From Crackle:
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
History of Old Time
Dark History has an entrancing note to inspire minds, visiting the past. Pages are open with its dark tunnels, winding back roads, and dark alleyways, can only inspire the most chilling effects for any story, especially poor stories. Stories that may contain a little of poverty, and a little of horror. It’s much of the past that we see the conditions of today. And with it, I have a tendency to read, research books on things that happened long ago, especially when it concerns poverty, the dark poverty, bring it back in today’s realm, calmly, in one piece—to you; so you can understand clearly of what has partaken, if allowed. Allowed to be frightened, cautious with every step, we discover. In its most natural-- mixed with horror; such the case of Jack the Ripper, the great master of deception, and high intrigue. He had the ability of being there and not ... There he escapes through the heavy thick fog which was oh, so easy...Tempting not to miss out on that , right?
But manageable to say the least.
Jack the Ripper.
The trail thickens and night is quiet. There is no one out here, in the dusty midnight, but you and I and ...him. Leather Apron is busy getting his basic need on: the killing phase of his latest victim.
On a foggy street corner a woman lays dying, choking on her own blood, twisted in its most gruesome form, her body sprawled, as her life is spilling away...Tsk, there is no help for her. The bobby is a corner walk away, whistling to a tune enchanting his mind, taking him away from his normal duty while the gurgle of death seeps away. The open flesh whistles the wind from the gash from her throat. A ragged whistle and there a deep fog appears. And Dark Jack escapes into the unknown.
However, the daunting realization that a mad man is loose—on the streets with the wretched poor, the nobody’s, even the homeless.
It was a known fact, during Jack the Ripper hay day of ridiculous crime and murder, even on women, homeless women were subjected to sleep outdoors during that horrific time in history; innocent wasn’t the factor: any woman was vulnerable underneath his maniacal madness, however, his choice were women of the streets; Toothless June, hot Penny Annie, names to remember a face and the reason why of such, women who were thrown a bone once in a while...they couldn’t help it. They took whatever they could get.
Death waited.
A marked curse thwarted the struggle of survival for the small community in the poorest section of England.
Rage grew for a society, at its wits end, to find out who really was Jack the Ripper.
Anxiety overwhelmed those who had no home to ask, who was sleeping on the streets, afraid of a man neither of a home. No one knew of his place of residence. No one could identify his face, only speculation. How he’s described, splotchy. In a sense, with the rage in the streets, among men and women, and how Homeless women were thrown out with this careless murderer. I can see why God gave England a Queen, instead of a King, I guess to show these men you don't do that to women and call yourselves men, when you don’t even have the finger to capture this guy, or, know of his whereabouts.
I ask, was Jack the Ripper Homeless?
Noise of some news said he could be a sailor. On the boundless water you need not an address. You can sail anywhere and not have any regrets, for the sea can wash away any guilty conscious, or any sign of blood...
Blood on hands, blood on clothes; blood on the conscious, could have been a sacrificial rite. A way of releasing pressure, and of course, escape from the law.
Jack the Ripper, with a conscious?
Why, local shelters were sponsored by church organizations, asking the poor unfortunates to change their ways and have the mercy of the Lord to shed a pittance of light upon them. And yes, in letters by Jack the Ripper contains some line of justification for his acts of so-called righteous killings.
Today, ministries still shed their light.
Staying in one location would not suffice him, he would be caught immediately and that was his knack. Moving from one location to the next...constantly. A transient doesn’t stay in one place: they keep moving. Unsettled.
Secret chambers could be anywhere once his feet were on dry ground. Bringing merchandise from his trips, the right stuff to lure the women in, and hook them with, and what woman would turn him down, unless they were desperate?
Therefore, Jack the Ripper, knew his prey. He knew the kind of woman that would fall for it: every time.
You can be rich and know a poor person once you look at them, but you can really know someone when you experience their life. Walk in their shoes. Why were there Homeless? Why were there poor people? How do they act? How do they eat and so on? You’ve got to know someone. If you have an enemy, you’ve got to know them? Their ways, their whereabouts...Revenge is seedy. It comes with heart.
And as black as his heart was, that’s what he showed them: to the street women, to London’s Scotland Yard. Whoever listened, he captured his audience, even without death.
Frightening, huh?
Here, at Blogger, I will show you the true grittiness of Horror with Poverty. So stay tuned for more . Good evening, ladies and gentlemen and have a wonderful night.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
Monday, July 14, 2008
fritz haarmann - Google Image Search
Doing a piece on Hitler, which happens to be intriguing to say the least, however, very demanding as for answers on why he did the things he did. His stability is questionable? From the facts found, he was spoiled. He thought more about his own feelings than others, especially less for his siblings, especially his half brother, who just thought the worse of Hitler until he came into power. When he arrived as a leader things changed, his and his brother primarily became close but it’s before the long journey as this Fuehrer, we must look into and their relationship, is worthy of dallying into. Hitler, yes, from information gathered was Homeless. He stayed in a shelter crowded with the Street’s leftovers. The one’s nobody wanted: the vagabonds, the trash, the low-lives, those that Hitler got rid of first when he got the chance to rule.
Reading this, I deal a lot with the Homeless, and to think that such a man as this went through the same route as millions of those displaced of a home, today; digging into history is sort of a passion for me, almost becoming a hobby especially when it deals with Horror as an enclosed shell, poverty. England is a wonderful source when visiting history such as poverty with Horror. We can see the why’s clearly. However, Germany has its own Horror; impoverished in ways that goes beyond imagination.
Such as the unusual character Fritz Haarmann, a German, a pathetic individual; absolute trouble carved from his footsteps; with a trade to carve meat for his patrons, a butcher for a small town, he learned fast to pack up however the meat or where it came from was not detected upfront his loyal customers. His background of how he became this…um, rather skillful merchant is the question. Kicked out of the German army, supposedly, his brunt arrogant behavior began to show a rather erratic concern especially to his father, who may have saw a terrible glimpse of the future with his only son; this same son blames most of his evil ways from the harsh upbringing his father gave him, and therefore, a terrible history has wrought forth; a terrible secret that baffles the mind today.
Increased with resentment, a hunger grew. This time an unusual one. A homosexual, his fetish for young men became everything including his relationship with a young man by the name of Frans Hans, and with his help did the ultimate.
The night thick with fog, cold and merciless, a chill can overtake the most furriest of animal, yet there were people out on the street, on very nights like this. Filled with Homeless children, Street kids, where their utterable excuses would be, if caught “there is nowhere else to go.” Not even families saw fit to bring them in, the platform, is the only place to lay their heads and from there Fritz Haarmann chose his victims.
One by one, homeless boys, now found missing, were picked up, and from there never to be seen again. Friends, family, even though distant wanted to know what happened to there family. One father, hopelessly regretting letting his young son out, as a form of punishment, due to an argument, let him sleep out among the crowded streets, and hearing of news that someone was stealing young boys, with tears searches to know of his own son’s whereabouts, sadly could not get an answer, for his son was no more to be found.
News came there was one who crept among the poor. A man so subtle, who did his work at night, and only at night, probably is the one who took his little boy. No word of who he was but one day, something arose, the selling of particular meat at a market square…
Unknowingly, people were attracted by the reddish meat displayed so neatly, impeccable such as to buy in bulk most of them, wondering what type of meat it was. No one asked; they took, they ate. Hunger can deceive even our mere tendencies. That is why it’s is good to have it under control. Temptation of the flesh was big on Christ. We are to follow His example, if we are to survive. Or, we may just allow the Devil to play on our tongues.
Fritz Haarmann, without a sad reflection sold body parts in the midst of a market square, among the unknowing people. A cannibal himself, he had killed more than two hundred people, young boys mainly; quite an awkward taste, his delicacy for young boys, (homeless children), those who lived on the streets, unwanted by family, were his sick prey. Finally, sent to prison; and from there his death. Beheaded, before his last appeal, he states, it was his marriage to his long time partner Frans Hans who has been with him, through thick and thin. His boasting of such a relationship became his most memorable act in court. Not a sign of regret or remorse was given. Not even to the father who was holding his dead son’s clothing, shaking for an answer “Why?” And this, deplorably, was a sad ending for both men.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
In The Past
Visiting the past, oh, what fun. History develops into a colorful puzzle; piecing together the missing joints can develop a surprising ending. Intrinsic details make an equable solution. What happened back then to what’s happening now, the future. Comes together the solution. Though it happened long ago, gladly or sadly, still happens today, especially concerning poverty. It’s Poverty that will be with us till the end of time.
Scary things come to life, in this world. Do you want it? Real or imagined?
Charles Dickens, was the first in my knowledge, the author of the “down and outs”. His stories inspired the world. It provoked a passion derived darkened alleys, crooked corners, beady eyes lurking, scoundrels of people huddled in masses slept on streets. Dirty, filthy streets on ground, underground stair cases from unknown burroughs, there in the deep darkness a people were without homes. A Christmas Carol became a seed to what lingered in the darkness. Scrooge a metaphor for the rich or those who really couldn’t care less how the world ran as long as money kept the world spinning; can’t tell you enough how many people believe in that ideology; caring less about those who are impoverished, it’s growing.
Gustav Dore whose depiction of the squalid life of those who struggled through life in London. We see the world of the poor, through his eyes, in the book Dore's London.
"Nowhere in the streets of London may one escape the sight of abject poverty, while five minutes' walk from almost any point will bring one to a slum; but the East End region my hansom was now penetrating was one unending slum. The streets were filled with a new and different race of people, short of stature, and of wretched beer-sodden appearance. We rode along through miles of bricks and squalor....Here and there lurched a drunken man or woman, and the air was obscene with sounds of jangling and squabbling. At a market, tottery old men and women were searching in the garbage thrown into the mud for rotten potatoes, beans and vegetables, while little children clustered like flies around a festering mass of fruit, thrusting their arms to the shoulders into the liquid corruption, and drawing forth morsels but partially decayed, which they devoured on the spot....Not only was one room deemed sufficient for a poor man his family, but I learned that many families, occupying single rooms, had so much space to spare as to be able to take in a lodger or two. When such rooms can be rented for from three to six shillings per week, it is a fair conclusion that a lodger with references should obtain floor space for, say, from eight pence to a shilling.
...I learned that there were no bath tubs in the thousands of houses I had seen....'A part of a room to let.' This notice was posted a short while ago in a window not five minutes walk from St. Jame's Hall....Beds are let on the three-relay system-that is; three tenants to a bed, each occupying it eight hours, so that it never grows cold."[p. 102]
Eric de Mare: The London Dore Saw
The steps of Scrooge are repeating. And what ghost will appear? Are you ready for them world?
#
Scary things come to life, in this world. Do you want it? Real or imagined?
Charles Dickens, was the first in my knowledge, the author of the “down and outs”. His stories inspired the world. It provoked a passion derived darkened alleys, crooked corners, beady eyes lurking, scoundrels of people huddled in masses slept on streets. Dirty, filthy streets on ground, underground stair cases from unknown burroughs, there in the deep darkness a people were without homes. A Christmas Carol became a seed to what lingered in the darkness. Scrooge a metaphor for the rich or those who really couldn’t care less how the world ran as long as money kept the world spinning; can’t tell you enough how many people believe in that ideology; caring less about those who are impoverished, it’s growing.
Gustav Dore whose depiction of the squalid life of those who struggled through life in London. We see the world of the poor, through his eyes, in the book Dore's London.
"Nowhere in the streets of London may one escape the sight of abject poverty, while five minutes' walk from almost any point will bring one to a slum; but the East End region my hansom was now penetrating was one unending slum. The streets were filled with a new and different race of people, short of stature, and of wretched beer-sodden appearance. We rode along through miles of bricks and squalor....Here and there lurched a drunken man or woman, and the air was obscene with sounds of jangling and squabbling. At a market, tottery old men and women were searching in the garbage thrown into the mud for rotten potatoes, beans and vegetables, while little children clustered like flies around a festering mass of fruit, thrusting their arms to the shoulders into the liquid corruption, and drawing forth morsels but partially decayed, which they devoured on the spot....Not only was one room deemed sufficient for a poor man his family, but I learned that many families, occupying single rooms, had so much space to spare as to be able to take in a lodger or two. When such rooms can be rented for from three to six shillings per week, it is a fair conclusion that a lodger with references should obtain floor space for, say, from eight pence to a shilling.
...I learned that there were no bath tubs in the thousands of houses I had seen....'A part of a room to let.' This notice was posted a short while ago in a window not five minutes walk from St. Jame's Hall....Beds are let on the three-relay system-that is; three tenants to a bed, each occupying it eight hours, so that it never grows cold."[p. 102]
Eric de Mare: The London Dore Saw
The steps of Scrooge are repeating. And what ghost will appear? Are you ready for them world?
#
Thursday, June 5, 2008
In Degrees...
In Degrees
It doesn’t take long or much to become a street person. Homeless, as they are known, at any moment, something can come by and wipe out everything from under one’s feet, without a moments notice, including our homes. The recent cases of hurricanes, tornadoes, earthquakes and cyclones, anything can happen, naturally leaving devastation at one’s door, it’s what unhinges our lives.
Toppling the economy, rising cost of living has sparked a fury among our world, so much that Homelessness is on a rise. Homes are left empty and desolate. Due to foreclosures, a home can become unsettling. Paying bills can be quite frightening. Without the means to pay them, what can one do? Food, the one source for sustaining life? Growing our own can become a necessity. Money is scarce. Jobs are limited. There is nowhere else to go but sit on a ground, in our unwashed clothing and think of a day where our dreams may come true. If we believe hard enough… can you feel the acid burning in our stomachs.
Dream.
I know the taste of acid. It burns. Hunger pangs are growing. Without food we die. You and I.
In a flash our homes are gone. In a flash we are gone. Our lives are gone. One day, we are Homeless.
Yesterday in our kitchen, not long ago, we were eating toast, drinking coffee, watching television, catching up on a bills—we were laughing; only when suddenly the earth quakes, the floor opens and lives are swallowed. I guess the earth was hungry, too. It came along, big and strong, and ferocious; it came along and wiped the sullen looks of the new day from across our faces, into harsh reality.
The cyclone, with high pressured water wiped out people and towns. The earthquake smashed and sunk some. The tornado with strong wind span totaling homes in a matter of seconds. Hurricanes plunge water and wind together causing terrible calamity; spreading rain drops on lost homes, never to be re-entered again.
Yes, Homelessness, I guess, does come in degrees.
You never know what could happen. You just never know?
It doesn’t take long or much to become a street person. Homeless, as they are known, at any moment, something can come by and wipe out everything from under one’s feet, without a moments notice, including our homes. The recent cases of hurricanes, tornadoes, earthquakes and cyclones, anything can happen, naturally leaving devastation at one’s door, it’s what unhinges our lives.
Toppling the economy, rising cost of living has sparked a fury among our world, so much that Homelessness is on a rise. Homes are left empty and desolate. Due to foreclosures, a home can become unsettling. Paying bills can be quite frightening. Without the means to pay them, what can one do? Food, the one source for sustaining life? Growing our own can become a necessity. Money is scarce. Jobs are limited. There is nowhere else to go but sit on a ground, in our unwashed clothing and think of a day where our dreams may come true. If we believe hard enough… can you feel the acid burning in our stomachs.
Dream.
I know the taste of acid. It burns. Hunger pangs are growing. Without food we die. You and I.
In a flash our homes are gone. In a flash we are gone. Our lives are gone. One day, we are Homeless.
Yesterday in our kitchen, not long ago, we were eating toast, drinking coffee, watching television, catching up on a bills—we were laughing; only when suddenly the earth quakes, the floor opens and lives are swallowed. I guess the earth was hungry, too. It came along, big and strong, and ferocious; it came along and wiped the sullen looks of the new day from across our faces, into harsh reality.
The cyclone, with high pressured water wiped out people and towns. The earthquake smashed and sunk some. The tornado with strong wind span totaling homes in a matter of seconds. Hurricanes plunge water and wind together causing terrible calamity; spreading rain drops on lost homes, never to be re-entered again.
Yes, Homelessness, I guess, does come in degrees.
You never know what could happen. You just never know?
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Monsters
It only takes so much for the human heart to wear out from abuse. For some it can take a matter of minutes for the human heart to receive the eviction notice of not being loved. It can do great damage where love is needed but never supplied; it can cause terrible effects upon the psyche.
How far can someone go without the human acknowledgement of being loved? I don't know but one must be aware of how they do that. I have met people who really don't understand human suffrage; to them, it's like a big joke. They themselves would love to plant evil for you rather than to see you stride with a purpose, a goal. "I got the answer to my life and what my dreams should be." They don’t want you to succeed. Success comes with a cost and they seek to have you pay for it.
Humans, them with cold hearts, see the down trodden, and to them their normal reaction is to laugh, mock at your suffering. Isn't enough, enough for them? Do they notice the breaking point in someone's face--pain etched on dirty skin? Unwashed without care, gaunt stares, and bellies not fully filled, love not there. Do they care to notice?
How further can one go but down. Looking to terrorize those that have fallen to the wayside; they make matters worse for you. As if you're bruising, your pain isn't enough; they want blood. The sore not fully healed properly, they pick at it over again, they laugh, they snicker, they like how your blood runs. Red crimson falls to the ground. They poke the knife even more; start the scar patch to reopen once again, this time the intent to hurt you. And there your blood spills to the ground, look how crimson, it falls. Your heart crushed.
I've seen the true human heart and its depraved condition witnessed with my own two eyes, oh how cruel. I beheld evil.
Faces filled with delight when one hurts. Swimming in darkness they are cold of emotions. It's foreign to their makeup of things to feel remorse for those in need. With persistence they like to torture. Breaking down the mind seeing evil as it is.
From suffering comes hate then malice which equalize your death. If the average person could study the human mind, and its makeup and how callous it can become we would not be able to walk the streets even at night.
So evil the imagination of the mind and how real it can become if played with.
What we weave becomes the normal setting of conception and from there I do believe your life will be in their hands. I do believe monsters exist, human ones mainly.
I believe there are things in this world which should be explained but cannot because where these monsters lay in wait, watching for the moment to seize you, it's very dark, and foreboding of surroundings; the mind can fool a lot of people. Who would want to discover it, take their time to see it? And what really awaits us if we do see?
Monsters don't need a time to show themselves, they just do quite unafraid of what you might do or what you might say. It's in them to destroy you. Far gone is the spirit is theirs.
Beware my mean friend, human monster who kicks the hurting. Before the far side catches up with you--you now too far gone yourself, to make human again. The trials of the Homeless are strong, and their cause with effort can be helped but not with human monsters around who make deliberate attempts to cause further pain.
One doesn't know where to go, and Homelessness becomes a situation then a lifestyle.
How far can someone go without the human acknowledgement of being loved? I don't know but one must be aware of how they do that. I have met people who really don't understand human suffrage; to them, it's like a big joke. They themselves would love to plant evil for you rather than to see you stride with a purpose, a goal. "I got the answer to my life and what my dreams should be." They don’t want you to succeed. Success comes with a cost and they seek to have you pay for it.
Humans, them with cold hearts, see the down trodden, and to them their normal reaction is to laugh, mock at your suffering. Isn't enough, enough for them? Do they notice the breaking point in someone's face--pain etched on dirty skin? Unwashed without care, gaunt stares, and bellies not fully filled, love not there. Do they care to notice?
How further can one go but down. Looking to terrorize those that have fallen to the wayside; they make matters worse for you. As if you're bruising, your pain isn't enough; they want blood. The sore not fully healed properly, they pick at it over again, they laugh, they snicker, they like how your blood runs. Red crimson falls to the ground. They poke the knife even more; start the scar patch to reopen once again, this time the intent to hurt you. And there your blood spills to the ground, look how crimson, it falls. Your heart crushed.
I've seen the true human heart and its depraved condition witnessed with my own two eyes, oh how cruel. I beheld evil.
Faces filled with delight when one hurts. Swimming in darkness they are cold of emotions. It's foreign to their makeup of things to feel remorse for those in need. With persistence they like to torture. Breaking down the mind seeing evil as it is.
From suffering comes hate then malice which equalize your death. If the average person could study the human mind, and its makeup and how callous it can become we would not be able to walk the streets even at night.
So evil the imagination of the mind and how real it can become if played with.
What we weave becomes the normal setting of conception and from there I do believe your life will be in their hands. I do believe monsters exist, human ones mainly.
I believe there are things in this world which should be explained but cannot because where these monsters lay in wait, watching for the moment to seize you, it's very dark, and foreboding of surroundings; the mind can fool a lot of people. Who would want to discover it, take their time to see it? And what really awaits us if we do see?
Monsters don't need a time to show themselves, they just do quite unafraid of what you might do or what you might say. It's in them to destroy you. Far gone is the spirit is theirs.
Beware my mean friend, human monster who kicks the hurting. Before the far side catches up with you--you now too far gone yourself, to make human again. The trials of the Homeless are strong, and their cause with effort can be helped but not with human monsters around who make deliberate attempts to cause further pain.
One doesn't know where to go, and Homelessness becomes a situation then a lifestyle.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
What Lurks...?
Sometimes when I go to a different place, I can sense an eerie strangeness there, especially if it's in an Alley. My feet are not tired, so I take a chance, I walk through the anonymous concrete walk. I spot the long rows of walls on both sides,high above me, mostly all of brick, some of different texture different grade of brick and sometimes mortar, dark grey and dull in between; some smooth to the touch, some rigged; some are graffitti stoney surfaces, seeming empty. Windows are hollowed out eyes, forboding and central to the viewer. Quietly staring back as you trasp through. Going. The air, not hot, hits my face, not hard, soothing like. I guess bearable to go on. Running away, scantily like silky discarded rags, rats, scurrying along to there cubby holes to infest on unbeggotten food. Alley cats sit quietly watching their prey, finding their nest, to seek and not hide. Waiting to capture.
I can see in the far distance smoke from the chimney, one. From there I may not be alone, but how do I know? The awkward Alley feels as if its never been walked through, it appears that way, but somehow I know I'm not alone. There in the far distance a shadow lurks. With my curiousity, I enter. I continue to walk through the dampy dullness of the environment that surrounds me. We, that's the Alley and I, have become one. With my history, I feel, I can hide here and never let anyone see my secrets, maybe haunting imaginings. I'm kept here--it invites me. Inticing me to continue on my journey through this Alley. To all that enters: The Alley of Fear, I presume. Inviting me to stay and so I do. We make friends the Alley and I, and from there a book.
Be sure to pick up a copy of the Homeless Drifter's Night Tales. I'm also working on another bookseries called Shelter Tales( as you see above); hopefully it will be available this year as well. Good Home Night.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Strays
Walked through an alley before? Sometimes when walking through such a place as an alley can catch you off guard. It's a bit cold. A bit vacant. Never before seen world. How did you get there? And just before you enter, you glimpse to catch the floors, how unkempt it is as old newspapers fly, how the wind makes them circle; dusting the ground like they're playing, as the news of old swirl on the cold ground, cracky surfaces. Cold surfaces. Along the graffitti'd wall a garbage can sits filled with rubbage, old rubbage as well as new. Broken glass, chard bottles show there edges, teeth of glass; beer cans, empty leave a rusty look where rain has gotten to them. It's been a while since someone's come through and you're here.
Down the forlorn avenue, there slinking away, quickly to a forbidden part of the Alley, a furry body, a small lean creature, lurking away, svelte. It tries to find a place of hiding. The creaking of shoes makes it nervous. It knows you're here. You happen to find its hiding place. It's eyes glow of brightness; light has hit it, making it radiate white, growing larger with intense ferocity ferally wild. An intruder has found its home. She lurks further, pacing quickly to get away from you but you catch up.Why?
Get out intruder. Get out. Do you know where you are at? Only the throw aways come here. Those without a home; without security. The nitty-gritty's. The thieves, the outcast, the inhumane. Are you sure you want to press on?
Her purrs grow loudly, they play cynically to your audacity. Just alike, you play, I play too. Come on. Come on to my Alley, my Alley of Fear.
I love cats. And yes, the gaunt-ribbed, alley creepers as well. They're so precious. Cats come in all sorts of sizes and arrangements. So much variety to choose from. I love it especially if these little kitties come with extra abilities; the ones that can become human. The ones that can disappear, quantum leap through the future or the past whichever pleases your fancy. They can just do...
I have a story called Human Touch and this little cat can do and she does. Edited by my friend Jane Buckley, who did an excellent work on this by the way. I am very pleased. I hope you enjoy it as well as I have.http://docs.google.com/View?docID=dc8cwq2f_4fbctxdg6&revision=_latest
Down the forlorn avenue, there slinking away, quickly to a forbidden part of the Alley, a furry body, a small lean creature, lurking away, svelte. It tries to find a place of hiding. The creaking of shoes makes it nervous. It knows you're here. You happen to find its hiding place. It's eyes glow of brightness; light has hit it, making it radiate white, growing larger with intense ferocity ferally wild. An intruder has found its home. She lurks further, pacing quickly to get away from you but you catch up.Why?
Get out intruder. Get out. Do you know where you are at? Only the throw aways come here. Those without a home; without security. The nitty-gritty's. The thieves, the outcast, the inhumane. Are you sure you want to press on?
Her purrs grow loudly, they play cynically to your audacity. Just alike, you play, I play too. Come on. Come on to my Alley, my Alley of Fear.
I love cats. And yes, the gaunt-ribbed, alley creepers as well. They're so precious. Cats come in all sorts of sizes and arrangements. So much variety to choose from. I love it especially if these little kitties come with extra abilities; the ones that can become human. The ones that can disappear, quantum leap through the future or the past whichever pleases your fancy. They can just do...
I have a story called Human Touch and this little cat can do and she does. Edited by my friend Jane Buckley, who did an excellent work on this by the way. I am very pleased. I hope you enjoy it as well as I have.http://docs.google.com/View?docID=dc8cwq2f_4fbctxdg6&revision=_latest
Thursday, April 17, 2008
My Visitor 2
What manner of man is this, or what of creature is it in the
semblance of man? I feel the dread of this horrible palce over powering me; I am in fear--in awful fear--and there is no escape for me; I am enompassed about with terrors that I dare not think of...Bram Stoker, Dracula, 1897
A pin could drop of the eerie silence that permeated the small room when he told me he didn't believe in God; feeling the tensity of the moment I became afraid for the first time in my life.
From what I know, from what I hear when someone tells you they don't believe in God that automatically means they have no conscious.
He can do whatever is at will and not even blink doing it. In a much terrible scenario, he could chop me up in a million little pieces, quietly cutting away at night, while my sleeping neighbors slept; while the sound of cutting and breaking bones, piece by bloody piece, placing all of my remains in a black plastic bag, strong enough to carry meat and blood together, and scatter whats left of me throughout America and no one would be the wiser.
Blood can be easily cleaned in the sink, mopped from the floor, walls scrubbed with cleaner, some disinfectant in small corners hard to get to, and cleaned up as if no one ever lived there.
The alarm would go off, the faucet would drip, and my cats...my poor kitties.
Did I tell you I was afraid for my life during his stay.
I would hate for the worse. I had a strange feeling he's done this before. It felt he has overpowered someone where the victim was unsure of his intelligence. He has experience, definitely. Quickly, I had to gather my nerves; without any delay, I had to get this homeless man from out of my home. Before what could be said and done, and is the thing that really struck me was when this homeless man, has not only instilled in me fear but the audacity to say I couldn't write. "You can't write, " he said. "You have to be creative!" He shouted and barked; I could feel his hot breath mixed with his boldness upon my face.
I was stunned and shocked. Something didn't settle right. And what he was telling me was that I didn't have it in me to do it, such a feat as to write a book.
I never had a man, or any man to tell me I couldn't write a book. Never one come so bold as to say that to my face.
Ladies and gentlemen, lightning could intervene at that moment because I tell you what, that was the day I got my idea for my book. It was the first and very night "The Homeless Drifter's Night Tales," was born.
Luckily, I had escaped with my life and my cats lives too which I think I used some of theirs; from his abuse, he'd beaten my back, where he punched me repeatedly, and luckily it wasn't a knife thrust into me over and over; happily, I came out on top with a title, a subject, and a book. Phew!
Even though out of that misery, I still thank my homeless visitor when he left that is, he left with an empty black plastic bag, the Hefty kind, with the plastic holders, yellow; lifting it up as he walked out of my house: I guess to say "This would have been you. Where I would have put you, carrying you across America piece by bloody piece." I do believe he could do the job.
However, now I raise my hand in victory, because now I have a book that he gave me, personally, without his knowledge.
I now have a short story collection. Book one is finished and will be available this year( as observed on top). I hope you can pick up a copy. I like all my readers to enjoy a nice read in bed and at home, safely snugged; a home if you have one?
From book one I've written a short story called "Knock-Knock." It has a similar account, about a girl who also was looking for a roommate and there someone comes along just like my visitor did, however this visitor was caught, and in time before he did the ultimate. Mines wasn't. He's still alive somewhere. If you think it's a joke, I still have one of his paystubs from the place we worked together. So further adieu, please enjoy my story. http://docs.google.com/view?docID=dc8cwq2f_3cwmh9fn4&revision=_latest
Friday, April 11, 2008
My Homeless Visitor
Sometimes when we help someone we take in deep consideration thinking “It’s a good thing to help someone out because maybe down the road we too may also need that help one day.”
Fine and well, I believe in the concept of doing good for those in need. However, sometimes doing good for someone may not be so idealistic especially helping someone whose whole intention of being helped can come back to you like a curve ball spinning out of control. Inviting a homeless man, I experienced being nice may not be such a good idea. Read my story.
What took place happened a little over six years ago. Nothing spotaneous on my part I was looking for a room mate at that time. I needed someone to watch my cats, and my apartment while I was away on travel. Conventions were real big then as they are now, I wanted to write in the field of horror; so I thought conventions would be a good venture to take up. See the world in a whole instead of what's on television.
Besides that I just lost a loved one who believed in me more than I could ever believe in myself and I promise that person that I would make them proud as a writer; that they would be remembered through my work. However during that emotional rollercoaster I had no idea for a book. It's difficult to put something together without a subject. A book must have an idea, a platform to base your thoughts into, and I was without anything to base my ideas.
So with that, the idea of travel was heavy on my mind; the urge to find a roommate thickly hung in my conscious aware of the time of certain conventions I needed to act quickly due to time.
In a matter of days it didn't take long to finding this roommate. We happened to work together at a warehouse. Describing this individual will not be hard although I cannot disclose names or features. All I can say is that he was not what I pictured in anything that would match my description of his character. What lived with me for six months.
The way I class him would be, in my opinion, a nerd. Someone who was not quite with the crowd so to speak. A very aloof, timid, strongly to himself individual. His appearance told on himself: the nerd that is. He wore the thick glasses, the water pants that come up to the ankles,the awkward shoes (size fifteen), the kept neat hairdo, nothing out of place, not even his clothing. Everything was nice and neat. I took him to be the 'no harm' type of person. What could he do to me? There I thought he'd make the ideal roommate. No one to throw a party while I'm away or sleep in my bed or try to take over the place with his things. Another thing about this lonely guy nobody seems to want to talk to was that he was homeless. He had no place to go other than the shelters. And I'm thinking 'Wow, what a great catch?' A guy hungry for a home...?
It came to a frightening reality letting this ‘homeless man’ stay in my home. ‘I’m thinking why not’ and soon after those why not’s my plans of travel soon fizzled. I visited not one convention nor did I contact anyone who could help me in my endeavors of writing which I wanted to do so badly.
I invited hell to my home.
Without a book, a title and a sensibility of hope, what else was I to do?Courageously things soon changed after six months; I couldn't take anymore from this traveler. Yes, a traveler, he went from state to state, to different shelters, living there for a while and pick up to go somewhere else—a drifter of sorts.
The things I mostly remember about this one eye transient was that he was legally blind, he couldn’t see what was before him and yet, his stories curtailed told to me by him that he walked down long roads, winding highways in the dark, looking for a place to stay but couldn't find anything. I couldn't believe it. He took off his glasses like taking off a mask. He had two eyes but one bulged out farther than the one with the cataract, due to overuse of the one sick eye. It was impossible for him to see anything near or far and the stories he told me set my back hair standing on end. The roads that he spoke of. Nothing where it could light his path, but just dark and dreary roads of passage.
Traveling myself, riding on Greyhound buses, I too have seen roads like that, and to my knowledge they do exist. Roads that seem endless of night. Not even a twinkle of a star glittered the sky. No sign or post to which way. I’m thinking how in the world did he do that?
The most chilling part about this ladies and gentlemen, he didn't even believe in God. This is what he huffed to me so proudly. I'm thinking who helped you? Who helped you through those lonely roads, those lonely walks in the night along the highways? Who guided your hand, your feet, so you will not stumble ? No belief in a Higher Power someone had to help him. A mermidon of evil perhaps?
Can you tell me?
To be continued…
Fine and well, I believe in the concept of doing good for those in need. However, sometimes doing good for someone may not be so idealistic especially helping someone whose whole intention of being helped can come back to you like a curve ball spinning out of control. Inviting a homeless man, I experienced being nice may not be such a good idea. Read my story.
What took place happened a little over six years ago. Nothing spotaneous on my part I was looking for a room mate at that time. I needed someone to watch my cats, and my apartment while I was away on travel. Conventions were real big then as they are now, I wanted to write in the field of horror; so I thought conventions would be a good venture to take up. See the world in a whole instead of what's on television.
Besides that I just lost a loved one who believed in me more than I could ever believe in myself and I promise that person that I would make them proud as a writer; that they would be remembered through my work. However during that emotional rollercoaster I had no idea for a book. It's difficult to put something together without a subject. A book must have an idea, a platform to base your thoughts into, and I was without anything to base my ideas.
So with that, the idea of travel was heavy on my mind; the urge to find a roommate thickly hung in my conscious aware of the time of certain conventions I needed to act quickly due to time.
In a matter of days it didn't take long to finding this roommate. We happened to work together at a warehouse. Describing this individual will not be hard although I cannot disclose names or features. All I can say is that he was not what I pictured in anything that would match my description of his character. What lived with me for six months.
The way I class him would be, in my opinion, a nerd. Someone who was not quite with the crowd so to speak. A very aloof, timid, strongly to himself individual. His appearance told on himself: the nerd that is. He wore the thick glasses, the water pants that come up to the ankles,the awkward shoes (size fifteen), the kept neat hairdo, nothing out of place, not even his clothing. Everything was nice and neat. I took him to be the 'no harm' type of person. What could he do to me? There I thought he'd make the ideal roommate. No one to throw a party while I'm away or sleep in my bed or try to take over the place with his things. Another thing about this lonely guy nobody seems to want to talk to was that he was homeless. He had no place to go other than the shelters. And I'm thinking 'Wow, what a great catch?' A guy hungry for a home...?
It came to a frightening reality letting this ‘homeless man’ stay in my home. ‘I’m thinking why not’ and soon after those why not’s my plans of travel soon fizzled. I visited not one convention nor did I contact anyone who could help me in my endeavors of writing which I wanted to do so badly.
I invited hell to my home.
Without a book, a title and a sensibility of hope, what else was I to do?Courageously things soon changed after six months; I couldn't take anymore from this traveler. Yes, a traveler, he went from state to state, to different shelters, living there for a while and pick up to go somewhere else—a drifter of sorts.
The things I mostly remember about this one eye transient was that he was legally blind, he couldn’t see what was before him and yet, his stories curtailed told to me by him that he walked down long roads, winding highways in the dark, looking for a place to stay but couldn't find anything. I couldn't believe it. He took off his glasses like taking off a mask. He had two eyes but one bulged out farther than the one with the cataract, due to overuse of the one sick eye. It was impossible for him to see anything near or far and the stories he told me set my back hair standing on end. The roads that he spoke of. Nothing where it could light his path, but just dark and dreary roads of passage.
Traveling myself, riding on Greyhound buses, I too have seen roads like that, and to my knowledge they do exist. Roads that seem endless of night. Not even a twinkle of a star glittered the sky. No sign or post to which way. I’m thinking how in the world did he do that?
The most chilling part about this ladies and gentlemen, he didn't even believe in God. This is what he huffed to me so proudly. I'm thinking who helped you? Who helped you through those lonely roads, those lonely walks in the night along the highways? Who guided your hand, your feet, so you will not stumble ? No belief in a Higher Power someone had to help him. A mermidon of evil perhaps?
Can you tell me?
To be continued…
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Displaced
Not everyone is considered Homeless. Not everyone may be going through some difficulties. You see a Homeless man on a busy street corner begging for change and on the other side, standing waiting for a cab, a working man, flagging for his ride to work. Not everyone takes the same road of life so to speak. Not everyone must hurt to get somewhere. We all have something to do whether it is to feed a family, to make ends meet, to fill a desire, no matter what it is there is something out there in the world that keeps us going.
Life is what you make of it, whether it is good or bad, happy or sad. We all end up somewhere. Where? Now that’s difficult to predict. Neither you nor I can see the future unless it’s handed down from Above to give us a glimpse of what is to come. “Nothing is for free” have you heard of that expression? Somewhere down the line we all get to pay for something. It may not be what we would like it to be but somewhere it has found us and its asking for its due. Do we wait for the knock from the door to see what is behind it? Or do we allow it to come in and take its course? Don’t be conned, life is very limited. I’ve written a short script called “Time of Limitation.” I hope you enjoy it.
*I'm sorry about the long delay of my script but it's up for viewing now. Thank you and I hope you enjoy it.http://docs.google.com/View?docID=dc8cwq2f_1cctgt9dq&revision=_latest
Life is what you make of it, whether it is good or bad, happy or sad. We all end up somewhere. Where? Now that’s difficult to predict. Neither you nor I can see the future unless it’s handed down from Above to give us a glimpse of what is to come. “Nothing is for free” have you heard of that expression? Somewhere down the line we all get to pay for something. It may not be what we would like it to be but somewhere it has found us and its asking for its due. Do we wait for the knock from the door to see what is behind it? Or do we allow it to come in and take its course? Don’t be conned, life is very limited. I’ve written a short script called “Time of Limitation.” I hope you enjoy it.
*I'm sorry about the long delay of my script but it's up for viewing now. Thank you and I hope you enjoy it.http://docs.google.com/View?docID=dc8cwq2f_1cctgt9dq&revision=_latest
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Unnoticed
Sometimes places can engulf us. Making it seem we are not alone, that there are others out in the world, which also are fixed in a place, a time, where they may not be counted in a specific group or a member of…
Have you walked down a crowded street, so crowded that you know that if a family member come to look for you, it would be very difficult fishing you out among the crowd. People circling you, walking this way and that way, zooming by you—some curses you as if you were on wheels—to get out of the way. And they, trying their best to get to their own destinations, have no time to fool with you; so can you imagine your family perspective fishing you out would be an impossible feat, right? But what if you had no family or no friend, that isn’t looking for you? You are in this crowd, by yourself, you probably can stand on a corner and no one would lift an eyelid your way.
To be unnoticed can be a hurtful thing, especially if you have something to say, you can feel it in your chest, your bones. You just want to let it out of your system—there’s something that concerns you but no one stops to listen or even lift an eyelid to see you standing on that lone corner of a sidewalk being passed-by unnoticed.
There are millions and millions of people who like this, are unnoticed. You could be walking down a street and you see a guy lying down on a cold ground, in filthy clothing, disheveled hair, and worn out shoes, asleep; the only thing supporting him is yesterday’s newspaper. The only thing descent for him to lie upon between the ground and himself to try to keep what little left ‘clean’—‘I guess he never lost respect of, let us see who is in today’s obituary—could be a playing thought for him. He probably had a life just like the rest of the people in the crowd. The working class, who storm down busy sidewalks just to get to their 9 to 5’s, this homeless man, can say ‘I once had that.’ Of course he did but somehow something happened along the way changed things. Leeching, drawing this man to a world he now knows as the streets. And here he lay sleeping away where once help was a skip away and now is forever gone, just like his years. And people now pass him unnoticed. However this is one example. What if there were families going on in life unnoticed. Children suffering the fate as this poor man. There are many. I have written a story called “Unnoticed.” I hope you enjoy it.
Title: Unnoticed by Lavel Wideman
A mother swiftly walks, carrying heavy bags of food, carefully propping them in her boney arms, making sure they don’t fall to the wayside, as her children toddle behind her—hand in hand—they follow eagerly anticipating the goodies that awaits them once they reach home. Only enough food to last a few days—no more, no less, will probably last with effort.
They live in the projects, ‘the concrete jungle’ as some would say. They live in the projects—apartment 38-B to be exact. In a big city, with big people who happens to have little bitty hearts. Doors shut from anyone from begging.
Their apartment is not so big, not too small either, with few furniture humbly displayed throughout the small one bedroom unit. With long curtains draping the window, as plastic seals the cracks from cold air from seeping in, while they cannot look out for the sake of being unnoticed.
A faucet drips constantly echoing through the hallway; mother tried to get the super to fix the problem, where only cold water comes through, as hot water comes in sparingly. No one answers her call and so they must bathe unnoticed.
Time is spent. Dust gathers in crooks and corners of empty cupboards with cans tucked in the back, all arranged in order. Spiders make webs, spinning their homes, laying eggs, feeding off the flies that swoon in the air, sticking to tapes made to trap them.
Breakfast was little, so was lunch, and dinner. Welfare says they must cut back and no one can split the bill, and so the family must tighten their belts as their stomachs growl of rage, inch by inch. There’s nothing to fill them for the groceries are all gone and now the cupboards bare. Tears fall and mouths sag, they fall unnoticed.
Flies increase. There maggots have found themselves away from the room, where the taint of miasma, the smell of something putrid fills the air, they build. And now the water bugs have found themselves up from the drains, where water drips constantly, they are visible in corners of floors.
Today someone knocks at the door, it’s the super, he finally came. The door squeaks open and a smell of death protrudes, making someone very sick with fear, he moves to search for the little family: mother, son, daughter. His heart beats quickly for in the little corner of their bedroom, this small family, he sees little Son is cuddled underneath one arm, and little Daughter under the other as Mother sits in the middle, all bowed, as in prayer, quietly still. You see, they have died; it’s been weeks, no one cared for they died unnoticed.
Have you walked down a crowded street, so crowded that you know that if a family member come to look for you, it would be very difficult fishing you out among the crowd. People circling you, walking this way and that way, zooming by you—some curses you as if you were on wheels—to get out of the way. And they, trying their best to get to their own destinations, have no time to fool with you; so can you imagine your family perspective fishing you out would be an impossible feat, right? But what if you had no family or no friend, that isn’t looking for you? You are in this crowd, by yourself, you probably can stand on a corner and no one would lift an eyelid your way.
To be unnoticed can be a hurtful thing, especially if you have something to say, you can feel it in your chest, your bones. You just want to let it out of your system—there’s something that concerns you but no one stops to listen or even lift an eyelid to see you standing on that lone corner of a sidewalk being passed-by unnoticed.
There are millions and millions of people who like this, are unnoticed. You could be walking down a street and you see a guy lying down on a cold ground, in filthy clothing, disheveled hair, and worn out shoes, asleep; the only thing supporting him is yesterday’s newspaper. The only thing descent for him to lie upon between the ground and himself to try to keep what little left ‘clean’—‘I guess he never lost respect of, let us see who is in today’s obituary—could be a playing thought for him. He probably had a life just like the rest of the people in the crowd. The working class, who storm down busy sidewalks just to get to their 9 to 5’s, this homeless man, can say ‘I once had that.’ Of course he did but somehow something happened along the way changed things. Leeching, drawing this man to a world he now knows as the streets. And here he lay sleeping away where once help was a skip away and now is forever gone, just like his years. And people now pass him unnoticed. However this is one example. What if there were families going on in life unnoticed. Children suffering the fate as this poor man. There are many. I have written a story called “Unnoticed.” I hope you enjoy it.
Title: Unnoticed by Lavel Wideman
A mother swiftly walks, carrying heavy bags of food, carefully propping them in her boney arms, making sure they don’t fall to the wayside, as her children toddle behind her—hand in hand—they follow eagerly anticipating the goodies that awaits them once they reach home. Only enough food to last a few days—no more, no less, will probably last with effort.
They live in the projects, ‘the concrete jungle’ as some would say. They live in the projects—apartment 38-B to be exact. In a big city, with big people who happens to have little bitty hearts. Doors shut from anyone from begging.
Their apartment is not so big, not too small either, with few furniture humbly displayed throughout the small one bedroom unit. With long curtains draping the window, as plastic seals the cracks from cold air from seeping in, while they cannot look out for the sake of being unnoticed.
A faucet drips constantly echoing through the hallway; mother tried to get the super to fix the problem, where only cold water comes through, as hot water comes in sparingly. No one answers her call and so they must bathe unnoticed.
Time is spent. Dust gathers in crooks and corners of empty cupboards with cans tucked in the back, all arranged in order. Spiders make webs, spinning their homes, laying eggs, feeding off the flies that swoon in the air, sticking to tapes made to trap them.
Breakfast was little, so was lunch, and dinner. Welfare says they must cut back and no one can split the bill, and so the family must tighten their belts as their stomachs growl of rage, inch by inch. There’s nothing to fill them for the groceries are all gone and now the cupboards bare. Tears fall and mouths sag, they fall unnoticed.
Flies increase. There maggots have found themselves away from the room, where the taint of miasma, the smell of something putrid fills the air, they build. And now the water bugs have found themselves up from the drains, where water drips constantly, they are visible in corners of floors.
Today someone knocks at the door, it’s the super, he finally came. The door squeaks open and a smell of death protrudes, making someone very sick with fear, he moves to search for the little family: mother, son, daughter. His heart beats quickly for in the little corner of their bedroom, this small family, he sees little Son is cuddled underneath one arm, and little Daughter under the other as Mother sits in the middle, all bowed, as in prayer, quietly still. You see, they have died; it’s been weeks, no one cared for they died unnoticed.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Bags
Bags are used to carry things in. For some it may be food; for some it may be clothes but for those who are less fortunate it may be something of value. It may be all that they have. The Homeless, with them, carry bags which are there memories of long ago, of what they have lost along the way. They are now walking homes, carrying along with them items of what they used to have in their shelves, in their dresser draws, in their cabinets. Some may carry pictures of their love ones, of a family no more, where ghost tread softly through an alley. What they once lost are now in their bags: duffle, back- packs, purses. To the Homeless bags are like their own life. If they bleed, their bags bleed. If they were stolen may God have mercy… For these bags were with them through the struggle, through the pain, wandering these lonely streets, searching for a home to put them in. Will they find it?
I remember walking Manhattan streets, bustling with cars and people. Everything seems to zoom in one speeded accord. When walking the streets of Manhattan in New York City you tend to look at certain characters. You can’t miss them. They are everywhere. The Homeless seems to make permanent fixtures among the sidewalks. You’ll see a few lying on benches; a few panhandling, a few breaking the law. When living on the streets you’ll find ways of keeping face no matter what it is.
Sometimes I tend to notice those who are far off. They don’t want to be seen; they just mind their own business and go on their way. I’ll notice a Bag Lady toddling away with her many bags. You knew she was from the streets by her clothes that she wore and even by her overhauled shopping cart. One knew she didn’t have a home. You can see her memories all in her bags that she carries. And one by one she counts them. Making sure everything is there, fixed in her memory. Here’s a little poem I made called The Bag Lady, I hope you’ll enjoy.
There once was a bag lady
That went up the street.
In her hands she carried
With her three bags, repeat.
It was told she was a murderess
Who was not very neat.
For in those bags was
Her ex-husband’s meat.
First bag carried his
Head and feet.
The second bag his body
Parts in shred, it seeped.
The third was the axe
She sought and did seek.
But it was the memory of it all
Is what she adored and did keep.
I remember walking Manhattan streets, bustling with cars and people. Everything seems to zoom in one speeded accord. When walking the streets of Manhattan in New York City you tend to look at certain characters. You can’t miss them. They are everywhere. The Homeless seems to make permanent fixtures among the sidewalks. You’ll see a few lying on benches; a few panhandling, a few breaking the law. When living on the streets you’ll find ways of keeping face no matter what it is.
Sometimes I tend to notice those who are far off. They don’t want to be seen; they just mind their own business and go on their way. I’ll notice a Bag Lady toddling away with her many bags. You knew she was from the streets by her clothes that she wore and even by her overhauled shopping cart. One knew she didn’t have a home. You can see her memories all in her bags that she carries. And one by one she counts them. Making sure everything is there, fixed in her memory. Here’s a little poem I made called The Bag Lady, I hope you’ll enjoy.
There once was a bag lady
That went up the street.
In her hands she carried
With her three bags, repeat.
It was told she was a murderess
Who was not very neat.
For in those bags was
Her ex-husband’s meat.
First bag carried his
Head and feet.
The second bag his body
Parts in shred, it seeped.
The third was the axe
She sought and did seek.
But it was the memory of it all
Is what she adored and did keep.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Rough Element
This world can be cold and heartless, and I do say that on the point of experience, especially if there is no where to lay one’s head. Have a warm meal to eat. Hear the soothing words of “I care for you.” The world can be mighty strong on those that don’t hear that often or don’t have a place to call home. Its all part of our human makeup, the way we are designed to be part of something, to feel loved, to be loved, are suddenly slapped with reality that we can never be part of or have not reached their, the world’s standard of being accepted, in which I think can kill any soul stronger and more faster.
We notice the homeless on the streets; we may find them on a certain corner; we see their conditions, the way they look, how they take care of themselves. Even without their explanation we can also see their pain, their hurt, their suffering, even on some their guilt. Some are remorseful at best, ‘Why haven’t I done better?” It seems to be etched on their faces: the agony of this life. Long gaunt faces express why they’ve never seem to get out of this misery called the streets. For some the streets has been their home, there backbone, however the streets are not a nice place.
It can be a scary existence. The streets are real. It’s in your face reality like a cold hand that never stops hitting, however no matter how cold the streets become, even for some the ride never ends. It’s in one continuation of hell. One must know what they are doing before they end up on these streets. I wouldn’t wish it for anybody. I’ve written a small poem called The Ghostly Drifter. I hope you enjoy it.
A ghostly drifter walks among the vast land,
Seeking shelter from land to land.
Searching to find a home he could stand,
Searching aimlessly with a knock and a bam.
Only to find there was nothing to suit,
Not even a pair of warm socks to boot.
So instead of framed wood,
And a window to look through,
He’ll possess a body,
And beware, it may be you.
We notice the homeless on the streets; we may find them on a certain corner; we see their conditions, the way they look, how they take care of themselves. Even without their explanation we can also see their pain, their hurt, their suffering, even on some their guilt. Some are remorseful at best, ‘Why haven’t I done better?” It seems to be etched on their faces: the agony of this life. Long gaunt faces express why they’ve never seem to get out of this misery called the streets. For some the streets has been their home, there backbone, however the streets are not a nice place.
It can be a scary existence. The streets are real. It’s in your face reality like a cold hand that never stops hitting, however no matter how cold the streets become, even for some the ride never ends. It’s in one continuation of hell. One must know what they are doing before they end up on these streets. I wouldn’t wish it for anybody. I’ve written a small poem called The Ghostly Drifter. I hope you enjoy it.
A ghostly drifter walks among the vast land,
Seeking shelter from land to land.
Searching to find a home he could stand,
Searching aimlessly with a knock and a bam.
Only to find there was nothing to suit,
Not even a pair of warm socks to boot.
So instead of framed wood,
And a window to look through,
He’ll possess a body,
And beware, it may be you.
Monday, February 18, 2008
The welcome mat in the alley is for everyone here. I hope your stay will be chilling at most. You must be careful when you come here to expect the unexpected. Everything is in large variety here. We have peddlers, demonic urchins, hungry card board men, and cast away homeless, everything the world would really like to put aside and far from them. A ghostly atmosphere that one may not be too accustomed to but um…will be relieved once you leave, I’m sure. So make yourself at home. I’m sure you’ll find a spot in this alley.
Friday, February 15, 2008
Welcome to my alley of fear
Here in this blog--something I'm not too familiar with, but will give it a try with great reluctance whether or not I'm doing this right but hopefully with God's help you will understand what I put out here and hopefully you will go away with something. I hope not copyrighted work but um...you understand. And eventually, I hope I will succeed in something, right? Well my name is Lavel Wideman and hopefully one day I will like to please the reading crowd out there with my books, novels and comic books (Look for the name: Lavel Wideman, okay). An author, not a professional one, (gulp) not yet (on knees praying) will have my book series out in the public pretty soon called "The Homeless Drifter's Night Tales," which is being edited by my English editor, who sometimes gives me a headache, and reminds me a lot of Lucy Ball, but who I admire a great bit and because of her I wouldn't be here writing you. With her hectic schedule and her many writing assignments she puts some time aside for "moi" and we have great fun. A lot of fights comes out of the fun but it's well worth it because she's a great editor and I do admire her, greatly.
Here on this blog, a very unique one, will cover things like art, writing, comic books and all sorts of things that mainly pertain to the homeless and horror. My stories are about this part of humanity which is not looked at with certain concentration where I understand but would like to bring this sort of world to the forefront of you the viewers. A fan of Twilight Zone, EC Comics, and Creep Show, I bring that spectrum into my books and I will guarantee you, you will not go away looking for something else. Here, I would like for anyone to post me things only that which pertains to the homeless but it must be scary. It must have an edge. As Homer Simpson once said, "Welcome to my world."
Here on this blog, a very unique one, will cover things like art, writing, comic books and all sorts of things that mainly pertain to the homeless and horror. My stories are about this part of humanity which is not looked at with certain concentration where I understand but would like to bring this sort of world to the forefront of you the viewers. A fan of Twilight Zone, EC Comics, and Creep Show, I bring that spectrum into my books and I will guarantee you, you will not go away looking for something else. Here, I would like for anyone to post me things only that which pertains to the homeless but it must be scary. It must have an edge. As Homer Simpson once said, "Welcome to my world."
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