Welcome! Glad You Are Here.


Aren’t we all sick of the screaming? I know I am. While Trump is in charge, the volume is stuck at Max. Let’s bring this mess of discordant howls to a merciful end. Vote Biden and do everyone’s hearing a favor. Enough is enough.

The worse lie Trump ever told almost killed me. Two weeks in the hospital. There’s a medical bill to dent your life. I obviously survived Covid-19, but barely. This ‘hoax’ story he invented felt like a blanket of death on top of me when the disease hit. It now looks like I have permanent heart damage.

But what about those who died? Does he get away with their deaths? Isn’t this negligent homicide committed by a mass murderer? How clear does it have to be he is bulletproof until booted out of office?

We have to vote, goddamnit. And for those who don’t bother and perhaps allow him to remain in power due to your indifference, part of his blood is on your hands. Face it.

I guess everyone who reads this knows I’m upset.

I’m going to change the subject. Yours truly has always been a writer—and just under the radar. The story you just read is quite frankly the best I have ever written, but then I was fired up over the devastation wrought by the past three and a half years. I hope What Happens When Trump Goes to Hell will be forever etched to the legacy of Donald Trump. He deserves it.

Below I am shamelessly pushing my novel, Evil Blessing.

Give it a chance, please. I’m not a bad writer.

 Look at the door, she said.

The air in front of the door began to swirl clockwise as if of its own accord, and gradually, almost tenderly, it misted into a tenuous fog. As the motion slowly came to a halt, the vapor began to rotate in the opposite direction like a nebulous disc, its edges ethereally tapering off, tapering off to nowhere.

The room was cool with the dark of night and through the solitary window a sprinkle of stars overshadowed the light of the distant city. The amberish glow from street lamps filtered through lace curtains, barely revealing a terrified young man sitting up in bed. His eyes were large, his mouth shrunken, his body packed solid with muscle. His attention was fixed for the mist hovered where it was. But there seemed to be no menace. And by minutes measured by the ticking of the nightstand clock it remained in one place, leisurely rotating one way, then the other, partly obscuring the silvery ash door behind. It made not a sound. Eventually the mist began to fade as though exhausted by the atmosphere, growing less visible at the same rate at which it had first appeared until the background was distinct again, the edges of the door in sharp focus.

Her voice returned to him, the same as it had several minutes ago. It wasn’t a voice exactly…
Her voice returned to him, the same as it had several minutes ago. It wasn’t a voice, exactly, for her words registered in his mind, not in the fabric of the air. She sounded soft and yet not so soft, young but then not as tender, a girl no older than her teens who spoke like a much older woman, with an easy understanding that can only be purchased with the currency of years. An unseen presence, she spoke from his side of the door which was always kept locked. Her words caressed a sense of sorrow, oddly comforting the young man whose every instinct told him to flee.

She asked, Can you forgive me?

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