century of withstanding the pelting rains and the great extremes of heat and cold. It was a tough, neglected old house, abandoned to my mother to house us in rent-free. She could ill afford to care for the ancient structure that needed attention so badly, or us. The job of watching and caring for us fell to my oldest sister, Francine. She was thirteen years old at my earliest remembrance of her, my brother was twelve, and the rest of our ages ran closely behind. I was four years old.

The house had three entrances. The front and back doors we children were allowed to use freely, but the side door facing the setting sun was off limits to us. It was the ‘business’ door, the door that the strange men used; some used it so often they even knew our names. On a rare occasion when my mother was absent, I was molested by one of these men while the noon-ish sun shone through the window. I knew nothing of what he was doing, he sounded friendly. Something was wrong, I felt some odd shame and my heart pounded with relief when my tigress of a sister burst through the door demanding that the ‘no good son of a dog’ take his filthy hands off me in a voice strong with authority and rage that was strange to hear in the voice of a child. He unhanded me without a word and fled as all my siblings ran up to flank her in the ranks. I remembered that incident, though I never once mentioned it again until three decades passed. I merely held my head self-consciously tilted to one side when I walked.
Nothing stood out in my early childhood worth remembering until the fateful day when the world kindly changed for me. My great uncle and aunt lived on a farm a mile’s walk through a wooded trail. Robert Howell was born in eighteen eighty-three to Henry and Charlotte Howell in the very same curtain-less room that my siblings and I slept in, on the pallets and old mattresses. Although my mother was treated as an outcast in the family - never visited and quietly talked about by the conventional ones who may have feared their heavenly reservations may have been cancelled if they dared come near her- my uncle Robert visited us daily. He cared little for convention and hated hypocrisy; he would not permit either to stifle his compassion for us. We looked for uncle’s visits just as faithfully as we expected the sun to rise, and just as faithfully, he always came. I never remember his coming unheralded by our squeals of delight because we knew he had candy or fruit, if not both. Our yard’s stingy spattering of trampled grass wore a distinct trail that led to the east corner where a roof covered water well crested the top of a steep red clay hill. Uncle Robert’s head would always appear first, and on hot days his hat-less bald head would bloom at the top of that hill prettier to us than any flower, because he not only brought us gifts, he luxuriated us in his time by talking with each one of us. We loved Uncle Robert dearly, and any one of us would have been glad to have been taken home by him. I was selected.
The monotony of our lives made the mentioning of the names of days unnecessary, so I don’t know what day it was when my uncle took me home, just that it was sunny and warm. I was sitting in front of the east steps in a pile of cream-colored sand pouring it’s warmness across my legs when Uncle Robert came.
“I’m coming to take you home with me little Sara. Just let me talk with your mama for a minute. You’re going to be me and Mollie’s little girl” my uncle soothingly promised.

I felt something that must have been excitement, although I had heard him say he would take me home before, somehow I knew this time was different. My brother and sisters gathered around the front door trying to overhear the conversation from within. We could hear the muffled conversation getting louder as my mother and uncle walked down the hall to the front porch.

“I’ll find her birth certificate later Uncle Robert. You just take her on home now”, and as an afterthought she added “Tell Aunt Mollie hello for me”.
And just like that, as easily as one changes shoes, I was given away unceremoniously without tears or protest from my mother. She never hugged me good-bye, nor did she come outside to watch me leave. My brother and sisters gathered around me looking sad, their bubbly excitement dying, as they followed us down the steep hill, all the way to the ravine. They yelled ‘good –byes’ until we were out of sight. My uncle let me climb upon a stump so I could ride astride his neck, since I had no shoes. Uncle Robert talked excitedly, gesturing with his hat in his free hand while holding one of my ankles with the other. I was holding his baldhead with both my thin, dirty arms. I don’t remember much of what he said, only something about how happy my aunt Mollie would be, and all of the things they would buy me. These golden promises meant nothing to me yet, since I had no prior means of comparison and I was too distracted by apprehension mixed with unformed expectations.

I knew we had almost arrived when we reached the water spring at the bottom of the hill. The spring bubbled up fresh water continually, with the overflow creating a running stream of branch water that was covered over by a long plank bridge. Two thick, smoky black water moccasins raised their ugly heads up from the water and opened their cottony mouths in silent threat. I tightened my grip on Uncle Robert’s head. The roof of the house appeared first as we ascended the long incline. A large grayish brown farmhouse, surrounded by bright flowers, arose into view. My senses became acute, recording every minor detail, while the smells of flowers and fruit trees enchanted me, as my uncle stooped to unlatch a peg lock on the back gate. My heart was beating faster and faster, and my blood raced through my veins with such force that I became dizzy, my hearing muted and time slowed.

Fear ran through me as two large silky black Labradors ran toward us barking hysterically, the barking giving way to tail wagging and happy howls of joy at seeing my uncle. I could see an immense expanse of ordered property. There were pastures and barns, cows and a big-eared mule, chickens scattering across a fenced yard and New Guinea fowl shrieking in tropical song. There were huge yellow and gray-striped Tabby tomcats sitting calmly upon fence posts. I was bedazzled. While my head whirled in excitement, I was gently stood upon the grounds on legs almost too weak to hold me. It was incomprehensible to my dazed senses that all of the commotion was over me.
My uncle yelled to my aunt to hurry out and see what he had, and in an instant my aunt ran across the back yard with a spatula in one hand wearing a white apron across the front of the prettiest flowered dress I had ever seen. I was being smothered in hugs while my uncle and aunt both talked at once. The animals sensed the excitement and were howling in unison. I tried to see everything at once, such as the number three bathtubs hanging outside against the back porch wall, animals, a smokehouse and old farm buildings. I thought I had entered a new world when I smelled the most wonderful aroma of foods floating upon the breeze; my senses were overwhelmed, as the hunger awakened in me, compelled me to cry. I was fed while still caked with grime and dirt.

“Robert, I’m afraid she’ll get sick. Don’t you think we should stop her from eating now?” Aunt Mollie asked uncertainly.

“Nah. This child probably has never eaten her fill. Let her eat till she bursts.” He answered glad heartedly before they both melted into joyous laughter. For the first time in my life, I was home.

I was scrubbed in sudsy lather and wrapped in a towel. My only dress was so dirty that it was discarded. I stood behind my aunt holding the back of her chair while she sewed dresses and matching bloomers out of floral, cotton flour sacks. She sang and talked as she wheedled her Singer treadle sewing machine. I said nothing. I was happier than I had ever been. On Saturday, I remember because every day I was told to just wait until ‘Saturday’ and we will go to town. On Saturday, we went to town. My aunt bought shoes, dresses, ‘britches’, baubles, and toys, and everything that a little girl who had nothing, would need. I remember the things I did not need, the candies and soda pops of all varieties and colors. All of downtown was comprised of one street covering a couple of blocks, so in a town of that size everyone knew Aunt Mollie. My aunt told every listening ear, both White and Black, that she and Uncle Robert were like Sarah and Abraham, blessed with a child in their old age.
Relatives were notified, and they came by the carloads to see me, and brought and sent gifts. My Aunt Fannie from California sent two huge packages of clothing and toys from J.C. Penny, a habit she continued for the duration of my early years. Physically, I went from nothing to everything in one week. From no attention to being squabbled over; my emotions knew no precedent, therefore I was overwhelmed in joy. I began to talk incessantly, ‘like a jaybird’ as Uncle Robert said. There was so much to see and do, to taste and touch. I was experiencing the tastes of new foods almost daily. I became a whirlwind as I tried to enjoy everything at once in a frenzy of ecstasy.

My uncle took me with him to visit my brother and sisters each day, they were always so happy to see us, only now I knew that they did not have the good things I did. I used to ask Uncle Robert and Aunt Mollie to bring them home to live with us; I was too young to know what their sad faces revealed. It was impossible; they could only save one, the child most likely to suffer harm. My mother moved away when I was five years old without a word. We went for our daily visit and the house was vacant. A feeling of loss pervaded my happiness as we stood staring in disbelief. Years would pass between brief glimpses of any of them.

Nothing good was withheld from me, even moral guidance was provided as my uncle read to me nightly out of a King James red-letter edition Bible. “Them’s the Good Lord’s words in red,” he would say reverently. These lessons installed in me a sense of moral propriety and spiritual obligation that I would later misconstrue to my own detriment. The strength of character I gleamed from them would enable me to survive myself and all lesser foes.

For the next half decade, I lived on the ‘flower bed of Eden’ as Cousin Andrew called it. The days were never long enough; perhaps that is why I hated to sleep. Seasons came and went in a panorama of delight. The record ice storm of the early sixties was a great memory to me as I watched through steam fogged windows, warm and snug, as the loud popping of snapping pine trees screamed with the howling winds. Nothing caused me to fear those years, I felt perfectly safe as I expected I always would.

Those days will be forever frozen in my mind. I can still see my uncle and aunt standing among the prized garden vegetables, amid four-foot tall collard greens reaching my aunts shoulders. I can see the tanned sinewy frame of my uncle stretching his short frame proudly towards the sky as he brags on the size of his watermelons. I can hear their laughter coming from lungs almost a century old, and I can see the twinkle in Uncle Robert’s one good eye. I could never imagine him killing the man who gouged out his eye with a pool stick so many years before, though the relatives said that he did. I only knew that the blue glass-eye looked odd with his one brown one, set against his tawny gold skin, his head crowned with a semi-circle of silky white hair with a matching heavy white mustache. I can see the bright flash of his red plaid shirt through the school bus window years later as he walks hurriedly to the highway to escort me home, on the cold November day the house burned to the ground. Dirt and smut on his sad face. I can still see them. I will always be able to see them in the vivid imagery of my mind.

I used to wish with a fervor that I could have held on to the past and preserved all that was good about it, that I could have prevented my aunt the years of suffering as she lay dying, bedridden with cancer. I used to wish that all the good years would have never ended; time cured the wishing as I realized that the fairy tale had to end. It was gone; I would never get it back. The sun would still rise, the seasons would still come, life would continue. I was thankful to have been a part of it; I would take the memories and savor them for the life ahead. I had been given the components that would comprise the fate of my destiny; they had aged into my soul, so that part of the past would always remain with me. They would be there for me to draw strength from, on days in my future when death would seem a triumph and life too hard to live any more.
It is strange how intricately life hangs in the scales, and how unrelated events and single decisions alter the outcomes. Some remote land ten thousand miles from me, some land unfamiliar to me, held the key to my future. A foreign land of war, a land besieged by helicopters, machine gunfire, and mortars, held a young man prisoner to its boundaries. A man I would never have met if my uncle had not become sick.

My uncle became acutely ill when I was fifteen years old and he asked a young family that he was fond of, to adopt me. Life had changed course for me again, and the changes were becoming less kind as time wore on. I was about to be thrust into a situation where my lack of experience would affect my judgment and cause a permanent change in the person I would become. My future would become as uncertain and unstable as a howling wind in a wasteland.

Chapter 2
Golden Memories
My memories, both the common and the spectacular, punctuated the stream of time during the brief blur of my formative years. Somehow, the colors, smells and sounds of childhood are like no other in life and can never be duplicated. I have seen orchards in bloom against sunsets so glorious as to move one from the realm of sensate appeal into the realm of enchantment, but I saw them only as a child. The intoxicating smell of gold and silver crayons, the trophies of the Crayola box, had the power to lure me into fanciful trances as I used the colored wax wands to weave magic upon mere paper. The comforting sounds of adult conversation, as I eavesdropped cocooned away behind cushions long after my bedtime, and the rise and fall of soft laughter on summer nights, mingled with the rhythm of the lonely cry of the Whip ‘O Will made my bedtime lullaby. These things were the milk and honey of my early history.
However good a life can be, there is never total absence of the dark side of the human experience. I remember the feeling of a ‘falling’ sensation in the pit of my mind when I heard of the ax murder of my dear cousin Willie, who lived within walking distance of our farm; poor, simple, Cousin Willie, who had raised children and grandchildren. Cousin Willie who had just barely survived a house fire, and who wore the burns that came at the cost of her survival: Willie, who bothered no one except to bring cheer by her presence. Her six-foot image graced the top of our hill at least monthly, but I knew I would see her no more. She had recently married a man new to the area, some said

End of Sample

Torn From the Inside Out by Sara Niles
Torn From the Inside Out by Sara Niles
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Published on May 13, 2014 11:18 • 289 views • Tags: 1957, domestic-violence, goodreads-giveaway, memoir, sample, sara-niles, the-south

Sara Nile's Blog

Sara Niles
"My writing is mission oriented and imbued with a deeper purpose because of my traumatic life experiences: I write nonfiction in order to make an appreciable dent in the effect of domestic violence an ...more
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