Category Archives: Free Writing

"The act of writing – the reader" by Paulo Coelho

April 17, 2008Free Writingbooks, inspiration, life, literature, paulo coehlo, paulo coelho, warrior of light, wisdom, writing

“There are two types of writers: those who make you think and those who make you dream” says Brian Aldiss, who made me dream for such a long time with his science-fiction books. Thinking about his sentence and my work, I decided to write some columns on the subject. In principle I believe that every human being on this planet has at least one good story to tell his neighbor. What follows are my reflections on some important items in the process of creating a text.The reader

Above all else, the writer has to be a good reader. The kind that sticks to academic texts and does not read what others write (and here I’m not just talking about books but also blogs, newspaper columns and so on) will never know his own qualities and defects.

So, before starting anything, look for people who are interested in sharing their experience through words. I’m not saying: “look for other writers”. What I say is: find people with different skills, because writing is no different from any other activity that is done with enthusiasm.

Your allies will not necessarily be those that everyone looks on with admiration and says: “there’s nobody better”. It’s very much the opposite: it’s people who are not afraid of making mistakes, and yet they do make mistakes. That is why their work is not always recognized. But that’s the type of people who change the world, and after many a mistake they manage to get something right that will make all the difference in their community.

These are people who cannot sit around waiting for things to happen before they decide on the best way to narrate them: they decide as they act, even knowing that this can be very risky.

Living close to these people is important for writers, because they need to understand that before putting anything down on paper, they should be free enough to change direction as their imagination wanders. When a sentence comes to an end, the writer should tell himself: “while I was writing I traveled a long road. Now I can finish this paragraph in the full awareness that I have risked enough and given the best of myself.”

The best allies are those who don’t think like the others. That’s why, while you are looking for your companions (not always visible, because meetings between the reader and the writer are rare), trust your intuition and don’t pay any attention to others’ remarks. People always judge others using the model of their own limitations – and at times the opinion of the community is full of prejudices and fears.

Join those who have never said: “it’s finished, I have to stop here”. Because just as winter is followed by spring, nothing comes to an end: after reaching your objective, you have to start again, always using all that you have learnt on the way.

Join those who sing, tell stories, enjoy life and have happiness in their eyes. Because happiness is contagious and always manages to keep people from being paralyzed by depression, loneliness and troubles.

And tell your story, even if it’s only for your family to read.

The pen

All the energy of thinking is eventually shown in the nib of a pen. Of course, here we can substitute nib by ballpoint, computer keyboard, or pencil, but the nib of a pen is more romantic, don’t you think?

To get back to the theme: words eventually condense an idea. Paper is just a support for this idea. But the pen will always remain with you, and you must know how to use it.

Periods of inactivity are necessary – a pen that is always writing ends up losing the awareness of what it is doing. So let it rest whenever possible, and concern yourself with living and meeting your friends. When you return to the business of writing, you will find a happy pen with all its strength intact.

Pens have no conscience: they are an extension of the writer’s hand and desire. They serve to destroy reputations, make us dream, send news, trace pretty words of love. So always be clear about your intentions.

The hand is where all the muscles of the body, all the intentions of the person writing, all the effort to share what he feels, are concentrated. It is not just a part of his arm but an extension of his thought. Hold your pen with the same respect that a violinist has for his instrument.

The word

The word is the final intention of someone who wishes to share something with his neighbor.

William Blake said: all that we write is the fruit of memory or the unknown. If I can make a suggestion, respect the unknown and look there for your source of inspiration. The stories and facts remain the same, but when you open a door in your unconscious and let yourself be led by inspiration you will see that the way to describe what you have lived or dreamt is always far richer when your unconscious is guiding the pen.

Every word leaves a memory in your heart – and it the sum of these memories that form sentences, paragraphs, books.

Words are as flexible as the tip of your pen, and they understand the signs on the road. Sentences do not hesitate in changing course when they make a discovery, when they spot a better opportunity.

Words have the same quality as water: they go around rocks and adapt to the river bed, sometimes turning into a lake until the depression has filled up and they can continue their journey.

Because when words are written with feelings and the soul, they do not forget that their destination is the ocean of a text, and that sooner or later they have to arrive there.

(Ends next number)

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DREAM LOVER

April 17, 2008Free Writing

DREAM LOVER BY MARSHA HUBBARD NORTON

PROLOGUE

As Michele’s body arches against her lovers, her eyes yearn to see his face. His face is always in the shadows, but his body so strong, so muscular, so sexy and so desirable. With each thrust of his body Michele falls deeper into her orgasm, her body cries out but yet he does not ejaculate. “Now my love, now,” begs Michele as her lover pauses to suckle her taut nipples, pulling and teasing them.“Not yet my love,” whispers her lover as he thrust deeper inside Michele.As his body explodes Michele feels his hot fluid run inside of her and then down her thighs.“I want to see your face,” moans Michele as her hands reach for her lover’s face.“It is not time for that my love,” answers the man as he rubs his hands down Michele’s body. Michele closes her eyes as her body arches toward him and then explodes with another orgasm.As she feels him pull away, Michele reaches for him, but her arms feel only the air.With a moan and a cry Michele wakes. The sheets feel hot, sticky and confining to Michele as she moves quietly from bed. Hoping not to wake her sleeping partner she moves to a chair to slide on her dress and sandals. As she does her partner stirs and Michele holds her breath. After a few seconds a blissful snore escapes his mouth as he rolls over still asleep. As she breathes a sigh of relief Michele knows if he wakes he will pull her back into the bed. Oh the sex was good, really it was great as it always was; but even with several orgasms Michele felt something was missing.It’s that damned dream, thinks Michele, even in the middle of the night and with someone else’s arms around her, her dream lover haunts her.How dare he intrude, thinks Michele, as she hunts for her panties, finally she sees them under the edge of the bed.Just as she pulls on her panties, Eric moves.“Hey, are you leaving,” asks Eric as leans on one elbow. His thick blonde hair is tussled and his muscular chest is bare, the tattoo of a dragon covers most of it.“Yes, I have to go into the office and I need to go home and change,” says Michele as she hopes he doesn’t get out of bed, but no such luck as Eric rises from the bed.As he does he stretches his lean, muscular body and the look in his eye as well as the beginning of an erection tells Michele that if she does not skip out now he will want to take her back to bed.What’s wrong with me thinks Michele as Eric grabs a cigarette and lights it up, that wouldn’t be so bad. He is good-looking, strong and he knows how to please a woman, but flashes of her dream intrudes into this thought. The vivid memories of her making love to her faceless dream lover stop any stirrings she might have had.“I thought we might just stay in bed today,” says Eric as he moves closer to Michele. His erection is now very visible and Michele knows she is lost if he even kisses her, for he won’t just stop at a kiss.“I have to file some papers at the court house for a new client,” says Michele as she moves to the bedroom door of Eric’s small but expensively furnished apartment.“Damn, okay,” says Erica as he takes a puff of his cigarette. “You will be home tonight right?’“No, remember I am going out with Rhonda for a girl’s night out and I thought you had a gig?”“I meant after the gig, you can meet me at the club or here, “say Eric as he puts his arms around Michele and rubs his very erect penis against her.The look is in his eyes tells Michele this is suppose to be the point where she melts and moves back to the bed, but the attraction was gone and all she wanted to do was leave.To show him he is getting nowhere Michele moves to the front door. Eric’s arm is around her now and his hand is massaging her breast. Michele can feel his hand through the thin silk dress, but as much as she would like her body to respond it does not.“I don’t know, 2 a.m. is pretty late for me on a work night.”“Oh baby, it is just the shank of the evening.”“For someone whose night starts at nine p.m. it is but I have to be at the office at 9 a.m. and I am pretty sure you don’t plan on us sleeping at 2 a.m.”“Oh you are so right baby,” says Eric as he pinches Michele’s nipple.“Well, like I said I have plans tonight and I need to be at the office in an hour and a half so I don’t think so,” says Michele as Eric opens the front door for her.As Eric stands in the doorway Michele wonders at his nerve. Yes, his body is great looking but the sun is up and people are leaving the apartment complex for work. Michele wonders as a girl in a BMW rides by and honks and waves at them, Michele knows it is for Eric. The girl seems to show no surprise at Eric standing naked in his doorway.Well, thinks Michele, this is a singles only apartment complex.“I’ll talk to you later,” says Michele as she pulls away from Eric but gives him a quick kiss on the cheek to placate him.“Be there baby, I really need you,” says Eric as he rubs his swollen penis.“I’ll try,” says Michele as she hurries to her car.Oh, Lord I need out of this, thinks Michele as she gets into her cherry red Mustang convertible.Being a Women’s Advocate Attorney afforded Michele with many material things, but the satisfaction of helping women stick it to any man or company who are assholes in their treatment to women was even better.Michele took cases from sexual discrimination to custody battles and divorce and even consumer advocacy issues.Michele’s partners found it irritating that a third of Michele’s cases were pro bono, but the senior partners never said much as Michele had an 80 percent win ratio from her pro bono and paid cases. The paid cases brought big money to the firm, as did the pro bono when Michele won them for her clients.As Michele drives down the road toward her condo she revels in the cool breeze off of the river. Her hair blows free and the wind feels like the caress of a lover.Life in Amherst provided every form of entertainment you could look for, but Michele most preferred the activities the river offered.Her small sailboat stayed moored at the local boat yard and Michele had become an expert sailor with a year of buying the boat.But, even the water could not wipe out the vivid dream she had in the night, a dream so vivid Miche
le feels herself having an orgasm.Oh god this is crazy, thinks Michele as the blaring of a horn startles her and Michele moves through a now green light, her face a lovely shade of pink.As Michele pulls into the condo parking lot she is glad to find it empty. As she rushes through her shower Michele thinks about the dreams and when they first began.Three months ago on a hot summer night, restless Michele tossed and turned. Her latest relationship just ended something she was glad of, as Tom was so wrong.Tom or Thomas as he preferred was a local attorney who came up against Michele in several cases, most that he had lost.Tom seemed attractive and although a little conservative they became lovers.After becoming lovers they made sure they never came against each other in court again.Thomas a member of the local country club, something Michele avoided at all cost and on top of that he was a dyed in the wool Republican while Michele was a liberal Democrat.This caused many a disagreement between them, but what was the final straw was Thomas’s outrage at Michele taking on a sexual discrimination case pro bono.The defendant was a multi million-dollar real estate mogul and a friend of Thomas.The argument began with him wheedling and pleading then one night he demanded Michele drop the case.No one tells me what case to take, thinks Michele as she pulls off her dress to take a quick shower before work.The real estate mogul had used his power to pursue a young secretary at one of his offices. At first it was comments that he called compliments but the girl felt they bordered on suggestive. Then it was flowers and lunch offers all which the girl declined till one day he told her she would or he would make sure she was arrested for embezzlement, a lie but the girl was scared so she agreed to lunch.The lunch was on his cabin cruiser and ended in a torn dress and a bruised body. The girl waited for a week before she came to Michele’s office. A week of hell thinks Michele, as she knew the mogul used her fear to use her body to his advantage.The trial ended not only in the girl receiving a million dollar settlement from the mogul but the mogul was found guilty of misdemeanor sexual misconduct and received a suspended sentence. His money and power got him this and a total of six months of community service. Her company received one fourth of the girl’s settlement.That was the day her and Thomas’s relationship ended and that night her dream lover entered her mind and her body. The dream was so vivid that Michele woke to find herself in an orgasm. One she reveled in.The meetings with her dream lover became a nightly affair, as did the orgasms. The sex was so vivid that Michele’s body ached from it each morning. As hard as she tried Michele could never saw the man’s face.Then Eric came into the picture. She met him at a local club that catered to people in their 20’s and 30’s.They had sex that first night, something Michele blamed on as too much Tequila but more than likely the need to have a real man touch her in the hopes he would wipe away her dream lover.It then became a weekly or weekend affair, although sometimes they met during the week at Eric’s place mostly. Eric was fun, a good lover, but past that Michele knew she had to be realistic, they had nothing in common.But even Eric and his wonderful body did not keep her dream lover away. In fact he became more insistent and came to her nightly after that, even as he did last night while she slept in Eric’s arms. The trip into office was not necessary this early but Michele knew she needed to get out of Eric’s apartment and more importantly out of this affair. It was time to be honest and tonight she knew she would not meet him. He would call and cowardly or not she would tell him by phone.As she steps out of her car Michele straightens her gray skirt, the hemline professional but short enough to allow any passer by a nice glimpse of Michele’s slender but muscular legs. Her bright pink short sleeve sweater is snug but not too suggestive.Her long black hair is brushed and hangs loose so that a stray wind blows a strand of it in her face as she stands in the parking lot.Hello Ms. Howard, “says Terry as Michele pulls her hair out of her face.“Good morning Terry, how are you?” asks Michele as she walks over to her legal assistant.Terry was a pert, little blonde that was married to a local police officer.“I am fine but you are in early,” says Terry as she walks along side her boss.Terry knew she was lucky to be Michele’s assistant as Michele was a kind and understanding boss but she was also one of the best attorneys in Amherst.As Michele and Terry enter the law firm of Jacobs, Athens and Fowler they wave at Nick the security guard on duty at the front desk.“Yes, I just came in to go over some briefs,” says Michele as she makes up an excuse as to why she came to the office early.“Well, after you left Friday a new case came into your desk,” says Terry.As Michele enters her office she turns on the lights, but also opens the heavy drapes, drapes she feel that are too dark and too stuffy. But Mr. Jacob’s wife had felt she knew decorating so most of the offices were filled with over stuffed leather, dark wood and heavy drapes.As she looks out her window Michele sees the beginning of fall. The trees have a few gold leaves on them and they stand out vividly against the green of the other leaves.Michele hopes she can convince Rhonda to go on a sail before they go to dinner as soon as fall comes the nights get cooler and darker sooner.As she turns Michele sees a file on her desk.Ok, let’s see what we have here, thinks Michele as she sits at her desk. As Michele reads the file her sense of righteous indignation raises to the top.The file is thin but loaded. A young woman 27 years of age has filed a wrongful termination suit as well as a sexual harassment suit against her employers. Named in the suit is the ow
ner of the restaurant and the manager is named in the sexual harassment suit.She is just three years younger than me, thinks Michele as she reads the file. But this girl had worked her way up and doing it while she raised a small child. She deserved praise not this kind of treatment, thinks Michele. After working at a local restaurant for five years as assistant chef she finds herself terminated. The reason for the termination was a sudden poor workmanship report from the manager but her previous job ratings had been all high. The girl stated it was because of the new manager, as assistant chef she answered to the head chef and to the manager of the restaurant. Things begin going wrong when she refused to go out with the manager and refused his advances she said. She had always worked the lunch shift and early dinner so she could be home to be with her child. As a single mother this was important to her. The manager then cut her days off to one. This left her little time for her child.The girl also stated the manager had been touching her inappropriately, he passed it off as a casual touch or some thing like that but the girl knew better.“What a jerk,” mutters Michele as she makes a few quick notes in the file.Research the restaurant financial record, research the owner, the manager and yes even the girl, as the restaurant and or manager’s attorneys will rake her over the goals.As Michele picks up her phone to buzz Terry, Terry walks in the office.“I figured you want the restaurant financials researched as well as the owner and that manager,” says Terry as she hands Michele a steaming cup of coffee.“Yes and thank you for the coffee I need it bad,” says Michele as she notices Terry has fixed it just as she likes.“I will work on it today and get it to you before five,” says Terry as Michele’s cell phone rings.“Thank you,” whispers Michele as she answers her cell phone.“Hi Rhonda, I was thinking about you this morning,” says Michele as she sips her coffee. “Do you want to go on a sail before dinner?” Michele pauses as Rhonda gives a yes to the sail and a question about Eric.“No I am not meeting Eric tonight in fact Eric is history as soon as I can tell him. I told him I was going out with you. Yes, I know you told me but— “Eric called you and asked you to cancel tonight –oh what a jerk,” says Michele as she puts her coffee cup down hard, spilling some on her desk.“He is one conceited asshole, oh sure he is good looking,” Michele pauses as Rhonda makes a comment.“Yes and he is good that way too you goof,” laughs Michele, “but there has got to be more. Why can’t I have what you and Don have or Terry and Doug have? I know you say I am too picky and he is out there.”Deep inside Michele knows the real man for her is only a dream, not real but she lets her thoughts wander to the dream. The images of his hands, his lips and his throbbing penis as it entered her waiting body cause Michele to shiver and much to her embarrassment orgasm.“Earth to Michele, are you listening,” says Rhonda as she wonders at the moan she knows she hears from Michele, “Oh, yes sorry,” says Michele as she tries to quiet her body. But it aches to know the name of her dream lover or for him to be real.“Back to Eric,” says Rhonda, “you are better off. I will go for a sail but it is only dinner okay as Don is getting home tonight early.”Don a pilot for a local airline was gone three days a week so Michele knew how Rhonda missed him. As they had only been married two years, Michele envied the still honeymoon behavior of the two.“That is fine; I will leave early and pick you up by say no later than five. We can sail an hour and eat at the pier and I will have you home by seven is that okay? As a preschool teacher Rhonda was off at three so Michele knew if she could leave earlier they could get a longer sail.
“That is fine; Don will be home about eight.”“Okay, see you later,” says Michele as she clicks off her phone.The day seems to pass too quickly and although she hates it Michele has had no time to do any work on her new case. The research Terry did now sits in the case file. Lunch was an ordered in sandwich, which sits uneaten on Michele’s desk. The bulk of the day was unscheduled meetings with the senior partners and helping two of the newer attorneys with briefs.A phone call to the girl to set up a time to meet proved fruitless as all she got was a voice mail machine but a message telling to call for an appointment was completed.As Michele looks at the clock she sees it is 3 p.m. already.Damn, thinks Michele as she picks up the new client’s file. I am getting out of here. I have been here since early this morning and I will never get a chance to read this here. I need to just go home, go for a sail and dinner and go home and work.And a talk with Eric, some thing Michele dreaded doing as Eric had not really done anything to her but she knew it was time. It was just sex, good sex but just sex.The ringing of her cell phone startles her out of this thought.“Hello, oh Eric it’s you,” says Michele as she cringes inside.“Hey babe,” says Eric. “How’s your day going?”Babe, thinks Michele. He knows I hate that term as I have told him several times.“It has been real busy, and yours?” asks Michele hoping the call goes smoothly as does the break up.“I went back to bed after you left but I sure missed you next to me babe,”The babe word again, thinks Michele. He is making it real easy to break up.“Eric, we need to talk,” begins Michele but is interrupted.“We can talk tonight babe well after wards,” says Eric with a sexy, dirty laugh.“I am not meeting you tonight I told you I had plans and I have to work tomorrow but there is more. Eric, you are a good looking guy and it has been fun but I think we need to cool it,” says Michele as she waits for Eric’s reply she crosses her fingers.“You are dumping me!” The tone in his voice tells Michele this has not happened much to Eric.“Dump is not a nice word, it sounds like I am putting out the trash it is just,” begins Michele but Eric interrupts and his tone is less than friendly.“No one dumps me, I dump them. You had it good babe. I have plenty of younger women dying to bed me. After all you are older than me,” quips EricFour years younger, thinks Michele but light years in maturity.“Whatever Eric, I know you can meet some one else,” says Michele as she restrains from shutting off the phone and throwing it.“Got news for you babe, already have and been seeing her when you weren’t available. I got needs you know.”“You are jerk and you just made this easy,” says Michele as she disconnects the call.“Screw him,” mutters Michele. All it ever was for him was the sex and her boat and her car. He was someone just after Tom and that was it but still I am pissed, thinks Michele as she slams her files in her briefcase.As she buzzes Terry, Michele tries to calm down. It is done you wanted it done so cool down, she thinks.“Terry it is after three and I have no more appointments and I have court in the morning so I am going to call it a day. You can knock off early too, just meet me in court at 8:00 sharp,” says Michele as she pulls her drapes and turns out her desk lamp.“I will be there and Doug will love me being home to cook his dinner early,” says Terry as she notices the look in her boss’s eyes.Oh boy, thinks Terry, I bet it has to do with Eric. Terry could not help but over hear some of Michele’s conversation with Eric she knew this was it. He was never good enough for her. He was a rounder. She knew this after seeing him several days ago in a new BMW with a cute little blonde.“Have a good night Terry,” says Michele as she heads for the elevators.She deserves someone great, thinks Terry as she locks Michele’s office door. The sail was fun and dinner was good and most of the conversation was about Michele and her past mistakes. Several times Michele was tempted to share her dream lover with Rhonda but she was afraid her friend would think her nuts. Michele knew this would not be the case as she and Rhonda had been friends forever, attending grade school, junior high and high school together. They even went to the same college together and then Rhonda went onto teach while Michele went onto law school. Michele was the maid of honor at Rhonda’s wedding.My dream lover is special and some thing I do not want to share, thinks Michele as she sips another glass of wine.The brief for the new case lies in front of her. Terry did good work, thinks Michele, as she reads the financial records for the restaurant. The restaurant was owned by a family and had location in several major cities including two out of the United States with profits in the millions as it served gourmet foods and catered to a higher income population.I hate these kinds of restaurants, thinks Michele; some one like Terry and Doug would find it hard to handle a meal here. Hell, I would, thinks Michele or too often anyway as she peruses the menu. A salad, five dollars, that is ridiculous.As she stretches Michele can see that it is only 8 p.m. and by no means is she tired.A hot bubble bath sounds real good right now, thinks Michele as she turns back to the file to read the research Terry had done on the restaurant manager and the client.Bath later, thinks Michele, work now.The manager Frank Thomas had only been the manager for a little less than a year. He was 39 and had been married three times and had worked at his last job for over six years. He had a business degree, rented an apartment in a high-income area and drove a two-year-old Corvette.Terry really did damn good work in one day, thinks Michele as she takes her last sip of wine.The file went onto say that there had been a similar complaint by a waitress at his last job but before it could go any where he had left the job to take his position with Café RenaldoDamn it, the girl should have filed a lawsuit; this just let him free to harass other women.This needs more investigation, maybe a talk with this other girl — yes definitely a talk with her, thinks Michele as she goes on to read more about the manager. How Terry found out he also dated several women at one time was a wonder to Michele. The girl must be part detective or psychic thinks Michele.The client was Amber Rodgers and was 27; she was divorced mother of one child age five and had
been divorced for two years. The divorce was listed as being mutually wanted by both parties.Note to self, thinks Michele as she writes it down, asks client about past marriage. No matter how nosy it may seem Michele knew she did not need any hidden marital flings or even a suggestion of one coming up in trial. Amber had graduated from a local culinary school and had been at the same restaurant for five years. Her bank account showed a decent but not large balance and credit was rated as good. She rented not owned a modest little two-bedroom home in a middle upper income neighborhood. Note again to question Amber about her current social life, as the defendant’s attorney will most certainly do this.Another yawn tells Michele it is time to set the file aside.I will read the owners personal data tomorrow thinks Michele, as she notices a thicker sheet of papers with the owner info typed on them.As she strips off her clothes, Michele looks at herself in the mirror. What she sees is not what others see especially her lovers.She does not see the high cheekbones that accentuate her deep blue eyes; to her she has a face that is too thin.Her long black hair hangs loose and her tan is a warm brown.Her breasts are well shaped and her nipples are dark and when aroused stick out so much that are lovers get very aroused. Her belly is flat and her hips are wide but not large.At 30, she has what her mother used to call child bearing hips, some thing Michele wonders if she will ever find a need for.The hair between her legs is thick and curly, Michele never felt the desire to shave and none of her lovers ever seemed to mind. In fact Eric had told her it was a big turn on.As Michele sinks below the warm bubble bath she has run she leans over to take a sip of the glass of wine she has brought to the tub with her. The candle she has lit smells of warm vanilla and a love song plays softly from the CD player.The wine, the musky smell of the candle and the music all add up to help her relax so Michele closes her eyes. The fog is thick and envelopes Michele like an invisible blanket. The forest gathers round her but Michele does not feel any fear. As she moves toward the sound of the water she knows she is not alone, for although she cannot see any one she knows some one is watching her.As the fog lightens Michele finds her beside a crystal, clear lake. The moss around the lake is thick and lush and too her pair feet feel like a warm carpet.The silky, white nightgown she is wearing feels wet against Michele’s skin, the hem drags the ground.As she sits by the lake, Michele lets her fingers trail in the water. The water is surprisingly warm.Her reflection stares up at her as she waits.“You are here,” says a rich, male voice and Michele begins to quiver with excitement, an excitement she feels in her heart down to her groin.Why can’t I see his face, thinks Michele as the lake reflects a male body that is lithe yet sensuous in its lines.The man’s hand brushes Michele’s hair then her cheek and Michele feels her body shake even more.“Cold my love?” asks the man as he sinks down beside Michele.“No,” whispers Michele as the man begins to kiss her hair, then her eyes.A moan escapes Michele’s lips and she tries to stop his touch, hiss kisses, but the man leans in and seals her protest with his lips against hers.As his kisses become more insistent his tongues probes the inside of Michele’s mouth. As Michele returns his kiss her tongue inside his mouth the man’s hands begin to move over her nightgown and soon Michele finds her nightgown below her breast.Michele knows she is lost as the man lays her on the grass; his lips lock onto her nipple, first one then the other.Another moan escapes Michele’s lips and her hands move to grasp the man’s thick, wavy, black hair.The man murmurs words of love as he moves his lips from her breast to her stomach.“You are mine, we were destined to be one,” says the man as his lips move slowly down her body, moving her gown as he kisses her. He smells of musk and Michele revels in the smell.“But, I cannot see your face. I want to see your face. Why can’t I see your face?” ask Michele as her body thrust against him. The hunger for him to be inside her grows till Michele aches with the passion. She wants to take her hand and put him inside her. As she reaches for him, the man stops her and holds both hands with his one.“You will soon my love,” says the man as his tongue find the dark patch between Michele’s legsAs his tongue moves in and out Michele’s body she feels as if she is on fire. She frees her hands and reaches for the man’s penis, to find that some how he has found time to remove his clothes.“No love, whispers the man, I am here to please you and once again he holds Michele’s hands with his one.“Oh my god,” cries Michele as orgasm begins to build. The man’s tongue is now more insistent and it probes the very spot very the orgasm has begun, rubbing his tongue around her clit till Michele arches her back pushing her body into his.As she feels the orgasm build to an exploding point, the man takes his tongue out and lies on top of her. His body is hot with the heat of passion and Michele lets her arms encircle his body.The man thrust his penis into Michele’s aching body and she pulls at him as to pull him all the way into her body.Each thrust of his body sends Michele closer to edge, tears of passion run down her face and the man licks them with his tongue.The thrust gentle at first are now more intense and insistent and his breathing is as heavy as Michele’sAs her body explodes Michele feels the man’s hot semen inside her body and on her thighs. She feels spent but so alive.Michele can feel the man pulling away from her but as he does he kisses once more passionately.“Please your name, are you real, please something,” pleads Michele as she reaches for him,“Not yet my love,” says the man as his fingers once more enter Michele’s body/“Oh my love,” says Michele as her body arches in an orgasm.As Michele li
es there, the man stands and dresses.Michele reaches once more with her arms but she only embraces empty air.With a start Michele wakes her body wet but not from the water, her nipples are erect and she knows she has had yet another orgasm — thanks to her dream lover.“Oh god who are you, are you real,” murmurs Michele as she lowers her body into the somewhat cooler water. The smell of musk over powers the vanilla candle in the room and Michele’s heart pounds with confusion and desire. You look like hell, thinks Michele as she looks at herself in her bedroom mirror.The dark circles under her eyes are hidden best they can be with makeup.As Michele straightens the hem of her gray power suit as she calls it, she knows the restless night she spent is the cause of the dark circles under her eyes.How could I smell musk, the mush was in the dreams, thinks Michele as she picks up her briefcase and purse.But I smelled musk, thinks Michele as she leaves her house and heads for the courthouse. As they enter the law firm offices, Michele feels a sense of success.The whole trial lasted an hour. The defendants attorney tried every method he could to discredit the plaintiff.How a man could talk so bad about a woman he had been married to for twenty years upset but did not shock Michele. After twenty years of marriage, three children, all under 18 the man had left his still attractive wife for a woman only twenty -two years of age he had me on the Internet and the new wife did not want him to share any of his wealth with his ex wife or children.As the man was worth several hundred thousands of dollars this was greedy and not just wrong legally but also morally.But, at the end of the trial, Michele not only helped the woman get the house, the car; but also alimony and a very good child support payment.Michele laughs as she recalls the scowl on the face of the man’s new wife as the judge declared his findings.I bet he got an ear full from her and I bet he isn’t getting any for a while, thinks Michele with a smile on her face.As she picks up the Amber Rodgers file, Michele rubs her temples. The beginning of a headache nags at her temples and eyes.Great, thinks Michele that is all I need is a headache.As she looks at her watch, Michele sees it is only ten a.m. This gives me two hours work time, thinks Michele as she concentrates on the file in front of her.The owner or current owner as the restaurant was as a family business is thirty- five-year-old Marco Ranaldo.His family had owned or operated the restaurant since the sixties but Marco had taken over running it five years ago at his father’s retirement. In that five years he opened two new restaurants with the original restaurant being the corporate office headquartered in New York City.As Michele read on she could see that the current owner had cashed in by offering a quiet ambience to his customers. Michele hated the idea of catering to those with more materially than others, but she had to admire his business sense; his financial records proved his success.The pictures behind the paper file attracted Michele’s attention.The first group of pictures showed all six restaurants, each different in some way but all with the same quiet elegance and ambience.The next picture was that of the original owner and his family.The picture showed an attractive man dressed in a traditional three -piece suit. His wife was dressed in a quiet, elegant manner. Her head was held high but Michele felt she was kind by the look in her eyes and the touch of her hand on the youngest child.There were three children in the picture, one boy and two girls. The girls appeared younger than the boy and were fair -haired like their mother. The boy was as tall as his father but and had dark hair like his, a lock of it fell rakishly over his forehead. The boy looked to be in his early teens while the girls younger. The pictured was dated 1988.The next picture was another family picture, but had a newer date on it. The date was 2006.The man was still attractive but his hair was completely gray. His wife still had her quiet elegance and her eyes still held what Michele believed to be a kind expression. The family had grown as each girl now a woman had a husband next to them. One girl had two children while the younger looking one had one child, her belly was very much swollen with a pregnancy.As Michele’s eyes move to the son’s face something stirs in her.I know him, thinks Michele, as she looks at the face of a very handsome man, The face not familiar but its lines are; his body is well built and Michele feels as if she knows this man in a very physical sense.But that is crazy, think Michele, I have never met him.“Why do I know you? Why do you arouse me so?” asks Michele as she continues to stare at the man’s face.Stop this, thinks Michele as she turns the family picture over. You are taking him on in court not taking him to your bed. But, for a second she feels as if she had taken him to her bed.One more picture waits for Michele and it is a picture of the man.God, he is gorgeous, thinks Michele, but more than that. He is sexy but there is something haunting about his looks. The man’s eyes are dark as his hair and they seem to look at Michele as if he was in the room with her.Quit this, thinks Michele as she shuts the file. Covering up the man’s picture does not erase his face from her mind and Michele feels a sense of irritation at herself, but also a sense of some thing more. Some deeper and more seductive emotion, as if I am connected to him, had been with him.“You are tired Michele, that is it,” says Michele as she leans back in her chair. “Great now you are talking to yourself.”It is only 10:30, god it seems later, thinks Michele, as the headache is now a constant throb.Michele closes her eyes for one minute but jerks herself up as she feels herself do
zing off.Screw lunch, thinks Michele as she buzzes Terry.“Terry, it is not quite eleven and I have no appointments till two so I am going home for awhile.”“Are you okay?” asks Terry.She looks tired and seems so distracted but she was usual cool, calm self in court, thinks Terry. It is these dreams, but I do not what to tell her. It seems so unbelievable but if she says they are happening they must be.“I am fine, just tired and a small headache. I want to be at my best for this new client. I will be back at one thirty at the latest.”As Michele leaves the office, she knows Terry is worried.Maybe I should not have told her about the dreams, but I had to tell some one, thinks Michele as heads home.Maybe I will call Rhonda tonight, thinks Michele as she moves in out and of traffic. With shades drawn and a pill for her headache taken, Michele feels like some soft, soothing music.As she turns on her bedside radio, the song that comes across startles her.“Dream lover, please be mine.”Oh god, thinks Michele as she lies on bed. As she is dressed only in a slip the silk sheets feel good to her warm skin.The words of the song play in her ears as she closes her eyes once more.“Dream lover, please be mine. I love you every night. Dream lover where are you? You’re the only one I will ever love. Dream love of my dreams. I only see you when I dream in my dreams.”Oh how those words fit, thinks Michele as she feels herself drifting off to sleep. “You are here again my loves,” says the man as he strokes Michele’s hair.“Oh god yes,” whispers Michele. “I can’t stay away.”“And you shouldn’t, we are destined to be together,” says the man he lays Michele back on the cool, green grass by the lake.The grass feels cool to Michele back but each touch of the man’s hand sets her on fire.“Why can’t I ever see your face?” asks Michele with a moan as the man has moved her slip over her breast and caresses her skin with his hands as his lips suckle each nipple.“No questions,” says the man as he pulls Michele’s slip down past her hips till it lies on the grass beside them. With one quick movement her panties lie with the slip.As he moves his lips down her belly, the man licks and kisses each spot he finds.His touch is gentle yet exciting as his tongue reaches inside Michele’s vagina she arches her back to meet him.“Oh god,” cries out Michele as the man moves his tongue in and out of her vagina, his tongue circling her clit; teasing it while it swells under his touch.With a final flick of his tongue the man brings Michele to a climax. As she reaches an orgasms the man moves his tongue out of her.“You are all I want,” says Michele as the man removes his clothes. His body is muscular and his penis is swollen.“And you are all I need,” says the man as he enters her already wet body in one quick movement.Their lovemaking is hot and wild with, Michele reaching several orgasms before the man ejaculates inside of her.As the man pulls out her, he kisses her once more.“It is time for me to go my love,” says the man as he lies besides Michele.“Oh must you,” says Michele as she revels in the man gentle but sensuous touch.“Yes, but before I go I will leave you a gift,” says the man as he leans over and plucks a flower from beside the lake.Its bloom is purple almost black and it smells like no flower Michele has ever smelled.As he runs the flower down Michele’s naked body it leaves a trace of purple on her.“Bye my love, it will be soon,” says the man as he fades yet again into the mist. As Michele wakes she finds her bed wet and her clothes are off.This scares and shocks her, but not as much as when she looks at her body and sees on a stomach a trace of purple.The same purple as the flower, thinks Michele.“Oh god,” whispers Michele, as she looks at her body. She knows she has had sex and the purple on stomach is a reminder of the dream even more.This cannot be happening, thinks Michele as she goes to shower.As she lets the hot water run over her body, Michele touches the purple as the water washes it away.This isn’t real but I was naked and the flower in my dream was on my body. As she drives back to her Michele goes over the dream in her head.She knows from previous Internet research that dreams can be so real they invade the real life, the waking life. Most of this research was found on paranormal sites, which Michele never visited till now.This is ridiculous! This just cannot be, thinks Michele as she pulls into the law firm’s parking lot. As Michele enters her office she sees Terry at her desk.“Did you get a good rest?” asks Terry. But the look on Michele’s face gives the answer to Terry.“I wouldn’t say that,” replies Michele as she stops at Terry’s desk.“You had that dream again, didn’t you?” asks Terry “Oh yes but more so,” says Michele as she looks at Terry. You won’t believe and I have to get myself together before Ms. Rodgers comes in.“What was it? You have time as it is only one now,” says Terry, but the look in Michele’s eyes scares her.As
Michele relates the dream to Terry as well as what she found after she woke she can tell that Terry is torn between believing her and thinking that Michele is losing it. But she knows her boss to be a reasonable, intelligent and sane woman.“I know you think I am nuts, delusional, or paranoid don’t you?”“No not at all, I hope you don’t mind but I did some research while you were gone and I really believe just on what I read your dream life can manifest itself into your real life with many of the aspects of the dream coming true in your real life,” says Terry.“Oh thank god, I am not going crazy but, if I am not going crazy a man in my dreams is making love to me and leaving his calling card in real life.”“That is what it sounds like,” says Terry. “But then is he out there dreaming of you?”“God who knows,” says Michele, but inside she prays it is so.“Well dream lover or not it is time to get it together and be ready to help Ms. Rodgers,” says Michele as she goes into her office. Well, that meeting went well, thinks Michele as she watches Amber Rodgers leave the office.The girl came across as honest, mature, educated and a lady. All the aspects of a client a lawyer loves in this kind of case.During the meeting the girl had disclosed that she had heard from a former co-worker that the manager was on suspension till the case was settled in court.Well, at least the owner has some sense of right, thinks Michele as she makes a few final notes in the case file.As she looks at her watch Michele sees it is four p.m.Okay, thinks Michele, unless I get a call in the next few minutes I am out of here.The ringing of the phone startles her.Damn, what luck, thinks Michele as she answers her phone.“Yes, oh Terry, what the owner of the restaurant? He wants to meet now! I do not think—what he has news I might like to hear. Oh, okay I will wait on him.Well, if Terry is right maybe we won’t need to get down and dirty with this suit, thinks Michele as she leaves her office for Terry’s.“Terry why don’t you go on home, you have been at it since eight and I can handle this alone,” says Michele as she goes up to Terry’s desk.“You don’t need me to make notes?”“No, I can record if I need to but I can take the notes, go on home now.”“Michele, can I ask you a question?” asks Terry as she gets her purse out of her desk.“Yes of course, after I bared my soul to you today, did I not?” asks Michele with a smile.“Yes and I really think some one or some thing is pointing you to some thing very special.”“Terry, I understand but this would take believing—” begins Michele.“It would take believing in something we cannot see with our eye, but don’t we do that in our own beliefs every day?”As Michele thinks over these words, she knows Terry is right. If she really admitted to herself what she dreamed was true then out there was some one for her, some one possibly dreaming the same dream.“You are right Terry but right now I need to be an attorney and not a woman chasing her dream lover. But, thanks for listening and your help.”“Okay, I can stay if you want—”begins Terry.“No, go on home. I will see you in the morning.”As Terry leaves Michele decides a quick fresh up on her make up is in order. At four twenty Michele wonders if she has been stood up.Were the owners talking of good news just a ruse to irritate me, wonders Michele as she looks out of her office window.“Where are you Mr. Ranaldo?” asks Michele out loud as she looks out to the parking lot.“I am here now,” says a male voice behind Michele’s back.The voice is so familiar that Michele feels her heart speed up.The voice is that of the man in her dreams.“Ms. Howard, I believe you were expecting me,” says Marco as she wonders why the woman has not turned around.As Michele slowly turns around Marco loses all thoughts of a legal meeting.Oh my god, thinks Marco this is the woman in my dreams. She is real!“It’s you!” exclaims Marco as he moves toward Michele.“What do you mean?” asks Michele as she backs up against her window. Although she has never seen his face the voice and the body are that of her dream lover.He is here, thinks Michele as she looks at Marco seeing his face for the first time.He is as handsome as Michele imagined. His eyes are dark like his hair; eyes that seem to look into her very soul.“You are the woman in my dream and I know by the look on your face you know what I mean<” says Marco as he moves around the desk to Michele.“No, I don’t,” begins Michele but the words freeze in her mouth as Marco places his hands on her arms.It’s him! I would know his touch anywhere, thinks Michele as she looks into her lover’s eyes.“Did you like the gift I gave you? “The gift begins Michele as Marco pulls her to him.The smell of musk is strong on him and Michele feels her heart hammer against her chest.“Yes, you know what I mean- the flower,” says Marco as he inhales the sweet smell coming from Michele.How can this be, thinks Marco, she is real, she is here. “This cannot be real,” says Michele.“I know ever since the dreams began three months ago I thought I was losing my mind. I tried to tell myself it was not real. But, each time after I had the dream I felt your presence even more. The smell of your body was on me when I woke. How to explain I cannot, but here you are and here I am,” says Marco as he kisses the top of Michele’s head.“I thought I was going nuts, I could smell you also and then the flower. Yes, I remember the flower, the purple was on my body when I woke,” says Michele as she leans into Marco.“We are destined to be together, our dreams led us to each other,” says Marco as he kisses Michele. His kiss is tender at first then more intense as his tongue probes the inside of Michele’s mouth.As Michele’s tongue probes Marco’s mouth her hands wind themselves in his hair.“Go
d, you are real and so beautiful,” says Marco as he begins to remove Michele’s clothes.Only a small part of Michele knows this is insane. Here in her office she is going to make love to a man she has only made love to in dreams.As Marco picks up Michele he moves to the leather couch in her office.Michele aches for him so much she frantically helps him remove his clothes.His body is as gorgeous as it was in the dream.“Your body is as beautiful as it was in the dream,” says Marco as he kisses Michele’s breasts.“So is yours,” says Michele as strokes Marco’s back.As Marco’s lips move down Michele’s body, Michele holds him tighter. Each of his movement mirrors his movements in the dream.“Oh god,” says Michele as Marco moves his penis inside her body. As he moves up and down his thrust are passionate yet gentle.“Oh my love, my sweet Michele,” whispers Marco as he continues his movement inside of her.“You are all I dreamed and more,” gasps Michele as she winds her legs around Marco.As Michele reaches a climax she can feel Marco ejaculate inside of her.“It was the dream and so much more,” says Michele as she strokes Marco’s face.“Yes, it was my love,” says Marco as he stands and begins to dress.“Are you leaving?” asks Michele as a knot of fear hits her stomach.Was this to be like the dream, was he going to fade away and maybe this time never to return.“I am leaving but you are going with me,” says Marco as he pulls Michele to her feet.“I am?”“Yes, you are as I never want to be apart from you again, not even for a moment,” says Marco as he kisses Michele passionately.“Will you go with me?” asks Marco as he kisses Michele once more.As Michele pauses Marco worries. Was his dream to end right there.“Michele what is your answer?”“Marco, there is no other answer but yes,” says Michele as she kisses Marco.As they leave her office, Michele laughs.“What is so funny my love,” asks Marco as they walk down the hall.“Just an old saying coming true,” says Michele as she stops in the hall.“Dreams do come true,” says Michele as Marco says it at that same time.“Yes, they do my love,” says Marco as he kisses Michele once more.

The Valkyries for free!

April 16, 2008Free Writingbooks, inspiration, life, literature, paulo coehlo, paulo coelho, The Valkyries, warrior of light, wisdom

Dear readers,
You can now browse the full edition of The Valkyries (courtesy of Harper Collins).
Therefore, you can read the first pages (or the full edition).

http://browseinside.harpercollins.com/index.aspx?isbn13=9780062513342&WT.mc_id=biWidgetbebefe79-d69f-4568-811d-ca07f4550d64

Love, Paulo

BookSurge – Who Owns "PACIFIC AVENUE" all the way to "BOARDWALK"?

April 13, 2008Free Writingamazon, booksurge, cropsey, sande, writing

By Sandra Jones Cropsey
More years ago than I care
to consider, I wrote to Celestine Sibley, a long-time columnist for
The Atlanta Journal & Constitution, “There must be an easier
way to persecute one’s self in life than by writing.” I even went
so far as to suggest the need for the formation of “Writer’s Anonymous”
for those of us afflicted with this often most frustrating of addictions.
Ms. Sibley posted my comments in her column, which only further inflamed
my addiction I might add.

Writers are definitely a special
breed. Writers, like artists, can take a person to another place at
very little cost and won’t lose your luggage in the process.
And writers, like artists, struggle. Many of them struggle with whatever
ghosts or demons drive them to write. Some fall so in love with words
that they never recover. Each day as they sit down at their computer,
typewriter, or paper and pencil, writers struggle with words—searching
for just that right one. And again, like artists, writers struggle financially.
Oh, but do they struggle financially! Through the years, I have come
to know a lot of writers, and only a couple in that group can claim
to support themselves solely by freelance writing. Most have a day job
that takes more of their life and energy than they desire, but they somehow
still manage to get a collection of choice words on paper and eventually
publish—more often, these days, with a small or print-on-demand (POD)
publisher.

Now it would appear that Amazon
wants to add to that struggle by forcing small independent and POD publishers
to use the printing services of their affiliate, BookSurge. The additional
financial burden would no doubt increase the cost of printing to such
a degree that many writers like me will not be able to afford the cost
of publishing.

Much has been written about
this issue; much will continue to be written. None of it is pretty.
It has been reported that when approached by representatives of Amazon/BookSurge,
many of the owners of independent presses were told to sign with BookSurge
or see the “Buy” button on their listings with Amazon disappear.
We pray this is wrong, as nobody likes to be bullied, and nobody really
likes a bully either, but we do business with bullies everyday. A large
majority of corporate America enjoys success because of being a bully.
But we don’t always have to do business with bullies.
Across the pond, Edward Smith,
manager of YouWriteOn.com, “the UK’s most popular Arts Council funded
site for budding writers” is calling for a boycott of Amazon. “YouWriteOn.com
in response is inviting all POD authors everywhere to list their books
on our site with a free ‘book-buy’ link to any bookseller other than
Amazon. Effectively we are calling for a proactive boycott of Amazon
and are encouraging all writers and readers and other writers’ sites
to join in this by doing the same in their writers communities, which
drive the POD industry, and to also email their discontent to Amazon.”
The Author’s Guild is reported
to be checking into the legality of this situation as it suggests “monopoly”
and a violation of anti-trust laws. “We suspect this maneuver by Amazon
is far more about profit margin than it is about customer service or
fossil fuels. The potential big losers (other than Ingram) if Amazon
does impose greater discounts on the industry, are authors—since many
are paid for on-demand sales based on the publisher’s gross revenues—and
publishers. . . We’re reviewing the antitrust and other legal implications
of Amazon’s bold move. If you have any information on this matter that
you think could be helpful to us, please call us at (212) 563-5904 and
ask for the legal services department, or send an e-mail to staff@authorsguild.org.”

WritersWeekly.com has a special
page on their web site to address this situation http://www.writersweekly.com/amazon.php, and
Angela and Richard Hoy
are doing a great job of keeping us all informed. Two petitions
have been established to collect signatures:

http://www.ipetitions.com/petition/protectPOD/?e and http://www.amazontroopsurge.com/2008/04/write-government-about-amazons-illegal.html.

Russell Wild, President of
the American Society of Journalists and Authors, stated in a press release,
“We applauded when Jeff Bezos and Amazon gave small publishers
and even writers who self-published a way to get their books before
the public. . . With these grabby, strong-arm tactics, Amazon negates
all that—and the years of goodwill it has built up with writers, who
ultimately will bear the brunt of any price increases in the printing
of independently published books.”

Being a bully is wrong,
whether on the playground or in the marketplace.
If you cannot win fairly, you do not deserve to win. Thus would
just the right words be “Writers Anonymous” or “Anonymous Writers?”
Sandra Jones Cropsey is
the author

of
Tinker’s Christmas and Who’s There?

www.tinkerschristmas.com

www.outskirtspress.com/whosthere

Therapy Session …

April 11, 2008Free Writing

“John, you look really angry today; what’s on
your mind?”

“Oh Doctor … I feel so maligned. People make
fun of me behind my back. They don’t understand
me … they don’t understand how I suffer. I feel so
alone in this world.”

“I see … has this been going on long?

“About two years now.”

“Do you remember the circumstances in your
life when this began; where you were and what
you were doing?”

“No Doctor I don’t; my memory is not good.
All I know is that now I feel alone, I feel so alone.
I have an ache inside from loneliness that never goes
away. I feel ugly, I feel worthless; no one understands
me. I feel like such a loser! Am I loosing my mind?”

“It’s doubtful. Perhaps, though, your feelings are
deceiving you.”

“What!? How can my feelings be deceiving me?
It’s the way I feel; like nobody gives a crap!”

“Have you ever tried getting out of yourself … you
know; giving of your resources and talents to help others?
Perhaps doing this occasionally would be salutary and
allow you to see yourself from other perspectives. You’ve
heard the old saying that it’s ‘better to give than to receive’?”

“Now why would I want to do that!? No one respects
me, no one helps me, why should I give them anything?”

“Helping others, and giving to others, changes your
focus. And in so doing you empower a loving spirit to
affect what you are doing and those you are doing it for.
It also affects how you feel about yourself.”

“Well … I’ll tell you; I feel like crap about myself!
Nobody gives me anything – so why should I ever
consider offering something to them?”

“Someone has to have the courage to start the
process. And it’s a known fact that after doing
so it gains momentum by itself. Anyone can be
critical of others and alienated. Remember; there
is no defense against love, or a kind and wise
hand extended.”

“I don’t get it … why the hell should it be my
duty to give somebody else something they’re not
giving me?”

“Perhaps because you’re the one complaining.
You have a burden that something is wrong and
you’re the one looking for answers; this is a good
thing. You’ve had a revelation of sorts. Suffering
changes our perspective! When you see someone
who needs help just offer it to them; you’ll feel better!”

“Oh yah right! I’m the one that’s hurting, and instead
of getting what I need, you want me to help everyone
around me that’s hurting? All people want is their egos
stroked. Nobody suffers the way I do!”

“I can understand! I would say, though, that the ones
who really don’t care would never have the guts to initiate
changes as you seem to be trying to do here. Still though;
you can always forsake your God given gifts and crawl
into an emotional tomb and live there for the rest of your
life; it is an option you know, and a lot of the world does
just that.”

“Are you trying to tell me that it’s somehow Gods will
for humans to be subjected to emotional and physical
tribulation and affliction?”

“I cannot elucidate on God’s plan for this world, or its
inhabitants. Let me ask you this though; in your lifetime
have you ever known one person to have escaped it?”

“Escaped what?”

“Struggles and suffering!”

“No, I have not! As a matter of fact, I don’t know anyone
who doesn’t struggle in their lives. But so what; my struggles
are different. If people could just understand that little fact
they would see how special I am and give me the respect and
attention that I deserve.”

“I understand your thought but everyone is special, and
all have unique abilities. Even grains of sand and snowflakes
are different from one another. The ones who struggle and
suffer physically – a thorn in the flesh if you will – do so for
humilities sake. This keeps them aware, and humble, and
hopefully pointed in the right direction.”

“Whataya mean the right direction?”

“If we never struggled with challenges beyond our ability
to solve, we would never grow, we would never seek God,
and we would easily wander off the paths that we’ve been
given to walk.”

“I don’t believe in God!”

“You don’t!? What do you believe in?”

“I believe in me. I believe in my inherent goodness.
If people could just see that, life would be so different
For me. If only people could understand how terrific
I am. Besides … God doesn’t care about me. No one
knows my unique circumstances. I have physical and
emotional problems Doctor; I am not whole. I have aches
and pains that never go away. I can’t seem to find anybody
to love; someone that will love me, and who accepts me
for what I am, and is satisfied with that. Seems everyone
looks for something wrong in me, and they always seem
to find it. Then they dump on me or bad mouth me, or
gossip behind my back. I have trouble with finances; I never
seem to have enough. Like today – I don’t know how I’m
going to pay you for this session; I’m broke. I have lost my
faith in human beings. Most of the time they say one thing
and mean another; I hate them. Please help me Doctor,
what can I do?”

“Well … thank-you for your honesty, but let’s discuss this
another time ok; seems your time is up. Talk to my secretary;
she’ll give you a pamphlet that might help. Let me know when
you get some work; have a great and productive week OK?
Take care! Sheila, would you send in my next appointment!”

The Familiar

April 6, 2008Free Writingbeauty and the beast, courtright, Fantasy, romance

Frederick, an artist, attempts to escape the memory of his wife’s tragic death by moving to the mountain village of Halo. There he transforms a century old barn into a gallery and studio. He resumes painting, only now, all of the female images he creates are in the likeness of his departed wife. One rendering having an overwhelming resemblance to her is of a half-human lioness.

He pays little attention to stories of slaughtered animals and livestock, until on a hot summer night, while sleeping outside on the front stoop, he awakens to find himself face to face with the beast of his painting, and he soon discovers the tie binding them together is far stronger than mere paint and canvas.

Introduction

‘The Familiar’ is a variation of the beauty and the beast theme. The characters created for this story are designed to awaken the reader to the similarities in otherwise unrelated events we sometimes encounter on our life journey. One such occurrence took place in my youth.

Even from my earliest memories, my father had always been sickly. He had a friend whose hair was snow white, and I remember him saying on several occasions that he hoped his hair would turn the same color before he passed on. His hope was never realized.

On September 1, 1963, nineteen days before his birthday, my father passed away after a long struggle with cancer and heart disease. I was eleven years old and devastated. In late November, my mother encountered a person that bred Chihuahua’s. Looking over a recent litter, it was love at first sight, and managing to scrape together the money, several weeks later she bought one. The puppy she chose, we discovered, was born pure white on September nineteenth, my father’s birthday, and for many years thereafter, served as her protector and loyal companion.

Reincarnation or coincidence? On whatever side of the discussion one finds oneself, it is difficult to ignore the relationships between some of the episodes of the human experience. Such is the inspiration behind this story. In addition to being a variation of the beauty and the beast theme, ‘The Familiar’ is an experiment in role reversal, for in this story, beauty is the beast.Regards,
H. J. Courtright

The Loft

Rays of dawn scatter and diffuse through a prevailing shroud of humidity as the sun breaks free of the horizon. Shadows soft and undefined obscure contours of the modest skyline as another day flush with oppressive summer heat is borne unto the isolated streets of Halo.

Amid the solitude of the Green Mountains the lonely village has only ski resorts to sustain a precarious seasonal existence. Many residents, themselves seasonal, return only when conditions are prime to carry on with the business of winter trade. The rest hold fast to their homes having nowhere to run from torrid August heat that carves a valley into the soul as deep as by any frigid winter. The thirteenth day of this month will mark the founding of the village one hundred years past. The day will expire without a hint of remembrance, for nostalgia is dead, decimated by those who carry on, desecrated by each rusty nail, rotted beam, creaky floorboard, untended grave. No one remains who recalls tales of how street lamps, automobiles, and running water finally came to Halo. No one remains to recall tales of when the last corner stone was laid, when the last shingle was fixed in place, or when the last door was hung. No one remains to recall that the barn at the end of Main Street is the loyal sentinel of a forgotten age. Disturbed only by the occasional footsteps of curious children, it is largely forsaken, yet is the single most structure in Halo with the distinction of changing the least in one hundred years and the most in less than one. Frederick shudders, awakened by a sudden chill. His shirt, laden with perspiration, slowly peels from the rigid slats of the Adirondack chair as he leans forward. The leading edge of the seat stabs hard into the back of his knees and fierce tingling from lost circulation quickly mounts. As the feeling wanes, he rises to a throbbing, uncomfortable stance, and stretches the remaining stiffness from dormant muscles. Rubbing his forehead, he restores a measure of life into his drawn, weary features. Sweat old and new rolls onto his fingertips briefly freeing him from the discomfort destined to return with the heat of the new day. The jagged wound of his left forefinger, a cut inflicted by the rippled edge of a can of shredded beef opened last evening, stings from the salt of his perspiration. The pangs of morning hunger are severed by the vivid memory of the meager meal that lingers upon his lips as unsavory grease and steely taste of a fork. Gazing into the hazy sunrise, he sees the heaviness of sultry air already settling among the mountain peaks, and for the third day Halo will not be measured by the blessing of solitude, but, by the curse of oppressive heat. Besieged by the second evening thunderstorm in as many days, the village is again purified, as seen through the newness of pavement, sidewalks, and dull glow of a once dusty old Buick, though the deluge has failed in straining the persistent humid thickness from the air. Last evening, Halo was plunged into darkness as on other nights, in other storms, and he was again forbid a fan to stir and churn the fumes of paint and thinner. On such nights his hand is guided by soft candlelight, though the candles, pliable from insufferable heat, dwindle quickly to muted puddles with charred blackened stems. He cries in a silent lament at resuming work in a studio with no relief from idle sweltering air. He walks to the corner of the building nearest the forest where the ground falls away in a twenty-foot drop to a shifting base of shale and dirt. The debris of the slope tapers toward the forest in full sweeping reach of brush, bramble, and cellar door. Now, as on that first day, he feels the weight of a foreign gaze examining his moves. It feeds his fears and mocks his loneliness. It is a gaze which has no face, no name, and enslaves him within the most unsurmountable of all prisons, himself. He looks back across the front stoop and recalls the first time he set foot upon the sun bleached floorboards branded by nails brittle with rust. The aged boards are gone, replaced by new ones yet untainted by the scars of time. An overhang still shades the building’s entire front, and he recalls the delivery of the first vibrant shake to a supporting pillar, and how it awakened boards loosened by weather and rot. The mournful creak broke the stillness as a desperate plea for restoration that lived beyond when the light rain of debris finally settled. He recalls stepping to the carriage door and pondering over why a grand entrance for horse and carriage would be reduced to a ragged discard. Carefully, he squeezed through the narrow opening between the two large door panels held in precarious balance by tattered hinges. Inside, the remnant of a carriage lay as silent reminder to when dirt roads yielded beneath wooden wheels and nervous hooves. A rotted spoked wheel lay propped against the wall in abandoned harmony adjacent to dried strips of reins and artifacts of sickle and pitchfork. The heavy acrid scent of mouldy hay wafted down from the loft, the altar upon which the structure pleaded for rescue from the grasp of rot and disuse. A ladder served as sole link from where his gallery now stands to where the black widow once lived and hunted. He walks to the single glass door of the gallery standing between the large display windows that span the breadth of the building. As he passes through the main entrance, the doorbell tinkles, awakening the forest of painted canvases to the arrival of its creator. Crossing the threshold into his world, he beholds the morning light shining loudly onto the yellow-orange mirror of hardwood flooring. The luminance shouts throughout the wilderness of paintings that rest so prominently upon their display easels, dwarfed only by the simplicity of windowless side walls and the symmetry of art placed upon them. He takes pause in the grandeur of the gallery and how it seems to glow with inner light. At the right, along the north wall, is a polished wooden banister, handrail to the sweeping staircase connecting gallery to studio, where unfinished canvases and sketches faded by time, nonconforming to reason or structure, stand where they are cast. It is the studio where one dimensional white is transformed to hues of depth, form, and grace, where random thoughts unify, blend, and contort, where reality ends and all other things begin. However, of late, he has neglected his work in lieu of a project that will bring him neither fame nor money. Such as words or musical notes are composed for generations to ponder, delight and savor, he, as artist, bound to the curse of inspiration, has been driven to create a most wondrous thing. He stands in the doorway looking upward into the studio straining to see images upon the west wall with eyes that have weakened before their time. A blurry forest skyline is all to be seen from here, but, closing his eyes, he sees the clear lasting vision fixed firmly in his imagination, the story board of his mind and soul, the mural. The contrasts between light and dark, good and evil, reality and illusion are set deep within the fibers of the cedar panels. Two mountain peaks comprising the left background are sentinels that guard the horizon so no one may enter, so not even he may leave. They are insurmountable, unmoveable, unknowable, drowned by the endless tears of rain that strain through the darkened clouds of his loneliness and sorrow. A waterfall flows from where the peaks converge, falling as a sheer misty curtain, giving life to a flowering grassland that is the foundation of his utopia. Amid the void of sky between the mountains and murals edge, winged horses are suspended in a myriad of stances. They are guardians of his creative prowess. They are his endurance, his motivation, his only strength. Further right, a medieval castle looms high above a rocky shore where, in the tower window, a forsaken princess gazes across a savage sea of memories in wait for her shining prince, as he, Frederick, waits for one who can never return. Far below, perched atop the jagged rocks, a mermaid combs her hair in long sensuous strokes, and with each pass strains away his lasting peace. Briny surges churn and crash wetting her in tears of ocean spray, gathered droplets that conjure restless dreams of hate and hopelessness, only to be washed down the rocky face and consumed by the vengeful sea.
Imbedded within the foreground of the left are serpentine vines entwined in an eerie maze of light and dark. Deep in the forest of pine and oak, partially obscured in shadow, the figure of a lioness gazes outward with eyes that span the void between rendering and reality. The visage touches him with loneliness that severs his soul, contorts his heart with love and lust, and confines him within his prison of fear. He walks through the forest of finished works, ascends the stairway to the loft, and stands before the image of the lioness. Her countenance is of the untamed beast, her rendered stare, the eyes that he perceives to follow him as he leaves and enters the gallery. Her long flowing mane falls across her shoulders and along her womanly form arousing faraway memories of a time when virgin hearts merged to one, a time when his face lay gently upon a naked breast and the love shared with another caused creation to kneel at their feet. But this image, conceived as solace, causes only incurable loneliness, and stands as the reason he will never venture beyond the safety of his self-made boundaries. In the far left corner, a hunter is cast into the primeval existence of the hunt. With steady, unblinking eyes, he watches the lioness, waiting for the moment to bring forth his weapon in taking down the elusive quarry. He is the essence of the forest, his weathered countenance carved by the blade of the wild. Frederick turns away from his artful achievement to sip the remains of cold black coffee. The taste is stark, strong, forcing him to re-examine the work in a fresh gaze. Driven through purpose undefined, unknowable, he chooses to extract the visage of the lioness he has cast upon the cedar panel and render it to the canvas. Crossing the studio to consider the dimensions the portrait will take, he stands among frames stacked in lazy columns along the wall. The choice made, he returns to the easel to prime the canvas for the articulate stroke of the brush. Sitting upon the simple stool of wood, he contemplates, formulates in his mind how the first strokes will be, and by reflex switches on the light that hangs loosely overhead from the end an age stiffened cord. The studio washes in momentary brilliance and in the same instant he is thankful that sometime in the night, the electric was restored. Slave to his aspiration, he embarks upon the arduous journey of rendering a new image. Studying a vision of his subject in the forefront of his thoughts, the brush is dabbed into the primary colour of the palette, the stroke of silken hue is delivered onto the canvas, and in the same moment he is interrupted with the tinkle of the doorbell. The spell of inspiration dampened, he peers over the studio handrail. “Good morning, Rankin,” he called flatly, mildly aggravated by the intrusion. “Mornin’, Mr. Frederick,” Rankin replied, in the respectful way he addressed everyone, “hope I didn’t disturb ya.” “Nonsense, Rankin, come up,” Frederick assured the hunter, annoyed at the disruption, but gaining nothing in displaying displeasure at the kindhearted man. Rankin steps across the threshold into the gallery neatly propping his crossbow and quiver by the umbrella stand. As a doe to its fawn, he never strays far from the high-powered weapon fashioned from the leaf of an old buckboard spring and stock of an otherwise useless shotgun. It is his strength, his endurance, and arrows that issue forth are his blood. A legend to the locals, he is said to be capable of trailing his prey across barren land on a frigid wind blown night. By his own account he has spent a lifetime in the wilderness, adding credence to the belief that he and the forest are one. His red plaid hat and jacket are in sharp contrast to the pristine appearance of the gallery, and as he ascends the long sweeping stairway to the studio, Frederick ponders why the man, known also through his good deeds, is referred to only by his last name. In slow deliberate strides Rankin pauses upon the upper landing casting a surveying glance about the studio, then approaches the easel to where the artist is working. “Bin quite a time since last I bin here in the loft, Mr. Frederick. As I r’member, I was givin’ help floorin’ and railin’, didn’t know ya painted the west wall as such,” and catching sight of the lioness, he hesitates, bringing an uneasy pause to his manner. “What can I do for you, Rankin?” the artist asked, turning toward the hunter to address the abrupt stillness, giving little credence to the man’s fascination with the mural. He takes a mental assessment of bramble torn trousers, jacket, and hat, and the hunter’s deep set wrinkles to that of the painting, and silently admits to not yet having mastered imitating his power upon the canvas. “Mr. Frederick, some time now, I bin seein’ strange tracks,” the hunter began, as he continued to examine the mural. “Probably some animal that came down from the higher ups, it’s of no concern to me,” the artist replied, returning his attention to the palette and foundation coat upon the canvas, “anything the matter?” “Past spring, found a buck up passed Harper’s Glade, throat crushed, neck broke, heart ripped out. Every couple o’ weeks bin findin’ some such animal thet met the same fate. Mr. Johnny had a prize heffer killed t’other day. Wh’tever it is gotta bite ‘bout tha same as a man, ‘n I ‘magine ten times tha disposition to take down nigh unto ton o’ beef,” and the hunter withdraws his uneasy gaze from the mural. “I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation.” “‘T only comes out at night. Bin trackin’ it nigh onto four months. I can tell tales that’d make people think I’m crazy, cuz wh’t’s out there ain’t like nothin’ nobody’s ever seen. Ain’t no hero, guess that makes me a fool. Ain’t like you ‘n most others that bin ‘ere only a handful o’ years. Well, kids and grandkids come back for a time, but anyhow, it’s summer now ‘n some nights ya sit out on yer stoop. Jest neighborly advice, need ta be careful is’ll.” His gaze returns to the mural. “Thanks, Rankin, but I really don’t think there is anything to worry about.” “Like I said, jest neighborly advice, ‘specially didn’t want that tore up heffer ta play on yer mind, means wh’tever it is has a taste for livestock, a man can be next.” “Real fine likeness of me, Mr. Frederick, makes a man proud to be in one o’ yer pitchers,” then withdrawing his gaze from the mural a second time, poses the question, “by the way, where ya git the idea fer that lion?” “I just had a few ideas I wanted to work on, and then the inspiration hit. I’m the fool. I spent three weeks working this mural when I should have been working the canvas. You know, things I can sell when the season starts up. What do you think?” “I best not say, Mr. Frederick, I best not say,” and with no further exchange, he descends the loft stairway, gathers his quiver and crossbow, and exits the gallery. Frederick delivers a thoughtful sigh as the hunter’s steps track to the edge of the stoop. Gazing upon the image of the lioness, he ponders why he first put the concept to the brush, and quickly pushing the thought away, directs his attention toward his new work.

Thank you, President Bush

April 4, 2008Free Writingbooks, George W. Bush, inspiration, life, literature, paulo coehlo, paulo coelho, President Bush, warrior of light, wisdom

I wrote the letter below on March 9, 2003, ten days before the invasion of Iraq. It is the most widely read text I have written, having been published in the leading newspapers across the world and all over the Internet: close to 500 million people have read it.The war is now entering its 6th year, and over 4,000 American soldiers have lost their lives, together with an indefinite number of Iraqis. According to the CNN (March 24, 2008), “estimates of the Iraqi death toll range from about 80,000 to the hundreds of thousands, with another 2 million forced to leave the country and 2.5 million displaced within Iraq, according to the U.N. High Commissioner for Refugees”.

Many of the people I mention have already left the scene, yet the war goes on. At the moment, there is no light at the end of the tunnel. Below are some extracts from the letter:

Thank you, great leader George W. Bush.

Thank you for showing everyone what a danger Saddam Hussein represents. Many of us might have forgotten that he used chemical weapons against his own people, against the Kurds and against the Iranians. Hussein is a bloodthirsty dictator, today seen as one of the world’s clearest expressions of evil.

But that is not the only reason I have for thanking you. During the first two months of 2003, you showed the world a great many important things. So, recalling a poem I learned as a child, I would like to express my gratitude.

Thank you for revealing to the world the enormous gulf that exists between the decisions made by those in power and the wishes of the people. Thank you for making it clear that neither José Maria Aznar nor Tony Blair really care or show the slightest respect for the votes they received. Aznar is capable of ignoring the fact that 90% of Spaniards are against the war and Blair is unmoved by the largest public demonstration to take place in England in the last thirty years.

Thank you for insisting that Tony Blair should appear before Parliament with a fabricated dossier written by a student ten years ago, and present this as ‘damning evidence collected by the British Secret Service’.

Thank you too, because, after all your efforts to promote war, the normally divided Arab nations were for the first time unanimous in condemning any invasion, at a meeting held in Cairo.

Thank you also for your rhetoric stating that ‘the UN now has a chance to demonstrate its relevance’, which made even the most reluctant countries take a stance against any attacks.

Thank you for trying to divide a Europe that is struggling for unification; this was a warning that will not go unheeded.

Thank you for having achieved something that very few have so far managed to do in this century: bringing millions of people together on all continents to fight for the same idea, even though that idea is opposed to yours.

Thank you, because without you we would not have realized our own ability to mobilize. It may serve no purpose this time, but it will be useful later on. Now that there seems no way of silencing the drums of war, I would like to borrow the words of an ancient European king to an invader: ‘May your morning be a beautiful one, with the sun shining on your soldiers’ armor, for in the afternoon I will defeat you.’

So, enjoy your morning and whatever glory it may yet bring you.

Thank you for not listening to us and not taking us seriously, but understand that we hear you and will not forget your words.