Left At The Altar - A Short Story

Left At The Altar

A short story by Damien L. Malcolm.

For a PDF copy of this, click here. 
Also a part of my recently released ebook, The Tiny 1st Volume: A Short Collection of Short Stories
Available for FREE on Kobo, Smashwords, iBooks, Google Play and other ebook retailers

I never thought this could happen to me. Never.

I mean, in all my twenty-six years I've always considered myself a practical sort of girl. Pessimistic, even. Mainly because bad things had a habit of coming my way. But the idea of having a man actually leave me on our wedding day was not something that had ever crossed my mind before that day.

And through a text message!

To his BROTHER!

The bloody nerve!

And there I was six hours later sitting at the bridal table in my dress—my beautiful white lace goddam fifteen-hundred-dollar dress!—with a vacant chair next to me where my groom should have been sitting, and more empty wine glasses than I would care to count.

“What?” I hear you ask. “What were you thinking, Susan? You still went on with the reception???”

Yes, of course I did! Couldn't exactly turn away a hundred and forty embarrassed guests and a pre-paid twelve-hundred-dollar hall booking just because my idiot-brain, spineless fiancé couldn't face the music. I mean half of them had travelled from bloody Perth to come to “Peter and Susan's wedding”! The question you should be asking is, why the hell did I stay?

Answer to that is simple. His brother. Yes, yes, the very same brother who had gotten that gutless text from moron-head. He had to come to the back room, five minutes before I was to walk down the isle, to tell me that his good-for-nothing brother had chickened out. Richard Dalton had sat with me while I cried for ten straight minutes, then helped me go out and tell all my friends and family that the wedding was off.

Then he sat with me for another hour while I cried some more. You'd think my mother might have been there for me, but not surprisingly she was too busy wallowing in her own disappointment. She'd never been good at tears. After bawling, when I was about to run home to hide in a corner to drink away my sorrows, he had convinced me to stay. And for some God-unknown reason, I'd let him talk me into it.

But thankfully, he hadn't left me alone to face the hundred-plus guests all walking morosely past me at the table like I was some cadaver lying in an open casket. Instead, he had sat with me all night, fending off their pitiful looks and sad questions. All this, and I'd only met him for the first time that morning, when he had flown in from England for his brother's wedding.

I could see him now, weaving his way back through the half-dancing crowd with a fresh glass in each hand; orange juice for him, white wine for me. Looking at him, even the way he casually and respectfully negotiated the moving people, I saw just how different Richard was from his brother. He actually had manners.

Peter, while I thought I had loved him for the last three years, was the sort of man you couldn't put a finger on. Like, when you ask yourself, “So, what do I really see in him?” you actually have nothing that immediately springs to mind. Sure, he was tall and handsome with an accent like James Bond, good hair and a decent job. And sure, he bought me stuff every now and again, had stayed with me for three years and was ok in bed.

Just ok, that is. I'd had better... and worse.

But when I would ask myself why exactly I loved him, the answer that came back was always vague, abstract somehow. On the other hand, arrogant, pig-headed and somewhat narcissistic were a few words that came to mind when we were fighting and I was trying to find reasons not to like him. He could be all of those. Not really a good basis for a marriage, I know. But come on! It had been three years. Longest relationship I'd ever had. Surely if you've been with someone that long marriage is the only logical conclusion.

Though now I think about it, perhaps my current predicament negates that last statement.

My seat jolted a little as Richard slipped into the Groom's chair beside me, waking me from my thoughts. I turned to him with feigned nonchalance, trying so hard to hide how broken I still was underneath. A broad smile crossed his lips.

“Hey Susan,” he said with his smooth British swagger. “You know, I think I might look too good in this chair. What do you think? Perhaps if I sit here long enough, people won't notice which Dalton brother you married.”

“I'm not going to marry you!” I retorted playfully, sounding a little too drunk and trying to block out the emotional quiver in my voice. “What's to say you won't do exactly what your idiot brother did and leave me at the altar?”

Suddenly his expression changed, a mask of seriousness taking over. He stared into my eyes with incredible intensity and took my free hand in his.

“Susan Kemp, the way my brother has treated you is beyond comprehension. From what I can tell he has been disrespecting you for a long time, hasn't he? I could never condone such abhorrent behaviour, and wouldn't think of doing anything like that to you. I don't believe I could forgive my brother for what he did. Nor will I be in any hurry to talk to him again, in fact. He should never have hurt you like that. You deserve so much more.”

God I loved the way he said my name. He held my stare for so long that even through the on-setting drunken haze gradually filling my head, I felt a strange tingle go down my spine. I knew he meant every word. He was so unbelievably good-looking. So rugged and masculine. I'd only ever seen a picture taken years before, when Peter and him were fishing on a beach in Wales. But the man before me now... just... wow.

Abruptly, the jovial sparkle returned to his eyes and he smiled warmly at me.

“Susan, if there's one thing I know, it's a drunk lady when one I see. Come, I'll take you home now.”

“I am not drunk,” I protested, doubtless with an encroaching slur belying my words, “I'm just a bit tipsy. And I'm no lady, either, mister.” I shook a finger at him. “Besides, I can't leave yet; it's still only early.”

“It is almost eleven o'clock. Plenty late enough. Come on.”

With that, he helped me to my slightly wobbly feet. We went around a few people—close friends, mainly, and my mum—and said our goodnights. Didn't do that for too long, though, because after the first five or six, I just got plain sick and tired of everyone's puppy-dog eyes and cagey words. They must have thought if they said the wrong thing, I'd crack like an egg.

They couldn't have been further from the truth.

By that point, whether from letting it all out with the earlier crying or covering it up with the wine afterwards, I felt beyond caring, past the hurt. Sure, I'd probably have another cry tomorrow, and the next day; maybe all week, even. However after sitting there with my thoughts for the evening, I'd found a way to work through the initial shock. Great tool called anger, actually. I simply pointed every angry bone I had in Peter's direction and instantly I felt so much better.

Peter the slime-ball had made his choice and done a runner. Good for him. May the loser get genital crabs and be itchy for evermore!

I fell asleep in Richard's car on the drive home, leaning across in my slumber and drooling on his shoulder. Yet another thing to be proud of. I didn't vomit, though, so at least that's something. He had to gently shake me awake after he'd pulled up outside my apartment building on the esplanade. We sat there for a moment in silence while I woke myself properly. After a few minutes, he asked me how I was doing.

Bad mistake.

Obviously I wasn't as good as I thought I was, because after stumbling off on a monologue rhetorically asking how I could have been so stupid, with multiple “why me” variants thrown in, I abruptly fell apart again, sobbing into poor Richard's shoulder for only the hundredth time that night. That man was amazing, though, you know. He never told me to buck up, or get over myself like Peter would've done. He didn't once push me away or hurt my feelings further.

Instead, Richard just held me. That's all. Everything I needed. There was only one thing he said the whole time, as barely a whisper in my ear.

“You are worth so much more than him, Susan. Remember that.”

The words were lovely, and exactly what I needed to hear. Though my only reaction was to cry even louder.

When I finally did settle down, Richard pulled back and studied my face. I must have looked like a melting raccoon by then. He reached up with one gentle hand and brushed his palm across my cheek, wiping tears and running mascara.

“You look a mess, Miss Kemp. About time we get you some rest, I think.”

“Yeah.” I sounded the way I felt; like a lost little girl. His fingers pushed aside a length of hair from my face, ran to the tip of my chin, then softly fell away.

He got out and came around to my side, opened the door and helped me out of the car. I could hear the waves crashing behind the small sand-hill across the road as the cool sea-breeze caressed my face. Crickets chirped in the bushes, probably laughing at me like they did every time something stupid had happened in my life. Little bastards, I thought with a hint of pointless vindictiveness.

I had some trouble negotiating the stairs to my floor, and Richard had to help. Only problem was the one place he could lay a hand to balance me was around my lower back and upper-right butt cheek. He didn't mean anything by it, of course, and ordinarily such a thing wouldn't have caused too much fuss. Except it did. The way Richard had been so caring all night, and shown me such respect and attention, stirred an odd set of feelings inside of me. His hand felt hot, and sexy.

I had never experienced such a thing before. My track record with men had been nothing if not a wobbly path from one disaster to the next. Peter hadn't exactly been a catch, proven nicely by today's abandonment, and the one thing not one past boyfriend had ever done was treat me with respect. I had felt loved before, sort of, and lusted after, but never respected. Not until tonight.

We only had two flights to climb up to my room, but by the time we reached the door my cheeks were burning, I was breathing kinda heavy and starting to break into a sweat. None of that was from the walking. Everything Richard had said or done since I had met him that morning was filtering slowly though my groggy mind, turning me on like I couldn't believe.

I fumbled with the keys and unlocked the door. The moment it was open, I spun around and grabbed his shirt collar. He was surprised, but didn't stop me from pulling him into my apartment. My back hit the opposite wall of the entryway. I held him fast and drew his lips to mine. I knew it was crazy, however I was suddenly so aroused that controlling myself simply wasn't an option any more.

His lips were soft and warm, and knew exactly where to go and what to do. I could feel the fire rising up from my loins as he kissed me, and I instinctively pushed my hips outward to drive closer to him. With one hand gripping my waist tightly, his other hand dropped from the side of my face, where it had been gently caressing my hair-line and neck, and started moving slowly down my shoulder, then arm, before crossing over and brushing my left breast one finger tip at a time. I could feel him swelling against my upper thigh. I wanted him so bad. Oh god, the tingling from my nipples was electrifying!

Then it stopped. One second it's on, the next he'd backed away and was standing against the opposite wall, half illuminated in the light from the hall outside the still-open door. Hot to cold in an instant. I knew at once what was wrong. The look on his flushed face said it all.

“We can't, Susan.”

“Why?” I asked despite knowing the answer, with every feminine chemical loose in my body giving my voice a shaky quiver. “Why not?”

“We just can't. You got left at the altar this afternoon. No great loss, because my brother is an idiot, but it is still affecting you. You've had a terrible day, and far too much to drink. You're maybe not thinking right, and I certainly know I'm not. We both need sleep. We should talk again in the morning.”

I stared at him for a long while, trying in all honesty to do two things at once, firstly attempting to cool myself down a little, and secondly willing him to change his mind. I mean, I knew he was right. I knew that. But damn it if that didn't make me want him even more. What man turns down a chance to get a woman into bed because it goes against his morals? None I'd ever met before. Not least Peter. But this man had so much honour and respect for me as a person, he was willing to hold back and not take advantage.

It was the sexiest thing that'd ever happened to me!

Then the idea struck me that he was most likely going to leave now. My heart sank. With tears welling in my eyes at the thought, I looked down at my feet and asked, “So what now?” I knew his answer would involve him going back to his hotel. I so didn't want that, but had no idea how to say it.

“What now, you ask?” Richard smiled and stepped across to me. He wrapped his strong arms around my shoulders and hugged me warmly.

There was no way to tell what exactly I was feeling at that point. Confusion was about the strongest. All I knew was it felt so good to be supported and cared for by him. Too good. Could it just be leftover feelings from my ordeal that day, or was I starting to feel something for this man? Couldn't be real, surely. I'd known him less than fourteen hours. No, must just have been feeling needy again; clinging to anyone who seemed to care the slightest bit.

My therapist says I do that because my dad left mum for a bikini model when I was ten. I think it's just because actually all men are pigs, but when one shows a little heart I draw too much into it because I refuse to believe the truth.

Richard's breath right next to my ear rumbled like a sleeping lion, and it threatened to rekindle my passion for him. I struggled so hard to keep my hands on his back, not drifting downward. Finally he pulled back just a little and whispered.

“What we do now is, I help you to bed. You fall unconscious and dream away today. I sleep on the couch. In the morning, I'll make us breakfast and we'll talk, ok?”

Oh thank God, he's not leaving. He's not going to leave me. I let him pull out of the embrace and gently lead me down the hall into the living room. It must have been from the sudden excitement, but I was completely exhausted. It just fell on me like a weight. Once in the bedroom, Richard helped me get out of my wedding dress like a total gentleman, never touching me unnecessarily despite my still totally wanting the opposite. Then carefully removed the bulk of my smeared make-up with some wipes I kept on the bedside table. He lay me on my bed, kissed me softly on the forehead and wished me a goodnight, then he quietly left the room.

For a little while I could hear him quietly shuffling around in the kitchen and living areas, probably getting his own bedding sorted. But soon I was fast asleep and dreaming of the morning. The start of a new day, a new life.

With any luck, I could stop the constant hoping for something better to come along.

Richard was here now, and better than anything I could have wished for.

Don't feel like you've had enough? Click here for Part Two

Hope In The Deep - A short story by Damien L Malcolm

Hope In The Deep

A short story by Damien L. Malcolm

Download a PDF here for reading offline.
Also a part of my recently released ebook, The Tiny 1st Volume: A Short Collection of Short Stories
Available for FREE on Kobo, Smashwords, iBooks, Google Play and other ebook retailers

 

This was it.

It had been two months since everything happened, and now Erica had finally worked up the courage to bring it to an end.

As she stood on the edge, looking down into the dark, swirling water below, it felt like everything was settled, complete. Her life had been tragically broken and confused for so long now, it was good to at last have peace.

Last February had been the turning point, when her world caved in around her. That night. She would never forget it. Her husband, Gavin, had taken their daughter, Lisa, to soccer practice after school, and waited with her until home time. He had the luxury of doing that sort of thing.

Being between jobs for the previous few months had allowed him a lot of time to form a closer relationship with Lisa. Closer than Erica ever had. Working her office job in the city and climbing the corporate ladder had sapped a lot from her relationships over the years, not least costing her the motherly bond she should have had with her only daughter.

Not that any of that mattered now. Lisa was gone, along with her father. She had only been thirteen years old when her life had been cut short.

Tears welled in Erica's eyes as she remembered her daughter's face, her hair, her smile. One lonely droplet left her eyelash and plummeted down into the darkness, caught in the wind billowing past under the old iron bridge beneath her feet.

That Thursday, Erica had been working late at the office, as usual. The soccer practice was rained out early. She was looking out the window of her high-rise office, seeing the black clouds rolling in from the west over the mountains, and wondering how her husband and daughter were going.

From the police reports, an animal ran onto the road right in front of them. While Gavin had done his best to avoid collision, the slick wet road offered no traction. Their car had left the road and fallen down the embankment. Both husband and child had died instantly on impact with the bottom of the ravine.

When Erica came home that evening to an empty house, she had not been worried at all. They may have gone to a friend's place on the way home from practice, and Gavin simply forgot to let her know. He was often doing things like that. They had been married sixteen years, and while she still loved him with every part of herself, sometimes the communication slipped. But then a phone call did come, and her universe shattered. All hope that she had ever possessed left her in a rush, leaving nothing but hollow emptiness.

Erica was a strong woman, or had been. In recent times she felt as if that strength had failed her. Along with everything else. She had been constantly sick, constantly drawn and tired. She found things difficult to remember since the night of the accident, but knew there must have been the crash investigation, the funeral, visits by caring family members and friends that probably went on for weeks. Went on until they thought she was ok and could manage on her own. She hadn't taken notice of any of it.

A wry smile crossed her lips, though, as the wind whipped blonde hair around her face.

Don't suppose they'd consider me “ok” now.

It had taken her this long, struggling to hold some sort of life together—unable to get out of bed every day—for her to realise it just wasn't meant to be. She had lost her job, there was less than a week until the bank foreclosed on their house, unpaid bills lingered on the kitchen counter and half of her so-called friends had turned their backs on her grief. Family may have still been there, but all Erica felt was lonely, lost and forgotten.

“Shouldn't she have started getting over it by now?” She had heard one of them say when they thought she was out of earshot. A woman who Erica thought was a friend.

Get over it? How was she ever going to get over losing the two people that made her truly complete, the only two people in the world that formed the other parts of her? The husband she had loved since high school, and the daughter they never thought they could have. After the cancer, she was told she couldn't get pregnant. Lisa had been a one-in-a-million miracle, and Gavin the man that helped that miracle come true. They were everything to her. What did people expect, she'd just forget them, brush off and move on?

“No,” Erica had said to herself, while staring at the dark ceiling above her bed in the middle of another sleepless night. “I will never get over losing my husband or our daughter. Never.”

She decided then that if her life couldn't have them in it, then she didn't need to be alive. Simple as that.

Once she had made the choice of what she was going to do, things became easier somehow. Abstract concepts would sometimes run through her mind. Hope. Future. Love. Laughter. These were just words to her now. Words with nothing but an echo of symbolism reaching out from a life she had lost. She could forget them.

Presently, as the cool midnight breeze rattled the framework of the bridge she stood on, Erica knew it was time to go. It would be quick, she knew. Just the impact of the water alone would most likely knock her unconscious, so with any luck she wouldn't have to feel the actual sensation of drowning. Not this time.

A lone truck rumbled past behind her, crossing the bridge into the city on some late-night delivery run. The sound jolted her, as if shaking her from a dream. Erica knew that if she was truly going to do this, it would have to be now. She steeled her nerves, tightened her grip on the metal ledge at her waist, leaned her upper-body out over the water and took a deep breath.

She let go.

The fall was somehow both terrifying, exhilarating and peaceful all at once. Like flying. It seemed to Erica to last for aeons, though in reality it was only a little over three seconds. The moment before she hit the water, Erica thought she saw an mirage of her husband looking up at her from the murky surface of the river. It was flushed away as she struck the surface, plunging instantly into the icy water.

The water was so cold it felt like frozen demons tearing at her skin. She could hardly move, and while she could see a little, all she could hear was the deep thumping of her own heart. The darkness deepened as she sank into the abyss; chilled shadowy water swirling, enveloping around her.

The cold and the oppressiveness, however, felt soothing to her somehow. It was as if her immediate surroundings were adapting to match the frequency and pitch of her own depressive sorrow. Erica welcomed it, the gentle falling, sinking. It was calming the way the blackness seemed to reach out and wrap around her, like a blanket, protecting her from the hurt and loss that waited above the surface. Waited to claim her sanity.

It wouldn't be long now. Somewhere inside, Erica could feel her lungs striving for breath, fighting so hard for that sweet oxygen that would keep her body alive. She closed her eyes and focused her mind against it. Soon the urge would start to hurt, she knew. For weeks now, she had been practising. Filling the bathtub and submersing her head in the water. While she had never been able to see it through to the end till now, it had given her the experience she needed; she knew what it felt like to drown, so she was fully prepared for what was to come.

It wouldn't take long now, and she would be with Gavin and Lisa again. Her heartbeat began to slow, and with her eyes still clamped shut she focused on every pulse, willing it to slow further, to just release her from life.

“Love, what are you doing?”

Erica abruptly opened her eyes. Her husband's voice had come through so clearly. But how...?

“I'm here, Erica, right beside you. What are you doing to yourself?”

She turned to the voice and saw what she thought could only be an hallucination. Gavin was there, floating beside her in the darkness, though not even really floating, and with a strange light behind him. She shook her head in confusion, releasing bubbles of air from her mouth as she moved.

“Don't panic, love. It's alright. You can talk to me.”

As she looked on, his image seemed to take on further clarity and become more solid. She hesitated for a moment before trying to put words together. She couldn't understand how, but the water was gone, the cold gone. There was just black void surrounding them, pure nothingness.

“H... How are you here? Am I dead?” The strained voice did not come from Erica's mouth, but from somewhere else. Perhaps only in her mind, she wasn't sure.

“No, not yet. I'm here to try to talk some sense into you, Erica. We've been watching you, you know. Lisa and I both have. You can't do this to yourself. There's so much more you have to live for.”

“To live for?” she echoed, starting to cry. “What could I possibly have to live for? You're gone. You and Lisa were all I had, and you're both gone." She was so overcome with grief and confusion, Erica could hardly get her words out. "There's nothing left now.”

“That is not true, love. I'm so sorry I had to leave you. But sometimes our path turns sharply when we're not prepared for it. Sometimes they're meant to end. Nobody is ready for that, not least those who are left behind. But I'm here now because I love you, and I don't want to see you waste your life like this. You mean too much to me.”

“But you're gone, Gavin! I can't mean anything to you, because you're not here any more. You're not with me!”

“I know, love. I'm so sorry."

Gavin paused. Erica cried. She cried the tears that had been stored up inside of her for two long months. Each sob racked her body in deep, heart-breaking sighs. She was angry at him for leaving, and angry at herself for feeling angry. She loved him so much that seeing him there through her tears like he was still alive, when she knew he was gone, just tore through her heart like a dagger. The pain felt as if it would never go away. But then, she didn't want it to go away because it meant she might lose sight of him, forget him somehow.
When Gavin's spirit spoke again his calm voice came with a tangible flood of hope and a warmth that Erica could feel flowing into her. It felt like the most loving hug she had ever experienced. Her sobs slowed as she felt his energy wrap around her.

"But you know, not every part of me is gone,” he whispered next to her ear. “I need you to stay alive, because someone needs to be around to raise our son.”

“What?” She pulled back, only to find the image of Gavin still sitting apart from her, like he had never moved. Energy poured from him, reaching for her. He was smiling lovingly at her.

“Haven't you felt it yet, Erica. He's inside you right now, growing.”

“But... how? I can't be...”

“You are, my love. We lost one child. Don't let us lose another. Please, Erica. You need to do this for me. I can't be with you now, so I'm going to need you to be strong for me and our son, ok? You need to make up for what I can't give him. He is going to need you. Can you do that for me?”

Erica was looking down at her belly and rubbing it gently in disbelief, “I.. I think so.”

“That's good Erica. I'm gonna go now, but I'll still be around for you. Always. I will never leave your side.”

“No, don't go! I still need you. You can't...”

“I have to, love. I have to. And you need to rise up and take a breath.”

Erica started to panic as Gavin's image began fading away. She couldn't cope with losing him for a second time. She tried to move toward him, but he seemed to gradually drift further away any time she moved. Suddenly, a bright light struck through, cutting between Erica and her husband's spirit. The wet cold reclaimed her senses, cruelly ripping her from the dream. She was back in the river. She cried out, but her voice was muffled in the water. She couldn't see Gavin at all now, but just as she was thought she would crumble apart completely, thought she had lost him again, his voice echoed in her head as if coming from a distance.

“I love you Erica. Be strong for me now. Take that breath, then just keep on breathing.”

“I love you to, Gavin. I will try. I miss you... so much...”

“Good girl. I miss you too. We both do. But I'll always be right beside you... Always... Take that breath, love.”

The light got brighter, as if shining directly on her from above. Erica looked toward it and was surprised to see she was only a metre or so below the surface, and what looked like the keel of a boat was in the water beside her. As she kicked her feet and rose, she couldn't help but let a smile cross her lips. The water had done exactly what she had wanted. It had taken her life. Her old life.

Hope had given her a new start.

If you would like to read another of my short stories, click here

My Journey To A Mystery Novel

YES!!! It's finally out!

The book that I've been toiling away at, and bothering everyone with my endless streams of author-babble for over a year, is finally released to the unsuspecting public. Set in a sleepy fictional country town with no name, coincidently located at the exact geographical area of the town where I live, this Aussie mystery/crime novel will keep you guessing till the last page. I know that, because it had ME guessing till the last page! Here's the blurb.

A week ago a local teenage girl went missing.

With half the town out looking for her, it wasn't going to be long before a local Private Investigator got wrapped up in the search. However, a midnight phone call from an old acquaintance was not what Jack Mullens expected. Thrust into a web of false trails and cold leads, he soon finds that nothing is secure, and nobody he knows can be trusted.

He learns the very Essence of Betrayal.

If that's enough to grab you, check it out at the following sites:

Smashwords.com/books/view/EssenceOfBetrayal 

Amazon.com/Essence-Of-Betrayal

Bookdepository.com/Essence-Of-Betrayal

Also in Kobo, iTunes and Google Play. Just search Essence Of Betrayal Damien L Malcolm.

Otherwise, stick around for the story of how it came about.

On the 2nd of May 2013, I had this funny idea of having a go at writing something different than the space adventure novels I'd been writing since turning 15. It was a couple of days after hearing a story on my local ABC Radio about what it's like to be a Private Investigator.

Honestly, the bloke they interviewed made it sound a little boring and not at all inspiring. But we all know how the mind can wander...

So this idea floundered into my head and started to germinate. But, I still had my mental brakes on at first. You see, some in the writing world say this innocuous little phrase that sounds something like:

"You should only write what you know." 

Which is a short way of saying don't venture off into fields and topics that you have no idea about, because any reader will see through that, and your book will fall flat. Fair logic. That's why I've spent 15 years writing sci-fi, because let's face it, I'm a bit of a nerd... space, aliens, buttons, holograms and starships are what I know. ;)

And while I've always wanted to branch out into something different, something a little more "contemporary" and "main-stream" to stop people looking at me oddly and moaning when I uttered the word "sci-fi", I was often held back by that phrase. But then I started thinking, "Hang on a second. If there's anything I know, it's being a Handyman, and at the same time basically leading a double life." By day in my real life, I'm Damien the handyman, an all-round maintenance bloke fixing door handles and tap washers, before coming home and playing happy families. But on some nights after the kids went to bed, instead of just doing plain old paperwork, I would slink off into the office and open my latest manuscript. From there I would be launched into my own personal universe where anything I wished could become reality.

Ode to the life of a part-time writer.

So, armed with this new-found interpretation of the above term, I started to apply my own life to that of another person, with a few tweaks here and there - like changing the second job from author to P.I. I started thinking, "Ooooh, what if a bloke was working a normal job by day, but at night would slip on dark clothes and do stake-outs with a night-vision camera and things." Fuzzy pumpkins!

That's when, for the first time in my life, it was like a door opened in my mind and some strange fella walked in. See up till then, while writing sci-fi, story and scene ideas had always just played out in front of me while I typed, like watching a movie. Somehow dissociated, observational only. But even contemplating the idea was like tuning into a different radio channel. It was almost tangible; this middle-aged bloke - dark-ish hair, bit taller than me - simply strolled up to my mind and said, "G'day mate. I'm Jack Mullens. Wanna write a book about me?"

I know that sounds crazy, but I promise I'm not. I've heard other authors describe similar experiences, so I'm not the only one.

I mean it was that simple. I knew his name, face, body description, history and living arrangements in a flash, just like a Vulcan mind-meld! That day, I mentally wrote the first few pages of Essence Of Betrayal while vacuuming a local Church. (Sounds even crazier, I know.)

It wasn't till a couple of weeks later that I actually decided to sit down, put aside the half-finished Winchester: Convolutions manuscript, and start a fresh story. I didn't have a title, a plan, anything. I just started typing what I had in my head and let the rest flow.

And flow it did!

I was averaging 10,000-15,000 words a week for the first few months. May not sound like much to a full-time author, but remember here, I only had a couple of hours every other night to do this. One night, with a mid-July storm raging outside, I laid down 3600 words in 2 hrs and left myself so worked up I couldn't sleep. That scene was so intense for me, the next morning I found myself staring at a dot on the wall while absently chewing my weetbix, lost in a deep thought stream. If it affected me that much, I so hope that the reader gets something out of it. (Chapters 29-30 if you already have the book in your hand and like to skip ahead to the good bits! Spoiler alert, though.)

By around December 2013, I had enough down for the book to reach up and show me its title. And I mean that exactly as I wrote it just then. I had not had to sort out, research or make up any main character names; Jack had given me all of them. Nor did I have to really think about what I was going to write next session. I'd just sit down at the keyboard and Jack Mullens would tell me what to type. Completely surreal. If I were being honest, Jack is about as real to me as anyone else I know. At one point a lady, whom I slipped a section of the manuscript to an early opinion, said, "Why on Earth did you have to call him 'Jack Mullens'? Of all the names in the world, why that?"

My reply? "Because that's his name. That is the name he said when he introduced himself to me." She looked at me like I'd just stepped out of a spaceship landed in her back yard. Evidently she has never performed automatic writing for a fictional character transmitting from the ethereal netherworld.

I have. And the result was this obscure, hopefully exciting, Aussie novel called Essence Of Betrayal. You know, since finishing the book last month, I've even found that I'm missing Jack a little. That hairy-chested, smart-mouthed larrikin with an odd view on the world has really grown on me over the last year and a bit.

I hope he grows on you too.

Till next time,
-Damien

I've got the POWER!

Last Friday one of my longest-held dreams finally came true. We got solar power installed on our new house. So far, the check-list of life is going pretty well: Wife, check; kids, check; own a business, check; become an author, check; buy a house, check; run off solar panels, BLOODY CHECK!

Only things left now, really, are add "kinda successful" to that author one from before, and get back on radio again. Hope my aspirations aren't too extravagant. Never really expected too much from life, and am thankful for whatever it offers up.

I don't know about you, but I have always been fascinated by the astounding technology of the photo-voltaic silicon solar cell. And when I say always, I mean it. There is evidence of me marvelling at it while in the womb. Just ask Mum. 

And why wouldn't I? I mean, just look at this!

Pinched from Wikipedia. Thanks fellas. :)

That thin sheet of inanimate shimmery-blue stuff can make electricity just by sticking it in the sun. Pure unadulterated brilliance, that is. And considering that at any one time the sun is apparently supplying us with 174,000,000,000,000,000,000 watts of energy (I think I got the right amount of zeros in there) it just plain makes sense to borrow a measly 12,000 or so a day. The sun won't miss it, and it was only getting wasted growing that pesky grass anyway. Power free from an unfathomably big ball of super-heated gas in the sky that won't go out till long after we're gone? Or instead we could just keep burning coal and producing gaseous carbon so that eventually we will blacken the skies so much we won't be able to see the sun? And be choked and cooked to death as our planet becomes another Venus.... Solar power just makes sense from all angles, really.

Though, for some strange reason, not everyone sees it that way.

Coincidently, at practically the same time the blokes were thumping around on my roof laying down my solar power station, there was hot debate getting fired up around our local electricity providers deliberately causing friction when it comes to solar being installed on domestic houses. The claims seem to be that while people are rushing out and getting their own little solar plants, Ergon's expensive suite of state-wide infrastructure is slowly becoming obsolete as less people are needing to buy power. Ergon still have overheads to pay, and slackening revenue to pay them. $50 billion in total "stranded assets", apparently, is included in those overhead expenses. We're told they are beginning to panic that soon we'll all have solar and they won't be needed to generate power for us, thus will have no money to clear their debts and go bust.

In fact, there are even claims that while a person like me is getting solar to avoid rising power prices (and because I love it), my poor solar-less next-door neighbour is stuck paying even higher prices for his coal-fired power because Ergon is struggling with a market demand that's steadily dropping while their costs of maintenance and generation remain the same or rise.

Fair point, in theory. I mean, if Apple only sell 104 units of their latest version iThing, then those 104 people will have to take a share in the $32,203,483 in research and development costs. So that new iThing will cost each of those 104 purchasers approximately $300,950 plus retail mark-up rounded to the nearest obscene amount. That roughly equates to the cost of the Sony Playstation 4 when they first came out, for those crazy people willing to sleep on the pavement outside their local technology store to be the "first" to buy one.

On the other hand, if 12,365,210 people bought that innocuous little iThing, each would only pay $2.60 for the R&D component, plus retail mark-up of 2000%. See how that works? That's the "beauty" of a free market. So coming back to the power scenario, I could almost see where this "shrinking market" would cause issues for them. However, when I sit down and nut out the numbers in a rough sort of way, no matter how I arrange things, at least in the short to medium term and while they still have customers using their power, Ergon come out in front. Mostly because, while they may be paying me a small government-mandated amount for any power I make and feed into the grid, they are then turning round and charging my neighbour the full retail price for that power, as well as having to make less power at the generating plant. Please refer to these cute little graphics I made up for a much clearer confusing muddle:

The Standard Situation with both my neighbour and I drawing power from the grid. To protect his privacy, I've omitted his name and referred to him in the cockney-English vernacular of " 'im ".

 And now to the Solar Situation, where I have solar, using a bit less power, feeding my left-overs to the grid for my neighbour to use, and only drawing a little at night.

So you see where, in the new scenario, Ergon have reduced their output by 50%, down from 8Kw a day to 4; 1 for me and 3 for 'im. This should have halved their income, right? However, they are happily retailing at full price any solar power that I have sold them, which would normally cost them approximately $0.21c/Kw to produce. For this, they're getting away with only paying me $0.06c/Kw wholesale. At a current retail price of $0.28c, that's a mark-up on my power of 466% and, in our model anyway, a saving for them on generating costs of around $55 a year!!!

So all up, for the amount of power they are actually generating, Ergon are proportionately still making more than before - around 25% more in fact. They are saving $55 a year, and making a bonus $80 to boot! Somehow they have actually managed to increase their profit margin by 130%! It's like a Girl Guide failing to sell 100 cookies at $1, instead selling 40 cookies for $5 each. That crafty little entrepreneur is ahead by a hundred bucks and gets to eat her left-over cookies!!! 

Now I know that the actual system that they work to is most likely infinitely more complicated than my simple little scenario. And with a LOT bigger dollar amounts, energy wattage and customer numbers. I've probably got the wrong end of the stick in more than one sense of the phrase, but surely even my monkey-minded scuttle is barking up a tree pretty close to the true one. Wouldn't it all even out in the end, mostly in favour to Ergon?

Either way, if you put aside all the media spin and crossed-information to actually sit and think about it for a moment, it seems like a pretty damn good deal for the power generators. Surely their extra infrastructure costs could come out of that nice little profit margin, while they sit back and relax, only having to produce half the output as before because my solar panels are doing the work for them!

And in the long run, yes, maybe everyone will end up getting solar on their roof and battery banks in their carport. Ergon, and other power companies like them, may well become obsolete in the future. But guess what, that's called the ever-changing turbulent world of business. Technologies and trends change; it's a fact of life. If a business is not savvy enough to catch that train, they fail. Just look at Kodak and their camera-making department. Power companies will have to evolve or fail. Maybe Governments will end up buying back and running the network infrastructure, just taking those running costs in taxes, while we all make our own power and borrow their grid to share it round. Who knows what the future will hold?

But two things are for certain: 1. Our world is precious, and will collapse if we don't start really taking care of her. Finally the trend is moving toward renewables with a solid, sustainable momentum. Very soon we will have affordable electric cars, charged by your solar house, and every large company will power themselves with green energy. Apple gets a bit of credit there... Even if it causes short term economic strain now, the long-term benefits from stowing away on the renewable energy train will have massive repercussions for our race and this planet. And secondly, PV Solar is awesome!

Does any of this make sense to you? Is this unique to Australia, or have you had similar issues where you live? And exactly how right or wrong have I got it? It's ok to tell me; I'll only cry a little. Please leave a comment and let me know what you think.

Till next time,

-Damien.

Put Aspirin In The Water!!!

I've written on this topic before here, but having it niggle at me once again now, I decided to write another little letter to the local papers in an attempt to hopefully change a few perspectives. Apparently our local council recently abstained from forming a binding opinion on the requested removal of fluoride from our local water supplies, instead opting to put the decision out to the public. An acceptable choice, considering the alternative would have been a "no". But then again, at the cost of a survey, post-delivered to every house in the region, one could consider it yet another bureaucratic waste.

Anyway, here's what I wrote:

I'd like to present you with a hypothetical situation. Migraine Headaches have been on the rise; a worldwide epidemic. A study shows up to 60% of the 36,000 local population are suffering from debilitating headaches, leaving them bed-ridden. It's resulted in a local productivity downturn of an estimated $1 million per month. Businesses are failing and the regional economy is on the verge of collapse. After investigating every possible cause and solution, the local Council accepts the advice from state health minister; place low amounts of soluble aspirin in the local water supply. It has been used in other countries with mixed success, but it has shown to be effective in most cases, is cheap and simple to administer. The dose proposed is very low, only 1mg per litre of water, but the state health minister insists that it will make a difference in our plaguing headache problem.

The final decision whether to put it in is left up the population. Every ballot paper is supplied with an information pamphlet, showing both for and against arguments. Here are the facts, as supplied to them:

1. Hundreds of cities and towns worldwide have been dosing their water supplies with aspirin, and no credible health issues have arisen. Headache levels are half that of non-aspirin-water towns. It is proven that aspirin has a positive effect on headaches at the dosage prescribed.
2. The dosed water will be supplied to every house on town water, or approx 50% of the population. Smaller towns will not, due to cost restraints.
3. Some people should not drink the aspirin water. These include people with allergies, chickenpox or influenza, kidney or liver disease, and pregnant women. These people simply need to purchase a filter, at their own cost. Only effective filter available costs around $300 to replace every year.
4. The side-effects of regular aspirin ingestion can include ulcers of the stomach and duodenum, abdominal pain, nausea, gastritis (inflammation of the stomach), and even serious gastrointestinal bleeding from ulcers. The aspirin-water may also, over time, become toxic to the liver. However the dosage is so low, side-effects will be minimal, if seen at all.
5. The cost of the supply and maintenance will be approx $40,000, but will add only $5 to the average rates bill. Every rate payer will pay, even those living outside of the supplied areas and in excluded towns, those not wanting it, the 40% or 14,400 not suffering from the headaches, and those drinking tank water.
6. Only 2-5% of the aspirin-water treated will be consumed by the population, with the rest going down drains, toilets, used in industry and on the gardens. Though up to 400kgs of the dissolved aspirin will enter the waterways every day region-wide, there have been no credible studies to show any environmental impacts.

Based on this information, which box would you tick? Is aspirin in the water good, or bad? Or would you rather just take some aspirin yourself for your own headache? Right now, we are drinking water with fluoride added, not aspirin. But many of the points above could be applied to fluoride. Did we get an information pamphlet before our water was dosed? No, in fact the only point told to us before fluoridation was point 1. The other points matter too, don't they. We may soon have a choice, please make an informed one.

Reminiscence: Radio And My Car Accident.

The other day I got to reminiscing about my radio days. Yep, that's right; I used to be a radio announcer. Shock Jock! I've never written of it, or the horrifying events of the time, and spoken very little. The radio work was nothing major, just held up a show on a couple of community radio stations. For those not in the know, working at a community radio station generally means that rather than them paying you for your talents, you pay a yearly "membership fee" to work there voluntarily.

It feels now like a lifetime ago. Before marriage and kids, the business... before being who I've now grown to be, really. And it's not like the radio gig ever helped me out, or showed any prospects for a future in the media. Instead, it was my time in radio that resulted in almost losing my life in a terrible car accident, at just 20 years of age.

It was 2001 in Redland Bay, Queensland, on a community radio station called Bay FM. I had been doing the Sunday night graveyard shift, midnight to dawn, with a middle-aged friend named Allan for about four or five months. It was often arduous, not least because I was working a full-time job at the time. (I'd finish up the six hour radio gig at 6am, go home for some breakfast, then toddle off to Brisbane for my paid day job.) But I loved every minute of it. Besides writing the Winchester Series, radio had always been one of my dream careers. I had already done work-experience at a commercial station, completed a private on-air media course and helped out at various OBs (Outside Broadcasts) for a couple of stations.

So when our chance came up to do a show of our very own, Allan and I jumped at it. Even if it was the graveyard shift. It eventually came at a cost, however. Over our time on-air, Allen and his fiancée had bought a house in the country and were commuting to Brisbane. I had bought my first car and got my driver's license. Stress was getting a bit much at the factory where I worked—multiple shifts back-to-back, one day off in three weeks, mongrel management—and Allan kept offering me to come up and stay at their new place for a holiday. I couldn't get any time off work, though, because the boss was a narcissistic prick, intent on running his staff into the ground. (No different from any other boss, really. Hehehe)

Anyway, I remember it like it was yesterday. For a bloke that for most of his teen-hood had gone about suppressing emotion, (I had convinced myself I was a robot, or maybe Vulcan, as a coping thing. That's another story!) it was a new experience for me to be "feeling" so stressed and generally crap. That Friday afternoon, I snuck into the boss's office and placed a note on his desk which said something to the effect of:

You have been working us too hard, sir. If I don't do this I am going to crash. As of this afternoon, I am on 2 weeks break. Fire me if you want. Otherwise, see you in a fortnight. -Damien.

Then I drove to the beach at Victoria Point, sat on the bonnet of my car and watched the sunset illuminate the islands across the water, while eating fish-n-chips and contemplating what I was going to do. Looking back now, it is obvious to me that it was a corner in the path of my life. But you know, even then at the time I think I knew it. It's only once in a blue moon you get to stand back and take a look from outside yourself, standing there on that forked-path deciding which direction to take.

For an outsider, unless you have been in a similar situation yourself, the scene I describe doesn't seem too big. However for me it really was, and still is, a massive life changing moment. There was no going back, only forward. Looking back now, everything I knew was to change after that day. I rang Allan on my mobile brick (Nokia 5110; best constructed mobile phone known to man) and told him I was coming to visit.
He said, "What? Now? It'll be 10 o'clock by the time you get here."
"I know, Allan. But I can't wait. I have to get out of here now."
"Ok then. I'll keep an eye out for you. Drive safe."

And I did. I got there by paper map, 3.5 hours out of Brisbane, in the dark at 9:45pm. The next morning I woke up to the sounds of strange birds chirping, wild kangaroos and wallabies bounding outside my window. The smell of bush and the company of friends. I could feel the life-force re-filling me. I spent a relaxing week far away from the world I had stagnated in, and felt new and refreshed.

The following weekend we went down to Redland Bay in separate cars to do our radio show. I decided to swing past home the next morning and grab some things, seeing as I had left on a whim with practically nothing the week before. On our way back up the mountains, around 9am October 22nd 2001, we both pulled over for breakfast at a small café. We all felt fine and fit, so off we went again. I followed Allan about ten kilometres past Cunninghams Gap, then fell asleep at the wheel and ran off the road. I rolled in the ditch, end over end, at a hundred Ks an hour, the car coming to a rest about fifty metres from the highway, crushed and upside down in a paddock.

I remember only snippets. The sensation of the car rolling, being flung half out of my seat belt. Glass, everywhere. And the sounds. I'll never forget the sounds. I have never known if I was unconscious for any length of time, but I do remember coming-to with my head pressed against the roof, fragments of glass cutting through my hair. I was bleeding badly from my forehead. I grabbed a floor mat and pressed it to my head, got untangled from the seat-belt and crawled out through the window.

Now I know why I've never written about this; I'm having trouble keeping it together. Just taking a minute...



Ok, I'm back. Sorry about that. Anyway, I remember I couldn't actually see because of the blood in my eyes, so I don't know how far away from the wreckage I had managed to get myself. But I heard several voices of people running up from the highway, one of which was a woman that I'll never, ever forget.

"Oh my God! He's alive. Someone ring the ambulance? Hey, hey, are you ok?"
 She rested my head on her knees; I never saw her, only heard her voice. She kept me together until the ambulance arrived, asking me questions to make sure I hadn't lost it or gone into shock. I was fully lucid, and could recall my name, family names, addresses etc. To this day I regret never getting her name or finding out who she was. Maybe she was my guardian angel, I don't know. I didn't even get to thank her for being there for me. (If by some freaky twist of fate you are reading this ma'am, I am forever grateful. Please get in contact so I can tell you in person.)

Only memory of the ambulance is the rough suspension, nice paramedics and the FLIES!!! Bloody hell I must have been covered in the little buggers. I still can't stand a fly on my face; it just sends me right back there! Strangely enough, there was little in the way of pain. It's been like that with most major traumas in my life actually. Small cut or scratch and it'll sting like anything, slice a half-inch into my big toe with a sheet of glass and I barely feel it. Maybe you're like that too... or perhaps I'm just a freak. No idea. I'm pretty sure my head throbbed, but honestly there was no real pain to speak of. The ambos still made me suck on their darn pain-relief thingo, though, which delivered some sort of dry powder medication. Every breath of it made me cough, which DID hurt everything!

Would you believe, though, despite the horrendous conditions of that accident and the clear odds that I should have died, I walked out of that hospital on the same day. Still can't believe that. I saw photos of my car, a twisted crumple of metal. If I'd had a passenger, they'd have been killed by decapitation as the passenger-side roof sheered away from the frame, and there was so much flying debris from my possessions flinging loose from the back seat, that it's simply impossible that I survived intact.

Yet here I am twelve and a half years later, writing this out for the first time with goose-bumps and cloudy eyes. Husband, father to four, and in a business that helps people everyday. I'm not religious, but damn if that ain't some sort of miracle. The only scar with me today is one across my right shoulder, where I had two surgeries in the following years to re-attach my clavicle, but that's a story for another day.

And you know the one thing that really has stayed with me, and what I'd like to think outlines my core values as a person now? I asked that lovely lady something at the accident scene. Lying in a paddock on a strangers lap, bleeding from the head, surrounded by the wreckage of my car and not knowing how badly I was injured or whether I was going to live, the first thing I asked was, "Did I hurt anyone else? Please say I didn't hit anyone else." Thankfully, I hadn't.

Now, I'm not saying that as if to be all high and mighty on myself. Honestly, I sort of find it difficult to correlate myself with myself, if you know what I mean. The whole incident was so unworldly that I feel like it was another person that had the accident, I'm just seeing his memories. But it was me, and my primary thought, as a 20 yr old boy involved in a horrific car crash from which I should be dead, is for someone else. That's a moral to live by, and young Damien taught it to me. I'm so proud of that kid. He had no idea of what lay before him at that point, but someone or something had a hand in him coming out of that accident alive. Maybe, just maybe, an innate sense of caring for others had something to do with it.

That's the motto I still live by now. I've used it to guide the way I interact with others, and how I run my business. With any luck, my little light is making way for a better world. Shine yours with me, will ya!

Thanks so much for reading. It means a lot.
Till next time,
-Damien.

Repeat Sexual Offender or Biological Misfit?

A rather serious subject under discussion in this post; one which has often surfaced in my mind along with a passing intellectual curiosity. I'm an opinionated bloke, though generally not without first educating myself with the basic facts surrounding a subject.

Recently here in Australia there has been a paedophile/murder case going through the courts subject to substantial media coverage and public discussion. Out of respect to the family involved I won't mention any names or even the specific case, but I'm sure that even if you live halfway to Timbuktu you would have caught a snippet of the case and results on your local world-news broadcast at some stage over the last week or so.

This particular case has sparked much talk about a proposed Sexual Offender Register, mainly fanned by the Australian "Human Headline" himself, Mr Derryn Hinch. (Google him; he's a tripper!) While I personally think that on the surface the idea holds merit, I believe that if one looks just that little bit deeper into the possible outcomes of such a register, you'd find something like that would quickly turn the society to mush.

Firstly there's the vigilantly factor. In every town there'd be some meat-head that would round up a posse and go around stringing these sick buggers up. While I wouldn't necessarily want to put a stop to that, I'm sure we all agree that is not the way a "civilised" society such as the one we think we uphold would want to act.

Then there are other issues like where does one draw the line for and define a sexual offender? Is the 17yr old fella that has sex with his under-age girlfriend in the context of a loving relationship considered a sexual offender? Should he be listed forever and shunned by society? And there's the not-in-my-back-yard thing, where these supposedly rehabilitated sexual offenders can't find a place to settle back into normal life because nobody will allow them to move in next door.

Now don't get me wrong. I've got four children, and if one of my neighbours was a released sexual offender, I'd want to know about it. However, it would create a conundrum. While it may allow me to protect my kids, it would also have me wanting to toss a half-litre of petrol over the fence, promptly followed by a match! I don't want someone like that living next door any more than you want him next to your house. But is knowing that they are there a help or a hindrance to a normal society? Is it both?

I just can't see how a register of sexual offenders would work. Really though, if you really sit down and nut it out like I have, you may eventually come to an even bigger question that negates the first.

If they just stayed in prison, would a register even be needed?

You see, my argument would be: how is it that these people are allowed back into society at all? And before you human rights people jump up and down at that comment, first hear me through. There's a very simple thing that everyone seems to be forgetting when it comes to the way we, as a society, look upon repeat sexual offenders and paedophiles.

Just like you and I, they a living breathing biological beings. The Human, or Homo Sapien, are a species of mammal and part of the animal kingdom. Just like any other animal, the major driving force of the Human is to survive as a race. In case you weren't aware, to survive involves in simple terms the acts of eating, breathing and reproducing. For the purposes of this blog, it's that last one I'd like us to focus on... or at least the further verbs brought up when one thinks about that very innocuous verb, "reproducing."

Let's do an experiment. When I give the signal, there's something I'd like you to do. I need you to close your eyes and picture for me your favourite partner; the one person in your life that you have been most physically and sexually attracted to. It can be the girl you lost your virginity to twenty years ago, your current boyfriend, wife or lover, or some movie star that you've always secretly had a crush on. For me, it's my wife of 11 years. (That's why we got four kids, dude!)

Imagine that person standing very close to you; the lights are turned down, or off, with a soft moonlight flowing past the curtains and a gentle breeze caressing your bare skin. There's a low, rhythmic music wafting from the room next door where, after the last hour or so of flirting, talking and teasing each other across the dinner table, you have both now retired to the bedroom. As your partner wraps their body around yours, your skin pressing together, you draw a deep breath. Their scent surrounds you, as the tingling stroke of their fingers sliding down your body brings fire to your senses. Slowly, you both move onto the bed...

Okay, here's the signal. Close your eyes now and imagine all of that. Really get into it; imagine you are there right now with that person in that room.... I'll leave you two alone for a minute.

Done? Goodo. Now if you did it right, you may have found that your heart rate has just lifted slightly, breathing has increased and you're feeling just a little warm. A mirror may reveal a flushed expression with flared nostrils. Hormones are bouncing forth all over your body. If you have a FMRI (Functional Magnetic Resonance Imaging) machine handy, quickly stick your head in it for a second and then have a look at the results. They may look like this:

Coincidently, I've heard that some people have a similar response to eating chocolate.

Now you want to hear something scary? When a paedophile stands across the road looking at a child playing in a playground, or a rapist is picking his next victim on a park walkway, he is having these same reactions. I've seen it in a documentary, so it must be true. While in no way do I condone that, I do recognise that it is a basic biological reaction called arousal, working the same way as in you or I. Only difference is, their biological reaction is sparked by the wrong thing. We are not naturally built to be aroused by a young child's appearance, no more than a tom-cat is going to be aroused by a kitten. But for some reason, in these people, things aren't wired correctly.

You see what I mean? That right there is the fundamental reason why we all need to open our eyes and recognise that a repeat sexual offender, especially a paedophile, is not just your average run-of-the-mill criminal. If a bloke steals a car and goes to prison, he can be educated, rehabilitated and given a purpose in life. In an ideal world, when that bloke is released he is free to lead a fulfilling life, without the stealing of cars. Same theory for a convicted fraud, drug addict or gangster. Even a murderer. Now, if the car thief gets a hard-on every time he lines up a BMW to steal, you may have a problem.

I'm absolutely no Neurologist, but from what I've heard and read in my meagre 30-odd years, I would think that a man's sexual urges and arousal triggers can't be changed too easily. Yes the brain is "plastic" and can be modified, but when it comes to the things buried very deep in our primitive brain, how pliable are they? I mean, can a person's neurological make-up be altered to, say, no longer need food to eat? I hear your argument, that it's not just the brain that needs food; it's the whole body which would eventually drive the fasting nutter to eat something. True, dear, but it's the same thing with sex. Your body needs that as much as your brain. Why do you think the Catholic church is having such issues? No person is naturally able to abstain from sexual interaction. It goes against everything that makes us a biological being. We may think we are all high, mighty and can control nature, but in the end Human's are still just a type of animal, subject to animal urges and needs.

With this view in mind, when I hear that the perpetrator in a serious sexual crime against a child has a history of such acts, but was released from prison previously with the aid of a Psychiatrist's advice that the offender had "rehabilitated" while incarcerated, I can't help but shake my head. The ignorant futility of it all is, at the least, frustrating.

For a game, let's say there is a law against eating chocolate. It's considered the worst crime known to man. I did it a few decades a go, got caught, and have been in prison for half my life, on and off a rehabilitation program. My parole has just come up. I'm not a bad liar (comes with being a story-teller), and I reckon with a bit of work I could convince a shrink that I had changed, seen the error in my ways, was born again, and from this day forth I was no longer going to eat chocolate. And blow me down if I wouldn't give it a bloody good go at staying away from it. But you know what? Eventually, and despite all the consequences, I'm going to give in to the urge and eat that chocolate again. Just once.

If society really wanted me not to eat chocolate, they should have just kept me in prison where I couldn't get my hands on the stuff.

Now, eating chocolate is not paedophilia. I have no intention of diminishing the abhorrent nature of such a crime, or belittling the hurt that such cases have caused the families involved. But I think you get my point. These people are not as much criminal as they are mentally ill. There is a condition you may have heard of called Object Sexuality, where a person can exhibit "a pronounced emotional, often romantic and even sexual desire towards developing significant relationships with particular inanimate objects." (Wikipedia)

While that's not considered a crime, it is not natural/normal, thus subject to clinical treatment. Could not the same be said for someone exhibiting "a pronounced emotional, often romantic and even sexual desire towards developing significant relationships" with under-age children? That is a crime, and should be severely treated as such. But from an initial pre-crime point of view, how is it any different from a man that is only ever aroused by a redhead woman? Or a woman turned on only by a short man with dimples and a bald spot? Or a person that has intimate dreams about their teacher, boss or a toaster?

In my opinion they simply need to be kept well away from society, indefinitely, hopefully until medical technology advances to the point where their brains can be re-wired at the touch of a button. In doing that, a Sexual Offender Register, and all it's related problems, would then never be needed. What do you think? It's a big deal, either way, but I reckon before governments go making any knee-jerk reactions after one of these cases, there needs to be some changes in common thought. We can't keep putting these people away, then letting them out in a few years with this naive view that they're all better for being behind bars, only to have them go out and victimise some other poor innocent child.

Fix it, people! The world is full of experts that know a million times what I know. Why haven't these incredibly learned people found a solution to this problem (and many others)????

Anyway, nothing I can do from my living room chair. But I do feel better for ranting. Feel free to agree or disagree, and comment to such ends below.

Till next time,
-Damien.