Cherrye S. Vasquez's Blog, page 6
September 21, 2013
Little Feather
“Where is Ji-Na? The baby is hungry.”
Cradling the newborn, TaeHyuk’s mother rocked back and forth. “She will be here. Yes, hold on little one. She is coming for you.”
The midwife leaned over and kissed the baby’s forehead. “My job here is done. My prayers are with all of you.” Turning to TaeHyuk, she lowered her head and sighed. “TaeHyuk, you are the father. You know that a day-old starling cannot fly. Embrace her. Teach her.”
TaeHyuk’s wails ripped through the darkness outside, and branches of the sacred Dang-namu trees trembled. The dense forest insulated the village from the war and the Japanese reign of terror. Still, the farmers needed sons, not daughters. And widowers needed many sons to fill the void.
“Soo-Kyung, Soo-Kyung,” his shrieks clashing with the baby’s cries in a dissonant duet.
TaeHyuk fell into his father’s arms and wept, tears streaming down his cheeks and onto the old man’s chest. “It is a great loss, my son. Soo-Kyung would have been a most honorable mother.”
The midwife stroked the sheet covering Soo-Kyung. The hemorrhaging had been too much. The only hope was to save the infant. She looked at the grief-stricken family and then paced the small room.
TaeHyuk’s sobs were muffled in his father’s chest. His head, buried, did not move. The midwife caught the old man’s eyes. They were moist, glistening in the flickering light. He nodded and pointed to a meager bowl of rice on the table.
She took a few grains as payment, bowed, and left.
After several minutes, Ji-Na, the nursemaid, opened the door. She lifted the infant and guided the tiny mouth to her left nipple. The baby suckled and no longer cried. For a few moments, the household was quiet.
Around them, rustling leaves were accompanied by a high-pitched hooting.
The brief tranquility was broken by a rapping on the door. TaeHyuk’s mother ushered two undertakers inside and shuffled across the room to where Soo-Kyung lay on the dirt floor.
“No, no! Wait.” TaeHyuk, his cheeks still wet, rushed to Soo-Kyung. He raised the sheet and stared down at his wife. TaeHyuk’s eyes poured over her ashen face. His mouth quivered. His throat tightened. He coughed and felt faint.
After a glance at the undertaker, his father reached out, guiding his son’s hand to return the sheet to its full length.
TaeHyuk backed away from his wife and the men carefully carried Soo-Kyung’s body to prepare it for burial. Ji-Na handed the sleeping infant to the old woman. TaeHyuk stepped outside, followed by his father.
The winter air was raw. A gust blew across their faces.
“What will you call her, my son?”
When TaeHyuk didn’t answer, he continued. “It is something you must do.”
“No, you name her. I can only dream of a son who will never harvest the crops with me.”
A cloud floated down from the mountain, surrounding them in fog.
The elder raised his head. “Look around us. Even the sky falls. What is was meant to be. She is your blood. You cannot stop the wind. Her breath is yours.”
He walked back towards the hut. The cloud thickened, unrelenting. TaeHyuk turned. With bent head, he pushed farther away through the mist. He breathed deeply. Wisps of moist air circled him. His steps crunched on the wooded paths and squished on moist snow. Nothing seemed to stir. He heard only stillness.
He had no sense of time and yet two hours passed as tears froze on his cheeks and pine branches scraped his skin. Loneliness gripped him. His tortured pace set a solitary rhythm and he searched the fog for movement. He saw no life in the dark forest.
But it was in the shimmering fog that shadows crept and slithered around him. TaeHyuk trudged onward unaware of the forms that followed him. The snow speaks to me in silence.
A fallen tree limb caught his foot and he crumpled, eating snow. Tired, he lay there listening to a soft rumbling. Its soothing vibrations pulsed through him. The noise came in waves but they were not random. Slowly, TaeHyuk raised himself, staring into the dancing mist. He thought he saw a figure. It moved slowly and with grace. He shivered and took a step backwards. The creature’s music morphed into a deep-throated roar that pitched higher into piercing moans. The distinct cry and the massive shape could only be horangi, the sacred Siberian tiger.
Soo-Kyung died giving life and am I to be a wild animal’s meal? The regal cat faced TaeHyuk, its yellow eyes so coruscating they radiated like lasers. Unable to move, TaeHyuk thought of his baby. Who will care for her? The tiger lifted its head in a groan that shook TaeHyuk like an earthquake. No mother. No father.
Breathing smoke, the predator rose up and sauntered to TaeHyuk. It stopped at arm’s length and held him with its eyes. His life floated away. He no longer felt grief. He no longer felt anything. No mother. No father
“The wind carries the unsung melodies of the dead bird.”
A burst of air pushed the animal odor over his face. He gagged. The tiger slowly maundered past him and entered a white cloud.
Stunned, TaeHyuk clenched his hands together. He swiveled, seeking a way back to the village. In the dark, he strode by instinct. No light guided him. Accompanied by his own steps, TaeHyuk stared into the fog for wildlife. None showed itself.
The tiger is master in the forest. Spirits have spared me.
He entered the village before dawn. Outside his small hut, an owl scowled down upon him, staring motionlessly.
TaeHyuk watched.
With a slight twist of its head, it flapped its wings and disappeared into the night.
As he reached for the door, a feather floated onto his arm.
“Where have you been?”
“In the forest with the spirits, the horangi.”
His mother caught her breath as she offered him a cup of tea.
“If horangi let you live,” his father stood next to him, “then it must have eaten and was only asserting its territory. You were no threat. The spirits truly blessed you.”
Shedding his coat, TaeHyuk sat at the table and gripped the hot mug with his frigid hands. Shivers dissipated as steam stroked away his chills.
“What is that?”
TaeHyuk bent over his knee and picked up a brown and white feather. “An owl greeted me.”
His daughter’s whimpering called to him. “Give her to me.”
For the first time, TaeHyuk sat with the infant. She rested against his chest. Barely audible sounds chirped forth, a hatchling. He closed his eyes. Night’s darkness. The gigantic horangi again. Rank smell. Face to face.
The baby stretched and TaeHyuk gazed upon her. She opened tiny eyes.
The fire crackled. Its sparks flashed orange and yellow.
She murmured, cuddled. Their eyes lingered.
Just this tiny feather – my Little Feather.
About the Author
After 42 years in public education, Andy retired in 2009. He views retirement as an opportunity to reWire, so he studied writing for two and a half years at the Hudson Valley Writers’ Center in Sleepy Hollow, NY. Now, imagine four schoolteachers, not James Bond, in his romantic thriller!
Foreword Clarion Reviews reviewed his debut novel:
Website – http://www.drandyrose.com/
Blog – http://teachersaflame.com/
Amazon Author Page – Lily’s Payback: Dr. Andy Rose: 9781477597705: Amazon.com: Books
September 13, 2013
Bogus Fetal Alcohol Syndrome (FAS) Research
Six members of the board of FAS*FRI
I’ve been shouting into the wind about the problems associated with drinking while pregnant for over twenty years. At one point we thought we’d made progress, but we seem to be bombarded weekly by quasi scientists who’ve looked at or done studies showing no problems associated with light to moderate drinking during pregnancy.Every one of the articles I’ve read that condones light drinking does not use characteristics of Fetal Alcohol Syndrome as their measure of impairment. I’ve seen ADD and ADHD used as measures of impairment associated with prenatal exposure to alcohol. Remarkably these studies didn’t show any difference between children exposed to alcohol and those that were not. Who is surprised? Not me. While some people with FAS may also have ADD or ADHD, these are not core characteristics that define the syndrome.
I saw one study that measured balance as an indicator of brain damage from prenatal exposure. That was interesting. I’d never seen balance listed as a core disability characteristic. It isn’t.
The latest bogus study on the impact of social drinking on the developing fetus used IQ as their measurement. While heavy drinking and binge drinking may impair IQ, it is not a core disability characteristic. While working in the field of FAS, I met several people with IQ’s in the 120’s and a full FAS diagnosis. One of the main activities of the Fetal Alcohol Syndrome Family Resource Institute was to teach caregivers, criminal justice personnel and educators to recognize what FAS looks like in individuals with a normal IQ. [image error] Dr. Ann Streisguth
Dr. Ann Streisguth liked to use reading, math and spelling scores to define damage from prenatal exposure to alcohol. Yes, those scores are part of the core disability characteristics. We occasionally found a child with a full diagnosis who was better at math than reading but she was probably destined to be a math genius. Aside from a very few extraordinary cases, people with FAS follow a predictable relationship between their math, reading and spelling scores. This was the measure Dr. Streisguth used when she did her study on social drinking, that is having 3-5 drinks per week. She found that the children of social drinkers did show the characteristic impairment in their math, reading and spelling scores.
I’ve listed the core disability characteristics of FAS on my advocacy page. Here is the short version. For a longer explanation, click on the FAS and Advocacy link. http://delindalmccann.weebly.com/fetal-alcohol-syndrome-advocacy.html
1) Failure to learn from cause and effect.
2) Inability to consistently use rules of right and wrong
3) Impaired judgment and reasoning
4) Emotional volatility and burnout
5) Vulnerable to co-occurring conditions such as depression, OCD, bipolar etc.
6) Individuals with FAS don’t get the nuances of society.
Drs. Sterling Clarren and Ann Streissguth had an extensive list of systems that were vulnerable to prenatal exposure to alcohol. These systems were generally time and dosage sensitive. To pull one item off of such a list and use it as your measure for determining whether someone has brain damage due to prenatal exposure to alcohol is just not valid research.
In order to determine if social drinking can be harmful to the developing fetus a researcher needs to measure a core disability characteristic or replicate Ann Streisguths’s study using reading, math and spelling scores as an indicator. The better studies are going to look at more than one characteristic. It is easy to test for the number of trials it takes for someone to learn a cause and effect task. I can see tests set up to easily measure whether a child consistently obeys rules of right and wrong or whether they are completely influenced by the examples of others. Actually, this would be a fun test, but alas, those who have an agenda to justify their own alcohol use or to sell alcohol don’t test for the core disability characteristics of FAS.
Bottom line: If you want your child to be healthy and reach their full potential, no amount of alcohol is safe.
*** About: Delinda McCann
Delinda McCann is a social psychologist who has worked in the field of developmental disabilities for over twenty years. She has served on committees for the state of Washington and been an educational advisor to other governments. Her work has earned her the praise of doctors, government officials and families all over the world. She has published numerous articles on disability issues, education, and adoption. Her unique perspective and sense of humor have delighted her readers even when she has been writing about the reality of caring for a loved one who has a severe disability. When the world turns crazy, as it frequently does for the disability community, her friends say there is nobody they would rather laugh and cry with.
Delinda lives a on a small farm near Seattle, WA where she raised her daughters and now runs a small organic flower business with the help of her husband and two giant poodles. She enjoys singing with her church choir and playing the piano-poorly. A brush with cancer made her realize that she needed to slow down, so she turned to writing fiction inspired by her behind-the-scenes experiences of advocating for and loving the people who are just a little bit different.[image error]Web Site: http://delindalmccann.weebly.com/index.html
September 7, 2013
WELCOME TO MAMIE’S WORLD
WELCOME TO MAMIE’S WORLD
“HOPE”
[image error]Today, I want to talk to you about hope, a very precious emotion. ‘Hope’ in and of itself is a highly significant four letter word that reflects differing needs depending upon the depth of suffering in the individual. Some are experiencing a tragic past or present and hope is what keeps them going and becomes their entire world within their hearts and minds. Others are simply reaching out to grab that special ‘slice of life’ to achieve fulfillment of their desires if only for that brief encounter of happiness.
Having been an abused child myself, I know that hope can be elusive, coming only in small windows but this was paramount in helping me to get through each day…hope that someone would love me, hold me when afraid and reassure me when the dark side of life glared into my eyes and took my breath away. A child’s world becomes hopeless during times of abuse but he or she will always long for that loving connection. Often, we learn to hope vicariously through the eyes of other children and schoolmates who speak of their adventures and loving family experiences. This is how we know what is possible and what we have every right to expect allowing ourselves to expand our dreams and hope.
The sad truth is that I didn’t even give myself permission to cry when my abusive parent deprived me even of the smallest of pleasures. I’m reminded of the times when my brother was given a piece of candy while I was left out as being a ‘bad girl’ and denied the same treat. There were times that I was allowed to attend birthday parties and witness the birthday child opening wonderful gifts while never being allowed to experience such pleasure in my own right? But why couldn’t I cry? Perhaps it was because I was numb inside due to fear of retribution and further pain or maybe it was the fear that if I caved in, I would break into a million pieces. After all, tears cannot flow when Christmas finally brings that teddy bear you had longed for what seemed to be forever only to lose it Christmas night for being a ‘bad child’ and never being allowed to hug or touch it again.
Allowing myself to cry convinced me that I had lost and my mother had won by breaking me down so I fought back the tears. But how does a small child not weep for that hope thats missing? Without hope, your abuser will always win.
Have you ever wanted to experience the same family life that your friends enjoy? What about envisioning yourself being that special princess adored by your parents? If you answered yes to either of these questions, then you are hoping and dreaming that someday, you will be whole and at peace. If you don’t find that, you should never give up and keep on trying. It is there and you must believe that you will find it and cherish it for yourself. An abused person must never allow their spirit to be broken.
My teen years were not much better but at least I was able to dream and plan more realistically. I landed my first job after high school and married the first man who promised me the love I craved so desperately. All I got was more abuse, just different from what I had escaped from. One day, I heard a knock at my door. There stood a man so tall and handsome and I wondered why he was there. He was the Sheriff and was there to tell me that my husband had run out leaving massive debts behind. He served me with papers to garnishee my wages to repay his debts. The first words out of my mouth were, “You can’t get blood out of a turnip!” His reply was quick and just as amusing, “Honey, you ain’t no turnip!” I was crushed but just as my world was crashing in from all sides, I was reminded of that daunting four letter word and my sky lit up again. Hope rescued me once again because I was just too stubborn to let go.
After many challenges, too numerous to mention, my world eventually came together and my dreams began to come true. I adopted the most beautiful little girl in the world, and for the first time, I was able to receive love as freely as I was able to give it. My sweet daughter brought the love and balance to my life that I had never known. I met and married the man of my dreams and I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, that had I given up, I would never have enjoyed these blessings. My usually mild mannered husband would go to the moon and back to defend my honor and we just celebrated twenty-five years of wedded bliss. It was this precious hope that inspired all of my dreams and kept my spirit alive. That is how I got to the other side…the good side of life that had eluded me for the first fifty four years of my life.
So, the next time you look in the mirror, please stop and count your blessings for it is hope that is reflecting back at you.
Thank you for the compassion to understand the need for hope in everyone’s life, but especially for one that lives with abuse. Part of your book proceeds go to support Dreamcatchers for Abused Children and Kitsap Humane Society for abused and rescued animals.
Mamie
Reflections of Mamie [image error]
A Story of Survival
http://www.Reflections-of-Mamie.com
AMAZON: http://goo.gl/kmSlk5
August 31, 2013
No More Roadside Shrines: So Parents Never Hear, “Bye Mom” From A Child By Micki Peluso
Makeshift memorials are reminders that we must put an end to drunken driving once and for all. How tired are we, and weary of riding, driving or walking past flowers and wreaths, hung on poles and laid by roadsides. They might be considered pretty, if not serving as reminders of young lives lost to DUI (driving under the influence) accidents and vehicular homicides? These memorials stand as a warning to further deter these senseless deaths and injuries.
But the shrines don’t seem to help. Drunken driving and drug related deaths continue to rise statistically in direct proportion to the grief of those who have lost loved ones. I, for one, am tired of this.
I had often thanked God that the Vietnam War spared my husband, my sons and brothers. Yet fifteen years later, a Vietnam veteran, messed up by drugs and alcohol, took my daughter’s life in an area I had hoped was a safe haven to raise children. Sadly, there are no safe places. My nightmare began on a lovely country road in rural Pennsylvania and years later the scars are not, nor ever will be fully healed.
Noelle was one of the true innocent victims of drunken driving events. She did nothing wrong, loved life and lived it to the fullest. In a split second, her neck was snapped and spinal cord severed by the drunk driver, who swerved into her with his rear-view mirror, and flipped her twenty feet over the back of his truck. When I ran to her she was face down, bluish and not breathing. The paramedics managed to revive her—and that began a ten day vigil—a horror for Noelle, who had a perfect mind, eyes that could barely see and perfect hearing. But nothing else. She held on to whatever life she had, out of love for us, until I gave her permission to go Home, if she chose. Within two days, she was gone. It was the hardest thing I ever did, but I felt that Noelle wanted me to let her go.
My family, including six children, now five, fell apart and suffered alone, each in our own way. I wrote as a catharsis to my intense grief. These stories culminated in the completion of a memoir of her life. Writing it brought my daughter back to life, full of laughter and comical antics, but when I finished it, I lost her all over again — because there seems to be no closure with the death of the child.
However, something wonderful happened after the release of my book . . . “And the Whippoorwill Sang.” At long last and well overdue, Staten Island, New York where I now live, organized a MADD (Mothers Against Drunk Drivers) group. I knew then what needed to be done for my family and myself. We joined immediately.
The goal of MADD is to make the general public aware of how to address the problem of keeping our families safe. MADD educators stress that our youth have choices to make in their young lives — choices only they can make. They seek to remind teenagers that they will be held accountable for their own actions, as well as being affected by those of their friends.
Candy Lightner started MADD in her den on May 7, 1980, four days after the tragedy and a day after her teenage daughter, Cari’s funeral. Due to her heroic efforts, MADD is nationwide and responsible for lowering drinking ages and allowable alcohol blood levels in many states. SADD, is another organization run by “students against drunk driving” in high schools across the country. But much more needs to be done as DUI deaths are not dropping at a fast enough rate.
The MADD organization is also available to console those who’ve suffered losses, leading them through fellowship, to the other side of grief. I wish this had been available to my own family years ago. As I give thanks for the support MADD has to offer, I remember the works of the writer, John Donne, who certainly spoke the truth when he wrote, “No man is an island, entire of itself; each man is a piece of the continent . . . Any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind . . . .”
Each year the lives of children, teenagers and young adults are lost through alcohol and drug-related deaths–most often by drunk drivers. Each one of them was special to those who loved them and to society at large. Each one has a story to tell and deserves to be remembered. This book was written for each of them.
. . .And the Whippoorwill Sang–a true family story of love, loss and survival.
Micki Peluso
August 24, 2013
A BOOK TO JUDGE BY ITS COVER
A BOOK TO JUDGE BY ITS COVER
“Sometimes the strongest manacles in this life are the bonds forged from painful memories of a past so horrific, that they shackle and incarcerate the very essence of one’s soul…inevitably, the constraint is a life sentence.” ~Taylor~
Taylor Evan Fulks is a practicing Registered Nurse First Assistant, specializing in open heart surgery to pay the bills. She’s also a wife, a mother of two very challenging (in a good way) teenage daughters, and an ardent “nocturnal gardener” due to her ongoing battle with skin cancer. She resides in a quaint and picturesque town in Southern Ohio along the banks of the Ohio River. MY PRISON WITHOUT BARS: THE JOURNEY OF A DAMAGED WOMAN TO SOMEPLACE NORMAL is her debut novel.
Your book, My Prison Without Bars, reveals your experience with child abuse. What gave you the courage to write your story?
My book is very dark, disturbing, and quite graphic. It didn’t start out that way I can assure you. I sat down to write Mystery/Romance. I’m a voracious reader (over 700 books since 2007) and I thought, “How hard can it be?” I found myself unable to write what I wanted. I think all of us sit down and write what we know, at least the first time we put pen to paper.
I kept hearing a little voice in the back of my head (I’m tight, I assure you! I don’t have voices in my head) but I had this niggling… “Tell your story.”
So I did.
It started out pretty much just like the other stories out there about child sexual abuse; innocuous, letting the reader make their inferences and images, not too much detail, but just enough that you could get the gist of what had happened. Then Penn State, Joe Paterno and Jerry Sandusky and the whole Child Sexual Abuse scandal hit the national news. I was one third of the way into my story when all hell broke loose.
I was enthralled, thrilled beyond words, not only with the stance taken by the University and the NCAA against Penn State’s Athletic Department and Joe Paterno, but also the ruling by the Justice System against the now convicted, Jerry Sandusky. I watched everything I could concerning the case, hoping that this high profile situation would bring to light the millions afflicted by this pandemic.
I watched interviews being grossly edited, riots and vigils being staged by students and faculty. Then my life changed forever. I watched in horror as a large group of students, faculty and some University administrators were being interviewed on the campus after the statue of Joe Paterno was unceremoniously taken down. They were outraged. I watched a gentleman look into the camera and cry foul, saying, “The punishment is too harsh for the crime!”
I was beyond RAGE… something inside of me snapped! I actually felt possessed. I went to the beginning of my novel, read through the first eight chapters that described the abuse (leaving much to the reader’s imagination) then I tore it to shreds! I started OVER…
The words poured out of me like a faucet with a busted valve. I wrote with rage and fury, letting the words and experiences flow from the depths of me. I wrote until my hand cramped and my fingers were numb…then I cried. I cried for myself and then for all the innocent children that are lost and have no voice, and possibly no chance of rescue. I cried in solitude for that little girl inside of me…
Did you find writing your personal account to be a healing experience, traumatic, or somewhere in between?
That’s a hard question to answer. I think it was a dose of all three. I wrote my story in first person, as a novel or fictional memoir from the mind, body, and heart of a child. I didn’t want to shock or be grotesque…I wanted people to truly know the permanent damage that is inflicted, to know the depths of fear and self-loathing, and to really feel through the experiences of an abused child.
It wasn’t until I sat down to edit, that I truly realized the magnitude of what I had written. Don’t get me wrong, I never forgot, blacked out or had repressed memories…no, I remember everything that happened to me, down to the smells and noises around me. But it wasn’t until I read what I had committed to paper, saw from the perspective of the child I had been, that I really got the significance of what I was about to do.
So, for good or bad, I laid myself naked and exposed to the world (or at least to the few friends that would actually read my book). I bared myself before everyone to be judged, criticized and condemned. I left nothing to the imagination…I take the reader far beyond what is comfortable and far beyond what most would consider appropriate. And in the telling…I have been set free.
I spent thirteen months reliving my childhood nightmare with the goal of exorcising my demons, gaining some sense of self-esteem, healing myself, and finally telling my dirty little secret with full disclosure, while giving the reader full access to my heart. Oddly, I didn’t find the outcomes I expected…absolution, understanding, and self-forgiveness. But I did find something I didn’t expect…Acceptance. The acceptance has been from within me.
My life is what it is. My experiences happened in the past. I don’t live there anymore. I can choose to be angry and ashamed for the rest of my life, or I can accept my life for what it’s been, what it is now, and move toward the light…and who knows, maybe help someone else along the way. Hence, my mission statement: The rest of my life will be the best of my life. It’s not about my destination…it’s about the journey that gets me there.
My Prison Without Bars
is getting exceptional reviews and has won at least two prestigious awards. Child Sexual Abuse is a prevalent horror in our society, so why do you think traditional publishing is opposed to signing on books that discuss this topic?
My novel to date has done very well. On Amazon it has over 130~ 5 star reviews and is ranked in the Top 25 in two categories for twenty-four weeks. On Goodreads, my book maintains a 4.5 rating and has over 90 ratings/reviews.
As of June 1st 2013, my little “taboo novel” won 1st Place in the prestigious IRDA, INDIE READER DISCOVERY AWARDS presented at the BEA, BOOK EXPO OF AMERICA (the largest trade show for publishers and authors in the world) in NYC. I went to New York to accept this award.
I was recently notified that my book is a finalist in my category Reality/Fiction in the 2013 READERS FAVORITE INTERNATIONAL BOOK AWARDS. The winners will be announced September 1, 2013 and the award ceremony will be held in Miami, Florida in mid-November. I plan to attend that ceremony as well.
“I’m proud to say the little girl inside my book (inside of me) is fine…I protect her now. This little girl has found her voice…”
Why the shun from traditional publishing? In a word…TABOO! It is abhorrent behavior in any civilized society. It is even referenced in the Bible as an abomination and a sin. Abusers and Society shape and hone victims into becoming the gate-keepers of secrets and shame, to be forever locked in a prison not of our own making. We like our world neat and tidy. Child Sexual Abuse isn’t neat and tidy. It’s a dark reminder that we as a society aren’t as ‘civilized’ as we think we are.
Standard publishers want edgy, over-the-top and pushing the envelope, as long as it’s pure fiction; something they can wrap their mind around. However, the mind is a compensatory computer, allowing a plethora of knowledge and feeling to flow through its pathways…yet, always filtering or camouflaging certain things, buffering and blocking others, or shutting off completely when unable to compute.
In other words, it makes sure the soul can handle the download. And therein lays the problem with Child Sexual Abuse. We hear those three words and our minds will only allow us to imagine so much before we filter, buffer, block, or completely shut off the things too unpleasant to handle.
When no one would give me a chance, my mission became clear…I had to take the reader to that dark, dismal, shameful place no one ever talks about and with my written words…make them feel. It has become a journey I’ve had to make alone…
“I know a place so dark that the only light in my life is the fact that I survived last night. I know a place so shameful, that the only hope in my life is surviving tonight, and the next night, and the next…”
Have you always wanted to be a writer or did your personal experience steer you in this direction?
I’m a storyteller in every sense of the word. I love to hold an audience of friends captive with my words…my spoken words. I’ve never had aspirations of being a writer. I put pen to paper (yes, I wrote my novel on eleven spiral notebooks…I’m old school) to stave off the empty nest syndrome looming over my horizon (my youngest daughter will graduate from high school in May 2014).
But I’ve fallen in love with writing and I’m actively writing my second novel, also based on a true story but totally different. This one is a Mystery/Romance…a labor of true love.
What is one of the most rewarding factors of having a book in print?
That’s easy! The emails and private messages I’ve received from readers, people I don’t even know that tell me how much my book has helped them, or how they know someone who’s a victim and will share my book with that person. Some have told me stories that make mine seem benign in comparison…some, have never told a soul about their nightmares. That blatant trust touches my soul and makes it all the negative directed toward me…not sting quite so much.
**I want to thank you Cherrye for the invitation to guest post on your blog. Because of the content and nature of my book, I don’t get many invitations. Your gracious invitation and subsequent posting touches my soul. It takes far more courage to speak out and make people aware…to go against the current, than it does to go with the tide to a place everyone has been. You honor me, my story and my life. I am truly humbled.
I hope what I’ve had to say, merits the honor…
Taylor~
No one’s hell is worse than someone else’s…But while you’re there, you endure it alone.
MY PRISON WITHOUT BARS viewBook.at/MyPrisonWithoutBarsTheJourneyofaDamagedWomant TAYLOR EVAN FULKS
www.facebook.com/taylorevanfulks
www.twitter.com/TaylorTfulks20
Goodreads
http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/16109612-my-prison-without-bars
August 18, 2013
THE CAVES OF SACROMONTE
Upon an invitation to lecture at the University of Alicante, I decided it was high time to take a lengthy tour of the south of Spain. The cities crossed by García Lorca’s beloved rivers exerted an irresistible fascination on my wanderlust, for three cultures –Muslim, Jew, and Catholic– had coexisted in them long before the reunification of the country destroyed tolerance and friendship in one of the most advanced corners of the world.
My plane landed in Madrid at 6 AM… and I landed with my full weight on my right leg at the bottom of the escalator leading to the baggage area. Why I lost my balance remains a mystery. The airport might have been borrowed from a story by Bradbury. Not a living soul except us passengers, steered this way and that by impersonal voices blaring out of loudspeakers. Caring hands helped me to my feet, others retrieved my suitcase, and a kind gentleman put me in a taxi, advising me to have the leg examined as soon as I arrived at the hotel.
It turned out that good hotels provided medical services, so I was whisked off to hospital in an ambulance, given an X-ray, and assured there was nothing wrong with my leg, but… how I dreaded that “but”! I should take things easy and refrain from walking. It goes without saying that my mind rebelled against the doctor’s wise words. I had come to walk the cobbled streets of the south, and walk I would, whatever the cost.
Well, I paid full price. When I reached Granada, both my legs had swollen to an elephantiasic size. “Overcompensation,” diagnosed the local doctor. “You’ve lain heavily on your left leg to ease the pain, and now the two of them are suffering the consequences. Do yourself a favor: get a wheelchair.”
Second only to the magic Alhambra, the caves of Sacromonte, home of the gypsies at the top of an impressive hill, could be reached by bus. I found it weird that one and the same bus jolted up and down the meandering road several times a day. “Each country has its ways,” I thought, and limped to the bus stop after finding out at what time it was expected so as not to stand longer than my poor legs allowed. To my relief, there was an empty seat just two steps away from the door. My attention soon shifted from the variegated landscape to the exchanges on the bus. Apparently, everyone knew everyone else, since they all caught the bus at the same hour day in day out. “Juana,¡qué guapa estás hoy!” (a compliment) shouted a bald, stout middle-aged man from the back, and Juana’s sister, as I learnt from the conversation that ensued, shouted back that the pretty, raven-black haired girl with glowing green eyes was on her way to a flamenco dancing audition at the caves. These people shared their latest news in the most natural way, offering hope, congratulations, encouragement, or condolences depending on the topic under discussion. The young expecting mother sitting next to me asked, “Do you mind if I open the window?” My accent gave me away as a foreigner, and I suddenly became the center of attention.
Where was I coming from? Oh, Argentina, the generous country that had welcomed so many Spanish migrants in Franco’s day (and before and after, I said to myself.) Was I going to spend the day at the caves? Perhaps take a flamenco lesson? I really didn’t feel like explaining, but what to do in the face of such genuine interest? I told them about my legs. “You see, I won’t even get off the bus. I’m returning to the plaza when it turns back.”
My neighbor called out to the driver, “Pepe, we have a nice Argentinian lady here who’s come from afar to visit the caves but is temporarily impaired. Please walk her down to the caves, will you? It would be a shame if she’d have to go back without taking at least a look round.”
Pepe’s objections that he’d run behind schedule drowned in the indignant voices seconding the young future mother’s request. He acquiesced, and I made my descent into the caves led by his strong hands. It was an unforgettable experience, yet my memory cherishes what happened on the way back. Long lines of angry people reproached Pepe for his tardiness, only to change to a sympathetic mood once they learnt his reasons. He had done the right thing, they agreed, smiling at me and wishing me a prompt recovery. At my stop, amid cheers and good wishes, Pepe parked by the curb to see me to the hotel door.
Such a wonderful lesson in solidarity warms my heart to this day.
MARTA MERAJVER-KURLAT
Buenos Aires, August 2013
http://www.martamerajver.com.ar/marta/
http://www.amazon.com/Marta-Merajver-Kurlat/e/B009TC8C5A
August 10, 2013
A Bio-Flash From Sal Buttaci
A BIO-FLASH FROM SAL BUTTACI
I love writing flash fiction. In my boyhood years, 1946 to 1956, my comic-book heroes saved the day in a limited number of colorful cartoon panels and speech balloons. I voraciously read those comic books as well as the illustrated classics that delivered to me Uncle Tom’s Cabin, Moby Dick, and a string of others I’d never have time to read in their originals. Brevity became for me the way to get to the heart of the matter without sweating through the verbosity of excessive description and dialogue.
It was also my parents who taught me treasures could likewise be found in small packages. One of those treasures was the short succinct “No!” when I wanted to do something to which they rightfully objected. Add to that my father’s impromptu parables, his way of effectively teaching us valuable lessons in lessons. Unlike today’s electronic age of cell phones where much is spoken and little is said, back then a limited number of words were worth a gallery of pictures!
Despite seeing my poems and stories in publications since the age of 15, I still experience that initial joy of a publisher’s or editor’s acceptance of my work. When Phil Harris of All Things That Matter Press published my first collection of flash fiction, 164 short-short stories called Flashing My Shorts, I was ecstatic as a lover of books let loose in a free Barnes and Noble’s.
The positive reaction to that first flash book encouraged me to write 200 Shorts. Once again I thank All Things That Matter Press for believing in me.
England’s Chester University added 200 Shorts to their Flash Fiction Special Collection at Seaborne Library in 2011. What a sincere honor to be listed with Isaac Asimov and so many other great authors in the world’s largest flash-fiction library! http://www.chester.ac.uk/flash.magazine/bibliography%20%20
I love flash fiction stories enough to continue writing and promoting them. I highly recommend others to try their hand at it, especially those who find it difficult paring down their work. Writing flash fiction teaches us writers how not to fall in love with our early drafts. It also teaches us how not to be satisfied unless every word used in a flash does its job developing an interesting plot.
May I say it again? I love writing flash fiction!
Flashing My Shorts is available in book, e-book, and audio book versions http://www.amazon.com/Flashing-My-Shorts-Salvatore-Buttaci/dp/0984259473
200 Shorts is available in book and Kindle editions at
Salvatore Buttaci
Princeton, West Virginia
August 2, 2013
I Wouldn’t Want to Anthropomorphize
I Wouldn’t Want to Anthropomorphize
Humor by Kenneth Weene
[image error]I wouldn’t want to anthropomorphize,” That was the first line of the first poem I ever published. It was a lie. My wife and I love to anthropomorphize, to find human qualities and personality in everything. Not just in animals, but also in inanimate objects. In fact, we sometimes are aware of living beings where others seem unable to find objects at all. Take, for example, the moose who lives in our guest bathroom.
We know he is there because he bellows. His call fills our condominium as the water refills the toilet’s reservoir. Before you say it, let me assure you this is not a plumbing issue. If it were the sound would occur every time we flush. It doesn’t.
Clearly it is the call of a bull moose in distress.
At first we considered getting help. We thought of the Fish and Game Department, but they would no doubt fine us for trapping this noble beast—and worse doing so out of season.
Next we considered the ASPCA. Surely, given the bellows there was something drastically wrong with our moose; he was in need of veterinary services. Unfortunately, while I could find free spay and neuter clinics and other services for smaller animals, the ASPCA apparently offers no help with large deer-like species.
I resolved to find the cause of our toilet-guest’s distress. If it could be relieved…
Generally, the moose bellows loudest in the morning, usually after my wife has weighed herself. Very conscious of her health, she does this every morning.
I broached the subject carefully. “What the devil have you been feeding him?”
She paled and then turned crimson. Was I accusing her? How dare I?
I backed off as quickly as any husband who has suddenly realized that a dozen roses will get him nowhere. Still, I could not let the subject go.
“What do moose eat?” I tried that question the next morning when our guest had bellowed loudly.
Without thinking she fell into my trap. “Greens.”
“Does he have a favorite?” Notice the clever way in which I had moved from the general to the particular.
“Poblanos,” my wife answered. She had given it up. She was feeding our house moose green peppers. No wonder the poor fellow was bellowing. Heartburn will do that—be you human or moose.
I suggested a switch in diet. My wife insisted that every moose has a right to enjoy the finer things in life.
We compromised on an antacid. It doesn’t help. The groaning continues. A moose with heartburn: who could not feel his pain. Not that I’d want to anthropomorphize.
Brief bio
Sometimes Ken Weene writes to exorcise demons. Sometimes he writes because the characters in his head demand to be heard. Sometimes he writes because he thinks what he have to say might amuse or even on occasion inform. Mostly, however, he writes because it is a cheaper addiction than drugs, an easier exercise than going to the gym, and a more sociable outlet than sitting at McDonald’s drinking coffee with other old farts: in brief because it keeps him just a bit younger and more alive.
Learn more about Ken and his writing at http://www.kennethweene.com
July 27, 2013
The Story of Lori Foroozandeh: Being Captive in Iran. An Experience from Her Lenses
My name is Lori Foroozandeh, and I’ve written my true story of being held captive in Iran during 911.
Here is my story. Just FYI: I lived in Iran for four years with my Iranian (terrorist) husband who I believe was actually involved with the people who took me captive where I spent 6 weeks in a POW type camp where I and other people were beaten, raped and starved on a daily basis.
Once returning home: It was very difficult. When I returned from Iran, I totally went out of control doing drugs, and drinking. I had no self-control. I think in the back of my head I wanted to die, which I almost did a couple times.
But around the end of 2003, people kept telling me to write a book because it would be a good catharsis! I started writing and my mind took off. I remembered everything like I was reliving it. I just sat down and wrote, and I never had to think about anything. In about 6 months I had the book done, but I couldn’t re-read it, so I had my husband do it. I also got a literary agent who had done a lot of work on it, but in defense of her I added to the book after she and I were finished with our agreement, so the bad grammar was my fault. To this day I haven’t read the complete book from front to back. I’ve gone over certain chapters, especially about the rapist, but I didn’t publish it right away. I got divorced and in 2006, and he started urging me to complete, and publish it. He offered to pay the self-publishing fee, so in 2009 it was released.
My outlook on the Muslims and the Middle East:
I understand it all too well. I can’t say that I hated the Muslims or people from the Middle East, and to be honest to this day I don’t HATE THEM. I know it was just the FANATIC Muslims who did this and not your typical Qur’an abiding Muslim. If you truly read the Qur’an you will see it only promotes basically what the Bible does, nowhere in the Qur’an does it say to kill people from America, or that America is the BIG SATAN. While I am NOT Muslim, I’d like to say something in their defense. They even believe in JESUS, The bible says that Prophet Jesus was crucified to bear God’s wrath for the sins of the believers and accordingly he was cursed. On the contrary, Muslims believe, according to the Quran, that he was neither crucified nor cursed but was held and will be held in honor in this life and in the Hereafter.
What I want people to take away from this book:
To know that no matter how BAD or UNBEARABLE your life may seem, there is always hope, there is always your will to survive, so please use it.
Check out the laws and customs of the country you want to visit. Even Canada or Mexico. You need to know your rights before you leave this country. When I got to Iran, the first thing they did at the airport was take my passport. They told me I needed my husband’s written permission to leave the country and that my American citizenship was not honored in their country. I was now Iranian because I married an Iranian and we live in Iran. And I had no recourse because there is no American Embassy in Iran.
Help one another. We only live once and we need to learn to give rather than take. I appreciate my life and FREEDOM more than I ever have in my life. The older I get the more I appreciate everyday I’m alive.
I don’t want to focus on all the negatives of Iran so I will let you in on some of the positives.
The friendliness of strangers, I remember being lost once when I first started teaching English at this institute, and I had gotten a taxi to a certain street then I didn’t know where to go, all of a sudden I had 10 people wanting to pay for a cab for me to get me there. MY GIRLS- the ones I taught English were my SHINING LIGHTS in Iran. I didn’t know that much Farsi and they didn’t know English so I had to teach them LITERALLY FROM THE BEGINNING, like “Hi how are you”. I taught for four years and grew so close to those girls and their families. They were constantly bringing me gifts and flowers for the day. I became the TOP TEACHER for three years in a row. These girls would stay a little after class and we would get in a circle and they would ask me questions about America — Questions they couldn’t ask their parents, or they would get in trouble for asking. They knew they could trust me. They asked about boys and dating, and just simple things like clothes shopping. I loved them so much. Then one of my students, LAYLA, was drowned in her father’s swimming pool for not being a virgin on her wedding night. The mother in law stands outside the door of where the husband and wife copulate and in the morning if there is no blood they mark them as “whores” and if their father doesn’t do the respectful thing of killing her, they would have hung her.
I saw hangings in town squares that were watched by everyone and they even encouraged the children to watch. They hung women by construction cranes, so it was a slow hanging. They would just slowly lift them up, and their idea of compassion was allowing the girl’s mother to accompany her up to the noose and spend five minutes with her. It’s all disturbing and barbaric.
I also taught English, and I LOVED the girls I taught…literally. I’ve written a piece on Iranian women and here is the link: I dedicate my book to LAYLA, a student of mine who was drowned in her father’s swimming pool for not being a virgin on her wedding night.
http://www.helium.com/items/1692320-stories-about-women-in-middle-east-or-iran
I loved the bazaars too, how you could barter for just about anything, clothes and food. They didn’t have grocery stores like they do here. Everything is sold at separate little shops.
What I want people to understand about life is:
You need to live your life for TODAY. Write a post-it note that reminds you to let people know you love them, and never go to bed mad. Always kiss goodnight and always tell people you love them. This goes a long way. We have two choices in life – (1) to LIVE it or (2) EXIST in it. I chose to live it, I hope you do too. I want to leave with this writing I did on my site www.loris-song.com – I posted it on the web back in 2008, and for me it’s so true.
While
Terrorism
is a war that starts developing within the mind,
Religion
is a war that antagonizes our conscience, but
Love
is always a war within the heart…..
Lori F.5/2002 Share The Peace!
Website: http://www.loris-song.com
Blog: http://lorissong.com
Twitter: https://twitter.com/Loris_Song
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/lforoozandeh#!/lforoozandeh
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Lori-Foroozandeh/e/B002NSC2DU/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1
July 26, 2013
Conversations With My Mother
[image error]Wow! I love learning new things and finding blog spots that are both entertaining, and those that I can learn from. I’ve found one such blogger team. In fact, it is an interesting Mother and Daughter team titled: “Conversations with my Mother.” I love how the daughter poses thought provoking everyday questions that parents deal with daily, and her Mom addresses them. When visitors read their posts and comment, the daughter adds additional advice from her mother.
When time permits, take a look at this dynamic duo. They are cute, deliver great news that you can use, and are quite entertaining.
From the Authors Site:
Conversations With My Mother – a website that offers a psychological perspective on parenting and how your parenting decisions today may effect your child as an adult. We offer parenting tips and expert advice by Dr. Susan Rutherford (my Mom). Dr. Rutherford is a Clinical Psychologist in practice for over 30 years. She has her undergraduate degree from Duke University, a Masters from New York University (NYU), and a Doctorate in Psychology from the University of Denver.
http://conversationswithmymother.com/
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