Smells Like Sulfur

I can’t rant today, I feel too much to poet. My nieces and nephews are on my mind. But what I can do is let my art speak for me. 

As my voice, I offer an excerpt from my 2012 National Novel Writing Month novella, The Black Parade. It’s sequel, The American Manifesto, was completed during the 2014 National Novel Writing Month contest. In both, I explore the socio-economic collapse of the United States of America. Please enjoy the (very) rough draft of my chapter titled, “A New America.” Brace yourself for triggers…


“Four more years! Four more muhfuckin’ years! WOO!” The penthouse filled with the former Yale rugby star’s elation. “Send that monkey back to Newark, that stupid fuck! WOO HOO!” His crystalline blue eyes were ensnared by thick, red lines. A formidable cocktail of power drinks, prescription speed, and insomnia powered his body from one side of the room to the other, unabashedly shoving revelers and supporters aside. The results had been released four hours ago. The Wilcoxon Re-Election Team powered through the press junkets, complied with the requisite photo ops, and relayed messages of gratitude to the nation for keeping Archibald “Archie” Wilcoxon in office to continue the mission of A New America.
Andrew Huebner stopped in his charge to kiss an unsuspecting campaign volunteer on her mouth. “WOO!” He pushed her aside and continued to sprint, slacking his red, white and blue tie enough to wrap it around his head Animal House style. Nervous laughter inflated as he passed, coaxing him to unbutton his shirt and reveal his gym rat chest and arms, stopping in his tracks to wave it over his head. “That fucker is crawling back to Jersey tonight, yeah! See this? This is his white flag of defeat! WOO HOO!”
The blitzkrieged U.S. Senate intern wipes her mouth, leaning disapprovingly towards her employer. “What is he on?”
“Adrenaline,” Abelardo Contreras, Senator from the 11th District of Arizona, Andrew Huebner’s home state, replied.
“Has he been drinking?”
Abelardo Contreras shrugged.
Andrew Huebner screeched to a halt in front of his childhood friend, clasped him at each side, and pulled him to his bare chest. “We did it man, yeah! Four more years to set this fucked up country straight!”
Senator Contreras’ intern back stepped towards the kitchen to avoid another assault.
The sweaty, tanned, muscular man with jet black (dyed) hair contrasted the short, pale, balding and exhausted man he squeezed. Abelardo patted one of Andrew Huebner’s hands to request a release. “Calm it down, Andy. Yes, we won; that’s what we’re all celebrating,” Abelardo softened his voice, noticing Andy was heavily panting. “Andy, you’re at a ten. I need you at a two. Here, drink my water.” Andy clasped the bottle of water and chugged it as if shooting a fitness commercial. He slammed the emptied vessel to the ground and crushed it with his foot. “Them stupid fucks really thought they were gonna take this away from me, huh? Stupid…dickless…FUCKS!”
“Andy. Bring it down,” Abelardo pleaded.
The smell of victory was too intoxicating for him to relax. Andrew Huebner clasped his hands around his taut waist, leaned his head back and inhaled the ceiling. He closed his swollen eyelids, finally returning moisture to his overworked lenses. He dropped his head slowly, revealing a countenance of sincerity.
“You’re a good man, Abelardo. A good friend. We’re gonna start by getting S.B. 173 flying through Congress. And you,” Andrew slapped a hand down on Abelardo’s shoulder and squeezed it, Andy’s favorite intimidation tactic that always caused Abelardo grief since childhood, bringing Abelardo closer for emphasis. “You my friend will be Chairman of the committee. How ‘bout them apples?” Abelardo shook his head with consternation. “That’s the President’s decision to make, not yours.”
Andrew Huebner dropped his eyes to Abelardo Contreras’ level with incredulity. “What? That pussy? He’ll appoint who I tell him to appoint. Where is that fucker anyways?”
“You mean, where is the President-Elect Archie Wilcoxon, don’t you U.S. Attorney General Huebner? There are members of the press present. For God’s sake man, put your shirt back on.”

He read the inscription on the back of the watch his wife Katherine gifted him for tonight’s win. Always a winner, never a sinner. His famous catchphrase from his University of South Florida days, a Heisman trophy winning quarterback who forfeited a career in the National Football League to open his own consulting firm in Pinellas County, Florida. From the consulting firm to the state legislature. From Florida politics to national politics. His job-creating talent and All-American charm got him in the White House four years ago.
Mirroring the austerity measures the European Union exacted upon its nations in 2011, Wilcoxon was in danger of losing political favor. Sure, the middle class tanked, but with destruction comes reformation. He compared the event to the dismantling of the Berlin Wall. Rise from the rubble like a phoenix. Well, not really. Those who could afford to moved their investments elsewhere, starving the American financial systems. Under his presidency, three constitutional amendments were exacted. Tonight, after this election, Archie Wilcoxon knows he’s on the verge of managing a fourth invocation of Article V. The thought of losing one more state from the union ate at him. This was not supposed to happen. This was supposed to be a cake walk this time around. Get the money back. Stop milking the Federal Reserve. That gosh darn pipeline. Archie Wilcoxon paused his frantic thoughts for a quick prayer. “Dear gracious and holy Lord. Your beloved found me worthy to continue the difficult task of managing these United States, a task too great to bear without your unfaltering love and guidance. See me through the upcoming storm, help me build the ark that will sail this nation back to prosperity. In your name I humbly pray, Amen.”
Archie Wilcoxon stared at his watch deferentially. He blinked twice. It was nearly one in the morning.
Two knocks against the door raises his head. A necktie’d head pokes in. “What up, Coxie! How ya feelin’ man?”
“Come on in Andy.”
The President-Elect clasps his new watch, then reaches for his sweating glass of vodka. He looks up from his glass with weary eyes towards his attorney general, wearing a too tight “A New America” campaign shirt.
“Is the party over yet? I’m really tired Andy.”
Andrew Huebner folds his arms across his chest with mild difficulty. A wide smile draws across his face.
“I got you a present, boss.”
Archie Wilcoxon forces a smile. “You didn’t have to…”
Andy’s ice blue eyes glow.
“Flashback, Mr. President. Four years ago. Election Night. Tampa. You with me?”
“Yeap.”
“The after party at Joe Redner’s place…”
“Yeap.”
“…you had a favorite out of all his girls…”
“Yeah?”
“…she voted for you this year under the name of Leont’nae Price, but you know her as…”
The President-Elect leaned his head back. Andy swung his body towards the door, clasping the doorknob.
“You didn’t…?”
“Oh yeah I did!” the Attorney General shifts his voice into Strip Club Dee Jay. “Mr. President, performing exclusively for you, the owner and operator of Tampa Nights Cabaret…the award winning…Champagne!”
Archie Wilcoxon’s shoulders dropped. In strolled the most beautiful woman he ever knew, besides his wife, of course. Her almond shaped eyes, her bee stung lips, a sweet smile to compliment her sweet breasts. Champagne has natural, double D sized breasts. Katherine? Nothing.
She slowly stepped one high heeled foot in front of the other, rolling her round hips enough to reveal the juicy, tender ass they burden themselves to hold. Those long long legs. Katherine’s thighs seemed to thicken with every birth.
She wore a Beyonce wig this time. Champagne’s dress of the same color barely covered her crotch. Champagne stopped her pelvis in front of the President-Elect’s awestruck face.
“Congratulations on your re-election Mr. President. I want you to know I personally campaigned for you, and convinced all my dancers to vote for you.” Champagne bent at her hips, grazing her breasts against his face, softly kissing him on both cheeks. The President-Elect exhaled excitedly.
Champagne relocated his glass to the stand. She lowered her torso to the floor, widening her legs, revealing beautifully sculpted labia and a diamond pierced clitoris. She dragged her hands against each of his thighs.
“I have a present for you,” she whispered. Her hands began to decipher his belt and pants. Archie Wilcoxon began to fidget. Champagne smiled lovingly, lowering his boxers so she can get a handful of manhood. Archie felt heat grow around his neck.
“I’ll be gentle,” she assured.
“I know but…”
She applied gentle pressure to his shaft to arouse him.
“I remember last time, Mr. President. You’re safe with me.”
“I know but…”
“See? You’re getting hard. That’s a good sign.”
Beads of sweat formed against his scalp. He grasped the armrests with uncertainty, his anxiety growing as his head engorged.
Champagne kissed him. “It’s me, baby. Don’t think. Just feel.”
Her mouth encapsulated his eagerness. “Watch me. You’ll love it.”
Archie Wilcoxon fought to focus on her beautiful brown face in his lap, her reassuring eyes helping him fight the panic. For a moment, he did relax. He released his sphincter and fell into the pleasure of warm wetness against him. But his memories betrayed him. Archie is back in the shower room. Coach Bradbury is on his knees. Archie shuts his eyes. Champagne pops him out her mouth.
“No, Archie, watch me. Don’t think about…that. Watch what I’m doing.” She plunges deeper, making kissing noises at the base of his shaft.
The noises temporarily distract . Then her face contorts, and it’s him again. The wrinkle of the top of his bald head, his white hairs sticking up around the edges like cat whiskers. Moaning as he pumps Little Archie’s hips into his face. His coach had dry lips. They scratched his sensitive skin. Mom thought it was the detergent she used. Archie shudders defiantly.
“Stop! Get off me!”
Before she can comply, Archie Wilcoxon jerks his lap up, causing Champagne to scrape teeth against him. The President-Elect lets out a terrible wail, inciting the Secret Service to rush the room.
“What happened sir?”
“She…she bit me! My…she… bit me!” Archie Wilcoxon doubled onto the floor to cover his embarrassment and shame. Champagne is dragged into the hallway. “It was an accident! Ac-cid-ent! Don’t arrest me!” she pleaded. The agent’s voice carried away from his room towards the front door. “You assaulted the President of the United States, a federal offense…” Archie Wilcoxon could hear as his favorite woman in the world, besides his wife, of course, was likely being sent to the nearest correctional institution. All the powers of the presidency could not erase those damned memories. Faithful? Archie Wilcoxon didn’t have a choice. The guilt of both events washed over him.
“Mr. President, should I call the doctor?”
The President realized he was still on his hands and knees, with his security standing over him awaiting orders. Archie inspected himself, relieved to not see any breakage.
“No, Gus, I’m fine. I, uh, could use my sleeping pills.”
“They should be in the bathroom with the rest of your toiletries.”
“That’ll be all, then.”
“Good night, Mr. President. Congratulations once again, Mr. President.”

FOMO on NaNo

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Feeling a little split on participation this year..

The distinct smell of National Novel Writing Month is in the air, wafting curls of pumpkin spice-flavored coffee, donuts, and fear dancing in the four winds. All of November, local coffee shops morph into coliseums, where literary warriors compete against the clock and indirectly with each other.  It is a feat of near mythical challenge: find a way, everyday, to pour out the novel of your dreams from head to hard drive. Only the best of the best compete, but very few complete the challenge. Myself, a three-time winner of this global event, I gotta tell ya…

…I think I’m sitting this one out.

Normally I excel in short deadline situations, but after this last hospital stay, I’ve finally learned to not take life too seriously. And I think the essence of it is, the right mix of passion and mystery is just not in me right now.

But I will miss the gatherings (“I hate people, but I love gatherings!”)♤. I’ll miss the interactivity on social media during NaNo; I’ve made several friends all over the globe these past times.

Perhaps I’ll visit the write-ins, be a cheerleader or something. Yeah! My contribution this year will be words of encouragement. I shall motivate by slamming my hand loudly on the table top you rested your head on, then scream, Kinison-style, “GET BACK TO WORK!!!” into your earlobe.

Yes. I will be a NaNo cheero. No, I will not novel. And that is okay.

♤: Name that movie!

Timed Writing Prompt: “There’s A Shirtlessness To This Guy…”

Credit: funnyjunk.com
Credit: funnyjunk.com

What an accomplishment! Three miles on the treadmill and a half mile in the pool! I bike eight miles to Five Guys for my double cheeseburger reward.

The mass of moo-ey goodness is sweating liquid fat and spices, cheese, dripping off the sides with a come-hither shine, the grilled ‘shrooms and onions resting like Tiffany diamonds upon a New Money bust. “Here we go!” I proclaim as I mash the delectable lady to my face. Why I’ve anthropomorphized my food into a female is inexplicable, yet feels right. I sigh as I swallow then tilt my head back, eyes all aflutter, hearing the calories I just burned off pile back on with every gregarious lip smack.

Screw a napkin. I wipe her essence – spread over my nose, cheeks, mouth and chin – against my sweaty sleeve. As I drag lips towards my shoulder I catch a whiff of healthy odour. Hoooo weeee!

Right then, out the window, I catch a view of a couple sitting in their parked vehicle in the lot across from my table. She’s narrow-eyed and flitty-handed in the passenger seat, while he wears a glum, defeated face. She points with a pink talon towards my hallowed restaurant; in response he opens his door, exits the truck, and strolls into the Guys.

He fascinates me: spine and shoulders so straight despite his bent smile. His eyes are hidden under a ball cap, offering an air of sweet mystery. Sculpted calves and tanned thighs indicate Mr. Fuckable’s an athlete, maybe even, a model. Yes, there’s a shirtlessness to this guy. Perhaps a footballer or volleyballer…something having to do with big balls.

My soppy girl slips out my hands as I hear him order in practiced English with a Portuguese accent. I’m destined to see him naked, I am sure! I glare back to my competition, the expensive hamburger patty in the passenger seat duck-lipping several selfies, adjusting her pneumatic boobs after every angle. As if the gods so declared it, he sits next to me to wait on his meal. At that moment I wince knowing my cumragged arm faces him. My true love has to meet his queen in such form? Fiddlesticks!Ī

He smears an agitated hand from chin to forehead, tipping back his cap, revealing natural blonde hair and soft brown eyes. He. Is. Beautiful. A distinct plume of sandalwood escapes his cap as he fans it over his face before returning it home. Mmm, I smile to myself, letting the smell of our sex pheromones intertwine.

“Is it good?”

Yes, I exhale as we switch positions, now me on top.

“Is it…delicious…is the word?”

Our hips mash rhythmically, “Yasss!” I moan towards the ceiling.

“Is this the wrong word, ‘delicious’?”

Oh shit. So busy fucking pretend cock I ignore Real Cock talking to me!

His caramel body is facing mine, his shiny eyes are facing mine, his blonde wisps spike my way. The best I can manage is a “hermmuhhmyeahhh.”

The Guys call his order, he waves as he rises, grabs his bag then leaves.

I look down at my whore, all asplay against the table, laughing at me.

“Fiddlesticks!!!”

ĪWe were writing at Parkside Cafe. The booth behind us was full of Midwesterners trying to remember a restaurant’s name by CONSTANTLY repeating it to each other in question form: “Is it Fiddlesticks?” “Fiddlesticks maybe?” “It can’t be Fiddlesticks…is it?” Oh if only I had my mace…

Indie Artist? Time To Shine!

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Full text from Facebook

Happy Anniversary, Johnny Saucedo! WE DID IT!

irenes_booksigningMy first book signing. We ran out of books.
 
I actually had to run out to my car for the two books I had in the backseat; luckily, leftovers from an earlier attempt at guerrilla marketing.
 
The last fourteen months of my life living dollar to dollar so I can get published, and now I’m holding 10s of dollars, 20s of dollars, in one hand. I didn’t think I was gonna sell any books tonight, so I didn’t think about maybe having a bank bag or lock box or something to put this money in. I’m so fuckin’ irresponsible.
 
I sold out my first event. Jesus Mahoney Christ, this shit’s really happening!
 
Wow. Just. WOW.
 
4/9/14 @ 11:38pm

The Case For Supporting [Adjective] Authors*

Union Station, Washington DC, circa 2004
Americanism requires my artistry to match my organic matter.

 

I was raised an American.

I physically developed, formulated a personality, practiced social graces, and made friends living abroad, almost entirely outside of the United States of America.

Beyond America, as an American, no one gave a shit if your father was this race, your mother was that ethnicity, and certainly, without a hometown to tout, nobody cared which city/town/state in America your people came from. The determinant of a shared drink at the bierstübe or an all-out beat down was simple: conciliatory manners, meaning, demonstrating respect towards the culture one is ensconced in, for the sake of peace. This is how I came to understand “relationship building.”

Thus, my confusion when I arrived on these shores to find the Americans acting rather…feral…towards each other. As soon as I smiled hello, the marginalization began: What are you? What are your parents? Where do they come from? What neighborhood do you live in? Marginalizing box after box after box instead of just a, ‘nice to meet you’ in response. I thought it was a phase, but, twenty-three years later, that fervent need to make a person fit in a narrow-minded box is still definitive Americana.

Artistically, my race/sex/ethnicity/nationality/sexuality/etc does not matter. I have voiced men, I have voiced South Asians, I have voiced transsexuals through my artistry. It’s because I allow myself to be infused by these cultures that these stories and poems manifest, and manifest with respect to the attributes of the culture.

As an independent author, I had to manage my own marketing, so I tried assimilating into the literary world fold without utilizing Americanism, because it belittles me. If I’m only an [adjective] author, then I’m saying my art is only valuable to [adjective] people, which would be me belittling my target audience, the global community!

The last two months During the summer of 2014, I did decent with general sales but abysmal in representing my work without getting forced into a social cubby-hole. I incurred derogatory statements regarding my sex, my race, my ethnicity, and those statements then erroneously defined the quality of my novel.

While I try to respect the perspective of those who protect their “-ness,” I won’t allow my principles to be subjugated to the -ness. Does that make sense? That’s not my crutch; that’s that person’s crutch, and I needn’t lean on it. Here’s a sample of that:

There was an opportunity for I Blew Up Juarez to be featured in one of Tampa Bay’s [adjective] bookstores. This [adjective] bookstore, according to its owner, is the signature bookstore for the area’s [adjective] community. As well, the owner was a contributing committee member for a major area festival celebrating the [adjective] community, and she was THE person to talk to in order to be a featured artist in that festival. Struck gold, right?

The bookstore owner felt her endorsement of my work would be integral to achieving success in the Greater Tampa Bay reading community. It was here in the conversation I started to experience trepidation, as I observed her mentally pushing four boards together around me in the middle of her shop.

A bystander to our conversation felt compelled to declare, “We need to support all [adjective] authors!” He nodded heavily, proud of this statement. He supplemented his declaration by talking about inspiring the future generation of [adjectives], and the struggles of being [adjective].

Very rah-rah-rah this guy! I saw an opportunity and replied, “Thank you for that! I have copies in my car, would you like to purchase one?”

He blinked at me.

He looked at the bookstore owner.

The bookstore owner burned eyes into him.

He looked back to me and declared, “I wasn’t going to buy a book today.”

I retrieved my review copy of I Blew Up Juarez from her weeks later, as it became more evident her intentions were to puppet my [adjective] self, not my artist self. Even if she was a fellow [adjective] person in the literary community, she behaved like a complete asshole.

Unfortunately, it is socially expected to accept marginalization and profitable to -ness it up.

It’s disparaging, but…I suppose I’m the only one who sees it that way.

*: original post 06.24.2014 – edited content and toned down cynicism

Getting Emo About NaNo

12 days into December, and I’ve yet had a proper come-down from the literary Iron Man that was National Novel Writing Month. Because of the food holiday break and an unfortunate event involving my truck, I’ve ignored acknowledging my experience, which is important to do if one intends to continue writing. So I’ll use this slice of space-time to vent out the lingering emotions. Come along with me if you’re brave enough…

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This NaNo was two years in the making. My very first NaNoWriMo entry was a novel titled The Black Parade. This was a very ‘thinky’ work, exploring the applicability/feasibility of Ayn Rand’s political philosophy, objectivism, to the modern American Conservative. During contemplation, the Republican National Convention was in town, sexy ass Paul Ryan was extolling Atlas Shrugged as his most influential work, and I was still smarting from a less-than-glamorous exit from Texas politics. It was a very angry work, resulting in sending the United States of America into a socio-political, economic collapse.

2014, I follow The Black Parade with The American Manifesto. I’m still running with applied objectivism in this work, but not in the ‘let’s prove Ayn Rand’s attributes wrong’ style; instead, I prove how we exercise objectivism in our daily living. All I did was, take the existing caveats of Rand’s theory, layer over them our Digital Age (technological determinism), our economic condition (class disparity), and our war attitude (Americanism mixed with Totalitarianism), and from them, tease out the ‘refreshed’ caveats applicable to modern times. Here’s the breakdown:

In which Ostands for Simeonic Objectivism in Theory and Ostands for Simeonic Objectivism in Application. Yes, I do have the right to name socio-political theorems after me, see my About page for the credentials, and yes, you’re welcome to utilize this theory in your own scientific work, I have all the background data at the ready if you’re genuinely interested.

I know you understand as a creative being, how even the most rigid, structured plans for a project can be annihilated by the spirit of the work. In The American Manifesto, I intended to create a civil war, conceptualizing the need for dominion, control, and establishing order paramount to healing, community-building, and sharing. Instead, the work became very introspective, and the characters who carried over from Book One started behaving very opposite of what they exercised before. When we last met Andrea, she was a cold, indifferent, hatchet-wielding slayer of injustice, but in this work, she becomes very nurturing, self-admonishing, and open to suggestion. This comes from my current metaphysical state, where I’ve reconciled my previous existence for what it was, and now, very open to guidance and suggestion from elders/crones.

Under the recommendation of an equally empathic friend, I read Dancing In The Flames by Woodman and Dickson, an excellent primer on the exploration of the divine feminine in her many forms. Followers of this blog have experienced my various Jungian references to archetypes, so why not incorporate them into novel form? What followed then, was the appearance of new characters representing the most common social archetypes who, in my opinion, impede our ability to be the best Americans we can be toward each other. Essentially, I anthropomorphized OA.

Of those anthropomorphized caveats emerged a theme: Wisdom over all. Wisdom over weapons, wisdom over dominion, wisdom over divisiveness. This excited me so much, I admit I spent more time sharing how each character came to actualize wisdom than I did moving the story along to its intended end, which was the meeting of all emergent leaders in the center of America to decide how to move forward. Which means, of course, this is now becoming a trilogy!

What taxed me emotionally was the case for the Republic of Lakotah. About 2009/2010, I read a National Geographic article exposing the apocryphal conditions of an Oglala Lakota reservation. I remember becoming severely emotionally invested in reaction! My soul ached. I felt a deep set fury, a mother-like protectiveness, a sensation of, ‘how dare they hurt my children!’ which was confusing because I’ve never birthed children, so I didn’t know of this intrinsic power. Later I studied then realized it wasn’t me in the ego sense reacting, but the Divine Mother voicing through me.

I knew there had to be a method in which I could constructively communicate my disgust with the United States government – which openly and unapologetically exacts colonialism upon a free-willed people – and the liberty presented itself during this NaNoWriMo. The Divine Mother took many forms – Angry Mother, Crazy Mother, Nurturing Mother – as the discussion of healing carried on in The American Manifesto. Andrea Killsen is of Lakota origin, and in this NaNo entry, I delved into her history. Her family is predominantly in Arkansas, some split between Oklahoma and North and South Dakota. I followed Andrea’s history for explanation purposes, but then folded it out to represent conflict, an identity crisis, if you will. What Andrea experiences is representative of America’s identity crisis: we collectively ignore/refuse to acknowledge our shared pain in exchange for the glamour of global superpower status. How super can we be when we abuse and torture and starve and demoralize our own?

At the time of composition, the Keystone XL debate moved to the Senate, where during discussion, one brave Lakota stood and chanted above the politicos, a reminder that the debate as to the benefit of the pipeline has to consider first and foremost, who has the right to the land that the pipeline will run through? The Republic of Lakotah formalized its sovereignty in 2007, but that sovereignty has yet to be recognized. Given fairness, given an embracing of our fellow Americans, permission needs to be asked of these people. We Americans should not be shocked that the Lakota and other nations will respond with a ‘fuck you and hell no!’ but we as Americans should delight in what they can build from a positive collaboration with ethical public servants. My outstanding thesis for The American Manifesto became thus: until we collectively right that wrong, until we recognize these nationalists and promote their right to exercise their sovereignty, and until we invite them to the head of the decision making table, we as a nation, will collapse.

America, we are young and naive and self-congratulating and ignorant and close minded and annoying, an obnoxious teenager sitting in the back of the Global Unity classroom acting up for attention, while the rest of the democratic world rolls its eyes and wishes we would choke on the next spitball we make. Wisdom. We are starved of it. And nothing amplified that more during composition than the deplorable decisions and outrageous reactions in Ferguson. This work was fueled by erratic despair, and I will need some time to personally heal before I can read through it.

I dare not pretend I have all the answers, but I feel I at least started a plausible conceptual framework for the recalibration of Americanism through The American Manifesto. I believe very much so in these straight-off-my-proud-to-be-American-calendar statements:

But I also believe it’s going to take an extremely traumatic ass-kicking before we get our shit together.

This was a heavy work, but I am proud of it. It was birthed from an authentic place, incorporating historical facts and real-world examples with the best of my cognitive ability. I exercised scientific methodology but I encased it in storytelling, so that the bitter pill could at least taste sweet and feel fun as it goes down into your spirit stomach.

If you made it to this paragraph, thank you for helping me recalibrate. I have much more writing to do…

Visit http://www.republicoflakotah.com/  to learn more about the Republic of Lakotah and the beauty of North America’s original peoples.

Buy Me A Christmas Goose!

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Courtesy: funny-or-die.com

Feelin’ exceptionally gifty and philanthropical? Consider supporting your favorite independent author/publisher with the cute face and phat ass! 😀

  • My debut action fiction novel, I Blew Up Juarez, is a sweet 99 cents until DECEMBER 26th. Since it’s self-published, I get all your pennies!

  • My horror short story, Tokyo Rose, is the opener to Night Walkers, a horror/terror anthology. Order now and get 35% off all Horrified Press print books (including its imprints) via Lulu.com Checkout code WQT32 valid through DECEMBER 3rd.

Thank you! Love you! Appreciate you!