Child inside my heart

love steeps slowly in vessel

strengthening of bond.

* * * * * * * * *

Three fat pigs with ample bosoms

twirled their parasols behind their tushs

as they flirted with the suave handsome wolf.

They yearned for a favor from him, which

they knew he could give – oh yes!

He oozed animal sexuality from every pore.

As the plump swine danced gaily on pig feet,

Dudley Wolf knew he’d have his pick – oh my!

So he thought of a contest for the wooing sisters -

You must each build a house and I’ll choose

which one I want to move into with you

where we’ll roll in the hay all day long!

Esmeralda Pig was furious at such a task -

it would take too much work and she’d

miss eating chocolate bonbons all day -

after all, she must maintain her curves.

She’d get even, of that she was sure

as she ignored his magnetism, and

did what she must to thwart his commands.

She pleaded with Priscilla and Hortensia,

her chubby sisters, to come up with a plan

They put their heads together in a circle

decided that Esmeralda would construct

a fine house out of straw with a pit

in front of the door where Dudley

would stand when he knocked.

Priscilla would take her sharpened sticks

and place them point up in the hole.

Hortensia would lay a winding brick path

leading to the daunting pit of no return.

It would serve that debonair wolf right!

Dudley Wolf came up to the door,

traipsing the path of red bricks

to the straw house which he planned

to blow down with one smelly breath.

The hole caved in and the wolf went flying

down the pit, was impaled on the sticks.

“This isn’t what I planned,” he screamed

as he lay there dying while porkers watched.

He was dead as a doornail, just a wolf rug

when they took his gold pocket watch and

all his cash and bought armloads of cartons

of chocolate bonbons which enhanced

their voluptuous bodies as they pranced,

looking for a wolf who wouldn’t have

SO MANY DEMANDS!

“I am sure that you must remember the pools of blood on the floor after I killed him,” he snarled.

I watched in fear as his evil countenance seemed to mutate with a life of its own as his lips curled, ejecting a wad of sputum. “No, no, I don’t remember this at all. Please, I won’t tell anyone because I was sound asleep upstairs.” I cringed in my corner covered in the blood of our landlord. “Daddy, please, I didn’t see anything! I know it was just a nightmare.”

But Daddy took menacing steps towards me, holding the ax above his head. I could see that he was completely out of his mind as he laughed a wicked laugh. I closed my eyes and tried to pretend this was not happening. As he advanced, I heard a sloshing sound a few seconds before I felt his entire body weight on top of me. I felt my body to make sure I was still alive and was astounded to see my Daddy had the ax completely buried in his head. Apparently in his drunken stupor, he had slipped on the blood, landing on the ax with his head slightly to the side of me. I cried, as I attempted again and again to push the dead weight of his body off of me.

The next thing I knew was when the authorities pried him off of me, swooped me up and took me to the hospital. And that is where I am now, in a locked ward with other unfortunate human beings. “Please, don’t make me remember,” I beg the doctors. I must always remain seven years old in my safe little world away from the pain of the past. It is so quiet and peaceful in my small room that I can’t hear or see anything at all.

I weep for wind

and flight,

swooping on wings.

I lift my soul

circling the sun

in blink of an eye,

wrapping my feet in

hollow feathers.

Let me float over stars

and under the moon,

a fantasy of spinning,

hovering above

filmy clouds of light,

dancing in tangos

of silky breezes.

All life can be seen

when looking behind,

born to fly high

above tomorrow.

I just love you so much that

I can't get over you

I love you so much that

I just need a touch from you

I need a look into your eyes

I need to tell you how much...

I loved you!

How much I need you

How much you meant to me

How much you can heal me

How much this is so painful

And how much of pain

I'll have to live with 

Without you

I love you sooo much that

Even my dignity couldn't 

Beat up my love for you

Your love burning my soul

And my dignity cuting

My lungs open to bleed

Aches and sorrow 

And here I am

Lost. . .

In between 

Of

Burning love

And

Beaten dignity 

#love vs #dignity

 ‘Phynics Forever Rising’: YA, Adult, Memoir, 55,000 words, is the first of the ‘Memoirs of the Woman in The Steel Mask’ series. Two more non-fiction books are presently in progress with personal topics including vampires, women in masonry, black operations, Lady Diana and Dodi Fayed, and exiled royalty.

 It's true. Gifted Academies as Hogwarts, the X-Men, and Jedi training actually exist birthed of millennia old wizardry traditions. If you ever wanted to break into one of these secret worlds of instruction, this is your book. Yet discussing them is daunting as they are presently run by classified operations. Similarly, military psychic spy remote viewing units were revealed in 'The Men Who Stare at Goats' works in the United States. The James Bond series broke the silence of the existence of MI6 to the public, while British Royals attending 007 gala events denied the department was real. Within that tradition of stepping out of the looking glass, (Her)MI1’s office founded in cryptology offers you insight to a world of clairvoyance that you were not meant to know.

 While living in Hogg’s Hollow in Toronto in 1980s Canada, Clark was found to have a genius IQ and was placed within a government run ten year Academy for the Gifted in tandem with Claude Watson's School for the Arts. Clark’s theory that E.S.P. is a function of time and memory turned clairvoyant esoteric and dark arts traditions on their head, while unexpectedly liberating them. Within you will attain the secrets of the phynics to inspire you to consider whether you have dormant abilities to know the future, have impossible reflexes, or to read minds, and to redefine your perceptions of the future of humanity, time, life, and death themselves. Knowledge is power, and hard to attain intel is why spy agencies exist. For them there is no insight so valued as accurate foreknowledge, and no instruction so great nor rare as the phynics’ foresight. We welcome you to finally meet with us on this great and secret mystery of our times.

 On graduating University with a film BAA, Clark was a professional screenplay analyst in movie pre-production for Alliance Atlantis and the FUND, while writing and directing as owner of TorontoMedia. Completing several feature screenplays as  'Count Down’, ‘The Umpire’, and ‘Beladi’, with interest from the world’s top agents, Clark continued her learning curve and became a Director’s Guild crew member behind the camera on the major US movie studio sets for over a decade. Many magical moments and filmic 'easter eggs' will realize further within this series on sets including: Dreamworks, Twentieth Century FOX, Warner Brothers, NBC/Universal, Netflix, HBO, Disney, and Columbia Pictures.

CV resume & full bio: https://www.dgc.ca/cv_en/get/17243

http://www.imdb.com/name/nm5121110

#non-fiction #memoir #creative #science #narrative #youselectedthewrongbook

The clickety-clack of the Trans-Siberia Railway was equally hypnotic and torturous. I woke up half-naked in my compartment, with a throbbing, two-day, drug-induced headache and a note taped inside my briefcase that read, “If I can do this, think of what the FSB and CIA are capable of.” My thoughts ran to self-preservation rather than the mind-numbing sounds.

So much of my odyssey had been a living combination of Monty Python meets Dr. Strangelove that I had almost forgotten I was dealing with superpowers, real people, and telling a secret that would change the world. I entertained the notion that if I could concentrate, the migraine would dissipate.

I reached for my backpack and pulled out my notes. I spread them on the bed and tried to make some sense of what I learned on my journey thus far. After sorting through them aimlessly for a while, I decided there had to be a system: put each prong of the story in one pile rather than trying to make a single, convoluted epic from four diverse groups who had no idea any of what the others were trying to do. The participants sounded like a bad joke. What if the Soviet Union, the US, a small European prince and an angelic African leader were all trying to save their countries at the same time?

The first portion of the story came from the data I had collected about the Russians-Soviets, as they were known at the time. I’d uncovered a lot of information about the inner-circle of the Kremlin. I read it and re-read it, unable to believe what I knew from experience was true. There was no way these megalomaniacal buffoons and paranoid apparatchiks could have run an empire that spanned major parts of three continents.

As was always the case, the worker bees were the competent ones, brave and able to work under pressure. Much of my information had come from former KGB operatives who had been involved all those years ago,

Damn, I kept thinking during the five-thousand-mile journey each way from St. Petersburg to Vladivostok, this can’t be true.

My piles of notes kept shifting with the movement of the train on antiquated tracks. I grumbled and stood, opening the door of my compartment to recapture the ones that slipped under the door.

A beautiful conductor bent over to help pick them up, and her skirt rode up to show spectacular legs. She smiled as she handed me the stack of papers. I struggled to remember my rudimentary Russian, finding her beauty distracting. “Are you writing a book?” she asked me with a brilliant smile.

Oh shit, had she read my notes? I swallowed against the sudden dryness in my throat. “No, I’m helping with some research for a university.”

“How interesting,” her eyes sparkled.

The train shimmied, and she fell into me. I wrapped an arm around her to steady her, or so I told myself. Her smile grew to almost feline proportions. Man, this was more of a test than any other I had thus far. I couldn’t cheat on my girlfriend. More importantly, no matter how cute she was, I couldn’t let this conductor see what I was doing. For all I knew, she could be FSB.

“Th-th-thanks. I need to get back to work,” I said, releasing her and clutching the notes to my chest.

“If I see your papers in the corridor again, I’ll knock on your door,” she smiled and walked away and into the next car.

I closed the door, sat on my small chair, and took a deep breath. Looking in the cabinet for water, I discovered only a bottle of vodka. I drank it straight from the bottle like a true Russian.

Fortified by the liquor, I returned to my review, starting on the next stack of notes: the scant of information referencing the United States. As I read through it, I couldn’t help but laugh. Doonesbury wasn’t a cartoon. It was a documentary.

I gagged on my next slug of cheap vodka. The idiots in charge of the United States were every bit as crazy as the Soviets.

I found that the American team left a land of Victoria’s Secret, Monday Night Football, and shopping malls for Russia, a country of perpetual gray skies, no hot water, and umbrella-wielding babushkas. The KGB was omnipresent, and the Americans could be shipped off to enjoy the Siberian winter if they were caught. Hell, if someone caught them, being sent to Siberia would have been downright lenient. I doubted any of the Americans would have made it to the next street corner. Stealing Soviet national secrets was understandable during the Cold War. But how could anyone have come up with this crazy plan?

I understood why the world’s superpowers were so frustrated and willing to try anything, but their plans weren’t what really ended the Cold War. In the geopolitical world, as in the real world, accidents often create the greatest results. I needed more vodka and sucked down a third of the bottle in one swig.

My notes blurred, and my head spun as I considered the two men central to my journey. The key players in this farce couldn’t be more different. No amount of vodka could possibly make this make any sense, but I had met them and knew all of this was real. Insane, wild, crazy, but real.

Of course, I had to change the names of countries other than America and the USSR. The names of the players had to change, also. For my own safety and the safety of everyone involved.

The next player in this mad story was President Mbangu of Madibu, who has often been considered a living saint. Hell, he’s known as The Great Man throughout the world. During a time when Africa suffered through brutal civil wars, dictatorships, corruption, and economic unrest, his idyllic island nation was poor and happy. He was a much better man than I ever could hope to be. However, his nation’s successes were waning and he had to come up with a way to turn Madibu’s fortunes quickly or chaos could ensue.

Although it was against his better angels, he tricked the U.S. and U.S.S.R., but no one lost, and his people benefitted greatly. How could he ever know that his beaches, hotels, a cargo/cruise ship port, rhesus monkeys and new-found libation production would help end the Cold War?

Mbangu’s friend, and polar opposite, was Prince Claude of Luxenstein. All anyone needed to know about him was his nickname: The Pied Piper of Pussy. As outrageous as it may sound, it was a gross understatement of his life. Casanova was a virgin compared to the Pied Piper, and the Pied Piper was real. He was a one-man good year for casinos around the world. But this time he had gone too far, he only had a short time to fix it or his fairytale nation would be gobbled up as a province of France or Belgium to protect the public from his excesses. His family’s five-century-old principality would be history. He couldn’t hold back. If he had to be dangerous and crazy, so be it. Who would take him seriously anyway? So, he jumped in full force, hoping he would succeed against all the odds.

The last notes I organized before putting them back in my briefcase for the evening were the perfect ending point for the night. They came from Petey, an eighty-five-year-old former pit boss in Vegas, who had seen the Pied Piper in his wildest days.

“You gotta promise me one thing,” Petey had told me.

“What’s that?”

“If you find out the real story before I die, you gotta tell me.”

“Absolutely.”

A huge smile lit his wrinkled, ancient face, “When you come to tell me, make sure I give you my will first.”

“Why?”

“Because when I hear what he did, I’ll probably laugh my ass into the big one. It’ll be a helluva way to go. Die with a smile on my face. Man, I haven’t been this excited since that hooker in ’83. You’ve made this old man very happy. I’ve got something to look forward to now. Thank the Pied Piper for me.”

“You’ve got it, Petey,” I said with a snicker.

Perfect. I let the vodka and clickety-clack of the train put me to sleep. I smiled to myself with that one last thought.

When your kid asks, “How did the Cold War really end, daddy?” You can tell him, “This is how. Don’t believe what you read in the history books. Sit back and read the real story.”