And When You're There…


August 2015

Don’t speak.


Don’t speak.
They say to make eye contact.
Too much?
Don’t speak.
They’re looking.
They’re watching.
Waiting for words.
Words to judge you by.
Don’t speak.
But they’re waiting.
After all, it’s common courtesy.
So you speak.
And the words don’t stop.
You’re stumbling.
Vomiting language.
Stop speaking.
Finally, with effort,
Your mouth closes.
Don’t speak.
They’re watching.
Silent and judging.
What did you say?
Don’t speak.
Now they know you.
They look down.
Condescending eyes.
Too much said.
All exposed.
Don’t speak.

No Shame


I know I’ve talked about censorship before, but let’s face it, it’s one of my favorite topics, so we can revisit. In the age of social media and trolling, people are posting things they’d never say in real life. They post f bombs and sexy women and lewd comments and harsh political statements etc.

Yes, they disturb even me at times, but many things posted are things these people would be ashamed to mention in polite conversation. And why? Because we as a society are so wrapped up in self-righteous modesty taboos.  We know the evils of society, but we shake our heads and look away. Its time to start looking. Wake up.

People walk dark paths. We judge them because we are too ashamed to look closer at the things that eat at our minds, our friendships, our potential for empathy. Some use God as an excuse, believing it will taint their spirits.

I was told by a very private friend, “Wow, we can talk to you guys about things we wouldn’t say to anyone else.” Others have said the same. Why? Because we listen. We share, and it opens others to do the same.

In my writing, if you’ll look close, you’ll find a variety of these controversial topics. Even if its an undertone, I want to get you thinking. If possible, I’d like to get you talking.

In my writing, I frequent the search for a higher power. Who in their life hasn’t felt the God-shaped-hole? It’s human nature.  I approach abuse, from a variety of perspectives, because it happens, in all shapes and sizes. Sex is a big topic. Nobody speaks of it with utter honesty, but it’s something we’ve all experienced and something most enjoy. Masochism. The things we do to punish ourselves, the things we do that we enjoy but really don’t do is any good. Sadism. The pain we inflict on others to satisfy our own selfish wants. I’m not talking BDSM–that’s a subject for a different day. I will even approach the dreaded R word, rape, because again, it happens. Unfortunately too many people are focused on what the victim was wearing or doing to consider the heartbreaking result. Our denial of reality is crippling.

I applaud controversial works. Fifty Shades, although highly criticized, is a best seller. I enjoyed the trilogy. But what I loved most, was the conversations it inspired.

So let’s talk. Let’s share. Let’s understand. You just might be surprised by what your neighbor has to say.

Takeover Tuesday

Introducing Takeover Tuesdays. I’ve asked an author to stop by and share the method and motivation to the madness. So here’s a big welcome to Stephen!


Thank you. My name is Stephen Andrew Salamon, and I am an author. I like to add in a magical touch to stories, a type of touch that could happen in reality. Sometimes, depending on the genre, I –attempt at least – to dive into the mind of the reader and try to get to that special place where they could understand the underlining theme of the story and hopefully take away great thoughts from it. I’ve been doing this since I was 14. One day, out of the clear blue, I woke up in the middle of the night. There was a chill, I remember – everyone was asleep- and I snuck downstairs to my father’s computer and just started writing a book. A Book? It was 90+ pages and the underline theme – of course through the plot’s murders and such- was how important a father’s love is. I gave it to my father to read and he liked it; it, somehow, reached him. I was hooked!

My latest book, The Wrath of Jeremy, toys with the idea of forgiveness and just how far one can go till there’s a limit, if there is a limit. Is there? I allowed my subconscious to answer it and I posed the question, “Can God forgive the Devil?” and “Can the Devil asked for forgiveness from God?” Deep, huh? Especially for a 19 year old. Long time ago!

I discovered that once the status-quo changes, forces on both sides try to step in and prevent such a large change; dare to say politics? For me, I answered my own questions in the book, such as “where did evil come from, how and why did Lucifer defy God, was anyone else involved, can and will God ever destroy the earth and is the devil capable –if only for a moment – of empathy?”

I write in a few genres but really it depends on what story idea comes to me the hardest. Then I meet the idea halfway. For the Wrath of Jeremy, the subject matter was pure and angelic, while the background was that of horror/thriller-like.

I hope you enjoy reading The Wrath of Jeremy and others to come. Thank you and God bless.


The Wrath of Jeremy Link:


Author Website:

1) Book Link

2) Book link to paperback on amazon a Creatspace:



2) Blog:

3) Author website:

4) Book reader Magazine author Interview:

Thank you and take care!


Inhale (The Need)


Night falls hard
It hits
The chill
The heat
The need
Quaking bones
Licking lips
Drenching sweat
Sweet scent
Salt on the tongue
The emotion
The innocence
The terrible sin
The heavy air
The need
Break down
Give in
Night falls hard

A Short For You (And who knows? Maybe I’ll add more and make it into something…): The Warning Sky

Something was going to happen. I knew it as I sat on the stoop. Thunder was rumbling in the distance, and orange grey clouds were rolling up over the horizon.  Twilight was emerging, but the sky was wrong. The hue was unnatural, and the spaces left between the clouds were the sickening color of vomit. The distant scent of smoke singed my nostrils.

I took the last hit off of my cigarette, sending my own signal into the air before snubbing it on the grain of the cement and heading in. My parents were on the sofa, absorbed in the evening news. This was all they did on their nights–always watching, never learning a thing.

“Something’s happening out there.” I tried, but even in my own ears it sounded ridiculous.

Her eyes never left the screen as she dismissed me. “Yeah, they mentioned a possibility of storms.”

“This isn’t a storm.”

Nothing. It was as if I hadn’t spoken.

“Hear anything from Sara’s mom?”

Still engrossed in the empty promises of a political campaign, she didn’t answer.

The thunder growled again and I quickly strode up the stairs to my room to redress. A t-shirt and jeans would have to do. That and the best tennis shoes I owned.  The thunder gathered and shook, rattling the windows, through which a heavy smog could be seen sinking. Through the haze I could see to the road, where the rumble of a large truck sounded. It was time to get out of dodge, and figure this shit out.

From the main floor, the sound of a hard object pounded on the front door. My heart stopped but my breathing stayed even. Those that choose to be blinded will be hit by that which comes straight on.  The sheep obey the shepherds, and lies are believed. You can be told the sun is shining, and even as the rain hits your face, you will apply your sunscreen. My stomach dropped to the floorboards, but I knew I had to go.

I pressed the button on my cell phone to read the last message I had received from Sara.


I pocketed the phone again. That was three days ago. Not a call since, a text, or a Facebook message. I had even resorted to asking my mom to contact Sara’s mother to see if anything was amiss, but she continued to assure me everything was fine. I wasn’t buying it, and the pressing dread on my chest told me otherwise. I would find her, even if she lived two towns away.

“Open up!” a voice shouted from below.

Footsteps. The creak of the door and a polite, suburban “Can I help you?”

“Where is she?”

“I’m sorry, sir, I’m not sure what you want?”

Two thuds. I ran to the bathroom, wetting my bandana in the sink before tying it around my face.  Grabbing my bag, I opened the window. The smoke from outside poured into my bedroom, but all I could smell was the sopping cloth in front of my nose and mouth. With practiced precision I tossed out the E-Z escape ladder reserved for fires and climbed down. My feet hit the grass and I crept towards the front of out house. There was a large black truck, with a tank and hoses on the back, and men, in black suits with heavy guns and masks over their faces, were spraying something into the front of the house. Further down the road, at the Jackson’s’ house, something similar was happening.

Nothing in my life had given me experience with gases or weapons, but gut instinct told me it was not something I wanted to inhale, Sara’s text aside. I ducked down and began to walk into the woods behind our house.

The path I took was the one I had walked so many nights, just to avoid the disillusioned sounds of the sitcoms and campaigns and fake family laughter. I prayed to the night that the trail would take me where I needed to go. I knew tears were running down my face but my mind refused to acknowledge the emotion behind them.  I tried to warn them–about what I wasn’t sure. Until now. I had a journey to make and a breakdown would get me nowhere. Sara had to survive. I had to survive.

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