tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-58540067888327760242024-03-12T17:43:58.413-07:00Out of the Mind of Javier A. RobayoJavier A. Robayohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11498195365829120844noreply@blogger.comBlogger88125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5854006788832776024.post-13143405735321084832021-03-01T17:24:00.003-08:002021-03-01T17:24:50.371-08:00Riding with a friend<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ybqWTqmvrnY/YD2NoY6WPkI/AAAAAAAAPIQ/eNyIQUvDrO8fAhwObxZSIusizAM78u-4ACPcBGAsYHg/s3024/IMG_2004.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2781" data-original-width="3024" height="184" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ybqWTqmvrnY/YD2NoY6WPkI/AAAAAAAAPIQ/eNyIQUvDrO8fAhwObxZSIusizAM78u-4ACPcBGAsYHg/w200-h184/IMG_2004.HEIC" width="200" /></a></div>I entered a challenge formed by the American Cancer Society. The challenge is to ride 300 miles in the month of March to raise funds for research. I love cycling. Always have, and I thought it'd be good to do something meaningful. Thousands of riders joined up and share who they ride for and every story reveals the enormous impact the disease has on so many lives. I ride for Brian Shortt.<p></p><p>Brian and I became friends when our daughters became besties. One of the nicest people I've ever met in Clinton. He had this way of instilling a sense of peace, calm, it's hard to describe. The few years we shared together, we watched our girls growing up before our eyes, and often chatted about their growing up as well as what ours was like. Back then, I felt blessed for having someone who I could relate to as to what it's like to raise a daughter in these crazy times. Brian was a kind friend, an exemplary family man, a terrific dad to his two daughters and one boy, and also a beloved boys Lacrosse coach. His passing left a void in an entire community.<br /><br /></p><p>I set out to ride at least 15 miles today. The conditions were not ideal. The road shoulders are wet with melting ice and filthy with sand and the typical winter debris. The winds were as frigid as they were strong, and I found myself pedaling hard downhill, certain the headwind would just stop me cold.</p><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>When I felt the first vestige of a complaint forming in my head, Brian came to mind. He and his family were walking down my street when I was mowing the lawn. I stopped the tractor and we talked for a bit. At this time I was aware of his stage four lung cancer diagnosis and opted to keep the chat positive though I didn't really know how. I had no words so I fell back to talking about the nice sunny weather of that day.<p></p><p>"Yea, it's a nice day for a walk. I think I want to start running again next week," Brian said cheerfully, his eyes, shaded by his wide brim hat, were full of determination. Though I kept a smile on my face, I could feel my heart breaking at the injustice of it all and I fell mute in awe of his strength, his optimism, and perhaps his acceptance; his way of letting me know to simply enjoy these moments we have in life whatever the weather. I might have fallen apart just then, but as always, Brian inspired that sense of inner peace I'll always miss.</p><p>The route I take from home is downhill, which means that I will climb on the last leg of my rides every time. These aren't just quick hills either, but long, winding increasingly sloped climbs. I felt depleted after fighting through the cold winds. I thought I'd get off the saddle when something strange happened.</p><p>Somehow, I didn't change into an easier gear or even slow down. I didn't have to.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8qv47HnGnkQ/YD2OITq1HkI/AAAAAAAAPJQ/FmjJlE6Ykg4ux31elgSOiIdlGjd_XLQZACPcBGAsYHg/s4032/IMG_2084.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8qv47HnGnkQ/YD2OITq1HkI/AAAAAAAAPJQ/FmjJlE6Ykg4ux31elgSOiIdlGjd_XLQZACPcBGAsYHg/s320/IMG_2084.HEIC" width="320" /></a></div>I somehow kept a 10 mile an hour speed and watched the number climb to 14 then 15 while I was still riding uphill, which confused me. I never felt this strong on the pedals on this part of my rides. My legs turned that crank without the expected painful burn. I almost stopped to make sure I was indeed climbing and not sprinting on a flat.<p></p><p>As I searched for answers, Brian's smile filled my mind. The wind fell silent. My heart didn't drum out of my chest as I expected. I felt a familiar sense of inner peace and I knew beyond any doubt that I was no longer riding alone for those moments. I was riding with a friend.</p><p>I'm happy beyond words to know that no spirit is ever lost, especially Brian's. He made me feel like I could ride 1000 miles today.</p><p>J. Robayo<br /></p>Javier A. Robayohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11498195365829120844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5854006788832776024.post-44604376301120567682020-06-30T15:51:00.001-07:002020-06-30T20:18:02.308-07:00Farewell to my Silent, Furry Friend<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><font face="verdana" size="6"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-c7ynElrwZOI/Xvue2IwnjbI/AAAAAAAAJew/LX3TD3hv7O0_OnB8aP1OXPKCRsAWJMV0ACK4BGAsYHg/s201/B22.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="201" data-original-width="182" height="314" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-c7ynElrwZOI/Xvue2IwnjbI/AAAAAAAAJew/LX3TD3hv7O0_OnB8aP1OXPKCRsAWJMV0ACK4BGAsYHg/w285-h314/B22.jpg" width="285" /></a></div>B</font>ailey came to be part of our family after her first family disbanded. She had in fact been picked by someone else, which was why it made no sense for the people at the shelter to insist for my wife and daughters to meet the pup. Well, not so much a pup, a grown pup, a stocky British Chocolate Lab. </div><div>I didn't know Bailey at that point. We had picked out a Lab at the shelter and went and got name tags and food bowls and a leash only to be informed that our pick went to another family, effectively breaking our hearts, and I resented how my little girl sobbed over losing her dog so I wasn't really in love with the idea of risking a similar experience.<div>However, little did we know that when certain life events are meant to be, the moment chooses you and not the other way around.</div><div>The gentleman who had picked Bailey actually noticed the remarkable way the she reacted to Sheri. It struck him enough that when it was clear his other dog did not welcome the newcomer, he contacted her and let her know that the intrepid retriever would be a better fit for our family.</div></div><div>Bailey, like most Labs, had the soft, soulful gaze that evoked profound feelings of tenderness. We quickly discovered she was not a good walking dog, but despite her massive strength, she was light on her paws around our girls. She became inseparable from Sheri, who lavished her with more love than any dog has ever gotten, and their unique relationship became the stuff of legends. </div><div>Our girls, were of course, in love with Bailey. They made up cute names for her and sneaked treats whenever they could, forever winning a devoted follower whose coat shone like new copper in the sun.</div><div>As for me, Bailey merely tolerated my presence. She had a habit of sulking when Sheri wasn't near. Whenever I approached to pet her or hang out with her, she discreetly, but pointedly slid out of the room and found comfort anywhere else in the house. Anywhere where I was not.</div><div>Of course, I was her buddy whenever she spotted a treat in my hand. She barked at me for years when I got home, as if berating me for having the nerve to come to <i>her</i> turf. She often shoved her big block of a head and easily pried me away from Sheri whenever I was too close.</div><div>Bailey protected her Mom from any and all gestures from me at all times and that furry face often seemed to grin whenever she trumped any one of my rules.</div><div>"No dog on the bed," I proclaimed only to find her snoring softly at the foot of the sleigh bed with a contented little smirk. The smirk grew when Sheri came to her defense, all teeth and claws, and I had no choice but to learn how to sleep with my legs tucked in so Queen Bailey could stretch as she snored and grumbled and yelped as she chased some dream rabbit or squirrel.</div><div>"No dog on the couch," I verbally wrote in stone.</div><div>One gaze into those liquid dark orbs full of secret wisdom and the stone was dust. She had her pick of couches.</div><div>She was a terrible traveler, shook herself to pieces in the car and panted ferociously mile after mile.</div><div>She never touched food that we didn't offer her and if she did, she was 100% Ninja about it.</div><div>She always went to the door when nature called.</div><div>She never ran off, preferring to run back inside to either bed or couch.</div><div>She slept the majority of the day unless Sheri was around to baby her and love her and spoil her.</div><div>She barked her head off whenever friend or stranger came calling and made many of our friends work real hard at gaining her approval.</div><div>She did not enjoy other dogs, preferring her own company.</div><div>She hardly ever left Sheri's side.</div><div>She continued to tolerate my presence though she often chuffed loudly and shook her head in something akin to hopelessness whenever I dared intrude into her sight.</div><div>She didn't like to play ball with me, but she flung her toys around under Sheri's cheering.</div><div>She was quick to turn away from the water, always ignoring her waterdog roots.</div><div>She was my wife's dog one thousand percent. I was just the guy that gave out the goodies when mommy wasn't home.</div><div>In 2009, hit by the housing crisis, we lost our house and moved to Connecticut where we endured two long years of uncertainty as far as jobs went. </div><div>We lived with my parents in their small, but lovely home, and Bailey won their hearts with her demeanor.</div><div>I'm getting lost in the minute details of daily life of our Bailey, so I'll come to the point.</div><div>I've written before that God doesn't talk to us through the over-translated scriptures from 2000 years ago. I believe He sends us messengers, the unlikeliest of messengers, to test our faith, and to give us His divine help.</div><div>Bailey was my messenger on one of the darkest days from those times.</div><div>My best friend and I were trying to get his business growing to the next level. With the economy still in recovery mode, it was a challenging process to say the least. One week, I had made enough phone calls to schedule a full week of chimney cleaning appointments. On a Thursday night, I projected what the following week would bring, and everything looked promising. On Friday, several cancellations dashed those plans and at the end of that week, We had made enough money to only fill the truck with gas.</div><div>I feared the crisis would result in Sheri and my girls going back to Pennsylvania for a time. </div><div>I feared I couldn't offer any shadow of optimism as I had absolutely no hope of regaining all that we'd lost.</div><div>Sheri had taken our girls out for the afternoon, so I came home, my parents' home, to an empty house where nothing felt mine. My parents, wonderful people they are, reassured me that this was my home, but I couldn't overcome that defeatist attitude and overwhelming sense of failure.</div><div>The reality hit like a cold wave of Arctic Ocean and I sank down to my knees to allow the rage and desperation to flow through my tears.</div><div>With my face down on the mattress, my fist clutching the covers, I suddenly felt a warm, wet tongue across my temple.</div><div>In my inner storm of self-pity, I didn't notice the brown furry bulk of Bailey at the foot of the bed.</div><div>I looked up at her, envying her life and ignorance of what I was going through. We locked eyes, and I froze...</div><div>That liquid gaze seemed to see into the very confines of my soul. Only when she felt sure she had my attention, she slowly turned her head, pointing her nose around the cozy little bedroom. </div><div>I glanced around as if seeing everything for the first time. Shame coursed through me. I was almost to ashamed to look into my dog's eyes, but she chuffed, panted twice, and slapped another wet doggy kiss on my face before fixing me with her direct stare.</div><div>She sighed long and deep, and rested her chin on her paws, the weight of the moment clearly on her thick shoulders.</div><div>For my part, suddenly comforted beyond measure, I could only lay my head on hers, my hand finding her floppy ear to pet it for the next eternity.</div><div>"You're right," I said out loud, thinking of all the times I rolled my eyes when Sheri had entire conversations with Bailey. "You're right," I repeated, feeling the kind of comfort you only find in friends with whom you survived a cataclysm, which, Bailey and I actually had.</div><div>I fell asleep without worrying as I thought of her message.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Look at you feeling sorry for yourself when you're surrounded by people who love you and are giving you a roof over your head, a comfortable place to sleep in, and more than your share of goodies and water each day. What the hell are you worrying about so much, human? Here, here's a lick to soothe those working hands. Take a deep breath, and let it go. Everything is going to be alright.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>As the years went by, I often drew comfort from that peculiar moment.</div><div>A hard working attitude and a drive to be something more, galvanized by Bailey's message, gave me the fortitude I needed whenever I felt down.</div><div>By the time we moved into our new house in a Connecticut Suburb, Bailey's fur on her face began dulling from lustrous brown to an ash gray.</div><div>Her gait got slower and she looked up forlornly up the stairs where she could no longer climb.</div><div>My Bailey, the rock of my life, was slowing down.</div><div>Eventually her legs became weak, almost too weak to allow her to get out of the house.</div><div>She still pranced and had puppy moments when we least expected but the constant panting, and disoriented look on her face, the way she startled when we tried to pet her, signaled the inevitable arrival of a farewell none of us is ever ready for.</div><div>Even now, perhaps unaware of the dreadful moment to come, Bailey is curled up, her breath labored but even, to convey that same sense of serenity and peace she gave me as a message on that lost day all those years ago.</div><div>Holding her as she slept, I hoped she could feel my message to her...</div><div>This is our last night together, Bailey. B. B Money, B Goode, Bay Bay, Behbeh Booh Boohs, Momma Moo, Bailey, my wonderful, silent friend.</div><div>I will miss you.</div><div>I will miss that sense of calm you bestowed upon me when I felt most afraid.</div><div>I will miss your heavy tail thumping against my leg whenever you got your way, which was often.</div><div>I will miss the clatter of your claws on the hardwood floor, and the rivulets and puddles you left for us to clean after a drink.</div><div>I will miss the satisfied crunching of a milkbone, and the familiar begging look beseeching us for more.</div><div>I will miss your quiet company devoid of judgment.</div><div>I will miss your exuberance when we opened the door, as if we hadn't seen you for weeks instead of a quick trip to the supermarket.</div><div>I will even miss the way you managed to stretch your large frame on the very spot we needed to walk through or place a piece of furniture on. How did you know? Was that some sort of doggy prank you excelled at?</div><div>I can only hope that you know just how much we love you. How big a part of this family you are. How much of my rock you were throughout some of our hardest years.</div><div>I can only hope you feel the same love we felt from your every lick, and saw in every soulful, liquid, all knowing gaze...</div><div><br /></div><div>On our last day together, Bailey and I cuddled on her bed, and shared the contents of a small carton of Wendy's fries. She didn't get up and leave as she so often did. She merely enjoyed every bite of greasy goodness, and rested her paw on my hand, no longer merely tolerating my presence but maybe drawing comfort, albeit less than the comfort I drew from her bulk next to me...</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GCkSPG2oQmM/XvufliFs2HI/AAAAAAAAJi0/JZzU5sJTUpAlxRnqQJJJ8O_DY133DzzzQCK4BGAsYHg/s320/B.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GCkSPG2oQmM/XvufliFs2HI/AAAAAAAAJi0/JZzU5sJTUpAlxRnqQJJJ8O_DY133DzzzQCK4BGAsYHg/B.jpg" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>A furry angel returns to heaven. I have a feeling, she will find herself in a big, soft, fluffy bed or a brand new plush white couch, where she will grin on us from above, knowing forever how much we love her, how much I love her as we remember her with gratitude for everything she will mean to us.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Javier A. Robayohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11498195365829120844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5854006788832776024.post-70875604172667057272020-02-22T10:42:00.001-08:002020-02-22T10:42:39.181-08:00The First Ever<div style="height: 0px;">
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<b><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 16.5pt;">The Gaze, a novel, Genre: Women's Lit</span></b></div>
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<a href="http://amazon.com/Gaze-Javier-Robayo-ebook/dp/B007QGJF4S" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="536" data-original-width="883" height="242" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MqAd8TFcFhg/XlF0fsF2L2I/AAAAAAAAIzg/oG_SAInPsGIXgQ_iCWA-Dzkay9zYYDYyACLcBGAsYHQ/s400/G01.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uxoCKpG7H-k/U3kZgktCbqI/AAAAAAAACnM/elV8MhviJpc/s1600/promo77.jpg"
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</v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><span style="mso-ignore: vglayout;"></span><!--[endif]--></span></a><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Samantha Kay Reddick is a
survivor and survivors don't overcome their trials unscathed. Samantha bares
deep scars within and without. Regret and grief, and the pain from memories of
a man she once loved, are the demons she hopes to escape in a bottle of vodka
as guilt, real and imagined, tortures her heart.<br />
<br />
For more than ten years, the maelstrom of her life grants her peace only in the
emotions committed on a piece of writing the boy who changed her life wrote to
the love of his life. In her mind, the way she felt while she was in his arms
becomes the salvation she desperately needs and soon she's trappe</span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">d into a fog
of obsession that blinds her to the danger from a vindictive ex-fiance, who's
sworn to destroy her.<br />
<br />
In her quest to find Tony Amaya, Samantha finds that the girl behind his words
still holds his heart. Through Gwen, Samantha inserts herself into Tony's life
with the sole intention of stealing him. Her plan goes awry when Gwen opens the
door to a friendship Samantha never thought possible and an inner battle ensues
for Samantha's soul as her nemesis draws near. Will Samantha survive once more
and if she does, will she become the woman she desperately wants to be or will
she remain a woman who can't stand her own gaze?<br />
<br />
The Gaze is a challenging read in the genre of Women's Literature. Written from
the first person's point of view of the main character, the story unravels a
series of revelations that slowly unveil the core of Samantha's conflict.<br />
<br />
Based on real events, The Gaze is a character study of a flawed individual
struggling to be a better person. Around Samantha, memorable characters lend
their supporting voices and flavor to this intercontinental saga, none more so
than her best friend, the incomparable Lewis Bettford. His role completes the
spectrum of emotion that's bound to elicit strong reactions from page to page.<br />
<br />
The Gaze exposes darker facets of love, obsession, despair and addiction; the
power of guilt and self-recrimination, and the unique brand of love found in
the truest of friendships. Get ready for this roller coaster ride.<br />
<br />
</span><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-sRXteEhYKps/U3kZq3cFd1I/AAAAAAAACnU/H_Bb5k5NDME/s1600/webcopycover.png"><span style="color: #888888; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; text-decoration: none;"><!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shape
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for ages 18 and up due to strong language, sexual situations, and violence.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
Other stories comparable to The Gaze: Greg Isles </span><i style="color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Blood Memory - </i><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Alexandra
Ripley </span><i><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Scarlet </span></i><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">- T.K. Leigh </span><i style="color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">A Beautiful Mess </i></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><o:p>click on the cover to find it on Amazon. </o:p></span></div>
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<br />Javier A. Robayohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11498195365829120844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5854006788832776024.post-44944633194792256222020-02-20T17:38:00.000-08:002020-02-21T19:52:19.486-08:00이 two<br />
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<span style="font-size: 80.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: "Malgun Gothic"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Malgun Gothic"; mso-hansi-font-family: "Malgun Gothic";">이</span><span style="font-family: "malgun gothic" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 80.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;">two<o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
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"Mom!" Emily's voice is sharp. "I just said I don't want to wear jeans. God!"<br />
<br />
I stop at the top of the steps at the frustrated tone of Emily's voice. Two responses immediately come to my mind. One, I come down and backhand her mouth for taking that tone with Mom; two, I stay right where I am and curse her from a distance. Neither is a realistic option, except for rushing down and make sure a fight doesn't take place again.<br />
<br />
When I reach the front door, the tears running down Mom's face are my undoing. I throw my arms around her and stifle my own tears. Hers from pain, mine from rage. I hate my sister so much every time I see pain in my mom's blue eyes. "Mom?"<br />
<br />
She gives in just enough but composes herself quickly. "You all ready, hun?"<br />
<br />
"Are you okay?" I refuse to let go of her.<br />
<br />
She nods. "Just another pleasant morning conversation with Emily. You know how those go."<br />
<br />
I do. My mom's concern is the stuff of legends, but neither me nor my friends have ever felt annoyed by it. "Are you going to be okay?"<br />
<br />
She says nothing for a moment. When she gently pries me away, she smooths my hair and lands her soft palm on my cheek. It takes everything in me not to ran after Emily and put her in a headlock.<br />
<br />
"Don't," Mom utters as though she reads my mind. "She's hormonal and is not feeling too good about herself these days. I think I was the same way at her age. It's just part of being a teenager."<br />
<br />
"I know," I offer, wondering why she's so quick to defend Emily.<br />
<br />
In the pause that ensues, I'm pretty sure she is about to ask herself how I never took on the teenage angst everyone warned her about from the time she found out she was pregnant with me. I've heard the cliches. Teenage girls are impossible, moody, downright cruel, and full of drama. Somehow, I got through my thirteenth and fourteenth years without any of the anticipated incidents. It's made me wonder whether I'm a rarity among my contemporaries.<br />
<br />
"Don't be late, and be careful on the roads."<br />
<br />
"Love you, Mom."<br />
<br />
Mom returns the sentiment and kisses my cheek. Her smile does much to put my mind at ease and prevents me from choking Emily when I see her in the backseat, eyes on her phone, ears plugged, radiating pure annoyance like heat coming off molten steel.<br />
<br />
"Would it kill you to be nice to Mom?" I deliberately exaggerate the shaking of my head when she doesn't reply.<br />
<br />
After the little spat from yesterday, I didn't think it'd be a good idea to pick up Stephanie, but I take the vacant seat next to me as Emily not having a problem with that. Even if she does, too bad.<br />
<br />
I keep finding Emily's face on the mirror. The corners of her eyes crinkle to match the smile and I resist the urge to stand on the brakes just to wipe off that smirk. A sudden pain in my jaw alerts me to the fact that I've clenched my teeth from the moment I put the car in gear. That's how pissed off I am.<br />
<br />
The only times Mom and Emily don't have some unpleasant episode is when there is no school or when Mom is just too tired to battle Emily and gives up by letting her stay home. I've gone to school with a stuffed up nose, weak and sore from lacrosse or volleyball, and I haven't even missed a day despite waking up with painful cramps on the week of weeks. Emily gets to stay home for some of the dumbest reasons.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<i>Emily</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
Forcing a smile when you are not happy is not easy, but Emily has made a career out of faking any degree of joy when she wants to. It makes it easier for everyone else. It keeps the questions at bay, and that's the only time that her fake friends actually talk to her. So, putting on a fake smile for Emily? Easy as pie.<br />
<br />
She can sense Brooke's annoyance and wishes she'd actually been listening to her music so she wouldn't hear the acidic tone in her sister's voice, reproaching her for the way she treated her mom.<br />
<br />
The smile falters as her mom's face fills her mind's eye.<br />
<br />
The all too familiar sting of tears forces her to retreat into the hood of her sweatshirt. It's only going to mess up her hair, but her hair is disgusting anyway. She feels like a rat. Like a wet rat.<br />
<br />
"Hi Em!"<br />
<br />
Emily barely acknowledges Stephanie's peppy voice. She probably never had to fake being happy. With those blue eyes and perfect teeth, and the styled blonde hair that probably took her hours to tame, what does she have to be sad about?<br />
<br />
Resentment mingles with self reproach as her father's voice echoes in her head. He often remarks on her beauty and the bounce of her hair, but she doesn't see it. He probably feels he has to say something nice to her.<br />
<br />
She hears Brooke laugh in that melodic, soft laughter of hers that pulls at the strings of her heart and wonders when was the last time Brooke laughed like that with her.<br />
<br />
She is not like Brooke, Emily decides. Or Stephanie for that matter. They are the girls everyone wants to befriend because they're not ugly and weird like her.<br />
<br />
The reflection on the glass only emphasizes her point. She sees a translucent visage that looks drawn, tired. Eyes downcast and big with sorrow. Chapped lips that she's always biting. She is nothing like Brooke or Stephanie. She is nothing like the other girls in her grade for that matter. She feels too odd and out of place and she's convinced everyone talks about her, remarking on her ugliness. Laughing even.<br />
<br />
Emily ignores whatever Brooke asked and suffers through another head shake that drips with disappointment. She doesn't want to disappoint anyone, but she doesn't want anyone to expect anything from her either. Why can't she just be left alone?<br />
<br />
"Fine, guess you'll walk from the lot, then."<br />
<br />
Apparently Brooke asked her if she wanted dropped off at the door. Now she wishes she would've heard. It would've kept her from having to walk behind the school princesses.<br />
<br />
As soon as the car is parked, Emily storms out of the Hyundai, kicking the door shut. She jams her hands and phone in the pocket of her sweatshirt, hitches her bag, and quickly mutes the rest of the world under BTS's <i>Run.</i><br />
<br />
As the music courses through her body like a soothing balm, she thinks how wonderful it would be if she could just run from her life. It would be easy for everyone. Mom wouldn't look so wounded. Brooke wouldn't look so disappointed. Dad wouldn't have to give her phony compliments in a soft voice because he really didn't know what else to say to his weird kid.<br />
<br />
Run.<br />
<br />
Her feet move quicker. Faces full of judgement flash by like trees on a highway. It doesn't matter that some were smiling. She knows the smiles are fake. She knows what they're really thinking and seeing.<br />
<br />
Looking up at the tall windows of the modern building, she recalls her parents' awe. They called it a beautiful school that they wished they'd had when they were kids in school,but she doesn't get it. Emily sees the ornate brick walls, paved walkways, and manicured landscape as nothing but a prison.<br />
<br />
Prison, that place where one is kept against their will.<br />
<br />
She is a prisoner.<br />
<br />
Inside the building, the air feels heavy and the lights are too bright. Emily scurries down the hallways, head down, music as loud as her phone could play it, hands clenched inside the pocket. There's a corner near the culinary arts class where no one goes. No one except for Emily. It's her little sanctuary when the day starts as badly as today has.<br />
<br />
Relief floods through her when she arrives at the spot. She doesn't necessarily like the faint scent of trash that emanates from the dumpster on the other side of the double doors, but she likes that it keeps most people away.<br />
<br />
When <i>Save Me</i> begins to play. Emily drops her bag and takes up a position, deciding to escape into a quick dance. Trapped in the sound and focused on her movements, she never sees the woman stepping up to her until she feels a tap on her shoulder. Emily nearly screams.<br />
<br />
"Can you please remove the hoodie?"<br />
<br />
Emily is so taken aback that the words barely register.<br />
<br />
"The hoodie?" The woman insists sharply. "I'm afraid I'll have to dress code you if you don't. You know how distracting it is. Please remove it."<br />
<br />
Emily runs through a list of names and can't come up with one for this person. She stares, trying to find something to say.<br />
<br />
"Young lady, remove that hood now!"<br />
<br />
This time the woman's voice is angry that it bounces off the walls and thuds into Emily, but it's the look on the woman's eyes that triggers her. The angry judgmental slant along with the furrowed brows and the tight jaw morphs the initial fear into white hot anger and she squares her stand.<br />
<br />
"You're not a teacher," Emily states with disdain.<br />
<br />
"I don't have to be. I'm an aide and you will do as I say. The hood needs to come off."<br />
<br />
The imperious tone is like a Santa Ana wind on smoldering brush. "No. You don't tell me what to do. My wearing a hood over my head is not hurting anyone and we're not in class for it to distract anyone so leave me alone." Her hard tone is only a mask for the barely contained ball of fear that keeps her from breathing enough air.<br />
<br />
"Excuse me?" The woman looks indignant. "Okay you little Brat, we're going to the Principal's to discuss your disrespectful attitude."<br />
<br />
Emily stares defiantly at the woman, holding back tears. "I didn't do anything wrong!"<br />
<br />
"Too late. Let's go."<br />
<br />
The woman appears more confident, which only serves to enrage Emily beyond the point of no return. Her voice escalates into shrills charged with venom. "I'm not going anywhere with you, you bitch. You are nobody! Nobody!"<br />
<br />
The confident, imperious gaze is gone, replaced by real concern mixed with a tinge of fear. Emily takes advantage of the pause to grab her bag, hitch it over her shoulder and stomp away. "Leave me alone, you bitch!" Emily screams again to cut the woman off mid sentence.<br />
<br />
<i>Stop... </i>says<i> </i>a weak voice in her mind, but the snake of anger has uncoiled and slithered throughout her entire body and she's ready for a fight if need be. Her breath is no more than shallow, ragged sips, and her stomach churns and burns. Bile rises and dizziness makes her steps falter. She doesn't realize she's crying until a sob breaks from her.<br />
<br />
"Emily! Emily!"<br />
<br />
She stops in her tracks at the familiar voice. "I didn't do anything wrong!" Emily chokes out as her body shakes uncontrollably. "I didn't do anything wrong," she insists more to herself as her actions comeback to haunt her. Defying an aide, calling her a bitch...<br />
<br />
Resenting Brooke...<br />
<br />
Making her mom upset...<br />
<br />
This time she finds it impossible to fake a smile.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
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<br />Javier A. Robayohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11498195365829120844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5854006788832776024.post-27542713550800286482020-02-14T17:08:00.004-08:002020-02-22T06:34:50.066-08:00일 one<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 80pt;">일</span></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">one</span></i></div>
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"Sorry but, like, why is your sister so weird?" My best friend asks, her face a mask of concern that makes me uneasy.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
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"Steph, please." I didn't
even bother to look up from the enthralling world of Junior Algebra. I've become used to my friends' opinions of my little sister to the point that I can't even be offended.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
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"Sorry."<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
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I shrug.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
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"Does she really like that
stuff?"<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
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"Knowing Emily, if she really
didn't like it, she wouldn't even be into it." I tap the textbook.
"C'mon, focus."</div>
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<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
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Stephanie shakes her head.
"It's hard to concentrate with all that gibberish. Why would you listen to
songs in a different language?"<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
"Dad listens to Spanish
songs."<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
"Dude, your dad <i>is </i>Spanish.
I meant, who listens to, to... whatever language that is."<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
"Korean?"<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
The "Duh" face again.
"Yeah, I mean here in America." She jabs an index at me. "And don't
say Korean Americans."<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
I grin. "Emily and a few
million girls like her, of course."<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
"In Clinton,
Connecticut?" Stephanie persists.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
This time I have to think about it. Probably not, I decide. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
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Stephanie works her phone and <i>5 Seconds of Summer's</i> epic riffs fill the room, dampening the bass and matching thumps leaking through the vent from all the way in the basement.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
"There, good old American
music."<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
"Um, they're Australian." I remind her without looking up from my notes.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
She waves her hand. "No one likes a wise ass, Brooke. Damn, I can still hear her
dancing,"<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
I detect a note of awe in her
voice.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
"That's probably why she's got
those killer legs. Right?"<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
"She also does lacrosse and soccer, you
know." I point out.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
Stephanie looks incredulous.
"We do too and look at these!" She points at her toned thighs.
"Flab city!"<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
I laugh. "Yea right."<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
"Okay, maybe not, but next to
your sister, I'm a cow."<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
I'm surprised at the surge of pride
I feel. At only 14 years of age, Emily Amaya puts the Senior dance squad to
shame. "She works hard."<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
"You sure she's your
sister?"<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
I laugh and add enough sarcasm in
my voice. "I've never been asked that before."<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
Stephanie chuckles.
"Seriously. You're tall and willowy, olive skin, dark hair. She is so
different than you."<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
Her remarks give me pause. I can't
say I haven't wondered myself. Most siblings I know share some physical traits
but not Emily and me. I've always thought that Emily was born with Mom's German Irish traits with the exception of her height. That one I got, much
to my basketball coach's delight. My little sister is actually Elvin in her features as well as size. Her hair is practically blonde, though it's gone through a few different bright hues over the past year.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
"Is she listening to a new one
or is that the same one from before. They all sound the same." </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
Stephanie looks like she's about to
launch into another rant but her phone chimes and she hurries to it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
"O. M. G. Charlie's asking if
we want to meet at the library!"<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
"To study, right?"<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
Her smile is decidedly feline.
"Of course. I bet you Matt will be there too."<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
I blink and raise an eyebrow at her.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
"Brooke, you are ice,
girl." Stephanie rolls her blue eyes. "Can I borrow your yellow
top?" She disappears into my closet without waiting for a reply.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
I can only blow a stubborn strand
of hair off my face and fix my pony tail. Steph will insist on putting me through some new process she's seen on YouTube but she'll have to be satisfied with a
bit of my trusty lip balm. I'm not the one hunting for a boy.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
We bring our bags more as a prop
than anything so Mom won't question our sudden urge to get to the library.
After the awkward kiss and agreement to her many different "be
careful's", we make our way to the garage through the basement where Emily's music is much louder.<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
"Cats screeching,"
Stephanie whispers in a chuckle.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
I merely hum in agreement as I grab my jacket. When I look back, Stephanie is no longer right behind me. She stands at the door to Emily's inner sanctum, what was once supposed to be Dad's estrogen-free zone until Emily took it over to
convert it into a shrine to her music.<br />
<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
Korean rap floods the foreground of the
melody. It's actually good. It'd be better if I somehow understood it, but it most definitely flows to the beat. The words have the feel of physical
emotions thrown at my face and combined with the music, the effect is profound
enough to give me goose bumps.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
"Damn, that's actually pretty
good," Stephanie seems to read my mind. "Would she mind if we saw her?"<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
A warning dies in my throat as I reach for her arm, but she already has the door open.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Emily's body rolls as she slides low into an intricate combination of arms, head, and hip movements under careful scrutiny against the full length mirror. She's graceful, fast, fluid. It suddenly occurs to me that I'm holding my breath.<br />
<br />
Sensing us, Emily stops in her tracks. Sweating from head to toe, her eyes stare back at us shocked for one
second before they fill with red hot fury.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
"Oh my God, Em, you're
really good!" Stephanie offers a smile but when she glances back at me, her eyes have that <i>oh
shit</i> look I know so well.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
Emily ignores her and calmly walks
to her desk to pause the song. She seems to take a moment to compose herself
and levels her eyes at me as she crosses her arms. Whenever her face looks this stone cold, my
insides turn to water.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
"You guys can't read or something?" Emily barks.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
I shake my head, not knowing what
to say.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
"It's my fault,"
Stephanie squeaks. "The song was cool, I just thought I'd take a peek. You know how nosy I can be. You're
really good."<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
The look on Emily's face is enough to stop Stephanie from taking another step.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
"I'm really sorry, Em. We were just leaving." I hope the tone of my voice conveys enough of an apology. In response, Emily glares and gestures with
her face and hand with an expression that says <i>why are you still here? </i>"C'mon, Steph. We gotta
go."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
Stephanie starts uttering another
apology but she quickly walks out to the garage instead. I'm about to apologize once more but Emily slams the door in my face. I can't be too upset. Five
different pieces of paper emphatically deny entrance.<br />
<br />
Music begins to play. The bass is so booming and deep, I can feel it in my rib cage. My mind conjures an array of fine insults, but she'd only call me something worse and I've grown tired of such uncomfortable moments.<br />
<br />
After a few deep breaths, I slide
behind the wheel knowing I'll have to mollify Stephanie.</div>
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<o:p></o:p><br />
"Yea... I don't know. Sorry."<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
"Well, you weren't the bitch
just now," Stephanie growls, clearly wounded. "Is she always such an
obnoxious assh-"<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
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I start the engine to cut her off.<o:p></o:p><br />
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<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
"I mean, what was <i>that</i> about?
What's the point of doing performance arts if you're not going to perform to an audience?."<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
"I know, she'll be okay."<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
When we park, Stephanie is not
quick to get out of the car, defying my expectation. Instead, she stares at me as though fearful of voicing her thoughts. "What's the matter?"<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
"Brooke, is she always that pissed off
when someone barges in on her?"<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
Something in her blue gaze bothers me. "Wouldn't you be?" I throw the question back a bit too quickly.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
"Well, probably," Stephanie says after a moment. "But I
wouldn't look at them like I wanted to murder them, you know?"<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
The chill along my neck has nothing to do with the winter air.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
"Is she usually like that?"<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
"She's just crabby. Probably had another bad day. You know?"<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
Steph seems to accept the feeble excuse. "Oh, okay. Lesson learned then.
Next time, I'll try to make an appointment with little miss diva." She shakes her head then looks at me with a beaming smile. "Ready?" She checks her blonde
waves before leaping out of the car and kicks the door shut behind her.<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
The slam brings to my mind the look
on Emily's face as she threw her door at me.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
Furious.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />
Indignant.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
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Betrayed.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
"Emily's not often like that," I say to no
one as a tear runs down my cheek. A feeling of loss crashes like frigid, gust driven waves over me. "Just all the time." Tears well in my eyes.<br />
<br />
Stephanie waves at me from the entrance to the library, but I only move when the smile on her face is replaced by that same mask of concern she had earlier in my room.</div>
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<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<i>...why is your sister so weird...</i><o:p></o:p><br />
<i><br /></i>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://bit.ly/3bZAipG" target="_blank">Continue on Chapter 2</a></span></div>
<br /></div>
Javier A. Robayohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11498195365829120844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5854006788832776024.post-56359008019009437672020-02-09T09:57:00.001-08:002020-02-23T14:18:25.440-08:005 Questions on :(:<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--v8_ailVq8A/XkBDj9sjdnI/AAAAAAAAIu4/U7SMBioo5gU7Fu_j9ingbIJmODHhnhygQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/emojis.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="219" data-original-width="230" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--v8_ailVq8A/XkBDj9sjdnI/AAAAAAAAIu4/U7SMBioo5gU7Fu_j9ingbIJmODHhnhygQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/emojis.PNG" /></a>After reading through some of the emails I've received since hinting at a new novel, I felt I needed to answer some of the questions as quickly as possible. I picked 5 since most others are very personal in nature. So here they are:<br />
<br />
<i><span style="color: blue;">1. Where do I get the book? - PA, NY, OH, RI, MA, Spain, Ecuador.</span></i><br />
<i><br /></i>
My apologies. :(: is a <i>Live Book </i>which means that you are getting the chapters one at a time as they are written on the blog. Very unconventional, but it does force me to stay committed to the writing. My plan is to publish a new chapter every 2 to 3 weeks. As the story develops, the challenge will be greater to produce cohesion and timeline. It's no different than your favorite weekly shows that make you wait one week for the continuation of the story. It also gives readers an opportunity to make comments on the state of affairs on the page. I don't expect many public comments. :(: lends to more private messages with uplifting and heartbreaking accounts of personal experience with depression or anxiety and in some extremely sad cases, suicide.<br />
<br />
<i><span style="color: blue;">2. Why the emojis :(:? - PA, VA, NY, OH, RI, MA, TX, NJ, FL, LA, NC, Spain, Ecuador, Canada.</span></i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<br />
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</div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XfO-NAHxEls/XkBFC9IHEiI/AAAAAAAAIvE/n95zhffo9UcXqNQsecwDr1WFRzBndzMOgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/Ambigram.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="193" data-original-width="323" height="191" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XfO-NAHxEls/XkBFC9IHEiI/AAAAAAAAIvE/n95zhffo9UcXqNQsecwDr1WFRzBndzMOgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Ambigram.png" width="320" /></a></div>
If you're familiar with this ambigram, you'll recall that it went viral in 2015. The tattoo brought awareness to mental health issues particularly depression among teenagers.<br />
Like all my stories, they have roots in real experiences, and this story is as close to home as it gets, even closer than <i>My Two Flags</i>.<br />
<br />
I thought how do I convey a similar message?<br />
I explored several titles but then I felt that an emoji was not only perfect as something to force a second look, but it also made the story relevant.<br />
<br />
<i><span style="color: blue;">3. Is this story related to Gaze and Next Chapter? (Everyone)</span></i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1z1we93vmHU/XkA7oUgRpXI/AAAAAAAAIuY/ahJ6wl2GBJYCz60kmmYO5XaxirAj3mZlQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/books2.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="162" data-original-width="211" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1z1we93vmHU/XkA7oUgRpXI/AAAAAAAAIuY/ahJ6wl2GBJYCz60kmmYO5XaxirAj3mZlQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/books2.PNG" /></a></div>
Long story short, yes.<br />
The story centers around the Amaya sisters, Brooke and Emily.<br />
Just like these other novels, :(: is told from one of the characters' point of view in present tense. In this case Brooke at 17, a junior in high school.<br />
Emily is a freshman at 14.<br />
Of course their parents Gwen and Tony Amaya are central to the story and presented me the opportunity of bringing in some old friends like Samantha and the incomparable Lewis back to the page.<br />
<br />
<i><span style="color: blue;">4. What's with the Korean on the cover? (Everyone)</span></i><br />
<br />
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mjYwQwbgvkA/XkA_vgvlxYI/AAAAAAAAIuk/fSU18jv856IhTrvTAfTB_bkw2T6le3T4gCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/bts.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="157" data-original-width="267" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mjYwQwbgvkA/XkA_vgvlxYI/AAAAAAAAIuk/fSU18jv856IhTrvTAfTB_bkw2T6le3T4gCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/bts.PNG" /></a>Yes, the Korean. So, my daughter Amber, who will be 13 in a few days and join the rank of teenagedom, (Help!) is an avid Kpop fan. I can remember the moment she showed me a BTS video. As soon as I watched them, I thought I'd be the typical dad and make fun of her taste in music and pick the band apart from their Gucci clothes to the make up and the dancing, but it only took one song to make me a fan of their work.<br />
<br />
The Korean language doesn't always translate well into English. I have some experience with that as some phrases in Spanish make no sense directly translated, but the translated lyrics in songs like <i>Epiphany, Euphoria, I Need You, Magic Shop, Love Yourself</i> are poignant, relevant, empathetic, and beautiful in every sense. Their message is like a prescription for depression, and it's delivered in incredible performances.<br />
<br />
Kpop makes Amber quite unique among her peers and she finds such joy in it, especially when she endures a tough day at school. I myself found a type of salvation in music when I was a teen. So I thought, why not make Kpop a trait for Emily? It's her cross to bear as it evokes tremendous criticism from those whose natural instinct is to attack anything that's different than what they consider the norm.<br />
<br />
<i><span style="color: blue;">5. So what does it say on the cover? (Everyone)</span></i><br />
<br />
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ImLSiG9yMTA/XkBAW5m1SCI/AAAAAAAAIus/FfRSn6wWVkAehbjWrtUsV9si8ZkQaChawCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/Korean.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="287" data-original-width="463" height="123" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ImLSiG9yMTA/XkBAW5m1SCI/AAAAAAAAIus/FfRSn6wWVkAehbjWrtUsV9si8ZkQaChawCLcBGAsYHQ/s200/Korean.PNG" width="200" /></a>This is where I get to have a little bit of fun. To date, there has been several guesses as to the identity of the character on the cover of <i>Gaze</i>.<br />
So far it's been a 50/50 that it's Gwen or Samantha and I've never answered that question. The answer is within the pages.<br />
Following that trend, the answer to this question is within the pages.<br />
<br />
I think it's safe to assume that we've either known someone, or we ourselves have been that someone dealing with depression, anxiety, adhd, and other issues that were attributed in the old days to just part of being a teenager.<br />
<br />
Today, we are more aware of mental health issues affecting us, but if you take a moment to go over statistics, the one demographic most affected is our school age kids.<br />
<br />
These are key years to the development of a person, and mental health issues are so incredibly misunderstood and stigmatized by parents, by educators, and by peers. Add the effect of social media platforms, public opinion, the quest for self-validation, and it's a miracle kids become adults with any degree of sanity.<br />
<br />
:(: delves into the lives affected by mental health issues, and is written in the hope of bringing awareness, as well as to merely to forge a connection with anyone going through a similar experience whether peripherally or personally.<br />
<br />
Thank you for your questions. I sincerely hope I've piqued your interest and follow where the story goes. As for me, time to write.<br />
<br />
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<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: "malgun gothic" , sans-serif;">©</span><span style="font-family: "malgun gothic" , sans-serif;"> 2020 J.A.Robayo</span></span><o:p></o:p><br />
<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: "malgun gothic" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: red;"><span style="color: red; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://bit.ly/3bWX9lv" target="_blank">Cool, start reading!</a></span></span></div>
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<br />Javier A. Robayohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11498195365829120844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5854006788832776024.post-81275988331542919432020-02-07T17:06:00.000-08:002020-02-22T05:59:51.898-08:00Intro<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 106.667px;">소개</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: large;">intro</span></i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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Emily ignores the sting in her eyes and the pain through her thighs. If anything, she welcomes the physical pain. It's a welcome distraction from other types.<br />
<br />
Bright pink strands of hair shake like frayed flags in the wind as she moves to the beat.<br />
<br />
<i>Five... Six... Seven... Eight...</i><br />
<i><br /></i>The drop builds up in a staccato of snare drums and sharp tones. Her teeth clench, brow furrows in fierce determination to conquer the upcoming movements.<br />
<br /></div>
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<i>One, kick right... Two, side step and pop... Three, front kick, slide out.. Four... </i><br />
<i><br /></i>Windmilling arms create the illusion of a mechanical wheel as her torso bends back, where she holds the count for exactly two beats. When the music explodes out of the speakers to a one note finish, she is on her knee, fist raised, eyes up.<o:p></o:p><br />
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The world goes still, the silence broken only by her ragged breathing. Her honey-colored eyes slowly focus on the reality of the scuffed hardwood floor under her feet. A blemish catches her eye, testament to the violence of her dancing. The sight produces a grin on the heart-shaped visage.<o:p></o:p><br />
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On the mirror, sweat glistens on smooth cheeks flushed with effort. Rivulets meander over the creases of toned shoulders and arms. Matted pink strands sweep over one eye, which glints with triumph.<br />
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The overall image is pretty or at least that's what she's been told. Her parents have remarked on her good looks for so long, she no longer believes it. Not when she sees for herself what she really looks like.<br />
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Small nagging voices at the corners of her mind command her eyes to the many physical flaws only she seems to be aware of. Faint visions of every mistake nip at her confidence, making her heart pound in her temples. Before the tears set in, Emily quickly cues up another song and stares at her reflection with all the defiance she can muster.<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">As the music fills her mind, chasing away the nagging doubts, she grins as her muscles scream. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The beat is her world. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The verse is her elation.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The bridge is her calm.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The music is her everything. </span><br />
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음악는 나위 구원자<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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She allows the Hangul to float in her mind like a mantra as her lips mouth the words.<o:p></o:p></div>
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음악는 나위 구원자<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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The phrase always proves true.<o:p></o:p><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="https://bit.ly/2T0Xw62" target="_blank">Continue on Chapter 1</a></span></div>
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Javier A. Robayohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11498195365829120844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5854006788832776024.post-91987435844796542042020-02-05T16:04:00.001-08:002020-02-22T06:02:09.386-08:00:(:<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Growing up, Brooke Amaya often heard people remark on just how different her little sister is.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Different in every way, from clothes to music and everything in between, none of those differences compare to the ones in their lives as teenagers.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">At 17, Brooke is familiar with the ebbs and flows of puberty, hormones, and the typical teenage convoluted bundle of feelings notorious for healing and wounding with equal measure. However, she never felt, or witnessed the destructive emotional maelstrom that takes a hold of Emily when she starts high school.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">As her parents and teachers struggle to help Emily's worsening attitude, Brooke finds herself as the only one left to battle the dark emotions that are intent on destroying her little sister, those around them, and possibly even herself.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://outofthemindofjavierrobayo.blogspot.com/2020/02/5-questions-on.html" target="_blank">5 Questions about :(:</a></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://bit.ly/3bWX9lv" target="_blank">intro</a> </span><a href="https://bit.ly/2T0Xw62" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;" target="_blank">chapter 1</a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><a href="https://bit.ly/3bZAipG" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;" target="_blank">chapter 2</a><br />
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Javier A. Robayohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11498195365829120844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5854006788832776024.post-54861900911837590762020-02-01T05:59:00.005-08:002020-02-01T05:59:59.428-08:00Epoch Ch. 5 Love<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-k0_6owAhb5s/XivFmgKPJWI/AAAAAAAAIg4/um0bpVlTNRcu1si0gZ5g7_pz3edC6lCFgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/Heart.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="138" data-original-width="230" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-k0_6owAhb5s/XivFmgKPJWI/AAAAAAAAIg4/um0bpVlTNRcu1si0gZ5g7_pz3edC6lCFgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/Heart.PNG" /></a>Your world, your life, is simultaneously fueled and governed by an array of emotions though none stronger than love. Love will motivate both sides of your moral compass. In other words, you humans will do anything for love.<br />
<br />
For me, a manuscript, love is a thrilling current that flows through and around barriers.<br />
<br />
Good and evil aren’t nearly as complex as this one paramount aspect of the human experience. This part of life spawned millions of beautiful pieces of writing from haiku poems and haunting melodies, to epic novels and timeless series. Yes, we are talking about love.<br />
<br />
Love.<br />
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZdZyjo1zjXw/XivGdvaDyJI/AAAAAAAAIhM/DwIOQH0pdIQW0IrGmTt9WTZyD6N9b2EUACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/Love002.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="161" data-original-width="263" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZdZyjo1zjXw/XivGdvaDyJI/AAAAAAAAIhM/DwIOQH0pdIQW0IrGmTt9WTZyD6N9b2EUACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/Love002.PNG" /></a><br />
Understandably, the term brings to mind walks on the beach, sunsets, flowers, wedding rings, and all the romantic tropes you find in every soap opera.<br />
<br />
Love is so much more than the inspiration for a kiss however. It's a commitment, a crazy act of impulsiveness that defies logic. Love comes in so many different forms that new songs and new books are still being written about it.<br />
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Love is measured in eternities, not merely years. Love is the strength that keeps a Noah waiting for his Ally against all odds. Love is the blind fury of the push behind the blade that finally ends the feud of the Capulets and the Montagues. Love is the sacrifice of thousands of young men breaking through the Nazi defenses in Normandy. All sacrifices are products of a love so whole it transcend living.<br />
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Love is the heat behind the mind-blowing scenes of passion coloring a page with images that make hearts race and bodies burn with desire.<br />
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Love is the tip of the emotional iceberg where longing, dreaming, hatred, vengeance, valor, fear, ire, and acceptance wrestle for control of your souls.<br />
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Think about what you’ve done for love.<br />
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Some of you became creative and courageous enough to lay it all out on a love note, a song, a simple asking the object of your affection for that first date.<br />
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Some of you found the strength to break the chains of a vice to find a loving embrace of forgiveness from your children.<br />
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Some of you conquered your fears and ran into that church to stop a ceremony in order not to lose your soul mate.<br />
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Some of you parked on a dark street to stare at a blackened window where that one person that made your heart stutter slept, just to feel close to them.<br />
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Love is binary. Like any coin of value, it has two sides. Its dark side is all consuming, heart wrenching, spiritual agony when it's broken, betrayed or unrequited.<br />
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Some of you felt a divine touch of love when you held a little piece of you and the one you love for the first time. In your arms, that little face evoked such profound emotions no one could’ve prepared you for, and you were never to be the same.<br />
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What would life be without love?<br />
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And furthermore, what would a story be without it?<br />
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Javier A. Robayohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11498195365829120844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5854006788832776024.post-70804441705112691232020-01-22T17:59:00.004-08:002020-01-22T18:02:07.265-08:005 Years LaterI still believe I was possessed when I wrote <i>Gaze </i> and <i>Next Chapter.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
2020 finds me still in awe of the many predictions I left on the pages all those years ago. Okay, prediction may be a bit strong, but there are several parallels with the outcome of those stories and my life today.<br />
<br />
In fact, upon revisiting the prologue in <i>My Two Flags, </i>I was dumbfounded to find myself in the scene of the pages. Every object I described on the page years ago materialized around me. From the book on my shelf to the view through my windows. I swear I might have even heard a distinct British chuckle.<br />
<br />
I may have left my works in progress in skeletal stages, patiently awaiting my return to the keyboard. My trusty wave keyboard has been on hold for over five years now.<br />
<br />
Gone are the fans I once had.<br />
<br />
Gone is the author website. Thank goodness for Amazon!<br />
<br />
Fewer are the messages I receive with demands for the next book.<br />
<br />
To those of you who find yourselves staring at this words, my most sincere apologies for this absence.<br />
<br />
In the book front, I got tired of literary agents advising to turn Lewis into a vampire and give Samantha magic powers to sell the story, and frankly I fail to see the point of writing when we are all easily entertained in social media with all those crazy cat videos and funny memes. What's the point of writing novels these days?<br />
<br />
In the life front, I found my career. Like the much beloved Lewis, I have a view of the Thames similar to the view in his London office. Okay, mine is in New London, Connecticut, but I can't deny the symmetry. You could even say we work in similar fields, security, if you recall.<br />
<br />
The sweet little girls who inspired Brooke and Emily are now teenagers who no longer regard me as the high quality, laugh-out-loud source of entertainment they once adored. I tell you one dad joke and it's all over.<br />
<br />
The incomparable woman who inspired the likes of Gwen and Samantha fought with me through some really thin years and is happily still tolerating yours truly.<br />
<br />
Our chocolate Lab, the unsinkable Bailey, is now frail with more gray on her face. Believe it or not, she has been the rock for all of us through more thin than thick.<br />
<br />
That leaves me.<br />
<br />
The author in me.<br />
<br />
The sole responsible party for the creation of seemingly endless pages of joy, grief, love, angst, and laughter (and entire forests worth of rejected manuscripts), completely befuddled to feel my fingers tap the keys turning thoughts into words once again.<br />
<br />
Why? Why now?<br />
<br />
I think I'd better avoid some Shakesperean demon's possessive persuasions and get it all out of the mind of Javier A. Robayo.Javier A. Robayohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11498195365829120844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5854006788832776024.post-24491058014805808182015-12-30T08:26:00.000-08:002015-12-30T08:26:12.275-08:00Making her list<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8_JbR3xHQvQ/VoQCyYtrakI/AAAAAAAAE-c/COV5RuHyaAQ/s1600/Funny-Sexy-Wedding-Bride-and-Groom-Cake-Topper-Figurine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8_JbR3xHQvQ/VoQCyYtrakI/AAAAAAAAE-c/COV5RuHyaAQ/s200/Funny-Sexy-Wedding-Bride-and-Groom-Cake-Topper-Figurine.jpg" width="140" /></a>My name is Javier and I've been a husband for 16 years.<br />
Some of you may be married less or more time than I, but it's safe to assume that after the bliss of the first few years, that maddening, all-consuming combination of love and youthful lust, fades to the background and life takes over with its routines and mundane commitments. Right? With children in the mix, one or two pets, and full time employment, life really takes a big bite out of the time pie.<br />
<br />
Suddenly, there's barely a chance for a peck on the lips on the way to a kid activity. Those long moments of gazing into each other's eyes are replaced with heavy-lidded glances and a murmured good night, grateful to finally call it a day.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_8JuTrlab_s/VoQC66pPEdI/AAAAAAAAE-o/02aI3-NwofA/s1600/sleep_1920026c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="125" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_8JuTrlab_s/VoQC66pPEdI/AAAAAAAAE-o/02aI3-NwofA/s200/sleep_1920026c.jpg" width="200" /></a>I'm the husband that often wonders what happened to the girl that always held my hand, rested her head on my chest, talked to me endlessly. I wonder what happened that I don't even seem to make it to the long list of things she claims must be addressed.<br />
<br />
I am ashamed to admit it's taken me quite a while to come to terms with the fact that as life goes on, everything changes.<br />
At this point, some of you may shake your heads and utter a "No, duh!" After all it's just another product of life turning once fiery lovers into the quintessential husband and wife with the American average of two kids and 1.5 pets, locked tight to a routine in the pursuit of a life we still refer to as the American Dream.<br />
<br />
So, where is this little diatribe going?<br />
<br />
Well, to be fair, us boys develop a hell of a lot slower than girls so this is not surprise to the ladies, and it's as good an excuse as any, at least for me. But it's worth discussing it because out of all the resolutions I tend to make at the end of each year, this time, I'm simply willing to change and with enough work, move up to the same level where my soulmate has been, practically by herself for a long time.<br />
<br />
What brought this about? Sheri and our oldest left to visit family in Pennsylvania while our youngest and I stayed behind.<br />
<br />
At first I wondered what I would do with all the time I was going to have. I mean, pffft, how hard was this going to be? It's just Amber, our pup Bailey, and (shaking my head) Fifi and Coco, our two intrepid Guinea pigs. I'm off work until the 4th so really, I got this. No problem.<br />
<br />
<br />
So this is what happened...<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2tzpJdTgokY/VoQDLQPj_CI/AAAAAAAAE-0/QbyBvtORUCg/s1600/Cavy-Care-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="119" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2tzpJdTgokY/VoQDLQPj_CI/AAAAAAAAE-0/QbyBvtORUCg/s200/Cavy-Care-1.jpeg" width="200" /></a>I thought my morning would be coffee and a news show, a two to three mile run, some floor exercises, a shower and on with the day.<br />
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Wrong. I scrambled to find something Amber would deem worthy of eating for breakfast, coaxed Bailey to go out and eat her breakfast, and make sure the Guineas had water and whatever their necessities were, as Amber taught me. That left me dishes and cups to wash, a kitchen to clean, sweep the rooms to keep Timothy hay from invading other parts of the house, get Amber's clothes from the previous day, make the bed, cajole my kid into taking a shower, dry and untangle her hair, find her something to wear. The morning was gone before I knew it.<br />
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In the midst of that whirlwind of activity, as I looked proudly at the spotless kitchen before doing some laundry, I realized that I was only keeping up because I'm off work.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vWqjP72D5R4/VoQDnMSVcII/AAAAAAAAE_w/8JXIhOhG_eA/s1600/to-do-list.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vWqjP72D5R4/VoQDnMSVcII/AAAAAAAAE_w/8JXIhOhG_eA/s200/to-do-list.jpg" width="143" /></a>My pretty wife works long days every day and when Saturday finally comes, she's fighting an uphill battle to do all the work I did times 5 days. The weekend slips away from us but thanks to her hard work, we'll have food in the fridge, clean clothes, a clean house with everything in its place. She comes to bed with a grateful smile to hit the pillow and fly into oblivion for a few hours of rest.<br />
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There's barely time for a kiss, let alone anything that remotely resembles a date.<br />
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Sunday is a short day as we both prepare for another week of work and the cycle goes on and on.<br />
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No wonder I don't make her list. <b><i><span style="color: #cc0000;">Superheroes don't always have time for themselves after all.</span></i></b><br />
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I had a few days, just me and Amber, Bailey the dog, and the intrepid Guineas, and after working on the house, I didn't even make my own list.<br />
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I realized I've been selfish and deluded into believing that I am entitled to spend time with my wife, but with two kids, a dog and the intrepid Guneas, there's just not a lot time to ourselves.<br />
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Well, she's been telling me for a long time and I was too man to see it until I experienced it.<br />
That brought up another point in my brain. There are two of us grown ups and we barely keep up with everything. How are single parents doing it?<br />
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Single parents, I salute you.<br />
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Husbands, we all tend to be <i>that</i> guy, like I've been. Make sure you put a lot of value into your mates' efforts. You may not find your name anywhere on her list of priorities day in and day out, but trust me, her hard work is a benefit not easily attained. Before choosing loneliness that may lead to bitterness and few other bad turns in the road, jump in and be a help, and accept that sometimes love is not a cuddle session or more, but working together to make life better for your kids, your dog, and maybe your intrepid Guineas.<br />
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To us men, nothing says I love you like a good, breath-robbing kiss.<br />
<br />To the ladies, few things convey more love and understanding than a simply "How can I help you, honey?" from us.<br />
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Don't let it take years to come to this realization. If you're already there, terrific, hats off to you. If you haven't gotten there, I hope you do.<br />
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A marriage doesn't last when you expect your mate to be there because they signed on the dotted line. It lasts when they <i>want</i> to be there with you because they're never left alone to do the work life requires of us.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7NA8EY-D444/VoQDgka-PkI/AAAAAAAAE_Y/lDhdU-7lVR0/s1600/B_p7CmIWYAAwKHH-300x300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7NA8EY-D444/VoQDgka-PkI/AAAAAAAAE_Y/lDhdU-7lVR0/s200/B_p7CmIWYAAwKHH-300x300.jpg" width="200" /></a>May your new year be one of revelations, health, prosperity, triumph, and above all, love.<br />
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Know that it can be expressed in countless forms, and treasure the stolen moments that find just the two of you without the kids, the dog or even a pair of intrepid Guineas.<br />
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Javier Robayo </div>
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<br />Javier A. Robayohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11498195365829120844noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5854006788832776024.post-66872299784476594362014-12-24T17:37:00.002-08:002014-12-24T19:09:04.495-08:00Before the Christmas Tree...My girls are now 10 and 7 so the Christmas magic is still alive and well in their hearts. At their age, I always made a point to sit before the decorated tree and think back on the year that was. This year is bound to hold several dog-eared pages from its chapters, and these particular pages hold numerous names, and what kind of writer would I be if I don't share this little message for them to know?<br />
But allow me to share some backstory.<br />
Sheri and I moved back to Connecticut after losing our home in Pennsylvania. For over two years, we struggled in ways that put our very lives to the test. I will admit, Connecticut felt like a horrible decision at times. The lows outnumbered the highs and we both reached our breaking point, leaving us in the most uncertain of times.<br />
Somewhere in the fog that was my brain at the time, I found my way to Porter and Chester Institute with the intention of studying electronics only to follow in my father's footsteps as a Drafter.<br />
Desperation is an incredible motivator. I took to learning CAD and managed to form a reputation as a dependable and talented designer. Not even halfway through the course, barely into the second quarter, I applied for a position as a piping drafter designer with General Dynamics Electric Boat. To my surprise, given my short time in school and my limited, but admittedly impressive drawings, I earned the chance to work for the premier submarine builders in the world.<br />
In the last three months, all I wanted was to demonstrate what the job meant to me, and I've done all I can to become a strong team asset, and I want it known that I'm determined to go as far as I can within the company. The opportunity is endless!<br />
And so, this year, I became a professional, which gained me the stability and prosperity I so desperately needed.<br />
Every piece of my life's puzzle fell into place, and every question I ever had on why something was happening at the time it was, was finally answered. It all led to Clinton, CT, where I can finally rebuild the concept of HOME for us.<br />
Life can be merciless at times, but given enough motivation, and a touch of luck, it can be amazing.<br />
I couldn't have done it alone and this is why I needed to pour these words out.<br />
First and foremost, my parents, my heroes, my rock. Thank you both for carrying me through most of the year. I don't know what I would've done without you. You helped me in every way possible and found a way to make me see light where I saw darkness.<br />
Sheri Sue Robayo, you really are the strongest person I have EVER known and I can't tell you how proud I am to be your husband. It wasn't easy many times, but to see the smile on your face when I look at you is a reward no Heaven could ever bestow. My life doesn't happen without you, and I look forward to more triumphs in our lives. I love you more than you'll ever know.<br />
Jay Hornyak, my brother, thank you for everything you did for me, for my family. I wish you the success you deserve with ACS. I'll miss driving the Red Diablo.<br />
Kristen Diekmann, my oldest and best friend, and the one person who knows me better than I know myself. Thank you for always believing in me when I least believe in myself, and for always knowing how to straighten me out.<br />
Paul and Sue Feher, you brought so much warmth to one of the coldest winters of my life. Thank you for your help and encouragement.<br />
Brian McCarthy, I have no words to adequately express just what your friendship means to me. No friend could've done more for me when I most needed it, especially talking me into applying for a career at Electric Boat. Thank you for seeing talent in me, and for dragging me into believing in myself. That conversation went on to change my life and I will never, ever forget it.<br />
Sarah and John May, Kathleen and Eric Bergman, Aman and Gurmeet Singh, "La Cuadrilla". You guys...let me just say that Clinton feels like HOME in large part thanks to you. Thank you for the laughter, for the cheer, for the support. Here's to making more memories together!<br />
Paul and Olga Gebauer, you two always knew the right words to say when I needed them most. Here's to more Halloweens and amusing conversations! Thank you both for your genuine friendship and affection.<br />
Lorena Bedoya, my sister, my very best friend. You were a huge inspiration for me to get my act together and find direction in school. You're tough, and you've come a long way yourself. I'm so glad I'm back to share our lives together with our kids, and for reinforcing what makes us Robayos. Love you, kiddo.<br />
Fabio and Eileen Ciampini. Fabio, we've been friends since our days fresh off the boat, and no one has ever made me feel like family despite time, distance or circumstances. I'm so glad you're in my life. I'm so thankful for all the special occasions we've shared, especially Liana's baptism. Parenthood is a wonderful trip, and I'm so happy for you two.<br />
To Doug and Lisa Tappager and their incredible kids, Sarah, Amanda, and Dougie, my Pennsylvania family. Lisa, thank you for that swift kick in the pants and for pulling me out of the hole. I truly believe this recovery, though long in coming, started that day at your house.<br />
Scott and Stephanie McCreary, time and distance means nothing in a friendship like ours. May the years bring us together often.<br />
My book buddies, Elise Stokes, Peggy, Monica LaPorta, and my editor Heather Jacquemin, thank you ladies for your gracious understanding and help, even from afar. You all gave me perspective and encouragement when I doubted my writing. I don't know if I will write again, but it's so good to know I don't have anything to prove to anyone after earning your admiration and praise for my craft.<br />
So, this was my year.<br />
I found I have a great family, terrific friends from before and today; I found my very best friend in the girl I love. Oh how I admire her as a mom and as a woman; I found that things indeed happen for a reason; I found I can be happy again; I found it is possible to rectify every mistake once you reach the shores of hope after enduring the crushing waves of self-recrimination.<br />
And last, but not least, Merry Chirstmas and a Happy New Year full of Health and Prosperity to you and your families.<br />
<br />
JavierJavier A. Robayohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11498195365829120844noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5854006788832776024.post-84073149176535653942014-09-16T17:55:00.002-07:002014-09-16T17:55:43.457-07:00REDOAt 5am I started the engine, took a deep breath, and drove to my new life.<br />
Without the usual rush on I-95, I set the cruise control and thought back on long gone days when I made my way to my old job in Pennsylvania.<br />
Back then, I fought wave after wave of anxiety at the thought of having to survive another day at work. It wasn't easy to run an old crane, but there was an element of fun and self-pride in moving heavy loads with skill. Carrying the possibility of something going wrong when you least expect it was not.<br />
Not in the least.<br />
Neither was the thought of breathing billowing clouds of dust and smoke or enduring headaches from the ungodly roar of the electric furnace and the flashes of light that rendered me unable to face a sunny day without the protection of sunglasses.<br />
Most disturbing of all was the gripping worry of being forced to stay for another eight hours. Throughout the last five years of my employment at the mill, eight hour days were a rare event. I missed entire weeks on account of living at the mill. It was no easy life although it did provide me a healthy bank account.<br />
Perhaps I took such a job for granted. Perhaps I should've kissed my lucky stars for having a job with great benefits. I did make a pretty good living although holidays at home with my family were so few and far between.<br />
Perhaps the money was worth the migraines, the apnea resulting from sleep deprivation or the weight gain from doing little more than sitting in place, and grabbing a bite of greasy convenience. Maybe it was worth the constant pollution accumulating in my lungs, which surely had little to do with two of my coworkers losing their lives to lung maladies.<br />
I made a pretty good living despite the fact that a summer vacation was simply not in the cards for years to come.<br />
I went on working swing shifts, enduring the constant stress, the pettiness of so called managers, and the lacking culture of a steel town worker angst bred and influenced by the ever-present struggle between union and company.<br />
I made a pretty good living among people who laughed at making more money than college graduates, among people who had all the answers, who openly expressed their relief at seeing me forced into a double turn for the sixth consecutive day while they bragged about the beers they'd drink while I worked.<br />
I made a pretty good living, but it was no life at all.<br />
<br />
I recall coming home after an afternoon/midnight shift, lamenting the fact I had less than six hours before going back to do it again. My little girl was five at the time. Like most kids, she was up and ready to go at 6:30am on a Saturday morning after fighting tooth and nail for an extra minute of sleep during the school week. Upon seeing me crumple on the couch, she gave me a sad smile and said, "You came to visit."<br />
I held her tight and hid the sting of her words, burning my eyes, as best as I could. Her innocent, yet truthful statement was a key that unlocked the vault of my conformity.<br />
Damned if I was going to settle for this kind of life, I thought that day. I was no longer comfortable with the idea of letting my wife, my best friend become more of a stranger to me. I was not going to continue letting friendships fall away because It was useless to plan a simple get together to catch up. I was not going to miss my girls' games, recitals, graduations or weekends together. I was not going to waste away in a job where taking on the responsibility of keeping workers and equipment safe despite working on few hours of rest was never recognized. I was not about to grow old and bitter in the knowledge that it was the best I could do.<br />
In my mind, the solution was simple. In practice, it was anything but.<br />
No one remotely associated with the steel mill life understood my choice to leave. I'm certain many even felt vindicated in their assessment of my foolishness when learning about the struggles I faced after leaving the mill. I lost my house. I lost the majority of my possessions. I even lost the will to live at one point.<br />
I left Pennsylvania, cloaked in shame and burdened by a sense of failure, but as it turned out, I could go home again.<br />
<br />
The move came with a whole new set of challenges. The difference was that I was given an unbelievable amount of help. Still, I mourned my losses, my days of plenty, and barely moved under the weight of the guilt I carried for uprooting my girls from the world and life they were growing into.<br />
I nearly lost my wife while coming to terms with our new reality that wasn't always stark, but bleak days outnumbered bright ones.<br />
I learned much, namely a whole new appreciation for pennies earned and kept. I might not have had much, but I had the time.<br />
I had the time to repair my marriage, mend our family ties. I had time to become the husband and father I set out to be. I had the time to enjoy the closeness of my family for more than just a few stolen days a year. More than anything, I had the time, and the courage to take a step back to school.<br />
From my first day at Porter and Chester Institute, something fell into place; some long-ignored piece that revealed itself when I needed it most. Each day I learned how to use another auto cad tool, I felt another drop of hope fall into my once empty spirit. Each high mark I earned, each encouraging word from my professor made me walk a little straighter. I found something in myself I didn't even know I had, even though it was in my blood all along.<br />
In the name of that hope, I set a picture frame on my desk, a picture of the source of my strength and motivation: my smiling girls.<br />
One day, I thought. One day...<br />
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That day came faster than anyone thought although for me, it took no less than a lifetime. I was hired as a computer aided drafting technician at Electric Boat. There's simply no adequate words to describe the overwhelming pride at being a small part of the group that builds the most technologically advanced submarines in the world.<br />
The handsome architecture of the towers before me will bring a smile to my face for years to come.<br />
The brisk air carries with it the promise of autumn laced the scent of the ocean as I present my credentials at the gate. I glance at the flags gently swaying in the breeze. One says home, one says hope, and the third one says "you are somebody."<br />
I don't rush through the fourth floor connector. How could I when to the north, the sleepy New London skyline is framed by the I-95 bridge spanning the Thames River. The steel structure brings to mind Dad's days as a draftsman before the age of computers along with a sense of life coming full circle. Yes, it was in my blood all along. I just had to realize it.<br />
To the south, the deep blue waters of the Long Island Sound are dotted with bobbing boats and dappled by the rising sun. It's impossible to walk past such beauty without stopping to take a longer look.<br />
It's not the fact I'm not wearing steel toe boots, safety glasses or sooty clothes. It's not the fact that I don't have to bow to some racist store owner for fear of unemployment. It's not the fact I don't have to wear a respirator or hearing protection as I start my workday. It's not the pristine work station with the dual monitors and the comfortable chair. It's not even knowing that I can spend every weekend at home or that I will always spend my afternoons with my kids. It's not the fact I get to sleep in my bed every night after kissing my wife good night.<br />
No.<br />
It's a picture frame I set on the corner of my desk. I can return the smile now. It's the sudden realization that every bad experience I endured has finally been explained or justified.<br />
I can live now.<br />
I can breathe now.<br />
I can hope once more.<br />
I make a pretty good living.<br />
I got a redo on my life.<br />
<br />Javier A. Robayohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11498195365829120844noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5854006788832776024.post-64197758116491347342014-04-15T09:06:00.000-07:002014-04-15T09:06:17.710-07:00Epoch Ch4 Good vs Evil<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Among all the millions of inhabitants sharing planet earth, humans are the only species capable of spirituality. Even those who proclaim themselves agnostic exercise a measure of spirituality.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Spirituality is not falling on your knees and praying to a supernatural deity whose existence you accept on faith alone.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Sharks, lions, and eagles do not pray. As I previously pointed out, their existence revolves around food and procreation. </span><span style="font-size: large;">With humans, another force is at play, and that’s the pursuit of happiness according to a moral compass governed by spirituality. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Regardless of religion or origin, every human confronts life with an individual understanding of right and wrong. The vast gray areas between these moral extremes raise questions that are best left to be answered by Yahweh, Jehovah, Zeus, Allah, Buddha, Ra, God, Jupiter, Shiva, Inti, Odin, The Sun, The Moon, and other forms of higher power humans deem worthy of worship and adoration and in some cases, omnipotence.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The universal mandate of each of these deities is to be a good human, but what exactly does it mean to be good?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The concept of good is not written in stone. It’s fluid. It’s interchangeable. It manages to justify extreme actions, and good is deemed good by the victorious side of an argument. Isn’t it?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Bad is the opposite of good, but it doesn’t mean it’s been defined any clearer. The concept of bad is also fluid, and much like good, it’s defined by the victorious side of an argument.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Allow me to better illustrate this concept. American soldiers are sent overseas to battle Nazi forces in the Second World War. The allies battle their bloody way into France through tremendous sacrifice and sheer determination. They kill thousands of Nazis and defeat them, eventually freeing France. The heroic triumph results in history bestowing the title of good guys to the Americans.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Now try switching perspective. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">German boys and men rush to defend a beach head to guard the Aryan ideals and secure the future of their nation. They gallantly defend their right to make France a part of the German dream, but the evil American war machine breaks through and chases the once mighty German Army back to Berlin.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Good and bad. Good and evil. Although every master of higher spirituality has commanded you love your brother as you love yourself, both combatants earn both labels depending on their place in history. The German people of the 1930’s regarded their Nazi troops as the good guys, and the opposition was the villain.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">As it turned out, the Allied forces claimed the right to enter the annals of history as the good guys, and most of the world has acknowledged this fact.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Evil is a tangible phenomenon that has been demonstrated by every single protagonist of human history at one time or another. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Hitler murdered hundreds of thousands, Russia wrote their history in blood through the deeds of their ideals and monsters like Stalin, the Spanish destroyed entire civilizations in the New World under the pretense of spreading God's word. Kofi destroyed the lives of countless children in his pursuit for a deranged army. An American President and his team of elite scientists left their mark in history through decisions that annihilated Japanese cities, and a crazed, hateful group of backward, bearded, zealots plotted the destruction of two famous towers, resulting in the death of innocents who did nothing more than go to work that September morning. </span><span style="font-size: large;">As horrid as it is to contemplate, these protagonists of history are deemed heroes, depending on the way their contributions to history affected people. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Oh how far we’ve gotten away from my initial purpose as a manuscript. My most sincere apologies.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">However, some points demand an argument, and the subject of good vs evil and hero against villain is worth exploring from my point of view because of one undeniable truth: a manuscript such as myself, a compilation of pages incapable of taking a spiritual stance, cannot possibly bring you a story without the conflict of good versus evil.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">And thus, we begin.</span><br />
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<i><span style="color: #351c75;">to be continued...</span></i></div>
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Javier A. Robayohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11498195365829120844noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5854006788832776024.post-46804668389202689432014-04-10T15:38:00.005-07:002014-04-10T16:13:54.703-07:00My Two Flags Foreword by Acclaimed Author Monica La Porta <h2>
Foreword</h2>
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As seen on My Two Flags Vol. 1 <i>I pledge allegiance...</i></h3>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Sometimes, what looks like the end of a journey is the beginning of a lifelong experience. Anybody who left their motherland for America, seeking betterment in life wears the emotional scar that comes with that decision.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">After the spellbinding roller coasters of <i>The Gaze</i> and <i>The Next Chapter</i>, author Javier A. Robayo has delved into the depth of cultural alienation.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">In <i>My Two Flags</i>, Tony Amaya, a teenager from Ecuador, leaves a wealthy life to move to America with his family, only to find himself the victim of endless acts of bullying. Unable to express his feelings and unwilling to burden his parents with the truth of what his life has become, Tony struggles to belong. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Chilling at times and heartbreaking at others, <i>My Two Flags</i> will force you to reflect on social issues and what it means to be The Other when you are only thirteen, and can't speak a word of English.</span><br />
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Monica-La-Porta/e/B007DZFP8W/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1397167548&sr=1-2-ent" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;">Monica La Porta</span></a><br />
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About Monica La Porta<br />
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A quintessential modern renaissance woman, Italy's own Monica La Porta is a sculptor, an accomplished artist, as well as an author of Sci-Fi epics like <i>The Ginecean Chronicles, </i>a dystopian series set on the planet Ginecea, where women rule over a race of enslaved men and heterosexual love is considered a sin. Monica has published the first three books in the series, <i>The Priest, Pax in the Land of Women, </i>and <i>Prince at War</i>. She also wrote and illustrated a children's book about the power of imagination, <i>The Prince's Day Out</i>. Her latest published short, <i>Linda of the Night</i>, is a fairy tale love story celebrating inner beauty. Stop by <a href="http://monicalaporta.com/">monicalaporta.com</a> to read about her miniature, sculptures, paintings, and her beloved beagle, Nero. Sometimes, she also posts about her writing. .<br />
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Find Monica's compelling work at: </div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Monica-La-Porta/e/B007DZFP8W/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1397167548&sr=1-2-ent"><span style="color: #073763;">AMAZON</span></a></h2>
<br />Javier A. Robayohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11498195365829120844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5854006788832776024.post-46456820912023430132014-04-04T05:45:00.001-07:002014-04-04T05:53:06.665-07:00Infuriatingly Funny: Trailer Trash With A Girl's Name<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Dr. Elizabeth Curry, simultaneously my tormentor and hero, graded my work according to her set of rules written in stone, indelible laws each of her students eventually learned to follow. Getting that coveted A+ was a minor detail. We wanted her respect, and believe you me, that did not come easy.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> The gaunt, lanky, snowy top, lady in the long monochromatic dresses and knee-high leather boots often reduced would-be-writers to shameful tears as she tore sub par essays and dumped them in her waste basket. I was victimized early on, we all were. Only half of the initial eighteen students finished her course but when we left, we attained an appreciation for voice, style, originality, and knowing how to compose words to show rather than tell.</span><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hWoIGTsMVVk/Uz6hv9qb28I/AAAAAAAAByk/7iEOKCf__DU/s1600/TTgirlsname.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hWoIGTsMVVk/Uz6hv9qb28I/AAAAAAAAByk/7iEOKCf__DU/s1600/TTgirlsname.jpg" height="400" width="264" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"> I would have loved to have her read Stacey Roberts' debut novel <i><b>Trailer Trash With A Girl's Name</b></i>, just to watch her shake her head or roll her eyes at Roberts' unorthodox dialogue format. She would've undoubtedly screamed redundancy at the character's labels, and she might have even given in to her harsh, hypercritical nature that drove her to tear up pages written in the blood and tears of the author, but I have no doubt whatsoever that my old nemesis would have laughed her butt clean off.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> <i><b>Trailer Trash</b></i> is written in a way that goes against a large part of my own training as a novelist. Despite the two voices in empty space sensation, the dialogue carries the scenes and mounts images that often called my own childhood memories into play. At times it was difficult to know whether the Ssssstace in the scene was a teen, a child or a grown man, but it didn't matter. Imagining the main characters at any age in any of those scenes is comical in itself.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> I did not have a Jewish mother who turned food into sorrow or the tears of an inmate in his first night of prison at lights out. My mom did not melt my corneas (and everyone else's) with onion chopping, and the times that she'd ask "What's <i>wrong </i>with you?" I'm sure I actually did something that warranted it, like jumping off a roof onto a serial killer's discarded mattresses.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> I despised the Mom character (whose image in my head is that of Theresa the Long Island Medium for some reason though with red hair). Hated everything she put this boy through, especially with her idea of what a good boy Layne the Favorite was. Had I left my sister behind with a concussion, I'd be unable to sit to this day, and don't get me started on her inability to retain names or the tonsillitis incident...you'll just have to read it. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> If Ssssstacey would've turned into a bitter adult, he'd be well justified but instead, every page of <i><b>Trailer Trash</b></i> holds little resentment. In fact, just when I thought I had it and I swore I would push Mom into a fire, she redeemed herself if only for a moment.</span><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Q3QAUi4FYHw/Uz6jDBqUn9I/AAAAAAAABzE/5IFUl0ImhYM/s1600/aaaaaweinnabego.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Q3QAUi4FYHw/Uz6jDBqUn9I/AAAAAAAABzE/5IFUl0ImhYM/s1600/aaaaaweinnabego.jpg" height="244" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"> Typically, I resist funny. I do. As soon as a friend recommends a book, a show or a movie she deemed funny, I know I won't even smirk at it. My best friend adores Will Farrel. To this day I wonder why. I have not found the man funny, not once. Close friends of mine in PA talked up <i>The Birdcage</i>, <i>Saturday Night Live</i>, and <i>Chelsea Handler</i> but to me? Yawn...</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> I feared reading <i><b>Trailer Trash</b></i> would be similar, that I would find nothing funny, and despite the many readers that swear they fell off chairs and their sides hurt so badly from laughing so much, it wouldn't even elicit a chuckle from me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> I'm happy to report that wasn't the case. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> The witty lines Stacey fired back at Marvin King of the Jews or Ted the Lightbulb Salesman, sure found my tickle spot and I laughed not only because it was indeed humorous, I laughed in celebration of the strong spirit of this kid, who teaches his buddy to appreciate a normal sandwich.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Comedy suits Stacey Roberts' voice. All comedians draw their material from their own lives and those around them, along with that unique sense of self-deprecating humor that goes on to make them beloved characters and storytellers.</span><br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lJn1SpMb03E/Uz6hvxgD0DI/AAAAAAAAByw/HP7K6praQNY/s1600/ttgirlsname3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lJn1SpMb03E/Uz6hvxgD0DI/AAAAAAAAByw/HP7K6praQNY/s1600/ttgirlsname3.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"> Through all the humor, the unusual format, the sheer tragedy of growing up with the Mom person and her arsenic-infected logic, Roberts' reveals what Dr. Curry, my benevolent tormentor, would've lauded as the elusive <b><i>"IT"</i></b> she made her students strive for.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> <i><b>"...the three of them stood together in the kitchen in a tight cluster, a coven formed around my lamentable incompetence and lack of foresight, awaiting one last unspeakable ingredient for their noxious cauldron..."</b></i></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Dr. Curry could've taught an entire week's worth of lessons based on that passage.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i> </i><i style="font-weight: bold;">Trailer Trash </i>is a fun, quick read, and I would recommend it to anyone who was ever a fan of memoirs </span><span style="font-size: large;">like <i>A Christmas Story</i> and <i>The Wonder Years</i>, where the narrative only adds emotional spice to the characters' perspective as their dialogue carries the story. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Download it, get the paperback, you will undoubtedly enjoy it. In my life I hold onto the notion that no matter how dark and hopeless one day may be, there will be another day when you'll think back on those moments and tell your story with a disbelieving chuckle. It's a testament to our own fortitude. We love to laugh, especially at our own tragic moments that eventually shaped us</span><span style="font-size: large;">, and Stacey Roberts clearly knows it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> <a href="http://www.javierrobayoauthor.com%20/" target="_blank">Javier A. Robayo</a></span><br />
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Trailer-Trash-Girls-Stacey-Roberts-ebook/dp/B00IX0MIAO/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1396614083&sr=1-1&keywords=trailer+trash+with+a+girl%27s+name" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img alt=" Find it on Amazon" border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hWoIGTsMVVk/Uz6hv9qb28I/AAAAAAAABy4/DeZe8yB6OWI/s1600/TTgirlsname.jpg" height="200" width="133" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Find Stacey Roberts' Trailer Trash With A Girl's Name at:</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Trailer-Trash-Girls-Stacey-Roberts-ebook/dp/B00IX0MIAO/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1396614083&sr=1-1&keywords=trailer+trash+with+a+girl%27s+name">http://www.amazon.com/Trailer-Trash-Girls-Stacey-Roberts-ebook/dp/B00IX0MIAO/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1396614083&sr=1-1&keywords=trailer+trash+with+a+girl%27s+name</a></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i><b><br /></b></i></span>Javier A. Robayohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11498195365829120844noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5854006788832776024.post-87294177360924053142014-04-01T18:50:00.002-07:002014-04-04T13:09:51.787-07:00Epoch Ch. 3 Crux<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">haven’t asked what you are. Think about it, is there a more impossible question than that? The answers are as broad as the question, but if we really pull away all the layers of what we think makes us what we are then it’s safe to say you are a human, and I am a manuscript. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> There.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Our natures have been defined.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> You see, it doesn’t matter what label we hope to attribute to ourselves or what label is attributed to us. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Take me for example. I am one of trillions of pieces of writing that will inevitably become labeled depending on my contents. It's a fool's errand, for a story, much like life itself, is composed of an array of facets from every genre simply because we must elicit an emotion. Whether a manuscript makes you laugh, cry, dream or jump out of your skin when the phone suddenly rings, we are given our label according to which of these emotions we produce, even when one of us can successfully evoke the entire emotional spectrum.</span><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bA9GrIG_KEg/Uz8RJYdoGyI/AAAAAAAABz8/dLfMis15GAI/s1600/human_diversity_by_leo_n-d5f3l4n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bA9GrIG_KEg/Uz8RJYdoGyI/AAAAAAAABz8/dLfMis15GAI/s1600/human_diversity_by_leo_n-d5f3l4n.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">You on the other hand, you may be White, Black, Asian, Hispanic; you may be American, French, Sudanese, Russian; you may be a man, a woman, a boy, a girl, a transgender, gay, Catholic, lesbian, Jewish or any of the ever-growing number of labels that exist in an attempt to define what you are. Do you allow labels to define you? As soon as you let that happen, you limit your own openness of mind. Us manuscripts would not exist if it weren't for those brave souls that decided to question everything. Besides, when you strip all your learned doctrines, attitudes, and moral compasses, what are you? That’s right. You’re human.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> What does it mean to be human exactly? </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Well for one, you’re more fragile than you may ever understand, but simultaneously stronger than you will ever truly know. You’re a virtual accident of creation yet perfect in design. How do I know? My brethren holds millions of accounts of bravery, strength, tenacity, and fortitude. Legendary characters like Alexander </span><span style="font-size: large;">Dumas' Edmond Dantes, C.S. Lewis' Lucy Pevensie, Jane Austen's Lizzie Bennett, Vince Flynn's Mitch Rapp, Suzanne Collins' Katniss Everdeen are just some examples of the millions of amazing characters who inhabit the pages of fiction, and just about every one of them was inspired by a real human. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Doubtful? Then I suggest reading biographies of great humans like Winston Churchill, F.D.R., Gandhi, and Princess Diana, just to name a few. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"> Based on this observation, you should feel quite proud of being human. You are the only creature in full control of realizing an unlimited potential. You're not limited to life under water like fish. You're not a predator's prey like zebras if you don't wish to be. What you are is entirely up to you so don't sell yourself short. But getting back to our question, what gives humans the rule of the land? Intelligence? </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> By definition, intelligence is one's capacity for logic, abstract thought, understanding, self-awareness, learning, emotional knowledge, memory, planning, and problem solving, but although you possess a tremendous reserve of intelligence, it's not what separates you from the rest of earth's inhabitants. You’ve seen rats solve mazes, chimpanzees employ sign language and to be fair, animals typically exhibit a much better connection with their natural instincts than humans. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> So what separates humans from the rest of creation? The ability to communicate? </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> No. It’s been proven that animals communicate sometimes in more advanced ways than humans. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> The rest of Earth creatures have two simple drives: to find food and to continue their species. At one point in time, humans were driven by the same directives. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> In most parts of the world today, humans are driven by wealth, power, fame, and the continuous acquisition of possessions in the hopes of defining their place. In falling hostage of these forces, humans have left behind one of the things that elevates them from the rest of earth’s creations, and that’s spirituality. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Picture</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> Although the term brings to mind chanting and praying, do not confuse it with religion. Religion is an ideology that has spurned some of the greatest conflicts throughout history. Each has written its history in blood for centuries, sometimes changing the course of events and other times impeding progress while offering comfort in coming to terms with your mortality. Religion requires a degree of spirituality, yes. But think about what spirituality really is. Spirituality is a personal connection with the unseen, and that's what brings this chapter full circle. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Despite the fact that I can put images, sounds, scents, textures, and tastes in your mind, you can only see them in your mind the same way you see what your idea of paradise may be. Men and women of superb vision and talent have given us their representation of spirituality's goal through some of the most compelling artwork in history. But in the end, paradise is the result of your own, personal connection with the unseen. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GitcUxUdnwM/Uz8Q4jYz4HI/AAAAAAAABz0/W_Df7gmIHk8/s1600/books2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GitcUxUdnwM/Uz8Q4jYz4HI/AAAAAAAABz0/W_Df7gmIHk8/s1600/books2.jpg" height="480" width="640" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Are you with me so far? </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> What I'm trying to say is that since I will never be able to ascertain what you are in order to make a tangible connection with you, I can only strive to make a mental connection that borders on the spiritual. Not because you, with all your human intelligence and life experience, cannot see me, but because I can't see you.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> And herein lies my challenge, my friend. The crux of every page ever written. How do I, just a manuscript, manage to connect with at least one aspect of what you are in order for you to remember me?</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>to be continued...</i></span></div>
Javier A. Robayohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11498195365829120844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5854006788832776024.post-35981702190581124852014-04-01T18:39:00.000-07:002014-04-01T19:53:17.578-07:00Epoch Ch. 2 Whenever<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-i0_d7zwE6H8/Uztolv1wOOI/AAAAAAAABw8/xN6Z2olfB3s/s1600/NN.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-i0_d7zwE6H8/Uztolv1wOOI/AAAAAAAABw8/xN6Z2olfB3s/s1600/NN.jpg" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">ow that we have a where, and maybe even a who, we need a when.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> In most cases, a story has a rhythm that allows you to understand beginnings and ends. In your world, you travel from a first moment to a last in a one way ticking set of time measures, none of which you or the most powerful human alive can ever get back.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> I can exist anywhen. (Hey, I’m just a story and new words can be made under certain liberties if only to better illustrate a concept) But what will make a better connection from me to you?</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> I can bring you back to the time of the dinosaurs and I can spring you far forward to an apocalyptic future full of uncertainty where the sun begins to die. I could even take you into a world where time holds no meaning whatsoever, and how enchanting would that be? </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> For me to guess where you are in time will be daunting to say the least. Lucky for you, I can tap into virtually every experience along that line. I mean, it's a great time to be a story. We have an affinity for recording our past, and your time has seen the rise of technology to the extent that allows glimpses of the future. My knowledge of time, human time, goes a bit further than that.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> I can tell you what it’s like to feel nutrients flow through new blood to shape limbs and organs. I can tell you what it’s like to try to move in the warm darkness of the womb, where the echoed voice of a joyful mother speaks of love and dreams, and sometimes of shock and regret. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> I can tell you about the wonders of childhood and how that time frame teaches you everything you’ll need for the rest of your days. </span><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Xlu331liPWo/UztpNpSlbjI/AAAAAAAABxM/YCfEpdcQjbA/s1600/acrush.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Xlu331liPWo/UztpNpSlbjI/AAAAAAAABxM/YCfEpdcQjbA/s1600/acrush.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"> I can show you the thrills of youth, the great list of first occasions that you will revisit in your golden years.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> I can show you the acceptance of the inevitable departure from life. I can make you feel the way your body loses its vitality, your mind loses its sharpness, and just how truly simple it is to say good bye to those you leave behind.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> So, when are you? Teen years? Roaring Twenties? Settling Thirties? Raising Forties? Discovering Fifties? Wise Sixties? Golden Years?</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> It is something I can only guess, and makes my job of connecting with you quite the challenge.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> But let me start with this: whoever you are, wherever you are, and whenever you are, I can only hope you’ve achieved a level of happiness that keeps you believing and fighting. I hope your heart contains more forgiveness than wounds. I hope your mind contains more dreams than regrets. I hope when you close your eyes, you still see the light that surrounds you and makes you shine in the eyes of those who love you.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> More than anything, I hope I can offer something that you will always take with you, whoever you are, wherever you are, and whenever you are.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>to be continued...</i></span></div>
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Javier A. Robayohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11498195365829120844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5854006788832776024.post-50360542937128069362014-04-01T18:27:00.002-07:002014-04-01T19:55:12.147-07:00Epoch Intro<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cAU3nXcf5mw/UztmnPIFt-I/AAAAAAAABww/y5ALtnjAW9k/s1600/OO.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cAU3nXcf5mw/UztmnPIFt-I/AAAAAAAABww/y5ALtnjAW9k/s1600/OO.jpg" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">h, hello there. I’ve been waiting quite a bit for a pair of hands or the pad of a finger to open the cover. My guess is you’re looking for a story. My friend, depending on where you’ve walked in life, and what your attitudes may be, I can safely say you’ve come to the right place.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-De0gnMIWKvY/Uztjzg7IsPI/AAAAAAAABwU/cIF_yYb-T9k/s1600/11111moto.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-De0gnMIWKvY/Uztjzg7IsPI/AAAAAAAABwU/cIF_yYb-T9k/s1600/11111moto.jpg" height="198" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"> Before we begin to venture into faraway lands or another place in time, let's take the time to get to know each other a little better. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> You may be male, and so I must offer more than a touch of action, adventure, the valiant struggle and ultimate victory of the underdog and of course, the very sexy and willing heroine whose beauty has tested the creativity of the person who first entered all these characters upon these pages.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gqKlts5TGO0/Uzti-XXj_BI/AAAAAAAABwM/JCaKBDQS9F8/s1600/beautiful-romance-in-rain-wallpapers-1024x768.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gqKlts5TGO0/Uzti-XXj_BI/AAAAAAAABwM/JCaKBDQS9F8/s1600/beautiful-romance-in-rain-wallpapers-1024x768.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> You may be female, and so I imagine I must offer a whirlwind of emotions, love, hate, longing, and all that entails the essence of passion or at least, make an emotional point that will enrich your own life experience and leave you breathless for a fictional character you will forever wish he were real.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Tough line to define from my perspective.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LHtt3dAzoro/Uzti-oHRp-I/AAAAAAAABwE/8c6-IsyuMTE/s1600/young_vs_old.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LHtt3dAzoro/Uzti-oHRp-I/AAAAAAAABwE/8c6-IsyuMTE/s1600/young_vs_old.jpg" height="183" width="400" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"> You may be an old soul and someone who has lived, I mean truly lived. If so, the cumulative cynicism that blossoms as you come of age will set the bar pretty high in terms of entertainment value. I have shock and nostalgia at my disposal perhaps, but I know it's my mission to appeal to your heart of hearts.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"> If you’ve just started down the road of life, I'll be overjoyed that new readers are not a dying breed. I know you will most definitely wish to be drawn into a story within the first chapter or else you’ll go back to your texting, your video games or my old nemesis, the television. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> I have no way to discern where you are on that scale, but I know who I am. I’m a manuscript, a compilation of ruminations and ideas born in the mind of someone crazy enough (or courageous depending on your point of view) to let the words flow onto a page for no other reason than to quiet the multitude of voices and images inhabiting the confines of that someone's mind.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"> I have the choice to take you into outer space, Victorian England, the wilds of Africa or good old New York City. Every story needs a setting but in this particular case, the setting is you.</span><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1kzF_QeJxCc/Uzti-WoAhcI/AAAAAAAABwA/qC0tIaL9QVs/s1600/Melanie-McDonald-blank-canvas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1kzF_QeJxCc/Uzti-WoAhcI/AAAAAAAABwA/qC0tIaL9QVs/s1600/Melanie-McDonald-blank-canvas.jpg" height="214" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"> Like each of my new pages, your mind has a way of presenting an empty canvas, your own blank page if you will. That’s my playing field. It’s where I'll gain a voice, maybe even a face. Heck I can gain a body and use your own living experience as a set of guidelines with which to come to be. The images destined for that canvas are not stills meant only for your eyes or music meant for your ears alone. I have to touch all your senses. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"> Of course, now that you have the beginnings of a voice in your head as you read these words, your mind demands a face. Well, I'll tell you that I reserve the right to make my image extraordinary. I can be a boxer, a child with telekinetic powers, a female cop, an old wise man, and even a ghost, a vampire or a three-legged alien. I can be as ordinary as any stranger who fails to catch your interest. I can be anything, and that’s where the magic starts, for if I can be anything on the page you read, so can you, my friend. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"> That's the beauty of the written word. Now just imagine, what will you find on our next encounter?</span></div>
Javier A. Robayohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11498195365829120844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5854006788832776024.post-43997238992862044752014-03-28T06:12:00.001-07:002014-04-01T19:56:08.318-07:00Happy Birthday My Two Flags<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> When an athlete reaches the home stretch, the blood pumps harder, the heart beats faster, and every fiber pushes to the limit in order to cross that goal line. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> In writing, you are barely aware of how fast the word count adds up. Your characters fight to be included in each chapter as the manuscript reaches its completion. Your blood pumps faster, your heart beats faster, and your mind will grant you no peace until that last line is written. That's where I am with <b><i>My Two Flags Vol. 2 All men are created equal...</i></b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> In one of the chapters, the first line reads "What a difference a year makes." Glancing at the clock on the lower right corner of my screen, I caught sight of the date. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> One year has passed since publishing a novel that took me over two decades to write. <i><b>My Two Flags</b></i> officially turns 1, and based on 19 wonderful reviews and a plethora of private messages, these series has enjoyed a warm reception thus far.</span></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-VE90LwjP7_A/UzQ5w8eXQzI/AAAAAAAABpg/7eeEid53iqY/s1600/LastFrontCoverTitlesFeb01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-VE90LwjP7_A/UzQ5w8eXQzI/AAAAAAAABpg/7eeEid53iqY/s1600/LastFrontCoverTitlesFeb01.jpg" height="400" width="265" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> <b><i>My Two Flags</i></b> follows the life of Antonio Amaya, a thirteen year old Ecuadorian kid whose lifelong dream of living in America turns into a nightmare as the stark reality of immigrant life crashes down on him and his family. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Through struggles with prejudice, ostracism, and bullying, Tony (Antonio) holds onto principles instilled in him by his parents, and ultimately finds the determination to belong and embrace his new life.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Several 100 page composition notebooks filled with Spanish and English chronicles from high school life are involved in weaving this series. Virtually every experience of adolescence is explored through the eyes of the cast and each point of view is sure to make you look back on your own.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> I never sat down to map out a novel with a point to make or a lesson to teach. I just felt there was a story to be told. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Regardless of our path, we are each destined to go through something that's bound to not only touch someone else's life, but also change it, and change us along the way. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">Life as an immigrant looking for acceptance is one aspect of the story. In truth, we all wish to be part of something. Especially when we are faced with obstacles and challenges that put our determination to the test as we fight for our dreams.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> You don't have to be an immigrant to have been ridiculed by your peers at one time or another. We've all been aggressors and victims. We've made fun or been afraid of people different than us, and we've all been at the receiving end of some cruel joke based on our origin, race, sex or age.</span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qwOiDOgs-5g/UzSR3Y644xI/AAAAAAAABqQ/J0bWjqNkuj4/s1600/aaaaaaaa8989.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qwOiDOgs-5g/UzSR3Y644xI/AAAAAAAABqQ/J0bWjqNkuj4/s1600/aaaaaaaa8989.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> But, t</span><span style="font-size: large;">here is always someone else wanting to be a part of your life. No matter how high you build your walls, someone will find a breach to touch your heart. No self-imposed isolation can keep you from falling victim to the feelings inspired by someone special, and we all inevitably meet that someone.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">I eagerly envision the next volume in the saga. I don't see the pages as much as I see the faces of those who carved their niche in my heart and mind to become the muse that drives me to the keyboard. </span></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/My-Two-Flags-pledge-allegiance/product-reviews/0989107604/ref=la_B008B84PUO_1_2_cm_cr_acr_txt?ie=UTF8&showViewpoints=1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" target="_blank"><img alt=" Reviews for My Two Flags" border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Bn71OdA4hi8/UzQ9M1nLXvI/AAAAAAAABqA/Jx3i87oL_po/s1600/flagrivewsjpg.jpg" height="206" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Click to see what people are saying about Flags</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> So, happy birthday to <b style="font-style: italic;">Flags </b>as some of my readers refer to the series. I know if you give it a try, you will find someone who reminds you of someone you knew; of something you lived; perhaps you'll find a reflection of you.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> As many of my readers have said, you will gain an understanding of what it's like to be The Other, and how crucial family values and good friendships are in shaping a young mind.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">I invite you to read it. Let me know what you think. I dare you to prove me wrong. Whether your high school experience was good or bad, it's sometimes irresistible to wonder back to those years through someone else's eyes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> No author truly expects their writing to come to life and evoke an emotional response. It's the unspoken goal of every manuscript, but anything written from the heart has a chance to do just that. </span><span style="font-size: large;">If I have a writing goal, it's to forge a connection with you that you'll keep for the rest of your life. And finally, it's my sincere hope you find something healing about </span><i style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Flags </b></i><span style="font-size: large;">the way I have.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">Javier A. Robayo</span></div>
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<b>My Two Flags Vol. 1 <i>I pledge allegiance... </i>is geared for ages 14 and up and weighs in at 320 pages. It contains some strong language. Published in March of 2013, My Two Flags has struck a chord among educators and anyone who are or know of someone close to them who's lived under the Star Spangled Banner, and their motherland's flag.</b></div>
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<b>You can find it on Amazon at <a href="http://amzn.to/1dxYkbc" target="_blank">My Two Flags Vol. 1</a> and <a href="http://www.javierrobayoauthor.com/" target="_blank">Javier's Website </a></b></div>
Javier A. Robayohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11498195365829120844noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5854006788832776024.post-40461243463716492102014-03-20T04:35:00.000-07:002020-02-22T06:40:52.099-08:00About Writing and Self-Publishing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2BpnEiKGVOg/UyrQbpcQTeI/AAAAAAAABig/gXUJWHNiLzg/s1600/420_selfpublishing_shortbb.imgcache.rev1294685230555.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="226" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2BpnEiKGVOg/UyrQbpcQTeI/AAAAAAAABig/gXUJWHNiLzg/s1600/420_selfpublishing_shortbb.imgcache.rev1294685230555.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"> Back in 2001 (Unreal how quickly times goes by...) I wrote a
manuscript, a crime story based on conversations I held with college students.
The story was okay, sub par in all honesty in every aspect. I wasn't vain
enough to see it as a masterpiece at all. Still, I logged to my AOL account and
browsed for publishing firms. I was surprised to find four responses and I
chose one firm out of Pittsburgh.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"> The woman I spoke to on the phone asked for the entire
manuscript. I was at the Post Office bright and early the next morning with my
package and sent it off. I don't think I slept much those three weeks
until I received another letter. (note how we are not talking email yet. This
was a time when people still wrote real letters.) This one hinted at a lucrative
contract once the story went through the editorial phase. What's that
involve? I asked. Then the woman pulled the rug from under my feet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XGerDRdv_F4/UyrPPM5WpAI/AAAAAAAABiQ/CYwozSOVP5o/s1600/vanitypub.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="169" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XGerDRdv_F4/UyrPPM5WpAI/AAAAAAAABiQ/CYwozSOVP5o/s1600/vanitypub.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: medium;"> "The editor will not be very nice and you are looking at
about $3,500" she said. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"> When I didn't reply, she added "We can work out
a payment plan."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"> NO! That is NOT how a real publishing house works. Don't fall
for it. Do what you can to curve your enthusiasm and keep your money in your
wallet. As soon as some entity is eager to publish your book and make you into
the next Suzanne Collins after you pay them fees after fees after fees, you're
dealing with a Vanity publisher.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"> Vanity publishers are quite common and you'll know it just
by getting solicitations from perfect strangers who are head over heels with
your writing. Why are they something you should watch out for? Because they'll
create the illusion of establishing your writing career but once you dole out
the dough, you end up with a box full of books and <i>arrivederci </i>you'll know what
you'll do with them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"> Real publishing houses are so tough to break into because
they have to be selective on the works they invest in. But before you sign that
check and send it out to a vanity publishing firm, consider self publishing
through a platform like Lighting Source or Create Space.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"> The costs are low and the biggest advantage is that you, the
author, own all the rights to your artwork, your title, your story. No one behind a desk will demand you add a vampire and several scenes of
bondage and domination because that's what's selling in the present market. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"> The disadvantage is that you are on your own as far as
promoting your work and your brand. <b>THAT </b>is where the real work starts for a
self-published author.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"> If you're new to writing and you suddenly heard an angel
choir at the mention of self-publishing at low cost, hold your horses. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"> Unfortunately, Indies carry a damaged reputation, the product of thousands of
would-be-authors who spent little time honing their craft and offering a poor
product. The book market is flooded with under-developed plots, thousands of
pages full of typos, copycats bent on rewriting <i>Twilight </i>or <i>50 Shades</i>, and
countless other atrocities that pass themselves as book these days.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"> Now, don't be discouraged. Nothing worth doing comes without
a struggle. It's not a question of talent or promotional skills. It's a matter
of gaining one reader's trust, then another, and then another. And that takes
quite a bit of time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"> If you have your draft finished, congratulations. Now read it
and be brutally honest with yourself. Have you made a good product? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"> <b>Can the story be better?</b> As my professor was so fond of saying "There's no such
thing as good writing. There's only good rewriting."</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"> <b> Is it presented in its best possible light?</b> This is where you let your creative juices flow like the
Mississippi. You have full control of what goes into making your book: the
cover, the format, the font you use on the page numbers at the bottom, the
title (yes, that's a big one, considering publishing houses are very fond of
changing titles. Just ask Dean Koontz).</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"> Once you reach the stage where you're satisfied with your
final proof, I'm sorry to tell you, but you've only rounded a bend, and the
long road ahead of you disappears into a distant horizon. But you don't have to go it
alone. This is where Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Google+, and others come
into play. Forge connections. You'll be shocked at the reception you'll get
from your "competition". I've never come across an Indie author who
thought he or she were too good to give you a good word, advice, a <b>LIKE</b>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"> A word about competition: Unless a reader decides he or she
will read only the same novel from author X forevermore, you have not lost.
Books are limited affairs and remember, all it takes is one. One person to fall
in love with your characters and gush about the plot with their friends. It
goes from there. It takes time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kQW9zpGAdXE/UyrPOZKmYpI/AAAAAAAABh8/tghIGvh93Ls/s1600/denied.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kQW9zpGAdXE/UyrPOZKmYpI/AAAAAAAABh8/tghIGvh93Ls/s1600/denied.jpg" /></a><span style="font-size: medium;"> You've written a piece of you. Don't just hand it out to
anyone offering you the top best-selling spot on the New York Times. Be careful
with your work and explore every option, and I mean every option. Don't
discount traditional models like the painful submission and rejection process
literary agencies impose on upcoming authors. Hey, Stephen King's <i>Carrie </i>was
rejected <b>HUNDREDS </b>of times before making his career. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2PsmkK_XRno/UyrPPKMKUdI/AAAAAAAABiU/aBgA1tO7ybA/s1600/Snoopy-reject1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="187" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2PsmkK_XRno/UyrPPKMKUdI/AAAAAAAABiU/aBgA1tO7ybA/s1600/Snoopy-reject1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"> Before you become overwhelmed keep this in mind if nothing
else: It all starts and ends with how good of a story you bring to the readers.
That demands more than the proverbial pound of flesh. Don't try to write like
someone else. Write like you, and listen to those voices telling you that you
can do better because you can. And if you want to reverse the perception trend
of the Indie author, you must first make a commitment to giving a reader a story
worth remembering.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="http://javierrobayoauthor.com/" target="_blank">Javier A. Robayo</a></span></div>
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Relate Articles</div>
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- <a href="http://www.aarp.org/entertainment/books/info-01-2011/avoid-publishing-scams.html" target="_blank">Avoid publishing scams</a></div>
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- <a href="http://www.aarp.org/entertainment/books/info-02-2011/review-the-writing-life.html" target="_blank">The Rocky Path to Writerdom</a> </div>
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Javier A. Robayohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11498195365829120844noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5854006788832776024.post-225246809567050192014-03-03T23:56:00.000-08:002014-03-03T23:56:09.413-08:00Job Scams<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tus2NWwH5oQ/UxWCSjoQOAI/AAAAAAAABgA/PkJ4i1YMBYs/s1600/ajobs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tus2NWwH5oQ/UxWCSjoQOAI/AAAAAAAABgA/PkJ4i1YMBYs/s1600/ajobs.jpg" height="298" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">If you've been actively searching for a job online like I have then surely you've come across employment sites where you post your r</span><span style="font-size: large;">esume in the hopes of finding much needed work.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">It seems most companies are content with letting a computer program sort out the good applicants from the bad. There is no such thing as personal interaction with anyone interested in hiring another person. You're at the mercy of a thirty minute questionnaire and you'll get acquainted with standard emails. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">You will also get a number of phone calls from College Guides who want to quickly place you in the halls of higher learning. Why? At most of those employment websites you're forced to register in order to apply for a listed job. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I've gotten phone calls from schools in Arizona (I live in Connecticut) and even from some Hair Institute somewhere near Hartford. I've even gotten calls from some computer whose job is to dial up your number and tie up the line until the next college placement expert is free to beg for "ten" minutes of your time.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Frustrated by the fruitless job quest, I've talked to one of these people. I expressed a desire to do something with writing. After twenty minutes of stating the obvious time and again, I had no choice but to let the poor devil on the line go. The initial effusive optimism was quickly replaced by a dose of real life and a lack of careers in writing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Looking for work can wear down your very soul, and you're prone to falling for anyone offering you a glimpse of hope.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Enter the incredible job offers.</span></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Xs0nBrW_36o/UxWDHQ2S_zI/AAAAAAAABgg/1GJj2BJsfJc/s1600/Screenshot_2014-03-04-02-16-01.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Xs0nBrW_36o/UxWDHQ2S_zI/AAAAAAAABgg/1GJj2BJsfJc/s1600/Screenshot_2014-03-04-02-16-01.png" height="640" width="360" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Recently, someone identifying themselves as a hiring manager for the Swiss Life Group texted me and offered me a position with their 150 year old institution based in Zurich. The officious bloke came across my promising resume and decided to contact me from Minnesota. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Like a desert wanderer staring at a mirage of life giving water, I jumped at the chance and eagerly replied with an interest to take the job.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The man granted me an interview. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Cool!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">He asked me to obtain a Yahoo email address so we can talk via Instant Messenger.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Okay...</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Just as I was signing up for a Yahoo account, I realized one obvious little detail. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">If some long standing company came across my resume, and decided to interview me, why not contact me through an email that sounded like it came from the company itself? You know, something like mark.franke@swisslifegroup.com or something to that effect? </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Why Yahoo? </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">And furthermore, if it was so urgent that I interview with a hiring manager, why wouldn't he just call me or ask me to call?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I then Googled Swiss Life Group and added the word <i>scam</i> to the search bar. Sure enough, it was.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Of course, why would any company want to hire someone at $21.00 per hour ($18 during two weeks of training and complete benefit package after a month of service) based on a poorly prepared resume that has no promise of landing a Business Administration job?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">But I was curious. Very curious.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I signed on to Yahoo and altered most of my information, realizing how easy it is to create a false identity online.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Good Old Mark wrote long passages of information at the speed of copy and paste. I answered a question with a question that was never answered as though nothing I typed bore consideration.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Right...</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The "Hiring Manager" then told me to hold online while he passed my answers along to the Head Department, whatever that was.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">A few minutes later, (surprise surprise) Good Old Mark typed a warm welcome to the company. Wow, I thought, just like that, I'm in the money!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Not so fast.</span></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pDMXUJWRaM0/UxWDHmFBUSI/AAAAAAAABgk/weYQBpGH0CE/s1600/Screenshot_2014-03-04-02-16-34.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pDMXUJWRaM0/UxWDHmFBUSI/AAAAAAAABgk/weYQBpGH0CE/s1600/Screenshot_2014-03-04-02-16-34.png" height="640" width="360" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">Good Old Mark then asked me to provide him with a list of personal information for verification so his secretary could put me on register to which I replied, "That information is on my resume that should be on your desk."</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">His reply was "We didn't save it?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">What?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Elaborate ruse, but laughable at best. It took me only a minute to decide to provide the basics. They're public record after all, and I wanted to see where this guy was going.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">He asked me how often I'd like to be paid and asked who was my Bank.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">As if...</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">When I did not reply, he quickly outlined the benefit package, probably copied from some company's website, and pasted it on the message. He indicated I'll have two weeks of training and gave me a list of software I would need.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I asked if I should expect the software and an information packet in the mail and he quickly asked if I would buy the software today.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Um...nope.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">He told me he had the in-house vendor ready to take the order and I replied with a question, "Will I be reimbursed?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">"Of course!" He quickly added.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">By then I already knew about the counterfeit checks and the useless software. At that point, laughing and wondering just how many people fall for this, I thanked the "Hiring Manager" and told him I was not comfortable making purchases of giving any more information. I told him I researched these "opportunities" and most were reported as scams.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">"How do you mean?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">When I asked for solid proof, he immediately offered to get his supervisor on the phone. I was suddenly so important, the boss was going to talk to me right then and there!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I told him I would have my accounts carefully monitored and indirectly let him know I was onto him. I asked for a phone number then told him I would surely find him in the directory of his company and to expect my call.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Good Old Mark went from professionally courteous to downright rude when he ignored my last messages.</span></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zqmwsxSG_0Y/UxWDIPh_CbI/AAAAAAAABgo/_FyT1TrPYDQ/s1600/Screenshot_2014-03-04-02-16-42.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zqmwsxSG_0Y/UxWDIPh_CbI/AAAAAAAABgo/_FyT1TrPYDQ/s1600/Screenshot_2014-03-04-02-16-42.png" height="640" width="360" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">A search of Swiss Life Group for a Hiring Manager named Mark Franke was utterly unsuccessful. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">No shocker there.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The moral of the story, boys and girls, is that if something sounds too good and too easy to be true online then it's most certainly a scam. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Be smart. Be aware. And I hope you all enjoy solid employment that allows you to live your lives worry free, at least for the most part. As to those of us on the search, don't fall prey to the refuse of the online world. Scammers are everywhere and they go to great lengths to take advantage of you. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Be very careful with employment sites and never trust any form of communication that does not bare a company logo with a brick and mortar address and contact information. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">For a quick and easy way to find out if you are about to get taken for a ride, Google is a great tool for gathering information. Use it, and be smart. Be aware. Be careful.</span></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://jobsearch.about.com/u/ua/jobsearchscams/jobscams.03.htm" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" target="_blank"><img alt=" Job Scams. Beware!" border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ag0QSxu7Amw/UxWFMVM8k1I/AAAAAAAABg4/ZD3b0F08B8k/s1600/Articls.png" height="200" width="191" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: cyan;">Check out this article on Job Scams</span></td></tr>
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Javier A. Robayohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11498195365829120844noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5854006788832776024.post-90580535016200668402013-12-09T04:04:00.000-08:002014-04-16T08:25:52.633-07:00More Than a Short<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> First of all, here's the finalized cover of the print version of REQUIEM. </span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7FbXD5fGHx8/UqQVM641qII/AAAAAAAABdY/ITBA9fsPZDI/s1600/reveal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7FbXD5fGHx8/UqQVM641qII/AAAAAAAABdY/ITBA9fsPZDI/s1600/reveal.jpg" height="312" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Last winter, times were as tough as they have ever been for me, and I'm not proud to admit I was in quite a dark place in my own mind. No need to go into it. Transitions of any kind are notoriously painful, especially when they require longer than any of us are ready to allow.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> And so, I began writing the story of a failed man named Kenneth Glass, who happened to be in worse circumstances than me. Life had gotten so tough for Ken that he began asking himself if everyone would just be better off if he weren't around, particularly his estranged wife and son.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> We meet Ken at the burial of his best friend. After all the mourners leave, Ken is approached by an old man, one of the gravediggers. He thinks little of the man before him until the man begins to share some eerily accurate insights.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> Forced to take shelter in an old, dank outbuilding by a storm, the man engages Ken into a conversation filled with cryptic statements and strange riddles, along with the a knowledge of Ken's every thought, slowly driving our suffering hero into a life-changing realization. The epiphany comes at a steep price, and Ken faces the consequences of his jaded attitude toward life.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> What will it take for someone to stop wasting another minute on recriminations for sins past? What does it take to snap out of self-pity and understand that once we reach acceptance, determination follows? What do we need to be shown so we don't turn away from life?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> Those are some of the question that forged the lines of REQUIEM.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> Once again, the characters held certain parallels to my own life, except for the mysterious cemetery man. In all honesty, I don't know where he came from, but much like he did for Ken...</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> He changed my own attitudes, and that's what makes this story so special.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Today I'm thankful for another breath of air that tells me I'm alive and well, and I can make of the rest of my life what I want it to be. I broke down and decided to make a print version of this short story.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> In an effort to give readers a little more than expected, I also added a showcase. Basically, excerpts from everything else I've written. I want to give new readers a chance to sample The Gaze, The Next Chapter, My Two Flags, and John & Ezekiel, not only to entice someone to pick up one of those novels for their next read, but also to remind myself that none of the countless hours of writing were spent in vain.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> I've accomplished more than I thought I ever could.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> I've gained some terrific new friends through the writing, and I've tasted the sweetness of success in readers' opinions.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> Transitions of any kind are notoriously painful, and it's easy to remain bugged down in regret and uncertainty that we miss the high points we all make for ourselves. Everything we do has meaning, especially stories born of an impulse to bring something to life on the page.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> REQUIEM allowed me to quiet all the discordant noise in my mind so I can hear the melody of life once again. It became more than a short story, and I can't wait to see it in someone else's hands.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> Javier A. Robayo</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> ***This book is dedicated to the memory of two of my high school friends, who left us before their time, Christopher Papp and Joe Budahazy. We will meet again, brothers.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">REQUIEM is available from Amazon and <a href="http://javierrobayoauthor.com/">javierrobayoauthor.com</a></span>Javier A. Robayohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11498195365829120844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5854006788832776024.post-58768352573356742372013-12-01T18:54:00.000-08:002013-12-01T19:04:11.389-08:00Sing <span style="font-size: large;"> She approached me slowly, hesitantly, just a child hoping not to disturb her father. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> I chose to leave the blog post for another day and turned to my daughter Kendra. Nine years old on the outside, older than time in many ways. I took a second to take in the face before me, not the visage of a little kid, but a refined bone structure that transcends simple prettiness. She tucked her long dark hair behind her ears and grinned like a sage selfishly hoarding a wondrous secret.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> "I have a dilemma."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> No need to even ask her if she knows what the word means. She goes through books the way I go through "digital ink."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> "Project Adventure starts this week, but this is also the last week of chorus practice before our winter concert."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> Kendra has been talking about Project Adventure since hearing about it during orientation at her new school. Joel Elementary gives its students a chance to participate on a week of fun physical activities to combat the typical cabin fever that takes over when the climate turns cold. As soon as she heard the words "zip line" she knew she wanted to do nothing else.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> "So...I don't know what to do."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> "Well, talk to your teacher and if you want to do well at the concert, ask your chorus teacher to give you the songs you'll be singing and I'll help you practice."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> I was not prepared for the wide eyes and the sudden look of abject horror on her face. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> "You mean...you'd hear me sing?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> "Well, yeah. That's kind of how it works."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> "But I can't sing in front of people."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> It was my turn to look shocked. I have a video clip that proves her wrong, so wrong. Unknown to Mommy and me, Kendra can carry a tune better than she even knows. "You just sang in front a group of veterans and you did it really well. What do you mean you can't sing in front of people?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> She stammered that it was easier with a group although in the clip, she's the only one singing; one of the tougher lines of "America The Beautiful" no less. After a back and forth conversation about singing in front of an audience, I sensed the answer was far simpler.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> "What if someone laughs at me?" She confirmed my suspicions.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> When your child asks a question, someone up there hits you with a fleeting bolt of wisdom, just enough enlightenment to fulfill your parental role in the life of a new soul. This was one of those moments. "Do you like to sing?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> "I love to sing," she replied, her hazel eyes glittering.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> "Sing for yourself first," I told her. When she continued to stare blankly at me, I added, "Look, ever since you held that crayon with your left hand and put on fashion shows for me, I knew you had an artistic streak, and artists do whatever it is they do for themselves first. They don't care what anyone else will think of them because they're doing something that makes them happy."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> Tears filled her eyes though I didn't know why. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> "But kids make fun of other kids."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> Hard to believe, considering the lengths she'll go to, being a goofball for anyone else. "Yeah, but you have no problem being a clown with your friends."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> "Well, I'm a comedian," she laughed.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> "Comedians are courageous."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> "They are?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> "Of course they are. They act all weird and say silly things, knowing that some people are not going to like them or laugh. It takes a lot of courage to get up on a stage and tell a group of people a joke they may not find funny."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> "Then why do comedians do it?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> I imagined myself coming off like a sage, so I leaned in and looked her in the eye, enjoying my movie moment. "Because, Kendra." I paused for effect. "They love to make themselves laugh first."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> We shared a long silence, and a sparkle in her gaze told me she understood.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> "Singing is a gift to be shared. I heard you sing for the Vets and you were great. You held each note, your voice had volume, and it sounded amazing. It really did. It really surprised me. It'd be a shame not to let others hear your voice."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> A grateful little tear trickled down her cheek before she smiled and thanked me. She promised to get a list of the songs for the concert and now looks forward to practicing with me. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> Once I got back to this blog, I realized that perhaps that enlightenment that comes at those father/daughter talk moments, was also meant for myself.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> I've questioned why keep writing.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> I've questioned it like never before. Some practical voice inside me often protests the time committed to write and all the work that yields such little results. Another cynic voice often wonders why even try when every possible storyline has already been told. Some reproaching voices scream at me to stop trying, to stop filling Facebook feeds with book ads that are often ignored completely; to stop posting reviews that elicit very little response from others; to stop anxiously waiting for a promised review that's never going to come; to stop writing so the risk of hearing my stories are boring no longer exists. Time to put the time into getting a real job or a degree that will turn work into better living. Time to lose the illusion of finding you novel in the hands of millions. Time to accept no one will ever care about making a film out of your scripts. Time to move on and meet your responsibilities with a better arsenal than millions of words that yield nothing but a bank account in the red.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> When times are tough, those voice are loudest and much of myself agrees with them but...</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> Writing makes me happy.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> I've stopped caring about what anyone will say of my flawed Samantha because she taught me strength while Lewis taught me to be true to myself. I ached over the decisions they made just like I gritted my teeth as John saw no way out of his losses until he somehow realized that once you hit rock bottom you can finally stand. Ken Glass managed to rearrange my perspective on death, perseverance, and the melody life can really be, and Tony reminded me to rely on family and solid friendships to surge ahead. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> I write for myself. I write because I simply need it the way I need to breathe to live, and because more than a few people contacted me to let me know my stories touched them, changed them, and affected them. At that point writing became a gift to give and how could I leave those few people wondering where Gwen came from; or what will become of Patricia or what's the name Brooke Elizabeth chose?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> I realize many who read this post have no idea whom I'm speaking of, and I apologize for that. But there's one thing I've learned through trying to infuse my daughter with the courage to shine before an audience, and give her gift to it. I learned I wrote the stories for me, just like many of you have written your stories for yourselves, and oh, how they shine when that passion comes through each line. How those wonderful characters come alive when the author breathed soul into them: Cassidy Jones, Jay the Treeman and Jodi, "Daddy" Edwards, Beck and McSwain, Zack in heaven, Anna in France, SUKI, Chayton and Montana, Mauricio, Hattie, and thousand others that live in those stories...</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> Apologies to practicality, common sense, reality, and responsibility. Writing is a gift to be given.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> Like the comedian who distorts his face to elicit a laugh, like the singer who works so diligently to hit that high E and turn a voice into a godly caress, like the painter who gives life and light into a two-dimensional canvas, like the sculptor that carves the statue out of a block of stone, and like the many of you who answer the what-ifs and make sense of your triumphs and failures through spending copious amounts of digital ink, mainly in hopes of answering your own questions...</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> I write.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">©2013
Javier A. Robayo</span></span> Javier A. Robayohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11498195365829120844noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5854006788832776024.post-41997392713725423212013-10-30T02:29:00.000-07:002013-10-30T02:29:13.584-07:00Monster Mash<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ggFe_FLMfrc/UnBBHz6Lg0I/AAAAAAAABYE/4wHy47I_6lU/s1600/jabba.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ggFe_FLMfrc/UnBBHz6Lg0I/AAAAAAAABYE/4wHy47I_6lU/s1600/jabba.jpg" height="425" width="640" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> Halloween is by far my favorite holiday. It's not the candy. Never was much of a sweet tooth, really. It's the brisk night air, the scent of wood fires, and the undercurrent of excitement as everyone tries to figure out what to be.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> What to be...</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> What other holiday offers you the chance to be someone else, if only for one night. One night you put your life as you on pause, and become someone or something else. It's quite the thrill for everyone, especially for kids, but I never thought I'd see a whole community take part in the festivities the way Clinton, Connecticut did during the annual Monster Mash at Joel Elementary.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> My wife, Sheri, met the incomparable Paul Gebauer, his lovely wife, Olga, and their impish little cutie, Tessa at Clinton Beach over the summer. During my first conversations with Paul, he couldn't say enough about the parents involvement with school. That was the first time I heard about the Monster Mash.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> "The school is transformed," Paul said. "You won't even recognize the place!"</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> He went on to tell me about years past and how much fun it was to be a part of it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Now that I can actually be a part of my kids' life in a greater capacity since I no longer work shifts at a steel mill, I volunteered to help.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Soon I met the one, the only, Julie Mendez, who takes the word Dynamo to a whole other stratosphere. Julie led a troop of Friends of Joel, parents of Joel students, on the project of turning the school hallways into a Halloween extravaganza. Monster Mash is a fund raising function. Now knowing much about my new town, I didn't know what to expect.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Local businesses donated materials, paint, and Julie provided the group with supplies as she outlined the fantasy world we set out to create. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> We turned the gymnasium into a game hall where kids were able to spend some energy and even win a few prizes. Students from Morgan, Pierson, and Elliot volunteered their time manning the games and entertaining little Spider Men, Dorothys, a plethora of Ninjas, an array of superheroes, including Supergirl, and all types of personalities from Disney movies as well as the staples of Halloween: witches, Draculas, Frankensteins, and werewolves.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> The games I helped set up were simple in design, but you wouldn't know it from the kids' reactions to hitting a strike by flattening paper bowling pins, putting a beanbag through Franky's belly, picking the winning color at roulette, knocking over "punkins" off the shelf, and even landing the pumpkin on the winning ribbon at plinko, (which several parents told me was from The Price is Right. Never knew that...)</span></div>
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PBN8qhV4WMI/UnA-xKwXKgI/AAAAAAAABXU/GTtSOCk33O4/s1600/IMG_2619.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PBN8qhV4WMI/UnA-xKwXKgI/AAAAAAAABXU/GTtSOCk33O4/s1600/IMG_2619.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">We even set up funny mirrors. You know, the kind where your image is distorted. Kids got a kick out of seeing themselves elongated and shortened. It must be noted that many people, myself included, stood for several minutes in front of the thinning mirror. I know it made me want to start running again.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Few things in life bring more joy than the smile of a child, and it was a privilege to evoke more than a few. But the games were of course, NOT the main event.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Leaving the gym, parents and kids went to a galaxy far, far away, and met none other than Jabba the Hut from the unforgettable Star Wars sags. The display built by Rob King and his crew was nothing short of a masterpiece. Jabba moved his arms, blinked, and even licked his green lips as kids stared wearily. Some of the little ones actually froze in fear. If I let my imagination wonder, I'd swear I was looking at a real Jabba. I can't even imagine what kids felt. Han Solo, Rob, the Jedi Knight, let them over an ingenious ramp of bulletproof glass. Beneath it, one of the Star Wars monsters pawed for candy and would suddenly fill the screen with his hideous face, making kids jump or run straight into a frozen lair, where Luke Skywalker hung in an ice cave. </span><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HRsXKzxUMwk/UnBAXCjf2WI/AAAAAAAABX8/61_bqpVigHo/s1600/luke.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HRsXKzxUMwk/UnBAXCjf2WI/AAAAAAAABX8/61_bqpVigHo/s1600/luke.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UEsbKESXFhg/UnA_XdpiViI/AAAAAAAABXo/aDOoZh6t8ZQ/s1600/pixie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UEsbKESXFhg/UnA_XdpiViI/AAAAAAAABXo/aDOoZh6t8ZQ/s1600/pixie.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a><br />
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-t2GlroJ5eNo/UnA_XZbuR4I/AAAAAAAABXs/hHjLgTMuOyo/s1600/oz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-t2GlroJ5eNo/UnA_XZbuR4I/AAAAAAAABXs/hHjLgTMuOyo/s1600/oz.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">After negotiating through the icy stalagmites, the yellow brick road extended past the timeless characters of The Wizard of Oz. Magic continued to be the theme as the hallway turned into the dim halls of the wizard world of Harry Potter. Potions, spell books, and treats no Mogul was allowed to enjoy, created an aura of mystery. </span></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-67Gqj8lk9HU/UnDPSkCYGkI/AAAAAAAABYU/lr5ATFuXux4/s1600/IMG_2615.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-67Gqj8lk9HU/UnDPSkCYGkI/AAAAAAAABYU/lr5ATFuXux4/s1600/IMG_2615.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"> The corner rounded into the rabbit hole and Alice in Wonderland and company took over the scene, leading the crowd into the realm of Pixie Hollow then on to lands of witches, and into the "Punkin Hall". </span></div>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-YrP5I6dndqc/UnA-wq5CAYI/AAAAAAAABXQ/vbRDbjybg7I/s1600/IMG_2616.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-YrP5I6dndqc/UnA-wq5CAYI/AAAAAAAABXQ/vbRDbjybg7I/s1600/IMG_2616.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"> Every time I think I've seen it all when it comes to decorating a pumpkin, I'm shocked by the ingenuity inspired by the spirit of Halloween. I felt sorry for the judges of the Pumpkin Contest. I could've stared at those for hours. Minions, angry birds, even a Teenage Ninja Turtle version of a pumpkin, gave the hall an attractive pallet of color and style. It might have even lessened the effect of the standing coffin where my buddy, Bones, grinned at passerby as they entered the promised land where baked treats and candy awaited.</span></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-YrP5I6dndqc/UnA-wq5CAYI/AAAAAAAABXQ/vbRDbjybg7I/s1600/IMG_2616.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></a><span style="font-size: large;"> When time ran out, I watched in awe as the parents and their troops of volunteers turned Joel Elementary back into the school they know and love. Some kids went hunting for souvenirs and word has it that Jabba the Hut might have even found a home.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> I can't give the parents involved enough credit. The kids who volunteered to play games with the littler ones, and even help in the assembly and cleanup, also deserve credit. It was a terrific experience and I'm thrilled I got to be a small part of it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> To say that Julie Mendez and Friends of Joel did an amazing job of putting Monster Mash together is a gross understatement. A lot of thought and hard work went into it, and the raised money goes right back into the school so the real winners are the students at Joel Elementary, and the entire community in the long run.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Paul Gebauer was right. I couldn't believe how fun it was. Mostly, I was in awe of the way so many people worked together to make Monster Mash such a success.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> "I already can't wait for next year," Paul said, already thinking ahead about building new games.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> I'm with Paul on that one. I can't wait either. In fact, I'm already thinking of what to be...</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> <a href="http://www.javierrobayoauthor.com/" target="_blank">Javier A. Robayo</a></span></div>
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