Let's get a little twisted....

Can anyone explain this unhealthy obsession this nation has for blaming people? I get it. Things go wrong and it's obviously somebody's fault, but how does spending tons of money on Congressional hearings to produce minimum results help anything? We are so focused on blaming people that we lose sight of trying to solve the problem. Personally I think the Obama-Biden combination is one of the worst in our history and they are stark raving idiots, but instead of griping and blaming them for things that go wrong we need to focus on fixing the problems. Who cares about blame?

It's no secret that I view the current Presidency as a joke worse than Jimmy Carter. In fact, we really haven't had a strong leader for about 7-8 years now. Bush just quit about a year into his second term. That being said, I fully realize and expect Obama to take overall responsibility for the Obamacare fiasco, BUT how can anyone in their right minds blame the President for a website that cost too much and doesn't work? In all fairness, he's just the dude who put his name at the bottom of it. The company responsible for designing and trying to build it should be held accountable more than a man who had nothing to do with it. Just my two cents.

Keep your two-faced politics, I have my country

Few moments in life are powerful enough to bring emotional change at a core level. May 19th offered me one of those special moments. A Special Forces NCO got killed around Kabul and his body was being flown home that night. HQ encouraged anyone not doing anything to line the road at midnight in tribute to the fallen. Joe Burke and I grabbed our rifles and took our places in the lines of soldiers along Disney Drive. We could see the HMMWV carrying the flag draped casket at the end of the road, waiting for the escort to get in place. Another hundred or so soldiers lined the road in solemn ranks. Everything seemed to happen at once; almost a sensory overload. A C-17 just landed, bringing with it a fresh batch of soldiers from the 10th Mountain Division. None of the newbies were enthused. Many wore fearful looks, much the same as our merry group had upon entering enemy air space all those long months ago. Marching out from the opposite side of the road was a group of our guys heading home. They were laughing and shouting in joy. Naturally there was some good natured ribbing going on between the two groups. Combine them with our silent bunch and it was almost too much. Midnight chimed and the SF procession began. A color guard marched in front of the HMMWV, flags waving in a weak breeze. A C-17 waited. The back ramp was down and an ominous red glow filled the cavernous body. Directly behind the plane, almost as if Fate had a hand in this affair, the full moon hung low and bright, illuminating the snow covered mountains in the distance. Marching boots echoed in the silence. The honor guard was comprised of fellow SF men formed up on both sides of the vehicle. Many had tears in their eyes. Others that look of anger from being robbed of a friend.  A pair of Apaches zipped by, followed by Chinooks carrying a company from the 82nd.  The soldiers lining the road snapped to attention and saluted as the funeral procession passed them. I could see the end of the casket now and it inspired strong emotions. Rage, sorrow, pride. I could clearly see the pain in those SF soldier’s eyes as they escorted their friend and comrade down the flight line and up into the belly of the plane. Joe and I went to attention and saluted with our rifles. It was much harder to keep a straight face than I imagined. I’d been to the occasional funeral back in the States but those deaths were from training accidents, not combat. This man that none of us knew inspired me. He awakened raw emotions I forgot I had. Strange pride warmed me. I can’t say where it came from but it was a moment I’ll never forget. Seeing that casket roll by I suddenly realized why I was still in the Army and why I really volunteered to go to Afghanistan. Any lingering doubts were gone, replaced by a sense of satisfaction that came from knowing each and every one of the men and women standing beside me were ready to lay down their lives for people they hardly knew. That’s it. That’s all it is. Soldiers share a bond no newscaster or civilian will ever understand. We’re here so you don’t have to be. So you never need know the horrors of war. That’s what makes us special. It’s the undying devotion to each other that sets us apart regardless of race, creed or nationality. I stayed in the Army all these years not for myself but for those next to me. We carry on despite seeing our comrades fall. We bury our heroes at the expense of our nation’s freedom, whether they support us or not. But that is merely an afterthought. While deployed the only thing that matters is the people on our flanks. There’s no way I can find to successfully convey the strength of emotions I felt after I dropped my salute. One thing I was sure of was that as long as men and women were willing to leave their lives behind to go fight in a country they never heard of, for people they’ve never met, I’ll be right alongside wearing my nation’s uniform and serving with pride. All of these events helped make my deployment to Afghanistan enduring memory that I can still see when I close my eyes on a quiet day. There are no words to describe the emotions that run through a deployed soldier’s mind when he/she is exposed to such events. Even now as I write this, almost a decade later I can still see the wounded. Can still hear the machine guns and explosions. I can still feel the cold when I step outside and see mountains.

Fate sometimes smiles

I spent twenty years in the US Army. I served overseas several times including three combat tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. Through it all I never stopped writing. Long nights in Korea and under mortar attacks by the Taliban my pen continued to churn out word after word. I actually got a medal for the student of the month award for writing a very poorly done (and a knock off of another book) novel in 11th grade. I'm not a dreamer, more methodical in my approach to the future. I know what I want and, though I may not always know how to get there, always continue the assault. You see, there can be no substitute for victory. I think Americans have forgotten this. We give up too easily. Turn our backs on what we once thought was important. How did this happen? Has our culture been so watered down over the last 30 years that I need to move to a tropical island? (Not that that's a bad idea mind you) All I know is that my years of work have left me here. I had two novels professionally published last month and now have one in the Barnes and Noble catalog. Not the Nook- where any old body can post stuff, but on their bonafide bookshelves. Have I won? Is the war over? You tell me.

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00CKDX3WC

This time its for real

Could May have possibly been any better for me? Fate smiled down and I had two novels published through different publishers almost simultaneously. While I have yet to crack New York, there is much success to be had through smaller markets. The work is nearly double since they lack the revenue to promote heavily, but I don't mind. I've waited twenty years for this moment. The time has come for me to kick the doors open and attack. None of this would have been possible without everyone who has offered me encouragement and criticism through the years. Here's to you.

Here is a snippet of my first novel: Hammers in the Wind: Book I of the Northern Crusade. Enjoy, or not, and please let me know what you think.

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00CKDX3WC

ONE

 

High pitched screams pierced the wood and stone halls of Chadra Keep. Badron, the liege lord of Delranan, sprang from his ancient throne at the sound. His band of favored captains and counselors doing the same. His pale blue eyes boiled from shock to feral rage as he quickly registered what was happening. Screams could only mean one thing. His very family was under attack in what was supposed to be the most secure place in his kingdom. More screams and blood choked cries mixed with the sound of clashing steel. Badron snarled grimly. The house guard was locked in brutal struggle somewhere deep within the wooden halls of the Keep.

Badron drew his trusted sword and stormed off in search of the battle. The most senior lords and captains of Delranan followed him. Eight in all, they comprised a most lethal band of warriors. Their deeds had forged the kingdom from a pack of warring tribes and clans into a singular monarchy that quickly became the strongest of the northern kingdoms. They wordlessly chased at the wolf skin cloak of their king as he headed towards the royal sleeping chambers.

Fear drove Badron. Long red hair, now streaked through with gray, flowed angrily down broad shoulders. His normally pale blue eyes seethed red with rage. Wrath commanded him, wrath so strong it could threaten the foundations of his hard fought kingdom and make the old gods of Malweir tremble in fear. Muscles bunched under his jerkin. His bulk nearly filled the doorway. Badron felt the old energy flow into him. His was a warrior’s life and this night but an extension of it. The sound of glass breaking drew his attention. Badron bellowed and charged, heedless of any lurking dangers.

Fleeting visions of battle appeared through the flickering torchlight. The flash of a sword. A spray of blood. The ruins of a body lay in the middle of the hall, a crumpled mass of flesh. Badron knelt beside the corpse. The smell of blood kissed the stagnant air. Deep cuts and gashes immolated the young house guard. Badron tried to close the eyes, if no other reason than to avoid staring down into the pure agony, but rigor mortis had already begun to set in. A feathered spear broken at the hilt was embedded in the lad’s throat.

“Pell Darga,” growled Jarrik. He rubbed his bald head and spat.

The king brought his gaze up to his friend and captain. “Rouse whatever watch remains, Jarrik. I want these monsters run down and skinned alive. The rest of you with me.”

Badron led them further into the keep. The inner doors to the royal chambers were smashed to ruins. One lay in splinters across the hall while what was left of the second hung in shreds by a single hinge. Smoke curled up from the chamber, running down the ceiling. Fresh blood stained the floor and walls in ragged patterns. More bodies. Badron grimaced. From the looks of it all of his private guard had been caught unawares and slain. Their furs and spiked helms lay stained in growing pools of blood. Badron splashed his way past.

It's been a long time my friend

I'd just about given up doing this blog thing. It was steadily turning out to be a colossal waste of my time but I don't like to quit things. Guess I'm from an older, better generation that what he we have now. Too many people are willing to quit and accept defeat, as if there's nothing wrong with it! I'd be ashamed to quit anything. It's not in my character. I grew up when it wasn't alright to be sensitive, wasn't fine to show weakness. My character was forged from strength (sometimes perhaps a little too much but hey, that's life) and molded by men who'd been to wars far worse than what I saw. Iraq and Afghanistan were hell, but nothing compared to Vietnam or Korea.

That being said, I have received well over 100 thanks but no thanks cookie cutter rejection letters from agents. My drive has kept me writing, that and these darn stories that need to get out of my head and onto paper! I take comfort in the fact that literary agents are quickly becoming irrelevant in the grand scheme of publishing so their 'no' doesn't quite mean as much as it used to. I got taken for a ride by Mark Sullivan and Associates when I was a lot younger and too hungry to do the proper research. They took my money and strung me along with the "I wish I could sell this now but we need to...."

No problem. I overcame and adapted and plugged along. I jumped on the Nook and Kindle wagon and made very poor sales from doing it alone. I'm not marketer or salesman. I'm a writer, an author, a magician of words. So I kept looking. I submitted books to several small publishers and now have two contracts and two novels about to be published. I'm happy and still pushing ahead. I dearly wish to break into New York and take the publishing world by storm but patience has gotten me this far. Now it's time to forge ahead and keep breaking down the walls.

Good things may come to those who wait, but who has time for that? I say attack with all possible force and reap the glory.

Oct short story contest

The Return

Soft winds played a haunting melody as they blew through the cracks in the house. The aged wooden planks were missing paint and warped. An old rocking chair swayed back and forth on the porch. Beside it sat an empty flower pot with a broken lantern leaning against it. Cobwebs flickered from the supports of the chair. In the distance, unseen in the night, echoed the baleful hoot of a great horned owl. Night had settled in, blanketing the world in tender embrace as the weary were granted respite from the trials of the day. All that is but one.

The old man eased onto the porch. His tired eyes scanned the rolling hills and lightly forested fields. Wisps of stark white hair clung to his head, speckled by liver spots and fading freckles. His once sharp blue eyes were tired now, past their prime. He felt old. His body was thinner, fragile. With a heavy sigh he took his usual seat and just watched. He hoped this night would finally be different.

He’d lost track of how many years he came out to sit on his porch with that broken lantern in his lap. Decades at least. His very life seemed defined by it. He was bitter, angry at the heavens for a perceived injustice oh so long ago. The lantern was a constant reminder of his failure to protect his wife. A mockery of what could have been. An old promise said it would light when the time was right. He’d been waiting every night for so long and never so much as a flicker.

The old man sighed and began his nightly vigil. It wasn’t long before he began to nod off. The nights were longer these days and it was all he could do to try and stay awake. Autumn was here. A faint chill clung to the old house. Leaves of red, yellow and orange drifted past on the wind. Then he heard it. The subtle chime echoed over the hills and through the valleys. The old man snapped alert, his gaze automatically lowering to the lantern. His eyes widened. A spark. Small, intense but full of life.

“Have you ever given up hope?” a voice asked.

The old man started. There, standing at the bottom of the steps was a tall figure shrouded in a cloak of blinding colors. His heart quivered. “You’ve come back!”

The figure took a step closer. “I have never left. Every step you’ve taken, every breath you’ve taken I have been right behind you, catching you when you lacked the strength to continue.”

Tears welled. His strength threatened to abandon him. “I’ve missed you so much. All these years, I never dared to dream.”

The other’s voice softened, turning melodious. “Yet you still sat vigil, waiting for the chime. You were always a good man, Daniel.”

“How could I not? You said you’d come back to me, Sara. I’ve been so lonely.”

Sara reached up and lowered her hood. Her face was angelic, glowing with radiance that had been stolen during life. She was almost translucent and hovered just above the tickle of grass. “My dear Daniel, my illness was never your burden to bear. I was called away to a better place. This is not the life you were meant to live.”

“It’s the life I chose,” he defended. “I need you, Sara. Always have.”

She smiled, sad and warm. “Daniel, it’s time to let me go. You still have a life to live and there is much work to be done before you can join me.”

No. His heart stammered. Coldness spread through his veins. “But I…”

Sara reached up and gently touched his weathered cheek. “Daniel, this is how it must be. Let me go. Live your life. We will be together soon, once your task is complete.”

“Do you promise?”

She smiled again. “Always.”

He closed his eyes, relishing her touch. When he opened them again she was gone, leaving him filled with new purpose and filled with warmth. The lantern flickered once and extinguished, blown out by a kiss of wind. Daniel stood on the edge of his porch staring at the spot his wife had been and for the first time in a very long time felt free.

Been so long I almost forgot.

Got convinced to do a short story competition. Not really into small stories but this was my attempt. Opinions?

CHOICES

Wyllym stalked through the forest with the grace of a jungle cat and enough fear to keep him wary. Every shadow was a bandit; every sound an enemy about to attack. His heart beat so loudly he was sure the gods could hear. His skin was clammy, sweaty. Barely out of his teens, Wy...

llym was no great warrior. He was born to poor parents and only taken in by Sir Theklis as charity. Tonight he was determined to prove his worth.
The wind blew through his hair, echoing the words of the old, blind man that had given him the aged parchment in his hands. Once again Wyllym looked down at the crude drawing. The old man’s words haunted his footsteps. “All of the answers you seek await you at the end of this path. Your fears, dreams and desires are all there waiting for you to claim them, but you can only have one. Choose the correct door and unending bliss will be yours. Choose wrongly and certain doom will claim you.”
Wyllym frowned, suddenly afraid. He’d overlooked the blind man’s warnings, so eager to become the man he deserved to be. Now, so close to the end, he began to regret his hasty choices. The haunting echo of the moon showered down, illuminating the forest floor. Shadows from clouds pockmarked the land. Treetops swayed gently, their branches scraping against each other in an angry symphony. The call of a giant owl warned all trespassers beware.
Wyllym glanced at the map again. Using the roughly drawn terrain features as a guide, he scanned the surrounding forest and was surprised to find himself standing at the edge of a perfect circle cut into the foliage. A faint red glow clung to the ground. Wyllym froze. What little courage he had faltered and it was all he could do not to turn and run. There was a supernatural air about the circle and he was right to fear. Places like this shouldn’t exist. Crows ringed the trees, watching his every move, judging. Taking a deep breath, Wyllym stepped into the circle.
Flares of electricity surged through his body. His muscles twitched. Tears streaked down his face. A small trickle of blood crept from his nostril. Wyllym shook off the effects and walked to the center of the circle where three aged, wooden doors stood. The choices, he breathed. His heart began to beat faster. Questions came to life. What do I really want? He glanced up at the ring of crows.
“I can be anything. I can be rich, happy, powerful. A king!” he shouted.
The crows stared down in silence. Reaching out, Wyllym tentatively wrapped his hand around the doorknob on the right. An unspeakable foulness vibrated from the door, beckoning him with wicked temptations. Wyllym’s heart churned. He was suddenly ashamed of his thoughts. His hand dropped and he stepped back.
Wyllym studied the doors, more conscious of his decision. Was greed the doom the blind man spoke of? Possibly, at least it made sense. Wyllym searched his heart for answers, fearful of what his mind might produce. He closed his eyes and let Fate decide. Wyllym reached out again and felt his hand encircle another doorknob. Turning, he gave the door a quick push. A rush of air nearly knocked him to the ground. The crows burst into flight, black feathers drifting down in a hail of caws as the mighty birds sped away.
Wyllym reluctantly opened his eyes and saw his own reflection staring back at him from a full sized silver mirror. The reflection was different somehow. He studied the lines, the angles. It was more mature, stronger and exuding confidence. It was the man he desperately wanted to become. The image smiled them and slowly changed into a golden light. Wyllym stared wide eyed as the light melted into a small beam and plunged into his chest, rendering him unconscious.
When he awoke he felt different. Wyllym slowly got to his feet and looked back at the mirror. This time the image he saw was his own reflection. He wanted to laugh or cry. All of this time and he had finally found the one thing that he’d lacked: courage. Wyllym turned and headed back towards the village, a new man capable of overcoming anything life threw against him. So it was he failed to see the blind man leaning against a nearby tree, smiling.