Vashti Quiroz-Vega's Blog, page 61
June 26, 2013
Very Inspiring Blogger Award
I am extremely excited to announce that I have received a “Very Inspiring Blogger Award”! I was granted this prestigious award by Sunni ( Surviving Life ), a blogger whom I greatly admire for her skills as a writer and blogger, and for being a wonderful person. Please check out her sites.
Surviving Life
Faerie Book Loft
Like with any award there are a few rules. Here they are.
1. Display award logo on blog.
2. State 7 things about yourself.
3. Nominate 15 bloggers for this award and link back to them.
Here are seven facts about me.
1. I’m a Registered Diagnostic Medical Sonographer.
2. I like to sing and dance while doing housework.
3. I love animals.
4. I enjoy throwing parties and get-togethers at my house.
5. I love watching scary movies.
6. I’m a good cook. My specialty is Italian cooking.
7. One of my all-time favorite compliment was when someone told me that my personality was a mix of Angelina Jolie, Bruce Willis, Helen Keller, and Johnny Depp. He seemed to have thought it over a great deal, and he knows me well. I was totally flattered.
I am truly honored and humbled by this award. I have thought carefully, and I’ve chosen 15 very deserving bloggers to present with this award. They are listed below. Please take the time to visit their blogs by clicking on their names. It will be well worth your while.
2. Terry Kinden
3. Kristen Lamb
4. Diane Reed
7. Jo Robinson
8. Seyi Sandra
9. April
10. Julie Green
11. Doreen Sargente
12. Kat Biggie
14. Kristy Centeno
15. Ingrid Elizabeth
June 20, 2013
When Friendship Goes Awry
Illustrations by Zindy S. D. Nielsen
Hello everyone! Welcome to my blog. I’m posting a revised version of my poem “Best Friend”. I hope you like it.
Accompanying my poem are beautiful illustrations by a very talented artist from Denmark Zindy Nielsen. I believe the art compliments my poem. I hope you do too.
*
Best Friend
The sun shone brightly on the day we met.
The radiance of your smile promised eternal sunshine.
When darkness loomed I dried the sorrows you wept.
Always by your side, I offered dawn when you suffered stress.
I was gravity, ever-present for each trivial affair of your life.
But when I needed you most, you couldn’t care less.
As I neared my goals, and success was within my reach.
The luster of friendship began to dull in your eyes.
Why do you despise me? Tormented, in my mind I screeched.
You feigned to listen, when all the while
you gathered information to judge me with.
Why the hatred, my friend? Why am I on trial?
When you betrayed me, the skies grew gray and dark.
My heart bled within me as the storm clouds gathered in your eyes.
You held up a broken mirror to show me my heart.
Sodden by the tempest of envy, unable to tolerate my radiant soul.
You set out to drain my spirit with distorted images you presented.
Until one day, in another’s eyes, my heart’s true reflection I stole.
Eerie, cold, and turbulent was the night our friendship ended.
I was too fetching, too clever, too creative for you to love me.
How am I to release my disappointment? Will my heart ever be mended?
Your spiteful squalls tore a hole in my heart, but my spirit you did miss.
Some friends crush you with a cold glare or a hurtful word.
A jealous friend betrays you with a cowardly kiss.
~ Vashti Quiroz-Vega
Friends should encourage you, make you happy, and love you unconditionally. If you’re having problems with a friend, please check this out. http://m.wikihow.com/Detox-a-Friendship
June 13, 2013
Women Behaving Badly
Women Behaving Badly by Alana Munro
Hello! Welcome to my blog. My name is Vashti Quiroz-Vega, for those of you visiting for the first time. I am a writer of Fantasy, Suspense and Thrillers. I do, however, have a tendency to mix a little Romance, horror or humor (among other genres) into my stories.
I love art, creativity and beauty, and I know these come in many forms. In my quest to build my author platform, I have met and befriended a group of incredibly talented individuals. Writers, poets, artists and even singers who are masterful at what they do. I feel blessed to have found them, and I would be selfish if I kept the beauty, artistry and creativeness of their craft all to myself.
So for the next few weeks I will be featuring their art, writings and music along with my own work on this blog. I guarantee you will enjoy every bit of it.
In today’s post I will feature the beautiful and talented author of the fascinating book, Women Behaving Badly, Alana Munro.
I have included an early chapter that shows Alana’s struggle to get women to talk to her, and her early thoughts. I have also included an except from one of the many true stories that have personally happened to her. These true stories are an important part of her book.
The Fight to Write This Book
I think I prefer the way men conduct their relationships with their male friends. Why do I say this? I believe that males are in general fairer on their own kind.
Women are unfair on each other and women are often unfairly critical of themselves.
We are harsh on ourselves and often just as harsh on other women.
Women, who struggle to be fair and struggle to love themselves, will struggle to play fair and love other women.
It’s an important question to consider.
How can we women be emotionally generous to other women if we struggle with the concept of respecting who we are?
Men, in contrast, seem to have an easier ride with their friendships. I couldn’t ignore these inherent differences. There was little doubt in my mind that women conduct their friendships differently from men. It was time to probe deeper. I wanted to know more.
After having two fascinating conversations in the same week, I thought this book would be easy. I naively thought women were going to expose their female acquaintances and their friends’ challenging behaviors. They’d spew it all out. I’d change the names and details. No one would know who was who. Like a free therapy session, they would express themselves and feel better for it.
Aren’t women meant to be the talkers? I had visions of us getting right to the bones of the weird feminine behaviors over a bottle of wine. But it seems that women have also been taught the art of keeping their lips sealed.
I logged onto Facebook the following week and studied my friend list. I had more than 100 friends (perhaps after this book I will have a lot less), most of them female. I figured if most of these women can sit on Facebook for hours every week playing games, uploading image after image and commenting on someone’s outstanding cake baking efforts or adorable baby, then surely they can find the time to fill out my questionnaire?
The questionnaire was about personal experiences with female friendships. The responses trickled in. In total, three or four women responded. I sighed, a lot. I guess women are busy.
That’s when reality set in. This book wasn’t going to be easy.
If I couldn’t get my friends and acquaintances to reveal their negative friendship experiences in total confidence, then it seemed unlikely I would manage to get perfect strangers to be brutally honest.
Why was it proving so difficult to get the women in my life to open up and tell me what goes on with the females in their daily life or at least what had went on in their deep, dark past?
A few were polite and said they couldn’t help as they had never experienced any negativity from women. I felt this was either a cop out, outright denial or blissful ignorance. Or maybe they were lucky sods. I thought how nice it must be to only experience coffee mornings, homemade jam and loving hugs.
Maybe I had just been incredibly unlucky or ridiculously misguided in my friend choices? I felt utterly stupid. It was maybe just me after all. I am simply a loser in this friendship game with a capital L stamped on my forehead.
But I couldn’t accept this. I couldn’t be the only woman out there with painful experiences.
Ignoring my ego, which was now a burst and saggy balloon, I patched it up with some sticky tape and carried on, regardless. I felt fatigued, burnt out, irritated and despondent by my relations with many women. I refused to accept my reality as folly. The hurt I had felt was real. It was piercing and stung.
The next type of response was, “Yes, some women are bitchy, but I just stay away from them. I have no association with such women.” OK, better. There is something to work with here. At least some acknowledgement that women are prone to misbehaving with one another.
But the trouble with this response made me think that women believe they are simply able to stay away from troublesome friends. That it is easy to notice a negative friend and just step to the side. That they have a choice and can see a crazy bitch in their sights before she gets too close! Believe me, this is not the case. Often troublesome, negative women seek us out. They hide beneath smiles and loving hugs. And often their presence surprises us entirely.
Then there were a teensy-weensy amount of women who were frank and open. Interestingly, they were intelligent young women. They had experienced a lot of jealousy, bullying and unfair treatment from their female counterparts.
Relief swelled over me. (It’s not just me! I am not a complete loser in friendships – well, hopefully!) My relief was coupled with grief for my friends who had experienced terrible pain at the hands of other women.
Then, of course, there was the non-response committee.
Perhaps they felt uncomfortable talking about personal feelings. For this very reason, I didn’t push people. I assumed for some women it would be too painful and I respected that possibility.
I also concluded that for some women, the subject of my book was perplexing and they wanted no part in it. They did not want to support or encourage my ‘woman hating’ project (ridiculously unfair – I am in no way a woman hater. I’m only trying to understand women and how they behave.).
Or perhaps (I hope this was more likely) they felt they couldn’t contribute in a meaningful way and so they said nothing. They didn’t want to waste my time. They didn’t have enough dirt. They had been luckier than me.
After many more months of silence drifting by, I decided I was pretty much on my own. I would have to wring out the few responses I received and lean on my family for support. Mostly, I would have to rely on my own reflections and personal experiences to write this book. Well, it turns out, lucky for you, I have a ridiculous amount of bad experiences to draw from. But despite having so much personal insight, I knew this would be one of the biggest creative challenges of my life.
For starters, it was never going to be an easy subject for a woman to discuss. It naturally makes females uncomfortable and close down ranks. The lack of responses confirmed this natural reaction. Let’s close the blinds and pretend no one is home, hopefully she’ll bugger off soon enough. She thinks too much, she’s too deep, too emotional. Leave me alone, you freak! Women are always lovely to me, you’re the problem!
Another issue with this book’s subject is that I am going against the widely held belief that women are always nurturing and supportive to each other. Women are the carers. We look after each other and most days hold up the sky. We care for our families, soothe our babies, kiss away the tears. We are in many respects outstanding individuals.
However, females, by their very anatomy, nature and character, are complicated creatures.
Their behavior sometimes contradicts the common rosy stereotype of feminism’s idealistic ‘sisterhood’. Sometimes a woman’s behavior towards another woman is more inhumane than accepting, engaging or fair.
What was really going against me was this notion of sisterhood. The sisterhood myth ensures women keep their lips sealed. To be disloyal to our own team is unacceptable or frightening. After all, we women have experienced years of oppression (mostly at the hands of men); we must continue to stick together.
Understandably, there is the belief that talking out negatively about females is surely wrong. We must boost each other, support each other and minimize the negatives.
Of course, I agree; we should encourage feminine solidarity. It is a beautiful and rewarding experience. It is essential for our social progress that women appreciate and consider other women. We should advocate loyalty and respect other women’s differences. We cannot possibly create positive change in this world for women if we attack each other.
But equally, we must also accept that sometimes women do not stick together. Sometimes women rip each other to shreds in a frenzied verbal attack. Sometimes respect, solidarity and loyalties to one another are far from a woman’s agenda.
With all these conflicting thoughts swirling in my mind, it was clear this book would be a tremendous challenge to complete.
For weeks, I thought I won’t bother. Perhaps it is just too dangerous and I don’t want to make waves. I don’t want to provoke women and I don’t want to plague women with dark thoughts about their own kind. What good could come from this book?
My conscious kept hissing at me. This is stupid. Women will just hate you! They won’t want to admit to this behavior. I stuffed a sock in her mouth. I was tired of smiling and pretending everything was okay.
I said to my over-active conscious – I’d rather tell the truth, expose my female reality, than spend my life pretending that all is rosy in the garden with females, because you know and I know this – some gardens have more thorns than flowers. She pouted and huffed.
I found that when I started writing this book, the words poured out. It was uncontrollable. I wanted to stop, but I couldn’t. Did the truth of women like me need to come out? I’d like to think so. Was it now time to arouse debate and stimulate our awareness of what can go on between females? I thought yes, it probably is time to awaken and challenge our perceptions of women.
And so, despite all my doubts and fears, I carried on writing.
*** And one more sample – this sample shows one of the many true stories about how females can behave towards each other. This story is from the chapter about Jealousy. This excerpt is an example of my personal stories which are throughout the book.
A boy fancied me in school. He asked me out on a date and I took him up on his offer. I didn’t fancy him, but I thought I’d give him a chance and maybe I’d find out he’s a nice guy. I decided not to date him again. After all, I was only 16. I had plenty of time to have boyfriends and he wasn’t really my cup of tea.
The trouble was there was a girl in my year who fancied him. He didn’t fancy her. He was a free agent. When she found out I had went on this one date with him, she and her friends tormented me and made my daily life at school a living hell. They wrote on the toilets, naming me a slag, a slut, a bitch, a tart. They shouted at me, sneered, spat and ridiculed me. They stood outside my classrooms swearing and glaring at me. They launched an active campaign to break my spirit and self-esteem, but most of all, they tried to destroy my reputation. I was a virgin, but their slander was changing people’s perceptions without a doubt. I was made to feel like a leper.
No other girl wanted to be seen with me. I’d try to approach a group of girls and they’d huddle together, shunning me as if I was a dangerous beast. None of those girls dared to look me in the eyes. They all believed the propaganda. No one questioned it. No one stood up for me and told them to leave me alone. Not one person in my year wanted to know where all this targeted hate and persecution was coming from and why.
I’d spend my lunch breaks on my own, often by a railway bridge. I thought, This could all end now, this hell could all end. I just need to jump off this bridge. But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t do it to the poor train driver, I couldn’t do it to my family and I was too stubborn to allow these girls to take my life. They had my present. They had my present in their hands and they were crushing the very life out of me. But they wouldn’t take my future. I wouldn’t allow it.
I’d walk back to school just before the end of lunch bell rang out. My heart beating, my hands and legs shaking, trying to hide the fear, trying to hold it all together for one more day. When would it end? Would they ever become bored of these cruel games? Would they never tire of tormenting me? How can these girls enjoy threatening me quite so much?
As time went on, the bullying showed no sign of stopping; it had become their daily habit like a cup of coffee or a morning jog. I couldn’t live in fear anymore. I didn’t deserve to be treated like this. I walked straight to the school office and quietly asked to see the school headmaster. I politely asked the ladies at the school office if they could please help me. I told them I was desperate and I must talk with the principal. They must have seen the torment creeping out from my red eyes or they must have seen my hands tremble. They told me to come into their office and sit down. Their compassion caused me to cry a little, but I had to stay strong. I needed to be able to explain what was going on. Thankfully, the principal was a good man and could see what was going on. “These girls,” he said, “have a terrible case of jealousy and it will stop. I promise you, Alana.” The bullying only stopped when he excluded the ring leader.
In the first week alone, 500 books were downloaded from Amazon and with lots of pleasant reviews doing the rounds, Alana has been encouraged to write her second book. Here is a recent newspaper article about Alana’s debut book. Watch this space for more media coverage and new book releases.
In recent times, Alana runs a Google+ Community for all writers, bloggers and poets. Support-a-Writer offers support and encouragement to all new writers. The members share marketing tips, discuss their writing ideas and cheer each other on. It is a very active and friendly community, do consider joining if you hope to discover new talent or you are a writer looking to connect. You will be sure to receive a warm welcome!
Alana also writes articles for STEEL Magazine. It’s an American multi-cultural life style publication ran by ZAE Publishing. Alana is open to new writing jobs. If you have a blog or magazine and you need a writer to contribute – contact Alana Munro today.
Alana was recently interviewed by ABC Radio. You can listen to Alana’s full studio interview - http://alanamunroauthor.com/about/
Alana’s debut book is available to buy on Amazon and will be available from various online stores world wide this June, with plans to release paper books.
Amazon link - http://www.amazon.co.uk/Women-Behaving-Badly-ebook/dp/B00BM5LEUW/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1367132066&sr=8-1&keywords=alana+Munro
Be sure to check out Alana Munro’s Website! http://alanamunroauthor.com/
Illustrated by Anne Teubert
Best Friend
The sun shone brightly on the day we met.
Your smile promised me your everlasting friendship.
And when life was rough, with you I wept.
I was there for you when you felt stress.
I was there for every little trivial part of your life.
But when I needed you most, you couldn’t care less.
*
As I neared my goals, and success was within my reach.
The brightness of friendship began to dim in your eyes.
Why did you despise me? I don’t understand. Please do teach.
You feigned to listen, when all the while
you gathered information to judge me with.
Why the hatred, my friend? Why am I on trial?
*
When you betrayed me, the skies grew gray and dark.
My heart bled within me. It hurt to live.
You held up a broken mirror to show me my heart.
You could not tolerate the radiance of my soul.
So my spirit you drained with distorted images you presented.
Until one day, in another’s eyes, my heart’s true reflection I stole.
*
Eerie, cold, and turbulent was the night our friendship ended.
I was too pretty, too creative, too smart for you to love me.
How am I to release my disappointment? Will my heart ever be mended?
You tore a hole in my heart, but my spirit you did miss.
Some friends crush you with a spiteful glare or a hurtful word.
A jealous friend betrays you with a cowardly kiss.
~ Vashti Quiroz-Vega
June 7, 2013
Disconnect
Photograph Feel Pain by Mehmet Turgut
Hello! Welcome to my blog. My name is Vashti Quiroz-Vega, for those of you visiting for the first time. I am a writer of Fantasy, Suspense and Thrillers. I do, however, have a tendency to mix a little Romance, horror or humor (among other genres) into my stories.
I love art, creativity and beauty, and I know these come in many forms. In my quest to build my author platform, I have met and befriended a group of incredibly talented individuals. Writers, poets, artists, photographers and even singers who are masterful at what they do. I feel blessed to have found them, and I would be selfish if I kept the beauty, artistry and creativeness of their craft all to myself.
So for the next few weeks I will be featuring their art, writings, photography and music along with my own work on this blog. I guarantee you will enjoy every bit of it.
In today’s post I will feature the talented writer and poet Glendon Perkins.
Glendon wrote this piece when he was struggling with a major decision in his life. His writing touched me deeply, as I am sure it will touch you.
Disconnect
The nurse walked in, said to me, “It’s time.”
My shoulders slumped. I drew in a deep breath, held it, and let it out slow. If I could have prevented the moment by holding my breath, I would have.
I followed the nurse through the door and down the hall. While I followed her through the constricting corridors, I focused on the carpet. There was consistency in the bluish-gray carpet; no change. Soon everything would change.
“Are you alright?” she asked.
I hesitated, trying to find the right words. Were there words that could convey how I felt? I’m not sure. I decided a simple response was best. “No.”
“We could try some other things.” Her face was drawn, as though she’d had a long night as well. “I know we could approach the doctor and find something or someone. We could contact Mayo or Johns Hopkins.” Her voice cracked a few times
I read clearing your throat helps to keep the tears from coming. I cleared my throat, my tears stayed back. “I…I…I th—think it’s b—best if w—w—we don’t.” Covering my mouth, looked away.
She hugs me. We stood embracing for several minutes. I broke away first. Time to finish this.
We walked the rest of the way in silence. My emotions were wound as tight as a guitar string, and the slightest plucking would send me into a chorus of tears.
She stopped in the doorway. Pointing at a laptop on a stand she said, “Just press the DISCONNECT button. I’ll leave you with him.” She gave my forearm a pat and a squeeze before walking away.
Despite the warmth of the room, I felt like I had walked into an icebox. Shivers raced across my body, my blood cold, my heart solid ice.
I felt cruel. Was I the Reaper, the Angel of Death? Wasn’t I about to do what he did?
I walked further into the room, making a wide birth around the laptop. I looked up at the life support monitors. Several lines showed vital functions with jagged peaks and valleys. Some consistently moved up and down, others were furious with activity, their readings jumbled and mismatched.
A web of wires and tubes crossed each other and meandered around stainless steel poles and computer monitors. A respirator with a white corrugated tube led to the intubation line. White adhesive patches connected his damaged brain to the EEG machine with wires of several colors. The room smells of copper wire and plastic from life-supporting devices.
I approached his bed with trepidation and sat on the edge. He lay in a beige hospital gown, blankets tucked neatly around his waist. Clear tape secured the IV catheters to his wrists. The intubation tube connected to the tracheotomy.
I wrapped my fingers his hand, “Dad, I…” The words lodged in my throat.
Wiping my eyes and running nose with my forearm, I found the strength to continue. “The doctors don’t think anything can be—”
I broke down in rivulets of tears, every pent up emotion over the last three months pouring down my face, my head bobbing with each sob.
I was about to turn off machines that kept my father alive. Would I ever find peace again? Would I wake up every night screaming in the darkness? Would every look I received on the street, at work, or from my family and friends be anything but contempt? Worse, what if my dad lay there getting better and the doctors couldn’t see it? Would my dad forgive me? Would he look at me from the Afterlife and ask me, “How could you?”
As my contemplation threatened to destroy me, a voice from the past spoke up. “Son, I don’t want machines to keep me alive. I am going to trust your decision. Give me peace when I need it.”
I choked back my despair. I whispered in his ear, “Dad, I came here to give you peace. I love you.”
Looking at his face, I wondered if he heard me.
I stood, walked over to the laptop, and stared at the screen for a moment. I raised my had to the keyboard, fingers shaking, palms sweating. I slowly lowered my fingers to the mousepad…I pushed DISCONNECT.
I walked back to the chair and sat down. I rested my head on his chest, placed his hand on my face, and felt his pulse and respirations slow, “I love you, Dad. May you be at peace.”
Would I ever have peace?
~by Glendon Perkins
Please check out Glendon’s links below, and if you like smart Horror with lots of suspense, thrills and chills, you’ll love Glendon’s blog novel Buried Alive. It is a must-read for all you Horror fans out there!
http://www.glendonperkins.blogspot.com
Photograph by Marie Gloredel
Father
His brown eyes deepened into polished onyx, and upon them came a mist of tears.
He watched with the facade of a brave man as his baby boy entered the world.
As if his mind and body were not consumed by overwhelming fears.
What are my duties? There are no guidelines. Where do I start?
The babe in his arms felt so natural, yet so alien. A fire blazed in his chest.
“You are a father now.” The words were jolting, yet pleasing to his heart.
His brown eyes deepened into polished onyx, and upon them came a mist of tears.
He watched with the façade of a calm man as his son toddled, taking his first steps.
As if his mind and body were not consumed by overwhelming fears.
What if he falls? What if he hurts himself? Then I would have failed as a father.
The toddler tottered to him and embraced his dad with dulcet giggles.
As he held his son, it did not feel alien. His heart gave way for love to conquer.
His brown eyes deepened into polished onyx, and upon them came a mist of tears.
He watched with the façade of a cool man as his son introduced him to his first girl.
As if his mind and body were not consumed by overwhelming fears.
What if he falls in love? What if she breaks his heart?
He embraced his son and slipped extra cash in his pocket.
As he held his son, it felt like love, and he rested assured his son was smart.
His brown eyes deepened into polished onyx, and upon them came a mist of tears.
He watched with the façade of a brave man as his son grew and had sons of his own.
As if his mind and body were not consumed by overwhelming fears.
Did I raise him right? Did I teach him to be a good husband and father?
He embraced his son, and they were swathed by the love they both felt.
As he held his son, his questions were answered, and he grew calmer.
His son’s brown eyes deepened into polished onyx, and upon them came a mist of tears.
He watched his father wear the façade of a spent man as he lay on a hospital bed.
His son’s mind and body were consumed by overwhelming fears.
Am I doing the right thing? Who am I to decide when his time has come?
His face dampened with sorrow. He embraced his father.
As he held his father’s weary body and gazed into his dimming eyes, his questions were answered, and he grew calmer.
His brown eyes deepen into polished onyx, and upon them comes a mist of tears.
He watches with the façade of a pitiful man as his son reaches for that plug.
He is ready to leave this world and grateful his son has let go of his fears.
As his son holds his ruined body, and he feels the lifeblood drain from his eyes, he knows he has raised him right.
His mind and body are consumed with overwhelming love.
His son has given him the gift of peace, and his happy spirit travels toward the light.
~by Vashti Quiroz-Vega
May 30, 2013
Bullies – Broken People
Illustration by Toon Hertz (Little Sad Boy II – deviantArt)
Hello! Welcome to my blog. My name is Vashti Quiroz-Vega, for those of you visiting for the first time. I am a writer of Fantasy, Suspense and Thrillers. I do, however, have a tendency to mix a little Romance, horror or humor (among other genres) into my stories.
I love art, creativity and beauty, and I know these come in many forms. In my quest to build my author platform, I have met and befriended a group of incredibly talented individuals. Writers, poets, artists and even singers who are masterful at what they do. I feel blessed to have found them, and I would be selfish if I kept the beauty, artistry and creativeness of their craft all to myself.
So for the next few weeks I will be featuring their art, writings and music along with my own work on this blog. I guarantee you will enjoy every bit of it.
In today’s post I will feature the talented writer Jackson Baer.
I’m the father of four children, three of whom are in elementary school. There are few subjects that I care about as much as bullying. I’ve always been someone who stands up for others when they’re being picked on, and I have tried to instill in my children the following principles:
• Be a friend to everyone because you never know what others might be going through.
• Accept people who are different because you are different, too.
• Don’t judge anyone based on race, religion or sexuality. People are who they are, and if any of those things bother you, that’s your issue—not theirs.
• Be kind, and treat other people like you want to be treated.
Often, a bully acts out in response to a tough home life or other difficult circumstances, reducing emotional pressure by heaping abuse on a victim. If you stand by and do nothing to intervene, you send the bully the message that this kind of behavior is acceptable. The victim, meanwhile, might feel the whole world is against him. That’s why standing up for those in need is one of the greatest virtues. I have tremendous respect for my kids when they tell me about how they stood up for a classmate. Over the past year, there have been a handful of incidents where my kids have told a bully to stop picking on another kid, or where they’ve had to ignore bullies to avoid becoming targets themselves.
We have to pick our battles in life, and not everything is worth fighting over. Standing up for and befriending those who are vulnerable, however, is worth pursuing and is a message worthy of sharing with our kids.
“Kindness is the language which the deaf can hear and the blind can see.”
~ Mark Twain
Jackson Baer’s Links
http://www.facebook.com/JacksonPaulBaer
http://twitter.com/JacksonPaulBaer
http://www.goodreads.com/JacksonPaulBaer
Great quote Jackson! Marvelous words to live by. If only every parent would teach their children the principles that Jackson so eloquently stated here, the world would be a much happier place. Unfortunately the world is filled with broken people searching for victims to torment.
Excerpt from The Basement
“Look at Robbie jumping rope with the girls! What a sissy!” one of two boys yelled.
“I bet he’s too chicken to play flag football with us! Aren’t you, Robbie?”
“You’d rather play double Dutch with the girls!”
Robbie remained silent. Natasha and Cleo’s faces grew pink, and they exchanged awkward glances. Robbie whisked his head to read Natasha’s face, but she quickly tilted her head with a downward gaze.
“Yeah! Real men don’t jump rope!” the second bully shouted.
“Real men DO jump rope!” Robbie finally yelled in a brittle voice, his cheeks burning.
“No, they don’t!” the bullies hollered in unison, making Robbie jolt.
One of the bullies approached Robbie and shoved him. Robbie staggered, but did not fall. His face flushed beet red, and he wondered if the girls could hear his heart pounding. He stared at his feet so they wouldn’t be able to see his face. Cleo glimpsed timidly at Robbie, while Natasha regarded him with tightly pressed lips.
“Only sissies jump rope,” the bully hollered.
“Do you think I am a sissy?” said a deep masculine voice.
Wide-eyed and openmouthed, the bullies shook their heads. Natasha and Cleo smirked to see them tremble before the superintendent of their building, a tough, strapping man the neighborhood kids called Superman.
“We don’t think you’re a sissy, Mr. Superman,” one of the bullies responded timidly. The other just continued to shake his head, the heat rising in his cheeks.
“I jump rope all the time. All fighters do, even the retired ones. It is a good way to keep your endurance and burn calories. You boys should try it,” Superman said, wearing a grin.
“Yes, sir! ” The bullies nodded and ran away. Natasha and Cleo chuckled.
“Come on, Robbie, it’s still your turn,” Natasha called.
“I don’t think I want to play anymore,” Robbie said, kicking an innocent stone on the ground.
“Why not?” Natasha asked, scrunching her forehead.
Superman lifted his palm and spoke gently. “Wait a moment, Natasha. I need to speak to Robbie.”
Superman led him to his building’s basement, where they sat at the top of the steps.
“Why didn’t you want to continue playing double Dutch, Robbie?”
Robbie shrugged.
“You’re very good at it, you know.”
“It’s just that those kids called me a sissy in front of Natasha,” Robbie muttered, smiling faintly.
“That doesn’t make it so,” Superman told him.
“Yeah, but maybe they’re right. Maybe playing double Dutch isn’t for real men,” Robbie fretted. Superman’s facial expression became grave.
“Robbie, I’m going to tell you the characteristics of a real man. A real man has integrity. He is the same person whether or not others are watching. A real man has sympathy for others. He helps those who are hurting and works to make the world a better place. A real man has confidence. He has faith in his abilities. A real man is brave. He stands up in the face of hardship. And, Robbie, real men are humble. They realize that humility is more endearing than arrogance. Did those two boys have any of those traits?”
Robbie knitted his forehead in thought and then shook his head.
“So what could they possibly know about real men?” Superman asked, grinning.
Robbie smiled, and Superman patted him on the back.
“Why do those boys act that way?” Robbie asked, frowning again.
“Some bullies are just looking for attention. Others might think that bullying is a way to gain popularity or to get something they want. Certain kids may be copying actions they’ve seen someone else do, or they may have been bullied themselves.”
“But why do bullies always pick on me?” said Robbie, frustration etched on his face.
“Most tormenters pick on kids who they think they can upset easily or who have trouble sticking up for themselves. Every time a bully gets a big reaction out of you, it makes him feel powerful.”
“But what can I do if they start to call me names and laugh at me?” Robbie asked in a wobbly voice.
“Ignore them. Pretend you don’t hear them, and walk away. Acting as if you don’t notice and don’t care just might stop the bullies’ teasing.”
“What if I can’t leave?”
“Stand up for yourself. Pretend to be really brave and confident. Tell the bully to stop in a loud voice.”
Robbie bit his lip and frowned.
“Don’t show your feelings to the bully,” said Superman. “Count backward from a hundred, or sing a song in your head to keep your mind occupied until you are out of the situation and somewhere safe where you can show your feelings. Do you understand, Robbie?”
Robbie nodded.
“Anyway, I don’t think those two boys will be bothering you again. ”
Robbie put on a brave face for Superman as he thought, But what if your dad is the biggest bully of all?
THE BASEMENT is now available for purchase in paperback and ebook.
May 23, 2013
Bullied
Illustration by Jamie Campbell (click on picture for more info. on this artist from the U.K.)
Hello! Welcome to my blog. My name is Vashti Quiroz-Vega, for those of you visiting for the first time. I am a writer of Fantasy, Suspense and Thrillers. I do, however, have a tendency to mix a little Romance, horror or humor (among other genres) into my stories.
I love art, creativity and beauty, and I know these come in many forms. In my quest to build my author platform, I have met and befriended a group of incredibly talented individuals. Writers, poets, artists and even singers who are masterful at what they do. I feel blessed to have found them, and I would be selfish if I kept the beauty, artistry and creativeness of their craft all to myself.
So for the next few weeks I will be featuring their art, writings and music along with my own work on this blog. I guarantee you will enjoy every bit of it.
In today’s post I will feature the sweet, kind, beautiful and very talented poet and writer Adrianna Joleigh. She wrote the poem “Bullied” specifically for me. I am honored and grateful for it.
Bullied
Raped from prosperities
Bleeding tears rain
Hopelessness infuriates
Self-loathing remains
No reason to wake up
No reason to smile
No reason to feel
I am worthwhile.
Surrounded by hate,
And I don’t know why.
Wanting only to be loved.
Vulnerable to their lies.
Why am I not perfect?
Why am I not pretty?
Why am I too fat?
I Wallow in self-pity.
Repeated struggles
to end my misery.
Hating the image I see.
Who here would miss me?
—A. Joleigh
How A Bully Is Made
Bullying is a serious issue that is faced by many people. Bullies have existed since the beginning of time, as have the victims who have suffered from bullying. The age-old question is, What makes a bully act like a bully?
Do bullies really enjoy making another person miserable or causing them pain? What do they get out of striking fear in the heart of another? Are they inherently evil? You may be surprised by the answers to these questions.
Bullies do not fit into a neat little box. There’s no doubt that evil people live among us. There are those who relish the pain of others and take pleasure in causing distress or harm. However, most bullies are not monsters. So why do they act like monsters?
Bullies are often people who have been bullied or abused themselves, and they cast blame upon others for the bad things in their lives.
People who feel their home life is out of control and they’re not listened to or valued by their family may feel the need to hold positions of power. Such a person may become a boss and gain power by dominating his or her employees, operating on the principle that being feared is the way to gain respect.
A teenager who is constantly berated by a parent or older sibling may feel the need to do the same to others, just so he or she won’t feel like the only victim.
A child who is physically abused at home comes to view violence as normal.
Sometimes, there is no obvious explanation, except perhaps that the bully is a mean and cruel person who only feels good when causing others harm.
~Vashti Quiroz-Vega
May 21, 2013
Tornado Of Apocalyptic Proportions Devastate Oklahoma
Oklahoma was ravaged by a monstrous tornado on Monday!
The tornado was 2 miles wide, and tore a massive path of death and destruction. Many were killed and more are still missing.
http://www.cnn.com/2013/05/21/us/severe-weather/index.html
Lets say a prayer for those who are still missing, the victims, and their families. I want to thank the police, firemen, teachers and regular citizens on the scene for all they’ve done, and continue to do for the people devastated by this disaster.
May 15, 2013
Descent into the basement
Illustration by Christina Papagianni
Natasha made it out of her building and ran down the street toward Robbie’s basement to aid her friend. It was dark and creepy outside. The streetlights were dim and cast weird shadows on the pavement. The block seemed isolated—as if it was the end of the world and she was the only survivor! Had she entered another dimension, a parallel world where she was the only person alive, like something out of the Twilight Zone? Natasha had a great imagination, but, under the circumstances, she did not feel it was helping her this night.
When Natasha reached the entrance to the basement, it seemed like the entrance to a great cave. She was afraid to enter, but determined not to waste any more time, so she stepped into the unknown. It was so dark, and the light from the street did not illuminate past the first couple of steps.
Then a realization struck her. “I didn’t bring a flashlight! How could I have been so stupid?” she admonished herself. “How will I get to the bottom without falling on my face and breaking my neck?”
Unlike Robbie’s mom before her, Natasha saw the big, yellow flashlight sitting in its dark little corner. Natasha gasped and opened her eyes wide. “That’s Robbie’s flashlight,” she told herself in a low voice.
She grabbed the flashlight, searched for the switch, and flipped it. No radiance shone from its reflector. She turned it in her hand and heard a rattling sound. She tried to open the battery housing, but it was stuck. She unscrewed the top of the flashlight, figuring she could get straight to the battery compartment this way. She lost her grip on the flashlight; she fumbled, and it flew out of her hand. She squeaked and leaped toward it, managing to grab the flashlight, but not before a couple of the batteries rolled down the cement steps.
“Oh no.” She pressed her rosy, full lips together tightly. “Now what am I going to do?”
Natasha pondered the descent into the basement. She decided the only way she would be able to do it would be to sit on the top step, and, in a seated position, slide off one step and then onto the one below it, feeling her way down with her hands, feet, and legs. In this fashion she went down, one scratchy concrete step at a time.
She knew her method would ruin her pajamas, but she figured it was a small price to pay. She never imagined she would be so scared. She was not normally afraid of the dark; then again, she never had reason to fear what was in it before.
At first she was able to see shadowy figures scuttling about. Ick! Bugs! she thought, narrowing her eyes and wrinkling the bridge of her nose. After a while, she could not see a thing. I thought my eyes would eventually adjust and I would be able to see a little, but boy, was that false. She realized she was going to be blind down there. She would have to fine-tune her other senses to get through it.
She proceeded to scoot down the steps on her bottom. A sluggish, heavy, ugly stench began to intrude upon her awareness as it filled her nasal cavities. She grimaced with revulsion. She pinched her nose and continued to move down, using only one hand to balance herself, since the other was trying to prevent the unpleasant odors from bombarding her nostrils, and she lurched. She slid to the next cement step hard, and in order to prevent hurting herself, she quickly brought her other hand down on the step for support. When she slammed her hand hastily beside her there was a pop and a crunch, and then a squishy sensation on her palm.
“Eeeeww!” she squealed. She imagined the gooey crack of a cockroach’s backbone under the weight of her hand. “Ick!” Immediately she began to rub the palm of her hand on the sidewall nearest her. She retched and vomited a little in her mouth.
As she moved farther down, she began to hear peeping and chirping sounds. She stopped. She listened carefully, her big almond-shaped eyes scanning to the left and to the right. She thought she heard a chorus of trills, peeps, and whistling echoing out of the basement. Birds? Mutant rats! Creatures that are part rat and part bird? What is making those sounds? her muddled mind thought as her efflorescent imagination thrived. Her jaw dropped. I’m sure they can’t fly. Otherwise they would have flown out of this stinky basement by now. Poor Robbie, I must hurry! Panting, she continued to descend the steps one by one, until her feet could no longer find the edge of the next step, which meant she had reached the bottom and was in the basement.
Natasha got up off the last basement step, and, at the same time, she heard something cry out. Her hand flew to cover her mouth. She felt a swift breeze pass in front of her face as if driven by something heavy. She recoiled. She heard a thump, something large hit the ground. What was that? She wondered. The odd chirping and tweeting sounds became huffs and a low-pitch vibrating noise, which resembled a hum and trill combined. It was a soft, mysterious sound but spine-chilling just the same. Was she going crazy?
Then the sounds became—terrible noises, ferocious noises—all around her! She was terrorized, no longer thinking clearly. She was nauseated and numb throughout her body, wanting nothing else but to escape.
She became ashen. Her eyes darted in every direction, her pulse raced, and she gasped openmouthed. She turned and bolted, but not up the steps to safety. She was disoriented and did not know where she was going, plus, she could not see.
Natasha jostled through what felt like large, warm bodies, which brushed her legs and bumped into her. She made noisy, hoarse breathing sounds as she moved. Her fingers were spread so wide by tension they hurt. She opened her mouth to scream but could not produce a sound. As Natasha scrambled to find her way, she slipped on one of the batteries she had dropped earlier, and something massive and horrible crashed into her face, smashing her delicate bones. There was a loud explosion in her head and then there was no more panic, no more fear. There was nothing.
THE BASEMENT is now available for purchase in paperback and eBook
May 9, 2013
Robbie
Illustrated by Jessica-Art
Robbie’s Problem Parent
Robbie’s dad, Robert, was a quiet, serious man with a rough exterior, which intimidated most of the neighborhood kids. Many had seen him lose his temper with his wife, his son, and even his neighbors on more than one occasion. It was never a pretty sight.
His eyes resembled two large, shiny, black pearls suspended in yellowing ice, bordered by bushy, black eyebrows. When he glared at you with those eyes, it was hard not to tremble.
Robbie was nothing like his father. He was an intelligent, sweet boy with delicate features. He was quiet and bashful except around his friends. He was a bit clumsy and awkward at times, which always made the kids laugh. Robbie was a self-conscious, timid and insecure boy perhaps because of the constant berating he suffered at the hands of his father. However, he was also good-natured, considerate, clever and courageous when he mostly needed to be. Although most of the kids in the neighborhood pitied Robbie, some poked fun at him.
His dad was very strict with him—sometimes downright ornery. At least it’s what most people in the neighborhood believed. Robbie was a small, fragile kid who had more in common with his wife’s genes than his own, and Robert didn’t like it. He didn’t appreciate that his kid was more brain than brawn and often belittled him. It seemed no matter what Robbie did to please his father, it was never enough. All of Robbie’s achievements in school—his straight As, awards, and honor roll certificates—weren’t appreciated by his barbarous father. Robert often got drunk on beers, and when he did he was obnoxious. He loved to pick on his son when he drank, which embarrassed and saddened Robbie and his friends.
Excerpt from THE BASEMENT
Unaccepted
Blood tears rain down his face.
His chest bloated with poisonous words.
His eyes pitch black and hollow,
Beaten by the mouths of cowards.
Sitting alone in dark shadows
Of the bullies who murdered his wit.
Stabbing his life one day at a time
‘til nothing’s left but an abysmal pit.
Fearing the presence of strangers.
Fearing the judgment they pass.
Fearing the abuse and lies that are fed
Into a child’s life that shall not last.
Desperate to make sense of the pain
Injected daily into his veins.
Killing any expectation he’s ever had
Without fervor, his aches remain.
Foolishly coming to you for acceptance
Into this world of yours.
Desperately clinging onto the niceties in life
Prospects vanish behind barred doors.
What is there in life worth living?
What is left but pain and degradation?
What does he have that’s worth giving?
What’s the point of surviving abomination?
May 8, 2013
Sunshine Award
I have been nominated for the Sunshine Award by Kathryn Jenkins. I am always pleased when one of my peers takes an interest in my writing. Kathryn Jenkins is a Fantasy writer. She creates fascinating worlds and characters we can all relate to. Please visit her blog: Dragon Knight Chronicles, and see for yourself.
Like all awards there are rules and they are listed below.
*Post the sunshine award logo.
*Then nominate ten fellow bloggers you feel are worthy of this award. Announce their nomination on their blog. Plus, link a pingback to the nominator’s blog. Please stop by Dragon Knight Chronicles, and also take time to visit my nominees’ blogs, you’ll be glad you did.
*Then of course there are questions to be answered. This is for you all to get to know a little more about me, and I look forward to seeing your responses as well.
Favorite color? I have several. As an artist, colors represent more than just a shade. Red (any shade) conjures up feelings of passion and love, teal blue is so relaxing, golden yellow reminds me of the fiery sun as it begins to drop toward the horizon, and green (many shades) is reminiscent of nature.
Favourite animal? I love all animals. My heart does go out to dogs, tigers, polar bears and dolphins though.
Favourite number? I have many favorite numbers. I love the number 5 because it reminds me of Sunday mornings watching cartoons with my brother when we were kids. I’m fond of the number 25 because I was married on the 25th of January and the number 3 because my husband was born June 3rd. The numbers 29, 8, 16, 2, 11, 7 mean a lot to me because they are the days my nieces and nephews were born. 83 is a precious number to me because it represents the number of years my incredible grandmother, Maria, graced this planet with her presence, although I wish it had been 100. I could go on and on, but I’ll stop here because I’m becoming an emotional wreck right now.
Favorite non-alcoholic drink? I love lemonade with lots of crushed ice in the summer, and hot cocoa on a chilly night.
Favorite alcoholic drink? I only drink now and then. When I’m in the mood (to drink) I like cran-rasberry juice and vodka, or raspberry vodka and sierra Mist, or diet sprite (when I’m dieting, which is 80% of the time). On a frosty night I may opt for some hot cocoa, baptized with a little brandy, or brandy with Kaluah and cream. I also like an occasional frozen Margarita (as long as it’s top shelf Tequila!) I don’t usually drink beer, but when I do, I prefer Dos Equis XX. No, seriously I do, it’s a great beer! It tastes even better accompanied by hot chicken wings or a slice of pizza while watching a good basketball game, or UFC fight. ;D
Facebook or Twitter? My Facebook Fan Page has been a godsend, and my twitter-mates do a great job of re-twitting my important posts. I can’t do without either.
My passions? My first passion is writing. I also love reading, drawing, and photography. I love traveling, meeting new people, trying new things. I have an adventurer’s spirit. I adore my family, and spending quality time with them is also very important.
Giving or receiving gifts? Both. I love seeing the look on someone’s face when they’ve received something they truly love and are excited about. I would be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy receiving gifts as well. It makes me feel thought of, and special. Sorry, I’m only human.
Favorite city? Wow! This is a tough one. I grew up in New York City. I got married in Paris, France. Seville and Malaga, Spain are beautiful, and the people are so friendly. Miami and Fort Lauderdale, Florida are great! I’ve had a great time, and have many fond memories of all the cities I’ve been to. I can’t choose.
Favorite TV shows? Spartacus, The Tudors, Da Vinci’s Demons, The Voice, Modern Family and Face Off.
My Nominees:
Norma Beishir
Jasveena Prabhagaran
Lucy Pireel
Kristy Centeno
Glendon Perkins
J.R Robberts
Adrianna Joleigh
David Kernohan
Alana Munro
Ida Chiavaro
