Far Away

person standing near lake

Photo by Lukas Rychvalsky on Pexels.com

Life in a shell,

A truth for a nail,

Pieces of each,

Kills us slow as a snail.

We have kids,

Wish them the best,

Give what we can,

They end up in a mess.

Galactic heroes,

Avenger want to be’s,

Ironman crusades,

And life’s must see’s.

Not all kids are bad,

Not all are too blame,

Some live a life,

As if it were a game.

Drugs can kill,

Or even worse,

Keep you a live,

Until you wish you were.

What does a parent do?

What can a parent say?

When closed ears abound,

In a life so far away.

Her Love

Her love is all I need,

Its all  there is to me,

If you felt her love,

You’d know her too.

 

I Love her.

 

She shows her Love,

Smooth and easy is her way,

The gifts she brings,

She shows to me.

 

I Love her.

 

A love like hers,

Will always survive,

I hold her close,

So I won’t die.

 

I Love her.

 

Her Love shines bright,

Stars dim as she passes by,

The moon glow pales,

When she smiles.

 

I Love her.

 

What’s Next

Love is closed.

Love is lost.

Love is not something,

Love is gone.

 

People lost a gift.

People lost a being.

When love was taken.

And self was given.

 

Only self matters.

Only self requires attention.

Only self needs.

Only self matters.

 

Others are insignificant.

Others attention is not important.

Others needs mean nothing.

Others are insignificant.

 

Move, shift, and bend.

Take away the old.

Support your Idealism,

Your thoughts are what’s important.

 

History doesn’t matter.

Truth is what we make it.

Deploy the fires.

Deploy the flames.

 

Kill the truth.

The only important thing…

Is the lie.

The third book in the David Winter Mystery Series

In Bergoo, West Virginia, legends swirl and the past is never far away.

A week away seems the best cure for what ails Dave Winter’s marriage. He can go fishing with an old Army buddy, Mark, while his wife can visit her family. Yet the town of Bergoo isn’t quite as welcoming as it first appears and it isn’t long before things start to go incredibly wrong.

A night of Bourbon flavored reminiscing resolves in a morning with Mark gone, strangers in the cabin and the beginning of a violent and deadly adventure. The mystery thickens when he ventures to Mark’s brother’s house and discovers a scene dripping with blood, body parts, and man-eating hogs.

It’s a mystery only the man who ‘blew up Sarasota’ can solve… if he can survive long enough to figure it out.

Writing is a Crime

It doesn’t really matter what genre you write in, it’s all a crime. Delusional titles, subtitles, and the constant splash of words to attract potential readers to our book, are nothing more than carrots on a string to lure the fly (the reader) into a stew of the author’s creation.

Like Hansel and Gretel, the reader discovers a candy house (the book) and devours every word only to want more. At least, that is what we authors would like to think. We create our works in hopes of giving a reader an experience like they’ve never felt before. We expect to take them on a journey where they live for a moment in our world and linger long enough to become immersed in our stories. They swim in pages of love, mayhem, chaos, conflict, and whatever our minds can devise.

We spend our waking moments thinking, plotting, planning.

We write with pleasure and edit in torment.

We research to make stories more believable.

When that story is finished, edited, and publish we do it all again, because in our heads and hearts lay many stories that can’t wait to escape us and dwell in the minds and hearts of others.

You can write like Hemingway or King and still not make a dime if no one reads your works or shares their experience. Without fans, a writer is doomed to a life of writing words that seldom find an eye

Some find a following and live a modest life enjoying the monetary fruits of their stories. Others write, and write, and write without the bankroll but appear as happy as anyone. It is the story that matters. Write and get it out of your head so the next story can get out and so on. A well of worlds bubble up from these authors with no end in sight. If they stop, their head will explode or their chest will rip open and creatures, like the world has never known, will crawl out of them.

When the writings done, and the sweat of editing complete, we wrap them in a cover and hold the book out for the world to read.

It’s a shame really. A crime of passion.