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04/26/08***Book One: The Beat-up Generation. (This revision: New chapters 1 and 2. Eleven chapters added to the end.) —From the ashes of the Beat and Love generations comes the evolution of the ‘Beat Up’ generation.— I had a killer dream when I was thirteen. I dreamt I had found ‘true love,’ and it changed me forever. It changed me during the dream, and after the dream. I never forgot it, and wrote it down in pencil on a yellow tablet a year later. I knew, without a doubt, my destiny. The question for the next thirty-six years was: "When, goddamnit?"****** This is not fiction; it’s the diary of a juvenile peering over the edge of an inferno. STREET... is the acid flashback I was promised. It is also the self-fulfilling prophecy of Just One Guy, whose passion was to live in a state of true harmony. It’s about the charmed life of a dragon in desperate need of a light.***** —“Wild-assed-cynical-seen-it-all-New-York-City-teen goes to bed stoned, wakes up in 1970's Europe with a backpack and a willingness to recapture child-like awe in the world around him...” — HavePenWillScribble****** (The author respectfully requests you start at the beginning.)

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Just a few suggestions about writing sex scenes in fiction.

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A section from a larger work about a man coming home after a prison term.

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A part of a story about a young man who has returned to his home town and University after a prison term.

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A personal reflection--any feedback/criticism appreciated.

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This is something I need to do since I can not say the words to the persons face. It a very, serious poem.

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Is this worth saying, or am I just having another of my blinding-glimpse-of-the-obvious spasms? Don't be bashful if you think the latter. I'm too close to the subject matter to know. Thanks.

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Jellyfish challenge fishermen, fill their shrimp nets. What can be done?

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Death of a Family provides the reader with an intimate account of what happens to a Mother when she is given a ‘life’ sentence. In this semi-biographical, semi-autobiographical piece of creative non-fiction, the reader is taken on a profoundly personal and spiritual journey into the life of a family. Narrated by the daughter after her Mother’s death, the story begins as the two embark in a race against time, to address a multitude of familial issues, and to ensure a peaceful passage. Death of a Family describes what happens when the border of the quilt has worn away, leaving patches of fabric without a frame, edges to fray, and the threads to strain, and snap! Death of a Family calls into question the meaning of “family”. It provides a detailed account of the experiences of a Mother, from a youthful adventurous soul to one confined in a home for the elderly, punished for a life of giving, taking nothing with her in the end. It is a story of heroics. A story about a humble widow who championed great life challenges and who touched the lives of hundreds of people. It is a story about Motherhood. It is a story of rebirth. In her obituary her son wrote, “To all who knew her, she was a beacon of hope and optimism. To her family, she was a lighthouse of faith and integrity.”

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I am a lifelong sailor in Buzzards Bay, Massachusetts, USA, and have witnessed a rather sad passing. Please tell me if you share my grief (and also if I am making too much of this thing).

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Chapter 18 The Affirmative Action Candidate This is the title chapter of my upcoming book, The Affirmative Action Candidate: The True Story of How I Got Into Medical School By Rretending To Be Black. In this chapter I interview at the highly ranked Case Western Reserve University School of Medicine, which practices a form of racial segregation in its admissions process while pretending to be black (I'm really Indian). They call me “One of our Affirmative Action Candidates.” My interviewer at Case Western, Rubens Pamies, M.D., confronts me about my racial identity. I deflect his questions. As a result, Dr. Pamies kills my application to Case Western in a diplomatic way. I am looking for highly critical, constructive, specific feedback about my work. Don't worry about my feelings, be honest, I am a man! Tell me what you really think so I can write a better book!

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This pastiche is intended for a select audience: those who would kill for a great guacamole.

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Another short article describing the history of May Day (May 1st). Any and all comments much appreciated! If you think this kind of article is just boring to the average reader, I'm glad to hear about that, too.

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I would like to cut 87 words out of this 587-word piece. First, what do you think overall? Second, any suggestions for where to cut?

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This sadly, is a true story that took place just a few weeks ago. I have a stepson who I adore, but often the feeling isn't mutual, despite the fact that I work very hard to avoid the 'Evil Stepmother' image. In writing this piece, I chose to only highlight a brief part of it, as this was originally written for another purpose. I may very well rewrite this at a later date with the whole, disgusting, funny truth. Any and all feedback is welcome and encouraged! Thank you very much for taking the time to read this!

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This is an article I wrote for a local magazine and I did have a word count that I couldn't go over (even though I could have easily, given the amount of research I'd done). Please be honest with what you think, as I am looking to grow as a writer. Thank you!

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An older poem I still care for. About getting so down one can be pulled into the lure of a graveyard. one can also gain inspiration there and re-juice. Pretty indicative of my poetry. All feedback is interesting to me. Thanks. TJ

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Reposted with edits. Any and all feedback welcome!

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Scribbler told me to go write something - so I did.

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This is simply a testimony of my Christian faith.

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Just a little insight piece. all feedback welcome.

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I originally posted this story in four parts as I wrote it. It's the most difficult thing I've ever written about a tragedy I wish had never happened. For the longest time I haven't been able to deal with making corrections. Whatta recently offered to help me with it and his support means more than he will ever know. I'd like to start submitting it, so any suggestions or further corrections would be greatly appreciated. Mitch, I guarantee Ginger would have loved you to pieces.

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Spinning fibers is as old as the pyramids. You can relax and spin for hours and derive the beneits of a calming exercise that is not addictive. Your beard may grow, however.

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For more than two years I have been writing conversations with my mother on our daily spiritual coffee breaks. She has been dead for forty years. I don't know how to handle these there is no order to them. Some are happy some are sad all are helpful in my resolution of not having said what I wanted before my mother's death. I would appreciate honest feed back on this. Should I do it or not. The material is ready. I have another Novel on here that I am still working on, so I need your advices. I have approximately 50 of these with 450 to 1,000 words each. This one is 637. I appreciated you reviews in all I have submitted.

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I backslid after being enlightened for a couple of years. I noticed that the crow adn raven followed me every where I moved. The ominous bird seemed to be mocking my plight. One day I woke-up feeling defeated and there was that bird calling me, staring at me. I decided that I would continue to fight back instead of give-up altogether. Not everyones style but i have my own way of using poetic license with no set rhyme scheme. The first part of a very long poem broken into segments. Thanks for your time. Zack tj

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How I might have began my obsessive relationship with words.

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An editor asked me to write an article about spinning wool. This is it.

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Read Ireland mails books from their business in Dublin. I order them, in hope of receiving a gem. This one arrived a few days ago. I wasn't disappointed.

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From the self-titled poetry book I wrote which takes on the darkness and brings the light to suffering. Thanks for reading and reviewing. Special shout-out to my old pal, Knighthawk. Remember this one, buddy?. Cheers, Zack Tortured Jester

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Happy Holidays. http://www.ffk-wilkinson.com/

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All feedback is welcome. Thanks for taking the time to read and leave your thoughts. Peace and One love, Zack tj

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The phone ringing at 5 a.m. on an icy January morning in Connecticut just had to be bad news. My brother called from Atlanta to tell me that our father, who had been in failing health, had fallen and suffered a stroke during the night. The next few hours are a blur of calls to the airlines and the rest of the family and to our employers. It was almost too much to comprehend or to feel the impact of what was happening, except to hear my brothers words, "Hon, he's on life support, we're going to have to make a decision when you get here". Somehow we made it to the airport and were seated in the third seat from the restroom down in the back of the plane. After settling in, I realized I was seated in the window seat of a three seat row and my claustrophobia hit me like a wave of pure panic. I glance over my shoulder and there was a large, nicely dressed, black man sitting in the seat behing me, all by himself. He seemed to grasp the situation at once and motioned me to one of the two empty seat. I gladly accepted the chance to move and climbed over my husband and the other passenger to move to the free seat. We smiled, my benefactor and I, but I buried my head in a book and tried to read. During beverage service I glanced around and saw there were a half dozen other gorgeously dressed black men and women seated near me. One of them passed me a copy of Keyboard Magazine and asked me to give it to my seat mate. So I did and asked him a couple of questions, told him my daughter was a classical pianist. He told me his group was in Atlanta to to tape a Christian Music video. And that was it. The flight continued, I pretended to read, and then about 11:15 a.m. my seat mate reached his large hand over and placed it on mine for several seconds. I lowered my head and my eyes welled up in tears. Being touched by a strange man on a plane might have inspired quite a different reaction, but I felt only great peace. That is really the end of the story in a way. My father died at exactly 11:15 a.m. The touch of that hand remains with me every time I need assurance that God is in this world. Sometimes He appears in a guise that is unexpected.

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Your thoughts are appreciated and welcome. Love. Holding on. It sucks hard when its over.

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open to interpretation

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I wrote this the night my husband's father asked us to take him off the ventilator. We could not do anything legally. My husband's step-mother had power of attorney and over rode Daddy's advanced directive. This may not rhyme, but putting into prose was the only way I knew how to tell the story. Please understand that she made him suffer. He had been bed ridden for 3 years. He was never negative about his situation,but she didn't care for him. At the end it was about keeping him alive long enough to get his last Social Security check. She kept him on Dopamine, and morphine, until he drowned in his own fluids. I know this probably does not flow that well, but I hope you will read this for the meaning not the grammer or punctuation and ect...Thank for all of the feedback.

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This is in response to a question Sol posted in the Self publishing forum. I'm posting this here to be reviewed but also to stimulate a discussion on self publishing.

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I just wanted to share something with everyone. All feedback is welcome.

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It's a drabble about editing. Any constructive feedback is welcome, especially regarding the humour of the piece.

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falling back under the consensus spell. Denial breaks down and leaves one to the truth.

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My spouse recently discovered he has a duodenal ulcer. This is the story of how it was discovered.

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