We live in a world that basically lies to us at every turn. Besides my relationship with my wife, children, close friends and some business associates I really don't believe what the world tells me. Those closest to me have a track record that I can judge them on and can base their answers against d...
Expand post
1 person likes this
Thank you for your kind words and support.
1 person likes this
Hi there, I can so relate to your comments. I find the real world too deceitful for comfort, and I feel more at home in the worlds I create in my novels. My characters are the only people I can trust,...
Expand commentHi there, I can so relate to your comments. I find the real world too deceitful for comfort, and I feel more at home in the worlds I create in my novels. My characters are the only people I can trust, with whom I feel safe and comfortable. Writing gives me the chance to leave a legacy to the universal consciousness that may enhance the universal energy a little. I have no family or loved ones, and it gives me a chance to get my voice out there, to be heard, listened to, and remembered for something good.
1 person likes this
You are taking the reigns in your hands to speak out of your truth, and that's a great thing. What I perceive of many people's attitudes about war is a deep seated need to manipulate their listeners t...
Expand commentYou are taking the reigns in your hands to speak out of your truth, and that's a great thing. What I perceive of many people's attitudes about war is a deep seated need to manipulate their listeners to their position. Seldom do I hear or read a truly objective stance, and yes, most positions are exhorted via dogmatic, religious principles, which really have nothing to say, for these principles lack specificity, as if any 'war' could be painted in broad strokes, which is impossible. Write on, and I would be thrilled to read your words. Individual truth, firmly grounded and fueled by sincere intent is, by far, the most potent magic.
Probably the greatest ground on all of the earth is the place where we can create something that just pleases you because it came out just the way you wanted it to. A title, character or event, if we...
Expand commentProbably the greatest ground on all of the earth is the place where we can create something that just pleases you because it came out just the way you wanted it to. A title, character or event, if we try, we can reach people with words and ideas that will seem to meet and encourage them right where they are at that moment. Quiet conversation, like this, is in short supply.
"Evil Walks on Water" Chapter One – “The Things That Young Men Do” Lying in darkness, Johan Dakota Daschle anticipated what his enemy would do next. The slender, self described social malcontent took...
Expand comment"Evil Walks on Water" Chapter One – “The Things That Young Men Do” Lying in darkness, Johan Dakota Daschle anticipated what his enemy would do next. The slender, self described social malcontent took advantage of his predatory hiding place and reflected on the events that brought him to his current situation. Born on June 6, 1922, a day like any other day, as his father before him Johan was a first born son. Because the elder Daschle wasted his birthright and chose drink over success as the heir apparent of a successful Seattle shipping family, any and all of the blessings related to such heritage was lost on the young man. His mother was one of the family's domestic staff and it was a toss-up between the wasted potential of life and the ignored birth as to what was more tragic for all involved. Johan's grandfather never acknowledged his lineage and with his mother, young Daschle lived above a saloon in downtown Seattle. His young life was filled with father figures who were on loan for short periods only and contact with his paternal father was limited and uneventful right up until his untimely death as a result of a liver disease. At night, left alone as his mother worked below as a waitress the young man could smell the cocktail of tobacco smoke, stale beer and aged human decay rise and settle, as if at home in the one room flat he called home. With nothing more than a curtain wall to separate him from the interaction between his mother and her occasional paramours, Johan was in a hurry to grow up and leave, ready to go anywhere but this dreary, four walled prison cell. His mother offered no explanations for what she did or her behavior and she and the boy interacted on a minimal basis. One night as Johan was awoken by the sounds of giggles and drunken words, he peeked through the curtains to see the shadows of his mother and a “guest”. As he listened to their noises diminish to the point of silence, the twelve year old tiptoed to the bed, observing the two adults who were sound asleep in a tangled heap. The curious boy approached the night stand table next to the bed noticing several crumpled pieces of currency under a denim work shirt. Lifting the clothing up, the butt handle of a chrome 38 caliber pistol was revealed and he could not resist holding it in his hand. Studying it closely, the novice gunman was startled when the man in the bed rose up, wide eyed and with a look of fear in his eyes as he focused on the business end of his own pistol pointed at him by a stranger. Johan, for the first time in his life, felt in control and he liked the respect and attention that he was receiving as a result of his simple actions. For reasons unknown to even himself, the boy demanded silence as he held his finger to his mouth, and motioned for the man to get up and be gone immediately. Young Daschle was rewarded with silent compliance as the man scurried half naked out of the apartment door leaving the gun and currency behind. With that, the boy returned to bed knowing more about himself and the world around him as he slept deeply on top of his fledgling armory and seedling bank account. Who knew that robbing and threatening a man could be so very easy? Waking late that morning he scurried off to his classes. The nuns who were part of the Sisters of Charity order, a misnomer if there ever was one, had little patience for the excuses of Johan or anyone of the other students held captive at Saint Pancratius elementary school. The boy could act out in any other part of his life but when it came to school time, he and the others were required to learn. He was taught phonics, mathematics, Bible history and English with a tried and true repetitive and effective teaching method. He would spend his whole life with total recall of his multiplication tables, his mind and heart filled with the recollection of religious stories from the Bible and was forever able to read and comprehend anything written. None of these skills came by choice as they were all a result of a combative, unbending and willful education meted out by seven old spinsters who never gave up on their young charges. The intent may have to impart a Christian education but at the time the only God represented, was an angry fellow who lived on a cloud and took great joy in torturing his creations. God, in Johan’s mind, was not his friend. After dropping out of high school before graduation, Johan worked part time in forced servitude washing dishes in the bar situated below his home. Wanting to eventually go out on his own, he saved his money and looked for an opportunity. Shunning the city life as much as possible, the young man chose to spend his spare time on the outskirts of town, feeding a natural desire for solitude. He thought back to the years before when he would wrap his new found weapon in oil cloth and place it in the bottom of his satchel. He thought many times that beady old Sister Mary Agnes would think twice before rapping his knuckles with a ruler if she knew that he had a loaded gun in the cloakroom. Johan would go to Licton Springs, a place that was once a healing center for the Indian people who settled the area. Spending hours each day and weekends, he would occasionally observe a sweat lodge or a lean to that was being used by folks who enjoyed the mineral water springs that were just about everywhere in the quiet and exceptionally green woods. With years of experience traversing the area, Johan would hike way back into the trees and set up targets so that he could become a proficient marksman. He had no urge to hunt or to kill small critters that crossed his path, a subconscious recognition of his place in life no doubt. No, if he was going to shoot anything, he would make sure they had the ability to return fire. This thought appealed to the young man and he carried it with him each day with the feeling of loneliness as his daily companion. It was a sad fact, but human contact was restricted to the authoritarian clergy at school as a child or the indifference expressed by his mother and the rogue’s gallery of unwanted characters that filled his life. On one of his sojourns to his forest retreat, the young man met a local hustler and self described gunslinger that went by the name of Burtie Dinkler. Dinkler was naked and lounging in a heated pool of water connected to the adjoining spring. Wearing only a floppy trapper hat made of beaver hide, the desperado drooped his sleepy head forward and the hat splashed in front of him. Sensing the presence of another person, the very middle aged outlaw turned to face the barrel of his own pistol as it was being held in the hands of a young stranger. Johan thought to himself how apparently easy it was to get the drop on a man, especially a man who owned a gun. He made a mental note to never sleep while his gun could be grabbed by someone else. “Easy there young fella’, have I done something wrong or have I offended you in any way?” The naked criminal asked. Johan just looked at the man, straight in the eyes and shook his head no and handed the pistol, barrel facing himself, back to its rightful owner. Knowing that the trigger on the pistol was feathered and highly unpredictable, the outlaw was eager to have it back in his hand. “You are a cool customer, aren’t you son?” Dinkler felt awkward and lamented his earlier decision to sit naked in the warm water secluded in an area like this. “Would you just toss me my shirt and trousers over there?” The young man did as he was asked and smiled crookedly at the stranger’s predicament. Thuggish in appearance, beefy, six feet tall, with crinkly reddish hair and an ominous looking triangular shaped patch of bluish broken veins on his forehead, he was amiable and smiling often while talking out of the side of his mouth. “What are you doing out here son, are you mute or something?” The older man asked as he dressed while balancing articles of clothing and a loaded weapon, keenly aware of its hair trigger. “I come out here to shoot,” revealing the pistol from its concealed home. “Target practice I hope, not at old blisters like me, eh?” Dinkler offered, with forced laughter. “No sir, I just like to shoot and there ain’t many people out here usually.” The boy answered. Burtie Dinkler heard the salutation “sir” come out of the boy’s mouth and made the correct assumption that the kid probably wasn’t going to try to kill him. “How are you fixed for ammo, got enough?” Dinkler asked as he free rolled the cylinder of his .38 caliber pistol.” “It’s a .22, ammo and it’s pretty cheap, I got plenty.” answered Johan. “I know a little bit about working a piece if you know what I mean. I could help you become a better shot if you have a mind to?” The older man offered. Young Daschle perked up at the opportunity to become a better shot and nodded in agreement with the wanted man. From that day forward, every day after and before work, on weekends, in all kinds of weather, the experienced criminal shared every bit of his shady knowledge and experience with his young protégé as he developed an excellent criminal partner. The unlikely team spent the next few months casing a mercantile, a bank and a saloon that organized large gambling events. All of these venues shared one tantalizing quality being that they held large reserves of cash and were ripe for the picking. Dinkler regaled Johan with stories of fellow criminals and friends like Machine Gun Kelly and bragged that J Edgar Hoover had referred to him once as the shrewdest most resourceful and dangerous bank robber in existence. Johan couldn’t avoid the obvious question. “If you’re such a hotshot criminal and so good at stealing, why are you living in the woods like a bear or a wild animal?” The older criminal explained that he was on the downside of a very successful criminal career and that this score would be his last. He went on to mention that he was born in Pipestone Minnesota, his father who was a house mover was killed by a run-away horse when he was nine and after a early career of stealing bicycles and scrap metal, did his first stretch at the State Training School in Chehalis as a result of a burglary charge. He eventually was arrested for auto theft in 1912, jailed in the Tacoma jail, escaped and was later sentenced to the state penitentiary in Walla Walla. After his father’s death, his mother moved the remaining family to the Pacific Northwest, moved in with her family and struggled to make ends meet as a private music teacher. Dinkler was released from prison in 1920 and what he lacked in the knowledge of thievery and skullduggery when he entered prison, he earned with his release, the equivalent of a college degree. The younger desperado was impressed with the experience and credentials of his mentor and was appreciative to have a father figure in his life. He hung on every word of the older man and made copious notes regarding the planning and stakeout plans for the bank heist. He told Johan that after prison, he concentrated on banks and with the assistance of a 150 pound blow torch that he used to liberate money from the evil bankers situated from Maine to Washington. With the advent of the getaway car, bank robbing went from a boring midnight activity to an active day light exercise filled with danger and excitement, one that he hinted that Johan could participate in if he played his cards right. Burtie Dinkler had a one man fan club in Johan Dakota Daschle and now that the talking was done, both were ready for some action. Johan had watched the older man dress up in a suit and from a distance observed as he played the part of a business person wanting to open a bank account and was given a guided tour of the bank so as to assure the potential depositor of the veracity of the security system in place and how assuredly his money would be safe if he was to trust them with it. In the evening, Johan would stoke the camp fire and watch his teacher as he quietly drank coffee a read one of his many classic books by the likes of Voltaire, Casanova, Washington Irving and Stevenson. The young boy felt that he was learning just by being in the presence of this unusual man who spent time and spoke to him as an equal. He hated to leave nature’s parlor and return to the absent ruin that was his home. One evening, before heading home, Johan had a question that was on his mind. “Mr. Dinkler, what was the biggest haul you ever took from a bank?” Burtie thought long and hard. “That would have to be the First Trust and Savings Bank of Colfax, Washington for $77,000.00. There were others in Bremerton and Port Orchard where they said I took more, but I didn’t. Seems I gave the powers that be an opportunity to recover losses other than from me. Let’s just say I wasn’t the only one stealing money from those banks. I do wish they would have given me my cut though.” Johan laughed at the idea of his friend walking into the bank after the robbery and asking for his cut. He laughed because he wouldn’t put it past the old bank robber. “What did you do with the money?” Johan asked. “Well spent on whiskey and women, something you would know little about I’m sure, my young friend.” Burtie responded with a chuckle. Sadly, based on his own experience, indiscretion and whiskey was a constant companion that Johan knew too well. “Did you ever have any children?” The youngster inquired. “The closest thing that I knew to a son was several years ago, a young whippersnapper like yourself by the name of Lester, Lester Gillis. That young feller was one of the most famous of all the outlaws that you would ever know.” Dinkler teased. After much thought and scratching of the head, Johan told Dinkler that he never heard of anyone famous by that name. Toying with the young man, Dinkler whispered in a low voice, “how about “Baby Face Nelson?” To that Johan jumped up and grabbed a tree limb from the fire, pretending that it was a Thompson sub machine gun, a favorite of the famous outlaw. “Really, Mr. Dinkler, you know Baby Face Nelson?” The young man asked loudly. “Can’t say that I know him now son, the G men put him in the ground five or six years ago and I can’t say that he didn’t have it coming. He was an angry young man and after one bank job with him, I realized that whoever stuck around him was going to get killed for sure. I heard that the Fed’s took him out near Chicago and two FBI men died at his hand. He loved to drive crazy and after a long and fast car chase, they put several holes in him. About that machine gun thing you were doing, old Baby Face really had a preference for a .351 caliber rifle that he could fire so fast, everyone thought it was a machine gun” The older outlaw offered as he looked down at his feet as he spoke. The young boy sensed in the older man the feeling of the personal pain of losing an old friend or the realization that he could suffer the same fate. In either case, Johan found the conversation exciting. “Do you know where they found the body?” Dinkler asked. With silence as his answer, “They found it wrapped in a blanket, rolled into a ditch, in front of a church.” After a few moments, Johan asked the obvious question. “Who put it there?” With little life in his voice, Burtie answered, “His wife, she wrapped him in a blanket because she knew that he hated to be cold.” With that somber reflection, Johan said good night to his friend and left him to contemplate the loss of his comrades and revisit events of the past. The old convict moved closer to the fire, sipped his glass of omnipresent Sherry and did just that.