Wednesday, July 23, 2014

Said the spider to the fly


Last night I had a staring contest with a snipe fly. I won, but before he left, I got his picture. You might wonder why I would do such a thing. Two words, Granny Spinetta. The only spider in the world who's web is heart-shaped and magical in my soon to be released novel, Wedding Dolls. In the meantime, visit Kindle Unlimited, and see how many books of mine you can read for free with the subscription. How I roll. 


Wednesday, July 2, 2014

Bringing Brother Home Audio Version (Fourth of July)

He was eight-years-old when the knock came to the door in the big house out in the country. It was a knock that would change the lives of a family forever. It is fitting on this Fourth of July to remember. So, I chose to remember by doing this audio version of my short story titled, Bringing Brother Home. For when we forget, we become very wrong.
video


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Monday, June 30, 2014

Satan's Under The Bed Audio Short Story



I considered myself lucky as hell to find Satan on that summer day back in the 1960's. What boy wouldn't?

An audio version read by the author of one of his short stories, Satan's Under The Bed.


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Tuesday, June 24, 2014

A Beautiful Place To Die

Just below the old house was a long and worn footpath winding past huckleberries growing on green bushes. Just off the path, stands of aspen trees with shining silver bark waved under a bright sun. Their quivering leaves casting shadows down from above to pockmark me with dappled black shapes. It was a circuitous path, endless, and it looped around to lead one eventually back to the path’s beginning and home again.

Through the woods it led to small body of water held back by an earthen breastwork broken in the middle, for long ago someone once drowned in it. The never-ending path allowed one to walk across the breastwork of the dam. Halfway across it, golden wild grasses ended where the yellow clay and rocks were removed to drain the dam to recover the body, as I was told. It was a beautiful place to die-- if one must die.

I traveled the path from the age of five-years-old, and many times, I traveled it alone. There was something about solitude even then for me. Although, we only lived there until I was eight, my footprints played as much of a role to keep the path smooth as the deer who walked upon it did. There wasn’t a single time though that my thoughts didn't somehow return to the drowning. Was it the morbid curiosity of death? Was it a young boy’s fear of ghosts, and that maybe the dead boy’s spirit floated with the early morning fog above the water? I’d heard the victim was only twelve or thirteen. I wondered back then, if I would still be alive at that age. After all, death took him early, so what would make me so special? Why would I be granted a longer sentence on the planet then this kid? I had a million questions, but I had no answers.

I recall walking the path, and wondering if his feet touched the very soil I walked upon. I wondered if at some point, was there any inkling to him that the clock was ticking as he left the path and neared the water as if it was some sort of countdown to eternity? Worse yet, or better yet, is this where he stayed now for infinity? Could this be his personal heaven? After all, it was a beautiful place.

There were bullfrogs, and sometimes a heron would land upon the water. There were raccoon along the banks seeking out crayfish, and sunfish glittering when the light caught their scales. There were green lily pads floating on silent water, and tall spruce and pines on the far side mirrored upon the smooth surface on those days when the weather was agreeable. It was a beautiful place to die-- if one must die.

Years later, I returned to the old dam. The aspen trees showed their age with broken branches and some that toppled over now leaned against those trees still standing as if their destiny was to become support like a cane for an old man. The huckleberry bushes seemed much sparser to me. The path required me to pause to make sure I still stood upon it as it no longer carried the signs of usage. When I reached the shores, the water seemed lower, browner than before and not nearly as wide as I remembered in youth. Still and seemingly unchanged, the stumps of trees poked up from the water like ancient statues carved not by man but, by time. I stood on the bank, and on a large stump near the middle, my eyes caught a glint of something. It was an old fishing plug impaling the wood, held tight by a rusted and bent hook. Then, the drowning came back to me.

Could the old, “Jitterbug,” fishing plug snagged on the decaying log been the reason? Life snatched by the jaws of death all because of what was tied to the end of a light blue, six-pound-test, spider web thin, piece of fishing line floating now in the air as a breeze moved across the water. Maybe the plug was borrowed from his father’s old tackle box, and he didn’t want to return home without it for fear of Appalachian justice. All of these years, and it still haunted me. I probably would never know what happened, no one would know. Maybe it was meant to be that way.

Somewhere in the pines across the water, a gray squirrel barked shaking me back to reality. It was a beautiful place to die, and it was a beautiful place to be alive.



If you would like to hear the author read this one, well read along with Ronnie at:

http://blog.ronnierayjenkins.com/2014/06/a-beautiful-place-to-die-audio-version.html





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Sunday, June 15, 2014

A Text Message to Dad on Father's Day



  
Hi Dad:

Things sure have changed since you’ve been gone. They claim we’re really making advancements. In fact, I’m typing this on a cell phone. You wouldn’t know what that is all about since they were introduced quite awhile after you died. It seems like everyone has one these days. People don’t spend much time conversing with their mouths anymore. Talking could very well become obsolete. They just type with their thumbs or fingers on a tiny keyboard and instantly the person on the other end gets the message. I’m not sure if you’ll get this one. It’s just a bunch of bits and bytes of information that travel wirelessly out through space by the sender and bounce off a tower somewhere to end up on the phone of the receiver of the message. That’s pretty much how it’s accomplished.

So, I was standing on the porch this morning when it occurred to me, wherever you are out there maybe you just might be able to intercept this one. Wouldn’t that be cool, Dad? I figure we all are pretty much made up of electrical activity anyway if you think about it. There are these things in the brain called electrical synapses, and the heart has cells of its own that creates its own electrical energy. So, maybe we never really die, Dad. Maybe those electrical charges are out there floating around somewhere and everyone hangs out until the old adage of opposites attract comes into play, and some kind of reincarnation takes place. I don’t know. You could be in Heaven for all that matter, too. I guess it depends on how people look at the mystery of life and death. In any event, I just wanted to wish you a Happy Father’s Day and to bring you up to speed on what’s happening on the planet.

There are a lot of wars, but you remember that from your time on Earth. It just seems to me there’s quite a bit more than there used to be. We’re running out of clean water, and I thought you’d find that interesting being a lover of fishing. Remember when bread cost a quarter a loaf and you thought that was high, Dad? Now, in some places it’s eight times the cost of what you used to pay. You’d really hate gassing up the old Plymouth, Dad. One gallon of gas is four dollars or more. The population of the Earth is more than 7-billion people and growing. A lot of them are starving. It’s funny, Dad, we can build a phone that we can send messages to each other on, but we can’t figure out how to feed a dying planet. I imagine if any aliens looked down upon us and being more intelligent than we are, they just might consider us not to be the sharpest tool in the tool box of planets.  Somehow, I still hold out hope that we’ll straighten up and fly right, but the old clock is ticking away.

Well Dad, I hope you got this text. Happy Father’s Day out there wherever that is, and who knows maybe I’ll send you off another text from time to time. We all miss you.

Tuesday, May 27, 2014

Elliot Rodger Killing for A Kiss



Elliot Rodger was one of those human beings who hid his madness for quite some time. There were the signs, but as is often the case they were ignored for many reasons. How could you possibly know in a case like this, that insanity was growing behind his three-hundred-dollar sunglasses?

I read his manifesto; he could have been a talented writer. Elliot Rodger didn’t want to work. When he found out that writing takes time and work, he dropped that idea. Work didn't fit into his vocabulary, because Elliot Rodger wanted to be rich, fast. Elliot also thought work was mundane, and just didn't fit his persona. This, 22-year-old man’s first job lasted for half a day, and, once he helped a neighbor build a spiral staircase. That was the extent of it all. Elliot didn’t do chores at home; he had a nanny and claimed that was her job.

Elliot Rodger thought the world owed him a living, while he played World of Warcraft, some days for 16-hours straight. He spent hours upon hours in a game arcade near his house shoveling coins into machines, and playing, playing, playing. He didn’t earn the coins, they like everything else in his life were given to him. Elliot Rodger had a lot of things given to him. A BMW, thousands of dollars in cash, and gift cards from his relatives allowing him to buy designer clothes. You can almost hear the smugness in his words in his manifesto when he talks about his family-paid trips to Morocco, England, Malaysia, and Disneyland. That wasn’t enough for Elliot; he wanted a kiss from a blonde-haired, tanned girl... any blonde-haired, tanned girl with good enough looks to satisfy him. He was obsessed with them.

He dreamed of easy money, spending, sometimes 700-dollars at a time on lottery tickets like the Mega-millions lottery, and went so far as to drive from California to Arizona to purchase Powerball tickets. He didn’t earn the money for that either, it was saved up from monetary gifts from his relatives. Elliot believed winning the lottery would cure his ills. Elliot was a virgin; he could have lost his virginity a hundred times over with all the money he spent on lottery tickets. If he wanted to experience sex, he could have drove to Nevada, instead of Arizona, and spent a weekend at a brothel. I’m sure one of the ladies there would have been happy to show him the ropes. He just might have walked out of there a little more confident with the knowledge often sought about pleasing a woman. Not Elliot, he was above all that, I guess, besides sex could become work. 

Elliot, ironically loved flying on Virgin Airlines, in his manifesto; he would be disappointed if he didn’t get to fly first-class to London with his family. He talked of enjoying the looks on the regular coach passenger’s faces when Elliot would be called to the front of the line with his first-class tickets guiding the way past the peasants. He ate the finest food at parties thrown by some of his family’s elite friends. He bragged about how many plates of food he could eat, since he had a high metabolism rate because he couldn’t find sex. He perfected gluttony better than royalty. He actually begged his real mother to marry into wealth, so that he could be taken care of and never have to work for a living. The guy was merely a well-dressed bum with grandiose illusions of wealth, and women.


He dropped out of more college classes, than donuts dropped into hot grease at a, "Dunkin Donuts." His reason, he just couldn’t stand watching the blonde girls talking to other men in his classes. Was Elliot Rodger sick or was he spoiled to kill? Did he feel so strong that the world owed him, and that the lives of others were simply just another way to get what he wanted? The love of money is often said to be the root of all evil, and in his case, it was evil in its most pure form.