Recovery

Natural Light Black and White

A year ago began a difficult time for me. I went through a rough emotional patch as I opened myself up to working through some emotional baggage.

To add to the emotional journey, my artistic path was a crumbled mess as my artistic career was ended before it had a chance to begin.

I was angry. Angry at my failure. Angry at who I became. Angry about where I was at the time.

I was sad. I was sad about where I my relationships were. Sad for myself.

I was depressed. Not like common everyday sad. Nope, I was in a deep dark hole that was spiraling out of control.

I shut down. I walked away from just about everything I once loved. I was a shell of the man I was the year before.

I made some bad choices that negatively affected many around me, causing those people to remove themselves from the situation; in many cases, rightfully so. I don't hold grudges against them and understand their self-preservation motives.

But what many of my friends didn't see was I was afraid. I saw myself falling away. I saw what I thought my dreams were falling into the abyss. I saw myself turning on myself; hating myself for my failure. One of the last poems I wrote, dated August 23rd of last year was this poem.

The artist lied
In the dreams that were dreamed
In the hopes that were hoped
In the words that were worded
False bravado of a weak spirit

The artist ran
When the rough got rougher
When the lows got lower
When the hard got harder
Real cowardice of a weak mind

The artist hid
From the scariest of scaries
From the challenge of challenges
From the liveliest of lives
Failure to see the reality of reality

The artist died
When the walls got too high
When the view got too grey
When the light got too dark
Selfish suicide of a creative mind

The artist transformed
Now a clone without a soul
Now a drone without a heart
Now a dancer without legs
Codependent in life he moves

That poem summed up my frame of mind at the time. I dealt with those feelings, those self images for several months. I was in a self-centered, self-propelling crash course to self-destruction.

A new path

Once fall moved in I began getting my shit together. I refocused on what was important to me. 

I worked on making my marriage strong again. 

I worked on making my relationship with my kids strong again. 

I worked on making myself capable of doing what was needed to provide for my family while continuing to create.

I refocused myself. I focused myself back on giving. Giving back to my community. Giving back to my friends.

I refocused myself. I focused myself back on teaching. Teaching others to create for themselves.

 I refocused myself. I focused on creating for the pure sake of creating. No monetary agendas. 

Creating is what is important to me; it always has been. Creating is the core of who I have always been. I had forgotten that. I had forsaken that. I had stopped creating altogether because I couldn't get paid for it. I had turned myself into a whore; a whore who couldn't make a living doing it.

Forsaking what is true about you is one of the most self-destructive things a person can do. When you aren't true to yourself, your confidence waivers, your presence becomes false and your soul dies. People see that; they feel it when they are around. 

Play Me, I'm Yours

It took a long time to find myself again. I am still on the road to finding myself; reinventing myself. It isn't an easy road, but being true to myself allows me to accomplish whatever it is I set my mind to.

I work during the day to support my family. I accept that it is a banal part of life. So I try to balance that with the things I love.

I create at home.

I never got around to dealing with the emotional baggage I carried, but maybe I am not supposed to. Maybe that baggage is what drives me to be who I am. Maybe that baggage helps keep me grounded. Maybe baggage isn't all bad all the time.

I have my friends to thank for getting through the rough patches of the last year. I have my wife to thank for getting me through the last year. She was very patient and understanding even when she didn't know what to do for me.

For the sake of creating

This blog went though a dark period a year ago. It is not something I am proud of, but it is something that will remain on the blog. It may be dark, but it is truth.

Today this blog is used to share the joy of creating. It is used to inspire others. I don't make money doing this. My intent is share and educate others. My intent is to give.

The image on the left was taken a few weeks ago during an outing with my photography club. One of our members hosted a late night shooting event for the Perseid Meteor Shower. 

I took this image with no monetary intent. I simply saw something beautiful and wanted to capture it for the pure sake of making a beautiful image of a beautiful subject. 

I hope there is one thing that I share with my readers above all other things. Whether you are a pro, amateur, hobbyist, or somewhere in between, create for yourself. Just make time to create for you. 

This is who I am at my core and it is starting to show again.

The Global Castration of Creativity – Part 3: The Birth of Courage:

Enlightenment

My creative-life wasn’t all bad and fear-filling. Yes, I had a number of significant negative experiences during my creative development, but I also had a few positive ones as well. Choir was something that I actually excelled at. While I gave up on drawing, writing and crafts-related creativity, music was something that I enjoyed and I was actually encouraged to pursue. My amazing voice (not my words, but the words of my choir teachers, peers and family members) has since left me, a use it or lose it type of thing. But all of the way through high school, I excelled at music. I taught myself how to play the piano, by ear (I can’t read sheet music fast enough to play it). I taught myself how to compose music (again I can’t read sheet music fast enough to play it but I can write it and make it sound good).

Music was such a huge part of my high school life that three of my seven classes were music related for my sophomore and junior years of high school. During my senior year, music was the first four of my seven classes. Yes, over 50% of my classes were music related. Another class, my last class of the day was drama. So 5/7ths of my senior year was creative learning and expression.



The Bridge

 When I sang with a group, I was strong. I had a wide vocal range. I sang bass by choice, but when another group was having trouble with their part; my choir teacher put me in their section to sing their parts with them to strengthen them. I sang bass, tenor, alto and soprano parts on demand. I was the strong when with a group, but when I sang solo, my nerves just about killed me. Think of a long tailed cat in room full of rocking rocking-chairs; that was me singing solo. While I had a strong voice and a musical gift, admittedly the repeated blows from past creative failures and subsequent creative beatings had left me with the self confidence of a boy who had been turned down by every girl in school, except one, and he has to ask her to the prom.

Why did I not pursue music or theatre outside of high school? A few things happened to crush that dream.

My mom and father figure (non-biological dad type) divorced after thirteen years, at the end of my junior year and my mom and I moved out of town, ten miles away, but I went to same high school. Since my car died my senior year I was stuck riding with my mom. I tried out for the school’s spring play, Arsenic and Old Lace, and landed the role of Teddy. When I told my mom, she said there was no chance I would be doing that because she wouldn’t be able to, she refused to, wait around for my rehearsals to be over after she got off work. And when I told our play director, well, she simply flipped out.



My Moon

 Then, near the end of my senior year I had a one on one session with my guidance counselor. What is it with guidance counselors? I really don’t like nor trust them, and maybe this story is the reason behind it. When he asked what I wanted to do after high school, I told him that I wanted to teach music. And his response, after reviewing my transcripts was; “You haven’t done anything with math and to be a teacher requires a lot of math. College requires a lot of math. You won’t be able to go to college.”

Well at that point in my life, math was truly a weak point in my scholastic career. I hadn’t taken any math since my sophomore year (it wasn’t required) so basically I was being told that teaching music wasn’t an option and I gave up. Guidance counselors, to quote someone from somewhere (I think it was the Pirate DJ Happy Harry Hardon from the movie Pump up the Volume; “If a guidance counselor knew anything about careers, would they have been guidance counselors?”

So instead of pursuing my passion, I joined the Navy, because I felt it was expected of me. I served for four years, got out and floundered in and out of jobs got married, because I felt it was expected of me and then came kids because I felt it was expected of me. But I wasn’t happy.

I wasn’t creating.



The Mountain

 My Creative Rebirth:

I was 32 years old and taking some classes at a local community college and it was here that I met my first creative coach, a mentor. And although she was only in my life for twelve short weeks, she was the most influential person in my creative resurgence. She was my creative writing instructor. The first day of class, the first thing out of her mouth after introducing herself was the following, and I quote:

“Welcome to creative writing. You will not be graded on grammar. You will not be graded on spelling. You will not be graded on punctuation. When you turn in your homework, I want your shitty first draft.”



Love in Solitude

 I nearly fell in love. Not once was I graded on the imperfections of my work, but instead I was provided an avenue to express myself freely without judgment. The class was hard. Everything was written by hand, her way of ensuring she was getting our “shitty first drafts”. The in-class work was intensive. The homework was heavy on the work, but the class was rewarding and motivating. During the course of the class I wrote the first chapter of my book, Bullied (still to be finished) read it here http://the-monkeyspaw.blogspot.com/2007/09/bullied-chapter-1.html and I wrote several short stories including Un-born; read it here with a warning; it is graphic and includes a detailed description of a rape, so with that said: http://the-monkeyspaw.blogspot.com/2007/09/un-born.html

I was reborn from that experience. My creative nature was nurtured into life and a lot changed for me from that point. I bought a bass guitar, separated from my anti-nurturing wife, moved in with my sister, divorced said wife, started playing music with my future brother-in-law and bought my first digital camera. It appeared to be like some form of mid-life crisis and even some called it that, but I call it an awakening to what I was supposed to be.

Two months after buying my bass guitar, my sister, her boyfriend and her roommate played a gig at a little gather of people from my sister’s church. We played a seven song set. Again, this was two months after buying my bass guitar, which I had never played as in instrument before.



Church on a Hill

 It was when my wife and I first connected that things started to really happen for me; she was my sister’s other roommate when I first moved in. One day I looked at one of her sketch books and absorbed her talent with drawing, and I admitted to her that I couldn’t draw, which was the truth at the time. She proceeded to give me the basics, gave me the right type of feedback that allowed me to grow. You can see some of my sketch work in this blog as well.

A few years later, after we were married my wife took on the challenge of painting a full wall Noah’s Ark mural in our niece’s bedroom. But it was overwhelming for her. So I stepped in to help. I hadn’t done any painting since my horrid experience in seventh grade art class. But we painted and it turned out pretty good…




http://the-monkeyspaw.blogspot.com/2007/11/noahs-ark-mural-phase-i-ii-and-iii.html

http://the-monkeyspaw.blogspot.com/2007/12/noahs-ark-mural-phase-iv-and-v.html

http://the-monkeyspaw.blogspot.com/2007/12/mural-phase-vi-completed.html

It was soon after the mural was done that I found my love of photography again. I was being nurtured all along by my wife and sister, but it wasn’t until I met my good friend, Shawn, that I had any realization of my true potential with photography. I had loved photography for many years as the result of my experience with Enlightenment which you can read about here… http://the-monkeyspaw.blogspot.com/p/about-me.html .



Flying High

 One day in 2007 I woke up and found that I was surrounded by people that could see my potential and encouraged me to go further. Because of the nurturing and positive feedback that I am getting from these people, I am taking it further, one little step at a time.

I used to ask myself, “What if these people had been in my life from the beginning?” Such as, instead of my fourth grade teacher, what if I had my creative writing teacher. What if instead of my seventh grade art teacher I had someone similar to my wife coaching and guiding me or instead of my guidance counselor, what if I had someone like my good friend Shawn urging me to follow my dream.

My life might have been so much more creatively fulfilling. But alas, would have, should have, and could have. I can’t go back in time and change these things so I need to stop living in that past. What I can do is move forward from here and carry with me the lessons that I learned from those experiences and make them a part of my future success.



Together Alone

 These are the lessons I have learned over the course of my creative life. I hope that any one of these lessons can help a single one of you because if it does, then my purpose on the world is one step closer to being fulfilled and if not, I will try again to fulfill it. Here are my lessons:

• Be confident in what you know but be honest about what you don’t know. By being open with what you don’t know, you are opening the doors to the opportunity to learning something new.

• Take all feedback, positive and negative, at face value. Positive feedback from anyone can be as damaging to your creativity as negative feedback can. Positive feedback and feed an eternally hungry ego and close off the ability to learn and adapt just as negative feedback and bruise the ego and force you back into your creative cave. All that feedback should be to you is that a person either likes or dislikes your results. It is their opinion. Opinions are like assholes, everybody has at least one they usually stink. This does not mean ignore the feedback. Instead take what you can from the feedback and use it to better yourself and your art.

• Find a balance between your creative life and your personal life. Many time people, including me, can go off the deep end; the pendulum swings hard to the right or hard to left. This is a difficult life to lead, especially for the people around you. When you see the world as “I can either create now or never again” you become unbalanced. This can lead to bitter relationships, where you blame your loved ones for your lack creativity or even bitterness towards your boss or employer. The way you balance is through planning. Make dates, physically in a calendar, for you to go do creative things and make dates with loved ones, again physically in a calendar, to spend quality time with them. Find that balance and maintain it and your loved ones will be more supportive of your creative endeavors.

• Surround yourself with like minded people. People who share your interest, your passion. I am not recommending a divorce here, although I mentioned my own divorce above. I am saying that you need to get connected with people either through a local or even international club. If you are a photographer join Flickr. If you are writer, join a local writer’s guild. If you are painter find a local artist in action group.

• Find your vision of the world around you and find your voice to share that vision honestly. Your vision is not found by mimicking others in your creative field. Your vision is not found by sitting on your ass. You vision is found by actively pursuing your craft and tuning your work to be decidedly yours. You voice is found by being honest with everyone, including and starting with yourself. Be honest about how you see the world. Be honest in your communications. Be honest. If you are honest all things will come to you. Be Honest. If you are honest, others will be honest with you. BE HONEST! If you want to give the world the middle finger; do it. If you want to give the world a hug; do it. Just be honest about it because if you aren't, the world will know.



• Don’t be in a hurry. When you rush mistakes are made. When you take shortcuts important things are missed. Plan your path, visualize your path, assess your path for risks and then execute your journey. While you can’t plan for everything and an eventual bump in the road will occur, go back into planning mode to smooth your path back out, assess your path again execute from where you left off. Don’t rush it, don’t be in a hurry.



One View



In closing of this series, I would like to say thank you to everyone that has helped me get to where I am and to those that have been the road blocks as well. All of you, helpers and blockers, have made me the creative person I am today and will continue helping me become the creative man I am meant to be. So to all of you, thank you. And for those that are struggling to get your creative life in order, have patience, find your path, be honest, keep a balance and continue learning. If you do this, the things you desire will come to you and the creations hidden deep inside will surface.





The Global Castration of Creativity – Part 2: What Kills Creativity:

My Original Sketch

What kills creativity? In two words; everyday life. That is my answer. The things we encounter every day, from the moment we are born to the day we die, interact with our creativity. From day one we are told what to like and what not to like. We are educated about what is acceptable and what isn’t acceptable. We are bombarded with ads about good things, bad things and all things in between. And while some of the things we are taught are good teachings, such as “Murder is bad”, many of the teaching, especially around creativity are horrible teachings based on personal biases of the teacher and strictly matters of personal opinion. Coloring outside the lines is bad. Making macaroni patterns in our dinner plate is bad. One of the first lessons a child is taught is that not following the rules is bad and following the rules is not bad, therefore good.


Parents have the ability to nurture creativity in their children, but so many parents do the exact opposite of that. Parents generally want their kids to live fulfilling and successful lives. But based on the programming they received, to do that you have to get good grades, go to college, get married, have kids, have a demanding career and blah, blah, blah, blah. There is such a stigma associated with creative people’s lives; they are poor, unfulfilled, starving artist that become alcoholic, drug-using-mentally unstable individuals. This is not always the case, but it seems that this is the perception.



Childhood

 Parents are preprogramming their kids with the notion that they only way to have a good life is to following those rules, their rules. Parents believe this because those rules worked for them. And they learned those rules from their parents, who learned from their parents and so on and so forth. For the few parents that do guide or sometimes even push their child for creative success, it ends more times than not with the parents pushing the creative talent to a competitive level. The sad part of the creative competitiveness is that it takes only one competitive failure to start building the fear that encompasses so many lives.

Why do you think there are so few “successful” writers? Sure, there is Stephen King, Sue Grafton, and the lady who wrote the Harry Potter series. But for each and every “successful” writer there are dozens of unpublished writers who have talent and have a story worth telling, but live in fear and therefore never get published. Fear of the rejection letter, fear of being told they suck, fear of being publically humiliated; fear.

Fear is a powerful and real emotion. But it is our reaction to fear that separates the men from the boys. It is our reaction to fear that sends us down a one of two paths; Fight or Flight or as I like to phrase it, Try or Fail.



“Well, I guess we can see that creative writing and drawing is
not for you.” - My Fourth Grade Teacher

 I hate labels and avoid them like the plague generally. “Successful”, “unsuccessful”, “failure”… these are labels that do not fit in a successful creative person’s vocabulary. There are only two ways to fail as a creative person; don’t try and don’t learn. If you don’t try, you aren’t going to learn from the attempt. If you try, but don’t learn from the experience, what was the point of trying?

But my definition of creative success and failure isn’t what we are taught. The education system is all about grading all forms of work; they are the judge, jury and most times the executioner. Yup, I just said it; Educators, not all, but for the most part are creative executioners. While their type of grading mentality may work on a fact based subjects like a social studies, mathematics and Spanish subjects, when judging a creative result, there should be no grading outside of try and learn or didn’t try; pass or fail. Creativity is strictly objective, based not on facts, but on style, taste and preference. But the education system feels that testing is the only solution for the entire system. Can the student draw a straight line? Pass or Fail? Is the subject of the student’s photograph interesting and well composed? Pass or fail? Is the student’s story compelling? Pass or fail? Was the student’s music beautiful? Pass or fail? These are all subjective. Composition that works well for one person, doesn’t suit another. A written story no matter how compelling isn’t guaranteed to satisfy anyone, let alone everyone. A classical pianist is not going to be everyone’s cup of tea. So who are we to judge what is good and what is bad.



Handpainted Mural for my niece by me and my wife

 This judgmental-educational method/mentality is programmed early on. Penmanship is one of the first school related learning situations that is based on creativity and interpretation. No two people write in print or in cursive the same way, but the school system teaches kids that there is a right way and wrong way to make each and every letter in the alphabet. So when a child experiments with writing the letter S in their homework, their creativity is judged, graded and a letter is assigned to the final result. A, B, C, D or it is an F? How do they judge someone’s creative expression, whether it is their penmanship or their finger paintings or their poetry or their portfolio? Who are they, other than the pompous arrogance produced by the educational system, to say pass or fail? If anything, the system is the failure.

Another tactic used by schools is the red pen for grading. Students are required to use blue or black ink or gray pencil (good ole reliable #2) on their assignments. When the graded paper is returned it comes back with red marks and scribbles all over it indicating where the failures happened. The red ink stands out, no, the red ink jumps off the page screaming “Failure!” Public schools, for the most part, and their teaching staff, again for most part, are the guillotine of creativity.

Finding "Sex" in Junior Mints - It's there

This continues through college for most kids. Professors place rules around school work. I once had a math teacher that started his class out with this phrase; “50% of your grade will be based on the punctuation, spelling and grammar of the papers you turn in.” I was utterly baffled. A math class where half of my grade was based on an aspect of school not even math related. I deduced rather quickly that if I were to get only 30% of the math problems right and get 100% on spelling and grammar then I could still pull a C. That means I don’t have to focus as hard on learning the math and focus more on grammar aspect of my math homework. That is too bad because I am going to need as much math as I can get to prepare for my Engineering Degree.

Entertainment is a great killer of creativity as well. Television shows, movies, music, the internet and even literature are true killers of creativity in not only adults, but our young as well. In the era of the www.this and www.that, people are becoming complacent with instant gratification. Look at the housing market collapse. People were buying house they couldn’t afford simply because they wanted it and wanted it now. If you want a song, you can download it. If you want learn something, you can browse for it. Your phone, most likely, allows you to get directions without asking directions.

Entertainment today is about technology and technology is reducing human connections to 140 characters or less. Creativity is based on human connections. Every word written in a book, every drop of paint added to canvas, every pixel captured in a photograph is there to connect to a person. But these days, it is not unusual for someone to send a lunch invite via email to someone sitting two feet away rather than actually turning and talking to them. People are not connecting with people any more. People are connecting with 0s and 1s. This is why I hate text messaging. While I have a texting plan on my phone, it is only because people in my life refuse to not text me. It drives me crazy, but what can I do… not respond? Hmm… I think I may have a new strategy.

The Joy of Fall

Now, I know that stating something like technology is killing creativity is a bold statement, but I am here to make that statement. Technology is killing creativity. Technology is deepening our need for instant gratification. Technology is deepening our dependence on it for entertainment. Creativity is not as important as the fun-factor is. How many video games been made in the last twenty years? Most of the video games are based on common themes and story arcs, yet they continue selling new version of the same crap year after year. In the last twenty years, how many new video games released have been sequels or even sequels of sequels? In an essence kids are being taught through entertainment that you don’t have to be original, you just have to be fun.

So why would a kid want to write short story for the simple purpose of being creative and expressing themselves when they can sit in front of the television and kill zombies all day. Why take the four hours to read the book when the movie only takes 90 minutes to watch. The kid wouldn’t write a short story because writing takes a long time to see results and killing zombies can happen in minutes. The kid wouldn’t read the book because they aren’t getting the visceral visuals and audio blasting at their senses. The movies and games don’t require the use of any imagination. And the downside to that is imagination is like a muscle. Exercise a muscle and it becomes strong, dependable and enables you to do more, but if you stop using the muscle it becomes flaccid, weak and eventually becomes useless. Please don’t’ get me wrong. I love entertainment and movies, video games and other forms of digital entertainment have their place in the world and definitely in my life, but considering the current consumption rates of these technologies, they are making people creatively impotent.

Parents are to blame for this. Parents are responsibly for teaching an important lesson in balance. But the lesson in balance usually falls behind in priority to convenience. Today, parents now have the simple task of keeping their kids entertained; by keeping the computer, console game or internet connections up lazy parents have a live-in babysitter. Never mind what that babysitter might be teaching their child, parents are free, thanks to the technology babysitter, to pursue anything that doesn’t involve being a parent.



Don't Kill Your T.V.

 In the end, the loss of creativity is the road to complacency, laziness and unfulfilled non-creative lives. It isn’t just kids either. Many adults these days don’t know how to be creative. They don’t know how to create. Why would they need to? If they want something, they can go buy it, and probably don’t even need to leave their house to do that.

I am not one of those bumper sticker types, but if I had one bumper sticker, it would say, “Unplug three days a week”. I am not a fanatic, like those “Kill Your Television” types, but I believe that there is a benefit to disconnecting several days a week. If you are unsure of what to do with the time unplug time try reading, hiking, talking with your family, meditating or volunteering. Better yet, take a pair of scissors and a folded piece of paper and make a snowflake and then share your snowflake with the world!

Read Part 1 Here
Coming soon... Part 3: The Birth of Courage

What to do with that Elephant standing in front of you

On top of getting five of my prints into the Photo Exhibit at the State Fair this year, I was honored to be invited by the Director of the Photography Exhibit to give a series of photography presentations as well. This was a blessing and a nightmare wrapped into one nicely coiled package the size of an elephant.

Many years ago a co-worker of mine used to put a little saying in his email footer; “You can only eat an elephant one bite at a time”. I didn't like him much, but his email footer stuck with me. It was a different way of saying the journey of a thousand miles starts with the first step, but the elephant analogy has always had a stronger frame of reference for me maybe because I love food so much. For me elephant analogy was the realization that even though the elephant would still be there tomorrow it would have one less bite remaining on it after today.

Have you ever committed to something that is bigger than your capabilities? How about two times bigger? Or even three times bigger? What about ten times bigger? Let me tell you something about how big that size of a commitment is. It is not like ordering a meal that is bigger than your stomach’s capacity; you know the whole my eyes were bigger than my stomach thing as everyone has expereinced at a Thanksgiving or two. The thing is that with the too-big-of-a meal, you can eat a little at a time and put the remainder in the refrigerator to save for a later meal.

Another thing about a commitment is that a commitment usually comes with deadlines. It’s like adding the Ole 96er scenario to the mix. In the Ole 96er scenario you have one hour to eat a meal that way too big, a 96oz steak (six pounds) and all of fixings; baked potato, vegetable and bread. If you succeed within the hour you get a t-shirt, a hat, rounds of applause and your meal, as well as everyone else’s meal at your table is free. If you fail, you’re so full it hurts, you gained 5 pounds and you now have to pay $60 for the steak dinner top off the fact that everyone else has to pay for their now to. The main issue with the Ole 96er scenario is that your stomach has the normal capacity to hold maybe 32oz of the steak (that is two pounds of yummy steak goodness) before being stretched to maximum capacity and you die; well at least wish you were dead. Talk about a challenge.

I did that exact thing with my commitment in July only it wasn’t a tiny 96oz ounce steak. It was an elephant sized task with an August 29th deliverable, which would prove to be a challenge for a healthy person. I committed myself to hosting and presenting a series of photography workshops and presentations at the Oregon State Fair this year. In using the term series, I am stating that there are a total of 21 workshop opportunities, 12 of which are unique, that needed to be planned, put together and ready for one and two hour long presentations. This is 35 days to prepare 12 unique presentations (30 totals hours). This was a huge task, but adding to the stress of that task is my full time day job, family needs and fibromyalgia symptoms that are not even close to being under control. I sat and looked at what I had in front of me: A true mission impossible; an elephant needing to be eaten.

So what do you do when you have five weeks to plan 30 hours of presentations that can spell success or failure for your professional life and reputation? What does a person do with that size of an elephant? Well you don’t try to eat that elephant all by yourself do you? Especially not if you have a deadline that is rapidly approaching. You can either walk away from the elephant and cut your loses or you can call on some friends to have an old fashioned BBQ. And BBQ is what I did.

I contacted all of the photographers in my photography group and opened the opportunity to them to co-present at the fair with me. I turned that elephant into a group event, an opportunity for everyone and the group jumped on the opportunity with a passion that equaled mine. I ended up with five presenters each planning their own presentations, including myself, and dozens of helpers to make banners, business cards and covering just about every aspect of the presentations that we needed.

It was still a stressful undertaking with now having to coordinate 18 people on top of planning my presentations, but coordinating only added a couple of bites of the elephant each day. While coordinating the people was a couple of additional bites for me each day, each of those 18 people took five bites off that elephant each day. As each one of them took it upon themselves to complete a task and start the next the elephant started disappearing rapidly.

The BBQ, as it turned out, was a great idea. I was now getting 18 times the work done with less than 1/3 the effort and this allowed me to focus on the bites of the elephant I needed to eat; my presentations and coordinating with the Exhibit Director.

Yesterday was the first day of presentations, eight presentations, each an hour long, and each presentation was perfectly planned and executed by myself and two other presenters. Sure I might have said something or explained something differently in other's presentations, but I was simply happy that it was the success it was and I am not really a control freak.

Had I not had the help from my friends, it would have been a complete disaster. And while we still have 20 hours of presentations to give for the remainder of the week, I have no doubt that each and every one of us will contribute to the success of those remaining bites of the elephant.

In the end, the elephant is nearly gone now, and nothing is going to waste. I have learned that yes, you can eat an elephant one bite at a time, if you are given enough time. If you don’t have enough time to go it alone, you can always have a BBQ and invite your friends over to help. And everyone loves a good BBQ. So the next time you are facing an elephant don’t fret over its overwhelming size; light the charcoal and invite your friends over. That Elephant will be gone in no time. Offering free beer to help wash that elephant down isn’t a bad idea either.

Un-born

Warning and Disclaimer:
If you are offended by mature and grotesque content you are hereby advised to not read this short story and this story contains graphic language, descriptions and adult situations and have been known to offend adults and make my ex-wife (wife at the time I wrote it) wonder if she even knew who she was married to.

You have been warned!

This story was my first complete short story I wrote several years ago when I made a half-assed attempt to become a publshed writer, which never happened.

Unborn

Mel sits in his car outside the Dime-a-Load laundry mat reading the newspaper.

The headline reads in bold caps “COPYCAT SERIAL RAPIST STRIKES IN BOSTON". Mel lays the paper down, grabs the binoculars from the dash and steals a peek at her inside doing laundry.

It has rained earlier in the evening and the roads were still rain soaked. An eerie glow radiated off the water-soaked road from the cheap green-tinted window filtered fluorescent lights inside the laundry mat.

The redhead folds her red silky blouse neat and tidy and places it in the yellow laundry basket. She turns to grab a yellow tank top and knocks a box of dryer sheets to the ground. She bends over to pick up box.
Mel winces and clutches his groin. The hunger aches as it yearns for satisfaction; yearns to be fed. Mel fidgets with himself, as he always did when the hunger called.

He peers through the binoculars again. She closes the dryer door.

Mel pulls a bandage out of his breast pocket. He peels the wrapper off and looks in the rearview mirror as he put it on. He opens the car door; no interior light came on. He climbs out of the old Ford LTD pulling the keys from the ignition in a fluid motion. As he stands up, he groans as his knees pop and crack while he stands up.
Mel walks to the back of the car. He slips his key in the trunk and unlocks it. He doesn't open the trunk, not yet, as he doesn't want to draw attention to himself. Not yet. He turns his head slightly, while acting like he is fussing with the lock, to watch her without making it obvious. He doesn't want to scare her. Not yet.

She walks out of the front door and looks across the street, as if right at him. Mel looks down at the lock, but continues to watch her from the corner of his eye as he busied himself with the key in the trunk.

She walks towards him. Mel squirms inside as she approaches. The Hunger calls to him. It takes all of his will and strength to not fidget with himself. Mel turns his eyes back on her.
She stops at the curb in front of the laundry mat. Mel stifles a squeal of excitement. She looks left, then right, and then left again. She walks across the street.

She’s walking towards my car!

She veers towards the parked car behind Mel. He straightens up and glanced at her.

She sets her basket on the hood of a beat-up Pinto and she dig in her pocket.

She pulls her hand out of her pocket with keys dangling like chimes in the wind as she walks toward the drivers door.
Her lack of preparation is working to my advantage. Mel closes his eyes briefly as the scent of her body reaches is nose. He can smell the faint odor of perspiration under her breasts. He can taste the sweet nectar of her nicely trimmed pussy. The hunger longs to be fed and screams at him.

Her basket of clothes slides down the rain-slicked hood of her Pinto. “Damn it!” she said darting to catch it. The basket reaches the end of the hood before she can get to it and tumbles to the ground.
Not what I expected, but couldn’t have went better.

Her clean clothes spill around Mel's feet. He turns and allows the trunk to open and looks down. A pair of white, high-cut panties with red lacey trim lay across the laces of his galoshes. The hunger surged at the sight and his whole being feels like it might explode right there. He closes his eyes, takes in a deep breath, and opens his eyes while he releases the now stale air from lungs through his nose.
Mel regains his composure enough to see the redhead scrambling to save her clothes from the ground. She kneels down next to him, muttering. He could not hear her mumbling over the sound of his own heart hammering in his chest.

He reaches for his back pocket and grabs a small aluminum bat. Mel pauses for a moment. Something is wrong with this situation. For the first time since the hunger came to him, something didn't feet right... Almost like it was, Too Right.

The Hunger sends an aching ripple through his entire body, urging him to forget the fear and focus on Its need. He refocuses, pulls the bat from his back pocket, raises the bat over his head and brings it down across the base of her skull with a swift, smooth swing.

Her body collapses limp to the cold, wet ground, face first with a dull thud. No time to waste.
Mel lifts the trunk open and picks the redhead off the ground. 115, 128 max. Nice and lean. He lays her gently on the cool plastic lining the trunk floor. Mel made it a point to pick smaller framed women after he failed to load a woman who was well over 300 pounds. Lesson learned.

He closes the trunk, pulls the keys out of the truck keyhole and walks around the car to the driver door. He opens the door climbs in the driver’s seat, and starts the car. I didn’t check to see if she was dead, he thought. "It’s not important. Just get her home and check there."

The veins in his neck pulse to the beat of his heart as he started the car. I don’t need panic driving right now. "Calm down! Calm down. Calm… Down… Mel took a few moments using a breathing technique he learned to calm himself. He had driven in a panicked state before and got a ticket with a woman in the trunk the whole time. Lesson learned.

Once Mel regained his composure, he checks the review mirror. A car is approaching in the distance. He shifts the car into drive and idles away from the curb with his lights off. He makes the first available right turn without his brakes and half way through the block he switched his lights on and steps on the gas pedal.
Mel turns the portable police scanner on. Silence… The scanner changes frequencies. Silence… It changed again. Silence… Again… Silence… He starts his route back home. Mel knows where the numbers of police officers are highest at this time of night, and he makes his way home avoiding all of those locations.

*****************

Mel pushes the button on the garage door opener as he pulls into driveway. Once the door opens fully he pulls into the double garage and shuts off the engine. He presses the garage door opener button again and the door lowers closed.
Mel gets out of the car and walks over to the workbench. He grabs some precut butcher paper and a roll duck tape. He turns and walks to the front of his car. He bends down and taped the paper over his front license plate. He does the same thing for the back plate. Lesson learned.
I wonder if she is dead, he thinks, as he notices no sound coming from the trunk.

That’s too bad. He hastens his preparation process so she won't get too cold. He made that mistake once, and although unpleasant, he was able to satisfy the hunger, but he did not enjoy it. Lesson learned.

He surveys the garage. He checks the sound-deadening foam. Good.

He checks the table in the middle of the second half of the garage. Tie straps in place. Good.

He checks the deadbolts on all the doors leading out the garage. Locked. Good.

Everything is in order.
Mel walks to the table and undresses himself down to his underwear. The cold concrete floor robs the heat from his feet. He bends over, pulls his keys from the pocket of his crumpled pants and walks over to the trunk. He pulls his underwear down, steps out of them and throws them towards the door to the house.
He inserts the key into the trunk. Darkness swallows him as the lights went out. The only sound he can hear is the beating of his own heart. He even hears his heart skipped a beat and the doubt returns to his head.
Mel snaps his hand away from the key and stands in the dark for a minute. The cool musty garage air caresses his skin and a shiver snakes up his spine and his flesh crawls with goose bumps and the hair on arms stands up.

He thinks about the situation for a minute. What is wrong here? The garage door light just shut off. "How could I forget to turn the lights on?" He stops thinking and listens. Save his still racing heart there is nothing but silence.
The Hunger urges Mel to feed it again. He feels his way to the door into the house.

He fumbles for the light switch and flips it up. The dark blue fluorescents come to life overhead with a clicking noise as they cast a cold pale light into the garage.
Mel stands there, naked, holding the light switch between his shaking index finger and thumb. "I have never forgotten the lights", he says aloud. He looks over the room again. A voice in his head calls out, "This doesn’t feel right."

The Hunger calls to him again expressing its urgency. The voice in his head is silenced and he obeys the Hunger.
Mel returns to the back of the car and places his left hand on the trunk before turning the key with his right hand. "I don’t need this one kicking the trunk open on me", he says.

Lesson learned.
Mel turns the key and the lock clicks open. He waits, holding the trunk closed, nothing from within. He opens the trunk and looks in. He watches her for a moment and notices that she isn’t breathing. "That’s too bad," he says as a bend down and wraps his arms around her.
Mel lifts her limp body out of the trunk and carries her to the table. Her red hair swings limp, as does her arms and legs. He places her gently on the table and he undresses her.

Mel uses great care when undressing the women, or as much care, as they would allow if they were alive. The red head allowed Mel to use all the care he wanted. One of the benefits of them being dead. He looks at the tie straps at each corner of the table, then looks back at her nude body. "I won’t need those tonight," he says with a grin.

Mel looks at her long and hard.

The Hunger demands satisfaction.

He places his right hand on her stomach and the fingers of his left hand run through her red moist hair. The skin under his right hand is soft and silky smooth. She is cool to the touch, but not cold. He moves his hand up her body and grasps her left breast firmly.

“Small, but firm,” he says. The Hunger drilled him with pain in his groin.
“I know!” he shouts. “I need to get into the goddamn mood. I’m not a fucking machine.”

The hunger eases a little, but remains persistent.

Mel's hand moves down her body, caressing her white skin. He runs his fingers through her red, thick delicately trimmed pubic hair and tugs at it lightly. He lowers his head to her stomach and inhales deeply. The faint smell of sweet vanilla lavishes his senses. His dick pulses to life as he clutches her crotch hard with his whole hand. "You’re still warm where it’s important," he says.
Mel slowly climbs onto the table. He lays on his side next to her to face her to look at her beautiful face. He stares in awe at her. “Never before have I had such a beautiful woman,” he said. “Thank you for sharing yourself with me. Thank you.”
He rolls on top of her, using his knees to spread her legs. The head of his penis brushes lightly against her pubic hair. He feel the urge to cum right then. “Oh, no, no, no. Not yet. It won’t be satisfied that way. No cheating the hunger my dear.”

He hovers over her and thinks of non-stimulating images. Dead kittens…

Cockroaches… Naked men… The urgency passes.
Mel settles into position, plunged into her and moans at the warm moistness of her.

He withdraws and plunges again. Again. With each thrust, the Hunger subsides just a little and is replaced by pre-orgasm sensations. He thrusts faster, harder and deeper as he approaches his peak.

Mel’s orgasm finally surges through his body; he thrusts deep in her to release his seed. Something tugs on his cock hard from within her. Her body shudders. “What the fuck?” he screams.

Mel moves to get off her, but she wraps her legs around his waist and holds him in place. The second wave of his orgasm hits. Her body convulses again and she arched her back. He cried out in pain as something, she, jerked on his invading probe.
The redhead’s eyes snap open and she grins. He fights to escape her clutches, but the third wave of orgasm hits him. Her body seizes and a painful ripping sensation from deep within her pulls him closer. He fights against his orgasm and against her, but could not focus on either over the now searing pain.
The redhead throws her arms around him and pulls him closer to her. She lifts her head slightly and in his ear whispers, “This is the beginning of the end.”

A vicious pull on him, her arms let go, and his back arcs and he screams and almost inhuman sound of agony. Another pull, even stronger this time, his pelvic area collapses in a melody of snapping bones and liquid flesh.

Mel’s lower back snaps as his body folded in two, the bottoms of his feet touching the back of his head, and he is drawn even further into her womb. The redhead moans unnaturally, as she throws her head back and arcs her back. Her pelvic area spreads making more room for his mass.

Mel can’t breath. He can’t scream. No! NO!

Mel feels his body being pulled in, inch by inch. He cannot not feel his heart beat any more. His shoulder pops as his arm flails, continuing to try to find a way to escape her. His collarbone snaps under the immense pressure. His neck feels the warmth of her labia. For a brief moment he can tasted her moistness mixed with his own. Then he tastes nothing. He smells the faded sweet vanilla. He smells nothing. He saw the red fluff of pubic hair he admired earlier. He saw nothing.
Mel was unborn.

*****************

She remains on the table until he was fully absorbed. She does not enjoy her role, but she found solace in knowing she was purifying the world of the scum of the Earth.

When she finished healing and she rolled off of the table. She took a moment and looked around the room. A garage. Car, workbench, clothes…She grabs the clothes crumpled on the floor and puts them on. They were a man’s clothes, but it wasn’t the first time she put a man’s clothes on and won’t be the last.

She walks over to the car and closes the trunk. She notices the keys sticking in the lock and takes them out. She looked down and sees the butcher paper on the license plate and pulls it off. She walks around the front of the car and does the same thing for the front plate.

She walked to the driver’s side of the car and slid behind the wheel. She starts the old brown car and presses the garage-door opener. The door opens slowly. She backs the car out of the garage and presses the garage-door opener again. The door closes.

She looks down in the passenger seat and read the headline of the newspaper. She backs out of the driveway, puts the car into drive and makes her way to the freeway. Boston 485 miles the sign read.

“Boston it is.”

Bullied - Chapter 2

Some say the end is near.
Some say we’ll see Armageddon soon.
I certainly hope we will.
I sure could use a vacation from this,
Bullshit, three-ring circus sideshow

Ænema



Tool

Chapter Two

The tardy bell rang. Jon walked in the front doors of the school. Teacher’s voices from classrooms echoed through the empty halls. Ok, just go get your coat and go home.

He walked down the main hall. He passed the purple walls of the English and Music hallway across from the entrance of the cafeteria. The smell of burned beef and grease still poured from the cafeteria.

I won’t be eating in there again.

He picked up his pace.

Jon turned left down the yellow walls of the Science and Math hallway, which his locker stood tucked away at the very end of. Classroom doors stood open and teachers called out attendance.

“Matt Andrews.”

“Here.”

“Sally…”

“…ephanie Williams?”

“Here.”

“Holl….”

Here.

“…Turnball.”

“Jon Turnball?”

Giggles escaped the doorway of Jon’s first period class and echoed down the halls.

“ Nora Jam....”

“avid Moore”

Jon stopped.

“Yo.”

“Here will do fine Mr. Moore.”

“Yup.”

Jon moved passed the door quickly and stopped on the other side.

He is only two classrooms away from my science class. Jon’s mind spun a web of worries. His chin dropped to his chest as he moved towards his locker again.

This must be hell. Don’t know what I did, but… I’m in hell.

Fourteen. He spun the combination dial to the left, going around the number twice. One. Closing classroom doors echoed down the hallway. He spun the dial right. Thirty-…

“Mr. Turnball.” The voice of Mr. Adams, principal of the school, startled Jon and he spun the dial past the last number.”

Jon turned toward him. “Yes sir?” He looked at a spot of mortar that seeped from the crease of two of the over-waxed floor tiles between Mr. Adams’s shoes.

“Running a little late today?”

“Yes sir.” How did he know?

“And I understand you left school yesterday in quite a hurry.”

“Yes sir.” Does he know everything?

“Care to talk with me about it?”

Jon put his hands in his pockets. “No sir”

“Well Mr. Turnball, this is a tardy. With this and skipping the half a day of school unexcused means… You know what that means don’t you?”

Jon’s heart sank. “Yes sir.” Detention.

“Well then,” Mr. Adams said as he wrote on a pink pad of paper. “You will need to report to room one-zero-nine immediately after seventh period.” He tore the top sheet off the pad and handed it to Jon. “This’ll let Mr. Winders know we have spoken about this tardy.

“Yes sir.”

“Now gather your things from your locker and get to class.”

“Okay.” Jon turned to his locker. He heard the squeak of Mr. Adams’s shoes and looked. Mr. Adams walked down the pale-gray hall that ran parallel with the main hall connecting the Science and Math hall with the English and Music hall.

Jon turned to his locker. Detention. Mom is never going to understand this.

Jon put his hand on the combination dial. Fourteen…One…Thirty-three.

Jon pulled his notebook and science book from his backpack. He stuffed his backpack in the narrow opening of the locker and slammed it shut.

I can’t believe I got detention!

Jon turned and walked down the hall to his first period class. The door to David’s classroom was closed.

I need to avoid this spot after first period. He looked down at the main hall.

If I go that way, at least I’ll have the hall monitors watching for trouble. He continued to his class.

He stood in at the door of his classroom for a moment, placed his hand on the knob and turned. It didn’t move. Great!

Mr. Winders loved to make examples of tardy students. Jon knocked, reluctantly on the door. Jon looked at the scuffed toes of his once white shoes. The door opened.

“Why look everyone. Jonathon decided to bless us with his presence after all .”

The classroom filled with laughter.

“You have a pass I assume?”

Jon held out the pink paper Mr. Adams handed to him. Mr. Winders took it, looked at it long and hard and returned it to Jon’s hand.

“Very well. Come in and have a seat, any seat you wish.”

There was only one seat available: his seat.

**********************************************************

Jon sat through detention once before. It was quiet, only one or two other kids in the room. It worked out to be hour of sitting in silence, working on homework; a blessing to him.

Jon walked into room one-o-nine. Mrs. Williams sat at her desk and marked red ink all over English homework. Jon scanned the room.

I’m the only one here.

He moved to the far side of the room and sat in the first desk by the windows. The flickering overhead lights didn’t hurt his eyes as much with the natural light from outside filtering in.

He opened his backpack, pulled out his notebook and math book and opened it to the dog-eared page.

“Look here, its shit stain.”

Robyn. Jon looked towards the door. Why her?

Jon thought it was funny when he heard what she did in gym class, but wasn’t ready to spend an entire hour with her. He turned back to his book.

“That’ll be quite enough out of you Miss. Woodard. You’re late again I see.” Mrs. Williams said.

“They must not have enjoyed your artwork in the cafeteria, huh?” Robyn continued as if Mrs. Williams had said nothing.

Queasiness made a home in Jon’s stomach.

“Miss. Woodard, would you like another week added to your detention schedule?”

She has a detention schedule? I guess showing breasts to the boys gym class would get anyone that.

Robyn sat in the desk right next to Jon. She never answered Mrs. Williams, but the taunting stopped. Jon smelled the familiar scent of freshly smoked cigarettes. An unpleasant smell. It reminded him of home.

Jon tried to do his homework, but was unable to concentrate. He felt Robyn’s eyes burning into the side of his head. He never looked at her, but he knew she was waiting for him to. Jon looked at his math book, and flipped the page every so often, but he wasn’t really reading it.

What am I going to do after detention? I could stay after, pretending to have a homework question. No not a good idea. She could wait for me anywhere then. No I need to get out of this room first.

Jon listened to ticking of the clock. A bead of sweat rolled down his cheek. Tick… Tick… Tick… Jon jumped as Mrs. Williams’s chair squealed when she stood up. Jon’s teeth ached at the sound.

Why doesn’t she just scrape her nail across the chalkboard.

“I will be right back; I expect that you will continue with your homework…” Mrs. Williams said looking at Jon, “or what ever you are doing, she said turning her attention to Robyn. She walked out of the room.

Where is she going?

Robyn turned and faced Jon. “So shit stain; a little jumpy aren’cha? Why’d you get detention?”

Jon turned back to his book.

Ignore her and she will leave me alone.

“Hey, I’m talking to you.”

Jon turned the page in his book.

“Hey shit stain,” Robyn said a little louder, shoving Jon’s shoulder.

Ignoring her isn’t going to work.

Jon turned to face her. His eyes met hers for a moment and then he looked at her gray tee-shirt. “I am here because I was late to school.”

Not that you really care.

“Oh really.” Robyn laughed. “Sure it wasn’t cause you spewed all over the cafeteria?

“Yes, I’m sure. I got here late and Mr. Adams gave me detention.”

“I remember. How’s your elbow?

Jon didn’t answer, just stared at her shirt.

“So you like staring at my boobs, huh?”

Jon’s eyes darted to the desk behind her. “I wasn’t looking at them.”

“Sure you weren’t you little perv. I oughta beat the shit out of you right now.” She moved to get up from her seat.

“Mrs. Woodard? What do you think you are doing?”

Jon snapped his head back to his book.

Thank you.

“Just stopping the little perv from staring at my boobs.”

Jon’s face warmed and he looked at Mrs. Williams shaking his head.

Robyn looked at him. “You lying piece of shit. I swear Mrs. Williams; he was gawking at my breasts.”

“Well now Robyn, since you have a week’s worth of detention for that little stunt in gym class, I doubt that Mr. Turnball was unprovoked.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Robyn shouted.

“Mrs. Wilson,” Jon piped in. “I wasn’t looking at her breasts. I was just explaining to her why I was here.”

“Jon, you are dismissed. Consider your detention obligation met. You may go now.”

Jon picked up his backpack and placed his things in it. He looked at the clock. 3:45.

I can still beat mom home.

“As for you Mrs. Woodard, you will have the privilege of joining Mr. Hanson for detention next week as well.”

“That’s not fair.”

“You should have thought of that before you... well you know.”

Jon walked around the front of his desk and past Robyn. She kicked at him, but only grazed his pant leg.

“You are such a bitch,” Robyn whispered.

“What was that Mrs. Woodard?”

Robyn sat silently.

“Let’s go ahead and make that two more weeks,” Mrs. Williams said.

Jon walked out of detention. The tension in his shoulders released a bit. He walked to the front doors of the school, stopped and put his coat on. He stepped out the front door and drew a deep breath air through his nose. Fresh air.

One hundred and nineteen…One hundred eighteen…One hundred seventeen…One hundred sixteen…

Four, Jon’s neck tightened. Three, his stomach cramped. Two, his heart pounded. One, he fought to breathe. The garage door was open and his mom’s car sat parked inside.

Mom’s home. Mom beat me home.

**********************************************************

Jon walked into the family room from the garage. His mom stood at the kitchen counter, phone cradled to her head. She spun around and said, “Never mind, he is here now.”

Oh man.

Him mom slammed the phone on the cradle. “Where have you been?” she yelled.

“I was at school.”

“School got out at 3:00. What have you been doing since then? I called Grandma, Sandy and Ned. I was just about to call the police. What the hell were you thinking?”

“I was late getting to school this morning and got deten…”

“Late? How could you be late? You were fed and dressed before I left for work. What the hell happened?”

“I was watching cartoons… and I…”

“No more television in the mornings…you understand?”

“Yes.”

“So, you got detention again huh?”

“Yes.”

“You remember what your father and I said would happen to you if you got detention again?”

“Yes,” a switchin and grounded to my room.

“Go to your room. Your dad will be in there after he gets up and I will call you out when dinner is ready.”

Jon turned and headed towards his room.

“Good thing you brought that coat home mister.”

I know.

Jon closed his door behind him. He put his backpack on the floor next to his bed. Walked over to his closet, untied his shoes, took them off with his hands and placed them neatly in his closet.

Jon draped his coat over the end of the bed. He turned and looked at his radio, but thought better of it.

She probably means I am grounded from that too.

Jon looked at his backpack.

I don’t feel like doing homework.

He sat on his bed and pulled his nightstand drawer open. He grabbed his book and opened it to the dog-eared page. I can always count on you Mr. Merrick. The motor from the garage-door-opener resonated through the house.

Jon heard his parent’s bedroom door open. He heard heavy footsteps down the hall.

Dad’s up.

Jon dog-eared his book and put it back. “Maybe later Mr. Merrick,” he whispered. Jon lay back on his bed and listened to his parents.

“I don’t know what has gotten into him,” his mom said.

“I do. He’s getting at that age where all kids begin to rebel. It’s a phase, it will pass,” his dad said.

“Why do you always take the hands-off approach with him Tom?”

“What the hell are talking about?”

“You never discipline him.”

“Am I to blame for the way he is turning out?”

“Always say that’s what boys do at that age.”

“That’s because most of the time it’s true.”

“You don’t do anything but provide excuses for his behavior.”

“You know I work… graveyard I mind you,” his dad yelled.

“Well I work to you know,” his mom countered.

“I know.”

“I put in as many hours a week as you do. Then, I’m expected to clean the house, cook your meals, take care of your kid and still make time to have sex with you!”

Gross. I didn’t need to know that.

“Well you know what Helen? I bust my ass around this house as well.”

“All you do is sleep. You come home from work and sleep.” You wake up. Eat dinner and then take a nap before work. You don’t do half as much as I do!”

“Is that what you think?”

“Hell yes. If you think I’m wrong, prove me wrong.”

“I work ten hour nights and yeah I sleep all day and I take a nap before work, but when it comes to my weekends, I bust my ass around here. If it weren’t for me, you still wouldn’t have a dryer. The leak in the roof, were you going to fixed that?”

A moment of silence.

“Yeah I didn’t think so. No, I spent three weekends of hunting season putting a new roof on this house! Who mows the yard? Me! Who empties the garbage? Me! And built your deck in the backyard? That’s right, I did.”

“Don’t let your head get too big Mr. Villa. The deck isn’t even square and the dryer takes two cycles to dry a damn sock!”

“You think you can do better?

“I think you have it easy around here.”

“Aw, piss off.”

“Thomas Andrew Turnball!”

Jon heard the thudding footsteps of his dad coming down the hall. His bedroom door flew open and his dad stood there in his underwear, the pee-flap hanging open slightly. jon looked at the floor.

“Jonathon.” The volume of Tom’s voice didn’t drop a bit.

Jon looked at the wall of the hallway behind his dad.

“What the hell are you thinking?”

“I’m sorry.”

“What the hell did you do this time?”

He doesn’t even know why mom is mad?

“I was late to school and got detention.”

“We live two blocks away.” His dad’s voice lowered and he shook his head. “How the hell were you late?”

“I was watching…”

“Cartoons? Yeah figures. We had a deal, remember? Go out back and get a switch off the maple tree and bring it to me.”

Jon slipped his shoes on walked down the hall and through the kitchen to the sliding glass door of the family room. His mom stood in the kitchen with her back to him the whole time. He opened the sliding glass door and walked outside.

Jon always picked a thicker switch, because his dad hit him easier with it and the thinner ones stung a whole lot more.

What kind of parent makes a kid get his own switch?

The lower part of tree, thinned out too well, made Jon look to the upper branches for a good switch. He snapped a good one off, stripped the leaves and nubbins and carried back into his bedroom.

His dad took the switch from him and said, “Take the position.”

Jon walked over to the bedpost at the foot of the bed. He dropped his pants to his knees.
At least it’s dad.

His mom had a bad aim and usually switched his lower back and upper legs, missing his butt completely. His dad took his time. Jon grabbed the bedpost with both hands.

“This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you,” his dad said.

What does that mean, I’m the one getting hit.

The first switch landed. It didn’t sting too much, but Jon wailed like a wounded dog. He learned a long time ago that the sooner he cried out the easier his dad was with the rest of his swings.

“One,” Jon called out.

Jon heard the next one coming. Swoooo-…The incoming whispered in the room... -itch… as it connected with Jon’s underwear. He cried out again bur he wasn't faking it this time. He wanted nothing more than to let go of the bedpost, but knew the switching would only get worse if he did.

“Two,” he squeezed through his clinched jaw.

Three… Four... Five… Six… Seven… Eight… Nine… Ten…

“Pull your pants up.” Jon did. “You need to think about this,” his dad continued. “Do you think we enjoy doing this?”

“No.” You must if you do it all the time.

“That’s right we don’t. But you give us no choice. You need to start thinking. Start using that brain and we won’t have to do this, okay?”

“Yes.” Jon wiped the tears from his cheeks.

“Now stay here until dinner time. We’ll call you out.” His dad made is way to the door.

“Okay. Can I listen to my radio?”

“No you can’t!” his mom yelled from the other room. “As a matter of fact, I will bring you your dinner.”

“There ya go,” his dad said as he pulled the door shut.

Dinner in my room, she is “really” mad. I don’t understand. It’s not like I got in fight, or stole something.

Jon sat on his bed, carefully. Although he picked the least painful switch he could find, it still hurt and he knew it would leave bruises.

Why don’t they like me?

Jon scooted carefully up the bed and laid his head on his pillow.

Maybe they would be happier if I wasn’t here anymore.

Jon rolled on his left side facing away from the door. He stared at the sky-blue wall.

I could run away.

“There, ya happy?” His dad said.

Where would I go?

There was no reply from his mom.

Anywhere would be better.

Heavy footsteps thudded down the hall and his parent's bedrom door slammed.

But where?

Jon heard the shower start.

Anywhere but here.