Stealing from Steven King

A Few Thoughts: Stealing from Steven King.

I have heard that writers are not bound by any set of rules saying they cannot steal from other writers. I think that is true as long as inspiration causes one to expound or enhance a story line in order to make it seem more real. I have not read the original story, but I have a pretty good sense of what the main character in this case was experiencing. This all came to light as I watched a film inspired by a short story written by Steven King titled:

 "Mr. Harrigan's Phone."

He had a seriousness, and a sadness drawn on his face like some bizaar graffiti. I did not know at the time that this would be the last time we would speak, but somehow deep inside I knew something was wrong. We all have that sense about the things we would rather not think or speak about. Perhaps the portable oxygen tank sitting beside his chair was the clue that I simply put out of my mind until I found him there clutching his cell phone like some last drastic ploy to hold on for a few more precious moments of life. In any case the old man was gone, and I had lost not only a friend, but an ally who kept me protected, and made me feel powerful in that dank dim space in which we shared a portion of ourselves hidden from the world. Our darkest secrets merged in that moment when they closed the casket containing his earthly remains, and a link only vengeance could explain. Yes, he had been a ruthless businessman in life, and now an avenging angel in death. God help me for making it so.

D.A. Wittler 

10/13/22

And They Lived Happily Ever after

A few thoughts: "And they lived happily ever after."

Many of us adults grew up with someone reading us a story; whether at bed time by a parent, grand parent, or in school. I remember Mrs. Kortokrax reading to our class Charlotte's Web in second grade I believe, and listening to Disney classics like Pinocchio on vynil LP records. My younger sisters, and I would follow along with the enclosed story book. Ah, what memories, especially at happy endings.

Well, some years later I remember hearing Paul Harvey on the radio telling us "the rest of the story." Usually about the humble beginnings of a well known person or celebrity. On Saturday mornings Casey Kasem would play Amercas Top Forty songs. He would always share a long distance dedication at some point during his broadcast. It was normally a true story about everday people; long lost, and found romance, overcoming adversity, or some other human interest story with a song associated with it. And yes, usually with a happy ending.

Today, as my years of experience have taught me is that there are always two sides to every story. We take the good, and bad as either a positive, negative or learning experience. We see the good guy, the bad guy, or the circumstances that lead to a happy, sad or moral teaching. Sometimes the moral part gets left out, and we are left wondering what the whole point was. Anyhow, the important thing to remember is that stories either teach us something; or give us a certain perspective on life. One thing leads to another, yet we must realize that any story can be viewed from different points by those who are a part of the story itself. One side may get the gold while the other is left impoverished. One may get the love of their life while the other is left alone. 

Either way, in life it is important to consider both sides of a story to truly appreciate the whole picture, and how every story allows for revisions. "Happily ever after" is not always the  point, sometimes there is a lesson, sometimes not, and sometimes we just have to wonder. 

Good day, and God bless!

Sounds of Mourning

Sounds of Mourning

Call it prayer

Or a longing

Beginning again

Saturday morning

Clocks tick

A pendulum sways

In rhythm 

Like my long lost granny's heart

Birds sing

A flag wrestles with a gentle breeze

Lavender blossoms

On newly awakened branches

My soul senses losses 

Of loved ones, friends, and strangers

Posted on Facebook pages

An empty chair rocks

Back, and forth 

Upon my front porch

Sleeping dogs breath silent

Upon a warm bed

Dreaming

My mind grasps for meaning

Amid chaos of man's doing

Of thundering cannons

Blaring

Cries on shattered streets

Of death, and a reckoning

While she sleeps

From a night of drinking

I see a mourning dove take flight

Through a window

I hear rumblings

Of a new day beginning

Out on a highway

Not far from my home

I long for moments like these

Sweet inspiration

While I mourn her passing

Oh these sounds of mourning

Haunt me like a storm.

D.A. Wittler 5/7/22