Songs of the Soul

“Soul Songs Sung Softly…”

Songs of the Soul

By BR Chitwood

*

[This post is dedicated to Leah Chrestien:

https://theecstaticstoryteller.wordpress.com%5D

*

So many ‘mystic’ memories coalesce here in my soul, some too nightmarish and obscene on which to dwell, mentioned here only as side notes to a hitchhiking heart that would chase pellucid romantic illusions for a lifetime… Love, family, picket fence, without the negative side-scripts.

This incredible Romantic crusade brought me joy, love, and ultimate soul tremors until the inevitable ‘small things’ became too large, too cumbersome, and the sad ending would come. There, in that desolate mood of self-pity I would languish, absorb too much alcohol, settle for a lady of the evening, and awake in the mornings with hangovers and self-loathing…

This became the routine of my life. Having a college degree and good job, I worked in some sort of sloven capacity during the day, did some TV commercials and acting on the side, and it was seldom I was late for cocktail hour – party time, lady-chasing time, cocktail time.

I married, had kids, divorced in ten years. Must have liked ‘marrying’ because I did it again and again…until I found the ‘perfect lady’ for my imperfect self, NOT in a bar, but at the work-place. She is a lady of outstanding intellect and understanding, a patient person in our nuclear family.

Finally, I turned to my ‘first real love’, writing, I write novels inspired by true crimes, mysteries, thrillers, romance novels, a couple of memoirs, Science-Fic, et al. I’ve written twenty books, 400 blog posts, flash fiction, poetry, and short stories.

We live in Arizona with the Cacti family, the rattlesnake family, other homo sapiens.

I have mellowed with age, no more lady-chasing, bar-hopping, and booze. In fact, I’m a rather dull guy, care for my country, for all of the patriots who gave us freedom and liberty.

One last admission: there are at times the demons in the night, and youthful thoughts that give me hunger for that unruly past.

BR Chitwood – November 11, 2020

*

Website and Blog:

https://www.brchitwood.com

Advertisement

Apathy Wins the Day

Apathy Wins the Day

By BR Chitwood

*

A terrible thing, Apathy!

Insidious and mind-numbing!

Slow in its worm-wiggling through

The mind’s creative channels…

As the words, phrases, characters

Form on a small screen in front of the author…

*

The author comes to that screen

Because of his love for writing and shaping tales.

After twenty novels, some four hundred blog posts,

Accolades from writer friends and the public,

All have given me hope for commercial success…

True I’ve implemented no true marketing plans,

Relying on social media, my posts, and groups.

*

So, it would appear the minimal sales of my books

Have given birth to the ‘wiggly worm’ of apathy…

I have accepted the apathy reality and also the

Literary output, proud that many readers found

Pleasure in my humble efforts.

That, in many ways, is enough…plus a Legacy of sorts.

BR Chitwood – October 22,2020

https://www.brchitwood.com

*

One final word… I shall still write simply for the

Genuine ‘high’ that comes from a ‘turned phrase’,

And/or a passage that sparks an inner delight.

Times Square and Anna

“…when you caught between the moon and New York City”

©Times Square and Anna

By BR Chitwood

Sleep avoided me – could not find that one position that would settle into a comfortable and lengthy dream about a pretty lady and a ‘happy ending’. Since I was unattached and near thirty years of age, finding a Soul Mate had become the number one priority.

Truth be known, I gave up on the evening too early. Nothing turned my motor on in TV land and I concluded the funk was for real.

There was the one lovely lady at the Ad Agency, but we ran our course and found those things about each other that gnawed at us. I was beginning to think, maybe I should have worked harder at the relationship. But, no, when there is an unremovable block in an affair, the chances are nil to none for working it out.

I made my decision, got out of bed, put on some casual duds, brushed my thick short-cut black hair, sprayed on some Aramis, stepped out into the Manhattan night.

It was still relatively early in the evening, and I could hit some of the nicer lounges and dinner houses near Times Square. There were no cabs needed for those places. All were relatively short walks.

Weather-wise it was a lovely evening and the air was filled with restaurants’ steak smells with an essence blend, like, perfumes, colognes, a nice aromatic sensation.

Passing an alleyway near 5th Avenue, my ears picked up a sound down that dark stretch of a woman’s voice. It was not a fun and game kind of noise. There was repetition, panic building in each mouthed word and phrase. Clearly, there was a woman in trouble.

 These are moments for which I am not built. I am basically a coward, not wanting to engage in any kind of dangerous activity.

The woman’s distraught voice came again and again, my mind at war with itself.

Good God! What to do? I can’t just stand here, my body all atremble, like an automaton whose juice has been cut off.

I had to do something!

From whence it came I cannot begin to know. It was all alien to my way of life. Some inner force got me running toward the voice in trouble some 50-100 yards away. The darkness was thick black, the only wisps of light coming from an unclear sky and some old faded wall markers.

Somehow, within my suddenly activated body an unknown reservoir of bravery urged me on.

Fifty yards ahead I saw the man with a glistening object in his hand, holding down the woman with his legs, hitting her with his fist, ripping at her dress with the knife.

My footsteps and screams finally reached the ears of the assailant, and he attempted to get up and attack me, but the lady on the ground hit him full-force with her right foot to his crotch.

The man doubled over, and I rushed in and slammed my fists hard into his face and body. I don’t know how many times I hit the man, but he finally lay inert and completely out cold on the black pavement.

I went to the young dark-haired lady with blood on her cheeks and blouse, helped her to her feet. She held onto me for long moments and muttered ‘thank you, thank you’. As she clung to me with fingers eager for safe purchase, she told me her name was Anna Buckley. She looked to be her late twenties of early thirties…a very lovely lady.

I used my cell phone to call the police and ambulance. They both arrived quickly.

 “I’m so sorry, Anna, you’re hurt, but why were you in this alley way in the first place? My name, by the way is Grant Morehouse.”

“He grabbed me on the street, put his hand over my mouth and dragged me here. I’m sorry to involve you, Grant.”

“Hey, I finally did a heroic act, Anna. I’m as surprised as anyone in my world will be…. Are you feeling okay?”

“I think so. I’m a bit sore in places. Don’t think I’ll be working on society dress patterns tomorrow, however.”

“Ah, would that be ‘High Society, Inc.’?”

“Yes, it would.” She smiled through some pain.

“Good we’ll have the hospital check you out. I don’t think they will find anything major, just some bruising, maybe some cuts where he ripped your dress. I’ll stay with you at the hospital until the examination is over and we get a prognosis and how long they may want to keep you. That okay with you?’

“That would be wonderful, as long as it doesn’t interfere with your plans.”

“I have no plans, Anna. I was just taking a stroll because I couldn’t sleep. I’m just glad I could help.”

The police hauled the bad guy away, asked a few questions, and Anna was taken quickly to the hospital. I sat on a bench next to her as the ambulance swiftly sped through the streets of Manhattan. Along the way, we did some serious ‘Q&A’ and got better acquainted. Her last name went well with her first name – Anna Anselmo.

I went into the ER and stayed with her during a long wait for her examination. I stayed with her until her sister came to take her home – an apartment quite close to my own, as fate would have it.

My part in Anna’s assault still surprises me, how I reacted, and, somehow, I feel very good about myself and can see a quality within my psyche that awakens a proud part of me I never knew existed. It is no doubt natural that I see myself a bit differently now.

You deserve to know that Anna and I are seeing each other with some regularity. We have become quite attached…that’s enough for you to know at the moment.  

It’s still amazing to me that fate came along with me for my stroll that night, keeping me awake to life in Manhattan.

“…when you get caught between the moon and New York City…” For reasons I knew very well, “Arthur’s Song” would not leave my mind.

The End

***

Flash Fiction/Short Story by:

BR Chitwood

Website & Blog:

https://www.brchitwood.com

#Blog, #Short Story, #Flash Fiction, #violence, #BoyMeetsGirl, #IAN1, #RRBC, #asmsg, #thewritingcommunity, #Arthur’sSong, #CaughtBetweenTheMoon&NYC

hammer’s holy grail

Hammer’s Holy Grail​ 

by BR Chitwood

  
Synopsis:


This is a story of abuse, anger, love, and redemption! 


​Wesley Walton is a star-quarterback for the Grand View University Grinders. His former junior high school girlfriend, Wilma, now a cheerleader for Grand View is Wesley’s forever love, with no doubts about their lifetime commitment. 


Wesley not only battles his gridiron foes but an angry father’s Appalachian heritage. His father abuses Wes’ mother and sister on his frequent visits until a fateful hotel room altercation alters the lives of the family.


Wesley will meet a man ravaged by war and lost love, a man who has found peace within himself and accepts his spirituality. Fate dictates this man will become Wesley’s friend, mentor, and a most caring father-substitute.


If you like football, love stories, family relationships, and Christian values, you will find this novel a tribute to Faith, a sad refrain on the frequent frailty of ‘Man’!


The author enjoyed the writing of this book as he was able to go back in time and pick up some memories to build his characters and plot-line. The result of his efforts will hopefully resonate with readers of all genres.


​Whatever you’re reading, enjoy, and, leave an Amazon, Goodreads, and Book Bub book review. A book review for an author is solid motivation for more writing.

*

Amazon Universal BUY LINK:

mybook.to/B006WU22KS

*

READ SAMPLE:

Chapter One

The darkness and fog are palpable viscid sweat things crawling all over my flesh! A gentle wind stir comes and my skin does shiver dances. I swallow and it’s like I’m somewhere between passing out and regaining my breath. My eyes cannot be trusted. I rub my eyes and they project things that are not really there. My mind questions the logic that brought me to that decision. My concentration is drawn to these vague flashing images that keep popping up in spaces to the front, sides, and back of me… I figure it’s the mind doing its reckoning! I’m likely trying too hard to see and my brain is trying to accommodate me.

Okay, I admit it. I’m a big boy, scared. I mean, there is no way this world can be this dark and foggy. “Why?” Someone might ask, “are you so stupid to be standing where you’re standing?” The reason is really simple, but I’m going to make it complicated for you…not out of a warped and evil sense, but because this is a story I need to tell and it has some crazy turns and twists. Call it a weird psychological need if you want! That’s as good a description as any, but please understand, I have not lost all my marbles. Then, again, maybe my bio here is not so unusual a tale after all. Maybe you readers have experienced some of the same events in your life – only, framed differently. 

So, this little journey on which I’m taking you, please stay with me. An Epic? Probably not, but it might have some stuff that’ll stay with you for a while after I’m finished with the narrative – up to the point when I run out of words.

***

When I was a little boy, my crippled cousin had to have the light on during his dark bedtime hours. Now, I didn’t tease him about that but if I just forgot and mentioned it he chased me up one country road and down another. If I didn’t have a pretty good lead, he’d catch me. Then, we would end up wrestling until one of us said ‘Uncle’ – usually me!

We were best pals and I loved my club-footed cousin-buddy, but he would get madder than a frigging copperhead on LSD if anyone brought up sleeping with lights on. That’s not part of this rather complicated story, at least, not in a major way. This darkness and fog just has me thinking of JB – JB Hill, that’s his name. He’s the son of my Dad’s sister, Norma Hill. I don’t want you to think JB is so crippled everyone has to be sorry for him. He turns out later on to be a top scratch golfer. He’s gone now, died too darned early in his life because of some darned rare breathing illness. His sisters and brother were with him when he left us.

His wife should have been there with him when he died, but, earlier, JB caught her screwing the next-door neighbor, and my cousin beat the shit out of the neighbor and threw all her clothes – and her – out of the house. Sure, he was club-footed but he was no chicken yellow-belly. Nobody gave him any crap, that’s for sure.

Well, again, that’s not part of the complicated story either – but I won’t lead you on any further. It all starts with my sister, Sarah Lou. She’s sixteen going on twenty-four, if you get my drift, built like a brick shithouse, big boobs, long silky brown hair, great figure, pretty, and she reckons she’s the ‘cat’s meow’. It seems she knows early on she wants to taste some parts of life she is no way ready to taste.

I’m convinced Sarah Lou is the genuine product of her – and, my – dad. No question about it! He gets madder than hell and beats up on her and my Mom. Well, he did when he was coming around more. Dad has this fiery temper, and it’s his way or the highway, so to speak. This is when he’s visiting us. He and Mom are divorced, and Dad seems to have these demons inside him that make for crazy flip-outs at any moment. I’ve noticed his behavior changes when Mom mentions her side of the family – they don’t like Dad and he doesn’t like them.

Of course, that gut-searing corn whiskey could have something to do with it. He likes his hooch! He’s also tall, good-looking in a George Clooney kind of way (sort of!) and has a thing for the ladies.

How can I know that?

Well, that’s a whole different story, and it’s doubtful I’ll ever tell it! Well, anyhow, the genes running loose through Sarah Lou must be near-identical to Dad’s. Moving the story along, Sarah Lou turns sixteen and elopes with an army corporal, runs off to another state when the corporal gets transferred. Mom is heart-sick and scared because she knows she’s got to tell Dad the news. And, me, well, I’m scared right along with her.

You see, it’s just Mom and me since Sarah Lou eloped, and I sure have sleepless nights worrying about my dear sweet mother. She works so hard to make ends meet, has no time for socializing and being with her friends. It’s part of her nature to worry and fret about things. Did I fail to mention? My Mom is a beautiful lady, big brown eyes that sparkle and brown hair to go with them. She looks like a famous old-time movie star by the name of Claudette Colbert, famous actress during that golden era of Hollywood. Mom and I are fans of ‘old movies’.

Through some rough times, Mom has done her best to shelter my sister and me from all those emotional ills of divorce and the economic crises that rise from working sometimes two jobs. She has done well by Sarah Lou and me despite the troubles she’s had to bear. Dad’s visits end up most of the time in bad arguments and fights. As a young kid, I saw him too often physically abuse Mom and, somehow, I still love the man. That’s enough ugly truth for a few sentences. Suffice it, Mom worked hard and got me through high school where I played quarterback for the football team and got a scholarship to Garden View University. Garden View is part of the greater metro area of Knoxville, Tennessee, and the university sets on a lovely and lush campus of about one hundred acres. It is a university that dates back to the 1940s and has academic achievement awards that any higher institution would covet.

Well, as implied above, here is more ugly truth. Mom and I, my now older club-footed cousin, JB, and Lulu, his big sister on my Dad’s side of the family, go to the Hooper Hotel in Knoxville where my Dad is living to tell him about Sarah Lou’s elopement.

In Dad’s hotel room, my Cousin and his sister take the two chairs in the room and I sit under a window on an old radiator…you know, those ugly heavy metal gray vertically elongated rods connected all in a row as one unit. Now, the heat isn’t on during this visit, but those units are particularly awful and uncomfortable to sit on. And, you’re right, those heating units were not built to be sat on. I just keep changing my sitting ‘this way and that’, dictated by my butt cheeks.

Now, Dad knows right away that something is up, and, he knows it isn’t good news – guess our sad faces and body language let him know that. When Dad hears the news about Sarah Lou, he stomps around the room in a fury, the anger and prelude to eruption showing on his face.

 Abruptly, he stops in front of Mom who is sitting on the bed. My sweet hard-working, lovely Mom sits there very still with her hands clasped on her lap with a blanched and pitiful look on her face, puffy from crying and the awful dread of telling Dad news of Sarah Lou’s rash elopement. My ‘tainted-gene’ Dad hovers over Mom, his face distorted with fury like a dragon breathing fire, gritting his teeth, and says, “Damn you, Maureen.” Suddenly, he gives Mom a hard looping open-hand slap to the face with so much force it knocks her over. My immediate fear is that he’s knocked something loose in her brain or upper body…and he’s getting ready to do more hitting.

I’m petrified and watching it all from this hotel room radiator and l reckon something snaps inside me. I’ve watched this kind of madness too many times before as a young kid. I’m a lot bigger now and I rush him and tackle him onto the bed,  crying and mumbling something stupid, like, ‘I’ve seen you do that to my Mom too many times’. I’ll never forget – he’s got this look on his face like a slight smile and surprise all at the same time. Multiple times I hit him with my fists, lost in my own anger, my tears dropping down on his face.

Mom moves from the bed and stands crying in the corner of the hotel room. Soon, Dad is not moving. I must have connected with a vulnerable spot on his head. It’s like he just turns his head over to the side and goes to sleep.

Seconds pass and I realize what has happened. I’ve attacked my own father and knocked him out. His pulse is okay, and I feel a bit better. After several anxious minutes of trying to revive him, I tell our little group that Dad will be crazy mad when he comes around so we likely should leave. We hustle out of Dad’s room and loudly close the door.

I feel bad leaving him unconscious on the bed, but more afraid of what he might do when he comes out of it and we’re still there. Mom cries all the way down in the elevator, and we go unnoticed out a side entrance of the lobby. I drive my Cousin and his sister home, and, except for the sound of the car engine, no one makes a sound. Tears flow down our faces, and the only sounds in the car are from our sniffing.

We all hug and kiss each other when they get out of the car at their place. Next, I drive Mom to her folks’ place some forty miles away. We give Grandma and Grandpa all the news about our fateful visit with Dad, and they’re madder than hornets in a whirl-wind. ‘Is he dead?’ ‘Is he alive?’ They want to know.

I ask Mom to promise me she’ll stay with the grandparents until she hears from me. There’s no way Dad, assuming I didn’t kill him, would want to go around Grandpa because of a fight they had some years back. Grandpa gave Dad quite a whipping.

After a few more tears are shed, I take off. Mom pleads with me to stay but she can’t talk me out of leaving. I’m worried about my dad and want to go back to the Hooper Hotel and check on him.

Beneath my tousled blond hair, my head inside is churning with thoughts as I drive back to the hotel. The closer I get, the more I become anxious and fearful of what I’ll find. There’s this grim need to know about my Dad, whether he’s okay or dead. I’m a sturdy 6’2” young man now, 185 pounds, playing quarterback as a Sophomore at Garden View University.

It’s difficult to calculate how hard I hit my Dad – I feel like a part of me was holding back. There is just no way to forget what I did in that hotel room. Now, after a few hours, I’m making a return visit to the Hooper Hotel. I need to know, one way or another, about my Dad. Is he alive? Is he dead? Despite losing it and hitting him, I still love my Dad. Guess I should hate him, but I don’t. Seeing Mom so fearful and frozen in place I denied my own fear and went after my Dad.

I park Mom’s car fifty feet down the street from the Hooper Hotel and walk to the side entrance into the lobby. The elevator is on the lobby level as if waiting for me. On Dad’s floor, the elevator comes to a stop, doors open, and my heart jumps into my mouth as I reflexively take a step forward!

My Dad is standing in front of me, his eyes blinking like he is trying to clear his head. “You coming off of the elevator, young fellow?” Dad asks in an impatient and impersonal tone. He wrinkles his brow as he notices the apparent surprise on my face.

“You all right, boy?”

“Dad, it’s me!”

He did a fast look behind him like I was talking to someone else. Dad blinks some more.

“You’re mixed up, boy, I don’t have a son. Now, stay in the elevator or get out. I fell and cracked my head…have to get it taken care of.”

“But, Dad, I hit you when you hurt Mom. You slapped her so hard I was worried for her. I must have given you a concussion. I just couldn’t stand by and watch you hurt her. Please let me help you!” Dad grabs my arm and pulls me out of the elevator onto the hallway carpeting.

 “Told you, boy, I’ve got no son.” He goes into the elevator, pushes the lobby button on the control panel and is gone.

I can’t say how long I stand rooted to that spot in front of the elevator. I’m aware enough to know that there are other people entering and exiting the elevator while I’m standing there. I’m dumbfounded by Dad’s reaction – He seemed so sure about what he was saying.

Finally, worried sick, I take the stairs down seven floors and walk out the hotel’s side lobby entrance. My befuddled mind is on automatic pilot and leads me down the street to Mom’s car. At least, I know he’s alive. Guess that’s something of a relief.

When I pull away from the curb, confused and frightened, I drive around aimlessly, turning left here, turning right there, lost in cascading thoughts, my mind reviewing over and over the events of the day.

I drive for miles not mindful of where I’m going. Tears flow until my eyes get all misty and puffy from rubbing them with my shirt sleeve.

My brain tells me to pull off the road. I’m somewhere out in the ‘boonies’. There is an old rutted country farm road, and I turn onto the dirt and gravel, drive a quarter mile and notice that, suddenly, I can’t see. I’m in an ultra-thick cloud bank of fog, suddenly frightened by the swift change in weather and mad at myself for being so self-absorbed I let this happen.

Yes, I know! I know! How does one get so locked onto something in his mind that he doesn’t know where he is? It’s crazy, but it happened! At this point I’m crawling along, the car barely moving, trying to see, wiping the built-up vapor off the inside windshield, hoping for better vision.

After a few moments, I see the futility in my feeble efforts, utter a not-so-nice but appropriate word for the ugly foggy dilemma. I carefully edge to what I hope is the outer side of the country road, get out of the car, touch the hood metal, holding on to the only reality given to me at the moment.

Standing there, leaning on the car’s hood, my Dad’s face flashes in front of me in the darkness and fog, along with snakes, dinosaurs, crocodiles, and other beasts of the world. I cannot see my hand when I hold it out in front of me. There is a most vivid sense of desperation. With Dad’s face, there comes to my mind some bad recalls of life with my Dad in it, not long after the ugly divorce.

I push those bad thoughts away and force myself to think of the good moments. Much of those times were rough, but there were tender moments as well – farther back in youth, when Dad bought me the little boy’s gray suit with a gray hat, and he called me his little business man. He took many pictures of me with a cigarette dangling from my six-year old lips, pictures on train-rides, car rides while on the way to visit his parents, my grandparents, his nearly-blind grandmother, my great-grandmother.

They lived north of Knoxville some sixty miles, near the Kentucky border. On one visit he drove us off the main US highway into the hills of High Cliff, TN. We stopped not too far from the turnoff in an area of open fields and meadows. The bucolic scene presented to my young mind cows grazing in the meadows among huge oak trees, and there was this lonely looking clapboard house setting alone on this small knoll.

Dad’s sweet old grandmother sat on an old rickety wooden porch that had an excellent chance of falling plank by plank to the ground below. She had a lovely weathered and leathery face, was almost blind and sat in an old wooden rocking chair. She looked so frail behind the horn-rimmed spectacles she wore. She was so beautiful sitting in that home-made rocking chair on that wood-warped porch, like a picture in sepia tone, like a scene in an old-time movie. She sat there with a corn cob pipe in the corner of her mouth. She was in her nineties, and Dad had to get within inches of her face before she knew we were there.

 She squinted and finally recognized Dad. She formed a sweet smile on her face, hugged him with shaky thin arms coming out of the gingham dress sleeves. “That you, Thomas? Lawdy, mercy me! you are a sight for these sore eyes.” She had a thin, squeaky voice that seemed a whisper. She used up a lot of breath as she talked and maintained that sweet smile.

She then peripherally noticed me, made over me as well, and I felt an awesome sense of history – the events, all the things she had seen in her long lifetime, things I would one day study.

In the remembrance, it was all so nostalgic, dream-like, and, looking back, it somehow had a time-travel feel for me, so quiet, serene, like pages of history flipping backward. Those time-worn wrinkles on her bony arms and face, the faded gingham dress, her gray-hair in a bun on the back of her head, and the slow steady motion of her rocking chair as her eyes fixed on the parts of her life that were important to her. Her time was almost used up, but she would keep rocking on that graying rough-plank porch, smoking her corn cob pipe, looking out over the blurry land playing back misty memories.

Funny, how wonderfully that memory is so vivid in my mind, so fresh and firmly planted. A country song by Alan Jackson playing on the car radio is all I need to complete my ensemble of fuzzy thoughts and tears. Guess that might say something about my southern genes.

A few happy times flashed by, those times when we played at being a family, without the tempestuous flares of raw emotions: the Saturday movie matinees; Mom and Dad smiling happily when my sister and I danced to the radio; when I attempted to write a poem; the endless questions I asked of them both – the insatiable curiosity that stayed steady on a little boy’s mind. I love them both so much, and, now, my father has no son.

The tears do not stop until my mind reminds me of where I am, in the middle of proverbial nowhere with only those scary image-flashes coming at me from too much eye concentration, and those conjured up memories that are both keepers and throwaways.

So, the world can be dark and foggy, and, maybe, reasons for standing in the darkness and fog are not so simple. Standing at the front of the car, measuring each stride, I take a few steps, pivot, return to the car, do the same strides on each side of the car. Feeling secure enough that the car was far enough off the road, I climb into the back seat, and lock the doors.

Assuming a fetus position on the backseat, I try desperately not to think any more about past events, the present, and the future. I can wait out the darkness and the fog. Tomorrow will come, and the sun will replace the dismal darkness and fog with thoughts of hope. I love my Mom and Dad. Maybe I still have both to love.

*

[END OF SAMPLE CHAPTER ONE]

*

BUY on Amazon UNIVERSAL LINK:

 mybook.to/B006WU22KS

*

BR Chitwood -September 19, 2020

Author Website:

http:///billyraychitwood.com

Author Blogsite:

http://brchitwood.com

Face It

21424918

-Platonic Academy in Athens, Greece Prior to 86 BC-

Face It!

By BR Chitwood

Have you figured it out?

You know – Corona Virus, earth orbiting, people doing crazy things, hate, love, murder, riots, politics, reading, sleeping, waking, writing, Sun up, Sun down?

Of course, you have…

Those Athenian primo Philosophers like Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle, they had it figured pretty well: don’t tell people anything! Just engage them in dialogue until someone comes up with a ‘philosophical gem’ that sounds universal and valid…and, it didn’t hurt that ‘SP&A’ walked around in funny long-loose clothes and sandals – maybe, even barefooted – definitely too lazy to shave, and spoke with erudite voices that guaranteed they had some scintillating and earth-shaking knowledge likely already known but wanted their listeners to author the answers.

Having read about these ‘Genius Three’ in college and even now occasionally – just, not too long because they give me a ‘hillbilly headache’, trying to understand the ‘Socratic Method’, ‘Plato’s Republic’, and ‘Aristotelian Logic’. There is one thing for sure, these hard-thinking men devoted their lives to the pursuit of knowledge, and Socrates committed suicide by drinking some hemlock potion…it was either that or ‘exile’, and he took his honorable way. The Athens legal authorities claimed Socrates had corrupted the Grecian youth. Socrates’ best student was there with him at death – another young Athenian scholar and friend, Plato. 

Plato would go on to ‘dialogue’ a lot with Aristotle and other giant scholars of that ‘Classic Era’. Plato would also establish The Academy’ in Athens c. 387 BC. The Academy persisted throughout the Hellenistic period as a skeptical school, until coming to an end after the death of Philo of Larissa in 83 BC. The Platonic Academy was destroyed by the Roman dictator Sulla in 86 BC.

Now, sure, you can find all of this on your own, but I had to show off just a bit…and I’m not quite finished yet…

In refreshing my mind a bit on these three great Philosophers who have adorned college textbooks for centuries now, I should not have been surprised – but, I was – to find out that these Greek giants, particularly, Socrates, thought  Democracies were not the best governing blueprint, particularly, if the wrong people were working at the power desks. Plato, perhaps more than Socrates, was not a ‘democracy’ advocate. Each believed that too many variables existed in a Democracy – favors, paybacks, ‘big money’, ignorance leading to ‘Mob Rule’. It is also true that within any system of governance, there is potential for some semblance of disaster.

After so few paragraphs, my brain power is used up, and I will end by saying a definite NO to Democratic Socialism, NO to ‘Open borders’,  NO to de-funding our ‘Law and Order’ people, NO to higher taxes, NO to the SWAMP GROUPS that rob us blind, YES to a strong Military, YES to Charter Schools and Educational Reforms with too many promising programs thrown aside, YES to a proven leader for President who has had some remarkable achievements during his first four years in the oval office, and YES to Innovative solutions to state and local government.

Okay, like it, do not like it, ignore it, but the man who wrote this post is  taking a nap…writing, taking naps, that’s what old guys do!!!

BR Chitwood – July 16, 2020

Please preview my books:

billyraychitwood.com

  

Please follow my Blog:

brchitwood.com

 

Please follow me on Twitter:

https://twitter.com/brchitwood  

Can We Talk?

HAPPY INDEPENDENCE DAY!

Can We Talk?

By BR Chitwood

“Can we talk? Of course, we can talk. You asked. I answered, and that was five minutes ago. So, what’s on your mind, BR? You knock on the door, nod a greeting, and want to talk. We’re sipping beers, and you have not said two words. Your brow’s all wrinkled. You’re fidgety and nervous as I’ve never seen you. What’s eating you up, buddy?”

“Sorry, Luke, I’m not handling too well all that’s happening in our orbiting craft these days. It may all be above my ‘savvy classification’ and my ‘retirement pay grade’, but what is happening in this only world we know? The ‘World Pandemic’? ‘Corona Virus’? Masks? Family Separation and Isolation? Riots in our cities? Looting? Deaths? Restaurants and Bars closed? Sports cancelled? Political chaos and anarchical acts? Geez, I have no idea what Armageddon looks like, but, if this is it, I’m scared.”

  “You have a lot of company, BR. The anxiety levels of people are visceral, me, included. I can’t remember a period in our history when such anger, riots, killings, total disregard by so many of our laws and fundamental law enforcement is no longer viable…

“So, my friend, we have many people feeling the same emotions, the same doubts, about solutions and a return to some semblance of normalcy… I’m hearing ‘doubts’ seeping into conversations – doubts about Covid-19 and possible episodes with some extreme edging, like…

Is there more to this Pandemic than what we’re being told by our leaders?

“Are there ‘Hate Groups’ backed with lots of money to stir National unrest to the point of making Socialism a reality? Think about it, groups working toward defunding our police departments, hoping to make it a more ‘peoples police force’ to serve their socialistic desires.

“We are all feeling our own pressing doubts about where we’re going with these actions we are witnessing. We can, I believe, no longer doubt that there are ‘interests’ being served by these current actions than by what our founding fathers had in mind.”

“God, Lucas, are you trying to cheer me up?”

 Short snicker.

“I’m kidding, your thoughts are my thoughts as well… I, too, feel there is more to the Pandemic than what we are being told…is it worse than we think? Is it better than we are led to believe?

“Are there people actively at work trying to erase our history? We already know that the Universities are hell-bent on shaping the minds of our youth.

“It is sad to think that so many people wish to erase and void the history of our Democracy, the wars fought, the lives lost, in building this greatest of all nations – spending huge amounts of money to buy malcontents and corrupters of freedom, defacing, tearing down our heroes and monuments. It is not only sad. It is an egregious affront to our pioneers, our trail-blazers, our historic greatness, all the lives lost in preserving our union.”

“Well said, BR. Is our little ‘beer and pep session’ helping?”

“Well, Lucas, you got me talking, mostly repeating everything you said…and, you know, I do feel better after our short chat here…guess that’s why you make the big bucks. {Chuckle}. The good people of this country, I have to believe, are not going to ‘cave in’ to the negative elements of Globalists, Socialists, and Rabble-rousers. This great nation could not have come this far without the great will of our people…and, guess what? The ancestors are ‘locked and loaded’!”

BR Chitwood – July 4, 2020

Please preview my books:

http://billyraychitwood.com  

Please follow my Blog:

http://brchitwood.com

Please follow me on Twitter:

https://twitter.com/brchitwood

HAPPY INDEPENDENCE DAY!

HAPPY INDEPENDENCE DAY

HAPPY INDEPENDENCE DAY!

Those Romantic Moments

By BR Chitwood

To be sure, there are rare, unique, and special romantic moments in our lives. Some, we will pledge to posterity with all the poetic and prose talent we have…sure, it might come out as gilded prose, but the words will still carry some heart messages that convey what the possessed lover intended.

Being a ‘charter member’ of The Romantic Anonymous Club of Misfits and Sly Scoundrels, I am drawn to the soft violin strings, the meticulous wafting notes of a harp – which, at times, has drawn me to the lovely Harpist – and the gentle soul-seeking keys of a piano. Ask any active member of the TRACMSS, and they will validate my wordsif they do not, they will be heavily fined.

Some readers might question the value, the worth of such a blog post… C’mon, man, who wants to read about this kind of stuff? Man and woman, meet – BOOM – they get it on. End of story.

I will not pigeon-hole my readers. If they are truly too offended by my words here, it will actually please many of our TRACMSS club members…you know, without too many pickers, there are more luscious fruit on the trees.

At this point, allow me to explain the presumptive reason for this particular post…

On July 4, 2020 we celebrate our great country’s ‘Declaration of Independence’. This year, with all that has come upon us – the ‘Covid-19’ Pandemic’, the many deaths, the Isolation, the Masks, the trepidation of our people about future riots and the unrest of tens of millions of people – it somehow seemed appropriate to write about Love and Romance.

It will take a hellava lot from the bad folks who are creating all of this death and destruction to defeat the good people of our country. The good people of this country want freedom and liberty to stay its course, law and order to prevail, and government malfeasance to disappear – to STOP stealing our money.

So, on the fourth of July, My wife and I are going to put on some Mantovani, some harp music, some violin music, and some soft floating piano notes, and celebrate our Independence Day – and Evening – and, we won’t be forgetting candlelight and wine… By the by, that TRACMSS  CLUB is looking for members… We love belonging but it’s just the two of us.

HAPPY FOURTH OF JULY!

By BR Chitwood – July 3, 2020

Please preview my books:

http://billyraychitwood.com

Please follow my Blog:

http://brchitwood.com

Please follow me on Twitter:

https://twitter.com/brchitwood

 

 

World of Wannabe

World of Wannabe

By BR Chitwood

The world of Wannabe is available only to the hermits of the world, those precious few among us who come to a place in their minds that bid them escape the habitual and mundane nuances of life, a place where patterns of living become such narrow spaces to subsist and cater to those higher, more spiritual longings of the soul.

Wannabe is a place of transition, a place of substantial caring far away from the giants of commerce and business, a place where loneliness becomes a blessing, not a curse, where a day begins with a soft salute to the Maker of us all, then tending to the humble daily needs of faltering lives of beasts and fowls, building a sanctuary for the forgotten simple inhalers of fresh air, a blessed place where living in the only skin you have need not worry about the predators of the world.

 Such a special place is Wannabe for those who have no earthly longings save for the harmony of living among a cayote’s wail to the midnight moon, a bear’s gentle grunt in passing on a trail, a large cougar’s poetic stance on a boulder in silhouette with the full moon, a bearded man sharing his meager meal with a wildcat or snake.

Wannabe is a place for the hardy and the matter of fact, with no dreams left to interrupt his or her simple life, a place one might call a refuge while a hermit calls it home.

Most visitors will not stay long in Wannabe for they see Isolation, loneliness, and the absence of imagination and desire to create, while the hermit will never wish to leave because he/she could not dream beyond what they find here.

There are no obituaries for the Hermits of our world…they are the few who faded from the tall buildings and neon lights to find their own peace on earth!

*

By BR Chitwood – June 30, 2020

*

Please preview my books:

http://www.billyraychitwood.com

Please follow my Blog:

http://www.brchitwood.com

Please follow me on Twitter:

https://twitter.com/brchitwood

A ‘Morlock’ Supplement

A ‘Morlock’ Supplement

By BR Chitwood

My mind wants to shout so many angry thoughts at the dystopian madness the TV is dumping into my living room…the organized obscene filth of those who know not how to think about the verity of history or would void it for their anarchical pursuits…

Can a democracy not boldly modify its noble course through history as exterminators might rid a house of its destructive vermin? We are attacked from within by the dwellers of the ‘Swamp’ and their minions with seeming impunity. We know who they are. They rob us blind. Can we not mobilize our patriots to rid our country of this scourge?

A ‘Pandemic’! Murder, riots, looting in our cities! When does ‘enough’ come? Can so much ‘hatred’ for a hard-working president true to the cause of our country, perhaps, not so politically eloquent, cause a country to crumble?

Just words muttered in anxious, helpless wonder!

***

BR Chitwood -June 28, 2020

Please preview my books:

http://www.billyraychitwood.com

Please Follow my Blog:

http://www.brchitwood.com

Please Follow me on Twitter:

https://twitter.com/brchitwood

©Sweeny, The Doll

©Sweeny, The Doll

– Short Story – By BR Chitwood –

*

Mr. and Mrs. Holcomb were looking in a toy shop at possible gifts for daughter, Kellie.

 “Oh, isn’t this darling? His name is ‘Sweeny’, and his voice is so sweet… Kellie will love it.”

“You’re kidding, right? Kellie is all ‘GIRL’. I can’t see her playing with this guy-doll at all. She might like its voice – it is soothing, but Kellie would lose interest quickly with this slick-haired bozo. She’s more into the more etiquette-like stuff.”

“Frank, trust me on this one. I know my daughter, and she will be talking to Sweeny on a constant basis. You’re not around so much that you would notice. Lots of girls are wanting male dolls now…it’s ‘the thing’, some toy clerks tell me.”

“Well, Sweeny is kind of cute in his untidy ‘cut-offs’ and flaming red shirt, the sly smile…what are some of the ‘things’ he says in his taped repertoire?”

“His various conversational utterings are here in this pamphlet…”

“I’ve glanced at a few statements Sweeny makes, and I’m not sure the vernacular matches up well with Kellie…are kids really talking like this? About hugging, kissing, silly adult-like language?”

“Don’t go ‘archaic’ on me, Frank. Kids live in different generations and speak for the most part like others in their age group… We still must do our parenting, our monitoring of their lives so they don’t cross into dangerous areas of thoughts and deeds.”

“Well, Gerrie, you’re the ‘Mom’ and you know better about these things than I do. I just want the ‘best’ for Kellie. She’s so sweet, smart, and special and I want her world as free from the ‘ugly’ as we can make it, and I know you do as well. Go ahead and throw ‘Sweeny’ in the shopping basket. I hope they become really good buddies.”

***

(Night-time: Six Months Later )

Wearing new special PJs Kellie’s Mom made, Sweeny lay stretched out on his back next to his mistress on the opposite pillow, eyes open, alert, now and then glancing at his sleeping bed-partner. Only the plugged-in night light gave light to the bedroom.

“Kellie, psst, Kellie, are you awake?”

Kellie was in deep sleep, dreaming of a new boy in her sixth-grade classroom at school. Tommy was the new boy’s name, and his small desk was next to her desk.

Kellie’s eyes twitched and her body quivered under the bedsheet, and a small discernable smile appeared on her face. She liked Tommy at first sight and thought that rather unusual for her to like a new boy in class…girls, generally, yes, but, boys, a bit strange.

 Sweeny’s closed eyes simultaneously twitched as well, and suddenly came fully open. In no way could he explain his awareness to his supposedly non-active environment – a male doll that for some inscrutable reason could remember a special ‘compound’ put inside his combination hard-rubber and polyethylene terephthalate head.

Sweeny only knew he did not like the ensuing disturbance within his tiny body, did not like where Kellie’s thoughts were taking her…he now knew about the new boy in her Sixth-Grade class, and he would not know how to explain it to anyone.

In some manner, Sweeny, with eyes aquiver, his tiny factory-made body thrashing beneath the sheet, caused the bed to rock and sway, made loud noises on the floor and walls. The noise became so loud it awakened Kellie, her mother, and her father.

Amid Kellie’s screams, the parents entered her room and saw lamps on the floor, wall plaster displaced on the walls from the bed-rocking, and other debris spread across the bedroom.

Then a silence so deep within itself came that frightened all in the room but Sweeny.

“Oh, My God! What happened in here, Kellie?” the mother asked.

“I don’t know, Mommy, but it woke me up. I’m scared, Daddy, Mommy.”

Sweeny lay quietly on his pillow, his eyes closed as though in sleep, but listening carefully to what was being said.

Kellie’s parents would not allow such paranormal thoughts to enter their mind, but they did believe their eyes and knew something dramatic and nerve-wracking happened in their daughter’s bedroom.

Kellie slept in her parents’ bedroom that night and the next three nights, only going into her room for showers and clothes changes. When her eyes fell on Sweeny, she thought she noticed angry eyes, and it scared her, but she finally accepted that her little mind was playing tricks on her…the scary episode could be explained in a sensible manner with a sane and understandable narrative.

While she could not understand her own reasoning regarding that night, Kellie remotely thought that Sweeny had something to do with it. Giving her seemingly crazy thoughts a rest, she would hold Sweeny and talk to him, but when she placed him somewhere away from her she sensed an anger showing on his face. Then, there came a sense of dread that would drive her out of the room, and she could also sense his staring eyes following her.

Her relationship with Sweeny she knew was over – from a pet toy to any kind of plaything. She could never, would never get over that one night-time episode and the ensuing moments of distress. She talked to her mother, convinced her that she no longer wanted to have Sweeny around her.

Gerrie  placed Sweeny in the original box he came in, took him to the local park, and left the doll with the Park Director, Stu Bruner, to do with what he wished, gift it to one of the children who played there. Gerrie explained simply to Mr. Bruner that her daughter outgrew the male doll and had moved on…Gerrie felt a little ‘white lie’ would not hurt anyone.

*

The Park Director placed Sweeny on his office credenza and left for home later in the afternoon. It was odd, the Director thought as he left his office, the male doll’s face seemed strangely different from the time he was brought to him, and, he thought he had placed him in the middle of the credenza, but he was now sprawled toward the end of the furniture with a scowl on his pale face.

“Ah, I’m just tired… I wasn’t paying that much attention at the time, and those toy makers can now do so much with innovation in dolls…”

At the first traffic light, Stu Bruner almost ran a ‘red light’ which had just recently turned ‘green’, and Stu screeched to a stop, just missing the opposite flow of cars.

‘Darn, am I going blind? I could have sworn that light was turning ‘green’ when I came to it’…

Stu Bruner soon regained his normal happy mood when going home to family and pets.

At the next traffic light five blocks away Stu had to quickly brake again…something, a cat, a dog, an animal of some kind was crossing the road, but, damn, it looked just like that ‘doll’ Gerrie Holcomb left earlier at his office.

‘My eyes are going bad on me. Two lights in a row I’ve almost lost control. Not good, Stu, not good at all, but I could swear it was that stupid male doll.  Then, again, dusk can tease the eyes to believe things that are not real. Lots of accidents occur at this time of the day’.

Again, Stu Holcomb managed to stay alert and began whistling his favorite country song – ‘Put your sweet lips closer to the phone’… (“He’ll Have to Go” – popular country song sung beautifully by Jim Reeves.)

As Stu Holcomb opened his private office door the next morning, he stumbled, almost fell to the floor.

His office, his beautiful mahogany desk, chairs, credenza, wall hangings, awards, trophies, plaster, everything was totally destroyed…but he heard the sound of a voice familiar to his ears – a radio announcer’s voice reporting the news of the day.

Stunned by the destruction, Stu stumbled to the area where the radio was normally setting on his desk, and, below, among the debris on the floor, he pulled the radio from the rubble, held it in his hands, and was about to replace it on the floor when the announcer mentioned names he knew…he cleared a place by the window and listened to a staggering news report:

“The cause of the fire that destroyed the Holcomb house is unknown, but there is a strange footnote to this tragedy – amid all the debris, in the corner of a child’s bedroom was the warped, demonic face of a doll, smiling and absurd in its countenance… To repeat the important part of this fiery news story, the Holcomb Family survived the midnight fire with minimal injuries and will undergo some psychological testing when they have been stabilized to a point where shock has been mitigated – and only God knows when that will be…”

*

The End

©Sweeny, The Doll

By BR Chitwood – June 29, 2020

*

Please preview my books:

http://www.billyraychitwood.com

Please follow my Blog:

http://www.brchitwood.com

Please follow me on Twitter:

https://twitter.com/brchitwood

%d bloggers like this: