The Evil Among Us

8-year-old Yemeni child dies at hands of 40-year-old husband on wedding night

Al Nahar, Lebanon, has reported that an eight year old child bride died in Yemen on her wedding night after suffering internal injuries due to sexual trauma. Human rights organizations are calling for the arrest of her husband who was five times her age.

The death occurred in the tribal area of Hardh in northwestern Yemen, which borders Saudi Arabia. This brings even more attention to the already existing issue of forced child marriages in the Middle Eastern region.

My heart aches so much for this child and others like her.  I didn’t sleep well last night because I kept thinking about this story and found myself growing more and more angry, and more and more hurt.  Who am I angry with: Islam, Muslims, the Middle East, pedophiles, this girl’s parents, or the bastard husband, God, the devil? 

I understand men make their own laws.  I don’t blame Islam or even Muslims for this travesty, because I have seen first-hand how men twist and pervert the words of their religion and their laws to justify or excuse their behaviors.  What this bastard did to an 8-year old child had NOTHING to do with his faith, his religion, his country, his politics or his laws.  Anyone who tries to blames these things alone serves an injustice to this child.  When this bastard looked down on the face of that child and then committed the despicable and deplorable acts of evil, he did so by his own evil choice.  I don’t give a damn his religion, his politics or his culture… he is a human being capable of making a rational decision, and he CHOSE to violate, mutilate and murder this precious child because he’s a selfish evil bastard.  NO ONE in their right mind could do such a thing and EVER think ANY part of it was okay, justified, or their God-given right. 

When that child screamed in pain, while that infidel satisfied his perverted sexual desires, it identified him as an evil monster.  I’m so angry that such evil exists in this world.  Yes, I know of other travesties such as starvation, cruelty, imprisonment, human trafficking, slavery, disease and neglect.  I’m not blind to the other acts of evil in this world.  I just sometimes don’t understand how we humans can treat each other.  We are the cruelest race, yet also the most loving and kind and understanding. 

I hope that bastard gets raped, mutilated and tortured.  Will he?  I doubt it.  I hope the parents who thought it okay to sell their child to such a man are tormented with nightmares for the rest of their lives.  I hope the lawmakers who turn their backs and refuse to protect their own children suffer unimaginable pain and disappointment.  It is my faith and belief that all of those who have this girl’s blood on their hands will face the God they hid behind, and will find no manner of twisting will save them from the justice that waits for them. 

As long as evil men have free will, stories like this will continue to be conducted in this world.  We, humans (regardless of race, color or creed), are not who we claim to be with our mouths, our proclamations, our clothes, our appearance, our governments, or politics, or our confessions – we are who we truly are in every decision we make, in every response to every situation and circumstance in our lives.  How we respond and act is the true testament to our character.  Some of us are just plain evil. 

Till next time,

~T.L. Gray

Open Arms

I don’t usually use these inspirational pictures for my own blog, choosing to create an original, but this one really captured what I’ve been feeling for the last few days.

There are so many things I wish I could control, because I think I know what’s best for me.  Even if I don’t know what’s best, I know what I want.  But, knowing what I want and obtaining it is two different things.  My biggest problem is that I want too much.  I’ve been caged for so long inside of a self-imposed prison.  Now that I’m free, I find I’m flying around in circles.  I want to see everything.  I want to touch everything. I want to experience everything.  I want to feel everything.  I want to live fully.  I want to love fully.  As the prompt says, “I choose to open my arms to all the good life has in store for me.”

One of the things about being free I didn’t expect to experience in this stage - is having to let go. You can’t hold onto anything with open arms.  I hate letting go, and it doesn’t matter what it happens to be.  I don’t understand sometimes all the rules of this world, because I’ve just broken free from them.  But, not everyone else has reached the same point as me.  Not everyone is ready to fly.

I have so much love, where once I had none.  It’s overwhelming.  I wish I could open everyone’s heart and pour this into them, but I can’t.  I have to fly.  I’ve waited my whole life for this.  I’ve prayed, dreamed, hoped and fought hard to come to this point.  I can’t allow anyone to keep me grounded, not even me.  I just never knew it was going to hurt so much.  I’ve always imagined someone would fly with me.  Maybe someday there will be, but I can’t carry anyone else.  My wings can only lift me.  No one else can carry me either.

I know many of the people in my life, really almost all of them, don’t understand what’s going on inside me.  From all outward appearances I’ve turned my back on everything and everyone, but that’s not how I see it. I used to run and hide from everything …to protect me. I was broken.  I couldn’t accept and give love, I had none.  But I’m not running and hiding now - I’m flying.  I’ve not abandoned my faith, I’ve embraced it.  It is my faith that has brought me to this point.  It’s another stage, another level of intimacy.  It is God’s love for me that has taught me and allowed me to love myself.    My actions don’t fall under the normal rules and expectations, I’ve never been normal.  I can’t live my life trying to please everyone. 

I open my arms. I can’t breathe because of the pain of leaving everyone and everything behind.  It’s the worst ache I’ve ever felt, and I’ve known a lot of hurt.  I’m so scared my knees tremble and I shake, but I leap into the air anyway.  Please don’t hate me.  Love me. Be happy for me. Forgive me. When you find your own wings, come find me.  If you don’t, love yourself and be happy. 

I stand with my arms open and close my eyes as the first golden rays of the Morning kiss my cheeks and dry my tears.  His lips are warm and gentle.  He whispers to me, and his cool breath drapes over me like morning dew.  His words of love surround me like a whirlwind, moving in, around and about me.  My outstretched arms become a pair of beautiful wings and his love becomes the wind as I rise. I set my face toward the sun and feel the breeze upon my face and the draft beneath me.  I hear the song of the Morning; its melody calls to me; drawing me into its embrace.  I fly. Oh, God, how I fly.  

Till next time,

~T.L. Gray

Writing is Hell

I stumbled upon a joke about writing that just hit me like a splash of cold water on a hot Georgia summer, and though I laugh at it, I can't help but wonder if my laughter is just an effort to hide the truth in the statement. 

Here's the joke:

A writer died and was given the option of going to heaven or hell.
She decided to check out each place first. As the writer descended into the fiery pits, she saw row upon row of writers chained to their desks in a steaming sweatshop. As they worked, they were repeatedly whipped with thorny lashes.
"Oh my," said the writer. "Let me see heaven now."
A few moments later, as she ascended into heaven, she saw rows of writers, chained to their desks in a steaming sweatshop. As they worked, they, too, were whipped with thorny lashes.
"Wait a minute," said the writer. "This is just as bad as hell!"
"Oh no, it's not," replied an unseen voice. "Here, your work gets published."

In simple layman's terms - Writing is hell either way you look at it.  

So, go chew on that for a while.

So Many Things

There’re so many things I have bottled up inside that I’d like to get out, but I can’t release them.  Not because I’m afraid or even ashamed of them, but because they would more than likely hurt someone else.  Who can truly understand my meaning and intentions when I can’t?  I’ve spent most of my life bottling up things and keeping the hurt and the pain on the inside.  I’ve also spent several of the past years letting that pain out, learning to live openly, honestly, exposing my heart.  I’ve been getting hurt, but I’ve also been healing, or at least what I think is healing.

There’re so many things I’d love to say about all the great wisdom I’ve learned, and in return be a wonderful inspiration to someone else. But in all truth, I haven’t learned much at all.  It was so much easier when I had a box, because that box had defined lines and I could navigate within their walls and stay within the lines, and feel good about myself for my efforts.  I broke out of that box, and I now navigate a world with no lines, no boundaries, no definitives, and no absolutes.  I’m not sure which is scarier.  It’s easy to have faith when you’re told what to believe.  It’s harder to believe in what your eyes don’t see, your hands can’t touch, in words you don’t hear or can’t say.  Yet, what choice do we have?  There’s only to believe or not to believe.

There’re so many things I fear and yet desire at the same time, fear and desire pull me and push me, and pull those I love and then push them away.  My desire is they continue to love me as I try to get my footing; my fear is that it’ll be too much for them to handle and they walk away.  I’m passionate in all things – when I write, when I work and most of all…when I love.  I can’t do any of them with a half measure; I give it all – therefore I risk it all.  I love with my whole heart, my whole soul, my whole being.  I don’t know how else to do it. I also fear with my whole heart, my whole soul and my whole being. 

I can’t promise a lot of things in this world.  I can’t promise tomorrow.  I can’t promise peace.  I can’t promise I’ll always say and do the right thing.  I can’t promise my passion will win out over my fear today, tomorrow or in the next five minutes.  I can’t promise that tragedy won’t strike.  I can’t promise the moon, or success, or happily ever after.  All I can promise… is that whatever I do - I do honestly and with my whole heart.  If I love you, I love you with my whole heart.  

I shake with fear, uncertainty, and doubt, but I keep walking.  I carry the scars of failure, but I keep trying.   What I need is so simple, yet so complex… I just need a little seed of hope.  I want to know I’m fighting for something, that there’s a great adventure still waiting for me, and there was a reason I was born in this world and have yet survived; simply that I matter.

Till next time,

~T.L. Gray

So many things,
So many things,

So little words.
So much pain,
Will I be heard?

So many problems,
So little time.
So much confusion,
Will I be fine?

So many fears,
So little faith.
So much love,
too much hate.

~T.L. Gray

New Friends - Part III of the Adventures of Jude and Tammy

Jude jumped up and down, pumping his little fist into the air.  “Yeah, I smoked you, Tammy!”

Tammy flicked her long auburn hair over her shoulder and smiled up at her celebrating friend.  “You got me this time. But, my turn is next.”  She picked up her favorite tiger-eyed marble and stuffed it into her dress pocket. 

Snatching up the remainder ducks, Jude filled his pockets with his treasured marbles.  “What you wanna play next?”  He plopped down in the dirt next to Tammy?  He looked over at her and smiled.  “Just so you know. You’re my best friend, Tammy.”

Tammy wrinkled her nose and looked up at Jude, who had the bright sun behind him, causing her to only see his silhouetted outline.  “You’re my best friend, too, Jude.”

Jude shrugged.  “Okay, cool.”  He looked around and then asked, “Do you want to play hide and seek?”

“Who’s it?” 

“I’ll be it.  You go hide.” Jude smiled. 

Jumping up, Tammy bent over and placed a quick kiss on Jude’s cheek and then took off running into the woods.

Jude reached up and quickly wiped the kiss off. He wrinkled his brows and pursed his lips together and grumbled, “I wish she’d stop doing that.” He stood up and shoved his hands deep into his pockets and started walking into the woods, now in no hurry to seek Tammy and her stupid kisses.

Walking down the wooded path, Jude started kicking a pine cone down the trail and wasn’t watching where he went.  Angry at Tammy because he had told her a ton to stop being a silly girl, that he didn’t like kisses, but she didn’t do what he said.  He reared back and kicked the cone as hard as he could, sending it flying into the woods. 

The cone hit a nearby tree, pinged back and then rolled down the hill.  Jude took off running after it.  He loved to run.  The cone bopped, bounced and hopped down the hill and then rolled onto the edge of the playground, coming to stop just below one of the see-saws.  “Katy, stop!” He yelled at the girl riding high on the see-saw as it drifted toward the earth toward his pine cone.

Her little feet touched the ground, but she held the see-saw from coming all the way down and then turned her head back toward him.  “Oh, hey, Jude.”

Jude gave her a little wave and quickly bent down to pick up his pine-cone football. 

“Can you help me off?” Katy asked, nodding toward the other see-saw rider. 

Rearing back, Jude took aim at a nearby tree and launched his pinecone with a mighty throw.  Together the two children watched it fly through the air, hit the bark of a nearby tree and then bounce off into the underbrush.  Jude then reached over and held the see-saw while Katy slid off, and then slowly lowered it for the other rider. 

“Thank you, Jude,” Katy answered.  She nodded toward the other rider.  “Silas is heavier than me and every time I slide off, it makes him hit the ground hard.”

Jude shrugged. 

Katy smiled at him.  “Do you want to come with me to the pond and race boats?”

“Nah, I don’t like racing boats.”

“Climb the monkey bars?”

“Nah, I did that already.”

“Well, what do you want to do?”

Jude poked his hands in his pockets and pulled out a handful of marbles.  “Do you like to play marbles?”

Katy smiled.  “I never played. Can you teach me how?”

“Sure,” Jude answered, and then launched right into explaining the rules of the games as he walked beside Katy toward the sand box.

Together, Jude and Katy played marbles well into the afternoon.  She learned the rules quickly, loved to laugh out loud and squeal with delight every time she sank a duck into the center hole.  Jude loved teaching her how to play and he didn’t mind her giving him a hug every time she sank another duck. Though he had fun, something tugged on the edge of his mind, but he kept pushing the feeling away so he could concentrate on the game.  If he didn’t watch it closely, he could lose, and Jude hated losing more than anything.

It wasn’t too long, Jude heard his mother calling him and he began to gather all his marbles.  Katy handed them all over willingly except for the white shooter he called Snowball. 

“This one is so pretty.  Can I have it?” Katy asked.

Jude froze.  He looked down at his marble then back up at Katy.  Everything inside him wanted to snatch his marble away, but he found himself shaking his head up and down. 

Katy squealed with delight and reached over and kissed Jude on the cheek. 

He wiped the kiss off his cheek and grumbled.  “Tammy, I already told you stop doing that!”

Katy pulled back.  “Who’s Tammy?”

A sinking feeling hit Jude in the center of his stomach as he looked over his shoulder into the darkening woods, back toward where Tammy had ran earlier that morning, where he never went to find her.  

Continuing Quest

No one likes to receive dismal news, especially right in the middle of a hard campaign that is often fought alone. Accolades, elation, celebration and jubilation are desired special effects to build resolve. Yet, living every day in the middle of chaos, pushing the mind, energy and focus to the extreme limit, all with a hope for a promise of a nice rainbow and pot of gold at the end of the process, seems a bit deflated when there’s not even a hint of a pot and the skies remain gray and overcast.  It is known that the rainbow doesn’t appear until after the storm. Yet, one foot must still be placed in front of the other right in the middle of the downpour, amid the search for the rainbows end. 

Heads must remain high amongst the throngs of naysayers, those who shout their insults against the mere belief that the possibility exists.  Don’t blink, even when rain drips from lashes and stings the eyes and blurs the vision.  Keep moving, even when feet are wrinkled and numb within the soggy boots, as they slosh through muddy paths.  A promise doesn’t come by magic – a simple snap of the finger.  It comes by faith – through trial and testing. 

Is there courage enough to stand to continue this quest?  Or will the dream be allowed to wither and die in the face of adversity?

Till next time,

~T.L. Gray

Romance - Wherefore Art Thou?

I’m not a big reader of romance.  I’d like to say it’s because I find the genre lacking in any real substance or literary acclaim, but that wouldn’t be the truth.  I know several romance writers who are wonderfully talented and their skills are quite evident in all their work.  So, I have to ask myself why I have such an aversion for the genre.  I believe the answer is a sad, but simple one – because I don’t know romance personally.

Being 42-years old, it’s hard to believe that a woman, a beautiful woman at that, has never really experienced romance.  Unfortunately, it’s true.  The part to this tale that’s even sadder is that I believe I’m a very romantic person.  So, for those shaking their heads in disbelief let me try to explain.

Through life circumstances in my youth, I didn’t get to really enjoy a dating period. This is often where most people experience their first samples of romance.  I wasn’t ignorant of it and saw it all around me; I just didn’t get to participate. At twenty-four I met my best friend who soon became my husband and father to our children.  He was a good man, one I will always love and respect, but he wasn’t a romantic and we didn’t have what would be considered a romantic marriage.  Even before we were married he told me, “I did all that romantic stuff like buy flowers, write poems, and be silly before with other women, but it didn’t work.  So, why bother with it?”  Over the twenty years we were married he never bothered.  He tried on occasion, but it fell flat and felt awkward because it was a forced effort, not a desired one. He told me on several occasions, “It’s better to be best friends than be romantic. Romance fades, but friends last forever.”  He wasn’t the first to say that to me, nor was he the last. I seemed to be cursed with finding myself always in the proverbial ‘friend zone’. Many of current friends are men who will only ever see me as a good friend, yet fall romantically in love with other women.  I often wonder what those other women have that I don’t. 

It is said that a writer’s best work happens when they draw from experience and from elements they intimately know. I can’t write romance.  I tried last year during the NaNoWriMo.  I actually finished the 65,000 word novel, but it’s severely lacking, because I couldn’t simply write a decent kissing scene (kissing is something else I’ve little experience).  I’ve since tried my hand at erotica, and I have to say I’ve written a few good pieces, but even in that there’s a small disconnect.  I would never pursue or write it professionally. 

Whether you like Fifty Shades of Grey by E. L. James or hated it, there was something in it that my soul cried out for and was desperately thirsty to drink, and it had nothing to do with BDSM or sex at all.  As I read it, the editor within me wanted to get out my red pen, but the woman in me cried inside the whole time.  Christian and Anastasia had me at their first email exchange.  There’s a lot the story lacks, but there’s an underlying current that resonates with women… women like me.  We want - no, we need to feel wanted, loved and desired. Respect is wonderful.  Trust is a must.  We are more than just wives, mothers and partners.  We are women, sexual beings, intelligent, loving and nurturing. 

I can understand how and why the romance genre is as large as it is, even if I still don’t connect with the stories myself.  I have to believe that one day I’ll meet someone who still believes in romance and will share their romantic feelings with and for ME.  I’m foolish enough to believe I deserve to be the girl of their affections.   

Someday.

Till next time,

~T.L. Gray

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Dancing in the Storm

Before my tired eyes open, I feel a rumbling beneath me, shaking me, disturbing my fitful dream. It sounds like heavy hammering, God pounding on the Earth’s foundations, beating the stubborn core into correction.

After the rumbling, I listen to the silence, straining my ears to hear, to listen, in a vain attempt to gauge distance. Does the storm come or go?  Will it build or evaporate?  Have I already felt the brunt?  Or is the storm coming and I have yet to experience the wind, the rain, brilliant flashes of lightning and pounding peals of thunder?

There’s a thrill in the storm, an excitement of the unknown, and an erotic flirtation with danger. The natural instinct is to seek shelter, to hide in a place of safety and warmth until the storm passes.  But I find myself drawn to it like a magnet.  Something inside; something beaten, broken, and bent stirs from her slumber.  She’s a wretched thing, almost unrecognizable, covered in the black filth of despair and dejection.  She awakens, lifts her pitiful head and stares at me with haunted eyes. 

I try to fight her.  I try to keep her submissive.  I try to stop her from taking control, because she’s pure rage, pure anger and pure destruction.  Many times she has wreaked havoc, destroying what I’ve worked so hard to build, causing many of the beautiful dreams I’ve created to evaporate in a swirling mist of chaos.

A flash of lightning fills the room, causing even my closed eyes to see.  I hold my breath.  I wait.  I know the boom of thunder is soon to follow.  My inner wraith stands, holds out her arms and waits to embrace its roar.  I feel it coming. It starts out in a low grumble, then builds and grows and increases until it’s so loud, so strong and so close the bed shakes, the windows vibrate in their panes, and the walls shudder. 

But my wraith, oh, my wraith dances.  She lifts her arms above her head and begins bending her wrists, extending her fingers, rolling her shoulders, swaying her back, moving her hips, and stomping her feet in the puddles, spinning in circles.  She feeds off the storm, letting its energy fill her and surge through her body.

The rain falls.  First a small tapping, followed by a pounding deluge.  My wraith screams as the cool water washes over her and rivers of black snake away from her, diluting and fading as it mixes with pooling water.  Various shades of gray emerge beneath the outer filth, yet she continues to dance, continues to scream, and continues to shake in fear. 

The storm rages, the wind howls, the rain beats upon the side of the house and against the window pane, lightning strikes and the thunder roars while my wraith dances. I want her stop and seek refuge, yet I’m also excited by her lack of fear in the face of the storm, her ability to dance amongst the elements that destroy her.  She fades.  Each drop of rain carries another part of her away, diluting her, yet she continues to dance.

I cannot watch any longer, yet I cannot stop.  Instead, I curl into a ball, place my hands over my ears to muffle as much of the storm as possible, and then allow myself to drift back into another dream. I know she will return again.

Till next time,

~T.L. Gray

Beyond the Tempest Gate

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Beyond the Tempest Gate

Beauty for Ashes

As I greet the morning, sipping on a warm cup of coffee, body relaxing after a great workout, I walk to the lake behind my house to enjoy a beautiful scene.  I think about those I love, those I miss, and catch a small vaporous thought of those who have faded from my life.  My focus narrows and I center on the new phase.  I think I’m learning to view and experience the world around me with a different set of eyes.  Well, that’s not true.  I don’t have a different set of eyes, only a different way of seeing.  Well, how I use those eyes are not new either, only that I’m starting to understand the difference between seeing and truly seeing.

All my life I’ve viewed the world in such a way, I’d sometimes wonder if maybe I’d been given a different set of eyes than those around me.  I find beauty in mundane things that most people don’t even give a second thought, and most often what is praised by the masses leaves me scratching my head.  I can see a tree in the middle of a forest and weep at its vibrancy in the face of insignificance.  My heart grows heavy at the sight of a rusty tricycle, long forgotten and neglected, shining in the sun, casting a brilliance that is almost blinding.  It brings back glimpses of happy childhood memories, those often clouded by darker moments. I see the vibrant colors of flowers, leaves, grass, water, sky and earth.  I notice the things out of place more often than the things spotlighted.  I can spend several minutes wrapped in the peace of nature watching an ant climb the limb of a tree, or listening to the wind rustle the leaves, or smelling the scent of a beautiful flower, or running my fingers over the dew-kissed grass, and feel so connected, yet so lost at the same time.

I view people differently too.  No matter the outside appearance, whether wrapped in attractive skin or gross deformity, it is the soul of a person that radiates their beauty or ugliness.  In my youth, appearance was important to me and I spent a lot of time focused on what I found visually appealing.  Though these beautiful people got to share part of me, claim to be my friend, claimed a few stolen kiss, and shared in many of my gifts and talents, there were always one or two friends who shared my heart – but only on very, very, very rare occasions.  I was an expert and hiding my heart.

Today, after a life of heartbreak and love, I find I’m attracted to aspects of beauty that can’t often be seen with the naked eye.  It’s sometimes found in a kind word, a moment of appreciation, a stirring of hope, reaching for a dream, or a spot of comfort, or a word of rebuke.  Sometimes it’s in a kiss, a pair of hazel eyes, a touch, a glance, or a simple word of affection. 

We can choose to see the beauty or the ugliness in everything… in our situations, in our dreams, in our daily lifestyles, in our jobs, in our friends and families, in our neighbors, in our government, in our gods … in everything.  I still see ugliness, but I will admit I’m beginning to see more and more beauty all the time.

What do you see?

Till next time,

~T.L. Gray

How Many Times?

How many times do we have to be told something before the true message starts to become clear?  How many times do we have to be pushed away before we realize we’re not wanted?  How many times to we have to be left standing alone to realize that we’re alone?  As many times as it needs until we see nothing but the truth. 

Now if you asked, “Why does it take so many times?”  That’s a different question, and the answer is as unique as we are individual.  But I think the sum of the answer lay somewhere in the hopes we’ve personally built within ourselves, even if they’re lies. 

Simply put.  We can lie to ourselves; believe things, situations, and emotions are what we hope.  But, until we dash those false hopes, and there’s not a strand or minute evidence they still exist, we will desperately cling to them and to the fantasy they provide.  Then everything we see, hear, feel, or understand is filtered through that lie and it causes us to become confused… become fools.

Discovering the truth can be very painful.  Not only because we realize we built a false ideal in our minds, but that we’ve acted on it, supported it, and gave the best parts of ourselves to it… all for naught.  The biggest part of the pain is because we realize we were fools. 

When we reach that part, we are left with the decision of now what to do with the message we so clearly didn’t see before; unfiltered; unmasked; without false hope.   How can we ever be sure ANY part of what is left isn’t also false?  How can we possibly trust our decision-making process when it clearly failed us before? 

I don’t know the answer.  I wish I did.  I just know me – and when I know I’ve been a fool I get hurt.  But soon hurt turns to anger, anger turns to bitterness, and bitterness turns to indifference… unless I discover how to forgive - me for being a fool.   

Till next time,

~T.L. Gray

Wake up, I'm calling you.

Sometimes I look around at my new life and suddenly feel all alone - a desert rose, a grain of sand on a planet of nearly seven billion people.  I look out my office window and see the beauty of nature, the wind rustling the leaves, the morning dew watering the grass, the ducks sending ripples across the lake, and the clouds dotting the sky.  I know I’m part of that whole cycle of being, yet I feel disconnected behind these window panes.  I’m shadow; invisible. It would be easy to fade from this world, become a ghostly image of me, hiding from any and everybody until I’m forgotten, like a gravestone that has faded, broken, overgrown and unreadable.  I’ve faded and been forgotten before, left behind too many times not to fear its sting, so I close my eyes, and let the pain trickle out with every tear.   

My soul inside shakes hard against my heart and cries out, “Wake up, I’m calling you.”  The song by Eye Alaska fills my heart and my mind.  I can hear it clearly; my body gently sways to its melodic beat. I can feel the passion and desperation in the words; words my soul cries.  “Get up, they’re mocking you.  I thought that you were the one who would make it all on their own.  No?  I tried so hard, you’re asking.  Wake up! I’m only asking the obvious.  I tried you once, but you won’t wake up.  I’m only asking what could have been. I knew back then you’d never …fly.” Just as the words fade, I hear my soul whisper, Don’t give up.

Why do I hide?  What am I searching or waiting for?  Sometimes I’m so numb I feel like a block of ice; hard, cold, emotionless. Other times so passionate I’m about to melt from the fire; one that without a vent of release turns inside and consumes me.  In those moments there are no arms to warm me, or no lips to receive mine.

I could fill my life with warm bodies, my bed with human flesh, but my soul yearns for something more.  I’m not sure who is the greater fool, because more may never come.  “We all are almost certain we’ll never find why we live and we die. It’s a question with answers.”  Is my soul right in its fear that I’ll never fly?  It is what I’m born to do, and I’ve removed the lid from my crystal cage, yet I still find myself hovering inside this glass jar still looking out at the world, petrified to be free.  What if the wind won’t carry me?  What if my wings are not strong enough?  What if I get lost and don’t know where to go? What if I die?

To my soul I cry, “I’m waking up, please help me.” My wings are delicate.  To barely touch them would destroy them; to not use them would destroy me. Don’t let me fade.  Don’t let me die.  Don’t let me sink back into the dream. I may not have the strength to stir next time.

Till next time,

~T.L. Gray

New Release/Review - Beyond the Tempest Gate by Jeff Suwak

Click cover to order.

How many of us as children dreamed of being something greater than our circumstances?  How many dreamed, though insignificant and often unloved, of making a difference in this big world; leaving a mark that will inspire many generations to come?  I’d like to say many of us have had that dream, but that’s just not true.  There are only a few.  Because to dream like that is to be willing to dedicate a life in fulfilling that mandate, and to be quite honest, not many people have the dedication and fortitude to see such visions to the end.  But in Beyond the Tempest Gate by Jeff Suwak, that’s exactly what Gabriel Aterias accomplishes.

Born to a poor and neglectful pig farmer, Gabriel has no prospects of a glorious future, not even a comfortable one, but that doesn’t stop him from believing the story of a prophesied Holy Knight from the Church of Dunrabian who will rise up and defeat the evil demon, Elezear. Gabriel does more than believe, he pursues this calling with pure dedication and doesn’t allow anything to stop him, not even a protective elemental barrier guarding the demon and the island it habitats, called the Tempest Gate.

This story touched my heart, pulled on the hope I once had as child, but then caused me to peer into a mirror and question whether the quests I’ve ventured have been my true calling or had I deceived myself into believing a lie.  Not many stories touch my soul. Not many writers would I call a true word weaver.  Beyond the Tempest Gate and author Jeff Suwak encompasses them both. The language and illustrations in this must read are beautiful and poetic. 

Till next time,

~T.L. Gray

Book Description

Publication Date: August 26, 2013

From the time he was a young boy, Gabriel Aterias knew he was destined to rise from the peasantry and become the Holy Knight of the Church of Dunrabian. By the time he was twenty four years old, he had already led the Church’s armies to greater victories than any other man in history. Yet, his greatest feat still lay ahead of him.

Beyond the elemental barrier of the Tempest Gate lurks the demon Elezear. An evil older than the world itself, it nearly eradicated the human race once before. For five hundred years, the people of the Five Kingdoms have slept uneasily, praying that the creature would not escape the walls of storm that confined it.

Gabriel vows to destroy the demon. His quest will take him far beyond the borders of civilization, across the ocean, and into unimaginable darkness. What he will soon discover is that the greatest danger in his quest to save the world may very well be the loss of his own soul.

Tag, You're It! Part II of the Adventures of Jude and Tammy

Tammy hung upside down from the domed monkey bars.  She loved the way her arms hung free below her head, with the tips of her long auburn hair almost bushing across the ground as she swayed gently back and forth.   She thought the world looked funny from that angle.  People weren’t as big and scary, and she could never see the angry expressions most grown-ups carried on their faces.  Upside down frowns looked like smiles to her. Her world just felt better from this point of view.

Reaching up, Tammy pulled her favorite object out of her pocket.  It was a beautiful tiger-eyed marble her new friend Jude had given her. It was one of the big ones, too.  Not one of those little marbles nobody really cared about they called ducks. She often felt like one of those forgotten, insignificant marbles; just one of the same among a dozen. But Jude didn’t give her one of those, he gave her the best one he had, the one she admired most.  She loved the way the inside swirls of gold and black sparkled in the sunlight, a lot like the way Jude’s eyes had the day before.

“You’re going to get your hair all dirty hanging like that.”

Tammy moved her focus from the sparkling marble to the upside down form of a little boy.  He had his hands shoved into the pockets of his patch-worn jeans.  “So, dirt don’t hurt.  It’ll wash off.”

“Your mama won’t get mad at you?”  He kicked a stone with his foot.  “My mama gets mad at everything. ‘Specially when I tear holes in my jeans.”

Tammy pulled herself upright and then jumped down from the monkey bars, landing in the sand right in front of Jude.  He stepped back, but kept his hands in his pockets. She closed her little fist around the shooter, and put her hands behind her back so Jude wouldn’t see it and take it away from her.  “What ‘cha doin’?”

Jude arched one of his eyebrows as if Tammy had asked the dumbest question in the world.  “I’m standing here talking to you. What else would I be doing?”

“Wanna play tag?” Tammy brushed a strand of hair out of her face. 

With a shrug, Jude answered.  “Okay, but I do the chasing.  I don’t like girls chasing me.”

“Why not?”

“’Cause they don’t do it right.  That ain’t the way it’s ‘sposed to be.”

“Says who?”

Jude scrunched his brows and crossed his arms over his chest.  “Says me.  Now you gonna run or not?  I ain’t got all day.”

Tammy lightly punched him on the arm and shouted, “Tag, you’re it!”  She took off running, zig-zagging through the playground equipment and then onto the nature trails that webbed through the park.  She loved the trails. She loved the woods.  She loved the thrill of the chase.  She didn’t have to look back to know he was there, she could feel him behind her, keeping pace with her almost step by step, but he didn’t tag her. 

Soon Tammy forgot she was playing tag and stopped at an old fallen log covered with moss.  A fat, black beetle skittered across the top.  She knelt down next to the tree and watched it busily make its way across the moss.  Jude plopped down next to her and watched the beetle too.  They both sat mesmerized at the beauty and wonder of nature.

“Where do you suppose he’s going?” Tammy whispered.

“Probably back home to his mama,” Jude answered and then looked back over his shoulder the way they had come.  “My mama’s gonna be mad when she can’t find me.”

Tammy nodded her head.  “Yeah, mine too.”

“You taking care of my marble?”

Tammy smiled at him.  “You mean my marble?”

With a shrug, Jude answered, “Whatever.”

“Yeah, I got it right here. I take it with me everywhere.” Tammy tapped the outside of her pocket.

Jude stood up tapped Tammy hard on the shoulder and then took off running, yelling back over his shoulder, “Tag, you’re it!”

Want My Marble - Part I of the Adventures of Jude and Tammy

*Here's a piece of Flash Fiction inspired by a conversation I had this morning with my best friend.  I hope you enjoy it.

• 

“I got you now, you evil beast!” Jude bent low, lined his favorite tiger-eye shooter with one of the dozen or so multi-colored ducks surrounding the inner hole.  The knees of his jeans already sported patches from the amount of time he spent on the ground playing his favorite game in the world - marbles.  “You thought you could hide from Jude Singleton, but …” 

He poked the end of his tongue out the side of his mouth, closed his left eye so his right could get a better view, and with his thumb and steady hand, he flicked the large gold and black-swirled marble toward its target.  It shot across the dirt and gravel toward a small hole dug in the center of a large round ring, surrounded by several other smaller marbles.  Jude held his breath and watched as his favorite shooter bounced, bobbled and weaved its way toward the center, knocking the nearest duck closer to the hole.  He opened his closed eye and sat up as the red-swirly edged closer to the rim and slowed to an agonizing crawl. 

Moving more sluggish than a snail, the marble seemed to have almost stopped.  Jude raised his dirty hands, partially covered his face, but through the finger-slats kept his eyes peeled on the marble as it drew to a stop.  His jaw dropped and Jude was about to let out a long line of exasperated expletives when the sparkling-red glass ball moved another micro-millimeter and teetered on the rim of the hole before finally dropping in.  Jude jumped to his feet, arms and fists pumping the air in victory, as he continued his earlier phrase, “…no one gets away from the Marble Mutilator!”

“The Marble Mutilator, what’s that?”

Jude froze. Every muscle in his six-year old body tensed.  He cut his eyes at the source of the voice that invaded his fantasy, and then his head followed.  “That’s me.  Who’re you?”  His voice exuded a crass, irritated tone, but it didn’t match the feelings flooding his little body, or the strange thoughts coursing through his little mind.  He little hands went to his hips and he turned to stand in front of this strange angelic creature he quickly identified as …a girl.

“I’m Tammy Greenleaf.” She smiled at him, revealing a small gap between her two front teeth. She looked past Jude at the small collection of colorful marbles still sitting in the dirt.  “I like all your pretty marbles.”

Jude huffed.  “Marbles ain’t pretty, and neither are girls!” He crossed his arms over his chest.

Tammy ignored his outburst, and though she wore a yellow-flowered sun dress, she dropped to her knees and surveyed the position of the marbles on the ground.  She pointed to the gold and black-striped shooter Jude had just recently used.  “That one’s the prettiest of them all.  It reminds me of my cat, Leo.”

Jude plopped down next to her and quickly snatched up his favorite shooter.  “I said marbles ain’t pretty.  They don’t look like cats either!”

Cocking her head to the side and smiling at Jude, the sun light caught the green, gold and brown specks in her hazel eyes and reminded Jude of some of the beautiful colors he admired while studying his marbles. “Well, I think they’re pretty, and so are you.”

Eyes bulging, Jude blinked several times but found he couldn’t move.  Without thinking, or even under his direct command or control, he held out his favorite tiger-striped shooter to Tammy.  “Want my marble?”

Tammy looked at the marble, then back up at Jude before she leaned in and placed a soft, wet kiss on his cheek.  He stopped breathing.  He sat petrified as she reached out and took the offered gem.  “Thank you,” she whispered.

A few seconds later, but what felt like an eternity to Jude, feeling returned to his body and his mind started to once again turn.  He looked down at his empty hand and immediately felt despair.  “Girls!” he grumbled under his breath through gritted teeth.  “They should all be shipped to Mars.”

Jude shoved his hand in his pocket and pulled out another shooter.  This time it was a solid white one he called Snowball.  He bent down once more in the dirt and lined his shooter with his next target, but not before he cast a quick glance at the swing set to notice Tammy sitting there, her beautiful hair blowing in the wind, holding the tiger-eye up to the sun in admiration.  

Writing with Emotion

If any of my friends from school or even those I worked with in the corporate world read any of my writings or blogs today, they’d think they’d stumbled upon an impostor,  someone with the same face and name but perhaps the victim of an alien body snatcher. I not only live differently, from quiet and reserved to open and honest, but I write with a different method. I write with emotion; I bleed part of my soul onto the page.

I’ve had other writer friends ask me why I do this.  They personally feel like it’s an invasion of their privacy.  Some see it as a weakness, a weapon to be used by the public to discredit their hard work and talent.  I suppose that could be true, but I see things a little differently. I believe in giving my best – and my best is of myself.

While I care what my readers, fans and followers think, feel and how they respond to my work, or even to me as a person, but to be quite honest - I don’t live or write for them – I live and write for me.  I invite them to journey with me AS I journey, but I don’t put on a show.  These words I write are who I am; the real picture, the real me. All these emotions, experiences, and thoughts are raw. I do not apologize for them, nor am I ashamed. 

If I could convey anything to those who read these blogs, it’s I hope they can serve as an example of humanity.  I write fictional characters.  I know how to create an image, a character and a personality - and I know many bloggers who write in such fashion. I’m currently setting up a fictional blog for one of my characters in a new book I’m writing, and it will be written from the character’s POV.  But the Whimsical World of T.L. Gray is just that… MY whimsical world.  For those who read it – thank you for allowing me to share.

Till next time,

~T.L. Gray

Slaying Giants

      I stand in the midst of an army, made up of my fellow brothers, sisters, friends and family all surrounding me, fully aware of the war that commences in the battlefield ahead.  Yet they just go about their assigned tasks  ... and wait.  They stand around and strategize, philosophize and plan, but do nothing in terms of action.  Swords are drawn, but not used.  Armor is polished but not scarred.  Everyone has a plan, but no one moves into action. Everyone talks of what ‘they’d’ do, yet I see no one marching into the battlefield and putting those plans into action.  They live in the false security of their camp’s safety, deceiving even them self.   

The enemy stands on the other side of the battlefield, and from hidden places tease, taunt and laugh at the circumstances.  They know they are bigger, stronger, and more courageous.  They know they have strength, history and numbers on their side.  They understand the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak.

I cannot continue to do nothing.  I may not be the strongest, the smartest, the best trained, the wisest or the ideal warrior, but I have courage in the face of fear.  Whether I win or lose, live or die, fail or succeed … I choose to fight.

I don’t know what will happen.  Will I find ten smooth stones in a riverbed?  Will I have the knowledge and strength to wind my sling?  Do I have the precision to strike at the most vulnerable spot on the giants I face?  I cannot answer these questions, because I do not know how my fight is destined to be fought.  All I know is I can’t just stand here.   Do I possess the same kind of faith a shepherd boy once had?  Was he as scared as I am?  

Till next time,

~T.L. Gray