Speaking Out

       

      Speaking Out:
A Call for Responsibility for the Freedom of Speech

       Founding father of the United States Thomas Jefferson wrote a document by the title of “the Declaration of Independence”, in the Declaration Jefferson states that “Humans have certain inalienable rights… Among them are Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness”. However, those are not the only rights granted by the Creator (God, the Universe, or other forms of deity); one of the most revered right is in the First Amendment of the United States Constitution: The Freedom of Speech. A few patriots have said that the freedom of speech is the most important right for a free society. If a person is able to think for themselves, then they will be able to articulate and convey their thoughts into their speech, unfiltered. The lack of freedom of speech is an indirect way for indoctrination! However, on the other side of the coin, is there such a thing as too much freedom? Does the freedom of speech have a limit? Yes, it does. The freedom of speech was established after the American Revolution to allow citizens to speak freely against their government without fear of death or imprisonment. It was not intended for the call for race wars, hate crimes and even private harassment. The freedom of speech comes with a price: The price of responsibility.

    Even though the freedom of speech is a God given right and a lawfully protected right by the Constitution, it still has been assaulted by Big Government in the United States. From the turn of the century Progressive movement to the neo-Progressive and pseudo-counterterrorism fear tactics of today, the government has tried to override the privilege and rights of the American public by creating their own laws.

     One such law has existed for ten years, yet has been brought up as a tool for the government to spy on the American people since the Kennedy administration; this law invades the privacy of Americans and unjustly records a person’s private conversations, the Patriot Act. Congress claims that the Patriot Act was ratified and put in affect to secure safety after the events of September 11^th (Justice.gov), but evidence have been shown to be further from the truth. To this very day, the Patriot Act tasted little success, catching one out of 100 terrorist supporters. Still, the supporters of terrorisms happened to be U.S citizens, those who have Constitutional rights. The Patriot Act disregards the 10^th and 14^th Amendments, the right to privacy and the right to citizenship respectively (United States Constitution).

    The government has done more to assault the rights of its people, but as it pertains to the freedom of speech, the Patriot Act is the most recent and the most effective.

    What if the freedom of speech is used publicly, in a peaceful assembly by the words spoken are of hate and anger? As unpopular as hate speech might be perceived, the speaker is still protected by the freedom of speech if done at an assembly. Three such hate groups that use this platform to convey their anger are the white separatist-turned-supremacy group Ku Klux Klan; the counter-culture revolutionary anarchists Weather Underground and the scrutinized limited-government supporting Tea Party of 2010.

     Founded by Confederate soldiers after the Civil War, the Ku Klux Klan original intent was for white soldiers to form a brotherhood, in fear that the loss of their Southern roots were at hand. They were not backwoods, backward thinking racists as future generations would paint them; the founders of the Ku Klux Klan were college educated intellectuals, the mere name of their group was Latin for “The Circle”, and Latin is considered the “language of scholars”.

     As the group grew from an inner circle to a radical movement, racism did spread into their speech and actions, often resulting in random hangings and lynching’s of innocent black men. The question is not if their unethical ideology correct, the question that is often raised is there hate speech covered by the first amendment? Though deemed unpopular, misguided and at times uneducated, their speech is protected if they are citizens of the United States and they have peacefully assembled.

      To assemble peacefully is the key to hate speech being protected by the First Amendment. Not all groups see this, in fact the prelude to today’s Occupy Wall Street movement was the 1960s radical counter-culture led by Bill Ayres, known as the Weather Underground. The Weather Underground was not protected by the first amendment because they did everything but peacefully assemble! In 1969 they started their reign of domestic terrorism called the Day of Rage, a day full of riots in Chicago.

     Later on they resorted to fires, bombings and other forms of violence. In 1975, one of the last actions, they attempted to bomb the State building in Oakland, CA (“Terrorism Flashback: State Department Bombing.” FBI. 29 Jan. 2004. Web. 11 Mar. 2012.)! Their only goal was to overthrow America and replace it with global communism. The Constitution does not extend to the organization. Nor does it extend to its leader, Bill Ayers, when he proclaim “Kill the rich; kill your parents” (Coburn, Marcia F. “No Regrets.” Chicago Magazine 2001. Web). Such speech, which is intended only to incite violence, is not a right. It’s an abuse.

      What if a group of people peacefully assembled, stated their views in a clear articulate notion, without the call for violence, spoke against their government yet were horrifically misjudged and slandered against by the mainstream media? Such an event happened in the 2010 Congressional election season with a grassroots movement went by the name of the Tea Party. Although not an actual political party, the media quickly coupled them with the Republican Party, which is just as big government as the Democratic Party! The only difference is the GOP is a warfare state, where the Democrats are a welfare state (which the Tea Party openly discouraged).

    The media slandered the Tea Party, often calling them racists because it was predominately white seniors at the rallies. Spiteful comedian Bill Maher openly showed his distaste for the Tea Party, yet at the same time showed his support for “the Godfather of the Tea Party” Congressman Ron Paul on his show Real Time with Bill Maher. The media’s actions were covered by the first amendment, not as freedom of speech, but as freedom of the press. Sadly, if the media would be so cold hearted to its own people, why would they be so kind to the government in which they are supposed to watch? A true conflict of interest.

     The freedom of speech is a wonderful gift to humanity. Whether it’s to speak against a soft tyranny of the present American government; speak against other races or just showing support for a cause; the freedom of speech is a power. But it can, and has been, easily abused by both the speaker and by the government that has sworn to uphold the right. Stan Lee, the famous writer of comic book classic Spiderman, said “With great power, comes great responsibility”. The freedom of speech should never be regulated by the government; it is not a good like healthcare or education, it is a right given to humans by their Creators.

Appalachian Folklore Project

*The following is a project for my American Folklore class.*

The Appalachian Mountain region is sterotypically known for “hillbillies”. Many sterotypes are true, however, when it comes to the mountain men and their homemade booze, or “moonshine”. Moonshine is found plenty in Appalachian lore. From songs to movies and art, moonshine has been embeded into the culture like iron to a sword.

 

MUSIC: Moonshine is found in quite a few songs. It praises the heros of moonshine, like Popcorn Sutton, or they blame moonshine for their troubles. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vb_wUBLJshs

 

POLITICS: The 18th Amendment to the U.S Constitution is widely considered the second most unpopular amendment (second only to the illegeal 16th Amendment), and is refered to as the Prohibition Era. The Prohibition Era was from 1920 to 1933 where the sell, consumption and use of alchohol was illegal. Makers of moonshine were considered outlaws and even folkheros, going against the unjust laws. Sale of moonshine in the mountain region is still unlawful but isn’t as stricly enforced as it was 90 years ago.

Organized crime reigned when alchohol was banned.

 

PERFORMANCE ART: Does anyone remember the Dukes of Hazzard? The show centered on a family of bootleggers. They made moonshine on their farm and ran it to the backwood occupants of their county, while trying to outsmart the witless Deputy Roscoe and his bootlegger-turned-lawman Boss Hogg.

 

TOURISM: Moonshine has become a tourist attraction to the mountain region. Whether it is history buffs who want to see a peice of american history, or frat boys looking to find cheap ways to make their own liqour.

 

A bootlegger making moonshine.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Escape of Shaman Sid CH 2

Chapter Two:

Explanations.

 ***

The sun reigned down the Earth with the heat and light that only mid-Spring can give: Heated but not scorching, a dry heat with a mix of humidity. The air is filled with the sounds of the Foo Fighters on the local rock station, which was being played from the open garage of a local body shop. Along with the sound of music, the noise of drilling and car engines filled the air from the garage.

Daniel pulled himself out of the engine of a red 1970 El Camino. He smoothed out his white undershirt, which was stained with oil stains. He took a deep breath, finally breathing fresh air; his stomach sucking in and then slowly released back to its large girth. Daniel looked at the owner of the car, a balding, skinny man with a bushy mustache and a Dale Earnhardt T-shirt and blue jeans. The customer had a distant look on his face and then spoke in a thick, Southern twang.

“It gonna get fixed?”

“What the hell did you do to it?” Daniel asked. “I never saw a car that had that many modifications and still is just a piece of shit.”

“I race it.”

“You what it?”

“I race it!” the customer said, beaming with pride.

“How the hell do you get it to the track?”

The customer shook his head. “Not a track. I race it in the backwoods.”

“What backwoods?”

“Where there is none roads. I beat the boys in the truck all the time.”

Daniel’s jaw dropped. “You do know El Camino’s is not meant to go off road. Right?”

The man shook his head. “I modified it to make it go off road.”

Daniel lowered his head. “That… is the stupidest thing I ever heard.”

“But I win every race. Well, not last time. You see the misses and I are expecting a baby, well, was. I thought I could beat the ambulance to the hospital but my baby boy wanted out quick, snap and in a hurry. So she gave birth in the back of my El Camino on the side of the road.”

“I need a drink…”

Daniel walked away from the customer who was waving at him to come back and finish the job. Daniel walked into the office and opened the minifridge. After sighing, he took a water bottle, knowing that his father would fire him if he started drinking booze again. Daniel caught his reflection in a picture on his desk. It was the sonogram of his soon to be child, the baby that grew in Rebecca. He first saw himself; his short, crew cut red hair and pudgy face. He already has given up drinking and went to work for his father, so he can make an honest living for his new family. Then his eyes shifted to the actual sonogram and it finally hit him again. He’s going to be a father. Is he really ready? Will the baby be healthy?

His thoughts were broken when one of his co-workers came into the office. Daniel looked at him, placing the sonogram back down.

“Rebecca is here for you. Seems important,” he said.

Daniel nodded to them, “Thanks, I’ll be right out.”

–

Outside of the body shop was a deep purple Honda Civic. Although the windows were tinted, two females were visible inside the car. One was quite bigger than the other, with her swollen stomach that gave room to her growing child. Beside her, in the driver seat, was a woman with the scent of various flowers. Her hair was dark, almost like her complexion, curly and bouncy. She checked her light make up in the rearview mirror, half worried it was flawed in her haste. Tatiana finally held the shaky hand of Rebecca.

“You can do this. Daniel will protest you,” she urged.

Rebecca looked at her, her eyes swelling with tears. “That’s what I’m scared of. When he finds out what kind of madman Sid is, he’ll go out looking for him. Daniel is a great guy but picking a fight with Sid is like bringing a knife to a gun fight.”

Tatiana raised an eyebrow, “He’s that dangerous? What is he, Green Beret?”

Rebecca shook her head, “I don’t know. So much he told me was a lie. But he is dangerous, I seen him break the backs of three men in a row.”

Tatiana’s eyes shot open, never hearing that story. She then points, “Here comes Daniel.”

Rebecca shoved the car door open and ran to Daniels’ arms. As soon as they embraced she began to cry in his arms. Tatiana watched the scene from a far and put her hand to her mouth. She started to whisper to herself, “Is Sid as dangerous as she thinks? If he is, can Daniel, that drunk, even stand a chance? He did escape from that prison without being seen…”

–

Rebecca was now in Daniel’s truck behind the body shop. Daniel was on his cell phone, “…Yes, just look at the engine and that redneck will tell you what he did. I’m taking the rest of the day off, pops.”

Daniel hung up the phone and looked at his fiancée. “Alright, tell me what happened Rebecca. I never seen you so upset.”

Rebecca took a deep breath. After a moment of silence she finally asked, “Did you see the news this morning?”

Daniel looked away for a second, thinking hard. “I saw the weather and that some scene in Titanic is being changed for some reason. Why?”

She closed her eyes, thinking of the words to say. “A man escaped from prison last night.”

“I would too. Prison is a bad place.”

“I think he’s coming after me.”

A dark expression came over Daniel’s face. He spoke in a harden voice, “Who is?”

“His name is Shaman Sid. He’s my ex-boyfriend.”

“I thought I was your first boyfriend.”

She gently shook her head. “I wish you were Danny, I really do.”

“Why would he come after you?”

Rebecca looks at him, “To impregnate me to bring the reincarnation of Alistair Crowley.”

Daniel looked around, and when he looked at Rebecca he had a confused look on his face. “Mind running that by me again, babe?”

“Sid thinks he’s a shaman and that his seed will bring back another crazy guy who is supposed to be the Great Beast of the Book of Revelations.”

“That’s… slightly better to understand,” he noted out loud. “But why you? How you get caught up in this?”

Rebecca took another breath and held the top of her swollen stomach. “I met him online. I went to the next county to see him and his friends. He was so wise and charming. He helped me write many of my essays in high school. You know, the ones that I got As on, those were his words. But…”

“But?”

“He hurt me.”

Daniel growled and clenched his fist. “He better keep running.”

Rebecca shook her head, “He also hurt Zeek.”

Daniel raised an eyebrow, “Your cousin? How?”

“You notice how one of his eyes is fake? It’s because Sid through a dart at him and it landed in his eye. Plus he…  nevermind.”

“He what?” he asked, his voice raised. He grabbed hold of her wrist. Rebecca pulled away.

“If I tell you you’ll never touch me again.”

“That’s impossible. I’m marrying you, Rebecca. We’re having a child. Nothing some sick whack job did will change that.”

She still shook his head. “The things he made me do to Zeek, I can never forgive myself, nor do I expect you to. Zeek was too young to remember, thank God.”

Daniel clenched his fist again, “That asshole is good as dead.”

She wheezed a small laugh. “He always said to be dead is to be the wisest.”

“Let me take you home babe. I promise you, you’re safe with me.”

Rebecca looked at him. “Smile for me. I know when you smile everything will be okay.”

A tear rolled down Rebecca’s cheek as Daniel forced himself to smile.

The Escape of Shaman Sid CH.1

Chapter One:
To Escape and To Live.

 Silence and darkness cradles the room like a mother’s arms. The bare, cold wall lightly glowed gray with the casting of moonlight that shown through the glass, with shadows of the bars that guarded the window sill. The cold, mechanical door remained closed, like the sealed off entrance of a crypt. The bed he laid in was stiff, but not cold as he body heat has created an imprint on the thin mattress. The moonlight made his white flesh glow, as he only had the orange pants of his uniform on. He pushed his raven black hair away from his ears; his hair proved to be naturally bouncy during his three year stint in the prison he calls home. His hard brown eyes scanned down to his bare chest; beads of sweat glistened on him, making the ink of his tattoo shiny. His chest, once virgin, now is forever scared with the claws of a bear, ripping at his flesh. It was only two weeks old, and made him grin at his own handiwork.

His ears pricked up as he heard the noise he had anticipated all night for. The soft footsteps of a certain guard, as rhythmic as the goose-stepping SS, met his wishing ears. By the position of the moon he knew it’s been an hour after lights out, most of the prisoners are fast asleep, the others are plotting a failed version of his own plan: To escape. The keyhole gave way to a key, and the solid door that has held him in this room slowly crept open. A new light shone through, the artificial light of the hallway. The man on the bed rose up, getting to his feet before the silhouette of the guard came crashing into view.

“It’s time,” the guard’s words were cold and soft. The guard stepped into the small room, the scent of jasmine followed, enticing the nostrils of the prisoner.

“About time, I was beginning to think time was wasting me.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind, my sweet nocturnal princess,” the prisoner stepped closer to the guard and kissed her on the lips, her soft lips parting in ecstasy. He pulled away, “Let’s go.”

The fake guard pulled a heavy blanket over the man and they crept out of the cell together. As the two strolled side by side, the shrill sound of the alarm rang throughout the prison. Their plan for escape was not the only plan to be tested tonight.

******

Her room was aglow with the late morning sunlight. She tossed the soft blue blanket off of her, causing the bed to be a mess. She sat up and scanned the room, a smile firmly on her face. She ignored the egg white walls lined with pictures of her family and friends; the posters of Usher, Colt Ford and Eminem that accompanied it. She didn’t bother looking across the room to see her reflection in the vanity, or ahead of her to see if she accidently left the webcam on her computer open again. Her eyes were set down, her hands gently rubbing her bulging, pregnant belly. She was once obsessed with remaining skinny, to stay at 125 the most, but now she embraced that she was with child, with the lovechild of her fiancée.

Still holding her smile, Rebecca rose to her feet, giggling inwardly that she could no longer see her toes. She missed when she could bend over and paint them any color she wanted, but she has been more focused on her fingernails now that she was in the middle of the second trimester. Rebecca looked over at the mirror in the vanity: She ignored the sports bra and basketball short sleepwear and looked over her skin. A caramel completion, being biracial, her dark brown hair fighting to be frizzy. She did enjoy the fact her breasts and butt gotten bigger. She used to joke that her small butt was from her white side (which she only told to her fellow biracial or black friends). Rebecca looked at her cell phone and saw that her best friend called and she, of course, missed it. She left a voice mail, so Rebecca entered the password to listen to her messages.

“Wake up, McFly!” her voice sang to her. “I think I’m getting sympathy cravings because of you. I want some enchiladas! And I don’t even speak Mexican, call me back.”

Rebecca closed her phone after deleting the message, shaking her head with a grin. “Tatiana is a riot,” she said to herself.

After a quick visit to the bathroom Rebecca ventured down the hall of her apartment, which she could hear the news from the television. On the green loveseat sat her 13 year old cousin, Ezekiel, alone, staring at the news. He had a darker completion that Rebecca, with little hair on his head. He readjusted his thick glasses on his face. Rebecca frowned slightly seeing her cousin in pain after the accident that caused permanent nerve damage and blindness in his right eye. Young Ezekiel ever since had a strong fear of not only darts, but needles too.

“Zeek, turn it down. You’re blind not deaf,” Rebecca half yelled over the TV.

Ezekiel looked up, “Oh Rebecca, you’re up.”

“With the T.V on that loud I’m amazed anyone is not.”

“Sorry, it’s just…” he went silent. His eyes grew wide and all he could do was point. Rebecca was expecting to see news of a comic book convention or the death of another celebrity when she turned. When she saw the image she took a step back and her eyes grew wide as well.

On the news was a mug shot of a man, a man that escaped from a state prison just the night earlier. Bouncy raven black hair, a strong jawline, with deep brown eyes. The news anchor continued commentating.

“…Sidney De Luca, also known as “Shaman Sid” has escaped by help of a rouge guard. While other prisoners simply rioted and attempted to kill guards, Shaman Sid escaped without incident. You might remember he was picked up for possession of heroin and aggravated stalking in early 2008.”

“Oh my god,” Ezekiel wined and touched his blind eye.

“Relax Zeek, Sid won’t hurt us again,” Rebecca tried to sooth her cousin, holding him close. “Mom! Mom! Where are you?” she called.

Her mother came scurrying in. At age 50, Rebecca’s mother wasn’t as agile as she had been. She saw her grandchild and daughter huddled on the couch in fear and she picked up speed.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, out of breathe.

“Sid… escaped,” Rebecca choked out.

“Oh no,” her mother sat down. “I knew he’d escape. They didn’t listen to us.”

“Get my phone mom. Tatiana needs to know. Oh no, Danny needs to know.”

“Wait, you never told Daniel about Sid?” her mother looked up.

“Of course not. You think any man would touch me if they knew what that bastard did to me?”

“But Daniel loves you.”

“And I love him too. I was just hoping that Sid would never get out.”

Ezekiel looked up, “Is Sid… coming after us?”

Rebecca’s mother leapt over to her grandchild. She held him close, “Of course not baby. He’ll never hurt you or us again.”

Rebecca made it back to her room, her smile wiped away. Adrenaline surged through her veins; her hands shook as she grabbed her cell phone and called her best friend.

“Hey bitch,” Tatiana laughed.

“T… You need to get me.”

“Rebecca? What’s wrong?”

“Sid escaped.”

“Oh no…”

The Talk

The Talk

***

     He wiggles his toes anxiously; he knew he wouldn’t sleep tonight. His hazel eyes scan the foreign hotel room; an American in France, how typical. The sun had already faded and the night life of Paris was abuzz. Richard sat up on the bed, taking a deep breath. In the mirror of the bathroom he could see his silhouette: His lean frame, even some beads of sweat that traced his body. He knew there would not be any air conditioning, yet he still hasn’t adjusted. He moved his head to peer at the open window, the curtains move slightly from the breeze.

 A sigh left his lips, as his hand moved to the nightstand; he didn’t reach for the lamp, or his glasses. Instead he grabbed his cell phone, the single device that has been torturing him his entire trip. He closed his eyes, but his fingers already knew the way to the text, the text that broke his heart. He opened his eyes, and like a recurring night terror, he read the lines of the text message from Wendy, his best friend of ten years, and first love.

 I’m not looking for a commitment. He read, he knew what was said, he even predicted it. But he asked anyway; he kept reading. I don’t have those feelings to you, but I really care about you. I hope we can stay just friends, Richard.

 The last line made him laugh, but not in amusement. A little known fact about the Ph.D.-to-be scholar and excellent University of Florida psychology major Richard Michaels is he has been in love with his best friend, Wendy Chambers, since grade school. And they did date briefly, much to Richard’s delight. It ended less than a year on those exact words; Wendy just wanted to be friends. After reading the text message again he muttered “The more things change, the more they stay the same.”

 He rose from the bed and placed the cell phone back on the night stand. He looked back at the window; maybe tonight he’ll cut loose and experience the night life of Paris for himself, instead of reading it in a book. He walked to the bathroom and turned on the light. He sniffed the air and he looked around confused. Why does it smell of freshly drawn bath water? Richard looked into the tub… There was bath water in the tub. He didn’t remember drawing a bath; he showered yesterday and only answered a few e-mails with professors today, a very relaxed and lazy day for the young scholar.

 Richard looked into the mirror and could only stare at himself. Yet the face that stared back was not the expression he was giving. His own face stared back at him, with a stern look like a disappointed father about to read the riot act to his disobedient son. Richard could only stare at himself, he felt his jaw dropped but still his reflection did not mimic, it kept that look.

 “Richard,” he heard his voice call. It was his voice but it was not from his mouth. It was his reflection speaking to him! “Richard, why must you torture yourself over her?”

 “Oh no,” he muttered, “I’ve gone mad from grief and stress, the strain caused my brain to separate from reality, with possible acute dementia.”

 “Put the Freud down, Richard and relax.”

 “Relax? You aren’t real and I’m talking to you. Therefor I’m going crazy.”

 “If you’re going crazy, are you really going to go crazy over some girl?”

 Richard looked away from the mirror, but he was right. He raised an eyebrow and looked at himself again.

 “Wait a minute; you’re my id, aren’t you?”

 “It’s only been five minutes and you caught on? Impressive, Richard,” his reflection teased. “You yourself have purposed to your professors that you can bridge the conscious and unconscious mind by sheer will. Well, here I am.”

 “Why are you so angry looking? I mean, why do I look so angry?” Richard asked, touching his own face.

 “Because you’re all heartbroken over some girl who never loved you.”

 Richard looked away again. He felt his own hazel eyes staring at himself. He made himself look back at the stern and relentless reflection.

 “Think about it, Richard. If Wendy must be the catalyst for your experiment to work, then so be it. Look inside your suitcase, with those pictures.”

 “How do you know…? Never mind.”

 Richard knew better than to argue with his own unconscious. He finds it strange that with him moving into the next room, he could still see his reflection staring. Richard pulled out a small bundle of photos from his suitcase. He went back to the bathroom and smiled at bundle. He affectionately called them the W.A.R files (Wendy And Richard). As he smiled he looked back up at the reflection.

 “You should stop smiling now and think about these photographs, Richard.”

 Richard didn’t understand and pulled out the first photo. It was of Richard and Wendy when they were dating at 16, their first date at the carnival. It was nighttime, so the orange lights of the rides were a blazed in the background. He was chubbier back then, with a shaved head and no glasses, dressed in a Slipknot T-shirt and blue jeans. In his arms was his ultimate prize: Wendy. Her long auburn hair flowed like fine silk, her bright green eyes lit red from the flash. Richard’s smile got bigger as he stared; in her arms was the giant green teddy bear he won her, whom she named Anderson after her grandfather. He looked up, tears threatening his eyes.

 “Good times,” he choked.

 His reflection gently shook his head, “Only for you. You are forgetting the Johari window.”

 Richard took a quick, deep breath and braced himself. He knew his unconscious was about to crash this beautiful memory.

 “I know the window,” Richard told himself, “The window shows what is known to the self, to others and what is unknown to the self and others. So what is unknown to me?”

 The reflection points to the picture. “When did you date Wendy?”

 “When we were 16.”

 “How long did you try to date her before?”

 “We were best friends since we were 12. I found romantic feelings for her when we were 13, so about three years.”

 The reflection gave a smirk, Richard’s eyes widen. He didn’t like where this was going, and he subconsciously knew where he was going.

 “What were the events that led to you dating Wendy, our first love?”

 Richard shook his head; he understood where his unconscious was leading. He tried to look away but he felt his eyes stare harder on him; he flinched under his own gaze. Finally, Richard looked back at himself.

 “Her father died, she was moving to a different city, her first love was in a different state…” his voice trailed off. He could see his reflection nodding. Richard spoke again with sudden realization, “She never loved me that way.”

 “Oh look, a shade under a decade. Took you that long to realize it?”

 Richard ignored his own comment, “She merely dated me because I was on the thing constant in her life. She saw me as something familiar in a time of unfamiliarity, so she clung to me simply out of psuedosurivual.”

 “And she got familiarized with her new surroundings, found a way to get back with Casey and left you in a collective thought.”

 “Collective thought?”

 “For Freud’s sake, Richard, think!”

 “I-I don’t understand.”

 His reflection rolled his eyes. “And they say the conscious mind is the intelligent level… When you think of her, she is the one you think about. Not a time period, not a group, it is fully her. When she thinks about you it is a collective mindset: You’re from her hometown, you went to high school together, you are one of her old guy friends. She never thinks of you alone, only with a collection of other memories.”

 Richard yelled and slammed his hand against the sink.

 “Watch it, that’s a good sink. They don’t make them like that in America.”

 Richard looked back at his reflection, his eyes filled with anger. “Why are you telling me all this?”

 “Because it’s time you stop swelling on a girl who doesn’t love you and get your Ph.D. and run the psychology department like you wanted all along! You are speaking to your id, your own unconscious mind. You proved that your theory of sheer will was right. Now all you have to do is administer a few tests and record your feelings and you will be at the top of every psychology journal, every psychology case study, hell you’ll even have every sex craved grad student at the mercy of your other “experiments”.”

 Richard smiled. He did have a theory on sexuality and culture that he personally wanted to administer. Maybe he was right. Maybe dwelling on Wendy has stopped him from performing at his potential. After all, that’s the whole reason he came to France, just to take pictures and put them on Facebook and make Wendy jealous. But then he looked back at the pictures. The smiles that beamed back at him, his own, true and just, and Wendy’s… whether for the time or for love, she was smiling. That was all that mattered to him. Richard looked back up at his reflection.

 “All the psychology, all the philosophy… None of it matters when it’s the matter of the heart.”

 Richard walked back out of the bathroom. He stared out of the window. Should he continue his running after a woman who will never love him back or start living the live he knows he was made for? From the bathroom he heard him speak.

 “You should take a bath. I think Jim Morrison died of a broken heart.”

Pride and Lose CH.1 PT.2

Chapter One (Part II)
In the Garden of Eden

“Why today?” she pleaded. “Of all days, why the eighth anniversary of the attack on the New Capital? The attack you helped organize.”

 Kenny took one last drag of his cigarette and smashed it in his ashtray. He looked at his wife, Elizabeth, with no regret in his eyes. “Elizabeth, I organized that attack for a reason and the end has certainly justified the means. It is time we forgive not only the former powers but to forgive ourselves. Did you really like being in the Alliance when we were teenagers?”

 Elizabeth simply shook her head. “But Kenny, you know we use today as the new birthday of Maria. She might not ask anything but she has questions. It’s like she knows her father is alive.”

 “That would be my doing,” Kenny grinned. “I told her that Shane is alive and looking for her.”

 “You did what?” Elizabeth leaped out of her seat. Her voice bouncing off the stone walls of the den like office they were occupying. “If Shane is alive he is not looking for her. He’s looking for you! He’s already killed Alexander.”

  “Shane is a lost lamb, a child who feels forsaken. It’s why I always preach forgiveness, especially on days like this. I hope to our Lord and Savior that Shane hears my message.”

 “But—“

  “Elizabeth, I love you. But is Shane’s hands the only one stained with blood?”

  Elizabeth sighed, “No, Kenny. And it haunts me every day.”

  “How do we know it doesn’t haunt him? I know he’s alive, I can feel it. We were like brothers before the attack on the New Capital. Now get the kids, I have a sermon to conduct.”

 

   The auditorium was filled, religious zealots sat next to converting atheists, the elderly intertwined with the college students. The lighting was fired up, the most on the giant cross that was engraved on top of the stage wall. In the back, the cameras were rolling as the music faded into memory. Their leader, their preacher, was now on stage. Kenny Pillman, son of renown tattoo artist turned hate monger associate, scanned his congregation with a smile. His eyes landed on the birthday girl, the modestly dressed, Hispanic mixed eleven year old Maria. His warm smile made her smile widely as she clung to her adoptive mother’s side.

  “The Bible teaches us to forgive as our Heavenly Father forgives. Forgive each other, forgive those who wronged you, even forgive yourself. I know many of us have trouble doing that last part. We have done wrong to others, we sought our pound of flesh. Even I have fell victim to such thinking. Those who know my story will agree, but for those who are new to the program or this congregation let me fill you in.
  “I am Kenny Pillman, son of Jamie Pillman who has been called one of the best tattoo artists in the last fifty years. The problem with his reputation is he associated himself with the Aryan-Viking Alliance and the Organization 28, which is a hate group/ white supremacy organization. I did not know he was my father until the day he died. He told me, minutes before he killed himself in front of me, that he never wanted to be part of that lifestyle, nor did he wished it on me. Sadly we both led that life and he was stuck. After his death my best friend, Shane Magner who most of you know as the man who killed former president Alexander Hamil, left to hide in Puerto Rico. So I was alone, alone with no one but my wife Elizabeth and my God.
 “I have learned to forgive my own transgressions, for I know God has forgiven me. But I know a few people, including my friend that I mentioned, more than likely have not forgiven me. But I would like to go into Matthew 6:14…”

Rook CH.1 PT.2

Chapter One
Human (part two)

  Daniel froze at the front door of his aunt’s small house. To his amazement, the streets were filled with fog, like an uneasy night at sea. He paused at the end of the front porch to gaze at the sight before him. The grounded clouds stretched over the street like a soft, gray blanket; the cold gusts of wind sliced into his flesh, his eyes tear up from the sudden cold. He closes his eyes, allowing the protective tears slide down his cheeks. After breathing in the cold air once more, he ventured into the fog, straining his eyes to see the lights of street lamps and select few in coming cars.

 Daniel tugged at his heavy denim jacket and hitched up his belt on his baggy, faded jeans. After hitting the unlock button on his keychain he climbed into his yellow H2 Hummer and started the ignition. The dark beat of “Boogie Man” by Tech N9ne filled his stereo speakers as he pulled out of the small driveway. Daniel flipped open his cell phone and found Little Ed’s number and dialed it.

 “Hello?” the voice answered. It was thick with bass that Little Ed was known for (little body, big voice).

 “You’re actually alive?” Daniel asked.

 “I was going to ask you the same question. Where the fuck you been?”

 Daniel allowed his eyes to shift from the street to his review mirror, the empty cans of beer meeting him. “Swimming.”

 “Right,” Little Ed huffed. “I’ve been running the operations just fine without your brooding ass showing up. You low on funds?”

 “Word is we both might be.”

 “What you talking about, Danny Boy?”

 “Have you ever heard of some gang called The Fathers?”

 “Holy shit.”

 “What?”

 “No, holy shit.”

 “What the fuck are you babbling about?”

 “The Fathers, you dumb fuck. They are actual holy men, Catholic priests I think. A few have gone rouge and started pushing drugs. I thought it was a joke.”

 “What changed your mind?” Daniel came to a red light.

 “The night the 727 Boys jumped me. I didn’t kill them, well not alone,” Little Ed began. “Those boys jumped me and tried to kill me, but they didn’t. I fought back, of course but some group of altar boys, in their little mini-priest costumes and all, jumped them. That’s who really killed them.”

 “And then?” Daniel ignored the green light.

 “One of them said that The Fathers will judge and purge the scum from the underbelly. They basically said this was the warning and next time all drug dealing scum will find God.”

 “Sounds like they need to be taken care of.”

 “Don’t do anything stupid!”

 Daniel sped past the new red light. “Speaking of something stupid why is R.J more than just a foot solider?”

 “Because you have disappeared into booze and cheap pussy.”

 “Well I’m back now, Ed. And I will take care of R.J, the Fathers, fuck I’ll even take out Big Bird while I’m at it!”

 Little Ed yelped a surprise. “You know where my brother is? How you find out?”

 “I always find the snitch, bitch.” Daniel hung up.

  After making a few turns he stops at a stop sign; the street was empty and he knew it. His eyes swayed to the wall of the flower shop building and his eyes froze. New tears came to his eyes, but it wasn’t from the cold this time. In that moment he wasn’t in his Hummer on the way to a drug den; he wasn’t just a drug dealer trying to secure his dominate spot of the underground food chain. In his mind he could feel the summer sun on his tan skin, the sweat forming in his brown hair and the smile on his face. In that moment he was Danny Rhodes again, with his kid sister Ashley: In the last moments of Ashley’s young life.

 Daniel stepped out of his Hummer and ambled to the spot his eyes were fixed on; a spot filled with roses that are slowly wilting. With each step the event from that summer day ran through his head. His nose tingled with the bitter smell of tears as he held them back. He finally reached the sidewalk and he could still see himself, holding the limp body of Ashley. Greif sent him to a knee, his head bowed. The blood had washed away from the sidewalk, but never his memory. To Daniel those grouts were still flooded with the blood of his sister; the wall will always have two bullet holes.

Succinctly Yours Week 41 entry

How low can you go?

Use the photo as inspiration for a story of 140 characters OR 140 words and post them at http://grandmas-goulash.info

Word of the week: Memories

 

What does an old computer, a stuffed dinosaur and my New Years Eve party have in common? No memories.

Rook CH 1

Chapter One:

Human

 

  “What about your father?” he asked, his word slurred from the vodka and post-sex endorphins rushing through his body.

 “No, no,” the voice on the phone sounded distant to him. “The Fathers are pushing a new drug that our pushers never heard of! I sent a guy to test the shit and I haven’t heard back from him.”

 “Who are The Fathers?”

 “That’s also an issue. I ain’t got a fucking clue!”

 Daniel takes a swig from the vodka bottle beside him. “Of course, leave it to me to find out.”

 “You are the top drug dealer in Florida. Well, maybe only second if these Fathers keep at it.”

 Daniel spits out his vodka, “These assholes spring up overnight and are already threatening my status? It took me months to knock off the Young Riders.”

 “Get your ass out of your bed, away from whatever fat ass, disease carrying hooker you’re fucking, put on your pants and meet me at the drop house.”

 “You got a lot of balls to talk to me like that, solider.”

 “I ain’t just a solider, asshole. Little Ed promoted me last night.”

 “Little Ed is still around?” Daniel rose up, his thin sheet of blanket covering one of his legs and most of his lower body. “I thought the 727 Boys killed him.”

 “They jumped him two months ago,” the voice on the phone told him flatly, “He killed them. Seriously Daniel, have you even been out of the house lately?”

 Daniel just blinked. “Uh,”

 “Get to the drop house. I’ll get whatever the Fathers are pushing.”

 Daniel hung up without saying goodbye. He shook his head. His shaggy bleached blond hair was wet from sweat. He turned to the side of his head, the legs were off but the pale yellow lights from the street lamps seeped in. He could see the vague formation of the fat hooker his ‘business associate’ was talking about: Full lips, double chin, cheeks blown up. He doesn’t remember her name, or even if she gave it. He looked at the cheap vodka on his bed stand and lifted up. A grin came to his lips. The grin vanished when he heard a stirring in his bed.

 “Where’s my money, looker?” she asked. Her eyes now fully open, staring at the back of her latest customer.

 Daniel’s grin came back to his face, his eyes on the bottle. “I have your money, right here.”

 The hooker leaned up, his saggy breasts hanging over the bed sheets. Daniel quickly turned around and smashed the vodka bottle over her head. The hooker fell out of the bed as the glass shattered and the vodka sprayed. Daniel took a shard in his hand and pulled her curly black hair back. The hooker screamed as Daniel placed the shard into her mouth.

 “I hope you can deepthroat this, bitch,”

 Daniel then slams her face into the floor, the long shard breaking the back of her throat. The hooker laid motionless as a crimson puddle started to emerge. Daniel looked at the window, the pale yellow light washed over his body. A knock at the bedroom door came, breaking Daniel’s concentration. The door opened and entered an older, plump woman, with blond hair, came in dressed in a tank top and short shorts. Daniel smiles, “Hello Aunt Candy.”

 “Danny, what was all the screaming about?” Candy asked. Before Daniel could reply Candy was already in the room and saw the hooker body. “Damn it Danny, you could of asked to barrow money.”

 “I don’t like asking to barrow.”

 “Quit being so damn proud.”

 “If I was proud you think I’d hit the cheap, fat one?”

 “There is nothing wrong with a woman with extra meat on her. Just look at your lovely aunt,” Candy twirled. “Still the highest paid stripper at Angels. And I was stripper of the year at Diamond Dolls.”

 Daniel went to say which year but decided against it.

 “Garbage day is Tuesday. So you will have to take her to the dump.”

 “I will later. First I need to go to the drop house. Some new gang is trying to muscle their way to the top.”

 “New gang? What?”

 “I’ll be back later, aunt Candy,” he kisses her cheek. “Don’t stay up too late.”

 “It’s already 3:30 in the morning!”

Pride and Lose CH. 1

Prologue:

Eight Years Ago

    The sound of dripping water was the only noise, besides his heavy breathing, as he ambled deeper into the dark corridor-like tunnel. He was one of the few who helped design this underground bunker so he knew exactly where the president was running to. The man took a deep breath as a rush of pair waved over his body. He winced but tried to make as little noise as he could. So much has happened in the last hour alone. His wife was killed in an explosion, his best friend kidnapped his daughter and now… now he has to kill the president of United Socialist States of America.

 Shane’s head pain eased away a moment later. He had his eyes closed, thinking about the events that led to this moment. His entire upbringing was designed out of hate; hate for other races; hate for those who are not like him; hate everything except his own kind. But that hate subsided today. Shane survived, along with President Alexander Hamill, an explosion that was done by an amateur. He was alive but he was still hurt pretty bad. His denim jeans were torn and his black t-shirt was split down the middle and in other places, accompanied by slices and cuts.

 He finally made it to his destination: a steel door.

 Shane pulled out his last weapon, a curved switchblade knife, from his ankle strap. It glistened from the lone fluorescent light bulb that hung above the door. He smiled inwardly as he stuck the knife’s sharp tip into the keyhole. He was attempting to jimmy the lock. The locks popped and clicked open and he pushed it open. This is what he had asked for. The moment he had envisioned, the heat of his hatred kept his body warm those cold nights. It was finally a one on one fight with his arch rival.

Chapter One:

In the Garden of Graves 

    Crying, sobs, prayers and soft chuckles of remembrance filled to the air. The sun hung low, with colorful streaks of orange and the firey yellow of the sun. On the other side was bluish black washing over the other graves, waiting to consume the land for night’s victory. The casket hung like the sun and was slowly lowering to its earthy tomb. The clergymen stayed for the first toss of dirt onto the casket, and walked off. The mournful followed the lead, their respects fully paid, their tears fully cried. The grave digger took his hat off, showing the balding head of an old man, and bowed his head. The funeral was now over and everyone has left as the night crept over the fresh grave. Everyone but one man, who had hidden away when the mournful was present. Now, without his hood, the man who had been trailing the funeral from the wake to the burial, who had stalked the congregation, was now in the open, at the foot of the fresh grave. The smell of moist dirt filled his nostrils and the clash of distant thunder rolled into his perked ears. The man, who stood at six foot, stooped to one knee and bowed his dirty blond mane in respect.

 “Mother, forgive me for all I have done in our name,” he prayed.

 He rose, after letting a single tear fall onto the ground.

 “Shane,” a voice trailed in the distance.

 Shane jerked back, scanning the graveyard. He didn’t see anyone, so he looked back at the grave. Although the moon was only half full this night, it shown brightly with all its majesty. He heard his name being called again and he looked up. Only the rolling of distant thunder and the lonely graves met him.

 “Shane,” he heard the wind whisper as it swift past him.

 He unconsciously followed the direction of the wind, leaving the grave of his mother. His heavy boots fell on soft clay and fresh grass. With each step, the distant thunder grew closer. His grey eyes found a grave; a grave he had been afraid to see. For the second time of the night, he fell to one knee to pay another respect. His finger traced the headstone, mouthing the name that was etched into the stone. With his other hand he clenched his fist.

 “Catherine,” he breathed her name, “I am so sorry.”

 Shane wanted to say more, his mind thought of every transgression to pulled against her, her family, her race. In his minds’ eye he remembered what he did: killing her cousins, the hateful rants he use to spew at her, the tender hold he held her at nights, the beautiful wedding they had and the day their daughter was born. His eyes shot open.

 “Maria…”