tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-690241078793170202024-03-13T22:49:47.102-04:00Gay/Lesbian Fiction ExcerptsThis blog features excerpts from current and forthcoming books by leading gay and lesbian authors. To find out more about the work from which each excerpt is taken, please go to the individual author's website. The link is given at the end of each excerpt. See also those works available as audio books by these authors: https://www.facebook.com/AudioBooksNowHearThis -
New excerpts will be posted to this blog every week on Mondays.Eric Spectorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10359942176317364618noreply@blogger.comBlogger424125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69024107879317020.post-830092892059702592015-09-21T12:23:00.000-04:002015-09-21T12:23:32.607-04:00To Love a Traitor excerpt by JL Merrow<h1 style="text-indent: 0in;">
<em style="line-height: 18pt;"><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-l4BBF3QfL6Y/VgAp6DxFxGI/AAAAAAAACNY/uTF0r2o6zVE/s1600/to-love-a-traitor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-l4BBF3QfL6Y/VgAp6DxFxGI/AAAAAAAACNY/uTF0r2o6zVE/s320/to-love-a-traitor.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<h1 style="text-indent: 0in;">
<em style="line-height: 18pt;"><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></b></em></h1>
<h1 style="text-indent: 0in;">
<em style="line-height: 18pt;"><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></b></em></h1>
<h1 style="text-indent: 0in;">
<em style="line-height: 18pt;"><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></b></em></h1>
According to
JL Merrow in To Love a Traitor, wounds of the heart take the longest to heal.</span></span></b></em></h1>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia; line-height: 18pt;">When
solicitor’s clerk George Johnson moves into a rented </span><st1:place style="line-height: 18pt;"><st1:city><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">London</span></st1:city></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia; line-height: 18pt;"> room in
the winter of 1920, it’s with a secret goal: to find out if his fellow lodger,
Matthew Connaught, is the wartime traitor who cost George’s adored older
brother his life.</span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .25in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia; line-height: 18pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .25in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia; line-height: 18pt;">Yet as
he gets to know Matthew—an irrepressibly cheerful ad man whose missing arm
hasn’t dimmed his smile—George begins to lose sight of his mission.</span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .25in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">As
Matthew’s advances become ever harder to resist, George tries to convince
himself his brother’s death was just the luck of the draw, and to forget he’s
hiding a secret of his own - his true identity - and an act of conscience that
shamed his family.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .25in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">But as
their mutual attraction grows, so does George’s desperation to know the truth
about what happened that day in </span><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">Ypres</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">.
If only to prove Matthew innocent - even if it means losing the man he’s come
to love.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .25in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">[Warning:
Contains larks in the snow, stiff upper lips, shadows of the Great War, and one
man working undercover while another tries to lure him under the covers. LOL]<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .25in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;"><br /></span></span>
<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;"> To Love
a Traitor<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .25in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;"> SamhainNow (September 15, 2015)</span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .25in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia; line-height: 18pt;">ISBN:</span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia; line-height: 18pt;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">9781619229921</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-GB">Excerpt:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<i style="text-indent: 0in;"><span lang="EN-GB">December, 1920;
two young men with rooms in the same lodging-house</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Later that week the
weather was still bitterly cold. Nevertheless, George found himself staying up
late with his books, reading up on tort by candlelight with a blanket wrapped
around him for warmth. It was extraordinary how fascinating the English legal
system could be, built as it was in the main upon individual cases.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span lang="EN-GB">But even George’s
interest in larrikins (who or whatever they might be) throwing squibs into
crowds couldn’t sustain him long past midnight, given that he’d been up at six that
morning and would have to do the same on the morrow. Yawning, he closed his
books and shed his clothes, shivering as the chilly air struck his bare flesh.
As he hastily pulled on his pyjamas, he was startled to hear someone speaking.
The words were indistinct, but George was almost certain they came from
Matthew’s room. Quietly opening the door, he could see no one there, which
rather settled the matter—unless they were on the street? A quick glance out of
the window confirmed that the street was empty, all good citizens presently
tucked up in their beds, and the bad ones gone for richer pickings than could
be had in </span><st1:city><span lang="EN-GB">Allen Street</span></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB">. But who on earth could Matthew be talking to at this time of
night?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Perhaps he always
talked in his sleep, and George had simply never been awake to hear him before?
Listening with guilty avidity, George realised it sounded as though Matthew
were distressed. A nightmare, then, poor fellow. George had had his share of
those.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span lang="EN-GB">He was certain
Matthew wouldn’t thank him for poking his nose in—he’d probably be mortified to
know that his night-time woes were audible to others. Having snuffed his candle
and climbed into bed, George stuck his head under his pillow and tried to
ignore the noises from next door—but a vigorous thump on the wall right by his
ear, followed by the unmistakeable sound of a sob was too much for him to
endure. Matthew might hate him for it, but George just couldn’t leave the man
in such distress. Flinging off the blankets, he pulled on his dressing gown and
padded to Matthew’s door in his slippers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Uncertain whether
to knock, George stood on the landing for a moment, irresolute. A further cry
from within prompted him to pull himself together and open the door.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span lang="EN-GB">He hadn’t thought
to re-light his candle, but like his own, Matthew’s room looked out on the
front of the house, and a faint glow from the streetlamps filtered through the
curtains. It was enough to make out Matthew’s form, writhing in the bedclothes
which had wrapped themselves around him like a shroud. “Matthew,” George
whispered, laying a hand on his shoulder. Matthew started violently. “It’s all
right,” George reassured him. “It’s just a dream.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span lang="EN-GB">George started to
unwind the sheets from the sweating form. It seemed to help—as Matthew’s limbs
were freed, the thrashing eased. “Hush,” George kept repeating. “It’s all
right. Just a bad dream.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“George?” Matthew’s
voice was hoarse. “George, what are you doing here?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“I heard you cry
out. I think you had a nightmare.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“God, George… I was
back there in the dugout, when that wretched shell landed and it collapsed… Oh
Lord—you don’t want to hear about this. I’m sorry, George. Just being a bit of
an idiot. Sorry to have woken you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“You didn’t wake
me—I’ve only just finished studying. Now, will you be all right, or would you
like me to stay for a while?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“I… Would you mind,
awfully, staying for just a little while? I’m being a wretched nuisance, I
know.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Don’t be
ridiculous,” George said a little more sharply than he meant to. “And is there
anything else you need?” he asked in a softer tone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Do you think you
could light the candle? It’s on the bedside table, and the matches are in the
drawer.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Feeling more than
seeing his way, George managed to locate the matches and lit one with a
blinding flare that left him blinking for a moment before he could find the
candle. Once lit, the candle showed him Matthew’s pale face, his hair plastered
to his forehead in little curls. He was sitting up, his right pyjama sleeve
flopping forlornly where he hadn’t bothered to pin it up. George’s chest felt
curiously tight at the sight of him. “It must be a wretched place to go back to
in your dreams,” he said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Do you know, it’s
the only time I remember anything about it at all? In my dreams. If it even <i>is</i>
a memory and not something my beastly mind has cooked up all by itself.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Does it happen
often?” George asked before he could stop himself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Lord, no. Hardly
at all, these days. I must have had too much cheese for supper or something,”
Matthew said with a ghost of a grin. “Or possibly Sherlock Holmes is a little
too racy for bedtime reading for one of my advanced years.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Advanced years?”
George asked in a light tone. “You can’t be older than twenty-five.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“I can, you know.
I’m twenty-five and six—no, seven months, now.” Matthew’s smile seemed much
more genuine, and his colour was returning.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shapetype
id="_x0000_t75" coordsize="21600,21600" o:spt="75" o:preferrelative="t"
path="m@4@5l@4@11@9@11@9@5xe" filled="f" stroked="f">
<v:stroke joinstyle="miter"/>
<v:formulas>
<v:f eqn="if lineDrawn pixelLineWidth 0"/>
<v:f eqn="sum @0 1 0"/>
<v:f eqn="sum 0 0 @1"/>
<v:f eqn="prod @2 1 2"/>
<v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelWidth"/>
<v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelHeight"/>
<v:f eqn="sum @0 0 1"/>
<v:f eqn="prod @6 1 2"/>
<v:f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelWidth"/>
<v:f eqn="sum @8 21600 0"/>
<v:f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelHeight"/>
<v:f eqn="sum @10 21600 0"/>
</v:formulas>
<v:path o:extrusionok="f" gradientshapeok="t" o:connecttype="rect"/>
<o:lock v:ext="edit" aspectratio="t"/>
</v:shapetype><v:shape id="Picture_x0020_3" o:spid="_x0000_s1026" type="#_x0000_t75"
alt="ToLoveATraitor72web.jpg" style='position:absolute;margin-left:-18pt;
margin-top:81.65pt;width:200.25pt;height:300pt;z-index:-2;visibility:visible'
wrapcoords="-162 0 -162 21492 21681 21492 21681 0 -162 0">
<v:imagedata src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\ERICSP~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image001.jpg"
o:title=""/>
<w:wrap type="tight"/>
</v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><br />
<!--[endif]--></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span lang="EN-GB">George felt
horribly torn and confused. It was such an intimate situation—he in his
dressing gown, and Matthew in bed not six inches away from him. George knew he
should be thinking of a way to use the situation to his advantage, to find out
more about Matthew’s time in the trenches, but all he felt was a fierce
yearning to close the gap between them, to hold his friend tight—and did he
only imagine that Matthew’s lips had parted, his eyes half-closed, ready to
welcome his embrace…?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span lang="EN-GB">He couldn’t do it.
If he was mistaken, then the best that could happen would be Matthew never
speaking to him again. He’d have failed utterly in his task—and in any case, it
would be the act of a scoundrel to take such a step whilst concealing so much
from Matthew. But if he told the truth—the whole truth, so help him God—it
would be the end of everything. A wave of grief washing over him for what he
could never have, George stood. “Well, you’ll be all right now, won’t you? I’d
best get to bed—work in the morning, you know how it is.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=69024107879317020" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=69024107879317020" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=69024107879317020" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
<span lang="EN-GB">He didn’t look
behind him as he left the room. If Matthew was watching him go with an air of
disappointment, it would do him no good to see it—and if he <i>had</i> only
imagined that Matthew returned his feelings, he was too much of a coward to
want to know.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span lang="EN-GB">* * * <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></span>
<span style="text-indent: 0in;"></span><br />
<span style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></span>
<span style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-GB" style="text-indent: 0in;">JL
Merrow is that rare beast, an English person who refuses to drink tea. She read Natural Sciences at </span><st1:city style="text-indent: 0in;"><span lang="EN-GB">Cambridge</span></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB" style="text-indent: 0in;">, where she learned many things, chief amongst which was
that she never wanted to see the inside of a lab ever again. Her one regret is that she never mastered the
ability of punting one-handed whilst holding a glass of champagne.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="text-indent: 0in;">To purchase the ebook or paperback, click <a href="https://www.samhainpublishing.com/" target="_blank">here</a></span><br />
<div class="f kv _SWb" style="background-color: white; color: grey; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small; height: 17px; line-height: 16px; white-space: nowrap;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Eric Spectorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10359942176317364618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69024107879317020.post-20939190505632250442015-09-14T10:44:00.000-04:002015-09-14T10:44:02.393-04:00Children of Noah excerpt by Neil S Plakcy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
In this the second excerpt from Neil S Plakcy’s Children of Noah, Kimo’s partner Mike Riccardi is investigating an arson in Kahuku, at the northern tip of O’ahu, and he spots some racially-charged graffiti on the premises. He’s called Kimo and Ray to check it out. (See also excerpt for August 17, 2015)<br />
<br />
Children of Noah<br />
MLR Press (August 17, 2015)<br />
ISBN: 978-1-60820-9910 (print)<br />
MLR1-02015-0437 (ebook)<br />
<br />
Excerpt:<br />
<br />
The wind picked up as Ray and I drove along the tree-lined Likelike Highway, which went through the center of the island. The tops of the Ko’olaus were shrouded in mist and I was glad we had the hot coffee to counter the chilly damp.<br />
<br />
The divided highway followed the contours of the Ko’olau mountains, and verdant slopes and craggy cliffs loomed beside us. It was a wilder part of O’ahu, and it was almost like going back in time. People lived up there in the mountains, off the grid, but they had modern conveniences like solar panels and water purifiers. And some of them were growing pakalolo and manufacturing ice, which were distinctly modern problems.<br />
<br />
As we approached the Wilson tunnel under the mountains, I noticed some graffiti scrawled on rocks beside the road, and recognized one tag, the letters FTP, with an X over the stem of the T, a reference to an LA-based gang call the Fruit Town Pirus. Beside it was a scrawl of the Nazi swastika.<br />
<br />
I knew that some of the mainland gangs were trying to make inroads in Hawaii, but that was the first physical evidence I’d seen. And the fact that someone had painted a swastika nearby wasn’t a good indicator of racial harmony.<br />
<br />
When we came out of the tunnel we drove right into a downpour, and I had to slow down and turn my wipers on high because of the slick roadway and the slow-moving tourists. We rounded a bend and head of us on the right the town of Kaneohe nestled against a cove along the Pacific shore. No gleaming glass high-rises like downtown Honolulu; just a spread of houses and low buildings, with only occasional buildings of more than four or five stories.<br />
<br />
We passed a standard suburban sprawl of houses and fast-food chains as well as the Honolulu Church of Light, the Iglesia Ni Cristo, the St. Anthony Retreat, and the Central Samoan Assembly of God, testimony to the religious diversity of the island.<br />
<br />
The sun came out as we passed the signs for Brigham Young University and the Mormon temple. Early Mormon missionaries had come to Hawaii in the early 1900s to begin converting the locals. We passed a couple of different with chain link fencing around them, and signs for several different churches that sounded fundamentalist, but beyond that, I was disappointed to see that Laie was as mixed as the rest of the island, though I did notice a higher proportion of the kind of white, clean-cut people I associated with those Mormon missionaries on bicycles.<br />
<br />
Further evidence of the religious character of the area was that local supermarkets wouldn’t sell alcohol on Sunday in deference to Mormon beliefs. Like Kaneohe, the streets were lined with single-story bungalows and small stores. I kept an eye out for graffiti but didn’t see much more than the occasional scrawl.<br />
<br />
Kahuku was at the very tip of the island, in an area that tourists don’t generally frequent; the big waves of the North Shore crash around the other side of Kahuku Point, and usually the farthest that visitors get on the Windward Shore was the Islands of History theme park in Laie, where I’d gone many times as a kid.<br />
<br />
You could drive for miles up the twisting Kamehameha Highway, paralleling the coast, and see spectacular cliffs and water views, and not much else. It was near the northernmost point on the island, Kahuku Point; in Hawaiian, ka huku means ‘the projection.’<br />
<br />
It was nearly ten o’clock by the time we approached the day care center. There was only one fire engine remaining, though the police still had the street blocked and were directing traffic away.<br />
<br />
I parked behind Mike’s truck with its distinctive flames painted down the side, and Ray and I flashed our IDs to the uniform keeping people away from the site.<br />
<br />
From the charred foundation that remained, we could see that the day care center was a free-standing building, probably once a single-family house. There wasn’t much around it – no immediate neighbors, and a screen of trees around the back and sides.<br />
<br />
The scene reminded me of damage I’d seen after Hurricane Iniki devastated Kauai just before I left for college, the way you could look right into someone’s home or office and witness the devastation first-hand. In this case, I could see a cluster of half-burned tables and chairs piled in the center of the front room. The front wall of a bathroom was gone, but the toilet and sink looked untouched.<br />
<br />
We stopped in the parking lot, a few feet from the front wall, and looked around. Two of the four walls remained intact – the rear and the right side – and part of the roof. An interior wall that looked like it separated an office from the main area had been reduced to a tangle of half-melted studs; behind it was a desk and a file cabinet and the rear wall of the building. Children’s drawings had been posted there, brown edges curling around colorful scrawls of houses and flowers.<br />
<br />
The front door was long gone, but just inside was a misshapen coat rack with a single sweater hanging on it, miraculously untouched. Below it were a pair of pink rubber Crocs in an impossibly tiny size—one of them intact down to the tiny charms in the holes, the other a melted lump.<br />
<br />
To purchase, click on <a href="http://www.mlrbooks.com/ShowBook.php?book=NP_CNOAH" target="_blank">MLR</a> or <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Children-Noah-Neil-Plakcy/dp/1608209911/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1442238299&sr=8-2" target="_blank">Amazon</a>.Eric Spectorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10359942176317364618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69024107879317020.post-3801631974505526232015-09-07T07:30:00.000-04:002015-09-07T07:30:01.962-04:00Aviophobia (Flight HA1710) excerpt by Serena Yates<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-MU5rgQ-b2Tw/VezNh7PzjBI/AAAAAAAACMg/V_UYgTL_yQg/s1600/Aviophobia%2B200x300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-MU5rgQ-b2Tw/VezNh7PzjBI/AAAAAAAACMg/V_UYgTL_yQg/s1600/Aviophobia%2B200x300.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">Aviophobia<br />
Publisher: Diversity Novels ( July 17, 2017)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">ISBN: 9781909630</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;"><a href="http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/product_info.php?products_id=6646" target="_blank"></a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">In Serena Yates’ Aviophobia (Flight HA1710), Richard
Abbott finally overcomes his debilitating fear of flying, boards Flight HA1710
bound for </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">Chicago</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">, and when it crashes,
discovers that aviophobia isn’t the worst of it...<br />
<br />
All his life Richard has been afraid of flying. He has no idea what caused it,
but nothing and no one will convince him to get on a plane of any size. His job
as a member of a major bank’s IT department in </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">London</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;"> does not require him
to fly—until he gets promoted. If he wants to keep his job, he has no choice
but to deal with his worst nightmare.<br />
<br />
Camden Marsh is a certified life coach who enjoys helping people redefine their
priorities and their life. He is on his way to </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">Chicago</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;"> to attend an
international conference for coaches and trainers when he begins a discussion
with the extremely nervous man sitting next to him.<br />
<br />
They have barely begun to explore their mutual interest when Flight HA1710
crashes and everything comes to a screeching stop. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">Excerpt - Chapter 1:<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Certainly, sir. I’ll be there in five minutes.”
Richard Abbott replaced the receiver on his desk phone with slightly shaky
hands. Shit! His boss’s boss never called anyone to his tenth-floor office
unless it was extremely bad news like a critical comment about a project, an
official reprimand, or possibly getting fired. Each scenario in Richard’s head was
worse than the last, and he clenched his teeth with the effort to stop himself
from screaming in frustrated anger. What had he done wrong now? Why could
nothing ever go his way?<br />
<br />
Richard might not be exposed to the frontline of global economic combat like
his colleagues in trading or investment banking, but even working in IT for a
major international bank like KR Aventus </span><st1:stockticker><span style="font-size: 12pt;">PLC</span></st1:stockticker><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> held certain risks. After all he and his
coworkers in network security were responsible for the speed and
impenetrability of Aventus’s proprietary computer network. If anything went
wrong with the trading software, it was a real issue, since the loss of even
half a second of functionality due to some glitch or bug could cost the bank
millions. Getting hacked by a competitor, some criminal, or a terrorist would
be even worse and didn’t bear thinking about.<br />
Receiving a call to see the big boss? Bad news any way Richard looked at it.<br />
<br />
He mentally ran over a list of the projects he’d completed in the last few days
trying to find any mistakes he might have made as he rose from his chair,
grabbed a notebook, and made his way to the bank of elevators at the center of
the office building. The few colleagues who noticed him walk past gave him
curious glances, but nobody made a comment. Worker bees were not encouraged to
engage in “unnecessary social exchanges,” and with more people than jobs in the
current economy, nobody wanted to stand out as breaking even an unwritten rule.<br />
<br />
The elevator ride from the seventh to the tenth floor didn’t take much time.
When Richard exited on the executive level with its plush carpets, expensive
artwork on the walls, and well-dressed personal assistants, he had not made any
progress toward identifying what could possibly be wrong with his work. He
refused to consider any other reason for upper management getting involved in
his life. By the time he made it to the VP’s office, his palms were sweaty and
he had to force himself to breathe slowly.<br />
<br />
“There you are.” Melissa was one of the friendliest personal assistants in the
building, and her smile calmed Richard down a little. She pointed at the heavy
wooden door to her left. “Mr. Harrington is ready for you, so you can go right
in.”<br />
<br />
“Thank you.” Richard did his best to return her smile, took a deep breath for
courage, and knocked on the door. Once a barked “Enter” sounded, he turned the
doorknob and walked into the lion’s den.<br />
<br />
Peter Harrington—VP Technology and Innovation, </span><st1:place><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Europe</span></st1:place><span style="font-size: 12pt;">—didn’t look dangerous at first glance. Of
average height, he preferred dark suits and conservative ties in line with
official bankers’ uniform. He was only a few years older than Richard but far
more politically astute. He’d been sent to </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="font-size: 12pt;">London</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> from Aventus’s head office in </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Chicago</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="font-size: 12pt;">, and as a consequence his actual position was
less important than the fact that he was one of the up-and-coming managers
being groomed for a main board position. The real problem was that Mr.
Harrington had only a passing acquaintance with anything resembling IT—he was a
manager, an administrator, above all else. He excelled at risk assessment and
the art of managing his own career. Richard could only hope whatever he wanted
to discuss was not too technical; Peter Harrington hated to feel stupid, and
anything “too techie” fell in that category.<br />
<br />
“Glad to see you’re on time.” Peter nodded briefly and pointed at the visitor’s
chair in front of his imposing mahogany desk. “Please take a seat.”<br />
<br />
“Thank you.” Richard sat, forcing himself not to fidget.<br />
<br />
“You know I’m not a man of many words.” Peter’s grin looked artificial, not
reaching his eyes. Richard suspected Peter regarded it as a “tool” some
management course or HR guideline had taught him to use to make employees feel
at ease. “So I’ll come right to the point.”<br />
<br />
Richard swallowed and nodded. He still had no idea what this was all about, and
he felt more nervous by the second.<br />
<br />
“We like your work. All your evaluations since you joined us three years ago
have been stellar, and your performance on the recently completed design stages
of Project Maroon has caught </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Chicago</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="font-size: 12pt;">’s attention.” Peter even managed a real smile
this time.<br />
<br />
What the hell? Someone in head office noticed me? That can’t be good. All
Richard was able to drag up was a timid smile in return, a little unsure what
this effusive praise was leading up to and more worried than ever.<br />
<br />
“Let me be the first to congratulate you.” Peter rose and held out his hand
across the appropriately busy-looking desk. “Effective immediately, you are
promoted to team leader level with a focus on implementing Maroon globally.”<br />
<br />
“I-I…. Promoted?” Richard shook Peter’s hand on autopilot while his mind went a
hundred miles an hour trying to comprehend what this meant for him. More
money—check. Focus on his work rather than being a jack-of-all-trades—check.
International responsibility—oh shit!<br />
<br />
“Well done.” Peter retracted his hand and sat on his executive throne. “The
kickoff meeting is in two weeks, at head office of course, and representatives
from all the major offices will attend. You have plenty of time to prepare, and
I expect nothing less than a perfect result. I know you can do it.”<br />
<br />
Richard opened his mouth to reply, but what was he going to say? This was a
brilliant opportunity. He knew Project Maroon inside out, and he’d wanted to be
involved in the implementation phase of a major project as long as he could
remember. There was only one problem. </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Chicago</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> meant air travel—and probably not just for the
kickoff meeting. And if there was one thing Richard hated…. The mere thought of
getting on an airplane made him shudder. He’d only ever told one person about
his biggest fear. At the end of his degree course, his best friend from uni,
Theo Rayder, had suggested they take a holiday on a tropical island to
celebrate. Richard had been forced to admit the truth to get Theo to give up, but
had sworn him to secrecy. So far Richard had managed to avoid any and all air
travel.<br />
<br />
There was a name for his condition.<br />
<br />
Aviophobia.<br />
<br />
He could easily avoid flying for pleasure—as if!—since there were plenty of
nice holiday spots in </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Britain</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="font-size: 12pt;">. And with no need to fly for job-related
reasons, his “condition” hadn’t seemed like a problem he needed to worry about.
But now? What the hell was he going to do? Jeopardize his career by admitting
he had a mental condition most people either didn’t know existed or would laugh
about? Aside from not wanting to admit he was a coward in front of his
colleagues, any sort of weakness like that would disqualify him from further
advancement with his employer. Not officially, of course, they were too clever
for that. But there were ways of getting rid of “unwanted” employees….<br />
<br />
“Richard?” Peter was frowning at him.<br />
<br />
“Yes.” Richard forced the abject terror he could feel rising into a back corner
of his mind for now. “Thank you. I’ll get right on it.”<br />
<br />
“That’s the spirit.” Peter cast a longing glance at the papers on his desk.<br />
<br />
Richard knew a dismissal when he saw one and rose.<br />
<br />
“I look forward to your first status report. Be sure to tell your boss to let
me have a copy. I’m taking a personal interest in this one.” Peter nodded
briskly.<br />
<br />
“I’ll remember that.” Richard refused to let more panic into his thoughts. He
could have a meltdown later. To have a VP interested in his work added another
level of stress to an already horrible situation. “Thank you again.”<br />
<br />
Before Peter could say anything else, Richard raced out of his office, barely
nodded at Melissa on his way to the elevators, and entered the next available
car. He kept telling himself to keep calm, but it was an uphill struggle. He
sagged against the wall as the elevator’s doors swished shut and closed his
eyes. He needed to find a solution to his problem, and fast. Rather than admit
defeat and look for a different job, maybe he’d better man up and follow Theo’s
advice.<br />
<br />
It was time to get help.<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">To purchase, click <a href="https://www.allromanceebooks.com/product-aviophobia-1845660-149.html" target="_blank">Spring Romance</a> or <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Aviophobia-Flight-HA1710-Book-5-ebook/dp/B011SI68LC" target="_blank">Amazon</a></span><br />
<br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" />Eric Spectorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10359942176317364618noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69024107879317020.post-58941756394196386242015-08-31T07:32:00.000-04:002015-08-31T09:32:54.820-04:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZamZ0HkyDfA/VeOFGiarekI/AAAAAAAACL8/Dz-l8YyjHfk/s1600/BloodDirt_cvr-Full%2BSize.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZamZ0HkyDfA/VeOFGiarekI/AAAAAAAACL8/Dz-l8YyjHfk/s320/BloodDirt_cvr-Full%2BSize.jpg" width="203" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">Blood and Dirt , by Lloyd A Meeker, is the second entry in the Russ Morgan
investigative series (the first volume, Enigma, is included bundled with the print version Blood
and Dirt). Family squabbles can be murder.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br />
<br />
</span><span style="font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;">Psychic PI Russ Morgan investigates a vandalized marijuana grow in Mesa County Colorado, landing in the middle of a ferocious family feud that's escalating in a hurry. Five siblings fight over the family ranch as it staggers on the brink of bankruptcy, marijuana its only salvation. Not everyone agrees, but only one of them is willing to kill to make a point.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;">Russ also has a personal puzzle to solve as he questions his deepening relationship with Colin Stewart, a man half his age. His rational mind says being with Colin is the fast track to heartbreak, but it feels grounding, sane and good. Now, that's really dangerous ...</span><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">Blood
and Dirt<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<st1:placename><st1:place><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">Wilde</span></st1:place><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;"> </span><st1:placetype><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">City</span></st1:placetype></st1:placename><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;"> Press (</span><st1:date day="19" month="8" year="2015"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">August
19<sup>th</sup>, 2015</span></st1:date><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">ISBN:
978-1-925313-33-8<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">Excerpt</span><b><span style="font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">Setup:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">[From Chapter Two of <i>Blood
and Dirt</i>. Russ has gone on a hike in the Flatirons outside Boulder with
Colin. They’ve flirted, but Russ has resisted Colin’s more direct signals. This
is where they finally have The Talk.]<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a><span style="font-family: Times;">I
turned to face him. “We should talk.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">Colin grinned and shook his
head in mock amazement. “I was beginning to think you’d never say that.” He
pointed to a flat rock at the edge of the lookout and shrugged out of his
backpack. “Let’s eat while we do.” It was a little intimidating to see how
patient and together Colin was. How mature. I followed him to the ledge,
feeling like I was the one who needed extra care. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">“So,” I said as he spread
out the sandwiches. “I should start by saying that I’m really flattered by your
interest in me.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">“But,” Colin said quietly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">“No but. Full stop. I can’t
describe how good it feels to be desired by someone as young, smart, and beautiful
as you.” I stared into his elfin green eyes, fascinated at their almond shape
and hypnotic depth. I felt naked—and not in a good way. I looked away. “It’s
also terrifying. I need to tell you a little story.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">I put down my sandwich,
knowing I couldn’t eat until I got this out. “Almost fifteen years ago, shortly
after I got sober, I met a beautiful young man. I was pushing forty, he was in
his twenties. We liked each other. A lot. We dated. We had great sex, we shared
a lot of interests in spite of our age difference. I fell hard.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">The memory hurt so much I
had to close my eyes. “Fell so damn hard.” My voice cracked, so I took a drink
of water and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. I felt Colin watching me,
but I couldn’t look at him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">“One day, a few weeks into
our affair...” My throat stopped working. In a moment, I tried again. “He’d
stayed over, we were having breakfast. I pushed a set of keys to my house
across the table to him, and asked him to move in with me. He put down his
coffee cup, looked at me, and said, ‘I’ve thought about that, and realized that
in twenty years I don’t want to wake up next to a sixty-year-old man.’ Then he
got up from the table, kissed the top of my head, gathered up his things and
left. We never spoke again.” As painful as it was, it felt good to have said it
aloud. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">“Jesus, Russ.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">“I felt so incredibly
ashamed. I might have been able to change my behavior, or my work, or any
number of other things to keep us together, but I could do absolutely nothing
about my age. My ‘best used by’ date had long passed, apparently, even though I
was so sure it hadn’t.” I laughed because I didn’t want to cry. “And now it’s
over a dozen years past that.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">I shifted to face him square
on. “It sounds melodramatic, but it nearly killed me. I came within a cat’s
whisker of picking up a drink again, and for me to drink is to die. I can’t
risk getting drunk again, I don’t think I’m strong enough to survive it.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">I stared at him, cherishing
the way the sun lit the sheen of sweat on his ruddy cheeks. “I wish to hell it
weren’t so, but I’m just too old for you, Colin. A relationship with you would
be wonderful, I’m certain. But I’m not resilient enough to survive another
breakup like that, just because I’m too old.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;"> “But I—” “No, let me finish. You’re
twenty-five—” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">“Twenty-six.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">“Twenty-six. You’ve got your
whole life in front of you. I’ve lived most of mine. As wonderful as our life
together might be, a moment would come when you looked at me with disgust.
You’d ask yourself what the hell you were thinking when you took up with me.” I
hoped my smile didn’t show my pain at saying good-bye to something precious.
“I’m sorry. But thank you just the same. Your interest makes me feel young,
even if I’m not.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">Colin didn’t say anything,
just stared out at the prairie as he chewed on his sandwich. I tucked into
mine, grateful to have something nonverbal to do. Halfway through my sandwich,
I saw him put his down. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">“I know how old you are,
Russ. I like how old you are. Maybe you think there’s something wrong with me
for wanting you, some psychological kink that makes me a freak.” He took a deep
breath, sighed it out, and shrugged. “It sure would be more convenient if I
could find partnership material in younger men. Believe me, I’ve tried, and I
never have.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">He smiled at me, looking
sad. “I have a story for you, too. About two men in Ireland. I want you to
listen with an open mind. Really open.” He patted the back of my hand like a
patient teacher encouraging a struggling child. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">“Their names are Patrick
Scott and Eric Pearce. Eric was twenty when he met Patrick. Patrick was
fifty-six. They were partners for thirty-seven years. Do you know the
statistics for any couple staying together that long, regardless of age? They
did pretty well. When they got married in October of 2013, Patrick was
ninety-three, and Eric was fifty-seven. Patrick died in February of last year.
Maybe they knew that was coming, or maybe they just decided to get married
because they finally could. Whatever the reason, they did. They had a long and
wonderful life together.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">He looked at me, as if
checking my face for a sign of agreement, or at least comprehension. “So, don’t
tell me it’s impossible. Sure, it’s rare, and maybe we don’t go the distance
like they did. All I’m saying is, don’t rule me out just because of our age
difference. I’m sorry someone else hit you over the head with that, but I can
promise you I will never say what he said to you.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">He gave me his devilish grin
again. His teeth were a little crooked, and to me, they made him even more
adorable. Mischievous. He patted my bare knee this time, and his warm hand was
an angel’s touch. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">“There are plenty of other
reasons out there for parting ways, that’s for sure. If we break up, it will be
for one of them.” He threw his head back and laughed, wild and free. “Here we
are talking about breaking up, and we haven’t even started yet. How crazy is
that?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">I nodded, forced to agree.
“It’s crazy, all right.” His logic was impeccable, even if it didn’t do much to
change the knot in my guts. That was the trouble with logic. It can peel away
the most rational arguments and still never touch the heart. Below the neck,
logic is the flimsiest form of persuasion. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">Unpersuaded, my heart was
walking along a precipice without so much as a path to follow. One sudden gust
of wind, one misplaced foot, and I could be dead. I hated that the beauty of
the view from this deadly cliff was so exhilarating. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">“I’ll have to go slow,” I
said, feeling strangely liberated at giving in. “I can’t... In spite of your
story, I’m still scared. I’ll need all your patience. Lots of it.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">His smile was glorious as a
sunrise and every bit as triumphant. Without another word, he took out his
phone and took a selfie of us sitting side by side on that rocky ledge above a
chasm. <i>Our first photo</i>, I thought, as if we were starting a scrapbook. <i>Don’t
say that</i>, I scolded myself. <i>That’s way too fast</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Times;">****<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;">By the time we got back to Denver, it was late afternoon. We were happily
tired, dusty, sweaty, and hungry. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;">“Thank you for today,” Colin said as soon as we were inside my apartment.
“For everything.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;">He stepped into my space and wrapped his arms around me, tentative and
warm. <i>Our first hug</i>, I thought as my arms hauled him in. He lifted his
face to me, asking silently for a kiss. <i>Our first kiss</i>. Sweet and fresh
as a tree-ripe peach. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;">“Let me take a shower here, and I’ll make you dinner out of whatever you
have in your fridge.” He wriggled in my arms. “Or maybe take a shower with me?”
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;">I shook my head. “Too soon” was all I could croak out, even though I knew
he could feel my erection through our clothes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;">“Can I shower here, though? I have fresh clothes in my pack.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;">“Sure,” I said, feeling cornered. “I’ll get you a towel.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;">While Colin showered, I rummaged around in the kitchen for what we could
eat, finding enough for a decent omelet and salad. I was arranging things on
the counter when I heard the floorboards creak behind me. I turned and stopped
breathing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;">He stood wrapped in my towel and nothing else—wide-eyed, vulnerable, lips
parted, his blond hair spiked damp and wild, his creamy lean body graceful and
glowing. Without taking my eyes from his, I let my loaf of bread land somewhere
on the counter behind me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;">“My god, you’re... so beautiful.” It was all I could say. I could hear the
awe in my voice, but I wasn’t embarrassed by it. It was the truth. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;">He walked to where I stood paralyzed, put his arms around my neck. His
towel fell, bunching around his feet. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;">My hands found his waist, and the smooth small of his back. Then some dam
inside me crumbled, and the crashing flood from behind it seized me. My mouth
was on his neck, on his forehead, lips, eyelids. My hands caressed everything
they could touch, frantic to discover. He began pulling my shirt out of my
cargo shorts. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;">“I should shower first,” I muttered. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;">“Don’t you dare,” he said, breathing hard. “I want you just the way you
are. Let’s go upstairs.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;">****<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;">Significantly delayed, the omelets and salad turned out pretty well. We
made them together, navigating in my tiny kitchen with only minor collisions.
We laughed at where I’d decided to put spices, staples, and utensils in my
kitchen, bantered about how illogical my choices had been. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;">Dinner itself was quiet, comfortable. It was clear neither of us wanted to
be anywhere else. Eventually, we agreed to do the dishes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;">“I have to be at work early tomorrow,” Colin said as he stretched plastic
wrap over the leftover salad. “Is it okay if I stay here tonight? You’re a lot
closer to downtown than I am.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;">“Ah,” I joked. “A relationship of convenience. Now it all comes clear.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;">He stuck his tongue out at me. “Sure. It’s taken me months of dogged
pursuit to run you to ground, just so I wouldn’t have to go home tonight. That
was my evil plan all along.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;">I laughed. I couldn’t help it. “Well, I have to go to work tomorrow, too,
for a new client over on the Western slope. I’ll have to be out of here by nine
and gone for four or five days. Strange business. I probably shouldn’t say
more.” His face hardened, and I hurried to head off any misunderstanding. “I’m
not holding out on you. I just... I feel protective of you. I didn’t think you
really wanted to be burdened with the details of my work, which are seldom
pretty.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;">I watched his face and aura soften again. He smiled. “I know. It’s sweet of
you, really, but eventually you’ll realize I’m not made of glass. Anyway, I’ll
be long gone by the time you leave. I have to be at work by seven. Big trial
coming up, and all us paralegals will be going through discovery documents for
at least a week.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;">A fear niggled at me. “Do you think I was a jerk for not talking about my
assignment?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;">Colin shrugged. “I hope we get to share parts of our work life, too. I want
that, whenever you’re ready to do it.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;">So the answer was yes, or at least probably. Was my reticence mere habit or
real discretion? It wasn’t really a virtue to keep secrets just because I’d had
no one to talk to for so long. I’d have to relearn how and what to share. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;">When we’d finished tidying, I fired up the dishwasher. “Do you want to
watch a movie? I have Netflix on my TV. Or the Rockies game is playing on
Altitude tonight, I think.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;">“We’d have to sit on the bed to watch, right? Is that your only TV?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;">I could feel my neck and face heat up. From guilt, mostly, because although
I was looking forward to cuddling, I hadn’t tried to arrange it. “Yup, that’s
the only one.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;">“Good,” he said, running his tongue along his upper lip. “No place I’d
rather be right now.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;">We locked up, pulled the blinds, turned out the lights, and climbed the
stairs. Doing those things with him felt... comfortable, familiar. Was that
prophetic? Wishful thinking? I had no idea. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;">After the third inning, Colin stood up and shucked his clothes, folding
them on an armchair. “I can’t stay awake any longer,” he said, yawning. He
looked over his shoulder at me, caught me staring at his sweet tan lines, and
twerked his perfect little ass at me. “No more of that tonight. Hope you don’t
mind. Gotta save my energy for tomorrow.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;">In a swirl of lust and relief, I tried to decide if I minded. I didn’t. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;">“So do I,” I said, feeling stupidly happy. I got up and found a new
toothbrush for him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;">After I turned out the light, Colin curled himself into my side. I don’t
think I’d ever held anything so angelic. I kissed the soft-spiky top of his
head, feeling my solitary life ready to scatter into chaos. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;">Maybe it was a mistake to have him in my bed. What if it was? I wanted him
there anyway. I watched over him until his breathing shifted into the languid
waves of sleep. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">To purchase from Amazon click <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Blood-Dirt-Russ-Morgan-Mystery-ebook/dp/B014610PDK/" target="_blank">here</a>.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">To purchase from Wilde City Press, click <a href="http://www.wildecity.com/books/gay-romance/blood-and-dirt/#.VdIvCXjvdLo" target="_blank">here</a>.:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Eric Spectorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10359942176317364618noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69024107879317020.post-54248094513699199722015-08-24T07:30:00.000-04:002015-08-24T09:17:17.872-04:00Enigma excerpt by Lloyd A Meeker<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5XI-nSuQVy4/VdjuXKFCSUI/AAAAAAAACLk/-Qcgl6RApTE/s1600/enigma.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5XI-nSuQVy4/VdjuXKFCSUI/AAAAAAAACLk/-Qcgl6RApTE/s320/enigma.jpg" width="203" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">In Enigma, a Russ Morgan Mystery by Lloyd A Meeker, w</span><span style="font-family: Arial;">ho’s
blackmailing the high-profile televangelist whose son was famously cured of his
homosexuality fifteen years ago? Now in 2009, that ought to be ancient history.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;">It
seems there’s no secret to protect, no crime, not even a clear demand for
money—just four threatening letters using old Enigma songs from the 90′s. But
they’ve got Reverend Howard Richardson spooked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
Proudly fifty and unhappily single, gay PI Russ Morgan has made peace with
being a psychic empath, and he’s managed to build a decent life since getting
sober. As he uncovers obscene secrets shrouded in seeming righteousness he
might have to make peace with a sword of justice that cuts the innocent as
deeply as the guilty.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Enigma</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Wilde City Press (August 28, 2013)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="color: #101010; font-family: Arial;">ISBN</span><span style="font-family: Arial;">: 978-1-925031-40-9<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Excerpt:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">[The Setup: </span><span style="font-family: Arial;">Russ Morgan
interviews James Richardson, who apparently emerged from reparative therapy in
1994 completely cured of his same-sex attraction. Since that time James has
assisted his father Howard in his evangelical outreach through The Abundant
Life and Gospel Ministry Church.]</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I got back to Kommen’s office in time to cool off a bit in their
air-conditioned foyer while waiting for Colin to appear. He did, radiating his
rosy-cheeked sincerity, precisely at one-thirty.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;">He’d already collected the contact info for the courier, Rocky Mountain
Mercury, and their tracking number for the fourth letter. He was quick—a smart,
decent gay kid trying to do his job right in what was undoubtedly a very
precarious environment, and more power to him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;">Colin didn’t lead me back to the big suite off Kommen’s office, but to a
smaller, still well-appointed conference room down the hall. He parked me in
one of the upholstered armchairs and scurried off, I assumed to fetch James. I
wondered if Kommen was always this obvious in his messages about status
difference between father and son. Given how he’d behaved toward me, I figured
it likely. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;">In a moment, Colin opened the door and Kommen appeared with Richardson
beside him. James sat down opposite me, but Kommen stayed at the door. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;">“I have a meeting,” he announced, glaring at me like it was my fault. “No
recording this. I’ve instructed James to refuse to answer any question he feels
uncomfortable with. Afterward, he’ll be reporting to me on your conduct. In
detail.” He wheeled and was gone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;">As he closed the door, I caught Colin’s eye. He knew his boss was an
asshole, too. I watched him through the glass wall as he scooted down the hall.
I could see that some days, he’d have to work hard at being cheerful. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;">I wanted the atmosphere to settle a bit before I got started, so I took my
time pulling out my pen and notebook and getting set up. When I looked up,
Richardson was sitting back, waiting with his arms on the chair and his knees
wide apart. He had big thighs, and not from fat. Very fit. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;">He was an attractive guy in a button-down collar, perfect teeth, only
slightly weathered, collegiate kind of way. Solid intelligence in the eyes, but
I saw more pain than kindness there. Good jaw, but also hard, somehow. Dark
hair like his father’s in the old press photos I’d looked up. James had a
bigger, more athletic frame, though. He obviously worked out, but not
obsessively. His features reminded me more of his mother, although I’d seen
only one photo of her. Pretty nice overall, but not gut-grabbing sexy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;">I gave him a conciliatory smile. “I can’t promise to ask you only
comfortable questions, but my goal here is certainly not to harass you.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;">He shrugged dismissively. “I know. Kommen is a martinet, and it gets old in
a hurry. I’m a big boy and can take care of myself.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;">“I have no doubt of that,” I said, grinning. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;">I shifted my focus to watch his energy. “I’ve learned a lot about the
Enigma album containing the lyrics used in these letters,” I said, pen at the
ready. “Do you think there’s any significance to the fact that it was released
while you were in therapy?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;">“No, I don’t,” Richardson said. Big lie—his aura blazed with it, plus
anger. I made a note as slowly as if I were just learning to print block
letters. I was half tempted to stick my tongue part way out with the effort. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;">“Do you have any idea at all as to who might be behind these letters, even
just a wild guess?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;">“None at all.” Again, a big lie, highly charged. Instead of anger, this
time I saw searing pain. He had an idea, for sure. And now so did I. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;">“Your father believes that these letters are an attack on him, using you
and your background as the point of attack. Do you think that idea is at all
valid?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;">“It could be. Leaders of some other churches would love to see my father
disgraced. The math says donation dollars that go to one church don’t go to
another, and our draw for members and donations is growing fast.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;">“Is it possible that this is an attack on your father directly? Church
funds, moral misconduct?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;">“No.” Big lie. “Our books are rigorously audited and summarized annually
for our members.” True. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;">I waited for him to address the moral misconduct part of my question. He
didn’t. If his first answer was a lie, but the second was true, then moral
misconduct sat big and broad in the equation somewhere. I’d gotten my answer
from his silence. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;">“Your dad also says that you’ve been instrumental in expanding your
ministry into Latin America. Do you think the threat comes from there?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;">James shook his head. “I really don’t think so. Our membership there
doesn’t care much about the competition between churches in the US. On top of
that, our presence in Latin America extends back only a few years, probably no
more than about 2002. Long after my experiences as a teenager.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;">“Do you think they would know about those experiences?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;">“Certainly. It’s a story worth repeating as often as possible.” He gave me
a smile radiant with the Gospel’s glory, but his aura swirled up dark and
angry. “My personal salvation is a testament to my father's faith, and the
invincible power of our Lord Jesus Christ.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;">“I’m glad for you.” I wanted to sound sincere, but I don’t think I made it.
“Has any spark of that old temptation ever presented itself since those days?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;">“No, thank the Lord.” His lie spiked out, even bigger than the others.
James sighed a deep breath and gazed out the window, as if savoring his
God-given liberation for the first time. Poor guy. What kind of hell was he
living in, pretending the hand of God had fixed him, living a straight man’s
life? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;">“Were the methods of your therapy harsh? I’ve heard they often are.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;">Richardson’s aura boiled up with pain, grief, and rage, but his face
remained an angelic mask. “I don’t have to answer that, but I will. Yes, they
were harsh. But they were warranted. My very soul was at stake.” He paused, his
eyes opaque with the flat stare of a bouncer. “And that’s a closed chapter you
and I will not be visiting.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;">I nodded. “Got it,” I said, making my note. “Is there any other light you
can shine on this business right now?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;">“Not at the moment.” To my amazement, he was telling the truth. He knew a
lot about this, but he couldn’t shed light on it now. James Richardson was in
this up to his neck. But how? Why? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;">I leaned forward, caught his eye and held it for a few heartbeats. I wanted
him to know that I knew he knew something else. I pulled out one of my cards
and offered it to him. As he took it I said, “In case anything else comes to
you, I’d really appreciate a call. I promise not to badger you or anyone in
your family. I’m just trying to solve this.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;">“I will do that, Mr. Morgan,” he said, sounding thoughtful. “Something else
may come to mind, and if it does, I’ll be sure to let you know.” He pulled out
one of his cards and wrote on the back before he gave it to me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;">I must have looked as surprised as I actually was, because he gave me a
little smile, aura welling up in sadness. “My cell. In case you think of other
questions for me,” he said. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;">“Thanks,” I said, tucking the card in my shirt pocket, pretending I didn’t
understand the gesture was a significant invitation, maybe even a request. We
shook hands. I tried not to wince. James Richardson was a man in serious pain,
and some of it burned in my knuckles. We headed down the hall. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;">Colin appeared before we’d taken half a dozen steps, steering Richardson
away on some vector that didn’t include me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;">I headed on to the elevator. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;">As I walked down the 16th Street Mall, I called Rocky Mountain Mercury and
set up an appointment with the dispatcher in an hour. It was Friday afternoon,
and they were al<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a>ready slowing down. I gave them the
document number so they could be ready. I promised to be in and out in just a
few minutes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;">****<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;">The dispatcher at Rocky Mountain didn’t hand me a case-solver, but I did
get a couple of interesting pieces of information. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;">Delivery of the fourth letter had been charged to the account of Stelnach,
Kommen and Breyer. It had been picked up at the front desk, only to be
delivered back to the same location an hour later. The same receptionist had
signed off on the pickup as for the delivery. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;">That seemed strange, but when I asked the dispatcher about it he just
shrugged. The courier’s pay was a low hourly base with a per-item delivery
count determining the remainder. Even if the courier noticed that the letter
was to be delivered to the same place where it was picked up, and he probably
did when he scanned it into his handheld, he’d do it anyway. The rationale
behind the letter’s origin wasn’t his problem, and the delivery meant another
dollar in his pocket. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;">On my walk home, I pondered the varied nature of the
deliveries—inter-office mail, regular post, taped to a shower door, and courier
using Kommen’s own account number. Two things became clear. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;">First, Enigma had at-will access to the innermost workings of Richardson’s
life. I’d got that already, but using Kommen’s corporate account number for
this delivery and having it physically picked up at the law office showed
significantly broader access than I’d imagined. There weren’t many with access
to both Richardson’s shower door and his attorney’s office downtown. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;">Second, Enigma was bedeviling Richardson with item one. The deliveries had
been orchestrated to that end. There was no other reason to use such a variety.
Enigma was toying with the good reverend like a cat torments the mouse it will
eventually kill. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: JA;">No wonder Richardson’s aura had fried with panic. He could feel hot cat
breath in his whiskers, but he couldn’t squirm out from under its paw. Howard
Richardson was being punished. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br />
<a href="http://www.wildecity.com/books/gay-mainstream/enigma/#.VdJ6qnjvdLo" target="_blank">Enigma</a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">http://www.wildecity.com/books/gay-mainstream/enigma/#.VdJ6qnjvdLo</span></div>
Eric Spectorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10359942176317364618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69024107879317020.post-26640457264653021242015-08-16T23:22:00.001-04:002015-08-16T23:37:07.177-04:00Children of Noah excerpt by Neil Plakcy<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-d4qwYpIH-P8/VdFW1JZ1axI/AAAAAAAACJg/bDo7XwTDl2Y/s1600/farm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-d4qwYpIH-P8/VdFW1JZ1axI/AAAAAAAACJg/bDo7XwTDl2Y/s1600/farm.jpg" /></a></div>
In Neil Plakcy'sChildren of Noah, number 9 in the Mahu series, openly gay <st1:city>Honolulu</st1:city>
homicide detective Kimo Kanapa’aka and his HPD partner Ray Donne have gone on
assignment to the FBI’s Joint Terrorism Task Force. They’re investigating threats to a U.S.
Senator with a mixed-race family, including daughter Jessica, who’s had a water
balloon filled with white paint tossed at her.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Children of Noah</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
MLR Press (August 2015)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
ISBN: 978-1-60820-9910 (print)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
MLR-1-02015-0437 (ebook)<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Excerpt:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We finally made it onto the
highway. Ray leaned back in his seat. “You or Mike ever experience anything
like what happened to Jessica? Anybody bother you because you’re mixed race?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I shrugged. “A couple of times
when I was a kid, but nothing that scarred me. For a couple of days after my
mom came to our elementary school once, this one kid started saying ‘sayonara’
to me and pulling his eyes up at the corners.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What did you do?”<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I was taking karate back then,”
I said. “Not in a serious way, just something to keep me from bouncing off the
walls and bothering my brothers. I wanted to be able to do one of those
high-jumping kicks, and I practiced on him.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ray laughed so hard he snorted.
“I can just see you. What happened?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“He fell backwards, and I landed
on my butt. We both had to stay after school and clean the blackboards.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
When we got back to Kapolei, we
unpacked the boxes that had been left for us and filled out more paperwork. We
had to watch an online video about sexual harassment in the workplace, and
another on the history of the FBI. Ray took the folders down to the fingerprint
lab and then emailed myself copies of the letter and the envelope, which I added
to the case file I was developing on my iPad.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While Ray looked for churches
who used the kind of rhetoric in the letters, I did a search through the police
database for pickup trucks with KTF as the first three letters of the plate,
and got about three dozen matches. None of them on the Windward Shore, though,
so I put that information aside in case it matched something in the future.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I got home, our golden
retriever Roby tackled me as soon as I walked in. I scratched behind his ears
and then followed him to the kitchen, where Mike was foraging through the
freezer.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Until you get up close to him,
Mike looks completely haole and distinctly Italian, from his dark curly hair to
his swarthy skin. His Korean heritage is only visible in the slight epicanthic
fold of his eyes—though it was distinctive enough to make him uncomfortable
when he was a kid growing up in <st1:place>Long Island</st1:place>, around his
dad’s Italian-American family.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mike looked up from the freezer.
“When was the last time we went grocery shopping? There’s nothing in here but
ice packs, half a bag of meatballs and two boxes of creamed spinach.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Can’t be,” I said. “Dakota and
I filled a grocery cart last weekend. Could he have eaten everything?” I looked
over Mike’s shoulder and saw he was telling the truth.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“The kid must have a tapeworm,”
Mike grumbled. “Oh, crap.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m starting to talk like my
father. When you hear me do that, slap me, all right?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Can I spank you?” I asked, with
a smile.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“<st1:stockticker>TMI</st1:stockticker>!”
Dakota said. I looked around to see him standing in the kitchen doorway.
“What’s for dinner?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I guess we’ll order a pizza,” I
said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Two?” Dakota asked. “One for
you guys and one for me?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mike and I groaned in unison. I
called the pizza place at the bottom of the hill and put in our order, and
Dakota went into the living room to play with Roby.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mike sat at the kitchen table
with a bottle of Fire Rock Pale Ale. “How was your first day as a special
agent?” he asked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Ray and I have our first case.
Our newest senator has gotten some hate mail.” I got a bottle for myself and
told Mike about Senator Haberman’s wife and the threats her family had
received. “Peggy Kaneahe and Sarah Byrne told me that they’ve both gotten
similar harassment.” I looked at him. “You had problems on <st1:place>Long
Island</st1:place> when you were a kid, being mixed race,” I said. “Anything
once you moved here?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Not specifically that. But I
remember we were studying the Korean war in middle school and I said that’s how
my parents had met, when my dad was a soldier and my mom was a nurse. One of
the kids got confused between South and <st1:country-region>North
Korea</st1:country-region> and accused my mom of being a
Communist.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What did you do?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I stuffed him in a locker.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I laughed and told him about my
own experience. “I’d better get a move on,” I said. “There’s a grocery by the
pizza parlor. I’ll get Dakota to go with me and buy some food."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I parked in the grocery
lot, Dakota took a picture of my Jeep, and then another of the storefront. He
kept taking photos of aisles and products and our cart as we grabbed enough
food to carry us through the next day. When we were in the checkout line, I
finally had to ask. “What is so fascinating about this store?” I asked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m posting to my Instagram
account,” he said. “Dylan and I are competing to see who can take the most
different pictures.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Who’s Dylan?”<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Just a guy. He’s in my English
class.” Dakota slouched against the rack of tabloid magazines, his head down.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hmm, I wondered. Just a guy.
Back home, Dakota took photos of his pizza as he ate each slice, but I resisted
the urge to say anything. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://www.mlrbooks.com/ShowBook.php?book=NP_CNOAH">http://www.mlrbooks.com/ShowBook.php?book=NP_CNOAH</a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
Eric Spectorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10359942176317364618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69024107879317020.post-31710350129146452062015-08-10T07:30:00.000-04:002015-08-10T07:30:00.920-04:00Mother Asphodel excerpt by Edward C Paterson<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hE3ttQqucpA/Vca9yd9-0bI/AAAAAAAACIk/N-hQ1XtnbRA/s1600/MotherA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hE3ttQqucpA/Vca9yd9-0bI/AAAAAAAACIk/N-hQ1XtnbRA/s320/MotherA.jpg" width="215" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">From the novella Mother Asphodel by Edward C Patterson, a different stroke in the pool of gay literature. Previously, t</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">he opening of the novella was posted. But this time a different interesting slice involving Elvis Presley.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">"</span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">“Clothes don’t make
the queen. The queen makes the queen.” </span><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"><br />
It’s Santa</span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> Saturday </span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">in </span><st1:place><st1:city><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">New Hope</span></st1:city><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">, </span><st1:state><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Pennsylvania</span></st1:state></st1:place><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"> and Mother Asphodel
is trudging through the snow to a gig at the Phoenix Club - her drag queen
couture bundled in a shopping cart - her bony feet stuffed into galoshes. At
seventy-seven plus, Mother has seen the glory days and, in the course of this
evening, she’ll share those memories with a younger queen, Brooks MacDonald
(a.k.a. Simone DeFleurry of The Jade Owl fame). Listen to these stylish dames as
they plan Mother’s return into the spotlight, to shine once again in the eyes
of the community and peers.<br />
<br />
Mother Asphodel, a novella, bubbles with the secrets of a raging entertainer,
who has rubbed elbows with the famous. Still, time knows no friends and Mother
cleaves to life’s ornery path on a bleak wintry evening when hope is as sparse
as bread crumbs thrown to the birds. The possibilities are endless on the road
least taken - a kaleidoscope glimpsed only by those who take it.<br />
<br />
“I was just rambling, dear - reflecting on the word gay. Just when did they
give us that name?” </span><span style="color: windowtext;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">“I
think we took it when no one was looking.” </span><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Mother Asphodel</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: #f6f6f6; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform (November 8, 2014)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: #f6f6f6; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">ISBN-10: 1503148947</span></div>
<span style="background-color: #f6f6f6; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 13px;">ISBN-13: 978-1503148949</span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Excerpt:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Chapter Four<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">The Comforts of Home</span></i><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Brooks MacDonald drove a
Buick — a 1990 beige beauty, now thick with snow, except the wipers which did
double duty. But the heater worked and Mother Asphodel found much comfort in
that. The bridge over the </span><st1:state><st1:place><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Delaware</span></st1:place></st1:state><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"> was icy, but it was better to cross it on
snow tires than on galoshes pulling a shopping cart for balance.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“Where am I going?”
Brooks asked, squinting through the heavy veil of wintry flakes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“Just a block passed <i>Lambertville
Station</i>, my dear. Not too fast or you’ll miss it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“Don’t worry. We won’t
be going fast.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">The landmark restaurant,
closed like the rest of the town, was on the right side.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“Make a left at the
light,” Mother said, “and you can’t miss it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“The light, the left or
your place?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“All of it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Brooks tugged the wheel,
the Buick seemingly having a mind of its own.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“Yikes, we’re spinning.”
Brooks turned away from the spin and the car shuffled back onto the right of </span><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">way. “It’s bad out. Now,
how much farther?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“Just there,” Mother
said. “The yellow house. I’m on the second floor. See my balcony?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“I can barely see the house.
Is there a driveway?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“Afraid not. I don’t
drive anymore and my landlady’s in </span><st1:state><st1:place><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Florida</span></st1:place></st1:state><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“What does that have to
do with anything?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“Just thought I’d say.
You can park anywhere.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Brooks maneuvered to the
curb, which probably would have been occupied had the landlady <i>not</i> been </span><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">in </span><st1:state><st1:place><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Florida</span></st1:place></st1:state><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“I wish <i>I</i> were
in </span><st1:state><st1:place><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Florida</span></st1:place></st1:state><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">,” Brooks said. “Or in sunny </span><st1:state><st1:place><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">California</span></st1:place></st1:state><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"> with my boyfriend.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“Do tell,” Mother said,
blandly. “That’s good enough. I can make it from here.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“Glad <i>you</i> can,”
Brook said. “Let me help you out and up.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“You’ve done plenty
already, my dear.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“Nonsense.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Brooks opened the door
and hoisted her feet over the snow mound. She opened the back door and clutched
the shopping cart, navigating it through the space onto the street. She hadn’t
changed into street clothes, so her wig was acting up and her false lashes
whipped the snow flakes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“Now wait,” she told
Mother. “I’ll help you over this mess.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">But Mother was already
out, slipping and sliding like Sonja Henie on a bad day. She would have fallen
if </span><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Brooks hadn’t caught
her. Together, with the help of </span><i style="font-family: Helvetica;">friend shopping cart</i><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">, they managed
to make it to the front porch and through the door.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“More stairs,” Brooks
declared.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“I can manage.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“No, no. You go up. I’ll
tug your trap to the top.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“You’re so kind. Not
like those other bitches.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“You can’t blame them,
my dear. Wasn’t there a time when you climbed to the top of the tree and clawed
at anything that threatened your grasp at the tiara?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“I’m still at the top.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“If you say so. I wish I
were at the top now. Are you sure you’re on the second floor and not in the
family circle?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“You’re so droll.”<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“Like Santa Claus?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“No. You know what I . .
. oh, here we are.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Mother flipped the light
switch, the sudden beam startling Brooks, who almost let the cart go back to
the bottom.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“You could have given me
some warning.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“Well, the lock’s tricky
and . . .” Mother fiddled with a key. “I never get the right one on the first
try, but . . . oh, here we go.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Mother pushed the
apartment door open. Brooks found the change delightful — a blast of aroma — <i>rose</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“Is that Rose of Attar?”
Brooks asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“<i>Serge Lutens Sa
Majestè La Rose</i>,” Mother said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“I’m impressed.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“Only the best. Down to
my last bottle and I’m afraid Santa can’t afford to bring me more.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“Shame.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“My Stumpy kept me in
constant supply, but . . .”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“Stumpy?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“My ex.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“Sorry.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“Don’t be. He passed,
and not on my watch. But he did leave me this lease and memories galore.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Suddenly, Brooks was
effused in warm amber lights, the lamps on the same switch and each covered
with a shade and a silk scarf. The living room — more a parlor by design, was
cozy, especially with the snow beckoning from the street. Built-in shelves held
a considerable library and on every table, and there were a half dozen, set
framed pictures and mementos from life — a long life, no doubt.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“Your abode is wondrous,
my dear,” Brooks remarked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“I like it,” Mother
said, shedding her coat and flopping out of the loose galoshes. “Can I fix you
a cup of tea?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“I’d love a cup of tea.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“<i>Chamomile</i>?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“<i>Chamomile</i> tea
is my favorite.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Mother retreated into
the kitchen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“You know it’s just <i>chamomile</i>.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“That’s fine.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Brooks brushed the
velvet chairs with her hand, and then dared to shove the shopping cart into a
spare corner.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“I mean,” Mother said,
her head popping back into the parlor, “it’s not <i>chamomile tea</i>.
Chamomile <i>is</i> tea. The tea plant is the camellia, which, by the
way, is one of my favorite blooms if it didn’t have such a reputation — <i>La
Traviata</i> and all that. So if you say <i>chamomile tea</i>, you’re
actually saying <i>tea tea.</i>” She laughed. “You wouldn’t want to be
embarrassed in upper crust company now, would you?”<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Brooks grinned. This old
‘ne had rapacious charm and, like her own tastes, insisted upon strict forms
when it came to hostessing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“I appreciate it,”
Brooks said absently, touring the bric-a-brac. “You have such nice things and
so many books and photographs.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“Ghosts,” Mother said.
“Soon I shall join them.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“Nonsense.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Brooks glanced at the
bookshelf. Many classics and some not so classic. One gilded spine caught her
eye. She couldn’t help herself, pulling it out and glancing at the first page. <i>Poetry
for Ordinary Folk </i>by <i>John Dwight Fellowes.</i> Brooks had
never heard of the man, but since she loved poetry, she made a note to ask for
a copy the next time she was in a book store. She set the volume on a table
beside a picture of a young man in uniform — a handsome lad. There were several
framed photos of this soldier in old fashioned poses. Then one caught her
attention. She picked it up. The same young man was sitting on a footlocker
beside another soldier — beside . . .<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“Is that the King?” she
muttered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“Excuse me, dear?”
Mother replied, returning with two cups on an unsteady tray.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“Is this a photograph of
Elvis . . . Elvis
Presley?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“Oh, yes,” Mother said.
“It’s one of my treasures. Did you want an amaretto cookie with your <i>chamomile</i>?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“Yes, please, but what
do you mean: this is Elvis? I know Elvis was in the army, but . . .”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Mother set the tea down
on the coffee table.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“It was years ago. He’s
gone now, you know. 1977, I believe, the poor man passed. He played so well and
was so very handsome. Please, sit.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“But how . . .”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Mother clumped onto the
sofa out of breath. She reached for a cookie tin and fished out four amaretto
biscuits, placing them at the edge of the bone china tea cup saucers — two
each.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“I don’t understand,”
she replied. “How what?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“How did you get this
photograph? It must be worth a fortune.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“Oh, it’s only worth
something to me. It provokes a great memory.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">A memory? </span><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“You met him back then?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“Of course. I was there,
you see. It was 1958 — </span><st1:date day="26" month="11" year="1958"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">November 26<sup>th</sup>, 1958</span></st1:date><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"> to be exact — in </span><st1:place><st1:city><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Grafenwöhr</span></st1:city><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">, </span><st1:country-region><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Germany</span></st1:country-region></st1:place><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"> — Thanksgiving. Elvis came to dinner and
jammed with us in the barracks.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“<i>You</i> were
there?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“Yes.” Mother Asphodel
reached for the picture. “I am<i> </i>there. <i>Here </i>in fact.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">She tapped the young
handsome soldier’s image, the subject in other photos.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“That’s you?” Brooks
grabbed the picture and looked from Mother Asphodel to the soldier and back
again. “You were so young.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“Just twenty.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“You were in the army?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“Drafted. Yes — got my
valentine from Uncle Sam and was stationed in <i>Deutschland</i>.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“Well, you are full of
surprises, Mother.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“Yes, that’s Elvis
posing with PFC John Fellowes — that is — me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"> Brooks was aghast.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">John Fellowes — John
Dwight Fellowes. Well, Kissme Asphodel.</span></i><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Chapter Five<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Blue Suede Memories<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“Now, trust me, Brooks,”
Mother Asphodel said, retrieving the picture frame and setting it beside the
tea cup. “Elvis was not supposed to be in the barracks that night, but, just
like tonight, the weather prohibited travel.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“I mean to leave after
this cup of tea, dear,” Brooks said, cocking her head. “I enjoy your company
and your place is homey. Indeed, these mementos are begging for my attention,
but I have my own place and . . .”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“Don’t be foolish,”
Mother said. “We barely made it across that damn bridge. The hilly pilly
between here and wherever you hail from surely will be hazardous. So, you’ll
miss church tomorrow morning.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Brooks grinned.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“With a name like Simon
Geldfarb, I’m not much of a churchgoer.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“That settles it. There
are plenty of biscuits and I have a spare room and all sorts of bed clothing.
You </span><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">can choose the most
stylish.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Simon Geldfarb lifted
the cup to his lips and sipped.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“We’ll see.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“As I was saying,
Simone. You don’t mind me calling you Simone?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“I could get used to it,
although no one has ever called me that.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“Does your boyfriend
call you Brooks?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“No. Simon. Never
anything but Simon.” </span><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Simone blushed, her eyes
batting back a tear.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“You must miss him.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“I do, but you were
telling me about Elvis and how you met him.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“Was I? Oh, yes. That
dear boy. I was a mere chit then too and sat in my nicely pressed fatigue
apparel. We all blossomed with lavender aroma.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“Lavender,” Simone
sighed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“Yes. We walked in a
manly blush of lavender and starch. But Elvis came to Thanksgiving dinner not
to entertain us, because he was training at Grafenwöhr — the Tank corps, you
know. I was clerical, of course, but the weather was awful and Elvis . . .
well, Elvis got stuck.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Mother closed her eyes,
and then sipped her tea mechanically. The chill of the Bavarian forests rippled
through her old heart. She recalled the dinner — double helpings of turkey and
dressing and cranberry sauce. She was shy then — the diffident PFC Fellowes,
who laughed when everyone laughed and listened when everyone listened. He was
fond of playing backgammon in the early evenings with his buddy Carl Lewis. He
liked Carl — not <i>liked</i> — loved. But even though kisses were
exchanged in the shadows at off times, and hands were held in the quiet
remoteness behind the motor pool, this was not a safe zone for such activity.
Such activity meant a prison sentence — </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Mannheim</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"> for twenty years. So the silent game of
eyes and smiles and whispers ensued. Notes were dangerous and anything beyond
the hand holding could provoke all hell. Not to say that PFC Lewis and Fellowes
didn’t play, mostly in the shower — fleetingly assuming the natural merriment
of a locker room — the sport of queens on the king’s landing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Sweet pine aroma blended
with the lavender and, in the barracks, a famous man, whom the women of </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">America</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"> deemed swoonable, sat. Women poured their
hearts out for him — their throats convulsed with screams and banshee cries. It
was beyond PFC Fellowes, because although he found this hick fetching in the
hip and in the twinkling of the eye, John preferred the tamer croon — a show
tune croon. This rock ‘n’ roll stuff was far too heady for him. Still, with the
winter wind kissing the window panes and the barracks sheltering a renowned
guest, John sat on his footlocker and listened, struck with wonder — with
poetry and prosaic warmth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Love
me tender,<br />
love me sweet,<br />
never let me go.<br />
You have made my life complete,<br />
and I love you so.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Yes, <i>complete. </i> That’s
what he longed to be, and in the promise of things to come, <i>complete</i> would
be denied him. His parents expected him to return a better<i> man</i>,
seek out a woman and make babies for their grandparental laps. They knew he was
a sissy boy. They fully expected him to run when the draft caught him in its
clutches. But he went and trained and muddled through and got by. Then this
overseas gig — how proud they were of their son Johnny, over near the iron
curtain making the world safe for democracy and the family he’d come home and
raise, complete with a dog kennel and a split level house. But Johnny saw a
different abode — a smaller affair, somewhere in Bohemian climes with perhaps a
PFC Lewis at hand or any of a dozen other candidates. He saw tea-cups and <i>petit
fours</i>, not split levels and dog kennels.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br />
Love me tender,<br />
love me true,<br />
all my dreams fulfilled.<br />
For my darlin’ I love you,<br />
and I always will.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Yes, Elvis was there,
guitar over knee, smile radiating in the dim light and it seamed he sang
directly to PFC Fellowes. <i>Be my beau</i>, it said, but John knew it was
all sham. This yokel was sweet and sugary and meant for a Tammy or a Gloria,
never a John. This was a stroke to thank fellow troops for the warmth and
comfort of their barracks and no more.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br />
Love me tender,<br />
love me long,<br />
take me to your heart.<br />
For it’s there that I belong,<br />
and we'll never part.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">And yet the man, a
mama’s boy at heart, had a gift — a sweet and enduring gift that melted winter’s
rough and smoothed the hours. John was mesmerized, not by the man, but by the
magic — the filigree of sound that drew the usually raucous barracks to
silence. He could hear nothing else but this carol to love’s endurance — to a
memory long in the lingering.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br />
Love me tender,<br />
love me dear,<br />
tell me you are mine.<br />
I'll be yours through all the years,<br />
till the end of time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“Till the end of time.”
Mother said, opening her eyes, glancing at the photograph. “Yes, my dear. He
finished the song, and then turned to me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“Just you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“Yes, as if he had sung
the song to me and me alone, which he certainly had not, but such was the
compass of the man. Whoever sat within range of his voice felt his personal
touch. It was show, of course, and I learned much from it when I took to the
stage myself. But he turned to me and said: <i>I’m sure you’d like a
picture with me to give to the wife and children</i>.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“He didn’t.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“He did, and I was so
dumbfounded, I couldn’t tell him there was no wife and certainly no children,
and not likely to be because I had other ideas along those lines. Elvis
grinned, and I felt a warm rush. I was worried that I’d sit on his lap and give
him one, smack on the lips. But I was shy then — a wallflower boy just learning
the ropes.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“I know the feeling, I
do.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“Well, his cameraman
posed me like you see me there and flash! Pop! — there you have it.” She held
it up. “A picture for the wife and children.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“Delicious. And what a
memory.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“You only know the half
of it, my dear. Yes, the half of it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Mother sighed, set the
picture down. Simone reached back grabbing the golden spine book.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“And I suppose this
little gem was penned by you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“Oh, that,” Mother said.
“That probably shouldn’t have seen the light of day, but Allen insisted.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“Allen?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“Yes. Allen Ginsberg. We
were an item, you know.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Simone’s jaw dropped.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">To read another excerpt from MotherAsphodel, see the entry for 11/17/2014<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">To purchase the paperback or Kindle ebook, click <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00PBGPR3I" target="_blank">here</a></span><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Eric Spectorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10359942176317364618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69024107879317020.post-59853152727085809022015-08-03T07:30:00.000-04:002015-08-03T07:30:00.781-04:00The Baker (Workplace Encounters series} excerpt) by Serena Yates<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ScOmRlfecH0/Vb874s4yXTI/AAAAAAAACII/rcGA6kA10gM/s1600/baker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ScOmRlfecH0/Vb874s4yXTI/AAAAAAAACII/rcGA6kA10gM/s1600/baker.jpg" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">
In Serena Yates' second book in the Workplace series, Wallace works as a baker for his tyrannical father in their family owned Scottish Bakehouse in Casper, Wyoming. He wants to represent the bakery in the upcoming Tartan Day competition, but his father refuses to reveal the secret ingredients that make them so successful—unless Ian gets married and has a son, proving he is fit to continue the family line.<br />
<br />
Just before New Year’s Eve, Cameron Lewis, a former Marine turned police detective, comes into the bakery for donuts for his department and some black buns for himself. Cameron is hooked, and as his visits become more frequent, they stir Ian’s father’s suspicions. But threats can’t stop Ian from donning his kilt and entering the competition anyway—to show his father what he can do on his own. Though he might not have the secret ingredients, Ian and Cameron might still discover a recipe for happiness. <br />
<br />
The Baker<br />
Dreamspinner Press (August, 2015)<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">
Excerpt from chapter 2:<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
As soon as the waiter was gone, Ian leaned forward. “I’ve been dying to ask you if you’ve had a chance to try the black bun I gave you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
“Yep, I have.” Cameron could still taste the flaky goodness of the pastry and the sweetness of the filling when he closed his eyes. “I’ll have you know I hid the box in the trunk of my car so it’d be safe from my colleagues, but I managed to sneak a taste during my lunch break.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
“The other police officers would steal your food?” Ian shook his head, his lips twitching suspiciously. “And here I thought they’d all be upstanding members of the community. I am so disappointed.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
“They wouldn’t exactly steal the food.” Cameron smiled, loving how playful Ian turned out to be. “But they’d make a strong case for having me share, and I’d find it difficult to turn them down. Not with something as excellent as that black bun. The donuts were pretty outstanding, but the cake? Amazing.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
“So you liked it.” Ian nodded and sat back, more relaxed now. “Not everyone does, you know? The filling is pretty compact and, like much of Scottish baking, very sweet, so it’s not always received well.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
“If you ever have any leftovers, you now know where to send them!” Cameron winked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
“Oh, well, that’s good to know.” Ian smiled shyly and took a sip of his water. “So, did you manage to identify the ingredients in the filling?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
“I think so.” Cameron leaned back in his chair and focused on recalling what he’d tasted. “Other than flour, baking powder, milk, and egg, there were raisins, currants, some almonds, and chopped peel, I think. I suspect the presence of brown sugar, ginger, and cinnamon. And just to throw me off, there might have been some black pepper and a trace of either brandy or whisky, I’m not sure.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
“Wow, that’s pretty impressive.” Ian smiled. “I can see you’re not a detective in name only.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
“I got it right?” Cameron couldn’t believe it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
“Almost. The alcohol you tasted was whisky, the real Scottish kind, of course. It’s my personal variation, since most recipes say to use brandy. But there is one more ingredient nobody is even supposed to get, since it’s secret.” Ian had lowered his voice to almost a whisper.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
“A secret ingredient?” Cameron made a show of checking if anyone could overhear them and leaned toward Ian. “Are you going to tell me?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
“If I did, I’d have to kill you.” Ian grinned.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
“No!” Cameron laughed at the sneaky expression on Ian’s face. “But I got the rest right?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
“You did.” Ian nodded.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
“Is there a prize?” Cameron knew what he wanted, but he had no idea how Ian would react.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
“A prize?” Ian tilted his head in thought. “Possibly. I hadn’t thought about it yet. Is there anything you’re thinking of?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
“I am afraid so.” Cameron attempted to look serious.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
“You’re afraid to tell me?” Ian frowned. “Why?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
“Because….” Cameron paused dramatically. “Because you might want to kill me if I did.”</div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">Buy Links:</span><br style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;" /><a href="http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/product_info.php?products_id=6646" style="color: #1155cc; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;" target="_blank">http://www.dreamspinnerpress.<wbr></wbr>com/store/product_info.php?<wbr></wbr>products_id=6646</a><br style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;" /><a href="https://www.allromanceebooks.com/product-thebaker-1840886-149.html" style="color: #1155cc; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;" target="_blank">https://www.allromanceebooks.<wbr></wbr>com/product-thebaker-1840886-<wbr></wbr>149.html</a><br style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;" /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Baker-Workplace-Encounters-Serena-Yates-ebook/dp/B011A0JBW6" style="color: #1155cc; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;" target="_blank">http://www.amazon.com/Baker-<wbr></wbr>Workplace-Encounters-Serena-<wbr></wbr>Yates-ebook/dp/B011A0JBW6</a><br />
<div class="gmail_extra">
<br clear="all" />
<div>
<div dir="ltr">
<div>
<a href="http://www.serenayates.com/" style="color: #1155cc; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;" target="_blank">www.serenayates.com</a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
Eric Spectorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10359942176317364618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69024107879317020.post-15538178593318609922015-07-27T10:48:00.002-04:002015-07-27T10:48:54.005-04:00The Hired Man excerpt by Dorien Grey<br />
<div id="AOLMsgPart_1.2_3dec1de9-3e11-4935-b333-81a1c908728d" style="font-family: arial, helvetica; font-size: 13.3333330154419px;">
<div class="aolReplacedBody">
<div dir="ltr">
<div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NceMRwWKolk/VbZENWjMlkI/AAAAAAAACHY/qA37byo_RBM/s1600/51-5qQ3Xp%252BL._SX331_BO1%252C204%252C203%252C200_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NceMRwWKolk/VbZENWjMlkI/AAAAAAAACHY/qA37byo_RBM/s320/51-5qQ3Xp%252BL._SX331_BO1%252C204%252C203%252C200_.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">In this newly revised edition of The Hired Hand, private investigator Dick Hardesty is hired by businessman Stuart Anderson to conduct routine background checks on potential store managers, he becomes reacquainted with a former trick, Phil Stark, who has undergone an amazing transformation from bar hustler to professional escort. When Anderson is murdered, Hardesty is hired by the escort services owners, Arnold and Iris Glick, to keep Phil and the agency away from police scrutiny. Two subsequent murders make this impossible, and Hardesty embarks on a mission to find the identity of the killer</span><br />
<br />
<br />
The Hired Man<br />
Untreed Reads (July 14, 2015)<br />
<ul style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">
<li style="box-sizing: border-box; list-style: none; margin: 0px; word-wrap: break-word;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: 700;">ISBN-10:</span> 1611879280</li>
<li style="box-sizing: border-box; list-style: none; margin: 0px; word-wrap: break-word;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: 700;">ISBN-13:</span> 978-1611879285</li>
</ul>
<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Excerpt:</span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">I must have finished the conversation with Tim somehow because suddenly I was aware that I was sitting there, with the phone still in my hand, listening to a dial tone, afraid to move for fear I would throw up. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Slowly, I eased the phone back onto the cradle and leaned forward with my elbows on my desk and cupped my hands over my nose and mouth, forcing myself to take slow, deep breaths.</span></span></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">I had to tell Phil, but I couldn’t do it by phone. When the nausea had subsided, I let my motor responses take over. They got me out of the chair, walked me to the door, made sure it was locked behind me, then walked me to the elevator. By the time I reached my car, I was sufficiently pulled together to let my mind, which had been spinning wildly out of control, shift into gear.</span></span></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">How was I going to tell Phil? What could I say? I didn’t even know Billy’s last name, which meant that Phil was going to have to go with me to the coroner’s office to try to identify the body.</span></span></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Having sex with a guy doesn’t make you best friends, and I’d only met Billy a handful of times, if that. But what I knew of him I liked. A lot. He was funny and sexy as all hell, and sweet and young, and beautiful and full of life and some son of a bitch had taken all that away from him and I still thought I might throw up.</span></span></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">A blaring horn from the car behind me made me realize the light had turned green, and I moved along.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="en-US"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">I parked about half a block from Phil’s apartment and idly thought I should have brought the photo Billy had lent me of Phil and Anderson and Glen O’Banyon and whoever else in hell it was in there with them. I walked down the hallway to Billy’s…. no, to </span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="en-US"><i><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">Phil’s</span></i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="en-US"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">…apartment and knocked on the door. A full minute went by and I was about to knock again when the door opened. Phil took one look at my face and all the color drained from his own. His eyes riveted onto my own, as though he thought they might help keep him from falling down. “What is it, Dick?” he asked, though I think he knew.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">“It’s Billy,” I managed to say. “He….”</span></span></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">“Is he hurt?” he asked. “Is he in the hospital?”</span></span></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">I shook my head.</span></span></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Phil looked at me and duplicated my head shake, in slow motion. His eyes filled with tears and his lower lip began to quiver. He started to say “No,” but couldn’t make it. I moved forward and put my arms around him as he put his head on my shoulder and started crying like the very little boy who lives somewhere deep inside us all.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
The Hired Man is available in paperback edition, <span style="font-size: 13.3333330154419px;">ebook (Kindle and other) editions, </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333330154419px;">audiobook edition. Check these links: - click <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Hired-Man-Dick-Hardesty-Mystery/dp/1611879280/ref=sr_1_2_twi_2_pap?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1438006084&sr=1-2&keywords=the+hired+man" target="_blank">Amazon</a> <a href="http://store.untreedreads.com/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=720&products_id=1707" target="_blank">Untreed Reads</a> <a href="http://www.audible.com/pd/Fiction/The-Hired-Man-A-Dick-Hardesty-Mystery-Audiobook/B00JVVX9MU/ref=a_hp_c3_1_4_i_pd_recs_1?ie=UTF8&pf_rd_r=0VMD7QBG1TSX3888C5PM&pf_rd_m=A2ZO8JX97D5MN9&pf_rd_t=101&pf_rd_i=5000&pf_rd_p=2074596142&pf_rd_s=center-3" target="_blank">Audible Books</a> </span><br />
<br />
www,doriengrey.com<br />
doriengrey@gmail.com</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
Eric Spectorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10359942176317364618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69024107879317020.post-7280703073048265122015-07-20T07:30:00.000-04:002015-07-20T07:30:00.810-04:00Lola Dances excerpt by Victor J Banis<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ldpNcR2kkTc/VawjHjC9NHI/AAAAAAAACG8/hzmhQQBrz-4/s1600/Lola.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ldpNcR2kkTc/VawjHjC9NHI/AAAAAAAACG8/hzmhQQBrz-4/s320/Lola.jpg" width="207" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.3999996185303px; margin-bottom: 14px; padding: 0px;">
Sometimes funny, sometimes tragic and often bawdy, <i>Lola Dances,</i> in this new edition by Victor J Banis, ranges from the 1850 slums of the Bowery to the mining camps of California and Montana, to the Barbary Coast of San Francisco.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.3999996185303px; margin-top: -4px; padding: 0px;">
Little Terry Murphy, pretty and effeminate, dreams of becoming a dancer. Raped by a drunken profligate and threatened with prison, <span style="line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">Terry flees the Bowery to disappear into the wilderness of the West. In the rugged settlement of Alder Gulch, he stands out like a sore thumb among the camp’s macho inhabitants – until the day he puts on a dress and dances for the unsuspecting miners. As beautiful Lola Valdez, fame and fortune are within reach, and so, ultimately, is love.</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Lola Dances<br />
Rocky Ridge Books (6/19/2015)<br />
<ul style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">
<li style="box-sizing: border-box; list-style: none; margin: 0px; word-wrap: break-word;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: 700;">ISBN-10:</span> 162622028X</li>
<li style="box-sizing: border-box; list-style: none; margin: 0px; word-wrap: break-word;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: 700;">ISBN-13:</span> 978-1626220287</li>
</ul>
<br />
Excerpt:<br />
<br />
Joshua and Brian had barely arrived
in <st1:city>Butte</st1:city> when an early winter set
in. They were just able to get a crude cabin up and get some supplies in before
a major blizzard struck. It snowed without stopping for a full week, stopped
for a day, and began to snow again, the sheets of white blown about in a
strenuous wind that roared down from the mountains. Gray wolves drifted into
town like wisps of smoke, and sometimes got bold enough to scratch at cabin
doors.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
In no time, Joshua and Brian were
snowed in. For several weeks they went outside no more than was essential, and
sat instead for hours before their stove, so close that sometimes their boots
got scorched. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
"Of all the rotten luck,"
Brian grumbled, pacing the floor like a caged mountain lion. He, at least, could
pace; the cabin's roof was too low for the taller Joshua even to stand up
without ducking his head. "We might be stuck in here till spring, the way
it's snowing out there."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
"Not much we can do about it,
the way I see it," Joshua said. "We've got plenty of whisky, haven't
we, and food enough if we're careful, and as soon as the snow lets up, I'm
going to cut some more wood. Doesn't look like we'll be doing much mining, but
we'll get by all right."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
"That's easy for you to
say."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Joshua asked him, puzzled. "Looks to me like we're in the same boat at
this point."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Brian had been thinking about
Terry, and now he was going to be stuck in a cabin for weeks, maybe for months,
with Joshua, who he doubted was a likely candidate to take Terry's place.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
It had never occurred to him that
he might miss his brother in that way, but it hadn't taken him long to begin to
miss his steady diet of sex. And the longer he went without, the better his
memories of how good it had felt.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
He couldn't very well say that to
Joshua, however. "Nothing," he said instead. "I'm just riled, is
all. All this damn snow. Might have been better to stay where we was."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<o:p> </o:p><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">"Too late to be thinking of
that," Joshua said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Brian grunted and went to throw
some more wood in the stove. Joshua watched him and thought about what Terry
had said, about him and Brian. Nothing like that had come up between them. At
first, when Brian had suggested Joshua come with him, Joshua had wondered if
Brian had any inkling of what had happened with him and Terry, like maybe Terry
had told his brother. For the first day or so, he'd been alert for any untoward
movement on Brian's part, half expecting to turn and find Brian's gun trained
on him. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Nothing of the sort had happened,
though, and Brian had said and done nothing in all this time to indicate that
he had any idea of that business, and Joshua had decided after all that he had
no suspicions and began to breathe easier.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
They almost never talked about
Terry at all, and then only obliquely. Brian asked one evening, out of the
blue, "That dancer that came to the Gulch just before we headed out,"
and paused. "To The Dollar. Remember?"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
"Lola Valdez?" Joshua
asked, surprised to have that brought up.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
"Was that her name? Well, what
did you think of her?"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Joshua took a moment to consider
anew what Brian might or might not know.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
"What do you mean, what did I
think of her?" he asked cautiously. "She was a pretty thing, wasn't
she? Had most of those miners standing on three legs, seemed like to me. What
is it you're wondering about?"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Brian gave him a long look.
"Nothing," he said with a shrug. "I was just wondering, is all.
What you thought of her."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
"She was just a dancer, was
all," Joshua said. "Pretty enough, I guess. If you like dancers."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Brian seemed content to leave it at
that.</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
#</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Supplies quickly began to run low.
There was a little general store, with a table for poker, run by a bear of a
man named Angelo, but he was no better prepared for the unexpectedly early
winter than the hundred or so miners in the camp, and soon enough salt and
flour grew scarce, and most everything else not long after.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Luckily, almost the first thing
Brian and Joshua had done when they got there was to stock up. Many of the
miners had little in their pockets by the time they arrived at the crude camp,
expecting with the prospector's optimism to find enough gold dust right off to
provide for themselves, and quickly chagrined to find out how misguided the
expectations had been, but Brian and Joshua were luckier than most. Brian had
the money he had taken from Terry, although he did not mention its source to
his partner, and Joshua had brought with him the rest of the stake his father
had given him when he sent him west. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
As a result, they at least faced
the winter with plenty of coffee and plenty of whisky, and enough beans to tide
them over. They had killed a deer shortly after arriving, and the venison hung
in the rear of their cabin, along with a big side of questionable beef they had
purchased from Angelo, much of which had been made into jerky, the rest of it
gradually growing its own overcoat of mold. By now, they were so used to it
they never even noticed the smell.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br />
Even so, by Christmas they'd had to
reduce their three meals a day to two, as a precaution, and then to one, and they
pretended they didn't hear their bellies complain, and kept a close eye out in
case anyone started envying their provisions. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
"You think this is bad,"
Brian said, "Christ, this is a damn picnic, I tell you. Back in the
states, in the Five Points, people lived two and three families together,
sometimes a hog, too, or chickens, in rooms so dark you couldn't see your hand
in front of your face, and a man could never say for sure whether he'd fucked
another man's wife or his own, or one of his kids, even, and didn't much care
which, either, and women would lay drunk all day long in the shit piles they
called their back yards. This ain't nothing, I tell you."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
"What is it you came for,
anyway, Brian?" Joshua asked him one day. "Was it just the money, is
all?"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
They were sitting by the stove, the
toes of their boots beginning to scorch, and Brian was so long answering,
Joshua thought maybe he hadn't heard the question, or didn't mean to answer it
at all.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
"I don't exactly know,"
he said finally. "I used to think it was the money, but maybe it was just
getting out of there, as much as anything, getting away from, well, The Bowery,
or something, anyway. Only, it don't seem like I've got yet wherever it is I
was going." He looked around, at the dirt floor and the empty tin cans
scattered on it, and the jerky hanging in the corner. "Sure as hell, this
ain't it. I don't know where is, though."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br />
<br />
For more excerpts from Lola Dances, see entries form April 20, 2015: May 13, 2013; January 14,2013; and February 11, 2008.<br />
<br />
To purchase Lola Dances in paperback edition, click <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Lola-Dances-Victor-J-Banis/dp/162622028X/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1436194489&sr=1-1&keywords=Lola+Dances" target="_blank">here</a><br />
To purchase Lola Dances in Kindle edition, click <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Lola-Dances-Victor-J-Banis-ebook/dp/B004HD5YHA/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&sr=1-1&qid=1436194489" target="_blank">here</a><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Eric Spectorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10359942176317364618noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69024107879317020.post-73670065832937198962015-07-06T07:30:00.000-04:002015-07-06T07:30:00.693-04:00Played! – #2 in The Shamwell Tales - excerpt by JL Merrow<h1 style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-line-height-alt: 15.6pt; vertical-align: baseline;">
</h1>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KP1TqbCYT4k/VZnLZFVMyeI/AAAAAAAAB5c/ktqVf6QRyG8/s1600/played.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KP1TqbCYT4k/VZnLZFVMyeI/AAAAAAAAB5c/ktqVf6QRyG8/s1600/played.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia;"><br /><em><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; padding: 0in;"><br />All the world’s a stage…but
real-life lessons are hidden in the heart. </span></em></span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia; line-height: 18pt;">In Played, by JL Merrow,
though Tristan must join his family’s New York firm at summer’s end—no more
farting around on stage, as his father so bluntly puts it—he can’t resist when
Shamwell’s local amateur dramatics society begs him to take a role in</span><span class="apple-converted-space" style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia; line-height: 18pt;"> </span><i style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia; line-height: 18pt;"><span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; padding: 0in;">A Midsummer Night’s Dream</span></i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia; line-height: 18pt;">.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia;">The bonus: giving
private acting lessons to a local handyman who’s been curiously resistant to
Tristan’s advances. Not only is Con<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i><span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; padding: 0in;">delicious</span></i>, there’s fifty pounds riding on Tristan
getting him in his bed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .25in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia; line-height: 18pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .25in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia; line-height: 18pt;">A late-diagnosed dyslexic, Con’s never dared to act, convinced
he’d never be able to learn his lines. But with Tristan’s help, he takes the
chance. Trouble is, the last time Con fell for a guy, he ended up getting his
heart broken. And with Tristan due to leave the country soon, Con is determined
not to start anything that’s bound to finish badly.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .25in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia;">Just as Tristan thinks he’s finally won Con’s heart—and given
his own in return—disaster strikes. And the curtain may have fallen forever on
their chance for happiness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .25in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia;">Warning: contains a surfeit of Bottoms and asses, together with
enough mangled quotations to have the Bard of Avon gyrating in his grave<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Played</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">Samhain Publishing</span> (June 30, 2015)</div>
<ul style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">
<li style="box-sizing: border-box; list-style: none; margin: 0px; word-wrap: break-word;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: 700;">ISBN-10:</span> 1619229722</li>
<li style="box-sizing: border-box; list-style: none; margin: 0px; word-wrap: break-word;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: 700;">ISBN-13:</span> 978-1619229723</li>
</ul>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Excerpt:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Chapter One</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>A Plague on Both Your Houses<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was a frog in the kitchen. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Again. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tristan crouched down to glare at it, quite certain that
such incursions would not have been tolerated had Nanna Geary still been alive.
And while she had now, at the ridiculously young age of eighty-two, passed on
to her reward, he was damned if he’d let her house be invaded on his watch. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The frog stared back at him with an inscrutable amphibian
gaze.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“This,” he told it firmly, “has got to stop. Do I hop into
your pond and frolic among the lily pads? I do not. So why you feel you can
make free of my living area, I really cannot imagine.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The frog blinked once. Then, in a series of spring-loaded
manoeuvres almost too quick for Tristan’s startled eyes to follow, it hopped
behind the fridge.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Damn it. This called for desperate measures.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tristan picked up Nanna Geary’s phone and dialled a number
he’d had the foresight to memorise. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah?” The voice was deep in timbre, yet clearly young.
Excellent.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hello. I perused your advertisement in our local emporium. <i>All—</i>”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You what?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I read your card in Tesco,” Tristan clarified with a sigh.
Some people had no appreciation for the beauties of the English language. “<i>All household job’s</i>—I assume the
apostrophe was ironic?—<i>done, resonible
rates</i>.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Er, yeah.” The man on the other end of the phone sounded
somewhat nonplussed, possibly due to the way Tristan had stressed the “ibble”
at the end of <i>resonible</i>. “What’s the
problem?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Biblical.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I have a plague of frogs.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Pause. “Is this a joke?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“If it is, it’s on me. I keep coming down in the morning to
find a frog in my kitchen. <i>Not</i>
something one wants to see before one’s first cup of coffee. And let me tell
you, I’m something of a connoisseur of unwelcome morning sights.” At least,
Tristan comforted himself, this one hadn’t been in bed with him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yet. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He wouldn’t put anything past the vile green creature. It
was probably hoping for a kiss, and far be it from Tristan to brag, but he had
an impressively wide experience of where kisses tended to lead.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Over his dead body, in this particular instance.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“<i>A</i> frog,” the
handyman was saying. There was another pause. “So technically, yeah, that’s a
plague of <i>frog</i>. One of ’em.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Semantics. The plural, in this case, may be taken to
include the singular.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Right… Look, I think you want pest control, anyhow.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“<i>Finally</i> we reach
agreement. So how soon can you be here?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No, I mean you want someone who works in pest control. Um.
You’re in the village, right?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tristan rolled his eyes. “I’m certainly in <i>a </i>village. However, there appears to be
an elegant sufficiency of villages in this vicinity. Perhaps one might essay a
tad more specificity, hmm?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was a silence, then the voice on the other end was
back. “Well, go on, then. Essay me specific.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tristan frowned. Unless he was very much mistaken, there had
been a soupçon of sarcasm in the handyman’s tone. “Shamwell,” he said shortly.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Thought so. Right. I’ve got this mate. Where are you? I’ll
send him round.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Excuse me? I’m sorry, I believe I must have had some kind
of cataleptic fit and missed the part of the conversation where I told you to
feel free to invite all your friends to my house. Perhaps you’d like to create
a Facebook event, make it a free-for-all—”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Look, do you want rid of this frog or not?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“<i>Obviously</i>.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Then lemme give Sean a call. He’s a professional. What’s
your address?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tristan sighed. “Twenty-two, <st1:street>Valley
Crescent</st1:street>.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was a pause. “That’s Mrs. Geary’s house.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Was.” Tristan’s voice came out perhaps a little on the
sharp side. He <i>missed</i> Nanna Geary.
She’d always loved to hear about Tristan’s latest triumph on the stage, and
she’d certainly never told him to go and get a proper job. “Now it’s mine.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Right.” The handyman’s tone was equally abrupt. “I’ll send
Sean over.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Immediately?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, he’s probably on a job right now, but soon as he can
make it, yeah.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Make it soon. This is an <i>emergency</i>.” Tristan hung up. It was often best not to give these
people a chance to make excuses.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then he went back to sorting through Nanna Geary’s
belongings. It was, Tristan had to admit, not proceeding as quickly as it
might. He kept getting distracted by memories from his childhood. He’d been set
back half an hour already this morning by coming across her old boiled wool
jacket, a stiff heavy thing in the vilest shade of green imaginable—really,
next to it, this morning’s uninvited visitor would be a thing of beauty. The
smell of wet dogs and camphor emanating from it had taken Tristan right back to
rainy afternoons playing games of rummy in a dripping gazebo, because Nanna
Geary thought boys needed fresh air even when the weather was dreadful… He
sighed and folded it reverently before adding it to the charity shop pile.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tristan was knee-deep in women’s underwear when the doorbell
rang. Most of it was of the sturdy thermal variety, but he’d been shocked and
delighted to find some black lace nestling at the back of the drawer of, well,
drawers. “Nanna Geary, you saucy little minx,” he murmured as he got to his
feet, detached a wayward suspender belt from his sleeve and made his way
downstairs.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was no hall, as such, in Nanna Geary’s house. The
front door opened directly from what she had liked to call the living room,
comprising as it did both lounge area and dining room. Tristan strode along its
length and flung the door wide.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The man looming awkwardly on the doormat was <i>delicious</i>. Tall, muscular and
delightfully rough around the edges, with dark stubble on his chin and unruly
jet-black hair. He was casually dressed in jeans and a singlet, perfectly
accessorised with a touch of the grime of honest toil. Things were <i>definitely</i> looking up. And up, and up.
Actually, the man’s height was bordering on the offensive, but Tristan was a
forgiving sort. He beamed at the stranger and barely restrained himself from a <i>hel-looo gorgeous</i>. “You must be Sean.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The man’s face twisted, and he rubbed the back of his neck,
displaying some nicely honed triceps and a tuft of armpit hair. Tristan’s inner
princess swooned dramatically. “Yeah, about that. Sorry. Sean says he don’t do
frogs, ’cos they’re not classed as pests. Says they’re good for slugs and all.
I’m Con.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://www.jlmerrow.com/">www.jlmerrow.com</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To purchase either the Kindle or paperback edition, click <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Played-JL-Merrow/dp/1619229722/ref=sr_1_3_twi_2_pap?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1436141537&sr=1-3&keywords=played" target="_blank">http://www.amazon.com/Played-JL-Merrow/dp/1619229722/ref=sr_1_3_twi_2_pap?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1436141537&sr=1-3&keywords=played</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Twitter - <a href="https://twitter.com/jlmerrow">@jlmerrow</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Facebook - <a href="http://www.facebook.com/jl.merrow">http://www.facebook.com/jl.merrow</a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
Eric Spectorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10359942176317364618noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69024107879317020.post-37394882053900298112015-06-29T07:30:00.000-04:002015-06-29T07:30:01.033-04:00Take This Man (5th Collection <div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">A collection of romantic erotica focused on male couples in committed relationships. Edited by Neil Plakcy, <i>Take This Man</i> takes a close look at how much sexier an encounter can be when the two men involved have been together for long enough to matter.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Take This Man<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Cleis Press (</span><st1:date day="14" month="5" year="2015">May 14, 2015</st1:date><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Excerpt 5 from Take This Man<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<b>From “A Ride Home” by
Brent Archer</b><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Alan pulled a chair from the dining room table and placed it
opposite him. “This isn’t the end of the world. In fact, it’s a fortuitous
change of events.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Bryant’s shoulders tightened as his brow furrowed. “What do
you mean? I might have to move back in with my grandparents in <st1:city>Spokane</st1:city>.
If I leave <st1:city>Seattle</st1:city>, I likely won’t
be able to come back.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Alan’s eyes widened. “That can’t happen.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Alan’s words took a moment to register through Bryant’s haze
of worry. He raised an eyebrow. “Why’s </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
that?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Because I love you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Bryant’s mouth dropped open. “What?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Alan smiled. “I love you, and I want us to be together. So
here’s my proposition. Move in with me. My apartment has two bedrooms. You can
put your stuff in one of them, and we can have hot monkey sex in the other as
often as we want.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Speechless, Bryant put his hand to his forehead.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Alan leaned forward in his chair toward the shocked young
man. “We can do two months before you need to worry about helping financially.
That’ll give you plenty of time to get a new job. You’re smart and resourceful,
so I’ve no doubt you’ll land something quickly. My sister moved out three weeks
ago, so there’s plenty of room.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Bryant’s face flushed with warmth. Alan wanted him. Truly
wanted him. He thought about their friendship, and how much he enjoyed their
time together. He knew he loved Alan, no question in his mind.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Are you sure? I’m starting over from nothing here.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No you’re not. You have a college degree, work experience,
and all the sex you could possibly want. You only need a good man to come home
to every night. That’s what I’m missing, too. We already spend a lot of time
together. Let’s make it official.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Bryant fought down tears as he pushed forward off the futon
and kneeling on the floor wrapped his arms around Alan still seated in the
chair. “Thank you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>From “Wedding Day
Jitters” by Rob Rosen<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
woke up in a cold sweat, eyes
stinging, head pounding. “I think I’m dying,” I lamented, wiping the torrent </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
off my forehead and groaning as I did so.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
J</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
John, my partner, snorted. “No,
Peter; just getting married. Now go back to sleep.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But it’s already light
outside.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The snort repeated. “That’s the
moon, dearest.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah, oh.” He rolled towards me
and took my hand in his before replacing the snort with a heavy sigh. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Why so
nervous, anyway? Everything’s been taken care of.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A list began rolling in my head
before spewing forth from between my parched lips. “What if it rains? What if
no one shows? What if everyone shows? Did I put the stamps on all the
invitations or did I miss some? Did I pay the caterer, the minister, the rental
hall, the florist? Does my tux fit? Do I look fat in it?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He squeezed my hand. “Please
stop, Peter. Now <i>I’m</i> nervous.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“See.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He huffed while I puffed, both
of us staring up at the ceiling, my heart beating out a mad samba in my chest. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“So much for sleeping.” He looked over my shoulder at the alarm clock on the
nightstand “Only eight more hours to go.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The pit in my stomach ripened
into an overgrown melon. “Plus six minutes.” I gulped. “Make that five.” The
gulp repeated. “And counting.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He slapped the bed and then
quickly sprung up. “Okay, enough of this. Put your shorts on; we’re going for a
jog.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I stared at him incredulously.
“At this hour?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He tilted his head my way. “Any
better ideas? Besides, it always relaxes you.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“So does a Xanax, a margarita,
and a <i>Golden Girls</i> marathon. Not
necessarily in the order.” I reconsidered. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Okay, exactly in that order.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He tossed me my shorts. “No
Xanax, the bars are all closed, nothing on TV worth watching. Or, in two more
hours, we can either watch Sunday morning prayer services, <st1:street><st1:address><i>Sesame Street</i></st1:address></st1:street><i>,</i> or perhaps expand our cable service.
Take your pick.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I grabbed for the shorts and
lumbered out of bed, grumbling all the while. “Really, no Xanax?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He shrugged. “Gave the last one
to your mom.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I couldn’t help but chuckle.
“Now you know where I get my neuroses from.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Trust me,” he retorted, “I
know. And I’m marrying you just the same.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">To purchase, click <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Take-This-Man-Romance-Stories-ebook/dp/B00NP8MI0Y/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1433120967&sr=1-1&keywords=take+this+man+plakcy">here</a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Author's question: Do you eat while writing? Before? After?</span></div>
</div>
Eric Spectorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10359942176317364618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69024107879317020.post-7161779821101714082015-06-22T07:30:00.000-04:002015-06-22T07:30:00.217-04:00Take This Man (4th Collection of) short stories edited by Neil Plakcy<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=69024107879317020" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4JVO57WkTvA/VYd1KNES3CI/AAAAAAAAB3g/tVfnP3fukZ8/s1600/takethisman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4JVO57WkTvA/VYd1KNES3CI/AAAAAAAAB3g/tVfnP3fukZ8/s1600/takethisman.jpg" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br />
<span style="text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shapetype
id="_x0000_t75" coordsize="21600,21600" o:spt="75" o:preferrelative="t"
path="m@4@5l@4@11@9@11@9@5xe" filled="f" stroked="f">
<v:stroke joinstyle="miter"/>
<v:formulas>
<v:f eqn="if lineDrawn pixelLineWidth 0"/>
<v:f eqn="sum @0 1 0"/>
<v:f eqn="sum 0 0 @1"/>
<v:f eqn="prod @2 1 2"/>
<v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelWidth"/>
<v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelHeight"/>
<v:f eqn="sum @0 0 1"/>
<v:f eqn="prod @6 1 2"/>
<v:f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelWidth"/>
<v:f eqn="sum @8 21600 0"/>
<v:f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelHeight"/>
<v:f eqn="sum @10 21600 0"/>
</v:formulas>
<v:path o:extrusionok="f" gradientshapeok="t" o:connecttype="rect"/>
<o:lock v:ext="edit" aspectratio="t"/>
</v:shapetype><v:shape id="_x0000_i1025" type="#_x0000_t75" alt=""
href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2Wha_5jNCN8/VWu1BlSrJQI/AAAAAAAAB2U/DODo6HWDzDg/s1600/514KNowaIEL._BO2%252C204%252C203%252C200_PIsitb-sticker-v3-big%252CTopRight%252C0%252C-55_SX278_SY278_PIkin4%252CBottomRight%252C1%252C22_AA300_SH20_OU01_.jpg"
style='width:225pt;height:225pt' o:button="t">
<v:imagedata src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\ERICSP~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image001.jpg"
o:href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2Wha_5jNCN8/VWu1BlSrJQI/AAAAAAAAB2U/DODo6HWDzDg/s1600/514KNowaIEL._BO2%252C204%252C203%252C200_PIsitb-sticker-v3-big%252CTopRight%252C0%252C-55_SX278_SY278_PIkin4%252CBottomRight%252C1%252C22_AA300_SH20_OU01_.jpg"/>
</v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><!--[endif]--></span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">A collection of
romantic erotica focused on male couples in committed relationships. Edited by
Neil Plakcy, <i>Take This Man</i> takes a close look at how much
sexier an encounter can be when the two men involved have been together for long
enough to matter.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Take This Man<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Cleis Press (</span><st1:date day="14" month="5" year="2015"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">May 14, 2015</span></st1:date><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Excerpt 4 from Take This Man<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">From “Inkstained” by
Krista Merle</span></b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Without even a cursory knock, the brass handle
turns and the heavy oak door to my study opens, which can mean only one person.
The man I was on my way to find.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">“Oh good, you’re not working,” David, my
majordomo, says as he walks in, his eyes riveted to the leather bound
appointment book that is never further than arms’ reach away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">“I was. It’s not going as smoothly as I might
have wished,” I say, my eyes taking in every lean, wiry inch of him. His light
hair is smoothed back and tucked behind his ears, and he’s dressed in the same
thing he wears every day, even though I never assigned him a uniform: black
jacket and breeches with a soft white shirt and a simply knotted cravat. As he
walks I can see leather patches on the insides of his knees, which makes me
smile since I’d wager my fortune he’s never been astride a horse. Tall, black
boots, polished so highly that they reflect the flickering light coming from
the fireplace, encase his calves to just below his knee.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">He makes a sympathetic noise and turns a page in
his book. He still hasn’t met my eyes, let alone nodded or, heaven forbid,
bowed. He’s lucky I don’t stand on ceremony.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">“God’s sake, man, what is in that book that
could possibly be so interesting?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Finally, his eyes lift. Bright blue and
deceptively innocent. I widen my stance, my shaft swelling already.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">“I was just reviewing the market schedule for
the tenant farmers and I’m concerned-”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Laughter from outside the door cuts him off and
we turn to look. I lift an eyebrow at David and he sighs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">“The rest of the staff had a bit of a
celebration at tea this afternoon,” he says.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">“Was there a reason for this celebration? Which,
from the sounds of things, involved more than one bottle of my imported French
wine? Men died bringing that across the channel, you know.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">The corners of David’s mouth curl up in a loose
smile. He didn’t look at all ashamed. “Perhaps just a few bottles. I joined
your household a year ago. Apparently that’s all the excuse they need to drink
in the afternoon.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I laugh, feeling instantly more relaxed. Bugger
the novel. This is far more important. “I suppose it has been a year already.
I’m ashamed to say I hadn’t thought of it.” Which isn’t the entire truth; I was
very aware of how long he had been with me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">A year ago he’d presented himself at my front
door and all but demanded a job. I’d been amused and, to be honest, a little
taken aback. But more than anything I was intrigued. He’d proven himself smart
and well-spoken but in the same way a pair of new boots shines – bright and
clear, but without that broken-in patina. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">He’d been newly polished. I’d immediately wanted
to scuff him up a bit.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">In my mind, our real anniversary isn’t for
another three weeks. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<b><span style="font-size: 12pt;">From “Blue Heart” by
Michael Bracken</span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">My first three weeks on the job, </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Gary</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> and I often worked the same shift behind
the counter, rolling burritos for a never-ending stream of customers at the
popular downtown restaurant that employed us. Our conversation, limited as it
was, never became personal, so I had no reason to think he was interested in
me <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">until we were walking out of the restaurant at
the end of our shift one Saturday night.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">The restaurant had closed at </span><st1:time hour="0" minute="0"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">midnight</span></st1:time><span style="font-size: 12pt;">, and it had taken almost half an hour for
employees to clean up, clock out, and make our way out the back door. I had
just reached my car and opened the door when </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Gary</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> called to me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Dwayne?” He pronounced my name as a single
syllable, not as two syllables the way my family and friends <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">did back home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">I turned.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Can I hitch a ride?” He explained that his car
was in the shop after a fender bender with a clueless coed who’d been talking
to her passenger when she plowed her car into the back of his at a stoplight
near <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">campus.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Sure.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">I climbed into the driver’s seat and then
reached across to unlock the passenger door. </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Gary</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> climbed in beside me, provided directions,
and less than ten minutes later I pulled my car into his apartment
building’s <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">parking lot.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“You in a hurry?” he asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">I shook my head.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Want to come up for a beer?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">I had no other plans so I found an empty parking
spot and pulled my car into it. Then I followed </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Gary</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> into the building and upstairs to his
second-floor apartment, a one-bedroom much nicer than the exterior of the
building suggested it would be.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">He led me into the kitchen, opened two bottles
of Lone Star beer he retrieved from the fridge, and handed one to me. As I
pressed the bottle to my lips and tilted it upward to take my first drink, </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Gary</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> said, “I’ve seen you sneaking glances at
my ass.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">I quickly swallowed so that I wouldn’t spit out
my beer. I started to sputter a protest as I lowered the bottle <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">from my lips.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">He stopped me. “It’s okay,” he said. “I’ve
noticed yours, too.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">My cock twitched in my pants when I realized where </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Gary</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> was headed with his comments. “You didn’t
invite me up here just to drink a couple of beers, did you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<st1:city><st1:place><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></st1:place></st1:city></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<st1:city><st1:place><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Gary</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> put his Lone Star on the kitchen counter,
stepped forward, and began unbuttoning my shirt from the top. By the time he
pulled it free of my jeans and unfastened the final button, my cock had swollen
with </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">desire and pressed against the inside of my
Jockey shorts, yearning to be free. When </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Gary</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> pushed my shirt off my shoulders, I set my
bottle on the counter next to his and let my shirt slide down my arms to pool
on the kitchen floor at my feet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">From “Unwanted Freedom” by P.L. Ripley<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Chance woke when he was pulled from the bed and
thrown to the floor. He opened his eyes to see the intruder drop to his knees,
the left one planted firmly in the center of Chance's chest, and shove a thin
slice of steel to his throat.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Tommy, you're home early,” Chance said, not
surprised to see his old lover.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Tommy grunted a hard reply. “No thanks to you,
asshole.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Chance stared up at him a moment, waiting for
the knife to pierce his skin, to tear into his larynx or slice into the jugular
vein. When it didn't happen Chance said, “You look good Tommy. You've been
working out.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Tommy had always been muscular from a lifetime
of working construction. He was bigger now than the last time Chance had seen
him, the day of the sentencing, five years ago. His chest was thicker, arms so
fat with new muscle growth Tommy seemed barely able to keep them at his sides.
They kept wanting to balloon out from him as though his hands were filled with
helium.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“I didn't have much else to do, besides trying
not to get raped or killed,” Tommy replied, pushing the blade a little harder
against the thin flesh. A tiny bead of blood welled up under the knife. Chance
could feel it trickle <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">down into the hollow of his throat.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“I'm sorry you had to go to prison. I'm sorry I
had to arrest you,” Chance said and ran his fingers through the thick hair on
Tommy's forearm. He traced the tattoos all the way up to the shoulder. Tommy
had most of them before he went away, but there were a few new ones. A skull on
his hand, a line through Chance's <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">ame on his bicep.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> “If you’re going to kill me, just do it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“You always were impatient,” Tommy said and rose
to his feet. He stuck out his hand for Chance to take. Chance accepted it,
lifted himself from the floor and stood beside Tommy. It felt good to touch him
again. He missed him more than he had admitted to Bennie. He was still
powerfully, terribly in love with Tommy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Chance slept in the nude. It felt odd standing
naked with Tommy fully dressed. He turned, pulled a pair of white briefs from
the dresser and stepped into them. Tommy dropped the knife on the end table, it
clattered next to the alarm clock, then he sat on the bed. He huffed out a long
sigh. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">To purchase, click <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Take-This-Man-Romance-Stories-ebook/dp/B00NP8MI0Y/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1433120967&sr=1-1&keywords=take+this+man+plakcy">here</a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Author's question: Do you write more than one project at a
time?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Eric Spectorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10359942176317364618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69024107879317020.post-39644945414680231262015-06-16T09:58:00.001-04:002015-06-28T23:07:24.137-04:00TakeThis Man (3rd collection of excerpts from) short stories edited by Neil Plakcy<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2Wha_5jNCN8/VWu1BlSrJQI/AAAAAAAAB2U/DODo6HWDzDg/s1600/514KNowaIEL._BO2%252C204%252C203%252C200_PIsitb-sticker-v3-big%252CTopRight%252C0%252C-55_SX278_SY278_PIkin4%252CBottomRight%252C1%252C22_AA300_SH20_OU01_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2Wha_5jNCN8/VWu1BlSrJQI/AAAAAAAAB2U/DODo6HWDzDg/s1600/514KNowaIEL._BO2%252C204%252C203%252C200_PIsitb-sticker-v3-big%252CTopRight%252C0%252C-55_SX278_SY278_PIkin4%252CBottomRight%252C1%252C22_AA300_SH20_OU01_.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">A collection of romantic erotica focused on male couples in committed relationships. Edited by Neil Plakcy, </span><i style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">Take This Man</i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;"> </span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">takes a close look at how much sexier an encounter can be when the two men involved have been together for long enough to matter.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">
<u></u>Take This Man</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">
Cleis Press (May 14, 2015)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
Excerpt 3 from Take This Man<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>From “Homecoming” by
Justin Josh<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The look on Scott’s face was thinly disguised disappointment
mixed with disgust. Perfect, I thought. The apartment was a total mess. I was
dirty, unshaven (which Scott hated), and best of all, I wore a fat suit hidden
beneath a full-length cotton robe. I looked terrible.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Scott stood in the doorway, shocked. He looked gorgeous,
decked out in his spotless uniform with its gleaming gold buttons. He knew how
much I loved the way he looked in full uniform. With his puppy-dog brown eyes
framed with those thick eyebrows, he was irresistible. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I could only imagine what he must be thinking, coming home
from <st1:country-region>Afghanistan</st1:country-region>
after six months only to find his boyfriend dressed in a bathrobe before dinner
and looking like he had gained a hundred pounds.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Scott loved practical jokes and this was big. Cruel,
perhaps, but he deserved this for all the surprises he had pulled on me, and
for telling me before he left that I was getting chubby, and most of all for
teasing me about all the beautiful muscular men he was working with while in
the army.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Welcome home,” I said, hugging him. I could barely keep
from laughing as he recoiled. “Sorry about the mess.” I waved at the carefully
staged destruction of our small apartment. Dirty dishes and old food covered
the tables and countertops. Soiled clothes were strewn across the couch and
floor. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To his credit, Scott gulped, smiled weakly and kissed me. He
began to fondle my body, clearly surprised at how much weight I had gained. I
pulled away, feigning embarrassment.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Later,” I said. “You just got home.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Scott looked almost like he was going to cry. Had I gone too
far?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I can’t believe you didn’t clean up,” he said. “You knew I
was coming.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I cooked for us. I made your favorite:
lasagna and garlic bread. You go upstairs, take a shower and dress into
something more comfortable. Give me an hour and I’ll get everything ready.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Okay,” he said, leaning forward to kiss me again. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He kissed me and grabbed my butt. Again, he looked at me
strangely.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You gained weight,” he said, neutrally.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I put on my best guilty face. “I’m sorry. I’ll lose it, I
promise.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’ve missed you Todd,” he said. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Me too.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He nodded, turned and walked upstairs.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I nearly laughed out loud. Poor Scott! He had no idea that
beneath my fat-suit was my new finely-sculpted muscular body. He was right. I
had been getting chubby. So right after he left, I began working out on a daily
basis. Not only did I lose my chubbiness, my muscles filled out quite nicely. I
even had an actual six-pack. Scott was going to be so surprised.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>From “Late Start” by
Heidi Champa<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We’ve been together too long to still be in the honeymoon
phase. We did all that seven years ago.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He chuckled for a moment, before letting out a rattling
cough, the remnants of a cold he’d been battling the week before. I was just
about to ask him how he was feeling, but he didn’t give me the chance, his
response dripping with sarcasm.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“God, you’re such a romantic, <st1:place>Cam</st1:place>. I
don’t know how I’m supposed to stand it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You know what I mean. It’s not my fault we couldn’t get
married until a few months ago.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“That doesn’t mean we can’t act like newlyweds. Because, you
know, sweetie, we actually are.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I promise when I get back, we’ll do something.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We could do something right now.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He looked at me expectantly and it took everything I had to
get the next words out. “I’m sorry, I really have to go.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ben stared at me, his hand still moving around his cock, a
little moan slipping past his lips before he spoke.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Killjoy.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I sipped my coffee and glanced at my watch. I really did
have to leave. Technically, I should have already been on my way to the train
station. It was so typical of Ben to try and distract me on a day like today.
There he sat, on our giant sofa, bathed in the morning sun, every curtain in
the loft wide open. Light bounced off the whitewashed brick walls, making
everything glow. In the middle of it all was Ben, without a care in the world,
his dark brown hair a mess, the glint in his eye making me reconsider my plans.
For a moment, at least. The sky was the most gorgeous blue and I could hear the
noise of the city getting louder as more and more people flooded onto the
streets to start their day. Just like I was supposed to be doing. I repeated my
words, but I said them more for me than for him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I really have to go, Ben.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He sighed and ran his free hand up and down his thigh. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“So you said. Then go. Call me when you get to our nation’s
capital.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His words were flat, but I barely heard them. Mostly because
Ben was making it hard for me to focus on anything but his hard dick. I looked
at my watch, but I barely even saw the numbers. I knew I should just go. Then,
Ben opened his mouth again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’ll miss you, baby.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
His voice came out a bit husky, a trick he used when he
wanted to get his way. The sound of it always drove me crazy, even after all
these years. Which he knew, of course. He stretched an arm up into the air, his
head coming to rest against the back of the couch. While I kept watching him, I
found myself setting down my briefcase and loosening the knot on my tie. Ben
smiled as I toed off my shoes on my way to the couch, careful to lay my suit
jacket over the back of his favorite chair. I stood right in front of him and
looked down at him, his hand still moving slowly up and down his dick.<br />
<br />
<br />
Excerpt 3 from Take This Man<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>From “The Last
Romantic Lover” by </b><st1:city><st1:place><b>Logan</b></st1:place></st1:city><b>
Zachary<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“</span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Logan</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">, blow out your candle and
make a wish,” Jake, my partner, said as he poured me another glass of
champagne. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The
waiter had just set down a huge piece of </span><st1:place><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Black Forest</span></st1:place><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> cake in front of me with a
single candle burning on it. He stepped
back, knowing full well not to sing Happy Birthday to me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The
</span><st1:place><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Black
Forest</span></st1:place><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> restaurant wasn’t very busy for a midweek supper and birthday
celebration, and I was glad. I looked
into Jake’s eyes and asked, “Jake, will you marry me?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“</span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Logan</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">, you know until it’s legal
…” Jake set the champagne bottle back in the table and picked up his bubbling
flute.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I
raised my glass to clink his. “I don’t
care what the government says. I want to
marry you, and a stupid piece of paper doesn’t make my feelings for you any
different. I love you, and I want to
marry you.” Our champagne glasses
clinked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“You
want to drive down to </span><st1:state><st1:place><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Iowa</span></st1:place></st1:state><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> and … ?” He extended his fork to steal a bite of cake.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I
nodded at him to help himself to the cake.
“You don’t understand. I don’t
care about some license or any silly documents.
I want a pastor to marry us. In
my heart, that’s all that matters, not a stupid document.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“But
if the paper doesn’t matter …”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Never
mind. If you don’t want to marry me,
that’s fine.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“I
didn’t say that. I just don’t see why it
matters so much to you. You’re always
such a rebel, you don’t seem like the one to follow any ancient heterosexual
ritual.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“I
just want you to commit to me, and I want to commit to you. Why is that so hard to understand?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“It
isn’t, but legally …”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“I
don’t care what they say. If I want to
marry you, that’s all that matters to me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Jake
took a big bite of cake.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Fine,
I won’t ask you again, but once it’s legal, you’ll have to ask.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Okay.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“And
I expect a ring, two month’s salary.” I
raised my champagne glass and saluted him before I drained it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“It’s such a nice place,” Mike said. He leaned across the bar and spoke in a low voice. “The smell is driving me crazy. I’m starving. How do you stand it?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The chef did a tasting of the specials for the servers, and he had done a few of the classics for Mike to taste along with them, to get an idea of the whole menu. He said he had never eaten Ethiopian food, but he ate with enthusiasm and had spent much of the night suggesting dishes to customers before they even had a chance to decide.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You eat before you show up for work,” Toby said, deadpan. Mike laughed, so he knew how to take a joke. He was going to get along well at Injera.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“The only thing I have in my fridge right now is beer,” Mike said. He turned away from Toby to glance around the room.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mike was attentive and pleasant to be around. Toby couldn’t bring himself to complain about the constant questions. He was new. He had a lot to learn.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What about you?” Mike asked, coming around the bar to grab the cloth and wipe it down for something to do. “Is your wife a good cook?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It had been a long time since Toby had to come out to someone. He encountered people every day who didn’t know, but they didn’t always need to know. Mike would find out, and if he was still here when Azzo arrived to take Toby home, he would find out tonight.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Husband,” Toby said, an easy correction.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mike’s mouth fell open, almost comical, but his eyes were also wide, and Toby felt that old, familiar panic reaching up into his throat.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“That’s awesome,” Mike said. Toby didn’t think Mike could be any younger than he already looked. “I have so many questions, man. Where did you meet? How long have you guys been together? Is he hot?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Toby laughed, but there wasn’t time for any of that, of course. As Mike was inching himself closer, Toby spotted a customer glancing around the room.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Table five,” he said. Mike jumped, and he was gone, completely professional once more. He would do well here, Toby decided. He would be a good kid to keep around.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To purchase, click <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Take-This-Man-Romance-Stories-ebook/dp/B00NP8MI0Y/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1433120967&sr=1-1&keywords=take+this+man+plakcy" target="_blank">here</a></div>
<br />
Author's question: Do you obey any "rules for writing"?<br />
<br /></div>
Eric Spectorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10359942176317364618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69024107879317020.post-8087830047910306502015-06-08T09:35:00.000-04:002015-06-15T21:31:17.115-04:00Take This Man (2nd collection of excerpts from) short stories edited by Neil Plakcy<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2Wha_5jNCN8/VWu1BlSrJQI/AAAAAAAAB2U/DODo6HWDzDg/s1600/514KNowaIEL._BO2%252C204%252C203%252C200_PIsitb-sticker-v3-big%252CTopRight%252C0%252C-55_SX278_SY278_PIkin4%252CBottomRight%252C1%252C22_AA300_SH20_OU01_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2Wha_5jNCN8/VWu1BlSrJQI/AAAAAAAAB2U/DODo6HWDzDg/s1600/514KNowaIEL._BO2%252C204%252C203%252C200_PIsitb-sticker-v3-big%252CTopRight%252C0%252C-55_SX278_SY278_PIkin4%252CBottomRight%252C1%252C22_AA300_SH20_OU01_.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">A collection of romantic erotica focused on male couples in committed relationships. Edited by Neil Plakcy, </span><i style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">Take This Man</i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;"> </span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">takes a close look at how much sexier an encounter can be when the two men involved have been together for long enough to matter.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">
<u></u>Take This Man</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">
Cleis Press (May 14, 2015)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
Excerpt 2 from Take This Man<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>From “Table for
Three” by Jameson Dash<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s such a nice
place,” Mike said. He leaned across the bar and spoke in a low voice. “The
smell is driving me crazy. I’m starving. How do you stand it?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The chef did a
tasting of the specials for the servers, and he had done a few of the classics
for Mike to taste along with them, to get an idea of the whole menu. He said he
had never eaten Ethiopian food, but he ate with enthusiasm and had spent much
of the night suggesting dishes to customers before they even had a chance to
decide.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You eat before you
show up for work,” Toby said, deadpan. Mike laughed, so he knew how to take a
joke. He was going to get along well at Injera.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“The only thing I
have in my fridge right now is beer,” Mike said. He turned away from Toby to
glance around the room. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mike was attentive
and pleasant to be around. Toby couldn’t bring himself to complain about the
constant questions. He was new. He had a lot to learn. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What about you?”
Mike asked, coming around the bar to grab the cloth and wipe it down for
something to do. “Is your wife a good cook?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It had been a long
time since Toby had to come out to someone. He encountered people every day who
didn’t know, but they didn’t always need to know. Mike would find out, and if
he was still here when Azzo arrived to take Toby home, he would find out
tonight.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Husband,” Toby
said, an easy correction.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mike’s mouth fell
open, almost comical, but his eyes were also wide, and Toby felt that old,
familiar panic reaching up into his throat. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“That’s awesome,”
Mike said. Toby didn’t think Mike could be any younger than he already looked.
“I have so many questions, man. Where did you meet? How long have you guys been
together? Is he hot?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Toby laughed, but
there wasn’t time for any of that, of course. As Mike was inching himself
closer, Toby spotted a customer glancing around the room. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Table five,” he said. Mike jumped, and he was gone,
completely professional once more. He would do well here, Toby decided. He
would be a good kid to keep around. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>From “The Road Trip”
by Kitten Boheme<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">“Oh my god!” Finn
yelled, his face pressed against the passenger window, his breath fogging the
glass.</span><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">I slammed on the brakes,
the car behind us had to swerve around us, the driver laying on its horn, and
gesturing rudely as he drove by.</span><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">“What?! What’s wrong?” I
panicked.</span><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">“We should eat there!”
He pointed excitedly to a roadside café. </span><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">“Seriously? That’s what
you nearly got us killed for?” My heart had leapt up into my throat; I tried to
swallow it back down. </span><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">Finn just looked back at
me, unaware or uncaring of what just happened. He shrugged, “I’m hungry.”</span><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">“You are always hungry.”
I rubbed his slightly less than a six-pack gut. He returned my mock affection
with a punch to the arm, I laughed. “Fine, let’s stop.” I relented, flipping on
my turn signal and pulling in to the café. </span><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">I parked our Chevy
station wagon, bought especially for this trip. “See the </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="line-height: 115%;">USA</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="line-height: 115%;"> in your Chevrolet” was Finn’s mantra. Being the pushover I am,
relented and traded in my Audi for this 1980’s monstrosity. </span><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">As I unbuckled my
seatbelt I leaned over, “You owe me. Big.” I puckered my lips and waited.</span><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">Finn closed the gap
between us and pressed his mouth to mine.</span><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">I melted into his kiss,
the moistness of his lips, the heat of his breath, and the familiar feel of his
tongue sliding against mine. Five years and he still can make me weak at the
knees with just a kiss. We clung eagerly to each other, a hand slid up the nape
of my neck, his fingers curling in my hair. I shuddered. I put my hand against
his cheek, the fleshy pad of my thumb caressing his cheek bone. When the kiss
broke Finn left a trail of soft kisses from the corner of my mouth to my ear.
He breathed deep and heavy in my ear, a chill ran down my body, I could feel
something beginning to stir in my pants. He whispered, “I want a bacon
cheeseburger.”</span><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">I pushed him away from
me, stifling a laugh. “Get away from me.”</span><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">“Come on, let’s go eat”
Finn reached over and pulled the keys from the ignition. “I’m buying.”</span><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">“Damn right you are.” I
reached for the door handle.</span><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">“Wait!” Finn held up a
hand, motioning for me to stop. He jumped out of the car and hustled over to
the driver’s side and opened the door for me. It was a silly thing he did, ever
since our first date. He thought it was romantic and I humored him, although
the tradition has grown on me. </span><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">“Thank you, babe.” I
took his outstretched hand and lifted myself out of the seat with a groan. It
felt good to finally stretch my legs. Finn linked his arm through mine and
started pulling me towards the entrance and grudgingly I followed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="line-height: 115%;">From “A </span></b><st1:state><st1:place><b><span style="line-height: 115%;">Riviera</span></b></st1:place></st1:state><b><span style="line-height: 115%;">
Wedding” by Neil Plakcy<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Aidan reached down to touch his
half-hard dick, running his index finger up its length, remembering how Liam
had looked that morning, like a Greek god come to life. He closed his eyes and
imagined Liam there beside him, how he’d turn to his partner and take one
nipple ring between his teeth, and twist.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Liam would shiver and reach for
Aidan’s dick. Aidan stroked himself as he imagined that touch. He lay there in
the shaft of sunlight gently fingering himself until his dick began to ooze
precome.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Getting started without me?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Aidan opened his eyes to see
Liam silhouetted in the doorway. His partner had an ability, cultivated by
years as a US Navy SEAL, to move quietly when he wanted to . It was almost
creepy.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, at least I waited for you
to get here.” He patted the bed beside him. Their little mixed-breed dog,
Hayam, looked up from her place on the floor, then rested her head back down.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I should take a shower.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No , you shouldn’t,” Aidan
said. “I love the way you smell when you’ve been out at the beach.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, if you insist.” Liam
pulled off his T-shirt, revealing his narrow waist, awesome six pack, and beefy
pecs. The gold nipple rings glinted dully in the light.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Aidan never tired of watching
his partner strip. In the five years they had been together, Liam had put on a
bit of weight around his hips, and his biceps were not as iron-hard as they’d
once been. But even if that amazing body were to fall apart, Aidan knew he
would still love the man inside.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Liam kicked off his leather
sandals and stepped out of his baggy gray shorts. He usually wore a jockstrap, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
because he liked the way the cotton fabric cupped and protected his dick and
balls, but that morning he’d skipped the jock in favor of the tiny bathing
suit. As he skinned the white nylon down over his crotch, his half-hard dick
popped out. He pushed the fabric down over his massive thighs and then let the
suit fall to the floor.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Grinning, he struck a bodybuilder
pose beside the bed – because he knew how much it teased and excited Aidan. As
he did, he bounced his dick up and down a couple of times to stiffen it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Come here, you,” Aidan said,
clambering over the bed until his mouth was level with Liam’s dick. Liam
planted his legs firmly on the floor and Aidan reached out to cup Liam’s balls.
Then he moved in closer and took the mushroom head of Liam’s beefy dick in his
mouth.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Liam was a shower, not a grower;
his dick was pretty much the same girth and length hard or soft. And either
way, Aidan loved to take it in his mouth. Nestling his nose against Liam’s
pubic hair, he smelled the combination of sun, sand, salt water and tanning
oil, along with their lavender soap and Liam’s own unique musk.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
To purchase, click <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Take-This-Man-Romance-Stories-ebook/dp/B00NP8MI0Y/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1433120967&sr=1-1&keywords=take+this+man+plakcy" target="_blank">here</a><br />
<br />
Author's question? How did you get your first book published?<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
Eric Spectorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10359942176317364618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69024107879317020.post-68456893355502345322015-06-01T07:30:00.000-04:002015-06-01T07:30:00.985-04:00Take This Man short stories edited by Neil Plakcy<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2Wha_5jNCN8/VWu1BlSrJQI/AAAAAAAAB2U/DODo6HWDzDg/s1600/514KNowaIEL._BO2%252C204%252C203%252C200_PIsitb-sticker-v3-big%252CTopRight%252C0%252C-55_SX278_SY278_PIkin4%252CBottomRight%252C1%252C22_AA300_SH20_OU01_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2Wha_5jNCN8/VWu1BlSrJQI/AAAAAAAAB2U/DODo6HWDzDg/s1600/514KNowaIEL._BO2%252C204%252C203%252C200_PIsitb-sticker-v3-big%252CTopRight%252C0%252C-55_SX278_SY278_PIkin4%252CBottomRight%252C1%252C22_AA300_SH20_OU01_.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">A collection of romantic erotica focused on male couples in committed relationships. Edited by Neil Plakcy, </span><i style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">Take This Man</i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;"> </span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">takes a close look at how much sexier an encounter can be when the two men involved have been together for long enough to matter.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">
<u></u>Take This Man</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">
Cleis Press (May 14, 2015)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Excerpt 1 from Take This Man:</span></div>
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“A Good Heart is This
Day Found” excerpt by Rhidian Brenig Jonesa</span></b><br />
<br />
Eight hours after I’d fixed it in place, Iain bent his head to the
rosebud in his lapel. “I can’t believe he did this for us,” he said. “I still
can’t believe he actually came.”<br />
<br />
“I knew he would, in the end. All the flowers are his way of saying he’s
okay with us now. You know my father, he’d never just come out and say it.” I
propped the bottle against my hip and turned it steadily, felt the cork give.
“Pass me the glasses. Anyhow, all those posies, whatever they’re called, that
he made for the girls gave him a chance to show off.”<br />
<br />
<div style="margin: 1em 0px;">
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">He moved the curtain aside and looked down at the hotel lawn. “Party’s
still going strong. You’re sure you didn’t want to stay?”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 1em 0px;">
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Nah, leave them to it.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 1em 0px;">
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Reckon your mother’s stopped crying yet?” </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 1em 0px;">
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Your mother-in-law, you mean? Not if she’s still necking the gin.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 1em 0px;">
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The curtain swung back into place and he turned to me with a slow grin.
“My God, I’ve just realized. I’ve got a mother-in-law.”</span></div>
“So have I.” I handed him a glass “You know what she said when I was
dancing with her? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You’re my second son,
Christian</i>. Sweet. So here’s to us, Mr. Leigh-Collier.”<br />
<br />
<div style="margin: 1em 0px;">
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Still think Collier-Leigh sounds better.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 1em 0px;">
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“I won the toss, darling, fair and square.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 1em 0px;">
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“So you did, so you did.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 1em 0px;">
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">We clinked crystal and sipped, savoring the fresh, mineral edge of the
Dom Perignon. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 1em 0px;">
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I asked, “D’you feel different?” </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 1em 0px;">
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Yeah, I think I do. It’s as if…ah, I don’t know how to describe it. It’s
as if a last piece is in place, everything’s …complete.” He took my hand and
slowly rotated the slim platinum band on my finger, the twin of the one I’d
given him. “I’ve said it a million times but I want to say it again, I want to
say it now.” He raised his face and looked solemnly into my eyes. “I love you,
Chris. Whenever you think back to today, remember me telling you this. I love
you and I always will.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">From “Into the Dark” excerpt
by D.K. Jernigan</span></b></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The entire cavern glittered and shone with crystals embedded
in the walls. It was like a fairy wonderland or some magical palace, hidden
here in the ground where only the dedicated—or those with romantic and
determined lovers—would find it. A fitting reward for over an hour of fear and
frustration in the dark, despite the fact that I hadn't done much to earn it. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I stepped forward and put a hand to the wall, feeling the
cool smoothness of the crystal embedded in the rock. It was so marvelous, it
took me a moment to realize that Rick had been standing next to more than a
lantern. I turned slowly and faced the scene, and felt instantly like a total
prick. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He must have come down here on his day off, yesterday, and
gotten things set up for us. There was an inflatable mattress, fully inflated,
and a bottle of wine, well cooled in the chilly air. He went down on one knee
as I turned to face him, and my heart about stopped. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">"Oh, Rick..."</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">"Mason. Will you?" He held up a ring box with a
solid gold band, and I felt tears gather. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">"Are you sure you still want to after all my
whining?"</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He grinned. "As long as I have permission to tell
everyone that you whined and bitched the entire way to the proposal."</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I held up my hand for him, and he slid the ring onto my
finger; a promise made and sealed in gold. "Deal. You get wine glasses
down here, too?"</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">"I wanted to, but it seemed like a bad idea. We've got
plastic cups. You game?"</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">"Definitely." He poured, while I emptied my own
backpack of food. I had wondered why he had insisted on me bringing impractical
treats, like a box of strawberries. And why I'd had to carry all of it.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But when he sat on the mattress opposite me, and I took the
first crisp, sweet sip of wine, food was the farthest thing from my mind.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">From “My Apologies,
Sir,” excerpt by Kiwi Roxanne Dunn</span></b></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Owen
should have known this was a bad idea: flying halfway around the world from
England to turn up at the doorstep of Luther’s tony student-housing Harvard
apartment without so much as an invitation. He should have assumed that the
shock of his presence – unannounced and unexpected – on Luther’s doorstep, on
Christmas Eve, might not be anything his ex-CO would want.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But
then, it had seemed too good an opportunity to pass up: after months of e-mails
and passive-aggressive two a.m. IMs; the innuendo-laced Skype calls, in which
Owen tried vainly to shock Luther awake for his eight a.m. class while Luther
spluttered and blushed over his second cup of black Starbucks Espresso Roast –
to see him in person.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What a wonderful world it would be, </i>Owen
thinks, grimly, without the slightest attempt at Christmas cheer coloring his
thoughts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">More fool was I.</i></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Owen
still wasn’t sure if their covert-ops affair had been the deciding factor in
Luther’s decision not to re-enlist after his initial service was up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps he should have asked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it was a little late for that now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Luther was a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">mister, </i>not a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sir, </i>and in
his second year at Harvard Law School, so the whole question was (or is) now
most decidedly a moot point as Owen uses the moment it takes Luther to unwind
the white, doughy scarf from around his tall and shapely neck to wonder why
he’d even assumed Luther would be alone for the holidays. </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Still,
Owen can’t help but remember the mingled shock and anger he’d felt, ringing
Luther’s doorbell not six hours ago. He’d been greeted, not with the reserved
happiness he might have expected from his former LT, but by a decidedly tipsy
and unusually boisterous Luther, shrouded in a halo of Christmas tree lights
spilling out from inside and surrounded by half-a-dozen of his grad school
friends. They’d all been on their way to a Christmas party on the other side of
town, and Owen had been left stammering his apologies to Luther’s white,
wide-eyed expression.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Owen’s
hands clench tight against his sides. Now is not the time to push Luther’s
buttons, and Owen knows it. He can see it in the hard, thin press of Luther’s
posh, plump lips, the angry furrow of worry lines in his forehead. But the
silence is getting to Owen – eating at him, and all the knowledge in the world
can’t seem stop a soft “Sir - ” from slipping past Owen’s lips. </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The
word is barely more than a breath, a quick exhalation of air that leaves Owen’s
lungs like a punch. It still ought to be enough to provoke some sort of
response from Luther, but the silence only lengthens. When Luther’s still
quiet, even as he kicks off his loafers and pushes past Owen into the
apartment, Owen’s hands start to sweat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But he’s here, now. And he’s not going to run away from this. From
Luther. </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Sir
- ” But when Owen tries again, his voice is rough. It hurts to swallow, and
there’s a dangerous heat building behind his eyes. <i>“Luther!”</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Owen breathes, as he moves to follow Luther
into the privacy of his living room. If it sounds like begging, Owen doesn’t
care. Much. He has to believe that this is salvageable. That is presence hasn’t
ruined whatever tenuous connection they’d managed to keep alive between
Luther’s studies and Owen’s stint with the Royal Marines. </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">From<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Strangers for
the Night” excerpt by T.R. Verten</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Shawn’s attention snaps into place. He looks up from the
political bickering of his timeline with relief; here he is, the one he’s been
waiting for. That melodious voice belongs to a man of middling height and dark
red hair, whose average features cohere like a discordant symphony. Shawn’s
fingers clench the slippery stem of his martini glass. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tanqueray and tonic</i> -- he hears him order --<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> lemon, please, not lime</i>. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Shawn drinks him in: his sinful mouth, curved around the lip
of his glass, the teasing flick of his pink tongue, as he licks the gin from
his upper lip; his slow-spreading smile to the bartender as she hands him his
own tiny silver dish of pistachios. He catches Shawn’s eye and holds the stare
that beat too long, then walks his drink and his dirty, angelic, dick-sucking
face over to a corner table. His tight shirt was a bad idea, he thinks, since
sweat is suddenly gathering in his armpits. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Shawn undoes the top two buttons of his shirt, twisting as
he does so to watch him walk away, but the seat lies just beyond his range of
motion. The windows, fortunately, reflect the man back at him, and he takes
full advantage, tracking the quick motions of his hands as he cracks open the
nuts, the delicate purse of his lips as he licks salt from his fingers. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He tips, then, with his ass falling off the leather, a
graceless flail of limbs and momentary loss of his center, before he grabs the
edge of the counter and rights himself. Shawn sits very still and wills himself
to look at the counter, the bottles, the bartender, but he can’t help it, he’s
too adorable, his mouth is obscene, he would destroy it given half a fucking
chance.... his breaths come quick and shallow, the drive to look already
turning his head once more --</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">--
and Tanqueray has sidled his way over, seeping his way into Shawn’s orbit.
Their shoulders brush, electric.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">Author's question? What made you want to become an author?</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">To purchase, click <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Take-This-Man-Romance-Stories-ebook/dp/B00NP8MI0Y/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1433120967&sr=1-1&keywords=take+this+man+plakcy" target="_blank">here</a> </span></span>Eric Spectorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10359942176317364618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69024107879317020.post-82415627581099763022015-05-25T07:30:00.000-04:002015-05-25T08:17:41.619-04:00Both Sides Now: One Man's Journey Through Womanhood excerpt by Dhillon Khosla <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1epW3BfW2q8/VWHt01XUREI/AAAAAAAAB1c/FecCjg6xRO8/s1600/9781611878035.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1epW3BfW2q8/VWHt01XUREI/AAAAAAAAB1c/FecCjg6xRO8/s1600/9781611878035.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Both Sides Now: One Man’s
Journey Through Womanhood </i><span style="color: windowtext;">Excerpt by
Dhillon Khosla<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">Both Sides Now:</span></i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> <i>One Man's Journey Through Womanhood</i>, written
by Dhillon Khosla, </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">is a vivid and compelling account of how one man’s search for
wholeness led him through multiple, complex, and life-threatedgdedning
surgeries that transformed him not only physically, but emotionally and
spiritually as well. Born with the body of a female, Dhillon Khosla knew very
early on that his true identity was male, yet he spent nearly two decades
repressing that knowledge and trying to embrace his female form. Shortly after
turning twenty-eight, he came across an article about men born with female bodies
who had undergone surgeries to reclaim their male identity. When he read their
stories, Khosla felt flashes of recognition stirring within and—for the first
time—hope.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">In this riveting memoir, Khosla discusses
openly and honestly what it was like to live as a woman, and how that life
shaped the man he is today. Through anecdotes, he shares unique and profound
insights into the sexes. Ultimately, however,</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span><i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">Both Sides Now</span></i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">is a story about what
it means to truly love oneself, and the willingness to turn away from the
dissenting voices that tell us who we ought to be…and toward that one, lone
voice that he has known all along.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Both Sides Now: One Man’s Journey Through Womanhood</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.6666669845581px;">Untreed Reads Publishing (May 19, 2015)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14.3999996185303px;">ISBN: 9781611877991 (paper)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14.3999996185303px;">ISBN: 9781611878035 (ebook)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Excerpt:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">IT WAS THE MIDDLE OF July 1997—I was driving
to </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">Los Angeles</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;"> from my home in the
San Francisco Bay Area to participate in a one-week program sponsored by a
music school. I was twenty-eight years old, and one of many women who had
recently graduated from law school and passed the bar exam. By day I worked as
a staff attorney for federal judges, analyzing criminal appeals and researching
law behind the scenes. But in order to restore some balance into my legal life,
I had begun working on music in my spare time. So, by night I took voice
lessons, studied songwriting, performed at open-mike nights, and composed songs
on my guitar and keyboard. And in between my music and the law, I dated
women—some of them within the lesbian community, and some of them not.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">I had been working on putting together a demo
in a local studio for about a year, and as much as I was looking forward to
finally having a full week to work on music without the interruption of law, my
mind was occupied with something entirely different.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">A few months earlier, an ex-girlfriend brought
over a copy of an article that had appeared in The New Yorker in 1994. She had
been given the article in a psychology class, after a female-to-male
transsexual had appeared as a guest lecturer. In the article, the author
interviewed several men who had gone through surgeries and hormone treatments
to transition from female to male. And as I read the things these men had said,
I immediately saw why my ex had asked me to read the piece. Flashes of
recognition went off in my mind, arranging themselves like the pieces of a
puzzle.</span></i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">I read as one man described his fierce
resistance to being treated as a girl and I thought of my own childhood when I
had insisted that I was a boy, adamantly refusing dolls and dresses and hanging
out only with other boys during recess.</span></i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">I read as another man—who had made the
transition from female—said that he never fit in the lesbian community because
he was too male in some way—not “butch”—just male, and I remembered how lost I
always felt at lesbian gatherings because there was no one with whom I felt that
“sameness.” I then thought about the girlfriends in my life who had always
identified themselves as straight and wondered why I was the one exception—the
only “woman “ to whom they were attracted.</span></i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">And then, in the final interview, I read as a
man talked about all the wasted time he had spent in places where he didn’t
fit. He ended by saying he didn’t know why this condition chose him, but he was
finally the person he had always dreamed he would be.</span></i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">The word “dream” hit me the hardest of all. I
had spent so much of my childhood dreaming of developing a firm, male chest. I
remember running around shirtless at my birthday parties and fantasizing that I
was a pop/rock star like Billy Joel or Rod Stewart—always men. And in the past
few years, when those fantasies and dreams had resurfaced, I couldn’t think of
anything to do except pray that God would make me a man in my next life.</span></i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">Between the interviews, my ex-girlfriend had
highlighted statements from doctors where they opined as to the cause of
transsexualism. One doctor pointed out that in experiments with animals—from
rats to apes—they injected testosterone during a critical time of brain
development in a female fetus. In every case, while the animal still came out
with a female body, it behaved exactly the same as would have any male animal
of its species. In other words, contrary to its physical body, it believed it
was entirely male.</span></i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">But it wasn’t until I gave the article to my
current girlfriend, Selena, that I really felt its full impact. I remember her
putting it down after she had finished reading it and saying, “Baby, this is
you.”</span></i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">To hear it out loud, to have someone finally
hold up a mirror that reflected back the truth of who I am, touched some deep
place within me. I remember feeling this tremendous sense of release—like “Now
you see; you finally see.”</span></i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">The relief, however, was short-lived. Next
came the tough question: Now that I knew the truth, what was I going to do
about it?</span></i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">The ebook is available wherever ebooks
are sold. The print edition is only available, for now, through the untreedreads.com website (click <b><a href="http://store.untreedreads.com/index.php?main_page=advanced_search_result&search_in_description=1&keyword=both%20sides%20now&inc_subcat=0&sort=20a&page=2" target="_blank">here</a></b>) The print edition is 25% off and in addition you'll receive the ebook for FREE if you add both to your cart. And if you enter the coupon code EXCERPTS during checkout, you'll get an extra 10% off
of the paperback price.</span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">Untreed Reads Publishing</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;"><a href="http://www.untreedreads.com/" target="_blank"><span style="color: #1155cc; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">http://www.untreedreads.com</span></a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
http://store.untreedreads.com/index.php?main_page=advanced_search_result&search_in_description=1&keyword=both%20sides%20now&inc_subcat=0&sort=20a&page=2<br />
<br />
<u>Author's Question</u>: Do you schedule a time each day for writing or do you write when you're in the mood? </div>
Eric Spectorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10359942176317364618noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69024107879317020.post-70592708689696748512015-05-18T08:06:00.001-04:002015-05-18T08:06:30.389-04:00Under Reconstruction after SurgeryWriters' Question of the Week: Do writers make good patients?Eric Spectorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10359942176317364618noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69024107879317020.post-68768732735402043642015-05-11T07:30:00.000-04:002015-05-11T07:30:00.481-04:00Ginger DeadMan excerpt by Logan Zachary <h2>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-uD00BNg1Q-s/VVAVjJ43JdI/AAAAAAAAB04/C_zUarlXvnI/s1600/BSB-GingerDeadMan_146x225.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-uD00BNg1Q-s/VVAVjJ43JdI/AAAAAAAAB04/C_zUarlXvnI/s1600/BSB-GingerDeadMan_146x225.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 18.0pt; line-height: 200%;">GingerDead Man</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 18.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Bold Stroke Books (January 15, 2015)</span></div>
<ul class="contact-details-alt" style="background-color: #4c4c4c; border: 0px; font-family: 'Open Sans', HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 21px; list-style: none outside; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
<li style="border-image-outset: initial; border-image-repeat: initial; border-image-slice: initial; border-image-source: initial; border-image-width: initial; border: 0px; color: #dddddd; font-family: inherit; font-size: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 18px; margin: 0px 0px 15px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-left: 22px; margin-top: -2px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="border: 0px; color: white; float: left; font-family: inherit; font-size: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: 600; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px 5px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">eMail:</span>bookshop@boldstrokesbooks.com </div>
</li>
<li style="border-image-outset: initial; border-image-repeat: initial; border-image-slice: initial; border-image-source: initial; border-image-width: initial; border: 0px; color: #dddddd; font-family: inherit; font-size: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 18px; margin: 0px 0px 15px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-left: 22px; margin-top: -2px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: inherit; font-size: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit;">Phone: </span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit;">(877) BOLD-711</span></div>
</li>
</ul>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Excerpt:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: right 6.0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Chapter 1 </span><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Stacey,
I’m going to run across the street and see if Brian Greenway has our order
ready for the Thanksgiving dinner.” Paavo Wolfe poked his blond head into his
best friend’s store. “Did you want to come with me?” He stepped inside the door
of Lotions and Potions, which specialized in herbal remedies, skin care,
massages, and all other areas of holistic health care.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Is
that your subtle way to of asking me to help you carry all the rolls, bread,
and stuff back to your store?” Stacey Laitenin asked, grabbing her jacket and
purse.</span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Is it working?” Paavo
puckered up as she met him at the door. </span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Since I was the one who asked
you to help me feed the homeless, I guess I should come along and help you carry
our order of rolls for the Thanksgiving Day meal.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Cool.” Paavo kissed her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Ben,” Stacey called over
her shoulder to Ben Pumala as he was changing the sheets on his massage table,
“I’m heading across the street to Icing on the </span><st1:place><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Lake</span></st1:place><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">, did you need anything?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> “No,” Ben said as he smoothed out the white
cotton sheet over the table.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“We should be back in
fifteen minutes in case anyone calls or needs me.” The overcast November
afternoon had been slow, so she doubted it, but at least Ben knew where she was
and that she had left him alone in the store.</span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Light snow fell from the
sky as the cold breeze blew across </span><st1:place><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Lake Superior</span></st1:place><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">. Icing on the </span><st1:place><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Lake</span></st1:place><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">, the “Northland’s Superior
Bakery,” was directly across </span><st1:street><st1:address><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">London Road</span></st1:address></st1:street><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> from their strip mall. We’re
Wolfe’s Books and Lotions and Potions stood side by side in the center of the
complex. Paavo’s bookstore dealt in horror books and movies. He sold
nightmares. Everything from action figures to movie posters, any Blu-ray, </span><st1:stockticker><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">DVD</span></st1:stockticker><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">, or VHS, and every
collectible a horror fan could ever want or need. </span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Despite the cold breeze
off </span><st1:place><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Lake Superior</span></st1:place><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">, the scent of fresh baking bread hung in the air
all day and all night. Many neighbors complained about the smell, since it made
everyone hungry.</span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Stacey locked elbows with
Paavo as they crossed the street. The gloomy weather had driven many of their
shoppers away, along with all the stress of getting ready for the Thanksgiving
holiday later in the week. The excitement of the Halloween film festival and
the “werewolf” attacks on </span><st1:street><st1:address><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">London Road</span></st1:address></st1:street><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> were resolved, and their
businesses had finally returned to normal. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">The best friends pushed
the bakery’s heavy glass door open, and the brass bell jingled, welcoming them
in. A smoky haze filled the air in Icing on the </span><st1:place><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Lake</span></st1:place><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">. “Brian, did you burn a
batch of bread?” Stacey called.</span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">No answer.</span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">She looked at Paavo and
released his elbow. “Could he have run to the grocery store for something, and
it took him longer than he expected?” Paavo read concern in her face as they
walked back toward the kitchen.</span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Suddenly, the fire alarm
started its high-pitched shrill, and the warning lights strobed across the
brick walls. </span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“We should get that batch
out of the oven before Brian has smoke damage or a fire starts.” Stacey headed around
the front counter to where the kitchen was. Large metal baking ovens lined the
walls. She waited a second for Paavo, then waved him in. “Hurry up.”</span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Paavo quickly followed
Stacey into the back of the bakery. The back door stood wide open as a cold
breeze blew in off the lake, swirling the smoke that came from the ovens. </span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Stacey grabbed two hot
pads and threw a pair at Paavo. She opened one oven and started pulling out a
huge sheet of rolls. “Brian owes us big time for saving his buns.”</span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“He does have the cutest,
tight buns.” Paavo slipped his hands into the oversized mitts and headed to the
badly smoking oven on the opposite wall. He inhaled, crunching up his nose.
“This one smells really bad.” He pulled the oven door open and froze.</span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Paavo couldn’t understand
what he was seeing until the lake breeze blew into the oven and cleared out
some of the smoke. The gust of wind added oxygen to the smoldering form, and the
blackened shape burst into flames. That’s when he saw it was the burning body
of Brian Greenway.</span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Stacey!” Paavo yelled.</span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Holding another heavy
sheet of bread, Stacey turned to see what was wrong. When she saw Brian’s
burning form, she dropped it. Loaves and
buns rolled in all directions as she jumped away from the hot pan, which hit
the floor and echoed through the kitchen. “Close the door,” she said.</span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Paavo jumped forward and
slammed the door shut. He looked for the controls, trying to figure out how to turn it off.</span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“We can’t leave him in
there.” Stacey stood next to him. Finding the oven controls on her side, she
turned it off. She opened the door, and the oxygen restarted the fire again.</span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“What choice do we have?”
Paavo asked, pushing the door closed. “We’re too late.”</span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“A fire extinguisher?”
She pointed at the red one on the brick wall, but didn’t move to get it.</span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Should we even take him
out of there?” Paavo pulled his cell phone out of his pants pocket and hit 911.
</span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Yes. We have to. Why
would you ask that?” She clutched his arm.</span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Because there’s no way
he could have crawled into that oven or fallen in. It’s too high.”</span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“What are you saying? Murder?”
Stacey asked.</span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Yes, but who would want
to bake the baker?”<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><u>Writers' Question of the Week: Do you outline your next chapter before writing it?</u></span></div>
</h2>
Eric Spectorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10359942176317364618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69024107879317020.post-17092070605977812592015-05-04T05:53:00.003-04:002015-05-04T05:53:26.562-04:00<span style="font-size: x-large;">under</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">reconstruction</span>Eric Spectorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10359942176317364618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69024107879317020.post-35612748975622010612015-04-27T09:00:00.000-04:002015-04-27T10:35:54.826-04:00Jack in the Green short story excerpt by J L Morrow<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; vertical-align: baseline;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9Y3F7Te4Ysg/VT2nF_FJ5II/AAAAAAAAB0Y/sJQ1wzKNk6A/s1600/Jack_in_the_Green_400x600.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9Y3F7Te4Ysg/VT2nF_FJ5II/AAAAAAAAB0Y/sJQ1wzKNk6A/s1600/Jack_in_the_Green_400x600.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .25in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Stranded in a remote country village in 1920s
England by his car breaking down, shy young Arthur finds himself drawn to the
rough mechanic who comes to his aid, Bob Goodman. Forced to stay until the May
Day holiday is over, Arthur makes the best of it, enjoying the village
procession and fete.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .25in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">But the villagers seem to know more about him than
they should, and there’s a second, darker, May celebration that starts when the
sun’s gone down. In the drunken revelry that follows, Arthur is whisked off in
a wild dance by Goodman, who plays the part of Jack in the Green, the spirit of
the greenwood.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .25in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Dancing turns to loving, but is everything what it
seems? And is one night all Arthur can have?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; vertical-align: baseline;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .25in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Note: this short story (approx. 7,500 words) was
previously published as The Green Man. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Excerpt:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-prop-change: "JL Merrow" 20150331T1218; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
The Morris men
were no longer in their gleaming white shirtsleeves; to a man they had blacked
their faces and donned their ragged coats, and the bells were silenced. The
clash of their staves together now seemed to Arthur sinister, almost
threatening. He shivered in the cool of the evening.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-prop-change: "JL Merrow" 20150331T1218; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
“I thought only
one of the men was to have a coat of rags—their, ah, wardrobe master, or
whatever they term him?” Arthur ventured to Mrs Ives, who stood proudly by his
side as her husband and daughter processed past.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-prop-change: "JL Merrow" 20150331T1218; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
“That may be how
they do things in some parts,” she told him with a sniff, “but it’s not the way
of things here. You ask Bob Goodman, he’ll set you straight.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-prop-change: "JL Merrow" 20150331T1218; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
And then, as if
to speak his name were to conjure him forth, Jack in the Green himself came
whirling into their midst. No longer a stately observer, now he seemed
determined either to lead the dance, or to subvert it. Arthur stared as the
giant figure flung itself about as if the great costume were merely a
featherweight. There were cries of “Jack! Jack!” and other calls that Arthur
didn’t understand. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-prop-change: "JL Merrow" 20150331T1218; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
“Where’s Robin?”
a swarthy fellow by Arthur’s side shouted out across the revellers, his call
almost deafening in Arthur’s ear.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-prop-change: "JL Merrow" 20150331T1218; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
“A bowshot hence
in <st1:city>Inglewood</st1:city>!” came a reply from
the other side of the lane, with the curious ring of an oft-repeated ritual.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-prop-change: "JL Merrow" 20150331T1218; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
“And the maid?”
came the ear-splitting riposte. Arthur braced himself for another cry.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-prop-change: "JL Merrow" 20150331T1218; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
The dancers
stopped.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-prop-change: "JL Merrow" 20150331T1218; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
The sudden
stillness was almost as confusing to Arthur’s senses as the constant, whirling
motion had been. Slowly, stealthily it seemed, Jack in the Green crept nearer
to where Arthur stood—if such a monstrous being could be said in any sense to
creep.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-prop-change: "JL Merrow" 20150331T1218; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
Even the evening
breeze that had whispered its way down Arthur’s collar earlier seemed to be
waiting, breath caught, for the answer.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-prop-change: "JL Merrow" 20150331T1218; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
“Who knows?”
came Bob Goodman’s voice, soft but clear in the silence, sending a not
unpleasant tingle down Arthur’s spine.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-prop-change: "JL Merrow" 20150331T1218; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
“An’ who the
hell cares?” roared a Morris man, and amidst loud laughter and renewed beating
of the staves, Arthur found himself seized by the hands and swung into the
melee. Scrabbling not to lose his footing and fall, Arthur let the Morris men
pull him along, turning him until he was dizzy, now pulling him into the fray
until he feared he’d be injured by those great cudgels they wielded, now
pushing him back out until his cheek rasped against twiggy foliage as Jack in
the Green saved him from the ignominy of a fall.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-prop-change: "JL Merrow" 20150331T1218; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
Arthur’s head
was reeling by the time they reached the green and the great bonfire set up
there. The Morris men let out a great cry and began to dance around its
flickering light. Arthur, it seemed, had been entirely forgot.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-prop-change: "JL Merrow" 20150331T1218; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
Satyrs, Arthur
thought. They’re like satyrs, revelling in <st1:city>Arcadia</st1:city>.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-prop-change: "JL Merrow" 20150331T1218; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
The young women
of the village were there already, bare of foot and loose of hair, waiting to
welcome their queen to her own bacchanal. Arthur caught one last glimpse of
Lily’s face, shining in the firelight, and then she was gone with her sisters
to who knew where.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-prop-change: "JL Merrow" 20150331T1218; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
“Watching the
women? Now, we both know that’s not your usual pursuit, my fair young lad.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-prop-change: "JL Merrow" 20150331T1218; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
Goodman.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-prop-change: "JL Merrow" 20150331T1218; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
He had divested
himself of his leafy encumbrance, yet the outlandish guise appeared to have
left a lasting mark upon his character. There was no sign, now, of the
respectful tradesman. He spoke to Arthur as to an equal.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-prop-change: "JL Merrow" 20150331T1218; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
Or at least,
Arthur hoped that he did.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-prop-change: "JL Merrow" 20150331T1218; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
The breeze had
picked up once more. Arthur shivered.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-prop-change: "JL Merrow" 20150331T1218; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
“If you’re
wanting to get warm, my lad, it seems to me you should be getting closer to the
fire,” Goodman said softly. “Or, as might be, farther away.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-prop-change: "JL Merrow" 20150331T1218; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
Arthur
swallowed, and started as a calloused hand grasped his own and pulled it up to
roughened lips. He could feel the stubble that always darkened Goodman’s jaw
rasp against his knuckles as black eyes looked deep inside him. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Click to purchase from <a href="http://www.jms-books.com/index.php?main_page=index&manufacturers_id=58&zenid=qHSqBITco,13g98XVMsWo2" target="_blank"><span style="color: #743399;">JMS Books</span></a> May 3rd and <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Jack-Green-JL-Merrow-ebook/dp/B00WNE60K0/ref=sr_1_8?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1430106467&sr=1-8&keywords=jl+merrow" target="_blank">Amazon</a></span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"> and other retail sites </span><st1:date day="10" month="5" style="line-height: 18pt;" year="2015"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">10<sup>th</sup>
May</span></st1:date></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; vertical-align: baseline;">
<br /></div>
Eric Spectorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10359942176317364618noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69024107879317020.post-53198789428867662372015-04-20T07:30:00.000-04:002015-04-20T07:30:00.405-04:00Lola Dances excerpt by Victor J Banis<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cw16kTCUq_A/VTR6FkreiKI/AAAAAAAABzg/p3NZNWjENxw/s1600/Lola.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cw16kTCUq_A/VTR6FkreiKI/AAAAAAAABzg/p3NZNWjENxw/s1600/Lola.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Lola Dances excerpt from the bestselling author of
'Longhorns' Victor J. Banis. Sometimes funny, sometimes tragic and often bawdy,
Lola Dances ranges from the 1850 slums of the Bowery to the mining camps of </span><st1:state><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">California</span></st1:place></st1:state><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"> and </span><st1:state><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Montana</span></st1:place></st1:state><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">, to
the Barbary Coast of San Francisco. Little Terry Murphy, pretty and effeminate,
dreams of becoming a dancer. Raped by a drunken profligate and threatened with
prison, Terry flees the Bowery and finds himself in the rugged settlement of
Alder Gulch, where he stands out like a sore thumb among the camp's macho
inhabitants--until the day he puts on a dress and dances for the unsuspecting
miners as beautiful Lola Valdez--and wins fame, fortune and, ultimately, love<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"><span style="font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular; mso-bidi-font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular;">Excerpt:<o:p></o:p></span></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular; mso-bidi-font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular;">Terry
comes to Alder Gulch<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular; mso-bidi-font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular;">Terry
felt like he had been lifted up into the air, as if in a tornado, and set down
in another world altogether.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular; mso-bidi-font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular;">It
had taken them most of a year to get here—by train and by riverboat, and
traveling for a time with a wagon train of Mormons. They’d gone first to </span><st1:state><st1:place><span style="font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular; mso-bidi-font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular;">California</span></st1:place></st1:state><span style="font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular; mso-bidi-font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular;">,
but the mine fields there were already overrun with thousands of others who’d
heard the same stories Brian had heard, of gold for the picking up of
it—stories they had quickly learned had been greatly exaggerated. There was
gold, to be sure, but coaxing it out of the ground and the creeks took work,
hard work, and lots of it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular; mso-bidi-font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular;">In
any case, all of the likely spots there had already been claimed, and the
claims closely guarded by suspicious, quick to shoot miners who kept an
especially close eye on any newcomers. Gunfire was not an uncommon sound, and
new graves were not an unusual sight.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular; mso-bidi-font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular;">They
had no sooner arrived there, though, than news had come of a rich strike here,
at Alder Gulch, and Brian had spent most of the money he had left to buy them a
bullock cart and a horse, and they had
lit out the same night they got the news.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular; mso-bidi-font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular;">Terry
had turned eighteen on the long journey, somewhere close to </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular; mso-bidi-font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular;">Salt
Lake City</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular; mso-bidi-font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular;">, but he felt as if he had aged
decades. Already his life in the Bowery seemed as if it had happened to someone
else, or in another lifetime.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular; mso-bidi-font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular;">Brian
had quickly built them a rough log cabin, with a hard packed dirt floor, a
whisky barrel for its chimney and flour sacks for windows. The roof of woven
willow saplings leaked endlessly, so that in a heavy rain, the dirt floor
turned to mud. It was as good as most of the miners had, better than the
lean-tos and wickiups many of them lived in, but the cabin was tiny—a single room,
most of that taken up with stove and table, and one bed along the other wall, a
straw-stuffed pallet that they slept in together. There was hardly enough room
in the rest of the<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular; mso-bidi-font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular;">cabin
for the two of them to move around in it when they were both there, let alone
space to do a jeté.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular; mso-bidi-font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular;">By
the time they had arrived at Alder Gulch, the best claims here had been taken
as well, but Brian had quickly found a job working for the Simmons brothers,
who had better than a half a dozen claims of their own staked and were
generally regarded as the richest men in the camp. They paid Brian a hundred
dollars a week. Back in the Bowery, that would have been a fortune, but here a
man could spend that much to rent a cabin if he hadn’t the mind or the time to
build his own.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular; mso-bidi-font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular;">Brian
got a tenth of whatever dust he found for them as well, and he got to stand
right there and watch as they weighed it, so there was no cheating in the
payment of it. Already, he had a nice little pouch of dust buried in the dirt
under their bed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular; mso-bidi-font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular;">“When
I’ve got enough, we’ll set out on our own,” he said. “I didn’t come all this
way to work for someone else, even if the Simmons brothers are good men to work
for. They’re fair, at least, which is more than could be said for some in this
town. But it’s still just kissing ass, ain’t it?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular; mso-bidi-font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular;">To
Terry’s undying shame and regret, though, Brian seemed to have accepted in his
own mind that what had happened back in </span><st1:state><st1:place><span style="font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular; mso-bidi-font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular;">New
York</span></st1:place></st1:state><span style="font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular; mso-bidi-font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular;"> had been Terry’s fault and not
something odious that had been done to him by a drunken profligate. Once or
twice, Terry had tried to talk to him about it, to make Brian understand his
innocence, but Brian had made it clear he wasn’t interested in hearing Terry’s
version of things.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular; mso-bidi-font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular;">“It’s
not gonna change anything anyway,” was his final word on the subject. “Van
Arndst is lower than a snake’s belly, that’s true enough, but you were his
woman, weren’t you? That’s how anybody would see it, if they knew. How you went
about getting his pecker up your ass don’t make much difference. It was there,
is all that matters. You’re as much to blame as he was, the way I look at it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular; mso-bidi-font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular;">Which
was how it was left between them. The best Terry could do was to try to make
himself at home in Alder Gulch— but, he had doubts that he would ever really be
able to feel that way about this foreign setting in which he now found himself.
He wondered, was this where his omen and portents had been leading him all this
time?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular; mso-bidi-font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular;">At
first, when they had set out, he had felt a genuine sense of excitement. Maybe
this journey was the one for which he had waited and watched, the one that
would carry him safely and cleanly to the future he had imagined. Maybe at last
he would arrive at that walled city of his dream.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular; mso-bidi-font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular;">But,
surely, this Alder Gulch was not that future. He could see, when he strolled
about the town, that the setting must have once been beautiful. Surely, not
long before, there had been a carpet of pine needles beneath the towering fir
trees and the abundant alders. The creek that came down from the mountains was
tawny and sparkled in the sunlight, like jewels where it cascaded over the
rocks, and the mountains themselves, still snow-capped in the middle of summer,
loomed majestically against a sky almost obscenely blue after the soot-filled
air of the Bowery.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular; mso-bidi-font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular;">All
of it had been ravaged though, by the coming of these eager, greedy men. The
creek was an ugly patchwork of sluices and chutes, entire fields of trees
reduced to stumps and the carpet of pine needles was now a sea of mud that ran
between rows of cobbled-together buildings. Only the sky remained pure, and the
mountains that seemed to look down upon it all with a lofty and infinite scorn.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular; mso-bidi-font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular;">As
he strolled, Terry looked around him with a combination of puzzlement and
dismay. It was all so squalid, so dismal. Had he misread the signs, or only
fooled himself all this time? What kind of future could Alder Gulch possibly
hold for him? Even if Brian did get rich, and that began to seem more and more
like a fantasy, no more real than Terry’s dream of being a dancer, what could
that mean for him? They’d still be here, in this horrible place. And Brian
would still look at him with barely disguised disgust. At least, in the past,
back in the Bowery, he had sensed an abiding if rough affection on the part of
his brother, but Van Arndst seemed to have killed that as surely as he had
destroyed Terry’s innocence.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular; mso-bidi-font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular;">The
men who passed by as he walked—there were few women, and those were obviously
prostitutes—were all of a kind, lean, tough looking individuals with hard eyes,
unwashed hair and shaggy beards. They wore black trousers and black hats and
red or blue flannel shirts, and they looked curiously at the slim, willowy
stranger in their midst, with his white cotton shirt and the cleanly washed
gray trousers that clung tightly to his round little dancer’s bottom.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular; mso-bidi-font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular;">A
lone woman clattered by in a shiny black buggy, snapping her whip at a dappled
roan. She was a big woman, ample rather than fat. Her dyed yellow hair was
piled atop her head in careless ringlets, and her gown was as red as the buggy’s
wheels and too dressy for daytime. Terry stared as she drove by.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular; mso-bidi-font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular;">“Do
not lust after the whore of </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular; mso-bidi-font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular;">Babylon</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular; mso-bidi-font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular;">,”
a voice said from behind him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular; mso-bidi-font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular;">He
knew who she was, then. Even he had heard of Belle Blessings, madam of the
local whorehouse. She gave him a quick glance as she drove by—a new male in
town was certainly of interest to her—and looked quickly, dismissively away,
her practiced eye telling her in a glance that this was an unlikely customer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular; mso-bidi-font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular;">“I
wasn’t lusting, Reverend,” Terry said, turning to the speaker. “Just curious,
is all.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular; mso-bidi-font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular;">“Let
your mind seek in the Lord’s way,” the Reverend Davidson said. “For that is the
path of salvation.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular; mso-bidi-font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular;">The
Reverend was almost the first person Brian and Terry had met on their arrival
here. Brian had scarcely claimed a space for their cabin and begun to build it
with the wood from the bullock cart—the lone ox had been sold off for
supplies—before the Reverend had shown up to welcome them to Alder Gulch.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular; mso-bidi-font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular;">He
was a tall man, six foot six or more, gaunt and sere, as if the juices had been
dried out of him, with long skinny legs like a grasshopper’s, you wondered that
they could support him, and neither his hair nor his beard gave any hint of
ever having known soap and water, let alone a comb or a brush. He gave an odd
impression of being too large for his skin, and you couldn’t help thinking he
might be a bit less puckish if it fitted him more loosely, but he radiated a
kind of energy that made him seem anything but frail despite his leanness. His
wide dark eyes flashed with an almost alarming intensity when he spoke, and the
voice that emanated from that sunken chest was astonishingly deep and booming,
even in everyday conversation. He wore the same flannel shirt and dark, dirty
trousers as the others in town and apart from his shagginess, and most of the
men who had been here any time at all were similarly shaggy, there was little
to distinguish him from them save for the little gold crucifix that he wore on
a chain at his throat and fingered ceaselessly when he talked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular; mso-bidi-font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular;">He
had invited Brian and Terry to attend services at his “church”—really, nothing
more than a lean-to attached to his own cabin. Terry had visited him there
once. It was as primitive as the rudest shacks of the miners, its only
decoration a roughly hewn wooden cross before which wildflowers were sometimes
scattered incongruously on the dirt floor. Occasionally on a Sunday morning one
or two of the miners could be seen there, kneeling while the Reverend exhorted
them to piety and led them in a hymn or two in a voice that made up in loudness
what it lacked in tune.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular; mso-bidi-font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular;">“He
catches them staggering home from the saloon,” Brian said of the Reverend’s
parishioners, and Terry was inclined to think he was probably right. Curious,
he had hidden among the trees his first Sunday in Alder Gulch, watching the
Reverend’s “service,” and it had been evident that at least one of the miners
was on his knees because he had difficulty standing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular; mso-bidi-font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular;">Terry
wondered what had brought Davidson to Alder Gulch. It did not seem that, like
the others, he had come to seek his fortune, and if he had come expecting to
“gather the lost sheep back to the fold,” as Davidson himself put it, Terry
could not but think his journey a wasted one. The sheep showed little
inclination for being gathered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular; mso-bidi-font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular;">“I’ll
keep that in mind, Reverend,” Terry said now, “though it doesn’t seem to me
that there is much choice of direction here in the Gulch.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular; mso-bidi-font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular;">“Every
breath is a choice,” the Reverend said, “you walk toward the Lord or away from
him,” but Terry had already nodded and gone in his own direction, away from the
Reverend. The preacher made him uncomfortable. Those hard, dark eyes looked at
him as if they wanted to penetrate his inmost thoughts, and Davidson’s scowl
seemed to him altogether disapproving.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular; mso-bidi-font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular;">He
was grateful that the Reverend did not follow him, at least, though he had the
feeling that his eyes did.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular; mso-bidi-font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular;">Terry
paused to look in the open doorway of the town saloon, The Lucky Dollar. The
air inside was filled with stale cigar smoke and the scent of unwashed bodies.
Men clustered at the bar or around the gaming tables, scuffing their feet in
the sawdust on the floor and talking in overloud voices. Someone beat out a
discordant tune on an upright piano and as Terry watched, a tall wiry man
grabbed a woman from a chair, slapped her and shoved her reeling onto the dance
floor. A disheveled miner grabbed her with a loud whoop and began to spin her
around spiritedly, taking not the slightest heed of her sobs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular; mso-bidi-font-family: AGaramondPro-Regular;">Fascinated
and frightened at the same time by the aura of vice rampant, Terry turned away
and continued his meandering. Two men standing outside the saloon glanced after
him as he passed and one of them gave the other a knowing smirk and pursed his
lips, but Terry did not notice them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">To purchase the e-book, click <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Lola-Dances-Victor-J-Banis-ebook/dp/B004HD5YHA/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1429493780&sr=8-1&keywords=banis+lola">http://www.amazon.com/Lola-Dances-Victor-J-Banis-ebook/dp/B004HD5YHA/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1429493780&sr=8-1&keywords=banis+lola</a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">Print version from Rocky Ridge Books, will be
available Fall, 2015</span>Eric Spectorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10359942176317364618noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69024107879317020.post-64597130292661129842015-04-13T09:47:00.000-04:002015-04-13T20:18:15.899-04:00A sentencA secoond sentence<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="color: #474b4e; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">A sentence from my
journal regarding Iguazu Falls: The gauzy, sun-sifted spray, half falling, half
floating, seemed infinitely fine and gentle, but the thunder-like detonations
of water hitting the granite boulders below blasted up from the canyon, telling
a story of force beyond any power I’ve known.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
alan chin</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="color: #474b4e; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span>
A second sentence from The Wet Skirt (A Napkin)"The tip of her penis peeped out of her panties as she preened herself in the ladies; room of the Pix porno theater"<br />
mykola dementiuk.</div>
Eric Spectorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10359942176317364618noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69024107879317020.post-59581148087815123582015-04-06T07:30:00.000-04:002015-04-06T10:06:58.253-04:00A Prayer for the Dead excerpt by Victor Banis<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="line-height: 32px; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="line-height: 32px; text-indent: 0.5in;">Stanley, accompanied by Chris, is convalescing at a Big Sur monastery, St. Marywood. Tom is back in San Francisco, with their new Girl Friday, Delightful - aka Dee - about whom Stanley is less than delighted.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="line-height: 32px;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="line-height: 32px; text-indent: 0.5in;">A Prayer for the Dead</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="line-height: 32px;">Dreamspinner Press (later, 2015)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="line-height: 32px;">IBSN:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="line-height: 32px;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="line-height: 32px;">Excerpt:</span></div>
<div style="text-indent: 48px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">They
were in those guest rooms, getting ready for bed, when Stanley’s cell phone
rang, a tinny version of the can-can. He had gotten so used to the quiet here
at Saint Marywood that Stanley was surprised, almost startled, by the sound.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“It’s
Tom,” he mouthed at Chris, answering, and into the phone, “Yes, we got here
just fine and everything‘s okay, only Father Brighton…well, he was dead when we
arrived. That’s kind of put a damper on things.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Dead?
How so, dead?” Tom asked. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Dead,”
Stanley repeated. “You know, no more tick-tock…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Tom
sighed loudly. “I meant, how did he die?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Natural
causes. At least, that’s what they say.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“You’ve
got any reason to doubt that?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Stanley
thought about that for a moment. But the truth was, he didn’t have a single
valid reason to suspect otherwise. It was what he used to call the detective
bug. You get so used to looking for problems, you saw them even when they
aren’t there. But when he tried to think of what they had learned since they
had been here, he was forced to admit he had too little to go on. It was like
trying to grope one’s way through a maze of spider webs, only when the webs
were </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">all torn down, there was
nothing to be found beyond them. The spiders had moved on. Or – the thought
popped into his mind -</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">were too clever
at hiding to be so easily spotted. Spiders could be so sneaky. Murderers, too,
in his experience.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“No,
not really,” he admitted with a sigh of his own. “I have to admit, there’s
nothing to suggest otherwise.” He decided he’d keep the poison pen letter to
himself for the moment. It might, in fact, have nothing to do with the two
deaths. To change the subject, he asked, “How’s Miss Dee doing?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Delightful,”
Tom said, a bit too cheerily, it seemed to Stanley. Tom was by nature something
of a grump. There were only a few things that got him sounding like Jiminy
Cricket - one of them being women. Attractive women especially, though Stanley
sometimes thought Tom found them all attractive, just in varying degrees.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“I was
afraid she might be. Where are you? I hear music in the background.” Yes, he
could hear Patsy Cline singing something mournful in the distance. They had no
Patsy Cline music at the office. They didn’t even have a boom box there since
an errant elbow – his, alas - had sent the old one toppling out an open window
to crash on the sidewalk below.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“We’re
at that place in Westwood – Jimmy Canary’s. You know, we’ve been there, you and
me. For lunch, one day.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Stanley
scrunched up his face and tried to recall. “I don’t remember it – And anyway,
it’s way past lunch time. So, tell me, why exactly are you at Jimmy
Songbird’s?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Canary.
Jimmy Canary.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Those
songbirds all sound the same to me. Is
Jimmy singing about that divorce you were working on?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Well –
no, not exactly.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Uh,
you are still working on that divorce?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“No,
not really – the husband’s been laying low of late. I haven’t been able to
catch him up to anything.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Which
leaves us with the same question as before -
what are you doing there? At this bird’s place?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Just
having a drink. Before dinner.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“I
see.” Stanley paused. “Drinking alone is not good for you, Tom.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Well,
yeah, I know that, only, see, I’m not exactly alone.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“I
see,” Stanley said again. He suppressed another sigh. He had a pretty good idea
just where this conversation was headed, and he did not much care for the
destination. “And just exactly who is keeping you company at Jimmy Robin’s”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Canary.
Jimmy Canary.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Don’t
split birds with me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Tom
took longer than should have been necessary to answer that. “Dee is…well, she’s
sort of with me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I was afraid of that, too</span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">,
Stanley thought, but did not say. “And?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“We’re
just chatting. She was telling me her mom was in movies at one time.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Yes, I
remember her.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">A
moment of puzzled silence. “You do? But I haven’t even told you her name yet.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Oh,
don’t be silly,” Stanley said, “everyone knows Lassie.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
Eric Spectorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10359942176317364618noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69024107879317020.post-67372976012693823212015-03-30T07:30:00.000-04:002015-03-30T07:30:00.485-04:00Gun Shy excerpt by Lori L Lake<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yxhQUtevCdM/VRio0JFnW3I/AAAAAAAABzI/0PkRlRdCA8s/s1600/GunShy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yxhQUtevCdM/VRio0JFnW3I/AAAAAAAABzI/0PkRlRdCA8s/s1600/GunShy.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a> </div>
<br />
In Gun Shy by Lori L Lake,<span style="background-color: white; font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"> Minnesota police officer Dez Reilly, w</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">hile on patrol,</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"> saves two women from a brutal attack. One of them, Jaylynn Savage, is immediately attracted to the taciturn cop - so much so that she joins the St. Paul Police Academy. As fate would have it, Dez is eventually assigned as Jaylynn's Field Training Officer. Having been burned in the past by getting romantically involved with another cop, Dez has a steadfast rule she has abided by for nine years: Cops are off limits. But as Jaylynn and Dez get to know one another, a strong friendship forms. Will Dez break her cardinal rule and take a chance on love with Jaylynn, or will she remain forever gun shy?</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"> </span><br />
<div id="outer_postBodyPS" style="background-color: white; font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; height: 200px; overflow: hidden; z-index: 1;">
<div id="postBodyPS">
<br />~Midwest Book Review~<br />“Lake's Gun Shy is the story of two somewhat reluctant women who finally learn to believe in themselves and each other enough to commit to love. Covering just over a year in their lives, the novel reads like a season's worth of episodes from a television show that you wish was on TV.”<br /><br />~After Ellen.com~<br />“Lori Lake’s novels Gun Shy and Under the Gun are part mystery, part romance, and totally captivating… Jaylynn and Dez are both sympathetic, complex, and dynamic characters that are realistically flawed at the same time; consequently, they capture your interest quickly and maintain it throughout the story. The evolving relationship between the two cops and the challenges they face both separately and as a couple come across uncontrived and convincing.”<br /><br />~Lavender Magazine~<br />"Considered one of the best authors of modern lesbian fiction, her work--part action, part drama, and part romance--gleefully defies categorization."<br /><br />~Midwest Book Review~<br />"Lori Lake is one of the best novelists working in the field of lesbian fiction today."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
Lori L. Lake<br />
<br />
Gun Shy<br />
<span style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; font-weight: 700; line-height: 19px;">Publisher:</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">Renaissance Alliance Publishing (July 19, 2002)</span><br />
<ul style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">
<li style="box-sizing: border-box; list-style: none; margin: 0px; word-wrap: break-word;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: 700;">ISBN-10:</span> 1930928432</li>
<li style="box-sizing: border-box; list-style: none; margin: 0px; word-wrap: break-word;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: 700;">ISBN-13:</span> 978-1930928435</li>
<li style="box-sizing: border-box; list-style: none; margin: 0px; word-wrap: break-word;"><br /></li>
</ul>
Excerpt:<br />
<br />
CHAPTER ONE<br />
<br />
A GOLD AND white squad car swung around the corner onto Como Boulevard, no headlights and little sound but tires squeaking on hot pavement. To the left, in the heart of the city of St. Paul, was Como Lake, a small body of water only half a mile in diameter. The street ran parallel to a walking and biking path that ringed the lake. To the right, up on a slight slope, sat a row of darkened homes, which were heavily shaded by huge elm and oak trees.<br />
The police car paused four houses away from a white, two-story stucco house. Officer Desiree “Dez” Reilly turned off the air conditioning and powered her window halfway down, staring intently at the stucco house. With a weary sigh, she listened for the nighttime noises over the engine of the car. The neighborhood was silent, almost too quiet. She should hear crickets, but all was still. She cut the engine, picked up her flashlight, and stepped out of the car, shutting the door so it clicked quietly. As she strolled along the sidewalk, the hum of nighttime insects started up, and she stood in front of the stucco house, waiting, listening. Somewhere down the street came a faint bass thump of music as a car passed through the intersection and faded off into the distance. Otherwise, no one was out.<br />
Her eyes scanned the street and the houses with practiced speed. Nothing seemed out of place, but someone had reported the sound of a woman screaming and had pinpointed the noise as coming from the house in front of her. A string of residential break-ins had occurred over the last two months, all centered in this area. Even more disturbing was that in three of the seven cases, a woman had been raped. Cops at roll call were beginning to toss around the words “serial rapist.” It was enough to make Dez take notice, living as she did within a mile of the lake.<br />
Outside the air conditioned car, the August humidity seeped into her pores through the short-sleeved blue uniform shirt, through the bulletproof vest, and through the white cotton t-shirt she wore, adding to her fatigue more than she thought possible. She took a deep breath of the dank air and felt herself sweating. August in St. Paul was no fun, but at least the mosquitoes weren’t after her. Yet.<br />
She was tall, lean-hipped, and broad-shouldered with long black hair caught up in a French braid. She walked with a confident stride across a strip of grass, over the sidewalk, and up the cracked walkway to the house, pausing periodically to listen. There were six stairs to the porch, and the first floor windowsills were slightly above her eye level. The front windows were dark, but a shaft of golden light shone from an open second floor window around the corner of the house. Leaving her flashlight off, she strode around to the south side and paused for a moment. Now she could hear angry muttering, the sound of an urgent, high-pitched voice, and then a frantic scream quickly muffled.<br />
Dez heard a ripping sound, and then deep-throated laughter. A male voice growled, “Stop it! Stop fighting or—”<br />
“No, you stop it. Get out of here!” a woman’s voice shouted.<br />
“Oh, shit!” the man’s voice growled. “You move, I cut her throat. Got it?” In a different tone, he hollered, “Get her!”<br />
That was all Dez needed to hear. She touched her shoulder mic and called for backup as she ran toward the back of the house and around to the other side, visually checking the doors and windows until she found what she suspected: a sliced window screen leading into what she thought would be the dining room.<br />
Hearing another scream, she flicked on her shoulder mic again and advised the dispatcher to hurry the backup team. In a hoarse whisper she said, “This sounds bad. I think there are at least two male suspects and one, maybe two, female victims.” In the background she heard far-off sirens, and as her skin crawled, she felt an uncharacteristic compulsion to do something and do it now. A loud crash startled her, and she hit the shoulder mic again. “I’m going in. Tell ’em to follow quick as possible—north side window.”<br />
Hooking her flashlight on her belt, she hoisted herself up over the windowsill headfirst and tumbled into the darkened house as quietly as she could. Scuttling across the floor on her hands and knees, she moved toward the faint light of the doorway and peeked around the corner. Stairs, where are the stairs? She rose and silently inched around the corner out of the dining room. She grabbed the flashlight off her belt, feeling the metal warm against her palm, then clicked it on and unholstered her gun.<br />
<br />
JAYLYNN SAVAGE REALIZED she was tired when her watch chimed eleven. She had spent the entire evening in the air conditioned college library cramming for her summer term finals, and visions of Constitutional Law danced in her head. She persisted for another ten minutes, then gave up when her vision kept blurring. Running hands through short white-blonde hair, she hoped the political theory exam would go well in the morning, but she just couldn’t study one more minute. Going over and over the material was no longer productive. Since the library closed at midnight anyway, Jaylynn decided to head home. She packed up her books, said hello to friends on the way out, and exited into the humid summer air.<br />
Jaylynn liked to say she was five-and-a-half feet tall, but that was only if she was wearing shoes with an inch heel. A slender build, lightly tanned skin, and sun-bleached blonde hair were evidence of time spent outdoors. Her face, framing warm hazel eyes, was full of youthful innocence and of something else perhaps best described as contentment.<br />
As she strolled away from the library, her legs felt strong, but fatigued, from the five mile run she’d taken earlier in the day. She walked slowly from the library to the bus stop, going over First Amendment issues. That’s one area of the exam that I’ll ace. I know that cold. She thought about how glad she would be to finish this final class. Perhaps she’d have time to write poetry again.<br />
The bus deposited her half a block from the rented house she shared with two friends. Cutting up the alley, she let herself in through the kitchen door. Jaylynn loved the old house she and Tim and Sara lived in. Not only was it situated right across the street from Como Lake, but it was also enormous. Every room was spacious with tall ceilings, ornate woodwork, and walk-in closets. She shut and locked the door quietly so as not to awaken Sara. Her other roommate, Tim, wasn’t home yet. She could tell because his beat-up red Corolla wasn’t parked out back. She tossed her keys on the table and crept up the stairs.<br />
Sara must still be up, she thought as she turned the corner on the landing. The lamp in her roommate’s room cast a faint patch of light that slightly illuminated the top stairs. She thought of her friend sitting on the couch, studying in the spacious master bedroom, and she smiled, but then an acrid smell, like body odor, assaulted her senses. She squinched up her face and frowned. When she heard a thud and a ripping noise, she paused on the stairwell, heart beating fast for reasons she didn’t understand. She eased up the last two stairs and peered silently around the doorway into her friend’s room.<br />
Sara lay twisting on the floor in the wide space between the twin beds, her hands taped together. A huge figure in a dark gray sweatshirt and black pants straddled her waist, muttering and threatening. He held a knife in one hand and a silver strip in the other. Sara screamed as he tried to put the duct tape over her mouth. She shook her head furiously, whipping around her long brown hair and causing it to stick to the tape. Her assailant slapped the side of her face and she screamed again and struggled, tears running down her cheeks, as he forced the strip of tape over her mouth.<br />
He said, “Stop it! Stop fighting or I’ll—”<br />
Without a thought, Jaylynn pushed into the room. “No, you stop it. Get out of here!”<br />
“Oh, shit!” He rolled aside and spun around, grabbing the girl on the ground by the neck. “You move, I cut her throat. Got it?”<br />
He wore a tan nylon stocking over his head, obscuring his face and making his features look distorted and diabolical. He glanced toward the shadowy area behind the door and said, “Get her!”<br />
Jaylynn turned to see a smaller man, dressed like the first and also wearing a nylon mask. She screamed, a loud, throaty bellow. He was no taller than she, but was much stockier and held a wooden bat in one hand. As she screamed again and backed toward the door, the smaller man grabbed her by the shoulder and arm. He dragged her onto the twin bed near the door and shoved her so hard that she bounced when she hit the mattress. She saw the baseball bat coming at her face and rolled to the side to avoid it. It hit the wall with a resounding crash. As he dove toward her, Jaylynn got her feet up, knees to her chest, and kicked him in the torso, sending him sprawling against the opposite wall and to the floor. Before she could roll off the bed, he was up. He dove on her again, the bat in one hand and a hank of her hair in the other.<br />
Jaylynn shrieked and growled, kicking at him and swinging wildly, some of her blows connecting solidly. He stumbled back from the bed, panting. Getting a better grip on the bat, he advanced on her again. “I’ll kill you, bitch!”<br />
Footsteps pounded on the stairs, then a husky voice shouted, “Police!” A flashlight beam shone down the hall. Jaylynn’s attacker turned toward the doorway and she saw him swing the bat. It struck an arm coming low through the doorway and she heard a clatter. Jaylynn rolled off the bed. She yelped when her knees hit the floor and then she looked up to see a blue-clad figure dive into the room and roll. Instantly the cop was back up.<br />
Dez winced when she saw the bat descending, but it was too late to pull back. She felt an explosion of pain when the bat connected, and her hand involuntarily turned and opened. Her Glock flew from her grasp and skittered behind her. She knew she didn’t have time to find it in the hallway and instead burst into the room shouting in rage.<br />
The beefy man with the knife let go of Sara and pulled himself to his feet. His partner, wielding the bat, rushed Dez, only to be met by her right elbow slamming a solid blow to his face. He dropped the bat and staggered back, cradling his face. Jaylynn took the opportunity to kick him behind the knee and he screamed in pain and fell. She looked for Sara, caught her eye, and saw her friend’s look of terror. Jaylynn gestured, pointing toward the closet, but when Sara tried to rise, the big man shoved her, knocking her back to the floor. The bound woman made a high-pitched noise as she squirmed away and slid halfway under one of the twin beds on the far side of the room.<br />
The man with the knife came at Dez in a rush, but out of control. She got the flashlight up to block the downward lunge of the blade and then kicked at his groin with her steel-toed service boot. Enraged, he yowled but kept on coming, managing to slice downward through her shirt to imbed the knife in her vest. She knocked aside his knife arm and gave him a right elbow to the chin, sending him off balance. Dez punched him in the side of the head with the flashlight. As he went down, the other man regained his footing and picked up the bat. He swung high and Dez ducked to a squat, then launched herself to head-butt him across the room. He hit the bedside table and smashed the lamp to the ground. Sara squeezed farther under the bed to avoid being landed on.<br />
Dez extricated herself from the little man’s grip as Jaylynn sprang across the room and wrenched the bat from his hand. She whacked at his head. Though he raised his arms in defense, Jaylynn nailed him solidly on the collarbone, feeling a surge of adrenaline when he roared in pain. She stepped back, tripping over the big man’s leg as he rose, cradling his bleeding head. Scrambling on all fours, Jaylynn crawled across the carpet, up and over the twin bed near the door, and dove into the hall. I’ve got to find the gun. Find the gun. Find the gun. It repeated like a chant in her head. She spotted it on the landing three stairs below and picked it up, surprised to find it much lighter than she expected. She realized she didn’t know how it worked. Was there a safety?<br />
As Jaylynn came back through the doorway, she saw the woman in blue whirl, graceful and deadly in the same motion. Every time an attacker came at her, she used quick left jabs and kicks to flatten one, then the other. The larger man wailed in a high-pitched voice and tried to get up. The cop nailed him in the side of the head with a vicious roundhouse and then kicked him in the chest.<br />
“Stay down,” the cop shouted. The smaller man lay on his side, heaving with exertion. The officer handcuffed his wrist to the bigger man’s ankle, then jumped clear of them and, with her left hand, dragged Sara out from under the bed and toward the closet across the room.<br />
Jaylynn stood in the doorway holding the bat and the black gun. “Here,” she said, offering the weapon to the police officer. She kept the bat for herself.<br />
The tall, dark woman turned, her face white despite the exertion. She seemed enormous to Jaylynn—not fat, just solid and very powerful. Later, Jaylynn would remember the feral smile of satisfaction on the cop’s face and consider that she might be a very dangerous woman. But at that moment, as she looked into steel blue eyes for a heartbeat, she felt as though she knew her, and a thrill of recognition coursed through her mind. The blue eyes narrowed as they met her own, and for a brief moment, Jaylynn wondered if the woman recognized her, too. But of course she couldn’t know her. The cop hurried across the room and snatched the gun from Jaylynn.<br />
Sara whimpered, and Jaylynn moved farther into the room. “Sara! Sara, are you all right?”<br />
“Wait,” Dez said. She held the Glock in her left hand and stood over the two panting men. “Don’t move. I’d be so very happy to shoot your fuckin’ heads off if you move a single muscle.” Dez could hear the sirens coming, their whining becoming more insistent as her backup drew nearer. She glanced at Sara and made a quick motion with her head toward Jaylynn. “Get her outta here. Now! Into the hall. And be sure to stay clear of these two jokers. Wouldn’t want to have to blow their brains out, now would we?”<br />
Jaylynn wanted to tell her it was perfectly all right with her if the cop emptied her gun into their sorry carcasses. Instead, she leapt to Sara’s side and helped her to her feet. She pulled her out into the hall where her friend sank to the floor sobbing. Jaylynn slowly pulled the duct tape off her mouth. She was still trying to loosen the twisted tape from Sara’s hands when the backup officers burst into the house.<br />
<br />
THE HOUSE WAS surrounded with spotlights and curious onlookers. Police ran in and out of the stucco home as a tremendous commotion, both inside and outside, engulfed the neighborhood with noise and light. After a few tense moments, Dez relinquished her guard role and let the backup cops take charge. Once the suspects were properly cuffed, she stepped over and pulled the nylon masks off their heads. Two white males, in their early twenties, neither very handsome—especially in light of the damage she was glad she’d inflicted. The bigger man was bruised and bleeding from three gashes in his brows. His ear bled a trail down his neck. The slimmer man bled profusely from a cut below his left eye. At the moment, they were both sullen and angry as they sat on the floor muttering and cursing her. The backup cops read the two men their rights before dragging them out of the room and down the stairs.<br />
Dez’s right arm throbbed painfully as she eased down the steps, passing the emergency medical team coming up the stairs for the injured young woman. A stream of cops crowded through the front door to take a look at the two suspects, both of whom Dez suspected were responsible for the neighborhood’s recent rapes.<br />
The living room, now flooded with light and activity, was furnished with overstuffed chairs, a fluffy sofa, an upright piano, and a futon couch. Four oak bookcases full of neatly ordered books stood along one wall. Movie posters covered most of the other walls: a black-clad Schwartzenegger from The Terminator, Jackie Chan in a flying kick, Geena Davis pointing a gun, and Stallone hanging from a cliff. Dez walked through the room, past a Bruce Willis Die Hard poster, and out the front door. As she stepped wearily down the front stairs, a thin man dressed in khaki slacks and a tan t-shirt ran up the walkway.<br />
“Where’s Jay and Sara?” he asked her breathlessly, running his hand through his red hair.<br />
“Inside.” Two paramedics maneuvering a stretcher came up the walk toward her, and she navigated the last two stairs and stepped over onto the grass, gesturing to the young man to do the same. “Who are you, sir?”<br />
“Tim Donovan—I live here.” He pushed past, looking back at her, his face pale and stricken. “Are they…uh…okay?”<br />
“Yup, I think so.” Dez continued down the walk, suddenly feeling a bit sick to her stomach. As she moved along, she tried to flex her forearm, but it hurt too much. She looked at her watch: 11:58. In two minutes my shift is over. Good timing. She headed over to the ambulance to have her arm looked at.<br />
Tim took the stairs two at a time and blasted into the house just in time to nearly mow over the EMTs and his two roommates.<br />
“Sara, Jay, what happened?”<br />
“Oh, Tim!” Sara fell into his arms weeping.<br />
“Excuse me, sir,” the EMT said as he gently grasped Tim’s shoulder. “Please, we need to transport her.” The medic turned back to Sara. “Come along, Miss. Let’s take you in for a little look-see and make sure you’re okay.” He helped Sara onto the stretcher and covered her with a blanket.<br />
“I’ll go with her,” Jaylynn said.<br />
“Only room for one, ma’am,” the EMT said. He strapped Sara down and nodded toward his fellow medic, and they moved the stretcher toward the stairs.<br />
Jaylynn turned to Tim. “One of us needs to go with her, but we need to close up the house, too.” She pointed at the open window at the top of the stairs.<br />
“Here, Jay,” Tim said. He shot a hasty look toward the stairs as the EMTs rounded the corner and disappeared. Digging in his pocket he pulled out his car keys. “Take these. You drive over, and I’ll go with Sara now.” He turned and took the stairs down two at a time.<br />
“Wait, which hospital?” she called out after his departing back. He paused, looking back at her impatiently as she said, “How do I know where to go?”<br />
A patrolman standing behind her in the hall touched her arm. “I’m Officer Milton. I’ve got a lot of questions for the report. Why don’t you follow me over to the hospital?”<br />
“There you go,” Tim said. “I’ll see you over there.” He disappeared down the stairs.<br />
“I have to lock up the house,” Jaylynn said to the cop.<br />
“Good idea,” said Officer Milton. “I’ll help you with the windows.”<br />
Jaylynn collected her things and locked all the doors. As Officer Milton escorted her through the yard, a white van pulled up, and two men piled out of the vehicle. One shone a bright light in her face while the other man held a microphone and shouted questions at her.<br />
The reporters did double-steps on the lawn next to Jaylynn and Milton as the officer tried to hurry them down the walk. “Can you tell us what happened?” one reporter asked in a breathless voice.<br />
Jaylynn said, “I came home to find two men in our house attacking my roommate. They tried to get me, too, but before they could, a cop—” She stopped and looked around the yard, letting her eyes come to rest on the various police cruisers. “It was a woman cop. I don’t know who she is, but she nailed both of them even after losing her gun. It was incredible, a sight to behold!” She looked up at Milton. “Who was she, Officer? Where’d she go?”<br />
“Reilly,” Milton muttered.<br />
“Who?” Jaylynn said, but the reporters had already heard.<br />
“Reilly? Desiree Reilly?” one of the men repeated excitedly. “Reilly was the officer? Oh, this is going to be a great story. What else can you tell us?”<br />
“That’s it, folks,” Milton said as he pushed past them. “You know the channels to go through.” He took hold of Jaylynn’s elbow and rushed her down the walk. Wordlessly, he helped her into Tim’s Toyota, then got in his cruiser and slammed the door. He turned on his lights, but not his siren, and pulled around the other police cars parked haphazardly along the street, slowing to wait for Jaylynn to catch up with him. Jaylynn looked back at the scene. Neighbors stood in tight little bunches watching from the front stoops of their houses. She waved as she passed the couple on the corner and they hesitantly waved back, not quite sure who she was.<br />
<br />
DEZ’S FOREARM SWELLED so quickly that before she even arrived at the hospital, the paramedic had to immobilize the forearm with an inflatable splint. “It’s likely broken, you know,” he said.<br />
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”<br />
At the emergency room they led her through the crowded waiting area and toward an examining room. She didn’t want to look around, but she couldn’t help herself. The last time she had been here was for Ryan. Even now her eyes filled with bitter tears, and she bit her lip to try to control her thoughts. She hated this place, didn’t want to be here. She considered turning around to leave, but before she could, the nurse on duty was at her heels ushering her to a table. The nurse helped her unbutton and remove the bloodied and tattered blue shirt, and Dez pulled at the Velcro on the bulletproof vest. The nurse picked up a pair of trauma shears.<br />
Dez said, “Hey, no! These things are expensive.”<br />
“Do you keep them if they’re sliced open like that?” The nurse pointed to Dez’s left breast. Dez looked down, surprised to see an 8-inch gash. “It’s easier to cut it away. Otherwise I might hurt you,” the nurse said, a question in her voice.<br />
Dez shrugged her shoulders. “Don’t worry.”<br />
The nurse put down the shears and ripped at the Velcro straps on the vest as Dez looked around. The emergency room wasn’t all that big, with six bays, three on either side of an aisle that ran up the middle of the area. Her overall impression of the room was that it was filled with a lot of pipes and tubes and contraptions, and the dominant colors were white or dull silver. She thought it smelled like some sort of cleaning fluid. Dez sat on the exam table closest to the door. In the back corner, farthest from the door, an elderly woman lay hooked up to oxygen and strands of other tubes. With eyes closed, her hands fluttered across the chest of her pink robe as a technician fussed over her. Heart attack, Dez thought. That’s what that looks like.<br />
The nurse managed to get the vest loosened and off. She pulled at Dez’s t-shirt.<br />
“It’s just my arm. No need to strip naked is there?”<br />
“I need to be sure you’re not hurt anywhere else.” The nurse pulled the curtain around the bay.<br />
Dez frowned. It occurred to her that if she hadn’t realized her vest was shredded, then the nurse probably thought she might not know about other injuries. “Here, check me over.” Dez lifted her shirt with her left arm and the nurse ran her hand across her back, down her abdomen. “I think I’m fine. Really. I’d tell you if I was hurt anywhere else.”<br />
The nurse nodded as she helped pull the t-shirt back down. “Can’t help it, Officer. They’d have my head if I missed anything.” She leaned down and untied Dez’s black work boots and slipped them off. “Step out of the slacks, too. Stand up. Here, I’ll help you.” She laid the blue pants over the exam table and checked the big cop over, then handed her a nearly translucent sheet to put over her bare legs. “Just sit back up there.” Once she was situated, the nurse got out a blood pressure cuff and strapped it on Dez’s arm, checked her pulse and blood pressure, and shone a light in her eyes. Dez bore the exam patiently.<br />
“Okay, you’re doing fine,” the nurse said as she removed the cuff. “Let’s go ahead and get you dressed again, and I’ll have the doctor come in as soon as possible.” They worked together to get her re-dressed as Dez cautiously held her right arm.<br />
The nurse whipped open the curtain around the area and tried to catch the attending physician’s eye. When that failed, she sighed and her brown eyes looked tired.<br />
Dez asked, “Been a long shift, huh?”<br />
“Yes, and I’ve only been here four hours. It’s been quite a night. As soon as he checks you over, we’ll get you across the hall to radiology.”<br />
From outside the tiny box of a room where the x-ray machine was kept, Dez sat on a bench and observed the arrival of the victims of the evening’s melee. Paramedics rolled a weeping Sara into the ER, followed closely by the red-haired man who stutter-stepped alongside the gurney in order to hold the hand of the young woman. Moments later, Jaylynn came running in, Officer Milton at her heels. Not long after that, a middle-aged woman appeared in the doorway and was ushered over to the partly curtained area.<br />
When the x-rays were done, the nurse gave Dez an ice pack for her forearm, and she was led back into the emergency room where she eased herself onto the exam table.<br />
“Hey, Milton,” Dez called out to her fellow officer as he finished talking to the young woman on the gurney and flipped his notebook closed.<br />
He looked up and nodded, then strode toward her and smiled. “Reilly. You’re hurt, huh?”<br />
“Arm. Guy hit me here.” She lifted the ice bag and gestured toward the middle of her forearm. “Think it’s busted—maybe I’ll get lucky and it’ll just be a bad bruise, but I have a hunch it’s cracked.”<br />
“Tough luck, but hey, you did good tonight.”<br />
“Yeah, I’m glad for them.”<br />
Their backs were to Dez, but she could see the red-haired man with his arm around the feisty blonde woman. Dez’s face took on a puzzled look as she stared at her. Where have I seen her before? She surveyed the lean legs and khaki shorts, the hot pink tank top and the well-rounded hips and shoulders. Short white-blonde hair topped a long, regal neck. Dez wished the woman would turn around so she could study her more closely.<br />
She couldn’t see the girl who had been attacked, though she could see an older lady leaning over her whom she assumed to be the young woman’s mother. Dez heard a soft murmur of reassuring words being spoken to the girl. The doctor and another nurse swept past Milton and headed for the bay where the brown-haired girl lay. The nurse stopped for a brief moment and waved the two onlookers away. It was clear that the two friends tried to protest, but the doctor reached up and pulled a curtain around the bay to shut them out. They stepped back and Milton called out, “C’mon, people. Let her mom handle this for a bit. They’ll take good care of her. Come out and wait with me.”<br />
They headed toward the door, both focusing on Milton. The woman glanced briefly at Dez and did a double take. “You! It’s you.” She stopped in front of Dez, close enough to put her hand on the injured cop’s knee. “What happened?” Behind her the red-haired man stepped up to peer over his friend’s shoulder.<br />
Dez shrugged as she felt herself blush. She lifted the ice bag again to display her swollen arm, which was also beginning to show the pale outline of a wide bruise.<br />
“How did you… How did that happen?”<br />
“Little guy hit me with the bat when I first came in the room.”<br />
“But—but, how did you do that—stop them, I mean—with your arm like that?”<br />
Dez shrugged again and knew her face was fully crimson.<br />
The woman went on. “Well, that was totally exhilarating. It was amazing to see! You were incredible.”<br />
Dez mumbled, “Not really. Actually, you did half of it. If you hadn’t kicked them a few times, I would’ve been in worse trouble.”<br />
The nurse returned just then. “All right, all right,” she said. “Enough with the visiting. I’ve got work to do. Out. Out into the waiting area.” She shooed them out, waving at Milton, too.<br />
Dez put her hand on Milton’s sleeve to hold him back. “Before you go, what are their names?”<br />
“Don’t know the man’s yet, but I’m gonna question them now,” he said. He flipped open his memo book and thumbed down a few pages. “Her name’s Jaylynn Savage, and that one over there,” he nodded toward the bay in the corner, “she’s Sara Wright.”<br />
“Thanks,” she said, and then the nurse demanded her attention to tell her the doctor would be in shortly to set her arm and have it casted. It’s broken, Dez thought. That’s just great. Three or four weeks of desk duty. Just what I need. Shit.<br />
<br />
JAYLYNN AND TIM settled into the waiting room among a conglomeration of sickly and unhappy people either waiting to be seen or waiting for some loved one.<br />
“She didn’t look so good, did she, Tim?” Jaylynn said.<br />
He fidgeted and said, more sharply than he meant, “Well, she just survived a beating and a near rape. What do you expect?”<br />
“No, I don’t mean Sara. The cop. I meant the cop.”<br />
“Oh yeah, her, too.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a comb to nervously style his hair.<br />
Jaylynn winced, remembering the cop’s battered arm. And to think I didn’t even notice what happened! How could I have been so blind? I remember him hitting her with the bat...but now that I think about it, of course she wouldn’t escape unscathed. In bat versus arm, the bat always wins.<br />
Tim put his comb back in his pocket. “I don’t know what would have happened if I had come home and found you both being raped. Or dead. Oh, God.” Shaking, he took a deep breath and put his head between his knees, messing up his hair.<br />
Jaylynn draped her arm across his back and leaned down to speak in his ear. “That didn’t happen, so don’t even think about it. It’s all right, Tim.”<br />
He sat back up and shivered. “Keep reminding me, okay?” He got his comb back out and repeated the styling, his hands shaking.<br />
It took almost an hour before they learned the hospital would keep Sara overnight for observation. Until then, they sat in the waiting room watching wounded people being hauled in and scores of cops coming and going through the ER entrance. Jaylynn wondered if every cop in St. Paul had stopped by the hospital to check on Officer Reilly.<br />
She turned the events of the night over and over in her head. What if she hadn’t come home when she did? What if Sara had been killed? She shuddered. What if both of them had been killed? What if the cop hadn’t shown up when she did? Too many “what-ifs.” Jaylynn looked over at Tim. His head was tipped back against the wall and he was asleep, his hand in hers. Just then the glass door leading to the exam rooms opened and the woman cop emerged, followed by a nurse. She carried her blue uniform shirt and a gray vest in her good hand. In the thin tank t-shirt her broad shoulders were nearly as white as the cast that covered her right arm from knuckles to elbow. She and the nurse went to the main desk and spoke briefly with the clerk who handed her a white prescription bag. Jaylynn watched as the tall woman tried to sign something with her right hand in a cast, then gave up and switched to her left hand, which she held awkwardly above the paper on the high counter.<br />
Two patrol officers rose from the uncomfortable waiting room chairs on the other side of the room and strolled toward the woman cop. The male officer was young, his bleached white hair in a buzz cut, and he wore golden wire-rimmed glasses. He swaggered over, his bow-legged stride confident and sure. Taking shorter paces next to him was a smaller, wide-shouldered Latino woman. Her short-cropped hair was jet-black and she was probably in her late thirties. The male cop came up behind the wounded woman and gave her a mock blow to the lower back, and she turned. A slow smile crossed her face and she smacked him in the stomach with the back of her good hand as the woman slid her arm around Reilly’s waist. She said something in the injured woman’s ear, which must have been serious because Reilly looked down at her cast and nodded grimly.<br />
That Reilly sure is tall, Jaylynn thought. She towered a good foot over the nurse and was maybe six inches taller than the other woman cop. Without the bulk of the vest she looked slimmer than she had during the fight. Jaylynn admired her lean hips and very wide shoulders. From behind, she was as broad-shouldered as a man, except that with her brunette hair French-braided so beautifully, it wasn’t likely she’d be mistaken for one. The big officer slung his arm across her shoulders, and as the three moved to leave, Jaylynn could see how tired the injured cop looked.<br />
“Hey,” Jaylynn said over the low din in the room. She almost didn’t expect to be heard, but Dez looked at her and gave her a quick nod.<br />
“Wait a minute,” Jaylynn heard her say to the two cops, and then she strolled toward her and the sleeping man. Jaylynn stared at Reilly and was captivated again by the bluest, steeliest eyes she’d ever seen, eyes that bored right through her. Her heart beat faster and she choked in a short intake of breath, tilting her head slightly to the side to try to take in the strange, almost disturbing glimpse of something familiar yet forgotten. She extricated herself from Tim and rose to face the woman in blue. She reached out for Dez’s left hand saying, “Thanks for what you did,” and squeezed the bigger hand and reluctantly let go.<br />
“No problem. It’s my job.”<br />
Jaylynn smiled and gazed up into tired but warm blue eyes. “I hardly think getting your arm broken is in the job description.”<br />
Dez shook her head. “Not usually.”<br />
<br />
<br />
www.LoriLLake.com<br />
<br />
To purchase from Bella Books, click <a href="http://www.bellabooks.com/9781633040052e-prod.html">http://www.bellabooks.com/9781633040052e-prod.html</a>; from <br />
Amazon, click <a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B002E19L8U/">http://www.amazon.com/dp/B002E19L8U/</a>; from Barnes & Noble, click <a href="http://tinyurl.com/pk233bm">http://tinyurl.com/pk233bm</a>; from Kobo, click <a href="http://tinyurl.com/pvhhbsl">http://tinyurl.com/pvhhbsl</a>; and from iBookstore, click <a href="https://www.apple.com/ibooks/">https://www.apple.com/ibooks/</a><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Eric Spectorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10359942176317364618noreply@blogger.com2