FREE TODAY--Lucia's Bleeding Heart

Do you believe in miracles? Can fairy tales come true? Find out today when you read for free, Lucia's Bleeding Heart. Inspiring, romantic, and a heartwarming tale that will take you back to those days when love doesn't leave the heart, but is merely locked away for safe keeping.

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BNI8KL4

Mother's Day 2013

Joni Mitchell sang a song when I was younger and one of the most important lines in it was, "Don't it always seem to go, that you don't know what you got...till it's gone." So, with Mother's Day once again this year it rings true. As a young boy growing up in Appalachia with a mother who bore 11 kids, and who also suffered with Multiple Sclerosis there is cause for reflection on her life. This short story of mine pretty much sums it up for me. Happy Mother's Day to all of you out there, I know now just how much of a job being a mother really is for all of you. I know that most times you go through 364 days a year without thanks, without reward or recognition. I hope the readers of this will pause to reflect on your mothers, both those living, and those gone for it is they who play a great, great, role in all of our lives. Thanks, Mom. To those mothers out there, thank you too.

RRJ.
Mother's Day 2013

My Mother’s Garden

She bore eleven children, and. she died much too young. When she was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis in 1957, doctors knew little about the disease, and their only advice to her was not to have any more children. Against their advice, she had a set of twins, and two more boys to add to the family after that. Such was life in Clear Creek, and most of Appalachia. She loved her children more than life itself, and she loved a garden.

The first time I remember something not quite right was when she collapsed in the middle of the floor. My father and older brothers helped her to her feet, and I followed her around the house for the rest of evening with her favorite, coffee stained, dark green, Mel-Mac cup offering her water. A drink of water always made this five-year-old feel better, and I didn’t stop hounding her until she took just one sip. I don’t know if it made her feel better, but somehow my tiny soul seemed to gain a sense of relief.

Time went on and she developed a limp to her walk, and I too, grew older. She often times would ask me to take the rusted hoe, and go into the back yard and stir up the soil so she could plant some beans, and tomatoes. Just a small plot in the hard clay soil at the bottom of the stripped land that melted into the back yards of the company houses is all she desired. I’d take the hoe, and work at the rock solid dirt scratching at it. Soon, I’d become bored and slip away to enjoy my selfish pleasures of childhood. The growing season would pass, and the hoe gathered more rust in the rain, or snow.

In some other spring, when the heads of the dandelions would peek through the earth, and I grew several years older, I found myself watching her come to the back porch guided by an aluminum walker. Her thin arms clutched the rails of it, and she would ask me if I could make her a garden. Starter plants of onion sets, and small tomatoes sat on the scarred wooden banister made of used two by fours. I again would find myself digging at the soil, using a pick and shovel. My friends appeared out of nowhere, and the calling creek became more important. The plants wilted there on the banister, and my mother’s health wilted along with them.

I became a teenager, and she tired of looking at the few houseplants pampered in the dimly lit house. A garden would be just the thing, she told me to cure the blues. I found myself once again in the back yard, with the hoe, pick, and shovel. All of them rusted, from being buried under last winter’s snow. She rarely left her chair now, and I took advantage. So when a friend came by showing off his brand new driver’s license, and driving his father’s car, disappearing was easy.

I joined the Army to escape Clear Creek and to see some of the big world out there, and it was sometime during a hot Indian Summer day in September, that I was called home. The disease had taken her away. I stood at her grave staring down with hot tears on my face. I bent on my knees and dug two holes in the fresh turned soil with my bare hands, and planted my mother’s garden with two bright yellow marigolds, just one of her many favorites, and then I walked away.

Pickletwit

Imagine, the voice of conscience talking to you. Then for a moment realize the voice is real. She's here, she's real, and the immortal fairy, Pickletwit is most evil. Roaming the Earth for milleniums, Pickletwit wreaks her havoc, and all it takes is access to your, "brain door."

Pickletwit loves pre-existing conditions. It makes her job so much easier. Those conditions, those thoughts, the things that bother you most, are just what she looks for in a victim. You could go to the Rafersville Hospital for the Criminally Insane, and talk to Lillibeth Brocklin. That is, if she responds. Seems she was, "Pickletwitted," and all it took was Pickletwit knowing about her personality disorder, the pre-existing condition that the imp preyed upon. I won't go into too much detail about that though.

See why people who read Pickletwit, never look at the letter, P, on on their keyboards, or keypads without wondering if Pickletwit might be hiding under it, cozy in her chrysalis, and waiting. She hates being wakened during her dormancy, and the microscopic fairy will make your life hell on Earth if you do disturb her. So, be careful, and keep those keyboards clean of dust.

PICKLETWIT

PICKLETWIT

We all have those voices in our head, the quiet sounds of conscience that leaves us most days with silent reminders. In some cases though, it could be, "Pickletwit."

Pickletwit is the evil fairy lying dormant under the letter, "P" on any device with a keypad. Awaken her from her slumber, and you will soon know her wrath. Anyone can fall victim to the bad imp, and once she enters your brain door she can make you do terrible things.

The introductory novella is Volume One—Lillibeth. When a young girl witnesses the kidnapping of her best friend at the age of nine-years-old, the traumatic event leaves Lillibeth to suffer with a personality disorder. Pickletwit loves victims with existing problems; it makes her job so much easier. When Lillibeth wakens Pickletwit from her hibernation under the keyboard of her computer, the nano-sized fairy flits through her eye, follows her optic nerve, and ends up in her brain. Soon, Pickletwit becomes the voice in her head, and all the counseling and treatment does little to help Lillibeth. Pickletwit has other plans for her. Plans, that include killing.

Detective Lance Narwall opens a cold case in hopes of solving the kidnapping of Lillibeth’s best friend nearly twenty-years ago. He soon finds himself on the trail of a serial killing sociopath who’s every move is now controlled by the evil fairy inside her head known as Pickletwit.

A chilling, heart-pounding fantasy sure to keep you on the edge of your seat with each turn of a page, as you pray the thoughts in your head, are your own, and not that of, “Pickletwit.”

We all have those voices in our head, the quiet sounds of conscience that leaves us most days with silent reminders. In some cases though, it could be, "Pickletwit."

Pickletwit is the evil fairy lying dormant under the letter, "P" on any device with a keypad. Awaken her from her slumber, and you will soon know her wrath. Anyone can fall victim to the bad imp, and once she enters your brain door she can make you do terrible things.

The introductory novella is Volume One—Lillibeth. When a young girl witnesses the kidnapping of her best friend at the age of nine-years-old, the traumatic event leaves Lillibeth to suffer with a personality disorder. Pickletwit loves victims with existing problems; it makes her job so much easier. When Lillibeth wakens Pickletwit from her hibernation under the keyboard of her computer, the nano-sized fairy flits through her eye, follows her optic nerve, and ends up in her brain. Soon, Pickletwit becomes the voice in her head, and all the counseling and treatment does little to help Lillibeth. Pickletwit has other plans for her. Plans, that include killing.

Detective Lance Narwall opens a cold case in hopes of solving the kidnapping of Lillibeth’s best friend nearly twenty-years ago. He soon finds himself on the trail of a serial killing sociopath who’s every move is now controlled by the evil fairy inside her head known as Pickletwit.

A chilling, heart-pounding fantasy sure to keep you on the edge of your seat with each turn of a page, as you pray the thoughts in your head, are your own, and not that of, “Pickletwit.”

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BR91WEG/

Lucia's Bleeding Heart

Everyone has that first love, and along with it most times comes the heartache. Lucia's Bleeding Heart is just that kind of story. Lucia is locked into a loveless marriage, and a lonely house. Her solace is her flowers and her garden. It is here where she decides to plant a Bleeding Heart, and the magic soon begins.

She remembers him, and lately she can't seem to get him out of her head. This romantic and touching story will leave you believing in, "forever."

Available at:

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BNI8KL4

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/lucias-bleeding-heart-ronnie-ray-jenkins/1114745206?ean=2940016262987

http://www.kobobooks.com/search/search.html?q=%22Ronnie+Ray+Jenkins%22&t=none&f=author&p=1&s=none&g=both

Pickletwit, the new series of novellas by Ronnie Ray Jenkins

When I created Pickletwit, I realized that my protagonist was nine-years-old. I wondered how a child like that would visualize this fairy. I gave my ten-year-old artistic daughter, a pencil, and she sat at the kitchen table, and in five minutes delivered this to my desk. She was spot on.

PICKLETWIT COMING SOON!

Forever Finger-paints.

I stared at this blank screen for a long time today. A million pixels of white looking back at me as I try to make some kind of sense of the tragedy that unfolded yesterday in Newtown, Connecticut. I thought of Christmas presents wrapped and hidden away for children that will never get to open them now. Visions of innocent kids excited about the arrival of Christmas. First grade children in a classroom for God's sake on a Friday morning with excitement building for the weekend, and counting down the days until Christmas.

These children, so young who just a few days ago were probably proudly showing off their artwork to happy parents who now can only see their fingerprints swirled and etched forever on paper. We must change, and make those changes now. It is no longer about ourselves, the adults, and our foolish wants and needs. How dare they make this a politicized debate about guns and gun control which I've already seen happening on the media. When twenty innocent children are massacred, we have failed them.

These children were at a stage in life where they were just beginning to learn to write their names, to learn colors, to sing songs and to develop their own unique personalities. That was all taken away. Some other things taken away from them, their first passed love note, their first kiss, their nervous hands on the steering wheel of a car while a parent sits beside them and are just as nervous as they teach them to drive. Those  things are now stolen forever.

I am not anti-gun, but I am anti-killing, and anti-violence. I grew up in Appalachia where guns were a way of life and still are today. We knew the power of a gun, and we respected it, above all though we respected human life, and we respected others. Where has all that gone today? When we see what happened yesterday to the innocent, the beautiful, and the bright, we as a civilization must change or we are destined to fall. If we cannot protect those who require protection, what's left?

Yesterday, a precious part of America was taken away. Those left behind will grieve forever. There will be cruel reminders everywhere they look from this moment on. A Christmas tree, a child's first ornament, happy squeals of sled-riding children, sirens, tiny hands helping to cut out cookies, stockings taken down and put away forever, and the tooth fairy. I can only imagine what it must be like to suffer that type of pain.

We are humans, and supposedly the most intelligent species on this planet. Are we? If so, why do we always wait for something so devastating, so horrific, so inhumane to happen before we act? I hate hearing the term wake up call. We should never wait, and allow the tragic deaths of twenty first graders be our wake up call. They should not be the sacrifice for change. We need to get it right, to make things right, we need more than anything in this world to stop the violence, and we need to do it today.

Hug your kids today, hug them everyday. Those few precious minutes when they want to show you something and you think that you are too busy-- stop what ever you are doing, and give them that time. Teach peace, teach tolerance, teach love, and nurturing. They need it, and as small as they are, they do expect it whether you believe that or not. What you teach, they will pass on. This cycle of violence can be broken.

Peace,
Ronnie Ray Jenkins