Category: Uncategorized

“Daddy, No!” – My New Novella!

 

Daddy, No!

 

In a Colorado upscale community near Denver in August of 2018 there were acts of violence so vile that I thought not to write about them, but, then, changed my mind. The desire, nay, the need to write about these brutal homicides was too strong for me to ignore.

 

In the early morning hours of that day in August, a man strangled to death his wife, then smothered to death his two daughters, ages 3 and 4. They were crimes that captured the attention of the entire nation – perhaps even, the world. My need to write about these awful murders can hopefully be forgiven, but I wanted to get inside the head of this monster who would commit such atrocious acts. My novella is not a ‘long-dwelling account’ of the crimes themselves, but of the fictional prison life being lived currently by this family slayer. The book’s narrative is an attempt at understanding the sociopathy, psychopathy of this ugly form of humankind. It can be said accurately that I am playing ‘clinical psychologist’ in this book. Whether these humble thoughts can come near to that professional league, no way, but, at least, I get to relieve some anger and angst.

 

The following two paragraphs from the beginning of ‘Chapter Four’ in Daddy, No! just might create the terrifying atmosphere for the book. Superfluously, this novella is fiction, but many of the details therein come from truth of this tragedy. The following has truth as well.

 

Chapter Four

Sobbing in small choking gasps the little girls wrap their arms around each other, their tiny trembling bodies absorbed in these moments of terror, their short body-quakes synonymous with the gaping flairs of their eyes – wide with the unknown evil outside their bedroom door. With each audible wall bump, each stifled scream, and demonic moan, they tighten their grasps of each other. Their anguished faces are scarlet red and moist from their prolonged fear, their eyes darting hither and yon in nervous expectations of an unknown, impending danger. It is sheer paralyzing, catatonic disorientation, a manic madness their young lives have never experienced.

 

The darkness envelops them but the light-shaft from a bright moon at their bedroom window portrays grievous images of two tiny huddled masses compacted in terror so visceral it might absorb them in a maelstrom of madness. The twisted sheets upon which they now lie entwined are wet with their bodies’ waste. The blankets they are seldom without in the night are damp with the wetness of their mucous and their tears. Their eyes are swollen from the crying, chafed and red with the steady rubbing. Their hands, their bodies tremble in the horror that has joined them in the bedroom.

 

With the world’s population living among those who cut-off heads of people who believe contrary to their so-called religion, with evil perversions of all kinds on our planet, perhaps there is nothing left that can now shock us. Perhaps my skin is too thin, but the factors of these homicides stunned me, and I needed to prowl my mind and soul to find my own truths about this father from hell…herein Daddy, No! they lie.

 

In any event this my nineteenth book, a novella of 36,000 words plus. It is my hope you will read its contents and leave an Amazon review.

 

You can Order Daddy, No! on Amazon.

 

BR Chitwood – May 19, 2019

 

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“Daddy, No!”

Daddy, No!

 In a Colorado upscale community near Denver in August of 2018 there were acts of violence so vile that I thought not to write about them, but, then, changed my mind. The desire, nay, the need to write about these brutal homicides was too strong for me to ignore.

 

In the early morning hours of that day in August, a man strangled to death his wife, then smothered to death his two daughters, ages 3 and 4. They were crimes that captured the attention of the entire nation – perhaps even, the world. My need to write about these awful murders can hopefully be forgiven, but I wanted to get inside the head of this monster who would commit such atrocious acts. My novella is not a ‘long-dwelling account’ of the crimes themselves, but of the fictional prison life being lived currently by this family slayer. The book’s narrative is an attempt at understanding the sociopathy, psychopathy of this ugly form of humankind. It can be said accurately that I am playing ‘clinical psychologist’ in this book. Whether these humble thoughts can come near to that professional league, no way, but, at least, I get to relieve some anger and angst.

 

The following two paragraphs from the beginning of ‘Chapter Four’ in Daddy, No! just might create the terrifying atmosphere for the book. Superfluously, this novella is fiction, but many of the details therein come from truth of this tragedy. The following has truth as well.

 

Chapter Four

Sobbing in small choking gasps the little girls wrap their arms around each other, their tiny trembling bodies absorbed in these moments of terror, their short body-quakes synonymous with the gaping flairs of their eyes – wide with the unknown evil outside their bedroom door. With each audible wall bump, each stifled scream, and demonic moan, they tighten their grasps of each other. Their anguished faces are scarlet red and moist from their prolonged fear, their eyes darting hither and yon in nervous expectations of an unknown, impending danger. It is sheer paralyzing, catatonic disorientation, a manic madness their young lives have never experienced.

 

The darkness envelops them but the light-shaft from a bright moon at their bedroom window portrays grievous images of two tiny huddled masses compacted in terror so visceral it might absorb them in a maelstrom of madness. The twisted sheets upon which they now lie entwined are wet with their bodies’ waste. The blankets they are seldom without in the night are damp with the wetness of their mucous and their tears. Their eyes are swollen from the crying, chafed and red with the steady rubbing. Their hands, their bodies tremble in the horror that has joined them in the bedroom.

 

With the world’s population living among those who cut-off heads of people who believe contrary to their so-called religion, with evil perversions of all kinds on our planet, perhaps there is nothing left that can now shock us. Perhaps my skin is too thin, but the factors of these homicides stunned me, and I needed to prowl my mind and soul to find my own truths about this father from hell…herein Daddy, No! they lie.

 

In any event this my nineteenth book, a novella of 36,000 words plus. It is my hope you will read its contents and leave an Amazon review.

 

You can Order Daddy, No! on Amazon when the review is over: Paperback or Kindle, or, both. Thank you. The book was just listed.

 

BR Chitwood – May 19, 2019

 

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https://billyraychitwood.com

 

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Westward, Toward the Light

Westward, Toward the Light

There was magic borne on the wind that carried my assorted and disassembled dreams westward. Go West, young man, go west! was the mantra that kept playing softly on my harp of hope, onward to dispel the cravings of a life so unspent, so emotionally charged, to find a place of peace and refuge.

The hay straw still showed behind each ear as the journey took my meager belongings toward the unknowable, the fancy of a young man’s flight. The salt air of an ocean reached and settled sweetly in a naïve mind, its aroma a quiet compelling elixir of jangled thoughts filled with youthful wonder, wild imaginings, and a nervous sense of doubt and fear from an inconsistent past.

So began my adventure into the world where youth gave way to the neon lights, adventures built from beach sand and romance, with but a glimmer, always, but a glimmer to a dream that might come true. Aided by Bacchus’ soothing near-miraculous stirring of spirit, my reach, my grasp, were temporary, daring me to the very edge of some total climactic and thunderous denouement.

And, so it was for a lifetime, this chase, this forever search for some reasonable continuity of existence and purpose. Along with the virginal beginning and the tempest days of debauchery, there came the muse who perchance reached into a soiled soul of enraptured, uncaptured, carousel of desires and bade me be a scribe to all I see, sense, and embrace.

Thus, here I be with the only gauge of my existence, my mind free to roam all expanses, sullied only by its depth and cognition. How much of me is obsequious, imaginary, existent, is not for me to say. ‘Why can you not say’? One could ask. Because I do not know would be my answer.

No long white beard announcing Socratic wonders, still, here in the bosom of old age, I wander down the paths of my mind, still, emotionally, searching, plotting courses uncharted in this, my minimal odyssey.

BR Chitwood – May 6, 2019

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‘A Meeting With The Shrink in Silly-Town’

[Image by Macela Laskoski]

‘A Meeting With The Shrink in Silly-Town’

The Psychiatrist asks, what’s the problem? to the fink.

I’m apathetic, brain-drained, and want a drink!

Well, what’s your problem, do you think?

You hard of hearing, or, what? I didn’t blink!

But that’s what I do, dumb-ass! I get paid to think!

Well, why am I here, almighty Shrink?

You already gave the reason. Is there more to the link?

You, guys! All you do is ask questions that stink!

Well, what exactly should happen, do you think?

Know what? Your questions drive me to that drink!

Then, we’ve accomplished something here, I think.

Yeah, sure, you made $150 bucks in an eye’s blink!

Now, now, relax. How ‘bout that amount with a chink?

How much of a chink, do you think?

Ah, what the heck, I’ll give a 5% chink.

You’re a loon! 5%? You belong in the clink!

You’re testing my good nature, I think.

You think, you dink? I’m gone for a drink.

But, wait, my fee with a 10% chink?

Up yours, shrink, with a chink, to the clink, I think.

Your truly, Billy Ray Chitwink

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Hey, World!

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-Hey, World!-

Hey, World,
Look at my girl…
She’s standing right here
Beside me.
Hey, World,
I’m in a whirl…
I’ve found the girl
For me.

She’s lovely,
And, Wow!
Those Eyes…
She’s Lovely,
She’s Paradise,
She’s Lovely,
Just One of a Kind,
Hands Off, World,
She’s All Mine!
*
She moves with the grace
Of an Angel,
She’s Diff’rent in her own
Special Way.
All that I’ve longed for,
A lady with Style,
Hey, World –
Outta my way!
She’s lovely,
Just One of a Kind…
Hands Off, World!
She’s All Mine…

An Up-Beat Stylish Song by: Billy Ray Chitwood

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River, Keep on Flowing

-River, Keep on Flowing-

I look out over the valley

From atop this tall, tall Pine

And I can see the river flowing

Over this land of mine.

There, on the bank of the river,

Sits a love that I once knew,

Her hair aglow in the sunlight,

Her eyes lost in sky of blue.

River, keep on flowing

River, flow for me

River, ease my heartaches,

And take my misery.

*

Where does she go at twilight?

The love that I once knew…

Does she go in search of tomorrow

In the arms of someone new?

*

River, keep on flowing

Over forgotten ground,

River, keep on flowing

Let my peace be found.

River, keep on flowing

River, flow for me

River, take my heartaches

Relieve my misery.

 

A slow (old-time country) tempo song by:

 Billy Ray Chitwood – April 23, 2019

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‘The Library of Life’

The Library of Life

So often I’m inside myself, searching for the reason I am here on this great orb, so I write my blogs, my books, usually from some aspect of life that beguiles me, terrifies me, or gives me joy. Within the words and phrases of those blogs and books are at times subtle glimpses of universal truths. Wrapping my arms around those subtleties does not bring me the comprehension to understand, but, that they are there, that in writing them, give me some hope that my words in some small way speak to the lives of us all, give meaning to the daily wanderings of our minds, the tedious chores, the chaos, and the wonderment of it all. In all of this I sense a purpose for my living, and there is a literary ‘Saint’ among us who says it so much better than ever I could.

Please ponder these few words from Susan Orlean’s 2018 best seller, The Library Book, rich with some of the most lovely words and phrases a writer can put on paper. Just a few words of ‘back story’, and I shall give you the section from her book that perhaps says it all for me…

That is part of this simple ‘back story’…. My lovely daughter-in-law, Cindy Ruecker, sent Susan Orlean to Julie Anne and me, well, not literally, of course, but her book mentioned above. Our dear Cindy mentioned that, in her reading of The Library Book she thought of me…she at one time years ago typed for me part of a manuscript I had written. When I interrupted her with a question, she quickly told me while she was typing in world speed-breaking time to, ‘hush, I’m reading this as I type and I want to see what is going to happen next’. Cindy is the fastest typist I’ve ever seen type among the secretaries I’ve had and/or anyone in a typing pool – along, of course, with my own wife who is also very swift with her dancing fingers.

At that time, I was so pleased that Cindy ‘hushed me’ because her words resonated with me, giving me some hope for success that my writing might bring. Cindy is part of a ‘Reading Group’ that meets and discusses the book they’ve chosen to read on a given week. This is my way of saying, when Cindy likes a book, is really into it, then I’m comforted that maybe my work has validity. It means so very much to me.

So, that’s the simple ‘back story’, and I shall forever be grateful to Cindy for sending my wife and me The Library Book by Susan Orlean, the Simon & Schuster best-selling author of, The Orchid Thief. It’s an honor for me to recommend Susan Orlean to anyone reading these humble words of mine. Her words flow from the pages with wonderful clarity and meaning.

Now, on to the one page of all the three hundred plus pages in Susan’s book that held me captive, and, with some ‘old man tears’. I think you will love these words and Susan’s book as much as I… Good reading.

The Library Book

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Best wishes to all.

Billy Ray Chitwood – April 18, 2019

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Ode to Lamentation

Ode to Lamentation

 

What is it makes us yearn?

Lonely in peculiar ways?

Is it only hearts of Romantics

That connect to life’s gauzy haze?

 

What of a past we must give up?

Nights in love’s joyous cloud?

Is it so simple to pass and merely

Become one with the crowd?

 

What mocks us most in life?

The mistakes we made in our pace?

The glory that might have been?

Or the wrinkles upon our face?

 

Does dimension lie beyond this orb?

Does Heaven or Hell Await?

Tis written, ‘ours not to know’?

Doth then we yield to fate?

*

©Billy Ray Chitwood – April 6, 2019

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Can You Hear Me?

“Can You Hear Me?”

Pre-dawn, rain storm, and fear gripped me like thousands of little fire ants crawling over my naked body, stinging as they hurriedly moved helter-skelter across my skin.

My forefingers rubbed irritated eyes as the darkness moved on the wall in front of me like angry waves lapping on a stormy coast, grotesque shapes of all sizes in staccato persistence…but it was those deep and growling whispers that tore at my sanity. What was this madness of movement and dulled sound?

For some unearthly reason, an aberrant thought came to my frenetic mind… a distorted and disoriented man with gaping mouth standing silently on a walking bridge screaming without sound. Was there madness occupying my mind and body in these dark hours?

My trembling body sought refuge under the bed covers. The ominous whispers were coming audibly low, rhythmic, but I could not make them out. I felt childish in my fear. Why not get up, turn a light on, and see if there was some logical reason for these melodic murmurings? Alone, I could admit to myself that I was too paralyzed with fright to move.

So, I cowed there beneath the covers, the unmuffled bass whispers still there, still melodic but also changing in different modulations.

Time was lost to me as I lay there in my fetus position on the edge of despair. The whispering had somehow merged into a harmonic blend, coming with the merciful daylight.

Tentatively I stretched my body full-length on the king-size bed and slowly pushed back the covers.

My wide eyes scanned the bedroom, saw nothing but the furniture and a splash of sunlight on the western wall. The whispers were now subdued into a musical sound, almost lovely to the ear.

What the hell was going on?

Was a radio on in the apartment?

I rose from the bed, padded to the closet, put on a robe, and walked into the living room. There was nothing out of place or different about any of the rooms in my bachelor pad. I stood looking out the window at the wondrous blue of the sky and chuckled.

But, wait!

The radio was not on, yet still I heard the whispering musical sounds. I was at a loss to explain it.

After a fast breakfast, I called my doctor, gave him a brief recap of my early AM experience, set a mid-day emergency appointment at 11:30 AM.

*

Soon after my long-time doctor ran auditory tests, he came into the examination room and stood stoically in front of me with a put-on capricious look. We were also friends and golf buddies, so I knew the man very well.

“Okay, Doc, the dramatic pose is good but are you going to let me in on it?”

“Just funning you, buddy. Sorry, but I had to confirm my suspicion. You, Frankie, my friend, have MES.”

Again, he just stood and smiled.

“Well, what the hell is MES, Doc? Must not be too serious, or, you’re a masochist, making me beg for answers.”

MES is an acronym for ‘Musical Ear Syndrome’ – that’s what you have. It’s a rare medical anomaly. You have your very own music system built into your brain.”

“Well, is it a temporary thing? Is it something I have to live with?”

“We know of no treatment for Musical Ear Syndrome at this time. It’s a relatively new phenomenon that only a few people acquire. It’s akin to Tinnitus. I’m afraid it’s something you have to live with, good buddy.”

“It scared me, Doctor Ben, really, truly, scared the hell out of me. The sound started out loud and low like a threatening voice until it finally settled into a slow melodic monotone.”

“It’s likely music you’ve heard over the years playing back for you.”

“Can other people hear this MES music?”

“No, just you, Frankie. You’re one of the select few.”

“Well, ‘bully’ for that, but it’s going to be annoying, Doc.”

“Yes, I suppose it can be in the beginning. You’ll get accustomed to it. It should level off sooner than later. At some point you may need hearing aids, and they will help with the MES.”

“Hearing aids? Damn, I’m not that old, Doc. Hell, you’re the old man here, Ben. What? Three years older than I, you old coot.”

“I know, but hearing is not restricted to us old folks. Soon, you won’t even know the music is playing. And, hey, the song could be one of your favorites.”

“Very funny, Doc. You get no strokes on any of the next golf holes we play.”

“So, that’s the tune you’re going to play for me?”

“Still funny, Doc, but don’t give up your day job…a lot of comics are out of work.”

Billy Ray Chitwood – April 4, 2019

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Appalachia and Me

Appalachia and Me

Standing at the window I could see her working in the earth, planting her garden, a plot of ground she alone had created on the hard prairie soil of our eighty-acre ‘Lazy Rabbit Ranch’

My emotions were trade-mark soft and tender with no discernable reason. Tears welled and fell down my cheeks. It was at that time when gout attacks were frequent in my life, had me limping in painful, short steps. I wanted to be there in the garden with my wife, sharing the joy of her moments. The tears lasted for a brief period until I turned them off, returned to the library to render time typing on my Star Writer Word processor.

Time and again my mind slipped away from the characters and plot lines of the book I was writing on the Star Writer, slipping back to my wife in the garden, then, into assessing the emotional source of my tears. Of course, I quickly rid my mind of the gout pain being the root cause of sob-time…it was so much more than that.

My life at the Lazy Rabbit Ranch was rather rich with melodramatic episodic introspections, likely sufficient enough to abundantly satisfy any reclining position taken on a psychiatrist’s sofa. Plus, it would surely be a dead give-away to mention that, yes, I was also born in Appalachia…well, of course, dear boy, that is what Appalachian lads do so very well. How else can history explain our cornball evocative ‘country music’, honky-tonk romances ‘on the fly’, and those multiple divorce court appearances?

Well, sure, I could laugh at myself along with my agents of disregard. However, were my copious life tears simply ‘crocodile’ in nature? Were my myriad emotional tendencies, my basic earthly and inherent needs, so easily explained away?

My hasty conclusion would not necessarily surprise anyone, but I said at the time – and, I say now – No, they were not… they are not.

This may be fundamental to many people, but, hey, I was just getting it – right then, ‘after all those tear-years’, right then, at the Lazy Rabbit Ranch ‘cry episode’.

The ‘gout attack’ was not the sole reason for the crying.

Pardon my flippancy, but it was the south where all those degenerate, debt-owing, thieves in the night were deposited when they arrived from across the pond from Europe. I’m guessing that after a while we had some sweet and pure genteel groups coming into Appalachia mixing with our chromosomic/genetic machinery, getting us all ‘cornfused’ about proper etiquette, language, books, and stuff. Shucks, we could have had our own country by now, just wheeling, dealing, killing, and dying way too young…if the ‘genteel groups’ had just stayed away.

Sitting there that day at my lovely mahogany desk the way I figured it was: with so many low IQ folks, mixing their vulgarities with the stealing and killing, their mindless behaviors, by the time I came out of my Mom’s womb, I was doomed to be a sort of half-breed…that is, part of me got some of that ‘rough and tumble’ stuff, and the other part got some of those genteel qualities.

Just like then, I can’t figure out why I’m crying now.

Hmm, I’m wondering… My wife is outside, working on another darn flower garden. Is she trying to tell me something?

Guess I better get to writing another book.

Billy Ray Chitwood – April 3, 2019

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