(*Old Mill Road, Richmond Town – Photos by Joe)

The most exciting thing about starting the novel process for me is that the impetus forms completely outside of my control. That is to say, I could never write a novel, but there’s something outside of my scope of understanding that can.

In the beginning, silly, abstract thoughts form the basis for what I believe will be the foundation for a novel. There is no way I can say why I believe they will work. The tell tale sign that I have a story to tell, is when my excitement grows to a fever pitch. Not long after, The Words come.

I find I’m more excited to begin a novel, than to finish it. It was that way for my two Max Beckley novels, both of which I couldn’t be more proud of.

       Check out this related post: Bald Punk on Writing 101

The ideas for the Max Beckley novels, the first of which is titled ABDUCTION STORY, came over a few weeks. It was years ago, in the month of August. I was originally inspired by summer skies. I thought there was a mystery in them that needed to be unraveled.

I can also remember one morning watching planes land at Newark International Airport. It was then that I first imagined a man locked in a dark space, whose only escape was to a mysterious world or other dimension. I kept dreaming, and daydreaming about these different skies and why and how this man was locked away, and how he could break in and out of that mysterious world. All the while, dreams of death and dying I’d had as a child, came back to me.

It was weeks before I wrote a single word, but I was certain they would come. And they did, late one August evening on Staten Island.

    See links below for my other experience on SI:

       Seventh Episode – May 2009 (Bald Punk Rides Again)

       Bald Punk The Explorer!

       My Journey to the Edge of the World!

       Staten Island BBQ Mayhem

       Bald Punk Rides Again

I had piloted my Plymouth Acclaim up the tight curves of Snake Hill, then weaved through La Tourette Golf Course, and come to the top of Richmond Hill Road, when I first caught a glimpse of the most amazing August sky. I continued down the road to the Staten Island Mall, and parked by Richmond Ave, out across from Sears.

I eyed the start of a chemical sunset over the factories in Elizabeth, NJ. In the southwestern sky was a tall, long, and massive shaft of molten clouds. Breathtaking is an apt description. I can still see that hallowed cloud belt now. I imagined that within the blazing colors lay the mystery of Heaven. At that moment a violent rush of inspiration coursed through me: I had to get “those clouds” on paper! It took three years, and more than 160,000 words(draft version was over 200k), for me to be satisfied.

Along the way, I lost myself inside a Picasso or two, but that was only to clear my head/to stop my conscious self from thinking. Because a book writes itself, and the author should rarely if ever get involved in the writing process. But what do I know.

-

*I chose the above photo from Old Mill Road–even though in the beginning of this post I was talking about an August sunset, because it just so happens that I took that photo standing about a mile or so east from where I saw that Heavenly sunset.

—

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Thirty-Six

Max’s Story

Chapter One: “God is Forgiveness”

Chapter Two: “In Her Arms”

Chapter Three: “A Glorious Death”

-

Notes on my Max Beckley novels

Most Holy Redeemer Church in the East Village (Photos only)

—

Photos in and around Old Mill Road in Richmond Town:

A Few Winter Photos – Richmond Town

Richmond Town in Staten Island

Storm Damage in Staten Island

Church of St Andrew’s – Staten Island

-

Part of this episode is set on Old Mill Road by St. Andrews:

Episode Twenty-Seven - March 2010 (Feat: Ghost of a Slave named Hardy)

White Fire

In My Head

Inside Me

NOTHING

Here are my STORIES and info on my Novels

 (Most Holy Redeemer Church, NYC - Photo/Photoshopped by Joe)

Chapter One

Late one morning Karl became aware of a subtle change in the air. He had been sitting in a car, stationed outside a Miami orphanage. Through the back window, he spotted a taxi that had just turned onto the street. An uncanny, burning-white light inside the vehicle caught his eye. As he watched it swiftly close in, he was like a child in awe, staring with his eyes beaded and mouth agape. The light emanated from a young couple in the back of the car.

The taxi came to a halt outside the orphanage across the street. The rear passenger-side door opened and the couple exited.

For the time it took them to ascend a handful of steps and vanish into the building, Karl did not take a breath. Beneath the layer of human flesh, his alien lips gave a thin smile. He was certain that the young couple were the chosen ones. God Himself couldn’t have handpicked two better specimens, he thought.

Though Karl hadn’t selected the couple, he had been the one to find Max Beckley.

The alien relaxed in the plush seat and let the calm Miami summer sky fill his field of vision. He remembered the exact day he had abducted Max. August 27, 1776. The date had somehow stayed in his mind, probably because of the importance it held for Max. Karl still remembered looking down upon the sprawling Brooklyn battlefield from his small, open-aired craft. He could remember the flashes of exploding light, and the heavy black and gray clouds of smoke. He even remembered the precise moment he had spotted Max’s beautiful flame. It had sent a shiver through his alien flesh. It was exactly what they were looking for.

In a hasty maneuver, Karl’s craft had fallen from the sky in a blaze of color to Max’s mangled body that was just a few breaths away from death.

Since that day it had been a long and hellish course for Max. They had killed him more times than Karl cared to remember. But what a good soul; one that if all went as planned would soon be perfect.

The alien glanced back to the orphanage. Just beyond the entrance, through the closed curtains of a tinted glass door, he could still make out the pure light of the young couple. Tears welled in the alien’s eyes. A tinge of guilt tugged at his throat. “Max deserved the couple,” he told himself. They would serve him well. And, in the end, maybe they all would benefit.

Karl let his gaze drift up to the second floor window, to the room where Max unknowingly waited for the couple. A sense of anticipation spread over his stomach. He closed his eyes, daydreaming of how eternal light might feel. He imagined the final door opening and a ghostly hand beckoning him onward. It was then that from the primeval depths of his mind came a long-dismissed hope… God is forgiveness.

—

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Thirty-Six

Max’s Story

Chapter One: “God is Forgiveness”

Chapter Two: “In Her Arms”

Chapter Three: “A Glorious Death”

-

Notes on my Max Beckley novels

Most Holy Redeemer Church in the East Village (Photos only)

Here are my STORIES and info on my Novels

(Max Beckley – Uncredited picture Photoshopped by Joe)

For way too long I’ve been yakking about how I wrote two books about Max Beckley’s plight. He’s a Revolutionary War soldier that was abducted during the Battle of Brooklyn by the same demons that haunt me now.

I’m gonna share the first few chapters of the first novel. They are still a bit rough.

The working title of the book is ABDUCTED SOUL. Each novel is approximately 80,000 words.

Note that I often refer to Max’s abductors as demons on my blog, while in the books I call them aliens. I kinda think the terms are interchangeable.

—

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Thirty-Six

Max’s Story

Chapter One: “God is Forgiveness”

Chapter Two: “In Her Arms”

Chapter Three: “A Glorious Death”

-

Notes on my Max Beckley novels

Most Holy Redeemer Church in the East Village (Photos only)

-

Here are links to the first two Episodes that mention Max Beckley.

Episode Fourteen – August 2009

New York City’s Deepest, Darkest Secret

Secrets

We Are Knowing

LIFE IN TWO HOURS AND FIFTEEN MINUTES

We’re on a Road Trip to Home Depot (Secrets Interlude)

THE IMMORTALS

-

Episode Seventeen – September 2009

Carrie Robbins channels a Revolutionary War Soldier 

Hiding Behind Coltrane

Memory Giver 

The Rush Is Over

Here are my STORIES and info on my Novels

(Rear of St. Andrew’s Church, Staten Island - Photos by Bald Punk)

I was in the graveyard of old St. Andrew’s Church to take some photos. A broad shouldered man was also there taking photos. He was far enough away so that I could politely ignore him.

When I next looked up from the stones, he was a dozen feet from me and coming closer. I blinked a few times, trying to discern what was so odd about him. He surely wasn’t real.

His body looked like it was comprised of water vapor. Something inside me said it was the ghost of a slave named Hardy though it didn’t look like either of his previous incarnations.

I tried to step back, but my arms were frozen akimbo. I looked like a gunfighter with hands outstretched for holstered revolvers.

I wondered if a force that the ghost wielded from the nether world had me in its grip, yet looking back–perhaps it was the precognition that my body was seconds from being ripped in two, and I was terrified because there was no way to prevent it.

My eyes were jumping like fireflies. Was it night or day? Did it matter? I felt like I was caught in that space between life and death, between gut wrenching pain and the most exquisite nothing.

Death was everywhere. The names on the stones were like eyes staring at me from dark hallows.

“Don’t run away this time, boy,” the ghost whispered, and I recognized Hardy’s deep voice. A week ago he had spirited me in South Street Seaport, and he’d somehow been able to affect my thoughts and dreams since. Yet I still hadn’t a clue why he chose to bother with me.

We exchanged a few words. When I asked if he was the reason I couldn’t move, he didn’t answer.

Hardy’s eye sockets were pitch-black, flecked with what looked like white ash. He had high, bulbous cheek bones and a large nose. Though his dark ”skin” had a white sheen; it was clearly the ghost in him.

He came within a few feet, and I noticed salient freckles on his cheeks. I was reminded of a Little Rascals episode in which the gang had painted dots on their cheeks to pretend they had measles in order to skip school.

In Hardy’s massive right hand was a camera affixed with a telephoto lens. He lifted it higher for me to see. “Didn’t want to startle you,” he said in a bassy voice that sounded like it had a touch of reverb.

(St. Andrew’s graveyard)

The camera fell from his hand and compressed. Before it hit the ground, it seemed like a mouth from another dimension opened and sucked it up.

“The camera was an illusion, so a stupid white boy wouldn’t notice a big black ghost,” Hardy said and reared back with a right; his fingers like Polish kielbasa. “This will only hurt for a moment.” As he swung his body turned to clear vapor, save his right arm forward from the elbow.

He hit me square in the chest, and my body imploded. My being sailed straight up. Below I could see old St. Andrew’s and its graveyard billowing up to meet me.

It felt as if Hardy’s hand had gone past my breastbone, latched onto my spine, and began to yank in an effort to separate my skeleton from its charge of flesh. I was near certain that part of my jaw had lodged in my throat.

Good God how it all felt! There was no distinction between terror and pain. Both were beyond words. I believed my ribcage had been irrevocably shattered and huge dollops of my flesh were spattered over the graves.

“That’s what it feels like when your life is not your own,” Hardy said. “It is what the Revolutionary War soldier Max Beckley went through for many years, which, as you believe, he still endures to this day.” He let me go. “Keep it up and you’ll make a future for yourself in Hell, white boy.”

My eyes rolled back and felt like they were lathered by my wet tongue. I thought, no need to call me white boy, and tried to focus. My right eye seemed to roll out upon my swollen cheek. My tongue lashed in a serpentine manner. I so wished I could close that eye.

(Hill overlooking St. Andrew’s)

I took a breath and looked slowly down my chest to between my legs. I was solid, unhurt. Good thing that I didn’t have to piss. A full moment passed as I gathered and composed myself.

Hardy waited, his face gnarled with anger. When he spoke, his voice boomed. “Whatever you do, stay away from the Seaport!”

What?

“You’ve been collecting information on Max and the demons who possess him,” he said, seeming to read my thoughts.

Huh?

“Before you went to that seaport bar last week, you were walking South Street, searching for traces of Max’s past,” Hardy said.

“Got off fu-king ferry and walked South Street to-da-bar,” I blurted as if I was trying to balance a mouth full of broken teen on my tongue. “Didn’t search for nothin’!”

“You don’t understand time and how it can repeat,” Hardy said, and his voice lowered as he gave the first inkling that he was actually there to help me. ”Vague images of places, people, and even thoughts and dreams can linger. Some people pick up on them, if only subconsciously. You are one such person. You were taking mental notes. You’ve been doing it for longer than you’ve imagined.”

I gave a sideways nod. It was true that I’ve known about Max for a very long time. Visions of his plight came into my conscious before Benny, “the cigar store Indian” had told me about him. “So what’s the problem?”

“If the demons find out,” Hardy said, seeming to focus intently on me from his blackened eye sockets. “They might choose to make you regret it.”

(Old Mill Road behind St. Andrew’s)

“What kind of demons are they?” I asked brazenly as if all I needed to have was a few names, and I could find them and kick ass.

“The less you know the better,” Hardy said, echoing words I’ve said many a time. “I had to get you out of NYC, away from the Seaport to tell you this.”

“You afraid they might hear?” I said, smugly.

“Yes,” Hardy said, and met my gaze with his empty eye sockets in such a manner as I can’t explain.

“And what happens if these demons who have Max Beckley set their sights on me? What can I do?”

“Nothing,” he said with an air of finality.

—

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Twenty-Seven - March 2010 (Feat: Ghost of a Slave named Hardy)

White Fire

In My Head

Inside Me

NOTHING

Church of St Andrew’s – Staten Island (Photos only)

Here are my STORIES and PHOTOS

(Rockland Ave in Staten Island – Photos by Bald Punk)

A violent storm two days ago had felled trees, power lines, and left many streets throughout NYC still closed. Driving in Staten Island to a job estimate, I exited the highway and soon after rolled into a traffic jam on Rockland Avenue. It’s a two lane road enshrouded by barren trees and thickets of bare brush. Much of it appeared desiccated as it was the tail-end of a long arctic winter.

At various intervals throughout the day, I had had a needling sensation that something otherworldly was set in my path. I wasn’t able to say what it could be, though I had the suspicion it was the ghost of a slave named Hardy. I knew he wasn’t done with me yet it.

A week ago Hardy had paid me a visit, and I believe, filled my head with a dream of early Coney Island set side-by-side against the arrival of a slave ship in NY Harbor. Though at the time he had spoken to me, his words were vague and as indecipherable as his figure had been.

In the past few days other surreal images have followed me in and out of sleep. The most vivid and reoccurring was of NY Harbor jammed with colonial-era British warships. In it the sky is a blood red color, filled with plumes of liquid black smoke.

The most violent action is by two tenacious frigates as they shell the Brooklyn shoreline by what is now Shore Road. Just inland from there, white and grey, low-lying smoke tells the tale of small skirmishes. A single man-o-war sits out across the Narrows by Staten Island. Every so often, it fires a cannonball from one of its many stout guns and though the ball always falls short of land, I can hear gales of laughter and song from the sailors after each shot. Given it’s just a skirmish, I don’t think the full-on battle for Brooklyn in August of 1776 had begun.

This scene reminds me of poor Max Beckley. He was a Revolutionary War soldier mortally wounded in the Battle of Brooklyn, only to be abducted from the southern marshes by a demon. From what I’ve gathered, a Staples office supply store on 4th Ave marks the spot. (See bottom links for more on Max.)

(André Basset’s – “Representation of the terrible fire of New York,” 9/21/1776)

My lady friend includes Max in her prayers. I just hope that by God’s graces, he’s dead and gone, though I’m all but certain his terror is ceaseless.

Up ahead at the intersection with Manor Road, a traffic cop stood on the dirt corner where there was no sidewalk or concrete to speak of. The left crosswalk was closed off with yellow police tape. In that direction, at a bend up the road were Con Edison trucks parked askew with their yellow lights flashing.

On impulse, I turned right and followed a handful of other autos. The road branched off into three parts, each leading up into an exclusive community known as Lighthouse Hill. I took the middle road and passed the upper floors of a nursing home set lower on the hill. The road rose up higher and to the right. There was a succession of toppled trees on both sides of the street.

In one section of a sprawling wooded area, it was good to see white flowers pushing up through the fallen brown leaves. I spotted a man coming out of the woods onto the road. When a second later I looked in the rear view mirror, I lost sight of him. I sat higher in the seat and checked the passenger window, half-expecting to see the man running abreast.

The road crested and slipped around exclusive, “million-dollar homes.” At the other side of the hill the street ran diagonally downward. There was a serene view off a steep, home-encrusted cliff out over about ten miles of land, and over Raritan Bay out to Sandy Hook, NJ.

(View from Lighthouse Hill Road out to Sandy Hook, NJ)

The traffic came to a halt by what looked like a small stone fortress called the Jacques Marchais Museum of Tibetan Art.

I stuck my head out the window and saw the road was closed at a steep bend ahead. The cars were turning and coming back. I followed the line of cars through another detour and came out in the parking lot of Latourette Golf Course. I exited and made a left and headed into more traffic that wound down Snake Hill Road.

Below on the right was old St. Andrew’s Church, which itself overlooks Historic Richmond Town. I had taken photos in that area a few months ago. I had the sudden urge to take more. My camera was in my bag in the passenger seat.

I made a hard right just before the bottom of Snake Hill, and parked alongside St Andrew’s. The road was paved for a hundred feet or so and then was blocked off to traffic, though it still ran on unpaved for about a half-a-mile or more.

The church was surrounded by a stone wall and a very old graveyard. A two-story, white-vinyl residence sat in the rear with a detached three-car garage and a basketball hoop in the driveway.

The moment I stepped out of the car I knew I had stopped for a purpose. I scanned the graveyard with my senses on full alert.

It seemed as if every inch of my body pulsed. Yet, strangely, that was the touch of the supernatural.

(Church of St. Andrew’s)

I forgot my search for a moment and marveled up at St. Andrew’s, founded in 1708. The church has a haunting beauty that is framed by an idyllic setting. It includes not only colonial Richmond Town, but a nature preserve behind it that runs for miles.

I pictured colonial settlers coming to worship on cart paths set right smack in the middle of the modern road.

Within a few minutes, I spotted a man plodding through the cemetery, cradling a camera that had a long telephoto lens.

I realized he wasn’t flesh. He was vaporous. His skin was translucent and his eyes lacked any white or iris. The surface was an ashen color. I had the feeling it was Hardy.

“Don’t run away this time, boy,” he whispered, his voice bassy and ominous. Now I was certain it was Hardy.

Thick crevices, closer to slash marks were cut into the ghost slave’s face. It looked like a large feline had tried to gouge out his eyes. Though more than likely it was from the lash of a whip.

My whole being sunk and I found I couldn’t move. For an instant, the pain and suffering Hardy had endured in life seemed real in my head. And then I thought of his afterlife, which hadn’t been much better as he had been burdened as the guardian of the demon, Old Seven.

“Where is he?” I asked in a whisper, referring to Hardy’s hellhound charge. I searched the area around the ghost slave. His eyes closed and something changed about him. He knew to whom I referred, but was reticent. I raised my voice. “Where is Old Seven?”

“Inside me,” he said.

—

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Twenty-Seven - March 2010 (Feat: Ghost of a Slave named Hardy)

White Fire

In My Head

Inside Me

NOTHING

Church of St Andrew’s – Staten Island (Photos only)

—

The below two episodes both conclude by focusing on Max Beckley. Expect to read a lot more on him in the future.

Episode Fourteen – August 2009

New York City’s Deepest, Darkest Secret

Secrets

We Are Knowing

LIFE IN TWO HOURS AND FIFTEEN MINUTES

We’re on a Road Trip to Home Depot (Secrets Interlude)

THE IMMORTALS

Episode Seventeen – September 2009

Carrie Robbins channels a Revolutionary War Soldier

Hiding Behind Coltrane

Memory Giver

The Rush Is Over

Here are my STORIES and PHOTOS

(PBS special on the American Revolution – Chapter 4: “The Battle for Long Island”)

It’s pretty darn shocking how many life long New Yorkers have no idea about the Battle of Brooklyn, which back then was also referred to as Long Island. If you’re one of them, watch the videos to gain some insight.

In the first battle ever by the US Army, it was a learning experience to say the least. They were surprised in the middle of the night and wound up getting shellacked. By midday they were on the run . . . 

Plus if Washington played by the rules of warfare, when his army was defeated and cornered, he should have surrendered. Then he probably would have been executed. Instead he escaped under the cover of night with his remaining troops to Manhattan.

Check out the videos and the books at the bottom of the post.

(High school kid’s project on the battle. I’m certain he got an A+!)

<< Click here for more on the battle from Wikipedia >>

Here are some of my related posts:

This from Episode Fourteen in the stories section: THE IMMORTALS

Related pictures: Old Stone House and Prospect Park

Maryland 400 Monument & Prospect Park

The above is a fantastic book on the Battle of Brooklyn by John J. Gallagher. Another great one is The Battle for New York: The City at the Heart of the American Revolution by Barnet Schecter.

Here are my STORIES and PHOTOS

(Photo by Bald Punk – Old Stone House, South Brooklyn)

For the first and hopefully last time, the other day I met a man who called himself the Memory Giver. It’s a silly way to refer to oneself. Though true to his name, he did something to me, and now I can recall a scene that is frighteningly real, though it happened over 230 years ago.

At first the images terrified me. Now I want more. I can’t justify my desire or say I’m not asking for trouble. My head’s a mess.

–Here’s what the Memory Giver ”dropped” between my skull when I had met him in Bryant Park the other evening.

I can see the inside of an office supply store in South Brooklyn. Coincidentally, I had gone into it a few weeks ago when I took pictures of the Old Stone House.

In what I believe is the first aisle where they have boxes of paper, I see the vague image of a Revolutionary War soldier lying on his back in swamp water. One of his legs is thrown high over the other. It’s possibly dislocated at the hip, while his left arm is definitely broken. It’s twisted like a rag and thrust up behind his back. The muddy water is colored with blood.

The more I focus on the soldier, the less I see of the store, though the harsh fluorescent lighting never entirely fades from the picture.

I feel like I can just see through the soldier’s eyes as he says: “The rush is over. The rush is over . . .”

Images of a long march flash in his head. I think his words reflect the fact that his regiment had to rush here for the Battle of New York.

I can see the swamp water shake, as if there was an explosion. I can see splashing footfalls here and there. But I only hear his mutterings and labored breathing.

I see the soldier press his right hand down into the water and come up with the barrel of his musket. He pulls it closer and then works his right hand to his head. He tries to clean out his ear, pushing it closed and digging in the orifice. I don’t think he can hear anything else either.

He raises his hand and sees the muddy fingers covered in blood, and drops it to his chest. He clenches a single pewter button on the V-neck of his hunting shirt. He’s thinking of his mother. Part of me believes that she had sewn on. He tugs the button with trembling fingers as an inner voice wails out for her. He wants to say “goodbye.”

He believes he can see all the way back to his home . . .  he pictures his mother sewing, seated by a blackened hearth. At the woman’s feet are his little sisters. The two yellow haired girls clumsily try to spin a wooden top.

His body starts to convulse. It is at this moment that I can see another woman on the peripheral. I believe it’s either his wife or “lover.”

Every time I recall his plight, it’s at this moment that I realize the soldier’s name is *Max Beckley. The reason has something to do with the fact that his dying soul somehow reveals it.

Max gets a burst of strength. His right arm rises to blazing light that fills both our eyes.

The light fades and his eyes roll back far into his head, and his body jounces. But now he feels better. The pain across his body, especially in his broken arm, has abated.

It’s here that Max knows for certain he’ll die soon. He starts to mutter again, though his words are somewhat clear to me as he says, “South Brooklyn is soaked with the blood of my dearest friends: Erasmus Uhler, Michael Weller, and brothers Patrick and Percy Smoot. Now the land greedily takes mine. Five of us all friends from Baltimore, Maryland, who had once made a pact sealed in our own blood to ‘kill the Redcoats till we breathe no more,’ lived up to that promise. Though here we all lay. It is the first day, in the first few hours of fighting, and the great British war machine has annihilated us.”

Then I hear Max gasp one last time and say: “The rush is over.”

–

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Seventeen – September 2009

Carrie Robbins channels a Revolutionary War Soldier 

Hiding Behind Coltrane

Memory Giver 

The Rush Is Over

–

*Here are the posts that introduced Max Beckley:

Episode Fourteen – August 2009

New York City’s Deepest, Darkest Secret

Secrets

We Are Knowing

LIFE IN TWO HOURS AND FIFTEEN MINUTES

We’re on a Road Trip to Home Depot (Secrets Interlude)

THE IMMORTALS

Here are my STORIES and PHOTOS

(Photos by Bald Punk – Click twice to fully enlarge)

In August I took photos at the Old Stone House and Prospect Park. I went searching for the Maryland 400 Monument and couldn’t find it. I went back today.

Last time I was in Prospect Park I had asked a Park Ranger where the monument was and he didn’t know. Today I asked a comely couple who turned out were visiting from England. They pulled out a map and gave me directions. I asked if they knew the significance of the Maryland 400.  They said yes, and thought it was interesting that their home is on street named “Maryland Avenue.”

Besides the historical aspect, I’m interested in the monument because I met a homeless man who we believe is a reincarnated Revolutionary War soldier, and he might have been one of the Maryland 400. His name is Max Beckley. This is where he first appeared in my blog:

Episode Fourteen – August 2009

New York City’s Deepest, Darkest Secret

Secrets

We Are Knowing

LIFE IN TWO HOURS AND FIFTEEN MINUTES

We’re on a Road Trip to Home Depot (Secrets Interlude)

THE IMMORTALS

Here are my STORIES and PHOTOS