A Writer's Blog

Entertain me!

2/27/2014

I've been thinking about what content besides fiction will be on this website.

What other types of posts will interest you, readers?

A few of my ideas----

Posting songs from indie musicians I know.
Having a page dedicated to political discussion featuring a Crossfire left/right debate.
a Poker 'hand of the week' segment (readers can submit)

Those are some of my thoughts. Join in , let me know what you think. What will entertain YOU????

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Pot and Rhode Island

2/27/2014

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Here is an article from my old home state paper The Providence Journal on potential legalization of pot in Rhode Island.
Based on the recent news of how much tax money Colorado will make from Pot sales, can a cash strapped state like RHODE ISLAND turn down this new revenue source?

Take my poll.

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Sometimes a tweet says it all

2/26/2014

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BREAKING: Federal judge strikes down Texas ban on gay marriage, postpones action pending appeal.
— The Associated Press (@AP) February 26, 2014

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NFL and sports science

2/25/2014

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They can debate old school vs. today's players on a lot of levels, but not about the punishment players take today. These athletes are monsters. I love this segment on Sports Science and hope you enjoy it.

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DEAD SOULS

2/23/2014

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DEAD SOULS

            Ana follows me beyond a guard house where we see four sentries watching the workers. We enter a row of apartment buildings, each identical to the last and capable of housing eighty workers. Construction proceeds with haste on the newest building, the population of the community swelling beyond the current capacity. The buildings are made of gray concrete, each with three stories.

            Beyond the apartments we arrive at THE MATRIX, a western style bar with a dirt floor and a broken splinter of a front door. The bar teems with workers even at midday, most being in construction or some other manual labor. The men eye us warily, keeping a distance as we walk around the mini-city. Beyond the bar we see a bank and a barber shop. A man approaches us, a silver star on his chest.

            “Afternoon ladies. Do you need an escort to the bar?”

            “Do we need one?” Ana asks.

            “It’s compulsory,” he says. Ana’s eyes go wide and the man chuckles. “It’s for your own safety, I can assure you.”

            Ana’s eyes lock with mine and I feel the questions in her stare, but keep silent while we follow the man into the bar. A dusty piano occupies one corner and we take seats at one of the three small, round wooden tables in the center of the room. The men stare at us, all conversations coming to a halt. I wink at a construction worker and he drops the cigar from his mouth.

            The barkeep hustles over to us, simpering a bow at me.

            “What’s your poison tonight? Beer or whiskey.”

            “What types of beer do you have?” Ana asks.

            A few men cough in laughter and I wonder if this room is safe. Looking around, the front door seems to be the only exit and the men number twelve. I don’t know the man with the badge.

            “Beer, singular,” he says, point at the bar. A solitary tap handle sticks from the bar, the side printed with the name: BEER.

            Ana laughs and asks for whiskey.

            The bartender rushes away without looking at me. Am I getting a drink? Is this happening? Do these men even know who I am? He returns in a flash, putting a bottle of whiskey, two glasses and two mugs of beer on the table.

            “This place looks like it got stuck in a time warp from more than a hundred years ago. What’s the story here?” Ana whispers to me after he leaves. I watch the men stare and think how to phrase my answer.

            “This is something of a social experiment.”

            I pour whiskey and drain my shot. The heat rising to my face calms me and I begin to relax. I can see playing cards on the table closest to us, with small mounds of poker chips in front of each of the three men.

            “Social experiment? You mentioned Gogol. I don’t understand.”

            “I got the idea from his novel of buying ‘souls’. The homeless population in Vegas seemed a good place to start.”

            One man grabs the cards and deals the next hand, keeping a hostile eye on me.

            “These men were homeless…now what?” Ana says, wanting me to finish my thought.

            “I bought their lives. Now they live and work here, never to leave, part of my grand experiment. These men work construction on a special project I’m building on the outskirts of the city.”

            “What project?”

            “I’m building a new city, from scratch. Each inhabitant will be invited and must swear allegiance to me. It will be a city built for and run by women.”

            Ana pours another glass of whiskey and watches the men play poker. “Can I join?”

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THE TRIAL OF UTICA JOHN

2/21/2014

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THE TRIAL

            I stand at the podium looking down on the stage, waiting for the crowd to finish piling in through the rear entrance, which faces the worker apartments. The rapist stands to my lower left, immobile as a statue, eyes scanning the crowd. What does he hope to find? I can never guess. I raise my hand and a hush falls over the room.

“My method of justice in my house is simple: all workers get a vote. The vote gets tallied and I take it into consideration when making a decision. I am the judge, jury and I will pass the sentence.”

            I pause and look at the rapist.

            “And make no mistake, if a death sentence is given, I’ll slit your throat myself.”

            The crowd bursts into applause, yet still I see no reaction from him. Does he truly have no emotions? Is everything a fake layer? I’ve met a few of my kind and I can’t see anything that forms a pattern linking us together. I find this man to be nothing like me.

            The clapping fades and I continue.

            “You are accused of rape, assault and being a douchebag. How do you plead?”

            “Guilty,” he says, still no emotion. He will not break, eyes hard blue-gray steel.

            “He pleads guilty,” I say to the crowd. A mutiny of voices clamor at me, most calling for his head. “This isn’t Game of Thrones. I won’t be chopping off his head.”

            A mix of laughter and boos litter the air.

            “Since you do not contest the charges, we will proceed with sentencing.”

            The man gives a simple nod as if agreeing to everything. He does not play the lamb, his eyes continuing to bore into mine.

            “The crowd wants your head and I might just give it to them,” I say, bringing another roar from the stands. Execute him in my own personal town square, like something out of a Hemingway novel…sexy. I shake the fantasy from my head and clear my throat. I grip the podium tighter and tighter until my knuckles crack.

            “No matter the other charges against you, I believe you meant to kill me. Therefore, your life is forfeit.”

            Silence falls over the room and I use that moment to pull the knife from a pocket and step from the podium. Five steps bring me John’s side and I place the blade against his neck. I have to stretch my arm at an uncomfortable angle to reach and I see a small smile on his face. After all this, I amuse you? This man truly baffles me.

            “Will anyone speak for his life?” I ask the crowd. This part sounds like useless formality as I can’t imagine anyone speaking for this man.

            My question precedes silence and I tap my phone, setting the watch application to one minute. I start the clock and watch it tick and tick, casting an occasional glace at John. His face remains placid, except his eyes, which send waves of hate at me. The timer reaches zero and I face the crowd once more.

            “I will speak for him.” Ray steps to the base of the stage, between John and the crowd.

            What? My husband wishes to speak. This must be a dream. I don’t know if I want to hear this or not. I could simply slice John’s throat. But, I could always wait a moment.

            “Go on,” I say, my head pounding from excitement and exhaustion.

            “To be blunt: study him. He comes from the bad side, killing innocents without remorse or regard. Test him, probe his DNA. Isolate what makes him different from…killers that know to limit the options to the guilty.”

            He almost said you. I’m not sure I see how his line of thinking can sway me, but I motion for him to continue.

            “We can afford to hire the best scientists to poke and prod and test until we discover the defective gene that causes this level of psychopathy. Perhaps the future can be rid of his kind.”

            If I kill him, only he dies. Perhaps I can kill anyone that ever might be like him, with something akin to a vaccine. Take this shot, stop being a psychopath. Would it work on me? Is that what Ray wants? To find a fucking cure for me? I am seeing things out of him of late that concern me. We will have to talk.

            “Crowd, what say you? Live or keep him as lab rat science experiment?”

            “Murderer! Kill him! Hang him!” the crowd seem to be of one mind, nearly in unison. A very few vote for science pet.

            As much as I want to promote science, I can’t allow a woman killer to walk out of my home alive. Bending my knees, I launch myself up at him, driving the blade into his neck. Dragging the knife down his neck, I use my weight to sever his vocal cord, spraying a torrent of blood in the air.

            I hear clapping and I turn to face the crowd, blood dripping down my face onto my dress. Folding the knife, I put it back in my pocket and walk from the stage.

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Forward>>

Entertain me!

Pot and Rhode Island

Sometimes a tweet says it all

NFL and sports science

DEAD SOULS

THE TRIAL OF UTICA JOHN

THE TERRORIST OF PROVIDENCE STREET

SERVER

EXCERPT FROM SERVER
DAY ADVENTURE WITH MONKEY

EXCERPT FROM SERVER
KARL MARX: A REFUTATION

EXCERPT FROM ELLA
ROUTINE

EXCERPT FROM ELLA
THE INTERROGATION

REVIEW OF ELLA

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