"WHAT ARE Y'ALL DOIN' DOWN THERE?"

Good Morning, Friday the 13th. I am surprised that the Jason people did not have another sequel primed and ready for this one, being it is also a full moon and not suppose to happen again for some time. I guess it was decided they'd bled it enough. Damn! I crack myself out. (family joke) Okay...nursing. I do that now and it has its moments. We seem to be superstitious. Just mentioning that it seems to be a quiet night can bring on all kinds of derision. There was this one time. Don't remember if it was Friday the 13th, but it should have been.

A rapid response had been called. (this is different than 'rabid response' which is when staff just go crazy for no particular reason) An elderly man had been found unresponsive. He was not reacting to any stimulus. Pain (sternal rub), light, voice...nothing. Crash cart was brought in, a dozen staff members including a doctor. I was attempting to obtain a manual blood pressure, without any luck. Not a favorable sign, as I am good at it.

No pulses could be felt, and chest compressions were under way, the ambu bag was being squeezed. Some one was trying to obtain a doppler pulse. (a sound amplification device which involves a probe and smear of lubricant and always cold. The nurse was trying to for a femoral pulse. Right in the crotch.

The man came alive, sit up like a jack-in-the-box and yelled. "What the hell y'all doin' down there!

I looked around at my colleagues, as there was a moment of stunned silence, then back to the patient. He was staring at us all like we were crazy. A short round of unison laughter ensued, a collective sigh of relief if you will.

For my money, the guy was dead, and maybe he was, or perhaps it was just another freaky Friday!

NEVER UNDERESTIMATE THE POWER OF 'MAMA'

There has been a  lot of discussion in the media about bullying. I've got a news flash. This isn't new, it's been going on a long time. Probably since we were squatting at a fire in a cave. The following story is true. I have changed the names not to protect people, but because it happened some fifty years ago and I can't remember them. The fact, that I remember the incident demonstrates how traumatic it can be. There is a silver lining though.

Copyright 2014 by Andy H. Sweet

I recall a bright sunny day. One of those following a rain storm. The air was crisp, steam rising from the pavement, puddles everywhere. I was returning home from school, empty "Lone Ranger" lunch box in one hand, a satchel in the other, avoiding the large deeper pools of collected rain, but taking joy in splashing through the little-shallow-ones.

So intent I was in my frolic, I failed to notice the large boy leaning against the wall of the abandoned building I was passing.

Until he spoke. "Come here boy."

I looked up from the small puddle I had just smashed, pointed at my chest like... who, me?

"Yeah, you. Do you see anyone else around?"

Of course I looked around. Ascertained there was indeed, no one else, returned my attention to him and again, offered my quizzical look.

He slid from his repose against the wall, placed his hands on his hips. "If I have to come get you, I'll break your fucking arm."

I hadn't ever heard that word before, but it sounded mean. Reluctant is not a fair representation of my approach. It was akin to a doomed man walking to the gallows.

In what seemed an eternity, I was face to face with him. Actually more like face to chest. He had to be a couple of heads taller than I. "What do you want?" My voice trembled and was so low, I was sure he couldn't have heard.

He pitched his head back and howled. It was the worst sound I'd ever heard. Then, snapped his fist out to my nose. It wasn't that hard of a hit, but it stung and brought tears to my eyes. My nose felt wet, I rubbed the back of my hand across it, and looked. No blood.

Then, he grabbed the lapels of my yellow rain coat and lifted me up. "You ready for some fun, boy?" Before I could utter a response he tossed me back. I dropped my lunch box and satchel, hit the pavement hard and I'm pretty sure, peed my pants.

There was a large can, square, most likely it had been run over, for it was squashed in the middle. He pointed toward it. "Get up sissy. Go fetch me that can." I got up, tears were falling now, but I didn't cry out. At least I managed to quell that. I waded out into the small pond, feeling the cold water creep up past my ankles.

When I returned with the prize, a look of anger flashed across his hideous face. "Look what you did. You bent it." He walked over to my lunch box and stomped on it. Did some damage, stooped, picked it up and opened it. He took the "Lone Ranger" thermos out. "Hey...I've been wanting one of these." He tossed the box to the ground and resumed his stomping. In minutes it was flatter than a pancake.

"Thanks punk." he said, strolled away, my thermos in hand, whistling a tune. I picked up my demolished lunch box and dropped it in a barrel at the corner of the building. Wiped my eyes and headed home.

This went on for three days, some more rain fell. There was no other feasible route home. I tried delaying my journey from school, but he was there. One day I didn't see him, but when I passed the corner, he stepped out. I ran, but he easily caught me.

My mom, of course noticed the absence of my lunch box. I told her I lost it and of course was punished with no TV that day. I protested, told her I hated this place and wanted to move. "What's wrong honey?" she asked. I wouldn't tell her, just went to my room and endured. Mom was great though. She didn't tell my father. Losing something like that would surely have meant a whipping.

My friend, Russel, was a big boy too. On the third day, I told him my trouble. His response was typical. He wasn't a bully, but didn't back down from a fight. Until that day.

Seeing the two boys next to each other may have been my first introduction to relativity. Objects can look the same size until you put them side by side. Russel looked like a dwarf compared to the bully. 

"I'm glad you brought a friend," the bully jeered. "You left the can out of the puddle, Red. I'd rather be dead,than red on the head. Your friend can go put it back."

Russell complied. I was sorry I had dragged him into this. Our tormentor had a piece of hard rubber tubing. He handed it to my friend. "Your buddy needs a whippin'."

I leaned in close to Russell and whispered. "Go ahead and hit me hard. Maybe that will make him happy." I bent over and received several respectable licks. My butt was stinging and a little anger was starting to grow, somewhere deep, hidden inside me.

"Boy, I didn't tell you to whip him hard. Did I? Did I?" He snatched the hose from Russell and handed it to me.

"Lay it on him, Red. Hard. If you don't, then you get it from me!"

The ember of fury fanned to a flame. I felt a flush explode to my face. My hands clenched, mouth twisted into a gnarly grimace. Then, I exploded.

"If you don't leave us alone, I'm gonna tell my MAMA!" My voice was a roar, all the indignation and humility poured out with authority and power.

The bully's eyes widened and fear swashed across his face. "No...hey...you don't have to do that."

"I will, I'll tell her!" There was no trembling in my voice, no trepidation. I was adamant.

"No...please...I'll bring your thermos back. I'll do anything. Just don't tell her." He was whining, pitiful really. I actually felt sorry for him.

Russell took the hose from me and turned to the boy. "You'll do anything?"

"Yes, anything."

"Okay..." Russell said, a grin breaking out on his face "...bend over."

The End

WHAT ABOUT ME?

What about me? Who am I, what do I do, and why do I do it? I had promised myself recently that I would not blog about writing. First of all, most of you, I think, could care less about using too many adverbs, power passages, or should I plan my plots, or plot my plans.

So, I thought I'd just write about whatever suits me, melts my butter, or tickles my fancy. No rules, no subject taboos.

What I am attempting to do here, is establish a platform or brand, for me, as a writer. So first I'll talk about honesty, a concept I wish to become a corner stone of the foundation I'm building.

Now, I write fiction. Having said that, one must realize that what I write is technically, a lie. I make the shit up. Also, as you just noted, I use profanity.Hope it's not offensive , but I consider it, used properly, an art form. It's in my work, in my life, and I pray I don't over use it, or abuse it, but I won't apologize for it.
"A rose by any other name..." William Shakespeare. Romeo and Juliet.

To be honest, I'm not even sure what I mean by honest. Would I lie to save my butt...probably. Would I lie to save my butt if it hurt others. No. Will I increase the size of the fish I caught. Oh yeah!

In my writing, the honesty will be, that, I thought of it and I wrote it. We are all influenced by media, that being books, television, internet...the list goes on. I am no different and I'll use anything that I read or hear, but it'll come out of the mire that is my mind, my words and perspective. Somewhere, I read there are only a handful of original stories. All else is a redo, or perspective. When you strip the story to basics? John met Mary, they married, had children, divorced, live happily ever after, got chased by pirates, trapped in a car by an enormous rabid dog. (You gotta give King credit on that last one...pretty sure it's totally original). But the idea may not be. Surely there have been stories of humans trapped by savage animals. See what I mean. By now most stories are takes on ideas, or happenings that have already been told or written.

As for the blogs...a clue...if I is who's talking, then it really happened. Do I use literary license...(that means add lies to it.)...maybe, but only to fill gaps in my memory (which are many) and maybe to add a little drama (so you won't fall asleep while reading it. Oh my, I think I hear snoring).

So, here's some truth. My name is not Drew Adams. It is Andy Howard Sweet. Drew is my evil twin...just kidding...he is a pen name. Why? Looking back I'm not really sure...seemed like a good idea at the time. And I like my real name. Yeah, it got me into a few hassles when I was younger...but then I found the girls liked it...hey...I'm only human. Besides, my dear departed mother fought for it. Here's the story. True, as it was told to me as I was a newborn and do not remember it.

The nurse told Mom she could not name me Andy...it had to be Andrew. My mother answered that she would name me "Shit" if she wanted to. "Shit Sweet" has a nice ring to it, but I'm glad she didn't have to prove her point. I do have a short story started in my archives titled "Schitt Storm". Really.

So, for better or worse, I chose Drew Adams as a pen name. People have called me Drew, or Andrew, all my life and Adams was my mother's maiden name. See, it's not totally fake. Anyway "... you can call me what you want, long as you call me for supper." Author unknown.

I'll blog on "What About Me" from time to time. I'll use that title so you can avoid such ranting. lol

NEWSPAPER FLIPPIN': Wasn't like when I was a kid.

                                   

Quite a few years ago, needing extra money, I decided to try a rural newspaper route. Okay...sounds reasonable. I discovered that if you want to spend money, ruin your car, and generally get po'd at the world, that's the way to go.

See, at that time newspapers were fifteen cents and you got a nickle. Not bad, I thought. Plus, at least a third of my customers had prepaid. Wow! Of course I learned that the newspaper took their cut from this first, which meant I had to collect mine. Bummer!

Nevertheless I enjoyed some of this seven day a week (part time job?) adventure and sometimes my teenage children went with me. Who says you can't work a second job and have quality time with your slaves...uh, I mean children?

There was the time when this gentleman did not like where I threw his paper. I guess he figured I had an arm like Joe Namath...anyway, this dude flags me down and starts belittling me like I was some kind of kid. I was in my 30's, the end part of them, but certainly not a kid. He went on to say "...I'll have your job." I told him he "...could have it and if he'd pull his car over next to mine, I load them over for him."

A couple of days later, I was reprimanded for my actions and I smiled at the supervisor and promised to give it due consideration.

When I delivered this guy's newspaper, I slowed way down, took careful aim and whizzed that bad boy right in the middle of a large water puddle in his drive way. It was by far, my best throw. Moral of the story? Don't mess with your paper person, they're underpaid and starting to figure out they're actually contributing money.

Then there was the collecting. People not home. I'll pay you next week. You would be surprised at the people who would stiff a poor paper delivery person. Oh and don't forget the paper stands. Did you know some people will buy one, but grab a handful? Seriously, that comes out of the empty pockets of the route carrier, folks.

My favorite. This one lady. She was some firecracker I tell you. Two months behind and when I tried to collect she tells me "Ill pay you soons as I sells my cow." Okay, but the next month I got the same story. "I'm 'bout to sells that cow any day now."

I stopped her newspaper.

The next week or so she flags me down. "When you gonna deliver my paper again?"
Keeping as straight a face as I could I answered, "Soon as you sells that cow."

NOTHING TO IT, THE WAY WE DO IT!

You know, people handle things different. Once, while racking up the inmates (sending them to their rooms/cells) I heard a ruckus over on another wing. When I got there, the boss (word for correctional officer) was surrounded by several angry residents.

Now...you have to use common sense in any job. The cord, or maybe the antenna wire was stolen regularly, which meant nobody got to watch TV. The inmates had a plan though. One trustworthy  thief (no, that is not an oxymoron) would take the cable to his house (cell) for safe keeping.

This, of course would be technically breaking the rules and the guard (maybe we could just take the ox off of moron here) was having none of it and the offenders (politically correct designation for convicts, thieves, inmates, someday we will call them clients) were trying to explain it to him. It was starting to get ugly.

I have a knack for letting the air out of situations like this and you got to back your partner's play. I ordered them to their respective home away from homes, promising that we'd take care of the cord.

Now, like I said...I had a knack...but it took me by surprise when their eyes got big and they started backing away.

Don't you know my head swelled up and my chest stuck out. I was feeling pretty good about myself.

Until I looked behind me.

A friend and coworker, inside the control picket, was holding a gas grenade launcher, tapping it lovingly, with the most wicked smile I'd ever seen.

Everybody quit worrying about the TV cord.


Another prison anecdote you might enjoy.  http://drewadamsauthor.blogspot.com/2014/06/i-worked-in-prison-system-for-twelve.html

A Lonely Christmas Tree.

Good morning world. Wow! You can say that now with new meaning. It's now a smaller world and larger too with today's technology.

I wrote a short story last year for Christmas...I know, this year is far from reaching the winter holidays. But I was thinking about it, more importantly, what inspired it. Family.

My wife and daughter challenged me to write a non-macabre short story for Christmas 2013 and I almost pulled it off. I just couldn't resist putting a few bad guys in it and a little suspense, but enough of that.

The story was inspired by a song my father had written and sung to us on many occasions, usually during the winter, with cocoa, cookies and some times snow falling. Rarely though, because we lived in Texas.

The song did and does bring tears to my eyes, so I'm sharing it with you. You might want to have a box of tissues nearby.

A Lonely Little Christmas Tree

A lonely little Christmas Tree stood on a vacant lot.

I don't know why it was left there

Perhaps it had been forgot.

A little boy stood outside the fence

and he looked so wistfully.

and as I closed the gate to leave

here's what he said to me.

I know that you're a good man sir

it's written on your face.

I'll bet you say your prayers each day

and at night you say grace.

That tree is awful lonely sir 

and it needs some company.

And I know the Lord would bless you sir,

if you gave me that little tree.

I haven't any money sir,

my mama's sick in bed.

My father, he's been gone for years,

Perhaps sir, he is dead.

We're all so cold and hungry sir

and lonely as can be.

And I know it'd cheer my mommy up

if you'd give us, that little tree.

I picked the little boy up

and hugged him to my cheek.

The tears were running down my face,

so I could hardly speak.

I've had amnesia, for many years, 

now I've found my memory.

From a little boy who is my son

and a lonely Christmas tree. 

                                                            

I AIN'T CRAZY AND NEITHER AM I.

I worked in a prison system for twelve years and I write paranormal books and I love psycho stuff...guess it takes one to know one. One of my books deals with an individual who hears voices.

That brings me to this story. I remember shortly after starting at the prison...a newby...greener than lettuce, but anxious to show my stuff. I'd blame youth for that, but I wasn't really that young.

Back to the voices...I passed a cell...we're talking around two in the morning. The place is quiet, most of the inmates asleep, except this one cell.The guy stood there talking away. I peered in. The cell doors in this prison weren't lined with bars. They were solid steel, with two slots that ran perpendicular down the top half. Sort of like a fancy front door, without the fancy and without the glass.

This guy was jabbering away and like I said, I carefully peered in to see the other person. You know. The one he was talking to. I'm bettin' you've already figured out there was no one else in the cell.

Nevertheless I continued to listen and he continued his diatribe. His back was to the door and his voice lowered and he backed toward the door as if afraid. I, wanting to hear what he was saying, edged closer to the door.

Arrrrrrggggg! He turned and plastered himself to the door, his roar pitching to an awful cackling laugh which I heard clearly as I propelled myself backwards to the railing.

Did I mention I was on the top run? I also forgot to mentioned I had been trained NOT to get my face that close to the door.

I felt lucky though. I had managed to control myself and it wasn't necessary to change my shorts.

Aw, those were the days.

THERE'S THE WRONG WAY.

THE RIGHT WAY

AND

MY  WAY!

YEAH! 

TAKE THAT!

THERE'S NO SUCH THING AS GHOSTS

Really?
What about those glimpse of movement in your peripheral vision? Imagination?
Do things get moved around or did you just forget where you put them?

All the stories you've heard. Are they hoaxes? When people who have passed visit you in a dream. Is it real, or Memorex?

Last night, writing to the wee hours, I heard footsteps, then I thought I saw my grandfather's chair move. I'm a cynic, but damn.

Years ago I wrote a paper debunking any afterlife. I attributed man's religion, myths and belief in any other plane of existence as "Man's fear of death".  In other words...create a world in which you can live on, past the biology of your physical self. Hey...I was a young college kid...what did I know? Pretty good though, huh?

Maybe not. I believe in a higher power. I profess a Christian faith. If that be true, who is to say other planes of existence do not exist. Are not ghost and spirits documented in the Bible?

Perhaps there is an entire community, walking around, sitting in the same chair you sit in, but in another dimension. Writers have explored this for centuries and I have nothing new to add.

It's just that sometimes, maybe...we need to reconsider. Think about things.

Did that chair really move?