Title: Ok Danny Boy: Chaos Vol. 1
Author: Felicia Johnson
Series: Ok Danny Boy Trilogy (Book 1)
Genre:
Young Adult to New Adult...Coming of Age
Publisher: S.P.E. Media, Productions and
Publishing
Release June 18, 2017
Edition/Formats Available In: eBook &
Print
Blurb/Synopsis:
The spin-off of “HER”
is called “OK
Danny Boy". This three part book series follows the story of an
artistic and mysterious young man who Kristen meets during her stay in Bent
Creek Hospital. Daniel proved to be a supportive peer, whom Kristen saw as a
positive influence throughout her recovery. However, Daniel had not always been
a role model. Daniel is diagnosed with Bi-Polar Disorder, OCD and Juvenile
Diabetes. His story follows his journey throughout his healing and learning to
cope with life’s transitions, coming of age, living with mental illness as well
as a physical illness and the suicide of a close friend. Fans of “HER”
will get to see what it was like on the other side of the Adolescent Ward.
Part one: "CHAOS"
follows Daniel's life before he goes into Bent Creek Hospital during his mental
breakdown.
Part two: "MONSTER"
follows Daniel's story while he is in Bent Creek Hospital through his
treatment.
Part three: "LOVE" follows Daniel
after his treatment in Bent Creek Hospital into his recovery process.
*** This is part of a trilogy. These are the first two books in the OK Danny Boy series. The third book is to be released this summer. However, the OK Danny Boy trilogy is a spin-off of my first novel called “HER”. Daniel is a character from “HER” and OK Danny Boy is his story. It is recommended to read “HER” before the Danny Boy trilogy but it is not necessary. It is important to read Ok Danny Boy volume 1 before you read volume 2. ***
Book
Links
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Excerpt:
I didn't realize how long it took to get
home from the doctor's office when I took the train and the bus. A trip that
should only take about 15 minutes driving in the car with my mom, took about 2
hours on public transit.
Whenever I rode public transit, I survived those rides by pretending
like I was at an art exhibit. I was merely an observing student, there to
study.
People were like artistic creations. Our transportation was the gallery
and the energy that we possessed and released were our canvases. We received
what was put out into the world. There were many different mediums of art in
the gallery. Some people looked like you could assume where they were coming
from or where they were going. That would determine the price and value of each
art piece.
Take for example, the people who seemed to stand on the “right wing” of
the train. There was a dapper man who stood close by the train doors. He never
sat down because he didn’t want to wrinkle his dark gray, dry cleaned and
neatly pressed suit. He stood by the exit door and stared into the window,
rather than out of the window because he was looking at his own reflection.
Occasionally, he picked a booger from his nose and flung it away as if
it was a foreign object. Then he ran his fingers through his slicked back hard
gelled hair and shifted his tie. Satisfied with himself, he smiled and turned
away from his reflection in the train window. He was definitely on his way to
the office to make another dollar.
“You've got to put in the time to make an extra dime,” Tom once said to
me when he tried to encourage me to get an after school job.
At the next stop on the train, entered the thirty-something-year-old
looking woman. She was dressed in her posh, pink and blue yoga pants and a
light gray pull over sweater. She pushed her baby stroller onto the train with
a diaper bag on one shoulder and a yoga mat in its own bag, strapped over her
other shoulder.
Surely, she would have sat down if there was enough room or if a kind
gentleman would have given up his seat for her. Rather, it seemed that she
preferred to stand up in order to get in a pre-stretch before yoga class. She
held onto her baby stroller with her left hand, gripping the handle in such a
way that you couldn't miss the Tiffany diamond ring on her wedding finger.
Using the baby stroller for balance, she bent over and stretched her
legs. This caused the man in the dark gray suit to sneak a peak at her yoga
toned, motherly plumped ass. And of course, like a tease, as soon as the train
stopped, she gathered herself and rushed off the train with her baby in the
stroller, her yoga mat, the diaper bag and everything else her husband was
paying for.
She didn't want to miss her yoga class. She has to stay healthy and
looking fit so that hubby would find her attractive enough to want to make
babies numbers 2.5 with her.
“You've got to work hard to have a happy All-American family and home,”
Tom tried to drill into my head after I had vocally resented getting a job.
“Living the dream,” is what he called it.
However, on the other side of the train were different types of pieces
of work. They were the ones that the man in the business suit and the yoga mom
tried to keep their distances.
The art on the other side of the train is the kind of art that you can't
simply buy like the ones on the right side. I found those people to be
priceless. Why? Because on the opposite end were beggars, panhandlers, shopping
cart women and the homeless. They are the people who live their lives day by
day. They work for their survival in a way that others could not buy for them
or from them.
A panhandler dressed in torn brown pants and a mildew smelling navy blue
sweater walked by me with his dirty hands stretched out. He asked for some
spare change so that he could get something to eat. I reached into my pocket
and found 75 cents. I gave it to him. The lady, who sat next to me, reached
into her purse and pulled out a sandwich that was wrapped in plastic and gave
it to him.
“Thank you. God bless you,” he said to us with a nod and thankful smile.
Then the panhandler approached the man in the dark gray suit just as he
was turning away from the yoga mom who had just left the train. The train doors
closed and the man in the gray suit turned around to see the panhandler
standing next to him.
Mr. Panhandler reached out his hand to Mr. Dark Gray Suit and asked him
for his spare change. Mr. Dark Gray Suit quickly turned his head away from Mr.
Panhandler. He sniffed up another booger and shook his head without giving Mr.
Panhandler another moment of his precious time.
Graciously, Mr. Panhandler said to Mr. Dark Gray Suit, “Thank you anyway
and may God bless you.” Then he lifted his chin and kept on moving, making his
way down the aisle to continue his job, panhandling to survive another day.
This was a perfect example of priceless art and junk art. Mr. Panhandler
was priceless art. He worked for his life. He didn't flinch, cry nor bat an
eyelash if someone didn't pay him for his begging time. However, if Mr. Dark
Gray suit didn't get his pay on time at the office, or even if his check was a
dollar or two short, surely he would have a word or two with the payroll
department. He may even complain to his co-workers about the unfair treatment
he was receiving from the company that he worked for.
Then there was Yoga Mom. She
reminded me of the most junkiest art of them all. Do you think she would give
her husband offspring if that Tiffany diamond didn't shine as brightly as her
newly sculpted, expensive yoga butt?
Mr. Dark Gray Suit and Yoga Mom were buyable, imitation art pieces that
you could get anywhere. They had their lives, safety nets, nest eggs (whatever
the hell that is), and they knew that they would live to see another day as
long as they had a home and something to eat. Those things are guaranteed to
them because of who they are while standing on the right side of the train.
There were plenty like them and they always stayed in print because they lived
long, rich and entitled, privileged lives.
Mr. Panhandler was a limited edition. He lived day by day. If he
couldn't afford to eat nor find good shelter, it would mean life or death for
him. There wouldn't be another art piece that was like him. Maybe there would
be others like him when he's gone, but it wouldn't be him.
That was the difference between junk art and priceless art. It was the
same difference between those of us who are people and those of us who are
human. To be human, it requires you to have a certain level of humanity that
comes from within and it's unselfish. Later on in life, I learned that it also
requires a good level of mindfulness. I will tell you about that when we get
there.
I only had the level of mindfulness to accept that all of us had
different backgrounds, stories and talents. We were all different colors,
races, genders, sexes, shapes and sizes. No matter where we came from or where
we were going, we all met and meshed aboard the same buses and trains. We were
all displayed in the same life gallery.
I tried to remember some of the faces of the people and humans that I
crossed paths with so that I could draw them later, when I returned home. I
didn't like drawing while I was on the train because people were too nosy.
Usually there was not enough room for privacy.
A man who called himself “The Ice Cream Man” came aboard the train at
Five Points Train Station as we headed north. He didn't have any ice cream to
share with any of us on the train. However, he said that he had a special treat
for all of us and he instructed us to “hold up and listen”.
The Ice Cream Man began to rap a song in the style of a capella. He
rapped to us bystanders an original song that he claimed to have written. The
song was called “Big Booty in the Flesh”. I liked it. It had an upbeat, fun
flow to it. The lyrics were encouraging. He rapped about how to appreciate the
rear side of a feminine, shapely woman and the song instructed us listeners on
how the woman's ass should be treated in an intimate, lovemaking situation. I could relate to that song!
When he finished with his song, “The Ice Cream Man” passed out flyers to
announce when his debut album was “going to drop” and when and where his next
show was going taking place. The album release and his next show were not going
to be free nor on public transit. I grabbed a flyer from him. And I remembered
his face to draw later when I got home.
Along my walk home from the train, I asked to bum a cigarette from a
nice lady who was smoking and waiting for a taxi just outside of the train
station. She said that her name was Julie. Julie was a hairdresser and she said
that she was running late for work. She had a client at 6pm and was afraid that
she wouldn't get there on time if she took the bus. Therefore, she opted for a
taxi that seemed to be taking just as long as the bus would have taken to get
her to work on time.
She said that she liked my curly hair.
“Your hair is crazy!” She commented. “You ever let anyone braid it back for
you so that you don't have it all over the place like this?”
I shook my head and smirked.
Then Julie asked if she could touch my hair. I let her touch it as soon
as she asked. I had to insure that she'd give me a cigarette. Nonetheless, I
had to wait for the cigarette until she finished running her hands through my
hair, petting me, and getting her hands into the thick of my curls to make sure
that her fingers could go all of the way through it without a tangle. It was
awkward, but I let her have her way because I desperately wanted a cigarette.
She asked me weird questions like, “Are you mixed?” and “Are you
Hispanic?”
I laughed when people asked me dumb questions about my background. I
seemed to be like a puzzle to them. I remember my art teacher once called me,
“racially ambiguous” in front of the whole class. It made me laugh.
The kind woman stopped rubbing my hair and reached into her purse. She
pulled out her business card, a lighter and a carton of cigarettes. She handed
me her business card first and said, “Call me if you want to get your hair braided
or twisted. I think it would look nice in twists.”
Julie gave me her lighter and a cigarette from her carton of American
Spirits. Yuck! I thought to myself. Ah well, beggars can't be choosy. I took
the cigarette and lighter. Then I thanked her.
“So, what are you?” She asked as I lit the cigarette with her lighter.
I handed the lighter back to Julie and chuckled. I took a long drag of
the cigarette and held in the smoke as I turned away from her and began walking
in the direction towards my house.
“I'm human. Thank you! God bless you,” I said as a cloud of smoke
released from my mouth.
I heard her let out a great belly laugh as I walked away.
~ * ~
Author Information
Felicia Johnson is a mental health and
youth advocate. She is a motivational speaker who shares her life story about
surviving abuse and living with mental illness. Felicia has spoken around the
world to many diverse audiences. She is an active youth mentor with Youth
Villages Inner Harbour. She speaks for organizations such as The National
Alliance On Mental Illness (NAMI) and Personality Disorders Awareness Network
(PDAN). Felicia Johnson's first novel called “HER” has gained popularity and
recognition from audiences and organizations worldwide.
Felicia lives in Atlanta, Georgia USA
with her loving husband and their cat that they call Eren Jaegar, named after
her favorite anime character. She loves ice cream, hugs and having great belly
laughs with friends.
Author Links
Twitter @FeliciaLJohnson
Site for her book Her
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Giveaway
Felicia is giving two winners the chance to win their very own copy of OK Danny Boy VOL 1. All you have to do to be in with a chance of winning is hit the link below and leave an entry on the rafflcopter. Good luck!
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