Links to my Books

Links to My Writings

Meditations on Maintenance for the Kindle
Memoirs of a Super Criminal for the Kindle, Nook
One Year in the Mountains for the Kindle, Nook
Adventures of Erkulys & Uryon for the Kindle and Nook

Wednesday, March 28, 2012

New Sample for Memoirs of a Super Criminal

Here is a sample from my novel: Memoirs of a Super Criminal. This sample is not in the free sample down load, so it is a little extra something.

"There is just one more thing. I have to do this.” El Mag stated.

“One more thing? What thing? We are all set. We are in the clear. I have checked and double-checked. We are clear, or will be soon. It is over.” Dyna said exacerbated.

“It is not over, not yet. I learned something. And… and I did not tell you about it,” El Mag hung his head. “I did not want to keep it from you, but I did. I felt like I had to until we were clear, but now I have to deal with it.”

“With what? What the hell is it that you have been keeping from me?” Dyna was beginning to get mad.

“Armageddon. He has been hunting me. He wants to use me as an example. I am one of, no, the last one of, the old school of criminals. He has made it his mission to bring me down one way or another. He won’t stop until I am… well whatever he does to me.”

Concern creased the brow of Dyna. This was deep and he should have not kept it from her, but she tried to understand. “Why now? Why you and not Danny?”

“Why me? Because I have been at it for over thirty years. Danny is behind the scenes. If they caught him it would devastate the criminal community but the public would not care. But me? Thirty years of headlines. Armageddon wants to set an example. Eventually everyone gets caught. But I think I have it figured out. I can beat him.”

“You can beat him? All of a sudden you can beat him. No one can beat him. He will beat you and if you assault him then he will make sure you don’t get up. Ever!” Dyna had moved from mad to furious in seconds. She wanted to punch something, something big and hard.

“I know. But if I don’t then we will never have peace. Then all that we have done, our whole lives, is meaningless. I can do it.”

“Now you care about meaning. Now you want to stand on some principles.” Dyna nearly spat the words out.

“No, nothing like that. We have built a life together. A life that we wanted. I am not ready for that to end. I don’t want to go into hiding. I want to be clear of it all. We have the money to take care of what we have to. But that will not give us peace.”

“Our life is not about peace. Or meaning. You are right, we did create something out of the mainstream. We lived the life we wanted. And we almost lost it all. But we made it past that. Isn’t that enough? Let’s just go.”

“With Armageddon, there is no place to go. He will always be on the prowl. Hunting. I have to stand against him. I have to fight him for my life, our life, our way of living,” El Mag said, wanting Dyna to understand.

“Bullshit. Lets just go and he will always be busy with some criminal somewhere. You know how it is. Heroes are always sidetracked by the next crisis. They never follow up. Out of sight, out of mind. You always said that.”

“I know. So maybe he won’t get around to it. But, we will always have to live looking over our backs. I don’t want that life. I want to be free of it all.”

“Then fight him when he comes for you, for us. I will stand by your side and punch him until his head explodes.”

The passion in Dyna’s statements made El Mag laugh. She gave him that stern look, but then also smiled. She knew that he was determined. She read it in his eyes. They looked at each other for a few moments. They both knew it had to be this way. Not only for them to be free, but also for Armageddon, a sanctioned bully, to be taken down a notch.

“Ok. Ok. I assume you have a plan,” Dyna gave in.

Copyright 2011 David Corbet
Excerpt from Memoirs of a Super Criminal available on Kindle and Nook

Tuesday, March 27, 2012

On the Edge

I walk on the edge
of humanity
Masking my insanity
as normalcy.
Not giving in to
the whispering fears
Of voices in my head
            calling out "Don’t Fall."
I respond with a smile
and hold tighter to that edge.

I walk on the edge
of icy cliffs
Clinging with pickax
            as to life itself.
Not giving in to
the whispering fears
Of voices in my head
calling out "Don’t Fall."
I respond with a smile
and hold tighter to that edge.

I walk on the edge
of space
Sucking air in a helmet
            as the world spins below.
Not giving in to
the whispering fears
Of voices in my head
            calling out "Don’t Fall."
I respond with a smile
and hold tighter to that edge.

I walk on the edge
of words
Expressing without clarity
as I discover my rhythm.
Not giving in to
the whispering fears
Of voices in my head
calling out "Don’t Fall."
I respond with a smile
and release myself over the edge.

Poem is from "One Year in the Mountains"
Copyright David Corbet

Friday, March 23, 2012

Walking the Coast

The coast.
A beach, not the sandy vacation beach of suntans, bikinis and kids with sandcastles.
The beach with the cold water, rough rocks and seagulls that crap on everything and everyone, including the drift wood logs that some poor shmuck keeps trying to turn into bonfires. That beach, that coast.

A man walks, no, shuffles along. His feet prints are two long ruts dragged in the sand. Follow those ruts back and you will run out of time before you run out of rut.

On closer inspection it is evident that the man is old, aged, ancient and beyond. He moves one foot and then the other, and again and again and again. It is not a step as much as a plowing the fields, but no corn will grow here. He left the corn far behind and a long time ago. Maybe so long ago that is was not yet corn as we know it in the hundreds of varieties, but rather just the maize of the ancients. That is old, but not nearly as old as this poor individual who shuffles along. But don’t be deceived he is not the poor fool who tries to build bonfires out of water soaked logs. No, he is far wiser then that. He is the one who sees the future and the past and knows the prophecies, not those cheap bible house prophecies about Babylon and dragons and the end of it all with trumpets and hosannas, no the prophecies he knows are far more profound. They are the kind that the Farmers Almanac wishes they had. They are prophecies of knowing those things that no human mind should know. They are knowing the number of rain drops which fall in the Amazon every hour and the number of the grains of sands on the shores, which he is very thoroughly checking at this moment. The corn has been counted, the stars have been counted, the rain has been counted and now the sand will be counted. Good luck, ancient man. We await your verdict with apathy. 

Copyright Protected David Corbet 2012

Saturday, March 17, 2012

Red With Delight

The tomato festival was a big hit with the local towns people. Of course they had never seen a tomato before, they had not even seen anything red before and to eat it was a pure satanic delight. For this was the land of the righteous and anything and everything that could be in some way related to the devil was strictly outlawed and abandoned centuries ago, including all shades of the color red. In fact the color wheels in High School art class had only two primaries and one secondary color, the color brown was nearly impossible to duplicate in the class, and orange and purple were relegate to nature alone. (In fact this lead to many disputes in later centuries about the exact nature of brown and some went so far as to hypothesizes a third primary that made orange and purple the two additional secondary colors which were often seen in nature but not in art. This line of reasoning then lead to an ironic twist, because those theorist were often burnt at the stake and as the red and orange flames rose up their feet it all began to make sense, this was one of the few times where fire (and red) were seen as a tool of righteousness and not one of the devil.)

But then one day a traveling sales man, with a surplus of tomatoes to move before they rotted in the trucks and docks of the co-op for which he worked, entered the town. He was a forward thinking and very modern type of man. The girls swooned at the sight of his black bolo hat. Women wanted him and men wanted to be him. He was slicker then a duck in a rain storm and all that other jazz which made him real cool. He could talk a good game and with the Bible in one hand and a plump tomato in another he was able to convince the great, great, great, great decedents of those original pietists that the tomato, although red, was still a creation by God and ordained as good, was great to eat and excellent to have with pasta (which had been rather stale of taste over the last few centuries). It brought much need vitamins and topped out a bacon and lettuce sandwich very well. 

The town nearly rioted because of the color red, some agreed with the salesman and wanted the tomatoes to pour into the town. Other, more zealous of tradition and right thinking and all that, people refused and wanted to run the man out of town. The frosting on the cake was the fact that a tomato began as green and turned yellow and then red by the rays of the sun. Here was the symbolic making of a theological shift. The trinity of colors of blue and yellow making green combined with the sun, the son, the light, the warmth of the heavens poured out to create this jewel. But others saw a different symbol, a crafty snake offering a tempting but forbidden fruit. The symbolism, either way, was too much. All wanted to partake. For to err, to fall, is human. It is the nature of the creature, even centuries of right living could not breed out the fact that humanity craved the passion of life, that which was forbidden. Now the full circle was complete: peace, warmth and passion; blue, yellow and red; the trinity was completed and every range of emotion and every shade of color became available to this imagine-less town. Riot was subdued but passion to created, to flourish, to build, to spring forth, was unleashed and the tomato festival captured that very essence. 

Copyright 2012 David Corbet

Saturday, March 10, 2012

New Works, nearly complete.

                                                        Abstract Thirtythree
                                                 Oil and Acrylic on Canvas 14x14
                                                         Abstract Thirtysix
                                                   Acrylic on Canvas 24x36
                                                  Acrylic on Canvas 36x48

All Works Copyright 2012 David Corbet

Sunday, March 4, 2012

That is Art

There is art and then there is art, and standing between them is art.
By this I mean there is art that is created by the artist and there is art that is perceived by the audience. And between those two, the created and the perceived, is the piece of artwork. It can stand alone but always takes on meaning through creation and perception. And the meaning may not be the same for the artist and the audience. The work itself may or may not have an inherent meaning. You would have to ask the piece what it meant, and until a piece of art becomes sentient that question will remain a mystery. Certainly an artist may create with an intention and that intention may come across to the audience, they may “get it.” Artist’s aides such at titles, descriptions, biographies and philosophical methodological ponderings can all help the audience to “get it.” But certainly the audience also has the option to ignore all that and find their own meaning in the piece that has nothing to do with the intention of the artist. The meaning is then derived from their own experiences and psychological profile. But if the piece was wrapped up, stored away for a hundred years, all the descriptors lost from memory and then the piece was rediscovered it would still have meaning for those that found it. That is art. 

Tuesday, February 28, 2012

And Later

The quiet of the morning washed over the scene. A light blue sky above, a deep blue lake below and there stood a man on the lake shore.

He gathered a net into his strong arms and walked into the cool water. This was his favorite time of the day. Far out on the lake a few fishing boats dotted the surface. Like a whisper he could hear snippets of conversation. He could imagine the idle chatter or the rough commands drifting from boat to boat as they searched out the best spots.

He smiled inwardly, thinking of a different boat, a different day completely unlike this one. That stormy day he walked on water, however brief it was. His smile turned down as a tear slid slowly from his eye. Fear sank him that day.

With a practiced motion he flung the net into the shallow water. He enjoyed the pull on his back and shoulders. The net settled and slowly he gathered it in. The tension in his arms and chest made him feel alive. Another thought flooded his mind. Once again it was about Him. He shrugged it off, shaking his head to clear it of unwanted thoughts. He gathered the net for another throw.
Throw after throw, it soothed his mind and worked his body. But it did little for his troubled soul. He was anguished, perplexed, confused but most of all he was ashamed. The repetitive motion gave his body work and his mind space to think.
The sun was beginning to warm his back and hunger gnawed his stomach but he was not yet ready to turn and face the world. This place, this peace, the comfort of the net and cool of the water was what he needed most. It had been too long since life was simple and he knew deep down inside that those days were gone. They fled away when he first relinquished his net to follow Him.

I will make you fishers of men.

The methodical movement of tossing and drawing back was meditative. He had no intention of catching fish. He just needed to clear his mind. His thoughts wandered over the drama, the power, the humor of the last so many months. Had it been that long, it seemed so much longer.

A shadow of a man, and the quiet splashing of someone walking in the shallows behind him brought him back to reality. It could only be one person. He sighed and straightened his back pushing his shoulders back and allowing the net to droop in the water. He was not yet ready to face reality so he did not turn.

“Hey” He said.

“Hey” the man responded. His voice confirmed his identity. His brother.

They stood in silence watching the boats move about looking for their morning catch. Sunlight glistened on the water. It would be a hot one again.

“You’ve seen too much to turn away now.” The brother stated simply. “We all have.”

“I betrayed him.” He responded.

“We all did.” The brother answered sympathetically. It was not the right thing to say even if it was true. “He forgave you.”

Feed My sheep

The voice still echoed in his head as he cast the net again. He remembered the last time he had cast a net. The catch was more than he could haul in alone. “Do you remember the first day?”

“Of course I do.” The brother answered and stepped forward to help gather the net in. They cast it together in practiced rhythm. They had worked their whole lives together side by side. And they followed Him side by side, from the first day to the last.

Eventually they stopped, the moment gone. “I don’t know why. That will be what they all ask. Why?”
“Brother, thinking has never been your strong point. You are a man of action. You always have been. What did he say to you? ‘Feed my sheep?’ I think that is more than enough. He knows you. And more than that you have an intuition, a spirit of knowing. You were the first to see Him for who He truly is. Those two things are more than enough.” They sat in silence watching the boats and the sun playing on the water. “I will follow you. But we have seen too much to turn away.”

He fingered the net, thinking. Why. It was a question with no answer. Each one has to find their own answers to that question. But feed His sheep, that was something that could be done. And he knew it would be up to him to do it. He would not, could not betray him again. He would accomplish at least that much. Tell the story of His life and care for all those that he could.

“Catchers of men.” He whispered.

“What?” the brother asked.

 “Remember. Catchers of Men." He picked up the net and turned back towards the shore. The world was waiting. It was not going away no matter how many times he cast his net. “Come brother we have work to do. The net we cast is for Him and we catch the hearts and souls of men.”

They walked out of the water, uncertain in mind but firm in faith.  Fear would not sink him this time. When they ask why, the best answer he could give would be “because” and tell the story of His life and death.