Someday Always Comes, chapter 2 – excerpt

Someday Always Comes, chapter 2 – an excerpt

Fernando ran with a small, seemingly fearless posse of bodyguards and anyone who crossed him ended up dead, or worse, and trust me…dead was much better than worse. Dead is just dead. But Fernando’s worst was gruesome. Broken bones, missing teeth, gouged out eye, no tongue, missing foot, missing fingers, and a broken spine. I’m definitely not making that up. The dude lived, but not to talk about it. I’d rather be dead.

I didn’t like to stare at Fernando’s face for too long. His chilling eyes were a strange brown color that I can’t accurately describe. In the dim, florescent lighting of Duk’s, they appeared crimson-brown, like dried blood. When he looked at me, his eyes told the tale that he could brutally murder me and then observe my dead body for hours without remorse, wallowing in the quiet joy that comes after the orgasmic rush that murdering someone causes for the ruthless contact killer.

Copyright 2023 Wanda Paryla

Someday Always Comes, chapter 1 – excerpt

Hi all, this book is already published on Amazon for a long time now. It was proof-read but never had a professional edit. I am re-editing this book because the one complaint that stood out to me was that it was long, but even that criticism was often followed up with other positive comments similar to: despite the length…the passages always moved forward.

I had three great friends who proofread the book for me, and now with Storm Dwellers going to the editor, I have time to work on these edits. I would love to re-release this story after a professional edit. I’ve learned a lot about writing, editing and publishing since I wrote and released this book. One thing I’ve learned is to never, ever release a self-published book without a professional edit. Save the money – take an extra job, work overtime, beg your family, but never release unedited.

I’ve written a lot of things that I love, but this is my soul. Someday Always Comes is written in the First Person for a reason. My heart is in this book. It will never make me famous, but if one can birth a book, this is my child. Every emotion I’ve ever felt in my life is in this book. Someone asked me about ten years ago if this is based on a true story. No, it’s not…not really. They asked me if the characters were real people from my teen years. Maybe…maybe not. Really, anything is just coincident. For sure.

Once it’s nearing time for a professional edit, I will choose wisely, and I hope to turn to the original cover artist for an updated cover.

Most of you have probably not read it, and I have not posted about it here for years. As I said, I am just starting edits and I am only on chapter one. Here is a bit of chapter one…still raw…and maybe you’ll find some mistakes. Regardless, enjoy.

SOMEDAY ALWAYS COMES, chapter 1 – excerpt

“What you lookin’ at, girl?” Dino said, snarling his lip.

“Nothing,” I said. “I’m not looking at you.”

“Shut up, Dino,” Kiki said. “She’s not bothering you. I’ll make her breakfast and she’ll go to her room. Just quit it.”

We were silent for a minute as I studied the floor, trying to avoid looking at Dino but his powerful, icy stare was like a magnet, compelling me to glance at him.

“Watchin’ me, are ya, girl? Huh?” He glared at me through the long bangs of his dirty, long hair.

“No, I’m not. Leave me alone,” I said.

“You want some of this?” Dino gestured toward the bloody, rare but scorched T-bone steak on his plate.

The sight of its bloody juices mixed up with the scrambled eggs made me queasy.

“No.”

Dino smirked as he cut a piece of steak. He gave a perverse grin with his greasy lips.

“Sure you don’t want some of my meat?”

He taunted me with the sickening thing before putting it in his mouth.

“What? No.”

He stared at me the whole time, chewing, sneering like a devil-possessed possum. Blood oozed from the steak as Dino cut another piece of the meat from the center of it and jabbed his fork into it.

“Here, you want this?” He said, as he slowly leaned toward me.

Kiki stopped cooking, turning her attention on us.

“Stop it,” she said.

“No,” I said. “I don’t want it!”

He held the meat up in front of my face. His breath smelled of raw flesh and coffee and my guts wrenched.

“Here,” he said, “eat it,” he ordered.

Nauseous from extreme hunger, my stomach churned at the sight and smell of the mangled, bloody meat. I turned my face away and held my breath, trying to hold down the vomit boiling in my gut.

“I don’t want it.”

Dino plucked the beef from his fork with his grimy fingers then threw the fork down on the table. It bounced off and landed on the floor.

“Dino, leave her alone!” Kiki demanded. “She’s not bothering you.”

In a split second, he grabbed me by my hair and tried to force the half-cooked meat into my mouth and a struggle ensued. Kiki grabbed Dino’s hand that held my hair trying to free me. I fought against him. I squeezed my lips tightly together and frantically shook my head back and forth so that he could not force the thing into my mouth.

“Let her go, Dino!” Kiki yelled as she tried to free me from his grasp.

“Eat it, you little bitch!” Dino yelled.

I’m unsure if the chair I sat in gave way, or if Dino forced it, but it fell backwards taking me with it. My head hit the floor. Free of Dino’s grasp and fighting back the pain in my head, I jumped up and ran, tripping over my own feet. I headed for my bedroom, Dino stumbling behind me.

“Come on, girl!” He yelled.

I locked my bedroom door with the renter’s lock Kiki installed on it the summer before then slid the chain across. All that steel to keep the devil out of my room. I shoved a rectangular, rubber doorstopper under the door then backed away from it, shaking. I frantically looked for some escape, but we lived on the second floor with no easy way out.

“Mary Tessa, open this damned door!” Dino yelled.

“Go away! You rotten bastard!” I screamed. “Leave me alone!”

I slid my small dresser in front of the door, then grabbed my favorite book off the headboard of my bed, then ducked into the closet and closed the door. I closed my eyes, held my breath, and willed myself – or maybe forced myself – to be quiet so that Dino didn’t have the pleasure of hearing me cry.

Oh, Scarlett, tell me what to do.

Dino banged against the bedroom door. I feared for my life. I didn’t want him to get in. I squeezed my eyes tightly and covered my ears.

“Oh, God,” I whispered in the dark. “Go back to hell, demon.”

I sat there in the dark closet, trying to meditate my way out of the situation. I took deep breaths: I went out onto my window ledge, and sat there until a kindly, brave fireman came and rescued me from the place. In my opinion, out of all the people who allegedly care about other people, the firefighter is the most selfless. I secretly wanted to run away and hide in a firehouse where they wouldn’t let Dino hurt me.

Dino banged and kicked at my bedroom door, his combat boot landing hard against the heavy oak door. Die. Have a massive heart attack you monster and go to hell. Please, God. Kill him. Kill him.

“Dino, stop it!” Kiki yelled. “Why are you doing this?”

I sat on the closet floor for what seemed like forever. I wanted to make sure he wasn’t hovering near my bedroom door, listening; waiting for me to make a peep. I held on to my favorite bible, Gone with the Wind. My mother loved the story and I imagined she talked to me through Scarlett, teaching me to be a strong woman. Teaching me to fight for what’s worth holding on to and let go of the rest.

I desperately needed to get rid of the rich, revolting taste of the meat’s blood from around my mouth. I used my sleeve to try to wipe my face clean. Eventually, the kicking and cursing ceased, and I crept out of the closet. Crying quietly, I sat on my bed contemplating. Plotting what my life might be like if someday I got free of Dino and Kiki.

I looked forward to breakfast that day – a rarity in our household. I hadn’t eaten much for the prior few days. I only wanted a few bites of scrambled egg. Again though, I didn’t get anything to eat. I went back to my closet and rummaged around, pulling out a box of Pop Tarts and a can of Pepsi. The sugary treats were better than not eating anything at all.

My best friend, Brianna, gave me food and I’d hide it from Dino so that I could eat something when he didn’t let me stay at the kitchen table. I ate the three Pop Tarts that were in the box and drank the can of Pepsi, quite thankful that I had them.

I stayed low key, hiding in my bedroom for the rest of the morning to avoid them both. Playing Def Leppard low on my stereo and smoking cigarettes I stole from Kiki, I bided my time. Habitually by midmorning they usually engaged in drinking and smoking dope and hopefully I could sneak out.

On and off that morning, I heard arguments going on in the living room or pots and pans banging around in the kitchen. Eventually the yelling and noises stopped. Occasionally, I could hear the sounds of the phone or doorbell. With every ring or buzz, I prayed it was a way out of the apartment for me.

After a couple of hours, my inflating bladder compelled me to leave my cave. I needed to use the toilet, and Dino-be-damned if I’d piss in a pile of dirty clothes like I did the last time this shit happened. I slid the dresser away from the door and slinked into the bathroom on my tiptoes. I could hear the television playing loudly in the living room. I relieved myself, washed my face and hands, brushed my teeth then went back to my bedroom where I hid again peacefully for quite some time, lying on my bed, listening to the radio and staring at the ceiling. However, every good thing ends.

A huge argument developed between Dino and Kiki in the living room. I turned down the stereo so I could eavesdrop. I heard cursing, things being thrown about, and eventually Kiki in the kitchen banging cabinet doors and jabbering aloud, wishing Dino dead. Her mutterings and slurred speech told me she was drunk or high. Things got calm again and I turned my radio back up. I shut my eyes and listened to my stomach rumble.

“What the hell, Mary Tessa!” Kiki shocked me alert and I jumped off the bed. She yelled over what she pretended to be horribly loud music coming from my room as she pounded her hand repeatedly against my bedroom door. “Turn down that heavy metal trash! Don’t you have something to do on Halloween? I can’t stand you hangin’ around here all the damn time. For Christ’s sake, go out and do something!”

I’d been waiting for a window of opportunity all morning. I could leave.

“It’s only noon, Kiki!” I yelled.

“I don’t give a crap if it’s midnight. Go hang out with your boyfriend, Seth, or find something else to do!”

“Sweet’s not my boyfriend!”

Copyright 2023 Wanda S. Paryla

Where Fires Glow (a poem)

WHERE FIRES GLOW

I was swinging to and fro
Hair flying
Laughing out loud
Barbaric is my memory

Devil’s on the playground
Here to erase my afflictions
God turned his back on me a long time ago
Now I live where the fires glow

Back and forth my memory rages
I struggle to keep my eyes shut
I need to stay where the fires glow
Let me rest in peaceful flame

Bottomless and salty
Protection from truths
Is the pit of the damned
Where the fires glow

Some voices, they urge me
Face your slave masters
But the fires beg me
Cover your eyes for sanity

Devil holds me
Gently in his arms
God’s gone, sweet child
So stay here where the fires glow

The fires
Avengers of my ravaged goodness
I know that I’m safe nowhere
But where the fires glow

Copyright 2018 Wanda S. Paryla

A New Look

Good day to you all.

I’m all too happy to admit how much my author/writer friends have, unknowingly, inspired me to not give up my craft.

Several times over the past couple of years, I’ve mentioned on Facebook how hard it’s become for me to write. Once upon a time, the words flowed like water to wine. Like rapids even. Then one day, they were seemingly gone. Dried up. It went beyond writer’s block. The words were just gone. It was so bad that I asked the doctor if I could be getting Alzheimer’s. I was lost.

But my hopes that the words would return to me were kept alive vicariously through others. I’d watch their progress, secretly cheering them on. Their words and the thrill of performing their craft were not lost. Quite the contrary.

Recently, I got very ill. And as I lay in my hospital bed the first week in January waiting for the cardiologist to tell me I had some terrible heart ailment (luckily and thankfully, my heart & arteries are as exquisite and tough as Ethan Hunt), I was also very lucky. Due to these terrifying circumstances, I had some time to go over the good old mistakes-made list. I got a chance to see what many others never get to. My heart appears healthy.  But no one knew that for sure at the time.

Alone in the middle of the night – hooked up to all sorts of scary, beeping shit – in an all too quiet room in the cardiac unit, perhaps dying at 46, I was scared shitless as this Scorpio held back her emotions.

Hell, if I died, I was not going out all dramatic like a pussy. Heck, no. I’m Scorpio. I rule death. And if She’s coming for me, she better have 40 silver fucking pitchforks.

Regardless of how worried this warrior pretended not to be, death nor sleep ever came.

At the top of my mistakes-made list was not the things that I thought would be there such as vacations I didn’t take, the kids I didn’t birth, or sorrow at fights with family members. Nothing about a Master’s degree, or the lottery, or all the sugar I’ve consumed in my lifetime. Not even apologies never spoken.

There were two things there. Two sorrows. They are: never loving in return the men that loved me; never giving them a chance. They DID love me. I know that now.

The next is: giving up on my writing for reasons truly unknown to me at the time. I was beaten into submission by me, but had no clue.

Some who know me chalked up the lost interest in writing to depression, sadness, anger, etc. All sorts of barriers. A couple of thrifty pals delegated it to my recent obsession with fixing my past. Or my desire to live there, which actually may have caused my sadness. Maybe they are correct. It was destroying me on many levels. Keeping me blind to all the good; allowing me to only see the bad. I was drowning.

I had no idea what was going on. Maybe I was blind on purpose. That happens, you know? I think I’ve been fighting my age. Maybe those who are older than I know what I mean.

So I enjoyed watching my writer friends. I think if there was no Internet,  I might not have had access to them and who knows where I’d be now. In what state of mind.

They are all winners. And despite that I wasn’t writing, they didn’t treat me any differently than they had years ago. They let me stay in the winner’s circle while, unknowingly, hanging on to me by threads.

I’ve been ill before and hospitalized. But never with something potentially life-threatening.  Life ending. For awhile I was like, “FTW? Figures.” But, while we’re still searching for answers, I’m very much alive. My mistakes-made list is changeable because I’m not dead yet. It’s changeable because I’ve seen others change directions many times.

Scorpio may rule death, but also rebirth. I’m reborn. It’s not time to return to the Underworld just yet. The gods have forced my eyes toward what I should see: the good. This goes beyond writing. It encompasses my spirituality and beliefs. It extends to who I know, where I live, as well as to my abilities of storytelling. My ancestors have given me a gift, and I’m still alive to use it. I should not abuse that.

My advice: do not fight the inevitable.  Change only what can certainly be moved. Let the rest go.

Thank you for reading.

-Wanda

Conspiracy – What’s It Mean?

Greetings!

I posed this on my private Facebook page and I thought I’d present this question on my blog here as well. This will also feed to Twitter, my Facebook author page and other sites. I hope you will lend me some feedback if the subject strikes you as interesting at all. Thank you in advance for your thoughts.  🙂

From Facebook:

HELP! What do you think of when you see or hear the word, CONSPIRACY?

Is a conspiracy only a plan for the future, or something that has occurred in the past? Or can a conspiracy remain so even as it’s being played out? Does that make sense?

I’m asking because I am struggling with using it in a book title. Some of you may recall my “The Adam Conspiracy” which is the working title of one of my babies that’s been on the shelf, then off again, for years. I pull it out for inspiration usually. But I believe the time is coming for it to not go back upon the shelf. Now I am struggling with the title. It’s always kept me focused, but I am not sure what “The Adam Conspiracy” will mean to a person before they read the back cover or skim a page.

Drafts

I enjoy learning about how other writers create. What their writing steps and techniques are.

When I am first working on a story…a book…I usually write it, well, un-colorfully….if I can use a crazy word. Let me explain. I use plain, bland words. I might write a line like, “The boat rocked back and forth on the fierce ocean.” Eh…eh…. Later, I’ll add the words that matter and recreate the sentence. “The millionaire’s yacht creaked and rocked under the weight of the menacing waves. The novice millionaire captain was petrified. His friends and family fought to hold on for dear life against the storm that mysteriously appeared.” Then, later down the road it will change yet again and add points of view, character emotions, etc.

I met one writer who does things differently than I do.  She over describes things, then cuts out instead of building up.

What is your preference?  Your first-draft technique?

Thanks for reading.

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

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.

 

American Flag Eagle

 

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.

Copyright 2009 Wanda S. Paryla