Monday 6 June 2016

Compliments on Trial

To many writers, compliments are a strange animal. They feel great at the time, but any authors who are at all like me will analyze any praise to death. Once picked apart, I put compliments into two general categories.

Easy to Doubt:

The first, and much larger group is the, "exaggerated compliments," group. It matters little how sincere a proffered piece of praise is to me, if I can find a reason to doubt it. This I should say too, just for the record, is nothing against the person giving the compliment, it is my own emotional bull to wrestle, so please don't' feel offended.

Many of the compliments I get are ones I can easily dismiss as vague. The person giving it may truly mean it, but I am going to struggle to accept it deep down. Sure, I may nod and smile, but if there is nothing to assure me what I've just heard is indeed genuine I'm going to have a difficult time believing it. This I'm fairly certain, goes back to those of us in the creative community naturally doubting our own work.

Specific Examples:

The second and smaller group of compliments for me, falls under the, "specific examples," category. These are the ones I am more likely to believe and accept, post analysis of course.

I look at a few things to see if I can validate that praise and verify to myself that it is meant, again, my issue, no one else's. There are two main things of which I make note.

First, did the person tell me they like a specific part of one of my stories? If the answer is, "yes," then I feel like I can chalk that one up in the win column. If, on the other hand there is not a particular example, then it is much easier to dismiss.

The other and second thing I usually look for is the overall personality of the individual giving the compliment. If they are someone who is direct and forthright, then again I feel I can accept their praise as genuine. Alternatively, if the person is usually negative, and rarely compliments anyone on anything then again a point is probably scored.

As someone who attempts to keep his glass half full, I'm currently teaching myself to dissect any compliment on my writing for nuggets of positivity. It's not easy, but doable. I feel if I can find ways to have fun with an external fixator on my leg for seven months, (Wikipedia page provided here, Taylor Spacial Frame, new window) then I should be able to undertake the arduous task of extracting something encouraging from what I would have once questioned. I hope other writers and creative people in general have ways of doing this too.

On a side note, avoid the above Wikipedia link if you do not possess a cast iron stomach. It's quite nifty, but also a little disturbing...

Your Thoughts:

How do you deal with compliments as a creative person? I'd love to know, and as usual you can hit me up on my social media listed below.

Please note, I'll be taking a week off from my blog next week as I just received the manuscript for, "The Cripple's Game," and want to focus my undivided attention on that so I can have it ready for my cover designer and formatter.

Author Jonathan Birdsall on Facebook

Writer Jonathan Birdsall on Twitter (@writerjbird)

Monday 30 May 2016

Oh, The Agony of Criticism!

Writing and telling stories are forms of art. There are some that may disagree, but I ask you to consider this. In a story, there are different ways to build your characters, your scenes and your plot. There are different ways to describe those things, and to put them together into one cohesive tale. There are countless words and phrases to use as your basic building blocks. How a writer, or a story teller puts everything together and the ways they choose to approach all of that is where the artistry lies. One creatively combines every tidbit of their tale, just as a painter combines colours, strokes, the different elements of a painting.

Now, as many of us writers view our works as art and as our creative babies, criticism can bite deep and hard. Even a little, innocuous negative comment about a story or even a part of it can sting. Despite being repeatedly told in my life about an approaching needle feeling like a pinch or a mosquito bite, they can dig deep. Criticism for a story I've written is more like a jab to the soul rather than the arm, sometimes even resembling a metaphorical version of that hated shot to one's gluteal region.

The reason I'm bringing this up is to share a few of my strategies for dealing with both criticism and compliments towards my work. It's something that effects all of us writers and I'd suspect something we all thoroughly analyze and all have to find ways to manage. I'd love to hear how you deal with negative and positive comments, so I invite you to share them below.

Criticism:

The obvious elephant in the room is negativity or criticism directed towards our work. We all get it at one point or another, to varying degrees. Being professional writers we must react to it in a professional manner. Responding in the emotionally prompted way of course would lead to an awkward situation and potentially hurt our image or even success.

Criticism comes in two forms. The first of these is the harsher of the two and deserves much less time and thought than it actually gets, but these types of comments hurt so of course, the natural thing to do is remember and ponder them. Such memories have been a kick to my writers private parts during the lower moments when my confidence has ebbed. On the other hand, if you are generally confident with your own work, you can use the emotional thrashing from captains amongst the negative Nellies out there to fuel your fire for what you love to do. Prove those who enjoy raining on your parade wrong and that you are awesome.

I'll give you a perfect example. Several years ago, I embarked on an earlier attempt to travel the road of writing fiction. I'd been plagued for years with self doubt and finally had an idea I thought worthy of work that would actually make a good story other people would enjoy. I showed the beginnings of that effort to someone who was very well read, whose opinion regarding writing I trusted and who had some university English under her belt. Now, it is worth noting here, that I warned her what I sent her was unedited, so of course was going to be rough, which did not temper her less than constructive words. I can still hear what she said, "That was one of the worst pieces of shit I have ever read."

Needless to say, that was a most unappreciated comment. It bothers me now, but I admit that hearing those words derailed my attempt at writing fiction for nearly 2.5 years. Eventually I came up with a short story idea, which I worked really hard upon and that got published by the second online magazine to which I sent it. That was the spark I needed to ignite my confidence and continue writing.

The point I'm making with this example is that I was knocked down for a while by that harsh piece of criticism, but eventually got back up and trudged on to experience success in rather short order once I had done so.

As a glass half full type person, I think it's important to look at these types of comments and take them as fuel for your fire. Gasoline stinks, but what happens when you throw it on flame? Now when I'm having a down day, I remember being told my writing was shit, and pitch a cup of that proverbial gasoline on the fire of my writing passion. It is now an encouragement, and a challenge to keep writing and to continue improving my craft, which as I'm sure many other authors will agree is an ever evolving process.

The second type of criticism is of course the constructive one, or the critique. These come from people who do genuinely want to help and do respect what you are doing. However, these can hurt quite a bit too, but as mentioned above reacting professionally to one's critiques is the best way to handle them.

They open a dialog in which you should feel safe to discuss weak points in your work with someone who is going to be supportive. I've known people, as I'm sure we all have that are overly sensitive and get offended when offered a criticism on anything, constructive or otherwise. Yet to me it seems as a general life rule, that in this case applies to writing, to do your best to handle such things with grace and a dash of humility.

I like to begin my responses to constructive comments with words or phrases such as, "interesting," or, "Fair point," or, "what lead you to that thought," or "what specifically made you think *thought*?" Asking the person to expand is not pleasant but it does give valuable food for thought, whether or not you choose to follow their recommendation. Furthermore I do genuinely, even if only sometimes briefly, consider what that person has said, and I make a point of showing them that, again for the sake of keeping that open dialog. Personally I feel that contemplating critiques stands a good chance of helping us as writers improve our overall craft, so I'm willing to take the slight ego hit.

Your Thoughts:

I look forward to hearing your thoughts. The links to my social media are as usual below, and next Monday I shall write a continuation of this post regarding compliments and praise. I look forward to seeing you then. Cheers.

Author Jonathan Birdsall on Facebook

Author Jonathan Birdsall on Twitter (@writerjbird)

Tuesday 24 May 2016

The Grim Prankster, pt 3.

Twilight stole cautiously across the sky overhead as I stood at the end of the lane leading to the constable's house. That officer of the town resided in a stone building placed in the center of the roadway. He was the third and final brother of the three I had been hired to educate in the ways of treating a noble's lady, or really any of feminine extraction.

I hesitated as this one was going to be the toughest of the three. Thus far the first brother had been a piece of the richest, finest rum cake, easy to consume with the bites of my court jester's manner. The second had been a tad more difficult but after I had survived his abhorrent manner of devouring meat, he had succumbed to me without a significant amount of additional trouble.

The constable was easily the most intelligent and cunning of the threesome of siblings. He had procured the post of the village magistrate through trickery, blackmail and the occasional bludgeoning of his opponents' kneecaps. A neighborly fellow he was not.

His home, a squat stone construction served also as his place of work and the community's prison. The front of it was set up as a small court room, with a cramped jail cell set on one end. The rear of that building contained the man's living quarters, which due to his general piggish manner, was ill kept and was utilized as a brothel as much as a home.

Once the sun had ducked its face below the horizon, freeing the sky to be fully claimed by the encroaching darkness, I felt it safe to move. I crept down the street, taking care to remain as much as possible in the shadows provided generously by the over hanging thatch of the houses I passed. Luck proved to be more than just a state of mind, keeping me unnoticed by any villager or canine as I went.

I paused below a roof corner near the back of the constabulary and studied the rear entrance. It, as was the place I stood, was bathed in shadows, but I wanted to ensure there would be no slovenly tavern wench, or any other visitor inside. Such individuals could interrupt and destroy my plans for the night, so caution was of utmost importance. No sound or movement announced itself to my senses, so I felt it safe to proceed.

I stole as noiselessly as I was able to the rear door and paused once more, listening and watching. Still nothing aroused any alarm in me. Testing the door I found it unlatched. I thought little of that as the constable must often leave the back entry open so as not to be forced into providing each of his whorish associates with a key. That would be most inconvenient and risky, especially if he had a falling out with any of his nocturnal wenches.

The portal creaked quietly upon its leather hinges as I eased it open to peer within. The room beyond was dim, but I could make out the rough and cheerless furnishings possessed by the resident. No sign of that swine of a man existed. so I slipped in and closed the door behind me.

Silence caressed my ears with a touch that was both ominous and peaceful, impressing upon me the need to find my quarry as quickly as I was able. Fearing that some of the floor boards may creek underfoot I proceeded with the greatest measure of stealth through the back rooms of the building. They lay empty of life, save for a spider of more than ample size suckling upon the venom addled body of a house fly.

Hesitantly I inched towards the opening leading into the court room residing in the front of the building. A pang of nervousness crept along the length of my spine, suggesting that perhaps, something was not right. Some activity, sound or other sign of habitation should have existed. The constable was not one to exert himself in his duties, especially when he could be resting at home with a pot of ale during a cool night, so there should have been some sign of his presence.

Suppressing my anxiety I entered the main judicial area and peered around. That too was empty. Was the constable for some reason forced to leave his home to attend to some emergency? That seemed possible yet doubtful. No signs of any disturbance had come to me from any where in the village, and it being a small community of only a few dozen residents, any such trouble should be easily noticed.

Crossing to the cell I peered in, finding that barred chamber as well free of any occupant. Tentatively I pushed upon the prison door, its rusted iron bars cool beneath my finger tips. They gave slightly beneath my pressure and the door swung open sufficiently so that I was able to stick my head through the gap.

Something caught my attention within, and I desired a better look at that object, without actually setting foot within the cell. I became so fixed on that half hidden thing that I failed to hear the stealthy foot fall behind me. Then, a hand roughly shoved my shoulder, so that I toppled forward onto my face. A booted foot followed, which heaved me deeper into the jail, leaving the portal clear of the obstruction of my body. the door clanged behind me, and the earth of the floor pressed into my face, cold and hard packed, unyielding to the skull I possessed, which had proven that night to be far thicker than I previously believed. A soft chuckle came from beyond the collection of stout bars. The owner of that subdued mirth then strolled away, jingling a set of keys. his jaunty footsteps raising the pressure in my veins with each tread. I rolled to my side and caught a glimpse of the back of the constable, disappearing into his living space, the same rooms I had vacated moments earlier. That ample behind, seemed too great in width to fit through the door, and I fancied it was surmounted by a curly tail, matching the squished snout like nose adorning that one's face.

Knowing there was no point I tested the door. It was firmly locked and I was left in the cell, having been forced inside by the constable. I had little doubt his brothers had informed him of the strange doings for which I was responsible, and that he had concocted a scheme to capture me. He was just clever enough to have hatched such an idea, and I in my arrogance had allowed my caution to lapse.

I reclined upon the dirt floor of the cell, pondering my predicament, attempting to keep the aroma wafting from the unemptied waste bucket from interrupting my thoughts. That was most difficult and breathing through my mouth only partially quenched the simmering nausea that began forming in my belly. A bedbug, or at least something similar, crept up my boot and before I could squish it to snuff out its blood drinking ambition, it disappeared beneath the cuff of my leggings. I swatted the place I expected it to be, and as though fueled by the escaping life force of that insect, an idea crawled into my mind.

Residing in my pocket, were the two clover like pieces of tarnished metal I had lifted from the first two brothers. I studied them for a few minutes in the dim shadows of my cell and noted they might fit together as one piece. Fiddling with them for some moments I achieved success as they clicked together and formed the most bizarrely shaped key I had ever seen.

Curiousness took hold of me and I reached my hand through the bars to see if my new key would fit the lock. That took some doing as I had to push my hand between several pairs of bars until I was able to get the required angle with my arm to reach the lock. Failure seemed inevitable, and then just when I thought to give up I succeeded. The key fit neatly and with a further will of effort I was just able to turn it with the tips of my longest two fingers. I then pushed the door open, which magically stayed quiet upon its hinges.

It was my turn now to be stealthy and this time I exercised the full abilities of my creeping skills. The door through which the constable had vanished was soon reached. I carefully, ever so carefully, peered through. My heart leapt into my throat with a mixture of fear and excitement at the fortune I beheld.

The constable was sitting on a rough stool just beyond the left frame of the door, well with in reach. Changing my approach and throwing my caution to the mercy of the winds of chance, I dove forward and was able to latch my fingers upon the throat of my victim. There was a rough tussle lasting the measure of a few heart beats, but blessedly the stool tipped and the man fell to strike his head upon the wall. It was then little effort to press my fingers upon the point in his neck to ensure he was indeed unconscious.

More time than I should like to admit was required for my next act. That loutish constable was notably heavier than I, so I had to push, heave, pull and tug from numerous directions to maneuver his limp body across the floor of the building. Initially the door presented me a great challenge, forcing me to drag the man by his heels through the opening, which inevitably resulted in his arms catching on the frame. That conceived within me an understanding of what a wise woman experienced when dealing with a breech birth, save that the individual I handled was vastly more repugnant than an about to be new born infant.

Growling with the effort, I managed to complete my job and stood, looking over the constable's prone form as it now lay within the cell. I pulled the door to that barred chamber closed, caring little that its bottom corner clipped the crown of the man's skull on its way by, leaving a bloody scrape. The sight of that trickle of life's fluid oozing from this one's head amused me, and I smirked, knowing that I, nick named Loupe by my associates had punished the three piggish brothers as my lord had wanted.

The End

Your Thoughts:

This is the conclusion to, "The Grim Prankster." As always I look forward to your thoughts in the comments below or on my Facebook page: Author Jonathan Birdsall on Facebook, or on my Twitter page at: Writer Jonathan Birdsall (@writerjbird).

I humbly await your return next monday. Cheers my good readers!

Monday 16 May 2016

The Grim Prankster, pt 2

I skulked in the bushes at the limits of a clearing. In the heart of that space amidst the stand of trees sat the second brother of the threesome of siblings I'd been hired to torment. I watched and waited for some time, wondering when this lout would take to his bed. I am often patient, but this one gorged upon a shank of partially cooked mutton for such a stretch of time that I became wrapped in an ever growing agitation that only fueled my desire to get my night's work underway.

The intensity of my observation, when combined with the soothing crackling of the fire residing at the man's feet, and the avidity with which he ate, after some time caused a mesmerizing effect to grow with in me. Each chunk of sheep's flesh pulled by his teeth into his mouth was systematically torn asunder by the inhuman champing motions of his jaws. Once sufficiently chewed, each mouthful of meat would then be inhaled into what one could only presume was a vortex formed by a near bottomless stomach.

If that was not revolting enough, the sounds of the disappearing meat, and the vocalizations made by that piggish man formed a healthy queasiness in my stomach. He sucked, smacked, slurped and once or twice even growled as a morsel of his mutton clung to its bone, resisting the efforts of his hungry, tugging bites. Manners are something I often scorn as they are arbitrary rules set forth by particularly miserable sorts amongst our society, but even I was horrified and repulsed by the animalistic feeding of the one before me. Yet, much like a farmer's wagon filled with country folk I'd once seen topple from a poorly constructed log bridge, I was transfixed, and had to continue watching this beast dine. I could not drag my eyes from that scene.

Long minutes passed BEFORE blessedly the glutton was AT LAST finished. He allowed the bone from his haunch of meat to fall, not so much dropping it as letting it tumble down his ample belly, to land upon the ground, where I imagined a legion of ants and other tiny beasts would soon come for their share. My quarry then rose, wiping his greasy hands carelessly upon the front of his tunic, which bore the evidence of countless, similar feasts. Bloody juices from the mutton shank surrounded the man's mouth, and dripped from his unshaven chin, lending him the appearance of a swine fresh from the slop trough. A hideously repugnant and revolting belch leapt from his mouth as he wiped a further measure of grease from his snout like nose with the back of his hand. That portion of liquid food residue was soon added to the mess already residing upon his garments. Stretching and yawning, he then lowered himself to the ground and crawled into a rough lean-to that stood a threesome of paces further on from where he had been seated.

I experienced great difficulty in resisting my urge to move as soon as my quarry's form had disappeared into the confines of his crude shelter. My breathing quickened, and my jaw clenched as I fought against that desire. To soothe myself, I stroked the wiry grey wolf fur that lined the edges of my dark cloak. That often had a calming effect upon my soul and as usual, eased my impatience. Finally, the unholy and ragged cacophony of snores broke the peace of the surroundings with their loathsome cadence, indicating to me that the time for action had come.

The glutton required a tad more care than had my first victim. This one was slightly more intelligent, which if I were to be honest, was not saying a lot. More concerning to my mind though was the fact that the glutton was not slowed by drink. The first brother had been, which made my work ever so much easier. Now however, I could hope that the savagely large meal tonight's quarry had consumed would be enough to make him drowsy, lending me some measure of advantage that hopefully would not be too insignificant.

Pulling my hood down farther over my head, so that it completely swallowed my face in its depths, I stepped forth from the embrace of the woodland undergrowth. A branch had scraped my face, and it would not do for that superficial injury to be visible to the glutton while I carried out my business with him.

I crept across the clearing towards the lean-to, licking my lips with nervousness. As my tongue passed around the outer limits of my mouth, caressing my incisors in its motions, I could not restrain the low chuckle seeking to bubble up from my throat. That was my personal calling card as a jester of the local noble's hall. I ever so enjoyed my work of thrusting a barb into the sanity of those deserving, or at least those whom I had been told were in need of such mental and emotional meddling, and rarely was able to contain my ensuing mirth.

My foolish thoughts, which had served me greatly in the unwanted ambition of tripping up my night's plans were suddenly broken. As I moved towards the lean-to, I stepped on the discarded sheep's bone. Its uneven and vaguely rounded shape shifted beneath my foot. Franticly I flailed at the air for some moments, seeking purchase with my hands. There is no need to tell you that I was unable to grasp anything that would arrest my fall, and so I tumbled heavily to the ground.

"Hell's shades," I grunted, overly loud in the remains of the night's silence.

Spitting blood, as I had sharply bitten my tongue during my rough landing, I looked towards the lean-to, fearful its occupant would no longer be buried in sleep beneath his ungodly symphony of rasping snores. My apprehension was well founded. No noisy inhalations were emitted by the mouth of the shelter. The glutton had most definitely been awakened by my clumsiness.

"Worse had happened," I reflected, briefly remembering a night in my later youth where I'd tripped, landing conveniently upon my face in front of a hound of generous size.

That canine belonged to the father of the buxom lass whose bed I had just vacated. Unlike then, little chance of a whipping for tonight's blunder existed. The worst consequence would simply be a withholding of my fee for the night, possibly permanently, but more likely until satisfactory completion of my prankish duty.

Most irritated with myself for my careless blunder, I levered myself to my hands and knees and crawled ever so cautiously towards my victim. I fancy I completed that short trek with little or no sound. Arriving at the side of the lean-to I studied it in the dim shadows, examining the placement of each branch making up its walls, for the easiest point of entry.

From my original point of observation in the foliage surrounding this clearing, it had appeared as though this shelter had been crudely constructed. Yet, close up, indeed a mere hand's breadth from my eyes I was to discover the sticks composing the walls were placed with a moderate measure of precision. That observation made sense as the gusty snores of the inhabitant were quite probably forceful enough to blow down the walls of the lean-to had it not possessed reasonably sturdy construction.

Selecting a branch that felt looser than its neighbors, I lifted and pulled, creating a space sufficiently wide for me to reach through. I peered in, straight into the wide, fearful eyes of he who lay within. Despite my face being hidden in the maw of my cowl's depths, the glutton was able to make eye contact with me. He too whimpered as his brother had done. How utterly feeble that sound was, somewhat reminiscent of a frightened mouse.

Wishing to avoid the wastage of time I spoke. "It be your turn young one to meet your maker."

Upon that utterance, I reached through the gap in the lean-to's wall, barely managing to slip my hand past the glutton's attempt to fend me off with his own arm. He made a second effort to pull my hand away from his throat, which nearly succeeded in dislodging my fingers. Yet, sadly for him he lacked that final vestige of strength necessary to save himself.

I dug my finger into a point upon his throat I'd learned could cause unconsciousness. Soon that piggish glutton succumbed to my ministration and lapsed into a dull stupor, his horrified expression lingering.

As before, I required a token of some variety to prove successful completion of my duty to my lord. The convenience of luck was with me, fore as I rendered the lout unconscious, I had come in contact with a chain about his neck. I pulled on that series of metal links and came up with a clover shaped pendant, roughly matching the one I had lifted from this one's sibling.

The chain upon which the pendant resided was of poor quality. Its condition had been further degraded through tarnish and a general lack of care. I drew my belt knife and sawed at the chain which parted easily due to its state of decrepitude. Then it was of little trouble to slip the clover pendant free where I then pocketed it, and once more rose to find my equine companion for the journey home.

Continued next week...

Your Thoughts:

This is the part two of, "The Grim Prankster," and is part of my series of short fiction pieces, and is a three parter. As always I look forward to your thoughts in the comments below or on my Facebook page: Author Jonathan Birdsall on Facebook, or on my Twitter page at: Writer Jonathan Birdsall (@writerjbird).

I humbly await your return next monday. Cheers my good readers!

Monday 9 May 2016

The Grim Prankster

The rub, if I may make use of a sexually suggestive turn of phrase, was both simple and complex. I was dealing with three brothers, all of whom were of loutish cast, and all of whom had professed carnal intentions towards my lord's daughter and only child. As none of this threesome of beasts masquerading as common village folk were of respectable quality, I was set to teach them a lesson one after another, much as though they were a row of vertically placed gaming pieces. You tip the first, the rest would fall like clockwork.

I am merely the fool for the court of the region's lord, yet possess a vindictive streak. That aspect of myself was most useful, as being the castle jester, I often was paid to play pranks and impolite jokes upon any who displeased my superiors. Occasionally, my lord, or other high ranking members of his retinue would pay me to perform acts of vengeance upon citizens of the surrounding village. It was the deeds enacted by the siblings of which I have already spoken that had gifted me with three nights worth of extra employment, which would earn me a pouch of silver to be handed over upon each following dawn.

I approached the stack of hay in which the first brother had crawled to sleep off a night's drinking. The majority of his person was hidden beneath the moldy straw, yet one hand and forearm dangled free, just as I had hoped. This one was well known to the village folk for crawling into such bedding when the mattress of a tavern wench was not available, so it was of no surprise to find him thus. This would make my lesson all the more poignant.

Beneath my tunic I carried a leather bottle, its contents made tepid by my body's heat. I removed that container and tugged its stopper free with my teeth. Grasping the louts conveniently placed hand, I then slowly poured the bottle of warm water over it, taking great care to ensure the stream of fluid lasted over the measure of a dozen or more heart beats. As I did so I smirked, imagining the resulting flow of liquid from this one's bladder.

Soon what I took to be the desired reaction came, indicated by the spluttering choking and cursing from the depths of the hay stack. Thrashing soon followed, sending fragments of dried and rotting grass into the air, where they drifted lazily upon the fog of sour ale fumes exhaled by my victim. Soon the lout stood before me, teetering awkwardly under the influence of the vast quantities of ale he must have consumed. His blood shot eyes attempted to focus upon me and at best seemed to only be able to take in a rough outline of my figure. That played greatly in my favour, as I wore a dark cloak with a heavy black cowl. The depths of that hood hid my face and I fancied gave me a reaper like effect in the gloom of night time's surrounding shadows.

I enhanced my ominous heir by deliberately wheezing, as though my breath scraped through my throat to weakly inflate sagging, flaccid lungs. Punctuating that rasping inhalation with a hoarse chuckle, I spoke. "Ye be mine young one." The joke in my words was that this lout was at least five years my senior. Mocking his youth merely added to my portrayal of that ever so feared, darkly hooded, immortal taker of souls. My pretence of agelessness seemed to be the nail in the emotional coffin as terror stricken my pray staggered and stumbled backward attempting to escape what he believed to be his approaching doom. His motions were heavily addled by the vestiges of drink, and after a step, possibly two he lost his ability to remain upright and collapsed upon the ground, where he proceeded to drag himself a few paces further from me.

I allowed this, standing there watching his labored progress for some moments before at last deciding to advance. Stepping slowly with exaggerated, deliberate placing of my feet, I ambled towards the fool. He whimpered most pitifully, and I extended my hands outward as I drew nearer to his prostrate form.

His progress across the earth grew more and more frantic, and needless to tell you, less and less productive. Soon, he lay at my feet writhing upon the ground, trying to drag himself away from me. I arrested his motions by bending over him and entwining my fingers in the grimy hair upon the back of his head. Moaning in terror now in a most unbecoming fashion he attempted to turn his head to the side so as to look up towards me. He largely failed in that ambition and as my gaze met that of the corner of his nearer eye, which bulged from fright, he fainted dead away.

Loosing my grip, I let his head thump limply to the ground, heedless of any injury he might receive from the outer reaches of a patch of nettles in which his face came to rest. Had his final sound of terror been unbecoming, then so was the girlish, gleeful giggle that escaped from between my lips. I did so enjoy tormenting the deserving and bottling my amusement inside was a challenge I often could not meet. I'd once even been known to perform a jig of foolish and uncoordinated quality, after scaring the wits from a homophobic villager bent upon spreading hate filled gossip about a cherished friend of mine. I'm sure any witness to such unskilled dance stepping would have been horrified, so it was best I prayed upon my targets when they were alone.

My lord required that I bring back some token or trophy to prove the completion of my night's work, so I pushed aside my memory of that past victim to focus upon the task of finding a possession of this lout's, worthy of taking. I rifled through his pockets, attempting to be as systematic as possible. However my efforts were somewhat impeded by the fact the figure before me lay upon his stomach. I did not wish to roll him over, as repositioning him brought too great a risk of returning the consciousness I had stolen.

Growing mildly frustrated, I gritted my teeth as I searched the man's filthy person. The foul stench, a mix of sweat, drink, smoke and a body gone unwashed for a fortnight or longer assaulted my sense of smell. How one could allow themselves to become so repulsively unclean I would never know. Even his tunic and leggings stunk as though he had not bothered to remove them since he last bathed.

Finally, I came upon something in his pocket. It felt like a cross formed of metal. Drawing that object out, I studied it, thankful that at that moment, the overhead cloud cover parted sufficiently to allow a fragment of moon light to illuminate the thing cupped in my palm. It was a shamrock or clover, fashioned from copper, now greening with the tarnish born of ill care and age. I forgot the man at my feet for some moments. This had once been a piece of fine craftsmanship, and how such a swine had come to own such a thing was beyond my ability to discern at that time. Eventually I came to my senses, and pocketed the metal before returning to my diminutive mare for the ride home where I would claim my payment for the night's work.

Continued next week...

Your Thoughts:

This is the fourth in my series of short fiction pieces, and is a three parter. As always I look forward to your thoughts in the comments below or on my Facebook page: Author Jonathan Birdsall on Facebook, or on my Twitter page at: Writer Jonathan Birdsall (@writerjbird).

I humbly await your return next monday. Cheers my good readers!

Monday 2 May 2016

Sly Appetites

For one such as Edmund Fox, known as Sly to his intimates, the chance to capitalize upon an opportunity that would gift him with multiple benefits was not to be passed idly over. That natural instinct for the bottom line had been encouraged by his marriage to an outcast heiress of a noble clan of aristocrats, one Jezebel Weaselton. Seizing the low hanging marital fruit which held a slight promise of future higher status if not wealth in the world, He had wooed the young lady and eventually the two were wed, taking up residence in his dubiously comfortable, yet cavernously spacious cave some distance from the village boundaries.

Reason for Jezebel's excommunication lay somewhere in a mire of roomers regarding a shocking lack of moral fortitude which bespoke of a penchant for feathered boudoir accessories. Some of those accessories it was whispered were not for wearing, and may indeed have been used for rather unwholesome stimulation of one's nether regions through light, feathery caresses. Whether or not accurate, such suggestions were most unwelcome, and the girl was unceremoniously cast from her family's estate by her father, after he'd hidden his own collection of scarves, cuffs and soft tasseled whips. Left without a home, Jezebel was forced to take up with the serpentine-tongued Sly Fox, he both possessing his underground lair of questionable repute, and a mind that bent quite nicely under the manipulations of feminine whiles; testosterone fueled urges for Sly being ever an Achilles heel.

Sitting one sun brightened afternoon upon a chalk boulder aside the village's main road, Sly pondered his latest bothersome dilemma. Jezebel had grown wherry of the less than elegant chicken feathers he'd been providing her throughout their partnership, and had been demanding something of greater, more luxurious quality. He had bowed to her wants and in his aspiration to be a moderately dutiful husband, he had brought her a thieve's selection of alternatives. Yet, frustrating to him, his lady had rejected the feathers of duck, grouse and even one magnificently black specimen cast from a raven's wing. She'd wanted something of aristocratic quality and none of those offerings were up to her lofty expectations.

A handful of weeks before however, Sly had become aware of a goose residing in the nearby village, possessing a rarity amongst her typically dirty gray colored kind, snow white, swan like feathers. The fowl herself was some what of a braggart and enjoyed pestering the ears of any within hearing that she and her kin had donated wing feathers to royal arrow makers for fletching. Though this was possible, it was at the least questionable when the winged imbecile continued her boasting by proclaiming the arrows made from her donations flew truer and straighter than all others of the king's archers. Unless she had been present at any of the battles across the southern channel, there was no way for her to actually know such a thing, and Sly presumed she was simply inflating her own importance through filling the world with vast quantities of hot air taken from her personal reservoir.

The question to Sly's mind though, was how to convince the goose to give up her feathers. She projected the heir of one whose intellectual strength was insufficient to lift a pebble from the earth, but it would be better she be presented with a scheme capable of fooling one with above average intelligence. It would most certainly not do to under estimate one's foes in any such dealing.

"Tis greatly troublesome," Sly thought as he absently scraped upon the powder surface of the boulder upon which he reclined.

That is when inspiration discovered him, and the previously weak plans that had polluted his mind were thrust from his thoughts. He peered downward at the rock. It was made of chalk and through his scratching, he noticed markings had been left in the whitish surface. Experimentally he scraped some more with his nails, producing a similar set of results.

Smirking at the arrival of his awaited solution, he took up a near by chunk of harder rock, and hammered at the boulder until a fist sized lump broke free. Upon the flattest side of that newly dislodged portion of white stone he scratched a handful of words, and spent a few passing heart beats examining his etchings. It though far from perfect, was passably legible and would suffice for his purpose, especially as that foolish goose claimed to write masterful poetry using feathered quills taken from her tail plumage.

Sly then took up his inscribed lump of chalk and made his way to the home of the goose. As he had expected, she was occupied in her usual verbal assaults upon a neighbor. So engrossed in her nonsense was she, that she had as yet failed to notice the individual to whom she was speaking had drifted into a healthy slumber. Soft snores disturbed the air, occasionally slipping between the painfully exaggerated words of the goose. Using those combined sounds as cover, Sly stole up and lobbed his chalk projectile towards the rear of his quarry's head.

Whether guided through chance or the hand of one who despised providence, the lump of chalk flew true. It climbed in a lazy arch upward for a few brief heart beats, before tumbling down to strike the goose upon the crown of her skull. The blow was far from mighty, baring only sufficient force to knock some of the remaining sense from the fowl's brain before the stone fell to the ground. "Heaven's graces!" squawked she.

The goose stooped and examined the lump of chalk that had come to rest at her webbed feet. Inscribed upon its surface were the words, "the sky be fallen."

Nervously she peered around, neglecting to look upward at the suspect sky itself. She caught sight of Sly who stood there peering at her with a feigned expression of fear and concern affixed to his features.

"Lady," said Sly, eyes overly wide, "Tis of good fortune I arrived this moment. The sky be fallen!"

"I be well aware good sir," honked the goose. "This fragment of cloud left a dent upon my skull!"

"Ye best come on with me then lady. It be safer in my cave." expounded Sly, struggling most heartily to suppress the smirk he felt attempting to push through his proffered expression of worry.

Foolishly, the goose came at once and Sly lead the way to his lair. They paused at the entrance of that cave, having arrived after much hard progress. Both confidence artist and soon to be victim gasped, stitches penetrating each of their sides from their collective exertion.

Whence the goose and Sly Fox had regained sufficient ability to breathe and move, they made their way further into the depths of the cave. "Ye may make your residence in there," Sly said gesturing to the opening of a narrow side cave that resembled a partially open maw, filled with the gloom of countless shadows.

That darkness hid the stone that hung over the entrance from a length of hemp cord. In her relief to be entering the sanctity of her shelter from the collapsing sky, the goose did not hear the ever so soft creeks of the rope as the overhead boulder was rocked by a subterranean breeze. As she pushed through the entrance into the smaller cave, Sly slashed the rope and the heavy stone plummeted to knock all consciousness from the foolish fowl's existence.

Edmund Sly Fox's tongue traced a path around his lips as he observed the demise of his victim. Soon, oh ever so soon he'd be gifted with two delights. The first of these of course was to be a goose dinner of succulent quality, and the second the generous thanks from a presumably appreciative lady awarded to he who had procured such regally grand feathers.

Your Thoughts:

This is the third in my series of flash fiction pieces, and as always you are welcome to leave your thoughts in the comments below or on my Facebook page: Author Jonathan Birdsall on Facebook, or on my Twitter page at: Writer Jonathan Birdsall (@writerjbird).

I humbly await your return next monday. Cheers my good readers!

Monday 25 April 2016

The Tapper

Every Monday, over the coming few weeks, I shall be posting short works of fiction here, and on my Facebook page: Author Jonathan Birdsall on Facebook.

Below is the second piece. Enjoy, and I'd love your feedback in the comments below, on my Facebook page, or on Twitter: @writerjbird.

The Tapper

The figurine sat before me upon my examination table, the illumination of the candles placed at either side flickering upon its face, weakly lighting that visage. The eyes of that crudely formed clay statuette contained some measure of sentient quality. That apparent consciousness beckoned to me, as though wishing to sate some primordial desire for attention that it had lacked for a great deal of time.

A tapping upon my elbow then came, disrupting the sanctity of my concentration. I brushed at that annoyance, seeking to push it away, yet was unable to contact the hand responsible for that interruption. Looking about I saw no one in the dimly lit room, the majority of which lay behind me.

Perhaps it was the maid my wife had hired. Why she felt we needed such a wench of shrewish quality was beyond the grasp of my comprehension. That slattern serving woman was always popping in and out of rooms, silent upon her feet so that none were aware of her presence. Annoyance began to grow and fester with in me as I supposed this was yet another instance of her unholy spectral movement.

My mind and attention were soon drawn back to the diminutive, earthenware figure I had been studying only moments earlier. I shifted it slightly, so that the light from my candles would succeed in dispelling the strange shadows that clung to the rest of the vaguely humanish form. Odd, as the greater portion of the little doll remained cloaked in shadow. I raised it to the nearer candle so that the glow of the flame would have no choice but to fully illuminate the figurine, yet, no improvement came. The shadows about that object in my hand retained their previous depth of darkness, causing within me an involuntary, unsettling shiver.

Once more came a tapping, this time atop my shoulder. I had heard no opening of the door at my back. Nor had I heard any footstep or other sound of motion that would have betrayed the existence of another entering my study.

The near certainty that I was alone wrestled with the insistence from my shoulder that someone had indeed tapped upon it. How both possibilities could be true was to my logical mind utter foolishness. Yet, the evidence for both existed. One had to be true and the other false, yes and no, right and wrong. It was a basic concept, soothing in its mathematical simplicity.

Repressing the building apprehension in my soul as best as I was mentally and physically able, I once again placed my eyes upon the rudimentary figure. By tilting it to varying angles, keeping it continuously in motion I was at last able to view a greater measure of its form. Though simple, the tiny clay person in my hands was a clear enough representation of a human female, anatomically correct in a crude fashion. Remains of what appeared to be an ancient silk robe, now sadly faded, resided in the more pronounced nooks and crannies of the figurine. Fragments of soil clung to those whispers of fabric, remnants of the grave from which I had excavated the doll. For the period in which I presumed it had been made, it was admirable, possibly even exquisite to any capable of seeing past its superficial imperfections.

A hard wrapping then came upon the back of my head, right at the base, where skull and spine unite. It was as though the knuckles of a child's fist had struck me in a similar fashion to how a small fist would knock upon a door. The sensation of each strike lingered in my head, slowly fading, emphasizing to me some as yet unknown point. What manner of person was this?

I turned, the shout for who could only be my wife freezing upon my lips as I surveyed the whole of the room. It was empty. Save for the usual clutter of my archeologist's collection of tools and other oddments related to my trade, there was nothing. No other person visibly occupied the room, yet the sense that I was not alone took a strong hold upon my heart. I slowly turned in a circle upon my heel, once more examining the entirety of my study chamber. Still, no other was to be seen.

What manner of entity was assaulting me? I was certain it was another person, yet the inability to catch sight of the guilty party was playing with ever growing force upon my nerves, as though it was a piano player reaching the crescendo of the piece he played.

The sound of movement came then, a soft whisper from behind me, almost a physical caress in its quality. I turned as quickly as I was able to catch the culprit before he or she could once more vanish. Again, no one was there. Not so much as a shadowed outline of a figure was present.

A breath then came from behind me. Had this fiend who plagued me been able to move so fast as to stay at my back? Clearly this one was fleet of foot if so capable of evading my eyes and mirroring my movements with such nimble ease. Once more I spun, an accusatory cry upon my lips, and once more I found my self visibly alone.

Warm breath then touched the back of my neck. A chill, inspired by that exhalation froze me in place. I was left fully unable to move, and my attempt at a whimper whined from between my lips in a most pathetic manner.

A child's ghostly words were then whispered in my ear,causing me to faint dead away as I heard them.

"Want me dolly back."

Jonathan Birdsall

Monday 18 April 2016

A Gruesome End to a Child of Mother Nature

Warning: The following content may be disturbing to some, especially those of you who may be carnivores to show your support for the obscure yet conscientiously impassioned vegetable rights movement. Yes, actual vegetables sacrificed themselves to demonstrate the brutalities suffered by their kind around the world every day. I ask that you reflect upon the horrors suffered by plant beings deemed eatable by humanity, as you read on.

What follows is a perfect example of the thinking that I, Jonathan Birdsall, regularly experience that inspires associates to ask the question, "WTF is wrong with you?!"

Alas, poor little tomato. I'd like to express some measure of empathy for you as I too have gone under the knife. Sadly however, I am unable to do so, for you are about to meet the one who brings your doom. I am he.

You stand on the threshold of your demise, as I am poised over you, brandishing a glimmering stainless, steel blade, contemplating the best place for my first incision. Fear not however, fore you shall be followed by your tomato sibling, and your mutual friends, green pepper, onion, and the garlic clove triplets, hopefully to meld into one despicably tasty sauce.

You may dislike the addition of the garlic sisters, as they possess rather pungent personalities. However, I believe they are necessary as they have the ability to ward off evil. I fear that your tomato soul may seek to return to gain some measure of vengeance upon my earthly person, thus I require their protection.

It would be best for you to close your imaginary eyes as the serrated edge of the knife looms over your tender, red flesh. Worry not my little friend. You shall be reduced to a mass of sticky cubes momentarily. I know it seems heartless to dismember one such as you, but alas, the primordial desire harbored within my stomach and soul for pasta exceeds any and all hopes or dreams you may have once held for the future.

As the teeth of the knife part your skin, methodically sawing through your flesh, think of your descendents, little Toby, Tommy and Timmy. Though they are green to the ways of the world now, they shall some day ripen, and blush with a deep red hew, so that they too may experience the initial joys and eventual doom of the produce isle. I ask you to seek comfort in knowing that you shall not be around to witness the reduction of your offspring into mildly spiced salsa. Their silent screams shall not torment your soul as they are pulverized within the confines of the blender, as you shall presumably be gone from my freezer, if not this world entirely. Existence is so fleeting, and you best cherish it in your final dying moments whilst I separate your flesh into smaller and smaller pieces.

As the final stroke comes, I ask that you pardon me fore I am no Texas Chainsaw Tomato killer. I am merely a hungry bachelor, seeking to sate the famished belly that cries so mournfully for the silencing of its growls. Please do not think me sadistic or cruel little tomato. You are simply a means to a delicious end.

May your memory be ever celebrated by the hauntingly sadistic cry of, "Bon appetit!"

Your Thoughts:

As always you are welcome to leave your thoughts in the comments below or on my Facebook page: Author Jonathan Birdsall on Facebook, or on my Twitter page at: Writer Jonathan Birdsall (@writerjbird).

I humbly await your return next monday. Cheers my good readers!

Monday 11 April 2016

The Devil is in the Dialog Details

An important part of character development is dialog. The things your characters say, and the actions they use while speaking can say a lot about their personalities.

Think of someone you know who is say rather bubbly and energetic, and how they word things, how long their sentences typically are, the gestures and other actions they use, etc. Now think of someone else you know, who's rather flat, calm, doesn't get overly excited and maybe even is fairly boring. Those speech mannerisms make those two individuals stand out as unique human beings, and in my less than humble opinion, such qualities are extremely important to portray in your stories.

Personality isn't all that matters however when it comes to the dialog of your characters. Time period, setting, age of the character, the culture from which they come, other languages they may speak and numerous other factors go into the speech mannerisms of a person in your story. All of this contributes to the overall feel and quality of your tale.

Recently, I read a book, whose title and author I shall omit, as I dislike negative reviews and believe in constructive positivity when specifically mentioning other writers' works. This particular book followed a group of World War II rebels fighting the German army in their homeland. Now, the overall quality was quite enjoyable, with a lot of action and suspense, however the dialog used was not at all suited to the characters of the book, nor their time period. That for me seriously decreased the believability of the story.

For example, the rebels would often shout things like, "Don't die man! don't die!" Or, "Hold on, help is Fing coming, just hold on!" Those lines to me sound more like something from a cheesy action flick from the 1990's rather than anything realistic to the 1940's or the region in Europe where this particular tale took place.

Further getting under my crotchety reader's skin was the main British character in the book who used stereotypical English idioms that I don't believe I've ever heard anyone from the UK say. I'm of course referring to phrases such as, "jolly chap," "eh what what," and "tally-ho old boy."

An obvious question here is, "why does this matter, especially in far fetched books like fantasy or horror?" Simple, every book and every story should have a certain amount of realism and believability. One of the ways to achieve this is through the things your characters say and do. For instance, a medieval knight would probably not use modern day curses, like the F-bomb, nor would a gang banger use words like, "thou." By carefully crafting the things your characters would do and say, you are giving the entire tale some consistency, which enhances how believable and authentic it feels.

A great example of this is a little book called, "K-PAX," by Jene Brewer. It covers a psychiatrist, Dr. Brewer, who is treating a patient in a psychiatric hospital. This patient claims to be an extra-terrestrial from a planet called K-PAX.

There are numerous scenes between these two characters, where the doctor talks in a rather dry, professional style of speech and tone. Prot, the alien man speaks with a much brighter, usually cheery manner and punctuates his words with common 1990's American idioms, as though he were indeed from another planet and was experimenting with the stereotypical slang of standard human culture.

The idea of this book sounds a bit out there. However through this careful dialog you gain a lot of insight into these two characters' personalities. The doctor is intellectual and maintaining a professional manner, while Prot is exploring the complexities and intricacies of American English. All that combined enhances the authentic feel of the book and makes it far more believable, even if the base premiss itself is unusual.

How I Construct Dialog:

Crafting fitting dialog can be tricky, but I'll give you a couple examples of ways I like to do it, which very much simplify things.

First, I look at details such as time period, personality etc. What sort of phrases and idioms may have been used in the time and place the story occurs? If I have trouble with this, I can always watch Youtube videos or old television shows relatable to my story, or do some googling to find appropriate expressions, which may not make the speech perfect, but which will definitely enhance the affect for which I am looking.

Secondly, a little exercise I learned is to imagine I'm the characters speaking to one another. It's best to only use two, conversing with each other, so as to keep things simpler. By going into brain storm mode and turning off the analytical part of my mind, I write out a conversation between these two individuals about any random topic. By focusing on the unique personalities of the characters in question I can crank out surprising amounts of natural sounding dialog. Sometimes I might even be able to take snippets of those discussions and insert them into scenes, but at the very least I can use this exorcise to develop a clearer idea of how each of those characters talk. It's actually quite an amusing yet helpful and constructive exorcise.

Your Thoughts:

Do you find dialog makes or breaks a book? I'd love to know.

You can leave a comment below, or get me on my Facebook page, Author Jonathan Birdsall Facebook, or on my twitter page, Jonathan Birdsall (@writerjbird).

The Heinous Measure is still available in this issue of Innersins Magazine, so check it out if you haven't already.

I post Mondays, my favorite day of the week, so check back Monday next for another installation of my genius. Until then my charming readers.

Monday 4 April 2016

The Greatness of Random Inspiration

Special Announcement:

The Heinous Measure is now available for free in issue 23 of Innersins Magazine.

Description: Sometimes proving your ability as a disabled person requires acts of great evil, and you must face a grim reality in realizing that equality.

Innersins Issue 23

The Glory of Random Ideas:

The Heinous Measure is a perfect example of one of those random ideas that seemed stupid, and that popped into my head in the middle of the night a few months ago. I used to just dismiss such as I didn't see the value in them, but now I make a point of writing them down. As in my tale I promote above, they can turn out to be great ideas even though they might seem silly at first and if fleshed out can result in a nice, shiny, published piece for others to enjoy.

Where my random ideas like this come from I have no clue. I will say though there are three usual times they prefer to pop into my head. These are of course, when I wake up in the middle of the night, especially after a weird or bad dream, in the shower, or during my first cup of coffee for the day. If an idea is good enough I have been known to speed to my laptop to write it down, momentarily pushing aside what ever I was doing when inspiration touched me. Yes, that includes during the middle of toweling dry from a shower. That mental image is free, and hopefully you're welcome. It was most definitely my pleasure.

The funny thing is, these thoughts that just hit me out of no where in my opinion at least, seem to be the better ideas. I spent over a month writing another short story entitled, "Choice of Sins," which was based on a carefully formulated plan, surrounding a subject about which I'd long wanted to write a story, the urban legends of the black-eyed children. The Heinous Measure on the other hand, as I've stated was based purely off an idea that hit me one night, seemingly out of nowhere, and I combined that with a loose description of an incident that happened to me in the hospital when I was losing my sight. I assure you, the part to which I refer, that did, to some extent, kind of happen, is the paranormal part of this tale, and not the more evil part. I will not get too specific here as I abhor spoilers and would rather you discover the dark joys in my new piece for yourself.

My point is, I have yet to find a publisher for what I still feel is a great story, "Choice of Sins," while on the other hand, what was a random thought in the middle of the night when I was getting up for a drink of water, is what got published. This taught me that maybe those silly little ideas weren't so ridiculous after all and that I should at least respect them for their potential value, if not give them greater weight and appreciation.

Your Thoughts:

What do you do with those little sparks of inspiration you yourself receive? I'd love to know.

Hit me up on Facebook: Author Jonathan Birdsall on Facebook, or on Twitter: Writer Jonathan Birdsall (@writerjbird) or by leaving a comment below.

I look forward to seeing you, and expounding a further measure of my brilliance next monday. Cheers my good readers.

Sunday 27 March 2016

Joys of Sleep Paralysis

Before I get to my post for this week, a little reminder. The Heinous Measure is due to be available soon and there will be a special post on here, Twitter and Facebook regarding its release. Keep your eyes pealed for that.

Now, Our Regularly Scheduled Post:

The old hag phenomena is something that for me personally, inspires a great deal of terror. If you are unfamiliar with this nocturnal crone I shall explain.

Numerous people have reported instances where they wake from sleep, unable to move, with a scraggly old woman perched upon their chests. This entity often laughs at them and has a most malevolent cast. Other situations sometimes have the old crone standing by the bed, or sitting on the head board or night stand. Sufferers report extreme terror during these situations.

Similar occurrences are described as incubi, succubi, unknown intruders in the bedroom, shadow people and even extra-terrestrials. The common links are the sheer terror, and the paralysis. The inability to move can last longer than an hour, according to the Wikipedia page on this subject.

I bring this up as I've regularly delt with something akin to this phenomena, ever since I was a young child. Personally, I've not experienced the complete wakefulness during such situations, but I have had countless nightmares of being attacked by paranormal entities. In these I'm usually lying on my back, usually in a hospital type bed or on a floor, with a face positioned above me or entity leaning over me. I cannot move a single muscle, and often feel a myriad of hands poking or touching me. Many of these nightmares contain taunts, mocking or other forms of oppression from the beings depicted within them.

The most frightening example of these was when I was around twenty. I had a vivid dream, in which I was laying on my back, on the floor of my bedroom, which was empty of furniture and all other possessions. Hovering over me was the head of a previously deceased family member, whose eyes were completely black. There was no body with the face, just the face itself. I clearly remember it stating in a scratchy voice that, "Nobody will know but God." When I woke from this I shook so violently from fear I could feel my mattress vibrating beneath me.

Also worthy of note, are the numerous dreams I've experienced involving alien abduction. Again in these I am positioned on my back and cannot move but instead of a spirit or demon, the entities present are little grey or green men. For months after losing my vision I believed I was suffering genuine abduction and it was a long time before I accepted the fact these were just nightmares triggered from massive change and stress during a particularly difficult period in my life, almost all of which bore metaphoric reflections of my hospital experiences.

Sleep Paralysis Causes and Benefits:

The cause of sleep paralysis, and nightmares such as mine vary greatly. Some theories suggest genuine spiritual or demonic attacks, while others suggest much more scientifically mundane things such as anxiety, panic attacks or sleep apnea. Personally, though part of me would love to believe in the supernatural view, my brain is far too analytical, and has to side with anxiety.

Naturally I hated these dreams for years and though I still do not enjoy them by any means I've learned to embrace them for two reasons. The first is that I've over the past few years adopted the belief that dreams are merely your brain's way of processing left over information, or things about which you've been recently thinking. Secondly, they are fantastic sources of material for dark stories, and I love filling my tales with stuff that scares the hell out of me, in the hopes you receive a similar effect when you read my tales.

One of my idles, H. P. Lovecraft was afflicted with similar nightmares as a child, and Many of his stories are filled with elements of his dreams. I've recently been reading a collection of his works entitled, "Dagon and Other Macabre Tales." I urge you to pick it up when you are feeling a might peckish for stories that are bizarre and creepy. Lovecraft's work is fantastic stuff.

Your Thoughts:

I'd like to hear about your experiences with nightmares and how they touch your life. Sharing such can be therapeutic and makes for interesting discussion.

You can share with me on my Facebook page: Author Jonathan Birdsall on Facebook, or on Twitter: Writer Jonathan Birdsall (@writerjbird) or in the comments below.

I look forward to hearing from you.

Cheers until next Monday!

Monday 21 March 2016

Art of Ranting

Ranting about something that frustrates us is a common part of the human experience. We all do it at some point, but yet, in my opinion it's rarely done well. Why would this matter you may ask? Simple, a well presented rant, be it written or verbal is more memorable, and more likely to be taken seriously. On the other hand, an angry letter to the editor or shouted expletives, as two examples, just sound like more frustrated prattle from some enraged individual who doesn't seem to have a valid or clear point.

A few months ago I had a rather unpleasant experience in which a favorite travel cup of mine sprung a leak and dribbled scalding coffee onto my leg, near what I shall term the most masculine part of my anatomy, so as to keep this post relatively wholesome. Now there are several reasons this was not the most enjoyable situation in the dawning hours of the day. First, few enjoy their private parts endangered by boiling liquid, especially from a cup not clearly labeled, "HOT." Almost as bad, was the guilty party, my breast cancer go-cup, which had been my favorite coffee conveyance unit for several years was now entering its final days. Never giving up an opportunity to write a rant, I of course cranked one out for this situation, which you will find immediately following this paragraph.

"It is with a sad heart, I must today, say good-bye to my breast cancer go-cup. Though buying you was a means of making a small contribution to one of my favorite causes, and too though I enjoyed many delicious coffees and teas from you, I have decided it is now time for you to find your garbagy grave. You sadly had recently begun leaking from an undiscoverable location, which is honestly something I did not appreciate. It was yesterday, when you committed your worst offence by dribbling hot coffee ominously close to one of the parts of my person I value above most others. I assure you dear go-cup, when I made a coffee to wake my brain, that was not what I had in mind. So I bid you a fond fair well, and hope you can rest in peace, knowing that I seek to replace you, and that in future, I shall wear pants while drinking my morning coffee."

The point of sharing that little rant is to demonstrate the difference between one well written and one poorly written. A poorly done one would be something like the following:

"My really stupid, blanking cup, sprang a blanking leak and is now bleeping ruined. I hate my life!"

Both make the clear point of the offending cup, but which one would stick in your memory longer? Furthermore, which one would you pay more attention to? Even though the first one is most definitely presented in a silly manner, I'd personally put my money squarely on it as it's far more entertaining, and is not just another string of frustrated language like so many others clogging the highways of the internet.

Why Do Quality Rants Matter?

Let's delve deeper into why this actually matters. The point of venting or ranting is to express your negative emotions about something that has you irritated or upset. As a former holistic therapist I am all about letting those feelings out so you can get on with your day in what would hopefully be a more positive frame of mind, body and soul. Additionally, many of us when we are angry about something want others to listen to us, even if it's a mere Tweet or status update. Having that polished verbal outburst will come off as much more impressive, and will result in a greater chance of your point being heard and received.

On a larger scale, say you want to submit a letter to an editor, or raise concerns with a business or company that has some inappropriate practice you feel needs some attention. What is going to get that letter published in the news paper? What is going to get serious attention for the concern you are bringing up with said business? Bingo...a well written, classy sounding piece that still makes your point, but also comes across as polished and well thought out.

As a fiction writer I enjoy putting rants, arguments, outbursts and the like in my stories, often with the intention of sparking thought about a particular issue. Now, putting that careful, extra work into those rants enables me to better convey the point of view, and the ideas it contains, which of course makes for a better story.

Your Thoughts

Are you a rant nerd like me who puts that much extra passion into your rants? Let me know in the comments below, on my Facebook page: Writer Jonathan Birdsall on Facebook or on my shiny new Twitter page: Author Jonathan Birdsall on Twitter.

Cheers, until next Monday my good readers.

Monday 14 March 2016

Difference Between Actual Dark Humor and Crude Nonsense, A Crotchety Rant

Okay my charming readers, this week I must rant about something that left me feeling well, shall we say, less than gruntled. Now, I warn you, if you do not already think me a fusspot, you very well might after you read the rest of this post. If so, don't worry. I will not be in the least offended as I often loudly proclaim that I am secretly aspiring to be a crotchety old man at the tender age of thirty-three. In fact, if you label me as one who'd yell at kids to get off his front lawn, or who complains about the music kids listen too these days, I might even be mildly flattered.

A few days ago, I joined a dark humor group, thinking it would be a good place to promote, "The Heinous Measure," and other future projects infused with macabre humor. I feel the need to rant about said group as it seems my definition of dark humor is not the norm. I view it as amusing or fun play with things morbid, scary or otherwise from the horror genre, that is preferably also clever in some way. Happily, my chief writing friend fantasy writer, "David Viau," was equally disgusted by the choice quotes I shared with him from this group. We both agreed that an exemplary bit of dark humor was a story by the great and late Roald Dahl, entitled, "Lamb to the Slaughter," in which a woman beats her husband to death with a frozen leg of lamb.

The average post I read, and believe me I read quite a few of them, were nothing more than semi-coherent strings of swears, other rude words, and anatomically impossible acts. There was nothing to suggest I hadn't stumbled into a haunt of boobies who had nothing better to do than try to one up each other on who could say the dirtiest, most offensive thing. Their vulgarities left the intellectual part of my brain feeling most depressed, and it took me some time to convince it that Daddy wouldn't let those agonizingly crude, self styled comedians hurt it anymore. Once my brain was comforted, I left that group, resisting the urge to count my IQ points to make sure none were missing.

As I couldn't let this post go by without providing a couple of examples of what I'm referring to, well fear not, here they are. For the record I have sanitized them in my own fashion, so as to make them at least somewhat presentable to the sensibilities of you, my intelligent reader. In other words, these are paraphrased versions of what I read as I really didn't want to tarnish my blog with the exact quotes.

Example the first: "You tell those STD infected mother loving lovers to go love themselves and insert a bag of male appendages in their mouths and hope they loving choke on them, those loving stupid dumb reporting lovers."

Example the second: "Loving love loving, very rude word for girl part rhyming with hunt, pickle."

Call me pedantic, but the random use of the word, "pickle," at the end of this one to me seemed needless and rather random. Furthermore I was confused as to the point of this post. The first one was at least in response to someone complaining about being reported for inappropriate language. Where as number two seemed to be the Facebook version of one talking only to hear oneself talk. To me it would be no different than would be wandering around in public, middle finger erect, while shouting random words from the sexuality section of my high school biology textbook.

Now, please don't think me one easily offended by coarse language. I've been known to possess a slight potty mouth from time to time, so am not bothered by words or phrases that may be lewd, vulgar or otherwise offensive. Indeed the summer camp I attended as a teenager introduced a no swearing clause into their permission form after the first year I went. I have since suspected, as have many of my fellow campers, that yours truly was the inspiration behind that.

What did actually annoy me was the apparent perception that dark humor means anything that would give your grandmother a heart attack if uttered in church. I thought such humor was more worthy of labels like, "toilet humor," "crude humor," "vulgar humor," etc. Dark to me implies things that are shadowy or morbid, so I was left greatly disappointed, and mildly irritated.

What are your thoughts? What is dark humor to you?

Hit me up, virtually, not literally of course, as I'd suggest striking a blind person is worse than punching someone with glasses. You can get me on my Facebook page at: Writer Jonathan Birdsall on Facebook. I'd love to hear your thoughts.

Until next Monday...

Monday 7 March 2016

Digging Deep into Fairy Tales

There is a commonly held belief that fairy tales are simply cute children's stories. Yet, there is a plethora of information and opinion floating around the interweb that contradicts this, conversely suggesting that such stories possess much deeper meaning. Now, in all fairness, much of what is available online has to be taken with at least a grain of salt, if not a healthy pinch.

The best I can offer is my own, less than humble opinion on this discussion. I most strongly believe that fairy tales, nursery rhymes and other popular forms of bedtime entertainment, not including the obvious physical activities, usually do contain deeper elements. Numerous tales and poems are filled with lessons or food for thought, neatly packaged in a more palatable, entertaining form. I'd expect that this is merely a sneakier means of getting another person, such as one's child to accept and digest something the story teller feels is important to learn.

A great example is the classic tale of, "The Ugly Duckling." The basic idea of which is a young duckling is viewed as ugly by its peers, until it grows into a beautiful, majestic, snow white swan. The obvious moral here is, "don't judge others based on their appearance." The irony here for me personally, is that one could easily misinterpret the lesson contained within this tale as, "we all grow out of our ugliness and become outwardly attractive at some point," which is dubious to say the least, and possibly aids in fueling the cosmetic surgery industry.

A valuable lesson of accepting others despite their external differences was the basis for a great little story here, filled with heart break, worry, suspense and eventually the happy ending, leading to my point. I'd ask you to ponder this and the following for a moment. If you'd just been told to do your best not to judge others based on looks, would you have listened? For most of us, it's safe to presume, "no." Personally, being told to think a certain way usually comes across as nagging and I happily let such unwanted advice travel in one ear and out the other, often with a thoughtful nod and feigned expression of dawning enlightenment. However, if that all important life lesson was planted within a story, like, "The Ugly Duckling," I'd be much more likely to at least think about deeper meaning, especially as surrounding elements of the tale bolster the given lesson.

Other examples exist, such as, "little Red Riding Hood," teaching us not to trust strangers, or "Rumplestiltskin," suggesting dangers in others knowing our name. Both of these are great as you can take them as nothing more than fun little tales at bedtime or in front of a cosy fire. On the other hand, if you are like me, you can get just as much delight from dissecting these stories to see what can be learned from them or if they contain any elements that stimulate thought or conversation.

You'll hear and see me regularly express the view that the best stories are ones that play upon a wide array of your emotions, as well as causing you to ponder some issue or point. My short piece, "The Heinous Measure," due out next month, is a prime example of this. The main character believes that disability advocacy in its standard forms fall flat and things need to be stepped up a notch. To do this, he commits an act of great evil believing that it will live in your memory far longer than the traditionally warm and fuzzy awareness campaigns.

What do you think? Do you like to read a story and take it at face value, or do you prefer to dig into them a little deeper? Both are great. What matters is the enjoyment you derive from reading entertaining stories.

If you'd like to explore a similar theme, I suggest looking into the history behind nursery rhymes. This is just as fascinating, and I was surprised to learn some of the things that inspired what I'd previously taken to be silly, nonsense rhymes. "Three Blind Mice," for instance is reputed to refer to three noblemen in the sixteenth century who ran afoul of Queen Mary I, and were consequently burned at the steak for conspiring against the throne.

I leave you this week with that less than cuddly picture. As always I'd love to hear your thoughts, and you can follow me on my Facebook page, Facebook.com/writerjonathanbirdsall.

Cheers and see you again next Monday.

Monday 29 February 2016

What Lives Hidden Beneath

I'd like to wish you a Happy Rare Disease day. Why Happy? Diseases are terrible right? In my less than humble opinion, the answer is, "well...not necessarily." As I talked about last week, one's life experience, including health and other challenges shape one as a person to varying degrees. It is my unusual physical situation that contributed to my humor and overall approach to story telling. McCune Albright Syndrome and Fibrous Dysplasia have their difficult moments, but have also blessed me and others in countless valuable ways. Today, is about celebrating what makes us different and uniquely strong, while acknowledging our individual gifts and challenges, regardless of what those may be for you.

In much of my work thus far, I've used my own health to shape some of my characters. I feel that doing so is another way of adding personality and depth to the people in my stories. Most tales contain archetype characters, such as the arrogant jerk, the misunderstood loner, the individual with simmering anger issues, the fragile yet beautiful maiden etc. I personally like to throw in someone with a disability. To me this challenges my skill as a writer to portray a character's disabilities clearly and strongly so as to give you, my charming reader a more thought provoking and interesting person and situation about which to read.

I'm in the midst of outlining a second novel whose main character has McCune Albright Syndrome. To this point, my disabled characters have possessed physical issues that are noticeable to the other individuals in the story. My challenge here though, is to portray the main character's condition as an invisible disability. So many people have illnesses or physical issues that are not visually apparent, yet still present them with significant hurtles in their daily lives. I'm sure you, or someone you know has seen someone using a handicap parking spot who appeared to be perfectly normal, if I may be so trite. I request that you take a minute to consider in such situations, the person you are observing may have some sort of physical issue that is serious and impacts their world, but that may be difficult to notice, especially at a distance.

An example from my own life is the appearance of my eyes. Now, I am totally blind, but my eyes are fairly normal looking. Yet, I cannot count the number of people who found it difficult to believe I do not have vision as my eyes are quite normal. I've even encountered people when I used to do presentations on blindness, who were amazed I was blind because I still had eyes at all. My point here is there are many myths and stigmas about all sorts of disabilities and health issues, and looking unusual in someway is not the defining factor for a lot of them. Many of them are hidden beneath the surface.

Now, the reason I'm making a point about this, is my other physical issues and disability are easily noticeable to your naked eye, or your foot if you've been so lucky to be a victim of my walker's wheel. Invisible health issues and disabilities were something I myself hadn't thought a lot about for most of my life. It was a bit of a shock when I considered that there were people out there, with significant disabilities that did not stand out in a crowd due to an altered or unusual appearance, so even I was somewhat a believer in the common stereotype of disabilities being visually apparent.

Characters in stories should have weaknesses, flaws or some other quality or aspect that makes them relatable. That engages you the reader much more and simply just makes an interestingly entertaining tale. Depth in both character and story to me are imperative in my work, and I like to fill both with details and wit that may or may not be obvious. As I am regularly involved in disabled communities, it just feels natural to me to use physical issues and struggles in my work to create those extra dimensions, hence the above written, invisible condition monolog.

I've recently, as part of outlining this second novel, begun picking the brains of my compatriots in the Fibrous Dysplasia community. I would like to extend to you the invitation to share with me any experience you have had with a nonvisual disability or illness. Both sides of the coin to me are most interesting, so if you have known someone with an invisible health issue, or have one yourself, I'd love to hear from you on my Facebook page, Facebook.com/writerjonathanbirdsall either via post or private message. I may even fire a free copy of the above mentioned book your way when completed, for sharing your experiences with me.

A fitting quote to me, by poet Hughes Mearns:

"Last night I saw upon the stair,
A little man who wasn't there,"

"Antigonish, Hughes Mearns, 1899"

See you next week.

Monday 22 February 2016

How McCune Albright Syndrome Made Me a Writer

Rare Disease Day, February 29, is approaching. In honor of that dubiously marvelous day I felt I'd share how and why I chose to become a writer.

I was born with a bizarre condition called McCune Albright Syndrome, which is a rare form of another rare condition called Fibrous Dysplasia, in itself strange. McCune Albright can do numerous things to one's body, and as others sharing my shoes can attest, also likes to get freaky with one's sanity. For me personally, MAS has mostly effected my bones. It has caused extensive deformity in my leg bones, causing them to break and weaken, eventually requiring the insertion of steel rods to straighten and strengthen them. A delightful bonus to this was that I could now claim, all be it weakly, that I am bionic and have legs of steel.

On top of the deformities of my leg bones, I experienced additional deformity to much of my skull. My left cheek bone, my jaws, the crown of my head and an area of bone behind my eyes were all effected. The cheek and eye areas required a handful of their own operations to address some issues. Furthermore, the bone behind my eyes when I was eight years old, wreaked havoc and crushed my optic nerves, which are special nerves that transmit the visual information detected by your eyes to your brain, where it is then processed into conscious images. This left me totally blind, save for a tiny, and rather irritating ability to detect really bright light in one eye.

All of that played a major part in shaping my personality and imagination. I spent a lot of time lying down or sitting in reclined positions recovering from various surgeries, mainly to my legs. This freed me up for hours upon hours of imagining other people and places. That was further fueled by the Canadian National Institute of the Blind, which set me up with its audio book library, exposing me to countless worlds, personalities and ideas. Access to so many books was an amazing gift and sparked many fantasies about becoming a singer or a writer.

Both singing and writing are forms of telling stories and entertaining others, which I loved. As well, both could be done from a sitting or lying position, which saved my legs from needless stress and activity. I played around with writing on and off for years, but for a long time wanted to become a singer far more than a writer.

My shining dream was to be a death metal vocalist, and to do that I'd need to learn how to sing properly first, then branch out into learning how to scream safely. I took a few lessons from Heather Hutchison, (new window( a talented singer/song writer friend of mine and realized before too many months that maybe singing was not in the cards for me. Disappointed, I shelved that goal, and reserved it mainly for annoying my neighbors who insist upon caterwauling loudly along with boy bands in the great outdoors, where I and other innocent town folk are subjected to such brutal torture.

Eventually I gave up on the singing dream and over the span of a decade or so, played around with writing. This was a painful and intermittent process, as I suffered from major periods of self doubt, both struggling to come up with ideas I felt were solid, and tales that other people would find enjoyable enough to want to read. Finally, in October of 2014, while recovering from my latest surgery I became serious about story telling again. It occurred to me that I have a bizarre sense of humor that others seem to enjoy, and I possessed mountains of random and seemingly useless information. As well, I loved playing with words, entertaining other people and expressing ideas about numerous subjects and issues. I did the math with all of that and decided to make a serious attempt at writing once more.

This time however, I spent a lot of time carefully plotting my attack on the fiction world. I did some research and worked out some techniques to develop story and plot lines with which I was comfortable. I applied those ideas and soon came up with a short story, which of course was, "A Touch of Wolf's Bane," with which I was more than satisfied. I floated it around to online magazines and got a bite on it from the second webzine to which I sent it.

That only encouraged me more so I dove into writing what would become my first, completed novel manuscript, "The Cripple's Game," currently in editing. I paused during the work of that book to pen a couple more short stories, so as to continue seeking publication in online magazines, and after nearly a year, had another story accepted. That is, "The Heinous Measure," due out in April.

All of this had me most excited. At last I had something that accommodated the strengths McCune Albright Syndrome had fostered within me. Even more meaningful to me was the unique perspective and experiences from my health and disabilities. They creep their way into my stories and I like to think that perhaps they give my work a flavor different from the works of other writers.

If you would like to learn more about McCune Albright Syndrome and Fibrous Dysplasia visit: FD/MAS Awareness (new window) or, FD Warriors (new window).

I post every monday as that is my favorite day of the week, so check back next week for another exciting installment of my brilliance.

Follow me on Facebook at: facebook.com/writerjonathanbirdsall

I look forward to seeing you again next Monday.

Monday 15 February 2016

Pen Up My Name

A pen name, or pseudonym, is a fictitious handle an author uses for various reasons, much like an actor uses a stage name. A notable example of a writer using a pen name is, "Anne Rice." That, is your mildly exciting fun fact for the week. I'd suspect you probably already knew that though, particularly if you are a fan of erotic vampire novels, whose contents make for fascinating, yet frightfully impolite dinner conversation.

I myself use a pseudonym, and have already been asked a few times now for the reason why. The answer to this is simple, marketability. My actual name is a very common one. It is a strong name and one of which I am very proud, despite my middle name translating to, "elfin princess." The sticking point for me however, is the fact that my name is shared by many, many people.

For example, in my home town with a population of less than five-thousand, there were at least two of us. Just down the road in a nearby community of roughly similar size, there was at least one more. Google searches revealed countless ranks of me, including one version who apparently is a fine arts photographer in Singapore. Other choice returns from Google amidst the ninety-seven-million results, included interior design, a Welsh politician, several professors and a women's soccer coach. All of that suggested my actual name would have too much competition and I would be better suited with something different.

I set about looking up my first name combined with various interesting sir names, finally settling upon, "Jonathan Birdsall." This happily, out of all the writing handles I concocted, returned the fewest results, almost ninety-seven-million fewer than my actual name. Indeed most of the returns I looked at were obituaries, which I suspect are probably not going to offer any stiff competition.

The reason for carefully selecting this pseudonym as I've mentioned above, is marketability. Massive amounts of websites and information are now available online, making it extremely difficult to come up with something unusual enough to stand out. Your author handle is essentially your business or brand name, writing and selling books being your business, your author name being what you'd post in neon letters above your front door.

All of the above went into my decision to use a pen name, and then to devise one and research it. It was not a simple or quick process. It was a tough decision and I experience occasional pangs of self doubt. coffee I've found is most helpful with such times. Its near medicinal effects chase away my doubts, and empower me to reaffirm I indeed made the correct choice regarding my writing handle, lady soccer players or not.

Just before I sign out, I have some exciting news to share! My short story, "The Heinous Measure," is set to appear in the April 2016 issue of, "Inner Sins." I'll post more information when available.

I post every monday as that in my less than humble opinion, is the best day of the week, so check back next week for another exciting installment of my genius.

Follow me on Facebook at: facebook.com/writerjonathanbirdsall

I look forward to seeing you again next monday.

Monday 8 February 2016

Call me Crazy, but I Like Editing

Hopefully you're sitting down, as today I open with a confession. I am more than a little bit unique. For example, I find heavy metal relaxing, love eating zucchini, treat my chronic health issues and disabilities as a source of fun, enjoy speaking in random accents and know how to make balloon animals. The list goes on, but you get the picture. I am most definitely weird.

For years the label of weird bothered me. It was the wisdom and advice of two sage and good friends that taught me to not only accept my individuality but to embrace it. There will always be other people that have negative opinions of you, so why not just be yourself and enjoy life. This, if you've not yet discovered it for yourself, is invaluable advice and may banish much stress from your world.

The reason I open with that nugget of social commentary is simple. As a writer, being weird is a huge asset. Indeed, most creative people live outside of the box, and I suspect that even amongst writers I might stand out for my level of weirdness. That is because I love the editing process.

Few things bring me as much joy and contentment as digging through one of my own completed drafts looking for mistakes ranging from things only I'd notice, to glaringly obvious word tragedies screaming for help. Editing is something all of us writers must do to polish and shine our manuscripts, but much of the buzz I hear about my fellows is that they find editing to be horrible, agonizing, tedious etc. Maybe it's because I have a passion for holistic therapy and healing that I love this, as to me my drafts are like word people. Each story contains numerous elements, some deep, some shallow, some right on the surface, all of which need tender loving care so that they can be pulled together into the best damn piece of writing they can be.

I suspect as well, that one of the reasons other writers dislike editing so much is that it makes them question their own talent. When I first started, "A Touch of Wolf's Bane," my first published piece, I experienced this feeling. However I quickly learned that each successive revision of that story was better than the previous one. That in turn lead me to realize that the original draft of a piece of work will probably be terrible, but eventually through numerous edits, will enter the light at the end of the tunnel, and stand as polished work worthy of the eyes of others. Now, when I edit I look forward to that time when the current draft will at last enter that glimmering magnificence, and I can enjoy knowing that I was responsible for creating and shaping the word person before me.

I hope that if you are a writer yourself, or aspiring to become one, that this post helps you. Throughout my short writing career I've already learned that it is a world full of stress. My goal is to help you ease some of that, so that you enjoy the amazing rewards the world of story telling brings.

Finally, I am excited to share my first novel, "The Cripple's Game," has entered its third stage of editing, and draws closer to its release. I shall post periodic updates about its approach, so stay tuned.

Starting today, I'll be posting every Monday as that is my favorite day of the week, so check back next week for another exciting installment of my brilliance.

Follow me on Facebook at: facebook.com/writerjonathanbirdsall

I look forward to seeing you again next Monday.