Billy Ray Chitwood's Blog, page 32

A Wanderlust Brief!

A Wanderlust Brief!

I'm off again! Leaving the Sea of Cortez for the hills of Tennessee --- it's a rather common anomaly, this wanderlust thing that courses through the veins along with the blood. My wife, sweet Julie Anne, would still be content in that first house of many we've had, but she is such a patient and understanding person --- either that or she is a loon to put up with me and my nomadic impulses.

Thomas Wolfe wrote a novel, "You Can't Go Home Again," and I'm testing his long ago thesis. I was born in East Tennessee near the Kentucky border, back when the times were emotionally charged and the economy was a highfalutin word at which most of us good hill folks just squinted our eyes and kept on plowing the fields and digging up the taters and turnips.

Dianne Gray wrote a book of short stories ("Manslaughter And Other Tears" - they're on amazon now and the Kindle book is FREE. as I write this), one of which really caught my attention... The story is titled, "Corrugated Dreaming" and it's filled with some unbelievably good writing, great analogies, and some kind of human conditions with which I can identify. The Lady Gray is just too good and original, and, if you haven't read her many books, hop to it. Dianne is most certainly one of the best writers of our time.

But I digress!

It's true, all that emotional soup I ate during those Appalachian days must have made for poor digestion all these years --- the family disconnect, the mobility, the tears and the stains. With the books I've written, I suspect I've been trying to find those pieces of me I never could find back in those days. They're there in my books, in the simple characters and plots I build, on and between the lines. I'm quite sure most authors/writers do the same thing. Some are just too darned good, too original, and should be topping everyone's reading charts. Now, that doesn't mean I'm going to stop writing my books my way --- there are a few in my reading audience and it's growing.

Well, here's the thing, why the move back to Tennessee where some old memories just might cause some soul demolition?

The short answer I've given --- that wanderlust thing!

The longer answer is a bit more complicated, all mixed up in the genes and memories, some gray areas of regret and remorse, some faint idea that maybe I can reconcile some of my life back there where it all started.

It's likely a 'fool's journey' but my commitment is made. Onward to Tennessee! Julie won't be surprised if I'm ready to move again in a couple of years - if that long!

If anyone is reading this and gives a 'hoot and holler,' my e-mail, my blogs, and all my social networking sites will be the same.

One last thing, if anybody can recommend a pill for getting rid of wanderlust. please let me know. I'm really getting too old for these moves. :-)

Please follow me on twitter.com (@brchitwood)

My main website/blog is: http://billyraychitwood.weebly.com

My Wordpress blog: http://thefinalcurtain1.wordpress.com

Short bio sketch on: http://www.about.me/brchitwood

My nine books (soon to be ten) are at: http://goo.gl/fuxUA

My books are also on amazon.com: http://goo.gl/vYTfR

My books are also on amazon.co.uk: http://goo.gl/ScJ1q

A Parable Of Sorts

A Parable Of Sorts

Posted on June 30, 2013 by billyraychitwood

It’s curious how the mind can wander off into a story…

During a ‘time out’ from working on my WIP (“The Reluctant Savage”) my mind began its wandering and somehow settled on some of the world’s more problematic issues – at least, from the perspective of someone living in the USA and being bombarded each day with unsettling news from far away places, news of Syria’s internal devastating turmoil, of Iran’s new leadership and how it might hold some slight promise for relieving old angers and hatreds, news of a North Korea that seems always deleterious and scary…

I reached for my laptop and began to type this rather small piece that became a fanciful story. I decided at its conclusion that it had some ‘nuance’ here and there and decided to give it a title, “A Parable of Sorts.” I’m posting it here because I’m a writer who can hardly ever let anything I write, good or bad, go to waste. Hopefully, this little tale will not be too disconcerting to the senses. With this said, here’s the tale…

“A Parable Of Sorts”

Sasha begged him not to go. “You belong here with me, Leonid. The battle is within you, not with North Korea. What of us?” She tugged at his tattered coat.

He smiled benignly, “You’re a lovely and silly girl. You do not understand the reality of our time. To stay would be to defy my beliefs, my convictions, and, yes, my anger and hatred.”

“You would die for these beliefs and convictions, this anger and hatred?”

“We all must die, Sasha.”

“You brought me here to be left alone in a strange country?”

“Hong Kong is not a strange country, foolish one. We’ve been here sometime now. You know many of our native people. Go to them when your money runs out. Stay with them. Should something go wrong, I will return for you.”

“Please, Leonid, you go to die and you know it. You’ve told me of your plans. You go on a suicide mission. I’ve begged before and I beg of you, now, please stay!”

At the door of the small efficiency apartment, Leonid paused with his hand on the door knob. His dark eyes and handsome face held a strange and wistful look. He removed his hand from the door knob, returned to Sasha where she stood by the tiny dining table. “You are so beautiful, my blue-eyed wonder.” He embraced and gave her a long passionate kiss.

He then quickly twisted her head until he heard the snap. The lips were still in a half-smile as her head dangled and fell to his right shoulder, her blue eyes large and vacant in their death stare. In a whisper, he spoke, to the face he had loved, “Better you go this way, my dear Sasha, than to linger in life’s pain. You cannot know but I did love you.”

Leonid gently lowered her body onto a soiled stuffed chair just a few feet from the dining table, gazed upon her splayed form for some seconds, then slowly left the apartment. Tears welled but he willed them away, a final and essential part of his being had snapped and was forever lost to him.

*****

Night, reluctant to shed its vagueness, was slowly showing its lightened eastern clouds as the sun gave way to earth’s perpetual orbital pattern. Leonid walked in the shadows along streets leading to the Kumsusan Memorial Palace. It was still quiet in this city known as ‘Flat Land’ in its translation. In his backpack he carried explosives with timer mechanisms that he would plant at key buildings. The explosive carefully strapped to his body he would save for the KMP.

His thoughts were well focused on his morning’s mission but he could not deny the flashing memories that brought him to this point in time…

His father, mother, and brother had been ruthlessly killed here in Pyongyang in 2012 by a squad of government gangsters of the ‘People’s Republic of Korea.’ His family was shown no mercy as they were chopped to death by machetes, labeled spies against the state. Four hours later his older brother and sister were pulled from their lodgings, beaten, and then chopped to death. The government squad had no ears to listen to his family’s protests of innocence, their legitimate reason for being in the ‘Flat Land,’ their labored cries of mercy.

Pyongyang’s government never wavered from their ill-gotten information about his family. Never mind that his mother had pleasantly refused to cater a special luncheon for the squad and their friends, the sole event and motive that brought the hatred and the killings. Never mind that his sister would be raped before she was chopped. The killings were all justified, each query quashed and forgotten by the government.

His marriage to Sasha prior to the family murders made home life an hourly ebb and flow of emotions. When sleep would come there were the hellish nightmares, waking, screaming the names of his dead family, his body slick with sweat and tears, Sasha clinging to him, sobbing, trying desperately to slay the night-dragons that possessed him.

Then came the job loss and it was as though the people of Hong Kong could see the rage in his eyes, the stench of hatred from his body. He became a man avoided and feared. Sasha tried to get him help, would set an appointment for him to see someone who might be able to help him, but he would not arrive at the set time. Sasha was the only person in the large city who could give him moments of relative calm, but then those times of surcease became fewer and fewer.

He would not bathe nor shave, only when Sasha would run his bath and physically pull and push him to the tub and wash and rinse him. For those few precious moments Sasha could almost sense some warmth come to him…but it never lasted long. The strange hatred that occupied him never resulted in personal damage to her. She did the talking, asking questions of him, and he bluntly answered the questions – until the fateful day he killed her! It was only some modicum of revenge that would fulfill what was left of his putrid life…

As he walked in the shadowy stillness, a voice came to him from an alleyway just a few feet away: “Leonid, I must talk to you. Come walk with me in the alley.”

Leonid stopped, momentarily startled…no one knew his name, knew that he was here in Pyongyang. “Who speaks my name?” He braced himself against a building corner near the alley, moving his hand near a detonator that would vaporize him and much of the immediate area.

“A friend, Leonid. Please come these few steps and talk to me. There is no harm intended. We will talk, and you can do then what you will.” The voice had a calm and soft cadence, and Leonid knew that the man spoke the truth.

Leonid walked a few feet into the alley until he saw a man’s form. What struck him were the man’s eyes. They glowed in the semi-darkness, matched the tenor of the stranger’s voice. Oddly, Leonid was not afraid of the stranger and walked some fifty feet further down the alley, stopping when the stranger sat on a wooden crate. The stranger bid Leonid to sit on another wooden crate nearby.

“How is it that you know me and what do you want?”

“I’m just a man who knows the pain you carry within you and the mission that you are on.”

“How could you possibly know such things?”

“I have been with you all the way from Hong Kong, Leonid, mourning with you the loss of your beloved Sasha.”

“I killed her! With these ugly knotted hands, I killed her. How can you know this, Tell me who you are and why you are here, or, I will…”

“Leonid, just a few questions I have and you can be on your way.” The stranger’s voice was mesmerizing, measured in softness and tone. “Why is it, Leonid, that we are here on this spinning orb we call earth?”

There was rapture in the stranger’s voice that commanded a response. “We are here to live in parables and to die and be no more.”

The stranger’s eyes seemed to glow more brightly and the long beard he wore was a pellucid whiteness that seemed somehow unearthly. Leonid quickly considered whether of not he was awake or in a dream.

The stranger spoke. “So, why is it that the moon falls from the sky, the sun does not bring us daylight, and birth has no precise process to follow?”

Still taken by the stranger’s soothing voice, but a bit nonplussed, Leonid responded. “But you know that is not so. What is your motive here?”

The stranger seemed not to hear the question. “Why is there no evil and good in the world?”

“Stop confounding me with your Socratic silliness. Of course, there is evil and there is good in the world.”

“And why do you think that is so?”

“God only knows.”

“You speak His name as though you know him, Leonid. Do you know God?”

“There is no God!”

“Yet, you say He knows about evil and good.”

“Look, your aura wraps me in some kind of spell and I seem compelled to listen to your words. Please tell me what it is you wish me to know.”

“One last question, your response, and I will say my final words to you. “Did you truly love Sasha?”

“Of course, with all my heart I loved her, but my heart and soul is heavy with grief and hatred.”

“Like the hatred of Jesus’ enemies as they crucified Him on the cross? Like the hatred of the Americans for the Japanese during World War Two? Like the psychotic hatred of serial killers?”

“Yes, yes! How else can I answer such questions?”

“You can answer such questions by having Faith that there is more to come beyond this life, by believing that evil only spreads when good people are paralyzed by anger, fear, and hatred. To Love is to have Faith. To have Faith is to have Love. These noble elements of living decide our ultimate destinies. People have choices to make all their earthly lives. They will not always make the right choices, but Faith and Love will make all the wrong choices bearable and inconsequential when the last grain of sand is gathered.”

As more light came to the alley Leonid thought that he understood what the stranger was saying to him. He wanted to say something but no words would come.

The stranger lifted himself from the crate and stood in front of Leonid. “May I touch your head, Leonid, so that it might bless you?”

With tears now flowing, Leonid merely moved his head downward. The stranger touched his head. Leonid sensed warmth on his head and a coursing flutter through his body. Then, the hand left his head.

When Leonid raised his head, the stranger was gone and daylight streamed throughout the alley.

*****

When Leonid awoke, his head was on his own pillow. He was gazing at the adjoining pillow into the wondrous blue eyes of his beloved Sasha, a sweet smile upon her face.

“You look different somehow, my love. Do you still intend to carry out your vendetta against North Korea? Please say that you will not.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled her face to his chest.

“No, my precious love, there will be no vendetta, not ever…” Leonid tightly wound himself around Sasha and gave her a long and tender kiss. “I’m torn,” he said, “making love to you, or, bacon and eggs?” He paused only briefly, “Oh, to hell with the bacon and eggs…”

[END of tale]

Please follow me here on my blog and at http://twitter.com/brchitwood

See my main website and blog at: http://billyraychitwood.weebly.com

There is a short bio sketch and further links at: http://www.about.me/brchitwood

My nine books can be previewed at: http://goo.gl/fuxUA (Just scroll down the page)

"Kerosene Lamps And The 21st Century"

“Kerosene Lamps And The 21st Century”
Posted on June 22, 2013 by billyraychitwood1


Kerosene Lamps And The Twenty-First Century

There are so many of us who carry through life certain angst, anxieties, doubts, emotional experiences, and guilt. If there was truly a way to quantify these feelings the numbers might shock us, or, at least, give us a better sense of the world in which we live. These feelings of course touch every segment of our worldwide populations. It matters not if you are poor, rich, or somewhere in between.

To the degree we carry one or all of these feelings determine how we make our way in life, how we are perceived by those around us, to the degree we can dislike, hate, and love. No class sector in our world community is exempt.

People work their way through poverty into the envied and glittering rich class… Some find their way there by attrition, a lucky lottery number, and/or by devious means. It is perhaps easier for the rich to find escape routes away from these feelings, but they are there nonetheless. Whatever the merits or demerits conveyed on the rich they are generally the group that invest their money into beginning or expanding companies that create jobs and more wealth.

The Middle Class (and its sub-divisions) ebbs and flows with the economic indicators – the GNP, growth, recession, all the fancy words that define the great capitalistic engine that moves our goods and services forward. This class depends on institutions like banks, credit unions, entrepreneurs (investors and job creators), and sound, well-managed, wise government agencies that function on their behalf. The feelings and emotional experiences are always prevalent in this class as well.

The Lower Class (and its sub-divisions) are the unfortunate among us who most generally exited the womb into meager surroundings. Some will stay there for their entire lifetimes. Others, by love and nurturing, by their own initiative and mental clarity, will fight their way to the other classes. The feelings and emotional experiences are most easily felt in this class, and, in many cases, it is the class most accessible to change.

If, then, these simple premises are accepted, what is the point of this post?

When these feelings and emotional experiences are connected to the world, we have a combustible situation. The United States is hated by certain groups. Some groups want to kill us, end our freedom and the principles upon which we were founded. We are considered arrogant and a bully by many. At some point, perhaps our government backed a country’s leader, supplied money to aid in a cause we felt was beneficial and humane to its people, made some mistakes in judgment along the way. As a nation we have tried to right any perceived wrongs but are met with defiance and hatred…people still want to kill us and our way of life. We give so much money to countries that harbor those groups who try to kill us. Where does the money go? Does it reach the good people who need it?

The feelings and emotional experiences are real. They are deeply felt in the Middle East (since the dawn of time, countries at war with each other), in Russia, in China, in certain Latin American countries, in Africa, and other parts of the world. We, the people of the United States are of many nationalities. We have ‘Projects’ for some of our Blacks. We have ‘ChinaTowns’ and ‘Russian Boroughs’ and Muslim communities. Some assimilate and try to learn our constitution and our principles. Some are in back rooms perhaps plotting ways to destroy our democratic way. We the people have government issues, split along party lines: some wanting less government interference in our private sector businesses, less laws, regulations, and/or executive orders; some wanting more entitlement spending, more regulations, money redistributed to those less fortunate. Yes, indeed, the feelings and emotional experiences are real, more pronounced, more volatile, and, potentially, more dangerous than a civilized society has ever known. Many people want a different world from the one I was born into, the one that gave us the ‘greatest generation’ – the world’s graveyards hold many of their bodies…the beautiful, the brave men and women who died so freedom could hopefully live on.

The ‘machines’ are now with us, adding expediency and pleasure to our lives but also kindling those feelings and emotional experiences. Nuclear weapons are out there. Can we account for them all? Computers dominate our lives as never before, the language of ‘Widgets,’ ‘RSS feeds,’ ‘Apps,’ ‘Tags,’ ‘URLs,’ on and on. Some of us get lost in the new language of the internet. ‘Social Networks’ (twitter, facebook, linkedin, google+, others) consume our days. Our laptops freeze on us. We rant and rave at the inconvenience of our IT system being down for periods of time. Our dependency has grown exponentially.

All these things gather in our conscious and subconscious minds. We are reminded that history has given us some rough patches that we have overcome, and we will overcome again.

Hope so. Pray so.

I’m in the twilight of my years, and these feelings and emotional experiences have gotten me this far without the world coming apart. For my children, my grandchildren, my great grand-children, I’m hoping this is all just an old man’s over-reactions.

Just can’t seem to get the image out of my head of Charlton Heston standing on that beach with our cherished ‘Statue of Liberty’ there in the sand and him uttering something to the effect: “We finally did it!”

Please follow me on twitter (@brchitwood) http://twitter.com/brchitwood

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The World Is Stretching And Yawning

The World Is Stretching And Yawning

Posted on June 14, 2013 by billyraychitwood


The picture is a younger me! Okay, it’s a much younger me! During the days when this picture was taken, the world for me was a rare giant oyster with many lovely pearls. Oh, sure, there were some moments of regrets and despair but, generally, life was piano bars, pretty women, and usually too much of the amber fluid. Drugs were around my life but never really in my life. It was a busy time for making fun the order of every day, impressing the girls with my wisdom and wit, and, of course, my ‘etchings.’

For the most part my friends were attorneys, textbook salesmen, and mostly anyone who answered one question correctly. That question: “Are you a turtle?” If the answer was not, “You bet your sweet ass I am!” it would take a little more time but, really, anyone could be my friend. The turtle question? Just something silly my generation thought up to keep everyone amused – as you can see, it didn’t take a whole lot to amuse us! Sort of like some of the weird words and phrases of today… There was, however, a most definite difference ‘then’ as opposed to ‘now.’

‘Then,’ there was not the subterranean build-up of world issues. There was not the economic and job worries of today. And, certainly, there was not Terrorism – oh, there was some mayhem and murder, that kind of terror, but not the kind that gets into your subconscious mind and bubbles up too consistently in the current ‘now.’ I’m not writing about ‘the good old days’ – yet, there were good days mixed with the ‘down’ days when I allowed myself to think about the mistakes I was making or the sadness that was of my own making. In the ‘then’ days there were bad governments and there were good governments, depending, of course, on political leanings. Perhaps what I remember most about the ‘then’ days was the feeling of Freedom, that sense that, even with my periodic goofs, our world was reasonably within some tolerance level of diplomatic solution.

‘Now,’ it is more a feeling, a sense, that the world is ‘stretching’ and ‘yawning’ in some peculiar and scary ways. Some say we are seeing ‘Revelations’ come to pass (for those who might not know, ‘Revelations’ is a book in the New Testament of the Bible). Some say we are on the downward slope of our Democracy, that when Freedom and Liberty are eroded by too much government control and entitlements, we are heading down the proverbial slippery slope. Some say we are just going through a generational phase where the digital world is making our lives more accessible and bringing the world together too fast. There are new ‘words’ in the ‘now’ lexicon. There are new faces appearing in the crowds, their lips speaking in different tongues and their gestures not always friendly.

I guess we have always had our calamitous moments, mass murders, our children kidnapped and killed. It just seems tougher today to know who to believe, who to trust, when and where to visit, what to do and how to act when we get there.

Of course, when I think about it, I’m in ‘Twilight,’ and perhaps my senses are losing (or, have lost) some of their acuity. Maybe those ‘then’ days are happening for someone else as I write these words. Maybe the ‘now’ is not so bad after all. Yeah, sure, and maybe 9/11 did not happen at all!

The world is stretching and yawning! A lot is happening, perhaps too much for the old brain to process, too many social networks to monitor, too many machines. If not stretching and yawning, is the world getting too tightly bound? It just seems to me we’ve lost some stability, lost some of the old standards that were so important to us once upon a time, lost some of the texture that made our part of the world so great. We write about our world and what is happening in it, but who can truly say where we stand on the timeline of history? Who has the compendium that can accurately foretell our future. Is it our government? Is it the Bible? Is it God?

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The Family Dynamic

The drive was not so long from Rocky Point, MX, where I currently live on The Sea of Cortez, to Oceanside, California where our family had a week-long get-together at a lovely resort hotel on the shores of the Pacific Ocean. The family members were sharing lovely suites on the same floor of the resort, meeting each night in a larger communal suite where we all, old, medium-old, young, grandparents, parents, kids, grand-kids, all frolicked passionately and not so passionately with our faithful libations, some timeless tales and experiences re-lived, heard in an earlier time but always fun and laughable when heard again... "Remember the night when we..." --- well, you get the setting...

Some of us played golf at Torrey Pines (South Course) - amend that to read, the writer of this post tried to play a few holes while the other three golf members did play all eighteen holes - I rode in the cart the final nine holes as the rust on my game was beyond removal. It was nonetheless a beautiful day of sunshine and there was scenery that will be forever etched in the memory room - and, there were some really good golf shots by some of the participants.

There were discussions, even the dreaded never-to-be mentioned politics and religion. We talked about the disabled, the hungry, the poor, the sick, all those who longed for better lives. We prayed for those less fortunate than we. We felt no special favor or privilege that we could come together as a family. We worked hard for what we had or for what it was we were seeking. We talked about our country and our world, the new technologies, the new 'machines,' where we might be heading. We had our views but we had no real answers to the world's problems. We all wished for a world of love and peace, but understood the myriad of differences among all people made this universal dream likely an impossibility. No one came away bloody. Everyone claimed their love for each other after all was said and done. Some California friends and neighbors from years past dropped by for drinks and dinner a couple of nights - and, yep, we got to hear some of the same stories we heard on previous nights.

Each new day brought the ocean mist that would burn off by mid-morning, bringing the world famous California sun. Some of us went to see the old mission at San Luis Rey. Some walked the pier at Oceanside and ultimately sunbathed at the beach. Each day brought some new activities, together as a family and apart.

For me, it was somewhat a study in the family dynamic. There were people who cared for each other very much, each different and yet alike, each speaking of things that meant a lot or not a twit, each with pure hearts and noble ambitions, an entire group of which it is a matter of pride for me to belong. My thoughts often wandered off to my own childhood, not always the best of memories but plenty that gave feelings of warmth. I thought of my Mom, my Dad, and my sister. They are no longer with me, hopefully up there with 'Clarence' and his bells, but I find it still so easy to miss them, along with two sets of loving grandparents that attended me in my youth.

This little family get-together had most of the right ingredients... There were some family members not there who were missed and loved. I can also hope that a few friendly ghosts of my youth were nearby - just wish I could have had some special moments with them again - thto tell them how much I truly loved them.

There are weeks that bring us blessings. There are weeks that bring us sadness. This week of family was special to me. They were moments perhaps better remembered in diaries than in public blogs, but, in watching the dynamic of these special family members for a week renewed some wishes I have for other families who might not be so lucky to get together on a California beach, who might be struggling to pay their bills, who might very well feel that this week of which I speak is exclusionary tripe --- and, really, who could blame them? If there is a message here, it is that all families hit some ugly times. I know that my family did. There is also the message of hope - though it might seem to be dwindling for some, try to hold on to it. Some of us are lucky. Some of us, not so much. But we are all part of a whole, part of the universal scheme of things. Maybe we all can never quite get together but we can remember that we are part of a great big dynamic - we are all part of 'the passing parade.'

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"Butterflies And Jellybeans - A Love Story" (A short excerpt)

“Butterflies And Jellybeans – A Love Story” (A short excerpt)

Posted on June 4, 2013 by billyraychitwood


Most of my books are either ‘mystery-crime-adventure’ genre or ‘memoir’. ”Butterflies And Jellybeans – A Love Story” is my first romance novel. While it is essentially a love story, there are some elements that would attest to my penchant for the ‘mystery’ component in most of my books.

Fate plays a hand while two joggers run in the rain. Unknown to each other, a sudden lightning strike will change the lives of Jenny Mason and Jason Prince. I’ve pulled part of Chapter Twenty as a sample of the writing and to show a shade of conflict that is prevalent with the new lovers. Perhaps it will hold some interest for you and make you want more — that’s the unvarnished idea, of course. It is a short excerpt, and there will be information at the end to direct those who might be interested in reading the entire book. Hope you enjoy the section.

Chapter Twenty

Jenny rushed to meet him as he came through the heavy glass entry doors of the ER. She touched his arm and gave him a kiss on the cheek and told him she was sorry about Carlton.

She felt again a remoteness about Jason, as she had earlier over the phone. He was little else but civil as he asked to see his brother.

Police officer Donahue had left the hospital but had given a card to Jenny and asked her to have Jason call him at the precinct office.

There was a new intern tending to Carlton when Jason and Jenny arrived at the IC room. To Jenny, there appeared to be little or no change in Carlton. He still had a jumble of tubes coming out of his body. His face bruises raw and ugly against his pallid skin and the white sheets of the gurney.

The new doctor’s name was Seeley. Dr. Seeley finished his examination of Carlton, checked his clipboard, said something to the attending nurse, then turned to Jason and Jenny.

“You are the brother?” the doctor asked, with the normal hospital solemnity.

“Yes, I’m Jason Prince.” Jason extended his hand to Dr. Seeley and neglected to introduce Jenny. “What is the prognosis, Dr. Seeley? Will my brother survive?”

Jason glanced only briefly at Carlton. It was obviously difficult for him to see his brother so incapacitated and vulnerable. There was something about Carlton’s face that reminded Jason of an earlier time, when they were kids in the desert. The cant of Carlton’s face now had the same wistful mixture of sadness and something akin to fear that was there years ago in their play time. A lump formed in Jason’s throat.

The hospital room was filled with beeping sounds and an offensive malodorous air filled with merging medicines and body fluids. Jason was just noticing the physical aspects of the room for the first time since his arrival.

“He remains stable, Mr. Prince. His readings are consistently in acceptable ranges. We believe he will pull through, but, I must add, we are concerned about his head injuries. We want to run a series of tests and do a spinal tap. There is some evidence of amnesic behavior. Despite his comatose appearance, he has been conscious off and on. The intravenous medicines are keeping him heavily sedated.”

Jenny felt awkward, as though she were intrusive by being there in the room with Jason and the doctor. Their conversation seemed to her mind mutually exclusive, with no acknowledgment of her presence. She excused herself and left the room, informing Jason that she would wait for him in the ER lobby. There were no objections, merely a cursory nod of Jason’s head.

After Jenny left the room, Jason asked: “Are you expecting these tests to confirm that Carlton has amnesia?”

“We don’t really expect them to show any one thing. The tests are rather common, particularly in cases such as your brother’s. They are not necessarily conclusive but they can give us some important information. Actually, Mr. Prince, your brother is a very lucky man. He took quite a beating. All in all, his vital signs are very good and, in all likelihood, he will come through this in fine shape. The tests are merely precautionary. When I say, ‘we’re concerned,’ it just means we’re going to be thorough. With head trauma from a severe beating like this, it’s important to be thorough.”

“Of course, that’s the way it should be. Still, I’m getting what feels like mixed signals. Is there something specific about Carlton’s injuries that make you concerned?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Prince. Perhaps it does sound like mixed signals. We doctors can be vague and inarticulate at times. What I’m saying is that, in cases where there has been serious head trauma, it is common medical practice to run tests and check for possible amnesia issues, permanent brain damage, and so forth. It is also a common fact that the body is an amazing piece of machinery. It rights itself in miraculous ways.”

“Okay, maybe it sounds like I’m not hearing you, but I am. It just seems to me that some sign presented itself to you regarding amnesia. Can you tell me about that sign?”

Dr. Seeley maintained his composure even though he thought he had accurately addressed the issue. “Disorientation … blank, confused staring, sudden tearing in the eyes, a sense of panic and anxiety. Again, these symptoms are natural and can be easily explained away … by the acute trauma, the sudden realization that the body is not where it should normally be, with tubes coming our of several parts of the anatomy. Just by awakening and finding this alien environment is enough in and of itself to cause immediate depression. Anyway, the tests will help guide us to proper treatment. If I were a betting man, I would bet that your brother will recover fully from this. Physically, he should be fine. Mentally, I’m not qualified to say. There is no real reason to suspect that he will be mentally or psychologically damaged.”

Jason had never particularly enjoyed his sessions with doctors. To him, they seemed to specialize in double speak. They rambled and used their fancy words to muddle the brains of people who would never know better. Maybe he was being harsh in his feelings about the noble physicians. Maybe it was simply a matter of him being too dense to understand them. It was difficult for him to listen and understand the doctor when he stood above his brother’s battered body. It was difficult to separate the emotions he was feeling and the reality in this IC room.

Dr. Seeley could see that Jason Prince was himself traumatized. He could see the pain in his eyes and in his body language. The man was reeling from emotions the doctor could not know. Dr. Seeley felt a deep sympathy for Jason, and, with a benign smile, he patiently tried once again to make himself understood.

“What we really need to focus on is …”

The doctor was interrupted by an abrupt movement and sound from the hospital gurney. Dr. Seeley and Jason turned together to look at Carlton, then rushed to his side.

Carlton’s eyes were open and vacant, his ashen face twitching and moving rapidly from side to side. His head began to nod in frantic gestures and his throat muscles constricted and expanded in a grotesque kind of melodic frenzy. The medical equipment in the room seemed to match the human activity on the gurney. The beeps were strident in their intensity, and the gurgling sounds raced to keep pace with the aura of confusion.

Jason eyes, wide with fear, were locked into the same visceral and arcane circuitry of the movement surrounding him, twitched and started in quick jerks, first in one direction and then another, his head swiftly darting from equipment to Carlton to Doctor to equipment. The room was chaotic.

Dr. Seeley moved with haste, mumbled orders to hospital personnel who had rushed into the room. Voices clashed in decibel disharmony. One of the nurses adjusted a knob, something, on the intravenous line, turned a couple of dials on the heart monitoring machine. Standing over the frenetic body on the gurney the doctor pulled the tubes from Carlton’s mouth and nose, began a hurried procedure of resuscitation, pounding his fist onto the sternum. Other rushing bodies in white were wheeling some new equipment closer to the bed, preparing for electroshock treatment.

Jason stood nervously watching the actions on the edge of the hospital group, mesmerized by the organized bedlam of activity. He was conscious of a mad throbbing at his temples. His mind seemed in some kind of paroxysmal state. Then his eyes became riveted to the face of his brother. Like a master calendar for all the years, flashing and flipping its pages backward in time, the flickering cine scenes came to him, unbidden. Faces happy and sad, in play and in loss. His life, Carlton’s life, together and apart, all a steady unraveling of the years. Jason stood among the people who were blurs of white and green, staring at the body on the gurney, helpless and alone. Tears slowly rose and tumbled down his cheeks.

Then, an eerie sort of cessation came to the medical equipment and to Carlton’s thrashing. A relative quiet fell over the room. The nurses, the aids, the doctor, the newly arrived intern, Jason, all looked at the equipment, the patient, and each other in an awkward acknowledgment, temporarily stupefied by the turn of events. The heart monitor beeped normally. The gurgling resumed a steady pattern of sound.

Dr. Seeley checked the pulse and blood pressure of the patient. Carlton’s cheeks had gained some modest color and his head settled quietly into the pillow. His eyes occasionally and lightly twitched as though trying to open. The doctor shook his head and stepped back from the gurney.

After some adjustments were made Jason moved to his brother’s side and looked down upon the suddenly placid face. He felt a warm and uncommon sensation go through his body. He was reminded in a flash of another time in their lives. It was a time when Carlton had been sick with the flu and his face had held the same pink serenity that it did now. Looking down now at Carlton’s relaxed countenance, Jason could see the former youth that had been his playmate. The child showed himself in that quiescent moment. Carlton had been nice to Jason at that time in their youth. He had not wanted Jason to leave his side, and Jason had felt an ambiguous need then to stay, to cater to his wishes. He had felt sibling love and a warm sense of pride and unity. Jason felt much the same now, looking down on his brother’s body.

Jason noticed the silence in the room. It was as though he and Carlton had been all alone there for a time. He looked around and no one was there. They were alone. The doctor, someone, might have mentioned a brief absence but he had not heard. He sat lightly on the edge of the gurney, more a leaning than a sitting, and gazed again upon his brother.

A sadness followed. He wanted to go back in time, really go back, to have another chance with his brother, to change the divergence of their ways. Unbidden, another tear rose and fell down his cheek. Then, another. More tears came and he soon was erupting with great heaving sobs. “Why, God, could we have not been more to each other?” he softly intoned.

Carlton slowly opened his eyes. There was no anxiety or fear, the orbs calm and suffused with a poignant pathos.

Jason stood quickly and leaned to touch his brother’s arm. “Carlton, I’m here.” His voice was tinged with compassion, sadness, and hope.

Carlton stared silently and steadily into Jason’s eyes, a beckoning and sorrowful look. A sad smile slowly formed on Carlton’s lips, a smile of secret knowing. A finger feebly moved, willing his bandaged hand to lift from his side.

Jason noticed and gently placed his hand tenderly into Carlton’s. “What do you need, Carlton? I will get it for you.”

The lips quivered to speak, the smile still there, the eyes watery in their sorrow. Carlton conjured a forgotten will and finally spoke, his voice a wispy whisper of supplication. “Jason, forgive me, my dear brother. Tell grandmother that I love her.” It appeared that he wanted to say more, but his will abandoned him. He seemed to sink further into his pillow, the wistful smile lingering like a fragrant rose.

Jason felt an awful agony in his heart as he neared some heretofore unknown, emotional precipice. Tears flowed down his cheeks and he tried to answer his brother’s plea.

Then, with a soft caress of his hand, Carlton closed his eyes. The smile upon his lips dwindled to a passive serenity. His hand now lay limp on Jason’s palm. A near inaudible sigh escaped Carlton’s lips, a rapturous resignation to his fate.

Carlton Prince was dead.

Oblivious to the noisy sounds of medical equipment being moved and people rushing into the room, Jason remained, staring upon his brother’s face, not believing, not accepting, what his heart knew to be the truth. Jason did not heed the voices and he was finally, physically, unclasped from Carlton’s hand and moved away from the gurney.

{End of sample section.}

For those who are interested in reading the entire book and/or previewing my entire list of books, please go to: http://www.goo.gl/fuxUA . There is some bio information on me and short synopses of the books I’ve written.

Please follow me on twitter: http://twitter.com/brchitwood and/or facebook: http://facebook.com/billyray.chitwood

A further bio sketch is presented on http://www.about.me/brchitwood

Different Shades Of Reality

Different Shades Of Reality
Posted on May 23, 2013 by billyraychitwood1


Looking down from a skyscraper in New Your City, the people look so small, as puppets moving on a giant invisible string. The cars, taxis, trucks, and buses crawl along like toys in a make-believe gift set. From this height a small body stops to look into a window filled with miniature pieces. Two bodies emerge from a taxi, met by a doorman, and are ushered into a hotel or ritzy apartment complex. All movements seem surreal from this lofty perch, and I’m all alone up here for my mind to imagine and scheme all sorts of life plots. What if I were higher, unable to see any movements, only able in my quasi-existential being to know that these puppets and toys are there and are continuing their movements? The mind ploy thickens.

We each see the working of our world in different shades of reality. We are similar in ways, dissimilar in others. We believe in a Deity. We are agnostic or claim to be atheist. We like a political party for that or this reason. We are truly who we say we are. We wear masks to hide what really abides inside of us. We contradict ourselves. We say exactly what we mean. We are habitual and predictable. We are wisps in the wind and simply go with the whims of our emotions. We convince ourselves that we are the masters of our own fates. We are filled with doubt and frightening scenarios in our existence… We are all these things, and, more.

From so high a Lofty Perch are our lives being controlled? Are we the puppets on a string? Is each of us performing an act that must play out before we become too obsolete to perform any longer? How can any one of us, any group of us, know with certainty the meaning of our time on this rotating orb we call Earth? We are filled with action to go and do marvelous deeds. We are timid and without any sort of resolve. We are violent and we are peacemakers. We are Saints and we are Satans…

So I awake from this silly dream, this exercise in futility, and find that I need to find for me a point to it all! ‘Cogito ergo sum’ works well enough, but I know somehow that, to keep going, I must keep dreaming, keep believing that something Wonderful got me here and will take me to where it is I’m supposed to go when the time is right. Yes, I am a man of Faith, a man who believes that puppet Master is up there pulling my strings, giving me my role to play out, just as He gives similar and dissimilar roles to us all. Some of us need my kind of role to keep sanity – it is the only role that I can play. For those given other roles, how can I truly say you are playing the bad role? How can you say that I am playing the bad role?

Thus we walk among each other in our different shades of reality.

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The Moonlight Bar

The Moonlight Bar

Posted on May 19, 2013 by billyraychitwood


It has been a few weeks since I worked on my WIP (“The Reluctant Savage”). Feeling a bit rusty I decided over the weekend to write a short story – actually, a short short story – to check my brain functions as to creating a simple plot, some simple characters, and to allow the readers (if so inclined) to engage some of their own imagining, that is, leaving them room for interpretation. It was to be for me an exercise to shed some of the writing rust gathered over the previous weeks and also an optional exercise for the reader to see how many directions the short story could have gone. It’s obvious to me the short tale could be extended to a full-length novel, and maybe I’ll get around to that. For the most part, the busy schedules of my previous weeks had slowed down my writing – and for good or bad, I like to write. So, I put the brain quickly to work and wrote this improvisational short story. Have to tell you, I enjoyed very much the rather quick project… I hope you enjoy it as well.

The Moonlight Bar

A Short Short Story by Billy Ray Chitwood

“Eight-ball in the corner pocket and get your money out…” A tap on his shoulder came just before the shot was miscued… “Hey, Mofo, that’s the money ball! What the hell you doing?” The brawny man nicknamed Freepo put his cue stick on the table and stared in confrontational pose at the dignified man in a black suit.

“Sorry, Freepo, I’m paying you for the game as well as your playing partner.” He handed each man at the table a sawbuck, then threw two fifties on the table. “I’ve got a handsome proposition for you both… Are you interested in talking about it in my car outside? It’s too noisy in here.”

Freepo looked at his partner, nicknamed Jersey, for some seconds. Then he turned back to the man in the suit. “You ain’t no sicko talking some kind of sex thing, are you, pal? Cause I just might have to wrap a cue stick ’round your head…”

“No, no!” exclaimed the man. It’s a business proposition that can make you both some really good money. Honest. No ‘sex thing,’ for sure.”

“Okay, but why us? Why me and Jersey? You just walk in this bar dive and start jiving about a business proposition? You nuts or sumthin?”

The two pool players leaned against the table, eyes squinted querulously, while the suited man stood perfectly erect only a few feet away. “Look, I’ll make it all very clear to you in the car. The smoke and noise are too much in here. You’ll both be interested in my proposal, I promise. Can we go now?” The man nodded meekly toward the entrance and tentatively lifted his right palm in that direction. The man truly needed to be out of this unfamiliar dimly lit and smelly atmosphere of tinkling glasses, heavy music, and loud conversations.

Freepo and Jersey followed the man to his car, parked just a few yards down the curb from ‘The Moonlight Bar.’ At this hour, close to midnight, there were no people on the sidewalk and only an occasional car was passing. The two men raised their brows at each other as they saw the man unlock the doors to a silver BMW 750 and requested they get in the back seat.

Seated, looking at the man in the front seat of the BMW, Freepo said, “Nice car, pal! You doing okay for yourself! Now, how’s ’bout telling Jersey here and me how you come to us with a business deal? Again, I’m asking, why us out of anybody else?” Jersey had yet to utter a word.

“Fair question, Freepo…” The man was stopped in mid-sentence.

“So you know my neighborhood name! How ’bout this guy? You know his moniker as well?”

“Yes, I know your friend, Jersey.”

“Okay, okay, that tells me you been gathering some dope on us… So get on with your story and we’ll see where we go from there. Just one thing, pal! You ain’t cops, right? You don’t look like no cop I know.”

“No. No cop… Now, here’s the situation… The word is that you guys know how to get things done and that you also know how to keep a low profile – keep your mouths closed about what you’re doing. That is, you are loyal to the people who hire you to get things done and keep quiet about it. Am I right so far?”

Jersey finally spoke. “Look, Mister, Freepo and I go back a long way. We take care of each other. What I’m wanting to know before we go on is who is spreading ‘the word’ about us? ‘The word’ might very well be accurate, but we would like to know who is doing the talking. You do understand why that might be important to us, right? And, what do we call you? You haven’t given us a name. You apparently know us, but we don’t know you.”

The man in the suit quickly calculated that Jersey was the smarter of the two men and it would be he who would need satisfying on all the details. Jersey dressed himself better, spoke better, and seemed to be much better educated. Freepo was street smart, but Jersey had that plus some school smarts.

“Look, call me Morris, but we don’t need to trade biographies here. You know how it works…people want something done, but they want to remain anonymous — that means…”

Jersey interrupted, “Yeah, we know what ‘anonymous’ means, Morris. Okay, guess you don’t want to say who is spreading ‘the word’ on us or give your real name. That’s okay. You’ve come from wherever it is you come and want to talk about ‘business.’ Okay, tell us about the business…”

Freepo started to light a cigarette… “Please, Freepo, don’t smoke in the car! It’s my health. That’s why I needed to get out of the bar. Can you understand, please?”

Freepo grunted and put his cigarette back in its package. “Yeah, okay. Do your talking.”

“The man who owns ‘The Moonlight Bar’? James Gibbons? You both know him?”

The two men glanced at each other curiously and spoke simultaneously, “Yeah, we know him.”

“Did you know he’s an evil man?”

Jersey spoke, “The world is filled with evil men, Morris. Hell, guess we would be considered by some as evil…”

“Not from the word I get on you two.” Morris held up his hand to stop Freepo from interrupting. “You two do a lot more good than evil.” He paused. “Now, if you knew James Gibbons was doing something bad to children, would you still like him?”

“Who said we liked him? We said we knew him. That doesn’t mean we like him. He won’t do it to us but he puts premium brand labels on bottles of booze and sells them at premium prices. He has his bartenders double up sometimes on drinks when people are running tabs. We go there because it’s close to home and we were going there before James Gibbons bought the bar. But he doesn’t fool around with us or any of our friends. He knows better. Freepo and I have a nice little concrete business and we pour not only the concrete but we pour a lot of money into his bar… The truth is, we don’t like him and he don’t like us. We just like his bar and the people who work for him, and he cheats them and treats them like dirt… Now, his pretty wife…we call her Ms Daisy…she’s a gem, pretty blond gal that smiles and quietly gets along with everyone in the bar.”

“That’ great. I got it,” Morris cut him off, “you don’t like him, but you like his wife… Good! I don’t like the man, either, because he hurt someone I love very much…” Morris was silent for a few seconds.

“So, this business you mentioned?” Freepo talking. “It must concern Gibbons, right?”

“Not really, just don’t like the guy. Noticed he wasn’t here tonight. He usually here?”

“Yeah, come to think of it, haven’t seen him in a couple of days, though. Hell, nobody misses him. It’s a lot better place when he’s not there. You sure I can’t smoke back here?” asked Freepo.

“Rather you didn’t. Hey, just a few more minutes and we’re finished. Can you guys pour a foundation for me tomorrow? I’m adding on to my storage shed — gathering too damned much stuff. Small job, but have to get it done by Friday when I’m moving the stuff from the Bronx, and this is Wednesday.”

“That’s the business! We could have told you ‘no’ in the bar… We have schedules, man. We’ve got a busy day tomorrow.” Jersey sounded annoyed.

“But, it’s just a small job! I’ll pay you ten grand for the pour. Easy money. You can do it before your first scheduled job. The pour area is 6′ X 8′ with depth of one foot, re-bar in and footings set.”

“Ten thousand big ones for an easy pour! C’mon, Jersey,” pleaded Freepo, “we can knock it out in no time. Man, that’s too good to pass up.”

“Can’t argue with that… This all legit, Morris? And, by the way, what’s the last name?”

“O’Fallon. And, yes, it’s legit. Google me, Morris O’Fallon, Principal, Friedland Capital and get all the information you need. I’ll pay you in the morning as soon as you pour. I’m asking at the last minute. I figure you guys deserve some extra bucks for the consideration… Here’s the address, and phone number if needed. What time you figuring on being there?”

“We’ll be there by 7:15 AM.” Jersey said.

The three men shook hands on the deal, smiled at each other, and parted company. Morris drove away while, Freepo and Jersey went back into The Moonlight Bar for one last frosty brew

***

Some weeks later, Detectives Corman Jones and Eli Whitsell were interviewing Freepo Gabetti and Jersey Grimaldi in the office of GG Concrete. There were only three chairs in the sparse office, one metal file cabinet with three drawers, a framed license on one grubby wall, an old scarred desk, cracked tile floor, and Freepo sat on a wooden crate at the end of the desk.

Jones looked from Jersey at the desk to Freepo. “So, you haven’t seen James Gibbons in several weeks, that your recollection, too, Freepo?”

“Yeah, right! And, we had the talk with Morris O’Fallon and did the early morning concrete pour. That’s it! We finished here? We got another pour this afternoon.” Freepo was showing his business side.

“Just a couple of more questions, guys, and we’re outta here,” Whitsell now talking. “Did this fella, O’Fallon, seem like an okay guy to you two?”

“Yeah, sure,” responded Jersey while Freepo nodded, “He was just adding a section to his storage area and wanted us to do a pour.”

“Nothing more interesting than that in your conversation with him?” asked Jones.

Jersey answered, “Hey, we didn’t even know the bar owner was missing til you told us. We mentioned O’Fallon ’cause you asked if anyone didn’t like the guy. Like we told you, he came to the bar and offered us a pouring job. While we were talking he mentioned that Gibbons was a dirt bag, like, he hurt little kids, and we agreed that the man was not too honest in the way he ran his business. Otherwise, this guy O’Fallon seemed like a nice upstanding person…”

Jones continued with the questions. “And it never occurred to you two that O’Fallon was giving you some big bucks for a really quick job?”

“Well, hell yes, man, it occurred to us, but it just seemed he had finished the prep work sooner than he expected and wanted to get it done. The guy drove a Beamer, obviously had lots of dough, and we thought it was a good thing for us… What are you dicks suggesting, anyway? That this O’Fallon guy had us pour concrete on top of Gibbons? You thinking that? Cheez!” Freepo stood and leaned on the desk. “Look, we don’t know nothing ’bout the missing bar man. The O’Fallon guy looked good to us, and, yeah, the money looked good… That’s all we know. Now, we gotta haul ass to get the pouring job done.”

“Okay, Freepo, you and Jersey do your pouring job, but, before you go, give us the address of this O’Fallon guy. Look, we’re just checking out a missing person’s report. We’re not here to hassle you. Just getting information. We’re talking to all the regulars who frequent The Moonlight Bar. It just seems a bit strange this guy needs a concrete pouring job so quickly…but we’ll check out all the angles…”

***

The detectives had several long conversations with Morris O’Fallon and his wife. While the persistent impression of the childless couple seemed positive, there was intense pressure being applied by the wife of James Gibbons to find her husband. Daisy Gibbons was convinced someone had done him in, and she was running the bar the best she could but felt she was being robbed by the staff working there.

After talking to bar customers and other people who knew Gibbons it was clear he was not a likable and trustworthy kind of guy. Finally it was legally determined that the recently poured O’Fallon storage foundation addition could be broken up and removed to see if Gibbons body was indeed in the ground… Strangely, there was little resistance from Morris O’Fallon. There were also so many unanswered questions. Why did O’Fallon choose GG Concrete to do the pour? Why so quickly? Why not a concrete pour from a company closer to the residence in question?

So, in July, on a beautiful sunny day in a most lovely residential section between the Bronx and Yonkers, the O’Fallon residence became a busy and very noisy place. The storage area in the lush backyard was the focal point, that new section of concrete that had already been walled in. The drillers made an ugly staccato sound that had nearby neighbors scurrying to close open windows and doors to at least muffle the sounds.

By the end of the day a pile of broken up concrete lay in heaps on the lovely lawn.

After a thorough search beneath all the removed concrete no body was found in the big hole, and Mr. James Gibbons stayed missing. Morris O’Fallon was given the city’s apology and thanks. Indeed, his record was clean and his business dealings were exemplary.

***

A few days later, Freepo and Jersey were shooting pool in The Moonlight Bar, pausing now and then to tell jokes and tall tales among themselves and other regular bar buddies who had joined them around their common tables.

It was Jersey who saw him first. Morris O’Fallon was striding toward them in his tailored suit, his shiny black shoes, and just a hint of a smile on his face. Jersey poked Freepo in the ribs and nodded toward O’Fallon.

“Hi, fellas, you got a couple of minutes to spare outside? It won’t take long, I promise.”

Freepo and Jersey placed their cue sticks on the pool table, and Jersey spoke. “Sure, Mr. O’Fallon…be right back, you hoodlums, just leave the money on the table!” He smirked. The group smirked back.

On the curb, Morris spoke, “No need to get in the car. Just wanted to see if you could do another pour for me? Don’t know if you heard but the police came and drilled out all that fine concrete you poured previously. I’m still scratching my head over that. You go through life doing the right thing and something like that happens… You guys know what I’m talking about?”

“Yeah, we know,” Freepo offered. “The fuzz came and talked to all the bar regulars, including us. We did mention you, Mr. O’Fallon, but only in the best of light. You understand we had to talk to them?”

“Sure, that’s fine, guys. You’re good citizens. There’s no problem at all. What I want is for you to re-pour that big hole the cops left in my backyard. Can you do that for me? I’ll pay you, of course.” O’Fallon stood erect, hands in his pockets.

“Sure, we’ll pour,” said Jersey. “When do you want us?”

“Is early tomorrow morning good for you? Just like before?”

“Sure, we can accommodate you, Mr. O’Fallon,” Jersey responded.

“Can I ask a question, Mr. O’Fallon?” Freepo blurted.

“Sure, Freepo, ask away.”

“How much you figure on paying us?” He almost looked sheepish in the asking.

“Same as before, if that’s okay with you two. Is it okay?”

Freepo and Jersey looked at each other, trying very hard to appear serious in their demeanors. It was Jersey who spoke, “Sure, that’s fine, Mr. O’Fallon.”

A few more pleasantries and the men parted. Morris O’Fallon got in his car and went wherever it was he was going. Freepo and Jersey jubilantly returned to their buddies inside The Moonlight Bar.

***

One month later, Daisy Gibbons sat and talked to Freepo and Jersey.

“You two guys are the best customers James and I have…” She looked a bit wistful in mentioning her husband. “With James gone to parts unknown, I’m going to sell ‘Moonlight.’ I’ve got Power of Attorney to do it, and I can’t see any reason to stick around if he’s not here. The Moonlight Bar was his idea anyhow… Guess he just got tired of it – and, me – and wanted to move on…” She looked away for a wistful moment. “Anyway, you guys seem to love this place. You’ve been coming here forever, so I thought I would offer it first to you before putting it on the market…”

“WOW!” squealed Freepo. “Jersey and me, owning The Moonlight Bar! Wow!”

“Hold on, hotshot, let’s hear the lady out… Whatta you got in mind, Ms Daisy?”

Daisy Gibbons made Freepo and Jersey a deal they could not refuse, and they bought the bar.

***

Around the same time The Moonlight Bar was being sold to Freepo Gabetti and Jersey Grimaldi, a divorce was finalized between Morris and Geraldine O’Fallon.

***

“Any regrets, Daisy?”

Morris sipped a margarita and gazed at the lovely bikini-clad blond in the beach chair beside him. The bright yellow in the bikini made her tanned skin and cameo face all the more breathtaking to him. The sapphire blue of her eyes matched the soft powdery blue waves that lazily washed ashore. Strands from her long blond hair fell across one moist cheek and down to an amply exposed breast. She smiled sweetly up at him, an invitation on her lush full lips. He suddenly felt a now familiar craving for her that bordered on bestial desire. and his matching yellow jockey shorts were becoming uncomfortably tight.

“Not here! Not now! Not in these moments with you… When the thoughts come I push them aside… Will they eventually destroy us, these thoughts?” There came a quaint sadness to her dazzling face, mixing with the remarkable sexiness of her lips.

“Thoughts will not destroy us, Daisy, not if our love stays strong… You did what you had to do. We must never allow ourselves to become bored with each other… And, right now, this moment, I’m horny as hell and coming after you…”

With that he pushed away from the beach chair and chased a squealing Daisy across the white sand toward a lovely villa surrounded by palms…

The End

You can follow me on Twitter (@brchitwood) and on facebook.com/billyray.chitwood. If you like this short short story, please take a look at my nine books, some mystery novels, a romance novel, and a couple of memoirs at the following sites:

http://www.goo.gl/fuxUA (IAN: Short bio sketch and preview my nine books)

OTHER AUTHOR SITES:

http://billyraychitwood.weebly.com (Can preview my books on the Home page and push the blog button for my posts)

http://www.about.me/brchitwood

http://thefinalcurtain1.wordpress.com (View my current and archived posts)

A Fanciful Thought

A Fanciful Thought
Posted on May 15, 2013 by billyraychitwood1

Two Americans who know how to speak only one language, English, sit at a small sidewalk cafe in Paris, France, sipping latte, watching the people pass and listening to a musical language which they can now miraculously understand. Birds are chirping, dropping momentarily from their flitting maneuvers to pick up a crumb of food. The sun is shining in a clear lucid sky and there are smiles on the faces of the people. Happiness abounds.

A waiter appears at the small sidewalk table and speaks a few words in French: “Do you care for more latte or do you care for a menu?”

“No,” says one of the Americans, glancing at his watch, “we must be going. We’re meeting friends at the ‘Arc de Triomphe’ along the Champs-Elysees in twenty minutes.” After directions are confirmed the Americans pay their tab and leave the lovely cafe.

There was no confusion, no doubt, in the language exchange while neither of the Americans spoke French and the waiter spoke no English.

How can this be? A Frenchman and Americans having a dialogue, understanding every word that is spoken? Where has the world gotten?

Finally, we have in many ways made all the brilliant technology pay off. There is now a chip worn in an attractive wrist band. The chip is activated by a small square pen-like device that is clipped to a shirt pocket or to the inside of a coat. On the pen is a menu of languages spoken all over the world. In France, the two Americans chose French from the menu, spoke in their native tongue, and the words were perfectly understood by the waiter – and, of course, any French person they should meet. The words of the Americans are spoken in English but come out in French, and, likewise, the waiter responds in his native tongue and it comes out in English. One small chip on a wrist band controls the conversation.

Marvelous! you say, and marvelous it is. Any person on the planet can now own this ‘Language Chip Band’ for a pittance. People can travel the world and never again be troubled by a language barrier, whether it be France, Bulgaria, Mexico, Russia, Spain, Switzerland, you name the country.

Now, perhaps Love can spread! Now, perhaps Wars can be no more! Now, perhaps a real world community can exist. Now, perhaps Peace in all parts of the world can flourish.

Not so fast, you say!

Yes, of course, you’re right. Not so fast! There will still be power-hungry people. There will still be greed. There will still be mayhem, murder, and evil. And, is this technology possible? My personal belief does not matter so much, but I do believe there are so many wonderful human advancement possibilities that we have and really know nothing about… ‘smart pills’ (I just took one – yuck, yuck!), new energies, new medical breakthroughs… Think about it, really! We put people on the moon. We can identify anyone anywhere with a satellite positioning itself. Our Mathematicians, our Scientists and Technologists of all kinds know so much, our Governments, all know so much more than we can ever believe they know…

So, why are some technological secrets kept from us? (If, of course, you choose to believe there are secrets…) Because of that power and greed and selfishness and, most of all, because of Trust. Love cannot come without Trust and Faith! Faith, Love, and Trust can come, but it seems to me must come when we on this globe can at least communicate with each other, cannot lose each other in translation. Faith, Love, and Trust can come when we begin to let go of our prejudices, when we begin to know and understand that we are not just one person or just a few elites…we can never reach the glory that is out there for us unless we try to eliminate bias, hatred, ignorance, selfishness, and evil from the world…

This is all a fanciful exercise, but can it not come to pass? Can we not all see that a global union of bodies can achieve Faith, Love, and Trust, that our world can be the promised Nirvana, that promise that just maybe got us all started on this orbital journey?

Who knows but the chicken and egg conundrum Maker, our God, that Designer of all our myths and truths!

PLEASE FOLLOW ME ON:

twitter (@brchitwood) and http://facebook.com/billyray.chitwood

SOME OF MY WEBSITES:

http://billyraychitwood.weebly.com

http://www.goo.gl/fuxUA (IAN) (short bio and my books)

http://www.about.me/brchitwood

http://linkedin.com/brchitwood

http://amazon.com

http://amazon.co.uk

Fifteen Great Bloggers

I’ve been honored with a nomination for the ‘Very Inspiring Blogger Award’ by Mr. Francis Baraan IV (@MrFrancisBaraan on Twitter) for which I would like to most sincerely thank him. it’s always a pleasure to receive these award nominees but it’s also a bit tedious and time-consuming in fulfilling the requirements that are attached to them. I have been honored with a few of these awards, and, while it takes some time away from my writing and/or maintenance chores of the social networks, it is always gratifying. An ‘Award’ nomination makes one feel validated in some sense for her/his blog observations, for her/his writing in general, makes one feel that there is in her/his possession some talent that is recognized by others. In fact, it might come to a person that this nomination may be the only recognition they will ever get in their writing. If I appear somewhat ‘tongue in cheek,’ forgive me, for it truly is an honor to receive such an award.

Mr. Francis Baraan has a truly lovely blog site and he was also awarded the ‘Very Inspiring Blogger Award.’ It’s my hope that you will visit http://mrfrancisbaraanivblog.wordpres.... (Please note that the lovely library room in the background of this site is already spoken for by me.) There is a most noble title to this post: THE BIBLIOPHILE CHRONICLES: MOSTLY A LITERARY BLOG — FRANCIS BARAAN ON BOOKS, READING, WRITING, WRITERS, AUTHORS, AND LA DOLCE VITA. Please visit this most worthy wordpress blog and prepare to be impressed. That was my experience, and I’m sure it will be yours.

As with most awards there are some mechanics that go with with acceptance of the nomination. The nominee is to acknowledge the nominator in the most kindest of words, momentarily forgetting the possible disdain he or she is feeling at having to navigate through the laundry list of chores. The nominee is to enumerate seven facts about herself/himself heretofore not necessarily known by the social network community, perhaps even the world. The nominee is also to nominate fifteen other people for the award — again, understanding that any friendships developed with those nominees over the preceding years are likely to go through some sort of purgatorial-like status before amity can return.

I would like to state that my dear friend, Jhobell Kristyl, also nominated me sometime back for this and two other awards, ‘The Reality Blog Award’ and “One Lovely Blog Award.” So, I hope I’m not stepping on the protocols but I’ll handle these generous and wonderful awards together. Please let this be okay with my friends, Francis and JK. I sincerely thank them both for the Award(s).

Also, relative to protocols, I’m changing my nominees format. Since I’m doing the nominating, it seems only proper that I set the requirements. HERE ARE THE REQUIREMENTS FOR MY FIFTEEN NOMINEES: 1) You may or may not acknowledge and thank me for the nomination; 2) You do need in accepting to show the award on your blog; 3) You must reveal seven things about yourselves that heretofore have not seen daylight; 4) THAT’S IT! You may if you wish nominate others for the award (in any number) but it is not mandatory. To recap, thank me if you like, show the Award on your blogs, and reveal in a specific post seven things about yourselves that have not heretofore been known. Simple enough?

Here are the seven revelations about myself, some shameful, some which never should have been revealed:

1) I’m an emotional cripple…not necessarily big news to the people who know me: I cry at heart-rending, death-disease-pending, and maltreated animal books and movies; ergo, I try to stay away from these books and movies. What makes this confession rather ridiculous is that, in some of the books I write (nay, all the books that I write), there are sections where I cried while writing them – and I cry when I re-read them. Guess it stands to reason that an emotional cripple will cry when he’s writing emotional scenes. Know what? That’s not embarrassing to me. In fact, I’m thankful for it. And, instead of blaming my age, I can say that it has always been that way for me.

2) In some ways I’m a Jekyl/Hyde kind of guy – particularly when it comes to the internet and the functions I must perform on it. First of all, an anachronism like me perhaps should not be on the internet. There are so many things I do not know, that HTML stuff, all the widgets, settings, and interneteze. I’m basically a humble guy with a tender heart (as you already know) but there are times when I rage, rant, rave, and come fairly close at times to throwing this laptop into my beautiful Canterra fireplace in front of which I sit posing as a author… Mostly, though, you can rely on my being a sweet, decent, law-abiding human being. (My wife is now looking over my shoulder and laughing full-throttle – at a safe distance, of course!).

3) I love ‘thin’ milkshakes, not the thick stuff that you need a spoon to drink it (make that, eat it!). However, the milkshake has to have a slow-moving texture, thick enough to know there is ice cream within the ice. What kind, you ask? Thin, Chocolate milkshakes I crave most earnestly in the hot months particularly – made with vanilla ice cream (home-made if possible) and Hershey syrup. (At this point, as she reads these words, I’m giving Julie, my wife, that over my shoulder boyish smile with flickering eye countenance, and she’s not looking too pleased as she goes to the kitchen to pull the blender from the cupboard.)

4) Okay, Julie is not looking over the shoulder at the moment, so I can write this (Oh, sure, I’ll get her ire later!), but here’s the thing: even here in Twilight, a pretty lady, bursting out all over in that itsy bitsy teeny weeny polka dot bikini can still get the old motor running. Now, it’s of course a totally different kind of experience from the ‘young buck’ days – if you get my drift… Naturally, I love to pieces this lovely wife of mine, but, gee whiz, some of the damsels out there in the world today! Whooee! Please understand that this is only a thought process!

5) I’m basically a shy guy but get me around a group of fun-oriented people and I sorta have to show off! It might take a heavily laced drink to get me started (one is about all I can handle these days), but look out, I just might put on a one-man show: sing a few songs I’ve written, dramatize a few moments from the pages of my books… It’s all okay. I might overdo it once in a while, but, usually, the performance is in front of friends who know anyway that I’m going to make an ass out of myself. You see, it’s just me crying for attention! And, I get the attention, but the next day brings some remorse… The way I figure it, like, if I’m lying on the soiled and overused leather sofa of the shrink, I’m getting rid of some junk piled up there in this ego of mine… No real harm done, I’m thinking.

6) I was once a woman-chaser of the worst kind… You will find all of this if you read my memoirs. It’s all rather shameful, I suppose, but I’ve made it this far and just might as well lay it all out so people can decide to hate me, love me, maybe, at least, read me – that is, read my books. Hell, that’s why I wrote them, trying to find pieces of myself that could make some sense of me. The truth is the truth and it’s not going to set me free, but it helps me live a lot better within myself. Women-chasing is frowned upon, but I gotta tell you, I had me some times back in the day… (Oops! Julie’s back with my chocolate milkshake and I gotta get it from her before she pours it all over this graying head of mine!) Love that woman, and I didn’t spill a drop! She loves me. That’s the most warming thought this old mind and body needs to have.

7) This one is not so pretty but might as well put it out there. My mortality is something that lingers a spell now and then. It’s not so much I fear death. Hell, there are times when I would almost welcome it, particularly when this or that body part is not working or at some point has needed to be replaced. It’s the ‘legacy’ thing more than anything. I would like the people I’ve loved, my Mom, my wife, my kids, grand kids, greats, grandparents, my good friends, even my Dad and including some of those women I chased once upon a time, that they really were loved and they meant a lot to me. There was no cheapness in my love affairs. They all had worth. There were mountains I could have, should have, climbed and did not. There was so much more I could have given the world. There was much too much selfishness in my living, not enough giving of myself, not enough accomplishments that would match whatever talents I was supposed to have… So there it is. It all did not get done. BUT, there are nine books, a tenth being written (very slowly, he says), and maybe they will count for something. Maybe someone can benefit from them. MAYBE I have been able to see me better with the books I’ve written. SO, mortality, death, does not scare me… I just wish that I could have given the world more and maybe not taken so much from it… It was likely all ordained, so it is is what it is! I continue to enjoy life. I’ve got family who love me, friends who care about me. GUESS when I think about it, I have a pretty good legacy as it is… AND,a big plus! I have my faith! It has undergone some altering since my Appalachian days of youth, but it is there. Yes, God, it is there! After all these orbits, You await…

Okay, that’s over!

Here are my fifteen nominees for ‘The Very Inspiring Blogger Award.’ You are all beautiful in your blogs and deserve this award. I’m just hopeful you won’t send me ‘hate mail’ and become too unruly over all of this. Actually, it’s good to network… You just might find a viral track for a book or two. Although it is not incumbent on you to list fifteen people for the Award (you can list any number, or, none at all), I am listing here fifteen deserving people, and, again, all they need to do is display the Award on their blogs and reveal seven things about themselves in a post — acknowledge me in your post if you like. Just remember, I’m an emotional ‘dude’ and would appreciate your mention of me.

1) John Dolan - @JohnDolanAuthor (Twitter) – http://johndolanwriter.blogspot.com

2) James McCallister - @jumeirajames (Twitter) – http://i-nation.me

3) Linda Howard Urbach - @LindaUrbach (Twitter) – http://www.madamebovarysdaugher.com

4) Eden Baylee - @edenbaylee (Twitter) – edenbaylee.com

5) Diane Strong - @DianeIStrong (Twitter) – http://dianestrong.wordpress.com

6) Cameron Garriepy - @camerongarriepy (Twitter) – http://camerondgarriepy.com

7) Dianne Gray - @Zigotide (Twitter) – http://diannegray.au.com

8) Mary Meddlemore - @MaryMeddlemore (Twitter) – marymeddlemore1.wordpress.com

9) Rick Mallery - @RickMallery (Twitter) – rickmallery.wordpress.com

10) Sheris Bessi (Eternally Me) – @sherisbessi (Twitter) – theothersideofugly.com

11) Seumas Gallacher - @seumasgallacher (Twitter) – seumasgallacher.wordpress.com

12) Dianne Harman - @DianneDHarman (Twitter) – http://www.DianneHarmon.com

13) Katherine L. Logan - @KathyLLogan (Twitter) – http://www.katherinellogan.com

14) Virginia Lee - @dagonsblood (Twitter) – https//dagonsblood.wordpress.com

15) Arthur Crandon - @arthurcrandon (Twitter) – http://www.bit.ly/TfzLl2

If you would like to know more about me,
here are some links:

http://www.about.mr/brchitwood

http://www.billyraychitwood.weebly.com

http://www.goo.gl/fuxUA

http://www.thefinalcurtain1.wordpress...

http://www.facebook.com/billyray.chit...

http://www.amazon.com (billy ray chitwood)

http://www.amazon.co.uk (billy ray chitwood)