If Serial Killers were Poets
Dear Victim, My legs ache from waiting. My heart pounds in my chest. Do you pity me? I wait, I'm waiting for you. My chosen one. I wonder, can you feel me?
The Perfect Way to Pay it Forward in 2021
2015 Five years ago, was put quite simply, a heinous outbreak of all that had gone wrong in a life once so wonderful and filled with love, an amazing career, and the perfect family.
A Sneak Peek of "Motivation to Kill" - prior to publishing with Hay House publishers...🔪
Motivation to Kill Prologue – Target 1 A young fisherman sat at the bar, drumming his fingers impatiently for his next drink. Humidity and the familiar smell of a salted spray wafted in. He sighed, brain itchy with frustration and arm pit stains the size of cereal bowls. Fishing the ash filled seas with the fires at the Bay had been rough this week, all he’d caught was an already half dead flat head and a baby ray. The tourists, the town’s main source of income had hurriedly left the area last week. Shortly, a well-dressed man entered the bar, sat down on the stool beside him, ordered a Grey Goose Martini and said a warm hello. The fisherman had just started his sixth drink when the well-dressed man asked him how his day had been. ‘Fucking rough’ he replied’. The man flinched. He found swearing to be grotesque. ‘I understand’, he replied. The young fisherman, now heavily drunk at all of nineteen years old started to vent. ‘The locals have it pretty tough right now, unlike like those rich bastards who come down when it suits them to their fancy coast houses. I haven’t seen one rich bloke help with the fires to date. Did you read about that rich prick who has a beach house someplace up on the point? anonymous of course. He could be publicly donating, supporting the locals, but instead he bought that wanky, pretentious piece of shit painting for a 100 million dollars. You know the guy who painted that blurry shit? Well, I hope his house burns down, painting too’. The well-dressed man’s face hardened. It was him who had bought the Monet. He stood up and made a gesture that he was leaving. The next day the young fisherman was dead.
Raising an LGBTQI Child
If any of you beautiful readers out there need any tips or support raising an LGBTQI child with support, understanding, caring and love, then this blog entry is for you.
Black Dog has kept me company for 15 years. He first came into my life when I was studying Law. It was as if he knew he needed to be there. One day, I just woke up, and there he was, sitting at the end of my bed. He needed company so I stayed in bed with him all day. I fed him, gave him water and a nice comfy place by my side wrapped in thick, soft blankets. I tried to find a home for Black Dog but no one else would take him so I kept him, accepted him as my responsibility. My companion. My enabler.
How Ben Died
Ben and I loved each other with a fire so red hot that nothing could extinguish the flame we held for one another. We married young, teenagers, playing house and making the most of our incredibly blessed lives. We honeymooned in Australia in Port Douglas. A magical place, just North of Cairns and adjacent to The Great Barrier Reef; possibly the most magical destination on Earth. The years that followed were bliss. A perfect symphony of love, laughter, leisure and lust.