Beyond the Pale

From my upcoming book of short stories; "More Struggles". First draft.

I hate. I hate today like no other. I hate that weak minded vindictive fools could possibly stand in judgement of me; John Orr. I'm a man in my prime. I was in full stride to success, a captain, respected and accomplished in the eyes of all. I had friends.

Sure, I'm not the most attractive guy. My hair has never done what I wanted, but it's blond. My well rounded face is cursed with a bony brow and large nose. Still, my chiseled jaw and solid chin combine for a look that makes anyone think twice before taking me on. Then again, my 250 lb classic V shaped frame may have something to do with that. My hands are thick and calloused. My legs solid as tree trunks.

Forget that. I'm damn attractive and any woman would die to be at my side. "Ha!"

I worked hard my entire life; fought for everything I have. Yet, if not tomorrow, soon all my outstanding physical attributes will lie still and ineffectual. So I've heard. My body will eventually rot away, soon to be forgotten forever.

I am Captain John Orr: killer, mass murderer, psychopath. Sure, the verdict isn't in, but I'm not contesting my crimes. I have no regrets over the lives I've taken. I'd do it again.

"Beyond the pale. Crimes beyond the pale." That's what that fool of a judge has been say'n since the trial began. I can't imagine impartiality has ever been his strong suit.

Who knows, they may come for me tonight, in the dark, unwilling to wait for the scales of justice to balance. They only await a verdict to validate my crimes before all the world before they make their move. But haven't they got that already? The whole world agrees. It's all over every news service. Why should they wait any longer? Why should I care anymore?

After I'm dead, only the virtuous acts that may have momentarily graced my life, along with my many sins, will comport my future state of being. How can I deny the justice in that?

Does the cell door really sound that loud from the inside? Or is my mind playing tricks on me? The clunking of key and lock; is it simply the abhorrence of captivity that magnifies such sounds to excruciating volumes? The noise of my door opening reverberates hollow off the walls of my cell?

"Get up Orr." Sergeant Archibald Gatsby barks in his bland unconcerned mid-western grumble.

"It's a bit early, isn't it?" I ask. The sergeant stands tall before me, his shoulders slightly hunched with age. I've known the man some fifteen years. He puts his Teutonic ancestors to shame in both build and valor. His age wrinkled face only makes his hard angular features all that more fearsome. "Are they that anxious to get rid of me?"

"You have a visitor." Gatsby answers his eyes uncharacteristically show slight signs of heartache.

Two measly examples of the county's finest step in after him, one an Asian of some sort and the other black. The two young officer's eyes widen at the sight of me. Their faces droop into an embarrassing stupor. 'If only they could see themselves.'

I'm sitting on the edge of my bunk. I leap up and take one, just one, quick lurch of a step forward. "Who are these newbies?" I sneer as the two young officers duck back out the doorway. One fumbles for his nightstick. The other drops the shackles, my shackles, in a clatter of steel upon the concrete floor of the detention facility.

"Leave them alone Orr." Gatsby sighs.

"You're not afraid of me Gatsby, are you?" I muse as I size up the two deputies.

"I've seen too much to be afraid of much of anything." He tries to convince me.

"You mean you're too old to care anymore." I huff back.

"You might have something there." Gatsby admits folding his arms across his chest as he leans a shoulder against the wall.

The two deputies re-present themselves in defiant posture. I stare them down. Their mouths open but the audible part of their words escape them.

Legs shoulder width apart. Hands out in front." Gatsby orders as if talking to himself.

The deputies proceed in their duties with obvious trepidation. Funny the things that will make you smile.

"If they take any longer with my jewelry here visiting hours will be over." I scoff at the jittery deputies as they try for the third time to secure my chains. The cold of the waist chain chills my skin through my one piece orange fashion wear.

"She'll wait." Gatsby slides a cutting look my direction.

'Note to self; I hate Gatsby.' as I feel my gut knot.

I hate shackles. I hate the shackle shuffle, yet I shuffle down the corridor. It looks like you're trying too hard to try to just plain walk, so I shuffle. My head high shoulders back I shuffle. I shuffle like no one's shuffled before. I man can feel proud over something like that.

Gatsby throws open the interview room door and steps back with a smirk.

I shuffle around into the doorway, "Hey there doll." I smile wondering if she will ever understand. I am her husband after all. I tried to tell her, but here she is again. You'd think she understand by now with her fragrant soft flowing ivory skin, ...voluptuous breasts. I see them covered only in her long brown waves of hair, her brown eyes gazing upon me in heavenly glow.

"Sit down." Gatsby shatters my dream.

I sit, leering at a memory. "Really?" I confront Gatsby as he looks to secure my chains to the table.

"Really."

I let him chain me down. "Now get lost." I rip.

"Just holler if you need me Dorthy." Gatsby consoles as he steps out.

"Thank you Archie." Dorthy answers in the soft sweetness of denial. She sits still and silent her tender gaze attempting to lock upon mine, but I wont let it. Gatsby closes the door.

I look up at the camera in the ceiling. "Just can't stay away, can you doll."

What are Captain Orr's crimes? You'll have to buy the upcoming book to find out. I hope to be releasing this collection of six short stories in September.

Another Deadline Missed

Yes, this post is late. I will have a mid-month snippet from one of my most recent short stories; promise.

A book of short stories, “More Struggles” is in the works as I work to get a novel, “Partisan of the Blue; The Dauntless Recruits”, and a novelette, “Life on the Farm”, revised and ready for some editing. “More Struggles” will include at least six short stories; “Natural Law” and “Beyond the Pale” to name two that are in the works.

Also the epic Chuck Hammer novel advances bit by bit. I will have two teaser excerpts in “More Struggles”.

The garden has distracted me, but I am writing quite a bit now. After touting Reedsy my internet page advertisement side bars have been filled with adds for Kirkus; another company I have mentioned before. This company, Bookplex, came up on my Facebook page and it explains a lot about the similar sounding reviews I find when searching for a good book for free via Amazon Prime.

As of now, Reedsy helps motivate me to write. They offer a free platform with potential editors for hire right at my finger tips, for when I get that far. It is almost like having a team behind you without having a team.

I read many an acknowledgement by self-published authors on how many people helped them with their book. Unfortunately they must often be getting the wrong kind of help. For example, I read a pretty good story by Marco Kloos. It is a bit simple in its first person narrative but very intriguing. I was enjoying the book until it suddenly became a whole lot of telling rather than showing. I still liked the book and may try another when my favorite sci-fi series leaves me waiting for the next release.

On the other hand, Ryk Brown released the first in his second set of fifteen stories in his sci-fi series. I found a marked improvement in his telling rather than showing and it makes the book even more enjoyable than the others. Perhaps he added to or changed part of his team.

So, I learn as I read and write and though I am behind schedule, my books will be better for it.

I will post the opening for “Beyond the Pale” on June 15th. I will complete this short story but am questioning whether I will publish it.

Does missing deadlines make me a real writer?

Ghost Stories

Am I writing a ghost story or two? You’ll have to wait and see. Reedsy just announced that their service package now includes ghost writers. Is Reedsy the Amazon or Google of the self-publishing world; that company that can innovate beyond its’ predecessors? Hard to say. It may be the haven determined self-publishers are looking for as the gold rush of self-publishing implodes upon itself.

Do I need a ghost writer? Or do I need a good team of editors and a mentor that can push me on? At my age, experience and rate of production the idea of a ghost writer is far from repulsive.

No, I don’t want to put out formula work. I want to stand out as a writer. However, would it be easier, quicker, for a ghost writer to rewrite my refined drafts, or easier and quicker to work with a team of editors? I imagine there would be a lot more back and forth with a team of editors.

Then, who am I as a writer? Can I write any small work on my own without a discernable difference in refinement being noticeable. I actually would rather hire a ghost writer to co-write in that case. That, to make it clear the variances that may present in my works.

I will definitely look into the idea. Three completely drafts of various lengths and an epic novel under development mean little if I can’t get them out; and I aint get’n any younger. For now ‘Ike’ our dog is taking all our money.

Never fear. The creative juices are flowing again. Stories are arising in my brain looking for a way out. This is the year that will determine if I can make anything of being an author, in part or full.

Thank you for reading.

The Call of the Wild - Death and Taxes

Nature themes; a theme for my written works better suited to my world view? but what can one do as he watches the world go crazy around him? Perhaps retreat into nature and focus on the wonders of nature, life and death, and delve into its’ mysteries with pen and notebook.

But to what end? Am I even going to be around that much longer? And how? Money; everything requires money and the tax man takes it all.

Spring draws my attentions to tasks of a physical nature. The yard, the garden and dreaming of actually exercising regularly. Even those tasks suffer however when the tax man comes calling.

My ambition wanes, not only when I do not have a positive cash flow, but especially when every penny we earn for the next month, including those earned the previous three months, is earmarked for the tax man; income tax, sales tax and don’t forget the Winter utility bills and a quarterly water bill that has increased 700% since we purchased our house.

Then the brakes on our car went bad. A mucked up caliper stealing our MPG and wearing down the pad and disk with a speed few would be quick enough to respond so as to minimize the destructive force assailing our mode of transportation.

One of these days Microsoft may create a solution to Googles operating changes so that Windows Live Writer will once again work with Blogger. Until then the dated Blogger platform stifles my blogging creativity.

Have you recognized that my blog post is late this month? Yet the writing edges forward, bit by bit.

Much more to come soon.

Thank you for reading. Thank you for caring.

Hope

Hope springs eternal. At times however, that spring is but a trickle. I must apologize that I have not been as vigorous in my writing as I should have been. Over a month ago my external hard drive, upon which all my work transcribed to Word rested, went missing. I searched everywhere; despair and hope battling, wearing on my heart and soul.

I said to myself, “You’ve only lost about 50,000 words. Your completed works are already published. Most of your pictures of note are on the cloud via blog posts.”

So I went to Reedsy. I started putting down my latest short story on their platform. “I’ll just fight through it. Reedsy may be a better place to record and track my work. The editors are right there. It will work out better.”

Then, the other day, I slid my laptop into my soft sided briefcase designed for laptops and such. Smack. It would not drop clear into the bag. “Did I put the camera in the bag?” I pondered. I reached in and there it was. Leaning out from behind a sleeve that lines the main pocket; my external hard drive. After being lost for over a month I found it.

Found it?

Problem. I had pulled everything out of my bag five times over in my previous searches. I had run my hands into and over every pocket sleeve and surface multiple times. It was not in the bag. My wife did not put it in the bag. She had done a bit of searching herself.

The external hard drive was pin protected and the files required a password to open.

So how did it get there? Where had it been and how did it get back? Does it have retractable legs?… Have you see the latest and greatest robot on the web? I would be nicer to him if I were the guy testing Mr. Robot out.

I have meant for the longest time to edit, make an addition not a correction, to a previous post long past. It is the post where I described how a small action camera I had set up disappeared. That camera reappeared two months after that post. It also materialized in a place I had searched many times over; a tiny basket in which I kept its’ USB cord.

So I was initially inspired when I found the hard drive. My writing surged but not for long. Missing money, a dog, extremely active, that we find cowering in a corner when we come home on some nights, and other unusual events and conversations with my family have worn heavily on me over the years. What is going? Why, apparently, will does this not end by force of my goodwill, forgiveness and long suffering? Does goodness hold no weight in this world?

Now I question if I should even try to access the drive.

I told the story of my external hard drive to my brother this Saturday and his response was, “I have nothing to do with it.” and went on as if it had been merely misplaced.

I have good reason to suspect my family, the rationalizations and supposed justifications for their actions too dark to detail here.

Of course I may be, have been, under John Doe investigations for the last decade or longer. I recently have been treated strangely at our bank. My neighbors have been shunning me for the last two years. I got shocked perplexed looks from some in my social endeavors. My “No Sanction” blog has become increasingly political.

Bottom line, this stalking has taken a greater toll on my wellbeing and productivity than I had previously realized. I am having trouble sleeping and feel exhausted the moment I sit down to write. Are lawyers my only recourse? I have a good idea of where to start. Of course they would need to know where the money is; their fee.

Money; it makes all the difference. I chase industry in my life not money. Industry is a goal, an attribute, hard found when one exists in a void, without a catalyst, such as a job, to facilitate its’ development. Self driven, under duress I must regroup and set my mind back to my schedule and strive once more to produce something I believe of value not just to myself but to the larger society.

Perhaps someday the products of my heart, mind, soul and body will be of value to someone. As of now “I have no money.”

“What did you say?” (It is from a song, sorry)

Thank you for reading. God Bless.