Friday, October 28, 2011

Guest Write - Joe Gensle

Jenna's Mortadella

Jenna leaned heavily into the glass display front of the grocery’s busy delicatessen, jostled by elbows of the people on each side of her. Despite the crowd, the three deli workers seemed like slow drones, working steadily without a sense of commitment to serve patrons quickly.

Jenna looked at the pink stub of paper in her hand, noticed “18” in bold letters determining her turn in the order of those to be served at the deli counter.

“For the love of Jesus,” Jenna muttered, then looked down the counter toward the workers and shouted, “Hey! . C’MON!! I gotta get going!” Two of the workers ignored her. The third, a sixty-ish black woman with grey-streaked hair, paused and gave Jenna a glare that raised the light blonde hair, and goosebumps, on Jenna’s arms.

“God-DAMN!,” thought Jenna. “Where do they find these people,” she wondered.

Serving another customer off to the right, the black woman's duties brought her side-stepping within six feet of Jenna and ducked half her body into the case fetch a half-round of cheese. As the woman emerged, Jenna shot her a look.

“All’s I need is a half pound of mortadella.”

The woman locked eyes with Jenna, “Wha’s your number, honey!”

“Eighteen!” Jenna replied with a sharp snap in her voice.

“You gonna be waitin’ awhile.”

“What’s awhile! I’ve been here forever! How many are in front of me!??”

“Right! And they’s 266 billion trillion people in front of you, and you jus’ gonna have to wait,” the clerk fired back with another momentary, as unsettling, glare.

“The HELL you say. Where’s the manager?”

“Right! You lookin’ at her. Now, what!”

“NOW, you slice my eight ounces of mortadella or…or I’m leaving and calling your headquarters!”

“You ain’t leavin’ and you ain’t callin’ nobody. Know why?”

Jenna roiled in furious silence and contrived a facial expression of angered disinterest, almost of boredom.

Nose to nose save for eighteen or so inches of deli countertop between them, the black woman cocked her head slightly as she said in a mockingly, sing-songy tone, “I don’t care if you a lilly-white little paralegal who don’t like black folks none too much.. Who doesn’t got a lick o’ patience. And who don’t like nobody who doesn’t speak like YOU THINK they should.”

Jenna gasped and above the deli’s din, barked, ”YOU DON”T KNOW ME! I don’t know or remember YOU…hell, I don’t even SHOP here very often. How do you know I’m a paralegal?!”

Only a wide, tooth-gapped grin answered Jenna. After a pause intended to further annoy Jenna, the black woman continued.

“You always been an impatient, spoilt little cuss.”

“HOW DARE you speak to me like that!”

“I dare cuz you ain’t goin’ nowheres. You cain’t leave without yo’ mortadella. Know why?”

“I need for my recipe--but other stores carry it! I’ve been waiting an eternity, you bitch! And I’m leaving!”

“You will wait an eternity. They’s 266 billion trillion people ahead of you and when your number 18 come up? You ain’t gonna hear it and the wait gonna start all over again.”

Jenna was never madder, more frustrated, but couldn‘t move or speak.

The black woman grinned and continued. “This is hell. Yo custom made hell right here in my deli, outta all yo littlest pet peeves and weaknesses in life. You got no recipe. You don’t need mortadella, Mortadella is I-talian for “she’s dead,” and you is. Kilt this mornin', too impatient to use a crosswalk and that car run you down an' TOOK your legs. You bled to death through ‘em.“

Jenna looked down, screamed and screamed, now knowing why the lean against the deli case felt so heavy. It wasn’t a lean. She’d been clinging to it with her arms. Her plaid skirt was caked in dried blood, as was the lower part of her blazer. Until then, she hadn't noticed the crystal on her watch was broken, and the sweep-second hand wasn't moving. Screams diminished into sobs.

The black woman’s eyes now shone, and Jenna’s whimpering form had no escape, nor did Jenna’s eyes, again locked with the old woman’s.

“You died on the street and when God didn’t grab you up?? I sho’s hell did! HA-HA! You like that pun?? No, I knows you hate puns! I snatched you up! Well...down! Hah! Another pun! You’s mine and as soon as I turn to walk off , you ain’t gonna remember a shred of this conversation! It never happened.”

The black woman shifted the heavy, half-round of cheese into her other hand and walked down the counter with her back to Jenna.

Jenna looked at the pink stub of paper in her hand, noticed “18” in bold letters determining her turn in the order of those to be served at the deli counter.

“For the love of Jesus,” Jenna muttered, then looked down the counter toward the workers and shouted, “Hey! C’MON!! I gotta get going!”

The three deli workers ignored her. Jenna could swear that one of them, a sixty-ish black woman with grey-streaked hair, paused and seemed to snort with the slightest perceptible puff of vapor or mist…smoke(?) coming from her nostrils, never looking up or away from the back and forth rhythm of the slicer she operated.

The black woman returned the roast beef to the case and butcher-wrapped a package of sliced beef, setting it atop the counter. She glanced right, along the countertop, right at Jenna.

“Wha’s your number, honey?”

“Eighteen!” Jenna replied with a sharp snap in her voice.

The black woman looked to her coworkers and quipped, “She got EIGHTEEN! Hell, tha’s 6 + 6 + 6, iddn’t it??,” and the three women emitted a loud laugh.

“God-DAMN!,” thought Jenna. “Where do they find these people,” she wondered.

Joe Gensle's Kentucky-born and lives in the Desert Southwest with his Chihuahua, “Coconut.” He loves international travel and ridin' his motorcycle, 'The Groovinator.' In his ‘other’ spare time, he enjoys “wondering why if not how, polishing my collection of lug nuts, and feeding sea lions (to sharks).” Gensle describes himself as ‘”obligingly obese, Conservative, left-handed, and Roman Catholic without hesitance” and claims he never apologizes for same. He occasionally makes written deposits at and He‘s been featured on other sites, and the repository of his writing may be found at his blog,

Monday, October 10, 2011

A Frank Sinatra Challenge

So, I wrote this piece based on a Frank Sinatra challenge for another blog, then received an email last minute that said, never mind don't submit your second piece, so here it is. My prompt was based on Frank Sinatra's song, "I See Your Face Before Me" from his album In The Wee Small Hours... So without further adu, I hope you'll enjoy it.

I See Your Face Before Me

I claim insomnia
you know I do.
I've practically screamed
it at you.
I don't have insomnia,
not medically at least.
What I have
is self induced-
when I close my eyes
whether in dreams
of dark or light
I see your face before me.
You stand beside me-
sometimes in front,
always hand in hand
a strength to me you lend.
In my dreams
I see you laugh,
I see you cry,
I see you just fine,
but no matter which dream
I always see you mine.
If forward, I came
And told you-
Even knowing you're
would that my love
haunt you so-
knowing I want you so?
But alas, no,
for I can't, I won't
destroy you
by telling you.
Because even if
You understood it- me-
all of my love
for you, its magic-
would seem nothing
short of tragic.
And knowing I can't
erase your beautiful face
before me,
I'll instead
feign insomnia-
For no dreams
are better
in my mind
than dreams that haunt
us both.

Friday, October 7, 2011

An Open Request For Guidance

Ok folks, I'm about to get brutally honest, with myself and you.

No many people in this part of my life realize that I work in the fast paced business of Real Estate - and before you run off to read others' blogs let me tell you that no, I'm not a Realtor, I'm a paper pusher, an assistant who tries to put my best face/voice forward daily to keep, #1 myself employed, but #2 to help the 2 most amazing Realtors in business to continue to help people everyday with the most life impacting financial decisions they will ever make.

I'm proud to say that I work for, who in my opinion are, the most genuine, gracious, kind and caring individuals. Their regard for our clientele is above stellar, and their customer care is unmatched and unequaled by any agent(s) I've ever met or come in contact with in this business... and I think that's saying a lot considering I've been doing this now for over 8 years.

I was so inspired to write this tonight after we sat down to have a very goal impacting meeting earlier today.

I'm scared. I'm not used to seeing a "low" that we are now experiencing at the moment with exception to a few years ago when I was with another team. That team fell apart, and sad as it is to say, I'm now the only member left still in this business - although, I'll admit I did take a 3 year sabbatical to work at an animal shelter. There were a few things that made me feel committed to seeing that team make it, one being that I was given the option to become a business partner in the future, and seeing at the time the potential for that business to grow, I was completely on board. That was, until I received a rude awakening a few years later when our real estate market, like so many others in this nation plummeted and my top producing team leader finally had to close up shop and call it quits.

Now, with the aftermath still somewhat fresh in my mind, I'm afraid. I'm afraid to see / experience a similar possibility, although, I know its far from happening. That fear still eats at me, like an ulcer, demanding some if not all of my attention.

I'll be honest and admit that I have not been offered to become a business partner in this newest  venture, but I've come to realize that I'm okay with that. I realize now that I wasn't ready to take that step when it was offered to me at age 21, and now that I'm 26, I'm still not ready to make a commitment of that magnitude. Don't get me wrong, I'm still very much committed to seeing this team become even more successful than it ever has been, I'm just not ready to be fully accountable if it doesn't... and yes, I know that was blunt. I still feel that with my previous team, there might have been something more I could have been doing to prevent the fall, and feeling almost helpless again causes me great anxiety.

I'm putting all my efforts and faith into one basket when I'm not home with my kids to do any part I possibly can to keep from experiencing what I thought a few years ago was a career ending disappointment.

So why am I writing this?

I guess to show myself, more than anything, that I'm committed, and to recognize a fear or weakness and to do my best to overcome it. I don't usually quote scripture, but in this case, I feel that its entirely appropriate.

From the words of Ether 12:27 (Book of Mormon):
"And if men come unto me I will show unto them their weakness. I give unto men weakness that they may be humble, and my grace is sufficient for all men that humble themselves before me; for if they humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, then I will make weak things become strong unto them."
And just as appropriate I think, my favorite words by the esteemed writing colleague, Richard Bach:
"Lean into your fears, dare them to do their worst and cut them down when they try. If you don't, they'll clone themselves, mushroom 'till they surround you, choke the road to the life you want.

Every turn you fear is empty air, dressed to look like jagged hell."
So here I am, writer friends, dedicated readers, family, friends, and anonymous alike, I'm asking you to consider, what fears do you have? Are they justified? And more selfishly, I'm asking, how do I improve and where do I go from here?

Any advice would be greatly appreciated...

If you, or anyone you know, is interested in having the Southern Utah experience, please feel free to click the link below, and take a peek into the amazing world my team and I can offer you.

Best Regards,

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

10 Year 9/11 Tribute Piece

This is the first year I haven't brought myself to pull out those carefully bundled pages in my old journal. The day is still young yet, and before I head off to bed, I may find my hands digging through the box labeled "Journals & Keepsakes" to hold that journal that's all but falling apart, my fingers opening to the section where those 9 loose pages are located.

Those 9 pages hold so much anger, confusion, sadness, and fear for what occurred today, ten years ago.

It's been said that with our generation and those older than I that the memories of 9/11 will fade or die when we do. That the event will be marked as a historic event only to be read by future generations as Pearl Harbor and World War II were for me in a text book. I can't find it in myself to disagree either.

This last Friday, I attended a brief tribute to 9/11 with my children, held at my daughter's school first thing that morning with the flag ceremony. I found myself embarrassed when reciting the pledge of allegiance as I hesitantly stumbled over a few of the words that once came to me as easily as my name. The words felt almost foreign coming out of my mouth, and I felt ashamed to think my patriotism has now come to this. I, who rushed off to join the military, to be a part of what keeps this country safe, who served proudly, felt myself struggling to remember the words learned in grade school.

Is this from my lack of faith in our now crumbling government, or a lack of faith in myself? I haven't yet found the answer for it.

I tell myself I won't read the words written by my own hand when I was 16 because I don't want to relive the roller coaster of emotions felt that day, but the reality of it is that I know I need to read the rawness of the incident as a whole in order to remember that there was a day in my life when our country came together, grieved together, feared together, and promised retaliation together.

Now, we need to come together again, and forgive together. So much racism has been born from that devistating day that we do ourselves a terrible injustice. our pride has cast a far wider shadow and we have created ourselves judges of man. Our own country demands freedom and agency to be given to all her citizens, and we are no longer presenting our country to the world in a way that garners trust and respect. How long before we are no longer respected among the other world powers, how long?

Stand beside me, pray beside me, remember beside me, what this great country should stand for, and the next time you see a flag, take off your hat, place your right hand over your heart and with humility and grace, bring yourself to pledge your allegiance to the flag of the US of A.

Don't forget what it means to be an American. We are, after all, supposed to be examples, a shining beacon, if you will, towards accomplishing  world peace, freedom, and justice for all.

Friday, August 19, 2011


Do you ever wonder sometimes, what would have happened if? I do.

I've met a wide variety of people, either through my work, or writing, or just out being myself. But I hold a fond connection to only a handful of people in my life. I wonder, if around this time next year, I'll pass through Denver, driving to a convention I wouldn't miss for the life of me, but have twice in a row. I'm sure I'll be thinking about friends, from all over, one from Detroit, one from Chiapas, one from Texas, and only a few others. I wonder, sometimes, how things would have been had I not missed those conventions, and if maybe I missed my chance to a taste of euphoria found nowhere else. I think I have, but I think I might not have at the same time.

Its confusing, this questioning what if, what would have, and what could be. While my mind wanders in circles, I ponder posts from friends, wondering where my muse has run off to this time, if he's just taken a sabbatical or a permanent vacation. Left in doubt, I try to put pen to paper hoping to ease a little lingering pain, and make sense of circles.

Tears long gone, but surrounded by reminders, photos of those few I hold dear, and even fewer I trust, at least one circle makes sense.

If the world where only black and white, I think I'd still be grey.

Friday, July 29, 2011

Karma or Trials

A dark sky
purple clouds
peeking golden rays
wishing this sunrise
would last for days.

Struggling with two
but making one-
you think
has finally come.

Basking in love
you push it all out,
no more
darkness within
Only a fresh start.

Twisted curses
come back
haunting you so,
taking back
your soul.

Draped in black-
robes flowing
no one
but you

A soul lost
in deep ever-after-
with curses create
a Goddess.

Thursday, May 26, 2011

In the Beginning...

“The mark of your ignorance is the depth of your belief in injustice and tragedy.

What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the master calls a butterfly.”
-Richard Bach                     
Messiah’s Handbook

How do you determine what is good vs. evil, right vs. wrong? Does your ignorance guide you?
We are in the middle of a war, and our battle front spans many worlds, yours and mine included. Like all great wars, this one is based on ignorance, our soul’s belief in injustice and tragedy.

What is your role in all of this? You are stuck between the lines on the pages of your life. You are only innocent bystanders at this point in your life, but when you die, the choice of sides will be yours unless this war is won during our mortal lifetime, then it is you who will be left to clean up the mess that’s left when two clashing armies fight until one reaches utter destruction. You will be the one until the new master realigns the balances of the divine.

Questions are soaring through your mind; lying on the tip of your tongue – I can feel them – trying to burst through your lips’ hold on them. Listen with all your heart and the answers you so diligently seek will be made known unto you.

I am Penemuel, and am counted among one of he fallen. Scribe to Appollyn, my job is to write of the events that transpire from our war for you and its history so you may understand and see without the veil being lifted during your mortal existence of what was, is, and may become. If we are successful in our endeavors, this will become a New Testament, scripture, and model for mankind.

Scribe was not always my calling. Before my fall, I was scribe to Him, Elohiem, God of our Heaven and Hell. I transcribed during the great council, and gave scripture to many of the prophets of old. My fall came however, when I parted with my notes of the great council and the first war in Heaven to an Earthly prophet. God told me that I had given too much, that I disobeyed Heaven’s law by imparting one of the greatest secrets of Heaven to Man. Man was not to know of the war, nor of the fall of over one-third of Heaven’s angels.

I gave too much when I told the prophet of old about the debated then agreement of the Beloved’s plan for salvation, your salvation, something many of us will never know unless this war is won.

God’s words still echo in my mind when I look at my wings, feathers blackened from my fall, gleaming under the moon or by the light of Hell’s fires, “You, Penemuel, disgust me with your presence. You who were one of my most loved will never know of such love again. You are no longer one of my accepted sons.”

That was many years ago, and now, I write for a new master, Appollyn or Death as you call him. I also write for myself, whispering words into the minds of man so as to see my work displayed where all of man can read them as well as to invoke God’s anger.

I write the deeds that God will never speak of to you – his blameless children – blind like sheep, and will always until my final destruction comes, continue to write words to corrupt and cause rebellion among you - you who are blind and being led only by faith in Him.

This is our story…

Monday, May 23, 2011


The darkness, blacker than the depths of the sea threatens to overtake what's left of our humanity away. It's spreading like spilled ink on paper, through the minds of men. Its a virus threatening to infect every cell in our bodies.

I don't know how many have screamed at the top of their lungs prophesying its the end of times for us, and I laugh at their efforts as each given day pass me by and I find I'm still alive, or that people haven't just disappeared off the face of the earth.

The only disappearing act I'm aware of is when the soul leaves a body behind, and besides people dying of natural causes - which happens everyday - the only unnatural death is a life taken by brutality, not car accidents, freak accidents, but war.

With each bold statement of help comes the cries of young men and women as they die in hospitals from their injuries, or on a blood spattered battlefield, either way it's their cries that echo beneath words of promise.

Invasion after invasion, the only place of refuge now is the vast continent of Africa, and even then in time, darkness will flood the mind of some great leader, then his followers, flowing steadily down until even an entire country is infected, then the tribes left alone for ages will know a fear other than of harsh weather, illness and starvation.

It's survival in this corrupted game of life as we so call it. Men pray to the Gods when they march for battle, but the Gods aren't the ones getting their feet wet in the blood soaked dirt that lines our world.

The end of the world will come only after mutiny is released, and even then, not until mutiny after mutiny becomes the focal point and no one is left in the world but the lone survivor who will eventually die of natural causes.

Our apocalypse, you see, is not people suddenly disappearing, taken by unseen Gods, zombies or meteorites, aliens or global warming, it's politics and power. A darkness, deeper than the depths of the darkest sea and its tsunami like waves crashing over each one of us, will bring about our destruction.

Run towards the light and someday, who knows, you may be that lone survivor, left in peace to live our the rest of your days to reflect and write about the feral wars of man and final destruction of mankind on earth.

Monday, May 16, 2011

The Reflections of a Pride-Driven Ego

Time flows freely, it doesn't take a genius to see it, but with that in mind- we all at some point grow an ego large enough to think we can do one of two things... stop it, or change it.

Sitting here at home tonight, I reflect on how many times my head has grown large enough to believe I could do anything. Those many times, too many years, too may numbers, leaves my pride feeling crushed.

A pocket full of change, a handful of pennies- each with various years remind me of the good times and the bad.

The first, weather beaten and almost black with tarnish has the barely readable year of 1996. In 1996, I was eleven years old, and got my first horse, found my hidden passion for books and was disliked at school for my ability to become teacher's pet.

The second, Brighter than them all, proudly displays the year of 2009. In 2009, at the age of 24, I became the best of friends with one of the greatest women I know, and still to this day treasure our friendship more than the rest. I also made a religious commitment to another and God that today I still don't regret making, but feel saddened that it wasn't meant to be.

The final penny, not as bright, but just as important yearns for its year of 2010 to be seen. I believe that 2010 was the year I begged, cried, and wished the hardest for time to be changed. 2010 was the year I decided that killing animals for a living was never meant for me, that after giving every effort to save a marriage my eyes were opened and my soul set free, but to top it all off, I struggled with a tear stained face as I watched my confused children try to take in their new living conditions and adjust as well as they possibly could.

Each tear I swept away gave light to their talents and above all, showed me what every parent should wish to see, that with endurance, struggles, and trials, no one, and I mean no one can ever take away your joys.

Today, I think I will forget about changing time, living in the future or the past, and just enjoy the present... I will enjoy the fact that tonight I get to snuggle with my girls and for a little while pretend that time has stopped, even if for just one brief moment, and believe with all my heart that time has stopped only for me.

Saturday, May 14, 2011

From a Time We Never Knew

Well call it the future and the past, what is and what may not be, what we know will happen, but pray it never does...

Where there once stood a bridge - a passage through time, now stands what we call the remains of the time dwellers. They were people from our future living in our past. Those who never existed but who we'll never forget. Their buildings, although in tatters remain as living proof to this belief.

They spoke our language, knew our names, complained of our technology being old and never up to par, treasured our books, and in their own home had and used what most could never dream of until it was introduced into our daily lives some time later.

Their diction was perfect, and slang unruly. Their houses lived in, but clean, and always everything they owned or did was asymmetrical, yet balanced.

The crumbling buildings still hold perfection in their midst- the way the paint blends with the bones underneath, those fading columns, and bent street poles, but what makes this old ruin something from the future is the way it floats, just above the sand, like a mirage - next to an old highway in the desert.

Friday, March 11, 2011


Is It Love or Love of Power? (pt. 7)

Selwin’s thoughts raced while watching the funeral pyre burn. What did the Oracle mean by: Reversed the pending doom can be - if only the blind will choose to see? The blind could never choose to see- they were either cursed with blindness by the gods or suffered an injury that took away their blessing to see; if the blind could choose to see then why would any of them choose to remain in a world of darkness?

“She loves you - the Goddess -” resounded in Selwin’s mind as he watched the flames feeding on his beloved, Does she love me enough to let me win her over, to keep her as my prize… like a dog on a chain? If only I could become her master, I would be mightier than any king.

With the fire long dead, Selwin gathered up the ashes and ever so gently placed them inside the urn, filled with grieving rage and a new longing for power, he sought Agrona’s temple with a newly found determination.


Visions From The Unknown (pt.8)

Gisa, having become so consumed in Agrona’s power, had over the last few months, begun to see visions from gods who were unfamiliar to her. Gods whose presence were known only to other gods. One of those visions included Selwin and his dangerous love of Agrona. Taking it upon herself to please her Goddess, Gisa told Agrona of the vision and in turn also told Selwin with her prediction of the reversed doom. Tonight another such vision came encompassing Gisa’s entire being: another man would come, one who had already chosen to see, and with whom Agrona would share her power. The god who sent this vision commanded her with his bone crushing voice, “Speak of this to no-one, High Priestess.”

Tuesday, March 1, 2011

Plan Backfired

In the transition of Moderators over at Icarus' Flight to Perfection, my co-moderator, Cormac, was kind enough to post a 'going out in style' prompt for me. Okay, okay, so here's my story on the prompt...

Plan Backfired

A certain Utah Governor who took a presidential position had been receiving a lot of heat about his upcoming proposal of backing down from his position overseas.

Excitement was coursing through millions for an upcoming Superbowl party that screamed of being one of the best

An Egyptian President was surrounded by a heated debate demanding his resignation after his thirty plus year position.

News forecasts suddenly became focused on a burned piano in Biscayne Bay that had mysteriously appeared overnight with no possible explanation.

The (un-named Politian) announced his resignation and possible candidacy for U.S. President.

A group of select commercials played on Television the day of the big game with the incentive to win one million dollars.

An uprising occurred and the Egyptian President is now living in another country until things in his “home town” settle down.

Someone pipes up, claiming the piano, then someone else, then someone else. All we know is that it suddenly disappeared from the sandbar… strange?

One of these things relates to another…
One of these things was used as a cover…

Question is: Can you guess which one?

An author claimed that the piano was his, placed there for an unannounced book signing, a kid watching television decided he needed it as room decoration, and then the random man who steps forward saying “The piano belongs to me”.

Problem is: not one of the so called “claimers” could admit to how they put the fried baby grand on the sand bar.

Answer to which relates to the other: PIANO APPEARANCE and SUPERBOWL COMMERCIAL… really? You don’t believe me? Just wait… You’ll understand soon enough.

How did it get there?
Well, here goes…

My “Northern Utah” friends - see any connections yet - had decided to create one of those amazing million dollar winner commercials, problem was they had too many Chiefs and not enough Indians. Our conversation went something like this:

“I think we should have a totally awesome dog who takes out a door just for a bite of Doritos.”

“Dang it, dude, dogs are SO over-rated. I propose that we have the annoying co-worker who will rip your pants off or lick your fingers clean for a taste of Doritos.”

“Okay, here’s the deal,” I said, “as long as someone else gets the dog, I’m all for it cos, yeah, the rip your pants off, lick your finger coworker… that’s just NASTY!” I was thinking along the lines of doing a commercial for anything other than Doritos, but more along the lines of promoting book stores, *cough* Borders *cough* to hopefully gain a little more business before their big “going out of business” announcement.

Problem was, my high end friend at the *cough* bookstore, told me I was already too late and that they had already planned the announcement. There was nothing that would help… not even winning the million dollar commercial, because after all how far can a million dollars go when you are too upside down in debt?

Part 1:

In my pistation, I called an old military colleague of mine who said sure, he could have someone pick up a fried piano someone had managed to drag out to a place we call “two thousand flushes” here in Southern Utah and drop it someplace where it would get lots of attention for me.

The morning I turned on my television and saw where my found piano had landed, I knew it was time to put part two of the game plan in place… and as you will see, it still backfired in my face.

Part 2:

Online Writer friend of mine lives only a short distance from where “said” piano was found and said, “hey, I need a favor. *Cough* large bookstore going out of business hoping to promote books, can you pull a few favors for me?”


No television footage of the book signing happened, and *cough* large bookstore still made huge announcement and now I’m left thinking, God when I eventually finish writing my novel, I’m down to one big walk-in bookstore chain who can sell my book, DAMN YOU BORDERS! I mean, big bookstore chain!

Conclusion: PEOPLE NEED TO BUY BOOKS! Oh um… yeah, I mean that’s how the crispy fried piano ended up on the sandbar in BFE, I mean Miami. Yep, that’s it…

Thursday, February 24, 2011

Foggy Appearances

This little piece was part of a challenge from Diana E. Backhouse's photos on 6 Sentences... So here goes...

Foggy Appearances

He watched out the window at the advancing fog snaking its way around the converted medieval chapel he now called home, and knew she was coming for him. Her appearances were far and few between, but today her voice echoed the halls, its sound chilling to the bones no matter how close to the fire he sat. As evening drew near, an ache in his neck began to throb and he nervously paced across his study using his hand to try and damper the thud-thud of shooting pain. With each strike of the clock he found himself checking out the window toward the remains of the old cemetery. By Midnight, there was nothing he could see outside the window for the fog had grown to thick. He didn’t hear her silent footsteps, for she glided above the ground, but did feel the sharp pain as she sank her fangs into his neck; he took note as black clouded his mind that this time she would drain him dry and that later in the week there would be a fresh grave someone else would stare at long into the future.

Friday, February 18, 2011

What Was It Like?

Well, it was about three months into the zombie apocalypse. You think your old Gran is kidding huh? Right… just because most of us don’t want to talk about them days doesn’t mean they didn’t exist.

I know, I know, you think I’m just a senile old‘un, just like you did when I mentioned a thing we called the internet, and computers, yes, my dears, we are definitely in the dark ages again.

Why don’t I have any journals? God you kids are pushy today aren’t you? Well, let me tell you, besides not wanting to remember everything that happened when we thought the world was going to end, but it just wasn’t feasible to carry around all them god-damn notebooks and paper. We didn’t have power for years so we couldn’t keep our computers running.

Yes, yes, I’m getting off topic. April 12, it was a few days after my birthday, and I remember thinking if we only knew when Easter was officially going to be, I’d been on the road with your Mom and Aunt and hadn’t seen a calendar for a little while, I was marking days on a stick so I felt like I could know the date if nothing else. I still had a watch so I could see the time, that felt good.

Hey, any little thing you knew when you met people made you feel a little good, at least we knew we were a little more superior than the zombies.

Well, it was weird, I remember watching the tv- now don’t start that again, I told you about the television before, mind sucking boxes, and the news came on.

Do you want me to tell the damn story or not?

Not a story, history, quit being smart asses or I’ll go back to bed and take another nap.

You know what, you little shits, talk to me about it tomorrow, and maybe I’ll tell you more.

Yeah, yeah, whatever, go see if your mom needs help.

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

In Memory of Our Loving Friend

I woke up this morning to the news that a dear friend of mine had passed away. Not knowing what to say to friends and family of Little Evan, I instead was inspired to write this:

In Memory of Our Loving Friend - Evan G. Wilcock II

It’s winter with the call of spring
The clouds have opened
Letting down all its pain
Tomorrow with a touch of snow
We’ll see a world cleansed.

The moon almost full
Absorbs our cries, and
After she sets tonight-
The sun will rise;
Warming us with your smile.

You have touched so many of us
In ways you probably never known
Tonight Heaven mourns with us,
But with tomorrow’s calm
We’ll know you've found peace.

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

Book of the Year goes to:


The best book I've read this year, amazing crime thriller that I couldn't put down. Find out more!


Sunday, February 13, 2011

Vivid Dreams

There are times that I can tell you where some of my dreams originate from, like dreams of serial killers (falling asleep to watching too many episodes of Criminal Minds), or Werewolves (Van Helsing and Underworld 1, 2, and 3 all in one weekend), but others catch me completely off guard. Like the other night for example. I woke up, my heart racing after living a dream of the “Zombie Apocalypse” yes the Zombie Apocalypse… Even more disturbing was the appearance of a group of Cannibals that I met after stopping at a place near the waterfront to trade supplies. I evaded them once, but after they captured remaining members of my group, I had to go back, I couldn’t leave them to such a horrible fate, not with zombies around. We managed to escape by the skin of our teeth and swim to safety only to live to fight another zombie filled day.

Friday, January 28, 2011

Am I Afraid of the Dark?

It’s dark as all get-up and I have the feeling of being watched although from where I can’t say. My mind conjures images of masked men lying in the shadows waiting to jump out at me, too many episodes of Criminal Minds, I guess. Thinking about ‘masked men’ makes me wonder, what makes a normal person snap? I mean, some individuals claim that they are born gay right, can others claim they are born serial killers or does something radical, maybe even unknowingly, change them somewhere along the way? I try to stomp out the cold and think to myself, why is it I don’t usually care for crime novels, but am a sucker for TV shows like CSI, Criminal Minds, and even The Mentalist (besides Simon Baker)? Hell I don’t know, ok yes I do… never mind, I don’t know, why these kinds of thoughts occupy my time when alone in the dark whispering to my dogs, “hurry up” and “it’s cold” while keeping the silhouette of my back door within sight.