Arlene Lagos's Blog, page 6

Butterflies Wake

“Fairytales always start with once upon a time and end with happily ever after. Somewhere in the middle there’s a prince, an evil queen and a distressed maiden, a victim of her own beauty. Gallantly, the prince rides in, saving his true love, proving his manhood and once again restoring balance to the universe. My fairytale, however, was not like that at all. Let’s take for example my ex-husband Ron. In our fairy tale, Ron was no prince. Don’t get me wrong; I truly believe he started off with good intentions. But, then he lost his job, started drinking and I became his personal punching bag. After the third miscarriage I was told I could never have children. At that point, I really didn’t care if I died.

But, on one particular evening back in 1977, something happened that would change my life forever. I had come home from the grocery store to find Ron sitting on the front steps of our house with his usual can of beer suctioned to his left hand as if it were an extension of his fingers. I could tell he had been drinking all day and was itching for a fight, so I didn’t even bother asking for help with the groceries. There was still the idea that I had to walk up the steps and past him to get to the front door. I prayed he didn’t attack me with the groceries still in my hand. I walked at a slow pace, avoiding eye contact and carefully slinked passed him hoping not to hit the back of him with the screen door as I squeezed through. I made it into the kitchen and managed to at least put away the frozen food, eggs and milk before the first punch was thrown.

When it was finally over, I found myself lying on my back on the front lawn covered in blood. I thought for sure I would be dead any minute judging from the amount of blood pouring out of my nose and the severity of the pain coursing through my body. But then something happened; I saw out of the corner of my eye a little boy standing in the street staring at Ron as he sat on the front steps drinking his beer and watching me die. The boy’s name was Patrick; he was around ten years old and he lived in our neighborhood. He stood there holding his baseball glove and ball and just stared at Ron for almost two whole minutes. I wanted to scream for him to run away but no sound would come out of my mouth. Then he turned and ran as fast as he could towards his house. I was happy he was safe, I didn’t want Ron to hurt him and I didn’t want that poor boy to be the witness to my death.

I blacked out again for a while and waited for death to take me. But it never came. Instead, two women from the neighborhood had come running towards me and were picking me up off the front lawn. I don’t recall much at the time but I do remember some words being exchanged between Priscilla and Ron. I didn’t know Priscilla that well, other than that she was a nurse at the local hospital and had a son named Patrick, the boy who saw me on the lawn. He must have run to her for help. I feared Ron might hurt them too, but I couldn’t speak or move. I was a rag doll, lifeless in their arms as they carried me back to their house. That was the last time I ever saw Ron. I don’t know what happened and I didn’t ask questions. I was just grateful that they found me when they did because they not only saved my life, but they changed the course of it forever.

My name is Camille Waters and a lot has changed since 1977. On the surface I appear as an ordinary southern woman in her 50′s, sitting on a porch swing sipping sweet tea or reading trashy romance novels down by the pier. But much like a fairytale, nothing is ever what it seems. The year is 2013 and I’m not that same woman anymore. Now I work for an underground society of women with one purpose; to right the wrongs of society where the justice system has failed. Some call us modern-day Iron Jawed Angels, others call us extremists, but we like to call ourselves, The Butterflies.

Our organization started out as more of a neighborhood watch, keeping an eye out for predators, drug dealers, or in the unfortunate case of many couples; domestic violence. If someone in the neighborhood were having a problem, we’d find a way to introduce ourselves; let women know that they weren’t alone. Some folks think we ought to just mind our own business and let the authorities do their job. Well guess what? We did that already. Women have been sitting in silence for centuries, and it sure as hell didn’t get us anywhere. Men beat their wives, girls get date raped, family members molest their young and the burden of proof lies on the shoulders of the victims, every time.

In the past few years, our organization has grown and become more sophisticated allowing us to tackle larger issues. We started recruiting women who needed rehabilitation, giving them the option to better their situation. As we continued to grow, we branched out past our neighborhoods, our towns and now have teams in ever major city in the world. With national growth we have access to more resources and our recruits range from students to billionaires, athletes to politicians and everything in between.

Our purpose still remains the same, to remove the greedy, relocate the violent and reform the misguided. Now with unlimited resources at our discretion, we are able to not just beat the system, we are able to change it entirely. Statistics show that women are more likely to leave a bad situation if they have a strong support group to turn too and that’s exactly what we strive to provide. Life is hard enough without having to constantly watch good people get hurt. It’s time for a change, time to wake-up and smell the revolution; time for us to close the door on the old way of doing things; time to find a system that works for everyone involved. It’s time for the Butterflies Wake.”- Camille Waters

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Published on November 20, 2013 09:00

Rhode Island Comic Con Photos 2013

Day one of RI Comic Con was a huge success and we can’t way to see what tomorrow brings! Here are some photos from today! If you haven’t made plans, come visit us tomorrow, November 3rd at the Providence Convention Center from 10-5, Beyond Earth and Eplis Comic at booth #404, its worth it!!!!

Click to view slideshow.

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Published on November 02, 2013 19:42

Pumpkin Walk 2013

It’s not too late to come up with great ideas for pumpkin carving/decorating! Here is a gallery of photos from Medway, MA at a lovely little place called Choate Park during their annual Pumpkin Walk! Medway celebrates their 300th anniversary this year 1713-2013! Enjoy!

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Published on October 26, 2013 05:32

Moving On

It was interesting to watch him. The way he sat in the darkness of the lonely, cold house that was once our home. The way he picked up pictures and held them to his heart, trying to work up tears; but we both knew it wasn’t love he felt…it was guilt. Guilt for the way he treated me, the way he hurt me countless times throughout our marriage. The physical abuse was one thing, but the mental abuse was enough to push a woman over the edge.

If only he could see me, see that I am happy now; that we were poisonous together. Maybe if he could just see that, we could both move on. Sometimes I try to make sounds, or chant, or do something to get his attention but nothing ever works. Now it was just the two of us occupying the same space, unable to communicate. I’m not sure which seems more impossible, that I can see him or that he can’t see me. It’s comical really if you think about it. We always both secretly wished the other would go away so we wouldn’t have to deal with the burden of divorce. But this scenario was almost too much to bear.

Something inside of me felt the need to help him move on. Even though he was a lying, cheating, physically and mentally abusive turd, I felt bad for him. Perhaps that was the victim in me. You spend enough time with someone and you start to believe the things they say. You start to buy into the idea that maybe you are nothing and so you embody that idea until you’re desperate and thankful for the few crumbs of happiness your master gives you on one of their good days. He was so powerful before with his wild temper, his rules and his iron fists. But now, he was pitiful to watch. He seemed so lost and broken. It made me sad even after everything he’d done.

This morning he got all dressed up and I thought that perhaps today was the day that he would visit the cemetery. If he did, I knew that hopefully he would finally find some peace. Luckily, it was in walking distance, since he couldn’t drive.

Approaching the cemetery, my stomach turned inside out. Even now, even after everything he had done to me, I wasn’t sure if I could allow him peace. If I could face the truth, if I could witness him face it. But, I had to be there; I had no choice. Somehow, we were still bound to each other and would be forever unless I was able to help us rid ourselves of the skeletons of the past.

As we got closer to the gravesite, the memories came flooding back to me about that fateful night; the screams that rang out through the streets, his fist pounding on the back of my skull, over and over again. The blood spilling out of my mouth and nose, my face pressed against the floor, as I recall the gun that I hid beneath the bed. He grabbed at my ankles in an effort to pull me out as I squirmed underneath for safety, almost avoiding the kick to my spine from Harold as I fumble to un-tape the 38 special from the bed frame.

The two of us struggling for control of the gun, shots being fired followed by the smell of powdery smoke filling the air. Then more blood filled the room as it fell silent. Time stopped as instinct set in. What had we done? Shrieks of horror precede madness. Then there was the clean up, the burning of the evidence, the dumping of the body in the lake nearby. The classic trash bag wrapped body with a cinderblock tied to the ankles, sinking to the bottom.

Looking down at the gravestone, tears filled my eyes as I read the etching.

Harold Waters 1968-2012, survived by his loving wife Linda. His face turned pale, his eyes filled with horror as he fell to his knees at the realization that he was in fact, the one that had died. They never found his body and perhaps my punishment for committing such a horrendous crime was to be haunted by him for the past year. Tears filled his eyes now and for the first time, they seemed genuine.

“I deserved it. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me Linda,” he whispered.

“I forgive you,” I whispered back.

That was the last I ever saw of Harold.

**********************************************************************

This short story is an entry into the October Skeletons contest for the Fiction Writers Guild on LinkedIn. The guidelines were 750 words that had to do with Skeletons, a tombstone and something impossible versus something possible. I hope you enjoyed it. You can read more short stories like this through our collection of works on Amazon under “Giant Tales Beyond The Mystic Doors” and “Giant Tales From The Misty Swamp”. Our writers group is called writers 750 and the book is under the pen name of Professor Limn. There are between 15-20 authors with over 60 short stories per book. For more information, click on the short stories tab on this blog.

Giant Tales, Book I

Giant Tales, Book II

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Published on October 24, 2013 06:50

“You’re a stay-at-home mom? What do you DO all day?”

beyondearthseries:

I HAD to reblog this because it is such an incredible read. Way to hit the nail right on the head Matt!!!!

Originally posted on The Matt Walsh Blog:

It’s happened twice in a week, and they were both women. Anyone ought to have more class than this, but women — especially women — should damn well know better.

Last week, I was at the pharmacy and a friendly lady approached me.

“Matt! How are those little ones doing?”

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Published on October 10, 2013 14:39

"You're a stay-at-home mom? What do you DO all day?"

Reblogged from The Matt Walsh Blog:

It's happened twice in a week, and they were both women. Anyone ought to have more class than this, but women -- especially women -- should damn well know better.

Last week, I was at the pharmacy and a friendly lady approached me.

"Matt! How are those little ones doing?"

"Great! They're doing very well, thanks for asking."

"Good to hear.

“Beyond Planets”, Book II

Cover Reveal and Book Launch

“Beyond Planets”, Book II

Many thanks to everyone involved in the creation of this cover! First I’d like to thank my gorgeous models; Rayn Dudzikowski, Dan Boland, Myla Graham, Stephanie Merrell, and Yavez “Fez” Fuller. Next I would like to thank the photographers; Angela Cannistraro of Visions, Robyn Leigh of Robyn Leigh Photography and Rebecca Dersch-Bell of Aurora Photography. Special thanks to my hair and make-up/tattoo crew; Katrina Lawyer Hazel, Ashley Gathers, Kaydren Orcutt and Shelly Fuller. Finally I’d like to thank Almont Green of Almont Studios for the design of the cover. As always, I would especially like to thank my husband and daughter for their patience, and God for his love and guidance. The book is available now on iTunes, Smashwords, Amazon, Barnes & Nobles and Createspace! See links below:

Print $6.99 https://www.createspace.com/4198140

Amazon eBook $2.99 http://www.amazon.com/Beyond-Planets-Earth-ebook/dp/B00FIRI5V6/ref=la_B00DH829PQ_1_4?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1380649707&sr=1-4

Smashwords eBook $2.99 (multiple formats) https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/362242

Apple iTunes eBook $2.99 link coming soon!

You Tube Trailer: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J2IyOtVOyug

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Published on October 01, 2013 11:04

Medway 300th Parade Photos

Below is a gallery of photos from the Medway 300th parade! For more information on the Medway 300 you can visit http://www.medway300.com

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Published on September 21, 2013 14:11

Call of the Sirens

In honor of “International Talk Like A Pirate Day” I bring you this short story

coming soon in the third book, Giant Tales: World of Pirates

Water fills my lungs as I plunge further down into the frozen waters. The shore is but a few hundred yards, but I am no swimmer. Accepting my fate I stop kicking and let it take me to my watery grave.

Suddenly, I feel something wrap around my waist, then hands, then a huge tug. My head rips through the top of the water and I’m dangling from a human fishing pole several feet in the air; beside me floating in the tide is a ship.

“Not much o’ a swimmer be you?” said a man.

Blinking the water out of my eyes I focus on his face. He’s tall, muscular with dark black hair that flows sweetly in the sun. Covered in tattoos and armed with a sword, I knew right away he was a jack tar.

“You saved my life,” I gasp, coughing water out of my lungs.

“It would be rude o’ me t’ let a vixen like you wind up in Davey Jones Locker”

Pulling the rope towards the boat, he lowers me gently onto the ship, and then puts out his hand.

“Name’s Marcus. This be me ship and that man thar, climbin’ up t’ boat is me mate Angus”

Slowly spinning me around, he stops, then points to the island behind me.

“And that starboard thar be our island”

“You’re island? Impressive.”

“That’s right. Just me and me bucko Angus livin’ off t’ spoils o’ this place since t’ rest o’ t’ crew went t’ Davy Jones’ locker when t’ second ship capsized,”

“How awful. So you are here all alone? Just the two of you?” I asked.

“Aye, just t’ two o’ us. So, little lady, what might be yer name and what you be doin’ out here, bravin’ these waters?”

“My name is Anna. I’m a scientist. My crew and I were on an expedition to find raw materials, when we heard this enchanting music. It drew us right in, like we had no say in the matter.”

“Ah aye, t’ siren’s call. Always drawin’ men in and sinkin’ their ships just before they reach shore. Them beauties be devils.”

“I don’t remember seeing this island on any of my maps,” I said.

“No you won’t find this island on any map. It be t’ secret island o’ lost mates. Years ago all t’ rum runners, treaaye hunters and jack tars o’ t’ high seas stored their riches here. Now it’s just me and Angus port t’ inherit it all.”

Leaning in closely, pressing his body against mine, he whispered in my ear.

“Nobody will ever find ya here. It will be nice t’ have a beauty around t’ keep me warm at night.”

Playing along, I slide my hand down the small of his back until I feel the bottom of a revolver buried in the belt of his pants. Continuing to kiss my neck, I don’t move, but my eyes follow Angus as he strolls away towards the other side of the ship.

A gun goes off. Marcus pulls away at the sound, just in time for me to relieve him of his weapon.

“What was that?” he reaches for his gun.

“Looking for this?”

I point the gun at his head and watch as Serena appears on the aft of the boat.

“The fat man’s dead” she said.

“Who be you, Anna?” asks Marcus.

“Actually, you might know me better as Avielle, Queen of the Sirens.”

Eyes wide, Marcus gasps.

“I can see by the look in your eyes that my reputation precedes me.”

“I thought you were just a legend… A ghost story made up by other jack tars t’ keep us away from the island… No, you can’t be real!”

Sticking the gun in his groin, I lean in, grab his hand and place it on my bosom.

“Does this feel real enough to you?”

“What be my fate here?” he asks.

Leaning in again even closer this time, I press my hips into his, running my fingers through his soft black hair.

“Me and t’ lasss will be takin’ your ship, your island and your treayes…and maybe if you’re a real good lad, I’ll let YOU keep ME warm at night.”

With his hands now behind his back, I tie off the rope, leaving him to sit as Serena approaches.

“Serena, call the other sirens, let them know that it’s safe to come back home…and that I have a present for them.”

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Published on September 19, 2013 07:36

Butterflies Wake: Coming Soon

An underground society of vigilante women has been growing for many years and is starting to surface. They keep a low profile but their actions are strong. They right the wrongs of society, leaving no stone unturned, taking matters into their own hands where the justice system has failed.

Butterflies Wake was originally written for television, then turned into a short film, and now it is being converted into a novel set to be released in January 2014. Check out an excerpt of the novel below as well as the trailer. See you in January….we’ll be watching.

Fairytales always start with once upon a time and end with happily ever after. Somewhere in the middle there’s a prince, an evil queen and a distressed maiden, a victim of her own beauty. Gallantly, the prince rides in, saving his true love, proving his manhood and once again restoring balance to the universe. My fairytale, however, was not like that at all. Let’s take for example my ex-husband Ron. In our fairy tale, Ron was no prince. Don’t get me wrong; I truly believe he started off with good intentions. But, then he lost his job, started drinking and I became his personal punching bag. After the third miscarriage I was told I could never have children. At that point, I really didn’t care if I died.

But, on one particular evening back in 1977, something happened that would change my life forever. I had come home from the grocery store to find Ron sitting on the front steps of our house with his usual can of beer suctioned to his left hand as if it were an extension of his fingers. I could tell he had been drinking all day and was itching for a fight, so I didn’t even bother asking for help with the groceries. There was still the idea that I had to walk up the steps and past him to get to the front door. I prayed he didn’t attack me with the groceries still in my hand. I walked at a slow pace, avoiding eye contact and carefully slinked passed him hoping not to hit the back of him with the screen door as I squeezed through. I made it into the kitchen and managed to at least put away the frozen food, eggs and milk before the first punch was thrown.

When it was finally over, I found myself lying on my back on the front lawn covered in blood. I thought for sure I would be dead any minute judging from the amount of blood pouring out of my nose and the severity of the pain coursing through my body. But then something happened; I saw out of the corner of my eye a little boy standing in the street staring at Ron as he sat on the front steps drinking his beer and watching me die. The boy’s name was Patrick; he was around ten years old and he lived in our neighborhood. He stood there holding his baseball glove and ball and just stared at Ron for almost two whole minutes. I wanted to scream for him to run away but no sound would come out of my mouth. Then he turned and ran as fast as he could towards his house. I was happy he was safe, I didn’t want Ron to hurt him and I didn’t want that poor boy to be the witness to my death.

I blacked out again for a while and waited for death to take me. But it never came. Instead, two women from the neighborhood had come running towards me and were picking me up off the front lawn. I don’t recall much at the time but I do remember some words being exchanged between Priscilla and Ron. I didn’t know Priscilla that well at the time, other than that she was a nurse at the local hospital and had a son named Patrick, the boy who saw me on the lawn. He must have run to her for help. I feared Ron might hurt them too but I couldn’t speak or move. I was a rag doll, lifeless in their arms as they carried me back to their house. That was the last time I ever saw Ron. I don’t know what happened and I didn’t ask questions. I was just grateful that they found me when they did because they not only saved my life, but they changed the course of it forever.

My name is Camille Waters and a lot has changed since 1977. On the surface I appear as an ordinary southern woman in her 50′s, sitting on a porch swing sipping sweet tea or reading trashy romance novels down by the pier. But much like a fairytale, nothing is ever what it seems. The year is 2012 and I’m not that same woman anymore. Now I work for an underground society of women with one purpose; to right the wrongs of society where the justice system has failed. Some call us modern-day Iron Jawed Angels, others call us extremists, but we like to call ourselves, The Butterflies.