Defying Procrastination

20 Days Until I Have Her

2015-03-06T11:28:00.000-08:00

The last time I held her in my arms.

After much thought and reflection I've come to terms that I am not a blogger, at least not a traditional one. Many of you have come to that conclusion long ago and have moved on to greener pastures, or just stopped checking for updates all-together. I don’t blame you one bit. A traditional blogger… well… blogs every day, or at the very least, once a week. My last post was on MONDAY, OCTOBER 13, 2014.

The last 2 years of my life have been filled with a number of major life changes, some very high moments; getting engaged, buying a new house, finding out I was going to be a grandfather - and some very low moments; being dumped by my fiancé, having to sell my home, losing an aunt that was very special to me (which inspired me to write Stellathat was published in Soul of the Universe), and losing my first grandchild to adoption. These are all things bloggers thrive on, sharing the highs and lows so that their fans and follows can share in their journey, and for the most part, I've failed to do that, and for that I am truly sorry. That is because I am not a blogger, I am a writer.

Despite my lack of posts, and as the title of my blog suggests, behind the scenes I have not been idle. I've completed nearly 33,000 words on my novel. I've mapped out and outlined all of the chapters, including the rest of the trilogy that is to follow. I've written a short story that was published in a book called, In Creeps the Night. I've written a short story for the Writer’s Digest writing competition. I've written several poems for various friends and loved ones, and have done a tremendous amount of research in preparation of finishing my novel. Once again, I have failed to share all of these accomplishments with you because, I’m not a blogger. I’m a writer.

Since May 14^th of 2014, my life has been filled with nothing but amazing memories and life experiences, including 3 major life events, all of which have been the highest of highs. On May 14^th, my granddaughter Marilyn was born. She is just the joy of my life. I cannot get enough Papa time with that little girl. I love her so.

Marilyn - taken a day after she was born.

MareBear

Marilyn with her Papa.

On July 7^th, I closed on my new house. Between selling my other house and buying a new one I was homeless for a few weeks. Luckily my good friends Kennon and Jolene graciously took me in until my new place was ready. I love my new house for a number of reasons, but mostly because it just feels like home.

Reba really loves running around in the backyard.

And finally, on January 21^st, 2015, I met the love of my life for the very first time. Kim, (better known as Kianwi, and now as Kinley Dane in the blogging world), did a fantastic job documenting how we met and how we came to be a couple (So This Is Love), so I won’t rehash it here, but suffice it to say, since my last post on Oct. 13^th, between emails, phone calls, texting, and Skyping, she has dominated all of my free time, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Natural Bridge Caverns, San Antonio, TX

The River Walk, San Antonio, TX

Texas Stars Game, Cedar Park, TX

Again, as a blogger, I could have and should have shared all of these amazing moments of my life with you all, but I didn't. I didn't because… let’s say it together… I’m not a blogger. I’m a writer. Having come to that conclusion, I've decided in the coming months to revamp my webpage to be less of a blog and more of a platform to share my writing with my fans, and document the progress of my novel, which is really what I intended on doing when I started this journey 5 years ago. That’s not to say this will be my last post. In addition to keeping all of you updated on my novel, I will be sharing any interesting research I come across along the way.

In 20 days I will see Kim again. In 20 days I will start sharing my life with this amazing woman. In 20 days my heart will be complete and I can get back to doing what I love to do most, and that is writing. Since we have established that I am a writer and not a blogger, I leave you now with a bit of writing; the true inspiration behind this post.

I Have Her

I've walked down
That dusty road alone;
Searching
But not anymore.
I have Her.

My heart has been
Trampled and torn;
Discarded
Won’t happen again.
I have Her.

The dark days
Have been many
Countless
Sunny days ahead.
I have Her.

Years march on
The end grows near;
Inevitable
I’m not afraid.
I have Her.

Michael A. Walker

Defying Procrastination

In Creeps The Night

2014-10-13T14:06:00.002-07:00

Recently I had one of my short stories published in an anthology of creepy stories called, "In Creeps The Night." I'm very excited to be apart of this project. Not only do I get to share the pages with some amazing writers, but the profits from the sale of this book (both eBook and paperback) benefit Mother's Without Borders, a non-profit organization that helps orphaned children across the globe.

You can find my story, "The Shadow Man" on page 138.

If you would like to enter for a chance to win a trade paperback copy signed by me, enter your email address below. Five (5) lucky readers will randomly be chosen. Contest ends 11PM CST October 22nd. If you win, I will ship your personalized copy within the U.S. for free. Other's outside of the U.S. will need to cover the shipping costs.

For more information on the book and the other authors, below is a posting from Blue Harvest Creative, the designers and marketing group behind the project.

PLEASE NOTE: IF YOU SIGNED UP ON 10/13 YOUR ENTRY DID NOT GET SUBMITTED DUE TO A SOFTWARE ERROR. PLEASE RE-SUBMIT YOUR EMAIL ADDRESS BELOW. THANK YOU!

Michael A. Walker

Defying Procrastination

Originally posted on Blue Harvest Creative's Blog:

Creating A Creepy Collection—

Get Ready For “In Creeps

The Night”

September 30, 2014 by Blue Harvest Creative

We are beyond excited to present our cover and interior design for the horror anthology In Creeps The Night. We partnered with J.A.Mes Press to create this deliciously creepy collection of 50 flash fiction tales from 50 authors. All royalties for the sales of In Creeps The Night are being donated to Mothers Without Borders. Blue Harvest Creative also donated all of its time on this project (cover design, interior formatting, creation of a matching eBook, and helping with editing) as its contribution to this project and charity.

Blurb:

50 talented authors… 50 spine-tingling tales… 50 reasons to leave the lights on tonight…

Ghosts, goblins, and ghouls creep through pages of spooky flash fiction. Discover critically acclaimed authors that will make your skin shiver and have you flinching at bumps in the night. Whenever the mood strikes for something creepy, this collection will leave you looking over your shoulder.

Available now on Amazon in both print and eBook—click HERE to purchase.

Front Cover For Print And eBook

Full Print Wrap Design

Title Page

Interior Design For Print and eBook Showing Chapter Graphic And Design Elements

Interior Design For Print and eBook Showing Text Divider and Design Elements

Matching eBook Design Shown on a Kindle Tablet

Read A Sample

To read two stories from In Creeps The Night and to see all the design elements, simply click HERE.

For a list of authors and story titles you can read the Table of Contents in the sample or click here.

Connect With J.A.MES Press

Website

Facebook

Twitter

Connect With Blue Harvest Creative

Website

Facebook

Twitter

Her Last Words

2014-10-07T19:39:00.000-07:00

You see it in the movies often. Someone is holding a loved one in their arms, or holding their hand as they speak their last words. They take that last shallow breath and close their eyes; forever. Saving Private Ryan, Forrest Gump, and Steel Magnolias are a few movies that come to mind that employee this kind of heart wrenching plot twist to invoke emotion from the audience. As effective and moving as these movie tactics are, they pale to capture the pure, raw emotion of experiencing it firsthand.

There are few things that can prepare you for that moment. You feel helpless; confused. You can’t quite comprehend how someone you love so deeply can be living and breathing one moment, and then they are gone. No more hugs when you are sad. No more smiles and a kiss on the cheek when you come to visit. No more laughs when you tell a silly joke, or tears when they read your Mother’s Day card. Never will you be able to look into their eyes again, hear their voice, or feel their heartbeat.

In an instant they become a memory.

“Michael, my baby Michael.”

I didn't know it at the time that those would be her last words, but somehow I think she did. When I arrived at the house she was unable to move from the waist down, side effects of having just suffered a stroke. I took her in my arms and she asked me where my wife and kids where. I told her they were at home and doing fine. She nodded and smiled then placed her hand on my cheek.

“Michael, my baby Michael.”

I was 19, but the youngest of her 7 children. I was indeed her baby boy. I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes. My throat became tight. Before I could respond the ambulance had arrived and whisked her away. As my father and I followed the ambulance, those words kept repeating in my mind.

“Michael, my baby Michael.”

In the 10 minutes it took to get to the hospital she had slipped into a coma; her body cold and clammy. She was gone, but not legally dead. Machines kept her heart pumping and her lungs breathing for a few days after that. I would sit by her bedside holding her limp hand trying to will her eyes open, but they never did.

“Michael, my baby Michael.”

I desperately wanted to hear her speak those words again, but I only hear them in my memories.

Michael A. Walker

Defying Procrastination

What Mother Would Say?

2014-10-06T20:02:00.001-07:00

My parents and I - circa 1969

"Has it really been twenty-five years? I've watched you grow from the heavens. Oh, how I've enjoyed it. You make my heart smile. I cry for you too. I know you want to be with me, but not now, son. Not now."

Michael A. Walker

Defying Procrastination

Charlie

2014-07-26T17:53:00.000-07:00

Deadend, Tribeca, New York - Photo by Sean Ng

The sun retreated without promise of a tomorrow as darkness crept through the alleyways of the abandoned streets, devouring the remaining light without mercy. A putrid stench of death hung in the air like a suffocating fog, clinging to everything that it came in contact with.

Charlie couldn't smell it anymore. He hadn't in quite some time.

Buildings rose near endlessly into the sky around him like giant skeletons striped bare of their flesh. Once the pillar of modern civilization, now the streets of New York were nothing more than trackless miles of rusted steel frames and concrete mausoleums for the dead and hunting grounds for the eaters.

Charlie’s chest heaved with exhaustion. Eleven dead bodies lay around him as he sat against the side of an old condominium on the corner of Jay and Staple Street. He hadn’t seen another living soul in several months, which was fine with him. Everyone he ever met eventually got killed or was turned.

Today had been a productive day; thirty-seven kills in all. Not bad for a 15-year-old from Bigfoot, Texas. Charlie had been visiting his aunt in New York when the zombie virus broke out. The pandemic initially outright killed people in droves, but when it morphed into an airborne pathogen, it changed everything. The new form didn't quite kill its host, but instead, turned them into an efficient, man-eating, killing machine with heightened senses and a veracious appetite for flesh.

Charlie appeared immune; he had the scars from bite wounds to prove it.

A scream pierced the silence. Charlie instinctively jumped to his feet and resumed a combat grip on his blood stained bat. The scream came again, but it wasn't one of them. He fallowed the sound north on Staple Street until he came to an alley. The screams morphed into terror. Four of them had a young girl cornered at the end of the alley. She was clamoring up an old mattress stacked on top of a pile of trash bags.

Charlie hated using his gun, but if he didn't shut her up soon the whole city of eaters would be on them. He charged. Pulling his pistol from his side, he unloaded a flurry of shots that tore through both flesh and bone. As he closed the gap, Charlie finished off the last one with a backhanded swing with his Slugger. Before Charlie could catch his breath, he heard the thunder of footsteps behind him. He spun on his heals to find a horde of them pouring down the alleyway.

Charlie snatched the girl by the hand a drug her to the only fire escape within reach and lifted her up to the ladder. She latched on and climbed. Charlie leapt up behind her. As he began to pull himself up, the mass of flesh-eaters pounced and grabbed Charlie by his feet. He kicked furiously and broke free, but so did the rusty bolts holding the ladder. Charlie’s last image was seeing the girl clinging to the terrace above with desperation as the eaters engulfed him.

Michael A. Walker

Defying Procrastination

The above is my entry into a flash challenge hosted by the awesome J Whitworth Hazzard, author of the spectacular Dead Sea Games Series.

Like my story? -Kickstart the zombie apocalypse by publishing Dead Sea Games

Want to write like me? Personal coaching and critiquing by Miranda Kate.

My Son

2014-05-22T08:45:00.000-07:00

My Son

The pitter-patter of your feet echoes.

Your laughter travels with the wind.

My son, my son;

I can still hear you.

Wherever I go, you are there.

Your smile lights up the world.

My son, my son;

I can still see you.

Food on your cheeks, dirt on your neck;

Your sweet kisses heal my soul.

My son, my son;

I can still taste you.

A hard day of play, a clean bath to wash it away;

Your aroma reminds me of home.

My son, my son;

I can still smell you.

The warm embrace of your daily hugs linger;

Your soft little hand in mine.

My son, my son;

I can still feel you.

In loving memory of Chance Konkler

Michael A. Walker

Defying Procrastination

Redemption

2014-05-13T04:10:00.000-07:00

Texas State Penitentiary at Huntsville – Parking Lot

I never thought this day would come. For 16 years I've waited to see justice served to the man who murdered my husband. For 16 years I've carried this burden. It nearly killed me, but that wasn't the worst of it. Death would have been a welcomed release from the torment I suffered. I thought about it often. I even tried a few times, but was too much of a coward to do it right.

After I lost Darrin, I lost everything. I began to drink, pop pills, and consume anything else that would help numb the pain. Sadly, nothing did, at least not for long. I sank into the deepest, darkest pit you could possibly imagine. I lost my job, my home, and my sanity. After I had my children taken away from me, I lost my will to live.

* * *

Texas State Penitentiary at Huntsville – Holding Tank

I’ll admit I've been a bad man. Done some bad things; terrible things. Things I wish I could forget but can’t. Can’t recall ever not being in trouble, it either found me or I found it. My arrest record was impressive and rather long, but not as long as it should be. My dad was never around, but what started it all was when mom died.

I got kicked out of school when I was 13 for pulling a knife on a teacher. I robbed my first store when I was 15, and committed my first murder shortly after that - but he had it coming. The next three were random victims that got in my way of what I wanted. Murdering came easy to me. I was good at it, and good at not getting caught too.

* * *

Texas State Penitentiary at Huntsville – Waiting Room

Darrin and I were high school sweethearts. He didn't come from much, but he had a big heart and I fell for him instantly. I still remember the first love note he left in my locker – still have it. We were inseparable, so it was no surprise to anyone when I got pregnant my senior year. I had to dropout, but he stayed in school and worked to help pay for the doctor bills. He was a good man.

I also remember the night Darrin was taken from me. I don’t think I’ll ever forget it. He was out with some buddies downtown celebrating a bachelor party. I had given him a free pass that night to enjoy himself. He deserved it, but I have second guessed that decision ever since.

As the story goes, Darrin got pretty drunk and at some point wondered off. A few of his friends got worried and went looking for him. They stumbled on a man in the act of stabbing and robbing him in the alley next to the bar. Darrin died from his wounds on the way to the hospital. I never got to speak to him before he passed. His last words to me that night were to kiss the babies goodnight for him and that he loved me. At least I had that.

* * *

Texas State Penitentiary at Huntsville – Execution Staging Room

I’ve been with a lot of women; too many to count and too high and drunk to remember. One of them brought my baby girl Rosa into this world. I can’t explain it, but the moment I looked into those innocent eyes of hers all I could see was endless possibilities. All I could see was hope. It made me want to be a better man. I wanted to be the father to her that mine never was. It did, and I was – for awhile at least.

I was walking home late one night after volunteering at a halfway house when I heard the familiar sounds of combat coming from a dark alley. A couple punk kids were assaulting a man and ran off when they saw me. I could hear the man moaning so I knew he was hurt, but when I came up on him it was worse than I thought. He was a bloody mess with a knife still buried in his side. I pulled the knife out and tossed it. That’s when his friends found me.

* * *

Texas State Penitentiary at Huntsville – Execution Viewing Room

I've often fantasized about this moment. Fantasized about what it would feel like when that bastard was pronounced dead. His life taken as Darrin’s was taken from me. But as I watch them strap him to the padded table, I can’t help but feel pity for him. Pity that he will never experience the kind of love that I have had; the kind of love I have now.

* * *

Texas State Penitentiary at Huntsville – Execution Room

They didn't believe my story, at least not the ones that mattered. I had certainly earned the verdict. Lord knows I’m not an innocent man. When they asked me if I had any last words, I didn't. No words would bring back that lady’s husband. No words would undo the things I've done. Hopefully my death will bring her some comfort. I don’t think it will make up for all the bad, but I like to think I did something good before I leave this world.

As the doctors administer the poison, my thoughts are on Rosa. I’m hopeful that she will find love and happiness. That she will live a good life. She graduates from high school next month. I wish I could be there for her. She’s the only one who looks at me and doesn't see the bad. She saved my life.

* * *

Texas State Penitentiary at Huntsville – Parking Lot

I’m expecting my first grandchild in a few days. When I first heard the news I knew I had to get my act together or I would never get to see him. I know because my daughter told me so. I’m in a good place; as good as it can be for now. It’s a constant struggle, but I have my life back, and I have a grandson that needs me. She’s naming him Rene, Darrin’s middle name. I couldn't be happier.

I'm submitting this short story for consideration in the Rebirth Anthology run by J. A. Mes Press. All profits from the sale of this book will be going to a Stroke charity in the UK.

Title: Redemption

Author: Michael A. Walker

Book: Yes

Word count: 1046

Mother

2014-05-11T04:03:00.000-07:00

Mother

You are the reason I’m here, the reason I exist.

Your eyes spill wonder; wide open and full of life.

Your heart beats thunder.

You led me through adversity, through the mist.

Your loving hands both guided and held me dear.

Your foes cast asunder.

You are the definition of true love, the only.

Your presence lifts spirits and deflates hatred.

Your love extends further.

You are ever-present; I can never be lonely.

Your soul transcends space and time; benevolence.

You are my Mother.

Rest in Peace

Myrtle Lee Walker

Nov. 7th, 1934 - June 6th 1989

Michael A. Walker

Defying Procrastination

Is there a special Mother you're celebrating and missing today?

Michael

2014-05-01T10:26:00.001-07:00

The Pier by Scott Leeson

Michael sat at the end of the pier contemplating his life; where he had been and where he was going. The mid-afternoon sun reflecting off the ripples in the water reminded him how life was like those tiny undulations, filled with highs and lows racing towards the inevitable end. At their peak, the sun reflected off them so beautifully, bringing to light everything that was right in the world - but in the valleys, the valleys were dark and foreboding. The shadows were where bad things happened. Michael didn’t care much for the valleys, but realized they were as much a part of life as when the waves would eventually crash against the shore; unavoidable.

He had reached what he hoped to be the mid-point of his life. He had a great job and a beautiful home, with a plethora of friends and family that loved and adored him. He was a proud grandfather with another grandchild on the way. He was a published author – a lifelong dream of his. He had been to an NHL playoff game, had watched the Cowboys play inside the original Texas Stadium, explored many of the great castles and cathedrals in Ireland, visited the Grand Canyon and the Petrified Forrest, rode the rapids of a mighty Tennessee river, bungee jumped off a perfectly stable platform nearly a 100 feet high, had front row seats to a Cirque du Soleil show, saw Def Leppard, Heart, Ozzy Osbourne, Damn Yankees, and the Beach Boys perform live – all in their prime. He had been shot up in the air a 1000 feet on the Big Shot ride at the Stratosphere, had seen 7 states at once in Rock City, nearly plummeted to his death at Fall Creek Falls, climbed the beautiful rocks in Red Rock Canyon, swam in the beaches of Florida, California, and the Gulf Coast, had adventured through the waterfall magic of the Columbia River Gorge in Oregon, had been deep-sea fishing off the coast of Catalina Island while dolphins and flying fish gave chase. He had held his mother in his arms as she spoke her last words, saw his sister take her last breath, and had witnessed the birth of both of his two beautiful girls.

He had once chatted deeply with the Lord Mayor of Dublin and then was invited back to his mansion for tea, got lost in Pasadena California with The Ladies Man Tim Meadows, was accosted by Tori Spelling’s bodyguard in New Orleans, been inside Jerry Lewis’ closet, was nearly eaten by Siegfried and Roy’s bullmastiff, was insulted by the Four Top’s manager, once made comedian Rita Rudner laugh during a taping of her show, had a in-depth conversation about thoroughbred horses with Zsa Zsa Gabor, discussed the finer points of movie making and baseball card collecting with Charlie Sheen, had lunch and a beer with his childhood hero Dallas Cowboy Hall of Famer Tony Dorsett, played the part of a perpetrator on The Shield, was a loyal activist in the crowd as Martin Sheen and Rob Lowe delivered speeches on the set of The West Wing, had a long and meaningful conversation about life and love-lost in a car ride with Alanna Ubach of Legally Blonde, shared a pretzel moment with comedian Garry Shandling at a Laker game, sung on stage in Vegas in a Christmas special with Larry Gatlin and the Gatlin Brothers, and saw firsthand backstage how David Copperfield performed many of his “illusions.” He had experienced a great many things in his life, but there was one thing that he coveted above all else that had eluded him all these years – true love.

Sure, he had experienced love before. He was divorced after all, but he longed for that kind of love that transcended the ages; the kind of love that bound two hearts together – forever. The kind of love his parents had. He longed to have someone in his life that he trusted beyond measure; that would help carry him over any wall and through any obstacle, that would bring light to the shadows when it came – and he for them. What he desired most was to one day have a best friend to share life’s journey with until the end of days.

With the fading sun low on the horizon, he looked across the vast open water and couldn't help but wonder if that day would ever come. He was hopeful, yet ambivalent.

Michael A. Walker

Defying Procrastination

Have you found true love? Tell me about it.

Adeline

2014-03-19T12:32:00.000-07:00

Avond (Evening): The Red Tree, by Piet Mondrian

Looks can be deceiving. My 1974 Mustang II wasn't much to look at. It was a graduation gift from my father many moons ago. The forest green paint had long since faded, with dings and dents that were beset with memories far more endearing to me than any new paint job could ever replace. Save for one. The passenger side door had perfect lines and a smooth texture stained in primer grey.

The rag top was tattered and frayed, but once shone with a brilliant white sheen that held the elements at bay and the sounds of youthful exploration and delight to a shallow rumble. I remember feeling the rush of cool air blowing around the windshield when I would take it out on the road with the top down and the sun at my back, seeing the road of promises being devoured with each conquered mile. Now it was difficult to see through all the cracks in the glass.

I remember squealing the tires every chance I could; tearing up the roads and going places without a care in the world or a destination in mind. There was nothing quite like the feeling of an idle small-block’s purr at a red-light, or feeling its meaty growl once challenged and the wild horses were unleashed. It gave me freedom and confidence, but now it sat idle, its tires well worn and flat, and its engine seized with sludge and gilt.

I remember a lot of things about my old Mustang, but mostly I remember Adeline.

It was our first date. At least that’s how I liked to remember it. I had spent the better part of the afternoon washing and waxing the Mustang, my Saturday summer ritual, and decided to take her for a spin. I was mighty proud of the old Stang and wanted to show her off to the world as much as I could. As I was cruising down the road I came across an old park, and that’s when I saw her.

She was sitting alone under a tree reading a book. My heart skipped a beat followed by a blaring horn from the car behind me. In my excitement I had unknowingly stopped in the middle of the road. I pulled to the side and parked, deciding what to do next. She hadn't seen me yet, so I could have easily driven away without her knowing, but something froze me in place. It was a mixture of fear and desire.

I had always admired her from afar, but couldn't bring myself to approach her. She was quiet and shy, and wasn't particularly beautiful. She wasn't involved in any school activities or sports, or part of the cool crowd in school. In fact, she wasn't a part of any crowd; a loner, an outcast. She was everything I wasn't, yet she was my everything.

Courage took a hold of my senses and dared me into action. I approached her with a smile and a skip in my step, but below boiled a cauldron of insecurity and terror. These feelings were foreign to me; nevertheless, they made me feel alive. The moment she looked at me through those big framed glasses my heart was defenseless.

We sat beneath that old oak tree for hours, laughing and talking until the sun found its resting place. I took her for an evening ride, cruising through town, showing her all my favorite getaways. Every Saturday after that we would meet under that big oak tree to talk and then head off to explore the open roads and our hearts. That tradition continued all through the summer until I asked her to be my bride.

It’s been twenty years since the last time I took Adeline for a ride in my Mustang.

Like many evenings since that day, I’ll turn the light off in the garage and head to bed, alone.

Michael A. Walker

Defying Procrastination

Soul of the Universe: Music

2014-03-18T04:26:00.000-07:00

"Soul of the Universe"

"Music gives a soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination and life to everything" ― Plato

Try to imagine your favorite movie without a film score. It’s difficult to do. Maybe you weren’t even aware that your favorite movie had a musical score (Cast Away doesn’t count). That’s because music has a way of influencing our emotions and heightening our movie going experience so effortlessly that we don’t have to be consciously aware of its doing.

Much like a movie, music is the theatrical score of our lives, each song marking a detailed moment in our lifetime. Specific songs have the magical ability to immediately transport us back to a time and place in just the first few notes we hear. Memories drift in and out of our consciousness effortlessly in rhythm with the melody and poignantly punctuated by every drum beat.

Music can put us in a mood or take us out of one. It can lift our spirits or tear them down. It can cause us to stand and salute to the flag on command, or just stand on principle. It has the uncanny ability to conjure up emotions in an instant, whether we want it to or not. Music has a way of tapping into those tiny taste crystals floating around in our subconscious mind, busting them open in a miasmic spray of feelings that flavor our souls.

We set our alarm clocks them, our ring tones, and our text alerts. We use them as motivation in the gym or when we need to run that extra mile. We use them for creative inspiration and to communicate with. Even in our modern age there are still tribes of people who have no written language, but they have music. Prehistory, the time before man had written languages, was defined by oral tradition through song and dance. Music brings us together; the whole world, transcending the ages.

It’s no wonder that the music industry is a multi-multi-billion dollar industry. Music drives technology and propels us forward. Remember the time before iPods, MP3 players, and instant streaming? People collected vinyl’s and would quit their jobs to attend far off concerts in remote fields for days at a time. Remember furniture sized boomboxes, 8-tracks, Sony Walkman’s, and spending hours making the perfect mix tape?

There’s something else that has that can do all these same things too – a good book.

Imagine if there was a supernatural blending of the two? Wouldn’t that just be divine? Wouldn’t that be… dare I say… magical? I know it’s crazy talk, but what was once thought to be only a myth, a fairytale designed to put little ones to sleep by, is now a reality.

I give you… SOUL OF THE UNIVERSE! (<--- must provide your own super awesome dramatic reveal music)

Soul of the Universe is a collection of short stories that were inspired by music. Each story is accompanied by a specific song that was the source of the inspiration behind its making: Led Zeppelin, Pearl Jam, Rex Wells, Thea Gilmore, Blackmoore’s Night, and David Cook count themselves among them. There’s a story sure to sate the craving for every literature taste; Sci-fi, Fantasy, Western, Steampunk, and emotional drama fill the pages.

I’ve been fortunate to have the opportunity to write collaboratively with an distinguished group of very talented authors (Michael S. Manz, Marissa Ames, and Michael Wombat) for this anthology project. I’m both proud and honored to be considered a co-author of this book.

Soul of the Universe is now available on Amazon and Smashwords virtual bookshelves. I encourage you to buy a copy for yourself and gift a copy to a friend. You won’t be disappointed, and neither will they.

Please follow these links to learn more about my fellow Soul of the Universe authors and the publisher, The Anthology Club.

Michael Wombat: http://cubicscats.wordpress.com/2014/03/18/its-here/

Marissa Ames: http://marissaames.com/2014/03/18/soul-of-the-universe/

Michael S. Manz: http://msmanz.com/2014/sotu/

If you would like to check out Soul of the Universe and support The Anthology Club, you may find it at these links:

Amazon US

Amazon UK

Amazon Canada

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Soul of the Universe on Goodreads

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Michael A. Walker

Defying Procrastination

Pull the Trigger

2014-03-12T20:57:00.003-07:00

"A Gun" by -bl1nd-stock

Marcy held the gun to her head.

It would be so easy.

Frightful memories danced in her head, each one belligerent in their attempt for time on the stage; each one more vivid than the one before.

The slaps across her face, the fists in her gut, the kicking and the slashing – they were nothing compared to the words. The words crushed her soul, causing much more damage than any physical instrument could ever do.

Marcy placed her finger on the trigger.

It would be so easy.

She was numb to the pain. Numb to the world. But the memories taunted her; left her bleeding inside. The weight of twenty years of misery pulled her down into depths beyond reason; beyond hope. A burden even Atlas would succumb to. The gun was a feather in her hand.

Marcy released the safety.

It would be so easy.

Marcy’s phone made a familiar sound. It was her daughter. Her ring tone was “Staying Alive.” Marcy forced herself to answer, but it was too late. She received a voice-mail instead.

“Momma, I know its 4 in the morning there, but I just couldn't wait. You’re going to be a grandmother.”

Marcy looked in the mirror and beyond the doorway. She saw the reflection of her enemy. She walked into the bedroom. He was passed out and naked, his knuckles bruised; his chest and arms ornamented with bloody resistance.

Marcy pointed the gun to Stanley’s head.

It would be so easy indeed.

Michael A. Walker

Defying Procrastination

Blind

2014-03-06T16:32:00.002-08:00

"Blind Man" by Malani

Joseph had the whole world against him it seemed. Last week his fiancée of three years had given her ring back to him without cause. A few days later he learned of his favorite aunt’s passing, but didn't have the time to travel to her funeral. This past weekend he had to give up his champion dog to an animal shelter. The neighbors in his condominium didn't appreciate the pitter-patter of his dog’s feet running across on the hardwood floors. This morning his BMW broke down and he was late to work, late enough that they let him go. It wasn't the first time he was late, but the first time he had a legitimate excuse.

Lost in his despair, his feet carried him into a park, the clapping of his Italian leather shoes against the cobbled stones echoing between the well manicured hedges. His custom black suit stood out amongst the green trees, the blooming wild flowers, and the tranquil ripples of a nearby pond. Joseph was numb with emotional burden and blind to it all.

He found an empty bench and collapsed. Through the miasmic deluge of misery plaguing his fragile state of mind, Joseph heard the mesmerizing and beautiful calling of a bird. When he lifted his head and allowed his ears to follow the sound, he didn't find a bird at all. It was a man, an old man, whistling cheerfully as he applied paint to canvas.

Joseph watched the old man. He seemed to be a professional in the way he carefully chose his colors, and how he slowly and deliberately moved his brush across the painting. Yet, his clothes told a different story. They were tattered, well worn, and stained. Not stained with paint, not entirely, but from what seemed like weeks, perhaps months, of neglect. A collection bucket sat near his feet.

Intrigued, Joseph forgot his troubles and approached the old man from behind. The painting was awash with brilliant colors but lacked any detail.

“It’s beautiful.” Joseph hadn't intended for those words to come out, but they did anyway.

The old man didn't divert his attention, nor stop whistling. In mid-stroke he finally replied, “Beauty is where you find it, son.”

“How long did it take you to paint that?”

“What’s today’s date?” the old man asked as he attentively dabbed a fine threaded brush onto the canvas.

“March 24^th.”

“What year?”

Joseph was puzzled. “2006 of course.”

The old man picked up a different brush and began mixing the color on his pallet. When the color was just right, he lifted the brush and said, “Nearly two years now.”

“Two years?” Joseph could hardly believe his ears. “Why so long?”

The old man stopped whistling and turned to face Joseph for the first time. His pupils were absent of color.

“Oh, you’re blind.”

“No, but almost.”

“What’s going to happen when you do? You won’t be able to paint anymore.”

“When images become inadequate, I shall be content with silence.”

Michael A. Walker

Defying Procrastination

Kristin

2014-03-06T10:33:00.001-08:00

Back in October, on my 44th birthday, an article I wrote for the Hutto Newspaper was published about my friend Kristin who had been diagnosed with Stage 3 breast cancer and I wanted to share it with you all here. I'm happy to report that Kristin is beating her cancer.

In her own words...

"Well...friends and family..it is with great joy that I share that my PET Scan showed no glow anywhere. No new spots of concern and the ones I had are no longer showing up. What this means is the Chemo worked and has stopped the Cancer. My course of action will remain the same (surgeries and radiation and such) but we have NO new worries. Even though I have been so nauseous today...it is a good day."

In light of that great news, as promised, I'll be diverting 100% of the sales of "Her Special Day Shoes" to the National Breast Cancer Foundation in Kristin's name.

KRISTIN

By: Michael A. Walker

Cancer. No other word incites greater fear, evokes more terrifying nightmares, or is more responsible for the reckless and impartial deliverance of pain, misery and death. Cancer doesn't care what color or ethnicity you are. It doesn't care how smart you are, or how far you have climbed the social ranks. It cares not for what titles you hold, who your daddy is or how much money you have. It cares little about your age, your religion or how many miles you run each day. It doesn't care anything about you or your family.

Cancer simply destroys lives.

Like many of you reading this, I have lost loved ones, too many, in fact, to this dreadful disease. I lost my sister to ovarian cancer, my father to leukemia, and my first cousin to a cancer that attacked her entire body. Cancer is a pervasive and effective killer. It constantly invades our everyday lives by its ever-present occupation, so much so, that eventually it becomes white noise. It’s an infectious maelstrom of malcontent that leaches and saps your will, your defenses, to the point where you feel helpless and become complacent. That is until it becomes personal.

In August of this year it became personal to me, again.

One of my dearest and closest friends, a member of my extended family, someone who I’ve known for more than 20 years, was diagnosed with Stage 3 Invasive Ductal Carcinoma HER2neu-plus breast cancer, an aggressive form of cancer that has invaded her lymph nodes and now threatens her life. There are four stages, or categories, that breast cancer falls into. Stage 3 means that the cancer is no longer localized to the breast and has spread to connecting lymph nodes, the chest wall, or to the chest skin. Stage 3 breast cancer usually requires a combination of chemotherapy and radiation treatments, and surgery to defeat. Like the other 636 women who are diagnosed with breast cancer each day, Kristin and her family were devastated.

Kristin is a multitalented woman, wife, and full time mom. She has a Bachelors of Fine Arts degree from the Santa Fe University of Art and Design, where she learned to perform and sing on stage, and where she honed her seamstress skills. With these skills Kristin has spent countless hours volunteering for her local church, at school functions, and in her community by performing in plays, designing and constructing costumes, and singing in choir and yuletide caroling events. There are few people in this world I love and adore more than Kristin. Her smile lights up the sun, and her infectious laugh radiates joy wherever she goes.

Unfortunately, because of her battle with breast cancer, Kristin can no longer afford to do any of those things that bring so much joy to her life. Now her days are filled with doctor appointments, injections, and prayers. Chemotherapy treatments are designed to attack cells in your body, like cancer cells, that dived rapidly. One side effect to this is that it also attacks other rapid growing cells in your body, like hair, bone marrow, and blood cells. When this happens, white cell counts can drop to dangerous levels, which significantly decreases your body’s ability to defend itself from the constant barrage of germs and diseases that we are exposed to each day. The threat this imposes on Kristin’s body is measured by the near endless supply of hand sanitizers and disinfecting wipes that she keeps nearby. Visitors and her own loving family must don facemasks when they are near her.

Just last week, a day after a round of chemotherapy, Kristin was hospitalized for four days. Her white blood cell count plummeted to .4, with normal levels for the average person starting at 4.0. I saw pictures of her children snuggled up to her in her hospital bed wearing surgical masks, with eyes that held genuine love and concern for their mother. It was enough to make a grown man cry. This man did.

Kristin married my brother, Wesley, a brotherhood born out of irreplaceable memories, love and by choice. I’ve been a part of Wesley’s family, and he mine, since the seventh grade. In high school, he used to turn off my electric typewriter during typing tests, plug my ears with Vaseline in wrestling practice, and embarrass me at school dances by dedicating songs in my name to girls I had a crush on. In my textbooks he would write silly messages and draw pictures of hearts, professing his love for his girlfriends. Sometimes he would just destroy them completely by tearing off the covers, tossing them across the room, or scaring them in such a way that it prevented me from returning them at the end of the year.

He also saved my life.

When I was 19 I lost my mother to a ruptured brain aneurysm that left her in a coma and then lifeless. Weeks later, I lost my grandfather to medical complications that arose from his elderly age, and months after that my wife and children in a heart-crippling divorce. I was a walking dead man, a zombie that lacked the will or desire for life. Wesley saved me from despair. He forced me out of the house and out of my misery. He showed me how to live again, and reintroduced happiness and the want to see my children’s children before I leave this earth.

Together Wesley and Kristin have two children of their own. Logan (13) is a prodigy pianist and all around talented and gifted young man. He plays the piano with the ferocity and confidence of a young lion destined for greatness. Skye (7) embodies everything you would expect from a little girl that carries that name. When the mood strikes her, she can be kind and gentle, with a propensity to beguile the unwary into a sense of calm right before she unleashes her unbridled fury, but mostly she is beautiful.

Recently, I launched my very first self-published eBook, entitled “Her Special Day Shoes.” In it, Rachael, the protagonist, is a young woman who has suffered a great deal in her life. Unlike Kristin, she has her health but little else. Like Kristin, in spite of her terrible lot in life, she forges on, smiling and rising above every obstacle thrown her way, refusing to yield in the face of insurmountable odds. Rachael and Kristin have a lot in common. No better pairing of super heroes could possibly exist.

I was fortunate to have a friend like Wesley during my darkest hour, and now, with your help, I have the opportunity - the honor - of repaying him and his family. As a tribute to Kristin, I re-launched "Her Special Day Shoes" and dedicated it to her. All proceeds from the sale of “Her Special Day Shoes” will go to assist Kristin with her personal battle with breast cancer and to a National Breast Cancer Foundation account in her name - forever.

Cancer is wicked and vile, but not invincible. Cancer can be defeated with willpower, determination, and by the best doctors and chemotherapy money can buy.

For $2.86 you can help make the difference in Kristin’s life, and the lives of the hundreds of thousands of women like her afflicted with this terrible disease each year. That’s less than a grande latté at your favorite coffee house, a 3-pack of disposable razors and less than a gallon of gasoline. As an added bonus, you’ll have a heartwarming and uplifting story to read and share with your family.

I’ve lost too many loved ones to cancer. I don’t want to lose another. You can help by purchasing the book, sharing the video I made for Kristin, or by making a donation to the National Breast Cancer Foundation in her name and asking everyone you know to do the same. Aside from that, your warm thoughts and prayers are always welcomed and immensely appreciated. Thank you.

Link to the original article: The Hutto News

SOME IMPORTANT LINKS

Amazon Link to “Her Special Day Shoes”: http://www.amazon.com/Her-Special-Day-Shoes-ebook/dp/B00EZEXN74/

Kristin’s National Breast Cancer Foundation page: http://www.stayclassy.org/herspecialdayshoes/

Kristin’s Story and her Caring Bridge page: http://www.caringbridge.org/visit/kristinkrizowilliamso

Tribute video to Kristin from me: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M7ciLlW5md4

Link to Kristin's National Breast Cancer Foundation page

AMAZON LINK

Do you know of anyone who has been affected by breast cancer? Share your story.

Michael A. Walker

Defying Procrastination

263 DAYS: A Renewed Focus, A New Cause

2013-10-02T11:27:00.000-07:00

Kristin receiving one of many Chemo treatments

It has been 263 days since my last post. During that absence I have gone though quite a few life changes and overcome some tough hurdles in my life. Needless to say, in spite of my blog’s title and theme, I did not do a good job of defying procrastination - that is until recently.

The biggest hurdle I stumbled over was learning that my youngest daughter had decided to give up her first child for adoption – my first grandchild. Although I offered my support in her decision, I did not agree with it. Secretly it ate at my insides like a festering cancer. It was like losing a child.

I think adoption is a wonderful gift, and have come across many people in my life that have benefited from it, but for me, in this situation, I couldn’t help but feel immensely hurt. I would never be able to hold my little grandson in my arms - squeeze him, tickle him until he begged me to stop, teach him how to throw a football, share family photos and memories with him, watch his eyes light up at Christmas, take him to his first ballgame, read bedtime stories to him, witness his first little league game, or never ever hear the words “Papa,” or “Grandpa” come from his little mouth.

I was devastated.

Life has thrown many tough hurdles in front of me throughout my life, so I was a veteran at dealing with the pain – so I thought. I swallowed my despair and kept going. What I didn’t realize was how the misery inside me was affecting those around me, specifically my home life. I was making everyone around me miserable too. I was finding every excuse under the sun not to write, even though deep inside words begged to be put to virtual paper, and so I languished.

This internal battle went on for several months unconsciously until it was brought to my attention by someone close to me. It wasn’t until then that I had a moment of clarity and fully understood that I was suffering from depression.

After a few counseling sessions and some heart to heart talks, the weight - the burden laboring on my troubled heart was lifted. My vision, my lust for life returned, and so did my passion for writing.

Recently I launched my first self-published eBook “Her Special Day Shoes.” The story of Rachael was born from a picture that won the photo contest I started when I launched my blog a few years ago. Sue, the sweet lady who entered the contest, submitted a picture of her daughter Rachael’s shoes that she wore on her wedding day.

However, the feelings of adulation and pride were short-lived when I learned that my close friend Kristin had been diagnosed with Stage 3 HER2 breast cancer. There was no way I could be happy for myself when I knew that someone that I loved and cared about so deeply was in for the fight of her life. That, and my recent personal battles seemed pale in comparison to what Kristin was going through.

I wanted to do something special for Kristin and her family, and was fumbling for ideas until late one night while lying in bed – it hit me. It seemed that it was fate that October, the designated Breast Cancer Awareness month, was just a few days away. So I decided to dedicate my book to Kristin and donate all of the profits from it to her and the National Breast Cancer Foundation.

Link to Kristin's National Breast Cancer Foundation page

The following days were a whirlwind of activity, and few hours of sleep, as I prepared for the re-launch of my eBook on Oct. 1^st. Everything went off without a hitch and I’m proud to say that with generosity of the community at large, at the time of this posting, “Her Special Day Shoes,”has skyrocketed from the top 200k downloads to the top 35k downloads at Amazon.com in under 24hrs.

Thank you to everyone who has or will purchase this humble little book, or has helped me spread the word. Please continue to do so.

Please help me spread this video. Thank you!

SOME IMPORTANT LINKS

Amazon Link to “Her Special Day Shoes”: http://www.amazon.com/Her-Special-Day-Shoes-ebook/dp/B00EZEXN74/

Kristin’s National Breast Cancer Foundation page: http://www.stayclassy.org/herspecialdayshoes/

Kristin’s Story and her Caring Bridge page: http://www.caringbridge.org/visit/kristinkrizowilliamso

Tribute video to Kristin from me: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M7ciLlW5md4

Some of my writer friends graciously supporting the cause, THANK YOU!

Chiz over at Chiz Chat: http://chiz-chat.blogspot.com/2013/10/her-special-day-shoes.html
Daniel over at Nest Expressed: http://nest-expressed.com/two-eighty-six/

Michael A. Walker

Defying Procrastination

Celebrity Encounters #2: Stallone, Nielsen, Zsa Zsa Gabor

2013-01-12T19:59:00.000-08:00

Sylvester Stallone, Bridgette Nielsen, & Zsa Zsa Gabor

Sometimes you run into celebrities right where you would expect to: a concert, the Academy Awards, the Playboy Mansion, or the Los Angeles Equestrian Center. Such was the case when I had a chance encounter with Sylvester Stallone, Brigitte Nielsen, and Zsa Zsa Gabor at a Polo match.

It was the Spring of 1986. My family (Mom, Dad, and youngest sister Yolanda) had gone to visit my sister, Debbie, and her family in Hollywood, which was just a short jaunt from our home in Vegas.

Celebrity Encounters #1

The evening after our arrival, Debbie invited us to go watch a polo match with her at the Los Angeles Equestrian Center. She had been taking equestrian riding lessons and had gotten quite good at it. In the process, she had gained an interest in polo and acquired season ticket passes. She only had three tickets, so we did what any other normal family would do; we held an Indian leg wrestling match. Not really, but that would have been fun to watch. Actually only Yolanda and I showed any interest in going, so off we went.

Me, Justin, and Ogbar the Boxer on my sister's boat - circa 1981

I suppose by Hollywood, CA standards, my sister and her family were considered middle-class, but from my perspective they were bazzilionaires. Debbie was an executive assistant at a law firm that counted Johnny Carson, NBC executives, and other celebrities as their clients. She and her husband, Bobby, also owned and operated a respectable and well established dry cleaning business in the area. In their garage they had a Mercedes and a BMW 635SCI (sweet ride). On the ocean they had a 36’ California class cruiser (which I had the pleasure of swabbing the deck on a few times).

I’d say they were doing alright. Nothing that I was accustomed to.

That night we took the Benz to the country club. We were riding in style, and blended right in with the regulars. What didn’t blend in was my attire. I wore my ~~least worn~~ best pair of 501 button-fly jeans (an 80’s fashion staple) and an off-brand polo shirt that my Mom had picked up from the thrift store that she worked at. For my footwear I chose a pair of K-Mart brand Top-Siders (boat shoes – remember those?) that were made of some weird fabric-plastic material instead of leather. My sisters, on the other hand, looked marvelous. Yolanda, like me, didn't have a lot, but as a veteran beauty pageant contestant and clothes model, she could make anything look good. And of course Debbie had no trouble fitting in.

My program and ticket from the big night.

As we made our way to our seats, I couldn't believe my eyes. I don’t know how Debbie did it, but somehow we had slightly better seats than Rocky Balboa and Red Sonja. Yeah, that’s right. Sitting directly behind us, and a few rows up, was Sylvester Stallone and his new wife (and soon to be ex-wife) Brigitte Nielsen. For a kid growing up in the 70’s and 80’s watching (and idolizing) Rocky, Rambo, and the Conan the Barbarian series (Red Sonja included for illustration purposes only), this was a serious geek moment for me.

Mind. Blown.

Stallone was dressed sharply in black (shocking, I know) and Brigitte was wearing an elegant short dress. She looked stunning. Given her proximity, the shortness of her dress, and her elevation relative to my eye-level, I couldn't take my eyes off of her ~~baby maker~~. What? I was an adolescent young man nearing his sexual prime. These were actions beyond my control; natural forces genetically designed into my fragile teenage boy DNA. Also, she looked hot.

For reasons I can only assume were designed to keep rabid fans (like me) away, no one ever claimed the seats between us. This was okay by me. I got a clear view of ~~Brigitte Nielsen’s baby maker~~ my childhood hero. Let’s face it. Other than maybe Arnold, Tom Cruise, Harrison Ford, and Molly Ringwald, there was no bigger action movie star at the time. I guess the tactic worked because I never did approach Stallone or Brigitte for their autograph, which I could have done easily by just stretching out my arm. As you soon will discover from this series (and later in this post), I’m normally not one to shy away from approaching celebrities. I guess I was just too mesmerized by being in such close proximity to ~~Brigitte Nielsen’s baby maker~~ the Italian Stallion that I just couldn't bring myself to do it.

At the first intermission break, Yolanda and I decided to take a stroll around the grounds and see what else of interest we could find while Debbie held our seats. We both loved horses, so we made our way to the stables. There seemed to be some special event going on at the stables when we arrived. Apparently, for that evening at least, we were considered “special” because we managed to get in somehow.

The stables at the Los Angeles Equestrian Center (C)

There were a number of people dapperly dressed standing around talking and sipping on wine and champagne. It made for an interesting blend of high-class and barnyard etiquette. Granted, they were nicely maintained stables, but stables nonetheless - complete with a mixture of trampled hay and horse nuggets lining the ground, and all the pleasant smells of a well used barn.

We politely acknowledged the post-Oscar-party-like atmosphere, but quickly gravitated towards the horses in the stables. I spent a good portion of my youth at the horse track (Hollywood Park, Santa Anita Park, Los Alamitos) with my parents back when we lived in LA. My parents were natural born gamblers. I suppose that is how we wound up in Vegas. I spent many weekends picking up discarded wagering tickets for fun and helped my parents chase down Lady Luck with wagers of my own. The terms Daily Double, Trifecta, Quinella, Parlay, and Exata were all part of my everyday vocabulary by the age of seven, so I was somewhat familiar with the thoroughbreds they were using for the polo matches - knowledge that would prove to be keenly useful in short order.

As we made our way through the stables, visiting with all of the horses we came across, I spotted something sparkly from the corner of my eye.

It was Zsa Zsa Gabor.

I knew immediately that it was Zsa Zsa and not her nearly identical younger sister Eva, because Green Acres was (and still is - I know all the words to the theme song by heart) one of my all-time favorite comedy TV shows. While both were gorgeous women in their day, Eva had a slightly thinner face, and dare I say, was slightly prettier than her older sister Zsa Zsa.

Eva Gabor and Zsa Zsa Gabor

Zsa Zsa was dressed in an elegant baby-blue evening gown, the kind you might find on the red carpet of the Academy Awards, and layered in fine jewels from head to toe, talking with a gentleman (whom I would later find out was a famous horse breeder – his name escapes me at the moment) in a black tuxedo. They were sipping champagne and, from what I could gather, discussing the finer points of horse breeding.

I pointed Zsa Zsa out to Yolanda. Her full attention had been admiring the beautiful horses and hadn’t noticed her. She didn’t believe me at first, but as I drug her closer she gave me a wide-eyed smile.

“Oh my God, it is her!”

Mom, Dad, and my 70's porn mustache - circa 1986

We played it cool and casually walked closer until we were standing right next to her. Before we knew it, we were elbow deep in conversation about horses with Lady Zsa Zsa Gabor and her famous breeder friend. Sometime in our conversation a waiter came by with a tray of champagne. Yolanda happily obliged, but I wasn’t quite old enough, even though with my 70’s porno mustache I could have easily passed for someone in their 20’s, as my drinking high school friends could attest to.

Just a couple days earlier I was back home, sharing a one-bedroom apartment with my parents (and Yolanda – she was staying with us for a spell) in a rundown complex (now since torn down) located in a seedy part of downtown Vegas (back then ALL of downtown Vegas was seedy), and here I was hob-knobbing with Hollywood royalty.

It was surreal.

I guess time had slipped away from us, because while we were chatting it up with Zsa Zsa, I could see Debbie walking down the corridor toward us, and she looked none-too-pleased. As she got closer to us, her facial expression morphed and contorted between anger, relief, and finally surprise. Taking the cue, we politely excused ourselves from the conversation and caught up with her.

“I’ve been running around looking all over for you guys, worried sick that something happened to you, and here I find you rubbing elbows with celebrities. The polo match is over you know!” Her displeasure with us was short-lived once she realized we were okay, and we revealed what a fun time we had.

I don’t remember too much from the polo match, obviously. Who cares, right?!? I got a once in a lifetime opportunity to swap horse stories with celebrity elite and to sit near ~~Brigitte Nielsen’s baby maker~~one of my childhood heroes.

Celebrity Encounters #1: Larry Gatlin and the Gatlin Brothers

What celebrities have you met? Any interesting stories to share?

Michael A. Walker

Defying Procrastination

The Light Bulb

2013-01-05T09:06:00.001-08:00

Lightbulb by Susie Porisch

The other day I was digging through some boxes in the garage desperately trying to find some old photos when I can across a box with some very old Folio folders from my days back in high school. One particular folder caught my eye; it contained a stack of creative writing papers from my freshman year in high school.

I started reading through the papers, getting lost in a time long ago. It was a pleasant trip back down memory lane. Some of the papers I remember writing, some not so much. I found it interesting (and also very entertaining) to read the grades and comments from my high school English teacher, Mrs. Walton. They all contained a reoccurring theme - great story, poor spelling and grammar.

One of the first papers I ever wrote in Mrs. Walton's class was entitled, The Light Bulb. At this point Mrs. Walton had very little exposure to my poor spelling and grammar, so her words were sweet, and so was my grade.

It read, "9.5/10 Good Job! Except for a couple of silly little errors."

As I continued to read through the papers, my grades got worse, and Mrs. Walton's sweet words began to wane. One of the later ones simply read in big read letters, "Get a dictionary!"

Mrs. Walton would be proud to learn that my grammar has improved (if only marginally so), but despite her best efforts, my spelling remains atrocious (<--- spell checked). Regardless, I am grateful for Mrs. Walton. She introduced me to creative writing, poetry, mythology, and always pushed me to my limits. Of course, like most high school students, I didn't appreciate it much back then. In fact, at times, I loathed it. But without her, without her fine tutelage and guidance, I would not be the writer that I am today.

So, in her honor, and in honor of all the other teachers out there that have inspired us beyond our imagination, I give you The Light Bulb in its entirety. Only edited, as Mrs. Walton would have wanted it.

Thank you Mrs. Walton.

* * * * *

The Light Bulb

Once upon a time there was a light bulb named Sparky. Sparky was a very enlightened, energetic little fellow. Every day he shined like a morning star, lighting the halls, kitchen, and the walls; that is only during the daylight.

Yes, it was true, Sparky only shined during the lightness of the day. By night, darkness was his enemy. Every day when the day slowly turned into dusk, his trustworthy owner would turn his settings to the highest degree, for he knew what Sparky was up against.

"The Light Bulb" - the original copy

As the day turned to night, the room became darker and darker, leaving poor old Sparky alone to defend himself from the cold darkness of the night. Soon the room became dark as coal and every corner of the room was colored with black shadows.

No matter how hard Sparky tried, the blackness eventually overtook him. Only a small area around him remained untouched by the overwhelming power of the night. But Sparky hung in there, giving it his all, casting out every minute light wave inside his little round body. Almost instantly the darkness of the room illuminated with a soft glow of light, giving Sparky the encouragement to shine on.

Soon, the once darkened corners of the room became lit up with joyous shades of light. Sparky was relieved, for the battle was over and he had won, but only for now. Sparky knew deep down inside that it was not over. Today was a new day and tonight would be a new battle.

Have any old writings that you have recently come across? Was there ever a particular teacher that inspired you?

Michael A. Walker

Defying Procrastination

Celebrity Encounters #1: Larry Gatlin and the Gatlin Brothers

2012-10-25T16:56:00.001-07:00

Larry Gatlin and the Gatlin Brothers - circa 1970s

I was sharing some stories recently with my Lady about some of the crazy celebrity encounters I've had over the years, and thought it might make for a fun blog series.

Having spent many years of my youth, and some as an adult, growing up in Las Vegas, Los Angeles and the Hollywood area, I've often found myself in some interesting situations with the celebrity type; some more interesting than others. Some you may not know. Others you will instantly recognize. Either way, I hope you will find them equally entertaining.

I did a quick scan of my brain the other day -didn't take long - and I came up with a list of 20 or so people I've encountered over the years that I would say fit the celebrity status, or, at least, did at some point in their careers. I’m going to attempt to lay them out in chronological order, but to be honest that function of my brain is a bit faulty, so please bear with me.

^^^^^

In 1981, I was living in Vegas with my parents. We lived in a small studio apartment tucked behind Bonanza - The World’s Largest Gift Shop. If you've been to Las Vegas, then you've likely driven by it, shopped it, or if not, seen it in a plethora of TV shows and movies. If you have been there, you probably noted how run down the area is around and behind the shop. Well, not much has changed in the thirty-one years since I lived there.

Bonanza, The World's Largest Gift Shop by Kieranshaneegan

I was in the 7^th grade and attending my second year at Faith Lutheran. Faith Lutheran was, back then, a very small private school. When I say small, I mean less than 100 students across four grade levels (6^th through 9^th). When I started in 6^th grade, we were located in a small office building of the 2nd Baptist Church with three classrooms. Each year they would add a grade, and when I graduated in 1987, our graduation class had only 23 or so students. Now Faith has grown, according to Wikipedia, into the largest Lutheran school in the United States and the largest private school in Nevada. Crazy.

Faith Lutheran Middle & High School now... just a tad larger campus than when I attended.

As I've mentioned a few times before, we were poor. Yet, my parents insisted that I get a good education, and thus sacrificed a lot to send me to Faith. Since Faith was obviously a Christian school, we obviously had a choir. A small choir, but a solid one, led at the time by Mrs. Walton. I joined, mostly because back then I was enthusiastic about my faith, but also because outside of soccer (which I also joined), choir was one of the few extracurricular activities our small school had to offer.

This will come to a shock to most people who know me, but I’m not a good singer. Never have been, unless I’m alone in the shower or when the radio is turned up really loud. Then I sound damn good. In 1981, my voice was going through some very awkward changes, along with other parts of my twelve year old adolescent body, which made for some interesting pitch swings in my voice. Luckily for me the only requirements for joining the Faith Lutheran Choir back then were to have a voice (any will do) and a pulse.

Check! Nailed it!

In the beginning we mostly sang during chapel service and the occasional choir concert. Then, as we improved, we started singing at malls and other public venues. My voice never really improved, for obvious reasons, but the rest of the group did. I don’t know how she did it, but Mrs. Walton really made us into a well-oiled singing troupe.

Then something magical happened.

I don’t know how, or who pulled the strings, but out of the blue one day Mrs. Walton told us that we would be singing on stage at the Sahara Hotel & Casino with Larry Gatlin and the Gatlin Brothers for a Christmas concert special.

Sahara Hotel & Casino - How it looked in 1981 - Photo by UNLV Digital Collections

How it looks now. Sadly, this Vegas icon closed its doors in May of 2011.
Some of the biggest names in show business once graced its billboard.

Are you kidding me? Our tiny, no-name choir… on the Sahara stage... singing with Larry Gatlin?

This was huge!

Some of you are staring blank-eyed at the screen right now - minds blown. Others are staring blank-eyed at the screen right now with giant question marks hovering over your heads. You see, back in the late 70’s and early 80’s, Larry Gatlin and the Gatlin Brothers were kings of the radio. Particularly, the country radio stations. They had quite a few hit singles, but the one they were most famous for was, “All the Gold in California.” And I knew all of the words.

Perfect!

This was (wasn’t) the big break I needed to launch my singing career (no chance in hell). Hell, even I could sound good singing next to Larry Gatlin. Whoever heard of a three person band anyway? What they really needed was me to complete them. You know… make them into a quartet. Everyone knows that a quartet is how you really become famous. Just look at KISS, the Beatles, the Oakridge Boys, the Spice Girls, Gladys Knight & The Pips, and the Four Lads…

Istanbul by The Four Lads

Know what they all have in common? Aside from fame, fortune, and class, they all have four members in their band. Larry Gatlin and the Gatlin Brothers were soon to be Larry Gatlin, the Gatlin Brothers, and the Kid with a squirrely voice.

What? A kid can dream…

The night finally arrived. We were all dressed in our best outfits and matching choir accents. I remember them huddling us backstage upon our arrival, as I nervously anticipated meeting Larry Gatlin and his brothers. We never saw them.

Then they ushered us on stage for rehearsals before the big event. I kept waiting for Larry and the boys to come out and sing with us, but they never did. My heart was crushed.

At some point I needed to go to the bathroom, so I made my way backstage and started walking down this long, well-lit hallway. Although my mood was a tad tempered by disappointment, I was still a bit overwhelmed and excited by the whole experience. I had never been on stage before, aside from when I played The Spider in a kindergarten play “Little Miss Muffet” (a story for another time), let alone being involved with something so spectacular.

Larry Gatlin by Gerry Weintz

As I walked the lonely, quiet hall, I looked up from my reverie to see Larry Gatlin walking out of a room… and headed straight toward me. It was just me and him. There was a good thirty to forty feet separating us, which lent plenty of time for my nerves to accelerate towards DEFCON 5. Time slowed to a dead crawl as my little heart thumped against my chest and my mind frantically raced towards a decision on what I was going to do.

Do I just walk by and pretend like I don’t know him? Do I wave hello? Do I ask for his autograph? Was this a good time to broach the topic of a quartet?

All of these things bounced undeterred through my brain as he approached. Then he smiled at me, and before I knew it he had knelt down, shook my hand, exchanged a pleasant conversation with me, and was on his way.

It all happened so quickly. After my encounter I remember thinking 1) he smelled good 2) his hand was cold and clammy, and 3) I couldn't wait to tell my parents what had happened.

SHOW TIME

The rest of the evening was a total blur. I remember we sang a few songs on stage by ourselves. I remember the lights and the cameras. I remember there being hundreds of people in the audience, and wishing my parents were among them to see me. And, I remember in the closing ceremonies of the concert being on stage with Larry Gatlin and the Gatlin Brothers, singing right along with them.

"All the Gold in California" by Larry Gatlin and the Gatlin Brothers

For the closer we sang, “All the Gold in California.” Other than Larry and the boys, I think I was the only person on stage that knew all the words. I sang my heart out. In my mind, it was just me and the Gatlin Brothers - on stage in Vegas - at the Sahara Hotel & Casino – singing to our adoring fans – and my voice was pitch perfect.

Sometimes dreams do come true.

So whatever happened to Larry Gatlin and the Gatlin Brothers? Well, we never did form that quartet. Sad really, because after that fateful 1981 December night, they sort of disappeared into obscurity. I think they, along with me, peaked that night and never really amounted to anything...

Larry Gatlin and the Gatlin Brothers - ACM Honors

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What celebrities have you met? Any interesting stories to share?

Celebrity Encounters #2: Stallone, Nielsen, and Zsa Zsa Gabor

Michael A. Walker

Defying Procrastination

Halloween Costumes: The Good, the Bad and the Ugly

2012-10-11T11:23:00.000-07:00

"Blondie" by Rufogh

With Halloween around the corner, Alisha and I were reminiscing about our childhood days and the costumes we wore. She told me that her mother loved Halloween and would dress her up in all kinds of odd costumes. One that stuck out in her mind was when her mom dressed her up as Carmen Miranda the year she turned 8. You know, the famous Chica Chica lady from the 40’s and 50’s who wore those crazy fruit baskets on her head. Alisha had no clue who she was dressed up as, but noted that every door she went to the parents would yell, “Chica chica boom!” or “Carmen Miranda!” and give her lots of candy, so she enjoyed that.

Chica Chica Boom Boom - Carmen Miranda

I was around the same age when I wore my favorite costume (ironically the day after Alisha was born). I used to watch a lot of Western movies with my Dad. Lee Van Cleef, Lee Marvin, John Wayne, Chuck Connors, and of course, Clint Eastwood were some of my all time favorite Western actors. One of my favorite Westerns at the time (and still is) was “The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.” So that year I decided I was going to dress up like Clint Eastwood’s character ‘Blondie’ (also known as The Man with No Name) from that movie.

"Blondie" by Razwit

There was only one problem. As I've mentioned before, we were dirt poor, so there was no way I was going to be able to convince my parents to drop some cash on a costume, which would include: a poncho, some cowboy boots with spurs, a gun holster - with a gun, an unlit half-chewed cigar, and a western hat. You have to remember; back in 1976 we didn't have a Walmart or Target on every corner with ready-made costumes on a hook for under $20. We did have K-Mart and Zody’s, but I don’t recall them carrying a large collection of Halloween costumes; maybe cheap plastic masks, but nothing like what we have today. This meant if you wanted to go trick-or-treating you had to make your costume, which I think is so much more rewarding and fun.

"Devious Way" by Goranbaotic

This brings me to another topic. I can’t stand it when you see teenagers (and some adults) coming to the door trick-or-treating with little to no costume at all, carrying a large pillowcase for a candy bag and expecting you to give them a handful of candy for their lack of effort. L.A.M.E. You might be thinking, no problem, just don’t give them any candy. Nope, bad idea. You see those same teenagers, when denied a tasty candy treat will remember you, and when the night ends and everyone has settled off to la-la-land, they will return and T.P. your house, slash your tires, or worse.

I’ve devised a better solution that works every time. Take some candy in your hand – not too much – enough that they see that you have some and stick your hand down inside their bag. Then, quickly retrieve your hand – without dropping any candy – and place it back in your candy bowl. If there are multiple perps on the same door knocking, repeat the motion from bag to candy bowl and back to bag in quick succession. And don’t forget to smile. Smiling is a key component to not tipping off the perps of your deception. Feel free to adlib with a sarcastic (but not obviously so), “Wow, what an amazing costume!” or “Best one tonight!” After all, they did say, “Trick or treat.”

Now, back to Clint Eastwood…

"Good, Bad, and Ugly" by The6Gun

So... without funds to support my costume idea, I had to get creative. I found an old dark brown towel.

Poncho – check!

I had a cheap plastic gun-belt, holster, and gun combo still hanging around from my 5^th birthday.

Gunfighter gear – check!

"Clint - Blondie" by FitzFitzpatrick

I found a pair of my Dad’s old-greasy work-boots (minus spurs) that were 17 sizes too big.

Cowboy boots – check!

Then I managed to score a black velvet hat with a Mexican motif around the brim from my best friend Aldo.

Western hat – check!

And finally, the pièce de résistance – a candy cigarette broken in two, carefully tucked in the corner of my mouth.

Signature Clint Eastwood western costume piece – check!

I was in hog heaven. I felt Good, I felt Bad (70’s version of da bomb), but in reality, I probably looked pretty Ugly in that getup. It didn’t really matter though. In my mind, I was the biggest and baddest gunslinger in the West, and nobody was going to shoot me down that day.

Best. Halloween. Ever.

My 2nd Grade School class picture - Larch Avenue School, Lennox, CA - circa 1976

Michael A. Walker

Defying Procrastination

Summer of '86

2012-09-19T08:40:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, Brandy over at Momwich.net (you should check her out, she is a riot, and and great Mom with a similar story) invited me to do a guest post on her blog. Of course I was honored to do so, and shared a little event that happened in my not-so-recent past, so I'm sharing that story here as well. Thank you again, Brandy!

* * * * *

Sometimes there are events that happen in our lives that remain forever etched in our minds. We can conjure up those memories so easily – the sights, smells, sounds, and emotions – as if they were a movie that can be rewound and played back again and again to our heart’s content. Occasionally these memories are ones we wished we could forget, but cannot. Others we recall with much fondness, gratitude, and joy. All help define who were are and how we respond to similar events that arise in our future. Such was the case for me 26 years ago.

It was the summer of 1986. I was a junior in high school heading into my senior year. Much promise and eager anticipation of my future hung in the balance. I had just hung up the phone with my girlfriend moments before my parents returned home from the store. My eyes immediately began to swell with tears upon seeing their faces.

“Glynis is pregnant,” I blurted out.

My mother instantly embraced me, as I began to cry.

My father put his hand on my shoulder and asked, “Are you sure it’s yours, son?”

The truth is – I wasn’t sure. There were circumstances that had taken place (a story for another time) that would leave any person with reasonable doubt, certainly in a court of law. But all that mattered at that moment was that my heart wanted to believe the baby was mine, and no manner of reasoning would have likely changed that. I was 16 years old and I was about to become a Daddy.

“Yes, Dad. It’s mine,” I said matter-of-factly. After all, my girlfriend and I had been in serious relationship for over a year, at least as serious as one can get for teenagers in high school. I remember even being a little hurt that he had asked such a question, particularly at that moment, but as the kids these days say – my father had a way of keeping it real.

My father accepted my answer and embraced me too. Whether he was convinced or not is an entirely different question, but my response was enough for him to know I had considered it. Regardless of the timing, the question needed to be asked.

I wept some more.

My tears were not born out of regret or remorse. They were not tears of sadness or self-pity.

Five minutes prior, my girlfriend was urging me, as she had done many weeks before, to tell my parents she was pregnant. She was right. I knew in my heart she was right, and deep down I had wanted to tell them – I had planned on telling them. Up until that point I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. I couldn’t bear to see the look of disappointment in their eyes. I didn’t know if I was prepared to shoulder the burden of letting them down.

You see, I was the youngest of 7 children. Some of my brothers and sisters were successful in their own right – one of my brothers owned his own mechanic shop, and one of my sisters was an executive assistant to a lawyer from a prominent financial consultant firm – but none of them had a college degree. I was the family’s last hope. Of course, it was never presented to me that way, but I always felt it. Ultimately, it was I who had placed that tremendous load upon myself.

We were poor, poorer than most. At one time or another we had lived in the following accommodations: an old school bus in the dead of winter that lacked heat, hot water, or a bed to speak of; a car – also during the dead of winter; a parking garage during the hot Vegas summer heat; an abandoned gas station that reeked of mildew and mold; and a different decrepit gas station that doubled as a chicken coop – the front half of the building was covered floor to ceiling in layers of chicken excrement, the back half we called home. In the summer of ’86 I was sharing a one-bedroom apartment with my parents. We were living high then. We never really had much, but we had love in abundance, and we had each other.

From 6^th grade until I graduated high school, my parents scraped together every last penny they had to send me to a private school. It was a constant struggle. In that tiny little apartment they gave me the only room to sleep in and call my own, while they took the couch so their teenage son could have some semblance of privacy and individuality during a time in his life when those things were most important to a maturing young man. They sacrificed, like many other parents have done for their children, so that I could have a better quality of life than they did. And in return for their kindness, their self-sacrifice, their endearing love and support – in a brief moment of indulgence and moral weakness – I had failed them. I had gotten my high school girlfriend pregnant and shattered all of their hopes and dreams.

I hadn’t of course, but that was my rationale at the time.

“It’s okay, son. Everything will be alright.” Hearing those words that night lifted a formidable burden off of my shoulders – and my heart. I cried like I hadn’t in a long time, and they eagerly absorbed it all. Just like good parents should, they lifted me up, brushed off my knees, and sent me back into the world. As I blazed my own trail though life, they were never more than a few steps behind in case I stumbled again (which of course I did).

I went on to graduate from high school, studied electrical engineering, and then obtained a degree in graphic design. I hadn’t failed them after all.

And what of that little bundle that was conceived in the summer of ’86? My loving daughter, Amanda Rochelle – she has grown up to be an amazing young woman whom I am immensely proud of, and I can’t imagine my life without her.

Me and Amanda '12

Her last Christmas with Grandma Walker '88

Michael A. Walker

Defying Procrastination

Running

2012-09-14T06:35:00.000-07:00

Back around this time last year Alisha and I held a photo contest as a way to kick-off Defying Procrastination in hopes of generating some followers and showcasing Alisha's art. It's crazy to think how much Defying Procrastination has grown in that short span of time. Just last week DP hit the 40,000 page view mark.

I just want to take a moment to thank everyone who has taken the time to read and comment on my writing. It really means a lot to me, and inspires me to keep fighting off those procrastination demons so that I can continue to do what I love, and that is write.

Winners of the contest (1 Grand prize, 2 Runner ups) are getting their photo painted by Alisha and a complimentary short story or poem written by me. The theme is centered around photo's of shoes, since Alisha's specialty is painting life-like portraits of shoes (she can paint anything really). Hence the name of her gallery, Painting Life's Footsteps. We had over 60 entries. Today's post is the final product of one of the Runner-up winners, Shaun Temple of Birmingham, UK for his photo "Fila Footwear."

Alisha is a brilliantly gifted artist. I still stare in awe every time I look at her work, which I'm blessed with the opportunity to do each and every day in our home. Not only is Alisha a talented and gifted artist, but she is also an amazing mother, my savvy editor (except for this post... I'm keeping this one a surprise... so excuse the misspellings and grammatical errors... its not her fault), and my loving sweetheart.

If I didn't have Alisha in my life, quite honestly, Defying Procrastination (<---- her idea), would not exist. The world would still not know Michael A. Walker, the writer. She is the one who encouraged me to put myself out there, to show the world that I can write. She is my biggest fan, as I am of hers.

In between being a mother, working full time, going to school full time, and squeezing in time to paint when she can, she still makes time to make sure I'm always putting my best foot forward and giving me ample time to write. She gives and sacrifices so much for our family.

Above all else, she is my rock, my salvation, my partner, and the love of my life.

I am the luckiest man in the world.

With all that being said, I give you the fruits of our labor.

*****

Fila Footwear by Shaun Temple Fila Footwear by Alisha K. Ard
Original Photo Acrylic on canvas board

Running

The morning sun sits low on the horizon

Amber sheets diffused by grey

My mind clear; respite

I am Running

Shoes pound the pavement; muscle and tendon

Thundering forth from park to causeway

My laces pulled tight

I am Running

Asphalt fills my lungs; the streets barren

Plumes of hot air slip away

My soul in-flight

I am Running

The contagion sapor of the city thickens

Consumed by an urban buffet

My body bleeds might

I am Running

Sweat-beads rain down as the dense air chastens

Cleansed, yet not defrayed

My heart beats delight

I am Running.

Michael A. Walker

Defying Procrastination

The Last Dance of the Lakota

2012-09-13T11:10:00.000-07:00

The Native by Ron Monroe

Chief Ghost Wolf watched through pensive and blurry eyes as his people danced against the firelight, like they had done for as long as time remembered. Like blades of grass set in motion by the tranquil prairie winds, so too did the Lakota people sway in rhythm with the pounding of the drums and the enchanting cadence of the proud and once mighty tribe. Dressed in their elaborate and colorful traditions passed down through the ages, his people opened up their troubled hearts to the Great Spirit in the sky.

He watched as the elders danced.

He remembered when the buffalo once thundered across the grasslands.

He watched as the tribe warriors danced.

He remembered when the rivers once ran clear and free of hatred and intolerance.

He watched as the women danced.

He remembered when his people once roamed the lowlands as free men.

He watched as the children danced.

He remembered when the vast open skies once held promise and hope.

He watched as the U.S. Calvary assembled in great numbers from horizon to horizon.

He remembered when White men once came to him and offered peace and honorable trade.

A single tear zigzagged its way down his war-painted face, through aged valleys, between battle-tested scars, across swaths of sun-baked skin, like a mighty river cutting its way through the Great Plains that once belonged to his people.

Chief Ghost Wolf knew this would be the last dance of his people; the last dance of the Lakota.

Michael A. Walker

Defying Procrastination

This fictional piece was inspired and dedicated to the Lakota people who suffered a terrible travesty at the hands of Americans at the Wounded Knee Massacre. I love my country; I love and hold very dear the sacrifices and selfless dedication our warriors have made for us though the ages, but this incident was one of many that has left a black scar across the face of America in the pursuit of liberty and prosperity.

Shotgun and a Fist Full of Toilet Paper

2012-09-06T17:20:00.001-07:00

Bathroom Stall by mirrormasked

I’m going to tread into a territory that I don’t normally go to on my blog, and that is “potty talk.”

Have you ever gone into a stall in a public bathroom, sat down, then noticed that the person next to you isn’t making any noise?

None. At. All.

No grunts, squirts, or plunges. No tugs on the toilet paper roll. No wiping. No snorting, chewing, or coughing. No tapping of their feet or snapping of their fingers. No clickity click sounds of their iPad or iPhone. No talking, humming, or singing. No moaning or slapping sounds. No sounds of their belt buckles, badges, pagers, or other belt accessories, brushing against the tile floor. No jingling of jewelry or beeps of their digital watches. No turning of pages or that familiar crinkle sound of a newspaper or magazine. No laughing or crying. No heavy breathing.

Nothing.

Dead silence.

Some may argue that if a person isn’t making any noise then they have clearly finished their business already. Really? Then what are they doing there sitting in silence? Waiting to pass the torch? Is this tag-team pooping? Enjoying an after-poop glow? Reveling in their accomplishment? Are they waiting to recover their strength after having given birth to a behemoth bowel movement?

Some may argue that not hearing any noises from the stall next to you is a good thing. After all, noises in a public bathroom are often associated with, and followed by, terrible smells. Sometimes these smells can cause your eyes to water, your gag reflexes to kick in, or make you pray for a quick death. But silence is worse. Much worse, as the story I’m about to share with you will prove.

Karl's Toys & Hobbies

It was 1986. I had just turned 16 and landed a sweet job at Karl’s Toys & Hobbies in the Fashion Show Mall on the Las Vegas Strip. My high school girlfriend was pregnant and I had been scouring the pavement looking for a job, when finally I got a call back to Karl’s. I was so excited. I needed the money, and what 16 year old wouldn’t want to work at a toy store?

Consuelo was the assistant manager and my trainer. She was from Cuba and had a very strong Cuban accent. She was also very strict. When she got angry, which seemed to happen quite often, she would shout out random, long-winded sentences in Spanish. They seemed random to me because I had no idea what she was saying.

On my first day on the job she laid down the rules: code of conduct, dress code, schedule, and timeliness. She emphasized the dangers of tardiness and to be on time when you came back from breaks and lunches. If you were late a write-up would soon follow, and after 3 write-ups you would be out the door.

No problem, I thought. I’ve always followed the motto, “If you’re not at least 15 minutes early, then you’re late. Plus having a newborn on the way was enough to keep me plenty motivated to walk the straight and narrow and do whatever it took to keep my job.

Consuelo approached me on my first day. “Time for you to take a break. You can take a 15 minute break, or a 30 minute lunch.”

The Fashion Show Mall as it appears today.

I wasn’t hungry, so I decided to take a 15. I didn’t smoke and we didn’t have cell phones or internet back then to occupy my time, so there wasn’t much for me to do on a 15 minute break. I decided to take a stroll of the mall. It wasn’t your average mall. Never mind the fact that it was on the Vegas Strip, it was also loaded with stores I had previously only seen on Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous: Sax Fifth Avenue, Neiman Marcus, Nordstrom, etc. etc.

Two minutes into my stroll I realized that I had a turtlehead poking out and needed to drop the kids off at the pool. Instead of backtracking to work to do the deed, I decided to find the mall bathroom. Besides, a fancy mall had to have nice fancy bathrooms.

So I thought.

To my disappointment, I opened the bathroom door to find a small, cramped, plain-looking bathroom with only two stalls. The clock was ticking – literally and figuratively – so I made my way over to the stalls. My modus operandi is to always go to the furthest stall away from the door; it limits the number of people you have sit next to and generally they are larger stalls made for the handicapped. That stall was taken, so I took the only other available seat.

I did my business while contemplating the mysteries of life. At least what a teenage boy my age understood them to be. Finished, I reached over to grab some toilet paper only to find it empty. Zoiks! No problem, every bathroom stall has a place for two rolls for just such an occasion.

Denied.

Second one was empty too. No worries, that’s what those toilet seat tissue condoms are for. I reached behind me.

It was empty too.

My plan? To wait for the guy next to me finish and then walk over to the other stall and take some from there. It seemed logical. It seemed like a solid plan. Other than pulling my pants up and going all caveman, it seemed like the ONLY plan.

So I waited.

It occurred to me as I waited that the person next to me hadn’t made a sound the entire time I’d been in there. Not a peep. It also occurred to me that he had been in there much longer than I and still hadn’t finished, and that for some odd reason, I couldn’t see his feet on the floor.

I waited some more.

The clock was ticking and I was starting to get nervous that I was going to be late coming back from my break. Hurry up dude!

I began to wonder if I had mistook the closed door to the other stall as I sign that it was occupied. As I considered the possibility, the door to the bathroom opened and a tall man – I could see his head over the stalls – walked in and opened the stall door next to me. I guess it wasn’t locked. Damn it! That meant it was empty and I had wasted all that time for nothing. Worse, the stall would soon be occupied by a fresh body, which meant more waiting for me.

After opening the stall door the man mumbled, “Uh… um oh, sorry,” and shut the door.

For about a millisecond I was a little relieved, because maybe the added pressure of knowing other people were waiting for the stall would spur this dude to hurry up. Before I had finished that thought, the tall man bolted out the door like bat out of hell. I guess he really had to go.

I buried my face in my hands and noticed a very peculiar and disturbing thing. I still have nightmares. There are just some memories you wish you could use hot bleach and a wire brush on. Where the man’s feet should have been was a pair of knees facing towards the toilet. They were either knees or amputated legs. My brain would not allow me to linger on the scene to try and figure it out. It didn’t want to figure it out. It just wanted OUT.

I began to panic.

I was late for work. I had a dirty butt with which no means to clean, and now I had some weirdo in the stall next to me doing who knows what and wanting to add me to the mix. It couldn’t possible get worse.

It did.

The guy… it… thing… it could have been an alien as far as I was concerned, was a magician. In what seemed like something from a morbid carnival magic show, his knees were magically replaced with a note – blue ink scribbled on a piece of torn toilet paper – that was on the ground and facing directly towards me.

My mind was racing; still frazzled by what I had just witnessed. I was finding it difficult to focus on anything, let alone the mysterious note. I leaned down close to read it; my heart pounding in my chest.

“Do you want me to suck you off?”

I had run track in school. I played a little football. I was never very fast, but I doubt Carl Lewis could have caught me that day. I jerked up my pants and was out the door before the toilet lid hit the seat.

It All Ends Here by Destroy-The-Map

At first I was scared; terrified. As I rushed back to work, those feelings morphed into disgust and raw anger. My mind began playing out all sorts of scenarios, all of which included me going back to that bathroom, kicking the stall door open, shoving a double-barrel shotgun into his/it’s mouth, and screaming, “SUCK ON THIS!” as I pulled the trigger.

But I couldn’t. My job was on the line and I had a newborn on the way that was counting on me to provide – that and I didn’t have a double-barrel shotgun handy.

When I got back to work, Consuelo was waiting for me. She gave me that look, but I didn’t pause. I ran right past her and straight for the employee’s bathroom to clean myself up. I don’t know what she saw in my eyes or what horrid look I had etched on my face, but she never said a word to me about being late. Not that day or any day following, and Mrs. Consuelo was never one to shy away from confrontation or giving me a piece of her mind.

It took me a long time to get over what happened that day. Even now, as I am writing this, some 26 years later, it leaves me feeling uneasy – sick to my stomach.

Michael A. Walker

Defying Procrastination

Lover's Leap

2012-08-25T15:55:00.001-07:00

Battling Nature by Knold

Never one to turn down a dare, Nathan snatched the chalk sock from Brandon’s hands and began applying a healthy layer of climbers chalk on his hands.

No more words were exchanged.

Nathan clapped his hands together, adjusted his sunglasses, and like a prize fighter sizing up his next victim, let his gaze follow the rock formation from base to summit. A wall of treacherous stone towered over him, reaching more than 400 feet toward the heavens.

His face held a mask of battle-hardened determination.

Nathan’s mind was free of fear. As clear as the blue sky that spanned from horizon to horizon above him, his thoughts held little sway upon his conscience, like wispy white clouds on the outer fringes of his mind. The sun was his only guidance; a beacon of inspiration that provided focus for the task ahead.

Nathan lunged for the first handhold, then the next. Without rope or safety harness, he completed the first 30 feet of the climb like a seasoned veteran. Hand over hand, foot by foot he ascended. Stretching and leaping. Crisscrossing and sidestepping.

100 feet.

The northwestern winds cooled his glistening skin, but did little to subdue the sweat caused from exertion.

200 feet.

Nathan continued to climb towards the summit, his eyes glazed over with resolve, never once stealing a glance behind him or below.

300 feet.

His muscles began to burn, giving notice of their disdain for his lack of rest. They tightened in revolt, insolent in spite of his bountiful will and courage.

350 feet.

His fingers bled; his toes and the arches of his feet screamed for relief as they clung desperately to cracks and crevices fractions of an inch wide. He pressed on.

400 feet.

Nathan could hear the cheers of the climbers above him, reassuring him that in a matter of minutes all of his pain would be gone.

They were right.

Nathan was just a few feet from reaching his goal. No small feat, especially for someone who lacked any experience in rock climbing.

408 feet.

Nathan made one last stretch towards the summit - then plummeted towards the ground below.

In an instant his mind was flooded with images and memories long repressed: coming home from school after a 3^rd grade fieldtrip to find out his mother had been killed in a car accident; watching his best friend and combat brother get eviscerated by an IED in the Paktika Province of Afghanistan; holding his father’s hand in the hospital for weeks waiting for cancer to finish what it had started months prior; kneeling down in the maternity ward, praying to any god that would listen to spare his wife’s life, only to come home months later to find her naked and in bed with his childhood friend.

Nathan careened head over foot, bashing against the rocks on his way down, much like the blows that had been dealt to him in life.

In an instant Lover’s Leap had claimed yet another victim.

Michael A. Walker
Defying Procrastination

Did Nathan jump or fall? Discuss!

Mile Marker 39: Believe

2012-07-28T16:35:00.002-07:00

Abduction by tntrekabulator

If you told me two weeks ago that I would be one of those kooks claiming to have been abducted by aliens, I would have spit in your face and called you a stone cold liar. Yet here I am.

I’ve never been one to believe in the supernatural. What transpired on July 5^th, 2012 changed the way I think – what I believe – who I am – forever. It very well may change yours, if you’re smart.

It was a typical hot summer Texas night. I was on my way home from visiting family and I had decided to take a slight detour in order to avoid 4^th of July traffic, and veered onto FM39 – an old farm to market road that was less traveled and less likely to be patrolled. I was hoping to make it home by midnight since I had to work the next day.

As expected, the road was all but empty that time of night and I was making good time. I remember passing mile marker #39 and recall thinking how ironic that was. Seconds later I saw a bright light shooting down from the sky in front of me. At first I thought it might have been a meteorite or a stray firework leftover from the 4^th, but the angle and speed of the object suggested otherwise. Then, logically, I concluded that it must have been a low flying helicopter.

I watched the light out of the corner of my eye as I drove. I was mostly surrounded by farm and cattle country, but there were scattered pockets of trees near the road. As I watched the light, it quickly descended into one of those pockets just a hundred yards in front of me. I remember thinking how curious that was and having a strong urge to stop and investigate in case it really was a stray firework or a helicopter in trouble, forced to crash land. But I didn’t. I just kept driving.

And then I passed mile marker #39… again.

28 minutes had elapsed and yet there I was passing up mile marker #39 once more. I shrugged it off and decided I must have misread both and was far more tired than I had realized.

I got home late that night and went straight to bed. That’s when my nightmare began...

I was paralyzed. Paralyzed and unable to act upon my own free will – to move – to free myself – to escape the bonds of my captors. My heart raced. It felt as if it was trying to beat its way out, trying to escape from its own mortal bonds. I wanted to scream, but was powerless to do so.

I was naked. I could see bright lights and strange objects. Objects unlike I’ve ever seen before. I could see shadows of figures darting in and out of the light, but could not make out their true form.

Then I awoke in a pool of sweat.

My nightmare continues still.

Michael A. Walker

Defying Procrastination