By Indie Authors for Indie Authors.

Category: Short Stories and Excerpts (Page 2 of 5)

Lies, Secrets and Murder. My Journey to Find the Truth.

 

Victoria Patton

 

Lies, Secrets and Murder. My Journey to Find the Truth.

 

by Victoria M. Patton

 

The following is an introduction to Victoria M. Patton’s latest project. The account is non-fiction. Ms. Patton is currently searching for any information surrounding her father’s death and writing about her journey in the process. 

 

 

My mother died last November. She took with her a lot of secrets. Unfortunately, I am left with bits and pieces of my life and they aren’t all the pieces of the puzzle. Now I could be, should be, content with the stories I have and the memories that fill my head. But alas it is the selfish bitch within that is not content or satisfied.

I am mad that my mother took these secrets to the grave with her. I am mad that even in my forties she didn’t think I could handle knowing the facts surrounding my father’s death. So, here I sit writing about a search I can’t even get started. Not for lack of trying, but I can’t find any records to substantiate my brother’s story.

Understand, that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. After all, he sat through the trial and heard all the testimony, so he has first-hand knowledge.

 

 

The Losers

A little background, my father came out of the 101st Airborne and went into acting. He was in the 1970 movie “The Losers”, with Adam Roarke, Bernie Hamilton and William Smith. He acted under the name of Houston Savage. (His given name was Giovanni De Blasio.) He was making a name for himself in the acting world.

According to my brother Patrick, sometime shortly after the filming of the movie, my father became involved with a mob-like group of people. He and several others colluded with a president of a very wealthy business. (My brother remembers it as some kind of department store in which the president of the company kept extremely valuable items in the safe of his office. All of this was revealed in the trial. Which the prosecutors wanted my mother and all us kids to attend every day.)

According to testimony, my father, the men he was involved with, and the president of the company, had planned to steal the contents of the safe. Then the president was going to report the theft and claim the insurance money. It was a substantial amount of money. I’m not sure exactly on the particulars, but the amount and fraud landed the case in Federal court.

The security guard on duty that night was in on the theft. But at the last minute, he backed out. His replacement had no idea of the arranged crime that was going to happen. The president of the company and my father were in the president’s office having a drink before my father was supposed to rough him up a bit and the take the contents of the safe.

The replacement guard, making his nightly rounds, saw a light under the door. He poked his head into the office. The president became nervous and eyed my father’s gun sitting on the desk. He freaked out at the interruption, pointing to my dad saying, “He’s robbing me, he has a gun.”

My father was arrested. He wasn’t about to go to jail for a crime where he was only getting a small cut, so he turned state’s evidence for immunity. He testified and named everyone involved in the case. After his testimony, he received special permission to go to either an acting audition or to an acting job, (I’m not sure which), but he had permission to leave the Dallas, TX area.

He never showed up to his destination.

According to my brother, my mom just thought it was my dad being his usual self. He often said he would be somewhere and never show up. No one really thought much of it. Until my mother received a phone call.

One of her relatives saw a story in an Arkansas paper about a man found murdered on a farmer’s property. He had been stripped naked, tied to the fence and shot several times. The article listed several things that made my mother’s relative think it was my father Giovanni. My mother flew to Little Rock Arkansas to view the body. She positively identified my father.

That is where the lies and secrets began.

She told everyone it was a car wreck. How the hell no one found out what had really happened is pure luck. I recently spoke with a Detective in my local area about how to get the information concerning this trial. I have researched it online as much as I can and I have found nothing. No records of a big federal trial at that time. Nothing. The Detective explained that if my father’s death was at all attributed to the direct evidence given in the trial, the entire case and all its testimony would be on lock down until all persons involved are dead. Even the Freedom of Information Act couldn’t get anything released.

So here I sit, with this multitude of information. I can’t move forward because I can’t get the information needed. I don’t want to go backwards. Shit, the past was hard enough the first go round. So I wait. I keep researching and asking questions.

It’s frustrating. It adds another layer to a mess of emotions left behind when my mother died. I’m not really angry at my mom. Frustrated is a better word. She always told me she did the best she could with what she knew. I live by those words now with my own kids.

I research. And I wait.

 

If you have any information that may help me in my research, please contact me at victoria@victoriampatton.com. I would appreciate any help in this matter.

 

 

 

Victoria M. Patton AuthorAbout the Author

Victoria M. Patton lives with her husband of twenty years and her two teenagers, as well as three dogs and a cat. Her years in the Coast Guard doing Search and Rescue/Law Enforcement and her BS in Forensic Chemistry have led her to write Crime Fiction. She gears her blog Whiskey and Writing towards helping new authors in their endeavor to write their first book. Check out her author website at www.victoriampatton.com. Email her at victoria@victoriampatton.com. She would love to hear from you.

 

 

 

 

 

Find more writing and publishing tips at Nothing Any Good.

A Story In Song (Part 7—Amos Lee)

 

I have a story in my book Pieces Like Pottery—”The Gravesite: The Fifth Sorrowful Mystery”—in which I experimented with a number of different literary devices. More and more readers have begun to notice one of the devices more regularly. 

In addition to breaking the story up into ten sections, each of which follows one of the themes from the fifth sorrowful mystery, each section in the story also has a song that is paired with it. Yes, you read that right. I paired a song with each section. Like a fine wine paired with a good meal, the song’s lyrics are intended not only to add another layer of meaning to the words, but can also be listened along with that section of the story.

While more and more readers have been picking up on this, it’s certainly not an easy task for the casual reader, especially not one reading the print version of the book. I’ve promised to do this for quite awhile, so here you go. In ten parts, here is “The Gravesite: The Fifth Sorrowful Mystery” paired with each song. Enjoy!

(For those of you that might be interested in how this section ties into the fifth sorrowful mystery, the fifth sorrowful mystery is The Crucifixion and the “spiritual fruit” is the Pardoning of Injuries. Part 5 reflects Jesus’ prayer,”Father, into Your hands I commend My spirit.”)

 

If you missed Part 1 through Part 6, go back start from the beginning! Enjoy!

 

 

The Gravesite 

The Fifth Sorrowful Mystery

Part 7


 

The next month was more of the same for Lisa. She contacted foreign authorities, she posted on missing children websites, and she talked to anyone who would listen. She found herself spending hour after hour on the internet, chatting with support groups and researching missing children options. She particularly was drawn to Hope More, a support network for families with missing or exploited children. The group was made up of individuals, like Lisa, who had been forced to live the nightmare that no parent wants to face. Lisa found parents who had experienced a similar pain and who were coping with the trauma. “You’re not alone. We’re here to help you!” That was Hope More’s motto. Lisa found purpose searching on these sites, but she found no comfort. They told her she was not alone, but it certainly felt like she was.

Mike had originally thought this would end, but it only seemed to get worse. Lisa would wade through each day in a daze. She wouldn’t sleep at night. On nights when Mike couldn’t sleep, he would wander downstairs to spend some time on the front porch. He would always find Lisa in the same place, parked in front of the computer.

“I’m searching for answers,” she would tell him hollowly.

But Mike knew the haunting reality: there weren’t answers. Their son had tragically died far before his time. There was pain, anger, sadness, despair, hatred, regrets, and on and on, but there were no answers. He believed Lisa knew this too, yet there she sat for hours every night. Like a drug addict needing a fix, Lisa would search internet page after internet page chatting with parents whose children were missing. She believed relief would come from her time spent online, but she was only left with the agony of her son being gone.

Sometimes, when Mike would wander downstairs in the middle of the night, he would try to comfort her. He would find Lisa staring into the haze of the pixelated display. The harsh white light would illuminate her face amidst the darkness of the room around her. Mike tried talking to her; he tried sitting there with her; he tried making her food; he tried rubbing her shoulders; he even one time brought a pillow and blanket downstairs and slept on the ground next to her. Signs of solidarity, he’d hoped. None of it seemed to break through the cloud of sadness that enveloped Lisa.

During one of his attempts to reach out, Mike was unable to sleep and was headed for the front porch. As he wandered to the kitchen to first make a cup of tea, he noticed Lisa sitting in her usual late night perch. He made two cups of tea and set the second next to the keyboard in front of her. Mike reached to rub her shoulders, which were tense and strained from weeks of hovering over the computer. His touch startled Lisa, as if awakening her from thoughts of a distant world. Her body shied away from Mike’s approach. Without looking at him, Lisa got up from her chair and slowly shuffled away.

Mike fell into the chair defeated. Before him were two internet windows. One was riddled with searches of missing children support groups and tips on convincing authorities to do more to search for a missing children. Mike sighed despairingly when he saw the webpages.

When will it end? Mike thought to himself.

The other page was Chris’ blog site. A new post haunted the screen.

 

“And the world is so much meaner when your heart is hard.”

July 7th

I’ve recently been pondering how much I fight myself. I want to love and share love. There’s so much fighting and hate in this world and I don’t want to be a part of it, but this is difficult in practice. I find myself constantly fighting against loving. A man on the bus slighted me yesterday, and I stewed over the incident. The lady at the gas station was rude, and I couldn’t just let it go. Why do I have such a hard time letting go? If I could offer up my time and thoughts to more important matters, if I could focus my energy on the things I care about, if I could commend my spirit to love, wouldn’t I be much more peaceful? Wouldn’t the elusive and mysterious happiness be much closer? It’s interesting to ponder at least.

 

Mike found himself not thinking much about Chris’ latest post at all. He couldn’t shake the constant sinking feeling that he was losing his wife. He decided he needed to take action. As he sipped his cooling tea, he decided Lisa’s fixations on conspiracy theories and the possibility that Chris may still be alive had to end. They were keeping her from moving on with her own life. They were driving the two of them apart.

The next morning, he began searching for a logical explanation for why the blogs were being posted. He started searching on the internet for some explanation. He also began to more directly and more often suggest to Lisa that she should begin to accept that Chris was dead. When his own searches proved fruitless and Lisa’s obsession continued, Mike called a few of Chris’ friends to see if they had any information. They all expressed their condolences and sadness, but none of them had any information on Chris’ blog and why there were new posts.

After a number of weeks of his own efforts, he decided to commission one of the IT guys at his office to help, fully expecting they would track the IP address that the posts came from to one of Chris’ friends. A week later, after a little digging, Mike’s coworker came to him with some information.

“Live long after dot com,” the IT specialist said as he laid a post-it on Mike’s desk.

Mike picked it up and held it in his hand as his office mate continued. “Apparently, it’s a website that will continue to post blogs for you after you’ve died. Actually, they’ll do more than just post blogs. They’ll send letters, packages, money, secrets, a whole variety of options, each for a different fee. I guess it’s a way to remain relevant after your death or to patch up past regrets from beyond the grave. A little eerie if you ask me.

“The blogging option seems simple enough by the description on their website. Upload as many prewritten blogs as you’d like, and they’ll post them according to the schedule you laid out after they’ve received word of your death. They have algorithms constantly scrolling news sites and the internet for death notices on their clients. Chris’ posts are coming from their IP address.”

As a range of emotions flooded Mike’s thoughts, his coworker continued. “I called them up, but they wouldn’t give any information. ‘Confidential,’ they kept telling me. They’re located in India, but apparently have clients from all over the world.”

He paused. “I’m sorry, Mike.”

 

Check out Part 8 of “The Gravesite.”

 

Bottom of the Barrel (Lyrics)

Amos Lee

I keep on livin’,
to keep from cryin’.
I keep on dreamin’,
to keep from dyin’.
I keep on trying,
I aint gonna stop.

Get right down to the bottom of the barrel and float back on top.

We all know someone,
whos always hurtin’,
The sun is shinin’,
they draw the curtain.
One thing for certain,
the pain aint gonna stop.

You get right down to the bottom of the barrel and float back on top.

Cuz i know the grass,
is always greener in someone else’s yard.
And the world is so much meaner,
when your heart is hard.

I go out walkin’,
in any season.
It could be rainin’,
it could be freezin’.
I don’t need no reason,
it’s just so pleasin’.
And i can’t stop.

You get right down to the bottom of the barrel and float back on top.

You get right down to the bottom of the barrel and float back on top.

 

 

Find more writing and publishing tips at Nothing Any Good.

A Story In Song (Part 6—Right Away, Great Captain!)

 

I have a story in my book Pieces Like Pottery—”The Gravesite: The Fifth Sorrowful Mystery”—in which I experimented with a number of different literary devices. More and more readers have begun to notice one of the devices more regularly. 

In addition to breaking the story up into ten sections, each of which follows one of the themes from the fifth sorrowful mystery, each section in the story also has a song that is paired with it. Yes, you read that right. I paired a song with each section. Like a fine wine paired with a good meal, the song’s lyrics are intended not only to add another layer of meaning to the words, but can also be listened along with that section of the story.

While more and more readers have been picking up on this, it’s certainly not an easy task for the casual reader, especially not one reading the print version of the book. I’ve promised to do this for quite awhile, so here you go. In ten parts, here is “The Gravesite: The Fifth Sorrowful Mystery” paired with each song. Enjoy!

(For those of you that might be interested in how this section ties into the fifth sorrowful mystery, the fifth sorrowful mystery is The Crucifixion and the “spiritual fruit” is the Pardoning of Injuries. Part 6 reflects Jesus’ words, “I thirst.”)

 

If you missed Part 1 through Part 5, go back start from the beginning! Enjoy!

 

The Gravesite 

The Fifth Sorrowful Mystery

Part 6


 

Lisa and Mike began checking the site regularly. Since Chris’ apparent death, they had found themselves drifting away from each other. They found that the blog was the only thing that kept them connected, and they found they both dealt with sorrow completely different from the other. Mike focused his pain and sadness into his work. He wanted to remember his son and push on each day with the fervor that Chris would. He loved the gift the new blog posts brought him, but he didn’t believe for a moment that his son might not be dead. Lisa, though, had a much harder time. She fixated on a number of different conspiracy theories—the other American boy murdered Chris, or the other boy didn’t mean to but still caused it, or the Thai government caused it and covered a mistake of one of their own, or, one she seemed to become more fond of with each passing day, Chris wasn’t actually dead. Lisa never spoke these out loud at first, but over time she began to voice them.

At one point, Lisa asked her husband point blank, “Do you think Chris is still alive?”

Mike sighed; the pain of such an idea frustrated him. He wanted to move on, not to forget Chris, but to keep living. “No, honey. Chris died.”

“Yea…” Lisa said as her voice trailed off. She stared across the kitchen table not looking at Mike, not looking at anything at all. She stared into nothing. “It’s odd they never found his body though, right? It makes you think maybe he really isn’t dead.”

“No, Lisa. It doesn’t make me think that at all.”

“Well, why not? Not even a little bit? It’s possible that Chris is still alive. Maybe it’s a small possibility, but it’s possible.”

“No, it’s not,” Mike said matter-of-factly. He wasn’t responding coldly to his wife; he simply struggled to even entertain the idea. “He’s not alive, Lisa. He’s not mysteriously missing but still posting on his small blog somewhere. Why in the world would he do that? I know finding his body would bring some sort of closure, but we don’t need closure through seeing his body. We have the memories of Chris, the laughter he brought us, the frustration he caused always challenging common perceptions, the excitement he gave us. We’ll always have that from our son, and the peace of knowing that he was our son. We raised him. But he’s gone, Lisa.”

“Well I still have hope, however small it may be. I don’t get how you can let him go so quickly.”

“I haven’t let him go. I lay awake at night with an empty hole left in my life, in my soul. But I don’t want to forget the rest of my life. I want to put the pain I feel into each day. I’m trying to keep living, but I haven’t forgotten.”

“It feels like you might have. I wish I could live my life, but I just can’t. I carried him for nine months, gave birth to him, breastfed him, loved him. I simply can’t move on, especially if there’s a chance he might still be alive.”

“I love him too, but there’s not a chance he’s still alive. It pains me to say it, but there’s not.”

“Think what you want. There’s a chance.” Lisa’s voice was distant now. “Why do you think there’s been two more blogs? It makes no sense.”

These words trailed off looking for a home but drifting through the air without finding one. She slowly slipped from her chair and went to the computer in the next room. She found herself reading and re-reading Chris’ old posts every day. Lisa longed for another connection with him. She wanted a new post to be there. She was granted that gift when the webpage loaded. See, Lisa thought to herself, there’s a chance.

 

“I can see straight down your crooked teeth. You feel so dumb, mouth open large. You’ve got exactly what I’m drinking for.”

June 15th

He came out of nowhere and stunned me. A short statured Indian man popped out of a small alleyway the other day. He looked ragged, tired, hot. “Watah,” he exclaimed.

“Whoa. Excuse me?” I responded, surprised as much by the fact that he was speaking to me in English on the streets of Thailand as I was by his quick approach. The majority of the English I’ve spoken over the last few weeks has been either in my head or with a lot of gestures and pointing. I’ve heard even less spoken to me.

“Can I have some of your watah?” he clarified in very good English.

I looked down and noticed the Nalgene bottle hanging from a carabiner on my backpack. “Sure, I guess so.”

So I shared with him some water. He opened his hands out to me, as if suggesting I pour the water into his cupped fingers. I insisted he drink directly from the bottle. There’s something about traveling and living in dingy hostels that changes your disposition to grimy strangers, I guess. I’ve found that people are more willing to assist with someone else’s homeless people. For some reason, the man struggling on the street in your own hometown is easy to ignore, but find a man on the street halfway across the world, and we all become bleeding hearts. I found myself reacting the same way. Maybe I assume the homeless man in my own city has been afforded the same opportunities and options in life that I’ve had, but I don’t know what the man in a foreign land has been afforded. I’m not sure what it is. It’s a silly way to think, whatever it is, but I digress. Back to the man on the street in Thailand.

The man drank the smallest sip of my water, to which I encouraged him to drink more. He clearly needed it more than I. After a long gulp, he looked into my eyes and frowned. I patiently waited for him to say “Thank you,” but he didn’t speak a word. Finally, surprised that my supposed kindness was not being recognized or appreciated, I shrugged and said, “You’re welcome.”

I saw a smile creep across his face. He looked up at the sky, then to the ground at his feet, then directly into my eyes again and said in his Indian accent, “For what? For sharing with me what you have plenty and I have none? I’ll notify the authorities to throw you a parade.”

Once again, I stared at the man in amazement. It seems that’s all this man caused me to do—be stunned. He popped out of nowhere and startled me. He acted as if I would pour water into his fingers. He took the smallest sip possible for his first drink. Then after drinking nearly half the bottle, he mocked my desire for thanks. I was stunned. He didn’t say another word to me. He nodded politely and turned back down the alley. I stood for a moment unable to move. What just happened? I slowly walked away pondering the encounter in disbelief. It’s stuck with me since. I can’t seem to shake it for some reason. I would typically chalk the encounter up to him being rude and disgruntled. He wasn’t though. He was polite and unfailing. I, on the other hand, was startled and entitled. And, at that point, out of water.

 

Lisa smiled at the screen. “See,” she mumbled again to Mike, knowing full well that he couldn’t hear her.

Maybe it was the timing of the post, right after the argument with Mike about whether there was a chance Chris could still be alive. Maybe it was her inability to accept what everyone else was telling her. Whatever it was, Lisa became fixated on the possibility of Chris still being alive.

She began by calling the local police. An officer was sent to the house of the frantic woman explaining how her dead son might still be alive. The kind officer took notes about the death of their son in Thailand, but it was clear he’d drawn the short straw among all the officers down at the station. Lisa didn’t seem to notice, though, and pointed out blog post after blog post.

“I’m not saying he’s clearly alive,” Lisa acknowledged. “I’m just saying it’s a little odd isn’t it?”

“Maybe his account was hacked, ma’am,” the officer responded kindly. “Or maybe Chris has friends that wrote with him, and they are still writing. Maybe it’s their way of coping.”

“Chris would never let anyone write for him. It just doesn’t make sense. Maybe he’s kidnapped somewhere, but still has access to the blog.”

The officer nodded politely, wanting to point out that if her son was kidnapped but still posting blogs, it would probably make more sense for him to be posting messages of distress or cries for help. He opted to keep it to himself, realizing that reason had left this discussion long ago.

At one point, Mike looked at the officer as if to say, “Thanks for humoring us.” Lisa caught the glance and felt completely betrayed.

“Thanks a lot,” Lisa said and marched off upstairs. Both Mike and the officer stared at each other briefly, unclear what words should be exchanged next. After the pause, they exchanged niceties and shook hands.

“Tell your wife we’ll be in touch if anything comes up.”

“Thanks so much for your time,” Mike replied as he closed the door behind the police officer.

 

 

Check out Part 7 of “The Gravesite.”

 

Night Marry You (Lyrics)

Right Away, Great Captain!

 

Darling you have yet to hold me close
During the war, with your heart
I can see strait down your crooked teeth
You feel so dumb, mouth open large
You’ve got exactly what I’m drinking for

Darling you can bet to see my ghost
Up on the wall watching you eat
Yeah its true i dream about you two
Grinding my mouth losing my teeth
You are exactly what a night-mares for.
I’ll night marry you.

Skipper i can barely swab the deck,
Slipping around on fishes bones
Commonly i write more than i speak about our love with sticks and stones
I’ve seen you cast away this cast before
And your casting spells again

Doctor I’ve got bandages and bloods
Places underneath my minute gun
Finally the funeral unique
To all my sins, there all long long
They are exactly what this crying is for
They are exactly what this dying is for
You are exactly what I’m dying for

 

Find more writing and publishing tips at Nothing Any Good.

 

A Story In Song (Part 5—Blind Pilot)

 

I have a story in my book Pieces Like Pottery—”The Gravesite: The Fifth Sorrowful Mystery”—in which I experimented with a number of different literary devices. More and more readers have begun to notice one of the devices more regularly. 

In addition to breaking the story up into ten sections, each of which follows one of the themes from the fifth sorrowful mystery, each section in the story also has a song that is paired with it. Yes, you read that right. I paired a song with each section. Like a fine wine paired with a good meal, the song’s lyrics are intended not only to add another layer of meaning to the words, but can also be listened along with that section of the story.

While more and more readers have been picking up on this, it’s certainly not an easy task for the casual reader, especially not one reading the print version of the book. I’ve promised to do this for quite awhile, so here you go. In ten parts, here is “The Gravesite: The Fifth Sorrowful Mystery” paired with each song. Enjoy!

(For those of you that might be interested in how this section ties into the fifth sorrowful mystery, the fifth sorrowful mystery is The Crucifixion and the “spiritual fruit” is the Pardoning of Injuries. Part 5 reflects Jesus’ words, “Woman, behold your Son. Son, behold your Mother.”)

 

If you missed Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, or Part 4, go back start from the beginning! Enjoy!

 

The Gravesite 

The Fifth Sorrowful Mystery

Part 5


 

Two days later, Lisa found another post. Well, in actuality, Mike discovered the new post this time. When Lisa first described their son’s new blog, Mike immediately dismissed it as grief-filled ramblings. It was a day later before he even checked back to the website. In his mind, he thought that if he visited the site with Lisa, they would find it unchanged from weeks ago, and her odd infatuation with a fake new post would be forced to subside. What he found, instead, he was not expecting. He was surprised to find she was right.

“See,” Lisa said without being smug.

“Oh my god,” was all Mike could muster. He kissed his wife and began to read through tear-filled eyes. He barely understood a single word on the screen before him. Thoughts of his son now rushed through his mind. Tears one at a time ran down his cheek, slowly but consistently. When he finished, he kissed his wife again and walked to the front porch of their old Victorian home. He spent the rest of the night there staring at the towering oak tree in their front yard. He loved this oak. Its branches alone were the size of tree trunks. The neighborhood grew around it over the years, but the oak always stood tall. Soon, within the next year, Mike would watch his beloved oak tumble to the ground, but now he sat thinking about his son, and aching from how much he missed him.

The next day, he checked back to re-read the mysterious post. To his surprise, another post had already refreshed on Chris’ website. The words radiated off the computer screen to Mike, simple and succinct.

“The only line that is true, is the line that you’re from.”

June 4th

Life oftentimes gets in the way of living. We take painstaking effort to make a living only to forget about our life. We get so caught up in the details of our life only to disregard the enjoyment we get in actually living it. Remember to enjoy your day today. Tell your friends you love them. Hug your family. Clichés are obnoxious and démodé, but they become clichés for a reason and it’s not because they’re untrue. Tell your loved ones you love them today. You don’t know when you’ll be afforded the opportunity again.

For me, I love my family. I hold onto them tightly. Keep being a model of a man, Dad. I emulate you.

Mom—You gave birth to me. You raised me. You loved me. You put up with my antics and constant questioning of authority, ever the idealistic juvenile. Yet you always loved me. Each day I behold the love you have for me. Why you love me so much, I’ll never know, but I love you for it more than you know.

 

Mike was honored by his son’s simple words. He found himself smiling without sorrow, not because he wasn’t sad, but because he was happy that he raised such a well-adjusted boy. Through no doing of my own, Mike thought.

 

Check out Part 6 of “The Gravesite.”

One Red Thread (Lyrics)

Blind Pilot

 

Oh from the first that the line got drawn
It was poisoning the land it was on
One red thread through the middle of a song
My only one, my only one

I can remember the age that I was
But not that story that pumped in my blood
When you were the savior
And I was the taker of
Oh where I was

Oh but man, oh man, you can do what you want
Oh man, oh man, you can do what you want
The only line that is true is the line you’re from

I have to say there was a mile or two
I had the itch to fly and I flew
Now at best we would make our dreams
With something used
With something used

From the minute that the line got drawn
I couldn’t see straight to you for nothing
Now me, I’m the poisoning one
Yeah I’m the one
I am the…

Oh but man, oh man, you can do what you want
Oh man, oh man, you can do what you want
The only line that is true is the line you’re-
Oh man, oh man, you can do what you want
Oh man, oh man, you can do what you want
The only line that is true is the line you’re from
The only line that is true is the line you’re from

 

 

Find more writing and publishing tips at Nothing Any Good.

« Older posts Newer posts »

© 2020 Nothing Any Good

Theme by Anders NorenUp ↑

Become the Best Writer You Can Be

Discover why Hundreds of Authors subscribe to Dan's newsletter.

Subscribe to learn how he became a #1 Bestselling Author and immediately boost your success as a writer.