Today depression. Tomorrow who knows

Don’t know why I’m depressed. Just hit me. I make excuses like well it’s the change in the weather, or I didn’t sleep well.

I know it will pass, ok, I really don’t know, but it always has in the past.

I am excited about the release of my new book The Month of April. A little anxious and nervous. I love it, but I guess now it’s a waiting game.

I am tired. Which is an added bonus to depression, but otherwise I don’t feel like climbing back in bed and giving the depression the satisfaction of knowing it beat me.

So I will write this instead. Then post it and then I don’t know.

Still thinking about what my next project will be. That could be part of the depression. I have several stories competing against one another.

The great part about the writing community on Twitter is knowing that I’m not alone.

Oh well… Much love and respect to all of you… Chad

Busy Day

I’ve been busy the last few days. I am updating my 1st book Forever Striking a Crucified Pose.

I rushed to self-publish, and I’ve never been satisfied with the way it turned out. Now that I am familiar with formatting after a lot of trials and errors, I am finally happy with the end result.

I hope to start pushing the update out with the release of my new book The Month of April.

I’m happy to get away for the next couple of days. I’ve been behind the desk each day writing, proofing, editing, marketing, and I won’t lie, I love it. Still it’s nice to step away and take a well deserved break.

But I’ll be back at it by Friday.

Up at dawn prepping my new series Peace in the Valley which will be available on Channilio

Check out the site and subscribe for more great content.

Sincerely, Chad

What’s next for me?

Tomorrow I plan on finishing up the first part of the new series Peace in the Valley a mystery/thriller that I’ll be writing on Channilio. Please check it out and subscribe for great reading.

I’m also preparing a marketing campaign for my new book The Month of April out April 1st.

I hope on Tuesday to be part of LA Rivers Podcast. Which sounds exciting.

I have also decided to erite a screenplay for the book The Month of April.

And I have a few book ideas in mind but haven’t decided on which to start first.

But I am excited for all things I have planned for in the next few days.

Much Love and respect always, Chad

My thoughts on Self-Publishing

I have been writing for as long as I can remember. My first job wasn’t in fast food, but at a newspaper when I was 14 years old. I had an editor, and he was grouchy. I didn’t get paid much, but I loved it.

It wasn’t until my late 20’s I began writing fiction. I wrote short stories mostly, and some poetry and used a typewriter. Many of the short stories in my book “Forever Striking a Crucified Pose” started on a typewriter. After the internet boom, and computers were made available for consumers, I began re-tying the stories on Word.

Over the years, the files would go with me and I wrote more stories, and worked on improving the stories I had written years earlier. Then they sat on a file again. I probably went through a few upgrades on computers as time went by. Right now I’m writing this blog post on a Chromebook, and working on a desktop to write my stories using Windows.

In the past I have been published. I’ve written Editorials, I’ve had a few poems published. I mostly dabbled in political writings. I’ve had arguments with politicians and I’ve received hate mail, along with mail thanking me for the work I was doing.

I remember having written an essay on Ursula Le Guin’s short story “The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas” and her writing me, thanking me, but disagreed with my essay.

Over the past few years I’ve worked on a few screenplays and thought at one point I was close to having one purchased. We were within the final stages when the project was dropped. So I started working on a novel, and well trying to write and be married, and all that, I stopped.

I was working for a internationally recognized nonprofit organization. I dedicated my life to it. It was a 24 hour a day job to me. I was the director, and during my first year I had to put in over 20000 hours of overtime. But I loved it. I even miss it now. I am so humbled and blessed that I was able to meet so many people and assist them and I will never forget it.

Then in February of last year I had a heart attack. I was told I have congestive heart failure. I had the heart attack on a Friday, surgery that same day and was back to work on Tuesday, much to the chagrin of my wife who knew I was pushing myself too hard. It’s funny, maybe funny is the wrong word, but the heart attack was so painful, but it’s weird I guess how my wife took it more seriously than I did.

Knowing all of this, my wife and I spoke and I resigned my position and then began thinking of writing and she encouraged me to do so. I’m familiar with the Writer’s Market. I have been a subscriber for many years.

I have not submitted a lot of my work. I think over the past twenty years I may have when on vacation or had free time, I would send a few query letters out, but then go back to work, so I didn’t really give it my all.

However, after I resigned and began thinking of stories I wanted to write, I still had the several short stories and poems that had been stored on a file for all those years.

Having read so many books over the years, I had held out against self-publishing for multiple reasons. As I have gotten older, and after not only my heart attack, but losing my son to heart failure when he was 21, and realizing how fragile life can be, and how quick it can be over, I decided to self-publish my short stories and poems.

I realize that many may not read it, and there may be some editorial issues, I don’t know, but the stories are well written, and I love them. But I felt this desire to let them go, flaws and all, and it was never about sales, or becoming successful, but about putting it out there for it to be read instead of sitting on my computer, or writing multiple query letters.

In recent blogs I have written about the inner turmoil I have had about self-publishing. I’ve written about how being inexperienced to self-publishing I didn’t understand how to format the stories, or market them, and after publishing I read it and I was freaked out by formatting issues that had spaced words where there shouldn’t have been. I don’t know how many times I’ve went through it and taught myself how to format properly, and I’m still not 100% satisfied and still even considering pulling the entire book and reworking it.

But I don’t think as the writer, I will ever be 100% about anything. I’m a perfectionist and I see flaws where others see just words. Even with my newest book, “The Month of April” I’ve learned from my experiences with “Forever Striking a Crucified Pose” and instead of releasing it as soon as I finished I held off pushing the release date to April 1st. And I’m so glad I did, because I have made a few changes since finishing the story. I wrote the story in less than a month. And I love it. It’s one of the few things I have written in which even though I’ve read it at least a hundred times, I still find myself choking up while reading.

And when I say, I have a thousand other stories floating around in my head, it’s not much of an exaggeration. Just last night even as I was sitting at my desk I began going through old files and found a story idea I had forgotten about.

The thing is, I feel like I don’t have much time left. Maybe I’ll live another fifty years. I don’t know, but I want to tell my stories, and put them out there and I do feel this urge, and the ticking of the clock telling me time’s running out bud. And I’m not one who fixates on death or dying, because it doesn’t scare me as much as the thought of leaving my wife behind. That thought scares me.

At the end of the day, I have stopped worrying about whether or not to self-publish or fixate on traditional publishing. I’m just happy to be able to have a way to get my stories out there. That is important to me.

Writing is what I do, and it’s what I love.

So, only time will tell whether I eventually find myself working towards looking for an agent or publisher. I do have a few scripts I’ve written and a few I haven’t written that I could submit. But for now, it is somewhat pleasing to me, to be able to pick up my book and read it. It’s also nice knowing, something I wrote is there for someone to read and maybe have that same excitement I had when writing them, or even more, the excitement I have had over the years of walking into a library and picking up a book and falling in love with it.

That’s my thoughts on it, and I know what I’m up against. I know I’m no marketing genius. I’m a reader and lover of books and stories. And I’m so happy that I can give back, and it will be there for future generations to read. And I love it.

Purchase Forever Striking A Crucified Pose A Collection of Short Stories and Poems here.

Pre-order my newest Book The Month of April here.

Also be sure and check out CHANNILLO. COM where I will be writing my mystery, thriller Peace in the Valley soon. And subscribe for more content and read stories from other amazing authors.

Much love and respect, Chad

Behind the Story: “Fool-Hearted” from my book “Forever Striking a Crucified Pose”

“Fool-Hearted” a short story from my book “Forever Striking a Crucified Pose” was inspired by the opening melody of Coltrane’s “My Shining Hour.” If you’ve never heard it, it really is beautiful. The narrator of the story is the main character. He is a jazz guitarist. I imagined him as being somewhat successful locally or regionally, but not nationally, and has found steady work at a local jazz club.

He’s a “Player” not just in a band, but likes to sleep around, and never really considers settling down with one person. I think perhaps in my mind as I was writing it I saw him more as if the musical notes had come to life and formed into a living breathing human being. He becomes in some sense the embodiment of the seemingly improvised melodic notes he plays on his guitar, swinging from one beat to another.

It is one of the few stories that do not take place in Arkansas, but in Philadelphia, a place I have lived, and the bar Chris’s Jazz Cafe is a real jazz club. I don’t know if it is still open.

It wasn’t until a few years after writing the story that a friend of mine pointed out that the character does seem somewhat full of himself and mildly misogynistic. I agreed that he is full of himself, perhaps, but not in the sense that he is misogynistic as much as he may be somewhat deluded and the title “Fool-Hearted” is him, and he is projecting that image on others and it says more about him personally and his lifestyle and not so much about the other people in his life.

Still when reading the story I do not get the sense that when I was writing it or after re-visiting it years later he represents classic projectionism in the sense that he sees his life as being better than yours and is in reality lonely and pathetic. I believe he never really cared to be internationally known, but is just happy to have a steady gig, and still at the same time at least locally he is comfortable with his celebrity and he has in many ways reached the point in his life where he wants to be and is happy. And what is so wrong about that, knowing what you want, reaching it and being happy with it.

It may be in the last line some readers may think his usage of the word “desiccated” is somewhat obtuse. And maybe it’s me as the writer who is being glib, but I don’t think that either, but again, when writing this story it started with a Coltrane song. The melody seemed to come to life and form into a character that lived and breathed jazz, or in some sense was jazz come to life like a colorful abstract painting, and in that sense anything outside of jazz, is a world he doesn’t wish to live.

We’ve all, well this is a major assumption, but most of us have been in our car alone and have had the radio turned up and begin singing along to the song and seem not to notice that driver’s passing us by are watching us as we are lost in the music, carried away singing out loud in the privacy of our own vehicle and maybe if we see someone watching us, we’ll freeze and blush and become embarrassed.

But this story to me is like singing when no one is watching, or dancing, except in most of our lives, we finally reach our destination and we have to turn off our radios and go in and make dinner, or go into our 9-5 job where in Robert’s case, he is jazz, he is the music, and it’s always playing. So the statement isn’t rude or obtuse, or mean-spirited but in a many ways the final encore of the night, the band finishing the last song of the evening, and the song ends, and Robert’s the one saying to the band, one more song, come on, how about “My Shining Hour.” James counts off the song, Jerry plays the opening notes on the piano, and Robert looks out over the crowd and smiles. And even after when the lights do come up, and the audience does has to leave, he’s in the back room, a young lady has been invited to visit with him, and he still has his guitar out and she watches his fingers move along the fretboard stretching and bending the strings, and he sings an old blues song, just for her, and she knows he’s probably done this many times with other women, but as he sings she finds herself lost in the music and his voice and and she is swept away by him and his cockiness and bravado.

And that to me is the real meaning behind this story–living in the moment, savoring it even if you know the night will have to eventually come to an end, but you’ll worry about that later.

You can find “Fool-Hearted” in my book of short stories and poems: “Forever Striking a Crucified Pose” on Kindle for $0.99 or read for free with Kindle Unlimited Here:

Candy versus Beets Part 2

Over the weekend I’ve been thinking about my idea to set up a page to invite writers to have their work edited, and critiqued, that will not only I hope help them create more marketable “Beets” but in a way that won’t break them, and even more create a relationship built on trust and a place writers know that I’m going to give them my undivided attention and offer them an unbiased analysis of their works.

I have the credentials and the tools, and years of experience as an editor, teacher, and a talent coordinator, and as a reader of thousands of books from Plato, to Faulkner, with a background in classical literature and poetry, non-fiction, history, LGBTQ, and African-American literature.

Not only will I use my own skills, but other editing software to create a detailed analysis, to find issues with grammar, sticky sentences, readability, and even assist in promoting your book online and helping you find publishers to send query letters, to assisting those who wish to self-publish.

I will be working on creating the page this week.

If you are interested, please feel free to send me an email at or you can find me on Twitter.

Much love and respect, Chad.

Behind the story: The Tree and the Chainsaw

In my book Forever Striking a Crucified Pose, The Tree and the Chainsaw is my favorite. The story had developed overtime and from multiple things that had happened over the years that I had experienced.

For example I was on a bus, I was young, and was going through Tennnesee traveling north. We had just left the city of Florence, Alabama where I think Helen Keller was born. As I looked out the window, it seemed as if every few miles or so I’d see a cross on the side of the road with flowers. I had seen these markers before, a place where someone had crashed their car into, but to see so many on one road, really bothered me.

Then there was this time, I was at my home and it was late, like after midnight and I was up alone in this four bedroom place, antique home, with a claw-foot bathtub even, and I was watching a horror movie. I heard a loud screech, and metal colliding and it sounded as if something had ran into my house, and all the electricity went off and I was paralyzed with fear. I couldn’t even use my phone because it was a hand-held that wouldn’t work if there was no electricity. I made my way to the front door, and opened it and at my door was a young female, teens, and covered in blood. And across the street was a silver Mustang, flipped on its top, electric pole snapped in two smashed up against the house across the street. Everyone in the car survived.

An even more personal story, a terrible tragedy occurred years later when a friend from high school died instantly after wrecking his vehicle on a desolate road and into a tree.

But with all that said, I think the main inspiration was my mom and dad. They’ve been married for 46 years, and have lived in the same home for nearly 35 years, and they are at times an odd couple, my dad very much a busy body, my mom retired, will watch him and though they love each other very much, they have their own personalities which at times is comical to me at least.

Then I imagined how would they deal with something like this, an accident occurring in their own front yard, the frightening experience of the crash, the aftermath of picking up the pieces, and how they’d both cope with it in private, and even more when they confront each other with their feelings about the tragedy.

It really is more than just the accident, it’s the grieving process, it’s more of a story of Jim and Rose and how they feel very protective of each other and at the same time feel very passionate about why they feel the way they feel, and how they sometimes internalize their feelings. And I think sometimes, the small arguments and debates can be healthy in a relationship, and what an awesome thing it can be to have someone challenge you and cause you to think, not just to agitate you, but because they do love you, and this story is that too me. Read the story here:

I’d love to hear back from others who have read the story and hear what you think. You can find the story here on my site, or you can read it for free on Kindle Unlimited, or purchase it for $0.99 on Amazon Kindle and read all my poems and short stories in the book Forever Striking a Crucified Pose.

Candy versus Beets

The Office. I love this show. It seems every few months or so when between series like after True Detective season 3 finished, and now waiting on Game of Thrones, I’ll go back to my old friend “The Office” and start watching it again. I can go to sleep to it. Not that it’s boring or not interesting, it’s just like an old friend, and if I start a new series (Which there are several I do want to see) I end up staying up all night watching the entire season. And I have work to do.

But last night I was lying in bed watching season 2 of The Office episode 3 Office Olympics. It’s the one where Michael buys his condo and takes Dwight along with him and Dwight begins making Michael feel bad about the deal he’s getting on the place.

There is a scene after Michael has convinced himself to sign the lease and they are driving and Dwight begins talking about beets and Michael is like no one likes beets, why don’t you grow something people want, like candy.

Ah, and this got me to thinking about writing and self-publishing, and more importantly marketing is what do people, readers if you will, want? Candy or beets? Or maybe the better question is as a writer, in an oversaturated market how do you distinguish your beets from others?

So in many respects you can imagine we’re all beet farmers and social media is our farmer’s market. Of course we all write in different genres and so forth, but in many respects it’s about, well Dwight says in a later episode something to the effect it’s about putting the best beets up front. You know the same thing happens at grocery stores, putting the freshest in front making them more marketable to the consumer.

It’s got me to thinking, I want to help. I know there are services out there that will help edit, and etc, but if you’re like me, sometimes you just don’t’ have the money and you self-edit, and edit some more, and maybe even you do have a good friend or family member who will help, and sometimes you may even worry that they are being too lenient because they don’t want to hurt your feelings. And then even worse, many of us writers are not the most sociable people in the world. So that makes it even more awkward to approach people. You put all that together and we end up winging it and hopefully maybe someone will purchase your story and then another, and soon your book is selling like candy.

This week I’ll be doing some stats and figuring, but I want to help other writers like me, by using my experience as an editor and writer to find a cost effective way that won’t break someone but give them an experienced set of eyes and unbiased critique of your work. If you’d be interested please send me an email at or message me on Twitter.

28 Years: Remembering my Friend Chris

John Lennon once wrote: “Life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans”… It is a profound statement, but then again, because we are in fact always busy making other plans, we’re most likely too busy to remember that quote until we have the time to sit back and relax and reflect. Perhaps then we remember all that has happened while we were busy making those other plans: kids growing up, our old friends from high school, the things that we used to be so damned angry about with our parents, people we miss and have gone separate ways, or have passed on from this world and gone into that great beyond.

Twenty-eight years ago would have been 1991. I don’t often times sit back and reflect on those years, because inevitably to quote another phrase: “that was then, and this is now.” Other pressing issues are always forthcoming in the future leaving little time to think, “Do you remember that one time?” I mean it happens. Sitting around with my wife, my closest friend, we at times we’ll have nostalgic conversations about things we used to do. Most of the tales are greatly exaggerated and deal with ignorant stunts we used to pull. And then there are times when meeting someone for the first time and in the initial oft times awkward stage of getting to know someone we share personal stories of our past: good times, dark painful times, and seriously, for the most part each person’s story is similar in context—falling in love, breaking up, childish pranks, loving family, unloving family, etc…

We share them anyway, for even though they may be mundane, and even perhaps embellished and told a thousand other times to other new found friends, they are the foundations that essentially formed our personalities and our world views and we tell the stories to say, yeah, I’ve come a long way or to say sometimes depressingly, my life has always sucked and continues to suck, but I’ll manage because I always do.

Even so, life keeps on moving along, and current events from yesterday are soon replaced by events today, and the things that moved us yesterday, and made us protest, caused us to be outraged, or in some cases enlightened us, made us smile, or made us sad get shelved and forgotten after the next news cycle comes and goes, or the one we had been on a date with yesterday and thought we had made a connection for some reason isn’t answering your calls today, but we pick up the pieces and move forward keeping pace with the ever-changing cycle of life. Before we know it, another year has passed.

We sit around at our New Years Eve parties, talking about the events from the last 365 days, and we can actually laugh about the bad things, and toast the good things, and bow our heads and mourn the passing of someone we loved, and all wax poetic about how this next year, no matter what, it’s going to be better…and some of us follow through on those promises I’m sure, but many of us, just wake up the next day, and the next 365 days afterward going through the motions as we have been doing since we were babies, and while we’re making our plans, busy preparing and micromanaging and updating our profiles and eating our next meal, and stepping in and out and back in again of so many places and problems and issues, that we wake up from all the chaos and routine and before we have a chance to reflect on anything another year has passed and so it goes.

I bring up 28 years purposely. A specific date, in fact, comes to mind. April 2, 1991. I’m certain if I Google the date I’ll get several search results for big events that happened on that particular day. And just the mere idea of Google makes me think of a time when back in 1991 I hadn’t heard of Google, nor was the internet some worldwide phenomenon as it is today. Certainly, I could say, now that I’m 45 years old that the ’90s were such a simple time as the cliché goes, but I was seventeen, and I don’t recall that period of my life to be blissfully romantic or whimsically frolicking through green pastures with wild daffodils in full bloom. Not that it was all bad. There were good times, there were good friends, and from what I can remember, we had not a damned clue or did we care about where we’d be years later. But instead, we trudged through everything we did with reckless abandonment most likely believing that our youth and immaturity could give us enough excuse to get away with our lack of common sense, and our young at heart, carefree, tomorrow will always be there, so let’s just go ahead and do it because we’re going to live forever anyways attitude had lulled us into believing we were immortal. All that other stuff, the things adults complained about, they’d be there when we got there, but in the meantime, we were too busy trying to define ourselves, and forge an identity, and impress each other with acts of bravado, that at my age now if I pulled some of those same stunts as I did back then, I’d probably be arrested and told to act my age. But then, it was cool to be stupid, and careless, and tell crude jokes, and not be afraid of polite society looking at us suspiciously, because they were old snobs. Now I suppose I’m an old snob. It’s a vicious circle.

I’m not writing this to dig up my past and attempt in vain to analyze it, and cast blame on old so and so, or rationalize any of my ignorant behavior with the simple excuse: well I was a kid, I didn’t know any better. Because even though that may be true, it really doesn’t matter much in hindsight. And to reexamine old disputes with my parents or friends or with my school or whoever or whatever the issue might indeed soothe my soul, I’ve moved on, they’ve moved on, and for better or worse, life has moved on.

We’ve all, no matter who you are, have problems, or hated something, or have skeletons lurking in that proverbial closet. Without a doubt, we’re all affected in some way or another by our past, it’s only human. I’ve met some people over the years so emotionally damaged because of their past, that they allow those events to dictate how they act and feel, and to live in fear and be angry. Of course, sometimes I just want to tell them to get over it, but it’s their life, I have no right to tell them how they should feel years after the fact. I just choose not to hang on to the bad memories and allow them to haunt me, and even if they do subconsciously affect me, there is little I can do about it. Instead, I’ve always tried to see things from the point of view of well I survived it, it was painful, but I made it.

In 1991 I was seventeen going on 30. I hate that cliché but there it is, and it’s the truth. I like many seventeen-year-olds was in such a hurry to be grown and on my own that I did all I could in my power to provoke circumstances to cause me to push all conventional rules aside, and argued with my parents about everything, acting stupid, you know playing the stereotypical role of the brooding loner, refusing to conform and well, was pretty much a dipshit And as a consequence, I got exactly what I had been begging for, a big dose of the harsh reality that being a teenager with all my angst, all the trials and tribulations I thought at that time to have been so insufferable were for the most part self-inflicted.

Because I’d had been such an antagonistic angry teenager, the people in my life who once adored me as a child, but not so much since I had grown out of that phase, felt tough love was the best way to say, you wanted this, you got it, now deal with it, and yes I’m speaking of my parents and thankfully they did push me to make choices instead I might still be laid up in their house playing Super Mario. I had to “man up” and do something constructive. And like all those forced into adulthood, looked for love in all the wrong places, went to college, met people from all walks of life, some are still my friends, while others have never been heard from again, almost as if they never existed, to begin with. And I’ve been in love, and I’ve been heartbroken, and I have laughed and cried, and I’ve witnessed cultural changes, and technological advancements, and watched the first African American man to become President of the United States, and I’ve watched my brother get married, have three kids, divorce and marry again, and seen my parents growing older, and cherishing life, and their grandchildren, and I’m now happily married to my best friend, worked a job for several years in the non-profit sector helping thousands of people. I own my house, my cars, have traveled, hung out with rock stars and celebrities, and overall, for all the ups and downs and ins and outs and sufferings and frustrations, life is ok. I’m still alive. I’m still here to complain about it. And that’s good when compared to the alternative.

However, I must digress, this story, although it is about me, and my life, it’s more than that. It’s about my friend Chris Ferguson. Most of us that knew him called him Fergie. It’s a shame now, twenty-eight years after the fact, that for all the time I spent hanging out with him, I cannot for the life of me remember his voice. I remember his face only because of a picture from a newspaper article and a couple my brother still has in two of his Junior High yearbooks. The face I see now is familiar, and I do my best to remember the voice that went with it, and even do my damndest to go back to 1991 and commit to memory the things we used to do and talk about.

Even so, no matter hard I try only a few things come to mind. It would seem I suppose, that maybe I didn’t know him very well. But that’s not true. I admit I wasn’t his best friend. Chris had many friends. His house was the hang out for most of us stragglers who like me skipped classes on most days. A lot of times, it was just me and Chris. I’d be there first thing in the morning and knock on his door. He’d just be waking up, or I had awakened him by knocking. He’d let me in and sometimes go back to bed and I’d crash over on the couch, and on other days, he’d be up and we’d eat some breakfast and then head out and walk around town. We didn’t have a car, so we hoofed it, and we never had an intended destination. If there were one, it was most likely up to a convenience store for cigarettes and snacks or something.

A lot of times, we’d hang out at his house and listen to music. He turned me on to Led Zeppelin. I distinctively remember hearing the song “The Ocean” and that beat, and I wanted to play like John Bonham ever since. Sometimes we’d hang out in the living room and watch movies. It was there the first time I watched “Legend”. Chris loved that movie. It’s pretty good. Even now, when I see it on, I watch it and I think of Chris.

We wore black shirts, and trench coats and our hair was long, and we smoked and listened to heavy metal, and headbanged, and skipped school, and didn’t care much for anything besides hanging out. And that’s what we did. As I said I wasn’t Chris’s best friend. He had lots of friends. He knew everyone it seemed and everyone liked him. He was for lack of a better word, cool. I can’t explain it, and twenty-eight years later, I’ve yet to meet anyone like him. He was always friendly to everyone and was personable. And I think this is relevant because I didn’t perceive myself as cool. I was very much a confused loner and kind of lost it seemed, even now to this present day I seem to be a little out of place socially. Chris, however, he treated me like I was someone, and never shied away, or pushed me away and always no matter whom he was around, whatever “cool” crowd he was part of he brought me along and made me feel comfortable.

I know the stereotype we were given back then that we were the “Youth Gone Wild” to quote a Skid Row song. But, in all honesty, we weren’t out wreaking havoc on The Bluff. I can’t say for a fact that Chris didn’t do drugs or drink, and if he did, he never did so around me. All I can say is never once did I see him angry with anyone, or up to nefarious activities. Out of all the people I knew back then, including myself, Chris always seemed to have a plan or was going to be ok, because he just had that personality that no matter the circumstance he would fit in anywhere and people were going to gravitate towards him.

In the months prior to April, hanging out with Chris became routine. He seemed to enjoy my company. Those were, looking back, some of the happiest days of my teenage years because my home life wasn’t exactly cozy whatsoever. Chris’s home was my home away from home and he was more like a brother to me than just a good friend. The odd part, is although I was a year older, he carried himself like the older of the two, and I looked up to him and probably looked stupid at times following him around, but that was his personality, his charisma, and I think all of us that knew him felt the same way.

March 29th was a Friday. I don’t remember anything else much about that day. I’m sure I lay on the couch, ate, and watched television. At some point around nine in the evening, Chris came by the house. He was happy, smiling, most likely bored and riding around and looking to hang out. I wanted to hang out like old times or let him come in and hang, but I was grounded. So I apologized and told him my situation. Chris was cool with it and understood. I reached out and shook his hand, and told him I’ll see you later, and he said the same. He turned around and left, and that was the last time I would see Chris alive.

The next morning, everyone I knew that was friends with Chris had called or came by and informed me that Chris was in the hospital and in intensive care. The details as to what happened that night were unclear, and are still to this day. But what I did know is that Chris, while out riding around with another friend around 1 a.m. Saturday morning he had been in an altercation with another friend over a girl the two had been or were dating. At some point during the altercation, Chris was stabbed in the upper left part of his chest. Immediately after he was stabbed, was driven to Jefferson Regional Medical Center a few miles away and admitted.

I know that I, and most likely most of my friends believed the wound wasn’t too serious. He was said to be in critical but stable condition by Monday. However, on Tuesday, Chris’s condition worsened and at 4:30 that afternoon, he passed away.

I was in shock. All of us that knew him were. Immediately I began thinking of the last time I saw him. I wondered if I had let him come in and hang out that Friday if he’d still be alive, but I knew that it wasn’t my fault. Even as everything was happening so suddenly with Chris passing away, trying to remember him alive was fleeting, and the idea that I’d never see him again under any circumstance, say for example twenty-eight years later just running into each other on Facebook, makes me still very sad and upset.

His funeral was on a Thursday. I went to the funeral home early after going by my brother’s school and picking him up, and went in and viewed his body. He looked at peace. His eyes closed. He was so damned young and had been so damned full of life, and confidence and bravado, and here he was, my friend, my brother, gone. I couldn’t, I can’t still grasp that he’s gone. It made no damned sense to me, and it still doesn’t.

Chris was in his casket wearing a long sleeve, button up pink polo shirt. I can’t remember if he was wearing a tie. But I remember that shirt to this day because in the entire time I knew him, he was always in black. I’m sure his mother picked it out and it did look nice.

The cathedral was filled with friends, acquaintances, and family members to full capacity. After the service, the cars following the hearse were lined up for blocks upon blocks. The local police were on hand to stop oncoming traffic so we could proceed to the cemetery at Graceland.

I don’t remember the service at the graveyard. I was still in shock and everything was sort of a blur. And just as sudden as learning of Chris being injured to him being buried four days later, it was over. We said our final goodbyes and one by one we got back in our vehicles and left Chris to rest in peace.

In the weeks and months that followed, several of his friends would return to this grave and visit him. Many of us would leave cigarettes, which may seem kind of strange, but we missed him and honestly, I don’t think any of us really understood how to act or what to say. For many of us, this was the first time in our lives we had lost someone so close to us. I know it was for me.

Eventually, and may I say unfortunately life must go on. I had my own issues at that time. My visits to the cemetery became less frequent and although I often times thought of Chris, my memory of him and the times we spent to gather was gradually fading with time.

I would eventually move away from the Bluff, but it was still home and when I came back, and if I thought about it I would go out to Graceland and see my friend. No one left cigarettes anymore. It’s possible, like myself, many of us may have not forgotten our friend, but time and circumstance over the years had separated us all in different directions, and we were just always, and as we always have been, too busy making other plans to stop and reflect on what was or what might have been.

Nevertheless, one of my last weekends there, I had been asked to visit an old friend of mine who had been begging me to come down. So I drove into town early Sunday morning and could smell the odiferous sulfur being produced by the paper mill as I made my way closer to the city limits. I drove down Dollarway road, and in the past twenty-eight years, not much has changed. The old drive-thru theater is gone and a school is in its place. There is Jefferson Parkway now that has grown and is an expanding area of local industry. A few minutes from Dollarway Road is the Martin Luther King Memorial Park. It used to be called Oakland Park and as a kid, I’d play there with my brother and other friends. I drove past it and continued heading east towards University Avenue. It’s in between the park and University Avenue and just a few feet north of I65, the section of interstate that runs through the north side of Pine Bluff where Oakland Cemetery is, and where my friend has been resting since April of 1991.

I turned onto the narrow road and followed it to the back section of the cemetery and parked my car in about the same area I had parked the day of the funeral. There are more graves now in the area Chris is buried. But I knew the general direction.

I knelt down and touched Chris’s tombstone and ran my hand across his name. I thought about him, trying to remember his face, his voice, but time had stolen all that from my memory. I did remember the pink shirt he was wearing. I wondered if somewhere in heaven he had a laugh about that.

I miss my friend. I hate that he is gone. Who is to say that if he were alive today that he and I would still be close? But I don’t like thinking of all the “what ifs”. It’s too sad to even contemplate. The man who stabbed Chris is still around I suppose. I don’t know where he is, but I imagine, at least I hope, he wishes he could take back all that happened that night Chris lost his life. But this is the point, it was immature, they were both at fault to some degree, but we have to be able to take a step back from situations when we’re angry and we begin to lose control over our emotions because life is too precious.

Chris would be 44 now. One year younger than me and one year older than my brother. I kept thinking of that year, 1991, as I read it on his granite stone. 1991. Twenty-eight years. Chris was only seventeen when he passed away. He has now been gone longer than he was alive. It breaks my heart to know that for twenty-eight year’s my friend has been gone. It breaks my heart to think of all the things he has missed, and it makes me sad to think of all the times I’ve complained and been upset about my problems in life over these past years, and the things I haven’t done and could do because for whatever reason God hasn’t seen fit to bring me home.

Then I think of all the tragic violent acts in this world. And why we have to keep on fighting and killing one another and it makes me angry. Chris’s death was in all reality over something so stupid, and something that if cooler heads had prevailed, they would have probably laughed about it later. And yet every day it seems people are dying and killing each other over issues that in hindsight could have been and should have been preventable, if only we’d just stop and follow the biblical verse to “be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to wrath.” And to do unto others, and to love one another. But I fear that this will never happen. All I can do is live up to those words in my own life.

All I know is that I miss my friend. All I know is that he’s been gone for twenty-eight years now and it breaks my heart. All I know is I hope and pray he is truly at peace and in heaven and he knows that his friends may have moved away and gone in different directions in life, but we think about you, and we hate that you are gone, and we hope to see you again soon.

Chris’s Grave
Copyright © 2019, Chad M. Ard, All Rights Reserved.

In the Still of the Night

It has been so cold lately here in NW Arkansas. When I woke up and looked out the window it had snowed even. Cold and rain that’s been the last month.

As I lay in bed I toss and turn, and snuggle under the blankets staying warm. My thoughts keep wandering about all the things I need to do, or maybe more of what I want to do. And sometimes it just doesn’t seem to be enough hours in the day.

This I do know, I am so happy as to how the book “The Month of April” turned out. I re-read it again this morning. I tend to do that. I’ll write something and then I’ll go over it a million times after like a lunatic it seems even to make sure everything is perfect.

Having been published in the past, this time I decided to self-publish. I’m still unsure about this idea. I mean yeah, it’s pretty easy to do. And maybe that is the problem, the simplicity of it. There are sites online offering to help for a nominal fee on marketing, but even so, maybe the price is worth it but almost too good to be true. Especially when there are so many books online and perhaps it’s just me. It could be, I mean I’m a realist, maybe it isn’t good enough, no matter how I feel about my stories.

It’s not enough to make me just want to stop and give up. Writing is what I do. It’s never been about accolades, though I can’t lie and say those other perks wouldn’t be nice. I write because I feel as if I have too. Yet at the same time would love to share them to the world, but if I’m unable to reach people through self-publishing, and self-marketing I may need to start back from scratch and focus my attention on the traditional approach.

This is something I will be contemplating over the next few days. When I self-published my collection of short stories and poems, it was a spur of the moment choice. I made many mistakes in doing so, such as publishing and then promoting and then noticed after publishing there had been formatting errors causing me to rework the book. Then I immediately began “The Month of April” and within less than a month had finished it. This time around I scheduled it to be released in April, thereby giving me time to promote and see if I can gain any traction and if not, I may just pull it and began sending query letters. I may pull both stories and start from scratch.

So that’s what I will be doing this week. I’ll analyze some data and then make a decision. I may even write a script version for “The Month of April” and go at it in two directions, floating the novella and the script to multiple agencies, and then perhaps split Forever Striking a Crucified Pose back into singular stories and approach other markets looking for short stories and poetry.

It’s been on my mind, in the still of the night lying in bed, attempting to stay warm and considering starting from scratch. Besides the stories published in Forever Striking a Crucified Pose had been on my computer for fifteen years. I just felt this sudden urge to self-publish, because I wanted to focus on newer materials. Still, I love those stories. And I would be as the writer, letting myself down, and the work I put into writing them if I just give up on them when the resources are out there, and it’s like I’m not thick skinned and have been given rejection letters in the past, but I’ve been successful in a few also.

I’ll talk about it later with my wife and then I’ll make the decision by the end of the week to move in another direction or hold steady, but as I sit here writing this, I feel it’s more important to perhaps, put the work in, begin drafting query letters and just believe…Besides Self-Publishing will be there if I am unable to make momentum going the traditional route.