The Final Curtain1
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The light bright sorrel mare with a flaxen mane and tail came to the fence, quickly ate the apple, turned and trotted off neighing and twirling in a delightful display of ‘thanks’! I laughed along with its joy and it pranced around in a circle, eyeing me in my joy.
“Come, ‘Happy’,” I called, and it came to the fence again.
I rubbed ‘Happy’s’ long snout and leaned over the fence and kissed her between the eyes, her tail wagging with delight.
“Would you like me to ride you this afternoon? I’ll ride you bareback and forget that old saddle. Would you like that?”
Happy lifted its regal head in a definite yes.
Wearing sneakers, denims, and a pale blue tee-shirt I put my left foot on the middle wooden crossing on the fence and jumped aboard Happy.
“Okay, Happy, I’ve got your mane, run with the wind and get some exercise.”
Much like a race horse, ‘Happy’ broke and dashed away, accustomed to my near-200-pound weight and knew that I was not worried about her speed. Off she went down into the pasture-land of our 500-acre ranch.
It was a glorious day with clear blue sky and slight zephyr-like breezes as ‘Happy’ galloped, careful not to make sudden turns as I was without benefit of saddle and stirrups and possibly could lose my balance. I gave ‘Happy’ her freedom of direction and hanged on to her mane, leaning forward with my chin almost touching her bobbing head.
There was a stand of trees and a knoll after clearing the pasture and ‘Happy’ took me in that direction. The exhilaration of the ride was what I so badly needed after the argument with Margo over the bills and the money to pay them.
The thing was, we had no financial problems. We had money to live on for the rest of our lives. There was no need to worry, to fret about bills and the paying of them. Margo came from a good solid background of Irish ancestry and instilled in her was sort of frantic penchant for keeping up with and paying monthly bills instantly.
So, we argued to the point of my becoming irritated with the senseless argument and walked away from her as she continued to rail on about the bills.
She would be fine by the time I returned from this Saturday morning gallop, and, definitely, so would I.
On the knoll and now slowed to a canter, ‘Happy’ seemed somehow disturbed by something, “What is it, ‘Happy’? An animal of some kind, a snake? It was as if I expected ‘Happy’ to answer me, but then, I, too, heard the desperate sound that was upsetting her, actually, more a scream some distance away. I tugged at ‘Happy’s’ Mane toward the direction of the scream and headed in that direction.
There, between the trees, a man was assaulting a woman. ‘Happy’s’ baying got the man’s attention as I nudged ‘Happy’ to move faster toward the assault.
When ‘Happy’ slowed, I jumped from the horse and collided with the now standing man, half-dressed and menacing with a knife in his right hand. I dodged one thrust from the knife, and ‘Happy’ weaving head dodged the next thrust…at least, I thought so. But, in my side vision I saw blood running down ‘Happy’s’ neck area. That infuriated me and I rushed, tackled the man, and slammed my fists into his body and face. His knife went flying as kept up my own assault, mindful of the weeping lady and my wounded ‘Happy’.
When the man no longer moved I assumed he was unconscious and rose from his body. Checking on ‘Happy’s’ wound I found it was just a scratch. As I turned toward the lady, she yelled, “He’s getting up.” I turned and with my right haymaker the man went down and stayed down. ‘Happy’ moved over the man and placed a front hoof on his chest.
The lady had stopped sobbing. She told me what happened. She thought he was a nice guy. She met him at a girlfriend’s afternoon party, and he invited her to go for a ride in his new Corvette.
I looked off to the right and there was a shiny white Corvette parked on the shoulder of the farm road. I reached inside the man’s denim left pocket and found the car keys for the Corvette and slipped them into my own pocket.
The young lady was not seriously hurt. ‘Happy’ and I came along just in time. I went to the Corvette and marked the license plate in my head. I got astride ‘Happy’ and pulled the young lady up and behind me. We went back to the ranch house and found my wife standing by the fence with tears in her eyes.
I kissed my wife and introduced the young lady whose name she had not given. Lacy LaGreen was her name, and I knew the family.
I first called the police, gave directions to the man and his car, told them I had his car keys and would give them up when a resolution was made on the man’s assault and/or I would pass them on to the police for their disposition, to relay them on to the man’s family.
The young lady was most thankful to ‘Happy’ and me. Lacy would become both a good friend of my wife and me, but, to ‘Happy’s’ delight, a new riding partner.
The young man would eventually get a reduced sentence of 30-days jail time, and would blame the assault on too much alcohol.
Flash Fiction by Billy Ray Chitwood -October 21, 2018
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The Long Lingering Night
“So, your answer is, no. You won’t go?”
“Hey, you can go. You don’t need me to go.”
“You said you would go, Charlie.”
“C’mon, Beth, Sweetheart, I’m working here on the laptop, and the final edit is going really well right now. It’s selfish, I know, but I’ll make it up to you. “
“Okay, I’ll go alone. This is the last night ‘The Sting’ is in town and I’m not going to miss them.”
“Good. I don’t want you to miss them, though I wish you would get Carol or someone to go with you.”
“No, I’m going alone. Go ahead, work on your book. I know it’s important to you.” Beth leaned down and gave Charlie a kiss. “See you later.”
“So, you’re not mad?”
“No, not mad. Love you, Charlie.” Beth yelled as she exited the front door.
“Love you, too. Enjoy,” Charlie yelled back to the closing door, immediately retreating back into his laptop and his final draft.
Having lost all track of time Charlie looked in the lower right-hand corner of his laptop screen and saw the time was 1:14 AM.
He worked six straight hours without a potty-break, without food or drink, all evening, and, now he sat smiling. He finished the final draft of his book, and the ‘dream channel’ began in his head, those wonderfully wild thoughts of acclaim and 5-Star Reviews…
He was so wrapped up in his accomplishment, he forgot Beth.
“Beth,” he yelled loudly, and not a response. Ah, she slipped in, saw him lost in his work and went to bed.
He rose from his swivel desk chair, stretched, and went to the bedroom.
Bed made. No Beth.
Hmmm. The concert would be over by now.
There came a quick stab of alarm and shame. He let Beth go to a concert by herself. Concerts were rowdy, always ultra-loud, with lots of booze and dope being consumed.
Oh, Christ, what kind of man was he? Letting his wife go into the night alone without him? How could he do that to her? His ‘writing’ was more important than his wife? You are a miserable sap!
Okay, stop with the self-recriminations!
What the hell was he to do?
Wake her up at 1:30 in the AM?
Well, damn, He had to do something! Yes, call Carol.
Carol’s phone rang, Charlie was counting the rings, and, on the ninth, he was about to hang up when a gruff and sleepy voice answered.
“Oh, Leonard, I didn’t know you were back from your business trip, sorry to wake you…”
“What the hell do you want this time of night, Charlie, for Christ’s sake?”
“Is Carol with you?”
“What the hell kind of question is that at 1:33 in the morning?”
“I’m really sorry, Leonard, but, dammit, Beth isn’t home from the concert, and I’m worried about her. Did Carol go with her?”
Now, with more concern for his friend, “No, she’s here beside me in bed. Hey, Charlie, Beth probably met a lady friend and she’s having after-concert drink. Can’t believe you let her go alone, Charlie!”
“Believe it, Leonard, I’m a bastard… And, no, she wouldn’t do that, Leonard. She wouldn’t stop for drinks. Beth would know I’d be worried.”
“Why didn’t you go with her, Charlie. I thought that was your plan.”
“Well, it was, Leonard, but I wanted to wrap up the final draft of my book.”
“I’m feeling your pain, Charlie, but, damn, you should have gone with her.”
“I know. Oh, how I know!”
“Check hospitals, Charlie. Check in with the police, but they’ll probably tell you they have to wait 48-hours before they can do anything. I’m sorry, Pal, that’s all I got. If anything occurs to me. I’ll call you. Carol’s awake now wanting to know what’s going on. Get back to us when you find out something, Charlie.”
The two friends disconnected.
For the next few hours, Charlie called hospitals, police stations in all jurisdictions in the metro area of Phoenix. Some he called twice.
He was now crying at intervals, beside himself for being such an idiot to let Beth go alone to the concert. He could do nothing but wait … Wait for what?
“Oh, God!” the tears came again.
He was totally lost, his mind blank but sending ugly themes of what might have happened. He tried to be rid of them by walking, making more coffee, drinking more coffee, and his pain was joined by a bone weariness. He was like a man drunk, drugged, without the power of any more thought.
The book. The damned book! His inveterate, his incorrigible addiction to writing had caused him to lose his wife, if not forever, for this time, for this agonizing time…
Something about the book. Something in the book about one of the women characters. What was it? Come on, man, you wrote the damned book! What is it?
Then, it came to him, softly at first, then sharply like a razor slice of beard. But, Beth? Not Beth! No, that could not be the answer. Beth would not do that.
He rose from his swivel chair, went to the garage. The car was parked in the garage. What the hell?
He went back into the house, scratched his head, went to the guest bedroom.
There, the covers pulled snugly up to her chin, lay his sleeping beauty!
Charlie had never experienced a happier moment in his life. His love, his wife was safe from harm.
He smiled, removed his clothes, tossed them on the stuffed chair in the corner, and slipped into bed with his no longer missing Beth.
He wrapped his arms around her, pulled her gently to him, kissed her with softness she could not resist.
They lingered there through their love-making, through the deep sighs of love and oneness…
Just before they faded and fell into their night’s long slumber, he smiled and said: “You know, you might have broken some copyright laws tonight! The very idea, using one of my literary characters as an object lesson for your husband.”
“Oh, be quiet, my darling, and go to sleep.!”
Flash Fiction by Billy Ray Chitwood
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©Thoughts of an Assassin
He watched from his secret spot above the street, his telescope adjusted for maximum clarity. The time on the tower clock showed 5:25 PM and the sun was getting lower in the western sky. Soon, on the lower horizon, the lucid orange colors would come, would dazzle the ‘romantics’ in the crowd of life’s living lovers …
He grinned at his thoughts:
Where else would the sun be at this time of night but in the western sky? Remarkable how we people speak and think so often in grandiose terms, adding the delicate modifier words to an important moment we’re describing, to a person we’re praising, to an object of devotion.
Hah! Am I just now succumbing to the art of poetry? Ah, the mind can bewitch and tease us in so many ways … Laura taught me that. Dear, beautiful, Laura, you introduced me to so much in life. We went to those romantic places you made so vivid for me in your telling. You were alive in a world I never knew, a political world you loved and believed in, a world you shared for a while with me, a simple man, unschooled in the finer etiquettes of life, a man who shunned the crowds, sought only his lonely miserable solitude in introverted and fearful insignificance…
He looked at his watch. The posted time for the politician’s arrival at the square was only twenty-five minutes away. He licked his lips but only because they were dry from being out in the open so long. He ran his open palm back through his sandy hair. It would not be long now.
He was at the party by chance. His old college friend, his only friend, had insisted he attend with him because he was ‘worried about your own introverted and quaint nature’, his friend said, and I shall never know how it was he convinced me to go with him. And, there, I sat in a golden stuffed love seat in a corner of the huge ornate room while a soft roaring of incessant chatter from small huddled groups came resoundingly to my ears.
The robotic roving waiter in black and white brought me my second Manhattan, and as I timidly took a sip I saw you, Laura, walking toward me, your long flowing colorful hair with a streak of peroxide somehow adding and sculpting the rest of your gorgeous body, tightly caressed by the burgundy gown and gold trim. As you neared me, I gulped for I saw that you were about to speak and the awful fear gripped and held me stupefied. Your beauty notwithstanding, my onset of paralysis was an awful discomfort mixed with both anxiety and a modicum of hope. It dawned on me to stand in meeting a lady, and that began the only three years of my life that would come to have meaning.
We fell in love so effortlessly and hopelessly. It was you, Laura who taught me the manners and the ways of culture and refinement…to the extent they could be taught to me. It was you, dearest Laura, who taught me love. The happiness and the love shared by the two of us, our trips to far-away places, the few friends with whom we shared some special moments, all would be the stuff of painting, poetry, songs. Then, you were gone, taken from me by a foolish political ploy that caused your death…and, my death.
He checked his watch. Five minutes. With his gloved hands he opened the long leather case, assembled easily, quickly all parts of the high-powered long-range rifle, the telescopic sight, the barrel, checked its heft, took a test-pose to check scope, and leaned back against the short roof wall…and waited.
Laura, my one and only love, this is for you. There is something within me that cannot allow this man to live, this man who took your life from me. Not through love did he take your life, but through a ruse that would cause your death and my only real reason for living.
I know you would not approve of my action here, my love, but men measure equities and losses in different ways than do beautiful women. But, still, I will ask you to forgive me this frailty of mind and body that urges me on to fulfill this deed. And, please, if there is that divine gate on golden shores of after-life, please be waiting to open that gate for me, dear lady of my heart.
The tall handsome man stood, took his position at the parapet, kneeling, sighting, as the black limousine came to a stop at the beautiful flower-laden square. The tower clock struck six lovely tones. All the secret service people came from the vehicles, gathered near the politician responsible for the man’s deep sorrow. The politician took his first step from the limousine.
A gunshot pierced the early evening air, unheard by the cheering crowds below.
The man lay dead on the roof floor by the short wall, blood slowly seeping from his head wound.
There was static heard only on the building’s roof, and these words: “Subject target eliminated. The president entourage may continue.”
Billy Ray Chitwood – October 14, 2018
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Now, I turn to my good wife, Julie Anne, to perhaps leave the philosophical depths and render a more ethereal synopsis of that lovely Sunday… [BRC]
I’m an old man! Who cares what an old says or writes? My wife cares. My kids and grandkids care. My friends care. And, I care – about my family and my country.
Where is the comity?
Was there ever comity?
Have I gone mad?
Has the world gone mad?
What world am I living in?
A man lives a virtuous life devoted to Law and Order, has a spotless record in his advancement toward the Supreme Court, has a beautiful family, coaches little kids, giving them some semblance of something called sportsmanship and values for living. He is nominated for the highest court in the land…
I just erased several lines, trying for erudition. To hell with erudition… I’m angry! The words from an old movie come to me: “I’m mad as hell! and I’m not going to take it anymore!” Good movie: Peter Finch and William Holden. But I already stray from my course…
A good man is being brutalized before our very eyes, and I’m sitting here ‘mad as hell’ at these left-wing power-hungry idiots who have no problem at all destroying a human being, his family, his hard work, his LIFE! And, I’m mad as hell at the right-wingers who try to pacify these idiots.
My good God! What the hell are we doing to this country, this paragon of freedom and liberty, this beacon of hope that stretches far and wide across the earth? No details are needed to describe the situation unfolding before us – unless someone is having a ‘Rip Van Winkle’ moment.
A good and decent man who wishes to further his distinguished public and judiciary service to our country is being made to look like a ‘Jack the Ripper’ in drag’. This man sits through gruelling days of testimony, patiently presenting his answers to a committee made up of conservative and liberal interrogators. The key word in the last sentence is ‘patiently’ because this good man finds his response time interrupted time and time again by left-wing, PAID, protestors PLUS organized interruptions by Democratic committee members themselves who have their ‘talking points’ from their inglorious leaders (names not given because the writer might regurgitate!)
Having sat through all of that plus many days before the hearing his name dragged through the ‘swamp’ of Washington, DC, out comes a paper-thin obvious ‘stall tactic’ of a professor who says, 36 years ago, this good man who attended a Catholic Boys School and on into Yale Law School, held her down in a locked bedroom while a friend of his watched, but this woman cannot recall the place, the time, on and on. Now, this woman might very well have been subjected to such an awful time in her life, but the attorneys for this woman are using her for stall tactics time and again and will keep on with more women to come forward with more ‘creative attorney BS’, all to destroy this good man’s reputation and his family, all to incite the ‘crazies’ to send threats of ‘death’ to his family members. The women may very well have had some issues as described, but they are being used by the left liberals who will likely ultimately destroy them as well.
The good man answered by saying he ‘categorically’ and ‘unequivocally’ denied these charges. He appeared on a TV program denying vehemently these charges, his pain and anguish showing in his face. His wife sat also in anguish and pain beside him. He held back tears that could have easily come. The good man said he simply wanted a ‘process’, an honest forum to hear each side. He did not scream invective – I did that for him as I sat watching this good man endure his suffering.
My good God! ENOUGH! I may be a damned dinosaur, but this is pure unadulterated and horribly structured lies and innuendo to kill a man’s dreams, his good name, and his family. He was clear in his description of himself, speaking of private details of which a man should not have to speak.
I guess it’s true! We are in a ‘Cival War’!
Which side do we take? The side that hates the peoples’ choice for president, a man not eloquent as some we’ve seen, but a man who has this country thriving again, hates him enough to cause this good man and his family an emotional devastation, all for ‘POWER’, power to lead us down a road to destruction, to take us to their power and dominance, telling people how to live and think, destroying people on their way toward some sort of Marxist Manifesto, ‘take from those who have more’ and ‘give to those who have less’, forgetting what this great land was built on. Apparently, history texts were not available to some of these apparent ‘socialists’! Their way has never worked in history and never shall it work. When a government deincentivises an individual by taking more of that for which he works, the road is downhill from that point on. That is my belief, and it’s my hope that the majority of the American people believe as I do.
I’ve had my say! AND, very likely, too much for some! For my friends of another persuasion, I mean no disrespect to you and your beliefs. For me, it was a need to fulfill.
Conservatives, do not let this happen to our country. CALL for a vote on this good man’s entry into the Supreme Court.
IT IS THE RIGHT THING TO DO!
Billy Ray Chitwood – September 25, 2018
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The Friday Reminder and Prompt for #SoCS Sept. 22/18 LindaGHill
Prompt for #SoCS Sept. 22/18 LindaGHill
Prompt words: -Flour and Flower-
“A Hasty Live-In”
“Hi, Judy Lou, that your travel bag at the door?”
“Yeah, it is.”
“You going somewhere?”
“Alreddy got here. Gonna spin tha weekend with yu an Suzy Mae.”
“Oh, you are, huh …umm…where is Suzy Mae?”
“She’s in the kitchen. She’s fixin sumthin you like, I theenk! Rekin you air glad ta-be home from work, huh, , Sam?”
“Yeah, I’m glad, Judy Lou. Well, you keep watching television, Judy, and I’ll go see Suzie, okay?”
“Shore, it’s okay. It’s yur partment, ain’t it?”
“Well, yes it is! Oh, there were flowers in a vase on that end-table. You know where those flowers are, Judy Lou?”
“No, I don’t, Sam. I shore diden takem.”
“Oh, I know you wouldn’t take them, Judy Lou. Okay, guess Suzy Mae put them somewhere else. You go ahead and watch television, Judy.”
(*Sam walks into the kitchen*)
“What’s that smell, Suzy Mae?”
“Oh, yor home early, Sam. That smell’s yur dinner and it’s almost dun. I fixed that Tenasee gulosh resapee you gave me. You wanna a lil taste afore I dish up? Now, it’s hot! So be curful!”
(*Sam tastes a spoonful of the goulash*)
“Well, you know, it’s … ouch! … what’s this sharp little thing that’s in that goulash?”
“Well, I rekin it’s from the flours, Sam. How’s it taste?”
“It doesn’t ‘taste’, Suzy Mae! It hurts! It pricked my tongue! Did you say, flowers, Suzy?”
“Yep, at’s what I sed ! Whatta yu meen, Sam, it priked you tongue! Jus how air yu meening that, Sam? ”
“Suzy! Suzy Mae, stop stirring that pot for a minute! You telling me you put flowers in that goulash, those beautiful flowers I brought home last night?”
“Well, yeow, but I put’em in that blender afore I put’em in the pot. That’s what you told me ta put in the stew/”
“No, Suzy, you were supposed to put flour, f-l-o-u-r, in the goulash, not, flower, f-l-o-w-e-r! Those were artificial flowers, Suzy! That’s just crazy, Suzy Mae!”
“Well, I thaught that’s whot you wanted, Sam, Dam! Now, yor mad at me.”
“Now, stop crying, Suzy Mae, it’s alright! Just a mistake on my part. It’s okay! Stop crying, now! Know what, I’ll take you and Judy Lou out to dinner. We’ll go and have some Kentucky Fried Chicken. How’s that?”
“You ain’t mad at me nun? I Iuv that Kentuckee fried chicken, Sam! I’m shor soree bout the flours, Sam, that prik an all … wotevur yur meenin is!”
“No, I’m not mad at you, Suzy! Here, let me turn the stove off, and we’ll go upstairs and get ready to go out for dinner…come on, now.”
(‘Man, if she wasn’t built like Gina Lollobrigida, I wouldn’t be coming home from work tomorrow!)
Billy Ray Chitwood – 9/22/18
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Greetings! Welcome to the 3rd RRBC “TREAT” Reads Blog Hop! These members of RRBC have penned and published some really great reads and we’d like to honor and showcase their talent. Oddly, all of the listed Winners are RWISA members! Way to go RWISA!
We ask that you pick up a copy of the title listed, and after reading it, leave a review. There will be other books on tour for the next few days, so please visit the “HOP’S” main page to follow along.
Also, for every comment that you leave along this tour, including on the “HOP’S” main page, your name will be entered into a drawing for a gift card to be awarded at the end of the tour!
Author, Gwen Plano
Book: LETTING GO INTO PERFECT LOVE
Book Blurb: Inspiring and unforgettable, Letting Go into Perfect Love is a riveting account of a journey through the terror of domestic violence to a faith that transforms all. As a college administrator, Gwendolyn M. Plano lived her professional life in a highly visible and accountable space–but as a wife and mother, behind closed doors, she and her family experienced unpredictable threat. The statistics are staggering–every 9 seconds in the United States, a woman is assaulted or beaten–but to Gwen, this was her secret; it was her shame. When her husband eventually turned his brutality on her son, she knew she could no longer remain silent.
Alternately heart-wrenching and joyful, this is a story of triumph over adversity–one woman’s uplifting account of learning how to forgive the unforgiveable, recover her sense of self, bring healing into her family, and honor the journey home. Accompanied by glimpses of celestial beings, Gwen charts a path through sorrow to joy–and ultimately, writes of the one perfect love we all seek.
Ah, it’s Monday! I’ve done my exercises! I’ve shaved, showered, had my one cup of coffee, my English Muffins – crisp, with butter, cream cheese, and strawberry preserves, my glass of milk, and I’ve thanked my good wife. Oh, and I’ve given Lady Gray her ‘Temptations’ treat!
Except for the exercises, shave, and shower, all the rest takes place laid-back in my ‘Lazy-boy’ recliner. Hey, just saying, everybody has to be somewhere!
Then comes my ‘think period’. I’m writing my seventeenth novel. It’s a fictionalized mind-buzz about an actual crime here in my state (my geographic location), and I’m really on a ‘tear’, letting the words fly onto that magical laptop screen. The ‘think period’ comes with a perfect harmony. Julie Anne is reading her book! Lady Gray is taking one of her frequent naps under the coffee table in front of Julie Anne. My strange ‘Musical Ear Syndrome’(MES to doctors) is playing soft music in my left ear, all is right with the world.
The ‘think period’!
Okay, I left my story yesterday with the lead suspect in jail and my ‘good guys’ off for cards and libations at the star-character’s country club.
So, I’m thinking: what’s the next action? You see, I’m a ‘pantser’ or a ‘plantser’ – I’m still deciding. I do fly by the seat of my Bermuda shorts or swim trunks, meaning I don’t plan a whole lot, or wear a whole lot! (You know, there are times when I just give away too damned much information!). I have a general idea of where I want to go, but I let the characters take me wherever that might be. The only real organizing I do is Character names, places, and a general idea of where I want the action and end-point to go. For this particular book the events are familiar to me, so I allow the ‘buzz’ to happen. So far, I’m really liking the pace of it all. Yes, I know! I can dupe myself on occasion!
So, I’ve interrupted my ‘think period’ by this post, and now I’m tired! See, I include you folks out there, invite you into my world, and so many of you don’t buy my books. Tell you what! I’ve got a short 99-cent compilation of some of my short writings, poems, and flash fiction. Like wine, it’s a taster, a sampler of my writing style. Try it out! KENTUCKY KERNELS – https://goo.gl/Nh9scv (US) and https://goo.gl/9gFLNQ (UK) … If you like it, buy one of my longer novels, like, MAMA’S MADNESS, a jarring and frightening story that ruined so many of my days in writing it – about a mother who tortures, kills two of her teen-age daughters. It’s inspired by a true crime event.
So, I’m going to rest maybe five, ten, minutes and get back to my 17th book!
Wishing you all a most enjoyable day!
BR Chitwood – September 17, 2018
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Why Am I Still Alive?
Ah, let me list the ways!
Why am I still alive?
To annoy people who tire of my sometimes pedantic and/or melancholy matters of the heart and mind!
A mechanic will tell you what’s wrong with your car, often times, not words you wish to hear!
“A cracked engine, you say! My God, man, don’t tell me that! Can’t you caulk it, put cement along the crack and seal it? I drove it in here! It was running fine! I just wanted gas! Now, you give me more gas than I wanted! You must be wrong! My engine cannot be cracked! I just drove this car off the showroom floor! You’re mad! Yor’re a scoundrel!”
Now, a noble ‘Romantic’ comes along to tell you that his words can bring you joy! If not joy, his words can bring you sadness! If not sadness, his words will speak to you of murder and mayhem, of love lost, regained! If not sadness, his words will squeal with fashioned glee he has never truly felt! But, then, what is a writer for but to create whatever it is you wish to feel!
Why am I still alive?
I’m still alive because I must, I need, I require before saying goodbye to my three fans and these earthly orbits a ‘Best Seller’ – allow me to repeat that, please: I must, I need, I require before saying goodbye to my four friends – I picked one up with just these first few lines – a BEST SELLER!
I’m still alive because I’m told by the Gods on Olympus that my time won’t be up until the frost on all pumpkins dehydrate at the same time and the world of Halloween knows no bounds. The Gods tell me I can even create an event that does not even exist!
Yes, it’s true! Take, for example, the fine scholar of a gentleman (or, perhaps, lady, for I know not the gender of ‘Anon’) who wrote: “Life is really simple! We people insist on making It complicated.”
Oh, where was I?
Oh, yes! The mind goes, you say, so it is written that I must be on way to death’s uncertain embrace! Yet, still, I beg to stay for that BEST SELLER! And, I shall stay until you merry lads and lassies fulfill that dream I carry in this villainous old head of mine… Oh, that reminds me, you get to see the steady decline of my head (that is to say, my brain!) but only after you give me my BEST SELLER!
So, ask not what you can do for other authors! Ask what you can dor for me!!!
I’m now working on my seventeenth novel! It is also that golden moment I’ve written of in this brilliant post: it is that BEST SELLER of which I speak…with the understanding that books I’ve already written should have had that high rank of BEST SELLER!
But, I shall trifle no longer with my quaint words which the Gods of Olympus provided me!
My acquaintances tell me that my subtlety is one of my finer traits, along with the ‘boy scout’ honor I’ve carried with me all these many years!
So, had you expected more than I’ve given here, I truly would like to be sorry! But, the Gods on Olympus speak to me directly and tell me not to be sorry! That, they say, shows weakness in my character. The Gods on Olympus also tell me leave now whilst I still might add my fifth friend.
The foregoing words relate so much better than I could speak it to you: Why I’m Still Alive! (Until age, 105, I hasten to say!)
Billy Ray Chitwood – September 16, 2018
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