Fiction, Kenneth Weene, Literary

The Dyings By Kenneth Weene

The Dyings

By Kenneth Weene

The Dyings By Kenneth WeeneA subtle darkness, a darkness suffused with saffron. Not the patterned light and dark as when the nurse has pulled the blinds. Not the variant shades of gray and blinking monitor lights that are the hospital night. It is a peaceful dimness, but Frances is not at peace.

She pulls her knees up and back against her breasts. The pain whirls Frances in and out of consciousness. At this moment, this writhing moment, there is a foreign being filling her abdomen and demanding to push its way through the muscle and skin, through the viscera in an explosion of pain and then—Good God, could it come—relief.

Andrew had been an easy birth. Hardly half an hour and one or two screams, and then he had been in the doctor’s hands, squalling and perfect, her first born. Tom, his smile filling the delivery room, had videoed it all. He had even handed the camera to the nurse, Sheila Bursk, when it was his turn to hold their son in his own big hands. Not a moment unrecorded. They had watched that video over and over. Each time Tom had laughed at himself. It was true, the nurse had reminded to him to take the baby, to kiss his wife. He was always so enthralled by new gadgets.

When Bobbi, their second, had come, it had been harder. Pain, Frances had never felt worse. For an entire day, and Tom far away, installing transmission devices halfway around the world. Frances’s best friend, Sandy, had brought the camera. Tom had wanted a record. But when he heard those first screams of pain, when he had seen her writhe in agony, Tom had turned off the VCR, taken a bottle of beer from the fridge, and gone out back to mow the grass.

“I can’t. I should have—,” he had tried to say. There was no possible conversation.

The tape was put away. Once, only once, years later, Frances had taken it out, watched it, cried over it and over her husband’s leaving.

The children were grown by then. Andrew, always the easy one, was married. An engineer like his dad, he did something with computers and spent time with his own kids. Suzy played soccer. Hank was the intellectual, a book reader. “I want to be a writer,” he had announced this past Christmas. “I want to be like Dickens.” Hank loved “A Christmas Carol.” “It’s my favorite book,” he announced when Andrew agreed to read it aloud just one more time.

“Well, I don’t like goose,” Suzy had announced, and they had laughed.

“Arrr,” her tear-filled scream cuts through the hospital quiet.

Frances wants more medicine, but the doctor has said she can’t, that it would kill her. She wonders if that would be such a bad thing, but still, as always, the compliant one, Frances says nothing.

She pulls her knees up against the pain, a sixty-three year old fetus. This is not a child wanting to find life but a growth, a tumor. If it were alive, then its purpose would be to explode within her, to burst free in what she imagines would be a rancid blast of intestines that would paste the pale green walls with her decomposed body.

Bobbi had been a difficult child. Colic, projectile vomiting, and whining—the endlessness of her cries. Tom had taken to wearing earplugs. That should have told her the marriage was doomed. It had taken another ten years before he walked out, but she should have known.

Would it have mattered? She had often wrestled with that question. If they had called it quits, if she had told him to leave, if he had been honest enough to tell her about Sandy—about Sandy, her best friend and now his lover.  If, if, if: life was filled with that word.

“OOoohh!” Another spasm. Will relief ever come? Frances needs more morphine. How much longer before she can have it? Before the nurse will come with a needle of forgiveness? Time has lost its measurement. She is lost in a sea of pain marked only by swells of even greater pain. Lost.

After Tom had left, after he had moved in with Sandy, Frances had felt lost, so lost. Only the children had given her any focus. Then Tom, in the ultimate act of betrayal, had suggested it would be better if they lived with him, with him and Sandy. As if treachery and infidelity were criteria for a loving home.

“You son of a bitch,” Frances had said.

Her lawyer Crick Pargent had told her to calm down, that Tom would never get the kids. That was what he’d said, but it wasn’t what happened. Sure, she had been depressed. Her marriage, her best friend: Who wouldn’t have cried? Who wouldn’t have had trouble sleeping? Who wouldn’t have used too many pills, drunk too many glasses of wine?

And Bobbi, her little girl, telling the judge that she wanted to live with Daddy, with Daddy and Mommy Sandy because her father’s new wife was so much better at helping her with school stuff and makeup and because her friends could visit.

The judge wasn’t going to separate the children, and Andrew said over and over that he loved them both and just wished they were still together. Wasn’t that what the good child was supposed to say?

Crick Pargent tried to tell her it wasn’t so bad, that she’d still see the kids. That was three months, one week, and two days before Tom announced that they were moving to Texas. Two thousand miles and of course he would pay for them to come see her twice a year, just as long as they wanted to come.

Andrew came, at least until he discovered Mattie and the joy of loving her. Bobbi had come twice the first year, then once, and then not at all. Where was she? Frances didn’t know.

“She’s disappeared,” Andrew had told her.

Frances knew his sister’s disappearance didn’t surprise Andrew, that it didn’t bother him. Maybe he was even relieved; he would never say it.

“Goddd!” Her shout pierces her own consciousness. It seems a cry from another world, a place beyond this vale.

It had been a lace veil, handed down great-grandmother, to grandmother, to mother, to her. Something from the Old World, the south of France. Her grandparents had come to the States after the First World War. “The Great War” they had called it not knowing how much horror the world was yet to face.

Her grandmother had never been kind to Frances. Firm, God-fearing, and demanding: Grandmother had made her expectations clear. Her grandfather was something else; Pépé had spoiled them. A baker, he brought sweetness and warmth into everybody’s life.

Frances has not been hungry, not for weeks, perhaps not for years. When Tom had left, so had her appetite. Then when the children were taken from her— Doc. Goldman insisted on the hospital. “Don’t worry, it isn’t a locked ward, just a place to get you back on your feet.”

Too unhappy to care, Frances had signed the papers.

She had signed the other papers, too—the ones that allowed them to shoot electricity through her brain until she could no longer remember, until her mind had become veiled. Truth was no less painful for the masking; but it seemed less real, and that was what would have to do.

Her breath comes in a gasp. One last desperate grasp for respite.

The caul drops its soft darkness over her soul. Pain at last gives way to peace.

Life itches and torments Kenneth Weene like pesky flies. Annoyed, he picks up a pile of paper to slap at the buzzing and often whacks himself on the head. Each whack is another story. At least having half-blinded himself, he has learned to not wave the pencil.

***

About Kenneth Weene:
A New Englander by upbringing and inclination, Kenneth Weene is a teacher, psychologist and pastoral counselor by education. He is a writer by passion.
Ken’s short stories and poetry have appeared in numerous publications including Sol, Spirits, Palo Verde Pages, Vox Poetica, Clutching at Straws, The Word Place, Legendary, Sex and Murder Magazine, The New Flesh Magazine, The Santa Fe Literary Review, Daily Flashes of Erotica Quarterly, Bewildering Stories, A Word With You Press, Mirror Dance, The Aurorean, Stymie, Empirical and ConNotations.

Ken’s novels, Widow’s Walk Memoirs From the Asylum, and Tales From the Dew Drop Inne, are published by All Things That Matter Press.

To learn more about Ken’s writing visit http://www.kennethweene.com

You can find Ken on Twitter: @Ken_Weene

And on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/Kenneth.Weene

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Fiction, Kenneth Weene, Literary

A Matter of Pride By Kenneth Weene

The man sits in a cheap, checker-strapped lawn chair, the kind the homeowners’ A Matter of Pride By Kenneth Weeneassociation decries. Worse, he does not sit on the patio, next to the pool and heated spa, overlooking the fifth tee. No, he sits in the driveway of his million-dollar home in the gated community.

He feels poor in comparison to his rich and famous neighbors, but then he has always felt a knot of deprivation. No matter how much he has earned, no matter how much he owns, there is that sense it is never enough – that it, he, is always at risk. That fear compels him. He continues to practice long after his peers have retired.  In his heart and mind he fights for survival.

So he sits in plain view of the golf carts that purr about as if people have someplace important to go. It is the preferred transportation in this oasis of wealth marked by an occasional royal wave as the rich and retired famous go to and from the club houses – one for golf and another by the docks for boaters. Should it be called a yacht club? There has been discussion of a third by the courts, but tennis is the poor cousin in the manicured world of The Cove.

“What is he doing?” neighbors ask one another with distaste.

“It’s ridiculous.”

“It must be against the bylaws.”

“The way he’s dressed.”

The man is dressed in scruffy loafers with no socks, ripped shorts, and a stained Izod tee shirt. His hair is gray and uncombed; his face stubbled.

“Disgraceful.”

They try to ignore the gun, a pellet gun, borrowed from his landscaper. He holds the grip in his right hand; the weapon lies across his lap. He is armed and ready, waiting to repel the attack. His eyes shift watchfully from treetop to treetop.

Waiting. Watching. He has learned their silhouettes – the enemies: a woodpecker, red-plumed head, long bill, neck arched and ready for work; and another, a female, slower to emerge, slightly less brilliant red – perhaps more yellowed. The male a nest builder, ready to hollow a place in the trim of his house – through the plastic sheathing, scattering the Styrofoam insulation pellets insulation on the lawn.

He waits for them to attack again. He may feel the fool, certainly the object of community ridicule, but he feels no guilt – only anger at the birds. First had been the drumming, endless mating call, high in the coconut palms that surround his quarter acre of prime Florida paradise. Early morning wakeup call from nature. It was more than enough to want them gone. But this new problem, their assault on his own nest – that is intolerable.

The male bird circles briefly and then darts forward. Seizing a toehold with its strange feet – two toes forward, two back. The bird has returned to yesterday’s work. He starts today’s: crack, crack, crack. The sound of beak against plastic is unsubstantial. Five thousand extra for trim – Cornice the salesman had named it. “One of the nicest we offer,” he had insisted.

Cheap plastic.

Carefully the man takes aim. The lead projectile is released. Does the bird sense it? Hear it? Does he start to move before the pain can reach him? Or, perhaps it is simply bad aim. The man cannot tell. The shot is missed; the bird flies off but quickly returns.

Another, a better shot. The woodpecker seems for the moment disoriented, almost ready to fall. Recovery. He flies to a nearby tree and perches.

There she is: the two now together. Is she offering succor? For all the patients he has helped and all the pain he has relieved in the consulting room, the human does not care. He wonders if he can hit one or both there, high in that palm. He takes more careful aim.

As if sensing his intent, the birds fly off – the male slightly ahead.

With a grunt of satisfaction, the man folds his chair and carries it inside his three-car garage. The borrowed air-gun is nestled in a case and put on a shelf beside his golf shoes and the garden shears.

Tomorrow they will most likely return. So he will sit again in wait. Day after day he will chase them off. When they no longer appear, he will have to continue his morning vigil. The landscaper has told him it will be at least a week, perhaps ten days, without seeing them before he can be sure.

His wife, embarrassed by what the neighbors see and might think, has suggested they buy netting to hang from the gutters, that they perhaps mount plastic owls on the roof, that they do something – anything other than his morning vigil.

He has refused such solutions. They are unmanly. War gives him purpose. He is man the hunter, the taker of life and maker of home. It has become a matter of pride.

About Kenneth Weene

The Yucca and Ken

Life itches and torments Kenneth Weene like pesky flies. Annoyed, he picks up a pile of paper to slap at the buzzing and often whacks himself on the head. Each whack is another story. At least having half-blinded himself, he has learned to not wave the pencil.

A New Englander by upbringing and inclination, Kenneth Weene is a teacher, psychologist and pastoral counselor by education. He is a writer by passion.
Ken’s short stories and poetry have appeared in numerous publications including Sol, Spirits, Palo Verde Pages, Vox Poetica, Clutching at Straws, The Word Place, Legendary, Sex and Murder Magazine, The New Flesh Magazine, The Santa Fe Literary Review, Daily Flashes of Erotica Quarterly, Bewildering Stories, A Word With You Press, Mirror Dance, The Aurorean, Stymie, Empirical and ConNotations.

Ken’s novels, Widow’s Walk Memoirs From the Asylum, and Tales From the Dew Drop Inne, are published by All Things That Matter Press.

To learn more about Ken’s writing visit http://www.kennethweene.com

You can find Ken on Twitter: @Ken_Weene

And on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/Kenneth.Weene

Fiction, Kenneth Weene

Blind

Blind

By Kenneth Weene

Empty! Some towns are like that – an emptiness in the soul. Standing on the corner

Blind By Kenneth Weene
Douglas, AZ

looking up and down the main drag. Nothing. Up and down the side street. Nothing. Just the oppression of the place, like even the dust had given up.

I walked north. I could have boxed the compass; it wouldn’t have mattered. I walked north and hoped.

Two blocks and he was standing there. Another corner, just as empty, just as lonely, except there he was – his white cane extended into the roadway. Did he think there was somebody around to see it? Somebody who’d have to stop?

Still, there he was, cane extended and waiting – waiting for what? The sound of brakes? A horn? Maybe just somebody to come along. Blind is a lonely place to be.

I touched him on the arm. “Need help?”

“Nope.”

“Safe to cross the street.” Did he need my reassurance?

“Yep.” He groped for my arm, curved his left hand over my bicep.

We stood – a tableau of non-communication.

“Shall we?” I asked knowing it didn’t matter.

“Yep.”

We stood a moment longer – life lived in ellipses.

I took a step. His hand tightened. His arm offered feeble resistance. A tap with that long cane. Then he followed. Off the curb and into the street.

I took our time. He didn’t complain.

Across the street – four lanes and ample parking – too big for a town twice the size.

My knee bent, I waited before I mounted the curb – waited for him to tap twice, to figure the height. His leg cocked, too.

We had veered off course – just a bit, enough. The storefront was empty. Once there had been computer repairs. Why would anyone who could actually work on computers open shop there? For that matter, why would any one—?

I stared at the storefront – read the signs slowly ripping and peeling in the windows. Was it possible to see nothing happen?

“Which way are you headed?” I asked.

“Don’t matter. Nowhere to go.”

“Ain’t that the truth?”

We stood. I stared at the storefront. He stared, too. At what can a blind man stare? Nothing is nothing.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Blind,” he answered.

“I know, but what’s your name?”

“Blind. That’s what they called me. Seemed to make sense – explain stuff right up front.”

“Oh.”

“Yep.”

“I guess I’d best be getting along.” There’s a discomfort. Sometimes a fellow ends up mentioning the weather; sometimes he just decides it’s time to move along.

“I guess I’d best be getting along.” I repeated myself.

Blind said nothing.

I turned to the left. He turned with me.

Tap … tap … tap.

Who was leading whom?

We moved down the street. The town was empty. Some towns are like that – an emptiness in the soul.

About Kenneth Weene

Life itches and torments Kenneth Weene like pesky flies. Annoyed, he picks up a pile of paper to slap at the buzzing and often whacks himself on the head. Each whack is another story. At least having half-blinded himself, he has learned to not wave the pencil.


A New Englander by upbringing and inclination, Kenneth Weene is a teacher, psychologist and pastoral counselor by education. He is a writer by passion.
Ken’s short stories and poetry have appeared in numerous publications including Sol, Spirits, Palo Verde Pages, Vox Poetica, Clutching at Straws, The Word Place, Legendary, Sex and Murder Magazine, The New Flesh Magazine, The Santa Fe Literary Review, Daily Flashes of Erotica Quarterly, Bewildering Stories, A Word With You Press, Mirror Dance, The Aurorean, Stymie, Empirical and ConNotations.

Ken’s novels, Widow’s Walk Memoirs From the Asylum, and Tales From the Dew Drop Inne, are published by All Things That Matter Press.

To learn more about Ken’s writing visit http://www.kennethweene.com

You can find Ken on Twitter: @Ken_Weene

And on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/Kenneth.Weene

Fiction, Kenneth Weene, Literary

Breakfast

Breakfast

By Kenneth Weene
Breakfast by Kenneth Weene
Via the Flickr Commons

Salvatore had never eaten breakfast. “A cup of black joe and off I go,” he had said more than once to his beloved Kathleen. And Sal was true to his word; he’d slurp down the hottest, muddiest cup of coffee he could make and charge out into the world where dealing and wheedling awaited. Sal was a salesman, and he loved his trade. It had never mattered what he was selling. It had never mattered where. He loved the sale.
 

There were, however, two special times each year, two days when he would eat breakfast. One was Fathers’ Day. “You have to,” Kathleen had explained to him that first time. “Lucy wants to make it for you. You just have to.”

 

Nothing was dearer to Sal Cachioli than his daughter. The mention of Lucille’s name brought a smile. Photographs of her filled his wallet and covered his desk. There were even two taped to the dashboard of his Buick Skylark, the turquoise two-door that served as his second home and movable office.

 

“Sunday? For Lucy? Okay. I guess it’ll…”

 

The child had been five. Fathers’ Day. Making Daddy breakfast. A school discussion. Moronic teacher. “Did I ever tell you I hated school?”

 

“Only a thousand times,” Kathleen had laughed and kissed him on the ear, the way she did when she was pleased, the way she did when she was inviting his advances. He wrapped his heavy arms around his wife and rolled her onto her back.

 

“So strong,” she murmured. He knew it wasn’t true, but she loved to say it, and Sal loved to hear the words.

 

It had become tradition: Fathers’ Day breakfast made by Lucy and served in bed. Sal forcing himself to eat. At first dry cereal slopped with milk. Later toast. Then eggs. Finally pancakes – pancakes with bacon. He wanted none of it, but he cleaned each plate, choking the food down with the black coffee that his wife insisted she make as her contribution.

 

The other breakfast: once a year, right after his physical. At Boomer’s Grille, down the street from Doc Goldberg. “It’s about the blood draw,” he’d explain to Viola, the nurse as if a few vials and the prick of a needle would send him hurtling into the slough of famine. Sal would never admit, not even to himself, that it was about something else, about being told no.

 

“No eat after ten tonight,” Viola would phone to remind him the day before each appointment.

 

“Yeah, I know.”

 

“He’s like a two year old,” Kathleen had often said about her husband. “You want him to do something, just tell him he can’t.”

 

Viola would answer, “Sure, Mr. Cachioli, I understand. What you going order?”

 

“Think I’ll have ham and eggs.”

 

“Ham and eggs good.” She would busy herself labeling the vials of blood to be put in the specimen box.

 

At Boomer’s he’d order a piece of apple pie with chocolate ice cream and smile to himself that he’d put something over on the nurse in her starched white uniform.

 

“Mr. Cachioli.”

 

Sal opened his eyes. Slowly they focused on the young woman in her soft-green uniform. Lucy!? It wasn’t. He didn’t recognize her.

 

“We have to get you ready for breakfast.”

 

“I ‘evr eat refist.” His words slurred, almost unrecognizable.

 

“We had this argument yesterday,” the aide responded. Her supervisor put a cautioning hand on the young woman’s arm, shook her head, then nodded towards the door. They stepped out of the room.

 

The supervisor looked long and hard at her underling. “You’re a hard worker and well enough intentioned; but, Lucy, you don’t seem to understand. How many times do I have to remind you? The poor man doesn’t have yesterdays. That’s the thing, you see; they lose the memories.”

 

“Oh.” Lucy’s voice was sad and bewildered. “What do we do?”

 

“Just get the man to eat his breakfast. Every morning it’s another sale.”

 

“Kathleen?” There was a long silence.

 

“Yes?”

 

“Breakfast?”

 

“Breakfast.”
 

About Kenneth Weene

Life itches and torments Kenneth Weene like pesky flies. Annoyed, he picks up a pile of paper to slap at the buzzing and often whacks himself on the head. Each whack is another story. At least having half-blinded himself, he has learned to not wave the pencil.
A New Englander by upbringing and inclination, Kenneth Weene is a teacher, psychologist and pastoral counselor by education. He is a writer by passion.
Ken’s short stories and poetry have appeared in numerous publications including Sol, Spirits, Palo Verde Pages, Vox Poetica, Clutching at Straws, The Word Place, Legendary, Sex and Murder Magazine, The New Flesh Magazine, The Santa Fe Literary Review, Daily Flashes of Erotica Quarterly, Bewildering Stories, A Word With You Press, Mirror Dance, The Aurorean, Stymie, Empirical and ConNotations.

Ken’s novels, Widow’s Walk Memoirs From the Asylum, and Tales From the Dew Drop Inne, are published by All Things That Matter Press.
 
To learn more about Ken’s writing visit http://www.kennethweene.com

You can find Ken on Twitter: @Ken_Weene

And on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/Kenneth.Weene

Kenneth Weene, Podcast

Fran Lewis’ Spotlight Podcast With Guest Brian Freeman

Fran Lewis PodcastJoin Fran Lewis as she interviews bestselling author Brian Freeman on her Spotlight podcast today, Sept 11th 3 p.m. EST on Blog Talk Radio.

www.blogtalkradio.com/rrradio/2012/09/19/spotlight-brian-freeman

3 Eastern: 2 Central: 1 Mountain: 12 Pacific

Red River Writers and Blog Talk Radio would like to welcome NYTimes Best selling author Brian Freeman. This show will spotlight the work of the multi-talented author. Brian Freeman is an international bestselling author of psychological suspense novels featuring detectives Jonathan Stride and Serena Dial. His books have been sold in 46 countries and 19 languages and have appeared as Main Selections in the Literary Guild and the Book of the Month Club. His settings in the bleak, frozen landscape of Duluth, Minnesota, and his deeply complex characters, have drawn comparisons to Swedish noir.

Freeman’s fifth novel THE BURYING PLACE was a finalist for Best Novel of 2010 in the International Thriller Writer Awards. His debut thriller, IMMORAL, won the Macavity Award for Best First Novel and was a nominee for the Edgar, Dagger, Anthony, and Barry Awards. It was named International Book of the Month by book clubs around the world, a distinction shared with authors such as Harlan Coben and Karin Slaughter. His novel STRIPPED was named one of the top 10 mysteries of 2006 by the South Florida Sun-Sentinel.His third novel STALKED was released in February 2008. Freeman’s fourth novel, IN THE DARK (2009), calling it his best book yet, “harrowing and heartrending.” His fifth novel THE BURYING PLACE arrived in bookstores in 2010. Brian’s sixth book THE BONE HOUSE was his first stand-alone novel, featuring all-new characters and another remote Midwest setting in Door County, Wisconsin. His new book is SPILLED BLOOD, a stand-alone set amid the dirt roads and ghost towns of southwestern Minnesota.

I am your host educator, reviewer, interviewer, talk show host, Indie Five Star Book Reviewer, author of nine titles; Fran Lewis. Joined by Dr. Kenneth Weene and Sandra Elrod. Please join the conversation in the chatroom: Three Eastern: Two Central

Kenneth Weene, Musings, Ramblings, Sharing

Write As Rain

Write as Rain
By Kenneth Weene
Kenneth Weene
Photo Provided By Kenneth Weene

Don’t bother; I know what you’re going to say. You’re about to tell me that it should be “Right as Rain.”

That is the expression, but I meant, “write.” And I have just illustrated my point. When we write, we are trying to get something to start growing in the reader. We may call our words a germ, a seed, what lovely horticultural metaphors. But we want them to germinate, to sprout, to develop first into questions and then into ideas.
 

I’m not very knowledgeable about gardening. In fact, you might say I have two brown thumbs and a tendency to preserve the weeds and cull the veggies. But I do love the thought of plants growing, poking their heads through the surface of the soil, and reaching for the sun. There is nothing more beautiful than tomatoes clinging to their stake, corn reaching for the sky, or iris dancing in the breeze. I even love the world of tubers and roots—those hearty souls plunging deep into the earth and filled with minerals and dark tastes.
 

How can the plants of our literary creation come to life? How can they take root in the rich soil that is our readers? Why, we must “write as rain.”
Is it not the water that wakens the garden? Is it not necessary before the seed can sprout? So, too, it is the way we present our ideas that arouse that first thinking, that wonderful first questioning or perhaps a soul satisfying aha.
 

The first task of writing is to catch the reader’s attention; that gentle watering as if an April shower can capture the eye and mind.
 

But that is not enough. Once the reader’s attention has been won, the ideas planted must have their opportunity to grow. What does the garden need after the rain? Sun.
 

Having watered with our words, we must develop themes and plots as if we are slowly illuminating this patch of grass and that bed of flowers. The quality of good writing is dappled. Do not hide and cloud with darkness; shine clearly on your thoughts and themes. They are like beams of light meant to illuminate the reader’s mind. But do not become so obsessed with showing the light that you burn the plants you have meant to nurture. Remember that some plants do better in the bright and others in the shade. Shine as the sun, but the sun of May, a sun filled with warmth and love but not threatening the painful burns and drought of summer.
 

Over the course of your book, essay, or story the ideas within the reader grow, and that is rewarding. But is it enough? Not for me.
 

I want to see my plants take on their own life, to spread their seeds into the wind. If my writing doesn’t also provide the breeze, then I have failed. When my writing inspires someone to read, to share, perhaps even to write on their own, then I have set new spores free and added to the world in which I live.
 

The breeze of which I speak comes from emotion. Good writing generates emotion, as surely as good gardening produces good taste and good scent. Since I am primarily a novelist, it is my characters who carry my zephyrs and blasts. They are real and they experience life in full complexity, confusion, and pain. When the reader carries about those people, then the full force of my wind is loosed.
 

Ah, the wonder of nature and the grandeur of writing.
 

Let us strive to start by writing as the rain.
 

About Kenneth Weene:
Life itches and torments Kenneth Weene like pesky flies. Annoyed, he picks up a pile of paper to slap at the buzzing and often whacks himself on the head. Each whack is another story. At least having half-blinded himself, he has learned to not wave the pencil.

 

A New Englander by upbringing and inclination, Kenneth Weene is a teacher, psychologist and pastoral counselor by education. He is a writer by passion.
Ken’s short stories and poetry have appeared in numerous publications including Sol, Spirits, Palo Verde Pages, Vox Poetica, Clutching at Straws, The Word Place, Legendary, Sex and Murder Magazine, The New Flesh Magazine, The Santa Fe Literary Review, Daily Flashes of Erotica Quarterly, Bewildering Stories, A Word With You Press, Mirror Dance, The Aurorean, Stymie, Empirical and ConNotations.

Ken’s novels, Widow’s Walk Memoirs From the Asylum, and Tales From the Dew Drop Inne, are published by All Things That Matter Press.

To learn more about Ken’s writing visit http://www.kennethweene.com

You can find Ken on Twitter: @Ken_Weene

And on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/Kenneth.Weene