Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category

I haven’t written anything in days. It’s not that I have had no ideas—I have plenty. I either haven’t felt well or have been tired or both. Then there is this little factor called time. I don’t always have time to put words on documents, and sometimes when I do, other things pop up. It is called life, and life often demands our attention and demands we stop our daydreaming and word-scaping. Oh the demands of reality sucketh dry the mind and energy it takes to sit and type. And don’t think sitting and typing is doing nothing. It is exhaustive work, even if it looks like it isn’t.

What I have a desire to do is tell the story my mind conjured up about a poor, ruined baseball, one that had clearly been ran over by a large lawn mower (and certainly not the push kind you walk behind).

The Girl and I sometimes go walking out at the baseball field behind the local middle school. I usually get this request to do so later in the evening, meaning we either can’t go for a walk because it is almost dark out or we can go for a walk, but a brief one. On Friday it conveniently rained and looked as if it would storm, dampening our chances of going for a walk.

A little after six, I knocked on The Girl’s bedroom door, opened it to see her sitting, cross-legged on her bed. I said, ‘Hey, do you want to go walking?’ That’s not entirely accurate. I said, ‘You wanna go walkin’?’

She shrugged and said, ‘Sure.’

‘It’s been raining,’ I said.

‘It’s just water,’ she responded.

Off we went.

Her assessment of it’s just water stayed that way and we ended up not needing the two towels I took with us, you know, just in case, it’s just water turned into it’s just a lot of water.

DSCN2605The baseball park was deserted, except for one black Grand Am sitting near the restrooms at the parking lot. We made our first lap around the track, talking about boys and other things, but mostly boys. It rained on us, but not much. Off in the distance, the clouds gave way to blue skies.

To give you a little ground work, the track we walk on is black and rubbery. I believe it to be one of those tracks made out of recycled tires. I could be wrong. In fact, I am probably wrong. The track itself circles the parking lot and the batting cages before passing through a stretch of trees. It opens up at the back end of the ballpark where the furthest of the five fields resides. It passes the Tee Ball field before entering another smaller stretch of trees, and then circles around the playground, before ending up back where we started. As you can see, it is an endless loop.

As we passed the furthest of the five fields, I looked toward the muddy ground, the grass soaked through. A trough of water ran just on this side of the fence, ending near the Tee Ball field. On the other side of this trough was a baseball. For those who don’t know, when I see an errant baseball on the ground, and there is no one there to claim it as theirs, I pick it up and add it to my collection. On this first time around the field, I left the baseball where it sat.

We made another lap around the track, this time talking about boys and other stuff, but mostly boys. The second time we passed the ball, I said, ‘Hold on a second.’ I hopped the watery trough. Thankfully, my foot did not slide and I didn’t sprawl on the ground, either landing on my butt in the pooled water, or face first in the wet grass. I plucked the ball from its spot on the ground. It was soaked through, as I thought it would be. What I hadn’t expected was to see where the strings had split and where the rawhide had been torn. Clearly, the baseball had been  struck by the sharp blades of a lawnmower.

I hopped back over the water trough. This time, my heel caught the soft part of the ground and almost sank in. I pulled my foot free, leaving behind a slight smudge of mud on the heel. Back on the track, The Girl and I continued our walk, me letting my fingers roll the ruined baseball over and over in my palm, she talking about boys and other things, but mostly boys. Every once in a while I would glance at the ball. Some of the twine had been torn loose when it had been struck by the lawnmower. The rawhide looked like puckered skin after a knife had sliced through it. In a way, I guess a knife had done its handy work on the ball.

We finished our walk and went back to the car. Fortunately for us we got back in when we did. It went from it’s just rain to someone opened the floodgates. I held the ball a little longer, looking at it. ‘Poor dead baseball,’ I said and set it in the cup holder in the center console. The Girl looked at me like I was nuts, but shouldn’t she be used to this by now?

It was a short trip home, one where we talked about boys, among other things, but mostly boys. Once home, I grabbed the ball, hurried to the front door not really trying to dodge rain drops, but not wanting to get soaked either. I unlocked the door and went inside. I looked at the ball one more time before setting it on the entertainment center right next to the DVR.

I sat to read, but my mind kept wondering back to the baseball I had found, to its flayed rawhide, split strings and ruined insides. Poor dead baseball, I told myself again.

As the night went on I kept going back to the ball, thinking of the many ways it had been used before it got shredded by the lawnmower. Then I thought of its horrific ending. He had probably been laying in the grass, minding his own business, maybe even basking in the sun, working on his tan. Or he may have been sleeping. Then he probably heard the heavy rumble of the riding lawnmower (because that is the type they use at the ballpark). The baseball probably tried to roll away, but found he couldn’t, not without the stimulus of someone picking him up and tossing him. I imagine there was a scream as the sunny world he had been laying in was suddenly dark, and then the blade struck him, shooting him out the side. He probably flew through the air at a high rate of speed, before landing near the fence where I found him. And there the ball lay unnoticed by the monster that had dispatched of him mercilessly. How many people passed him by? How many folks just thought he was a ruined baseball and not worthy of their time? How many kids walked by him, maybe even picked him up, thinking they had a ball to play with, just to see his ruin exterior and drop him back to the ground?

Poor dead baseball.

Two days have passed since we brought the tattered thing home. It has sat on the entertainment center, ‘drying out.’ That sounds so creepy, when you consider how my mind conjured up this inanimate object’s death.

Here I sit, typing these words, the baseball off to my right. I paused midway through this piece and grabbed a pencil. Taking the baseball in hand, I did what I felt came naturally. Then I grabbed Cate’s Sharpies and went to town.

I now call this baseball Dead Fred. I may also have a new hobby for my baseball collection. Time will tell.

Thank you all for reading. I hope you have a great day. Until we meet again, my friends, be kind on one another.

A.J.

I’ve had an idea for years—at least since 2008—but I have never really acted on it. Until now.

A couple of weeks ago Cate and I worked the Cayce Festival of the Arts right down the road from where I grew up and at the high school I graduated from. We had my books and her bookmarks out. I did a reading of one of my short stories, which went better than expected. It was a long day, but a good one. We did okay, as far as sells were concerned. We enjoyed ourselves and we met some cool people.

One thing Cate noticed that I didn’t (probably because she is much better about these things than I am) is how many children came to our table with their parents wanting books. She noted that at least a dozen little kids came to our table looking for children’s books. Unfortunately, they walked away empty handed.

“Are you ever going to write that children’s book you talked about a few years ago?” she asked me.

“I don’t know,” I responded. “I’ve played around with the idea, but I’ve never really tried to write it.”

“You should.”

“Why is that?”

She went on to explain how many kids walked away, disappointed I didn’t have any children’s books (especially seeing how we had a stuffed teddy bear in bunny pajamas on the table).

Later that evening we talked about it again. A couple of days passed and we talked about it again.

It’s not like I don’t already have a concept for the book. I do. I think it is a good idea. I also think it will be fun to write. With that in mind, I am attempting to write a children’s book. It is a daunting task, but one I look forward to.

Let me be honest here: writing a children’s book is completely out of my element. It’s nothing like writing a short story or novel. It is completely different and new to me. It will be a learning experience, and hopefully, something I can apply to my writing as a whole, going forward.

I’m excited about this, and I hope you are, too.

Over the next few weeks I will post updates here. Part of the reason for that is to hold myself accountable. By putting this out there, it makes me stay true to my word and do it. Hopefully, if you are not excited about this right now, you will be by the end of the process.

Consider this the first update.

April 8th: Cate and I worked the Cayce Festival of the Arts and she suggested writing a children’s book.

April 9th: Scoured the computer for a file I wrote back in 2008. It took me half an hour to find it, but there it was under Misadventures of Scarecrow Girl and Pumpkin Boy. I Opened the file and read the contents—all 1489 words.

This is where I put my head in my hands and said, “What the heck was I thinking when I wrote that drivel?” It wasn’t that it was bad, but it wouldn’t do for a children’s book.

April 11th: Cate and I went to the library and checked out a few children’s books of various lengths and subjects.

April 13th: I sat down with pad and pencil and the stack of children’s books and read. I made notes in my handy dandy notebook (come on, please tell me someone got the reference), paying close attention to how much text was on the pages and how many pages were in each book. Just for the record, there was a lot more text than I expected and the average pages in each book was 28 (most of the books ran from 26-32 pages in length).

April 14th, 15th & 16th: Online research about children’s books and how to write them. There is a lot of content on the interwebs. Most of them said very similar things in what is needed in a children’s books. Notes were made. Thoughts were had. Ideas were forthcoming.

April 17th & 18th: Here is where I did a lot of reading on the actual rules of writing children’s books. As any of you who follow this page knows, I often break the rules of writing. Many writers think I suck because of that. The readers, however, like the way I write, so I break the rules when it is warranted. The thing about children’s books, though, is you can’t really break a lot of the rules. They are a tough crowd and their attention spans are not quite as long as an adult’s (for the most part). The structure, amount of pages and words and the types of words used are very important to holding that attention span.

Several pages in the notepad were filled, some of them highlighted—these are what I took as some of the most important points to remember.  I will refer back to this over and over as I go forward.

April 18th: Started outlining what I hope will be a good story. Brainstorming, complete with the thunder, lightning and rain in the brain.

April 19th: Finished the outline at lunch and read it over. There is a dilemma and a moral and it is not preachy. I like it. I think you will, as well.

April 19th: Getting more excited about this.

There is one other thing I haven’t told you. My kids, The Girl and The Boy, want to illustrate the book. This excites me as much as writing the actual story. It remains to be seen if they will actually do it, but the opportunity is there for them.

So, that is what I have for now. The beginnings of a children’s book. I hope it turns out the way I want it to. If it does, there may be more of these in the future. i don’t know yet.

What I do know is I am excited. I think I have said that a few times here in this post. I hope you all are as excited.

Until we meet again my friends, be kind to one another.

A.J.

Here is my interview with A.J. Brown

Posted: April 6, 2017 by ajbrown in Uncategorized

My interview with Fiona McVie.

authorsinterviews

Name: A.J. Brown

Age: 46. Crazy, eh?

Where are you from: A little town in South Carolina called Cayce.

A little about your self `ie your education Family life etc  Education?

I never went to college. I did graduate high school, which was quite an accomplishment for me. I’m married to the woman who holds my heart in the palm of her hand and we have two kids, affectionately known as The Boy and The Girl (no, those are not their actual names). I like college football and I love little league baseball (and baseball fields as a whole—yeah, I know, I’m weird).

Fiona: Tell us your latest news?

The latest news is really neat. I had the opportunity to do a collaboration with another author. Her name is M.F. Wahl. We originally were going to trade stories. I would put one of hers on my blog and website and…

View original post 1,685 more words

Off 601 in Lugoff, South Carolina is a field. Well, it was a field at one time. I’m guessing it was just a big, open expanse of land that maybe had some trees on it, some shrubbery, possibly a few holes in the ground. Part of the land is on a hill that leads up to a couple of houses. That really doesn’t matter much, but who knows, it might before we’re all said and done here.

Cate saw the field before I did. She slowed before we reached it. Then I saw it. My eyes widened. It was a baseball field. One that looked like it had seen much better days. I looked at her, wide-eyed and somewhat excited. I’ll say this: I don’t think she understands my love for baseball fields. I’m not even sure I understand it. There is an attraction, a pull, like a magnet (the field is the magnet and I am every bit the metal) that makes me smile every time I see a ball park. Not just any field. Little league fields. There is an eternal innocence to youth baseball that I find is left behind on the field, long after the games are over and the kids are gone. Maybe it is this innocence that intrigues me so much about these ball parks.

This ball fDSCN1936ield was different though, and it was evident before we even got out the car near the outfield fence. It was huge—the outfield was deep, as in minor league deep. The fence was old and falling down in spots. Weeds covered it from top to bottom and stretching its full length. There was also an orange in the outfield. Yes, I am talking about the fruit here. I don’t know why there was an orange there, but there was.

As we walked from the outfield to the infield, I saw it was similar to any old field that hasn’t seen a game in months or years … or decades. The outfield grass encroached on the infield. The bases were dirty and worn, but they were supposed to be. The pitcher’s mound wasn’t really a mound and home plate sat all alone near the backstop, which was grassy and on a slight incline.

The dugouts were small wooden structures. The benches inside were made of wood and cinder blocks. In one of the dugouts were buckets and some tools and a couple of baseball bats. Beyond the field were bleachers made of metal and blocks and wood. And yes, there was a bathroom away from the field itself, complete with running water, but no lights.

DSCN1944Further from the field and toward those houses were toys and five guard dogs that barked the entire time we were there. I’m guessing the owners of the field live there.

Unlike most of the ball fields I’ve visited, this one didn’t have my imagination running with the ghosts of children’s past. No, this time, I was reminded of the movie A Field of Dreams and the one phrase from it that most people will probably quote before I even write it here.

If you build it, they will come.

I got that impression as I stood on the field, just behind home plate. I could hear saws cutting boards. I could hear hammers pounding nails. I could hear chainsaws cutting down dead trees and I could hear someone’s truck pulling stumps free from where they were anchored in deep, its engine revving, its wheels digging into the ground until either the truck bogged down or the rooted stump came free, being pulled like a pesky broken tooth. I could hear rakes going across the grounds and see tillers digging up the infield before being leveled out, possibly with two by fours weighted down on each end, dragging the ground behind a truck or a mule or maybe even two or three guys, sweating and straining.

They would be tired at the end of the day, but guess what? These men and women would come back the next day and work on it some more. Someone had to put that fence up in the outfield and build those dugouts and bleachers. Someone had to spend money for those supplies and all of the equipment needed to turn a field of trees and holes into a field of dreams.

DSCN1951Then, as I stepped off the field to get a picture from the bleachers I saw a sign. It was nothing more than a metal placard affixed to the cyclone fence stretching down the first base line. It read:

THIS BEAUTIFUL PARK WAS CREATED THROUGH HARD WORK FOR YOUR ENJOYMENT. PLAY SAFELY. ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK. WE WILL NOT BE LIABLE FOR INJURIES.

A few things about this, starting from the end of this sign and working my way to the top. Liable: the builders of this park knew the possibilities that someone could get hurt, so if they did, it wouldn’t be the owners’ responsibility to foot the bill. It’s sad they had to do that, but I wonder if someone tried to sue them because their kid got hurt there. That leads to the enter at your own risk statement. It is there as a warning. Again, it would not be the owners’ responsibility to make sure everyone is safe—it is clearly implied with the sign.

The third thing, I believe, lends right into the second. Play safely. That doesn’t mean don’t play hard. It means play safe, for you, your teammates and the opposing teams’ players, as well.

DSCN1942The fourth and fifth things are the hallmarks to a field like this: This beautiful park was created through hard work for your enjoyment. I wonder if the builder or builders of this park had little boys (or girls) who wanted to play ball, but had nowhere to do so. I wonder if the parents didn’t say, ‘hey, let’s give our kids somewhere to play, somewhere everyone can play.’ And so they built the park. To be cliche, it was a labor of love.

I imagine, from the way it looked, the park had been there for a while, and many kids had come and gone, including those the park was originally built for.

Not once while we were there did I picture kids playing a game. But I could see those adults, both men and women, building the park. Day after day, they worked, until it was complete. I don’t know if there was a ceremony where the first pitch was thrown out, but I can imagine those adults who put in all that hard work probably sat in the bleachers and smiled and cheered with joy, their hearts swelling with pride as their kids played the game they loved.

Until we meet again my friends, be kind to one another.

Recently, I got to sit down with Stitched Smile Publication’s resident bard, James Matthew Byers. I met him in 2016 and the one thing that stood out about him is his enthusiasm. I have never met a more enthusiastic person … ever. I thoroughly enjoyed our little conversation. I think you will, too.

AJ: So, tell me a little about James Matthew Byers.

JMB: Sure thing! Perhaps we’ll do this the old fashioned way and start at the beginning. My passion for fantasy, horror, and science fiction began around age three. I saw Star Wars, the Rankin/Bass animated Hobbit, and received a book by Usborne called The World of the Unknown: Monsters. This book is instrumental to who I am today. It introduced a young boy to Frankenstein’s monster, vampires, werewolves, Greek mythology, and most importantly, Beowulf and Grendel.

Through my youth, I drew pictures and crafted stories. I wrote poetry from 6th grade on after being introduced to Robert Frost. I grew to love Shakespeare and Chaucer. Edgar Allan Poe became my greatest influence. I started writing stories in rhyme.

As a husband and father, I have deeper waters, understanding the most important human emotions. I do believe poetry lives in the heart of everyone. Some just are more in tune with it.

I taught middle school English and reading for ten years, gaining insight into the minds of young adults. I’ve got a Master’s in English and reading Education.

I have numerous years of experience in composing poems. My latest work, Beowulf: The Midgard Epic, had just released from Stitched Smile Publications. It’s a rhyming version of Beowulf in iambic tetrameter. I’ve also got a story in the newly released Unleashed: Monsters Vs. Zombies. I’ve won three Prose challenge of the week contests. And I just learned my poem, The Dinner Fly, will be published in Weirdbook Magazine #35.

I try and offer support where I can, for both established and up and coming authors. Who is James Matthew Byers? I’m just a guy trying to connect with people, sharing in this human condition.

AJ: Tell me, how did Poe become one of your greatest influences?

JMB: When I first read The Raven and Annabel Lee, I fell in love with Poe. Middle school was tough for me. I was bullied daily. I escaped in his short stories, The Black Cat, The Pit and the Pendulum, and The Tell-Tale Heart. They helped cement him as an all time favorite. I also love Dr. Seuss, J. R. R. Tolkien, C. S. Lewis, Margaret Weis, Ed Greenwood, Rob King, James Lowder, Christie Golden, and Jean Rabe.

982152897AJ: I’m sorry to hear you were bullied as a child. So many kids are and it is sad to see. I’m glad you had something to turn to.

You said you taught middle school English for ten years. What was that like?

JMB: Teaching was one of the greatest adventures of my life. Growing up, whether in public school or college, the teachers were always so influential on me. I wanted to give that same sort of instruction. I wanted to inspire young minds. I got to teach reading. Speaking daily about Tolkien’s works, poets, and other favorites made for a job much enjoyed. The kids could be rowdy at times, but my passion to read passed on to them. My love for writing and art did as well.

AJ: Is there any student that stands out to you now?

JMB: Candice Crutchfield. She’s become a really great poet. Also, Cody Lunsford.

AJ: As a teacher, did you connect with them differently than some of your other students?

JMB: Yes. But I never had favorites. I tried to always make every kid feel equally loved.

AJ: Do any of your former students still keep in touch with you?

JMB: Many do. I have tons as friends on Facebook.

AJ: That is awesome. I taught at a Montessori school for two years back in my early 20s. I have been fortunate to be able to reconnect with a couple of the students from back then.

So, let’s talk about Tolkien for a minute. Clearly, you have a fondness for him. What is it about Tolkien that inspires you?

JMB: Tolkien was my gateway drug. From The Hobbit, I delved into The Lord of the Rings. Then The Silmarillion. Afterward, C. S. Lewis and Narnia. I then got into DragobLance and Forgotten Realms. But Tolkien was first. He introduced me to it all. After seeing Star Wars, I watched the Rankin/Bass Hobbit. It’s one of my earliest influences. And Tolkien was a Beowulf junkie. Definitely one of the many reasons he inspires me!

AJ: So, then you would consider yourself a Beowulf junkie, as well?

JMB: That’s an excellent way of describing me. I’ve read numerous translations. I’ve watched any film or television version of the epic I could find. I’ve searched and viewed as many pieces of Beowulf art that I could find. There are several comic book adaptations. Even DC comics had their take on the hero.

AJ: Wow, so you are somewhat of an aficionado in Beowulf. I’d like to ask you about how you view poetry. You recently gave a speech at Jacksonville State University and you made a statement in that speech that keeps coming to mind:  “Poetry is essentially life itself. When you read a poem, you’re connecting to that person’s life experiences.” I am fascinated by this statement. Can you expand on this viewpoint for me?

JMB: Sure thing! I believe poetry reflects the most basic elements of the human condition. I believe poetry is as basic as the air we breath. There are levels and layers to every poem read. The same applies to every poem as it’s written.

I think of poetry like playing a video game. You level up as you go. There are degrees of skills. Anyone can play a video game. Anyone can write a poem. It’s not an exclusive club. That being said, not everyone who plays a game is a gamer, and not everyone who writes a poem is a poet. You have those who play video games professionally. In the same respect, you have people who make a living writing and composing poetry. We all start out playing games. But whether we’re  good at it or not determines the longevity of the broader picture.

When you play a game you essentially take on the role of a character. The same goes for reading a poem or story. You take on the emotions, the content, and the experience of where the words take you.

Console, game cartridge is to keyboard, blank page. The experience of game playing takes you out of this world and places you in another, only to plant you back in the original with new knowledge. This is the experience. This is where life comes in. You learn the life of who you become in the game. Once you eject yourself from it, you take the new condition out. It combines with you, bringing a life lesson. Whether it’s robbery, murder, suggestive suppression, heroics, or any other means of style promoted in game play, the same thing happens when you write and read poetry.

The experience is life.

It has its own existence; its own meaning. However, the two worlds unite, creating one condition. I know I’m speaking in circles, but this analogy defines why I believe poetry is essentially life itself. When you play a game, or read a poem, you connect to that person’s life experiences.

AJ: That makes sense. Is it safe to say, the more you write poems, the better you get? Just like with gaming (or really anything you want to do that takes work)?

JMB: Absolutely. Practice makes perfect, especially when you’re a rhyming poet. You have to know the mechanics. You can’t build an automobile if you don’t know how the parts work in relationship together. The same can be said with poetry. You have to know the rules. How to count poetic feet. Iambs, forms of meter. Syllables and down beats. The formats I use tend to rely on old school poetry methods.

Back to the gaming scenario. Anyone can play a game. If you look at free verse, just about anyone can make a poem. And that’s awesome. But just because someone plays a game doesn’t make he or she a gamer. And like I mentioned earlier, just because someone writes a poem, it doesn’t make he or she a poet. I believe you must live the words—Poetry is life. I write poems almost daily. Sometimes numerous poems. I tell 99% of my tales in rhyme. It has been a long and winding process. But as I studied, my skills grew and developed. It has taken half my life to get where I am now. Poetically speaking. Level up!

AJ: When did you start telling your tales in rhyme?

JMB: I began in high school school with an assignment to write my own Canterbury Tale. I love Chaucer. I wanted it to be modern but authentic. I recounted an event in rhyme. The teacher loved it. She already knew I could write poetry. She really began to push me to keep it going. I had shown her my art before, too. She always told me I was special because I could write and illustrate my stories. I’d done so since I was three. That was fall of 1992.

In 1994, I got to my EH 101 class early at UAB. (University of Alabama at Birmingham) I went there before JSU. I was bored and decided to write a rhyming fairy tale. I came up with The Nameless Squire’s Tale. That led to more stories in rhyme, and in 1997, I crafted an entire novel in rhyme.

AJ: And that novel would be?

JMB: It was then called The Legacy of Mythril. I rewrote it in standard prose—a non-rhyming novel with the same story. I’m actually editing it to submit to SSP. I’ve had the characters since I was 15. I’m 42 now.

AJ: With all of this said, I want you to tell me about Beowulf, The Midgard Epic.

But … I want you to do it in prose.

JMB: No problem!

The story takes a different form,

Converging from the simple norm.

Reworked in such a metered beat

As measured out poetic feet-

Iambs of syllables of eight

In structure carrying the weight

Of speed and action in its hold.

I’d like to call that poet’s gold.

As Beowulf is known abroad,

I went a route that some deemed odd-

The Midgard Epic has two tales-

The Wanderer to tip the scales

And end the story in a bang-

I wanted such a place to hang

The unknown tale, connecting them-

As sure as Beowulf can swim,

So, too, now Wiglaf has his place-

A hero to a dying race.

Accessible, my prudent goal-

To make this epic rich and whole-

I chose iambs and deeper still-

Tetrameter completes the bill.

I used translations—many books-

I gave the Anglo-Saxon looks-

And researched much until the day

I conquered Grendel; words would slay

Even dragons as I found

To this story, I was bound.

Like a scop or skald of old,

The story here had to be told.

Across the whale-road to the hall,

As Beowulf adhered the call,

Arriving to beat beast and more-

He conquered Grendel on the shore

And took his mother’s head as well.

It took a dragon’s flaming hell

To send the Geat to his death,

But as he breathed his final breath,

Perhaps there’s more of him, you see …

I leave a clue for you from me …

AJ: Bravo! That was awesome.

JMB: Awwwww … Thanks, kind sir!

AJ: Beowulf, The Midgard Epic was recently published. Can you tell me how that came about?

JMB: I hadn’t submitted any of my writing since April of 2012. I went through a long dry spell. However, something magical happened in May. I began sensing an increasing excitement for the Warcraft movie. I read it’s prequel, Durotan, by Christie Golden. It was like being 17 again. I felt a renewed interest in my creativity. Through social media, I began interacting with other creatives. I stumbled upon TEGG- (The Ed Greenwood Group) I read their books and engaged with their authors. That’s when I met Briana Robertson. From a tweet she did about SSP, I learned about the open call for Unleashed: Monsters Vs. Zombies. I wrote a story for it, and submitted it within two weeks. They gave me courage to submit my rhyming Beowulf. Lisa Vasquez contacted me and offered me a deal for the book. Of course I said yes! It has been the best decision I’ve ever made. My writing and art careers are at an all time high. I am grateful to be a VIP at Stitched Smile Publications.

AJ: That is awesome to hear. So, tell me, now that Beowulf, the Midgard Epic is out, what plans do you have for the future?

JMB: With the release of Beowulf: The Midgard Epic, I have had many opportunities open up. I’m getting to do illustrations and cover art for SSP. I’ve been expanding my poetry audience. I even have a prequel and two sequels planned for my version of Beowulf. That’s not counting other stories I have yet to tell …

AJ: Sounds like things are looking up for James Matthew Byers. Can you do me a favor and tell the readers where they can find you?

JMB: Absolutely! Here are my contacts:

Find James Matthew Byers at:

James Matthew Byers on Twitter

James Matthew Byers on Facebook

James Matthew Byers on Wattpad

James Matthew Byers on WordPress

James Matthew Byers on Prose

AJ: Thank you, James, for coming and hanging out with me and the readers.

JMB: It’s been a pleasure! Thank you for interviewing me. I’ve had a blast, good sir!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We have so much time and so little to do. Strike that. Reverse it. —Roald Dahl

So often on this blog, and really all of my social media, I forget to do one very important thing. Well, okay, maybe a couple of very important things, like update this blog more regularly. Bad A.J.. Bad. That’s not it, though. The one thing I forget to do on a regular basis is promote my own work (I’ll prove it in a minute).

Go ahead and nod in agreement.

I can blame it on not having enough time if I want to, but that would be a lie, or at least a partial one.

I have never been all that savvy at marketing. I don’t enjoy doing it. I tend to want to write and write and write. But there is so much more to this business than writing. That is something else I tend to forget: publishing is a business. If you have ever had your own business or worked at any job then you have been somewhere that has needed to market themselves in order to get more clients. Without marketing, there are no clients, and without clients, there is no business.

For writers, we want readers. You, Faithful Reader, the person with your eyes on these words as you, well, read them, you are our client. Without you, then every time we put out a book, it will languish in obscurity. Now for the proof:

INTERACTIVE QUESTION #1: How many of you have heard of Ball Four? This is a small collection of dark baseball stories. (Please, if you don’t mind, leave a comment below. I would love to know if you have heard of the collection.)

I don’t think many folks have heard of Ball Four. It has sold one book since its release on August 20th of 2016. One sale in almost four and a half months. Why is this? Simple: I haven’t marketed it. Sure, I’ve posted a few things on Facebook about it, but beyond that, nothing. So, why (or how) would you have heard about Ball Four? You wouldn’t have unless you have gone to my Amazon author page on a regular basis. The proof is in the pudding.

To go with having a more interactive blog, one of my goals this year is to promote my work more. As I stated earlier, I haven’t been all that great about it.

So, would you like to hear more about Ball Four? Sure you would:

ball-four-front-image-onlyThere’s nothing like the sound of a little league ball park. From the dugout chants to the ping of the bat on ball or the heavy smack of a glove making a catch, nothing quite compares to kids playing America’s pastime. It’s the true innocence of the game on display, it’s the real effort to win as a team. Its kids being kids.

Though America’s game is at its best in the Little Leagues, it is also at its most tragic. There’s nothing like losing when your heart is all in. There’s nothing like failure when the game is on the line. But what if winning and losing didn’t matter?

What if it’s a bully getting what he deserves? What if it’s an old ballpark where dreams were once lived out, but now no one plays on? What if it’s a bad pitch or a base not stolen? Or what if it’s just a run short of glory? What if it’s the memory of a game many years in the past? 

What if it’s lost innocence?

***

I truly believe baseball, at its core, is the most innocent of games for little kids. It was the one I fell in love with first as a child. It’s also the one that seems the most tragic to me. The stories (and poems—yes, I said poems) in Ball Four look at, not just the innocence of the game, but also the tragedy.

For the one book that was purchased there was a review left behind:

If you love baseball, little league or softball. The clink of a bat or the sound of cleats in the brick dirt then this is the book for you. Imagine if you will sitting in the bleachers, hearing the cheer of the crowd and the smell of popcorn in the air. The sound of the crack of a bat as a batter hits a home run. The excitement in the stands. If all of that makes your heart beat faster then you must read this book. The stories are amazing and so well told. This author knows what he is doing and does it well. I have loved baseball since I was little and when I got this book I read Dreams of a Poor Child first. It touched me so that I read it to my father who sat in my living room and bawled. We were both crying by the time I finished the story. Not because it was sad but because it brought back childhood memories for both of us. AJ Brown is a fantastic story teller. I can’t stress enough that you want to read this book and that you will absolutely love it and the rest of the books that Mr. Brown has written. Simply put….AWESOME!

***

Do I have your attention? I hope so. If you would like to purchase the digital version of Ball Four, head on over to Amazon and grab you a copy. If you would like the print version, you can contact me and I’ll get a copy to you. And please, leave a review—they do help.

But wait, I’m not going to leave you here with just the blurb and a review, but also a glimpse at one of the stories. I called this one The Boys of Yesteryear and this is the very beginning of it:

Gravel cracked and crumbled beneath the tires of the old beat up Chevy. The head lamps cut two beams through the darkness, shining bright on the red clay field in front of it. The car came to a shuddering stop, the engine skipping as it idled hard. Harvey shut the car off and opened the door. A cane touched ground, followed by a brown slippered foot. Harvey pushed himself out of the car, holding onto the door for leverage. He closed it. The sound of metal on metal was loud in the quiet night. He hobbled to the front of the vehicle

Even though he wore a belt, his jeans hung loose on his thin hips; his shoulders were like a hanger his shirt was draped over. Harvey slid a white cap out of his back pocket and placed it on his head, the “B” logo faded but still stitched in place. He took a deep breath—something that was hard for him to do these days—and let the crisp fall air fill his lungs.

The field still had the wood fence around it, though many of the slats had fallen away or rotted out through the years. Weeds grew in the grass of the outfield, some of it encroaching on the infield that still looked like a rough diamond. The two dugouts were mostly gone—a wooden wall still stood along one of them but not the other.

Harvey made his way to the trunk and opened it. Inside sat a bat, ball and glove, all aged and well used. He picked the baseball up and stared at it for a long while, taking in each name scrawled in black pen along its surface, some overlapping, some faded to near illegible. He set it in the glove and then lifted both out, followed by the bat, a wooden model, not one of those aluminum atrocities the kids used these days. Harvey placed the items in a bag and put it over one shoulder, just as he had done so many times as a kid. No, it wasn’t a baseball gear bag like they have today, but a bag his dad had made out of an old rifle sheathing. The brown leather was worn and cracked in some places and the stitching that held it together was frayed throughout. The zipper was broke, leaving the bag permanently open. The strap dad had attached to it had been fixed twice. Harvey thought he should have probably had it restitched before…

Leaving the trunk open, he walked back to the front of the car and reached into the passenger’s side window.

“Come on,” he said as he lifted the old glass milk jug from the car, the cork still in place. He held it close to him as he shuffled toward the field, his cane going out in front of him with each pained step. Prickles of fire ran up his left leg from ankle to hip. He winced, gritted his teeth and continued toward the dugout he had shared with eight others all those years ago …

***

Enticed yet? I hope so.

One more thing: my good friend, Justin Dunne, asked me one time what music should he listen to while reading a story of mine. I had to think about it for a moment or eight—I had never been asked that question before. Since then I have taken to hearing the music the stories should be read to. With that in mind I’m going to go with a couple of songs: Centerfield by John Fogerty and There Used To Be A Ballpark, by Frank Sinatra. Enjoy the stories. Enjoy the songs.

I leave you for now, Faithful Reader, and I hope you have a wonderful day. Please like, share and comment if you have a moment or two. Thank you, as always for reading.

Until we meet again my friends, be kind to one another.

A.J.

You can find me at these awesome places:

A.J. Brown Facebook Fan Club

A.J. Brown Facebook Author Page

A.J. Brown Amazon Author Page

A.J. Brown Storyteller Website

@ajbrown36 on Twitter

Wattpad

Email: ajbrown36@bellsouth.net

 

 

Dear Faithful Readers,

This is going to be a short post.

2016 was crazy. I think we all know there were a lot of meh things to come out of the year. There were a lot of negatives, as well.

Though there were quite a bit of negative things going on in the world, there were a few things that were positive for me. I put out two books this year (a far cry from the five I wanted to put out, but still they were published). The two books were a three story collection titled, A Stitch of Madness. The other was my novel, Dredging Up Memories. Both of these books were put out by Stitched Smile Publications. I also became part of the SSP staff during the year and made some friends, a couple probably for life. So, there are some positives.

In 2016 I bit off a little more than I could chew. Part of this was due to being overzealous and wanting to try and get my name out there more than it was at the time. I added a lot to my plate that wasn’t there the previous two years and also added quite a bit to a marketing campaign I started in 2014. Early on a lot of the things I did looked as if they would pay off. Then June and July came and life happened. My focus shifted for a few months. When that happened, my blog, newsletter and writing suffered in silence.

Year two of The Brown Bag Stories also came to an end. For those who know what The Brown Bag Stories are, I will have an announcement about that soon. For those who don’t, feel free to ask about it and I will gladly let you in on the hubbub.

In October I started gearing up for 2017 in hopes of rekindling the push I started two years ago at the end of 2014. One of the things I would like to do is make this blog more interactive. I would love to hear your voices, Faithful Readers. I would love to hear what you have to say. I’d love to hear what you want to know about me or maybe even about my characters and stories.

So, let’s talk, what would you like to see in 2017 (and beyond)?

See, I told you it would be short. Until we meet again my friends, be kind to one another.

nighthawks-atthemission-king-styleSometimes you meet someone who has a different viewpoint than most folks. The viewpoint can sometimes be bad and sometimes be good. It can also be refreshing. One of those viewpoints I find refreshing belongs to Forbes West, a writer, producer and a podcaster. 

When I sat down to do this interview with Forbes, I honestly didn’t know what to expect, but I quickly learned this is someone I like, someone who shares similar viewpoints as I do about writing. Y’all sit back and have a coffee, soda or brew and let me introduce you to Forbes West.

AJB: Okay, for starters, let’s talk about you. Who is Forbes West, the person?

FW: I’m nobody. I’m a tramp, a bum, a hobo. I’m a boxcar and a jug of wine, and a straight razor if you get too close to me. Or a person who is fond of using Charles Manson quotes to respond to texts.

AJB: Fan of Charles Manson?

FW: Am I a fan of Manson? Nope, but he’s the King Emperor of bat shit crazy things to say. Too bad his musical career never took off because he decided to kill a celebrity or otherwise he’d be the most quotable man on the planet.

AJB: He still could be one of the most quotable men on the planet. He definitely has some unique views.

FW: Unique is a good term. Covers a lot of ground.

I’m just a guy who lives and works in California, who’s been lucky to still be married and I get to live part time here in the USA and Japan. My wife is Japanese, we own a home in Shizouka prefecture, and I write novels and produce films.

AJB: You said you live part time in Japan and USA. I’m sure there are a LOT of differences between the two countries. What, from your experience, are the biggest differences between the two?

FW: Biggest differences is freedom vs community. That’s not to say one is better than the other. They aren’t. There’s pros and cons to both. But in California, which my wife loves, she can do whatever she wishes to be. She can strive for the stars. She can be creative and fun and hang out with people with massively different backgrounds with little to no judgment. You can be whoever you can be. In Japan, there’s a sense of being in a real community, where people ask you how your day has been, where bicycles can be left on the sidewalk without a chain, where your neighbors look out for you and people who know you can’t speak the language take a moment to speak yours. Safety, stability, cleanliness, and order. You can walk down any street and know people are looking out for you and actually care.

AJB: Wow, that sounds the way things used to be here where I live when I was a kid. That is, honestly, the way the world should be. Look out for one another.

Just out of curiosity, which do you prefer?

FW: I honestly don’t prefer either one. I love California and Japan. I think California has the ability to do so many random things. And again, everyone has different backgrounds, different views, and seem to be living in peace. I love the multiculturalism there and seeing people from radically different backgrounds.

AJB: I love that mindset, Forbes.

FW: My wife prefers it as well. Japan has many wonderful things, to be honest. Food, culture, and the most kind people I have ever met. But, its one thing to visit and go around Japan. To live there, it can be very oppressive at times. The companies control everything, and its not unheard of to know people working 80 hours a week, with only 40 hours paid, and to have the most verbally and emotionally abusive bosses overhead. The social pressure is enormous.

AJB: Wow. That’s crazy.

FW: So in a lot of ways, it is like the 1960s of the USA. Sure, there are real communities (which is a terrible thing we’ve lost) but the everyday B.S. can be overwhelming. It’s like California and Japan are opposite ends of the spectrum.

AJB: How did you come to be able to travel back and forth between the two countries?

FW: Well, we’ve been lucky and fortunate that my wife works as a Professor for a college, so she doesn’t have the year long schedule, and my schedule is also flexible. We own a home in Japan so there’s no additional costs besides airplane tickets. So in the winter and in the summer we travel back.

AJB: Man, I think that would be a blast,  and something to look forward to during the year.

Let’s switch gears for a second and talk business.

FW: Sure thing.

AJB: You are a producer of films and a writer and a podcaster. Which of those came first and which one do you find to be the most difficult?

FW: Films. Podcasting is just pure fun but films are incredibly difficult. Even producing and putting together a short film was the most difficult thing I have ever done. It’s a true battle—and on many fronts—accounting, getting people together, finding locations, money, story, etc. etc.

AJB: I would think the films would be the most difficult as well. You said Podcasting is just pure fun. What makes it fun? Is this something that you can say, ‘hey I’m going to do this and we’re going to have a blast?

FW: Pretty much. I’ve met some great people (Jon Frater, Michael Bunker, Rob McClellan, Nick Cole, Christopher Boore, and Todd Barselow) and just getting together with them and shooting the shit has been epic. Authors, editors and publishers getting together, especially with the intellect involved, and everyone has a great sense of humor—its’ been a blast. Interviewing with them, talking about issues, etc, all been great.
Oh and Jason Anspach. He’s a jerk but he knows it, he’s mentioned last on purpose. He knows why.

AJB: Sounds like doing a podcast allows you to be free and easy going and pretty much talk about whatever it is you want to discuss.

FW: Exactly. And thank God we live in a day and age where you can do this and just launch it all in a day

AJB: I’ve always wanted to do a podcast, and from what you have said, I think that desire may amp up a little.

Of the three, producing, podcasts, and writing, which came first?

FW: Writing. Just writing. I taught myself over the years while I was getting my Masters degree in political science. I started trying to write bad screenplays, awful novels, and started to turn it around. Writing to me, has always been like preparing for a marathon. There’s a ton of creative people out there, but you have to learn how to really just keep the energy up to finish what you started.

AJB: That is a very good point. Writing is very much like a marathon, and so many people give up because they get stuck instead of trying to see a way to fix where they became stuck.

You said you taught yourself over the years. Can you explain what you mean by that?

FW: Well, I read a lot of how to write a screenplay books, I read old screenplays (like the original Robocop and others, there’s a few sites out there that have copies and pdfs for you), and I just sort of tried every night to write up something.

I love stories, I love telling stories, and I just wanted to make something up that I would see on tv or on the big screen

After a while, I drifted into writing novels. Due to the freedom of the format—screenplays are somewhat limited in certain senses.

AJB: In what ways are screenplays different than novel writing?

FW: Screenplays have to focus on the visual image- you can’t just “show the thoughts” of a character, it has to play out in realtime in a way an audience can understand. You can’t have true introspection with a character with a screenplay, you don’t have that sense of jumping into someone’s skin. That’s the biggest difference for me

AJB: I can see that. I can definitely see that.

Your first novel is Nighthawks at the Mission?

FW: First one, yes. It was self-published, published with one publisher, and just recently re-published a few days ago with three new short stories.

AJB: So you originally self published Nighthawks at the Mission and then it was picked up by a publisher and re-published?

FW: That’s correct

Originally self published in 2013

AJB: Great. Congratulations on getting picked up.

Since you originally self-published Nighthawks at the Mission, can you tell me what the difference is between self publishing a book and having a publisher publish a book?

FW: Marketing. Really, just the ability to market the product. A person can easily have a great idea, get it well edited, have a kick ass cover. But the ability to market the book itself without real support from those who just know how to market, that’s the rub. Amazon has an amazing system to get your stuff out there, but Amazon doesn’t publicize a single thing. So if you don’t have a full time person working with you to really get your stuff out there, it’s not gonna happen. You could be that person, but the set of skills needed to do so is usually not found with the person who can write. It can happen, but its extremely rare.

AJB: Man, isn’t that the truth?

Okay, I want to shift gears  again. Outside of writing, producing and podcasting do you take yourself more seriously or less seriously than when you are creating?

FW: More seriously. Writing is my life, but it’s a lot of fantasy happening. I feel like when I’m writing or doing what I do, I think its pure fun in the end. The exasperation I get or the stress is the stress of trying to win a ball game or beat a video game. It’s not the same as dealing with office politics b.s. The stress is a much better stress to deal with.

AJB: Agreed. I guess that would make doing the podcasts even more fun—there’s no pressure in it.

You have to be creative to be in these fields. How do you view creativity and the act of creating a movie, a book or a podcast?

FW: I think creativity is something where you basically go with your subconscious. Whatever pops into your head. Whatever odd idea you may have. Whatever just bubbles up. I think most of the time people are actively limiting their creativity—that people worry too much about being embarrassed, or they want to do what is currently popular, and they want to find something that should be “profitable” instead of just letting their imagination run wild. You have to really try to make yourself go into a dream like state to make true creativity happen. You have to shed your ego a bit.

AJB: Well, dang! That is exactly how I feel about creativity.

So, with that in mind, with letting yourself get to that creative place, do you tend to follow the rules or just say ‘screw it’ and do your own thing?

FW: I don’t try to follow the rules. I think that, especially as a writer trying to break out, doing so will just make my work fall to the wayside. We live in a post-modern age; everything under the sun has been done and been read and/or viewed. You have to really try and stretch to do something different. And I think I did that with Nighthawks at the Mission.

AJB: Tell me about Nighthawks at the Mission.

forbes-west-cover-artFW: Nighthawks is my answer to the young adult field. It’s set in a world just like our own, but with one wrinkle—there’s a portal to another planet that opens twice a year in the South Pacific, and that planet has a resource that allows anyone to have paranormal/magical abilities. A young woman, sick of her life in SoCal, decided to become one of the many settlers there after her boyfriend screwed her over. She’s not a hero, she’s not the best person, but she does her best when dealing with the stresses of life on another world and living this post-modern colonial life with an alien species and a growing terrorist threat.  My character, Sarah Orange, reacts to these things realistically and many times badly. The book strips the bark off the usual YA tropes and turns them on their head, and we see a real person in a very fantastical setting prove herself

AJB: That sounds like a great storyline.

FW: Thank you!

AJB: With you stripping the bark off the usual YA tropes, do you feel you accomplished something unique with the book?

FW: I believe so. YA books always have the same protagonist. The story may be different, but the protagonist always is the same. Always trying to be the hero, always tough, always generous, always right, etc. etc. Mine isn’t. She’s a fuckup. She’s greedy. She’s angry. She’s selfish. She numbs her pain with drugs and alcohol. She’s foolish. She accidentally does the right thing. She’s very human. That’s the big difference between her and the others from Twilight, Harry Potter, The Hunger Games, etc.  It seems like a real person.

AJB:Twilight…meh…

That is the trick, isn’t it? When the rubber meets the road, the whole thought is to have a believable character and a believable storyline. If you can capture that you have a great chance of capturing the audiences’ attention.

Okay, Forbes, I’ve kept you for a while, and I greatly appreciate your time, but I do have one or two more questions. The first of these is based on something I hear from a lot of authors. Many of them tell me their spouses or significant others do not really care what they do or they don’t support them in their desires to write, tell stories and get published. How does your wife feel about all of your creative endeavors?

FW: She loves it. She’s been the biggest cheerleader. She was the one who got me into it. We were dating at the time and I told her that I sort of liked writing, but really I wanted to do politics (hence my degree). She told me flat out that she wanted to hear more about what I write and that I had a voice and from that point on was always getting me books on writing, and sort of pushing me towards writing. She just flat out said “Writing’s a helluva lot cooler than politics.” I ignored her for a while about that, but in the end, I think she was damn right.

JB: I like your wife. She is definitely right! My wife is the same way, always pushing me to keep doing the one thing I love to do: tell stories.

Okay, where can we find Nighthawk at the Mission?

FW: http://forbeswestbooks.com/nighthawks-at-the-mission/

JB: Well, that was easy.

Normally, folks will ask, what advice do you have for others out there. I want to go in the opposite direction. What would you tell other authors, film makers, or really any artists, NOT to do?

FW: Not to do the same thing everyone else is doing and not to do the most popular thing. Don’t just rehash old material. Take a moment and think it out. Have you seen this idea more than 5 times in different formats? Are you just doing this because the same stuff is out there in the world? Then don’t bother. Your crew, your actors, your readers, and yourself will be bored. And you’re gonna work really hard on something that doesn’t mean a damn thing in the end.

JB: Preach it, Forbes.

Before we go our separate ways for now, is there anything else you would like to add in that we have not discussed?

FW: I don’t think so at the moment.

AJB: Thank you, Forbes. You are one cool dude.

FW: Thanks man! Thanks for having me.

You can check out Forbes at his website here: HERE

 

Man Up, Treat Women Right

Posted: October 14, 2016 by ajbrown in Uncategorized
Tags: , ,

I’m going to say this first and then move on: this blog is directed at men. You women can read it, too, but please understand, most of this is directed at the men and I’m not sure how nice (or not) it will be.

Let’s just jump right in.

If you think it is okay to touch a woman in any way, shape or form, without her consent, you Sir, are a douchebag. If you think grabbing a woman anywhere in her private areas is not sexual assault, you Sir, are a disillusioned douchebag who needs your genitals grabbed and ripped off. If you think it is okay to ‘have sex’ with a woman when she says no over and over, you Sir, are a rapists and a douchebag who needs your genitals ripped off and thrown into a wood chipper.

14650504_10157828584645001_4524690378420616983_nOn the logic of grabbing women in her privates and it not being sexual assault: if I used that logic and apply it to me beating the life out of someone who grabs my wife or daughter or sister or niece, then I guess that wouldn’t be attempted murder. It’s stupid logic.

Women are not our property. Women are not our sex slaves. Women are not inferior to men. Women are not to be dominated by men. Dear Sirs, let me run something by you: Can you bring LIFE into this world? Can you pass a baby through the tip of your ‘manhood’ and then still want sex? No? You can’t? Really? Women can, and that, Dear Sir, makes her a total bad ass in my book.

I’ve said this before, and I will say it again: there would not be a single man alive right now if not for a woman, after all, they gave birth to every man out there.

But it takes two to Tango. That’s a dance, Mr. Douchebag, and a cliche term at best.

But without a man to get the woman pregnant… Oh shut up. You are a sperm donor. Period. A woman doesn’t need a man to put the sperm inside of her—they have medical procedures for that now, and though the sperm is provided by a man, the man is not needed for the physical act of sex. You’ve been replaced by willing men with a hand and a magazine (and they get paid to be donors of the non-physical type).

Let me pose a question for you, Dear Sir: how would you like it if a woman grabbed your crotch against your will? What’s that? Some of you would like that? Again, shut up, Mr. Douchebag. I am willing to bet you wouldn’t like it. Why? Because when a man grabs a woman, he is not gentle, so if a woman grabbed your boys and gave a good squeeze (you know, the way you, Mr. Douchebag, grabs a woman’s breasts and squeezes) it would hurt and you would either fall to the ground in pain or punch the woman in the face and then fall to the ground in pain.

But that’s different. No, it’s not. Sexual assault is sexual assault and it doesn’t matter if you are a man or a woman who does it. It’s wrong. End of story.

If you are the guy who thinks it is okay to look down on women because they are, well, women, then you are a significant part of the problem. If you are that guy and you have a son or sons, then you are also influencing the problem, because your kids will see your actions and they will develop their own attitudes about women based on what you do.

You are a man. Do you know what your job is where women are involved. Notice I didn’t say your woman, I said women, as a whole. Your job is to provide for them. Your job is to protect them. Your job is to make sure they know they are loved. Your job is to respect them. Your job is to lift them up.

Your job is not to control them. Your job is not to treat them like your personal sex toys. Your job is not to berate them or put them down. Your job is not to mooch off of them.

You job is to be selfless and put them before yourself. Yes, that’s what I said and if you can’t grasp putting a woman before yourself, then you, Sir, are Mr. Douchebag, capital on the D.

Maybe I’m old school. Maybe I’m new school. Honestly, I don’t care. What I do care about is how men view women. Being a man isn’t about how much money you make or how many women you can bed or how much authority you have over people. Being a man is about responsibility and taking care of yours. It’s about owning up to your mistakes and not laying blame on everyone but yourself. Most important, being a man is about how you treat people, it’s about how you treat those you may deem lesser than you are (and if you think anyone is lesser than you are, then, yes, you are still a douchebag—every person is someone. They may not be to you, but to someone else, everyone is someone).

I’m not going on about this too much longer, but just understand, groping a woman without her consent is sexual assault. Grabbing a woman’s privates is sexual assault. Forcing yourself on a woman (rape) is sexual assault. If you think differently, then you are part of the problem and if a man (or a woman, for that matter) throat punches you or cuts little Richard off then please, don’t consider that physical assault, because, based on YOUR logic, it isn’t.

Now, to the women out there. You don’t have to take that crap. If someone sexually assaults you, tell someone. If that person doesn’t listen, tell someone else and keep doing that until someone listens to you. If you feel threatened by someone when they approach you, by all means grope them where it hurts most, but please, do so with claws out, and squeeze, baby, squeeze. Make them hurt. Don’t be afraid to kick them and don’t get scared when they double over and vomit and look as if they can’t breathe (they can’t, and that is your opportunity to run).

Women. They are not our trophies. They are not our property. Real men understand that.

Until we meet again my friends, be kind to one another.

Charlie, Will, Bob…and Jamie

Posted: September 11, 2016 by ajbrown in Uncategorized
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It was a little café like any other around the country. It had a homey feel to it, as if when you walk through the front doors you could sit on any number of the brown or black couches and prop your feet up on a coffee table and relax. The lighting were simple bulbs shining down from the ceiling, casting shadows in their wake along the edges of the tops and bottoms of the walls. There were square tables with old comic strips sealed into the finish dotting the center of the cafe. Along one wall was the counter where people placed their orders of coffees, sodas snacks and cakes—no sandwiches or hot meals, thank you, ma’am, but plenty of delicious baked goods.

Three men sat a table for four, each one of them with the café’s black mugs in front of them, the yellow emblem of a silhouetted young lady holding a tray to her side and the words Chloe’s Café beneath it. Their hair had grayed over the years and a few more wrinkles lined their faces than the previous year. Charlie had gotten a little heavier, while Will seemed to have thinned a little. Bob was just Bob with little change in his appearance other than what Time had done to him.

“I was at work,” Charlie said. “Four hours into the day.”

The other two nodded, but said nothing. This was a ritual of sorts for the three friends.

“I was walking down the hall on the second floor. I passed one of the break rooms. It rarely had one or two people in there, but on this morning, there were a dozen or so people staring up at the television set. Several women were crying. I stopped and peeked in.

‘Everything okay?’ I asked.

One of the women, her name was Valerie, she said, ‘A plane just crashed into the World Trade Center.’”

Charlie took a swallow of the black coffee in his mug, wiped his lips and continued. “I ain’t gonna lie. I had never heard of the World Trade Center then. I had no reason to really know what it was, but that didn’t stop me from stepping in the break room and nudging my way to the back of everyone. There, on the screen, were the two towers. One of them was on fire.

Then it happened, while I stood there with everyone else. It was a couple minutes after nine and that other plane—Flight 175—flew onto the screen. It wasn’t there but for a second or two and then it was gone and there was an explosion.”

Charlie shook his head as if he were still in disbelief. Perhaps he was.

“I went up to the shop and told my workers to turn on the television. We got no work done that day. The four of us stood in front of that tube watching as the smoke billowed up into the sky and then as the first tower, and then the second one, fell.”

Silence followed for several long seconds. Then Charlie lifted his mug. “To Jamie,” he said.

Bob and Will lifted their mugs, clinked them together and echoed him. They each took a swallow, set their mugs back on the table, Charlie’s went on Snoopy’s face, Will’s went just beneath Hagar the Horrible’s feet and Bpb’s ended up on top of Spaceman Spiff’s crashed ship.

Will took a deep breath and began his story. “I was on a plane from Charlotte to Toronto that morning when the first plane struck the towers. None of us on our flight knew what had happened until we started getting calls from people trying to find us. Carrie called. I could tell she was crying.

‘Where are you?’ she asked.

‘On the plane,’ I responded.

Her voice cracked when she said, ‘Oh my God.’

‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.

‘A plane hit the World Trade Center a few minutes ago and now a second one has just crashed into it.’”

He shook his head as he fought back tears that still managed to fall from his eyes. “I could hear the fear in her voice. She was terrified.

‘Will, we’re under attack.’

I didn’t know what she meant by that at first, but then our plane veered to the left and the pilot came on saying we were turning around and heading back to Charlotte.”

He shook his head and took another deep breath.

“I thought we were going to die, just like all those folks in those planes that hit those towers.”

He licked his lips, raised his mug. “To Jamie.”

As they had done a couple minutes earlier, the others raised their drinks, repeated Will’s words, clinked the mugs together and took a swallow.

Will and Charlie looked at Bob. He nodded, but before he began, he motioned for the waitress to come over. She was a pretty red head, her hair pulled back and away from her face. “Can I help you?” she asked.

“Can I get another mug, please?”

“You want another cup of coffee?” the waitress asked and reached for his mug.

“No, Ma’am. I would like another mug—just the mug, please. No coffee. Nothing in it.”

The redhead gave him a curious smile, one that could have been a frown on anyone else’s face. She was gone only a minute, but in that time none of the three men spoke. They didn’t really even look at each other, but down at the mugs in front of them, each one with just a little bit of coffee left in them.

“Here you go, sir,” the redhead said with a smile and set the cup on the table.

“Thank you, Ma’am,” Bob said and picked up the mug. His hand shook badly. He placed it in the spot set for a fourth person, one who wouldn’t make this dinner, one who hadn’t made these dinners for the previous 15 years. He turned the mug so that if someone had been sitting there, he could easily pick it up. Then he moved his shaking hand away and placed it in his lap.

Tears hung on his bottom eyelids. One fell. Then a second one. Bob didn’t try to hide his emotions or wipe the tears away. He let them fall, just as he always did.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he said, his voice cracking. He raised his hand and pointed at the empty seat to his right. It was shaking worse now. His sentences were clipped statements, words he had said a million times in his own head and maybe half as many to the two men at the table with him. “I had been sick. For a couple of days. I was scheduled to fly out on the tenth. From Columbia to Boston. Then from Boston to Los Angeles the next day. The next day. The eleventh.”

The tears fell freely now. He saw the redhead, the startled, worried look in her eyes, and motioned her away with a hand up, palm out, and a nod that he was okay.

“Jamie said he would go in my place. It was a four day trip. With about five hours of business in between. He boarded Flight 175 right around the time…”

Bob shook his head. He sniffled, wiped his nose. His bottom lip was poked out and seemed to be eating the upper one. He coughed once, but not because of a tickle in his throat but because he was prompting himself to speak again.

“It should have been me.”

Another long silence and Bob held up his mug. “To Jamie.”

Charlie and Will did the same.

Then Bob picked up Jamie’s mug, held it above his head. “To you, my friend.”

There wasn’t much more to say. Truthfully, they rarely said much after Bob had given his ‘testimony of guilt,’ as he put it. Minutes later they said their goodbyes. Charlie and Will did as they always did, and walked back to the hotel they shared the previous night, wondering if Bob would be alive the next year. They were always surprised to see him roll up in the place they picked to meet at in any given year. But he always rolled up, whether he was well or sick…he was always there.

Bob stood, took one last look at the place where his childhood friend should have been sitting. “To you, my friend,” he said again and turned to leave. Before he could reach the door he heard a faint whisper, or maybe it was his imagination. Either way, he turned around when he heard, To me, but he saw only the mug still sitting on the table with the other three near it and several dollar bills underneath one of them.

Bob smiled, though there had been no joy in it for at least fifteen years. “To you,” he whispered back and pushed the door open. A moment later, it swung shut…

AJB

9/11/2016