Showing posts with label sexual assault. Show all posts

Friday, May 31, 2024

“Guilty on 34 Counts

GUILTY

Yesterday ex-president Trump’s New York jury found him guilty on all 34 counts of felony fraud. Trump corrupted elections by hiding information from voters. For me, this moment demonstrates that the attempts of a political party to disassemble the foundations of our democracy took a blow. Supporters of Trump couldn’t wait to get before their fan bases to try to undermine the rule of law.

It’s important to point out that this man, his family members, and his business don’t do well once a judge and jury examine evidence provided against them. I found out recently that some of my Trump supporting friends and family members didn’t even know that he was found guilty of Defamation and Sexual Assault against E. Jean Carroll. Another jury concluded that Trump committed sexual assault and defamation with Trump having to pay $5 million and $83.3 million in damages. These same people manage to spin the $355 million plus interest fraud verdict in New York into proof that Trump’s a risk-taker, which they find admirable.

This same group of people insists that Trump’s being unfairly persecuted when confronted with the pending 37 felony count Mar-a-Lago Documents case surrounding his removal and retention of national security documents. They explain away the Fulton County Election Subversion case because they still want to believe that Trump won 2020. One eighty-year-old relative claimed recently that if he’d been younger, he would’ve been participating in the attack on the Capitol on January 6, 2021. The Department of Justice Election Subversion felony charges, to him, are false claims against true patriots.

What’s next for people like me, surrounded by MAGA madness?

SPEAK.

SPEAK OUT OFTEN.

SPEAK OUT TRUTHFULLY.

Tuesday, March 21, 2023

"Taboo"

Movement catches his attention as he passes her door. He pauses, peering through the narrow crack. She stands facing her dresser, her head bent as she searches her drawer, and her blonde hair a curtain protecting her face from his scrutiny. His eyes fixate on her private dressing. His pulse kicks up its pace as he finally steps back in embarrassment. He creeps soundlessly down the hallway to his own room.

Weeks later, she stands at the pool’s edge, dipping her toe into the water to test its coolness against the fever of summer. Swiftly, she pulls her tight t-shirt over her head, slips out of her denim shorts, and then tosses her underclothes carelessly into the messy pile. Her dark tan, which covers every inch of her lithe body, proves her worship of the sun. She dives smoothly into the coolness, surfacing midway in the pool, her long hair drifting in golden tendrils around her shoulders. She tilts backward, trusting the water to hold her afloat.

Upstairs, he watches her peaceful moonlit swim for only a moment. Then, before the rules of society bind him in place, he dashes down the stairs, shedding his clothing in haste. He hits the back door at a full run, bare feet pounding on grass and patio. Airborne for only a second, his muscles constrict in anticipation.

Startled by the splash, she whips her legs downward, treading water as she spins to locate her predator. His hands snag her right leg, and he tugs her under, using the cover of play to skim his hands over her thighs and whisper them across her breasts. She surfaces, exploding with irritation at his surprise attack, pleased that she lured him into the pool. She bats his hands away, squawking in mock indignation as they play their childhood game in adult bodies, the undercurrents hot with each brush of skin.

Feeling powerful and cruel, she slips out of his reach and swims to the ladder. She pulls herself up, pausing for effect with her head thrown back, neck kissed by moonlight. His scalding gaze burns her skin, and suddenly shame flames her cheeks. She gathers her clothing clumsily, clutching the t-shirt and shorts tightly to her chest as she quickly runs to the back door. She flies up the stairs, mortified by this sibling skinny dipping. With resolution, she slams and locks her bedroom door, thwarting all temptation.

David Chapman-artist

Monday, June 11, 2018

"His Betrayal"

       I thought he was my friend. We did Midnight Yells, ball games, and concerts together. We memorized Rocky Horror Picture Show and danced with lighters held high. We cried at Silver Taps.
He came into my home. I trusted him because he became family.
A lifetime later, I still feel the heaviness of his body as he pinned me to my bed. His invading tongue and beer breath made me gag. His fingers, shoving brutally up and into me, wounded. His laughter as he pushed away and ran upstairs warned me that he already had excuses. I was drunk. It’s just a joke. She didn’t even scream or fight.
I buried his betrayal so deeply that it became a wisp of nightmare. Something pushed down and away for so many years that I convinced myself that it never happened. Every time my gut recoiled because he entered the room, I repressed the repulsion and never looked for a reason. I told myself that he’d become selfish and cruel. That was enough reason for me to avoid him whenever possible.
Then I began reading my journals. All of the spirals, and notebooks, and bound volumes of my life. The words, my own handwriting, sharply focused that blurred trauma, making my own denial impossible.
I understand why women conceal, sometimes even to themselves, the harassment, molestation and assaults they’ve endured because these men have different roles than simply attacker. They are bosses or co-workers. They are husbands or lovers. They are fathers or brothers. They are friends.

Copyright 2018 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

Tuesday, January 16, 2018

"The Golden Bracelet"

If weather has you hunkering down, why not settle in with something new to read? Here's another slice from my novel:

"I'm remembering more," Ginny stated without emotion. "When he threw me down from his horse, he said I'd die alone. And then he started hauling branches and leaves over me." Silent tears streaked her cheeks, but she held onto her composure as she resumed, "I'm supposed to be dead." Pleading entered her voice, "He won't come back for me, will he? If he finds out I'm not dead, do yo think he'll come back?"

https://www.amazon.com/Golden-Bracelet-Elizabeth-Abrams-Chapman-ebook/dp/B076JR8N26

Copyright 2018 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

Thursday, January 11, 2018

"The Golden Bracelet"

A snippet today from my novel! If you want more, just click on the link!

CHAPTER ONE

March 1908

Five times she stood on the front porch.

The first time, she squinted her hazel eyes against the glare of the late afternoon sun that stabbed through the west bank of live oaks. The second time, the trees stood like black sentries against a bleeding sunset. By the third time, her fretting hands twisted the dish rag as the hush of dusk descended across the farm. Behind her floated the muted voices of her sons. Far in the distance, the howl of their shepherd, Ranger, carried on the whispering breeze. The hair on her arms pricked to attention as the dog’s howl mutated into insistent barking.

“Mom?”

She didn’t shift her gaze from the far field when her eldest son, Lewis, stood next to her. Instead, she cocked her head to listen again for Ranger’s far-off yelp.

“He’s found her.” The certainty of her words belied the fear wrenching her heart. “Get your brothers and the wagon.” Peering into the gray shadows, she continued with instructions. “Take lanterns and blankets. Water. She’ll need water.”

The fourth time she stood on the front porch, she wrapped herself within the blanket of early evening. Her eyes picked out pinpricks of light playing hide-n-seek among the stalwart trees.

The final time, her legs shook uncontrollably that she gripped the porch banister for support. Her stomach pitched, and she fought back bile as it pressed up her throat. In the wagon lay her beautiful daughter, deathly pale in a golden halo of lantern light.

“She’s alive.”

https://www.amazon.com/Golden-Bracelet-Elizabeth-Abrams-Chapman-ebook/dp/B076JR8N26

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