(a poem) FOR THE DEFENDERS – YOUNG AND BEAUTIFUL HEROES

Posted on 09/11/2013 by Wanda Paryla | 1 Comment

A Re-blog…For Veteran’s Day:

**I began writing this poem way back during Operation Desert Storm. It was finally completed in 2009. I leave the copyright at 2009 because the poem hasn’t been changed much since. I wrote it for the people and animals who’ve died in “wars” for us since our beginning. I always like to share it somewhere on Memorial Day, Independence Day, & Veterans Day.** I hope you enjoy reading it. Someone once called this poem “profound.” I don’t know about that but I consider it the best piece I’ve ever written in my life…and the best piece I’ll ever write. I doubt I can ever top it. Nor do I want to.

FOR THE DEFENDERS – YOUNG AND BEAUTIFUL HEROES, by Wanda S. Paryla

This work was written for every hero, past, present and future, of every state and nation: “Strive to forgive me as I seek forgiveness; seek forgiveness as I strive to forgive, for we are all nothing if not humankind.” ~Winter NightTiger

Some had an easy time, maybe even a good time; many had it insane. But, they all went, never knowing for sure what consequences it might bring, and that makes them brave.

FOR THE DEFENDERS– YOUNG AND BEAUTIFUL HEROES

I wish only to hold your head in my hands

And tell you I am sorry that you were tortured on foreign lands.

But I am afraid to speak and I dare not touch your face,

For I fear you’ll look upon me with disgrace.

Young and beautiful heroes –

Defenders of a government’s cause –

Without questions,

Without pause.

Pardon me

For my naivety.

For I was not there to see;

Had I been, I’m sure I would have lost it all to insanity.

Hear my plea,

Pity me, forgive me, forgive me!

Europe, Korea, Vietnam, Somalia, Middle East, and in other places, not afar, but right here.

That’s where you’ll find their ghosts.

Ghosts of both the living and the dead,

Young and beautiful heroes,

Many Champions whom we have never seen.

People whom the Ass and the Elephant dare not look in the eye

Lest they display cowardice and for the grandest of excuses vie.

But, not I – I shall write in ode to you, to the freedom defenders, alive and dead

Who walked on many a foreign land,

Crossed many dark and watery seas,

Who, reluctantly or not, killed many a monster that, once dead, was just another man,

Like he, with unheard cries and pleas.

Oh, the things I wish to say; how they spin around in my head.

I dream of looking into your eyes,

Even as my American spirit slowly withers and dies,

For I can never be as you,

An American peoples’ Champion, true.

I recognize the heroes – I’ve seen some here, some there,

With their American spirits lost everywhere.

And then, they return to us,

Dead or living,

In boxes or for life, striving,

And the politicians only pretend to care

Because they know – hell, they’ll never ever have to go there.

So, here I am,

Sad that I cannot give you empathy

For I have not witnessed first hand

The vile acts of political man

Upon my young and beautiful heroes.

I am not even sure if I have a right to offer you sympathy,

So please forgive me,

For I cannot claim to understand

Your suffering and your woes.

I wish only to hold your head in my hands

And tell you I am sorry that you were tortured on foreign lands.

But I am afraid to speak and I dare not touch your face,

For I fear you’ll look upon me with disgrace.

I am humbled before you, Champions –

Young and beautiful heroes –

With biting souls

Wrecked with the poison of political scorpions.

Your pain could never be eased by another.

No, not by your father, mother, sister or brother, and certainly not by any lover.

Your eyes have seen a wild animal darkness,

That no other person’s sleeping mind would dare dream to harness.

Their wars become no good for anyone.

Once it is found that the crusade cannot be won –

They always leave you there then, with praise left undone,

And at just thirty, twenty-one, or as young as eighteen,

They asked you to behold things that, at any age, you should never have seen.

They leave behind the real defenders of the cause – taking with them their congressional bets.

The cowards leave you there, deep in the oceans, in stifling jungle-laden lands,

In strange desert countries strewn about their burning sands.

They leave you to die, young and beautiful heroes, without any damned regrets.

And, lest they be called failures,

They dare not turn to you a saving hand.

They leave you to your lunacy and wounds, without allowing any cares or cures.

They leave you there, burning, dreaming of easier days and helping hands.

I lived not through any wars,

But, I have shared in our government’s alleged reaped rewards.

They don’t feel to owe you a damned thing,

Even as in your head, sickening night terrors ring.

But, as – when just a child – my father fought,

I owe you everything.

However, I can offer you naught,

Save with my pen, your praises can I sing,

Through mediocre poetry –

writing being my single grace –

I attempt to offer you dignity,

As I dare imagine my hands touching your beautiful face.

You who will never be the same,

I am full of disdain

For the harbinger of your undeserved fate,

And I cry out for a cure to your pain.

It’s the only thing that might ease my hate

Lest I go guiltily insane

And end up myself at hell’s iron gate.

To the freedom defenders of now or then,

Those who risk their lives so people worldwide may live dictator free –

As our government has always claimed to us it should be –

Wherever you are, wherever you roam, wherever you die – I pray you’re not alone,

And for you, to the gods of warriors I beg for a safe return to your memories of home.

No matter how much time has passed us

Since your terrible war left you restless,

On my heart, you’ll forever be –

Young and beautiful heroes –

As I know that your night terrors

Will never see you free.

Do not be ashamed.

Keep your heads high.

Don’t take any blame,

For you have no reasons to deny

Your magnificent valor.

The one forgiveness sought here –

Outside of that between warriors –

Is the mercy that I seek from you

For the crimes of my country’s leaders.

The Ass and the Elephant owe you a debt –

One, shamefully –

They can never repay.

Forgive me, though, for the courage they lack.

And alas, to me you must make yet another promise,

Please come back,

And this time, say that you’ll stay.

I wish only to hold your head in my hands

And tell you I am sorry that you were tortured on foreign lands.

But I am afraid to speak and I dare not touch your face,

For I fear you’ll look upon me with disgrace.

Pardon me

For my naivety.

For I was not there to see;

Had I been, I’m sure I would have lost it all to insanity.

Hear my plea,

Pity me, forgive me, forgive me!

The way I remember and the way I know,

Is through television and history books.

This is how I seek young and beautiful heroes,

Of both today and yesteryear –

The freedom defenders who seemed to not fear,

And never knew what it took

Until they had already become history,

By another man’s quest of glory.

Defenders of the cause, I must share –

Courage is not the absence of fear,

It is but the conquest of it.

You are true glory,

Armed with many a mighty story –

Young and beautiful heroes

Of today, of yesterday,

Of every day

And I would never deny it.

Whether you are dead,

Or still yet cursed with nightmares in your head,

Whether you trudged across frozen Europe,

Or you met with torture in Korea,

Whether you sat in silent madness in the land of the Vietnamese,

Or crawled through the desert sands of Iraq –

You are beautiful heroes.

No matter what they say,

You are the Champions of our way.

Your childhood will forever remain

Somewhere far away – left behind –

Carrying on somewhere out there without you, left lame.

Your youth and beauty, and maybe even your mind,

Is where you abandoned the child

To become a person of class, rank and file.

And while there will always be some in denial,

There are those of us who shall never put you on trial.

There is no need for you to tell me –

Lest it helps to ease your pain and dread –

But only you can help me to see

What it is that lies deep in your head.

I wish I could ease your heart,

But I don’t know where to start.

I know that no words I could ever say,

Could hold your beast at bay.

Pardon me

For my naivety.

For I was not there to see;

Had I been, I’m sure I would have lost it all to insanity.

Hear my plea,

Pity me, forgive me, forgive me!

Young and beautiful heroes –

Defenders of a government’s cause –

Without questions,

Without pause.

I wish only to hold your head in my hands

And tell you I am sorry you were tortured on foreign lands.

But I dare not touch your face,

For I fear you’ll look upon me with disgrace.

Europe, Korea, Vietnam, Somalia, Middle East, and in other places, not afar, but right here.

That’s where you will find your ghosts…

Young and beautiful.

Sneak Peek: Prologue (The Sheriffs of Roberston County: Angel Maker)

Posted on 08/26/2013 by Wanda Paryla | 1 Comment

For any interested parties, here’s a sneak peek to the tentatively titled Angel Maker, the first book in The Sheriffs of Robertson County series. This prologue is done, but still needs a bit more editing.

A police procedural mystery/suspense drama (wish me luck!),The Sheriffs of Robertson County is a romantically titled, but crime-themed, series of books where the stories occur in sparsely populated, rural Robertson County, Texas; the county where I spent my childhood and the last place I’d expect major crimes to occur. Currently, there are two books in the works for this series. Hopefully, County Sheriff Dorian Storm and his associate, Detective Alan Keith, will arrive at squad room near you by early 2014 at the latest. 😉

***

ANGEL MAKER (THE SHERIFFS OF ROBERTSON COUNTY)

PROLOGUE

August 1977 – Robertson County, Texas

Eleven-year old Dorian tired of staring at the condensation dripping down his half-filled glass of tea. It was iced tea until a few minutes ago when the ice totally succumbed to the Texas heat. He looked at his father who was engrossed in the local newspaper. Dorian rubbed his fingers around the glass, smearing the dripping water all over the glass. He wiped his hands on his pants and looked out over the backyard. The grass was burnt brown from the sun, dried up and crunchy. Bare patches lay strewn about and red clay and sand dotted the yard.

“What are you reading about, Dad?” Dorian sighed.

Maurice grunted. “Hmm, nothing that would interest you, son.”

“Can we get a swimming pool?”

“No, sir,” Maurice responded adamantly. “No pools.”

The pair fell silent again and Dorian’s attention flittered to his parents’ bedroom window; his feet gingerly followed his interest. He stood there for a moment just staring through the glass.

“Dad, why do they call that guy Angel Killer?” Dorian asked. “The Angel Killer,” he whispered as he watched his mother move about her bedroom.

Maurice put down the newspaper article he was reading on the stock market. First he looked up at the sky, then to a nearby tree where a squirrel was ascending the trunk with a pecan in its mouth. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, meditating on an answer as birds chirped and dry leaves of nearby trees crackled.

“Dad?” Dorian asked again, not looking toward his father.

Maurice’s gaze landed on his son who still stood at the window looking in at his mother who sat at her dressing table fixing her hair. She spotted Dorian and smiled and waved at him then returned her gaze to her reflection.

Dorian was incredibly intelligent for a boy his age. School authorities tried to pass him on to higher grades to match his learning abilities. They tried to bump him from the second to the third grade, then again from the fifth to the sixth, but his mother wouldn’t have it either time. No matter how hard his father pushed for it. She said she didn’t want him to be an oddball; however, he already was.

“Well, son,” Maurice hesitated, searching for the right words. Dorian was just a kid, yes, but he was no fool. “I guess, because he nails angel wings to the backs of all those poor women he kills.”

“Why does he do that? Kill people and do that?”

“I don’t know. I can’t…” Maurice shook his head. “The man’s a devil, Dorian. Evil. Crazy maybe. I don’t know why he does what he does. Maybe he doesn’t know either.”

Dorian’s curiosity often tested his parents’ and teachers’ tolerance, got him in trouble with his friends and siblings, and often disgruntled the neighbors while he investigated all the neighborhood woes and looked for the lost kitties and doggies of pretty girls.

Dorian still gazed at his mother through the window.

“I wonder why he does it. I wonder if the police know why.”

“I doubt they know yet. We shouldn’t talk about this anymore. It gives the monster power.”

“Power?” Dorian said.

“I think it’s nearing lunch time. Let’s go in.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I am. And your momma’s made egg salad. And guess what? She’s got us some potato chips, son. Isn’t that something? I knew she’d break down eventually and…” He stopped when Dorian’s eyes met his, squinting as he saw straight through his father’s facade.

“You’re glad we’re black, aren’t you?” Dorian probed.

“What? Why would you say that, boy?”

“Because, the Angel Killer only kills pretty white girls, not pretty black girls. I think Momma’s cousin, Harmony, would be his type otherwise. Maybe even Momma. Only that they’re black is what might be keepin’ them alive.”

“Dorian,” Maurice struggled to control his temper but his shock was something he could not conceal. “Don’t talk like that! Jesus.”

Dorian looked back in at his mother, studying her.

“Jesus doesn’t have anything to do with it. Look at her, Dad. How pretty. On the short side. Momma can’t weigh no more than a hundred-and-twenty-pounds. Big smile. And her eyes are wide and round and…well, never mind,” Dorian shrugged. “She’s a bit too old I guess. Thankfully. But Harmony, she’s just like those white girls, except she’s…”

“Dorian!” Maurice leaned forward in his chair. “Stop that! What have your mother and I told you about taking interest in those things?” He bolted up out of his seat. The iron chair grating across the cement patio startled Dorian and he shuttered. “Don’t ever talk like that again. Do you want to curse us?”

“Those women weren’t cursed, Dad.” Dorian said. “They were murdered. They’re victims.”

“Victims? Stop it, Dorian.” Maurice strode into the house, huffing like a freight train. “Alice? Alice! We have got to do something about Dorian.”

Dorian took one last look through the window but his mother had left her place in front of her mirror. The room was empty. He walked to the iron patio table and looked at the front of the newspaper.

“Alice, really. Dorian has got to keep his nose out of the adults’ business,” Maurice demanded. “And we shouldn’t let him read newspapers and magazines any longer. No more Time and no more newspapers.”

“Oh, Maurice,” Alice said. “He’s just a curious boy. And too smart for his own good.”

“What? Y’all are driving me crazy. He’s out there with his curiosity all over the monster that killed those women, Alice,” Maurice shook his head, waving his hands, hunting for his thoughts. “Oh, shit it doesn’t matter. I’m just afraid of what these interests are saying about him, baby.”

“They say he’s a child with a conscience, Maurice.”

“A conscience? Are you sure? Because his curiosity about crime disturbs me a little.”

Dorian read the article aloud to himself, just loud enough to drown out the voices of his parents who did not seem to care that he might be within earshot. His father, always judgmental; his mother, always pleading and defending him.

“Waco Woman Found Slain. Last night near sundown, twenty-eight year old Mrs. Dana Caldwell of Waco was found by farmer, Gill Cooper, lying in his hay field in Robertson County. Mrs. Caldwell had been missing for three days and surfaced on Sunday. Like the six previous victims who were murdered before her in a similar fashion, Mrs. Caldwell had been stripped of her clothing and redressed in what looked to be an angel costume. Pale makeup had been applied to her face which offered a porcelain doll-like appearance, and her cheeks and lips were colored baby-doll pink. Her cheeks were sprinkled lightly with glitter as was her chest. Her assailant…” Dorian choked back his distaste, “Her assailant nailed angel wings to her back at both scapulas. As with other similar cases, the victim’s hands were folded together and held a rosary.

Authorities believe the victim was already dead before the attacker redressed and spiked the wings to her back. The Robertson County Medical Examiner said the cause of death is not apparent at this time and is unsure of any sexual assault; however, it is common knowledge that the other women found in the exact same fashion were not sexually assaulted, and it was ruled their deaths were due to asphyxiation. Some of the women were killed by strangulation and others by suffocation.

Dana Caldwell was a Graduate student at Baylor University and just celebrated her three-year anniversary in May with her husband, Carl, who she leaves behind along with her twelve-year old daughter from a previous relationship.

There are a few differences between Dana Caldwell and the previous victims, however. Caldwell was on the tall side, and blue-eyed. Based on previous reports, the other victims were all brown-eyed and shorter than Dana. And according to her husband, she was about thirteen weeks pregnant. The pregnancy has not yet been verified by the medical examiner.”

Dorian looked to the black and white photo of Dana Caldwell then dropped the paper to the table. He wondered how this type of crime found its way into his city-less county.

His mother, Alice, called to him. “Dorian, lunch!”

“The Angel Killer. Why do you get glory while everyone you touch suffers?” Dorian snorted and squinted in judgment. “You don’t kill angels, you make them. Angel Maker.”

Click here to read Chapter One next!… https://wandasparyla.com/2013/09/12/sneak-peek-chapter-one-the-sheriffs-of-robertson-county-angel-maker/

Wanda S. Paryla – Woman in Horror via Blaze McRob’s Tales of Horror

Posted on 04/08/2013 by Wanda Paryla | 2 Comments

Hey all,

Check out Blaze McRob’s Tales of Horror. I’m presented there as one of his women in horror for this week!! Also, just check out the blog period. A lot of great stuff going on there. And take a look at his past women in horror, which includes one of my favorites…author, Melissa Stevens, of The Illustrated Author. She’s is the illustrator who completed my awesome book cover!! Thanks, Blaze!

Check this out: http://www.blazemcrob.com/2013/04/wanda-s-paryla-woman-in-horror.html?spref=fb

Writing Organically

Posted on 03/15/2013 by Wanda Paryla | 2 Comments

WRITING ORGANICALLY…

Or “organic writing.” Interesting words, all.

I first read the term organic writing somewhere on Internet a couple months ago. I don’t know how long the term’s been around, or who coined it, or why. I just know it fits me fine.

I’ve never sat down and wrote a synopsis in my life…first. In school, I wrote the paper or essay then made the paragraph or two-long synopsis. I hate outlines too. I hated it when I had to do a science experiment and write a long paper describing every step, turning point, find and assessment. Oh, don’t forget your outline!…said every teacher everywhere.

I know what the teacher expected. She wanted us to think through what we were going to do and make note of the steps first. Not! I didn’t do it then either. I never made the steps. I just threw gasoline on the fire and jumped up and down smiling like a lunatic at the blaze, then wrote a report.

I write my fiction quite like that as well. If you hear me use the term outlining that usually means that I’m making a list of characters, character traits, and all the places they’ll visit. Do they like pizza with or without mushrooms? Outlining might include, or actually be, character mapping. For my “vampire” related series, the vampires and others in the story have family lines and some characters are reincarnates, so I had to do a tree to keep all the peeps or history in order.

In my new release, Someday Always Comes, I did absolutely no outlining, nor did I write a synopsis beforehand. Sorry, I can’t work that way. The most I did with them is a little cataloguing of who they are and their entrances into the story. I did this because there are characters who are mentioned at one point in time, then disappear. I wanted to keep track of these characters so that I could clear up loose ends and tie things together, leaving no strings lying about.

I started a synopsis, for the first time ever, for a story idea I’ve been toying with – a novel called The Ghosts of Willow Marsh. I started it a long, long…long time ago, and the synopsis is at about 1 ½ pages, while the story is much further along. Whenever I pull up the synopsis, I just stare at the blinking cursor. So, se la vie, synopsis.

One of my favorite things is when the synopsis actually turns into the story, as it did with Someday Always Comes. Hey, biotches, you can’t stop the muse. I highly doubt I will ever outline anything…I mean, while being true to the definition of outline anyway.

Currently, I’m dabbling with three or so different writing projects, and they’re all vying for my time and attention. It won’t be long before one of them wins out over the others and I’ll start pecking away diligently at the computer.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I do work out scenes, and sometimes write them out by hand. In fact, for one of said projects I’m working on now, the very tentatively titled, Rise of the Witch Clan, I have several scenes on paper. Unfortunately none of those scenes are bridged to any other scenes, and collectively make zero sense. Also, I have questions written down, with different ideas or answers. A question about a ring. A question about a book. Yadda. Then I have tentative answers.

I keep an electronic folder for deleted scenes, or scenes I might save to possibly rework into the story, or its sequel. I mean that whole scene about the missing Suri being found, then summoned through a water fountain, gown flowing, hovering there like a goddess…Hell, surely there’s room for that beautiful scene somewhere. Of course, I know it doesn’t sound beautiful to you, but it does in my head, and once the reasoning behind it…the why and who, etc….is accurately revealed, it’ll be lovely to you too when I describe it thoughtfully. You just wait.

But also, I have no real structure to anything I do. I like to plot and plan, but I don’t like to stick to any rigorous schedule. I’m the type of person that would tour a foreign country with a group, stray from the path, slay a few beasts, meet and marry someone who looks like Leo DiCaprio, and wind up living with magical elves in northern Wales…er… or somewhere, for eternity. Never returning home again.

Okay. Back on track. I read an article in March/April 2013 issue of Writer’s Digest called “Go Organic”, by Steven James. Steven James is supposed to be a best-selling author of many things, even some critically acclaimed things. But, I never heard of him, so I had to look him up. Yes, he’s done a lot. For shame, perhaps I should read one of his books.

Geeze, where was I? Oh, Steven James wrote an awesome article called “Go Organic.” Right. We established that. And, guess what? I have the same view points as he does. I write in the same fashion as he does…as far as mechanics goes. I don’t have a best seller, but we’ll see later. I also love that he quoted from one of my favorite books on writing. Yep, “On Writing” by Stephen King. James describes how he “loves Stephen King’s analogy…comparing stories to fossils that we, the story-tellers, are uncovering. To plot out a story is to decide beforehand what kind of dinosaur it is.” He quotes King, “Plot is, I think, the good writer’s last resort, and the dullard’s first choice.”

James goes on to say that the analogy helps him to think of his writing less as something he creates and more of something he uncovers. I like that. That’s how I feel too. Wouldn’t you know it? Me, Steven James, and Stephen King all think alike. Spooky!

With Someday Always Comes, I just wrote it. From start to finished. But each day, I’d go back and read the work from the day before; sometimes from several days before, but always striving for realism and fluidity. Continuity. I didn’t want my characters to say back on Tuesday that they were going somewhere on Sunday, then didn’t go. I didn’t want their personalities changing accidentally. The changes, if any, would be gradual and as a result of some event.

I don’t want to create some roadmap for every story and follow it to the tee. Then what happens when the muse slaps your marbles around and…wham!…story line change. But guess what? We have this outline…the story’s progressed by the outline. We can’t change it!

No, I’m not a fly-by-night writer. Okay, well sometimes I fly around at night. But that’s a whole other blog. I want my stories to have depth. I want strong, natural bridges and scene changes. I want my characters to make their own choices when backed into a corner, when being approached by Big Foot on a road less traveled, or while wondering what to do while staring into the eyes of their true love for the first time in ten years.

Whaat? Who the hell has time for pulling out maps in those situations! Really? When would anyone have time to pull out a map and ask directions while running across desert sands from a man-eating shark with legs while trying to find Amelia Earhart? I’ll tell you who are the only people who could pull that off…that whole…“Stop Mr. Landshark, I know not in which direction we goeth! Please, let me consult the Map of Sultan before we fall into quicksand or some other shit and lose our pants”… the Wayans Brothers. So, I’ll leave that dramatics and comedy in their capable hands.

So, I will remain organic. I am so glad someone invented that really cool term. And guess what all you English teachers of mine, give me an F if you must. But no more forced outline writing for me. How can I write spectacularly that way?

Steven James has a good opinion and idea in his Go Organic article regarding creativity:

“Forget all that rubbish you’ve heard about staying on track and not following rabbit trails. Of course you should follow them. It’s inherent to the creative process….What you first thought was just a rabbit trail leading nowhere in particular might take you to a breathtaking overlook that eclipses everything you previously had in mind.

Without serendipitous discoveries, your story runs the risk of feeling artificial and prepackaged. Give yourself the freedom to explore the terrain of your story…embrace the adventure.”

As I said, it’s a good article. Make sure you grab this copy of Writer’s Digest.

I did some snooping on the internet regarding organic writing. My view is that there are several organic writers out there and many described the roots of organic writing the same, yet they have their own way of going about it. A little bit of this, and a little bit of that. No junk.

I just can’t create any other way. Are you an organic writer too?