A Place of Safety-Derry/New World For Old/Home Not Home

A Place of Safety-Derry/New World For Old/Home Not Home
All three volumes are available in hardcover and ebook!

Thursday, July 31, 2025

Contemplation...

I'm 73, today, and feel like I'm caught between heaven and hell. Old in body, not in mind or sprit. Wondering how much longer I can keep going with the writing. I've been at it for fifty years...and I feel no closer to success than when I started. When I shifted away from art and thought I could make a career in film. Bad choice.

I'm working on PvSH...but I'm not enthusiastic about it. Not angry. Not even really fighting about it like I did for so many years with APoS. Simon wants to take it directions he thinks might excite me, but that doesn't work. I feel only slightly connected to him and the story. Doesn't matter what I do, it's never more than something to work on it.

I had lunch with some friends at a place with okay BBQ. This is Buffalo; they don't really know how to make that or good Mexican food, up here. And I got a few cards. And I saw a doctor about gall bladder surgery that I do not want to do. Talked to my sister in Texas. And took a long nap.

I did buy myself some chocolate chip cookies at Wegman's. Theirs are pretty damn good. Had those as my cake. Nothing more. So I'm just floating, right now.

Not one project I have on tap is exciting me. Nothing grabs me enough to make me feel the need to do it. For all the complaining I did about writing APoS, I never lost the sense I needed to write it. Like I once felt about Bobby Carapisi. I had a need to write it, all of it...which included the third volume. Which I've been told was unnecessary. Which was wrong; it absolutely had to be done.

What did I write after that? Was it The Lyons' Den? Working up something so completely different and off the wall some people can't even get into it? Break me out of the mood I was in after BC? Maybe. Maybe I should do that, again...

Is this what happens to writers? They finally reach the point where they've tapped out all their creative impulses and just thrash about seeing new inspiration?

Wednesday, July 30, 2025

Simon's escape from Alain...

Not sure where this is going in the story, yet...

------

Do you know how long it took me to get to the point where I was brave enough to publish those sketches? Thirty years after Alain’s death. And even then I self-published the book rather than submit it to be considered by a publisher of any kind. Made certain everyone knew it was an adult coloring book, not for children, to give it an even safer veneer. Toned many of the images I wanted to use down into sketches that were cartoonish, almost. Not on the level of Manga or Bara or Yaoi but workable. I’m a practiced artist, not a talented one. 

 My one talent was composition of a simplicity that could indicate far more, depending on my use of color. Black and white images in a kodalithic style, very stark with no mid-tones. Then a drop of deep rich red to contrast. I did a series of them...a total of thirteen that a collector in North Carolina loved and bought and made me a bit of a name. 

I made more. Of course, none were as blunt or raw as those for the coloring book, but I still built a small catalogue of prints for purchase, and that fueled my ability to buy a car and pay for insurance. A ten year old Honda CRV, which has been a great car. Carried my canvasses to various art festivals. It’s twenty years old, now, and cranky. Like me. But it got me here and back to Afton Springs, twice. I’ll drive it until it falls apart. 

That’s how I am. I hate to make changes unless absolutely necessary. That’s why it was so hard to leave Alain, prior to that night. Because for all the horrible things he did do to me...I’d felt like I was important to him. Needed. Necessary. A part of him. You don’t know how that notion can hand control of yourself to another. And I’d thought treating him like a king would protect that sense. Let me stay near him. 

That was the reality of my life, at that time. I wasn’t afraid of what he would do to me. I knew he’d never take me to the point of death. He was too selfish for that. And too stupid to do it in a way that couldn’t be traced back to him. Nor would the pain he caused be extreme. It was merely an acceptable punishment, on a symbolic level, for having turned out wrong, as my family had let me know more than once. 

No, I finally left because a cold, clear understanding crept into my mind...that he only saw me as a toy, nothing more. Something to use. For fun. Bring in a little cash, even. About as human to him as a blow-up doll. It was always me there for him, never him for me...and, eventually, he would move on to someone new and exciting, and I would be left adrift. 

It wasn’t a slow decision. I didn’t take weeks or days to consider all the ramifications. It was simply...one day I couldn’t leave, the next day I couldn’t stay. Like a switch was flicked in my brain, shining a light on what I’d been tolerating. 

Of course, I couldn’t depart too fast or sudden. Leave him by just walking away without a plan. I needed a bit of time to let this new belief permeate through me to the point where no matter what I did, I knew would be all right. So I took some time off from the newsstand, rented a car and drove to Houston. I wanted a larger world in which to disappear and find my way. But also one still familiar enough that I wouldn’t have to learn a whole new way of dealing with the world. 

It was a massive city, exploding skyward. Not only downtown but at a medical center and around a high-end mall called the Galleria. Malls always had book stores, back then, and I found a position at one, there. Not well-paid but enough to live on. To start the following Monday. 

Next, I drove down Westheimer to seek a small apartment. I didn’t have much money, and since I was going to abandon my lease I wanted a place and a job already arranged. I found one near Montrose, close to a Kroger, and knew the bus was right there. I could move in whenever I wanted. So there was y plan.

I had to tolerate him using me as his whore, one more time. He thought it was funny, me not liking it. Not wanting it. While the men who were with him thought I did and was just pretending to struggle. 

At least, I think they did. But there were two bastards with thick wedding bands who...who took special pleasure in binding me with that wrap and ripping apart my clothes and abusing me as Alain chuckled and shot Polaroids of it all. Both had children at home. They were the worst. The angriest. Probably because they didn’t have the balls to be what they wanted to be. 

I left in the middle of the week. A Thursday. Gave half my furniture away to people in the complex, put what I could in a small UHaul cube truck, and mid-afternoon left my key on the kitchen counter and drove away. Told no one where I was going. I didn’t put in a forwarding address at the post office. I never got much mail, anyway. I did have to change banks, but kept that to as minimal as possible. Made sure I emphasized no one was to know what I’d done. 

We call that ghosting, now. Back then, it was escaping.

Tuesday, July 29, 2025

Zombie work

Not a great day. Barely slept, last night, thanks to a nerve in my left foot acting up. Finally put a cold pack on it and that seems to have helped. But I've been something of a zombie, all day, including during an eye appointment.

I'm doing Simon's trial in transcript form so dug up copies of court transcripts to use as templates. And it's not easy work, since I don't have the template of machine for it. As you can see, it's very precise.

1. Number every page, including covers, indexes, certificate (no Roman numerals). 

2. “Certified Transcript” must be on the cover. 

3. Each day must be a separate volume. 

4. Electronic transcripts must be in searchable PDF format. 

5. Certificate for electronic transcript must have an electronic or digital signature. 

6. Covers must indicate volume and total number of volumes; Volume 1 of 4. 

7. Cover must indicate pages included. For example, Pages 101 through 179/300. 

8. The Master Index is Volume 0, blocked Pages 1 through 100, no certificate. 

9. Indicate on last page of Master Index: (Pages * through 100 are utilized for block numbering purposes. The next page number is 101 in Volume 1. Nothing is omitted.)

10. Lines are numbered

11. Text is double-spaced.

And it's legal size (8.5x14"). It's not proving to be very easy.

Monday, July 28, 2025

Last of that chapter

Here's the rest of the chapter from the 2 previous posts. Simon is getting to be nicely pissy.

------

I managed to keep my voice level as checked around the corridor and saw Paley standing over near security, talking to one of the guards. I said, “Look...look at his face. His jowls. His skin. How he...he...he’s even got bitch tits...” 

“What?” she snapped. 

 I smiled and almost chuckled, feeling more in control. “Moobs, if you prefer. The way his nipples are more like a woman’s than a man’s.” 

“How do you know this?” She was all but disparaging. 

 “Pay attention! I told you! He was in a tight athletic t-shirt. A wife-beater. And his muscles, they’re blown up like balloons. I got the feeling if I stuck them with a pin, they’d pop.” 

Walstead forced a chuckle. “C’mon, man, don’t you gay guys go crazy for muscles? And you did approach him.” 

“It wasn’t his muscles I liked. It was his profile. The way he was standing...the image he made...” 

Such a lovely image. The light rushing down from above, a bit behind him. Gleaming over the rear of his head and his back and ass. Highlighting the flow of them. With his profile in silhouette against that soft mist, just past him. The rest of him in shadow. That’s what stopped me. I’d seen his moobs and puffy jowls in the store and shown no interest, but seeing him posed like that...with those things hidden by the streaks of darkness...I wanted to capture it in pen and ink. I’d snuck a photo of him when I exited...

That was still on my phone...

Yes...it was... 

I opened it and went into photos. Scrolled through to find him. Right there, looking so elegant and welcoming and should have just used that instead of wanting him to model and... 

“Is that him?” 

It was Walstead’s voice, and it shook me. For a moment I’d forgotten where I was, and in truth I hadn’t wanted him to see it. But too late, now. I nodded. 

Manville also got a look at it and in her sneering voice said, “Nice. Small wonder you were thinking of ravaging him.” 

I laughed. No surprise she was resorting to stereotypes to make a point. But still, “Don’t be ridiculous. If you’ve really done research about me, you’d have seen I’ve done a number of illustrations for book jackets and this would’ve worked well, as one.” 

Walstead almost chuckled. “Book covers? What about this?” He held up the printout. 

Of course. Like a dog with a bone. All I could say was, “This is why people like you should never try to discuss something about which they know nothing.” 

He actually almost growled. “We can still use this artwork against you.” 

Manville smiled. “They show inclination and maybe even intent.” 

I looked at her in awe. I’d actually thought she was the smart one. Instead, she’s the worst aspect of a team player; even though she knows what they’re doing is wrong, Walstead’s made his decision and she will back him up. Like a dutiful wife or victim of abuse. 

I sighed and said, “I’ll give you a list of the work I’ve illustrated. They’re on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Books a Million, and available for order through your local independent book dealer.” 

“You’re pretty cavalier about what these could do to you, in that courtroom,” Walstead said. His voice had an edge to it. Obviously, his attempt at intimidation wasn’t working. 

“Again, pay attention. My name is on every coloring book and listed as illustrator for a dozen titles. Google me as an artist and the first one that usually comes up is The Best Way to Make a Straight Man Gay. It’s been banned a few times. People thought it was a how-to manual.” 

Elissa tried to keep her voice snotty and mean, but I could sense surprise behind it. “It’s not?” 

“Another reason you should read the work for yourself.” I turned back to Walstead, smiling, “I’ve posted some of my shorter poetry on the gay sites, as well. I just wrote one little ditty that would fit you perfectly. How’s this?” 

Big bad boy Paley decided to gloat 
That he’d seen how Walstead would quietly dote 
On him walking by, so he sneered to quote, 
“Y’know, it’s not sex if I cum down your throat.” 

 Walstead stiffened and I think he was close to hitting me. Instead, he just snarled, “I’m not gay.” 

“So you say.” Then I put my portfolio in my backpack. 

“Simon,” he said, his voice low and growling, “if we don’t deal, here and now, I’m aiming for jail time.” 

“You will address me as Mr. Harper!” 

“I mean it. Six months, thanks to the special enhancement. Thousand dollar fine.” 

I rose, laptop in one hand, and slung the backpack over my shoulder, saying, “It amazes me that you graduated from Harvard Law, never mind passed the bar exam. And that is taking into account you were a legacy entrant. That school has lost all respect I had for it.” 

Elissa circled me to return to Dillon’s side. “You’ve been doing your own research.” 

“And it’s better than yours, obviously. Courtroom’s open. I’m going in. I prefer you both stay away from me.” 

I crossed to the door, checked security but still no ReShawn, so showed the guard my driver’s license and a text on my phone. A reminder of the time and date for the trial. The guard passed me in. Dillon and Elissa followed. 

If they were going to call me by my first name, from now on I would call them by theirs. It’s petty, I know, but right now I’d take anything I could get.

Sunday, July 27, 2025

Continuing from yesterday...

Simon is talking to Walstead and Manville prior to the beginning of his trial, and they threaten to use his art against him.

-------

“He’s a very up-to-date kind of guy...” 

I chuckled. “Up to date? What? Are we in the Fifties?” 

“I just mean, he’s not...he’s not some innocent, not unaware and...and even he was freaked out. Said it all got brutal in the...how’d he put it...non-con area. He told me about one...” 

He held up a printout of one page. Ray Who Was Taken. Just the first section, since it had spread over nine pages, with a midnight-style sketch of a man grabbing a younger man...

The hour was late before Ray headed home 
From the party his best friend had held at Le Dome. 
The blues and the blacks of the night's monochrome 
Made him feel so easy, he thought he would roam 
Since he had a condo that wasn't too far. 
But he didn't notice when that big blue car 
Pulled out of the parking lot next to the bar 
And quietly followed. Its back doors ajar. 
He passed his street and as he started to turn 
For the park, the car pulled up. Now too late to learn 
The four men inside of it each had a yearn 
To force Ray to join in their weekend sojourn. 

He continued with, “It made me wonder if you planned to get Paley back to your hotel. Drug him. Abuse him.”

I rolled my eyes and closed my laptop. It was nearing ten a-m and obviously these two would not let me do any work, so I said, “That comment is why you should have purchased a copy of my coloring book, for yourself. Then you’d have seen in all the artwork I do that every one of the men who’re kidnapped and abused are well-built. With hair on their chest, legs, arms and belly. All around the age of thirty. Good strong features and a thick mane on their head. Paley is their polar opposite, except in age.” 

“He’s well-built.” Now it was snottiness from Manville. 

I cast her a cool glare. “He shaves the hair off his body. Including his pubes. I think it’s to de-emphasize the growing male pattern baldness.” 

“How do you know that?” Walstead asked. “Are you going to claim he exposed himself to you?” 

“Oh, stop it. He was dressed in a white wife-beater, that night, and it was probably a size too small for him. It was easy to see the stubble on his chest and belly and...” 

He cut me off with, “That doesn’t mean anything.” 

“His beard does. It was beyond being a five o’clock shadow but not quite scruff. And what hair was on his head was thick, except for that little tuft he has in the center. He also has some on his shoulders...the trapezius, I think it’s called...and at the nape of his neck, where he can’t reach with a razor. There was more stubble on his forearms, but none in his pits. Which he did exhibit. I despise that. It’s as if he wants to come across as a little boy instead of an adult.” 

He shook his head. “You also called him a juice junky, which he does not look like. And besides, steroids are illegal, for muscle enhancement...” 

“Oh, that’ll stop it.” 

Manville circled around in front of me and... 

And suddenly Alain was double-teaming me. With two friends of his and...

I jolted, shaken. I hadn’t thought about that time in years and...

“What makes you think he uses them?” she asked, her voice far too deliberately casual. 

It still came out of nowhere. And she was still moving in that way so I had to close my eyes so I couldn’t see. Mentally, I knew it was not deliberate on her part, but inside was a growing sense of panic remembering... 

Arriving home... 

Not knowing Alain knew my extra key was taped on top of the door frame... 

And he...he and them said they were playing a game but...but...

No. 

Fucking no. 

I fought to back away from those memories. I did not want that shit to rock me, not at that point in time! No. No fucking way.

No!

I forced my eyes open and pulled a pen from my backpack and dug it into the palm of my left hand. It hurt like hell, and it was still a fight to kick away that chaos, but it jolted me enough to where I could make myself start to breathe normally, again.

I looked straight at Manville, and I would almost swear she was studying me. Like I was a insect. I glanced at Walstead and his expression was one of wariness. They’d both noticed my actions, of course, and both had wary expressions. Suddenly I got the idea they didn’t see me as human but just some beast they were having to deal with. As if I was rabid.

At that moment, I couldn't swear that I wasn't.

Saturday, July 26, 2025

Before Simon's trial...

Did another 2000+ words, including reworking this part. Now have a total of more than 25,000 words. That's at least 1/3 of the way done. Damn...

I'm having anything Simon is part of told in first person. When dealing with anyone else, it'll be in third person.

--------

I was about to cross to the courthouse when I noticed a small bank branch on the corner, to my left, with an open ATM. I went to it, accepted the ridiculous service charge, and withdrew three-hundred dollars. I wanted cash in case the clerk refused to let me use my Visa or debit card to pay the fine. I slipped it in my wallet then crossed with the signal. 

Security was fairly straightforward. An x-ray scanner next to a table where I had to push my backpack through to be inspected by a guard as another waved me in. I’d put my wallet, keys, glasses and everything else that might set off the scanner into the outside pockets of my backpack, so no problem arose with me. And nothing was found in my backpack that might be dangerous. My name was on a list of people attending court proceedings. So in I went. 

Dillon Walstead and Elissa Manville were already in the corridor outside the courtroom, both looking crisp and fresh in appropriately tailored suits, with Dillon’s much better fitted than hers. Perfectly fitted, in fact, as if bespoke. They were talking to that son-of-a-bitch, Paley, who was wearing the sharpest cop’s uniform I’d ever seen. It practically emphasized how well-built he was. He had also shaved and his hair had been recently cut into what I referred to as whitewalls, meaning next to nothing visible above his ears or on the nape of his neck. 

What had my father once called that? Marine cut? Military? Jarhead? Something along those lines, and he’d been quite disdainful of anyone who wore it without also having the stick-up-your-ass gait of a true Marine. 

“Buncha pussies actin’ like they’re real men,” he’d snarl under his breath. Before he died, he’d almost seemed to prefer men have the long hair he’d so disparaged during Vietnam. The style seemed to be making yet another resurgence in fashion, now that the police had become part of America’s gestapo. 

Of course, he’d stopped talking to me after he learned I was queer. Stopped even acknowledging me. No surprise. No loss, really. We’d never been close enough for that to matter. 

I walked past them without even a nod and sat on a bench across from Courtroom Three, waiting for the double-doors to open. It was a nice-looking corridor of polished wood, probably oak stained to look like mahogany. If that were possible. Still, it was intricately carved and gleaming. Glazed slate floors. Church-like arches of carved wood above, with plain white plaster or sheetrock between them; I never can tell which is what. 

An older, once-attractive guard in a green and tan uniform stood before the doors, at parade rest, eyeing everyone with full suspicion. That same Marine cut, but from his stance I suspected he actually had been one. 

The bench I was seated on was also polished and a bit slippery from being waxed, but it was close enough to the wall that I could lean back. So I pulled out my laptop and used my phone’s hotspot to fire up some WiFi. The building may have its own internet service, but it wasn’t at all secure. My phone was. 

I had an old leather file portfolio holding my documents and details. It also served well as a little tray to rest my laptop on. The Word file of the vicious little story I’d written about Paley, Walstead and the Judge was positioned near the top of the screen, making me smile. That had let off a lot of steam so maybe I could make it through this fiasco without... 

“Good morning, Simon.” 

I jolted, slightly, then looked up to see Walstead standing next to me, Elissa one step behind him. They must have snuck over, and now were standing nearly at attention. “We need to speak to you before the trial.” 

That suit was even better-looking, up close. He’d spent some money getting it tailored, and it was begging for a compliment. But all I said was, “It’s Mr. Harper. We’ve been over this.” 

Walstead hesitated then forced himself to smile. “Very well, Mr. Harper. Now, I think you should know...” 

I cut him off, deeply irritated. “You have nothing to say to me.” 

He sat beside me, all but forcing himself to take a weary, sympathetic tone. “I don’t know about that. We’ve been doing some research. I didn’t realize you were a poet as well as an artist.” 

Oh, for God’s sake, I almost groaned. “If you Google my name, my work comes up, rather quickly. It’s no surprise.” 

Manville seemed taken aback. “You Googled yourself?” 

I just looked at her. 

Walstead cleared his throat. “You’re not exactly correct about that. What we found was some rather...intense work. At first I thought it was a mistake, you’re such a laid-back kind of guy, and your names are not exactly unusual, so...well...it was surprising.” 

“Is there a point to this conversation?” 

Walstead shifted back to stiff and cold. “You have a coloring book with some poems. Illustrations. They tell us very interesting things about you. Gangs of men kidnapping straight men. Tying them up. Raping them. The suggestion is, some of them are even killed.” 

“You ordered one?” 

“No, there were some pages from it posted online.” 

“That sounds like you’ve been perusing Gay Portal. You have to be a member, for access. Was it smart of you, to sign up?”

He stiffened even more. “I didn't. I have a friend who's gay and he recognized your name...”

“Recognized it?”

“Yes. He's an attorney and I was sounding him out about your case and he realized he knew of you. And...and he showed me some of your work.”

“A fellow gay man helped you gather information on me. How nice of him.”

Friday, July 25, 2025

Despite my best efforts...

It seems I am going to write a first draft of The People v. Simon Harper. Today, I did another 1800+ words of Simon agreeing to a physical examination by a Dr. Aristian. Paley claims Simon exposed himself but noticed nothing unusual about his genitals. Simon points out he has a tattoo on his penis, thanks to Alain, and the man would have seen it if his claim was correct.

The doctor is going to see for himself and describe it for the record. Well...he's called doctor over and over, but not once does anyone mention that he just has a PhD in Jurisprudence; no medical background.

Walstead and Manville are scrambling with this case. They don't understand how dark Simon is, inside; all they see is an older man who looks gentle and easy to push around. Walstead was certain that if he pulled in another witness to counter Simon's evidence, that would make him roll over. Instead, it only pissed him off to the point he will not talk to the prosecution, again.

I'm letting myself write sections that grab me instead of trying to maintain any form of linear progress. And the story is changing shape, as I do. Initially, I was going to have Dr. Aristian brought down during the first half of the trial to do the examination, and Simon find out in the courtroom that he's not a physician, then toss a fit.

But it worked out so much more naturally to have them break for lunch and give the doctor not only time to get to the courthouse and be filled in on what's happening, but Simon time to research him and be unclear as to who the man is. Until he meets him just outside the courtroom and works it out.

He notes ReShawn has not shown up to witness what is happening and won't respond to texts, so he plows ahead to make the best of it he can. He winds up setting off a bomb with Aristian by suggesting his doctoral committee wouldn't like it if they knew how he was using his PhD to help the DA's office use tricks to convict people.

I don't know if any of this works on a legal basis, but the story doesn't care. And Simon is being helpful if still pulling a bit towards an area I don't want to go to. Guess we'll see how it turns out, because my outline is blown all to hell.

Thursday, July 24, 2025

More of Simon's thoughts

Continuing from yesterday:

-----

After that, there was always something he needed from me or needed me to do, so I’d grown to where if I was sitting there I’d get up when I saw him coming. 

I’d been so well-trained, like a dog. 

Since he died, I’ve made certain to enjoy sitting and watching the rain. Almost like an act of defiance. Or a declaration that I needed no one but this to be whole and complete. 

Being alone is considered a failure in too many people’s minds. Like they can’t accept not wanting to be bothered by someone who’s invading your space. Like you can't be happy without a relationship to help you through life. It seems to me that in order to face the world they need a husband or wife or lover...or a man in the sky looking down on them with benevolence...for support, and they cannot understand how someone would not be of the same bent. They cannot accept the idea you’re strong enough to just live on your own, because it’s too frightening to them. 

I finally understood, after many years, that was something Alain was scared of. Being alone. Not having control of himself, in many ways, but also needing to believe he was strong enough to control another. Like me. And I’d bought into that for far too long. 

I hadn’t been strong when I left him. If I had been, I wouldn’t have needed to sneak away like I did. Or even become involved with him to the extend I did. I’d simply grown tired of the games he'd played to keep control of me and himself. He’d been right, years later, spitting at me that I got off on those games. I’d loved relinquishing control and letting him decide my life... 

Until I didn’t. 

And now here I was...God, forty-six years after breaking free. Thirty nine years after he died. And still sitting here, like when I was twenty, watching and listening to the rain the night before... 

Before what? Catastrophe? Reality? Facing the truth that actually you can not do this all alone? 

Yeah, that is reality. That’s why you still asked ReShawn to handle your appeal, just in case. 

And he’d sighed and accepted, saying, “You’re giving me money for nothing.” 

“I hope so.” 

“You’re not a positive-thinking person, are you?” 

“Just a realist.”

I’d almost added, Who learned to trust his gut in situations like this. But that might have led to more protestations and eventual rejection, by ReShawn. And despite my claims to preferring to be alone and facing the world on my own, having this bit of support gave me strength enough to face what might happen, tomorrow. 

Which led to another question. Did I trust ReShawn to back me up, even having given him a retainer? He was another attorney living in this town and having to deal with Walstead and Bush and the coziness between them and the police, and even him saying he'd be there didn't mean he would be.

I’d already gotten the impression from others that they’d have flat out refused. Even though I had the evidence or even thought their ethics required them to give me the best defense possible. Or if they had taken my case, they’d have done the minimum needed, just to keep the peace with those on the opposing side of justice. 

ReShawn had seemed a bit more willing to push back against them, because he’d defended other minorities who'd been abused by the local police. Taken one to the state supreme court and brought about a new trial, for a young man accused of stealing a backpack he’d bought from that store the week before. Which Bush had finally declined to retry. Not a big win, but something. 

The rain was still pouring. Like in Rashomon. Straight down like it was trying to wash existence away. The trees lining the road were bare shadows in it. The lights of the parking lot and along the walkway did their best to maintain illumination. The steady hiss of it hitting the pavement sounded almost musical, like the background to some new opera by Philip Glass. If all went as usual, in the morning there would be few clouds and a soft mist holding in the air, soon to vanish into the heat of the day. 

I was tempted to stay up all night, but that would have made me loose and uncertain in the morning. Easily distracted. And I needed everything I had to fight back and leave ReShawn enough to build an appeal around. 

If he would. 

I still wasn’t convinced of that.

Wednesday, July 23, 2025

Bouncing back to PvSH?

I let Simon change Doyle to Alain, then bring me more than 1500 words and lead me into the following:

-----

I had sorted my documents and images and notes upon the bed closest to the window. Not because there was any light, from it; storm clouds had rolled in and removed what little was left of the evening sun. It just seemed that looking at them...seeing them there...in order...I hoped they would soothe my worries. 

They didn’t. 

I’d shown them all to ReShawn (an attorney), and he had been very positive in his comments. 

“You should let Walstead know about the school being moved,” he’d said. “Before the trial begins.” 

“Why wouldn’t he already be aware of that?” I’d asked. 

“He may have forgotten, or not really made the connection, yet. It happen fairly recently. He’s sure to agree this is a waste of time and resources and withdraw the charges.” 

“What makes you think so?” 

“It’s just a misdemeanor, Simon. To go through a trial for something this minimal? I don’t think Bush would go for that.” 

“Bush?” 

“Oh, he’s the DA. Very pragmatic.” 

“But Walstead has a one-hundred percent conviction rate before Judge Falwell.” 

“Of cases he takes before him. He’s not averse to refusing to take a case all the way if he doesn’t think he’ll win it. Even in municipal court.” 

It made sense and I would like to have believed him, but something in my gut was telling me this was not a mere misdemeanor charge, anymore. It was more like a challenge of some kind. Like neither he nor that woman backing him up...Manville; Elissa Manville; get your names correct...they were unwilling to allow that a gay man might be innocent. The way they’d been so tense around me. Still and formal, in contrast to how ReShawn described them. 

“Both of ‘em’re pretty easy-going,” he’d said. “I’ve dealt with them in other cases. Bush makes it a point for his office not to try and force a conviction in anything trivial.” 

“Me being arrested is hardly...” 

“To them, something trivial. Misdemeanor, first offense? No enhancement meaning no jail time? Small fine? It costs more to try it than they’d get in return.” 

“That’s a business proposal.” 

“That’s today’s system of justice.” 

There seemed to be a great deal of truth to what he was saying, but he hadn’t seen how friendly Walstead and that fucking cop were. Or how Manville had gazed at the bastard. I had the distinct impression they were all great friends. 

It had caused me to go online, once I got to my hotel, and look deeper into the three of them. Walstead’s bio on the office’s site had him on the debate team in high school, cum laude in pre-law and finishing at Harvard. Paley’s was harder to pin down, but I’d finally learned he had been in high school at the same time as Walstead. Same year. And was a total jock. A big man on campus, I’m sure. Manville was listed as a paralegal and had been two years behind them. I got the impression she’d probably hit law school, soon. 

This only added to my certainty that the case would not only go through, but also be found against me. 

I shut everything down and looked back at the things on the bed...and noticed it had started raining. Hard. I grabbed my hotel key and stepped out on the walkway to watch. 

There was little breeze, so it poured straight down. Smothered the parking lot with water and splashing drops. I always found rain to be cleansing. The aroma of it. The gentle noise, no matter how loud it became. The near tenderness accompanying it. I could let myself be calm and think and my mind would settle. 

I leaned against the door frame and slowly slid to the floor, letting the splashing hints of water drift over to me the from the railing. All they did was dampen the lower part of my trousers. I was wearing socks, so removed them and pulled my pants legs up to let the tiny puffs wash against my toes and ankles, emphasizing the tenderness. 

Alain had thought me mad, the first time he saw me doing this. I was living in a duplex by Breckenridge Park, downstairs, and sitting cross-legged on the tile under the section that was covered. I’d had on shorts, a cut-off tee-shirt and flip-flops, and he’d scurried up from parking on the street. God...in that monstrous Matador he's thought was so cool.

“You goin’ out to dance in it, next?” he’d asked, shaking off the rain. 

I’d just shaken my head. The silence was too nice, at that moment. I didn’t even need to get up and let him in. The door was open, so he’d headed inside, dripping wet.

That was the only time he’d ever left me alone with it.

Tuesday, July 22, 2025

Maintenance issues...

Couldn't go anywhere because the LED light over my bathroom sink went out, and the only way it can be fixed is replace it. They had to buy a new one. Take my medicine cabinet off in order to rewire it. Meaning I had to empty the damn thing. And it took a good hour and three trips down to the maintenance room for tools to get it done.

Then came putting everything back in order. So I was here till after 2:30...and by that point I wasn't in the mood to go anywhere.

A repeat job popped up in Newport, so that took my attention. And I tried doing some promo work on my new FB page. I also began feeling like working on part 3 of Blood Angel, where Léonidès turns Franz into a vampire...and comes to regret it.

This part would link to what I've already written about him tracking down his sister, Gabrielle, in Korea and asking her to take Franz off his hands in exchange for Dmitriy, her gay BA companion. She agrees...then, of course, betrays him because it suits her.

But as I was pulling everything together, Simon whispered back into my thoughts. Not really apologetic but acknowledging he'd gone a bit crazy and understanding I want a more thoughtful piece. Not the chaos and hatefulness he was revealing, from his past. I mean, that can be there, but not in such a way that it takes over and becomes just about him and Doyle.

So now I'm not sure what to do. Simon wants to tell me a moment when he's in his hotel, the night before the trial, and it's raining hard. And he likes that. Loves the rain. Lets him think about what's going to happen...and reveals he expects to be found guilty, even though he can show reasonable doubt.

That afternoon, he'd contacted a lawyer about handling his appeal, if that happens. Outlined his defense strategy, which raises questions about Paley's credibility, and the lawyer was sure he'd get off. But he knows he won't. And he's thinking about his situation and his life and how he's come to this point.

So now I'm rethinking my plan to chuck The People v. Simon Harper...dammit...

Monday, July 21, 2025

Blueberries can be bland?

I went out to get milk, today, and brought back 2 bags worth of groceries, including frozen blueberry blintzes. A crepe wrapped around cream cheese and blueberry compote. Cooked up some in my toaster oven. And while they tasted okay...they were disappointing. Really more like bland. Not at all exciting.

I didn't go to Niagara Falls. I did a bit of promotion for the Smashwords ebook sale and updating of posts meant to promote it. Rescheduled a doctor's appointment because of another appointment that got rescheduled. Did some cleanup on my laptop. And nothing much else.

Except decide I'm not working on The People v. Simon Harper, anymore. The reason I had for starting it is gone, and I don't feel like going through the process of reclaiming it. I hate to abandon a story I've started, but this one is just plain nuked. 

I'll check into one of the other stories I have on tap -- Darian's Point, Dair's Window, even Blood Angel or Dirc and the Dyarvos Bones. They still have a hold on me, as do the characters, and are much closer to making sense than PvSH could even begin to be.

Of course, DDB hasn't sold anywhere near the number of copies I wanted in order to get me to return to the rest of it. And BA needs a section that will be quiet vicious in order to link it to the other parts of the story I've already written.

DP is going to be a tough one, because I want a lyrical, oral storytelling style for it...and that would take some serious work. DW is probably 60% written...maybe 2/3...I just need to work out the structure of it.

I guess I should read through what I've done and see which one's the most available to me, right now...

Sunday, July 20, 2025

Music of my life?

Some silly little survey set up by someone I don't know determined the best music for each Zodiac sign, and mine wound up being perfect. Aram Khachaturian's Masquerade Waltz. I love this...especially since it's performed by the Arthur Rubinstein Music School in Bydgoszcz, Poland as a finals performance.

It's a lovely end to a day of cleaning, laundry, and ignoring the world and the wildebeests who've taken it over.

Of course, Simon's sulking, and I don't care. I'm not dealing with him, tomorrow, either. I may go to Niagara Falls and just watch the water flow, carrying away my nonsensical concerns about a story that has exploded into nothing, on me, and has no right to have fucked with me like it did.

I have other books to write.

Saturday, July 19, 2025

Rejection...

Well...seems a young barber I liked doesn't want me as a client, anymore. He's one of those trim, good-looking, slightly hyper lads, in a Persian sort of way, and no question that I found him attractive, but the main reason I liked him was how well he cut my hair. It fell nicely and grew out like it's supposed to.

So yesterday I called to see if he was available. We set up an appointment and he said he's moved locations so will send me the address...but didn't. I texted him to let him know I hadn't received it...and no response. Now looking back, the last time I got my hair cut by him, I almost had to talk him into it. So I couldn't go to my appointment...and no call from him to find out why. Gotta find a new barber.

It's not the first time I've been flat out rejected, not counting the times I was trying to get someone into bed. In LA I lost out on an apartment because one of my potential roommates thought I was too old. I was thirty-eight.

And the moderator of a writing group refused to let me join because she thought I'd be a detriment to the others, with my ideas on writing. For example, talking to my characters and not relying on outlines to lay out every point in the story.

But since I don't beg, this new rejection freed me up to just do my thing, today, and ignore the chaos of the world for a moment. I have that luxury. And it paid off. My blood sugar reading was well-within normal and my BP was 118/70 when it's usually been 145-150/100-110.

I pretty much ignored Simon, today. Found out one of the libraries I sent a set of A Place of Safety to has ordered two more sets. Guess it fits with their catalogue. Probably helps that the books have a Library of Congress Control Number.

Tomorrow, I'm cleaning my apartment...and not doing it just to avoid writing. How very odd, about me.

Friday, July 18, 2025

Simon's Manifesto...

I spoke with Simon, today, and he proceeded to lead me straight into chaos. I've written a bunch of wicked poems over the years, and I was pulling them together to see if he wants to lay claim to any, to enhance his story...and his response was to bring me this manifesto.

I want to write a simple tale about a situation that spins out of control and gets someone killed. A serious story. With a gay man at its center, and as its intended victim. Whose art and writing are used as an excuse to hurt him. But now I'm not so sure what the ending will be.

Simon started telling me about the hate he has for a man who abused him and how he controls that hate with sketches of vicious sexual encounters...mainly rapes. Where he's the perpetrator and the victim. Nothing cute about them, and his poems explain what the story is behind them. And I don't know if I can handle this.

Seriously, it's freaked me out. The poems I wrote are off the wall and meant to let off some emotional steam. What he wants is a fucking dam releasing floodwaters. So I don't know what the story is, anymore. I'm beginning to wonder if I've tapped into some part of my own insanity...

Truth be told, I've never been the most stable of people. I keep a tight control over myself for fear of what I might do...and not to me. I joke with people that I write to keep from becoming what I have written...but it's not all that far from the truth. There have been occasions where my inner self has hinted at what lies dormant within me, and I know why it's there but I don't like dealing with it.

Simon's talk with Doyle as the man is dying, where he admits he's only caring for him because he wants to see the man suffer before he dies...and does...I can't believe that came out of me. I've never done anything like that. To anyone. I can't. But Simon is basically demanding I let go and run with more of it, for him.

To where? I have no idea. And neither does he.

And therein lies my schizophrenia...or is it called bi-polar, now...

Thursday, July 17, 2025

Business day...

I have a new Facebook page to promote my books, developed by a sharp young woman named Emily Jackson, whom I've also taken on as promoter. I suck at that and she's already done so much better than I could have. Keeping my original page...and trying my best to cross-pollinate the two...

It's been a strange day. I woke up from a dream that was uncomfortable. Not scary or depressing, just off-putting. I was in an office of open desks working at my laptop while being quietly berated as a leech by a guy who looked like John Barrowman, in his Dr. Who days. Captain Jack Hawking? Harkness...who's pansexual and winds up with Russell Tovey thanks to the Doctor.

When I remember my dreams upon waking, I know they are really supposed to mean something or are warning me...but I'm not sure what or how, in this case. I've been a leech, in the past. Not meaning to, at the time, but looking back I can see how I was. Same for having been an asshole more times than I care to admit.

But in an office setting? Working at my laptop and using the WiFi? Which seemed to really bug him the most? No. I pay for my WiFi...a lot. But I use it a lot. So I can't figure this one out. Symbolic, in some way?

I did finish cleaning up one of the sketches for Simon...who wants to add some to the book, when it's published. I can't do the two I worked up for him...but that does focus me on what is needed...and how he's being rather demanding.

Does my dream have something to do with him????

Wednesday, July 16, 2025

Realignment...

Didn't go to sleep till 5am and slept off and on till after 11am. Not great...but I just plain wasn't sleepy. I did some diagrams for Caladex and sent them over at 3:40am. Sorted paperwork that had piled up. Ate a lot of bacon and OJ. I don't do that...

Then when I got up, Simon let me know he's changing his last name to Harper. Halloran was just to unwieldy for him. He wants simplicity and clarity. So...the title of the piece is now People v. Simon Harper.

Next we did a couple sketches for him. Both of them are three-character works. The first has a buff man standing with his hands bound behind him and attached to a couple of cables. His shirt is torn open but his pants are in place. A naked young man is half embracing him, his erect dick pressing against the man's left leg. Behind them is another naked man finishing up a shower in an open area, seeming to watch them.

The second has a young man in unbuttoned jeans holding what could be his shirt. He's outside a room where a nearly naked man is undoing his shoe, his foot propped up on a bed, his stance wide. Lyig on the bed, before him...practically under him...is another young man who's been bound and gagged and exposed. Dick and balls, both. A phone is set up at the foot of the bed, on a tripod, to record what's happening.

I'd share them once I scan them in and clean them up, but Blogger would get upset.

Simon wants to make a coloring book of images along these lines. Demented Dreams of Simon Harper's Troublesome Lads. Something like that...though that is definitely unwieldy. But rather like what I did with Demented Dreams: of guys in trouble.

I've got a website, now. Nothing super fancy, but better than anything I could have done.

Tuesday, July 15, 2025

Library-bound...


I now have A Place of Safety set up in two libraries and sent it off for a third to consider adding it to their catalogue. This is the letter I sent:

Good afternoon,

I have written a story titled A Place of Safety. It’s about a Catholic boy in Derry, Northern Ireland during the Troubles, who is trying to live his life on his own terms. It’s in three volumes, and I am hoping the ______________ will consider adding it to their catalogue.

ISBNs and LCCNs:

Volume 1. Derry — ISBN: 979-8-9887577-1-9 LCCN: 2023922596

Volume 2. New World For Old — ISBN: 979-8-9887577-2-6 LCCN: 2024911743

Volume 3. Home Not Home — ISBN: 979-8-9887577-3-3 LCCN: 2024922801

These are for the general adult trade, and are priced at $32.50 each. All the hardcovers were published in 2024, with the paperback editions just recently coming out. They are available through Ingram Content Group, while the e-book editions are available through Direct2Digital.

I have included printouts of my Kirkus and BookLife reviews for each volume. 

As for myself, I am a writer and self-involved artist who’s lived in London and Honolulu, and a dozen places in-between. I’ve also traveled around the world, and some of my artwork has been purchased by collectors.

I used to write screenplays, which is how A Place of Safety began life—as an idea for one...twenty-five years ago. But it deepened and expanded and changed direction. In it, I’ve tried to build characters as vivid and real as possible, and have had a lot of fun doing it...mixed with angst, anger, amazement…and sometimes vicious arguments with the people in each book. I like to think I’ve done well by them.

To be up front, I’ve also written a number of other books, some of them erotic and controversial, but I truly feel A Place of Safety is in a class apart from those.

Thank you for considering my work. I look forward to hearing from you.

Monday, July 14, 2025

Dolly Parton just saved my life...

She came out with a peach cobbler and it's in the local stores!!! I'm in hog-heaven. Made it, tonight, and it is fucking glorious. OMG, you never know how much you missed something until you finally have it and it's helped you center your entire life! No other peach cobbler in Western New York. I had to make my own with Bisquik and canned peaches, and that was okay...but this blows it out of the water.

Of course, my blood sugar's going to freak out, but I don't care. I had a reading of 101 after dinner, yesterday, my lowest ever, and I felt like shit. Unfocused. Weak. Moody. Flat out unhappy. It wasn't till I went to get some pastries and scarfed them down with a glass of milk that I began to feel good, again.

I wonder if some this has to do with my Norwegian heritage? We live on milk products. Cheeses. Yoghurt. I managed to get myself down to 2% milk, but that's as low as I'll go. I also need beef. Not huge amounts, but I once did a Macrobiotic diet and nearly died. Same for Fit for Life. Both big mistakes. I have friends who are vegans and they manage fine. It's just not for me.

So I try to manage a balance...and after yesterday, that's all I'm gonna do. Veggies mixed in with meat and potatoes...and dessert. I'm gonna be 73. I'm out for quality of life as long as the MAGAt Class will let me.

Good thing is, I got a response from a library that they will take on A Place of Safety. And I'm sending out a query to the New York Public Library to see if they will, as well. I've worked up a full package of promo stuff--copies of my reviews at Kirkus and BookLife, synopses, links info--and will do that with some other libraries. Like the LAPL. And even use it for bookstores.

Powell's and Book Soup offer APoS for special order, so that may be all I can do with them unless I arrange for a signing. The Strand turned me down, in NYC.

So it goes...

Sunday, July 13, 2025

Simon's both artist and poet...

He's not too full of himself. But here's a poem that ADA Dillon Warstead will try to use against him...and only make things worse.


Freddy
By
Simon Halloran

When they grabbed Freddy, they had knives. 
Which made no sense; they all had wives. 
But blindfolded, and gagged and bound 
Off he was taken, with no sound 
Down in a room, so dark and strange 
Where he received no chance to change. 
Instead his clothes were cut away 
And they took turns with him, all day. 
"We knew you'd take it up the ass 
And in your mouth, despite your sass," 
The leader said, his third release 
Inside of Freddy yet to cease. 
"The way you fit your jeans was right, 
So we'll be keeping you all night, 
Until we're done, then you will know 
We own you and won't let you go." 

This made no sense at all. The lad 
Did not know what he had done bad 
To make them hurt him. "Well, you're gay," 
One man said, "and that's why you'll stay." 
"Then so are you," our boy cried back. 
That only led them to attack 
Him harder. "Don't say we are that," 
The leader snarled. "No more chitchat. 
Since you're the one who's fucked, not us. 
So there is nothing to discuss. 
We'll keep you. Use you till we're done. 
And then we'll find another one 
Who's just like you to fuck around.” 
Then put me six feet underground? 
Is what came to Freddy’s mind. 
With two more gay men lost in kind? 

No fucking way, our Freddy thought. 
No man will treat me like I'm bought 
To be used and then merely trashed. 
I will escape. Get your lives crashed 
To stop your evil ways and means, 
And show you nothing's as it seems.
For six weeks Freddy played their boy, 
And he made sure to bring them joy 
Despite his hatred of the group. 
Till one fine night he got the scoop. 
Sometime soon he would leave this earth 
In spirit. But he had no dearth 
Of plans to get away from them 
And not surrender to their whim. 
He’d never wasted any time, 
So knowing this, he became prime. 

First, break the chain around his leg.
He’d made sure every night to beg 
Them to remove it. They would shrug 
And leave him, like he was a bug. 
But while he feigned to be so weak 
From their abuse, the little sneak 
Was working at the padlock’s clasp 
To lessen the strength of its grasp 
While doing all he could to keep 
Them wanting him. He’d cry and weep, 
Which made them laugh in ways so cruel. 
They didn’t understand the fool 
Was them. Because early one morn 
The padlock opened. Hope was born. 
So he would suffer one more rape 
Then find the best time to escape. 

That day they came, the three prepared 
To end him, but then Freddy dared 
To howl and cower...then recover 
To kick one back into another. 
Ripped the chain off, to their shock 
And beat the last one. No more talk. 
He bolted upstairs to the door. 
Burst through into a great downpour 
Of rain to cleanse him. No more kept. 
And mere days later, those men wept 
Before the courts. He told the tale 
And all of them went straight to jail. 
Then Freddy said, "I'll write a book 
And in it you can have a look 
At all the evil done to me 
Because I'm gay...but now I’m free."


Saturday, July 12, 2025

Simon is a dick...

I made time to sit with Simon, nicely propped up in my bed, cozy as a kitten, and we talked. Well, sort of. He's got a real attitude, and it's rubbing me wrong...but that's good. I don't want to have to deal with anyone merely out to grow and be better or just to get revenge. I've got enough of that in my books.

Anyway, Simon is set in his ways, and I'm just going to have to work with them to build the story. Figure out what's going to happen as it happens. Meaning he's not crazy about my outline. Too restrictive.

To start, he's an artist, not a writer. Not fine arts, like Picasso or Pollock. More similar to Tom of Finland or Etienne, with their fun gay encounters and rapes. His art will have meaning and still be faggot in your face. He'll even have done some graphic novels written by someone he trusts enough to work with. 

There are Japanese artists who do serious bondage and torture work, but also do work that is just plain beautiful. Tagame is one he admires, as are Funayama, Hasegawa and Go Hirano, like this image.

Simon won't even think of trying to replicate his ability in making skin seem vibrant and alive. It had something to do with fish scales mixed into the paint. So Simon's just pen and ink line work. Coloring in is for professionals.

It's all an extension of what he did in 8th grade, which was interrupted by his time with Doyle. But now it's his go-to for settling himself. He's even doing a sketch as he watches Doyle take his last breaths before succumbing to AIDs. And smiles once it's done.

I'm also beginning to see why Simon prefers low-level jobs that provide a bare existence. He doesn't want anyone to pay attention to him. He got way too much of that with Doyle and nearly lost himself.

So now he has dozens of portfolios holding his unused work, and has it arranged for them to go to a LGBTQ+ museum in LA, when he dies. Maybe the Tom of Finland Foundation. Haven't decided, yet.

What I am doing is working up one of his sketches, now. Very NSFW.

Friday, July 11, 2025

PvSH pushing

Did a rough 1700+ words on a memory Simon's having when he thinks back on the time he was watching Doyle sleep. Struggling and fitfully, thanks to advanced AIDs. He hated the man for crushing him but is also being kind to him in many ways. He figures if Doyle hadn't been such a complete monster to him, he'd have slept around and wound up HIV+.

That memory is of when some schoolyard bullies tried to extort money from him in 8th grade, and how he refused to let them. When Simon decides no, he means NO. And even being punished by the school and harassed by other kids didn't change his mind.

I become like stone, he says. And I wait and let others keep trying to get to me, until they reveal how best to make them stop.

In this case, it was being shoved around by an obnoxious feral brat named Kenneth, who hadn't noticed Simon held a sharp #2 pencil in his hand. Kenneth yelled and called names and circled him with his pack and finally shoved him, hoping for a response...and that's when Simon rammed the pencil into his side. Hard enough to stick.

Freak outs occurred, as did blood, and Simon was threatened with assault charges, but all he said was, "He shoved me and my hand jerked. It was an accident." Which Kenneth inadvertently backed up by saying, "I didn't push him that hard."

It got shrugged off as an accident and boys being boys. But Kenneth and his pack stayed away from Simon, after that. And the next year, Simon went to a different high school from him.

Now he's facing legal bullies trying to force him to give in to their own form of blackmail...and he won't...and it's escalating beyond anyone's control...because Simon's silence is not really working to his advantage.

Thursday, July 10, 2025

Cooking day, alone...

I stayed in. Didn't get dressed or anything. Made spaghetti sauce with meat and veggies for later use. A lovely blueberry/pecan coffee cake for this evening, with tea. A smoothie with Apple Brandy in it. A goulash, of sorts, for lunch. A massive chef salad for dinner, albeit without the boiled egg. I didn't think about that till I was halfway done making it. But felt good.

Not good enough to look like him, but something to aspire to...even if I am too old to change.

I did have to deal a bit with issues concerning a pickup in the UK. I didn't get to go there for it, which I really wanted to. Dammit. And now I need to work up a diagram for the handling of some folio prints so it's done right.

Also dealt with the bank being pissy about my Visa card. For some reason, a security alert that I thought I'd handled weeks ago was still on it, so they were rejecting auto charges...and dealing with those people was not pleasant. I like my credit union, but I do not like this Visa.

Oh well...on the other hand...Simon is settling down next to me. About ready to talk and lead and explain and help me plan the best way to tell PvSH. How to lead into it. And here's one possibility.

You never know what actions will wind up leading to murder. Sometimes the simplest ones can be the first steps down that path. One step after the other, never seeming like they're taking you to a deadly place until it's too late to change course. Too late to even consider turning back.

So the night Simon Holleran was arrested began as simply as any other. Aside from him being in a town he never wanted to come to, in order to do a job he'd accepted only reluctantly. He'd thought he was doing a good deed...

No, I was doing something good. For a friend. Someone I thought was a friend. He needed to have a collection of antiquarian first editions catalogued and, since I lived little more than three-hundred miles from their owner it was relatively minimal trouble for me to travel down and handle it for him.

For a price.

I like the shift from third to first person, and think this will happen throughout the story. Maybe. You never know until it's actually done. For example, Simon may wind up being an artist instead of writer. Still something to think about.

Wednesday, July 9, 2025

Silent world...

Sometimes silence is all that matters. Sitting with not a sound and doing nothing but letting the world whisper around you in ways that seem gentle even as they growl and threaten.

That is why I like being alone. No one to explain to. Or push aside so I can visit my quiet...quiet space whenever I want. I can seek monsters, there...and angels...and worlds I've never imagined for myself...

I don't remember the first time I visited this shadow-filled land...but I know I first used it to write HTRASG. A crude title, but of a meaning unto itself. It warned me I'd be dealing with a wounded man demanding his story be told, blunt and cold and crying for understanding.

Curt. I felt almost as if he were real. Part of me...but not. Sitting there. Waiting. In silence. Until I agreed to let him reveal his tale through me. Which I did. That book came from his world, not from mine. And it still affects people.

It wasn't until I was writing narrative fiction that I really began to understand who my people were. My angels and demons. I'd written screenplays, only with characters who were sketches to be filled in by others. I didn't know them well enough to reveal them.

Curt led me to a world I could never have visited on my own. Like wandering through a mist into a new existence, greeted by more people who welcomed me, happily. And told me things I did not want to know...but had to. Some fought with me. Others pleaded. And some merely waited until I was ready. A few were even all of these things.

I didn't like it, much of the time, but I pushed and fought to remain true. And now...no matter what anyone says about my work...my books...I did as right by them as I could.

I feel like I'm stepping into a new part of my silence. Feel like I am no longer afraid to write what I write. Meaning, I no longer have to overcome that fear. It's gone. I am who I am, and all that matters is I do not shirk my responsibility to my people.

Let it be what it is.

Tuesday, July 8, 2025

Blank of mind day...

I was just trying to think of what I've done, today, and aside from going into the office to drop off paperwork and expenses and get some groceries, I can't think of a thing. I considered taking a nap but didn't. Thought about reading a book...but didn't. I just wasn't here...as is not unusual for me, after finishing a writing project.

I just drifted...and let PvSH settle in around me. Let it establish its hold and filter into my creative core. Didn't do anything about it, except acknowledge Simon's wish for his story to be quiet and calm and suspenseful. Not a big order, is it...

How will I be able to make the events in the first half of his book compelling? Dunno, yet. I suppose I could work it like Shakespeare did Romeo and Juliet...

Two households, both alike in dignity,
In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,
From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,
Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.
From forth the fatal loins of these two foes
A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life;
Whose misadventured piteous overthrows
Do with their death bury their parents' strife.
The fearful passage of their death-mark'd love,
And the continuance of their parents' rage,
Which, but their children's end, nought could remove,
Is now the two hours' traffic of our stage;
The which if you with patient ears attend,
What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.

So tell people up front things escalate from mundane to intense to the point where Simon is murdered, and this will reveal it, step by step. Dunno how I feel about that.

Monday, July 7, 2025

It's done...

Dirc and the Dyarvos Bones is up on D2D. I'm trying to include it with my other books in the sale, but I may need to do this one separately. I still don't know all the ins and outs of D2D. It's pretty different from Smashwords.

I think it works well as a stand-alone story. The ending suggests a followup but doesn't need one. This avatar wouldn't work as a book cover but does okay as an attention grabber. 

So here's the official deal -- if this novella makes 500 sales, I will do the rest of the book to match it. Probably in parts...maybe 5 or 6 more. Each with its own derivation of the title.

Then I'd think about doing it in paperback, as a whole. But I want some reason for that to happen, so it's on the book to get it together. I'm putting it out there...

But what matters right now is, it's done and I can take a short break then get hard onto the People v. Simon Halloran. Rework the outline...maybe...or not. I tend to do better when I don't have something I feel the need to follow exactly.

Funny...I never did wind up buying any vodka so didn't even try writing DDB drunk.

Sunday, July 6, 2025

Steps forward but slowly...

I'm not asking anyone to proof Dirc and the Dyarvos Bones because I need it done now, not whenever. It also gets pretty intense with the rape and death of Molinaro. He's the asshole cop who inadvertently kills Dirc, who actually says, "If he hadn't killed me, none of this would've happened." Which is true, so the dick gets blamed for everything that follows.

Not to say any of it was planned. Dyarvos was bringing Dirc back enough to life just to feed to his spacecraft, which won't eat anything dead. It noticed he was changing, within, so tested him out as its helper...and he came back fully alive with his molestation of Molinaro.

The deal Dirc and Dyarvos work out is, he will bring it men of a certain type to feed the craft, so it can effect repairs through cloning and re-energize itself. Which takes several months. Then when they're done, Dirc will be left to live his life instead of die.

It's not until section two of the story that Dyarvos returns to make another deal with Dirc--keep supplying him with men for it to use as entrees in its intergalactic truck stop. But that gets really crazy and involved, and I'm not really open to focusing on it, yet.

People v. Simon Halloran has pulled back, massively, to where it mimics occasions I've read about through the years. A gay man says the wrong thing to an undercover cop and gets arrested, then the cop lies about what happened to make the situation seem worse than it is. When it's just the cop's word against the guy who's been arrested, the cop is automatically believed. The arrested one has to prove his innocence.

It's a lot more honest and real, now, and considering the evil Felon47 and his American Fascist Party (the AFP) have unleashed on the country, it's more important that I let it be as truthful as possible.

Saturday, July 5, 2025

Truncation...

I'm prepping the first section of DDB as a stand-alone ebook to go up on Smashwords, for the sale...if I can add it in. It's pretty much formatted, and Dirc is pleased with how it's turned out.

I'm doing one more pass to proof it so it'll probably go up, tomorrow, if they accept it. I've already had one run-in with D2D about a book they felt was too much...Carly's Kills, my heterosexual one. So we'll see how it goes.

I don't know if I'll do the rest of the book; this stands alone, pretty well. This is less than 20% of the total word count -- 18,742 out of over 102K. 

But PvSH is nudging me to do something with it. So I've decided, if DDB gets 500 copies sold in the month (something highly unlikely) I'll finish it up. Otherwise, I have other books to focus on.

I also want to work on Dair's Window, which I started 5 years ago...or was it 6? And shifting all of Darian's Point into book format. DDB is fun but not as important, and I've worked out a lot of may anger in it.

I'm now working with Emily Jackson, who designed the covers for the paperbacks, to promote APoS. Got a special FB page set up and am trying to have a website set up, but that's going very, very slowly. So slow, I'm beginning to wonder if he will actually do it. But I had to do something, since I'm piss-poor at promotion and the books are not selling.

This also keeps my focus away from the growing number of insane idiots and assholes on social media. Apparently, Joe Biden is responsible for the horrific flooding along the Guadalupe River. How? They have no idea. They just know this isn't normal.

They won't accept climate change but will believe our government can control the weather. Fucking lunatics.

Friday, July 4, 2025

Avoidance redux...

It's the 4th of July and I am not celebrating. Never in my life did I think I would witness the complete collapse of America, especially not within 6 months. But here it is. We are no longer the leader of the free world, because we have become the very thing we fought against for decades...centuries.

America has never been perfect, but she was slowly improving...until that motherfucking bastard in the White House came along and yanked back the curtain to reveal how cowardly, hateful and racist half our country still is. I didn't want to see anyone, be near anyone, all day...because I was grumbling nonstop.

But...I needed DPZ so braved the madness and hit the grocery store to get some...along with a couple more things. There were so many people running around the first place I went to, I nearly came home. Instead, I drove to another one miles away, had a pair of veggie rolls and DPZ for lunch and zenned. That store had a balcony area where I could stay apart from the crowd till I was ready.

Got what I needed...except for Vodka. I was going to make a screwdriver, but don't think it's a good idea, right now. Maybe tomorrow. We'll see.

I think I'm settling in on Dirc and the Dyarvos Bones as the title for this book. It sort of settled into my brain so easily. We'll see how I feel once this draft is done. I'm through 45 pages out of 310. Not as far along as I thought. Shit.

It's going to be a beast...and I am ready for that.

Thursday, July 3, 2025

Unavoidable catastrophe...

I kept my sanity, today, by ignoring the world and working on Dirc, the Cannibal Queer. A title I still don't like, only I can't find a good one for this book, yet. But I needed the space. Needed to focus on something that was at least a little bit under my control, in the face of the monsters in Washington.

The MAGAt Class is, literally, celebrating kicking millions of people off food assistance and taking away healthcare, all to give billionaire more tax breaks.

Like we told people they would. And were called liars and alarmists and fools. May they all go to hell. And Democrats practically let them do it, only fighting back when it was too late. 

The only positive aspect of this fiasco is I had plenty of anger to focus into the story of Dirc hunting men for the aliens to feed on, so he can be reborn. He was shot and killed by a cop but is re-alived in order to help Dyarvos' living spacecraft rebuild itself.

I've shifted his victims to mainly white men of the MAGAt Class...but not all. He gets stopped by a gay man he's kidnapped just as he's about to attack a college guy...which leads into him first being found mentally ill and then tried as a serial killer and condemned to die. And that's in just the first 25% of the book.

I'm trying to trim ii down, but it's up over 101K in words, right now, and I fear I'm out of my depth...because I hate to cut...