In regards to the title of this post, I will not be writing my own song. This is a reflection on a song that my friends and I very strongly believe will be the tune that defines our generation. Whether the song writers meant it or not, the song "We are Young" by F.U.N. has assumed deep meaning with the people in my circle. If you have not heard the song, I suggest giving it a listen - I will not be writing out the lyrics here.
My generation grew up with these things on the lighter side:
http://www.buzzfeed.com/daves4/things-you-will-never-see-again-in-your-life
(and hand-drawn cartoons in general)
On the heavier side, we grew up hearing about genocide in Rwanda and in the Former Yugoslavia whether our parents tried to block us from knowing about it or not, we heard these things. We were youth or young teens when the US was attacked abroad and at home. Our perspectives on the world were being shaped while our nation was involved in two wars. Right as we were mid-college or about ready to leave high school for college, the economy went haywire and jobs became scarce. We've been scraping the bottom of the barrel and we've been doing what we have to for rent, so when this song became popular in my circle over summer, nothing felt more right. I'm not suggesting that we all do exactly as the song says, but every now and then indeed we need a night to just be young. To enjoy the lighter things. I'm a huge believer in the blessings that little things bring. Look at the kitten I rescued. She is the best gift I've received this year - if I did not have her, my life would be a lot more studious and dry, but she is constantly reminding me through her rompings around my room that life is meant to be enjoyed. Life is meant to be carried joyfully, even if that joy is brought about by something as simple as a shoelace (we are talking about a kitten, after all).
So in this week when we are surrounded by family and old friends, set aside a moment to realize how good we have it. Take a deep breath and take a moment to be young. No matter how old you are, find your fun.
Happy Thanksgiving!
Your humble writer,
S. Faxon
About Me
- S. Faxon
- We've MOVED: Visit the new site at https://sfaxon.com for the latest S. Faxon stories and reading escapes...
Saturday, November 24, 2012
Sunday, November 18, 2012
The Tale of Bella Tuna Todd
So, what did you think? How did you or didn't you enjoy last week's read?
This week will be a much less intense chapter. It's a true story, one from the more extraordinary moments in my life. It is the tale of how I, a die-hard dog lover, found myself with a five week old kitten purring on my desk as I post.
In late July of this year, I moved out from the fast paced city streets of Manhattan into a much more a-typical version of an old New York neighborhood. I was not sure about moving to Queens as it has such an odd reputation, but the charm of my neighborhood had been the selling point for my signing the lease. There is much more of a small town feel here, something that I grew up in, so I quickly became settled and even began to know my neighbors. (I lived in my last neighborhood for 3.5 years and didn't know anyone outside of my circle).
My building is next door to a Greek community center. During the warm days of August, my room would fill with the delightful smokey smell of Greek bbq as the men would grill for hours, rain or shine. They kept all of their drum grills and cooking equipment in a dingy looking shed in the backyard. The shed sat alone in a long yard, bordered by high-walled fences on all sides.
Every now and then I would see a beautiful ferrel calico emerge from the wild mess of vines that reached across the concrete yard. She would play amongst the leaves, roll around happily on the warm concrete and chase butterflies. As an animal lover, it was really nice to watch the cat play. As a child I had a pair of cats named Pepsi and Amy (I was five when I named the first), so it was a delightful unnexpected comfort to have a cat in the neighbor's backyard. Very rarely will I use this cliche, but it could not be more fitting; little did I know that the calico in the backyard would bring the ultimate unnexpected pleasantry to my life.
On a mid-September morning, I noticed that there was an awful lot of meowing coming from the yard, but it was not a cat - it was a kitten. Looking out the window, I could not see anything, but there was a kitten meowing nonstop. For the following week and a half, the kitten would meow in forty minute intervals...all day...all night. I told everyone at work about this ball of fluff who had emerged from the shed and would cry out to the heavens that she was scared, hungry and lonely, hoping for someone to rescue her. Being an humanitarian and animal lover, hearing her cry was killing me. You could hear the sadness in her meow - it was awful and it had become quite clear that the beautiful calico mom had abandoned her. On one Wednesday, the meowing was so bad, I decided that enough was enough. I had called the animal rescue people who told me that unless the kitten was minutes away from death, it was ferrel and that there was nothing to be done. Finding them to be of no help, I went next door and asked my neighbor if there was anything that we could do to save the kitten. Unfortunately, the lady who answered did not have access to the back - she was the second floor apartment. She had been throwing tuna cans down to the kitten in attempt to help keep her alive. She and her roommates had tried to configure all sorts of different methods for trying to save the kitten, everything from luring the cat into a bucket to hoist her 15 feet up to looking into rope ladders to throw out the window and climb down. I too had been trying to devise a method of rescuing the kitten; my friend who lives in London had sent me a drawing on his iPad of his strategic plan for saving the kitten, the picture of which is below. It involved a helicopter, to which, alas, I do not have access.
Another week went by and the kitten was still meowing. She had emerged from the shed and would venture only so far out from the opening to sing her pitiable tune of loneliness. It was so heartbreaking; she was so pathetic and small. I decided that enough was enough - I wasn't sleeping, all I could think about at work was trying to find away to get over the rickety fences to save the kitten. I had made up my mind; I spoke to the neighbor on Sunday night and told her that even though I am not allowed to have pets, I will find away to adopt that kitten.
Then came the rain. The wooden shed's door swelled shut due to the humidity and things were starting to look very grim for the kitten. She was trapped inside. The meowing was never more torturous to hear. I couldn't even imagine the hell that the baby-cat was experiencing.
On that Wednesday I came home after teaching class in the evening to find silence. Usually the cat meowed whenever the light in my room turned on, but on this evening, there was nothing. My heart dropped. I looked out the back and the rickety shed was dark. The door was still closed. I remember thinking to myself, "Great, some humanitarian I am - I can't even save a kitten." I waited about thirty minutes, still nothing, so I decided that the cat was gone. It was tough. I took a shower, had a cleansing cry, and then came back to my room. As a dramatic bid at finality, I closed the curtain over my window. Two steps away from my window, I heard my name shouted out from the back. Of course I went running back to the window to see my neighbor in the yard wearing yellow gloves up to her elbows. The door of the shed was wide open. "They're here! Come on! This is our chance!" she shouted. I hollered back that I'd be down in five minutes. It took me about two minutes to throw on a pair of jeans and tennis-shoes before running out of my room to the front. "It's liberating kitten time!" I shouted to my roommate as I bolted down the stairs.
Now, again, the only people who had access to the back yard were the members of the Greek Community Center and they were there holding a meeting. In I come, wet haired and looking quite awful after a long day at work to join my neighbor in rescuing a kitten. When I entered the long, brightly lit hall, fifteen Greek men of a range of ages turned to look at me. I smiled nervously and said, "I'm just going out back, excuse me."
"Be careful," one of them warned, "There's a tiger out there."
I laughed nervously and joined my neighbor, crouching in the back waiting for the cat. We had a deep bucket with a can of tuna in it. My neighbor informed me that the kitten had come over a couple of times, but every time the men in the center would make a loud noise and then she would run back. In the two and a half hours that I spent crouched down in that backyard, I can attest to that fact. The men kept coming out and asking us if we had caught the cat and that we were wasting our time trying to save the cat. We had to keep telling them that it was a baby. Regardless they thought we were crazy cat ladies, which all things considered...
At one point, one man came out and said to us, "Why don't you go in there?" To which we looked into the shed and then looked back at him - it was dark and there were large, sharp things in the shed; we were not about to go in. My neighbor replied, "We're not going in there, but you're welcome to."
So, he did. Then came three other men. Two of them went into the shed. Then came five other men and eventually one more straggler. One man held his smartphone as our only source of light into the shed, while three of his companions crawled, climbed and stretched through and within the shed. I have to say, for men with several Heinekens in them, they were quite furtive - I'm sure the cat learned a thing or two about grace and stealth that night. They moved out several of the drumb basin grills, a large ice-chest, shovels, and all sorts of odds and ends. I was terrified that the kitten was going to get squished during all of this. The men kept laughing that we were pulling their legs and were just out for some attention, which was becoming annoying. But then, it happened. The men inside the shed started yelling happily in Greek and then one tall man emerged bearing the cat by her scruff out in front of him, arm proudly extended. To any of you with children or if you were children post 1992, if you've seen the Lion King, think of Rafikki and Simba in the opening five minutes - the whole scene really was not that much different. The experience was certainly like something out of a movie. The nine men could not believe how small the kitten was when we gently put her into the bin that we had. With a small parade following us, we walked the kitten out of the Greek Community Center and to the entrance of my neighbor's apartment. She was going to hold on to her while I went out to the local market to get emergency kitten supplies. I had nothing prepared for this kitten. I was in and out of the market within 10 minutes, loaded with fleece blankets, cat food (they did not have kitten food) and a heart full of excitement. I had no idea what was going to follow, but I knew that I had a real chance to bring this cat back to health, for she was quite small. We thought that she was only a couple of days old.
I returned to the neighbor and was ready to take this precious little fur-ball into my apartment. Before she bid goodbye, the neighbor made me promise one thing, to name the kitten Tuna, as that was what she had been calling her and that had been the only source of food getting down to the kitten for the last two weeks. I made the vow and brought the little ferrel cat into my apartment, which feels much more like a home now.
In the following weeks I'll continue the story of Bella Tuna Todd - the explanation of her name will be the next chapter in her tale to follow. It's really remarkable how much warmth and life an animal can bring into one's home. If you have any furry-friend stories that you would like to share, leave a note in the comments - we've all some pretty fantastic stories to share - that's one of the things that makes life so miraculous, wouldn't you agree?
Your humble writer,
S. Faxon
This week will be a much less intense chapter. It's a true story, one from the more extraordinary moments in my life. It is the tale of how I, a die-hard dog lover, found myself with a five week old kitten purring on my desk as I post.
In late July of this year, I moved out from the fast paced city streets of Manhattan into a much more a-typical version of an old New York neighborhood. I was not sure about moving to Queens as it has such an odd reputation, but the charm of my neighborhood had been the selling point for my signing the lease. There is much more of a small town feel here, something that I grew up in, so I quickly became settled and even began to know my neighbors. (I lived in my last neighborhood for 3.5 years and didn't know anyone outside of my circle).
My building is next door to a Greek community center. During the warm days of August, my room would fill with the delightful smokey smell of Greek bbq as the men would grill for hours, rain or shine. They kept all of their drum grills and cooking equipment in a dingy looking shed in the backyard. The shed sat alone in a long yard, bordered by high-walled fences on all sides.
Every now and then I would see a beautiful ferrel calico emerge from the wild mess of vines that reached across the concrete yard. She would play amongst the leaves, roll around happily on the warm concrete and chase butterflies. As an animal lover, it was really nice to watch the cat play. As a child I had a pair of cats named Pepsi and Amy (I was five when I named the first), so it was a delightful unnexpected comfort to have a cat in the neighbor's backyard. Very rarely will I use this cliche, but it could not be more fitting; little did I know that the calico in the backyard would bring the ultimate unnexpected pleasantry to my life.
On a mid-September morning, I noticed that there was an awful lot of meowing coming from the yard, but it was not a cat - it was a kitten. Looking out the window, I could not see anything, but there was a kitten meowing nonstop. For the following week and a half, the kitten would meow in forty minute intervals...all day...all night. I told everyone at work about this ball of fluff who had emerged from the shed and would cry out to the heavens that she was scared, hungry and lonely, hoping for someone to rescue her. Being an humanitarian and animal lover, hearing her cry was killing me. You could hear the sadness in her meow - it was awful and it had become quite clear that the beautiful calico mom had abandoned her. On one Wednesday, the meowing was so bad, I decided that enough was enough. I had called the animal rescue people who told me that unless the kitten was minutes away from death, it was ferrel and that there was nothing to be done. Finding them to be of no help, I went next door and asked my neighbor if there was anything that we could do to save the kitten. Unfortunately, the lady who answered did not have access to the back - she was the second floor apartment. She had been throwing tuna cans down to the kitten in attempt to help keep her alive. She and her roommates had tried to configure all sorts of different methods for trying to save the kitten, everything from luring the cat into a bucket to hoist her 15 feet up to looking into rope ladders to throw out the window and climb down. I too had been trying to devise a method of rescuing the kitten; my friend who lives in London had sent me a drawing on his iPad of his strategic plan for saving the kitten, the picture of which is below. It involved a helicopter, to which, alas, I do not have access.
Another week went by and the kitten was still meowing. She had emerged from the shed and would venture only so far out from the opening to sing her pitiable tune of loneliness. It was so heartbreaking; she was so pathetic and small. I decided that enough was enough - I wasn't sleeping, all I could think about at work was trying to find away to get over the rickety fences to save the kitten. I had made up my mind; I spoke to the neighbor on Sunday night and told her that even though I am not allowed to have pets, I will find away to adopt that kitten.
Then came the rain. The wooden shed's door swelled shut due to the humidity and things were starting to look very grim for the kitten. She was trapped inside. The meowing was never more torturous to hear. I couldn't even imagine the hell that the baby-cat was experiencing.
On that Wednesday I came home after teaching class in the evening to find silence. Usually the cat meowed whenever the light in my room turned on, but on this evening, there was nothing. My heart dropped. I looked out the back and the rickety shed was dark. The door was still closed. I remember thinking to myself, "Great, some humanitarian I am - I can't even save a kitten." I waited about thirty minutes, still nothing, so I decided that the cat was gone. It was tough. I took a shower, had a cleansing cry, and then came back to my room. As a dramatic bid at finality, I closed the curtain over my window. Two steps away from my window, I heard my name shouted out from the back. Of course I went running back to the window to see my neighbor in the yard wearing yellow gloves up to her elbows. The door of the shed was wide open. "They're here! Come on! This is our chance!" she shouted. I hollered back that I'd be down in five minutes. It took me about two minutes to throw on a pair of jeans and tennis-shoes before running out of my room to the front. "It's liberating kitten time!" I shouted to my roommate as I bolted down the stairs.
Now, again, the only people who had access to the back yard were the members of the Greek Community Center and they were there holding a meeting. In I come, wet haired and looking quite awful after a long day at work to join my neighbor in rescuing a kitten. When I entered the long, brightly lit hall, fifteen Greek men of a range of ages turned to look at me. I smiled nervously and said, "I'm just going out back, excuse me."
"Be careful," one of them warned, "There's a tiger out there."
I laughed nervously and joined my neighbor, crouching in the back waiting for the cat. We had a deep bucket with a can of tuna in it. My neighbor informed me that the kitten had come over a couple of times, but every time the men in the center would make a loud noise and then she would run back. In the two and a half hours that I spent crouched down in that backyard, I can attest to that fact. The men kept coming out and asking us if we had caught the cat and that we were wasting our time trying to save the cat. We had to keep telling them that it was a baby. Regardless they thought we were crazy cat ladies, which all things considered...
At one point, one man came out and said to us, "Why don't you go in there?" To which we looked into the shed and then looked back at him - it was dark and there were large, sharp things in the shed; we were not about to go in. My neighbor replied, "We're not going in there, but you're welcome to."
So, he did. Then came three other men. Two of them went into the shed. Then came five other men and eventually one more straggler. One man held his smartphone as our only source of light into the shed, while three of his companions crawled, climbed and stretched through and within the shed. I have to say, for men with several Heinekens in them, they were quite furtive - I'm sure the cat learned a thing or two about grace and stealth that night. They moved out several of the drumb basin grills, a large ice-chest, shovels, and all sorts of odds and ends. I was terrified that the kitten was going to get squished during all of this. The men kept laughing that we were pulling their legs and were just out for some attention, which was becoming annoying. But then, it happened. The men inside the shed started yelling happily in Greek and then one tall man emerged bearing the cat by her scruff out in front of him, arm proudly extended. To any of you with children or if you were children post 1992, if you've seen the Lion King, think of Rafikki and Simba in the opening five minutes - the whole scene really was not that much different. The experience was certainly like something out of a movie. The nine men could not believe how small the kitten was when we gently put her into the bin that we had. With a small parade following us, we walked the kitten out of the Greek Community Center and to the entrance of my neighbor's apartment. She was going to hold on to her while I went out to the local market to get emergency kitten supplies. I had nothing prepared for this kitten. I was in and out of the market within 10 minutes, loaded with fleece blankets, cat food (they did not have kitten food) and a heart full of excitement. I had no idea what was going to follow, but I knew that I had a real chance to bring this cat back to health, for she was quite small. We thought that she was only a couple of days old.
I returned to the neighbor and was ready to take this precious little fur-ball into my apartment. Before she bid goodbye, the neighbor made me promise one thing, to name the kitten Tuna, as that was what she had been calling her and that had been the only source of food getting down to the kitten for the last two weeks. I made the vow and brought the little ferrel cat into my apartment, which feels much more like a home now.
In the following weeks I'll continue the story of Bella Tuna Todd - the explanation of her name will be the next chapter in her tale to follow. It's really remarkable how much warmth and life an animal can bring into one's home. If you have any furry-friend stories that you would like to share, leave a note in the comments - we've all some pretty fantastic stories to share - that's one of the things that makes life so miraculous, wouldn't you agree?
Your humble writer,
S. Faxon
Saturday, November 10, 2012
Chapter 1
We have reached the second Saturday of the month, so, dear readers, I present to you the first chapter of my published works The Feasts and Follies of the Animal Court, © 2012, available on Barnes & Noble Nook and Amazon Kindle. Enjoy:
“It is because
we are brothers that we are enemies.”
Chapter 1 ~ Lost
March 19, 1356
Gertrude was relieved
to finally be rid of all the well wishes, the “I’m sorry,” and “he’s in a
better place now” gestures. Her room was a wonderful retreat in which to
hide, for no one would dare enter the royal chambers without having received permission.
This had been the day
in which she helped to prepare her son’s body to rest, as was tradition in her
culture. She was in no mood to be entertained. Her body would not cease its persistent
trembling, nor could she dam her tears. However miserable she currently felt,
Gertrude was proud of her ability of having not shed a single tear before her remaining
children when she kissed them off to bed. She could not permit herself to be
seen crying in front of her babes. They needed their mother’s strength to keep
them whole.
Yet, now that she was
alone, to whom could she turn to absorb bravery?
Where was her husband?
His absence was troubling, but Gertrude’s routine was not disrupted. The great
lady did not even pause to change from her day clothes – feeling comfortable
seemed impossible at such a somber time. She proceeded to the large bed, driven
by nothing more than the urge to lie down and rest. However, before her wish
could be granted, a puzzling sight caught her eye. Upon the bed she saw her son
Peter’s button-eyed teddy bear. Falling onto the bed, she clutched the soft
bear tightly to her heart.
On the other side of
the room she heard the door swing open and slam shut. From years of love and
exposure, she immediately recognized the soul who entered.
Breyton did not
immediately notice the curled up figure of his wife lying on the bed so he continued
the cursing fit he belted throughout the castle’s halls. “That mad-ass gilded
slave! Damn him!” Breyton hurled his cane half way across the room where it
landed with a snapping clap.
“Please bottle your
temper, dear,” Gertrude’s soulless words barely echoed past the frame of the
bed in response to her husband’s anger. He had dismantled her peace.
The lady’s words were
softly spoken and would have been easily missed by one not tuned to the
softness of her voice, but Breyton obediently noted and minded her command. The
scarlet that had raged in the gentleman’s creased forehead and long cheeks
faded. The anger in his voice was checked at the door. Breyton sighed,
scratched his forehead, and as he started for the bed’s side he cooed to his
wife, “Oh, my gentle Gertrude, forgive me, I did not see…”
“Oh, dear husband, do
not fret,” she whispered into the pillow’s soft and cradling head, “You have
every right to be upset; the same as I have every right to rip out my heart.”
His wife’s conduct over
the past few days greatly concerned him, and this comment last only added to
his worry. Breyton rushed to join his grieving wife on the bed. He noticed as
he made his position next to her more comfortable that within her clutches was
the favorite bear of their youngest son. “How did you come by this?” Breyton
pointed to the bear with one hand and he stroked the side of his wife’s hip with
the other.
Her husband’s touch was
soothing after so long an absence of any such attention. His presence was
precisely what Gertrude’s spirit needed. She pulled the bear closer to asphyxiation then whispered, “It was on the coverlet. Perhaps
one of the children left it here, Ivan…maybe Anya, but I doubt that Oleyesa or Soph
would have dared to enter Peter’s room, let alone remove his favorite play
thing…” her voice waned and her soul filled with a bitter chill. She sought
comfort from her husband’s touch, but found in vain that it was not helping. So
what better way to avoid tears than to avoid the subject producing them
entirely? “How’s your back, Brey?” she asked out of the blue. It was a proper
question that any dutiful wife would pose after a night-full of her husband’s complaining.
Breyton chuckled
mildly, being not a bit surprised by his wife’s digression. “Well, it’s seen
better days.” He kept at petting his wife. It pained him terribly to see her so
sad, not as though the past few days were not wearing on the both of them.
“How’s that heart of yours?”
Gertrude could no longer
retain her grief. Her eyes blurred from tears and through her sobs she mumbled,
“Barely beating.”
With his long fingered
hands, Breyton gently rolled his wife onto her back. He pushed aside the teddy
bear, and laid his head between her breasts. His act yielded Gertrude’s tears,
for curiosity was the stronger chord controlling her.
“Ah, my dear queen,”
Breyton ran his fingers up and down his wife’s sides as still his tanned faced
used her chest as a pillow. “This evidence proves you wrong. I hear loud and
clear your heart beating brilliantly.”
“Oh, my loving king,”
Gertrude’s fingers tenderly rubbed the side of Breyton’s face. She had missed
his physical attention for so long. As bitter sweet the moment was, Gertrude
found distraction as she stared at the top of the king’s head where his hair
had thinned considerably. Though of course he knew better, Breyton blamed his
hair loss upon it having been worn down from years of wearing a crown. Breyton
rubbed his head against his wife’s chest. He raised his torso, leaning up on
his forearms. His intense, round blue eyes looked lovingly at his wife. “Your
bravery inspires me.”
“Huh, bravery,”
Gertrude, the proud raina, the queen of the country, scoffed and curled her
lip with disgust, “What a useless trait for a mother who could do naught to
save her babe.”
“Gertrude, you mustn’t
blame yourself for Peter’s illness,” the king pleaded, but no warmth returned
to his wife’s blue and brown eyes. “Our son is gone, but my dear lady, you’ve
still five other babes to tend.”
“Our seven year old is
dead, Breyton! Our baby!” Gertrude’s
burst of anger swelled and growled in the gloss of her eyes. “How is it that I and countless others lived from the epidemic,
but our beautiful boy, our innocent baby was slain by that fever? And that damn
doctor, that witch-man, he claimed, he said that Peter was improving!”
“I know, I know, but don’t
worry, that man will haunt our castle no longer. I’ve just relieved him from
his duty here, to put it delicately. I wish your mother could have been here to
tend to Peter…she’s the most superior physician that any of our kingdoms can
claim.” Breyton started to sit properly, but he was grabbed by his wife and
pulled back down beside her.
Gertrude wanted nothing
more than to be embraced by her husband.
The husband and wife, the
country’s king and queen, clutched onto each other and openly displayed their
mourning within the privacy of their bed’s embrace. The funeral for their
youngest child was to come on the morrow’s rise. The impending hour of that
black ceremony drained all monarchical duties, expectations, and mannerisms
from the royal couple. They were mortal again.
Hidden within
Gertrude’s sobs, the woman uttered, “No parents should have to suffer the death
of their child. None. I don’t care who they are, this suffering is too cruel to
bear.”
The couple continued in such a manner for some
time until the gentle Gertrude succumbed to sleep. Her rest came to her
husband’s great relief. She had not slept since the night before Peter died. As
he delicately pulled the thick fur coverlet over himself and his wife, all of
the burdens that his lady had borne in her lifetime that somehow molded her
into the gentle soul she was today, flashed before his eyes, blinding him from
the present, and dragging him back into the searing past.
Saturday, November 3, 2012
Foreward
Let's start with a proper E-introduction. Whether you're reading this on a train platform on your way to work or in the dreaded line at the DMV, we'll be spending some time together, so allow me to tell you about myself. For you San Diegans, you're reading the words of a fellow native who drove the lanes of the 8, the 5, and Morena Blvd more times than imaginable. For you New Yorkers, you're reading the words of an individual who equally suffers with you in the morning commute on the 4, 5, 6 line. The distance of space between my home lands and my current residence should cover the majority of everyone in between for relating.
So what do I do? What business has brought me to writing? Well, my time as a human rights activist and participant in developing democratic systems can become a bit heavy. Writing is my escape from the harder aspects of life and as such, I hope that my works will provide similar escapes for my readers. My career in international relations was not where my writing began. Prior to my eyes being opened to the needs of the world, feeling the tip of a pen to the page was my preferred get-away. In the last eleven years I have written thirteen full length novels, with one thus far being published. This book will be first featured in the blog.; I will post a section of my published work, The Feast and Follies of the Animal Court. If you just can't stand the wait for the next part, take comfort in knowing that the book is available on Amazon and Barnes & Noble. Feel free to read ahead, but please, no spoilers!
In the weekends in-between I will publish other smaller works to keep you entertained, as is the purpose of this page. If there are ever any questions about writing, human rights, or anything at all, please feel free to drop me a note.
Keep an eye out for next week's first book post!
Your humble writer,
S. Faxon
Back Cover
In our daily lives, living in a systemized world of 9 to 5, it is sometimes difficult to find an escape from the daily grind. In this, the first week after Hurricane Sandy, it seems like now more than ever people are in need of an escape. Hopefully, in these blogs to follow, my readers will be able to forget their worries and woes by entering my fiction stories, poems, and abstract prose.
I work in the field of human rights; trust me when I say that I understand that there is a lot out there for which we should be worried. But even the strongest hearted of heroes need a couch and a good piece of fiction in which they may loose themselves for a while. So dear reader, curl up on a couch, wrap yourself up in a blanket, and within my stories we'll all make it through this upcoming winter a little easier.
Your humble writer,
-S. Faxon
I work in the field of human rights; trust me when I say that I understand that there is a lot out there for which we should be worried. But even the strongest hearted of heroes need a couch and a good piece of fiction in which they may loose themselves for a while. So dear reader, curl up on a couch, wrap yourself up in a blanket, and within my stories we'll all make it through this upcoming winter a little easier.
Your humble writer,
-S. Faxon
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)