CarlHoliday

Why thank you for the loverly comment. Yes, I thought a bit of local color might add a little spice to the story.

Benny sat on the living room sofa looking out the front window as he waited for Erik’s chauffeur to show up. His mind was mostly blank because he didn’t have any premonitions of what was going to happen tonight and tomorrow. It was still drizzling, but not enough to create puddles in the low spots on the sidewalk or street. Everything was simply damp and that’s all there was to it. He saw a black SUV coming down the street and felt his heart begin to pound in anticipation that this was Erik’s ca

As a rule, I try to avoid innards of any animal. My only exception in my life was chicken hearts because my mother would separate them out from the other chicken by-products and fry them up to a crispy brown along with the gizzards. She tossed the livers because of their strong taste. I've had to eat liver two times in my life and hated eating it each time. The organ's primary purpose in an animal is to filter out all the things that shouldn't be ingested by that animal. I look at livers in the same way I look at oil filters. There can't be anything desirable in that organ. Oh, yes, thank you for the nice comment on the chapter.

Although she was raised in rural Arkansas, my wife said she would never eat chitlins though they often appeared on the dinner table. As a fan of Mexican food, I often run into people of Mexican descent who often offer me menudo, which is the same thing as chitlins. My primary dietary rule: I do not eat guts, except, maybe, on occasion, fried chicken hearts.

Benny abruptly opened his eyes to the electronic beeping of his alarm clock. He rolled onto his side, reached over, and turned off the annoying sound. He sat up and looked down at his morning wood sticking through the fly of his pajamas. He stared at it for some time trying to come up with some memory to explain this daily physical occurrence. He gingerly touched the head with one of his fingers and watched it shudder from the soft pressure. For some reason he couldn’t understand, touching his h

Three weeks later, Benny rode in the red Camaro as it drove through Manhattan traffic. Occasionally, he’d look over at the driver and ask, “Are you really my foster father?” “Yes, Benny, I am.” “What’s your name, again? I think I might have asked you before, but I can’t remember.” “My name is Ernie.” “Ernie, yes, and your wife’s name is Alisha and you call your mother Mam and you have a son named Gerald and a daughter, but I can’t remember her name. You do have a daug

Marybeth stood at the cage and calmly said, “Hey, guys, that new kid is crying in his room and I think he’s going to off himself with his sheet.” “Oh, shit!” one of the nurses said. Three male nursing assistants dashed out of the cage followed by two nurses, one with a stethoscope and the other with a syringe and a bottle of sedative. They rushed into the boy’s room and saw the partially hanging body jerking from a knotted loop in a bedsheet. One of the nursing assistants pulled the boy

Tsk,, tsk, if I said what is going to happen, why would you continue reading chapters? Oh, Erik? Let's just say being blind isn't a summer meadow full of bunnies and butterflies.

The boy woke up and looked around until he remembered he was in a hospital or, more accurately, in an emergency psych ward for adolescents in New York City, Manhattan to be specific. He sighed heavily and pushed back the bedcovers before sitting up and looking around his room again. Up to his left was the barred and frosted window that only showed dim light into the room. To his right was the toilet, shower, and wash room. He rolled his body up until his feet hung over the floor. He put his bare

Thank you for your comment and that you've gotten hooked. As far as Mary goes, I think deep down inside Troy/Benny's mind there was an ego that was able to deal with the horribleness of their childhood.

Unfortunately, Troy/Benny has a long way to go.

Several months passed since the boy was released from the hospital into temporary foster care. Finally, Ernie gained permission to foster the boy in his home and today his 2011 red Camaro slipped into a parking spot in front of a townhouse in the Park Slope neighborhood of Brooklyn, New York. The boy in the passenger seat stared at a late model yellow MINI Cooper in front of him. He looked over at Ernie and asked, “Is that yourn?” “No, that belongs to our neighbor across the street,” Erni

Thank you for the comment. Yes, Troy is going to find out reality is not as it appears.

Sixteen-year-old Troy Benjamin Hensley stood on the side of the two-lane blacktop maybe four miles south of the mental health treatment facility where he’d been sent to after the closing of the foster home in Warnton, New York. He was hoping for a ride as far as the interstate where he could catch another ride to either Boston or New York, but he knew his chances were slim considering he was black. Of course, back up the road them counselors and head doctors all said he was white, but every time

In the sequel to 318 Winesap Lane, Troy runs away from a juvenile mental health facility and nearly loses his life. He is rescued by a man who will significantly impact his future in New York City, but life in the big city is not easy. Meanwhile, Erik lives in an Upper East Side apartment overlooking Central Park, which to him makes little sense since he’s blind. Unlikely as it may seem, the boys are reunited and their renewed friendship blossoms into love. Unfortunately, life isn’t easy in the city and the boys encounter many speedbumps in their journey to adulthood.

Just finished a collection of Harlan Ellison stories including the novella A Boy and His Dog, plus the prequel Eggsucker and an excerpt from the sequel Run, Spot, Run. Waiting for Amazon to deliver What Belongs to You: A Novel by Garth Greenwell.

Unbeknownst to me, my shrink replied to my voice mail yesterday when I was at the restaurant and not expecting any calls. I suppose I should’ve set my phone to vibrate, but I didn’t. So, today I called her voice mail line and, shock to me, she actually answered. She wanted an explanation why I upped my Depakote intake from 1000 mg to 1500 mg. What could I say? So, I said I’ll have taken one form or another of valproic acid off and on for the past 10 years, as of April. I know the difference between 1000 mg of Depakote and 1500 mg. 1000 mg is on the edge of total mania and 1500 mg is like a warm blanket. I tried to explain that 1000 mg wasn’t doing me any good. I needed the extra 500 mg to calm my mind. It doesn’t do my creativity much good, but hell what’s creativity compared to a total wonky state of mind. Sometimes, wonky equals trying to stop a 240,000 lb. locomotive going 50 mph with your measly body. Likely as not, you’re going to be sucked under the locomotive and end up being mangled into unrecognizable bits by the traction motors. She said she knew that I’ve been taking valproic acid for long time and probably felt a certain amount of mental security in the dulling effects of 1500 mg has on my mind which was a good thing. So, I’ve been approved to take 1500 mg of Depakote for the foreseeable future. What does this have on my creative function? Well, it’s been dampened a bit. At least the new book has been written up through Chapter 10, so I have a cushion to produce more chapters until the reserve catches up to me. Chapter 11 has been started and looks good to the end. Chapter 12 is a bit fuzzy, but I think I can resolve the inherent airiness to my writing to come up with another chapter. Of course, if I run out of ideas, I can always drop 500 mg of Depakote until I’m able to progress through the book. It’s not a good choice, but what the hell, I’m not going anywhere, certainly not down to the railroads tracks or the river beyond. The last thing on my mind is doing a Virginia Woolf in the Skykomish River.

Okay, it’s been five days since my last entry. I increased the Depakote dosage to 1,500 mg at bedtime and I called my shrink to inform her of such action. To those who might be worried, I am not wonky anymore. My mind has entered that dead state of drugged submission. Unfortunately, my new book has ground to a halt at ten chapters. I don’t know if you can imagine not having any creative abilities, but that’s what happens when you choose to be drugged vs. being totally wonky. When I was wonky (i.e., not taking mind numbing drugs) I was writing around a chapter every three days and it was some good stuff, too. Now, I’ve hit a wall and it’s called sanity. To continue with the new book, I will have to write in a sane state of mind, which can be quite difficult when you’re used to being totally wonky. Tonight, I was at the local Mexican restaurant sitting by myself at a table for two next to a table for four. I was drinking one of my favorite single malt Scotches, 10 year old Laphroaig, with a glass of Bohemia Mexican cerveza as a chaser (it has the body to stand up against any single malt Scotch whisky other than Modelo Especial). For those of you who are not aware of single malt Scotch, Laphroaig it is the premier Islay single malt Scotch; although, I’ve heard that the distillers at Ardbeg will differ with that opinion. (Quite frankly, Ardbeg is very good, only it’s not as good as Laphroaig. And, Laphroaig is officially one of Prince of Wale’s Scotches. Hey, anyone who’s willing to walk around in a skirt, certainly has to be trusted on his opinion of excellent Scotch whisky.) Anyway, at the other table there were three gentlemen of questionable sexuality. I’m not saying they were gay, though their talk certainly bordered on a close relationship not likely found among “best buds” of the heterosexual persuasion. I don’t know, maybe two men can talk of sharing a bed in a purely heterosexual context is okay, but I have yet to encounter such a male-to-male heterosexual relationship. Plus, they seemed quite content in their mutual relationship. For observational purposes, one gentleman was tall like me (I’m 6’5”) and had a comparable overhanging middle-aged gut, though his was not as pronounced or overhanging as mine. Hey, I don’t have anyone to look good for. His “partner”, although admittedingly older, was shorter and not as full amidships. Their “local” guest (who kept trying to get them to stay the night), was quite handsome, in a middle-aged sort of way. Okay. I admit it, he was attractive; but, since I’ve been medicinally castrated since 2003, who am I to say who is cute. Finally, when I’d had sufficient Scotch, I got up, arranged my attire to leave, and proceeded to the cash register. But, before I left the immediate vicinity of the two tables, the partner of the taller gentleman said, “Have a good evening.” Fuck! What was I going to say to this other than, “You, too.” How lame can you get, but what else could I say? He was with the other guy and I was certainly not looking forward to spending the night with a man I hardly knew. Plus, I had to get home to let Nana out to go pee and feed her at 7:30. I had responsibilities and they did not include this gentleman from downriver.

You have to understand being Bipolar is basically an extreme state of mind. A month or so ago I was taking 1,500 mg of Depakote as a mood stabilizer, plus 400 mg of Seroquel, also reported to be a mood stabilizer. My shrink decided that, maybe, I could reduce my intake of Depakote until I was taking Zero mg’s and relying on the 400 mg of Seroquel to stabilize my mind. Unfortunately, when I hit Zero my mind went wonky and I was hallucinating to the extreme. So, I backed off and got her permission to take 1,000 mg of Depakote to stabilize my mental processes. Everything was going great until a couple days ago when I went wonky, again. How could I tell my mind went to hell? Well, I went with my son to his appointment with his shrink and, at the clinic, I found myself walking three feet from the railing overlooking the first floor. I was, truly, considering doing a header. That’s serious wonky. I don’t get suicidal that often anymore, but there at that clinic I was definitely going wonky. So, I’ve increased my meds to where I’m now taking 1,500 mg of Depakote. I know it’s a chickenshit response to a possible suicidal occurrence, but, quite frankly, in my current state of mind I’m not interested in going the death route to permanent mental stability. That’s totally, fucking wonky. God, I totally hate being Bipolar. It’s either I’m drugged out of my mind or walking on the edge of totally out of mind on wonky shit. Quite frankly, I do not like being suicidal and I know that only occurs when I’m off drugs. For those who think they can control the wonky shit, I can only say I hope you have your life situation set up such that someone will come into your life before you begin to rot from succeeding at the final solution.

Thank you for your interesting comment. Addressing your concerns, I offer the following: 1) I should've stated in some way that the political/judicial situation in the county where this story takes place is super-conservative and anyone involved in drugs is subject to immediate apprehension and incarceration; 2) I remember a time not that long ago where drug usage was a criminal act and maybe I should've written that into the narrative of this chapter, also; 3) in the timeline of this story David's crime of arson occurred less than a year ago and as judicial systems work today it is quite possible he is still awaiting trial and therefore would still be in the county lockup not in a state facility. Again, thank you for pointing out these concerns with this chapter. It is unfortunate that my writing style usually does not add sufficient background color to my stories to assist my readers' imaginations to correctly fill in fictional realities to their satisfaction.

Thank you for your comment. I wish futures could be different, but, unfortunately, the sequel isn't looking like we'll see all of the 319 kids again.

Thank you for your comment. I didn't expect Geoff to die either, but sometimes my characters simply can't go on.

Multiple POVs “Do you actually think this will work?” Dr. Avianca asked. She looked down at Jerry who had a breathing tube sticking out of his mouth. “No guarantees, as I told you before,” the attending pulmonologist said. “Lucia, you wanted to try this,” the attending neurologist said. “If he does come around, there’s no guarantee that he will be conscious for any significant length of time.” “Okay, Dr. Sampson, give him the injection,” Dr. Avianca said. The

As is stated at the beginning of my story "The G.M.O.s", Carlos and Stefan have a future on their new ship. I haven't given much thought to taking their future and turning it into a new story. There are so many possibilities to such a story. Unfortunately, I'm now concentrating on the sequel to "319 Winesap Lane", which I will start publishing once the final chapter of "319" is posted.

I’m still waiting for a referral from the agency that handles outside referrals for the VA to see a psychiatric or psychological professional because my VA psychiatrist said she can no longer see me long-term, per VA directive. The agency that sets up appointments called me before Thanksgiving to say they would find someone (probably an ARNP) to handle my case. They said that I would be authorized to see that person for only four visits. The interesting thing about this is that I’ve been seeing my VA psychiatrist once every six months, but the agency that does the outside referrals only authorizes visits to occur in a four-month period. So, the outside provider will have to send in a document that is called an SAR to request additional visits after the four-month limit has expired. I’ve dealt with this before with my outside dermatologist who sent in the required SAR, except that agency sent me a letter stating I was not eligible to see an outside dermatologist. I had to send my Primary an e-mail requesting she initiate a referral to the Dermatology Clinic at the Seattle VA Medical Center for another total body scan because I have had two cancerous lesions removed already by the outside provider I’ve been seeing. Now, the Dermatology Clinic at the Seattle VA Medical Center has a process called nurse triage of referrals and this process takes a minimum of 30 days. Then their representative calls and says they will not be able to see me for three to four more months, but would I like to see an outside provider; to which I say “Yes.” Then they notify the agency that handles outside referrals that I need to see an outside dermatologist. A week later, a representative calls me to say that they have received a referral from the Dermatology Department at the Seattle Medical Center stating that I am eligible to see an outside provider. They ask if I have a specific provider in mind and I state that it would be nice if I could see the provider that I have been seeing for the past two years. They take the information and inform me that another representative of their agency will call me with appointment details in five to seven days. They, also, ask if it would be alright to leave a detailed message on my voice mail. In my current situation, with a referral to an outside psychiatric/psychological professional it’s been more than five to seven days waiting for the agency to contact me. I suppose sometime next week I will have to call them, again, and ask if they’ve found an outside psychiatric/psychological professional to treat me, since the VA refuses to treatment on a long-term basis. I do not expect a positive answer when I call because the people you call are not the people who make the appointments. They have filter people to sort out the real crazy Vets who attempt to placate them with meaningless drivel. It’s been a week since I completely stopped taking Depakote to maintain my sanity and completely relying on Seroquel (an atypical antipsychotic) to take up the slack. Quite frankly, I think I’m going a bit wonky, but I think I’ll have to do a bit of self-monitoring to make sure. That’s interesting isn’t it, the VA hasn’t provided an outside psychiatric/psychological professional to treat me, so I have to rely on self-cognitive therapies. No worry because I’ve been through extensive cognitive behavioral therapy in the past, so I should no how to treat myself. First Rule: Do Not Stop Taking the Medicine That Isn’t Working Because It Will Only Make You Worse. Second Rule: Call Your Psychiatrist ASAP To Get Permission to Go Back on the Mood Stabilizer. Yes, I think I’m going wonky. On the other hand, I’ve been making great progress with the new book. I’ve already come up with a suitable title for it and I’ve pulled in a character from 319. Actually, I think I’m going to have fun with this because it deals with a lot of psychological issues I’ve had to deal with myself. I think I’m going to have fun with one character who is gay and the other who might not be, but who may feel a responsibility to provide sexual services to the other if only to ensure their continuing friendship. I know this is rather vague, but at least I don’t think anyone is going to die in this story. Honest, I don’t like killing of characters, but sometimes there is no other choice. Yes, there’s no doubt about this, I’m definitely going wonky. Trust me, it’s not fun being nutso. At least I’m not suicidal; that’s a definite bummer. No, it’s definitely wonky time here. Nana is stretched out across the sofa and I’m listening to the George Harrison song “Wah-Wah” sung by Eric Clapton, et. al., on the “Concert for George Harrison” album. Yes, I’m definitely going wonky.