Billy Ray Chitwood's Blog, page 4
June 15, 2017
A Heart Thing
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A Heart Thing
What was I doing here? It seemed a sad inertia was in control of my body.
Beautiful, yes, this sand and sun part of the world! And, it was a promise my heart compelled me to keep…after so many tears and a fragile restoration from the pain and finality of impending death. Those who have lost the warm cloak of love will know of what I write.
Before coming inside to sit on the big bed to write my thoughts of desperation and longing, I stood on the 9th floor balcony of the ‘Royal Tower’ and gazed out over the beauty that is all of Paradise Island Bahamas.
Close to my tower, people and kids watched the feeding of large Manta rays, while, in the next large pool, loud cheering came from children and their parents as brothers and sisters slid quickly down the steep, thick, clear round-tube through water where sharks swam all around them. My wan smile of acknowledgment came and lingered briefly from the shrieks of play and excitement in the large pool below.
I began my writing…
This is for you, Johnny, these words my heart and soul convey, words which I pray will give me sustenance to continue life – a tenuous blur in my mind during the past few days…
We spoke of coming here to the Atlantis Paradise Island Resort just two months ago at our most beautiful first anniversary dinner, one week before your cancer diagnosis came from your doctor. As always, you faced that awful information in your fashion, showing your acceptance and lack of concern. “Hey,” you said, “doctors make mistakes! I feel great and plan on living for many years with my lovely bride.” You kissed me softly on the lips and gave me your brave smile.
On our arrival home, I tried, too, for bravery, but failed. You saw my tears, gathered me in your arms, carried me to our bed and slowly, with moments of playful tease and tormenting delays, made spectacular love to me. You made me momentarily forget the terrible news of the diagnosis.
The days that followed were much the same. You took me with you on your business trip to Seattle, even allowed me to be present during your major appointments. You would not be without me for a moment. My love for you, always at its highest point, came near to eruption, to the degree of silly school girl antics. I clung to you, stopped on the busy sidewalks of Seattle to embrace, kiss you, in such a state of euphoria that I could almost forget the dreadful cancer news…almost! It hovered just above my consciousness, bringing deep dips of sorrow at the prospect of losing you.
Then, there came the Tuesday telephone call from doctor Dearfield’s office. You were to check into the Holy Cross Hospital at 8:00 AM the next day to start treatments. From your soft and inaudible voice while talking to the doctor, I knew the seriousness of the situation. I also saw the momentary closings of your eyes and the dropped chin.
After the phone call with the doctor, you insisted, without allowing my dissent, that night would be our last together. Your arguments were selfish, you said, that you would not allow me to see your declining days of health caused by Cancer’s newest treatments, including sessions of Chemo therapy. You made me promise not to show up at the hospital. You gave me the first-class ticket to Nassau, booked my ‘top priority’ suite at the Atlantis Bahamas for a three-week stay. You said, if the news proved good, you would be joining me at Atlantis. If the news were negative, our Tuesday night would be our last night until we met in God’s eternity. We were locked in each other’s arms all that night, me, saying silent prayers…
I stopped writing when tears began blotting my pages. I was hopelessly lost in my lassitude, laid back on the bed until feelings of anxiety hit me, got up, left the lovely suite and walked aimlessly around the grand resort.
Below ground, I walked along the thick concrete walls of the world’s largest marine exhibit, passing within three feet of all kinds of exhibits, sharks, rays, all kinds of water life, swimming up to the thick glass enclosure where families touched them safely via the glass. Even in a lethargic state, I managed to find some minimal escape from my despair.
After walking up and through the large casino, I returned to my room. It was 5:00 PM. I took a sleeping pill and soon fell asleep among the tear-blotted pages written some hours earlier.
For the next few days, it was much the same for me, ordering room service food, eating only parts of it, picking up the pen to write more thoughts on paper and giving up when the tears came. Johnny’s face I saw as an image on the glass sliding doors to the balcony, on the bathroom mirrors, in my mind when eyes were closed. The weather outside was beautiful, and, even in my grief, I could understand the popularity of this paradise.
Even with the beauty of Paradise Island, the walls closed in on me, forcing my movement, either to the pool area or the beach.
On Friday morning of my second week, I awoke with the same torpid lack of mobility, dregs from the sleeping pills, ordered room service coffee and eggs Benedict, drank the coffee, left most of the eggs Benedict. I picked up my pen to write more about Johnny, and, again, began crying.
Outside the weather was all sun and blue skies. I took off my pajamas and put on my bikini, grabbed a beach towel and noticed I was still wearing the last gift Johnny had given to me – a most elegant diamond-studded pendant with a lush heart-shaped Garnet gem. I placed the pendant on the dresser, lingered over it for a few seconds until the tears thought about returning, and walked out the door.
The sun felt strangely good on my body, adding pleasantly to my lethargy. I tried not to think, but it was impossible. Johnny was so solidly in my thoughts, and I truly wondered if I could live without him. I turned my body on the beach towel to the tummy, my back needing some sun.
As I lay there on my tummy, my face upon my folded arms, eyes closed, reliving memories, I felt something drop to the sand in front of my face, a few sprinkles of sand touching my forehead.
Impulsively, I raised my head and glanced at the sand in front of me.
My heart skipped several beats! My head and entire body was tingling with titillating thoughts.
Quickly, I turned over onto my back and sat up.
Standing above me with a wide grin on his face was Johnny!
“Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” I blurted and jumped from the beach towel and threw myself into his open arms.
“You just buried your Garnet pendant!” he said, with a mock sneer. “That cost me a few bucks, you know! And you leave it on a dresser in a resort?”
“Oh, Johnny, Johnny!” I sighed deeply, “You’re here… Are you cured?” I kissed him so much he couldn’t answer.
He finally disengaged enough to mutter: “You ever hear of ‘remission’? That’s me! The ‘Remission’ man! On a mission to re-claim my lovely, lovely bride. Shall we get a drink and celebrate?”
“Not just a drink, Johnny! I have a lot more in mind for you!” A quick thought hit me. “That is, unless…” in my stuttering way, “there are health issues.” I gave him my raised eyebrows and soft smile.
Johnny slapped me on my ‘buns’, smiled broadly, and said, “Bring it on, baby! I’m up to the task!”
“Make that, ‘tasks’, please, Johnny!”
Flash Fiction by Billy Ray Chitwood – 6/14/17
Please see comments on the author, some book reviews, blogs, and preview my books of mystery, suspense, romance, memoir at:
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Paradise Island Bahamas
Howling at the Moon
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Howling at the Moon
My howl grows weaker as the Summers come and go,
And the Winter’s bitter gales bring harsh realities to my world.
My aging body grows weary in its long seasonal quest to know,
To find in my meandering search the truth unfurled.
*
Yet, some abiding glimmer of Faith bids me journey on
As I see the eager and young give rise to the next tomorrow,
To kindle old desires, awaken my mind to a new kinder dawn,
Tease me with truths-bearing wisdom I might better know.
*
Then, as years speed by steadily, and my steps limp along,
The world seems more precariously out of its orbital sync
As though some treacherous fate on wicked winds so strong
Comes to claim its ownership of an orb no longer able to think.
Poem by Billy Ray Chitwood – June 12, 2017
My books at: billyraychitwood.com Follow me on Twitter (@brchitwood)
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June 13, 2017
Howling at the Moon
Howling at the Moon
My howl grows weaker as the Summers come and go,
And the Winter’s bitter gales bring harsh realities to my world.
My aging body grows weary in its long seasonal quest to know,
To find in my meandering search the truth unfurled.
*
Yet, some abiding glimmer of Faith bids me journey on
As I see the eager and young give rise to a new tomorrow,
To kindle old desires, awaken my mind to a new kinder dawn,
Tease me with truths-bearing wisdom I might better know.
*
Then, as years speed by steadily, and my steps limp along,
The world seems more precariously out of its orbital sync
As though some treacherous fate on wicked winds so strong
Comes to claim its ownership of an orb no longer able to think.
Poem by Billy Ray Chitwood – June 12, 2017
My books at: billyraychitwood.com Follow me on Twitter (@brchitwood)
June 8, 2017
Wicked Marcie
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Wicked Marcie
“You’re a filthy beast!” she spoke as tears fell down her cheeks.
“And, what kind of beast, would you say?” his face squinted in a soft strange sadness.
The woman did not understand the expression, read it as a ‘mocking’ of the situation. She appeared cautiously in conflict with her emotions. She spoke again.
“Oh, go ahead with your ugly passion, Willard. I can’t stop you, but you can know this: I’ve never hated you more than at this moment.”
Willard stopped mid-stride and stared at the woman in the wheelchair, his brow wrinkled, his tired face showing an anguish she could not comprehend. His steps were measured and slow as he neared the wheelchair. The woman quavered and showed a fear she sought to hide. She hunched as much as she was physically able, and spoke: “Please Willard, don’t slap me again, and don’t do the other thing…please! If I ever meant anything to you, please, please, don’t go in there tonight!”
For some terrible seconds, Willard stopped, stood erect, and appeared to consider what the woman was saying. With reticence, he looked wearily into her sad eyes before responding. “It was you, Bella!” He spoke in a soft voice with a hint of some sort of pity. “You put yourself in that wheelchair when you tried to kill me. You do remember that night, don’t you, Bella?”
“I didn’t try to kill you, Willard. I only wanted to keep you away from Marcie, just trying to scare you, that’s all. I could never kill anyone. Marcie did something bad that one night, and you’ve been making her pay for it ever since. For pity’s sake, she’s only fourteen years old. You said you loved her as your own. What you’re doing is criminal and sinful.”
“You rushed me. I dodged. You went flying into the coffee table and damaged your back. I’ve gone all these weeks caring for you, Bella, while Marcie kept flaunting her blossoming body at me, smiling and inviting. You never saw any of that, Bella. Yes, it’s criminal and sinful, what you’re thinking, and I’m also a man who has needs – needs you can’t satisfy until you mend.”
“Can you so easily justify your actions against our daughter, Willard?”
“Our adopted daughter, Bella, fourteen years, going on twenty-four. I’m justifying nothing! You believe what she tells you. You don’t see her coming on to me every night. She’s insatiable in her own sexual needs, a nymphet right out of a Nabakov novel. She must be. I avoid her. I tell her it is all wrong, both legally and morally what she wants from me. That doesn’t stop her from coming to my bed each night. I never harbored a sexual need for her. It never entered my mind and still does not. You remember that night when she came out to the den in only her panties and bra. You went to bed. I was drinking and half-drunk. She tried to seduce me with her eyes, with her swinging hips, with her sitting on my lap and tormenting me with her moves.
“You came out and saw it all, Bella, and knew that it must be my fault, not Marcie’s fault, the little girl we brought home when she was six years old. You didn’t notice me trying to disengage from her that night, struggling to get her off my lap. Whether she learned about sex from her many ‘night-stay-overs’ with ‘school friends’, or, watched porno movies, she tried to seduce me with her knowledge of every move in the sexual manual. She showed me filthy pictures to seduce me. She…”
“Stop, Willard! Please, stop! I Can’t listen to your vile comments any longer.” Bella started to move her wheelchair toward her bedroom, but he stopped her.
“Just one last thing, Bella, and you can go to bed… I will say no more after these last comments. Please, hear me out.”
Bella looked down at her hands, intertwined on her lap and remained silent.
“Yes, I slapped you a few times, not hard, just enough to stop your rants about Marcie and me. You would never let me tell you what I’m saying tonight, and I’m sure you will never believe me. I’ve tried to tell you before tonight but you always get so angry – and that gets me angry, and I don’t tell you. That changes tonight…
“I have never had sex with Marcie, Bella…not that night you saw her on my lap in her panties, not any night. Yes, she comes to my room, and, in my anger, I sometimes slap her, warn her about losing her home, having her put in some squalid detention center, and come short from really strapping her, finally getting her back to her own room.
“What you saw weeks ago is all that happened, Bella. I repeat, I have never had sex with Marcie. AND, it would not have happened when you saw her on my lap. Yes, I had liquor working in my system, but I would never lose sight of my moral integrity altogether.
“I don’t know what Marcie is telling you, what kind of lurid tales she is spinning, but this I do know. She is an evil young lady, and I have spent all the time I care to spend on trying to straighten her out, talking to her in matter of fact terms, paternally and with caring feelings. AND, you need to know that, today, late this afternoon, after using up all my clear thinking in trying to save Marcie, I visited state officials and alerted them that the situation was no better than when I first reported it to them weeks ago. Yes, I reported Marcie to state officials and followed up with them on several occasions to keep them informed.
“They will be picking her up tomorrow morning. The officials are my friends, Bella, and they believe what I’ve told them. They believe me because what I’ve told them is true…they even did background checks on her former life before us, on her sinister parents.”
“My God, Willard! She’s our daughter.”
“Bella, do you not believe the words I’m telling you? Marcie is evil! I’ve tried to save her! Can’t you see that? She is telling you unsavory lies, working against us. She cannot stay any longer in this house. I truly can say, I’ve done all I can do… She now belongs to the state.
“I know this is difficult for you, but you have not seen Marcie as I’ve seen her. You have been wheelchair-bound, unable to lend your maternal counsel to her. You must know I would not lie to you about this. You know how I’ve loved you over the years…that has not changed. I still love you and long for the day you’re out of that wheelchair. Marcie is a victim of her previous parents, a ‘bad seed’, and I’ve come to know she cannot be here any longer. She is trying to hurt us, Bella. PLEASE! Understand that.”
Tears rushed down Bella’s face, and she could see the tears on Willard’s face as well.
With some effort, she reached a hand upward to her husband. Willard caressed the hand, kissed it, held it against his cheek for some seconds, and smiled gently down at his wife.
“Now, you must go to bed and get your rest…”
Bella tried to speak, to give one last attempt at saving Marcie, but she knew, now, without any doubt, that Willard had spoken the truth to her. Her voice rendered incapable of speech by the tears, she sighed deeply, slowly shook her head as Willard wheeled his distraught wife to the bedroom.
Willard pulled the bed cover up to her chin, and, as he took a sleep capsule from a pill bottle on the bedside table, he spoke gently and with love.
“Take the pill, dear Bella. You need aid to get you to sleep and away from the thoughts. Take also my love and know that, tomorrow begins the first day of the rest of our lives. All our days will be happy and good after this darkness leaves us.”
Bella took the sleeping pill, wiped her eyes with a soft tissue and allowed Willard a kiss goodnight.
***
When three state officials arrived the next morning, no one answered their front door ring.
Concerned because the dire circumstance of their visit, they jimmied the door and entered.
An odd odor greeted them, along with splattered blood on the tiled floors and walls of the master bedroom.
A portion of the big king-sized bed was covered with the blood of Bella, half-covered on the bed, her face oddly peaceful as though still sleeping.
Stretched across Bella’s lower body was Willard, his own blood oozing out of the multiple stab wounds to his now mutilated pajama top.
The officials searched the other rooms of the house but could not find Marcie.
“Oh, my God!” cried the lone lady in the group. “It must be obvious that Marcie murdered her adoptive parents. We need to alert the Sheriff’s office and the State Police.”
Flash Fiction by Billy Ray Chitwood – June 7, 2017
Please preview my books at:
https://www.Billyraychitwood.com
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May 25, 2017
Sinful Desperation
-Flash Fiction by Billy Ray Chitwood-
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
He stared at the ceiling as he reclined on the big bed, his naked body stretched straight, seeking relief from his back pain.
“It’s been years, my son, since your last confession. I hear desperation in your voice. Is the Church your last bastion of hope?”
A mournful smile of contrition and watery eyes looked upward to the ceiling. He would play both parts of this little satire from his soul, not mocking the billions of people who habitually practiced their faith in a Deity, rather, an awkward attempt at an anodyne for his pain.
“Yes, Father, on all accounts…” a back spasm interrupted his soliloquy and he sought another position on the bed. He was too tightly wound and needed to move his limbs in some exercises the cute young lady in physical therapy had insisted he practice each day.
Finally, he found some relief and continued with his conversation with the ‘Holy Father’ there in the center of his ceiling.
“Yes, Father, many years, and, in conflicting ways, a lifetime ago, yet, now, here, as the filmstrip of my earthly adventure unveils itself to me, my weekly spiritual visits to your Church seems not so far away.”
The man was almost ready to hear a reply. Not to be, he continued.
“So, on to my confession, Father, one, I fear will take more than a few ‘Hail Marys’ and a heavy penitence to absolve.” The man closed his eyes and his face took on a grimace.
“I confess to one of Man’s oldest of the seven sins, Pride. All my life I’ve taken umbrage with people who sully me, sometimes, in simple remarks that attempt to jest and tease. Perhaps that sin comes from a youthful disconnect with family and a poor quality of life. This sin has cost me friends and love connections. It is also truth to say it is the least of my sins.
“I confess to an earlier life rife with excessive sensual pleasures, Lust/Debauchery of the wicked and most wild, orgy-filled, salacious kind. I sought out and experimented with life’s underworld of Bacchus-plus drug madness. There were moments of intense euphoria, gratification, and immoral depravity.
“And, when the days and nights of playing Nero’s mad fiddle ended, there were tears, self-recrimination, times for soul-wrenching and no resolutions: preparation-time, it could be said, for the next ‘big toot’.
“I confess, Father, to periods of Envy, of Sloth, of Gluttony, and of Greed.
“There remains one more sin, Father, that of Wrath. I have saved it for the final portion of my confession because there was a prelude of most, if not all, the seven virtues before its denouement… a period in my life of happiness so fulfilling, so real, that it seemed my life had found its right and true moral compass.
“Having run the gamut of my ‘fiddling days', I sought to find a more righteous purpose in my life. A friend of mine who had been lost in the same forest of shame as I invited me to go to church with him on a beautiful Sunday morning in June. After smiling stupidly at the idea, I decided to go…to see how the ‘moral half’ lived.
“Are you still with me, Father? Have I lost you in my recount of decadence?”
The man could almost see the Father’s smile. “How could I not? What with such an interesting life you present to me?”
“You, Father, speak with a forked tongue. You must know it’s the fires of hell I’m destined for!
“Whatever, at the beautiful church with my friend, I met Maureen, a woman of remarkable beauty I felt destiny had placed in my path. We both felt a Karmic bonding and began a long relationship which ended in marriage.
“Our love was pure and, by any standard, storybook. We danced in the moonlight and worked every day at our jobs, saved our money and became wealthy, mostly by her artistic talent and her huge following. We were together all the moments we were not working or at a painting exhibition.
“We had a baby boy who died in his sixth month of an undiagnosed tumor.
“Maureen and I were devastated by Brian’s death, but, for her, there was an emptiness she could not fill. She began drinking. She stopped painting, and fate pulled her from me into the arms of another man. She was still trying to fill the void left by Brian.
“We began to argue, our spats becoming an ugly, yet another obtrusion to our love.
“Last night, Maureen arrived home after midnight, clearly in the mood for another spat. I pleaded with her to go to bed. She became infuriated with me and began slapping me. The slaps made me angry, and I tried to wrap my arms around her to carry her off to bed. She stomped my foot with the heel of her shoe and pushed me backward. I began to fall and grabbed her wrist instinctively to secure my footing. Then, she, too, began to fall, and I let go so she could get her footing. Her head banged loudly into the granite counter in our bar area and she went down onto the carpet, blood spreading out in a profuse flow from the gash. Maureen died last night, Father.”
The man could almost hear the sorrow in the Father’s voice, see the pain on his face through a small imagined window in a small imagined confessional.
On the bed, as tears flowed from the man’s eyes, he saw a pale shadowy figure, an apparition, Maureen, her arms extended toward him, her sad tearful eyes and still beautiful face beckoning to him.
The man’s face was covered in tears, his voice gagging and pitiful gasps, as he thrust the butcher knife upward into his heart.
The bedroom was silent in its darkness as the two wraiths walked across the room to eternity.
Flash Fiction by Billy Ray Chitwood
Please preview my books at:
https://www.billyraychitwood.com
Please follow me on:
https://www.twitter.com/brchitwood
Sinful Desperation
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Sinful Desperation
– Flash Fiction by Billy Ray Chitwood-
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
He stared at the ceiling as he reclined on the big bed, his naked body stretched straight, seeking relief from his back pain.
“It’s been years, my son, since your last confession. I hear desperation in your voice. Is the Church your last bastion of hope?”
A mournful smile of contrition and watery eyes looked upward to the ceiling. He would play both parts of this little satire from his soul, not mocking the billions of people who habitually practiced their faith in a Deity, rather, an awkward attempt at an anodyne for his pain.
“Yes, Father, on all accounts…” a back spasm interrupted his soliloquy and he sought another position on the bed. He was too tightly wound and needed to move his limbs in some exercises the cute young lady in physical therapy had insisted he practice each day.
Finally, he found some relief and continued with his conversation with the ‘Holy Father’ there in the center of his ceiling. “Yes, Father, many years, and, in conflicting ways, a lifetime ago, yet, now, here, as the filmstrip of my earthly adventure unveils itself to me, my weekly spiritual visits to your Church seems not so far away.”
The man was almost ready to hear a reply. Not to be, he continued.
“So, on to my confession, Father, one, I fear will take more than a few ‘Hail Marys’ and a heavy penitence to absolve.” The man closed his eyes and his face took on a grimace.
“I confess to one of Man’s oldest of the seven sins, Pride. All my life I’ve taken umbrage with people who sully me, sometimes, in simple remarks that attempt to jest and tease. Perhaps that sin comes from a youthful disconnect with family and a poor quality of life. This sin has cost me friends and love connections. It is also truth to say it is the least of my sins.
“I confess to an earlier life rife with excessive sensual pleasures, Lust/Debauchery of the wicked and most wild, orgy-filled, salacious kind. I sought out and experimented with life’s underworld of Bacchus-plus drug madness. There were moments of intense euphoria, gratification, and immoral depravity.
“And, when the days and nights of playing Nero’s mad fiddle ended, there were tears, self-recrimination, times for soul-wrenching and no resolutions: preparation-time, it could be said, for the next ‘big toot’.
“I confess, Father, to periods of Envy, of Sloth, of Gluttony, and of Greed.
“There remains one more sin, Father, that of Wrath. I have saved it for the final portion of my confession because there was a prelude of most, if not all, the seven virtues before its denouement… a period in my life of happiness so fulfilling, so real, that it seemed my life had found its right and true moral compass.
“Having run the gamut of my ‘fiddling’ days, I sought to find a more righteous purpose in my life. A friend of mine who had been lost in the same forest of shame as I invited me to go to church with him on a beautiful Sunday morning in June. After smiling stupidly at the idea, I decided to go…to see how the ‘moral half’ lived.
“Are you still with me, Father? Have I lost you in my recount of decadence?”
The man could almost see the Father’s smile. “How could I not? What with such an interesting life you present to me?”
“You, Father, speak with a forked tongue. You must know it’s the fires of hell I’m destined for!
“Whatever, at the beautiful church with my friend, I met Maureen, a woman of remarkable beauty I felt destiny had placed in my path. We both felt a Karmic bonding and began a long relationship which ended in marriage.
“Our love was pure and, by any standard, storybook. We danced in the moonlight and worked every day at our jobs, saved our money and became wealthy, mostly by her artistic talent and her huge following. We were together all the moments we were not working or at a painting exhibition.
“We had a baby boy who died in his sixth month of an undiagnosed tumor.
“Maureen and I were devastated by Brian’s death, but, for her, there was an emptiness she could not fill. She began drinking. She stopped painting, and fate pulled her from me into the arms of another man. She was still trying to fill the void left by Brian.
“We began to argue, our spats becoming an ugly, yet another obtrusion to our love.
“Last night, Maureen arrived home after midnight, clearly in the mood for another spat. I pleaded with her to go to bed. She became infuriated with me and began slapping me. The slaps made me angry, and I tried to wrap my arms around her to carry her off to bed. She stomped my foot with the heel of her shoe and pushed me backward. I began to fall and grabbed her wrist instinctively to secure my footing. Then, she, too, began to fall, and I let go so she could get her footing. Her head banged loudly into the granite counter in our bar area and she went down onto the carpet, blood spreading out in a profuse flow from the gash. Maureen died last night, Father.”
The man could almost hear the sorrow in the Father’s voice, see the pain on his face through a small imagined window in a small imagined confessional.
On the bed, as tears flowed from the man’s eyes, he saw a pale shadowy figure, an apparition, Maureen, her arms extended toward him, her sad tearful eyes and still beautiful face beckoning to him.
The man’s face was covered in tears, his voice gagging and pitiful gasps, as he thrust the butcher knife upward into his heart.
The bedroom was silent in its darkness as the two wraiths walked across the room to eternity.
Flash Fiction by Billy Ray Chitwood – May 25, 2017
Please preview my books at:
https://www.billyraychitwood.com
Please follow me on:
https://www.twitter.com/brchitwood
April 25, 2017
Soul’s Odyssey
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Soul’s Odyssey
Soul’s Odyssey
Why is it so? This mystical longing, this wanderlust, this soul odyssey?
There are so many parts that make up this mortal body: the part that takes me to moments of happiness and joy, like love’s ecstatic swoons; the part that cries in the sadness of a child’s suffering, the madness of evil-doers, the movies that convey tragedies of loss; the part that yearns for new surroundings – desert, mountain, seaside territories – while knowing the respite and serenity will be but temporary.
But, then, the question is begged. I know full-well the answer. Along with the baffling DNA, the early mobility of childhood, a displaced family, and some steady diet of emotional soup, I am what I am. The good fortune for me: I did not go too far toward the ‘dark side’…that is, crime was never an option. Something innate, a good mother’s nurturing, kept me somewhat wholesome. Well, there was some naughtiness along the way, says he, tongue in cheek.
Crime and evil do fascinate me – the serial killers, mothers who torture and/or kill their children, psychopaths, sociopaths, all those who blame everyone around them for their degenerate natures.
So, I take my unsophisticated microscope to the bizarre news accounts of the day and write fictional accounts of the abductions, homicides, and felonious natures of the willful pursuits.
The funny thing, in those lines and between those lines that I write, there is self-discovery. I see pieces of me, bits of anger, anxiety, frustration, and even my ruling romanticism. The anger and frustration is of course directed toward the evil I’m fictionally chronicling. The anxiety, plus occasional tears, come with the depiction of those unsuspecting characters who have been killed, maimed, and emotionally disabled.
Writing is my therapy, my ‘sofa time’ on the psychiatrist’s sofa. After a considered good session on the laptop, my elation shows its self. There is a sweet sense of accomplishment. In re-reading the sections I’ve written, I am often elated and sometimes mumble to myself: ‘Did I write that’? There’s a feeling that an invisible hand has taken over the keyboard…a euphoria, if you will, that a particular chapter, paragraph, phrase, can stimulate me so much.
SOUL ODYSSEY came to me as the title for this blog post, and I wanted to share it with my fellow authors. For me, I think the title fits. Perhaps it does for you as well. My best wishes to all who peck the keys and create…
Billy Ray Chitwood – April 25, 2017
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Here are three of my fourteen books…hope you can stop by my Website and preview these and books of different genres, see some books reviews, some author comments, and read some blog posts: https://billyraychitwood.com
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April 18, 2017
Acceptance
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Acceptance
I was taken from disturbed darkness
Out into the frantic light of life,
Taken from the safety of the womb
And an often dark and jarring strife.
*
The humble journey I began came
with incipient turmoil and doubt,
subtle remorse and terrible guilt
That, with me, I carried about.
*
With youth behind I wore my badges
Of courage, deceit, and self-doubt.
Tasting the beguiling fruits of Eden
And sipping from the Bacchus spout.
*
My Odyssey was not without the
Pain of guilt and sincere remorse.
Oh, no! My mind’s black closet
Choked and stifled me in due course.
*
Then came a forgotten Deity Who
Brought me to my misguided sense,
Gave me another chance at Faith,
And bade new Love to commence.
*
So, here, in the quietness of this
Meadow green, I vow to schemes
Of Worship those worthy paeans
Of Soul on these acres of dreams.
©Billy Ray Chitwood – April 18, 2017
Please visit my Website, preview my books of mystery, suspense, thriller, romance, history, memoir, read some book reviews and comments by the author. https://billyraychitwood.com
Please follow me on https://twitter.com/brchitwood
April 14, 2017
The Sea and Me
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The Sea and Me
Some people are born to fret and worry… Yes, even here in this magnificent resort on the Sea of Cortez in Mexico.
So, what’s the rub?
The scene above was there each morning when I awakened – the cobalt waters, the pale blue skies, the palm trees, the villas below our penthouse, the cobblestone roads that ran through the property, and the nostalgic aromas of old Mexico. Julie Anne and I walked many days on the concha-laden sandy beach and gathered seashells. We watched the young lovers in languid repose on the beach and by the pools. We watched the multi-colored sailboats on the sea and the larger yachts farther out toward the horizon. We watched the banana boats take the squealing tourists on a bouncy ride through the waves, some falling off and gathered back by the gleeful BB operator. Single-engine hang-gliders went aloft with one or two people, dipping low, soaring up again, near the beach and the resort. Most of these happy scenes played out with the background sounds of mariachi music playing on someone’s sound equipment…
Okay, Okay! I got lost in the moments of memory.
The rub?
It came time for an HOA election of board members. Julie Anne, a few Mexican staff members, and some of our American friends/Condo neighbors at the resort thought I should run and lend some support to solving the pesky problems facing the resort…and, NO, I won’t be elaborating on those pesky problems. The truth is, all I wanted to do was write my blogs and books in this most tantalizing environment. However, the prodding of wife and friends PLUS my own stupid ego finally won out, and I put my name in the proverbial hat.
I was elected to the board and subsequently appointed President of the HOA Board. Having never been on any kind of board in my life I tried to keep my enthusiasm and pride in check.
Now, back to that beautiful scene of our resort above – and the fact that some people were born to ‘fret and worry’. The F&W part was all mine, and that beautiful resort environment changed to problem solving – or, attempts at problem solving. AND, my writing went further south toward Puerto Vallarta and Acapulco, without me enjoying the journey…you all know that trying to please hundreds of people in one neat bundle is impossible.
Well, my board did solve problems, from an economic standpoint, and took care of many other issues, The credit goes to my great Secretary (who would ultimately become President), my good Treasurer, the resort staff, and the other fully engaged and supportive members of the board. I can say with honesty and honor that there were moments of warm camaraderie, frustration, and consistent efforts to solve those ‘pesky problems’.
Eventually, I got back to ‘sea shells at the seashore’ and my writing…
Speaking of my writing (and you knew I would be bringing my writing into this post!) the final book 6 in my ‘Bailey Crane Mystery Series, books 1-6’, A COMMON EVIL, was loosely inspired by my sojourn at that beautiful Mexican resort… It is a thriller and there are truths therein – regarding the cartel business and some of the resort’s problems. There is murder! Suspense! It’s a Thriller! (Oops! I said that!)
You should read it and leave an Amazon review…the book has several 5-Star reviews, and, of course, I would be happy to see more (honest reviews, of course!). You can preview the other 5 books in my BC series at the Website (address below) and eight other titles that bear my name.
Please contact me if you wish to know more about the resort…it’s in the state of Sonora in Mexico, an easy drive from Phoenix and Tucson, Arizona.
Billy Ray Chitwood – April 14, 2017
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Please visit my Website at: http://billyraychitwood.com To preview all 6 of the ‘Bailey Crane Mysteries’ and other books inspired by true events. There are also some comments by me and some reviews of my books…even some recent blog posts.
Please follow me on twitter at: http://twitter.com/brchitwood
April 5, 2017
Meet Lady Gray
Meet ‘Lady Gray’
Our beloved Bengal cat, George, left us for animal heaven some months back after a twelve-year love affair. It was a sad and traumatic moment for Julie and me…we buried George under some trees on our property, and, each morning, we look out the kitchen window at his burial spot and say, “Hello, George, we love you.”
As though George’s spirit reminds us of our time together in some peculiar ways, he finally put an exclamation point on it all…
Before George passed away, a small gray and white kitten came several times to our house and looked through the windows. It seemed obvious to us that the two transferred some mutual affection. George was a declawed, neutered house cat and could not go outside so the two enjoyed and passed their furry feelings via empty space.
After George died, the gray and white kitten came often to our kitchen door. Julie gave her some turkey bits, steak leftovers, and, finally included on her shopping list some cat food and treats. Julie left each food serving just outside the door.
At some point, with soft coaxing, the kitten timidly entered the house, but left after a brief stay. Julie and I had different views on the kitten. Julie was sure the kitten had a home nearby, and we could not just arbitrarily adopt the cat…plus, Julie was still at an emotional level over George and did not think she wanted another animal pet. I took an opposite view: I didn’t think the kitten had a nearby home and genuinely felt she wanted our home as her home. Of course, we both were likely right – maybe she had a home but was cast aside…and, there were stray cats around
As days and weeks passed, the kitten continued her daily visits, and, with each visit, lingered around our property, came into the house on occasion and stayed a bit longer each time before Julie put her outside. Julie was also worried about the kitten having fleas or other ailments, likely having been abandoned either by her previous owners or simply had survived in the wild.
The young cat was accompanied on occasion by a larger black and white male cat. It was apparent that the gray and white female held dominance over the bigger male, not sharing her food with him, and giving us reason to believe the female was in season.
Julie and I had e-mailed and called neighbors to find out if they knew to whom the kitten belonged. We got no helpful information. In the meantime, there was concern that we were feeding ‘gray and white’ too much food because the cat was developing quite a girth…and, sure, we considered the fact she could be in a gestation period.
Finally, there came the day when ‘gray and white’ entered the house and did not want to leave. It was during this time that Julie and I came together in our decision to keep the lovely feline. Her personality was so lovingly tender and timid. We would open the door for her to leave, and she would back away. In short, we fell in love with the little critter…bloated tummy and all – we felt the big tummy could be from all the food Julie was feeding her.
We are picking her up today at 1:00 PM from the Vet Hospital, where she has been spayed, wormed, and inoculated to boost immunity. The Vet tells us ‘Lady Gray’ is likely one-year old or thereabouts.
Julie and I are excited about having this little beauty in our lives…
We consider ‘Lady Gray’ a gift from God…
Billy Ray Chitwood – March 30, 2017
Please visit my Website, preview my 14 books, read some book reviews and author comments.
https://billyraychitwood.com
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https://twitter.com/brchitwood
