Hi Everyone:

We have finally come to the end of 2016 and I know that for some it couldn't come fast enough. For me it has been a year of anguish, especially because of the divisiveness of an election gone awry.

Personally, I fervently hope that the new administration will be a lot better than I expect, or to put it another way, not nearly as bad as I  anticipate.

To all of you, I wish the very best. May 2017 prove to be a year of peace and may you enjoy good health, happiness and prosperity.

HAPPY NEW YEAR !!!
     Josh

Hi Everyone:

Just in case you haven't already read this, I am posting once again my very own Halloween short-short story.
It is entitled, TRICK OR TREAT, and while it is fictitious, it is based around actual incidents in the distant past.

                       TRICK OR TREAT

                                        (For Carolyn)

By

        Joshua J. Truxton

 (561) 736-8044   jjtrux@att.net

           

My daddy is a smart man. He makes all kinds of things. He made my toy box, and my bed; he even made the home we live in.  Our house is made of big logs. It’s near an airbase in Alaska.  It’s beautiful in the summer. The days are warm and the sun is still up when I go to sleep, but in the winter the sun comes up half way between breakfast and lunch, and it’s dark again by the time we have dinner.

In winter, the snow piles up so high that neither Mommy or I can see over it, and it’s so cold that Daddy runs an electric cord from our house to a heater he puts over the motor of our truck to keep it from freezing. Mommy says he’s a genius—a mad genius—whatever that is.

            Late last spring, I found a little puppy out in the woods behind our house. She had lots of soft brown fur. Mommy said I could keep her if nobody claimed her. Mommy wanted to name her Georgia, but Daddy named her George.

            I don’t think Daddy liked George. Every time she peed on the floor, he picked her up by the back of her neck, which Daddy said didn’t hurt, and threw her out the door.

            I don’t think George liked Daddy either ‘cause once after he threw her out, I saw her pee on the mat in front of our door. When she finished, she shook herself and ran away.  I never saw her again.

Like I said, it gets cold in Alaska and the morning after George left, Daddy put on his heavy jacket, stepped out the door, and slipped on the icy mat. He hurt his back.

            There are a lot of kids in our neighborhood. Most of them are older than me. Daddy says they’re a bunch of troublemakers, always up to nasty tricks, especially at Halloween. This year, he said that when they holler, “Trick or treat,” he’s going to give them a trick they’ll never forget. I watched as he fastened some long wires to the inside knob on our front door, and then attached the other end to a little machine he has that looks like my pencil sharpener. Daddy said that when he turns the handle real fast they’ll get a shocking trick. Just to be sure, he went outside to shovel some snow on the mat that Mommy had just swept clean.

            When he went outside, I remembered Daddy saying, “It’s so easy, a child can do it,” so I went over to the table where he had that pencil sharpener and gave it a couple of real fast turns—it was easy. You should have heard Daddy yell! I don’t know what all the words meant; they must have been bad ones because Mommy rushed in and put her hands over my ears.

            We gave out popcorn balls and lollypops on Halloween.

26 Sep 2016

Hi Everyone:
     As some of you may know, I love baseball. It's not that I have ever been considered a great ballplayer, or even a very good one. When I was a kid, my father, who liked baseball, never took me to a professional baseball game, even though we lived in Cleveland and on Sundays he frequently listened to the Indians' games on radio. He never played catch with me. In fact, if it hadn't been for our next door neighbor, Allan Jacobs, I doubt that I would ever have learned how to catch a ball. The point is, I did learn and in my younger days I was either the captain of our team or one of the first kids chosen in a pick-up game because I could hit the long ball. I played into my teens and then somehow the game got away from me. It probably happened around the time I discovered girls. Many years passed before I took up the game again. By then, I was too old to play anything but Senior Softball, which I played until my body told me it was time to give it up. Since then, I've become a Miami Marlins fan. I  watch the games on TV and cheer for the team, even when they have a loosing season.
     Yesterday, they lost big. Their brightest star and one of the top pitchers in all of baseball, Jose Fernandez, was killed in a boating accident. What caused it, who was piloting the boat, what went wrong we may never know, but at age 24 this terrific young man with a charismatic smile who was headed for greatness lost his life.
     I saw him once at a spring training game. He looked vibrant and larger than life. Seeing him reminded me of the time I saw John Kennedy up close and personal. He had that same vibrant look. For both of them, all I can do is wonder, What might have been? Too soon gone!
     I know that I'll continue to watch America's pastime. I'll keep rooting for the Marlins to win. I know they'll soon draft or trade for a new starting pitcher and the game will go on. But oh Jose, what might have been.
      Josh

Hi Everyone:
     In honor of our national holiday, Independence Day, I am once again posting a short story that I wrote. It is presented here for your amusement. 

     If you haven't read it before, I think you will enjoy it. In any event, don't forget to hang out the flag on July 4th.
          Josh

ONE TOO MANY FIFTHS ON THE FOURTH

By         

Josh Truxton

            Summer arrived early at Pelican Cove. In most years, the humidity remained low and the temperature hovered in the low eighties until the middle of May. That’s when the last of the snow-birds packed and left Florida’s beaches to the locals. This year, the man upstairs played his little joke on everybody. The southern half of the State had been under a severe drought warning for two years; this year, before April finished its first week, temperature gauges in Pelican Cove hit ninety degrees before noon; the few clumps of grass that dared poke through their sandy base looked brown, battered, and brittle. By the end of May, temperatures and tempers hovered in the high damns.

            Howard Ditz and his wife Betty migrated to Pelican Cove to escape Detroit’s bitter winters; now Betty regretted their decision. Today, as she lifted cereal bowls from the kitchen cabinet she mused; I wish I could convince Howie to sell this place. We could rent a nice apartment up north during the summer and come to Florida when the first snow falls. If only he weren’t so stubborn. He’ll never admit we made a mistake buying this place. For two cents I’d burn it down, then we’d have to move. Betty filled the bowls and placed them on the breakfast table, and looked up to see him bare-footing it down the hallway from their bedroom. She frowned at the sight of him, wearing yesterday’s brown shorts with the coffee stain next to the zipper, and without a shirt to cover his hairy chest and beer belly. “Howie, I wish you’d put a shirt on when you come to the table. What’ll the neighbors think?”

            “What neighbors? The only one left is Buddy Batch and I’ll bet ten to one, he ain’t wearing one neither. He don’t want anyone to miss seeing his Semper Fi. Tattoo. That jerk got tattooed and then tried to enlist—they rejected him.”  He lifted his right leg and swung it over the chair-back, then planted his backside on the seat. “Hey Babe, where’s the paper?”

            Betty poured some milk into a pitcher and brought it to the table. “I don’t know; it’s usually here by now. I checked the front yard and the shrubs. If it doesn’t come by the time we finish eating I’ll call.”

            They ate in silence, watching Headline News on the small kitchen TV. When they finished, Howard poured a second mug of coffee to take along, and leaving Betty to clear the table, strolled outside. With hardly a glance at the flat ocean waters, he crossed the driveway separating his place from the one next door. He banged a fist against the frame of Buddy’s screen door. “Hey, Batch! Are you up yet?” 

            From somewhere in the dark interior a voice called, “Yeah, come on in!”

            Barefooted, Howard entered and walked on sticky linoleum through the cramped living-room toward the light at the back of the house. Unlike the neat kitchen Betty kept, Batch’s kitchen always carried the aroma of rancid grease and rotten eggs. The big man sat at his kitchen table, a lit cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, reading the morning paper. He wore tight shorts but nothing to hide the globe, anchor, and eagle tattooed on his chest. “I see you brought your own coffee, take a load off!” he said, pointing at a chair.  He held up a bottle of Wild Turkey, “Want me to sweeten it?”

            Howard extended his coffee mug and watched as Buddy topped it before bringing the bottle to his own lips and downing three big swallows. Putting the bottle on the table he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, patted it against the paper and said; “Do you know what our stupid assed city council did?”

            “No. We didn’t get a paper. The old lady is calling to give them hell.”

            Batch grinned. “Sure you did. It’s right here. I got it about an hour ago.”

            Howard shrugged, “Oh, so you’re a paper thief! I’ll bite; what did the counsel do?”

            “Hell! They canceled the Fourth of July, that’s what the dumb bastards did, on account of the drought. Here we got a whole ocean where it’s safe and they’re afraid of starting a fire. They say not having the fireworks will help balance their budget.”

            “Crap! That’s a damn shame!” Howie declared, reaching for the Wild Turkey. I been looking forward to that. Hell every kid in town is sure to be disappointed. Balance the budget my ass. That’s what they done when they fired all them useless cops and firemen!” He tilted the bottle and drank. When he finished he banged the bottle down. “We ain’t gonna let the bastards get away with that! We’ll get our own rockets.”

            Buddy reached for the bottle. “What do you mean—we?”

            “Hell, Batch, if you don’t go along with this, you ain’t got a hair on your ass.”

            Buddy shrugged and raised the bottle. “Okay, count me in.” He took another swig. “It’s a good thing me and Heather split. I got a feeling there’s gonna be hell to pay over this.”

            Howard grabbed the bottle and drained it, “Semper Fi, Buddy.”

           

            The next afternoon the two men climbed into Howie’s Ram 1500 and headed south to find what they needed. A saw-buck shy of two-hundred dollars later, they returned with a treasure trove of star-burst rockets, Roman candles, and half-a-dozen strings of fire-crackers, plus two bottles of Wild Turkey.

            “Howie, what’s your old lady gonna say about this?”

            “What Betty don’t know won’t hurt her none.”

            Buddy opened a new bottle of Wild Turkey “Yeah, how you gonna keep her from finding out?”

            “I’ve been thinking about that, and I figure the best thing to do is send her up to Detroit to visit her sister. She don’t give a rat’s ass for this heat anyway. Since your main squeeze snatched the Chevy, we can stash this stuff in your garage.”

            Everything went according to plan. Betty went north and the two men drank there merry way toward the big day. They finished their second bottle at midnight on July 3^rd, and then unsteadily meandered into Buddy’s garage.

“Why don’t we load all this stuff in your Ram and drive down to the beach?”

            “No dice, someone might hear; besides, I ain’t gonna chance getting stuck in the damn soft sand.”

            Buddy slung two strings of fire-crackers over each shoulder. As he stooped to pick up the rest, his Marlboro touched the wick; with the first pop his eyes widened, he threw up both arms sending the strings back into the garage where they set off the Roman candles; they fired hitting the star-bursts.

            Howie hollered, “You idiot!” Where’s the garden hose?”

            “In the garage, asshole!”

            “Stupid moron!”

Rockets flew in six different directions, lighting up the garage and progressing from there. Buddy screamed, “You dumb jerk! Get a fire extinguisher!” The two men half ran and half staggered toward the beach.

            “Dummy!”

            “Screw-up!”

            “Damn fool marine-reject!”

            “Jack-ass!”

            “Blockhead!”

            The next morning’s paper lamented the loss of two beachfront cottages due to the night’s mischief. To safe-guard the community, a pair of drunks were now detained.

           

           

Hi Everyone:


I'm almost a week behind in writing. Last Wednesday, I promised myself that I would write this the next day. But we all know how that goes. Promises, promises. At least the road to hell is paved.

Tomorrow is flag day. I don't know about you, but I look forward to it. We own about 10 flags, some large, some not so large and a bunch of small ones and I love displaying them in the myriad of flower pots around the front of our house. We have one flag, however, that has never been put out for our neighbors to enjoy. It is quite large and silky and is made to pull down like a giant window-shade. We bought it a couple of years ago. I've never been able to figure out how to install it because of the construction of the roof's overhang. My wife, Danielle, who is far more mechanically oriented than I, says that she has figured that out and, after years of prodding, she has finally put it on her lengthy list of things to do. It doesn't look like she's going to activate that item however, until July. If I'm lucky she'll have it ready to unveil by the fourth of July. Don't ask what year.

According to my trusty callendar, Father's Day arrives on Sunday, June 19th. (It's time for a commercial.) If you are looking for a great gift for your father, here is a suggestion, one that will give him hours of enjoyment; give him a copy of my novel, Alex, Peanut Butter and Me.
It just so happens that I have a few copies available and while they are priced at $12.95 retail, you can purchase one at the discounted price of just $10.00--while they last. I'll handle the shipping cost myself.  If you don't give gifts for Father's Day, buy one for yourself. Summer starts on June 20th and the story is a great one to take on a picnic or to the beach.

Back to our regularly scheduled program. Speaking of books, my close friend, Frank Lohan, has become a regular reading machine. While his tastes are eclectic, lately he has gotten into suspense novels. When he is finished with them, he hands them to me, so I have novels by
Michael Connelly, Clive Cunssler, John Grisham and James Patterson sitting on my shelf along with An Introduction to Short Fiction. And if that isn't enough to keep me reading once I finish working on my current novel, last Saturday, Evelyn Horowitz, a member of The Writer's Studio gave me an interesting book to read. It's entitled: "How to Read and Why" by Harold Bloom. Maybe I'd better start by reading it. It may help me decide if I should read any of the others on my shelf.

            Josh

27 May 2016

Hi Everyone:

Armed Forces Day passed a week ago and Memorial Day is just ahead. It's enough to make one nostalgic for time spent in the military. No disrespect meant to those who served their country for 20 or 30 years, but I don't often feel nostalgia for my paltry two years, especially the part spent in Korea. I'm as patriotic as the next guy, which means that my wife (who also served) and I will put out a number of flags to mark the holiday. My good friend, Frank Lohan, usually goes to the local cemetery. I went with him once, it was okay. I suppose I'd feel different if I belonged to one of the veteran's organizations, but I've never been much of a joiner. About the only organization that I joined of my own free will was The Boy Scouts and that was about three quarter's of a century ago. ( I don't attend any of their function either.)

I must say that as I have looked back over the years at my military service, I have come to the conclusion that it was one of the most meaningful things that I have ever done. I feel that somehow my being there made a difference. A lot of ex-military owe their education to the GI Bill. The military also offered basic courses for some whose education was lacking. I recall using my military service to obtain financing for a home. Most important of all, both my wife and I now obtain virtually all our medical care at the VA hospital. That alone has been worth every day either of us served our nation.

Many of you are aware that I no longer maintain my website. I hope to utilize this blog more frequently than I have in the past and I sure hope that you will check it out frequently. It is here that I will share with you my thoughts on writing and anything else that I deem worthy of sharing.

I have been at odds with my publisher for some months. However I did manage to obtain a small supply of my published novel, ALEX, PEANUT BUTTER AND ME. It's overarching theme is that sometimes the most insignificant act inflicts the gravest wound. It is a story of today's turbulent world. The posted retail price is $12.95 but while they last, I will part with my supply at the discounted price of just $10.00. It's a story you'll enjoy. It also makes a great gift and yes, I will sign each copy.

Hi Everyone:

Have you missed me? I've certainly missed you. I can't recall how many times I told myself that it was time to write something on my blog to let you know how things were progressing for this writer, but somehow, things often intrude to force me to put my efforts to some other purpose. Sometimes, it is the need to get out one or more queries to Literary Agents to replace those nasty rejection letters that virtually all writers receive, that is unless your name is John Gresham or Stephen King. Then there is the need I feel to write another chapter in my current project, a novel whose working title is: Where there's a Will . . .There's a Relative. Sometimes, it's some chore on my wife's Honey-do list, although to be honest, that's pretty rare because, for the most part, she is one of those rare people who would rather do it herself. No, it is more likely to be our dog, Cookie. She comes into my office and shoves her muzzle into my thigh to let me know that it is time for me to take her out. At any rate, it has been a while since I added to this blog, but I'm here now and ready to write.

Daylight Savings arrived yesterday and today the last of our many timepieces got changed. The only one that I changed is the one on my wrist. Like I said, Danielle would rather do it herself. This morning the alarm went off at 6:00 a.m. because it's Monday, one of the three days each week that our son goes (at 8:00 am) to, what he calls, work at the Habilitation Center. Shortly after 7:00 a.m. Cookie and I were out the door for her long walk and I must say that it was barely light enough for me to see without the aid of a flashlight. All this is leading up to observe that with more daylight hours, there should be more time for me to be productive or few excuses for not writing. That, of course, assumes that I can get my brain to kick in and begin to chart my way through the next twist in the plot of my novel. It is a family saga, so there are plenty of threads that need to be woven in and out of the main storyline.

This is especially daunting now, because I am writing this story pretty much as it comes to me. For those novels where I start by developing a detailed outline, keeping all the threads moving is less of a problem. I'll let you in on a little secret; sometimes, when I am having trouble deciding where I want the plot to go, I revert to writing a brief outline, (one of my teachers used to say that writing causes thinking). Outlining is really just a mental exercise of thinking ahead as to where the many characters in the story are going. I think I read somewhere that when Mario Puzo was writing The Godfather he kept a big piece of paper tacked to his wall and diagrammed the various mob-families to keep track of what happened to all the various members. Some authors use 3 X 5 cards to keep track of each character and to write down their physical characteristics, interests and quirks. Right now, I'm using notebook paper to keep that kind of data straight (I keep everything pertaining to the novel in a notebook so nothing gets lost, but I'm thinking about switching to cards for my next book. I've even thought about switching to the card system for this novel, but I'm 40 chapters into it, which means I probably will finish it in another 20 or so chapters. I think it's a little late to change systems. What do you think?

That brings me to the realization that it is time to get busy on the next chapter. I need to get at it while I still have a firm grasp on who the characters are, what it will contain, and just how it will move my story forward.

          Josh

8 January 2016

Hi Everyone:

Gee, I got the year right. Usually, it takes about a month before I can automatically get that part of the date correct on the first try. Does this mean that I am not slipping into dementia? I  hope so. Anyway, let me not forget to wish you all a Very Happy New Year!

Some people make all kinds of resolution. I suppose that some of them are even kept. I've had no luck with either side of that equation, so this year I resolved not to repeat any of last year's resolutions. However, that is not to say that I won't persist in trying to locate a good Literary Agent for my adult novel, The Unvarnished Truth and for my young adult trilogy, Adventures of Silent Sam. In addition, I fully intend to finish the family saga that at the present time is bedeviling me, it's working title is: Where There's a Will--There's a Relative.termined to find a Literary Agent for  my novel, The Unvarnished Truth &

tures of Silent Sam.  And somehow,lan to finish my newest family saga, Where There's a
I've written a little over half of this latest novel, and I must say that it's  getting harder and harder to write. Up until last month, I was writing it from the seat of my pants (In my case, that may be where the brain is located) by that I mean, that as the author, I know where I want the story to go and I kind of lose myself inside my characters and let them dictate the story. Unfortunately, somewhere between Thanksgiving and the December Holidays, that ceased to work. I have resorted to doing what I did when I first began to write. I mentally concentrate on the next scene or the next chapter and once I get an idea about where it should go, I write a brief outline. That has gotten me through the last four-chapters. How much further it will take me, I haven't a clue. The only thing I can tell you is that since the wealthy main character is in the process of revising his will, I think it is time for the greedy relatives to begin to surface. Ah, I can hardly wait to figure out just how their greed will manifest. If you have any ideas, please send them to me at: jjtrux@att.net/

You might like to check out my website. As of this date, it has received over six thousand-hits, so I know a lot of people are checking it out. You'll find it at: joshswritingroom.com  You can bet that once I send this out, my next task will be to place a different story in the Current Post section of the website. I shall try to post my friend, Frank Lohan's story, Not My Dog. Being a dog lover, it's one of my favorites. Read it! It just might become a favorite with you too.

By the way, my publisher has recently changed names. Henceforth, my novel, Alex, Peanut Butter and Me will be published by Indigo Sea Press, LLC. From now on, if you go to a book store to purchase my book, (and I hope you will, it's a good read & it makes a terrific gift) the store can order it under a new ISBN number: 978-1-63066-420-6
        Josh