Porcelain is my friend

How many times have I turned to him?

Whether I sit on his rim

Or hover over him in time of need

While my body heaves

He’ll be there for me again

Porcelain is my friend


Tim Keen




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When He Was Done


Okay, I know. I am breaking the rules again. The experts tell me that when posting with the goal of getting people to read my fiction that I should never, ever post with original fiction. So, let me get this straight. If I want you to read my fiction and potentially buy my fiction, the last thing I should do is post my fiction where you can read it.


Alright, I am making fun of some very smart people, some of whom are actually making a living writing. I do pay attention to what they say every chance I get, but the bottom line to all of this comes down to two things:

I have never been a big fan of rules when it comes to writing, especially fiction. Anything goes as long as it is good. I see no reason not to apply that to blogging as well.

I write fiction. That’s what I do. While I try occasionally to draw you in with other posts, my life is not nearly interesting enough for posting week after week. I must rely on what the good Lord set down in my bones.


Anyway, enough rambling. Please enjoy the story below. If you like it, please spread the word. If you do not like it, then please keep quiet and pretend like you never read it and don’t know who I am.











When He Was Done


He rose from her, panting, his heart still racing, pumping blood that warmed him from the inside out. He kissed her gently on the top of the forehead, promised he’d only be a minute and went to the bathroom to take a shower. Work was less than six hours away and the shower would help get him to sleep.

“I’ll sleep good with her by my side tonight,” he whispered to himself as he closed the door to the bathroom.

As he stepped under the lukewarm spray, a smile parted his lips. Who’d ever thought it would come to this? She was just some girl he had known here and there, a place to lay his head when there was no other place. But now it was this! Incredible! That’s what it was. Just incredible!

“You know what I was thinking,” he said as he came back into the bedroom now dressed in his robe and ready for bed. He stopped in his tracks when he saw her standing dressed in the middle of his bedroom, looking at him with a smirk on her face.

“What were you thinking?” she asked. “Or are you able to think at all now that the blood has rushed from that little thing between your legs?”

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I remember the last time you were at my place,” she said. “When we were done, you beat a path to my front door like you had contracted some kind of disease from me. You got what you wanted and you were gone. Just like that. Now, I have gotten what I wanted and I am gone.”

“Okay,” he said. He didn’t see this coming and didn’t know what else to say. “I can drive you if you like.”

“No,” she said. “That’s alright. I can manage on my own. I just have one question for you.”

“What’s that?” he asked.

“How does it feel to just be used for sex?” Her eyes were afire. She was angry. “How does it feel to be a booty call?”

Part of him wanted to tell her how he felt, what the real motivation behind the spur of the moment call to her but he didn’t. A bigger part of him, or a smaller part of him maybe, just wouldn’t allow his true feelings to show through. Ten minutes ago he really thought he was ready, but now, in the face of her anger, he wondered if he would ever be ready.

“Answer me, asshole!” she demanded. “How does it feel to be used just for sex?”

He shrugged, then he smiled.

“Felt pretty damned good,” he said. “Stop by anytime you feel like a booty call.”

His face was still stinging from the slap across the face when he heard the door slam. That door slam had a sound of finality to it, like she would never slam it again because she was so over him.

He doubted she was over him just yet, but she would be soon enough. She was strong like that. Always had been. She had to be to put up with an asshole like him. She wouldn’t waste any more tears on him than necessary, then she would move on.

It wouldn’t be that easy for him. He had played the tough guy for way too long. Treated her like the booty call she clearly was not to him. She had been once, but she was more than that to him now. Had been for some time.

“Still,” he said aloud to an empty room. “You didn’t let her know that, did you? Couldn’t let her know. What is wrong with you?”

Now she was gone.

Another good one was gone.

How many had it been? Too many too count. One after another, really, and he had to ask himself a question. Was it getting easier or harder to lose see them go?

He didn’t have an answer for that question.

He took off his robe, got in bed and turned out the light.

He had less than six hours to go before he had to be at work.

His cheek was still stinging from the slap, everything else was still ringing from her leaving. He had no one to blame but himself.



Tim Keen

June 12, 2016


For more stories like this please check out my Kindle book After Hours. Thanks.

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Honor Them All

I was going to write a short poem here, something that would convey my thoughts on the subject, but I decided a few, short words might do just as well. To the point, with no misunderstanding.

For those of us who live in freedom loving nations, there are elements out there wanting to undermine and ultimately destroy that freedom. Those elements will do anything it takes to achieve that end; anything from blowing themselves up with a bus full of innocents to flying planes into buildings full of even more innocents. These elements will have you believe they are just even righteous in their cause. At the end of the day, for those of us who love freedom and goodness, they are pure evil.

I want nothing more for these people to put down their hatred, to put down their arms, and join the rest of us peace loving, freedom loving people in drink and festivity. I want to put away weapons forever and use all the resources we now us to fend off that evil to cure sickness and feed the hungry. I want it so much I can taste it and think that maybe someday, in some other time or even realm, it can happen.

Until that day comes, however, know that the reason we lay down in relative safety each and every night is because of the sacrifice of our daughters and sons, those who willingly confront the evil that seeks to destroy us, battling that evil even in the face of their own mortality.

There is nothing we can say or do that could ever honor those people enough. Saying thank you somehow rings hollow, but I think for most of them, it would be more than enough.

Tim Keen

Memorial Day, 2016



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A Little Help


A Little Help


A little help sir, if you would be so kind

I need a creek or pond, something to call mine

I need to ask a favor sir, If I only may

A pointed finger or nod of head and I will be on my way


Tim Keen




20160528_111214 (2)

Saw this in my driveway, yesterday. He looked a little lost.





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The Blogging Rule

The Blogging Rule


That’s not what you meant to say

Nor the message you wanted to convey

And those ramblings in your head

Were not the things needing to be said

It’s what you wrote but not what you thunk

That’s what you get for blogging drunk


Tim Keen



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Your Write Place

Your Write Place


My favorite place to write has changed a lot over the years mostly to do my age, financial situation, and the amount of garbage I have rumbling through my mind at any given time. When I first started writing at the tender age of seven, I was so captivated by my newfound gift that anywhere there was a notebook, a pen or pencil and a place to sit down was my favorite place. Back then, without the weight of the world to drag my thoughts down, I could block out everything and the words fell from my mind to the paper like magic.

That remained steady almost all the way through high school. Anywhere I could be sit, I could push away distractions and the words would fall. Then, somehow, the world got busy. I got married. I became a father. I started working not to buy toys, but to make ends meet, to support a family. With all that came something I had never experienced before…distractions that I couldn’t easily make go away. Suddenly, for the first time ever, I needed a place to write.

Those places have varied over the years, of course. In the days of pen and paper or typewriter, it was a spare room, usually one with a door where I could lock everything out for just a little while and coax life out of and into the characters I created. Mostly it was a spare bedroom but once, when the rooms were full, it was our kitchen with the sliding door closed and the manual typewriter on board supported by two trashcans. A towel under the manual kept the noise to a minimum.

Once the personal computer came into being, my writing place became limited to wherever the computer was setup which was often times in the same room as the television. Of course with the PC came the internet and the ability to download music. My personal favorite music to block out the surrounding world is instrumental based, mood type music. The headphones and the music take the world away and I fall into that gray area between my ears where all things are possible.

Eventually the mecca arrived for all writers, myself included. The laptop. This was the most convenient, most powerful thing every invented for the writer. Once again, just like in the days of pen, pencil, and paper, I could go anywhere I needed to go to write. Since the headphones and mood music of above applied, it meant that anywhere I could find a place to sit was a writing place as long as there was an outlet or the life in my battery. I could write in the living room while my wife watched television. Or I could write in the back of the car while we traveled. One of my favorite places to write is on an airplane or in the airport waiting for that plane to arrive.

With all that being said, with all the evolution of my writing places over the years, I do have a preferred place to write when I am at home. I have a covered deck with a fireplace. Wind chimes out on the porch seem to always be singing on the wind and the view from this place, for me, is fantastic. It eases my mind and the words flow.

What is your write place?


Fire Place

Tim’s Write Place










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I’m Blogging Rich

I’m Blogging Rich


I started blogging six years ago. It was no coincidence that the start of my blog and the self-publishing of After Hours lined up. I started investigating what I needed to do to become a self-publishing guru and the first thing I learned was that I must have a web presence.

Great! I thought. Now there’s a second thing I don’t know anything about. First, self-publishing and, second, blogging. What the hell. Tear the lid off the pickle jar and dive in. I’ll learn to love pickle juice or drown.

I could go into all of the details of the blogging and self-publishing but nearly all of you reading this would go blah, blah, blah. You would want to read about something you don’t know about. So I will skip it. I will get to intent and result.

From the outset, my intent was clear. I was going to self-publish, go into blogging world, achieve a vast following and become super rich. I am happy to say I have done just that only not quite in the way I might have expected.

Don’t get me wrong. I am still writing towards the goal of monetary compensation. It is important to me, but I don’t think it any longer defines what my definition of rich is when it comes to my writing. In my blogging, I had an unexpected positive in getting to meet and talk to people from all over the world. My blogging on any given day gets views from the UK, Ecuador, and the Czech Republic. I live in Franklin, Ky. Please look that up and see how remote the chances are ever of getting to talk to any of those people without the power of the internet. How awesome is that?

There’s another blessing in all of this as well and before I say this, I want to be clear I am not dogging that big social media network or anyone who is on it. It is just not for me. I am connecting through this forum with creative people who share creative ideas. I never knew how powerful photography or paintings or any of that could be until I started doing this thing I am doing. I was not a huge fan of poetry, but probably half of posts have been poems that I have written, poems that were inspired from something I read while blogging. Before I started blogging, that sounded ludicrous to me. Me? Poems? No way.

All that being said, I have sold copies of my book. It is on Amazon. Please (shameless plug – I would come wash your car if I could to get you to take a look) go to my About page and give me a chance. I will continue to strive for book sales as any author/writer/poet should, but while my blogging experience has not made me rich in the monetary sense just yet, it has given me a connection to the world that I did not expect.

I would call that a fringe benefit of being in the blogging world.

I hope you have enjoyed my take on being Blogging Rich





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