Writing New Graphic Novel

Yeah for the opening of my new novel named “Heather Hurts Inside”, Illustrations of a Broken Human.  These are the opening paragraphs and my illustrations are in the work as we connect here.  Very very early rough draft yet wanted you to know this has been a new project of mine for a few months, lots of researching and putting together parts of my life to explain to others.  The illustrations are going to be drawn after the copy has been written.  Positive feedback so far has been outstanding!

I absolutely love it. It’s very emotive and kind of snarky and funny and very honest at the same time. Your descriptions are beautiful, I love your super descriptive writing.”

Must we laugh or cry for Heather Deogracia. Look at this picture. Does she look broken, stupid or a face of victimization? Imagine a sickness all in her mind and how brave it would be to tell her story to perfect strangers. Feelings can be drawn and her chronic addiction to art is a nightmare. Heather Hurts Inside covers 40 years and she is giving herself 40 days. Hope that you will want to hate it and love it transversely.




80% of the world doesn’t care about you. Thinking this as an embryo must be discouraging. Like why come out if no one cares? Nine whole months to decide to express yourself on the exterior, interior, anterior, posterial, dorsal, heat, mind, breath, and speech. Just sitting in a sack waiting to get out of a vagina.

This was my own temple of water and the miracle of fluid nirvana and bone foundations. A human machine zipping, unzipping, filtering from the ATCG coupling of DNA with random 50% 50% lining up on each belly button of the umbilical cord. Yes. Look down and see your belly button. Everyone on the planet came from making love.

The safest home for me was inside my mother’s womb. She gave me all she had to give in that space in the lower abdomen. Her cells kissed my body and she spoke to me in a language that was fine-tuned. Our brains connected and her thoughts were mine. The fact she was holding a broken human in her womb meant nothing.   Her uterus was resilient, fantastically special and preparing her special girl for battle. The pain of giving birth was equal to the pain in her daughter’s heart. Heather was instantly switched on with that smack on the ass and intake of air. Ready.


Grunting Sisters

Hand by little hands, the two sisters aged 3 and 2 often walked with their heads down walking barefoot, nasty stained nightgowns in a no-name trailer park feeling cold, hungry and unsupervised by their severely intoxicated mother.   Often called “brutes”, the sisters did not speak words but communicated by ways of grunts and hand gestures. No table manners, no good night bedtime stories and especially no emotional stimulation to teach them what love or attention or affection was like.


Walking alone in the dark would cause alarm from the entire neighborhood of the boxed in tv lovin’ exist stance of adults retiring from life and settling down to a simple household and barely getting by on government assistance. Some cared and not one single person called into law enforcement to have the children removed from the home for a neglected and endangered lifestyle.


Both still in diapers, they learned how to clean the other sister’s diapers since no adult could attend to the most soiled activity of a child. Even worse was when there were no new diapers to wear and the bottoms of the diapers sagged from too much waste.

Instead of the “helpful” neighbor, these two were neglected by the community in which they lived. Then one day, they were gone. Each sister was lifted by a police officer and trying to stay together screaming and clawing away from their captures. The little small handed girls were never to be seen again in the trailer park.

Heather Dawn was born in February 1976 and Bonnie Jean was born in July 1977. Two quickly born pairs often confused as twins. Each emotion felt by the other. Hatred occurred if they were separated.

The married parents of the girls were Susanna Marie Micallef and Charles Edward Deogracia. Chance meeting at an Alcoholic Anonymous meeting, the marriage.

Next, as if things were more dismal, they were sent to their biological father’s residence where he was dying at the tender age of early forties. With a lack of a real father figure, the girls were locked into a bedroom full of disgusting odor, unchanged diapers, spoiled milt and clothes so dirty that it was a stiff woven wrinkled mess. With a father stricken with cancer in his stomach, liver cirrhosis and other health facilities, the only memory was holding his hand, birthday cake and pats on my head, “sweet eye-connected pleading he was sorry he disappointed his two little blonde pair of off springs.

He did pass away and then neglect turned into true abandoned behavior coupled with physical abuse of burns, bruises, malnutrition, no table manners and toys so overused, the paper of them was starting to look warped and discolored. No protection rights, severely emotional less and the most broken human was me on Earth at that age. I was rescued in the middle of the night with my sister. We were woken up on the bed we shared and taken away by strangers, holding us like when firemen rescue burning babies. The speed so fast in my memories, which I at 40 can still recall. Rescue me and I promise to be a good girl. I promise my new mommy, I will be good.






Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s