Saturday, November 21, 2009

Sarah Palin....go away

The media blitz around this woman is really irritating. Even Oprah, the goddess of all media decided finally to interview her, not during the presidential campaign, but now...hmmmm.

Why not? Ultra liberal media is spoon-feeding this moron to the world, trying to force feed her down the throat of the next election's voters...why? Because, she won't one could in a right mind would vote for this woman, no matter how bad a job Mr. Obama is doing.

What qualifications does this woman have to run a country that DESPERATELY needs someone who knows what they are doing. (cough* McCain *cough) America dropped the ball passing up on him. I think Palin is the reason, yet, she is on the forefront to run in 2012???? That is the WTF moment that makes my republican head spin. Where the hell is Mitt Romney? Is he hog-tied somewhere? How did this woman knock him out of every one's mind? MEDIA coverage...yep, answered that myself. Easy to answer your own questions....

Not that I was a Romney fan, but he is head over heels more qualified that this lady...Judging by the lame-o job Obama is doing, I think "change" and picking a nominee on charisma and not experience or answers on how this change is happening is a REALLY bad idea. America, you voted for a car salesman, all get robbed. well, if you are middle-class...the rich could care less, they have dough to blow. The poor gets everything handed to them...and we pay, as usual. (okay, I side-tracked, I tend to politically rant at times...forgive)

In a nutshell, don;t make the mistake again...GOP find someone quick...someone QUALIFIED to take this chump out of office. That someone is NOT Sarah Palin.

Tuesday, November 3, 2009


Well, this will be my first time atempting this. "Wait," you ask, "What is this Nanowriting you speak of?"

Well, glad you asked. I had no idea until about a month ago when some super writers at Zoetrope were discussing it. Well, on the site, you sign up to take part in this crazy experiment with yourself to write a novel in a MONTH! And November is THE month.

They just want you to sit and write, write , editing. Just thoughts, just get the puppy down.

Okay, Halloween and three suck kids and taking a 10 hour online course that took over my weekend has set me back on my goal. I am waaaay behind in my Nanowriting.

But, priorities come first...

Until, I completely fail at this, I am able to proudly display my badge.

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

The Hills

Okay, since the much-touted return of Kristin Cavallari, I am completely obsessed with this show.

Okay, some points...

Is any relationship on this show real?of course not. This group is by far the worst reality actors I've seen. Yet, I can't seem to stop watching them!

-Spencer and Heidi...good Lord, that's a train wreck if I ever saw one. I see DIVORCE in their futute. Shocking, I know.

-Audrina...sigh. Stop it already. I swear she is morphing into Lauren Conrad's role on the show. Not going out, avoiding all confrontation...WE the viewers like confrontaion, Aud. Just so you know. Now, get your ass back in the ring. And come on...going on a lunch date with Justin's friend...bad move, Miss Obsessed.

Kristin...NO NO pining over Justin Bobby's cold shoulder. Move the maneater we keep hearing about. They shove the word down our throats enough that it should bare some significance. Right?

Justin...sigh...Beardless and fine. Though, I cannot understand a word the guy mumbles, I really don't care. He is eye candy, and a damned good character.

Brody... on the other hand, is a boring character. Less Brody please.

Jayde...crikeys! She frightens me. Who did her face? He should not be practicing anywhere!

How the hell did the bartender get in the show so much?

The rest of the lot, I could care less about.

I must say, next Tuesday cannot come quickly enough for me.

Friday, October 9, 2009

Nobel Peace Prize 2009

Bullshit....That's the only thing that comes to mind.

After a stunning 12 days in office, they nominate, (that is scary enough) someone who has done nothing but talk. No accomplishments under his belt, no great deed done...nothing.

Gandhi...freakin GANDHI! His name synonymous with peace, and he didn't even get one! How is that possible? But BARACK OBAMA gets one!
Bullshit...there is just no other word.

Lunar Disgrace

Why does crashing into the moon sound like a good idea to anyone, besides the egg-head scientists. Haven't they done enough damge here on Earth? Now, they have decided to expand their reign of disaster outside our own borders and onto anything we can reach our sordid hands! I'm sickened. Hasn't science done enogh damge to our planet? Okay, that aside, is it in the country's best interest right now, during an economic dilemma that has the country broke, people out of this the right time to spend billions on a space mission? That money should be used domestically....there's your health insurance right there. In my opinion, they should just scrap the space program, and take care of the problems right here.

Thursday, October 8, 2009

Newest Horror

Okay, in the midst of almost taking a new puppy, we decided maybe we should take care of our dog first. Seriously, in a house full of three little kids, the dog gets zero attention.

So, although she's been biting at her tail the last month, we chose to ignore it. She'd been attcked by some unknown animal upstate, and we just figured that was the problem. She 's not going to the vet unless she's half-dead.

Well, we caved and brought her yesterday.

Our worst nightmare was confirmed. The thing is infested with fleas. Yes, the dog at this point is being reffered to as "the thing".
My skin literally crawls when I think of the fleas in my house. The damned animal lies in my bed half the day!
So now begins the tedious cycle of bombings and sprayings to erradicate the bood sucking bastards.
So, adios puppy....hello, old flea-bitten hound.

Wednesday, October 7, 2009

The Wendy Williams Show

Okay, I have watched this a couple of times. I should be slapped for the return viewing. I do not understand how this is on prime-time .(okay, it's channel nine, I have no idea what the network is anymore. Nor, do I really care)
I thought Tyra Bank's show was cheese ball...but this one. It takes the proverbial (cheese) cake.
Little paper cut-outs of Kardashians...why?
Are these people that interesting...?

Is it me, or does Wendy have Carmella Soprano's accent?

I liked her better the radio, she seemed to have more edge. Her ragging now, is the same stuff we hear over and over again...about people everyone is sick of hearing about.

Come on, Wendy...get raw. This show isn't for need late night.

NO WAY!!!!

Holy crap! I have a follower! Life is is good.

Movie news!

Did I mention the wonderful Chris Keaton has decided to adapt my story, "What's Your Poison?" into a screenplay, and then try to get a short film deal! He sent me a copy of the screenplay and I was delighted. He didn't stray from the story, at all! So far, it's getting good reception at Zoetrope. Next stop Sundance!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Saturday, October 3, 2009


Okay, every year this is a dilemma. The costumes.
Okay, now, these kids told me they wanted to be Mario and Luigi...deja vu of two years prior when Jack refused to participate in the Halloween Parade because people laughed at his costume. The old "They are laughing with you, not at you" speech went absolutely nowhere.
So, here we are again. Me, thinking I'm the smart shopper, decided to get the Luigi costume ahead of the price hikes. This year, dammit, I would be prepared!

Well, he now he has decided to be Pikachu...
Great. Monkey wrenched thrown.

No matter what happens, the kid will be miserable in the parade...After 3 years of experience, I know what's to come. So this year, he will be sad Pikachu....
and now, I have to get rid of this damn Luigi costume, which btw hasn't arrived yet...

On top of all this, yes, this is alot, Johnny's dinosaur costume is in no way, shape or form going to fit him.


Did I mention story, "Smashng Pumpkins" has been accepted to House of Horror, Issue #6?...
yep. That makes me feel better.

I was accepted into The Dark Fiction Guild :) I am dark, really dark :)

Saturday, September 26, 2009

Okay, so I'm excited...

One of my stories is being adapted into a screenplay for a short film. He is in the process of converting it now. Hopefully, he will be able to find someone to buy it :)))

Links :)

Here you will find links to some things that have been accepted. I encourage you to read all the stories on these sites, these people are good :)


"Pink Clouds in the Morning"

Haiku: "Mother's Joy"

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

Good news!

Two short stories and a poem have been picked up!
"Cicadas" will be featured in Issue #4 of the ezine House of Horror this September!
"Pink Clouds in the Morning" will be in Liquid Imagination's Issue #4, also this September.
My haiku, "Mother's Joy" will be in Mused: BellaOnline's Literary Review in the Fall Eqinox issue.
Finally, something to add to that query letter!

Saturday, May 16, 2009

This was a short story contest submission based on a charcater study of a specific painting.

Case Closed by Annemarie Bogart

Her image is etched in stained glass on the far wall of the temple that is my mind. She was much younger than her appearance suggested, a fact I would find out later. Her hair was thick and wavy. The thickness reminded me of caressing silken but heavy threads, if such a thing even exists. Her hands looked small and fragile as she pulled back that thick red curtain. She wasn't quick to smile but when she did it held that shyness yet sincerity that some women possess. Her eyes were what struck me most; they held a weariness that should not be acquired until much later in life.
She was from Guatemala. God only knows the circumstances that brought her here. She lived in a small studio apartment that faced a grimy brick wall. A dumpster sat next to her only window. She worked two jobs. During the day, she did housekeeping for an elderly couple that lived way uptown. It was a very long commute on the number six line; almost not worth the money she was paid. She took pride in keeping her employer's home impeccable. They were a nice old couple and they treated her well, sending her home with any leftovers they had. They would buy her a gift during the holidays.
At night she worked as a waitress at a diner not too far from where she lived. It meant she spent a lot of time on her feet. She couldn't afford proper shoes for the position, ones that would cushion and support her feet. When her grueling shift was over her feet would ache. You wouldn't think there would be much eatery traffic at that time of night, but as the posters say, New York is the city that never sleeps, and apparently, never stops eating either.

On this particular night, well, early morning, the place became packed with post bar patrons. The booths overflowed and she tried her best to keep up with the drunken demands of her customers. The girl she usually worked with called in sick that night. Her boss had made light of the situation by telling her that she's now make double the tips. Her employer at this position wasn't half as kind as those she cleaned for. He was an aged Greek man who lost his wife to cancer five years earlier, since then; he holds no remorse or sympathy for anyone or their situation. He could have helped her that night with the overflow of people, but chose not to. The very rowdy table by the door, the table that had ordered pretty much every appetizer as well as burger on the menu, they decided to skip out without paying the bill. Something that happens more times then you would imagine. Somehow, this became her fault, and the money was deducted from her paycheck.

She was glad to get out of there that night. It reminded her of a similar one that had occurred not that far back. The same thing had happened; it had been a thirteen-dollar deduction from her check. Tonight had been a whole lot more. But the feeling of wanting to get out of there as the tears stung her eyes was the same. It was that night she would see something that would change the course of her life.
She had walked briskly hugging her thin coat tightly to her. The weather had turned much colder during her shift and she hadn't dressed properly for this autumn blast of premature chill. Working two jobs and living in the rat's nest the landlord tries to pass off as an apartment, you would think she would have a decent coat. Truth is, she sent most of her paycheck back home so her mother can support her younger brothers and sisters.
She was almost home when she heard arguing coming from an alley across the street. She peered over casually, pedestrian rubber necking. It was then that the flashes went off in the alley along with three sharp bangs to accompany them. She froze instantly. The darkened figure emerged from the alley. The figure, most likely a man jumped into the passenger side of the idling car. She hadn't even noticed a car sitting there running until the man jumped in and it sped away, disappearing into the city night. It never occurred to her to just continue on her way home, forget what she had just seen. That would have been out of character for her.
So, she spent what little left of that night clear into late the next morning talking to the police. They seemed to think that maybe she could help them get this killer; maybe she saw something, anything that may lead them to justice.
What she didn't know was that the man who was murdered that night was a Wall Street big wig who seemed to like to welsh on bets. There is only a certain amount of rope some shylocks will shell out before they come collecting. Turns out, this guy, well, he just flat out refused to pay thinking his Fifth Avenue penthouse could protect him from the New York's underworld. He thought wrong. She saw the car. That was the kicker. The car she had barely noticed until it drove off became the most important piece of evidence. She remembered the license plate. It's a one in a million shot that anyone on a darkened New York street would even bother to investigate a shooting let alone remember the license plate of the getaway car. She was a key eyewitness. Thankfully, facts like that are not kept under wraps for long within a tainted police department. It was just a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, I suppose. It happens too often to count.
So, you might think to yourself why this girl's image holds such importance to me. She was just a regular person struggling to get through this life, working her hands to the bone and doing little to enjoy her young life. If she never witnessed that murder that night, in all likelihood, our paths would have never crossed. I remember her so well because it was I who glanced upon that image of her as she quickly glanced out of her small window before opening the door. I only saw her for a second or two before the thick red curtain closed behind her.
She didn't even hesitate when she opened the door; she had not yet acquired the automatic distrust of strangers that comes from living in neighborhoods like this one. It was then that I had to place that fatal bullet in her head. It was the next day that I gained much of my information about her through newspaper articles. It was a few weeks later in an article buried back on page twenty that I read about my handiwork paying off. There it was in good ole black and white, "Case Closed."

Wednesday, May 6, 2009

Keeping out the Cold.....short story by Annemarie Bogart

The window was shut to keep out the cold. Well, that was what she inferred as she shivered slightly pulling her sweater tighter around her. She closed it too quickly. It rattled slightly as the old peeled away sill was assaulted by the loose glass of the ancient window pane. I knew she just wanted to shield me from the yelling from outside. She always tried to protect me from it, pretending it wasn’t there. But, I knew it was there, and the sad part it as much as she tried, she knew I knew it was there.

Heather was my big sister; she was eight, two years older than me. She always took care of me like a mother would although we had a mother to do that. It was during the times my mother was occupied with Dad that she would become my surrogate. She was strangely mature for her age. She was kind, never selfish. She always let me have whatever I wanted, no questions asked. If she got a toy for Christmas, and I decided I wanted it for myself, then she just let it be- no fighting. Looking back now, it is all kids stuff, and maybe I was the spoiled one. But, I realize now why she never wanted to argue, never wanted to have to have him raise his voice. She almost wanted us to be invisible to him. It was her way of protecting me, again.

Our dad, as mom would say, was always tired. He worked too hard, she would tell us. “Don’t disturb Daddy,” she’d say in a whisper grasping us gently by our sleeves, her eyes pleading with us to obey her. Heather would nod silently in understanding and pull me away to our room. She showed me the mime game where we’d pretend to be something and instead of shouting out the answers we’d write it on paper and hold it up to let the other see your guess. A silent nod or shake of the head would let you know your guess was correct. It seemed when he came home is mostly when we played these silent games.

Sometimes, okay very rarely, Dad would come home in a good mood. He’d laugh and toss me in the air. He’d take us to the park. He’d play catch with Heather and I with the red rubber ball Mom had bought for us one Christmas. Other days, most days he’d come home mad. I was never sure exactly what he was mad about. I heard him say once in awhile that the house was a sty, whatever that was. Other times, he just seemed to be mad at Mom. She would try to get us upstairs. She would have tears in her eyes as she gently would coax us up the stairs. Her finger to her lips hushing us to silence. Heather would always take the hint and grab my hand and lead me away as quickly as she could. . We would hear him throw things, glass shattering on occasion. We would hear Mom crying a lot. Sometimes, if we were lucky, he’d fall asleep after dinner and we wouldn’t have to tip toe around his mood swings. Sometimes, if we were really lucky he wouldn’t come home at all until we were all asleep.

Tonight was not a lucky night. He had come home while we were doing our homework. The table shook when he slammed the back door. Mom got up quickly from the table and whispered to me to finish the math then head upstairs. Heather closed her books quickly and took over the seat that Mom had unoccupied. We heard him call Mom a few names that you never imagine someone calling your mother, especially not your own Dad. We could hear Mom telling him to lower his voice but that only seemed to make him yell louder. Heather grabbed my hand gently and nodded to the stairs. The math homework was never finished.
We bounded silently up the stairs knowing every part of the wooden steps to avoid the creaks. Silence was key in times like this. Heather shut the door firmly behind us; she held her back against the door of our room maybe hoping she could push back all the screaming that invaded our ears. She quickly left her spot at the door and opened the closet. She pulled out the old doll house. She beckoned me over wordlessly with the wave of her delicate hand. I tiptoed to her and knelt down next to her. She opened the old wooden house and silently we began to play.

The doll house occupied hours upon hours of our silent dreams and hopes. Wishes that one day our family may be as perfect as the family we created in those few precious hours in that toy home; a family that didn’t hear shouting. A place where fear didn’t exist. A house where smiles were as constant as those painted on the small wooden figures that we played with. The pretend play always consisted of a mom doing all the things people are programmed to believe mom’s should do- cook, clean, do laundry. The dad would come home from work. They would eat peacefully at dinner sitting happily around a well made table. The happy chatter of the day’s events would unfold for the family to share as they ate a delicious meal. The family would then retire to the sitting room where they would watch television together. The children would sit at mother’s feet while she told them a story. Then father would lift them both and carry them into their beds where mommy would tuck them in and whisper sweet prayers in their ears.

I’m not quite sure why we played this game so often; it was almost like a tease in a way. Letting us know the way it could and maybe should be, but in the end realizing that it is the way it never will be. At the time of playing it seemed fun, but sadness always came over me when the game was complete on realization that this grand world only lives within the walls of that old wooden dollhouse and not in the walls of my own dilapidated home.

Tonight the yelling seemed to spill from downstairs into the driveway. That happened some times. I could hear Mom scream something about calling the police. We had all heard that said before, but it never happened. We heard a loud crash, most likely a flower pot from the side yard. I stood to go look out the window. Heather touched my arm and shook her head vehemently. I sat back down on the floor and hugged my knees close to myself. Heather got up and pulled her sweater tightly around her. “It’s getting cold,” she said as she walked briskly to the window.

As I said earlier, it was shut to keep the cold out. Not the cold of the night air, for it was September and the air had not yet taken on that brisk chill that it does in the later months. No, this cold was from the heart itself. A cold between two people that would never be the loving parents we dreamt about as we moved those wooden people from room to room in the doll house. This cold was worse because it couldn’t be eased by a blanket or a coat. This cold permanently scarred two small children.

The closing of that window did very little to lessen the cold that vibrated through the window pains with vibrations of yelling. Heather meant well by trying to block out the voices. No child should have to hear them, but we did. I don’t mean to lament on this for I realize there are some much more worse off than we were. Some kids get beaten, some starved. Dad never touched us, not a hand, but we always lay in fear of him. I guess we were always more concerned that his wrath would turn from Mom to us. She protected us so that never happened. We had seen him hit her on two occasions.
The first time was Christmas Eve; I was three. Heather and I were hiding watching all the presents being laid out under the tree by Mom. We were so excited. Then he came home. He was infuriated at the amount of gifts we had under the tree. Is that what I slave for all day, he screamed. She begged him not to wake up the children. “Please, don’t do this tonight,” she said her voice hushed but strained with weariness and emotion.
“I’m the bad guy, right?” he yelled stumbling forward a bit. He caught himself on the coffee table before falling over. He laughed sarcastically in a strange way that sent shivers up my spine from all the way up the stairs. He slapped her hard across the face with the back of his hand. She fell across the room landing on the presents at the foot of the tree. “You mind me, woman,” he said in a more hushed voice and stumbled back out of the room. I heard the door slam and the car peel quickly away from our gravel driveway. We tiptoed quietly back to our room and cried ourselves to sleep.

The second occasion was Halloween, the next year. I was a ghost, Heather a witch. Mom was busy getting dinner ready while we divvied up our candy into two pots. We were testing the different candies and were very impressed with our loot. Mom told us to wash up and sit at the table for Dad would be home soon. He arrived while we were in the bathroom. We could tell when we saw him that he was in one of those moods; the ones that made you want to avoid him. The food was on the table, so there was no escape. We sat down tentatively at the table evading his eyes.
“What? You don’t even say hello to your father anymore?” he boomed as his fist strikes the table. The plates clang slightly.
“Our little Trick-or-Treaters are probably just tired,” Mom offered trying to diffuse the situation.
“I’m talking to my kids, I don’t need you answering for them,” he snarled, his breath smelling strongly of the same aroma that covers his room on mornings he doesn’t get up for work. It’s usually on the nights he doesn’t get home until after we are asleep. This smell was never a good sign; it always meant trouble was to follow.
“Tom, just leave them be,” she said ever so gently, but to him it must have sounded like curse words by the way he reacted. He pushed him chair back throwing his plate of food against the wall as he does.
“Don’t you ever tell me what to do, woman,” he screamed, the memory still able to send goose bumps up my arm. He always addressed her as “woman” during these times; not by her name, Julia, or Momma, as he did occasionally when he was in one of his rare good moods. It was as if he had distanced himself so far from us that we were no longer names, just woman and kids.
The arguing persisted and Heather grabbed my arm. There was no way to escape, he was too close. He approached my mother menacingly and I could see her instinctively backing away. He pushed her hard into the china cabinet. Her shoulder shattered the middle pane. She rolled away seemingly okay, but when she turned to us we could see blood starting to soak the floral blue print of her house dress. The sight of blood was all it took for us to start crying. He seemed surprised by it, too. He cursed himself and walked out of the house, slamming the door as he did.

He told us the next morning that something like that would never happen again. He swore he wasn’t going to drink anymore. I was confused by this, because I thought people needed to drink to survive. I figured maybe he’d just be thirsty, but be able to deal with it. He cried apologizing over and over to Mom and to us. We honestly thought that maybe, just maybe, we could finally be like the family in the dollhouse. That the slice Mom took on her shoulder was a small sacrifice for such a life change.

Well, Dad’s good behavior seemed to wean off about three months later. I think he went to a party that men have before one of their friends get married. A batcher party, I think that is what mom called it. That never made any sense to me, what’s a batcher? Anyhow, I guess we have learned to live around him more than with him. We do our best to avoid him, afraid of what disposition he may be in. We go upstairs when he gets home, making sure all our chores are done before that time. We are silent at meal time afraid of what we say may cause an outburst. We shut the windows of ourselves to keep out the cold just as Heather does with our bedroom window. We have spent our young lives trying to keep out the cold. Our Mom has done everything she can to try to make everything seem normal. Sadly, the cold lives with us, and as every day goes by it creeps into our soul, though we try our best to keep it out.

The End

Monday, April 27, 2009

(Untitled) Prologue, young adult fiction

(Untiltled) "The Football Book"
young adult fiction
By Annemarie Bogart

“I’m going pro,” Jasper Grady says defiantly. He takes a long swallow from the beer bottle not concerned with the liquid that drips down the sides of his jaw onto his leather football jacket. “All the way,” his hand emphasizing his point sailing through the air like a jet plane cutting through sky.
“Sure,” his friend Rusty says jokingly from the front seat of the old pick-up. “Hell, this town got you guys head filled with stuffing. Every year you’d think there was another pro coming out of this county.”
“This town… hell, this county… this state has never seen a team like me and Grady here,” Bobby says looking through the rearview mirror at his best friend in the back seat. Jasper catching his eye in the reflection nods solemnly in agreement.
“Damn straight,” he says tipping the bottle towards his best friend and quarterback in the driver‘s seat.
“You just pissed, you could never got to play,” Bobby laughs at his friend Rusty next to him in the front seat, taking a swallow from his bottle.
“Sure…rub it in,” Rusty says throwing his empty bottle out the window.
“Hey man, this is my fuckin property remember,” Jasper hits his friend on the shoulder.
“Sorry, man” Rusty says opening another beer as the pick-up flies up one of the many dirt roads of the property. “So whatta we gonna do tonight? Just drive around here getting drunk?”
“That’s the plan” Bobby says taking a drink of this beer.
“Hey, Grady,” Rusty looks into the back seat. “That Fall Dance is coming up soon enough…you finally gonna get the balls to ask out Sandy?”
Jasper hits his friend on the back of the head. “Fuck you, man…besides that dance is like two months away.” He looks out the window as his two friends break out into hysterical laughter.
“I’m sorry,” Bobby says attempting regain his composure for his best friend’s sake, “but we’ve been hearing you talk about her…well, shit, Rusty…you remember him not talking about her?” Bobby glances sideways at Rusty who nods guzzling back his beer.
“Well, Grady…he just has a point is all,” Rusty says shrugging his shoulders.
“Whatever,” Jasper says downing his beer. “Laugh it up.” He grabs another beer out of the bag next to him.
“Just fuckin ask her,” Rusty laughs. “So we can go on with our lives.”
“Yeah, I will,” he says steadily watching his friend get a little more risky on the winding turns. “Fuck, Bobby…there’s trees everywhere…slow down…”
“Take it easy, Jazz,” he laughs swigging from his bottle, “I’ve been riding these roads all my life with you…fuckin bikes, quads…like the back of my hand.” The truck takes a hard turn, the front tire hitting a rock.
“Yeah, Grady, since when you cautious about anything?” Rusty laughs turning to look at his buddy in the back seat.
“QB’s a shitty driver, Rust,” he grins sending Rusty into hysterics.
“What you say back there,” Bobby says turning around in the seat trying to swat his friend in the backseat. Jasper looks ahead …the darkness… the rumbling of the truck…the tree…the impact…just for a second…then blackness…

When Jasper awakes, he feels a dull ache in his shoulder. He’s no longer in the truck,, he's about ten feet from the truck in a patch of thick grass. He looks at the truck from the ground. Somehow the back door is ajar…Did he crawl out of there? Did it open during the impact? Did he jump out before impact? He is disorientated…not quite sure what is happening…Then it dawns on him.

“Bobby?” he yells trying to sit himself upright in the grass, his head spinning. “Bobby? Fuckin answer me, man.” He tries to get up but nausea waves over him and he remains on his knees. He crawls towards the pick-up. “Rusty!” he yells getting closer to the truck.
The pick-up appears to have gone head-on into the tree. He crawls to the driver’s side using the truck as leverage to help him up…fighting back the pain.
He peers through the open driver’s side window and see his friend leaning unmoving on the steering wheel.
“Bobby,” he yells shaking his friend’s shoulder which makes Bobby’s head fall back onto the seat. Jasper then sees the gaping hole in the windshield on the passenger’s side. Rusty is no longer in the truck. “Fuck!” he screams staring at the shattered glass blood clinging to its parameters. “Rusty!” he yells again, his head splitting.
“Jazz,” he hears Bobby whispers and Jasper looks at him. He is bleeding from the forehead. “My chest, man…I can hardly breathe.” Jasper looks wildly at the other side of the truck.
“I gotta get help, man,” he says quickly. “You’ll be okay here, Bobby…Fuck,” he pauses. He forcefully opens the door, “Come on,” he says leaning over his friend undoing his seatbelt. He tries to pull his friend out of the truck but manages instead to pull him on top of himself. They both hit the ground...hard.
“”Fuck, Jazz…what the fuck are you doing?” Bobby’s says holding his bleeding head.
“Look, I gotta get help and I ain’t leaving you in there in case it blows or something. Look pull yourself back as far as you can.. I gotta find Rusty.” Jasper gets up slowly steadying himself and runs around to the other side of the truck. He tries to follow the illumination of the head lights on the woods looking desperately. He walks into the bushes, scratching his face on a wayward branch.
“Rusty!” he yells waiting to hear any sound. Nothing. He steps forward and trips over something. In the dark he feels around. Moisture on the grass…he feels something solid…cloth… pants…a leg…Rusty. He can’t see him. The darkness is thick and the headlights seem to be shining above them.
He feels for his face…feeling a sticky hot dampness where there should be a face. “Rusty,” he screams trying to revive his friend. No response. He leans over him placing his head on his chest. No heartbeat. ‘Fuck, come on, man…be okay, Rusty…wake up,” he starts pumping his chest like he sees them do in the movies. Then he leans in to try to blow into his friend’s mouth…He tastes it… the unmistakable salty metallic taste…blood. He gets up tears falling from his eyes. He backs away quickly.
“I gotta get help,” he yells. “Bobby, you hear me?” he shouts over the truck.
“Yeah,” he hears his friend groan. “Where’s Rusty, Jazz?”
Jasper ignores the question, “I’m going to get help…stay put, Bobby. I’ll be back soon with help, okay. Just stay put,” Jasper yells and runs back to the road… He runs like he has never run before. He needs to get back to his house, needs to get help.
Fifteen minutes later, Jasper crashes through his front door.
“Dad!” he screams up the stairs. “I need help!”

Friday, April 24, 2009

Teen Pregnancy....

For the second straight year, teen pregnancy rates are on the rise. Okay, I just don;t get it. See, I went to a Catholic school, from 1st to 12th grade...we didn't discuss sex...ever. And the "birds and bees" talk just never came from my parents...maybe I was absent that day, I'm not sure. I'm pretty sure a few people I knew were in the same boat. TV wasn't dripping with sexuality, now was music. Cable just started getting poplar, and their were a few VCR' our access to R movies was limited. Mature video games just didn't exist. So, my point here is, with so many blinders placed oer us, and our complete and utter ignorance on the subject, how come our teen pregnancy rate wasn't through the roof? No one I knew had a one. Never heard of anyone who did either. Now, I live in Queens, NY, not Lancaster, Pennsylvania, so I am just wondering with the plethora of education, and knowledge and first hand acquaintances that have to do with teenage pregnancy, why is the rate rising and not dropping?
I'll get back to this...i just wanted to get that off of my chest.

Monday, March 16, 2009

TV...why do you suck?

Seriously, I have like 500 channels, so why is there nothing interesting on anywhere?
Is it me? Have I just been given too many choices now that I cannot decide on just one. Have I become addicting to channel surfing? Truth by told, I have a hard time sitting though a commercial break anymore. I find myself searching for other shows or snippets of movies to fill in that 2 minutes and twenty seconds of the show's off-time. I know, it sounds completely I MUST have control of everything I watch, refusing to bend to sit through a commercial that I did not chose to watch. It's madness.

Maybe it's not me. Maybe people have just accepted these sub par shows and movies to watch.For example, once in a blue moon, I break down and press in a "Pay Per View" movie...the latest being PINEAPPLE EXPRESS. Okay, I had heard great things about's hilarious, sooo funny, yadda yadda yadda. First off, is it possible to make a comedy anymore without Seth Rogan? He's in everything! I like him and all, but man, talk about overkill. Secondly, the movie was mildly amusing, not hilarious, as I was led to believe. Have these people ever seen a great comedy before that this movie got so much hype? I am losing faith in Hollywood. They have no sense of humor. Thirdly, I seriously could care less what happened. I have been finding this happening more and more. I just lose interest and feel like turning movies off mid-way, even if I just spent $4.95 to watch them. Okay, so maybe it's me. I expect too much, I guess.

I mean, for instance, HBO and all your little sister channels like HBO Comedy, HBO Family...why do you seemingly play the same movies every day? Variety people. There are some movies I literally have not seen in years. Why doesn't any of these channels show them instead of airing NEVER BEEN KISSED seven to ten times a week? When I was younger, a small child in Queens, New York, we have the "Four-thirty Movie" on ABC, every weekday. "The Planet of the Apes" marathon, Charles Bronson week, Clint Eastwood week. Now, those were the days my friends.
"Rich Man Poor Man" shown in five parts...ahhhh. Good stuff.

Kung Fu Saturdays! Anyone remember those? The Chinatown Kid, The Five Fingers of Death, Bruce Lee classics. I mean, these are the things a kid would look forward to. An Abbott and Costello movie every Sunday morning after church. Everyone had their favorite. Mine was Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein. I hadn't seen that in, I swear, maybe twenty years, then lo and behold HBO aired it a few weeks ago. I know, I was in shock as well...but I must admit, kudos to you fine programming people at HBO for taking a chance once in awhile. Very rarely, but once is better than none.

We worked with seven channels growing up, and we were happier! The Wizard of Oz was on ONCE a year...That's it! No DVD, no cable, no VHS, no TIVO, no DVR...ONCE! You missed it, then too bad, you had to wait another whole year to see it. Same with It's a Wonderful Life, The Grinch That Stole Christmas. Geez, I can't tune on cartoon network during the Christmas Season that I don't hear Karloff's creepy voice telling me about Wooville and the roast beast. Overkill destroyed television. Too many channels, too many choices and ownership of movies and classic shows cheapened everything. We are a spoiled society, and television is one of the many things we have seen drastically change during my lifetime. A very small example of our society's overkill, but valid all the same.

Okay, that's all for now, I have to catch a missed episode of True Blood on HBO on Demand ;) Okay, sometimes, I like being spoiled, just a bit.

Saturday, February 28, 2009


Where to start today? The two subjects that instantly ruffle people's feathers...politics and religion. Should I? sigh...maybe I will tackle religion today.
Raised a Roman Catholic, schooled for twelve years in Catholic school, I struggle now with the decision to place my son in religious education because, basically...I think it's all complete and utter crap. It is a fairytale spoon fed to the masses and even today, they eat it up...they fight over it...Over what? Something that can never be proven. It boggles the mind.
So, why the struggle with putting my son in religious education...Sadly, I think it's a more social decision. Won't he wonder why he isn't receiving Communion like everyone else his age? So But we haven't been to the slew of May communions this year, so the questions may come then.
Now, some of religion is good...the basic life lessons and morals. Sure, we all should know these things. But, it's really just common sense, isn't it? Parents should be able to pass these ideals on without having to give in a mandatory collection fee each year. Yes, the envelope counting. Are you up to par? So you give enough of a "donation" every year? The donation that funds putting crown molding in the rectory. I want crown molding, but no one is sending me a envelope to fund it. Oh well, so much for that poverty vow.
The holidays...Hooray for Christmas and Easter. But truthfully, isn't all about Santa and the bunny rather than the actual reason for the holiday? Gifts, gifts, the stores love Christmas. Christmas does make you feel all warm and fuzzy, I'll admit that. But, it's really not because of religion. I think it's the gawdy Christmas sweater...but that's just me.
Okay, that is rant #1....not exactly finished but started...(and I didn't check for errors, grammar know who you are!)

Tuesday, February 3, 2009

Poacher...part 1...horror/thriller short story

The blue minivan pulls cautiously into the shoveled out driveway and comes to a well rehearsed stop. The back door slides open with mechanical ease. A young boy flies out from the vehicle like a caged animal set free. His mother, Mrs. McGee, a young slender blonde calls out to him as he runs oblivious to her words across the snow in the front yard. He bounds the shrubbery onto the front walk and darts through the front door, his mother left shaking her head still behind the wheel of the car.

Mrs. Jenkins walks her dog across the street, a scraggly looking orange tinged wire-haired terrier. Bert is his name…she uses the dog’s name way too often for anyone’s comfort level.

“Burt, stop tugging Mommy,” says the just turning elderly slightly plump woman in a flowered sundress. That sundress that it seems every old woman acquires when they reach a certain age. The one with the snaps down the front, not a flattering look on anyone. For a reason only known to Mrs. Jenkins, she has decided to wear this particular sundress over her coat. Mrs. Jenkins waves to Mrs. McGee as Burt pulls her eagerly down the street leaving you wondering who is walking who.

He sits and takes this all in, the routine…he’s been studying these people for over three weeks now. He is patient…no rush, no mistakes. He takes in the times of dog walking and child pick ups occur. When daddy heads to work and when he comes home. No emotion, just a need to hunt…the need took over his soul long ago. Devoid of any feeling he watches, he waits. Knowing it’s almost time to spring into action. But as all good hunters know…the undetected wait is key to getting your prize. So, he waits in his own minivan which blends into suburbia perfectly. He eyes Mrs. McGee…Karen. This is his target. In good shape, she runs three miles a day. She is a black belt in the karate class she takes twice a week on Hamburg Street. She went to the university for classes which ended two days ago…taking psychology classes. A worthy adversary he believed. It’s never that much of an accomplishment when they cannot at least fight back a little. But sometimes the choice is out of his control. Sometimes the hunger chooses the victim.

Karen finally opens her car door and leans over a grabs a few plastic bags full of groceries from the passengers seat. She curses until her breath as a loaf of Italian bread slides to the car floor. She retrieves it hastily and shoves it into the plastic bag. She manages to hold all the bags in one hand as she closes the door with the other. The plastic handles sink into her flesh forming red lines of discomfort. She takes a bag in the other hand to relieve some of the load. She trudges through the fresh snow which has blanketed her front yard, amazed that her young son’s video games take precedence to snow balls and snow angels. How times have changed. She shakes her head with that thought.

She closes her front door gently locking it out of habit immediately. In a neighborhood like hers, there is rarely even a minor crime but she still takes that step to lock the door if only for her son’s sake. Her husband would be home late again which means they would be alone until way after dark. Although her street wasn’t completely isolated like in the countryside, there was a decent enough amount of land and woods around each home that once the sun went down, things could feel a little creepy. Karen’s husband always tells her it’s her own fault that those horrible images creep into her head from watching too many horror movies.

Dinner is on her mind now. It’s five thirty. If little Timmy eats about six, that usually keeps him on schedule to get to sleep by eight o’clock. She’s actually glad her husband is not home for dinner, for it makes the meal much simpler…no three sides, every food group represented, tons of pans and serving dishes. Yes, two TV dinners will be just perfect, maybe a small salad to get some vitamins in the boy. She always feels the need to add at least one fresh vegetable to a processed meal to make herself feel like a better parent.

She puts her groceries on the butcher clock counter and flips on the kitchen television. There is rarely silence in her world, she fills it with mindless television banter or classic oldies from her radio. She preheats the oven and opens the freezer to pick out their dinner choices. She spies the fried chicken dinner and dislodges it from under the frozen chopped meat and the ice cream container. Fried chicken is Timmy’s favorite. She eyes the turkey dinner and tugs it out from the way back. Okay, all set. She unwraps the dinners, always annoyed that each one has separate directions…why not perforated plastic to make it easier. Uncover the potatoes, cover the corn…so she plays origami with the thin plastic until it is ready. She places them on a steel pan and slides them in the oven. 5:35 on the clock…they will be eating by 6:05, just perfect.

“This just in from our newsroom, folks. Seems there’s been a second disappearance from the area,” the newscaster starts and Karen looks over at the screen taking a seat on one of the wooden stools that are set around the butcher block island. “Michelle Spreen, 45, of Bismark Place has been reported missing by her husband of 25 years, says Police Capt. Nigel Barnes of the Billings Police Department. Police says there was signs of a struggle in her home, but no trace of Mrs. Spreen. Spreen returned from work on Monday evening at about 4 PM, as witnesses stated, but after entering her home was never seen of heard from again. Her husband returned from work that evening at about seven thirty and there was no trace of Mrs. Spreen. After seeing signs of a struggle, he called the police.”

Karen studies the screen, looking at the slightly overweight woman with glasses and a gentle smile they kept showing on the screen. She has thick dark hair and eyes that were too small for her face. Her smile seemed genuine. Another photo of her and her husband, they are hugging each other. She has garland around her neck and he, a Santa hat on his head. They look happy, a good memory caught on film. Live footage of the Spreen’s home on Bismark Place shows a quaint brick ranch home. Long driveway sets the home back from the main road. Looks like about three acres of property, Karen figures. Police coming in and out of the home. Reporters on the front lawn.
“That poor woman,” Karen says aloud in a whispered voice.

“This is the second person from the area to go missing within the last three weeks. The first being 60 year old Myra Longdale of Prospect Terrace. Her worried neighbor reported her missing after she failed to answer the door on several occasions even though her car was in the driveway. Fearing the woman had maybe fallen, the neighbor contacted the police who searched the older woman home but found no evidence of her. Instead found a half-starved cat. The police said the neighbors insisted she doted on the cat, and would never fail to feed it or go away without making sure someone watched over the cat. Several unopened cans of food remained in the cupboard,” the voiceover on the TV says as photos of Mrs. Longdale, her house, her neighbors and finally her cat appear.

Karen looks at the familiar pictures on the screen Myra Longdale. She has encountered the sweet woman once or twice in the grocery store, usually buying treats for her cat. Always with a smile, she seemed to have her hair done every time Karen has seen her. Karen didn’t frequent church much, only on big holidays, but Mrs. Longdale would be in the front row of the choir every time Karen attended which led her to believe that she’s probably a regular.
“The police have not linked together these two disappearances as of yet, but say they have not ruled out the possibility that these cases may be connected. We will keep you up to date on any new updates in either case. Jenny?” the toothy newscaster changes his voice from concerned to chipper in the matter of a half a second as he gazes at the newscast’s busty newsgirl, Jenny. Today Jenny is wearing a banana yellow suit that has most likely blinded every viewer in the four surrounding towns that are unlucky enough to get this broadcast. “How’s our weather looking?” Karen sighs and shuts off the volume because as bad as Jenny’s wardrobe may be, her shrill high pitched voice is forty times worse- so it’s an assault on you visual and audio senses- too much for Karen to handle.
She turns on the radio. “Sweet Caroline” by Neil Diamond drifts out of the speakers. Karen smiles and looks out the window humming along. The snow is falling harder now from the deck railing she can tell the accumulation looks about two inches. She looks out across her vast grassy yard, a fresh blanket of snow covers it. It looks so beautiful and undisturbed. The white snow drapes over the massive limbs of the oaks in her yard almost like those Christmas icicles that you buy in the store at Christmas time. The winter landscape is breathtaking and she’s glad she got a glance of it before it went completely dark.

She pulls herself away from the window and exit’s the kitchen. “Timmy!”, she yells tilting her head up towards the second floor. She walks to the bottom of the steps, hoping he’ll answer her so she doesn’t have to make the trek up to the second floor. She hears Mario, one of Timmy’s most beloved game characters, yell, “Mexico!” and Timmy whoop with excitement. Her voice falls on deaf ears when a video game is played. She decides to save her breath. She sighs and heads up the wide carpeted staircase holding onto the carved wooden banister for mock support. The arcade music gets louder and louder as she ascends every step. “This kid will be deaf by fifteen art this rate,” she says to herself. “Timmy!” she yells as she approaches his door. It is open and she peers in at her small son propped on the floor on a pillow in front of the television. He sways back and forth dramatically with each turn his car makes on the screen.
“Timmy,” Karen says loudly to his back. No response, and no surprise. Karen walks across the room. He glances up quickly then his eyes dart back to the game. “Timmy, do you have homework to do?” she says trying to keep her voice at a higher volume to battle the furious racers on the screen. Timmy continues to play the game, not giving Karen the satisfaction of an answer, or even acknowledgement. This is the game daily. He tests her until she is forced to get angry. “Timmy,” she tries again, louder. “Timmy, I will shut this game off if you do not answer me.”
“No!” he yells more to be heard over the game than in defiance. Karen walks over and turns down the volume.
“Timmy, do you have homework?” she asks him trying her hardest to keep her patience. She wants this to be a quiet night without the dramatics of a tantrum.
“I did it at school, Mom” he says not peeling his eyes from the screen. She kneels down next to him and grazes her fingers through his soft blonde curls. “Aw, Mom,” he says trying to avert her fingers. “You are gonna make me lose.” She smiles at his remark and removes her hand slowly from his head. She glances at the screen as a princess in a pink gown slams into the side of Mario’s car. “Peach!” Timmy screams. Karen lost him again. “Okay, dinner will be ready in about fifteen minutes. You better come when I call you.” She gets up from the floor slowly, her body not as young as it used to be. Her muscles are sore from her visit to the gym this morning. She bends down and picks up Toby, Timmy’s stuffed elephant and tosses it casually on his bed. “Fifteen minutes,” she reminds her young son and leaves the room.

Karen’s cell phone goes off I her pocket. She digs into her jean’s to get it before it goes to voicemail. She hates this cell phone. Seems anytime she finally gets it out, she misses the call. She looks at the screen, ‘Timothy‘, it reads, her husband. She tries to hurriedly open the phone. “Hey babe,” she says into the phone. No answer. “Damn, “ she says aloud and presses the call back feature on the phone as she bounds back down the stairs.

“Karen?” she hears her husband’s voice pick up after one ring.

“Hey Tim,” she says as she reaches the first floor. “We got cut off.”

“No surprise there,” he laughs and she smiles at the sound of his voice. Married ten years and she still smiles at his voice. She was lucky. “Look, seems I may be home not as late as I had thought.”

“Well, that’s good news,” she says walking into the kitchen. She glances out the window noticing how dark in has gotten outside in such a short time. No more watching the brilliant snow tonight. She looks at the clock, 5:55. “So, what time should we be expecting you then?”

“I’d say, probably by 7, 7:30 the latest,” he says hurriedly. “I got this quick meeting with Burke, then I should be ready to plow out of here.”

“I didn’t cook anything. We are having TV dinners, so it’s either that, or pick something up for yourself on your way home.”

“Got the hint, loud and clear, Karen. Kitchen will be closed by the time I get home,” he laughs softly. “Okay, I gotta run. See you guys soon. Love you.” He ends the call before she is able to reciprocate the feeling. She is happy he will be home earlier though. Timmy will be, too. She opens the over door and checks the chicken. She lifts edge of the breast up gently flipping it over, she does the same with the small drumstick. Timmy likes the chicken to be crunchy. She closes the oven door and shuts off the heat.

She heads to the refrigerator and opens the bottom drawer. She pulls out a ready made bag of salad, pre-washed. She giggles at the triple washed in big letters across the bag. “Not only will we cut it, we’ll wash it for you, too,” she aloud to herself. She grabs a container of grape tomatoes and closes the door with her foot. She plops everything on the counter. She grabs a wooden bowl from overhead. She rips open the salad at the perforation mark and pours it into the bowl, then sprinkles some tomatoes on top. “Viola,” she says mocking herself.

She puts on her Hello Kitty oven mitts, given to her last Christmas by Timmy. She retrieves the cardboard like tray from the oven and places them on two plates she has set on the counter to cool. “Timmy!” she calls. She already knows how this will wind up. She can either continue to yell, then stomp u the stairs and force him away from his game. Which will then lead to a dinner at the table strewn with silence and bad attitude from an eight year old. Or she can just bring the plate up to his room and let him eat up there. It is Friday, she reasons to herself. So without a second yell, she pours him a glass of milk. She picks up the plate and glass and heads up the steps.

There he is, still swaying with the Mario Kart race, the sound effects assaulting his small ears. She places the plate next to him on the floor. “I want you to eat all of this, or I’m taking the game away,” she says sternly enough for only her to hear. He hungrily grabs the drum stick and holds it in his mouth while continuing to play his game. She shakes her head and leaves him alone.

Karen eats alone at the island in her kitchen staring absently at the television. A rerun of Seinfeld, the classic “master of my own domain” episode. No matter how many times Karen has seen it, it never gets old. She laughs as Kramer busts through Jerry’s door unannounced slapping his money on the table. No questions asked, comedy genius right there. Karen finishes the last of her salad and gets up to clear her plates. She looks out the window and sees darkness. Karen reaches and flicks the on switch for the outdoor lights to illuminate the backyard.

She takes another glimpse through the panes wanting another winter wonderland image. It is then that she notices the footprints. She moves closer to the window thinking maybe her eyes are playing tricks on her. But there they still are, tracks in the snow coming from the woods just beyond her backyard. She follows the tracks with her eyes. They walk through her backyard, and up the steps to her back door. She runs over to the back door and peers through the curtain. She can’t see much for the lights illuminate the back part of the yard mostly. She flicks another switch, the one that shines over the back door. The prints, right there…It seems someone walked right to this door. But, no one knocked. Maybe someone was in trouble, she thinks? A hunting accident? Why didn’t I hear anything?

“Maybe I was upstairs in Mario Land when the knocking occurred,” she concludes to herself. “I wouldn’t have been able to hear anything.” She opens the door slightly. No one is there. “Hello!” she calls out. The soft breeze though the pines is the only answer that is returned. She looks back down at the tracks in the snow. They seem to descend back down the steps and go around to the side of her house. She walks outside and peers over the side of the deck. The tracks lead to her side door. That’s where they end.

Karen walks briskly back into the house and closes the door behind her. She pushes the lock down instinctively. She stares at the basement steps. She grabs a knife from the butcher block and walks tentatively to the top of the steps. The side door is closed. She flips on the basement lights. Snow. Tracks on the steps leading down to the basement. Karen feels her heart jump and fear spread rapidly throughout her body. “Timmy,” she says aloud, and quickly turns back to the kitchen.

She feels something hit her hard in the stomach. The pain is not immediate, almost a dull thump that takes her breath away. She grabs instinctively at the metal stake embedded in her abdomen, blood pours over her hands. The pain takes on a whole new vengeance, sharp and stinging. It forces her to kneel down. She notices the legs next to her. A man. Her focus is going, her vision becoming blurry. Socks, she sees no shoes. Socks, then jeans, then a plaid coat. His large hands are wrapped around a thick wooden handle. In a stupor her gaze follows the handle to the steel point jutting out of her stomach. She opens her mouth, but it seems all the air has left her and she is unable to suck anymore back in.

“If you yell too loud, he most likely won’t hear you,” its the last thing she hears before slipping away into darkness.