Friday, October 02, 2015

Human Awareness Alert

     There was a homeless guy, his name was Mr. Ripkey. I remember him because he’d always stand out by the fence at the high school waiting for kids to return to school from lunch and give him their pop bottles. I used to drop my own in his plastic bag. He was dressed okay, he was dressed for the weather, and he was dedicated to that spot. I saw all of this and will never forget him, because he had a smile for everyone, and was a very kind person, and grateful for each bottle, that would equal a ten cent deposit, put into his bag.
     Time went on in high school and like every other person in that age bracket I became self-absorbed and eventually viewed Mr. Ripkey as an old homeless man, a permanent fixture awaiting his bottles. I looked no further than the surface of things. I didn’t have a phone to take his picture while he returned those bottles and I didn’t have the internet to post said photos.
     I then grew up; I bought a home and got a job in the city. One day while driving home from work I saw Mr. Ripkey walking through the parking lot of my old high school. He was still carrying a bag with him. I pulled into the parking lot and realized, with a little guilt, that I had spent four years in high school and never paid attention. I asked him if he would like a ride. I was driving a mini-van and he agreed. I opened the door for him and he shakily got in. He was a little older, a little frailer then the guy I knew from high school, time had taken its toll.
     I introduced myself to him and he told me his name. I asked if he was retired, and he said yes. He was retired from the rail road. He had a Veterans hat on his head and I asked him if he served. He proudly told me that he fought in World War Two and that he flew on a plane with President Roosevelt. He was proud of his life, proud of his stories and glad that someone wanted to hear him.
Mr. Ripkey gave me directions to his house and I dropped him off. I had been given a very large fruit basket from the hospital I worked at, and before letting him get out of the van, I reached back and asked him if he would like some fresh fruit. He said, yes. I helped him out of the van. There was snow and ice on the walk and I didn’t want him to fall, so walked slowly with him so he could keep his balance. The winter wind was cold, and it dawned on me, looking at Mr. Ripkey’s running nose, that he had spent a lot of hours walking in the cold. I saw a car parked in front of the garage with snow on it as I held the front door open for him.
     His wife, who was in her late eighties greeted me with a smile, she sat in an old wheel chair rocking back and forth. She didn’t speak but had a lost look as if she was stricken with Alzheimers or dementia. I was then introduced to his son who couldn’t speak and was mentally retarded; he was watching an old rerun of Sanford and Son on television and had a permanent grin on his face. I said to Mr. Ripkey that he had a beautiful family. He smiled and nodded, tears appeared in the corners of his eyes showing me that he was a proud husband and father. I asked where he wanted the fruit basket. There was a table full of old newspapers and clutter and he said I could put it there.
     There were no Christmas decorations, but there was family, and love for one another. Mr. Ripkey was the provider and the only one with mind enough to recognize and take care of who he loved. He didn’t brag about his service, he didn’t ask publicly for praise for doing the job that he chose to do. He proudly just greeted people and tried to make ends meet a little easier by collecting pop bottles from the local high school kids. His home was his home. It may have been cluttered, needing a good cleaning, with drafty windows covered with plastic, and his family may have been suffering from some form of mental illness, but he still trudged through the darkness of it all because that’s who he was.
     From day to day, society, at least the adults of the world, stayed self-absorbed, like the high schoolers that passed him. It was an ignorant reality to face, to digest and it made my heart hurt.
I drove home crying for Mr. Ripkey, even though I don’t think he would have wanted that. Since then I moved my family from the city and saw Mr. Ripkey only a couple more times before he quit his jaunts through the high school parking lot. I learned a lot on those few encounters. That he was a good man. That he was making ends meet, and that no matter what car he drove, no matter what extra cash he received as handouts from strangers, no matter what his family was going through, he didn’t expect me to take his picture, or several pictures, and post them on the local telephone poles to show people that he didn’t deserve that help.
     I didn’t judge him, I listened to him. I didn’t scorn him publicly; I only want this story as a lesson to others. Hard times, addiction, and other things posted on public forums are damaging and as long as society continues to do this, we lose, as a human race. Even if only one person posts a picture of someone less fortunate, without knowing the entire story, or even reaching out to understand the person’s life, it makes the rest of us just as ignorant to give it attention, to read it or even comment on it. I’ve been guilty, hell, I think everyone is.  

     Thank you Mr. Ken Ripkey for your service, but most of all thanks for teaching me that even if I’m stressed about things in life: work, bills, etc., you showed me that none of that stress will ever get me down because when the odds stack up, they should all be taken down, one by one, and to clear the darkness to see the light. Thanks so much for everything you’ve helped awaken in those you’ve connected with in this life, and if you’re at peace today because age has taken you from us, may you be in a better place, where there are smiles from everyone, reciprocating the kindness you reflected in your life while on earth.


Tuesday, March 24, 2015

When You Wake, Thadeus...

Some positive thoughts, energy and love need to be sent out for Thad, please send some out so he can return to his family and loved ones. Whether it's prayer or thought, he and his family need it today...

When you wake, I want you to know that you, Thad, define friendship. Loyalty to a fault is something you are going to get back to when a recovery permits. I can always rely on your calls to inspire me. Thanks so much for always being in my life when it was needed the most. From the day we met, and you were curious as to why I was kicking at the coin slot at a Double Dragon game in Kroger to get free credits, I knew you had changed something in my fat, awkward, long ago high school ways. You became my friend, a true friend that didn't judge, and changed my life for the better. When there were silent years between us we could pick back up and share moments that we had as if only minutes had passed. When we drifted it was only that silence that brought us closer and I don’t think either of us realized it. When you wake, when you recover, and when you drift back into life soon, I just want to say you are a big part of mine and will always be, thank you for being you. You are honesty, loyalty, love and an ever guiding light in my life, when there were dark thoughts at the forefront, when hard times fell, and even when we had drifted to tend to our own families and loved ones.  

Tuesday, March 17, 2015

Staring Blankly...

     I view some of the stats on the sites that I offer my free fiction, my blogs, and other various sights, which I won't plug because if you want to read my fiction, you will find it, it's everywhere. Yes, most of them get page hits and downloads, but they are inconsistent, and then I see nothing, the screen is blank, the cursor is flashing and I'm back to the reality of writing fiction. Most would say, "Wait a minute, Tim, is there something wrong with the computer you're using to write? Or are you just crazy and another personality has kicked in?" I have no answer, other than the unwritten page is what I'm getting at, or the half written short story and novel staring at me. Writing has never turned into a great success for me, in fact due to the lackluster far and few between reviews, I'm shocked that I never gave up. I'm apprehensive of the stats because there is that lull between hits. I refuse to give into the marketing on social media, because it's not my job. My job is, after all, to write, to offer it up, and to trudge through the mud-hole of self notoriety. When that golden ray of sunshine called publication on a professional level, happens, I'll be extremely appreciative because I'll understand that all the practicing I do here, there and everywhere, has finally paid off. I support other authors, write reviews when I can squeeze it into my day, and want a little reciprocation at times, which never seems to come. Is the time now where I unplug the internet, pack up my laptop and head north to the old cottage called Dark Nest and live like a hermit? I don't think so, it would be premature, so on that note, I hope all is well in the world of the blueness we call the internet, and with all of you. I need to get back to that free piece titled 35, get back to being a husband, father and full time employed slave to corporate America, so I can once again offer up the next exciting chapter of warped proportion.

Thursday, March 05, 2015

We smile, I think, we act, I wonder, we see, I write...

     Today, I'm drinking a cup of coffee, I've run around with the wife, and am thinking of our future. I often wonder if the writing I complete, 99.9% unpublished, will gain the light of day when I'm gone. It's a curious question, that teeters on the brink of melancholy and I don't need anyone saying that I'm playing the victim, because at the end of the day it's my own lazy a** that don't push it out into the masses for publication, even though most of it is decent, compared to a lot of slush out in the writing universe. I do say that procrastination comes honestly and don't blame the honesty, and that "putting off" effortlessly numbs the process, causing frustration and turns my fiction into what most refer to as a hobby. Partly because it has, nor gains monetary value, and partly because I don't sit down for eight hours and plug out contemporary novel after contemporary novel. It's not in me, yet. What's in me is the future of a life, traveling, hooking up that Airstream, getting in and getting lost in our marriage once again. Time is ticking and the sad realization that our lives are narrowing, like that artery that sometimes narrows with too much cholesterol, and that window seems bright, no, not the light in the tunnel of life or death. Even with the narrowness, or the time restraints that may hinder our very thought, just the idea, the remnants and thoughts of our future is something concrete and can help get through the every day monotonous and autonomy. We smile, I think, we act, I wonder, we see, I write. And it all comes full circle to the future we are laying out, back to basics, back to alone time, us time, and in a world of different culture than where we began, it surrounds us, gives us more or less, yin or yang, divinity or living chaos, it will always be what we make of it, and it will always be the "us" that makes it complete. Thanks for stopping by.

Tim

Saturday, February 14, 2015

Poco's Return?????

Here is the beginning, a sequel of sorts to Poco Galypto:

     Life stopped in the basement---blurry laptop screen and that crazy blood wide grin from behind the stairs. The steps were bad to begin with and the weight of my killer made them sing a song of, well, who knows how that nursery rhyme ends? At the end of that tale, I had everyone believing in a killer. Everyone wants to hear the tragedy of a poor white kid with a Hispanic/Greek name, dead, they can mourn, draw up some conspiracies, and even send a letter to the Stevats Chronicle to be posted in the opinion section. Hell, everyone did believe the story because it was printed in the damn newspaper of all places. The town was frenzied. Do you think for a minute they could throw the dead fat kid a bag of Fritos? They knew I loved to eat, I expected some goodies, to no avail, and things went back to normal after a couple calls to our house. My mom and dad laughed at first and then my ears burned for a week because of their bitching. They would never change, and I probably wouldn’t either.

Thanks for reading. This is just a teaser, nothing more. To read my fiction visit timeaglefiction.blogspot.com. There you will find a chapter a month...A MONTH? You ask, yes, a chapter a month, so enjoy, and again, thanks.

Monday, February 02, 2015

SNOWPOCALYPSE, Tim Eagle, back at it...

     Well, another SNOWPOCALYPSE, imagine that, Michigan, February, Ground Hog's Day, and all this snow. I'm excited, if not for the mere reason that the snow hindered my snow sled, an old rusty Chrysler that wouldn't have fared too well in the snow drifts this a.m., and I got an extra day off. Granted, not a "legal" day off, but I'm off anyway.
     I figured today would be a great day to let everyone know---who reads this blog, or even follows this blog from time to time---that I have been working diligently, albeit amateurishly, on videos to introduce the short story, 35, that is posted NOW on timeaglefiction.blogspot.com , the idea is inspired by Twilight Zone with Rod Serling's introductions to each episode, and to build a story that integrates itself on the outside of the chapter posted to blog, I hope that makes sense. So in all fairness, I'll post said video here, as well, so those who subscribe here can view the video, get intrigued, or disturbed by Meredith, and then proceed directly to the chapter posted at the Tim Eagle Fiction Blog. Thanks everyone again for the overwhelming 28 views the previous video had introducing the childish map found during Stevats' Memorial Library's 70's renovations. I'm sure those dead souls who left the bloody hand prints on the back of the map, mixed with some strands of hair, rested on top of a pile of bones and stuffed in a wall, really appreciate your voyeuristic views. It's always fun to live vicariously, so they say. Without further adieu I give the video introduction below, enjoy the fiction and the video. Give feedback, if necessary and read well.


Wednesday, January 28, 2015

The Day Fiction Comes to Life...2/15/2015!

I hope all is well, there's news for those out there, clinging to the edge of their seats or helplessly rolling their eyes into the back of their heads. I've finally created a date for the first Blog-Chapter, February 15th, 2015, is when a new piece of fiction will be featured on the timeaglefiction.blogspot.com site. I sure hope that this creates some buzz, if not, then the buzz isn't worth catching. In the meantime, check out the video I'm going to try to embed here. It was said that the childish map featured in the video was drawn by the children of Stevats, many years ago, it was found during the libraries renovation in the 1970's. There were bloody hand-prints imprinted on the back, pieces of hair stuck inside the blood, and bone fragments underneath where it was rolled up. Please enjoy the video and share as much as you want, subscribe to my stuff, every bit  helps, I'm not asking for monetary support, so I know that everyone can chip in. Thanks, excuse the amateur nature of the video and expect much more with each monthly chapter posted, enjoy!

Tim Eagle