Curtis L. Alcutt

www.curtisalcutt.com

curtisalcutt@gmail.com

God by Proxy.

© by Curtis L Alcutt

Prologue

Greetings, reader. Thank you for reading this piece of ancient history I came across.

Since the Hafrian language is undecipherable by any human means, I’ve taken the liberty to

translate it for you. The time isn’t right, yet, for me to tell you exactly how I was able to learn

their language, but trust me, you will be enlightened to that and much more soon enough…

I

One hundred and Forty-five million light years from earth, a silver sphere, eight hundred feet in diameter, hung silently in space. The two occupants of the craft studied a ten-foot-long by five-foot-wide screen, which featured a three dimensional map of the universe. “Mocknin, are you sure that pebble-sized planet is the one you’ve been telling me about?” Chatznin asked.

Mocknin let his slim, asphalt-black hands rest on the arms of his huge seat. His tall, lean muscular frame was wrapped in a black and gold robe that exposed his chiseled chest. His bare feet protruded from the bottom of his black and gold baggy pants. He telepathically moved the six-inch triangle-shaped cursor on the screen. Only male Hafrian’s had telepathic power. He looked at his co-pilot. Mocknin’s multicolored, slightly slanted eyes glowed like burning diamonds. “I am most certain. I call it that, ‘pebble’, ‘Earth.’”

Chatznin turned to the screen and watched as the cursor stopped on a pinkish-blue blinking light. “That portal hasn’t been used in over ten thousand years.”

Mocknin zoomed in on the picture of the portal. It was now a huge circle with a pitch-black center surrounded by a bluish-pink aura. “That is precisely why I use it, there’s less of a chance of my visits being discovered by the Council.”

Chatznin sat back in her seat and crossed her long slender legs. She was a tall, formidable, beautiful and bald Hafrian from the planet Hafria. “I pray to the ‘Great Light’ that you know what you’re doing, dear brother.”

With a simple thought, Mocknin made the screen and the interior of the vessel to go black. He glanced over at Chatznin. “I can’t tell you how anxious I am to see how my experiment is going!”

Her oval-shaped glowing eyes illuminated the darkness. “I hope this time it doesn’t end the same way your last attempt at altering life did two years ago.”

Mocknin looked at the dark wall in front of them as he pressed a button on the arm of his chair. Seconds later, a fifteen-by-ten foot section of the wall slid to the side revealing a huge observation window. “I’ve learned quite a bit since then.”

Chatznin gazed out the window at their huge green and brown home planet as she adjusted the collar of her red and gold form-fitting outfit. Like Mocknin, her feet were bare. “I surely hope so. The Grand Council was very disturbed to hear how you took it upon yourself to wipe out all the life on that planet. I’m surprised they didn’t remove you from the Board of Science.”

Mocknin waved his hand over the three-foot high white pillar that stood between their seats. Instantly, the top glowed deep blue then a pair of three dimensional hologram screens materialized and hovered in front of the occupants. He telepathically slid one of the holographic levers forward and the ship slowly rotated, giving them a view of outlying galaxies.

He sighed as a large viewing screen on the dark wall in front of them illuminated. It flashed images of Woolly Mammoths, Tyrannosaurus Rexes, Allosaurus, Dimtrodons and other dinosaurs from the Jurassic period. “Yes…I had hoped they would of evolved faster… become a much more intelligent species.”

Chatznin chuckled at her brother. “You have to remember you are not a God…A brilliant scientist yes, but not a God.”

Mocknin ignored her ribbing and stared at the images of frozen earthscapes that played before them. He then spoke more to himself than to her. “My Cryogenic Plasma Beam worked perfectly…it dropped the temperature of the entire planet to three hundred below zero in less than thirty earth seconds. They died so fast it was virtually painless.”

Chatznin stared at a zoomed in picture of a frost-covered Wooly Mammoth. It had been frozen so quickly, it still had undigested green grass in its mouth. “I still don’t understand why you’re so fixated on that unremarkable planet.”

“Because,” Mocknin replied as he calculated the course to the portal. “It’s the perfect place for some of my more radical experiments. It’s also in a section of the universe not protected by the Universal Planet Alliance.”

Chatznin pressed a sequence of the holographic buttons on her screen. “What do you mean, ‘radical?’”

Mocknin smirked as he pressed a button on his screen. The dinosaur images faded into pictures of a frozen, snow and ice-covered wasteland. “I performed a new experiment.”

Chatznin swiveled her seat and stared at her brother. “Is that why you begged me to accompany you on this so called, ‘mission of mercy?’”

“Well, you are the best navigator on Hafria—and my favorite sister.”

Chatznin glanced at him with her lidless, fiery eyes and then turned back to her screen. “You know as well as I that this ship doesn’t require a navigator. It can be programmed to cross the known universe on its own.” She absently flicked the gold ring that pierced the bridge of her nose. “I still do not understand why you fly this antiquated ship. It doesn’t even have inter-dimensional travel capabilities.”

He scanned the star charts on his screen. “Nor does it leave a traceable Ion signature, like your inter-dimensional vessel, when it creates wormholes in the fabric of time.”

Although she was very proud of her brother’s intelligence, this time she refused to acknowledge his brilliant reasoning. “You still haven’t told me why you’re going back to that planet. From the looks of it, your last visit was a complete failure.”

Mocknin stroked his broad, cleft chin. Like all Hafrians, he had no finger or toenails. “That is where you’re wrong, sister.”

She pointed at the frozen world on the screen. “What do you call that?”

His eyes changed to bright reddish-orange as they always did when he was excited. “That wasn’t my last trip to Earth.”

Chatznin’s eyes blazed a deep shade of aquamarine blue. “According to your report to the Council, you only visited there once in order to perform your evolution acceleration experiments.”

Mocknin stood, walked over to the observation window and watched as a comet, five thousand miles away, streaked past them. “Since we are bound by blood, I’m sure I can trust you, sister.”

Chatznin watched as Mocknin stood with his hands behind his back, staring out the window. “What is it you’re being so secretive about?”

He turned to her. “I have many things to tell you, but first we must move.”

CURTIS ALCUTT BIO

Curtis L Alcutt is a Northern California native and author of several published urban fiction and urban erotica stories. Most recently he was picked up by Strebor/Simon&Schuster for his erotic thriller “Sins of a Siren.” The follow up, “Fatal Intentions:Sins of a Siren II” was released August of 2012. His writing journey began in 2005 with the publication of his first novel “Dyme Hit List,” (now re-released as “Eyes of a Player,”) which was very well received. He enjoys writing in many genres including sci-fi, fantasy and mystery. He’s also half of the team responsible for penning the “Black Widow and the Sandman” suspense/thriller series (released June 28, 2011). Black Widow and the Sandman is a remarkable, ongoing writing project with his writing partner, Deatri King-Bey. They chose to write under the pseudonym L. L. Reaper because neither of them is known for writing in the suspense/thriller genre.

www.curtisalcutt.com

www.llreaper.net

1. Death Is Avoidable:

I remember the frost that morning, painting the window in a satin-white. How it burned my throat when I inhaled; the distant scent of someone’s open-fire, curling through the atmosphere, a thick fragrance of Maple. The trees dressed in winter’s coat of freshly lain snow. The sky was hanging low in the mountains as I looked ahead. I even heard the soft landing of snowdrops from the surrounding branches. 

My skin felt rough and tight as I walked further on, my nose feeling of someone else’s. I could feel the pangs of old age hit me like a time-bomb. But it was no use returning, I only had to march on. Crunch, crunch, below my snow-boots, when at last I realized I had reached the gravel road. 

The dawn awoke behind the somber mists of clouds. I could just catch a glimpse of sun-rays within a break. Oh, how glorious she bathed me in a pool of warmth before dispersing at once, alone again in my frozen world; though, I never faltered and continued to walk down the snowy path. Crunch, crunch, continued my boots, my arms swinging right after the other, front-to-back, front-to-back. I scaled the peak of the hill, (the hill I’d spend all my days upon as a child) covered in a thick layer of snow; its’ features all too familiar to hide. It aged with me through a life of joy and pain, as though an old friend. And now I stood in the place no longer welcoming like it used to be. My heart filled with a void that I could not process, could not or would not. And the sad scene of my past only plunged deeper into my consciousness pulling from its’ depth a Charles Dickens’s quote. It is as follows: 

“Happy, happy Christmas that can win us back to the delusions of our childhood days, recall to the old man the pleasures of his youth and transport the traveler back to his own fireside and quiet home.”

And deep within a melancholic-faze, I departed from the distant view of my home. 

… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … . 

The bag I carried seemed to grow with each step and after what I only could have guessed was three hours in, I found myself stooped over a rock rummaging the contents of my pack. I leaned back beneath a frozen Willow and munched on an apple. Gazing out at the flourishing scene God had bestowed me; the trees mid-thought, and I wondered what they must have been thinking when at that moment, winter’s angry hand broke the silent beauty of autumn and shook the trees bare; their life strewn upon the ground and replaced by a thick layer of ice. But what of the brushes or flowers, were they not too silenced, frozen in time? A thousand questions buzzed through the hemispheres of my brain. 

When the clouds would split and the sunshine pour in heaping rays of gold, I used what knowledge I possessed as a sundial, calculating it to be twelve o’clock, give or take a few minutes. The snow had stopped falling and the stillness of the land comforted me; only my thoughts and the random flutter of birds broke the silence. The snow surrendered beneath my feet, crunch, crunch, gravel shooting high into the air. My legs carried me aimlessly unbeknownst of the destination. And overtime, the cold seemed to eat away through my suit, wrapping tightly around my joints; the pain was more than my aged body would let me bear as my heart pumped bitterly through the frozen hemisphere. The very thought of the beautiful landscape which beheld my gaze, having ever play a part in bitter sorrow of those even most fortunate, boggled the very life of me. And Mother Nature seemed not quite finished, as she whipped a brisk chill breeze through the bristly oaks. 

… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … . 

Sun was my only comfort and I longed for its’ presence. It danced around the complexities of my synapses with a cruelness, its image just as vibrant in thought, as it would have been before me. It was as though, someone, had switched on a projector that burned a 1000-units of electrical circuits burning forever into my brain. And the excruciating thought only made the ice colder, snow deeper, and wind harder. I felt tiny needle-like pricks where my skin was bare and a cruel pressure as though a force was splitting my flesh in two. Then, that blinding flash flooding my sight; I couldn’t see my feet. So strong and powerful, I thought I had unknowingly fallen into the center of the earth. Though my eyes adjusted before any real panic set in, becoming clear. I looked up and marveled in the exposing warmth; God smiled upon my weak, aging soul, one last time. Colors in majestic tones and lifetimes apart overlapped the silk shimmer of afternoon sunlight. 

… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … .

Two o’clock and I trudged through the thick snow as adamant and determined as the moment I first set foot outside. My moist hair protruded from beneath my hat, a result from the sporadic snowfall. The trees echoed with the call of birds; their beautiful songs bellowed clear and shook the boughs in harmonious celebration. I felt as though a surge of relentless joy lifted me from the heartache of the walk. I, was a part of something bigger than I could ever imagine, the unity of blood and soul, the bond of humanity and their heritage. I just caught a glimpse of my Ancestors pillaging the forest floors for scraps of food; walking this very path. Such dream was mine, to walk hand-in-hand with my family again, to rejoice at the sight of snow rather than cringe. To hear the floorboards creak from the mass of human pressure rather than the creeping age of the foundation; to hear the echo of my sweetheart down the hall. There was nothing left to show for a lifetime of love but a broken heart and memories, all of which haunted me. I ended up becoming so distracted from my journey that I hadn’t realized how far off course I was. I gazed at the empty, bare trees, for the first time unfamiliar with their presence. 

… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … .

Hours passed and I could feel the wind grow heavy and frequent. The sky showed no sign of improvement, but only seemed to increase in clouds. I pulled my coat to me tighter and tucked my hands beneath my arms. It was not long after, that I found a suitable place to rest. I gathered all the sticks nearby and cleaned a shallow area of snow. The wood burned slowly as the surrounding snow liquefied at light-speed. Its’ immense heat covered my frozen-self in a blanket of warmth and I felt the bulk of the journey fall over me. My eyelids became as heavy as cement blocks. I decided to compromise this by giving in and falling deep into unconsciousness. 

… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … .

It was not too clear at first the hazy grounds in which I found myself. There wasn’t snow but that of soft spring grass and I was no longer aching from frostbite. I smelled an overwhelming ample of spring blossoms accompanying the gentle breezes. The sunlight sat upon my cheek, no cloud in sight. Birds swarmed the open sky rejoicing the beautiful weather. What was this place? Where was I?  There were the plumped-fields encircling the full oak trees, the wonderful sun showering the land in a ravishing golden light. 

“There you are! I’ve been waiting for you.”

The voice startled me in it’s’ familiarity. I opened my mouth to speak but no words came.  

“I’ve missed you so much!” It continued.

Still not a single syllable could I form. I looked all around, but no source could be found as to the whereabouts of the voice. I forced myself up and stood at a loss. Searching every corner, every shaded area but returned with no results. Crunch, crunch, sounded the pitter patter of feet; I looked around frantically but just as the voice, I remained alone in the field. Only the crunch increased in speed and numbers; I closed my eyes tightly and covered my ears till it was only the pounding of my heart that broke the silence. A harsh, cold wind began to blow violently against my face and my hands stung with the feeling of my skin being pulled from my fingernails. I strained to open my eyes and then found nothing but the thick suffocation of dark. 

… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … .

Charred-wood remained beneath the remnants of smoke; its base still grasping a hint of light within the pile. My face felt exposed and raw to the chill, burning with the intensity of a bonfire. My fingers beyond that, to the point of numbness; I couldn’t even feel my lips. I had lost control of my nerves; I felt a madness possess my senses struggling to contain as much rationality as possible. I reached into my coat pocket for my matchbox and with one strike of the flint, a tiny brilliant flame danced in direction with the wind. The light as though a disease, spread rapidly to the remaining wood. My environment became clear and I gazed up noticing the presence of the moon. What time was it?

A grumble rose from within the darkness as I continued to fall in and out of unconsciousness. But it wasn’t until I nearly dozed off that I recognized a most foreign presence; I was no longer alone. A fierce set of eyes had been watching me; inching closer and closer. They stared with the intensity of a 1000 hungry eyes coming closer until at last I caught a glimpse more of my visitor. Her fur displayed sheen like that of the ocean at dawn; her eyes radiated a beautiful emerald hue. She refrained from baring her teeth, though I knew why she was there. I leaned up and between my chattering teeth I spoke:

“I know why you’re here,” I muttered.

The words did not come without consequence as my lips split wide open from the sudden jerk.

  “… But tis’ not your job … not today!”

She studied my indigent-state, grasping my coat to me tighter. She sat down where she stood gazing with a longing. Then her full-coat began to fold over her joints as she sunk further into the snow and resting her head upon her paws she slowly closed her eyes. I soon followed suit, closing mine, and drifting off.

Excerpt from the novel; SLAVE: Escaping the Chains of Freedom

Coming 2012 Courtesy of Seaburn Publishing Group

Written by Jacqueline Malcolm

PROLOGUE

Winter - 1755

I have a Beast.

He resides inside me; living, breathing - waiting.

He was present at my birth. A birth that by all accounts wasn’t easy. Nature’s sign of what was to come; my life, as my birth, has never been easy.

This isn’t easy!

I can hear crying; no, more than that! I hear screaming, wailing. A boy, no, a man wailing; he cries out, it sounds strange, a man’s voice crying out for his mother.

“Mother, don’t leave me, don’t go.”

More tears, more cries. It’s never ending.

A hard pain grips at my chest, cutting off my breath. I can’t breath. I’m not breathing.  My screams have stopped. No one’s making a sound, now just a heaviness in the room crushing me. My legs give way, I fall to the ground, my hands grabbing out; save me, save myself. I clutch the lifeless body of my mother, already turning cold. Cold already? It’s too quick. It’s all happening too fast.

I can’t breath.

I look around the dark room for air, I see him then, hidden in the shadows. And I remember. She had called his name last. Not mine. His!

Jamie, she said.

That was her name for him. He hated it. Stomped his foot, demanded she call him James or better still, Mr. Thomas. But she loved him, told him it was her breast he had weaned from; so that’s what she called my brother; she called him Jamie.

And with her last breath she had said, Jamie, I forgive you.

I’m on my hands and knees, the pain growing, my breath disappearing. I look at James, visible as the lone candle catches the whiteness of his skin.

I see you, James!

I find my voice, hoarse from the screams;

“What did you do?”

He doesn’t answer. His head just bows lower. He makes a sound, a shudder, a gasp. But he doesn’t answer.

Why doesn’t he answer me?

From nowhere, hands hold me from behind. Strong hands, white hands lifting me to my feet. Has death come for me too? I turn, ready to fight. I look into the green eyes of my father. Green eyes filled with water. Tears. He’s crying.  My father, the General, the man who never cries, cries now for my dead mother.

His mistress.

His slave.

“She’s gone, Zeke.”

His voice is gentle. He called me Zeke. She calls me Zeke, not him. My father only ever calls me Hezekiah, sometimes ‘boy’; often Nigger. Never son! Mama called me Zeke, but now she’s gone. But father’s here, calling me Zeke.

I ask him, “What did he do?”

“The doctor did everything he could…”

“Not the doctor; him! Him!” My finger points at James, my father’s son. “Him!”

“You’re in shock, you’re not thinking straight.”

“She said his name. She called him Jamie. Told him she forgave him. It was the last thing she said, that she forgave him.”

And for the first time I release the Beast.

I feel him growing inside me, coming to the surface, taking control. I’m disappearing in his fury.

The Beast is here.

My hands clench, they’re now fists. I’m flying across the room. I knock the bed of my dead mother as I rush past, it doesn’t wake her. The Beast smashes the face of my brother; growling, snarling, he smashes again. It takes more than the General to control the Beast. I hear his voice calling the servants for help but they’ll come too late; the Beast must have his day, his time is now. He’s been too quiet for too long.

The Beast roars his freedom. He smashes and roars; bites, tears, claws and roars.

My brother’s blood covers me. His nose broken, blood gushing. He cries out, but not for help. The pain’s too much for him yet he does nothing to defend himself, nothing to stop the Beast. I steady the Beast so I may look my brother in the eye for myself.

And that’s when I see it!

An awareness; his own acknowledgement that he deserves this. He deserves the Beast.

“What did you do, Jamie? What did you do?”

We both cry then. We cry for our lost childhood, our lost friendship, our lost love. We cry for the dead woman on the bed, the corpse we had both called, Mama.

We hold each other and we cry.

“What did you do?”

Why doesn’t he answer me?

Jacqueline Malcolm - Author of SLAVE: Escaping the Chains of Freedom. Novel coming 2012 courtesy of Seaburn Publishing Group

reviewsforme:

It was official. Somewhere in the past few years, she’d started to fall for thw whack-a-doodle across the hall. Even on day one, something clicked. The way he showed pride in his work, jumping to dismiss Leonard’s. Penny knew now that Sheldon just liked to be best, but part of her still wondered. Did Sheldon flirt that first day? If even for a split second? Of course, he wouldn’t have known if he had. Letting out a small sigh, she continued to focus on her wondering thoughts, forgetting she wasn’t alone.

Read More

by Donna L Pioli

When I was a young mother with six small children I felt called to prayer. I wondered

How I was to accomplish this with barely five minutes to myself as it was.

That’s another time, another story, perhaps?

Now, I am retired and I have time for prayer like I’ve always wanted. I’m married and we

Have a happy marriage, so I’m not a recluse or a hermit.

Many, many years ago I went on a 24 hour retreat, just overnight. The kids were young

and their Dad got some special time with them!:)

After, I had settled into my room, I decided to head to the library. Anyone who knows me

Knows I love books. I was looking around and pulled a book from the shelf. I opened it upi

And the page opened to a quote by Pascal. It said, “you would not seek me if you had not found Me”. I read it again. It took my breath away. This experience happened about 40 years

Ago and it seems like yesterday.

Later on back in my room, I was just overwhelmed by that experience. I laid on my bed

And fell asleep. When I woke up I felt like I had been praying all along. I got up

And started looking through some of the books I had with me.y

I had been attempting to read St. John of the Cross, “the Living Flame of Love”. I read a little

And guess what I saw? “If you are seeking God, know that He is seeking you much much

More”

I tried to spend time in prayer, but I wasn’t doing very well. I had many distractions, were the

Kids ok, had my mom called, wondering if their dad could make the dinner I left for them.

I think I thought of anything and everything to keep me from praying.

I decided to go for a walk. I happened to run into a priest that I knew. We began to walk

Together and talk. I shared my experiences with him. He agreed that The Lord was calling

Me to prayer. He gave me a few steps that I used to this day.

Step 1Waste time with The Lord, who is present and ABSENT

Step 2. Give The Lord the gift of your presence, at times you may feel alone___

Step 3. Prayer is waiting

Step 4. Gradually be more passive, stop, look, listen before you respond

God has the initiative

Step 5. There are growing pains as you grow in prayer. Don’t worry.______

Steps. Read, meditate , act of contrition, Faith in the Presence of God.

Love, trust, praise , petition

Silence

Passive listening

Speak in silence

If you are too empty, don’t be afraid to read again and make some more acts of

Faith and love.

Step7. The more affective prayer is, the better. Less thoughts, images, ideas.

Step 8 Be aware of God dwelling within you.

It helped me tremendously talking to him and receiving confirmation on what I had heard in my heart.

The directions that Father gave me are good and like, I said, I use them to this day.

There is a very favorite of mine of a description of contemplative prayer. It is found in

A passage from the life of St. John Vianney. He tells about a peasant who often sat for

Hours in church. One day he ask the peasant what he did for all that time. The peasant

Replied,”oh, I look at Him and He looks at me.”

Author: Donna Pioli

Disabled since 1999, with MS and Fibromyalgia. Later I was to get Pulmonary Fibrosis.Several other diseases as well, but no sense writing a novel on my diseases.I have written since I was a teenager. There are very few instances I’ve let anyone read anything of mine.

By Paul Douglas Lovell

MY PAST: Prologue

The centre of my universe was an awfully lonely place where chaos became a most welcome distraction. I grew up in the seventies and eighties, an impostor in my own life. Outwardly I appeared to be a normal working-class ruffian, scratching and biting along with the best of them. Inwardly I yearned for wealth and to feel a softer side of life. Raised by my Dad on state benefits, it was a fairly hard upbringing where going without was an excepted fact. School Trips, Pocket Money Day, Easter and Birthdays always passed by with great disappointment. The words “Because you haven’t got a mom.” usually followed the question “Oh, why?” As I was the youngest of five underprivileged children it didn’t take long to discover that all requests were met with this response and that Dad’s word was final.

“Living below the poverty line” meant that in the coldest of winters, ice would gather on the inside of the window panes and cold water pipes would often rupture. Water would seep through an hole in the ceiling, made by a previous leak and once again drench the kitchen. It happened so often that the slightest mention of freezing temperatures, had us rushing upstairs to scrub-out and fill-up the bath-tub with cold water. Otherwise when the water supply was turned off due to a burst, we would have to either collect, “white” snow from the garden or visit a neighbour with an empty bucket.

Our house lacked that homey feeling and was always cold. There was a bullet sized hole in the dining room window. The glass pane, too big and expensive to replace had been crudely held together by adhesive-tape. Over time this had yellowed and no longer really stuck, so allowed the wind to whistle merry tunes through its opening. Closing the front door would make the whole thing shake, threatening to shatter, year in year out. I was uncomfortable knowing when it did, we would probably board it up, just like the backdoor and the hallway window, which as far as I knew had always been broken.

We took glass screw-top pop-bottles filled with boiling water and placed in old socks to bed with us. Musky overcoats, thick curtains and sheets of newspapers inserted between the blankets weighed so much that turning over was nigh on impossible. On occasion, after a long snowy trudge home from a school that remained open. We would be greeted to the welcome aroma of piping-hot of broth simmering on the stove. Feelings of cosy homeliness were rare in a house with no carpet, so I always cherished any warm snuggly sensation. The darker evenings brought with it Christmas, a magical time of year full of anticipations. We knew presents and sweets were heading our way and despite taking the best part of a year to pay for it, my dad usually purchased a large food hamper out of a shopping catalogue. However, I wasn’t all that keen on Boxing day, often disappointed by lofty expectations the thought of waiting a whole year, for it to comeback around always seemed like a lifetime.

We may not of had many toys but what we did have, was freedom and a lot of imagination. We played out a great deal, around Christmas time we went, knocking on doors Carol-singing. The summer we went scrumping for apples and on mini adventures down to the canal to make fires. As we got older we got up to more mischief dabbling in petty crime, cautious not to bring additional troubles to our door.

I was a relatively well behaved child “around the house”, doing all my chores and being totally respectful of my Dad. As I was with Dad’s butter, his only extravagance that nobody was allowed to touch. Dad’s chair which was frantically fought over whenever it sat vacant and Dad’s slippers which I strutted around in when permitted.

Along the way I guess you could say I got broken. From the age of seven I had been concealing some really fucked up emotions, guilt and shame the strongest amongst them. Such callous tag but I was what some may call “damaged goods” and bore many of the hallmarks. At school I was the class clown and very rebellious. My internal emotions, often hidden behind witty remarks were closed off. I felt consumed with envy towards “the haves” my peers.

I was frustrated being so poor all the time. Fashions and trends, no matter how inexpensive left me wanting and feeling inadequate. When I walked, my tattered shoes would flap like an hungry mouth chomping at the ground gathering up gravel and other small particles. The elastic band used to hold them together would constantly snap, due to the abrasive ground underfoot. Occasionally the sole would bend back on itself, making me stumble and scratch my holy-socked foot on the concrete pavement. It didn’t go unnoticed, a boy at school named Andrew gave me his old NIKE trainers, several times whilst in primary school. Although second-hand they added a extra spring to my step, I was grateful.

Having to play outdoor sports in black plimsolls really bothered me. I resented my peers because I didn’t own a pair of football-boots with screw-in studs. Their feet would make an horrendous racket as they purposely dragged their feet whilst crossing the hard playground. My pumps made no sound at all. I refused to take part in sports, being the only pupil standing on the sidelines. I shivered until I was sent in early.

I wasn’t a violent child and never bullied but I was known to lash out at teachers. My brattish behaviour led me to being banned from many classes and ultimately to prematurely leaving school at fifteen without any qualifications. Secretly I wanted to conform and to be like everyone else but rejection and years of exclusion drove me away from the mainstream, I began to doubt it could ever happen. Having no control over my developing sexuality and hearing that queers were an unacceptable abomination didn’t help. Raised a Catholic I had been praying to God for years and continued to do so, I believed it was a misconception that God hated fags.

I didn’t have a terribly sad childhood, I coped by viewing life through rose tinted spectacles and filling my mind with wild romantic imaginings, telling myself that one day I would be rich. By the time I was old enough to step out into the world alone these silly notions and my rebellious cheeky bad-boy attitude was all that I owned.

So with nothing to lose, not even pride I headed for London to where the streets were supposedly NOT paved with gold in the hope of finding someone to spoil me and aid me in my ambition. My Story Begins There. My early childhood to follow later.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

A Black Country Lad who now lives in the Black Boy Land or Schwarzbubenland as it is called in Switzerland. Life turned out fine and despite everything. I am not dying or using heroine. I must admit I do still smoke grass & now, I drink red wine.

I met my husband (civil partner) in 2000 and a new chapter in my life began. Years on and we are still very happily married, or at least I am. He kept every single one of his promises and he never tired or changed his attitude towards me. Never once have I felt cold, hungry or scared.

I now live in a detached property with a large garden set in the foothills of the Jura mountains. A small hamlet of 895 residence. I am surrounded on all sides by hilly forests, a small stream runs through it’s centre. A proper piece of paradise. When I’m feeling extra spiritual it is easy to imagine. We are nestled in the palms of an almighty giant. God if you like. Whom, despite all I had done saw fit to watch over me and guide me to a life worth living. I have a beautiful black cat called Darcy and also a Gordon Setter girl-dog name Asherah. We live an idilic existence.

I now enjoy the small pleasures in life, gone are the pressures of Big City Life nowadays, I can see sky out of my windows. I experience every season. In the Spring and Summer, whilst out walking in the woods we often make a fire to cook a jumbo sausage. My dog likes sausage walks. Autumn is spend harvesting our home-grown and raking up leaves. I spend a lot of my time gardening. Chopping and stacking wood for the log burner that heats our home throughout the Winter season. I’m a Glippy a glamourous hippy. We are extremely green and energy efficient, I’m a recycling master.

I wear what I call my doggy clothes mostly, saving my glad rags for when visiting the city. I like to pretend I’m living in the olden days and going to town is a really big event. So that is the new improved me. Please don’t mistake my new found confidence for arrogance.

My webpage.

http://powerpuffgeezer.webs.com/

My Pinterest picture biography.

http://pinterest.com/powerpuffgeezer/paulyanna-memoirs-in-picture-form/

By Leonardo Antony Noto

CHAPTER 1:

A Warrior’s Reminiscence

June 1783: The blazing orange, tropical sun creeps above the rattan-studded horizon to announce the dawn of another sweltering day in the island paradise of Phuket, Siam. The gentle ocean breeze wafts the smell of decaying flesh into my nares as I survey the carnage of the past days’ fight from behind the cover of a thick palm. Less than a yard away, the dark skin of a dying enemy soldier is covered with vicious red ants, slowly eating him alive as he bellows out in pain-laden death throes. I climb from my jungle concealment and walk across the sandy beach to ask the dying man in the Siamese tongue if he would like for me to speed the end of his life. The soldier is too feeble for speech, barely managing a slight affirmative nod of head. I unsheathe my sword and run the man thru his jugular, stepping back respectfully as the blood gushes from the jagged wound that I have inflicted upon his neck. As I watch the life drain from the young man’s sad face, I find myself reminiscing on the first time I gazed into a pair of youthful eyes, prematurely aged by the horrors of war. 

September1778 (Five Years Prior): An otherwise dull Tuesday suddenly transformed itself into a frenzy of excitement as my older brother, Henry Lee III, arrived unexpectedly in Leesylvania¹ for the first time since the beginning of the colonial revolution. Mother and I had been taking our tea under the shade of our estate’s great wraparound porch while observing our slaves working the cotton fields when Henry’s silhouette had appeared over the horizon. Mother jumped up excitedly, spilling her tea and leaving a stain on the whitewashed railing, which she quite uncharacteristically ignored as she cantered down the steps to meet him.

I waved halfheartedly at my brother but remained seated for we had not parted on favorable terms and I was, frankly, not excited at the prospect of his return. Henry clambered down from his raggedly thin horse, gave Mother a hug, and then walked towards me with a pronounced limp of the right leg. I shall never forget the look of my brother’s gaze that day: gone was the shine of boyish innocence from his icy-blue eyes, replaced now with the penetrating stare of a man who had witnessed the animalistic brutality of combat. Henry’s body was transformed too, skinny now, his two-year-old uniform that had been so painstakingly sown by my mother hanging from his bones like beggar’s rags. Quite ashamed of my initial indifference, I rose from my rocking chair and hurried to assist Henry as he clumsily scaled the porch stairs.

1.  ”Leesylvania”: The unofficial name of the region of Northern Virginia that lies adjacent to the Potomac River, near the present site of Washington City, where the Lee Family settled after emigrating from the British Isles.

“This leg of mine, it’s never been the same since my horse toppled over me at Brandywine Creek. Anytime I ride for more n’ an hour it cramps up somethin’ awful.” Henry mumbled as his face twisted into a grimace.

“Where are you ridin’ from, General Washington’s camp at West Point?” I inquired, eager to make conversation to disguise the shock that was plastered about my face, shock at the haggardness of my brother’s appearance.

“Yes and a fine improvement over last season’s accommodations at Valley Forge—that’s for sure. Many a good patriot froze to death in that frigid hell.” Henry muttered bitterly. “Enough with all this talk on the damned war; let us speak on somethin’ more pleasant. How’re the plans for your grand tour of Europe progressin’, Jonathan?”

“Tell us about this General Washington, Henry! Is he the hero that the papers make him out to be?” Mother loudly interjected, and to Henry’s great annoyance.

“I asked a polite and simple question about my brother, Mama!” Henry shouted, his voice hard and calloused. “Why all this subterfuge?”

“The trip’s cancelled. It’s too dangerous to cross the Atlantic anyhow now that France has entered the war.” I stated matter-of-factly as I pulled my shoulders back and puffed out my chest. I’ve decided to join the Continental Army. I leave in three days to join my regiment.”

“And Father has given his consent for this tomfoolery!” Henry demanded, his voice filled with bitterness and disdain.

“Father has his reservations, the same reservations he had when you were commissioned as I recall.”

“I didn’t realize I was kin to such a fool, throwin’ away an opportunity to travel and study in Europe, with full expenses

paid no less! Don’t you see my gimp leg, boy, and how ragged I look ‘cause of this endless fight. Is blindness overtakin’ you or is you just plain stupid!” Henry exclaimed.

“Let us speak no more on this!” Mother begged as she fought back tears.

“Speakin’ isn’t what I had in mind for him!” I blared across the patio, loud enough to distract the field slaves in the distance, my fists gripped white-knuckled in anger.

“I said enough!” Mother scolded as if we were both still young boys rather than grown men. “This is my home and y’all will respect it!”

My brother and I glared down one another with our fists tightly clinched. Mother moved between us, and with the greatest reluctance, for hot tempers run thick in my family’s blood, Henry and I backed down, unclenched our fists and entering my mother’s home, giving one another a wide berth as we dusted off our boots and stepped through the doorway. The three of us found Father reading the local news pamphlet in his old hickory rocking chair, oblivious to the commotion that we had caused outside due to an affliction of deafness caused by his time spent fighting in The War of French and Indian Aggression. Henry strolled over to him and they embraced warmly. A broad, toothless, and somewhat unnatural smile shone across my father’s wrinkled and perpetually frowning face. I stormed off to my room, ignoring Father’s thunderous calls behind me as I slammed the door and then fixated my gaze out of my bedroom window, lost in my thoughts.  Later that evening the family gathered for a grand feast in my brother’s honor, specially prepared by our house slaves under the watchful eye of our finicky Ole Miss. I begrudgingly attended, but only after incessant nagging by Mother.

“Mother tells me you’ve just returned from Georgia, Father. How do you find our brethren in the Deep South are holdin’ up amidst all this chaos?” Henry inquired, loudly enough to gain Father’s attention, between generously-sized and eagerly partaken bites of honeyed pheasant.

“They’re holdin’ up better than we are, that’s for certain, though I expect the British will attempt to change that soon enough. The British generals have no choice but to take the war to the south, as important a port as Charleston has become now and is becoming more so every day. Find yourself any new musket in the hands of a Continental and I guarantee you that it was smuggled in through Charleston or Savannah on a blockade runner. Yes, the British will strike in the Deep South before this time next year, mark my word.” Father stated as he peered over his reading spectacles, his news pamphlet lying in its customary location, unfolded open upon his lap.

“And what of the cotton trade, Pa? Rumor has it that the Georgians are growin’ strains that produce twice, even thrice, the usual bounty.” Henry asked as he shook his head in disgust.

“Indeed they are, and growin’ it in the fertile soils of the Mississippi Territories in flagrant violation of their treaty with the Cherokee. They float the cotton on down the river to Mobile and New Orleans, where the British blockade remains porous. The cost of shippin’ by barge down the rivers is less than what we pay to travel our cotton by wagon over less than an eighth of the distance.” Father said dryly and with a wizened look of despair furrowing his brow. “I fear Leesylvania will only be suitable for growin’ soybeans and vegetables in the years to come. It is a thought that I have been losin’ much sleep over since my return, almost as much sleep as I have been losin’ worryin’ on you, Henry. Now, tell us of the Revolution. In what shape is the Continental Army to be found presently? It’s hard to find information in the pamphlets these days that is worth the paper that it’s printed on.”

“The war’s not a subject for the ears of women and children, Pa.” Henry said coldly, staring deeply into my eyes and as he articulated the word ‘children,’ making it clear to all present to whom he was referring.

My brother and I spoke little over the next three days, save for common courtesies that were uttered without eye contact and in guttural tones. When Henry saddled his horse to return to his regiment, I couldn’t find it in my heart to bid him farewell. I watched enviously as my brother’s war mount meandered out of our plantation, little knowing at the time that I might not ever lay eyes upon him again. This was knowledge that would have pleased me at the time, for in my youth I could not have imagined how much I would long for the company of my family—my brother included—in the dark years to come.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

I am a former Army battalion surgeon turned freelance author who writes under the nom de plume, Leonardo Antony Noto. My first novel, “The Life of a Colonial Fugitive,” is an historical thriller based in the American Revolution that I wrote while on military deployment to Iraq. My second novel is a dark medical/crime thriller entitled, “The Cannabinoid Hypothesis,” that explores the life of a streetkid who becomes a neurosurgeon and then takes the world by storm with his invention of an implantable medical device for the palliation of schizophrenia. But the good doctor is now accused of an unspeakable crime and he is being pursued by a team of former Delta Force operators!

I began writing in high school as a form of self-counseling for a child abuse-induced case of PTSD, which I overcame (at least somewhat), attending medical school and serving my country in Iraq with the 82nd Airborne Division. My hobbies include playing the guitar, amateur Thai boxing, Brazilian jiu jitsu, and spending time with my pet bulldog, who is 6 months old!

After great thought, I have decided to give up the practice of medicine to concentrate on my writing, which is my true passion. I am planning to release two more books this year, both of which are currently >50% completed. The first is a memoir entitled, “Three Years in the Army: A Doctor’s Journey in the Green Uniform,” a book exploring my postgraduate medical training and my life as a military physician in the airborne and overseas. My second work-in-progress is a novel about streetgangs, “Lords and Disciples,” which is set in Memphis, TN, the city where I spent much of my childhood.

I am also researching two other planned novels, both of which I hope to release in 2013. I pride myself on my detailed research and I never write about anything that I haven’t spent at least a year researching. I also generally visit locations, even foreign ones, at least once before I write about them, which I believe greatly aids the accuracy my writing (and it’s fun too!).

Best Wishes,
Dr. Leonardo Antony Noto

http://leonardonoto.com/

http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6440062.Leonardo_Noto

Twitter: @DrLeonardoNoto

One

The waiting-room of Dr. Amadeus Kaine’s practice was panelled in antique mahogany and smelled of Indian lemongrass.

The aroma was added to the air conditioning ducts twice weekly. It soothed the patients’ nerves and transported their minds far away, to a realm beyond the rare and dignified landscape of the Upper East Side.

Drowning in awards and international acclaim, Dr. Kaine had made an art form out of ophthalmology, the study and treatment of conditions concerning the human eye. His services were in such demand that anyone without at least an A-grade referral was politely declined.

The stamp-cluttered pages of the surgeon’s passport were testament to both his popularity and his extraordinary professional skill. Past clients included royalty, Nobel laureates, and presidents – a great many of them dictators from the former Soviet republics, from Latin America, and from Africa.

At 11.25 AM the buzzer sounded once, short and loud, and Mrs. Phelps, the receptionist, pressed the door release. Nearing retirement age, she was courteous yet a little brusque, her heavy dark-rimmed glasses unsettling to some of the more anxious clients.

A minute and a half after the buzzer sounded, there was a knock on the door of suite 1005. A moment after that, a pair of bearded foreign gentlemen, dressed in handmade woollen suits, were standing to attention in front of Mrs. Phelps’ desk.

One of them was slimmer than the other. Both had almond-shaped eyes and thick fleshy faces, hefty in the jowls.

‘We are here to see the doctor,’ said the more slender of the men, his accent hard to place.

‘And the name would be?’

‘Drusnev… Vladimir Drusnev.’

Mrs. Phelps reached up with a clipboard and a pencil.

‘Would you please fill this out, and give me full details of your condition, Mr. Drusnev?’

‘I am not the patient,’ said the man sternly.

‘Then your friend. Could he complete the form?’

‘But neither of us is Drusnev.’

‘Oh, where exactly is Mr. Drusnev, then?’

‘He is in Moslok.’

‘Mos…?’

‘Lok… Moslok… It is our capital.’

The heavier of the men leaned up to the desk. He was so close that Mrs. Phelps could clearly see the individual strands of bristle beneath his nose.

‘Drusnev,’ he said very slowly. ‘He is our President.’

‘Ah, I see.’

The doctor’s assistant pressed a miniature brass buzzer on the underside of her desk. Then she pressed it again long and hard, signifying the arrival of a VIP client.

‘You had better go in,’ she said.

http://tahirshah.com/

https://twitter.com/humanstew

Tahir Shah is the of author fifteen books, many of which chronicle a wide range of outlandish journeys through Africa, Asia and the Americas. For him, there’s nothing so important as deciphering the hidden underbelly of the lands through which he travels. Shunning well-trodden tourist paths, he avoids celebrated landmarks, preferring instead to position himself on a busy street corner or in a dusty café and observe life go by. Insisting that we can all be explorers, he says there’s wonderment to be found wherever we are – it’s just a matter of seeing the world with fresh eyes.

In the tradition of A Thousand and One Nights, Shah’s first 2013 release, SCORPION SOUP, is a treasury of nested tales. One linking effortlessly into the next, the stories form a cornucopia of lore and values, the kind that has for centuries shaped the cultural landscape of the East. Amusing, poignant, and thoroughly entertaining, the collection stays with you, conjuring a magic all of its own.

Shah’s 2012 novel, TIMBUCTOO, is inspired by a true life tale from two centuries ago. The story of the first Christian to venture to Timbuctoo and back – a young illiterate American sailor – it has been an obsession since Shah discovered it in the bowels of the London Library twenty years ago.

He recently published a collection of his entitled TRAVELS WITH MYSELF, a body of work as varied and as any, with reportage pieces as diverse as the women on America’s Death Row, to the trials and tribulations of his encounter in a Pakistani torture jail.

Another recent work, IN ARABIAN NIGHTS, looks at how stories are used in cultures such as Morocco, as a matrix by which information, values and ideas are passed on from one generation to the next. That book follows on the heels of the celebrated THE CALIPH’S HOUSE: A Year in Casablanca, lauded as one of Time Magazine’s Top 10 Books of the year.

His other works include an epic quest through Peru’s cloud forest for the greatest lost city of the Incas (HOUSE OF THE TIGER KING), as well as a journey through Ethiopia in search of the source of King Solomon’s gold (IN SEARCH OF KING SOLOMON’S MINES). Previous to that, Shah published an account of a journey through the Amazon on the trail of the Birdmen of the Amazon (TRAIL OF FEATHERS), as well as a book of his experiences in India, as a godman’s pupil (SORCERER’S APPRENTICE).

Tahir Shah’s books have appeared in thirty languages and in more than seventy editions. They are celebrated for their original viewpoint, and for combining hardship with vivid description.

He also makes documentary films, which are shown worldwide on National Geographical Television, and The History Channel. The latest, LOST TREASURE OF AFGHANISTAN, has been screened on British TV and shown worldwide. While researching the programme Shah was arrested along with his film crew and incarcerated in a Pakistani torture jail, where they spent sixteen terrifying days and nights.

His other documentaries include: HOUSE OF THE TIGER KING, SEARCH FOR THE LOST CITY OF GOLD, and THE SEARCH FOR KING SOLOMON’S MINES. And, in addition to documentaries, Shah writes for the big screen. His best known work in this genre is the award-winning Imax featureJOURNEY TO MECCA, telling the tale of the fourteenth century Moroccan traveller Ibn Battuta’s first pilgrimage to Mecca.

Tahir Shah lives at Dar Khalifa, a sprawling mansion set squarely in the middle of a Casablanca shantytown. He’s married to the graphic designer,Rachana Shah, and has two children, Ariane and Timur. His father was the Sufi writer, Idries Shah.