c. 2026 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(7-26)
Part of the joy in creative writing is that one can never be quite sure of the outcome, upon beginning a journey at the keyboard. Despite the best intentions with a wordsmithing project, inspiration often seems to take its own course. Thus, what appears on the page may not always be married to the strict interpretation of an idea in its embryonic form. Storylines tend to meander a bit, details rearrange themselves, and endings appear before the chronology is set. All of these truths may turn the work of a professional scribe into a thrilling, yet unpredictable experience. One that often challenges the originator to maintain an open mind, and a sharp eye toward the finish line.
While pondering the proposal of T. Randall Squire, I sat with my morning coffee, in the Icehouse home office. For several days I had been in a reflective state, pondering my own, Appalachian roots and childhood experiences. But with storm clouds hovering over my rural township in Ohio, and a tingle of heartburn in my throat, I became less genteel with my lyrical output. Instead, a note of introspective analysis emerged, that darkened the tone of my verses.
Rather than echoing the tuneful inspiration provided by Johnny Cash, I tilted more in the direction of Johnny Rotten.
Haunted
“There comes a time when the shouting begins
But right from the start
I was thinking ‘bout the very end
I’m haunted
The sun never shines
As a kid on the fringe, quite maladjusted
They shook their heads
Said, “That boy’s brain is busted!”
I’m haunted
In body and mind
My first baby steps were a stumble down the staircase
A fall on the floor
Balled up like a bag of waste
I’m haunted
The sun never shines
I did my best to learn, what didn’t come naturally
But that plan intensified
My exit from society
I’m haunted
In body and mind
My kin crouched in a corner, silent and shamed
They could not identify
From where this outlier came
I’m haunted
The sun never shines
Just to look in a mirror, gave me a fright
I hid in the shadows
Better suited for eternal night
I’m haunted
In body and mind
Sometimes such emotions, derail a personality
But I used them instead
For art and creativity
I’m haunted
The sun never shines
I got banished from the homestead, justly deserved
“Get the hell out of here, Boy!”
Was all that I ever heard
I’m haunted
In body and mind
When you gawk after giving up, the best of yourself
It’s a loving sacrifice
Turned to a pauper’s wealth
I’m haunted
The sun never shines
I didn’t want to be, a favorite in the brood
But that sidestep to the stoop
Left me lumbering along in a bitter mood
I’m haunted
In body and mind
The sound of laughter, should come with a smile of hope
But that noise only meant
Another trip down the slippery slope
I’m haunted
The sun never shines
Comfort and conformity come as a pair
But not on my birthday
God must have been unaware
I’m haunted
In body and mind
When the story is written, backpages and all
I’ll feel glad to be gone
A blank plaque on the wall
I’m haunted
The sun never shines
Don’t think of me as feeling, sorry for myself
I’ll celebrate this quantum leap
Beyond the cracking eggshell
I’m haunted
In body and mind
Yes, I’m haunted
In body and mind...”
As always, I posted this fresh manuscript on my newspaper blog. But after only a half-hour had passed, my cellular device began to ring with astonishment and scorn.
Country Squire was not happy with this new installment.
“Boy, what the heck are ya tryin’ ta do? Ruin our little agreement? That last bit of fluff y’all wrote is a damn embarrassment! It sounds like somethin’ a mental patient would scribble in crayon, at a home fer the needy!”
My belly had begun to ache even before I responded to his voicemail message.
“Sir, I get that you were somewhat shocked by my stylistic shift today, but it puts a spotlight on what I’ve been trying to relate during our previous chats. The cowboy persona just doesn’t fit me accurately. My work has always been all over the place, with regard to content...”
The record-label executive thumped his countertop with both fists.
“DAMMIT BOY, ALL YA HAVE TA DO IS GO WITH ME FER A LITTLE WHILE, AND WE’LL ALL MAKE A LOT OF DOUGH IN THIS GAME! DO YA GET IT? I NEED PRODUCT THAT’LL SELL, NOT FREAKY SHIT NOBODY WANTS TA HEAR ON A JUKEBOX OR A BIG-RIG RADIO!”
I was numb to his plea for accommodation. But still wanted to be polite.
“I liken it to a pipeline, sir. You’ve got to pump out whatever is in there, to keep things flowing. I don’t necessarily know what will come out of the spigot, but whenever I twist the knobs, that precious stream starts to splash!”
Mr. Squire must have been chomping on his cheap cigar. He literally growled into the phone.
“I SURE LIKED YER FIRST TWO SONGS. THEY WERE THE KIND OF THING WE WANT HERE AT MY COMPANY! BUT THIS HORSE-POOP ABOUT BEIN’ HAUNTED ‘N ALL, WHAT THE HELL IS THAT? WHERE DID IT COME FROM? IT DON’T EVEN SOUND LIKE THE SAME PERSON, TA BE HONEST!”
I nodded in agreement with his harsh critique.
“I’ve heard that kind of opinion for many years, so it doesn’t offend me in the least. Let’s just say that my personal makeup is complicated. I don’t follow traditional guidelines in what I write...”
The entertainment manager huffed and wheezed while softening his approach.
“Look Rodney, I’m tryin’ ta be yer friend, okay? There’s a big market out there, people are lookin’ fer tales of everyday livin’ and romance. The stuff that reminds them of their own paltry lives. Give me blue-collar ditties, or Bible lessons with a twist, and I can make this partnership work! You can get rich and so can everybody here at the label. That’s what matters, right? Everybody wants ta find their pot o’ gold!”
I knew that my candid response would not settle gently on his ears. Yet said what was on my mind.
“I honestly could not care less about making a quick dollar. My craft is worth more to me than money. I am interested in leaving a legacy for future artists to cherish and reinterpret for themselves!”
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