Selling My Soul

The last thing I had expected was to put myself in yet another precarious position.  But I wasn't a young lad anymore, I was now close to Ropeman in size, and he was far too physically unfit to actually threaten me. Besides, in my mind, I was a thug, a real tough guy, so I hadn't counted on reverting back to being a ten year old in his presence, but that's exactly what happened. Insecurities flooded my mind as the memories mercilessly taunted me. It was almost impossible for me to look at the man's face; but the die had been cast.  And for some reason, I couldn't bring myself to call it off.  It seems incomprehensible now, but I still wanted that damn tattoo, eventually selling my soul to the devil to get it.

The events resulting from my actions that day are among my most difficult memories to deal with. For the large part because it was my own doing, I have no excuses, and I could not offer up an explanation if I tried. 

I instigated it, and that shame will follow me to the grave.

There are times when my heart is riddled with hatred and utter contempt, when I want to strike out and get my revenge. I crave that retribution, and pity myself for the lack thereof.  But there have also been many dark, very drunken nights when I detest the face staring back at me from the mirror, knowing, that at least in my view, the reflection is not completely innocent.

 

US Link

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UK Link

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The Second Visit (Sensitive Content)

I hadn’t made any arrangements for the following day, and as I took the short walk from my front door to Stuart and Karen’s house, the apprehension that swept over me was almost suffocating, as was the fear that violently churned in the pit of my stomach.

Sleep had, surprisingly, greeted me fairly quickly the night before; my mind had not yet fully digested what had happened. But as I neared the destination, inching my way forward, my head became awash with the frightening details of the encounters I'd had over the last couple of years.

The photo sessions with Ropeman, the sexual contact Stu had subjected me to; I began to wonder if it was all part and parcel of normal adult life. But mostly, I was scared of them.  Afraid that if I didn't show up, one of them would say something to my parents about what had taken place.  And truth be told, I was terrified.  Stu frightened me more than anyone I'd ever met.

Karen opened the door and gave me a warm smile. It wasn’t the sickly smile of Ropeman, nor was it the twisted grin I’d seen on Stu’s face the previous day, but I still felt an almost irrepressible urge to smack the smile clean off her face. She was evil; not nearly as intimidating as Stu, but evil just the same.

I walked past her and strutted into the lounge, my blond spikes erupting from my skull in all their glory. “Alright Stu.” he looked up from his paper, his bright blue eyes seemed to sparkle, and for the first time I noticed just how scarred his face actually was.

Karen came up behind me, I felt her hand on my shoulder, and “Don't I get a kiss then"?

I didn’t know where to look, much less what to say. I’m not sure if it was visible, but my whole body felt as though it was physically shaking. I tried to make a joke of it and simply kissed her on the cheek, quickly rubbing my lips with the back of my hand and pretending to be sick, mimicking the actions of a four or five year old child.

After sitting on the sofa, I asked Stuart if it was okay to turn on the CB, which was on a small table between where I was sitting and his armchair. “Leave it off for the minute,” he replied, “maybe we’ll put it on after a cuppa.”

Before I could do or say anything else he told me to stand in front of him, telling me I was wearing my studded belt all wrong. I did as was asked, and he began rubbing my crutch.

UK Link

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US Link

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A Step Into Hell

As soon as I entered the lounge of the now all too familiar flat, I knew something bad was about to happen. My body felt like it was wrapped in invisible chains, and I smelt fear. my own fear. It was as though the atmosphere pulsated with such intensity that it grabbed me, shaking my flimsy little body, flaying my limbs in all directions, like some pathetic rag doll.

God, I was so terribly scared.

Ropeman left me alone while he went to the kitchen to sort out our drinks. The sight of the beer made me shudder, and the muscles that didn't tighten, twitched instead. 

 A dark and gloomy, musty smell,

A place no warmer than a prison cell,

Strange thoughts enter into your head,

You now start wishing you were tucked up in bed.

A frightening chill shoots through the air,

All you do is stand and stare, 

It’s a place with an eerie feeling,

Your heart by now is really speeding.

Sepulchre,

Sepulchre,

What a place,

Your heart is beating a rapid pace.

That awful chill is slowly rising,

All you think of is surviving,

But as you try to run and leave,

You can’t help thinking your eyes deceive,

Lurking in that gloomy doorway,

Is something that’s come out of doomsday,

You try to move, but are stuck to the spot,

You try to scream but breathing…, you’re not.

Sepulchre,

Sepulchre,

What a place,

It’s now your home.

To my relief, after handing me a beer, Ropeman slid the video cassette into the player, and we settled down to watch the film I was far too young to see.  I tried to concentrate, but I was conscious of his every move; my muscles tightening at the slightest twitch. It was an exceptionally good summer, so when 

he asked if I was hot, I replied with a simple yes, pretending to be engrossed in the film. But I knew in fact, every cell in my naïve young body sensed danger.  And when he suggested I might be more comfortable if I removed my top, the fear enveloped me to the point of numbness, and before I knew it, there I was, stripped to the waist again.

It wasn’t long before the second stage of his sick plan was being put into action. “Shall we stretch out a bit? After all, there’s plenty of room,” he said.  I felt like a rat caught in a trap, knowing there was no way out; no one was going to be knocking at the door and saving me.

“Is it ok if I use the toilet?” I asked the question merely as an escape, something that would give me a bit more time, however limited it might be before the inevitable happened. Ropeman stopped the tape and directed me to the bathroom.

On returning to the lounge, I noticed that he’d removed his top.  He was sprawled across the whole of the sofa, smiling, beckoning me to join him.          

What choice did I have?

With a great deal of apprehension, which I’m convinced he was aware of, I did as I was asked.  After awkwardly positioning myself into place, he began cuddling me from behind, pulling me closer before stroking my chest. Within seconds I felt his arousal in the small of my back.  Without success I tried to ignore the feel of his sweaty fingers by losing myself in the movie.

Try as I might . . . and I did try, going so far as   

to close my eyes and picturing myself saying the words, but somehow I couldn't summon the courage to tell him to stop. 

My silence was deafening, and the sound of his erratic breathing all but consumed me, before I fell away.

 

You touched me,

Held me,

And stroked my chest,

Told me that you,

My teacher knew best.

I felt your hardness,

In the small of my back,

I had a chill in my spine,

When you said I’d be fine.

UK Link
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Why Didn't I Run?

After that incident, I should have run, hit the pavement and screamed from the rooftops.  I should have told anyone willing to listen what they had done to me.  Most especially my parents, I should have gone to them, but I couldn't help thinking that if no one believed me, it would only make things worse. I’d inevitably have to disclose the past events with Ropeman, and coupled with the way I’d been behaving over the last few years, I was sure I’d be looked upon as a fantasist; just another lie from the strange mind of Simon Palmer.

            What's worse, I was utterly convinced if I continued to keep my silence, and  refrained from going back to Stu and Karen’s, they would almost certainly come looking, and that thought terrified me most of all.

            Apart from keeping all this to myself, I was confronted with another dilemma. What was I supposed to tell my friends? They were used to my being around and to suddenly disappear without a trace, how was I supposed to deal with that?     

            Confusion was rapidly seeping into my world; and combined with the fear which was paramount within me; my behaviour at home fell to an all time low, school remaining a complete non event. The truancy became so much of an issue that the authorities assigned me a social worker, who in turn, suggested my parents agree to me seeing a child psychologist.

             Numerous opportunities to tell the official bodies presented themselves, but I steadfastly remained silent.  The lies continued, and so did the abuse.

Peter Simpson, along with Mark Milner, two of the greatest friends anyone could have asked for, began to see less and less of me. On the rare occasion when I did see them, it felt like something had changed, like our friendship was over; we no longer had anything in common, or so it seemed.

A State of Euphoria

My school suspension was lifted exactly one week later and things carried on much the same as usual. I continued to be the mixed up problem child who no one had any time for (except for the love that my family continued to offer), swearing and cursing my way through life. When my form tutor told me the lunchtime music practice had been revoked, I saw a green light for truancy.

Accompanied by the drummer of my band, Sean Watson, most of our days were spent reeking havoc on the infamous Ferrier estate in Kidbrooke. When we tired of throwing stones at people’s windows, we’d steal large quantities of milk off the milkman and hide ourselves high up on the balconies, pouring it on unsuspecting passers-by as they walked through the many rabbit warren type pathways. We would often collapse in uncontrollable fits of hysteria as our victims tried in vain to apprehend us.

 One particular afternoon saw us both have a crack at shoplifting, our target being a local hardware store, hoping if nothing else, we’d get chased by the manager.

Sean created a distraction by talking to the man about a Saturday job, while I committed the actual theft.

I grabbed the first thing that my trembling hand rested on and slipped the object into my blazer before silently walking out of the shop to the freedom that eagerly awaited me. I was about to cross the road when the sound of heavy footfalls boomed behind me. Spinning on my heels, I expected to come face to face with an irate shop manager, but to my relief it was Sean, “What is it? What did ya nick?”
“Fuck knows.” I put my hand into my pocket and pulled the mystery object out; it was a large tube of Evostick.

A short time later, we were crawling through the tiniest of gaps behind a low-level car park, and very oblivious to the world that surrounded us; we introduced ourselves to the fine art of glue sniffing.

I cannot speak for Sean, but for me it was the most awesome thing I’d ever done. It completely transformed the way I thought; there was no pain or fear, and I felt no sadness whatsoever. The make-believe world I had so often dreamt about began to flourish, enfolding me within all its glory.

Crisp blue skies,
A sun so bright,
Sweet smelling flowers,
Birds taking flight.
An ocean of colour,
The horizon so bright,
A feeling of hope,
And nothing to fear.
Beautiful hills,
And fields full of corn
Chairs in the garden,
Swings on the lawn.

The howling of wolves,
Death and decay,
A dread in the heart,
At the start of the day.
Scared of the shadows,
And what they contain,
Contorted illusions,
Of a brain that’s insane.

I began to sniff glue on a regular basis; enthralled by the way it made me feel. Every opportunity I got was spent with a carrier bag at my mouth, escaping the hell that had become my world.

During the periods when I wasn’t high, and the way the come down left me feeling, a new kind of anger started to emerge, giving me a compulsion to inflict harm on myself, as well as becoming more physically violent towards others.

I soon started picking on the local kids, demanding that they give me their pocket money, threatening to beat them up if they told their parents, (and sometimes beating them up anyway). Every time a cat or dog came near me, I would lash out as hard as my strength would allow.

At times they appeared to have his grotesque smile, and this could send me over the edge.  Sometimes I’d sit for hours within the confines of my room, stabbing my arm with a sewing needle. I’d stab harder and harder, enjoying the burning pain. It took my mind off the memories, images that now tormented my brain on a daily basis, except for the occasions when the glue took me away.

UK & US amazon links

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Dreaming (Wishing)

 How great it would be to fly. To soar up into the sky, higher and higher, not stopping until I reached a new world. A place where no one cried and where smiling was compulsory. Fields so full of bright and vibrant colours, it would be impossible to walk around without feeling joy in your heart. A land where even the slightest of pain is nonexistent and vast rivers flow with crystal clear waters. Where a gentle breeze would weave its way through the branches of trees, making them sing so loud it was almost deafening, but pleasing at the same time.

 Such a place might be called Heaven.

Of a love so great it was almost visible. A feeling of such intensity I felt a compulsion to reach out and grab hold of it, to savour it and keep it as mine forever. Perhaps it would be possible for every soul inhabiting this special place to be linked together for all eternity, joined by  this wondrous power, smiling and laughing, and just being happy. 

Suddenly, reality returned me to the park bench I was sitting on, just outside the school gates. A tear trickled down my cheek, would I ever be free of Ropeman? Was it my destiny to be stalked and tormented by him forever? My mind could not comprehend what he was doing at my new school, and I felt overwhelmed with paranoia, convinced he was only there because he knew I was. It felt as though he was telling me that things were not yet finished, and I felt so alone.

Battle Scars

 This is by no means an attempt to explain the dynamics of self-harming.  I don't understand it myself, but I'll share how I experienced it.

There have been many times in my life when the sensation of angry ants crawling just below the surface of my skin threatened to drive me mad. It felt as though they were gnawing at my skin, ready to devour my flesh. The feeling that I was being eaten from the inside out is the best way I can describe it.  There seemed to be no relief . . . just an endless assault by invisible enemies declaring war from within my own body. 

As these horrible feelings intensified, the stronger the urge to hurt myself became. It was as if the wounds I inflicted on my body were actually enabling the creatures dwelling beneath my skin to escape, leaving me temporarily relieved.

I have taken razorblades, broken beer bottles, and even lighters to my arms, desperately trying to rid myself of the sensation.  In hindsight, I believe these were feelings, emotions which I chose to suppress, memories that can only be pushed so far back into one’s mind, before they push back, with a vengeance. 

  My self-harming has never been an attempt at suicide, and it wasn't attention seeking.  It was just a means of relieving the constant emotional torment.

These actions were at their height during my time at Kingfisher, but there was an occasion when I literally hacked at myself with a razorblade whilst aimlessly wandering through a busy shopping centre in South London. The result was over 200 hundred stitches, ironically these actions only served to fuel my self-hatred, which in turn, made me want to do something similar in order to ease the new pain.

It was a vicious cycle, which at the time seemed impossible to break.

Whenever the blood flowed from inside me, I felt a great sense of relief, and there were many times when watching it actually made me feel content, like I had accomplished something.

There was never any great battle within me to stop doing it, in fact, I often looked forward to the feeling of “self gratification” in hurting myself; it was the only thing that appeared to ease my pain.

As I grew older, the need to do these things was alleviated, until finally, thankfully, it became nothing more than another bad instalment of my complex past.

I’ve often heard people expressing anger at those who “self harm”. I personally think these views aren’t altogether justified. Very few things are black and white, and when it comes to admonishing someone for these actions, in my experience, it only serves to escalate the problem.  It's very much like scratching an unbearable itch.

In the present, I try to hide my many scars by wearing long sleeves whenever possible, and I have numerous tattoos to cover the more drastic damage. Having said that, on the many occasions that I’ve been asked how they came to be, I have always been honest, and I feel no shame in telling others that the scars were self-inflicted.

Teenage Zombie

With bleached blond hair, and an abundance of safety-pins, I honestly thought I looked mean and scary and tough.
I swaggered around the estate drinking beer and smoking both cigarettes as well as dope, and I felt like someone important, someone to be feared . . .
. . . but I was nothing more than a kid with the wieght of the world on his shoulders.

I wanted to be different, to stand out from the crowd, but most of all, I wanted to mask how I felt inside.

During my teens mum wasn't always in the best of health, (I often wonder if my behaviour played a part in that), and she was often in hospital.

During these times, dad would run the home; cooking us all dinner, shopping, and doing the other mundane tasks that helped to keep a home in order.

he asked me if I intended on visiting mum on an occassion when she had to have major surgery, "No" was my rude but simple reply.

I had to go to Stuart and karen's, and I didn't want to make Stuart angry by not turning up.

Stuart was a middle-aged man who, along with his wife, forced me to have sex with them - night after night.

I couldn't tell my dad this, and so I pretended to be an uncaring yob - when truthfully - all I wanted to do was visit my mum.

At fourteen, I should have been laughing and joking and having fun - but instead I was merely wandering around like a teenage zombie - lying to the world about how I really felt.

The abuse I was being subjected to by Stuart and Karen, (along with the teacher at school), were not just abusing me, but my entire family.

Eerytime I was toched by these people, they were not just interfereing with me, but my mum and dad too.


Child Abuse Destroys Entire Families - Do't Let It Ruin Yours!

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Losing-the-Hate-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1341329503&sr=8-1

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Misplaced Anger

I remember an argument I was having with my father. I think I was about 14 yrs old, and following an accident at work, he was confined to the house with a plaster-cast on his leg.
I don't remember what we were arguing about, just my reaction, which as always back then, was way over the top.

I'd been swearing at both him and my mother for some reason, and this resulted in him chasing me through the house on crutches.

I goaded him with threats and general verbal abuse.
the situation got so that he was hobbling up the stairs, and I was standing at the top, and with no warning, I spat directly into his face. He closed his eyes and stood there, balancing on his crutches. after a few minutes, he somehow turned round and went struggling back down the stairs.

I'd won . . . or so i thought at the time, but I was very wrong.

The school teacher who groomed and led me into the sordid world of child ponography - the middle-aged couple who inflicted their own perverse abuse on me - they were the ones who were winning - winning by my slience alone.

I was angry with everyone and everything around me - I didn't know what to do, or who to turn to - and I was hurting. And because I was hurting, my family was hurting as well.

Child abuse doesn't just tear the victim's soul apart - it destroys whole families. It bores itself into the very heart, and rips it from the ribcage with a vengence.

I kept the secret for almost thirty years. I used drugs, alcohol, and violence to try and mask how I was feeling inside, when all I should have done, was tell my parents.

Child Abuse Destroys Entire Lives - Don't Let It Ruin Yours!


http://www.amazon.co.uk/Losing-the-Hate-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=pd_rhf_gw_p_t_1

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Some Reviews of Losing the Hate

Here's some great reviews for Losing the Hate folks

8 of 8 people found the following review helpful

5.0 out of 5 stars Harrowing but compulsively readable.

By

Brian Springer "Springer13" (Temecula, CA) - See all my reviews

This review is from: Losing the Hate (Kindle Edition)

In Losing The Hate, Simon Palmer has done something remarkable. He's taken a harrowing, disturbing subject (the story of his abuse as a young child) and made it compulsively readable. He does this with a clear, engaging writing style that takes you back in time, sticks you straight in the middle of the story and allows you a glimpse of what was going on inside his head.

By presenting the material in a straight-forward, lucid manner, he maximizes the impact without getting too graphic. The personal insights scattered throughout the book are of particular notice; by helping explain what he was thinking when these atrocities were occurring, it allows you to see things from his point of view, helping you understand what allowed this terrible situation to proceed in the manner in which it did and garnering quite a bit of empathy for others who may find themselves in the same situation. Hopefully, after reading this book, you will have a clear understanding of how these terrible things can happen, and more importantly, a clear understanding of how to keep them from happening in the future.

The bottom line: Simon Palmer has written an important, meaningful book. He is clearly writing directly from the heart and what he has to say will break yours. The guts it took to put this all down on paper is remarkable and his self-analysis pulls no punches. Throughout the course of the book, he shows a clear awareness of his issues and what needs to be done to counteract them; here's hoping that telling his story to the world will help him sort through them.

2 of 2 people found the following review helpful

4.0 out of 5 stars It must have taken a lot of soul searching to write this...., 25 Feb 2012

By 

Cheryl M-M (United Kingdom) - See all my reviews
(TOP 500 REVIEWER)   

Amazon Verified Purchase(What is this?)

This review is from: Losing the Hate (Kindle Edition)

Not easy to read from an emotional point of view. The pedophile Mr Ropeman would have picked Simon because he knew he would be less likely to say anything due to Simons personal background. Pedophiles are very clever at what they do they groom and instill a sense of blame and guilt in their victims, which lasts for years to come. Although the writer thinks he has come to terms with his past, to me it seemed as if he still has a way to travel yet. Sometimes closure can only be found when you confront the nightmare, saying that I hope Simon is getting some help for his inner demons. I think the most poignant sentence he wrote was when he himself questioned whether his actions were due to the abuse he endured or whether he was just a bully. This is where I also seperate the issue of sexual abuse of Simon and Simons physical/verbal abuse of his loved ones. Anger and not being able to control it is one thing, whether that anger is caused by someone/something else is irrelevant. Having it inside you like a festering wound is a state, which many of us can reconcile with. Lashing out in anger and not controlling it, that is something many people will not accept readily. So I think Simon needs to recognise those two parts of his identity as seperate and learn to deal with/reflct on them seperately. That also means accepting that he is also an abuser de facto and will one day have to help the person/persons he abused physically come to terms with that.
I commend him for having the strength to write it all down and see it on paper/e-ink whilst having to visualise it once more in his head.

1 of 1 people found the following review helpful

4.0 out of 5 stars someone needs to tell, 26 Sep 2012

By 

bluebird - See all my reviews

This review is from: Losing the Hate (Paperback)

this book was hard to read but so very enlightening i feel these stories need to be read as so many people think its just girls who are at risk but sye showed every reader that as hard it was for him to write and how hard it must have been to revisit hopefully he can start to deal with life and enjoy his sure to be wonderful future as an author good luck to himLosing the Hate

Busy Writing

Hello,

It's been a while since my last posting, but here I am again.

I've been busy writing my horror \ paranormal debut book, The Silence, which I'm sure you'll all enjoy.

It should be out by the end of the year, but hopefully a little sooner.

In the meantime, if you haven't already, why not take a look at my personal memoir, Losing the Hate, which is available on amazon.com \ amazon.co.uk, in both e-book, and paperback form.

    

Why I Wrote Losing the Hate

Losing the Hate, took me nearly seven years to write. And those years bought with them many of the terrifying memories form my childhood. The whole project flung my entire persona into a whirlwind of emotions; some good, and some not so pleasing.

I continued in the struggle and finished the manuscript; I wanted to offer hope to other voiceless victims existing rather than living in our societies the world over. The way I saw it, if my book gave one person, young or old, the strength to speak out about what they had endured, then my book was a wothwhile cause.

UK link
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US link
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The Devil and Edward Teach by Ken Preston

The Devil and Edward Teach

by

Ken Preston

London, 1714, and tragedy has struck for Abigail Rose. With her sister, and the mysterious young adventurer, Cornelius Wilde, she is sent to Nassau by her uncle. En route she is plunged into a dark, terrible adventure, where the price for her heart’s desire may be her soul itself.
Exciting, colourful and full of larger than life characters, The Devil and Edward Teach takes you on a seafaring voyage to the doors of Hell, as the notorious pirate Blackbeard meets his ultimate adversary.
5 Star review
The Devil and Edward Teach is pure escapism, and a great read. Ken Preston has managed to weave the atmosphere and details of the period into an almost tangible reality. From the filth and squalor of early 18th century London, to a vividly described battle at sea, the author captures it in a way that puts the reader in the midst of the action.
Of course, there are fair damsels, a gentleman adventurer, cutthroats, rogues, and the fearsome Blackbeard himself, but Mr. Preston has made them more than mere stereotypes, they're real and you believe in them. His portrayal of Edward Teach, in particular, is impressive and humanizes the legend.
At it's heart, this book is an adventure, a ripping yarn of the old school. It starts with a public hanging, moves on to a raging sea battle, and builds to a climax that the writers of the Pirates of The Caribbean movies would do well to take note of.
If you want to escape from the modern world and go on an adventure, buy this book.
Below are the links to Amazon UK and US
http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Devil-Edward-Teach-ebook/dp/B007EAEV4A/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1337510271&sr=8-1

http://www.amazon.com/The-Devil-Edward-Teach-ebook/dp/B007EAEV4A/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1337510349&sr=8-1

BINGO Now Available In Paperback in the UK @ amazon

BINGO is now readily available in paperback in the UK for just £5 (introductory offer price).

”Bingo” is a dark tale about life on a 1970′s inner city council estate in South East London. Join Jason, (Jabba), as he returns to his childhood in a bid to find out the truth behind his best friend’s life.

Some of Bingo's Reviews

5.0 out of 5 stars A Story That Will Stay With You, 2 Dec 2011

By

Pam Howes "pam" (uk) - See all my reviews

This review is from: BINGO (Kindle Edition)

I finished reading Bingo last night. It's left a deep impression on me. Joint authors, Claudia and Simon, have a way of drawing you into the story from the beginning.They take you on a roller-coaster ride of emotions with a cast of characters that you will love or hate. You cannot help but love little Danny and his mate Jabba. You'll have sympathy for Bingo, the beloved pet of Danny. Danny's mum Bell does her best, but is fighting a losing battle with husband Joe, who is not Danny's father.But Bell has long term plans up her sleeve to get back at Joe who destroys everything around him. I'm not doing spoilers. I feel you should buy and read this compelling tale. You really won't regret it. :-)

5.0 out of 5 stars A Read That Pulls You In, 30 Nov 2011

By

Ey Wade "Imtheauthor" (Texas) - See all my reviews

This review is from: BINGO (Kindle Edition)

OMG! This story is awesome, digs into your subconscious, and makes you question the true motives of humanity. When I became aware Sye (along with Claudia) had written another book I had to get it and couldn't wait to read it. I thought his first novel 'Losing the Hate' was outstanding, but Bingo....'intense' is all I can say.

As soon as I downloaded the novel I was pulled into the story within the first page and refused to come out until I had finished. Sye and Claudia drag you through a myriad of emotions with their descriptive prose and the need to protect Danny from the adults around him is the strongest. But for the misguided belief of the mother, the child's life could have been so different. I recommend Bingo. It will be on my mind for a long time.


http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/tags-on-product/1475193823/ref=tag_dpp_cust_edpp_sa

Losing the Hate is now on facebook

Hi all,

Just a quick on to say that Losing the Hate is now on Facebook. Please take the time to "like" the page and help spread the word.

Many Thanks

Sye

"TRINITY" by Patrick Fox

Trinity

by

Patrick Fox

(Now Also Available in Paperback)

When Ben Rider finds his childhood imaginary friend, Trinity, in his kitchen, he knows something isn't right. Trinity hasn't changed a bit. He still has three personas: cowboy, pirate, and private eye. He still smells of chocolate, and he still has a habit of massaging his earlobe.


Ben is trying to keep his video game development business alive and finalise a deal with an American games publisher, while keeping his disintegrating marriage together. Now, with the reappearance of his imaginary friend, he has his sanity to worry about too.


Trinity claims he has come back to help Ben sort out his life and guide him to his destiny. But over the days that follow, Ben's life goes haywire, and it looks like he might meet his destiny sooner than he thinks. Thanks to Trinity, Ben will have a restaurant collapse on top of him, be seduced and later shot at by a Welsh femme fatale, meet someone else's imaginary friend, and lose both a wife and an ex-wife. But will he find his destiny, or is Trinity's real reason for returning, something else entirely?
Amazon link (UK)
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Trinity-ebook/dp/B007FGWIE8/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1337261275&sr=8-1

Amazon link (USA)
http://www.amazon.com/Trinity-ebook/dp/B007FGWIE8/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1337261372&sr=8-1



About Patrick

I was born and brought up in Coventry in England. I now live in south Wales with my wife. Our children have both grown up and flown the nest, but they still continue to make us proud.
I worked in the computer games industry for over twenty years as an artist and games designer. My debut novel draws on my experience of the industry. I now work as a graphic artist/illustrator, working mainly on book cover, e-book cover design and illustrating children's books.
In my spare time, I'm a keen amateur detective, and can often be found searching for clues in the local bars and pubs.


http://oneloosecannon.wordpress.com/

Two great reviews for Losing the Hate

4.0 out of 5 stars Thought provoking., May 11, 2012

By

J. Wilkin - See all my reviews

This review is from: Losing the Hate (Kindle Edition)

This is not the easiest book to review, but I will try to put into the best possible words why I think this book is a triumph.
Simon Palmers brave biography of sexual abuse, and the subsequent affect on his life is eloquently portrayed with a combination of engaging narrative and poetry. Behind the uncomfortable words, I see a perfectly balanced, sensitive person who is not only a talented writer, but someone who has cleverly looked at all the angles of his past and distilled it into a piece of writing that not only touches the heart, but challenges aspects of life that we would all sometimes, just rather ignore.
It is raw and honest; and for that alone this book deserves to be `out there.'

5.0 out of 5 stars A soul-wrenching and very important read., May 10, 2012

By

John Hudspith - See all my reviews
(REAL NAME)

This review is from: Losing the Hate (Kindle Edition)

Soul-wrenching, and despite the unsettling content that brought my skin shuddering with every page, this work is interjected with some equally unsettling poems as beautiful as they are terrifying. Huge respect to Simon Palmer for putting pen to paper and creating an important book for those suffering the destructive force of child abuse.

Books by Keith Nichols

Keith's Bio

 Keith Nichols is a mad scientist living in the pacific northwest. He dabbles in just about everything from writing his books, to building rat rods, to astro-photography. Recently married he is working on his 8th novel and his 5th non fiction book.


Book Descriptions:
The Virginia X: in this adventure tale, two young men set off on a short expedition to get some pictures of a derelict ship and end up being entangled in a web of mafia trouble and intrigue.


How to Solve our Dependency on Oil: in this short essay Keith Nichols gives his thought on how to end our addiction to fossil fuels.


The Ghost Of Jack Woodford: This is the tale of my search for a forgotten American author from the first half of the past century. Jack Woodford wrote over 150 books, and is completely forgotten nowadays. I wanted to know why, and wanted to to know who he was and why he did what he did. These are the answers I found.


Nuramans Endgame: In this dark tale of lost loves and forgotten destinies, Keith Nichols explores the shadier side of life.


One Important Crucial Missing Detail: Keith Nichols says this is the strangest book he has ever written, being part humorous essay and part biography. A very personal tale, it follows his search for a missing key element in his life, which is eventually found but not in any way he had expected.


Keith's amazon author page, where you can find all the above books

http://www.amazon.com/Keith-Nichols/e/B0074H8NFQ/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0

Beads On A String by Ey Wade

Beads on a String-America’s Racially Intertwined Biographical History

Creative non-fiction

Amazon UK: http://amzn.to/wade-inuk

Amazon US: http://amzn.to/BeadsUS.

 ITunes: http://bit.ly/EyinApple

 Smashwords: -http://bit.ly/OurBeads

Barnes and Nobles:  http://bit.ly/BeadsBN

About The Book:
History was written in more than Black & White and Beads on a String-America’s Racially Intertwined Biographical History lauds loudly the accomplishments of all races that helped make America the great country it has become. America’s glorious multi-racial history is finally acknowledged and bound into one book.

EXCERPT:

The Purpose of This Book

As a homeschooling parent it came across the mind of my youngest daughter to ask about a history book which talks about all the races within its bounded pages. She is a born optimist and hates the way we as adults seem to enjoy racial profiling. I as the mother and her instructor in life wanted to give her what she wanted, but I could find none. So, as a home-school project we decided to write our own, Beads on a String-America’s Racially Intertwined Biographical History.

America has had great contributors within every century working hard together and yet each race would like to pull out their certain pages and categorize them into their own history book. And we truly believe if someone has a problem with our choice they would have to deal with it or well, get over it. Our main focus is to try and eliminate the division of a great nation by a single line, the hyphenation.

America as a nation has many problems and yet what other country in the world can attest to the fact that people or dying to be here? There is a dream in their heart to be a part of this great nation and to live in the land of good and plenty as a member of one body. So why do we keep the line of separation as a constant reminder? The hyphenation: at tiny line which separates all races and the word American.

 Beads on a String- America’s Racially Intertwined Biographical History chooses not to be about a certain color, but about a certain nation, America.

It is time for America to let go of the past and heal itself.  The grieving period should have been over and the healing started. But every year, old wounds are torn open by the words Black History Month. Why don't we teach the children about America's History with everyone included? To me it seems as if only a few Black people are pulled out of the closet, dusted off the shelves and paraded in front of America as if to say, 'this one wasn't worthless', this one wasn't stupid'. Why is the ‘black’ in capital letters?  Is it to point out a person of color has a brain or is it to pronounce to the world we have pride? If there is so much pride in America for Native, African, Chinese, Japanese, Indian, Iranian-Americans and other 'hyphened Americans, drop the hyphen and pull together and teach our children that every bead has a purpose and should be celebrated.

Bingo (A Sample)

A Sample From, "BINGO"

by

Claudia B. Modie

&

Simon Palmer

REMEMBERING THE PAST

2007

(1)

The houses were either boarded up or burnt out; the ones still occupied looked as if they should be condemned. Shopping trolleys littered the streets, almost like soldiers, guarding the smashed up cars joy riders had set fire to. Uncared for dogs roamed the streets, scavenging the over spilling dustbins in search of something to eat.

A gang of youths, the oldest looking no more than eleven, threw stones at an unfortunate cat, as it dared to prowl past them.

            “I can’t believe the state of this hellhole, I mean, it wasn’t exactly posh or anything when I lived here, but this, this is just awful. How can people live like this?” he pulled the two-seater sports car over and killed the engine.

“Here it is then,” he exclaimed, pointing towards a dilapidated house, “Number 47, the place I lived for the first 17 years of my life.”

The woman in the passenger seat, the man’s wife, looked towards the hovel of a home. Bed sheets hung crookedly at the downstairs windows, while the glazing upstairs was all but gone. Illegible graffiti added local clarity to the property, which was obviously being used as a crack den. The rotting corpse of a roast chicken sat in pride of place on the overgrown pathway.

“My god . . .  its making me feel unclean just looking at it!”

“Yeah, just think, if it wasn’t for that morning at school all those years ago, I could’ve  . . .  probably would’ve ended up in a dump like that. Sticking needles in me arm and drinking bleach I expect.” 

The two of them continued to stare in utter disbelief at their surroundings, the awkward silence disturbed by the sudden shrill of the woman’s mobile phone, “Janice Pickering, can I help?”

The man looked on, as his wife listened intently to what the caller was saying, until a haggard looking woman caught his eye.

            She seemed to stroll along the litter-strewn path oblivious to her surroundings, in a world of her own.

Although she was weighed down with shopping bags, it appeared her struggle had more to do with her legs than with what she was carrying.  On hearing the car door slam, she looked up to see a hefty middle-aged man coming towards her.

 “Get away from me you lump of fuckin’ shit!” she screeched, fear filling the lines of her weather beaten face.

“It’s ok . . . I’m not gonna hurt you . . . Bell, it is Bell isn’t it?”

The woman looked totally bemused, “What? Who are you?”

“Honestly, I’m not gonna hurt you . . . my names Jason, Jason Pickering,” he said, cautiously moving closer.

The old woman remained bemused, until, quite suddenly, the penny dropped, “Jabba?”

Jason grinned, “Yup, it’s me, Jabba.” His eyes welled with tears as he held out his arms. Bell moved quickly, her bags falling to the ground, the contents spilling out onto the already littered pavement.

She threw her bony arms around his neck and hugged him as if life depended on it, “Oh my Jabba, you came back . . . you always said you would.”

Once she released her grip and looked up into his face, her hand made a tremendous slapping sound as it connected with his cheek, “That’s for leaving it so long you little bastard!”

You can download the full story via amazon priced at £0.99 & $0.99

UK link

http://www.amazon.co.uk/BINGO-ebook/dp/B006FBKN8W/ref=pd_rhf_gw_p_t_2

US link

  http://www.amazon.com/BINGO-ebook/dp/B006FBKN8W/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1336489575&sr=1-1

It Was Always Ants

Self Harming and Me

*Self harming is NOT the answer, whether in the short term, or for any longer periods. I'm of the opinion that talking about things is by far the best option. It is NOT my intention to advise people to harm themselves. I'm simply speaking of why I did it, and how it made me feel.*

I began to harm myself on a daily basis, while staying in a local authority home. (Although I had experimented with it before this).

The only way i can describe the feelings inside of me at that time, is to say it was like having thousands of starving ants crawling beneath my skin. It felt like i was being eaten alive, and the only way to ease this horrible sensation was to cut myself. I used all manner of implements, anything really, from razor blades to broken beer bottles. When my blood flowed, the feeling was one of utter relief. All of the hurt and anger was released from my body by the pain of the cutting, and it actually made me feel happy.

I remember hacking rather than cutting myself on one particular occassion in the middle of a shopping centre. I had been having an absolute nightmare of a day, and hated myself for just existing. I remember looking at my reflection in the shop windows, and really loathing the person which was looking back at me.

I made four of five wounds with a great deal of force, and although it wasn't my intention, I cut through the muscles of my forearm. The pain was astronomical, and I'd never seen such a huge amount of blood; my blood. But it felt good. it felt good to have so much physical pain, and the ants beneath my skin vanished, albeit only for a short while.

The end result was being taken to theatre at the local hospital, and recieving just over 200 stitches, including internally.

I'm pleased to say that I don't use this method any longer, but I have to be honest; it is, and always will be just below the surface. It used to play such a major part of my world, that i don't think it will ever leave me, but these days they are just thoughts rather than actions.

I have come into contact with many people in my life; people who are ready to label self harmers as crazies, foolish people who cut themselves for attention. Well I'm here to tell them in no uncertain terms that they're very very wrong.

When I look at my many scars, I see them as my survival marks. For I know, without any shadow of a doubt, that had I not ever done those things, i would more than likely be dead now.

However . . .

If you are experiencing feelings of self harming, please, don't. Speak to someone, anyone, they are only a free phone call away.

Stranger in the Mirror

Hi all,

Today's subject is how the abuse changed me as a child, and how it made me feel. Once again, it has not been taken from, Losing the Hate.

Stranger in the Mirror

My earliest memories are of Mum and Dad. I have no recollection of my real mother, or the problems I faced as a baby.

Due to my natural mother's drug abuse, i was born with one leg shorter than the other, and the doctor's told my foster parents' that it would be very unlikely if I'd ever walk properly.

There are quite vague visions in my head of having to wear a special boot to bed, but it's all very cloudy.

At the age of four the authority decided that it wasn't in my best interest to be reunited with my mother, and so I was put up for adoption. I was unaware that my foster parents' were soon to become my real parents.

The adoption was complete in 1972, and the following six years were some of the best in my life.

We had two weeks holiday every year, and Christmas' were just the greatest. Every member of the family treated me as if I'd always been around, and the love which I recieved was unconditional.

After the abuse began, I went from being a happy-go-lucky child to an angry brat. There was no inbetween; it was like the tranformation occurred instantly. I swore at everyone, smashed things, and even began stealing from my mother's rent tin.

It was as if there was a demon living inside of me, and with each new day, it seemed to grow. My body started to feel like it was going to explode, and each time I looked at myself in the mirror; there was a stranger staring back at me, and I hated him.

My skin crawled, my head pounded, and I detested every aspect of the world around me. As much as I hated myself, I felt a compulsion to lash out at my parents, and the hatred that i had for myself, soon spread towards them too. And yet their only crime was to love me.

All of the negative emotions i was experiencing merged into one, and the more thay bubbled away, the more angry I became. The memories of the holidays we used to share as a family were locked away behind lost doors which my mind had placed out of my reach. The days out in the lorry with my dad during school holidays were over; days that I used to enjoy so much.

These feelings followed me everywhere, and their wieght on my shoulders was a burden I carried alone.

The predators that abused me had not only destroyed me, but my family too, and those years were never recaptured again.

I'm pleased to say that, as I grew older, I did repair the pain and hurt I had caused my parents, but it wouldn't be until many years later that they would find out about the abuse.

Nowdays, I'm really quite vain, and the stranger in the mirror no longer stare back at me.

Cheers Guys an' Gals

Sye