Cecilia's Random Writings

Goodbye, Ms. McCaffrey!

2011-11-22T18:17:00.000-08:00

When I'm asked to name the influences on my writing, Anne McCaffrey is always one of the first names I mention, but I'm not writing this as an author. No, I want to say goodbye to her as a reader.

I first came to Pern by way of Half-Circle Hold and Harper Hall.

It was one of those summer days in Irondale, Alabama when no matter how much Mom ran the air conditioning in the car, my shirt stuck to my back when I got out. We were at the library, and I had wandered from the hardback section and found the round shelves that housed the young adult paperback books. One cover caught my eye, that of redheaded girl who looked about my age and who was surrounded by tiny swooping dragons in different colors. She stood on some rocks by the ocean and held in her hands what looked like a set of wooden pipes. It went into my pile, which would be finished within the week. I don't remember any of the others I picked up that day, but that book was Dragonsong, the first book in the Harper Hall Trilogy.

I don't remember exactly how old I was, just that I was struggling with the things most adolescents do: not fitting in, feeling unappreciated, and general annoyance at the stubbornness of the adults in my life who insisted on silly things like curfews. I escaped through books and found in the Harper Hall trilogy a heroine I could relate to and who did the things I could only dream of. In that pivotal scene, I was Menolly running my feet ragged over a pebbly beach trying to escape from the pressures that wanted to mindlessly devour me, the ones that hissed, "Be thin! Be perfect! Live up to everyone's expectations!"

Then, in the second book, Dragonsinger: Harper of Pern, I understood Menolly the misfit who had to deal with the silly shallowness of the paying female students at Harper Hall. It's tough to be a girl, especially a smart girl. Ms. McCaffrey got it, the struggle between being good at something and not wanting to stand out too much. Oh, and the importance of sassy boots. Finally, in Dragondrums, Menolly finds love, and it gave me hope that a geeky girl like me would eventually find someone. I did, and I didn't need the help of any randy fire lizards.

In spite of wishing hard and taking long walks on the Destin beach to find a deserted-enough spot (there aren't any), I never found a nest of fire lizards. It wasn't until I had cats that I figured out where McCaffrey had modeled her little psychic dragons from. My tuxedo kitty rubs me with his wedge-shaped head and rumbles when he's happy. He gets very persistent when he's hungry, although thankfully his eyes don't turn red.

I did eventually read the rest of the Pern books to get the context for the Harper Hall Trilogy, and I enjoyed meeting Lessa, F'lar, F'nor, Jaxom, and the other dragonriders, holders, and thieves. Menolly will always have a special place in my heart, and if I ever have a daughter, I will give her my well-worn copy of Dragonsong. Maybe she'll be able to relate and find hope like I did.

Happy flying, Ms. McCaffrey! Don't forget to bundle up well – it gets cold between. We'll miss you.

On Process and Progress: Verbal Shortcuts

2011-10-09T13:30:00.000-07:00

My heart got blessed when we were in North Georgia a few weeks ago, except I don't think it really did. Hubby and I were checking out at one of the many apple orchards near Ellijay and chatting with a friendly older gentleman behind the counter.

"Where are y'all from?" he asked.

"Atlanta."

"Oh, bless your heart!"

When we got to the car, Hubby looked at me and said, "I think we just got insulted."

That classic passive-aggressive Southern phrase got me to thinking about what kind of language shortcuts we use. As a psychologist, I can't help but wonder what they help us to say without saying directly. Consider the "Bless your heart" above. It was really, "Oh, you poor things! Our quality of life up here in the North Georgia Mountains is vastly superior to what you city folks experience."

Yep, nothing nice in that mound of condescension. The phrase actually means the opposite. Consider these other phrases in common use and what they really (really?!) mean:

"Not going to go there," but by saying this, you prompt your listener to.

"Awesome" can go either way.

"Wicked!" may be a musical, but my Yankee cousins were using it to mean awesome long before Gregory Maguire ever wrote the book the musical is based on.

"Oh, no you didn't!" and I can't believe you did!

The tricky thing with using these phrases in dialogue is that tone of voice conveys as much of the message as the words. My characters sometimes ask, "Really?" but for clarification, not as in, "I can't believe how stupid that was!"

There's also the timeliness of the phrase. Not everything spans generations like "Bless your heart." I recently read a draft of a Civil War era novel in which a character said, "Don't. Just don't." I marked it as "too modern." It could go the other way. I wouldn't have any of my characters set in a novel in 2011 say, "All that and a bag of chips!" That one always puzzled me.

What are your current favorite shortcut phrases? If you don't have any, well, bless your heart!

What I did with those apples:

What I learned about writing from Bad Movie Day

2011-09-11T13:39:00.000-07:00

One of my writing/drinking buddies – yes, it's funny how those go together – hosted a Bad Movie Day at his house yesterday. Apparently his wife was out of town on a girls' camping trip, so she couldn't object. Even better, he home brews, so there was plenty of alcohol to help us cope with the visual and logical carnage that ensued.

Although the festivities started at noon-ish, Hubby and I didn't arrive until later, so we only had the pleasure (if you can call it that) of watching the last four selections. Here they are, with the IMDB descriptive blurbs and links should you care to read more about them yourselves:

Chupacabra Terror (2005): When cryptozoologist Dr. Peña traps the legendary Chupacabra on a remote Caribbean island, he smuggles it aboard a cruise ship with disastrous results.

Creepers (1993; original title Contagion .7): People from a small town are attacked by evil radioactive tree roots growing in the forest.

Battlefield Earth: A Saga of the Year 3000 (2000): After enslavement & near extermination by an alien race in the year 3000, humanity begins to fight back.

Birdemic: Shock and Horror (2008): A platoon of eagle & vultures attack the residence of a small town. Many people died. It's not known what caused the flying menace to attack. Two people managed to fight back, but will they survive Birdemic?

Movies start as ideas that are turned into screenplays by writers and made visual by producers, actors, and directors. Not surprisingly, the same things that make for a bad story or novel can also happen to movies, but at many different layers. So what makes a bad movie?

1. A single-dimensional hero with ill-defined motivation:

It's not surprising that many of the films that made it into the bad movie day queue are horror films because they tap into the most basic of human motivations: survival. The problem is that a hero needs internal motivation and conflict beyond that to be interesting to an audience.

Apparently Battlefield Earth got universally panned for many reasons, but the biggest problem I had with the movie was that I didn't care about the hero. Sure, he was gutsy and smart and somewhat good looking, but I just couldn't identify with him because he lacked internal conflict. Even his name, Johnny Goodboy Tyler, warns there's not much to him.

2. A single-dimensional villain with ill-defined motivation:

Okay, when you're dealing with murderous mythical creatures, tree roots, and birds, you can't really ask too much, especially when tree roots with their sassy whipping sounds are the best actors in the film. I actually liked the villains in Battlefield Earth better than the heroes because although John Travolta's acting wasn't great, his character Terl had some dimension to him.

With the other films, I wanted to know why these things were attacking people. In Chupacabra Terror, all we know about the creature is that its name means "goat sucker" because it feeds off the blood of goats. Okay, is it hungry? If so, it should've been sated after about two people because it's not that big. Is it pissed or scared that it's been trapped and taken out of its natural habitat? That would've been something that the cryptozoologist could have enlightened us about. In Birdemic, all we get to know are that the birds, which have somehow become explosive (and angry!), have started attacking people, and it just might have something to do with global warming.

Okay, so it's probably a stretch to think too much about radioactive tree roots, but if an author or screenwriter is going to use a device like that, they need to establish both the why and how. Sure, the roots had turned "carnivorous," but we were left wondering how, aside from asphyxiation, the tree roots were killing people. It's mentioned that they've turned into "predators," but how do they suck the nutrients from their victims? That would have made for some more interesting information and added a dimension of scariness.

3. Bad editing:

The best example of this was just about everything in Birdemic: Shock and Terror. You know something's wrong when the whole room is chanting, "Cut! Cut!" at the screen. The lesson for writers is to know or get feedback on what information is extraneous and cut it out. Stephen King in On Writing recommends cutting ten percent of your word count. Birdemic director James Nguyen should have cut about forty.

Another problem is transitions. After watching the Powerpoint-type curtain fade-ins in Battlefield Earth, not to mention the awkward tilted camera angles, we were all seasick. I once attended a talk by Alan Gratz, author of Samurai Shortstop, at the Harriette Austin Writers Conference. He suggested smoothing out transitions by ending one chapter with an image and bringing it back in a different way at the beginning of the next. Perhaps he should consult on films.

4. The preaching – make it stop!

I'm not going to say much on this one. I edited a translation of a book once that had a long, preachy section at the end that the author would not cut out. You have to trust your viewers – and readers – to know what the moral of the film or story is without beating them over the head with it.

I was told several times yesterday that I was thinking too hard about what I was watching, but as a writer, I just couldn't help it. One of my Twitter friends reminded me at the Decatur Book Festival that we learn as much if not more from reading bad fiction than good. These movies were so bad they were good for some laughs, both at them and the audience comments. Sometimes it's good to be reminded about what not to do and to do so in good company.

Metapost: A Little Light Self-Promotion...

2011-09-05T13:10:00.000-07:00

In January, I entered publisher Buddhapuss Ink's Mystery Times Ten contest, and in March I got an email that I had been selected as one of the twenty finalists. This meant a lot because my story had impressed the teen panelists, who I figured would be the toughest of all. Then I got an email on a Friday in April that I was one of the ten finalists, which excited me because it meant that, even if I hadn't placed, I would be able to skip the slush pile if I were to ever submit a Young Adult novel to them. The following Monday, I got the very happy news that I'd placed first! Yep, I got a Kindle. This is somewhat ironic after my long debate over what kind of e-reader I'd buy. Between that and my Nook Color, I now have access to just about everything.

The books themselves came out on July 22, and my story "The Coral Temple" is the first one. One of the judges said the following:

"[This story] was fantastic! Seriously, so well-developed with a multitude of characters that come alive at once, a tautly wrapped up mystery, and that wonderful element of a mysterious far off place we’ve never been. The social hierarchy, the setting description, and the emotional pieces all work, too. Plus the characters are teens. Oh joy!"

This is my first major short story publication, so of course I'm very excited. You can order the book directly from Amazon here, or if you would like a signed copy, please email me at cecilia {at} ceciliadominic {dot} com, and I'll send you details about shipping, payment, etc.

On Process and Progress: Playing the Numbers Game

2011-05-30T19:31:00.000-07:00

Three years ago, I joined a short story class led by a friend of mine who has published nine of them, but none for pay. I went on the first day, and when the teacher and other students asked what I wanted out of writing fiction, I gave them the honest answer: I want to do this for a living.

"Oh, that's going to be so hard!" one of the other students said, and (seriously!) wrinkled her nose as if to say, "Oh, that's so cute!"

The teacher* was even less encouraging. "There are three hundred million people in the United States," he said, "and less than four hundred of them are able to write fiction full-time without any additional support like spousal income or from another job."

(File by Jim Irwin on Wikimedia, used by general permission)

Well, damn. That means I have such a small chance of actually making it as a full-time, professional fiction writer that my computer calculator doesn't even want to give me the number without using scientific notation with a negative decimal point (1.333*10^-4%, or 0.0001333 percent). Giving that perspective, when I applied to a Ph.D. program in Clinical Psychology in 1998, the acceptance rates for those programs were between six and eight percent, which is, by the way, less than for medical school.

But this got me to thinking. That number is way too low considering the context. Let's break it down...

First, how many people actually want to write fiction? Let's start with how many people want or like to write. Okay, I'm pulling this number out of my ass, but as we all know, 36% of statistics (including this one) are made up on the spot. So, thinking of the people I know, let's say that one third of them actually write, and that's probably a generous representation of the general population considering I tend to hang out with other writers. That brings the starting number down to one hundred million. Forty percent of the book market goes to fiction (this seems to be a fairly consistent number across sources), so the starting number equals forty million.

So, 400/400,000 = 0.1% At least we're out of the scientific notation.

Let's go a step further. Of that four hundred million, how many of them are actually serious about writing? By serious, I mean putting regular time into it (better than I have been about blog posting) and learning about the craft. For guidance, I turned to magazine circulation for the three big writing magazines: Writer's Digest, Writer Magazine, and Poets & Writers. Yes, my assumption is that people who are serious enough to study the craft of writing will subscribe to magazines. Here are the numbers:

Writer's Digest: 110,000
Writer Magazine: 30,000
Poets & Writers: 60,000

Sure, I'm not hitting everyone, but I'm sure there are others like me who take more than one, so we'll make the assumption that non-magazine reading serious writers are covered by the overlap. The total is now 200,000, and thank you, statistics gods, for the nice, round number!

One more step: lots of people start books, but who is serious enough to actually finish a manuscript and go through the agony of submitting it? For this, I turned to the acceptance rates for M.F.A. programs. These are the type of talented, driven people I feel like I'm up against. According to the Almighty Google, who has been very helpful with this process, creative writing M.F.A. acceptance rates are between 2.5 and 5%. So, that brings our number down to a range of 5000-10,000. Going with our initial starting point of 400 successful career fiction writers, the chance of success then becomes four to eight percent. This was actually close to my chances of getting into a clinical psychology Ph.D. program, which I did. And took four semesters of statistics, in case you couldn't tell.

(File from Wikimedia)

Am I making a lot of assumptions with this process? Yes. Do I know for sure what my chances of making it as a fiction author are? No. But I have time to find out, a supportive spouse, and a day job that I enjoy. By the way, the teacher who first handed down that dour statistic has since become one of my biggest supporters who has said that he thinks I have what it takes. I'm going to take him up on his challenge to become number four hundred and one.

The kind of math I like: dessert on graph paper plate at Chocolate by the Bald Man in Philadelphia.

Book Review: Pandora's Succession by Russell Brooks

2011-05-15T19:58:00.000-07:00

It's hard to write, finish, and revise a book, and it takes courage and money to get it out there. Readers who are interested in self-published books but who don't want to waste their time on low-quality ones need a place to go for reviews. I'll post a review of a self-published book the first weekend of every month so that authors and readers can connect with each other.

If you're interested in getting your book reviewed, please email my assistant at bert{at}ceciliadominic.com

Title: Pandora's Succession
Author: Russell Brooks
Genre: Thriller
Publisher: CreateSpace (paperback), also available as an e-book from major outlets

First, apologies to Mr. Brooks and my blog fans for the delay on posting this one! Life has been hectic with all 2.5 jobs going full-tilt and some exciting writing-related news (see who's in first place). I also didn't want to post on Mother's Day.

Hero Ridley Fox was all set to leave the exciting life of an undercover agent to settle down with his fiancée Jessica when she was killed by the Arms of Ares, a Russian weapons ring. At the start of the book a few years later, Fox infiltrates one of their bunkers, where they are manufacturing Pandora, a nasty microbe that eats its victims from the inside out within seconds of exposure. The microbe is then stolen by Japanese pharmaceutical company Hexagon, which is under the control of a cult called The Promise, which wants to use the microbe for world domination. Or something like that. The head of the cult explains the entire plan like a good Bond villain when the hero is captured.

I almost designated the genre for this one as being "guy-lit." As opposed to chick-lit, where the single characters end up married, in guy-lit, you can pretty much predict the married guys are toast. It also has some of the hallmarks of my husband's favorite television shows and movies: a hero with a tragedy in his past that motivates him for revenge, bad guys with automatic weapons and good guys with handguns, women who tend toward uber-bitchiness, and lots of explosions, gunfights, and even ninjas.

The first two thirds of the book move quickly, and sometimes it's hard to keep the large cast of characters straight, especially since each of the evil organizations seems to have an unlimited supply of bad guys. The double-crossing is fairly clear, although sometimes the characters' motives aren't. The author does a good job of explaining a fairly complex set-up without dumping too much backstory in, and he keeps the action moving.

Everyone seems to have a tragedy or secret in their past, and one of the themes of the book is that people have a choice as to what they do with the pain. Fox uses it for revenge. Scientist Nita Parris is motivated by her past hurts to become an undercover operative. The villain decides that government and religion are behind his or her pain and moves toward an extreme solution (trying to avoid a spoiler, although the identity of the mastermind is revealed about a quarter of the way through the book). The Promise cult uses the pain of its victims as a psychological gateway for their brainwashing drug Clarity.

Characterization is one of the weaker aspects of the book. Although I applaud Brooks for trying to make his hero rounder than a James Bond or Jack Bauer, Fox's introspection can feel clunky. His eventual reconciliation with Parris, whom he dated and stood up in the past, seems awkward, and the final relationship between the two characters isn't clear. Parris also demonstrates some inconsistency in that she is obviously uncomfortable with the research she is doing at Hexagon, yet she's shocked when she discovers it's related to a cult. What else would she be brainwashing people for? I wasn't sure what she thought would happen to the research subjects after she was done with them.

Fans of action and adventure in exotic locales will brush aside character concerns for the fast-paced plot. The final confrontation, with ninjas battling Russian operatives for Pandora, and Fox having to defeat both to sabotage the disaster that Promise wants to unleash on the world is very well-written. Brooks' pacing is perfect, and it's easy to follow the complicated battle scene through the eyes of the two main characters and one of the bad guys.

I got this one from the author as a .pdf file, which I read on my Nook, so I can't comment on the physical book. There were a few typos and rare verb tense issues, but they weren't excessive. All of the plot threads tie up nicely at the end. Some of the descriptions of Pandora in action were a bit gory, but I think that's standard for the genre.

Bottom line: Not for germophobes, but thriller fans will love it.

Previous Reviews:
Gint Aras' Finding the Moon in Sugar
Perry Treadwell's From Sea to Shining Sea on U.S. 20
James Huskins' Silent Scream: A Groovy Mystery Caper
Laura Eno's Don't Fall Asleep: A Dream Assassin Novel
Donna Carrick's The First Excellence -- Fa-Ling's Map
Kenn Allen's The Golden Cockerel

Up Next: The Handbook of the Writer Secret Society by Carrie Bailey, et al.

Book Review: Finding the Moon in Sugar by Gint Aras

2011-04-03T18:06:00.000-07:00

It's hard to write, finish, and revise a book, and it takes courage and money to get it out there. Readers who are interested in self-published books but who don't want to waste their time on low-quality ones need a place to go for reviews. I'll post a review of a self-published book the first weekend of every month so that authors and readers can connect with each other. Interviews have been put on hold for now due to time constraints.

If you're interested in getting your book reviewed, please email my assistant at bert{at}ceciliadominic.com

Title: Finding the Moon in Sugar
Author: Karolis Gintaras Žukauskas, aka Gint Aras
Genre: Tragicomedy, Coming of Age
Publisher: Infinity

Andrew Nowak hasn't figured out how to get it right yet, "it" being life. He tries to do the right things – hold down a job, take classes at the community college – but he ends up in debt and dealing drugs. He has a mother with a sixth sense about when he has money and who applies the right balance of guilt and insult to get it away from him. His sister is a meth-head who ends up living with her mother-in-law. So when lovely Lithuanian internet bride Audra takes an interest in him, he goes with it even though she's married to someone he fears. He's so smitten that when she gets an American passport and returns to Vilnius, he sells everything and follows her.

In spite of the interesting premise, it took me a while to get into this book for two reasons. First, Nowak isn't the type of narrator I find sympathetic, and he spends enough of the book either drunk or high that after the second or third time, I was thinking, "Enough, already!" In fact, the title is taken from something he does while out of his mind on vodka after a funeral. Second, it's written as though it's his memoir, which he's writing to look at the past and "figure stuff out." It took a few chapters for me to ignore the misspellings and grammar mistakes that are part of his writing, e.g., "cauze" instead of "because." Also, after he goes to Lithuania, he starts substituting "make" for "have" like his Lithuanian friends do, but outside of dialogue.

In spite of his substance use and writing difficulties, Nowak grows on the reader, especially after Audra becomes unstable, and he has to take care of himself and find his own way in a strange country. Aras demonstrates his own prowess with language while staying in Nowak's voice with phrases like, "And she blew this line of smoke, like a rope for Gidas to hang himself" (page 109). I also really liked, "I could feel the big difference between a girlfriend and a wife, like how a wife would get old if you don't [mess] it up" (page 178, language lightened for the blog). There are also several interesting parallels between Nowak's history and his experiences that were fun to ponder after reading the book. Sure, Andy has fried a few brain cells, but he has good observation skills and insight into his own and others' motivations, which is how he survives Audra's most self-destructive act.

The book for this review was a courtesy paperback copy from the author, and it's beautifully done from the cover to the layout on the inside. It was hard to tell what might be a typo since the narrator isn't a proficient writer, but nothing stood out. You can get signed or electronic copies from Aras' website.

Bottom Line: A sweet novel from a rough narrator. Well worth the time to read.

Previous Reviews:
Perry Treadwell's From Sea to Shining Sea on U.S. 20
James Huskins' Silent Scream: A Groovy Mystery Caper
Laura Eno's Don't Fall Asleep: A Dream Assassin Novel
Donna Carrick's The First Excellence -- Fa-Ling's Map
Kenn Allen's The Golden Cockerel

Up next: Russell Brooks' Pandora's Succession

On Process and Progress: Ponderings from Pennsylvania

2011-03-26T13:40:00.000-07:00

Hubby and I recently took a trip to Philadelphia to visit Babysis, who's in school up there. While she recovered from finals and took care of sick bunnies, we went wine tasting along the Brandywine Valley Wine Trail.* On Sunday morning, we visited Longwood Gardens, where they were holding an Orchid Extravaganza! I didn't really mean to put an exclamation point on that sentence, but it seems like the word "extravaganza!" requires one.

Since it was Pennsylvania in March, the orchids were housed in the huge Conservatory, which is seriously bigger than the college where I met Hubby. It took us an hour and a half to walk through it. Not that we moved quickly. The crowds weren't excessive, but the flowers were meant to be enjoyed mindfully, and there were lots of them. As we walked, I had a couple of writing-related insights.

Hubby took pictures with his camera, and I got a few with my Blackberry Torch, which actually has a decent camera on it. The funny part was that our picture strategies tended to be consistent with our personalities. Hubby, a Myers-Briggs ISTJ, tends to be focused on the details, and as an INFJ, I'm the big-picture person. His pictures were of individual flowers or clusters of them, and mine focused on juxtapositions and arrangements.

I'm currently struggling with editing my novel A Perfect Man. I enjoyed working out the major plot points, but guess where I'm stuck? Line editing. The flowers and arrangements were a good reminder to me that the individual blooms, or sentences, need to be perfect and healthy for the arrangement to stand.

We walked into one room where a gloomy tropical scene had been set up, and plants dripped long, string-like tendrils to brush the heads of those of us who are tall. Hubby walked in first and made a creeped out noise that I cannot reproduce in type.

"That's what I get for being married to an aspiring science fiction writer," he said.

"Thanks, sweetie," I replied. "Now please let me get a picture of that still, dark pool."

"Is something going to come out of it and eat me?"

"Not if you're good."

Poor guy…

Back in Philly, we visited the historic area of "Old Town," the home of Constitution Hall, where the Declaration of Independence and U.S. Constitution were drawn up and signed. The park ranger who gave us our tour had several interesting things to say, but one that really stuck with me was that the Declaration of Independence was edited for two and a half days to reach its current form.

This was news to me. I always imagined that Thomas Jefferson, being an introvert, of course (okay, I don't know if that's true, but work with me), had put several weeks' worth of thought into it and penned it perfectly on his first try. Apparently the Continental Congress or whoever they were at the time hated it. So yes, even Thomas Jefferson, who is considered to be one of our first great American writers, was thoroughly edited. To be fair, the original with the corrections has been lost to history, so there's not actually any proof that the intense government committee editing improved it, but it got the job done.

Philadelphia is full of statues, but I particularly liked this guy, named "The Signer." I don't know who the artist is, but I think they captured the sense of triumph perfectly. To me, he seems to be saying, "I finished my manuscript!" or "I got a book deal!" I'm going to have to get a print of him and hang it up in my writing space to remind me of how great it will feel when I finally do get that novel edited and accepted somewhere.

Oh, and here are the Philadelphia food pictures. First, a cheesesteak "wit wiz":

Now a molten chocolate cake with mini-shakes and chocolate ganache in the martini shaker from Chocolate by the Bald Man:

Apparently Max Brenner, the Bald Man, is an aspiring novelist but has been too busy learning how to make incredible chocolate yumminess and starting restaurants to actually write it. Hang in there, Max! You'll get there, and then you, too, can be as triumphant as The Signer!

* Winery reviews and tasting notes are at my Random Oenophile blog. Direct links are:
Day One
Day Two

Metapost: The Great E-Reader Debate

2011-03-15T19:11:00.000-07:00

I'll admit it, I'm a late adopter for technological stuff. I only got on Twitter because my husband and sister both have accounts, and in a paranoid moment, I became afraid that they would tweet about me. I've since surpassed them both with followers, and after having met some great people, I'm thinking that sometimes paranoia pays off.

My motivations for getting an e-reader are a little more straightforward. First, I love books, but I live in a small house, and my bookshelves are quite crowded. Second, I'm reviewing self-published books on my writing blog, and some of those aren't available in hard copy. Also, well, books are comfy for some of the household residents, which isn't conducive to actually reading them:

Once I decided to get an e-reader, I faced a host of other questions: back-lit vs. e-ink screen? Price point? Market share of reading materials? Do I go all out and get an iPad?

"Just go to Best Buy and Barnes & Noble and play with them," my exasperated Hubby told me after I'd been obsessing about the decision for a few days.

No, no, I wanted to figure it all out for myself because I'm stubborn like that. I found myself down to the two main e-reader choices, Amazon's Kindle and Barnes & Noble's Nook. Both have really appealing features. The Kindle isn't back-lit, so it's likely more sleep-friendly, and Amazon has 47-48% of the e-book market share. The Nook Color is, well, color, and has more capabilities, and my Blackberry Torch has served as a gateway gadget to get me hooked on touch screens.± It can also be hacked with an Android platform to turn it into a tablet and has external storage. Cost wasn't really an issue because I'm trading in credit card reward points, and they're about the same.

At this point, I took the most logical step possible: I engaged my social networks and took a scientific* poll of my Twitter and Facebook friends.

Twitter results:

Votes for Kindle: 3
Votes for Nook: 1

Facebook results:

Votes for Kindle: 8
Votes for Nook: 2

The funny thing about both kinds of e-reader was that everyone loves whatever they have. It reminded me of being in social psychology, or maybe it was cognitive psychology, class (those painted cinder block walls in the psych building at UGA blended together after a while) and talking about decision-making. The principle is that, when faced with two equally good options, people will rationalize whatever choice they make and convince themselves that whatever they don't choose wasn't right for them, anyway, which made me suspect just how much people love their e-readers. Poll results: out the window because, darnit, I'm going to figure this thing out for myself!

I was still torn, so I did what I should have done in the first place: I went to Best Buy and Barnes & Noble at Edgewood and played with them. I was hoping that a Best Buy geek would appear to answer questions for me, but apparently I wasn't in the big-ticket item section, and they never appear when you actually want them. The ladies at the B&N were really helpful, and they showed me that it is possible to manipulate the brightness and contrast of the Nook to minimize the back-lit impact.

So that's what I got, a Nook color. Thanks to everyone who helped me with this decision, and especially to Hubby. I went and played with the e-readers on Friday, which was his birthday, so I was able to give him the best birthday present a woman can give a man: I told him he had been right all along.

Now I have to be patient and let the darn thing charge before I can play with it…

± I'm really hoping the next step isn't an i-thingie.

*Okay, not really.

P.S. Here's what I got for Hubby's birthday. Chocolate mousse cake, which was more like creamy chocolate mousse with flecks of chocolate on a chocolate pie crust. Yes, it was chocolate heaven and almost worth admitting he was right.

Book Review: From Sea to Shining Sea On U.S. 20...

2011-03-06T11:38:00.000-08:00

It's hard to write, finish, and revise a book, and it takes courage and money to get it out there if the author wants to self-publish. Readers who are interested in self-published books but who don't want to waste their time on low-quality ones need a place to go for reviews. I'll post a review of a self-published book the first weekend of every month so that authors and readers can connect with each other. Interviews have been put on hold for now due to time constraints.

A disclaimer: I'm going to start with books by authors I know through real-life connections and through Twitter. If you're interested in getting your book reviewed, please email my assistant at bert{at}ceciliadominic.com or follow Bert on Twitter and message him there.

Title: From Sea to Shining Sea on U.S. 20: Boston to Newport, Oregon
Subtitle: Driving through the history of the expansion of the 13 Colonies across the continent
Author: Perry Treadwell
Genre: Travelogue/History

I have to admit, I'm not a big history buff. I enjoy going to museums and seeing how people lived in the past, and I like going to historic sites, but my eyes tend to glaze over when reading historical accounts with, "and this happened on this date, and this happened on that date…" In From Sea to Shining Sea, Perry Treadwell connects history with geography in a way that is both entertaining and informative.

U.S. 20 is a non-interstate highway that crosses the country from Boston, Massachusetts to Newport, Oregon with only a brief break in Yellowstone National Park. Treadwell traveled it from end to end in ten years and five trips. He did the first three for the Western part (Chicago to Newport) first because it seemed less built up and therefore more interesting. However, he is fascinated by the past, and the Eastern part (Boston to Chicago) encompasses a lot of history integral to the founding of the country and the establishment of religious freedom.

I found the first half of the book to lack some organization. Treadwell had to choose how to discuss the many historical events that occurred during the founding of the country, and doing so geographically makes sense from the perspective of the book, but the history jumps around as a result. Those with a good background in history would likely be able to follow it better, but I found myself skimming descriptions of battles heavy on dates and casualty numbers.

As I mentioned above, Treadwell researched, traveled, and wrote the second half of the book first. It was this half that grabbed me and kept me coming back, possibly because I could feel Treadwell's initial passion and enjoyment. It's also lighter on war stories and has more anecdotes about settlers and their challenges.

Although I enjoyed this book, there were a few things that would have enhanced the experience. The first is maps. In spite of this being a travelogue, there are no maps aside from what's on the cover. Sure, the reader can go online and look for Google or other maps of the areas, but I prefer to read away from my computer, especially in the evenings. Having a map of U.S. 20 and the cities it crosses in each chapter would have been really helpful to anchor the journey in my mind. More pictures would have been nice, too, especially of the odd geographic structures out West. Second, I found a lot of typos in this manuscript. Treadwell has dyslexia and said he makes use of editing programs and beta readers, but there seemed to be more errors than one would find in a traditionally edited manuscript. Some were unintentionally funny, like the "serge of pioneers" he mentioned at one point, which prompted mental images of settlers in coonskin caps and plaid jackets and breeches.

I'm putting my third criticism in a separate paragraph because I realize this might just be me. U.S. 20 crosses just north of the Finger Lakes in New York and at the southern end of the Willamette Valley in Oregon. Treadwell mentions a wine-growing area in Ohio in passing but completely neglects to mention wine as a major industry in these two areas. That's history I'm interested in, but maybe others aren't, and perhaps it occurred later than most of the events Treadwell recounted.

The two things I really liked about the book were the descriptions of how religious freedom grew and became formalized as part of our country as well as the acknowledgment of women's roles in the history of the U.S. Treadwell also deserves credit for not glossing over the horrific treatment of the Native Americans, and he demonstrates throughout the book that trying to define the "good guys and bad guys" is tough when it comes to the founding and expansion of the United States.

Bottom Line: An entertaining travelogue, especially for those who love history. It certainly piqued my curiosity about U.S. 20.

For those who are interested in self-publishing and its history, check out Treadwell's web site. He was self-publishing and blogging before it was cool to do so.

From Sea to Shining Sea is available from Lulu in paperback and .pdf.

Previous Reviews:
James Huskins' Silent Scream: A Groovy Mystery Caper
Laura Eno's Don't Fall Asleep: A Dream Assassin Novel
Donna Carrick's The First Excellence -- Fa-Ling's Map
Kenn Allen's The Golden Cockerel

Up next: Back to fiction with Gint Aras' Finding the Moon in Sugar

Disclaimer: This review was of a courtesy copy received from the author for no charge. My opinion of the book was not biased by this or by the fact that Perry and I are friends.

On Process and Progress: The Write Space

2011-02-13T16:14:00.000-08:00

A couple of weeks ago, I went to a time management seminar sponsored by the Decatur Business Association. The hardest part was admitting I need help in that area, but with my own practice and a budding writing career, who wouldn't?

One of the things professional organizer Jonda Beattie of Time Space Organization spoke about was the importance of having an uncluttered space. She mentioned that every task results in a natural entropy, which then needs to be straightened out. Yes, Mom, I realize that you've been telling me to clean my toys up for 30+ years, but for some reason, it just didn't make sense until now. Consequently, I have been on an organizing spree in both my home and professional offices.

As you can see from the pictures below, this organization has been much overdue.

Desk before and after:

Floor and shelves before and after:

Yes, Jonda (and Mom) were right: it is easier to work in an uncluttered space. I still have some tasks, which are now on a list, such as find places to either donate or recycle books I don't want anymore (suggestions for resources are appreciated), but I feel like I'll be much more likely to come in the office and do what I need to do. The next task? Scheduling writing time.

Oh, and others are enjoying the newly cleared space:

Now if only I could teach her to take out the recycling...

Book Review: Silent Scream: A Groovy Mystery Caper

2011-02-06T14:39:00.000-08:00

It's hard to write, finish, and revise a book, and it takes courage and money to get it out there if the author wants to self-publish. Readers who are interested in self-published books but who don't want to waste their time on low-quality ones need a place to go for reviews. I'll post a review of a self-published book the first weekend of every month so that authors and readers can connect with each other. Interviews have been put on hold for now due to time constraints.

A disclaimer: I'm going to start with books by authors I know through real-life connections and through Twitter. If you're interested in getting your book reviewed, please email my assistant at bert{at}ceciliadominic.com or follow Bert on Twitter and message him there.

Title: Silent Scream: A Groovy Mystery Caper
Author: James Huskins
Genre: Historical Mystery

My father loves mystery novels, so I grew up reading books by Agatha Christie, P.D. James, Dick Francis, and other greats that I "borrowed" from his shelves. Consequently, I was excited to get the chance to review Silent Scream: A Groovy Mystery Caper by James Huskins.

Silence, whether it's for years or hours, can be deadly, and the different meanings and consequences of silence are the theme of this novel. Silent movie star Nora Bates and her cohort have kept quiet about an unsolved murder and a host of other scandals for years. The imminent publication of her memoirs causes someone to panic, which leads to two threatening notes, one attempted poisoning, and a murder. Main character Yancey Dunkle struggles to keep a secret from his boss, publisher Joseph Fitzroy, and everyone else. Fitzroy charges Dunkle to figure out what's going on, but after Dunkle is caught snooping by a real detective, the hapless driver becomes the primary suspect for the current murder.

If you're wondering what era the Groovy Mystery capers are set in, and the title doesn't give you a clue, consider that an Amazon.com search for Groovy Mystery pulls up a bunch of Scooby Doo books as well as Silent Scream. However, Dunkle, Bates, and the others precede the fictional Mystery Machine crew by about nine years and could be their parents or grandparents. There is no dog, but Dunkle does get to drive a pretty sweet car. Huskins describes 1960 Los Angeles and Palm Springs with enough detail to give a sense of place, but not so much as to be overwhelming. He also seems to have done his research into Old Hollywood and the culture around the transition from silent movies to "talkies."

Celebrities are a neurotic bunch in any era, and conversations about the past and old photos give Dunkle clues about motives and hidden relationships. As a lowly driver, he blends into the background, eyes and ears open, and has access to informative hotel staff. When his own secret is revealed, it adds unexpected depth and sympathy to his character, which has potential to grow during the planned series.

At first, the cast of characters seemed overwhelming, and I did have to refer to previous pages to keep everyone straight, especially once Bates and retinue get to Palm Springs for the official book release. Huskins adds a few more characters to the mix just before the climax, and earlier reference to those personalities and why they were important would have been helpful. There is one point-of-view shift away from Dunkle's perspective toward the beginning of the book, and it was a little confusing and unnecessary, as we got to know those characters through Dunkle's eyes immediately after.

Overall, I enjoyed Silent Scream and finished it in less than a day. Huskins' love of the era and his subjects come through in his writing, and I look forward to the rest of the series. Although Huskins describes his book as a "gay mystery," it should appeal to a wide range of mystery lovers. I'll likely give a copy to my Dad.

Silent Scream: A Groovy Mystery Caper can be purchased in paperback for $12.99 or for Kindle for $4.99 from Amazon.com.

Next up in March: Venturing into nonfiction with Perry Treadwell's From Sea to Shining Sea On U.S. 20: Boston to Newport, Oregon

Previous Reviews:
Laura Eno's Don't Fall Asleep: A Dream Assassin Novel
Donna Carrick's The First Excellence -- Fa-Ling's Map
Kenn Allen's The Golden Cockerel

Disclaimer: This review was of a courtesy copy received from the author for no charge. My opinion of the book was not biased by this or by the fact that Jim and I are friends.

Friday Flash Fiction: Melt

2011-02-03T19:00:00.000-08:00

The wind is quiet, but I can hear the branches scratching against the window screens. We wait, silently, hoping that they'll think no one is in here. That's the advantage of human brains over brains made of snow – they're not that bright.

"Snowpocalypse!" the news media deemed the snow and ice that blanketed the city. With a ratio of about one snowplow to every million people, that's pretty much how it ended up. That first day, with the snow soft and only starting to get its hard layer of ice, the kids got out and engaged in that ritual that they'd only heard of from their Northern cousins: making snowmen. Some went all-out authentic with coal eyes and carrot noses, and others got more creative. One odd commonality: Mardi Gras beads. Whether it was a snow drag queen (that was in Midtown, I'm sure) or a snow bunny in Decatur, they wore beads.

"What did they show to get those?" my husband asked after we'd passed our third festive snow creature on a careful walk around the neighborhood.

"I don't know," I replied and righted myself after an almost-fall. "It sure puts a different meaning to the old phrase, 'colder than a witch's tits.'"

"Most witches I know are pretty hot," he said with a wink.

After the third day of no school and minimal openings except for bars and lightly staffed restaurants, the natives got restless, and not just the parents with small children. The weather would "warm up" to around freezing or a little higher, then hard freeze again at night. The snowmen and creatures mimicked the appearance of Hollywood starlets on crash diets, thinning out in odd places, and then getting their hard shells at night. A traditional snowman on Ponce de Leon Avenue took on an insectoid look as its head, thorax, and abdomen melted and flattened. The snow bunny's ears drooped, and its eyes grew big and skeletal.

It was that fourth night that we heard the noise the first time, a "scratch scratch scraaaaape!" on the neighbor's window. We peered out our dining room and saw it, the snow insect, its branch legs barely able to hold it up. Its beads swayed and sparkled in the light from the streetlamp.

"There must have been some magic," I started to sing under my breath, but my husband grabbed my wrist. The ice bug ambled toward our house, and we ducked into the kitchen, barely breathing as it repeated its scratching query on the screen.

The telephone rang, and the noise outside stopped. We let the machine take the call, and it was our neighbor from down the street:

"I just saw a zombie snow bunny with Mardi Gras beads!"

The next day, of course, hordes took to the streets to find and destroy the creatures, but they were nowhere to be found. I suspected that they were hiding in the woods, and my suspicions were confirmed that night when we saw them again, this time with sturdier branch legs.

By the fifth day, the ice had mostly melted off the sidewalks, although the roads were still bad, and the usual contingent of joggers and health nuts who consider five miles to be an "easy run" had taken to the streets again. We saw one of our neighbors, Michael Magee, on his usual route. He'd usually run up and down the streets of the neighborhood five times. After the third time, he disappeared.

"Honey?" I asked. "Did you see Michael go by recently?"

"Nope." We called our neighbor down the street, and she bundled up and joined us in front of our house. We retraced his route and found a thickly wooded empty lot where the snow and ice had been disturbed in a path running from the sidewalk to the trees. Blood stained the snow and dripped down the edges of jagged pieces of ice that had been torn up during the scuffle.

"Oh, gods!" my neighbor said with one mitten over her mouth. "We have to call 911!"

"Or the Ghostbusters," my husband added.

The police, of course, were not much help and warned us to stay inside. We went back home, cranked the heat up as far as it would go, and armed ourselves with a hair dryer and crème brulée torch. Not that they would do much good against a creature that could take down a healthy, full-grown man.

So here we sit, sweating and silent, as the creatures scratch at the windows. I feel it's only a matter of time before they figure out how to take down the power supply to the house, and food supplies are getting low, so we hope that the predictions of the imminent Great Thaw are true. Although I don't call myself a witch, I can feel the wild energy swirling outside, driving the clink of beads and scraping of branches. They say Mardi Gras brings out the wild side of people. Snowmen and ice creatures must feel the same.

There must have been some magic…

Yes, that was a snow bunny we saw on Sycamore when we could finally walk to downtown Decatur that Wednesday. Pretty much all of this story up to the creatures coming to life is true. If someone can explain why people decided to put beads on their snowmen, please do so – it was a very strange trend. The idea of them coming to life was inspired by a conversation I had with a friend about what the snowmen turned into as they melted and refroze. They did look pretty freaky.

Oh, since this is my first foray back into #fridayflash in a few months, here's a bunch of goodies from the case of temptation at Alon's bakery:

Writing Goals for 2011

2011-01-23T16:21:00.000-08:00

Having my own business has skewed my sense of time. For me, 2010 stuff didn't end on December 31. I still have tax things to gather for my accountant, and I'll also be doing some organizing and cleaning out since next week is somewhat quiet. Not snow days quiet, thank goodness, but still a little slow, as things tend to be this time of the year.

Whereas others have already done their examining and generating of writing goals for 2011, the best I've done is a hasty list put together while waiting for an appointment. I have, however, been reading some stuff and have realized that, in 2010, I made the following mistakes. It pains me to admit them, but I need to confess before I can move on to my goals. They fall under the general heading of missed opportunities:

1. I stopped posting as part of the #fridayflash and #tuesdayserial groups on Twitter. It happened after I read a blog post by a Twitter writer I greatly admire asking "who are you writing for?" The audiences of those groups are mostly other writers, and I wanted to reach readers. So, I bailed on both, and I stopped writing for everyone. I also cut myself off from a source of support and encouragement.

2. I didn't follow through on connections I made with other writers. Admittedly, most of these were associated with the Georgia Romance Writers conference and Village Writers Group meeting at the beginning of October, when I was moving my office. If you've never moved a business, it's a detail-frought organizational nightmare, and I'll admit it, I got overwhelmed. My natural anxious tendencies also took over, which didn't help.

So there you have it. I'm a writing dumbass. Oh, well, time to move on…

Here are my writing goals for 2011:

1. Write one new short story per month plus one #fridayflash per month.

2. Have at least five stories under submission at a time with less than one week turnaround in case of rejection.

3. Send out five queries a month for Wolf Vector novel. Same rule for rejections.

4. Have a total of at least ten submissions of any type out per month. This follows logically from adding the previous two. Yes, that math major in me creeps out occasionally.

5. Re-work Perchance to Dream as a YA novel. It's wanted to be from the beginning.

6. Revise A Perfect Man to be query-ready by summer.

7. One post per week on each blog. This includes the professional blog.

8. Online news site column (more about that later).

9. One self-published book review per month. A Bert the Catfish interview with an author if I have the time and Bert pays attention for once.

10. Continue with mystery novel collaboration.

There! I'm not ambitious or anything, am I? I've been beating myself up (see the theme?) about what I haven't accomplished. Don't get me wrong – I've been very happy for my Twitter friends who have gotten stories published and landed book deals – but I've skirted the edge of the "I haven't found the right luck" trap, and it's time to move on. That's my other theme. No one is going to do it but me. I'll keep you posted on the progress, at least once per week.

Ohyeah, I'm going to get started on these goals immediately, but I'm giving myself the week to get things out. I've already got a story under construction.

Oh, don't worry, I didn't forget your goodies. How about some brownies?

Book Review: Don't Fall Asleep: A Dream Assassin Novel by Laura Eno

2011-01-02T14:50:00.000-08:00

It's hard to write, finish, and revise a book, and it takes courage and money to get it out there if the author wants to self-publish. Readers who are interested in self-published books but who don't want to waste their time on low-quality ones need a place to go for reviews. I'll post a review of a self-published book the first weekend of every month so that authors and readers can connect with each other. I'm also going to try and get author interviews so that readers can meet the people behind the books. At first, reviews and interviews will be posted separately due to time constraints.

A disclaimer: I'm going to start with books by authors I know through real-life connections and through Twitter. If you're interested in getting your book reviewed and are willing to be interviewed by an otherworldly catfish, please email my assistant at bert{at}ceciliadominic.com or follow Bert on Twitter and message him there.

Title: Don't Fall Aslep: A Dream Assassin Novel
Author: Laura Eno
Genre: Science Fiction (Character-Driven)

As the main character observes in the movie Shrek, ogres have layers. In Laura Eno's book Don't Fall Asleep: A Dream Assassin Novel, so do people and cities. Cassandra Dade lives in a mansion perched on a cliff and considers herself to be outside of society because of her rough upbringing and her unique talent: she can go into people's dreams and assassinate them. Nathan Wilder weaves dreams for others. Cassandra sees in him a potential partner, and he perceives her as an opportunity to escape from his past and finally solve the mystery closest to his heart.

At this point, Eno could have gone with a typical master/rookie scenario with romantic elements, but she demonstrates that this plot won't be so predictable: Nathan Wilder is gay, so any relationship between him and Cassandra will be platonic. She also warns him that vengeance is not the reason to become a Dream Assassin, and he agrees with her to a point, but he wants to find out who assassinated his lover Jeremy DuPree. Both characters have layers of personality and secrets that they gradually reveal to each other and the reader, and Cassandra finds she has to be uncomfortably vulnerable with Nathan to help her battle a foe from her past and keep her sanity.

One of the great pleasures of this story is the world that Eno has built. Altair IV sounds like a beautiful place, although it is far from idyllic, and it reflects one of the themes of the novel: appearances are deceiving. Although the genre is character-driven science fiction, the setting and its vagaries become a character in itself. The capital of Altair IV, simply known as The City to its residents, has developed into a stratified society with The Street at its base, The Halfs in the middle ("Because if you live in them, you're either halfway on your rise to the top, or halfway on your fall to the bottom…"), and Topside, which is where the rich and influential make their homes in climate-controlled domes.

The two Dream Assassins find unique challenges at every level as they search for answers as to who is hunting them. Being able to see past external features and to the heart of a person's "essence" is what sets Cassandra and Nathan apart from others, but also why they become targets of a powerful person, known only to them as "Dunbar." The plot becomes convoluted at times, particularly in the middle when two unfortunate residents of the Halfs are killed, and it seems that the author leaves threads dangling and forgets to tie them up at the end. For example, the murderer is killed, but it's never explained by whom or why, although I came up with a guess after reading the novel for the second time.

My other complaint is that the formatting is strange for a print book. The text is blocked as though it's from online content, with no indentation and a blank space between paragraphs (like this blog). I found it jarring at first, although the story quickly drew me in, and I forgot about it. Chapters always start on an odd page, which leaves even pages blank if the previous chapter ended on one. It's not traditional formatting and may turn off potential readers. On the other hand, it's really good for taking notes.

I enjoyed Don't Fall Asleep and look forward to Eno's follow-up, which should be out early this year. Meanwhile, I'll be reading her hysterical webserial starring Death and Chronos on The Penny Dreadful website.

Don't Fall Aslep: A Dream Assassin Novel is available at Amazon for $9.95 for the paperback and $1.99 for the Kindle.

Previous Reviews:
Donna Carrick's The First Excellence -- Fa-Ling's Map
Kenn Allen's The Golden Cockerel

Up Next in February: James Huskins' Silent Scream

Book Review: The First Excellence by Donna Carrick

2010-12-04T10:54:00.000-08:00

It's hard to write, finish, and revise a book, and it takes courage and money to get it out there if the author wants to take the self-published route. Readers who are interested in self-published books but who don't want to waste their time on low-quality ones need a place to go for reviews. My new goal is to post a review of a self-published book the first weekend of every month so that authors and readers can connect with each other. I'm also going to try and get author interviews so that readers can meet the people behind the books. At first, reviews and interviews will be posted separately due to time constraints.

A disclaimer: I'm going to start with books by authors I know through real-life connections and through Twitter. If you're interested in getting your book reviewed and are willing to be interviewed by an otherworldly catfish, please email my assistant at bert{at}ceciliadominic.com or follow Bert on Twitter and message him there.

Title: The First Excellence – Fa-Ling's Map
Author: Donna Carrick
Genres: Coming-of-Age, Crime, Drama

I am ashamed to say that I've had The First Excellence – Fa-Ling's Map sitting in my to-read pile almost since I started this blog in the Spring. I enjoyed Carrick's serial thriller Two Good Hands (available to read on The Penny Dreadful web site) and knew that she is a master of intricate plotting and suspense, but I had a hard time getting excited about a Chinese girl's coming-of-age story since I'm not typically a coming-of-age genre fan. I brought it to my parents' cabin to read over my anniversary weekend, and once I started it, I devoured it in less than twenty-four hours.

Yes, devoured. This is not your typical "young adult finds herself" tale. The first two chapters contain a suicide, triple murder, hints at an anti-government plot, and introductions to characters who quickly find themselves in precarious positions. Set in China, the book focuses on Fa-Ling, an orphan who was adopted with her younger sister by a Canadian couple and who returns to her homeland to figure out who she is and what her "First Excellence," or career, should be. However, her cautious Canadian parents won't let her go alone, so she joins a supposedly "safe" group of five couples who are going to China to finalize the adoptions of baby girls. One couple is not what they seem, and one member of the group has her own very dirty little secret that results in two kidnappings. Fa-Ling meets a handsome Chinese detective who is investigating a supposed suicide that occurs in the room next to hers on her first night in China, and their feelings for each other grow as the investigation becomes more complicated.

One tough task for authors who write for a Western audience but who want to set their books in an unfamiliar land is how to highlight cultural differences without lecturing. Carrick, who has been through the Chinese adoption process, who is familiar with land's customs, and who has obviously done her homework, allows the reader into the Chinese mindset without information dumping or becoming preachy. Moments of humor are both at the expense of the sometimes clueless Westerners and annoyed Easterners, and they are always portrayed with sensitivity and understanding. At the end of the day, all the characters are human, and even the villains seem sympathetic.

With regard to manufacturing and appearance, the book is beautifully illustrated and put together by BookSurge. I did catch a few editing mistakes, but no more than I usually find in traditionally published works.

This is probably a matter of personal preference, but my only complaint is that Carrick writes in third-person omniscient point-of-view. Although she keeps the head-hopping to a minimum, I found that having more than one perspective per scene could sometimes be jarring. I – and, I suspect, many Western readers – have come to view third-person limited as the convention. Luckily, she doesn't do it too often.

Overall, I really enjoyed Carrick's First Excellence and hope she continues the story of Fa-Ling and handsome Detective Wang. This would make a fun series.

The First Excellence – Fa-Ling's Map is $17.99 at amazon.com and also available for $7.99 on Kindle.

Previous reviews: Kenn Allen's The Golden Cockerel

Coming up in January: Laura Eno's Don't Fall Asleep

Serial Fiction: Monument Minders, Chapter Thirteen

2010-11-16T15:24:00.000-08:00

Chapter Thirteen
A Different Set of Ears

Lightning flashed outside, and Gurney and Troxley appeared. Gurney raised his weapon to Thurston and Maximilian. "What's going on here?"

"He's interrogating me beyond my rights!" Maximilian gasped.

"Is that true?" asked Troxley.

"Time is of the essence, gentlemen." Thurston was back to his polite self, although still holding on to Maximilian. "The Splitter and Savedra are missing. I fear that this creature's release was merely the test case for whether it would work."

"However that is, Professor, you cannot go breaking protocol." Gurney took a small metal box out of his pocket. "Hand over Maximilian, and you can go back to your University. We'll take it from here."

Thurston held Max while Troxley opened the box. It emitted purple light that dissolved the black silhouette into smoke and pulled it into the device.

"I'm not going anywhere until we find Savedra!" Thurston gestured for Troxley and Gurney to move closer, and the three leaned in, heads bent. Debtra touched Thom on the wrist, bare skin to bare skin.

"This is what I got burned at the stake for," she whispered so closely to his ear that he could feel her breath.

Thom felt like his ears popped, but he could hear the Professor's conversation with the two trans-dimensional detectives.

"What is your deal with that woman, Homily?" asked Gurney. "She only seems to bring trouble! We did you a huge favor setting her up with her pub in this dimension."

The Professor shook his head. "It's too long a story to explain. Let me just say that her welfare is of utmost importance to me. Were you aware that Forsyth was attacked this morning, and whoever did so took the Splitter out of its supposedly fail-proof safe?"

"We'd gotten word of that, yes," said Troxley. "We're holding Forsyth for questioning now."

"What?"

"I know he's a friend of yours, but he's also a suspect, the only soul who could open the safe."

"I'll deal with that later," Homily told them. "You two know that if there's any chance of finding Savedra, especially if she has the Splitter, I'm the one to do it."

"Because she's your…"

Thurston held up a hand to silence Gurney. "We have a special relationship, yes. However, there are some things that the others don't need to know. My student has special talents."

All three turned to look at Thom and Debtra, who broke contact with him and blushed.

"Fine, then," Gurney said out loud. "You have twenty-four hours to find the woman and the device, since you seem convinced they're together. We're going to lean on Max and Forsyth for information."

"Be gentle with Forsyth. He's had a rough day."

Debtra squirmed out of Thom's half-embrace. He'd forgotten he held her, he'd been so caught up in their eavesdropping and her touch on his wrist. He could still feel where she'd touched him, and his skin felt pulled toward her. He tried to accidentally brush against her while they walked outside.

"So, what now?" Debtra asked.

Thurston looked at her. "I chastise my student for her curiosity."

Debtra looked at the ground. "I'm here to learn, Professor."

"But not to drop in on private conversations. Your talents are useful, my dear, but don't forget that I know what they are. If you use them on me again, you will be sent back with no discussion. Understood?"

Debtra nodded and wiped her eyes, but Thom noticed her narrowed, angry gaze.

"Now… Let's go question Savedra's butler and see if we can see where she'd gone."

"Who is that?" asked Debtra.

Now the Professor blushed. "Someone very special to me. Come on, Thom, you can drive us to her place. She lives in a mansion in Mountain Brook."

"No."

Thurston spun on his heel and came face-to-face with Thom. "What?"

"No. You owe us more information before we go chasing after some other person or thing or being. We could've gotten killed in there!"

The Professor raised an eyebrow. "I had the situation under control, and you were in no danger. I had to be in physical contact with the creature to untangle it. Besides, you already stole enough information from me by listening in on a private telepathic conversation."

Thom decided to revisit the telepathy thing later. He stuck his hands in his pockets. "Hey, if I'm supposed to help you out, and if you're going to be putting us in danger, we need all the facts." Now he narrowed his eyes. "Situations can get out of control quickly, Professor."

Thurston coughed into his hand. "I see. Perhaps you should ask the questions, then, Detective."

Serial Fiction: Monument Minders, Chapter Twelve

2010-11-09T20:19:00.000-08:00

Chapter Twelve
Untangling a Soul

Thom could tell there was something wrong at Lancaster Jewels. Even though it looked fine from the outside, the telltale alarm light was off. There was also something off about the shadows inside.

"How are we going to get in?" asked Debtra. "Did Max/Lancaster just walk through the walls?"

"Souls can do that," Thurston reminded her. "You spent enough time as a ghost. Do you sense him?"

"Right, and yes, there's a creepy quality to the shadows in there."

"Look away, the two of you."

Thom obeyed, and he heard the click of the lock. "How'd you do that?"

"You can look again." Thurston walked through the open door, and Thom and Debtra followed him. Inside, the empty jewelry cases seemed to have been otherwise undisturbed. Thurston put a finger to his lips and motioned for Thom to lead them to the back.

"Safe," Thurston mouthed.

Thom nodded. He could feel the sweat gathering under his arms. It was one thing to dream about strange beings from unknown dimensions, but it was quite another to confront one. He had good night vision, but his hyper-alert mind tried to anticipate the attack. Had that shadow moved? Or was it too dark for the light that created it? Did merged souls act from one will, or two in conflict? Who was in more danger – him, Debtra, or the Professor? Or was it just whoever reached the criminal first? Would it try to merge another soul?

The office was empty, but the safe door was cracked open. Thurston motioned for Thom to get out of the way, and the older man stepped ahead, leaned over, and peered in.

"Is anyone --?" Thom started to ask, but Debtra's hand on his arm stopped him.

"Maximilian," Thurston murmured. "The game's up. You have the jewels. Why don't you let Mr. Lancaster get on to his final resting place?"

A black tentacle that glowed with a sickly greenish light wrapped around Thurston's neck and brought him to his knees. His eyes bulged, and his face turned red.

"Thurston!" Debtra screamed. Thom held her back and drew his gun.

"Whatever you are, let him go and come out! We're armed!"

"Police? Help!" That was a middle-aged man's voice in a whine. "I'm trapped in here with it."

Thurston flailed his left hand in a "stay away" motion. He clutched at the tentacle with his right one.

"Let him go, Maximilian!" The safe door flew open, and Thom pushed Debtra to the floor. He fired at the mass of darkness that poured out of it.

"Your weapons ain't gonna work on me, guv'nor," another voice said. "I've eaten the sapphires in here, like blueberries they are!"

"Help me!" The middle-aged man's voice sobbed again. "I've given you what you want, let me go!"

"Oh, no, you don't. There are more stores, more cities. We're going on a little tour, you and me."

The darkness resolved into a man's shape, fuzzy and glowing around the edges, its left hand still around Thurston's throat. It looked at the red-faced Professor, who had both hands on its wrist.

"This one's taking a while to die. Not that I've killed anyone before, but they didn't believe me. Put me in that statue. You know how hot it gets in there? It's like Hell. And the birds! I'm gonna kill every pigeon I find from now on."

Debtra stepped forward. "Maybe we can make a deal. You have the alarm codes from his memory. What if we let you go, and you leave Lancaster here?"

"And send the Minders after me to set a trap? No thanks, chickie. Me an Lancaster, here, we're going on a trip."

"Then let the Professor go! He hasn't done anything to you."

"I don't need witnesses." The merged soul turned its face to Thurston, who pulled at its arm. Thom heard a ripping sound, and he saw it split in two man-shapes, one round and golden and one still black and glowing.

The golden one whispered, "Thank you!" and disappeared.

Thurston held the other one, which asked, "What did you do?"

"Untangled you."

"How did you do that?" asked Debtra.

"Trade secret, my dear. I'll just tell you I had to be touching it to do that. Now, I have some questions for you, Maximilian."

"Well, let me take a seat over there, Perfessor, and we'll have a cozy little chat."

"I'm not going to release you that easily." Thurston pulled a phone-looking thing out of his pocket and tossed it to Thom. "Press the sequence 4284. That will summon Gurney and Troxley to take care of this creature."

Thom did so. The device beeped, and the screen went black.

"You ain't going to send me back to the statue, are you, Professor?"

Thurston raised his eyebrows.

"Oh, that's right, I know who you are. I studied before I got locked up. You're the one who objected to monumenting, and now that I been there, I see why. So tell me, Prof, do your young lady over there and that copper know who and what you are?"

"Silence!" The sound of Thurston's voice filled the room with an otherwordly echo, and he tightened his grip on the other soul's arm, twisting it. Thom fought the impulse to raise his weapon. Debtra wouldn't look kindly on his shooting her mentor in a moment of panic. She did, however, scoot closer to Thom, who put his arm around her. Just to reassure her. Yeah, that was his only motive. He still kept her out of the way between his hand and gun.

"You will answer my questions, you pathetic creature!" Thurston continued with that scary voice and then added in a softer tone, "You know what I can do to you."

Maximilian whined without saying anything intelligible.

"Now, first one, who framed you and got you locked up in that statue?"

"Now I ain't at liberty to share that, guv'nor."

"Answer me!"

Maximilian screamed. Thom cringed and pulled Debtra closer.

"Whatever you do to me, Perfessor, it's not going to be nearly as bad as what He would if I told you!"

Author's note:

It's been crazy busy at the office, so I'm glad I finished this one over the summer. I just wanted to say thanks to the five of you who are still reading. :)

Okay, enough mushiness, have some nachos:

The Great Chocolate Conspiracy Part 10

2010-11-04T19:08:00.000-07:00

Welcome to The Great Chocolate Conspiracy!

Chocolate Digestive biscuits have disappeared from the shelves right across the eastern seaboard of the USA, and now the shortage has spread to London. Detective Chief Inspector Sam Adamson and his international team of investigators from the Metropolitan Police's Confectionery Crimes Unit (CCU) have been tasked to solve the mystery.

This is the tenth installment of a multi-part flash fiction story that originated during a chat between the authors on Twitter. You can read how it all began here. (Links to all the installments will be added to the author list as they are posted)

The next installment will appear on Friday, November 12th at Angie Capozello (aka @techtigger)'s Techtigger's Soapbox, and you can keep up on developments in the meantime by following the #GtChocCo hashtag on Twitter.

---
"Sacramento?" The name of the city burst from Juniper's lips the moment she and Marier left the debriefing room. "Why are we going to California?"

Marier slowly unwrapped the chocolate bar. She seemed lost for a moment in the crinkle of the plastic wrapping, and she took a long whiff and a small bite before answering.

"Think, Juniper. Why would Adamson be splitting us up, especially now when we're so close?"

The Italian agent took a bite, and she raised her eyebrows. "He doesn't intend for us to go anywhere! But who's he trying to throw off? And why?"

Before Marier could answer, she felt a tap on her shoulder.

"Excuse me, agents?" Marier turned to see a tall woman in her thirties with chin-length curly hair the color of an old penny. She wore a lab coat and glasses.

"Yes…?"

"I'm Doctor Dominic, the liaison between the Intelligence Communication and Super Powers Departments..." She smiled and shook her head. "Sorry, I can't say that with a straight face. You know – mind control, subliminal messaging, telepathy, those sorts of things. Chief Henderson wanted me to talk with Agent Bronyaur about his dream, and he mentioned that you two were in close proximity when he'd had it. Would you mind coming with me?" She tilted her head to the side and raised an eyebrow. "That wasn't a question."

"I would rather not." Marier looked at the sealed door to the debriefing room.

"I'm afraid you don't have a choice."

The next thing Marier knew, she followed Doctor Dominic down the hall and into an elevator. "Wait a minute. Did you just subliminalize me?"

"Me?" The doctor's facial expression was the picture of innocence. "I'm afraid that's against my ethical code."

Marier and Juniper exchanged glances. However, when they reached the exam room on the minus twenty-fourth floor, they realized they weren't the ones who needed help.

"Is all this necessary?" Agent Bronyaur asked. He looked at the Velcro cuffs a large male nurse had just fastened around his wrists and ankles. He had electrodes fixed to his head and face. Agent La Paglia hovered, but each time she tried to reach him, the nurse blocked her way.

"Don't worry, Agent Bronyaur," the doctor said. "It's because you're the extra intuitive and sensitive one in the group who had the dream."

He leaned back with a grin. "Really?"

Doctor Dominic winked at Marier and Juniper before she measured a clear liquid into a syringe. "I'm going to have to put you under to achieve a steady alpha state so you can revisit your dream and communicate with us simultaneously. When you come out of it, you may become disoriented, and I can't risk you harming yourself or us. Ladies, if you will please stand back."

"You're not going to hurt him, are you?" asked Marier.

"Of course not! I'm just going to give him a little sodium thiopental, or truth serum, to make sure he doesn't hold back on us. Don't worry," she assured Bronyaur, "it won't hurt. In fact, people say it's quite pleasant. Now take a deep breath, and Nurse Brutus will start the i.v."

Marier watched the doctor and nurse, and although she couldn't verify the liquids, she could hear Bronyaur's breaths become deep and even.

"There, now," the doctor said. "Agent Bronyaur, can you hear me?"

"Mmmmm?"

"Say yes, please."

"Yes, please."

She smiled. "Okay, then. I want you to go back to this morning, when you got on the airplane, just before your dream. What were you thinking about?"

"Mmmmm, thong panties… Hot pink…"

Doctor Dominic raised her eyebrows. "Thong panties?"

Marier blushed and saw that Juniper had turned a similar shade of red. "He, ah, had to do some packing for us. We left in a hurry, you see."

"I'm sure. Now, Agent, I want you to go back to that dream state, the one you were in on the plane. What do you see?"

"SUV's. Big, black ones. And a short, fat Sheriff with a handlebar moustache."

Dominic scribbled the notes on a pad and watched the agent's brain waves on a computer screen. "What happens next?"

"There's an office, but it looks more like a basement. A lab. An explosion… Blood… Chocolate…"

"Okay, let's go back to the SUV's that picked you up. I want you to tell me the distances and turns."

"We go twenty feet, right out of the airport…"

Marier watched, open-mouth, as the doctor took Bronyaur back through the dream and extracted every last detail. By the end of it, they were all sweating.

Or maybe the air had cut off.

"Doctor, there's something wrong!" Marier stepped forward.

"No, he'll be fine. It looks like the villains have provided a map, whether intentionally or inadvertently." She rubbed her eyes. "I wish I could tell you more, but I didn't get coffee this morning, and I've got a splitting headache. I'll run the information through the analyzer, which will plug it into algorithms in the UK's and United States' databases."

"I meant with the climate control." Marier gestured to the vent, which was no longer blowing cold air.

"You're right – we should be getting more air." Dominic moved quickly, measuring out more clear liquid from a different vial. "I'm going to bring Agent Bronyaur out of his trance with a mild stimulant."

"Mmmm, thongs…"

She pushed the liquid into the i.v. Bronyaur gasped and struggled against the restraints.

"Wait, I see her! Motley was directing everyone in the dream! It wasn't a store – it was a lab!" He opened his eyes, and the nurse released the restraints.

"And she's up there with Adamson!" Marier, Juniper, and LaPaglia ran out of the room, followed by a rubber-legged Bronyaur.

Marier fidgeted in front of the elevator. Every time she closed her eyes to blink, she saw the crumpled body of DCI Adamson just after the explosion that injured his leg. I'm not failing you again!

The building shook, and everything went dark.

Metapost: Tuesday Serial...or not

2010-11-02T20:58:00.000-07:00

Just a quick note that there will be no Tuesday Serial installation this week. It's my turn for the Great Chocolate Conspiracy blog tour, so I'm working on that. So, please tune in Friday and return next Tuesday for the next part of the Monument Minders!

Friday Flash Fiction: The Agency -- Bert's Bowl and Raven's Song

2010-10-29T16:13:00.000-07:00

The Agency: Bert's Bowl and Raven's Song

Thomas glanced over his shoulder at the new bartender, who rearranged the glass liquor bottles.

"I'd put those in classic bartending order," Thomas said.

Bert didn't turn around. "Yeah, and I'm putting them in Royal Bar order."

Thomas shook his head, then jumped when he saw that the plastic takeout container that had formerly housed the catfish was whole again.

"What the…?" he said and leaned over it. It was filled with murky water, and Thomas couldn't see the bottom.

"Don't touch it." Bert still hadn't turned. "That's personal property."

"It's unsanitary to have on the bar, and I didn't think fish could have personal property."

"Yeah, well don't mess with it."

Thomas mopped up around it. "Fine! I don't care what you do with it, but it's got to move! What if the health inspector comes?"

With a sigh, the big fish-man grabbed it and placed it under the counter. Thomas would have commented further, but Mr. Raven appeared from his office. He'd obviously been thinking hard – his hair stood up in spikes where he'd run his hands through it.

"Are you okay, Boss?" asked Thomas.

"I've been trying to solve our dragon problem. They're not going to give up. Now that we've foiled the direct approach, we can count on harassment." He shook his head. "They'll have us closed in a week, I'm sure of it."

"Can't we approach the Organized Crime Division?" asked Thomas. "When I was at the staffing agency, I'd call when I thought something was fishy about a new client. No offense, Bert."

Bert rolled his large, black eyes.

"That's a great idea, Thomas, but that's what they'll expect us to do. I had something different in mind." Raven smiled, but it looked painful. "I'm going to visit Elmadora."

"Who?" asked Thomas.

"Former head of the OCD." Bert frowned. "She's her own law now. Are you sure that's wise?"

Raven spread his hands, and Thomas could see he'd been chewing on his black-painted fingernails. "What choice do I have? There hasn't been a crime yet, and harassment will be difficult to prove."

Lady Elmadora's landscape design and architecture best fit in the "Leave Me Alone" school. Her dark stone mansion could've been photographed and placed beside the word "ominous" in the Gothic dictionary Raven had at the Edgar Allen Poe Academy for Mopey Boys. The long gravel drive, the color of bleached bones and edged with stones that looked like they had come from a grab-bag of gravestones, said anything but, "Welcome." He encouraged his black stallion onward and handed him off to a black-liveried groom at the front door. Elmadora's butler answered his ring.

"Orenimous Raven here to see Madame Elmadora," he said.

"The Lady is asleep, sir, but she mentioned your visit. She said you may wake her with a song."

Raven sighed. "I thought having an appointment meant I wouldn't have to sing the song."

"The Lady was most insistent."

"Fine." He took a deep breath and sang in a rich baritone:

Elmadora, my innamorata,
My love for you is like mad for a hatter!
Like the color black for a case of gangrene,
The dark of the stones beneath a deadly rushing stream!
Elmadora, you make my heart swell
Like the stomach of a man who's not feeling so well

He saw a dark shadow appear at the top of the grand staircase and put his heart into the final line:

Elmadora, won't you hear my plea?
Give me your treats, and I'll have no trick for thee!

"Bravo, Orenimous!" Elbow-length satin gloves muffled her claps, but she applauded as she came down the stairs, her long, layered skirts trailing behind her.

Raven caught his breath and forgot resent at her use of his given, rather than preferred, name. Her face, magically frozen at twenty-five when she'd been at the height of her looks but only the beginning of her career, held little expression except her violet eyes. Her long ash blond hair had been piled on top of her head, and the corset beneath her black satin gown accentuated her tiny waist.

She held out her hand out, and he helped her down the last few stairs.

"You look gorgeous, as always, my dear." He crooked an elbow, and she took it.

She looked up and sideways at him from beneath her lashes. "You're a flatterer, Orenimous. But for a song, I am willing to listen."

Even her voice had been preserved, one of the benefits of retirement from the OCD. In truth, she was older than he, and he didn't mind her gentle pressure that brought them to the lounge and the large ruby-colored chaise in front of the fireplace.

"Put your arm around me, Orenimous," she said. "These preservation spells hinder circulation, and I find myself to be perpetually chilly."

"Yes, Milady." In truth, he was glad to comply, for she was shorter than he, and it gave him the perfect view of her breasts, which her corset plumped like two white doves snuggled in ebony satin.

"So tell me," she said, "what is it you need?"

The front of his trousers was telling him what he needed, and he hoped she didn’t notice. For a moment, he forgot what he had come for. He tore his gaze away from her and looked at the fire.

"I've opened a pub…"

"I've heard."

He filled her in on the lizard's visit.

"The dragons don't give up easily," she said. "I am willing to help you in exchange for one thing."

"What?" he asked.

"I want you to bring Bert the Catfish to me. I need to speak with him, but he has refused my invitation."

"Is that all?" he asked. "Bert and I are friends, so that should be easy."

"Well, maybe not all." She turned pulled his face to hers so only a breath separated their lips. "I would like for you to warm me up."

Onesimus Raven was most happy to comply.

Serial Fiction: Monument Minders, Chapter Eleven

2010-10-26T19:11:00.000-07:00

Chapter Eleven
Search for a Soul

Thurston heard the bed springs squeak and footsteps before Debtra opened the door.

"What's going on in there?" Thurston looked past his student to see a red-faced and suspiciously rumpled Thom standing in the room.

"Absolutely nothing." With a cool glance behind her, Debtra stepped into the hall and crossed her arms. "What's going on with you?"

The question brought Thurston back from his shock at seeing his student in a potentially compromising situation. It could have been nothing, but the dried tears on her cheeks and the detective's abashed expression told him otherwise.

"I'll tell you as we walk," he said. "I went to see an old friend, and he had been attacked for the device I was afraid had been used this morning."

"When was he attacked?" asked Thom.

"Early this morning."

"Did he call the police?"

Thurston glanced sideways at the detective to watch his reaction to, "No, when I got to his office, he was in pieces. Literally."

Thom stumbled over his own feet. "What?"

"He's an Old Soul, and a manifestation like me and Debtra. Ordinary trauma won't kill him, but it's a testament to his age that he wasn't more badly hurt. He seemed to mend pretty quickly after I put him back together."

"So why are we going to the Lancaster house?" Thom asked.

"Because I went to the morgue after I left Forsyth." He told them how he had snuck in through a side door and had found the body on a slab. He didn't mention how he had managed to get the door unlocked using psychokinetic energy or had befuddled the night tech and guard into leaving the room to order a pizza. Those were things that Old Souls couldn't do.

"Did you figure out the cause of death?" Thom looked straight ahead, but Thurston could see the tension in his jaw.

"Soul merge."

Debtra gasped. "How?"

"Remember how I told you the statue-prisons were made? When Maximilian, the prisoner, was released from the statue, his spirit absorbed into the closest sentient thing he could find, which was Lancaster. He passed through the body and took Lancaster's soul with him because he was still in an unbalanced energy state, like oxygen picks up free hydrogen to become water, but on a much smaller, subatomic energy level."

"What's that going to do to Lancaster?" asked Thom. "Can you un-merge him?"

"I don't know," said Thurston, "but I'm going to try. The sooner we can find him, the easier it will be."

The lights in the house were off, and the full moon reflected like a blank stare in the windows. Thurston would have been able to tell that death had visited the house even if he hadn't already known. Grief had physical and metaphysical energy, and the darkness hung closer to the building, dampening the loving aura of the couple who had lived there and making it harder to detect the merged soul, should it be there.

Of course, the newly-born energy of unrequited lust that thrummed through the car also obscured Thurston's Otherworldly sight. Sure, he noted the whimper of hurt at the back of his mind – had it only been that morning that he'd been excited by Debtra's body pressed close to his? – but his logical self asserted it was for the best that she find someone else. No matter how old one was, or how respected, it just wasn't a good idea to mess around with one's students.

Thom shut off the engine and looked at the dark house. "I don't see anything out of the ordinary."

"It's Debtra's talents that I need right now," Thurston said more curtly than he'd intended.

"Yes, Professor?" The tone of her voice told him that she was upset. Time to distract her.

"Look for an extra element to the darkness. If the marriage was as loving as the widow claimed, the spirit will be drawn to its home. A confused soul will try to return to what it loves most when freed from its body, and I suspect Lancaster is stronger than Max at this point, although that may change."

Thom added, "But what then? I can't arrest a soul!"

Thurston smirked at the mental image. "I'll try to separate it. Hopefully the two essences aren't truly fused, but merely tangled, like two balls of yarn that have been shaken together in a bag, as the Splitter was set to release the spirit, but not to rejoin it to anything."

Thom opened the windows, and they watched. A warm breeze carried the sweet fragrance of honeysuckle from nearby. Debtra tilted her head, her eyes wide. Thurston caught himself looking at the pale curve of her throat framed by her dark, satiny hair, and he noted that if he'd been the blood-sucking type, she'd be in trouble. He pressed his lips together. She was his student, he reminded himself. An ethics student! And Savedra was missing. The pain that came with that thought chased his attention from Debtra's neck.

After an hour, Debtra whispered, "I can't sense anything beyond the grief that covers the house, Professor."

"Likewise," Thurston said. He ran his left thumbnail under his fingernails. "Perhaps we should check the place where he died in case Max prompted him to go back there, and the statue was of his great-uncle."

The park was likewise empty of loose souls. The trio's only company the wind and a stray dog who paid no attention to them once it figured out that they had no interest in the discarded bagel it gnawed on.

"What now?" Thom asked after twenty minutes.

Debtra looked at Thurston, who felt the need to come up with a brilliant idea. Damnit, he was oldest, he should be wisest as well!

"I'm at a loss," he admitted.

Thom kicked at a loose pebble. "What kind of criminal was in that monument, Professor?"

Thurston looked at the handheld device. "His name was Maximilian Sharp, a petty thief with one impulse murder during his last crime. The judge decided that his behavior had become unpredictable and dangerous enough for this kind of incarceration, particularly considering he had broken parole numerous times."

"What was the crime?" asked Thom. "Maybe he had unfinished business related to it and is driving the combo soul."

"He stole some jewels and killed a security guard. He claimed he was innocent of the murder, but the evidence was compelling."

Thom held up a finger. "Let's get back to the theft. What kind of jewels?"

"Sapphires."

Thom nodded. "I think I know where they are!"

Thurston followed Thom to the car, Debtra close behind. "What do you mean?"

"Lancaster's business was a huge jewelry store chain! He specialized in sapphires. He bragged on his commercials how he would go to Thailand to find the best ones."

Debtra clapped her hands. "Thom, that's brilliant! It's something that both souls would be drawn to."

Thurston cleared his throat. "Yes, good work. Take us to the first store, or the biggest, wherever you think Lancaster's spirit would go." He looked away from Debtra's proud smile. He really shouldn't care that he hadn't figured it out even though they had mentioned the sapphire detail that morning, but it stung that he'd been out-thought by a human, likely a new soul only a fraction of his age. He should've guessed that Gurney had assigned Thom to him for more than just chauffeuring.

"I think it'll be the flagship store downtown." Thom started the car. "It's only about a mile from here."

"While we drive, you can ponder the next question, assuming you're right about the first."

"Which is…?" asked Debtra. "We know how Maximilian was freed, and now where he's gone. Don't we just need to find and capture him?"

"Ah, but there's the question of motive, as the good Detective here could tell you if he'd thought of it."

"Right," said Thom. He scratched the back of his neck. "I hadn't really. I figured he'd gotten someone to let him out."

"With a very dangerous device that hadn't been used in over a hundred years and that was acquired at great risk to someone. Forsyth had that safe triple-spelled and seated in an orthogonal dimension. But why was a petty thief with only one serious crime the one to be released? That is the question, and I hope he has the answer."

Author's note: Hubby and I celebrated our sixth wedding anniversary last Saturday. On Sunday, we treated ourselves to an anniversary lunch at Le Vigne, the restaurant at Montaluce Vineyards. Dessert was chocolate cake with marshmallow creme and a glass of Dolce:

Serial Fiction: Monument Minders, Chapter Ten

2010-10-18T18:26:00.000-07:00

Chapter Ten
A Breath Away

Thom looked at Debtra. "Really? A girl as beautiful as you never lost her virginity in five lifetimes?"

She shrugged. "It's hard to lose when you die young, I guess. A couple of times, I was just a kid."

"You have an incredible story." He still stroked her hair. It soothed her, and she closed her eyes and leaned back into his touch. He sat on the arm of her chair and put his arm across her chest, his hand on her shoulder, holding her close. She liked the feeling of resting against him, how she felt safe and loved.

She remembered that she'd had love, but they had died, too, or had become lost before they could consummate their relationship. She'd been engaged when her first life as a Celtic princess had ended at the tusk of a boar. She and her fiancé had been hunting it when it surprised her and gored her in the leg, hitting the femoral artery. She had bled out in her love Eric's arms before he could truly become her lover. Now, when she looked at Thom, she could see Eric's face. They had the same jaw structure and nose. Thom's brow was a little less strong, and his hair definitely shorter, but he held her just like Eric had.

Instead of leading to a romantic moment, the revelation made her cry harder.

"Maybe I should go?" Thom asked, but he rested his chin on the top of her head.

"No," she sniffled. "I was just remembering someone."

"Someone you loved?"

"Yes." She told him about Eric and the boar, and then about the rest of her lives. Number two had been short – she'd died of the plague in Medieval Europe, only a peasant girl. Number three, not much longer. She'd been burned as a witch in the Colonies after her empathic talents led her to know more than she should about some of the town elders. During her fourth life, she'd sacrificed personal happiness for the noble cause of rescuing people from the French Revolution, helping to smuggle them across the Channel to safety in England. Madame Guillotine had put an end to that. And then the fifth life as a suffragette.

"You're just trouble."

She and Thom had moved to the bed, and they lay there with their shoes off. He still held her, but she didn't mind.

"I hate to see injustice. That's why monumenting is so horrendous! It's a death penalty without having to step up and admit it's that. And those poor souls… Did you know that Thurston – Professor Homily – can hear them?"

She rolled over, and they lay with a mere inch between their bodies. She could feel his physical and emotional warmth, and it drew her in.

"But that's another subject for another time," she said. "You know all about me. Tell me about you."

"I definitely can't top your story," he said. "Not that I'd want to."

"And you believe it?" she asked, leaning in so that their noses almost touched.

"Every word. No one could make that sort of thing up!"

And that's when she kissed him. It was a simple thing, closing the space of a breath to touch her lips to his, and yet she was not prepared for how it would feel. Her body pressed against his almost of its own accord, and she wrapped her arms around him. Her tongue explored his mouth – he had all his teeth! – and his gentle teasing of hers made her dig her nails into his back to bring him closer even though he was as close as he'd get with clothes on.

"Debtra," he said after a few minutes of "making out," as the books called it. Or had it been "snogging?" She didn't care.

"Hmmm?" She didn't want to open her eyes, just to feel him there.

"Is this really what you want?"

"I can tell it's what you want." She pressed her pelvis into his.

He traced the line of her jaw with his thumb. "Of course it is. I'm a guy. You're a very attractive woman, and I've never met anyone like you. But this is your virginity! You've never lost it in five lifetimes. How can I possibly take that from you after knowing you for less than a day?"

He moved away from her, and she opened her eyes. He'd propped himself up on his elbow and watched her with a half-smile.

She stuck her lower lip out. "I'm not worried about going to hell, if that's what you mean."

He shook his head. "It's not. I just want to make sure that this is really what you want, that you weren't wanting this to be with anyone else."

Debtra took a deep breath and remembered the sparks that had flown between her and the Professor earlier that day. But he was so much older than she, both in manifested and real lifetime! Did she love him? No, she realized, she didn't. She just had a crush on him. As for Thom… Damnit, why did he have to be so honorable? He had potential, but she realized she was also expecting him to be Eric, whom she hadn't thought about in, well, she didn't want to think about how long it had been.

"I don't, but you're probably right. I barely know you." She scooted back and leaned against the pillows.

"I should go." He took her hand and kissed her palm.

"Bye, Thom. I guess I'll try to find some porn or something."

He raised his eyebrows. "What did they teach you in those classes?"

Before she could answer, someone pounded on her door.

"Debtra! It's Thurston. Come on, we have to call Thom – he needs to drive us to the widow's house now!"

Author's Note: The first week of seeing patients in my new office went well. I'm now interviewing adminions because I need all the help I can get. In case you hadn't realized by now, I'm not the most organized person in the world.

Thom and Debtra's encounter feels like it needs a sweet ending, so how about some banana pudding with coconut vanilla wafers?

Serial Fiction: Monument Minders, Chapter Nine

2010-10-12T18:58:00.001-07:00

Monument Minders
Chapter Nine
A girl is just a girl...five times over

Debtra looked out the window of her hotel room and watched the cars that crawled through Malfunction Junction. An accident further on, she guessed, because one side of the interstate moved smoothly, the other hardly at all. She wondered about the life or lives that had been changed, someone's day going from fine or bad to terrible in a moment of carelessness. She had never been killed in a car accident. Sure, her deaths hadn't been pleasant – boar attack, plague, beheading, choking during forced feeding as a suffragette – and she guessed that it would be closest to being burned as a witch, which she had been, but quicker. Hopefully.

She shook her head and wondered what Professor Homily was doing, where he was, why she couldn't go with him… But he had only told her to stay put. She could only answer the door for room service should she get hungry, and Thom. She smiled when she thought of the young detective. She had been able to see his dreams. When she had been a child, she had similar ones. And now, to know the truth… She wanted to share it all with him, but he was probably still reeling from the revelations of that afternoon.

A knock on the door startled her out of her reverie, and she glanced at the clock. She had ordered room service, but only a few minutes before. When she checked the peephole as Thurston had showed her, it wasn't food, but rather Thom.

"I'm sorry for bothering you," he said. He'd changed into casual attire, jeans and a cotton shirt, and with his wind-blown hair, looked young and vulnerable. Or maybe that's how she felt.

"You're not. I was just wondering how I should spend the rest of the evening."

"Where's the Professor?"

"Out." She closed the door. "He didn't tell me where he was going, only that he needed to go see an old friend."

Thom nodded. "Well, I just came by to see if you needed anything." He looked at his shoes. "And to see if you wanted to grab something to eat. I know you need to, uh, feed your manifestation every so often."

Debtra couldn't help but laugh, he sounded so awkward! "I've just ordered dinner, but you may join me. I think I may have gotten too much – it's hard to tell how much I need right now. Have a seat." She gestured to the desk chair and sat in the heavier chair with matching ottoman.

They both started a sentence simultaneously. Thom shook his head and motioned for her to speak first.

"I was just wondering if you had any questions. We hit you with a lot of new information today. It can be kind of overwhelming if you weren't expecting it. Even if you were."

"It wasn't that bad," Thom said, and she could sense his genuineness. "I had these dreams as a kid with spinning vortexes and layers of reality. When the Professor described the dimensions, it's like it all clicked into place, like I had known it all along."

She looked at him more closely – could he be an Old Soul like her and Thurston? Normally she could sense others like herself. In her lifetimes it had been an affinity toward kindred spirits. But Thom didn't have that kind of vibe, like someone ancient looked out from behind his eyes.

"What?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I'm trying to figure out who you are."

He laughed. "Good luck. I've been working at it for thirty-four years!"

A knock at the door heralded dinner. They split the pizza she had ordered, and she ate the salad.

"So do you know what everything in here is?" Thom asked.

Debtra nodded. "I had a class in Twentieth Century culture. I know about television, and I'm looking forward to a hot shower." She grinned. "That's something I never got in a previous life. It was only during the last one that I had indoor plumbing."

"Wow." Thom sat back and put his feet on the ottoman near hers. "What were your past lives?"

She blushed. "I've only had five. For a soul my age, that's not many, but I've been told that the way I've died might have had something to do with it."

"Like you were a ghost." It wasn't a question.

"Yeah, they called me the Gray Lady at the prison where they'd killed me."

"How?" He curled his left hand into a fist.

"I was a suffragette working for voting rights. They'd put us in prison, and we'd go on hunger strikes. They'd force feed us, and sometimes we died from choking." She sighed. "I haunted some of those guards into exhaustion. Then, after about fifty years, a Minder came." She could still picture him vividly. He'd looked like an angel from the Bible her last grandmother had made her read with white robes and long, flowing blond hair.

"That's one of those angel things."

She nodded. "He told me that I was too good at getting myself killed prematurely and violently, and that I needed a good education before I could come back. So that's when I started at the University of Inabsolute Truth in the Fourth."

"That would explain why you look like you're in your early twenties."

"It's about the life experience I've got. I never made it past twenty-three." She ticked off on her fingers what she hadn't done. "I've never had children, never got married, never grew old with anyone…" The lump in her throat surprised her, and she curled up, her head on her knees, and hoped he wouldn't see her cry. "Hell, those prison guards had more experience than I did. They'd go home to wives and kids and lives, and I was stuck there!"

She felt Thom's soft touch on her hair, stroking it, and it made her feel even more like crying. There must have been a boy who had done that at some point, but she couldn't remember. The details of each life blurred into the next in her memory.

"You know, what, Thom?" She looked up and found her face to be mere inches from hers. The cool, wet sensation on her cheeks must have been tears, but she didn't care anymore.

"What?"

"I've never even lost my virginity!"

So that vacation-like week I had taken off to get my new office set up? Not a break at all. Hubby and I were there until 9:00 last Monday, and then I had evening obligations every night last week until Friday, when we were at the office until -- I kid you not -- midnight. The good news is that I now have a kickass place to write. I'll post pictures of the office soon. The next step? Minions...

Yeah, I did some stress eating last week. It culminated in sliders and this lovely Irish brownie sundae at The Marlay on Saturday:

Serial Fiction: Monument Minders, Chapter Eight

2010-09-28T17:13:00.000-07:00

Chapter 8
The Missing Half

"I don't know." Thurston patted his friend's hand. He dreaded what he had to say next, but it was unavoidable. "Forsyth, there's a problem. It's already been used."

Forsyth looked up, and ochre leaked from the corners of his eyes in golden tears that absorbed back into his skin. "How?"

"On a criminal this morning. His name was Maximilian, a thief and impulse murderer." Homily looked at the screened device that Gurney had given him. It was technically a few years ahead of its time, but carrying around paper files would have been too obvious, and Debtra and Thom would have wanted to see them. As they were addressed to someone who was not an Old Soul, it would have made Debtra suspicious. Bringing her along may have been a mistake. He wondered if, even at his age, he could blame hormones for clouding his judgment.

"Did he survive?"

"Don't know." Thurston looked at Forsyth. "But a witness didn't. The cause of death is still unknown," he added before Forsyth could ask another question.

Forsyth nodded. "I've guarded the device for a hundred and fifty years, and in that time, it has never been used. It would have stored a tremendous amount of energy." He sighed. "I think I do need some food. Are you tired of pancakes yet?"

Thurston shook his head. "Never."

Forsyth made a telephone call to the restaurant across the street, and in twenty minutes, their order arrived: two combos of blueberry pancakes, bacon, and coffee. Forsyth's phone rang, and he nodded even though the person on the other side couldn't see him.

"Who was that?" Thurston asked.

Forsyth took a deep breath and exhaled through rounded lips. "Things just got worse, much worse."

"How so?"

"The Splitter isn't the only thing that's missing, Thurston. Savedra has disappeared."

Thurston closed his eyes, the image of the dark-eyed, curly-redheaded beauty coming back to him. She had taken the best part of him, he thought, and even picturing her gave him sensations in his nether regions that not even Debtra had prompted. Yet.

"When?"

"This afternoon. That was her assistant Henry. She didn't come home from a dinner she was supposed to have attended, and when he called the hosts, he found she hadn't been there."

"Damn, damn, damn!" Thurston swallowed around a particularly sharp bit of bacon that had been hiding in his teeth. He brought to mind all the details he could muster.

"I know you want to go after her, Thurston, but your current investigation is more important. You know she can handle herself."

Thurston took a deep breath. "I'll take Debtra and skip tomorrow, but you're right – I can't leave this investigation, not now!"

Forsyth handed him a business card. "This is Henry's. He'll know where to start. He doesn't know you're in the Third, but I'm sure he'll be happy to hear from you."

"Maybe. Depending on what kind of mood she was when she last talked about me."

"What are you going to do for the rest of the evening?" Forsyth ambled around the office and picked up papers. Thurston stood and stretched.

"I'm rid of the children for the evening, so I'm going to do what every chaperone dreams."

"What's that?"

"Go to the morgue to see what our witness has suffered. I'll probably be able to figure out the cause of death better than their corpse specialist."

"She's called a coroner, Thurston."

"Right."

"Just don't do anything illegal."

"In what dimension?" Thurston winked, although he felt that his heart cried ochre tears for his Savedra.

"That's what I'm worried about."

Author's Note: Yep, it's a short section this week. Hubby and I got most of the office packed and moved on Sunday, but I'm exhausted, and I've been slammed at my current place. The week I'm taking off to get everything settled in is going to seem like a vacation! I'm also looking forward to catching up on some serial fiction I haven't been able to read yet. Thanks for your patience!

Serial Fiction: Monument Minders, Chapter Seven

2010-09-21T18:44:00.000-07:00

Chapter Seven:
A Friend in Need

The autopsy results weren't ready yet, so Thom took Thurston and Debtra to their hotel. Thurston made sure his student had been settled in, and then he caught a cab back to downtown. He didn't realize he'd fallen asleep until he started dreaming.

She traced her thumbnail under her fingernails to stop the itching impulse to grab it and run -- if she wanted it, she couldn't be obvious. The dark blue faceted crystal on a square silver base was so clear she could see the little gears clicking and working underneath to gather more power. So she wiped the table, careful to give it a big berth while the big guy reading the paper watched her with deep-set black eyes.

"You like sparkles, young lady?" He smiled, and she saw his stained, crooked, pointed teeth. That would be the game, then. He wanted to lure her to his lair with the thing and then eat her sexually and physically.

She grinned. "It's so pretty!" Two could play that game, and she could rid the world of one more stupid bad guy who would use such a powerful device as a trinket to lure female prey. He probably didn't even know that it was charging after a recent detonation and wouldn't be usable again for a while.

"We're here, man."

Thurston jolted awake. How had he fallen asleep in the back of a taxi, especially one as rough as this one? His lower back promised to replay every bump and rattle for him later. But that dream… He had been a woman. Or had been seeing things as one. He could guess which one, too. She invaded his dreams at the oddest moments, usually inopportune times when he needed to focus on something else.

Thurston paid the cabbie, made sure he had everything, and stepped on to the sidewalk. He climbed the narrow stairs to Forsyth's office, housed above a Chinese restaurant in the Five Points district. The building had a view of the storyteller fountain, but was shielded so that Thurston couldn't hear the wails of the soul trapped inside the Storyteller statue. That one had been convicted of serial murder of children and goats, so this fate would be particularly repugnant.

But he could hear them as well as all the noise of the street through the cracked door at the top of the staircase. The door swayed open, then almost shut, with the breeze, and he quickened his steps. He pushed the door open and saw that Forsyth's office looked like it had been blown apart by a whirlwind with papers everywhere.

His breath caught, and he raised a hand to his mouth to stifle the vomiting reflex when he saw that Forsyth had been, too.

As an Old Soul, Forsyth's manifestation had been complex, a somewhat overweight man with short salt-and-pepper hair, the beginnings of a double chin, and blue eyes that could be the color of ice chips or a warm ocean. His bottom half still sat in the chair, and his top half lay scattered about over and under the papers. The energy that held the manifestation together leaked and bubbled out from the various parts. Humans would perceive it as blood. Thurston saw it as golden liquid that reflected the light like viscous crystal.

"Thurston!"

He followed the whispered calls to Forsyth's head, which lay underneath the open diamond pane window. He picked it up, careful to keep his back to the street outside so no one would see him carry it across the room.

"Forsyth! What in the Name of the Fifth happened here!" He found Forsyth's torso, missing its arms, but mostly intact, and placed the head atop it. The two parts fused together, a neat trick, Thurston thought. It showed how long Forsyth had been around, even longer than Debtra, but with infinitely more lives. He'd died before but had "gotten out of the habit," as he liked to say.

Thurston found the limbs and reassembled his friend as quickly as he could. After a few deep breaths, Forsyth wiggled his fingers and kicked his feet.

"Much better, thank you," he said with a bow from the waist. "I apologize for not getting up to greet you, but…" He gestured to the mess.

"Do you think you could walk downstairs for a meal?" Thurston asked, mindful of Debtra's difficulty earlier that day. Hopefully she hadn't noticed that he was fine without eating. At least he liked pancakes enough to consume them without the necessity of hunger.

"Give me a moment, old friend." Forsyth looked around the office and raised his eyebrows. "This is a mess, then, eh? Beatrice is going to have my hide."

"What happened?" Thurston brushed a few pages off the torture instrument that Forsyth called a consultation chair.

"I had just come up the stairs this morning to…" Forsyth's jaw fell open, and he moved faster than Thurston thought would be possible considering he'd just been put back together. The large man moved to the wall by the door, murmured a verbal key, and a safe appeared. Continued whispering of code, and the door fell open to reveal… Nothing.

Thurston's heart sank as the denial he'd cherished all day shrank into oblivion. Sure, he knew that the only device that could theoretically vaporize a statue and release the soul trapped within was a Splitter and that Forsyth guarded the only one, Sorvan's invention, in his thrice-spelled safe.

Forsyth sank back into his chair and put his head in his hands. "They've blocked my memory, Thurston. I know there was more than one, and that He had sent them, but I cannot remember the exact sequence of events or even how they discovered and robbed my safe. It's not even in this dimension! How did they find it?"

I might have posted this one before, but it's appropriate considering it's called the Chocolate Volcano, and Forsyth seems to have been blown to bits. Luckily Thurston arrived just in time to put him back together.

Office Migration 2010 (yes, I decided it needed a spiffy name) is progressing nicely. My new lease starts October 1, so there are just a few more days to pack! Every time I start to feel comfortable, I realize there's another detail that needs attention. I'm looking forward to getting everything done and being settled in so I can give more attention to writing and catching up on some of my favorite serials. Just a couple more weeks... Oh, and did I mention I have jury duty on Thursday? I'm going to need a chocolate volcano and several glasses of wine after this process is over!

Serial Fiction: Monument Minders, Chapter Six

2010-09-13T18:08:00.000-07:00

Chapter Six
Potato Pancake Universe

Thom brought them to the Fried Green Tomato, a Southern food café.

"Nice place," said Thurston. "Do they have potato pancakes?"

Thom waved to the heavyset guy behind the counter, who held up his fingers in a double "Peace" sign. "I don't know, but I can ask."

Instead of turning right into the main dining room, Thom took them through a door at the back of the cafeteria-style service and ordering room and into a small conference-style room. Pictures of celebrities who had eaten at the restaurant lined the walls. Thurston nodded to Debtra, who took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She spread her arms, palms facing outward, and turned in a slow circle.

"No energy signatures consistent with listening devices, aether or otherwise."

"Good." Thurston sat with a thud in one of the metal chairs. "Although I don't think you need to worry about the aether ones. They wouldn't work so well in the quantum stream. I think it's time to feed our Manifestations again." He raised his eyebrows at Thom. "About those potato pancakes?"

Before Thom could reply, a knock came at the door, and he opened it to see the guy from the front room.

"Heya, Hank, come on in."

Hank nodded to the three of them. "What can I get y'all?"

They gave their orders, and Thom was relieved when Hank didn't blink at Thurston's potato pancake request. He'd escorted specialists, whom he figured worked for the C.I.A., before, but there was something strange about these two. They made chit-chat until Hank returned with the food. Then the professor hit Thom with a very strange question.

"Tell me, young man, what kind of conceptualization do you have of the universe?"

Thom blinked, and he remembered the dreams that had come back to him when looking into Debtra's eyes. He shrugged.

"It's big?" he asked.

Debtra coughed, but Thom thought she may have laughed at him.

"Look, I got the same classes everyone else did. I painted balls and strung them up in a mock solar system in fourth grade. I know that it's bigger than any human mind can imagine."

"Even more so." Thurston grabbed a napkin and took a pen from his pocket. "Have you heard of the theory of hidden dimensions?"

Thom raised his eyebrows. That sounded a little like his dreams.

"You live, and we're visiting here in the Third, which has two main time-streams that reflect each other." Homily drew a curve with three stick figures standing on it. "Then there's the Fourth, which is beyond it, and where my University resides. Earthly theory holds that the Fourth is time, but really it is beyond time, but we can hold it and make it flow forwards at certain points." He drew a line above the curve. "That way my students can't manipulate it and make it go backwards at final exam time. But we also have a perspective over the linear flow of time in the Third, like looking down at a circular river. From the Fourth, we can plunge in at any point."

Thom felt like his head was going to start pounding with a migraine at any second. "Where are you from?" he whispered.

"We're from the Fourth," Debtra said. She laid a hand on his, and the tension in his neck subsided. "Professor Homily and I are old souls, meaning we've been here several times."

He looked at her smooth skin and noted that the skin around her eyes only had a few slight wrinkles. "But you look so young!"

"That's because we came here with our Manifestations from the Fourth," said Thurston. "They take energy to maintain, otherwise we'd blur and fade, so we have to feed them on a normal human eating schedule plus one midnight meal."

"Oh, I thought you just had a strange way of saying you're hungry." Thom looked at the diagram. "What's beyond the Fourth?"

Thurston smiled. "Infinitely more layers and dimensions. The Fifth is where the Minders live."

"You'd talked about them."

"They observe the course of time and development, not just here, but in every dimension." Thurston tapped the end of his pen on the table. "They're very hard to explain. Humans would think of them as angels, and your Bible speaks of their guidance – some would say interference –at key points in history."

"And you survived a confrontation with one!" Debtra looked at Thurston with wide-eyed admiration, and Thom felt an unfamiliar sensation in his stomach – the uncoiling of biting jealousy?

"Barely, my dear. I've not been the same man since, and I have no recollection of about fifty years after that time."

"So what is monumenting?" Thom asked.

"A cruel, cruel thing," Debtra murmured.

Thurston nodded. "I'll assume you've had basic physics and know that, even in the most dense substances, there are spaces between atoms and molecules. As beings are essentially pure energy, monumenting takes the spirit, stretches it until there are holes between that energy, and fits it into a metallic substance that then is made into a monument."

"That sounds painful."

"The worst part is that monuments take millennia to decompose, and the spirit decomposes with it," Debtra said.

"Right." Thurston looked at his student. "There's something about the process that joins spirit to substance so thoroughly that they become the same. And it's impossible to escape, so the criminal sits there in the inclement weather with birds pooping on him or her for literal ages."

"Until this morning," said Thom.
"
Right, until this morning." Thurston looked at him. "That's why they called us in. I was there for the talks that developed the practice, and I opposed it, but I also understood it better than all save one."

"Sorvan," said Debtra.

Thurston nodded. "And I suspect that his infernal device, the Splitter, has been turned to undoing its work."

"But that's good, right?"

"Not precisely," Thurston said. "Because whatever was released this morning is no longer what he or she was. It will be an entirely new creature, and utterly unpredictable." Thurston looked at his watch. "Do you think those autopsy results are ready yet?"

Author's Note: I promise that I haven't run out of chocolate pictures, but I couldn't resist this lovely picture of a breakfast for dinner course from a beer dinner since our heroes are in a diner setting, and Thurston is about to indulge -- again -- his love for pancakes.

Serial Fiction: Monument Minders, Chapter Five

2010-09-06T14:03:00.000-07:00

Chapter Five:
A Strange Shadow

"Are you kidding? I couldn't sleep after a morning like that!" Bill Welby, the policeman who had been with the Lancasters that morning, told them after having answered the door of his much smaller house in the suburb of Irondale. He looked at his hands, which he'd clenched and stretched several times. Debtra could feel the distress emanating from him in waves.

"How well did you know the Lancasters?" asked Homily.

"Fairly well. They've been volunteering at the park for years. I've been on that beat for a decade." He shook his head. "I'm just afraid that something I did killed the guy. Like what if he had dust in his throat, and I forced it in and suffocated him? Or had a shard of metal in his chest, and I shoved it into his heart during chest compressions?"

"I doubt it," said the Professor.

"That's what I worry about, that I shoulda done something differently."

Debtra sat nearest to him on the other end of the microfiber couch. She touched his shoulder and projected soothing energy, but only at him, not Thom. It wouldn't do for the young detective to fall asleep in the middle of the interview. "You did the best you could. The widow thinks so."

"Really?" His shoulders slumped. "That's a relief. I was afraid she blamed me."

"So tell us what happened?" asked Homily.

"It was our usual routine," the cop said. "We walked into the park just after dawn. Mike went to the left toward the General's statue. It was his great-grandfather or something. Merrie and I went to the right, where the benches are. I go with her to make sure no vagrants bother her. She was in the grass picking up trash, and I felt the sidewalk shake under my feet. At first I thought it was an earthquake, y'know? But then it got real hot, then cold again, like I sweated ice, and for a second I felt like I was about to get the sinus. Then it was over, and she yelled for him, and he didn't answer."

"Did you see anyone else in the park?"

Bill narrowed his eyes. "Whaddaya mean?"

"Someone running away, maybe?"

Debtra and Thom looked at Homily. That was a new question.

"No." But he looked away.

"Did you see anything unusual at all?" the Professor persisted. "Any clouds or smoke?"

"No smoke, but, God, don't lock me up or anything."

"It's off the record," Thom said and put his notebook away.

"No smoke, but it seemed like the shadow moved funny. Mike's shadow. But Merrie knelt by him, covering it with hers."

"Ah." Thurston nodded. "You're not crazy. Whatever did that to the statue disturbed the fields nearby including the light fields. You're actually very perceptive to have noticed."

The big man smiled, and Debtra felt his need for approval, even after all these years. Not that he had a freaking clue what Homily had just said.

"Thanks, Professor."

"Energy field?" she asked when they got out to the car. Thom had been silent. He looked shell-shocked, and she wondered if maybe she should've directed a little psychic comfort his way. She could imagine why he felt so bewildered: the Professor had that effect on people, his mind moved so much faster than theirs.

Homily nodded, and for a moment, he actually looked gray and ancient. "I am starting to suspect what happened in the park this morning may have been the work of an old adversary. I am still not myself after our last encounter, and that was back in the nineteenth century."

Debtra imagined that her shocked expression mirrored Thom's. Had Homily actually admitted to weakness? That was totally unlike him, but then, this world with its gas-powered vehicles was completely foreign to her, although she enjoyed the cool air that came from the vents when Thom started the quiet motor. Strange settings made for strange revelations, she recalled from her previous lives.

"Who was he? Or is he?"

"I imagine he's still around," Homily said. "He's one of the Minders."

Debtra's dropped jaw joined her raised eyebrows. "A Minder?" she whispered. "You came away from a confrontation with one of them alive?"

"Half alive. It took me a long time to recover. But he's the one who came up with the barbaric punishment of monumenting." He smiled, but not with happiness. Debtra had never seen such a vindictive expression on her mentor's face.

"Monumenting." The reason for their visit – the real reason – hit her like a bucket of ice water. She'd shoved it to the back of her mind, the apparent murder being much less disturbing.

"And this has been the first time someone escaped. I imagine he must be a bit disturbed right now."

"Wait… What?" Thom turned to look at the two of them like he may have to drop them off at the sanatorium on his way home. "What's a Minder? And what the heck is monumenting? I thought you were here to solve a murder and a prison break."

Homily fiddled with a knob on his door handle, and the window lowered with a gentle whirr, then went back up. "Let's get to that safe place I asked you to find, and I'll explain."

Author's Note: I consider myself to be a connoisseur of irony, and the past week has been particularly delectable. I signed my lease for my new office on Monday, and then proceeded to have my busiest week ever, leaving me no time for the other nuts and bolts of my office move.

But, in more exciting news, I've been published in an anthology! More details to come.

No, the apple pie pictured below isn't chocolate, but since it's a national holiday, I thought it worked. Yes, that's a homemade crust. Have I mentioned that I bake when stressed? My husband is more than okay with it -- his favorite dessert is pie.

I hope everyone enjoyed their long weekend!

Serial Fiction: Monument Minders, Chapter Four

2010-08-30T19:12:00.001-07:00

Thanks to those who are following along! I appreciate those who have the patience to stick with a serial.

If you're interested in the other part of my life that's requiring a lot of attention right now, I signed my lease for my new office space this morning. Now it's on to the details like phone and internet. Yeah, I already took care of the fun stuff like decorating.

On to the story...

Chapter Four:
The Widow

They wound through several lavishly decorated rooms until they reached the kitchen, large with marble countertops, a huge island under a pot rack, and stainless steel appliances. It was bigger than some restaurant kitchens Thom had seen. The widow sat at the table in front of a window that would have let the afternoon light in, but was shaded by plantation blinds. A wilted piece of mint garnished the melting ice cubes and amber-colored liquid in a highball glass in front of her.

"Well?" she asked. She squinted at them through puffy, red eyes. Her iron-colored curls would have likely been in perfect order from her weekly visit to the salon, but her hair stood in spikes, maybe from where she had run her hands through it.

"Mrs. Lancaster?" asked Thom. No matter how many times he'd done this, guilt overwhelmed him at disturbing the survivor's grief.

"Yep. Widow Lancaster. That's me."

"I'm so, so sorry for your loss!" Debtra stepped in front of Thom and took the woman's hand in hers, covering it with her other one. "Please forgive us for disturbing you."

"Now you're a right pretty young lady," Mrs. Lancaster said and squeezed Debtra's hand. Her eyes seemed to clear a little. "What're you doing here and not in school or some shop? Are you a cop? You don't look like one."

"No, ma'am," Thom said. "She and Professor Homily here are experts in the kind of events that happened this morning. If you could just answer a few of their questions, we can leave you alone."

She motioned for them to sit around the table but didn't let go of Debtra's hand, so the young woman sat beside her.

"We were married for twenty-three years," Mrs. Lancaster said. "Twenty-three! Do you know how many people don't even last twenty-three months?"

"That's quite a stretch," Thom agreed. "Can you tell us what happened this morning?"

"Hell if I know," the widow growled. "I was off with Bill the policeman picking up trash, and I heard this noise. But I don't know if it was a noise. I felt it more than I heard it, like my ears got stuffy and then went Pop!" She sniffled and took a sip of her drink.

"Did you notice anything in the air?" asked the Professor. "Did it feel like it changed temperature?"

The ice clinked in the glass when she put it down. "Now that you mention it, it got hotter. I thought I was having a flash, but Bill was wiping his face, too, and I know he's not going through menopause."

Homily nodded and looked at Debtra.

"What did you do then?" Debtra asked.

"I yelled out to Mike, asking if he was okay, and I didn't hear an answer, so I went back the way we came and saw that the general was gone. Just…gone." She wiped her eyes with her free hand and squeezed Debtra's with the other. "Like Mike, it was just gone. He was lying there with stuff all over him, black dust and blood. I tried to shake him, but he didn't respond. Bill did CPR on him, but it didn't work, and…" The woman broke down in tears, sobs that seemed to come from her stomach.

"Shhh, it's okay," Debtra stroked her hand, and the woman looked at her, calming. "Is there anything else?"

The latter question was addressed to Thom and the Professor.

"Just a couple more things," Homily said. "What did your husband do?"

The widow's eyes never left Debtra's, and she spoke as though in a trance. "He owns – owned – a chain of jewelry stores. Best sapphires in town!"

"Did he have any connection with the statue?"

Now Mrs. Lancaster frowned. "Yes, actually. That general had been in the Civil War, and he was Mike's great-great uncle or something."

Homily stood. "Thank you, and again, we're sorry for disturbing you."

"Quite all right. I'm going to take a nap now. My children will be here soon."

Debtra gave her hand one more squeeze and stood. The men did so as well, and Thom took a deep breath when he got outside. Something about the atmosphere in the house had gradually closed in on him, wrapped around him like a blanket, making him warm and soothed and comforted. He was glad the others had done more of the talking.

"Nicely done, Debtra," Homily said after they got in the car, Thom's dark blue Chevy Cavalier. "But next time, you might want to warn poor Thom here. He seems to be more sensitive than he claimed."

"I'm sorry," she said. "I'll focus better next time."

"What?" Thom started the car.

"Dreadfully sorry," said Homily, but he didn't sound it. "That's part of what I want to talk to you about. Now how about the policeman?"

Thom checked his watch: three in the afternoon. "He works nights, so he's probably sleeping, but we can stop by and see if he's up."

Serial Fiction: Monument Minders, Chapter Three

2010-08-24T10:52:00.000-07:00

Chapter Three: Thom's Dreams
Earth, Southeastern United States, 1999 C.E.

When Debtra opened her eyes and gazed into his own, Thom remembered the dreams he'd had since he was a young boy, of angels and gods, of worlds spinning off at the whim of the beings whose trivial decisions created whole realities. In each of those dreams, there had been bright figures watching and waiting for… He didn't know what. He would wake feeling like he had just witnessed an epic movie, but opening his eyes erased all but the vaguest impression.

Debtra's dark eyes brought the dreams back to him, and he almost dropped the soda he held to her full lips.

"What is it?" she asked and broke the spell. The vision faded again, but the emotional impression remained, like the lost comfort of visiting a favorite childhood candy store and finding it having been turned into a chiropractor or nail salon.

He used the walk to the diner to study the two consultants that Agents Gurney and Troxley had brought in. True, he'd known that there was something strange about the exploding, no, disintegrated statue, but these certainly didn't look like the "experts" he'd expected. The older guy, Professor Homily, wore a grey tweed jacket with patches on his elbows and spoke with a slight accent. He babbled on about feeding one's manifestation, which Thom guessed was academic-speak for needing to eat and keep your blood sugar up. Thom had initially dismissed the young woman dressed in heels, jeans, and tank top with a filmy overshirt – the student? intern? – but his internal sense told him that there was more to her than a killer curvy body, legs that wouldn't quit, and straight, dark hair to her waist. He could imagine her coyly hiding her breasts behind its damp curtain as she waited naked for him in the bath…

And that was as far as he'd let that thought go. This was a professional association, he reminded himself.

They found the diner and ordered. Thom got a burger, Debtra a chicken salad-apple croissant and green salad, and the Professor a huge plate of pancakes.

"So, Detective Thom," Homily asked after he'd finished half the pancakes and poured syrup on the rest, "do you know why you're shepherding us around?"

Thom shrugged. "The agents mentioned you were an expert at solving unusual crimes. They said you used to work for another agency and then went out on your own, and now you teach."

Debtra and Homily exchanged a look. "Something like that," agreed the professor. "Why don't you catch us up with the events of the day now that we've seen the scene and had something to eat?"

Thom dragged a fry through some ketchup. "There's not much to tell beyond what you saw. There were two volunteers in the park before it opened, cleaning and stuff, and a cop. They split up with one and the cop going in one direction and the other cleaning by the statue. The two heard a noise, then came back to find the mess you saw and the other guy, not breathing. They did CPR until the ambulance got there, but there was nothing they could do for him. Like I said, there will be a full autopsy."

"We're going to need to talk to the volunteer and the cop," Homily said. "I need to know their exact impressions, and the sooner the better."

"Both of them?" asked Thom.

"Yes, both of them. Where they disagree can be most informative."

Thom looked at the plate and wasn't hungry anymore. "There's a problem."

"What?"

"I don't know that the volunteer will be up for talking – her husband was the one who was killed."

"Oh, how sad!" Debtra looked at Thom, and he saw in her eyes the same pain for the victim's widow that he'd felt. He sighed when she looked away.

"Even so, if she wants her husband's murder to be solved, we need to speak with her. It's imperative that we do so today."

"Why?" asked Thom. "Can't we give her a day?"

Homily shook his head. "I don't plan on being here that long."

Thom raised his eyebrows. "Investigating accidents, especially strange ones, take longer than that."

"If it's what I suspect to be true, we need to move quickly. I've only seen one device that can wreak that kind of destruction…" He frowned. "Is there somewhere private we can talk?"

"We can go back to my office."

"More private than that. Your office may have been bugged."

Thom searched his mind for the places where he met snitches and thugs, places where no one would hear them because no one dared to go there.

"Give me a few hours, and I'll see what I can do. In the meantime, let's get the visit to the widow over with."

Merrie Lancaster lived in a large house just south of the city on the bluffs overlooking Birmingham itself. Her maid answered the door.

"Mrs. Lancaster ain't accepting visitors," she said and tried to close the door.

Thom showed his badge. "I'm afraid we have to disturb her. I'm Detective Pickering, and this is Professor Homily and Miss Lacoeur. We're here to ask her some questions about what happened this morning."

"Give me a sec." She closed the door, and Thom heard her yell, "Mrs. Merrie! Visitors! It's the po-lice and a professor!"

After a few minutes, the door opened again. "This way."

Serial Fiction: Monument Minders, Chapter Two

2010-08-16T18:07:00.000-07:00

Sorry for the miss last week. I had a space cadet moment with the #TuesdaySerial collector. Chapters will be posted weekly from now on.

Chapter 2
Third Dimension, Earth, Southeastern United States
1999 C.E.

Debtra had been born before, five times in fact. An old soul, she remembered each time – the mess, the cold, the slap in less enlightened times. Arriving as an adult and having to stand on her feet right away as the swirling colors resolved into familiar shapes, that was odd. She was grateful for a steadying hand under her elbow, attached to a blur that resolved into Professor Homily.

"The first time is the hardest," he said with a wink.

She blushed. Was he flirting with her? Had he noticed when she'd brushed against him in his office?

"It's certainly different." She took a deep breath and went through the mental checklist they'd all had to memorize on the first day of Soul School to make sure that her manifestation functioned properly. All systems – even reproductive – signaled "Go!"

The scene in front of them screamed, "Stop!" A marble pedestal stood empty atop a flight of granite stairs. Everything in a twenty foot radius sparkled with a film of bronze and black dust. Shards of the same material lay scattered around the base of the pedestal, some shining with a slimy red substance.

An ambulance with flashing red and white lights stood nearby, and Debtra could feel the hum of the motor through the soles of her athletic shoes. A still figure lay draped with a sheet on a stretcher beside it, and red droplets stained the white material. That grisly detail didn't catch Debtra's attention so much as the young man standing beside it. He wore a blue suit and white shirt, both already wrinkled in the humidity that caressed her own skin. He listened attentively to the uniformed woman who spoke with him, but his eyes darted to the still corpse. The set of his cheeks and mouth said, "professional," but his eyes said, "human" and possibly "new soul."

"What do you see?" asked Professor Homily.

Debtra reminded herself that she was here as a student in spite of the memories of her five previous lives pressing on the back of her mind. "A mess."

He chuckled. "It would seem so."

She looked at him more closely. He had been so tense in his office, especially after the mention of Forsyth – whoever that was – but now he appeared relaxed and happy, almost relieved. He appeared the same in his white shirt, grey suit, and black loafers, but now he wore glasses. Still handsome, she noted, with a rugged, ageless face. She wondered how her own manifestation appeared and fought the urge to find a mirror. Sometimes first Plunges could rearrange things or make clothing disappear, hence Old Souls' dreams of appearing naked in random places.

"It looks like it exploded," she ventured. "And someone was standing too close when it did." She nodded to the figure on the stretcher. She'd seen worse, but there was something about it that repelled her. That had not been a natural death or even a mundane murder.

"That was one of the volunteers who picks up trash in the park before it opens." Detectives Gurney and Troxley stood behind them, and Gurney frowned at them. "We came through the transfer point. Where the hell did you go?"

Was that another wink from Homily? "Guess we missed it."

"It's not protocol to appear out of nowhere in a public place," Troxley told them.

"Sorry," Homily said, but Debtra could tell he wasn't. "It was your transfer node, after all. Maybe it's the same problem that allowed you to barge into my office?"

"They said they'd fixed it." Troxley cursed under his breath as he texted another query to the tech department.

Gurney waved to the young man who stood by the stretcher, and after making one final note, he walked over with long, confident strides, although he stopped well short of the four of them.

"Professor Homily, Miss, ah?"

"Lacoeur," she said, picking the first last name she could think of. That one had been hers in eighteenth-century France.

"This is Thomas Pickering, our in-dimension detective who will assist you with the investigation."

"Oh, it's not you?" asked Debtra.

"No, we're the agency that handles things on the other side," Troxley said. "Kind of like an interdimensional F.B.I. or C.I.A."

"Professor, Miss Lacoeur." Gurney nodded to each of them and then to Troxley, who pushed a button on his telephone. The two of them disappeared.

"So much for protocol," said Homily.

Thom shrugged. "Guess they don't care if there's no one to be shocked by it. Nice to meet you both." He shook their hands and gestured to the grisly scene in front of them. "As bad as it looks, it shouldn't have been enough to kill the volunteer, at least not according to the coroner's initial assessment. They'll do a full autopsy to see how he died."

"How old was he?" asked Debtra.

"About sixty," Thom said.

She nodded, surprised at the pang of jealousy. She'd never made it that long.

Professor Homily's hand on her upper arm reminded her that she was still the student in spite of her own years in the Third having added up to over 100.

"Are you okay, my dear?" he asked.

"Fine, just a little disoriented. I can see why they don't let the undergrads Plunge."

He smiled and squeezed her arm. "Just let me know if it gets too much for you. You can always go back."

She smiled through the embarrassment at having been called out in front of Thom. "I can handle it, Professor."

"Good. Now, about the statue. What do you think happened to it, Thom?"
"
Well, that's why you're here, Professor. They said they thought it was impossible." He lowered his voice. "They said to tell you that the prisoner has escaped."

Professor Homily raised his eyebrows. "Tell me, Thom, are you a Sensitive?"

Thom shook his head. "That's why they let me handle things on this side – I'm not squeamish."

"I see." Homily walked to the edge of the dust circle, took some on his fingertip, and tasted it. "This was a standard bronze statue, yes?"

"That's right."

A wave of dizziness hit Debtra, and her knees buckled. Thom caught her before she hit the concrete sidewalk.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

"Just a little dizzy." She looked at Homily and tried to scramble to her feet, but she was helpless as Thom lowered her into a sitting position on the ground. She closed her eyes against the spinning.

"Of course!" Homily placed the flat of his palm to his forehead. "It's all my fault, Debtra. I forgot that you need to feed your manifestation regularly in this dimension. Thom, is there a place where we could get a bite? Quickly?"

"There's a diner just outside the park."

"Excellent. Can you get her a soda or something to prop her blood sugar up so she can walk there?"

"I'll be right back."

The next thing Debtra knew, someone held a can to her lips, and she took a sip of something simultaneously sweet, bitter, and bubbly, like sweet champagne but not as sophisticated. After another sip, she opened her eyes to see that the world had stopped spinning. Thom and the Professor helped her to her feet, and she took a few shaky steps.

"What is that?" she asked.

Thom grinned and held out the red and white can. "It's called a Coke, a type of soda."

Debtra nodded and took the can, turning it to see all sides. She had learned about sodas in her Twentieth Century Trends class.

"I remember an older version of this," she said.

"Shall we?" asked the Professor. "It won't hold you for long."

She nodded and closed her eyes against the dizziness that tried to overwhelm her again. This time, when the Professor cupped her elbow, she didn't mind.

"Lead the way, Thom?"

In the back of her mind, Debtra wondered why the Professor hadn't crashed as well.

In danger of a sugar crash? This fudgy French Silk Pie with Mint and Raspberry sauces should hold you over! It was part of a recent meal at Le Vigne Restaurant at Montaluce Vineyards. To read about the rest of the day and the 2009 vintage release gathering, click here.

Friday Flash Fiction: Confession

2010-08-13T17:49:00.000-07:00

I've gone back and forth about posting this one for
a couple of weeks. It falls squarely in the category of "things I wish I'd had the guts to do in high school." Feedback, as always, is welcome.

Confession

Victoria was in danger of turning into that most hideous of beasts: The Perfect Child. Her natural intelligence had predisposed her to PC standing, and here she was at fifteen, ostracized for being a "smart kid." The way she saw it, she had two main problems: her mother and her religion teacher, Mrs. Bead.

Oh, yes, Victoria counted down the days until she could get her driver's license because her mother refused to take her anywhere if it would conflict with a Bible study, lay missionary meeting, or any of the other myriad activities that the Catholic cult (Cc) her mother had joined demanded of her time. Any complaints were met by, "You don’t want to be the reason I'm going to confession!" Consequently, Victoria ended up with during-school only activities only unless her father, who traveled frequently (more so since Mom had joined the Cc), could pick her up.

Then there was her "Religion and Morality" teacher Mrs. Bead. The woman with the uncanny resemblance to the Wicked Witch of the West minus green skin had a penchant for telling the class they'd be damned, usually preceded by a "lookit!" Apparently Mrs. Bead felt herself to be exempt from such a fate, particularly since she delighted in sharing her and her husband's sexual exploits with the class as excuses for failing to grade their papers the night before. Not that sexual congress among married people was sinful, but rubbing it in the faces of your hormone-hyped sophomore Morality class? Cruel, especially because no boy would touch Victoria because "her mother was a nun, and she wouldn't do anything, anyway."

Victoria's opportunity to escape PC status occurred at the nexus of the clash between the two forces of Mrs. Bead and her mother. When she'd gotten out of the car that morning, her mother had told her, "I have a meeting at the Monastery at four today, so come straight out after school. No delaying, or I'll be so upset I'll have to go to Confession, and you'll be grounded for a month!"

The cute guy in the saxophone section in the band had actually approached Victoria at lunch the day before, so being grounded was out of the question. She needed that chance to fail her Morality homework and have to go to confession!

By the end of Morality class, Mrs. Bead had, miraculously, run out of things to taunt them about. She had resorted to the generally ineffective "Peer Pressure" method of discipline and control:

"You may work on your homework, but if anyone makes a sound, the whole class will have to stay after school for fifteen minutes!"

Victoria took out a book. The rest of the class started out quiet, but soon whispering emerged. It spawned giggling, which grew to laughing, taunting, and finally...

"That's it!" Bead shouted. "You're all staying after, and if anyone says anything, it's going to be another fifteen minutes!"

With her mother's threat echoing in her head, Victoria raised her hand.

Bead glared at her. "Not. A. Word."

Victoria's stomach tightened. Then her heart pounded between her tonsils, and she tasted something sour at the back of her mouth. This wasn't fair! She hadn't done anything, and now she'd be grounded for a month! She glared at Bead, who calmly surveyed the now silent classroom and ignored the dirty looks from all sides.

"That's it!" Victoria's voice sounded high pitched, and squeaky even to her, but she stood. No spotlight shown on her, but the surprised looks of everyone including Mrs. Bead warmed her neck and cheeks. "My mother told me not to be late, and whatever punishment you give out, it's not going to be worse than what she'll do to me."

Bead opened her mouth, but before she could say anything, Victoria continued.

"Oh, and in case you're wondering if I care about punishing the rest of the class, yeah, I do. More than they obviously cared about punishing me. What you have to realize is that they don't give a rat's ass about how their actions affect me. I'm a nobody, just one of the smart kids that no one sees beyond the GPA on the honor roll board. So, sorry y'all have to stay to 3:30, but my mother is waiting, and keeping us all here because of the actions of a few is patently ridiculous!"

She grabbed her book bag and walked out of the class with hasty but deliberate steps -- no point in tripping and ruining the moment. She heard a single clap, and then a few more, like fat raindrops on the edge of a thunderstorm. Then applause rained down, and a few cheers rolled through the noise. Everyone grabbed their bags and marched out after her. She smiled, but she was breathing too hard to respond to the murmured congratulations. Oh, there'd be hell to pay the next day, maybe that night after her parents got a call from the Principal, but for the moment, she relished being the Not Perfect Child. Maybe the cute band guy would hear about it and call her...

"How was your day?" her mother asked when Victoria got into the car, only a few minutes after three.

"It was good, but I think I may have to go to confession.

Oh, I almost forgot the dessert. Since I waffled on posting this, it's a Belgian waffle with Nutella sauce and whipped cream:

Metapost: Where's Cecilia?

2010-08-10T18:14:00.000-07:00

Update: I've found a space and hope to have a new business address by early next week. My best friend, who is also my decorator, and I went out looking for furniture yesterday. I'm still in a major time crunch -- and stressed out -- but at least things are moving forward.

Those of you who follow my blog(s) are probably wondering where the heck I've been. Or maybe not, but let's pretend, shall we? You see, I've been off learning some basic but important business lessons.

I try to keep my day job and writing lives separate, so this is a rare post when I talk about both. I'm in the mental health field and have my own practice, which I'm in the process of moving closer to home. If you're not familiar with Atlanta, going from 15 miles to 1.5 miles should reduce my commute from 35+ minutes each way (60+ at peak times) to 5-10 minutes. However, moving an office, and especially a practice, takes a lot of time and mental energy, especially while trying to work full-time until I physically make the move in September.

So, the business lessons, which could also translate to writing lessons:

Number One: Trust No One; Get Everything in Writing

Okay, maybe this sounds a little cynical, but bear with me. When I was planning this move, I entered into an informal agreement with a colleague that we would split a three-person office space with the idea of splitting costs and lowering them even further when we'd get a third person in there. If it wasn't going to work for either of us, the other would understand. My mistake: we didn't put a time limit on the agreement, so when we got to the point of choosing between two finalists last week, she bailed. It's not so much that she decided not to lease space with me, it's that she made that decision when I'm in a time crunch.

So here I am, seven weeks out from the end of my current lease, and no space because I can't afford what we were looking at on my own. Oh, and did I mention that my commercial real estate guy was out of town until Tuesday? Part of my brain has been in constant panic since she "dumped" me.

The writing correlates are obvious.

Number Two: Don't Get Too Comfortable

The untimely exit of my potential business partner was likely a blessing in disguise. I had gotten "comfortable" in my current situation to the point that I was happy with my client load and had essentially stopped marketing. I'd also put on hold the dream of opening and expanding a practice focused on my sub-specialty. If she hadn't bailed on me, I may have ended up in a similar stagnant situation.

The writing correlates are twofold. First, all those rejections I've gotten just mean that my stories and novels haven't ended up in the right hands yet. Second, I can't let myself get "comfortable" with just doing #fridayflash (on Twitter) or serial fiction*, or limit myself genre-wise. I need to remember to enjoy and experiment because that's what this writing stuff is all about. I should also get back to the risk-taking and submission process.

So, please forgive me if I haven't been posting a lot here or on the Random Oenophile blog. Life is a bit overwhelming at the moment, but should settle down soon -- my real estate guy sent me diagrams for a couple of promising spaces today. In the meantime, here's some chocolate mousse:

* Don't worry, I will post the second part of the Monument Minders next Tuesday. I somehow missed the #TuesdaySerial collector thing when I posted the first chapter, so P.J. suggested I re-post that one this week and mark it as a debut.

Serial Fiction: Monument Minders, Chapter One

2010-08-02T16:03:00.000-07:00

Yes, it's time for me to jump into serial fiction again! I started this one in April, and since I wanted it to be a serious story, I waited until I had it almost all written and the ending pretty much figured out before I brought it to The Penny Dreadful. Research also delayed it a bit because, although I find the subject fascinating, quantum physics put me to sleep. The genre is overall science fiction with elements of fantasy and steampunk coming in as it goes. I hope you enjoy, and please comment even if you don't!

Chapter 1

Fourth Dimension, 21st Century Station
University of Inabsolutism

Professor Thurston Homily looked at the pile of papers his teaching assistant had just plopped on his desk and sighed.

"Authenticity can be wearing," he said to the TA Debtra, who stood on the other side of his desk.

"You're not kidding!" She flexed her fingers to restore circulation to the bits that had been strangled by the sharp edges of the stack. "Why not go to CD's or memory sticks? They'd be so much easier to carry!"

"Too easy to lose, and I prefer to write my comments instead of type them. Formatting is a bear."

She ran her thumb along the edge of the stack and created a small breeze. "There's got to be a hundred pages in here at least!" The breeze continued and grew into a mini-whirlwind, ruffling her hair and short skirt as well as the professor's thinning hair and tie. He dashed around the desk and grabbed the wide-eyed Debtra by the shoulders, gently guiding her backwards and out of the way of the Pathway that opened where she'd been standing. She'd worked hard on her Manifestation, and it would be a pity for her to have to spend the next week reconstructing it. Plus, he needed her help grading.

"Thanks, Prof," she said and turned to face him, still standing close. He shoved her aside just as two men materialized, one wearing a long trench coat, and the other a dark suit.

"You're welcome, my dear. Now let's try to keep my reputation clean, shall we?" He hoped the remark took the sting out of his action. He filed away the interesting physiological responses his manifestation had exhibited when her breasts brushed against his chest.

"Professor Thurston Homily?" asked the one in the coat. Wrinkles lined his face, like he'd gotten too much sun as a young man. Thurston liked that – manifesting with flawed physical characteristics showed that the man had character. Unlike the other one, who could have been trying to portray a politician somewhere between the ages of twenty-five and "old enough to know better, really."

"At your service, gentlemen. This is my graduate student Debtra."

"I'm Detective Ross Gurney," the man with the wrinkles said. "This is my partner, Detective Vann Troxley."

"And what brings you to our little corner of the Fourth? It was quite rude of you to enter without knocking."

Gurney looked around and blinked. "Oh, this isn't the Pathway Reception Point?"

"Not in my office, no. Perhaps you should speak with your tech staff."

Gurney nodded to Troxley, who took out an object that looked like a cell phone and punched in a complicated sequence, his perfect, not-too-thick eyebrows without any stray hairs drawing together. "Dammit, Ross, I canNOT get used to these three-letter per button things. Why do we have to be that authentic? It's a pain in the ass!"

Thurston and Debtra exchanged a little smile.

"Is this an official visit, Detectives?" Thurston thought back through any potential transgressions, but he couldn't come up with any recent ones, at least none important enough to bring him to the attention of the Minders.

"We're here to consult with you about a case." Gurney brought a sheaf of papers out of his pocket.

Thurston sighed -- more papers. "I'm no longer consulting with Absolute Truth Investigations, Co."

"We know. That's why we're coming to you. Absolute Truth and the government had a falling out a few years ago. They're no longer honoring the contract."

Thurston's eyebrows crawled toward his hair line. "I wasn't aware of that. I wonder if the University has also parted ways with them."

"We're not sure, Sir, but I've examined the contract and found a loophole that allows us to approach you for your help. We would only take you away for a few days." Gurney lowered his voice. "Forsyth recommended you very highly."

That got Thurston's attention. Forsyth knew his secret.

"We need your help," Gurney continued, "because someone has escaped from a Monument."

"Oh, really?" Thurston looked at the papers strewn about his office so he could hide his smile. "It's better than grading. Debtra, are you ready for The Plunge? This may be the project you need for your thesis."

Gurney cleared his throat. "This is of a rather delicate nature, Professor." He lowered his voice. "It's about the Minders."

The mention of the Universe's jailers made Thurston's nails itch, and he ran his thumbnail under the crescents of his fingernails to stop it. His antipathy toward what he considered a cruel method of imprisonment bordered on allergic. He'd been involved in protests back in the day, er, century, when they'd first started the method.

"Well," he said, "Debtra has a bachelor's degree in Humanity, and she's working on her doctorate in Twentieth-Century Ethics, so she should fit right in. What's going on?"

Thurston and Gurney exchanged a look, and Gurney shrugged.

"They said to bring him. They didn't say anything about bringing or leaving anyone," Gurney said, "so she can come."

"Where are we going?" asked Debtra. She scrambled about to find the student essays that had been scattered by the whirlwind. For a moment, the three males looked at her, admiring her rear end or cleavage depending on where they stood. Thurston cleared his throat.

"To the Third, I assume," he said. "That's where the Minders have their charges."

She looked up, her eyes wide, and stood, crumpled papers clutched to her chest.

Lucky papers, thought Thurston.

"You were serious when you asked about The Plunge?" She stood and dropped the papers in a sloppy pile on the desk. "Am I ready?"

"That's what I was asking you, my dear. What year, gentlemen?"

"It's turn of the millennium, 1999," Troxley said. "It's not too complicated down there yet."

"Right, then." Thurston looked at his student. "Remember the process?"

Debtra nodded, still wide-eyed. "Will I go as a baby?"

Thurston stifled his laugh. "No, my dear, as yourself. Investigations get their own Pathway, which does not require the usual rigmarole." He remembered his own duties. "Is there anyone you need to tell? The first time is always risky."

She shook her head with a sad smile. "No one, professor."

He shouldn't be happy to hear that, he thought, but he was. "We'll follow you, gentlemen."

Oh, I almost forgot the chocolate Hopefully this will make up for the delay in the Steampunk appearance:

Friday Flash Fiction: First Date

2010-07-16T07:59:00.000-07:00

I read a novel excerpt as short story recently on the Narrative Magazine site that impressed me so much I thought I'd try something similar. This is from my completed (revision in progress) novel A Perfect Man. I'll add some more commentary to the end. If you're interested in more flash fiction, search the #fridayflash hashtag on Twitter.

First Date:

"Chardonnay and Brie. Chicks'll be impressed every time!"

Albie's words echoed through Seth's head while he shopped, and since Julie wouldn't arrive for another half hour, he stopped by the wine and cheese shop next to the grocery store. If Albie had been married twice, he must have some knowledge of women, right?

Seth gasped at the array of Chardonnay – American, French, Australian, and even Macedonian – priced from eight to eighty dollars. Finally he grabbed one of the cheaper ones from the chilled case and went to the cheese cooler, where the brie selection overwhelmed him with double and triple cream, wine or whiskey flavoring, or chewy bits like dried fruit or herbs. He bought the only one he could afford, a basic double cream. He made it back to his place at 5:45 and found Julie waiting in front of his door.

"I got done early, so I figured I'd come over. Do you need help with your groceries?" she asked.

"Um, sure." He tried to cover the logo on the plastic wine and cheese bag by hugging it to his chest and felt the soft squish underneath his bicep – the Brie! Shit! The Chardonnay seemed to have been chilled to near-frozen, at least to his left nipple.

She grabbed the other grocery bags and shut the trunk for him. He followed her up the stairs, noting how her rear end swayed beneath the grey fabric of her skirt. The black heels showed off her legs nicely. He imagined her kicking the heels off and freeing her hair from its ponytail.

Julie put the bags in the kitchen and sat at his dining room table. She looked out the window at the small houses on the bluff across the street. "This isn't bad. It'll be pretty when the leaves change."

"I think so, too." Seth mentally kicked himself for not saying something more intelligent.

Julie unfastened the ankle straps on her shoes, stretched her legs, and wiggled her toes. "Man, I'm tired! Those heels are killer."

"I don't know how you women stand those," Seth said. "I bet I know what would help."

"Oh?" She raised an eyebrow and smiled.

"I'll be right back."

He debated offering her a foot massage, but instead went into the kitchen to retrieve the Brie and wine. Let her loosen up first. He didn't have a fancy wooden board or cheese knives, so he put the Brie on a blue plastic cutting board with a paring knife. At least he had wine glasses, although he preferred beer.

"Can I help with anything?" Julie asked. Before he could respond, he saw her looking at him from where she leaned against the door frame. She had unbuttoned the top two buttons of her blouse, and he could see the full curves of her breasts through the gap in her shirt. Her hair hung like a gold silk scarf over her head and shoulders.

"Brie?" he asked. His voice cracked. "I've got wine, too. A Chardonnay. It's, ummm…" He grabbed the bottle and looked. "A California. Napa Valley. I hear they're good."

"Great, I'm starving!" She put one hand on her flat stomach. "I didn't eat lunch today."

"Please, help yourself. I'll pour the wine."

"Do you have any bread or crackers to go with it?" she asked. "If not, that's okay."

Shit! Crackers! He looked through the pantry shelves and found some Saltines he'd brought with him from Atlanta. One of the sleeves was unopened, and he hoped they weren't stale. He put a few on the plastic cutting board with the slightly flattened cheese and turned to open the wine.

The counter seemed too small, the glasses too big. He imagined the wine bottle slipping and knocking the glasses into the sink or on the floor. The little pull-tab on the cork foil broke off when he got a good grip on it with his shaking hands.

He heard her chewing, and the hair on the back of his neck prickled. Was she watching him make a fool of himself? He set the butterfly corkscrew on top of the bottle, allowing the end to puncture the foil covering on the cork. He twisted the key and removed the cork through the foil, which flared out in jagged edges that he tore off. Triumph! He poured two glasses and turned to give one to Julie with a bow.

"Wine, milady?"

A drop of blood spattered on the white linoleum.

"Seth, omigod!" Julie pulled Seth's right arm so that he bled into the sink from the deep gash on his right thumb. He held the counter's edge with his left hand and bit the inside of his cheeks so he wouldn't throw up or pass out. Pain and humiliation warred in his chest while Julie ran water over it, but he got control and cleaned it as best he could with some antibacterial soap. She folded a dry paper towel to act as a temporary bandage.

"That looks pretty deep," she said. "Maybe you should get stitches."

"I…" The thought of a needle piercing his skin made Seth's stomach flip again. "I'm not sure I need stitches. Let me just sit for a second."

"Whoa, I've got you." Julie guided him to the couch. She took his shoes off and helped him lie down with his knees higher than his heart. The rushing sound in his ears subsided, and he wondered if she'd been a Girl Scout. Did they have naughty badges?

"Do you need anything else?" she asked.

He tried to say no, but his tongue felt like a piece of heavy, raw meat in his mouth. He looked at his injured thumb and saw that the blood had seeped through the bandage in a straight line. Damn! It throbbed with the heartbeat he could feel in the middle of his head.

"I think you're right," he said. "I think I need stitches." With that decided, he stood, and everything went black.

Author's note:

Before anyone asks, yes, I've cut myself on wine foil, although not to the point I needed stitches.

Here's the beginnings of the query blurb for the novel:

MFA student Karen is seeking the perfect man, both for herself and to star as the male lead in her novella project for Romance Class. Her classmate Seth can't seem to please the women in his life, and even his muse has deserted him. After he dreams he's in Karen's project and writes it from the male POV, the professor makes them work together. This horrifies Karen, who wants to win the best novella competition prize: dinner with her favorite author. Together they find that art may imitate life, but life can be infinitely stranger.

The genre is Romance. Yeah, I got 40,000 words into it, and nothing strange had happened yet! Comments on excerpt and query blurb are welcome.

Friday Flash Fiction: The Agency -- A Wish and a Dragon

2010-07-08T21:16:00.000-07:00

I'm lucky to live in a place where new restaurants open frequently, and many of them last. Since you first met Thomas Forrest and Raven, Thomas has been emancipated (click here for that story), and they're about to open a pub at the edge of the River Styx. For more Friday Flash Fiction, search the #fridayflash hashtag on Twitter.

"All set for the soft opening!" Thomas Forrest gave the Russian Blue granite bar a final swipe with the damp but soft cloth. The bar rumbled under his hand – purring? He shook his head; he'd never get used to Magic Stone™. Although its slogan "Find out just how magical it is!" had intrigued him at first, it usually meant there was some sort of nasty surprise waiting. He only hoped it wouldn't hack up a stoneball on opening night.

"Good, good." Mr. Raven smiled and emerged from the office. He still wore his long, feathered cloak and black nail polish, but Thomas understood that his new boss' attire was more parody of supervillain than fashion sense. "A good night will ensure we have enough to cover the first mortgage payment on this place, although I still cannot believe we acquired it at such a reasonable price. Any responses to the bartender ad yet?"

"No, although I can't imagine why."

"Nor can I. You really outdid yourself with the decorating."

"Thank you, sir." Thomas looked around. The dark blue-gray granite bar top seemed to grow out of the hammered metal base. Purple- and red-cushioned booths lined the walls under diamond-paned windows open to the wooded parking lot and broom stand. At once modern and magical, it was the place he'd always dreamed of managing.

Something appeared at the end of the bar with a Pop! Thomas and Raven approached it carefully, a plastic bowl-shaped container filled with murky water. A dark gray face with whiskers peered over the edge.

"I got your bartender right here!"

"Bert!" Mr. Raven held out his hands like he was going to embrace the – catfish? "How was your assignment on the Other Side?"

"Eh, the usual. Saved the girl, got the demon, got fried in the end."

Raven winced. "Again? I hope the pay was at least decent."

"Lousy. Four chicken biscuits and a wish." The fish splashed some water from its container, and Thomas had to wipe the bar again. It hissed.

"There, there," Thomas wondered if it would eat fish.

Raven raised his eyebrows. "A wish? That's different."

"New HR policy. Budget's tight, so they've gotten cheap. You should see the fine print on it."

"A-hem!" Thomas cleared his throat. "I don't believe we've met." He held out his hand and remembered the fish probably couldn't shake it.

"Yeah, I'm Bert, sometimes minion to Archangel Raphael."

Thomas arched an eyebrow. "How were you a minion? You can't even give foot massages!"

Bert looked at Raven. "Who's this punk?"

"He is the manager of this public house, recently minion to the Witch Jeanette."

"Oh, you got a used minion, huh?"

"I prefer the term pre-owned, I mean, emancipated!" Thomas took a deep breath. "And how could you be a bartender? You can't even mix drinks!"

"Telekinesis, buddy."

Raven arched an eyebrow. "As much as I admire your abilities, Bert, I don't know that this would work. You still need to be able to move around behind the bar to take orders."

Bert opened his mouth to respond, or maybe to take a breath, but a flash of lightning and sulfur smell made them all gag. A dark figure slithered through the door. The emergency candles flared to life, and all six eyes turned to the five-foot-tall lizard in the middle of the room.

"Evening, gents!" It said in a sibilant voice. "Nice place you have here." Nictitating membranes slid horizontally across its black eyes when it blinked. The hair at the back of Thomas' neck stood – this strange green creature had some strong magic behind it.

"We're not open yet," said Raven.

"I'm aware of that. Who's in charge here?"

Thomas pointed a finger and Bert a fin at Raven.

"This here public house is in the territory of the dragons. That means we need certain, shall we say, assurances to protect you from our hungry brethren and associates."

"You mean extortion fees." Raven's voice was flat.

"However you want to call it." The lizard handed Raven an envelope. The human opened it, and both his eyebrows lifted.

"This is impossible!"

"Ah, but that's the deal with the land, guv'nor. The spell says: 'When patrons are served by human hands, a dragon's fees protect the land.'"

"Wait a second…" Thomas stepped forward and steeled himself against the small dragon's gaze. "Your spell says human hands. What about a fish's?"

"Fish don't have hands."

"But Bert has a wish." Thomas looked at the catfish. "Would H.R. be amenable to it?"

"Helluva way to waste a wish," Bert grumbled, but he subsided when he saw the look of despair on Raven's face.

"Then do it."

Bert closed his eyes and whispered the spell: "Payment be due for helping the divine, magical forces grant this wish of mine."

Thomas felt the power gather in the room. The dragon watched without expression.

"I wish to be able to take the form of a human at will without losing my magical creature identity."

The fish seemed to inflate from the inside and burst his container. He grew and unfolded into a short, stocky man with thick beard that disappeared into his chest hair. His bulky forearms were also covered in thick, wiry black hair, but Thomas could see anchor tattoos on them. Bert the bartender wore black pants and a white shirt with sleeves rolled above the elbow.

"Your loophole is noted, but be sure that the Master Dragons will not be satisfied for long." The large lizard disappeared, and the lights flickered on.

"Great thinking, Thomas!" Raven clapped him on the shoulder. "And thank you, Bert! I cannot tell you how much it means to me that you used your wish to help me out."

"Is it too soon to ask for a raise?"

Thomas sighed and wiped the spilled water off the bar, which stayed strangely quiet.

"Hey, newbie!" The new bartender called to him. "Why don't you get in the kitchen and make us some chicken biscuits?"

How Wine Can Help Fiction: Post-Wine Bloggers' Conference Thoughts

2010-06-29T22:55:00.000-07:00

If you read my Random Oenophile Blog, you know that Hubby and I had the privilege of attending the 2010 Wine Bloggers' Conference in Walla Walla, Washington this past weekend. If not, well, now you do.

One of the panels, "More Effective Wine Writing," coalesced something that I had noticed during the entire conference: there are certain writing principles that cut across genre and publishing platform. Meg Houston, writer and editor of Palate Press, gave a list of Twenty-four Theses for wine writing, but they could easily apply to fiction as well.

Following are the principles I distilled from her and others' talks. I'll call them my Five Reminders:

1. Find your voice. How? Write, and let others edit your writing. Good editors will help you clarify your voice, which will then allow it to mature.

2. Don't forget that you've got more than just sight to work with when it comes to description. Sensorial detail helps to draw people into your writing.

3. Atmosphere and setting affect experience. No one acts in a vacuum. One or two details can make or break a piece.

4. Revision. Gotta do it. If you think it's brilliant, you should probably sit on it for a day (or longer).

5. Writing can be lonely. Having a community, whether of other writers or bloggers, is important, but don't forget that they're not the audience you're writing for.

In the end, I'm glad to have a hobby that takes me to some of the most beautiful places on Earth. It's a bonus that it connects me with a supportive community and great resources for my fiction writing as well.

Random Thoughts: Weird News, Zombie Cover-Up?

2010-06-21T08:44:00.000-07:00

This one is for BabySis, whose alter ego Ivy Star is having a birthday today. Have I mentioned my whole family is weird? This post will not disprove that perception.

Yesterday, Hubby and I were sitting at The Marlay having a post-Mass drink -- Bloody Mary for him, Mimosa for me -- when I saw the following story referenced by Twitter friend Odella Wilson:

Ghoulish Cargo of 60 Severed Heads Found at Airport

If you don't have time to read through it, here's a summary* (my comments in parenthesis):

Airport workers found human heads, whole and parts, in cargo at the Little Rock, Arkansas, airport. They hadn't been packed in ice, only in plastic containers with duct tape (because, really, it holds anything together! Seriously, how were they going to hide that in the summer heat?). The authorities suspect illicit body part trade (zombies are nervous because it's well-known they don't care that much about freshness), but others think it could be cargo headed for medical continuing education courses (I've been to industry dinners -- some doctors and pharma reps are zombie-like) for new equipment demonstration purposes (zombie crockpots cook human bits to perfection while you hide during the day). Although human parts are in high-demand for research and education, the industry is not well-regulated (zombies have good lobbyists).

Some of my favorite quotes from the article:

The coroner now has possession of the heads.

When I lived in Little Rock, I'd frequently see the coroner's van parked at my apartment complex. This made me a little nervous, so I asked at the front office about it. Apparently the coroner at the time lived there. I never knew what was in that van. Guess where my imagination went? A new meaning for "taking your work home with you."

"These were human body parts. They were medical specimens," Garland said. "There is a real demand for these body parts all over America. There is an underground market for this stuff and we are determining if we stumbled on an underground human body parts market."

I now believe in the zombie-pocalypse. Everyone thinks it's going to be violent. Nope, it's just commerce. Who'd've thought they could be so subtle?

She said human specimens are used in the educational courses she prepares.

Typically educational courses don't have names like "Appetizers 101 -- Finger Food" or "Entrees -- Head Cheese."

The trade in human body parts for continuing education is a multimillion dollar industry with virtually no federal oversight, experts told ABC News.com.

This just gets better and better...

And, finally:

A 2008 investigation into the Bodies exhibit, a travelling museum show featuring preserved cadavers in artful poses, revealed it was stocked with the illegally obtained corpses of Chinese prisoners.

Uh, like there was any doubt??? That's why I refuse to see it.

Okay, zombie-lovers and horror fans, tell me you didn't get any story ideas from this. If you did and you post it on your blog, please let me know. I'm pondering a contest that I'll run if I get at least ten comments that express interest. Why ten? Because it's silly to run a contest with three entries.

*I have to thank my sophomore English teacher Mrs. Colby for insisting that we learn to write summaries. She would likely appreciate this story, as she had a black ceramic skull on her desk and liked to wear dark colors.

On Process and Progress (or lack thereof): That Procrastination Post I've Been Putting Off

2010-06-16T18:03:00.000-07:00

A couple of weeks ago, I posted the Four P's of Procrastination with a promise (not one of the P's) to talk about how I'm working on overcoming it. I was on vacation and then conferencing in Texas, so the post kept getting put off. Yeah, irony. I did take notes and then lost them, but while unpacking, I found them again, so here goes...

If you'll think back (or look back), the Four P's of Procrastination were Personality, Perception of Time, Process Issues, and Perfectionism. I tried to distill the solutions into words or phrases that start with D:

1. Doing It

In working with depressed clients, I've heard so many times, "I didn't really feel like doing [some pleasurable activity], but when I did, I actually enjoyed myself." I sometimes forget that, at the end of a busy day when I'm emotionally and physically drained from work, writing is something I enjoy. Once I get into it, that is.

2. Deadlines

Before I left on vacation, I had a ton of stuff to do at work. You may have read about my realization that the need to do paperwork is actually gaseous -- it expands to fill all the time allowed. I only had so much time at work and so many things to do, so that whole time perception problem, the one where ten minutes doesn't seem like enough to get anything done, went out the window. I used every one of those minutes and was very productive.

Now I just need to figure out how to get the deadline thing going with my writing, which brings me to...

3. Death Threats

Okay, not literally. I'm thinking more about external accountability.

When I was in graduate school, I took an Adult Continuing Education creative writing class with Harriette Austin. I had to produce something, if not weekly, then every other week. It was one of the most productive writing times I've ever had. Harriette's encouragement didn't hurt, either.

Now my deadlines are mostly self-imposed, and I've found great encouragement from the #amwriting, #Writers_Life, and #writechat communities on Twitter.

4. Doucement

My mother is Belgian, and when I was eleven-ish, her oldest sister as well as my late uncle came to visit. They lived in the French-speaking part of Belgium, and my very active toddler sister's antics were greeted with concerned, "Doucement, doucement!" or "Easy, easy!"

When I'm setting goals, I tend to think big but not realistically. It's good to remind myself every once in a while that I'm only one person with 24 hours in my day, and sometimes I need to give myself a break.

The writing process is supposed to go the literal translation of Doucement, which means "sweetly." So, may all your writing go sweetly and smoothly. Thanks for stopping by! Enjoy the cake and wine!

On the patio: open house delayed

2010-06-09T19:47:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I think the party gnomes are out to get me. When Anne Tyler Lord offered to include an announcement about my new blog at her Writer's Life coffee klatch, I jumped at the chance even though I'm traveling this week. I didn't plan on the vagaries of hotel internet, so I'm like the hostess caught with a dirty or unfinished house.

So, this week will be an open patio. I'm in San Antonio, Texas, where it's really hard to find a good beer or decent glass of wine, so I'm serving cocktails. There are, of course, margaritas, regular:

Or top shelf:

Blood Orange Mojitos:

Daiquiris:

And, for munchies, chips, salsa and queso:

Or waffles (because I'm still random):

Yes, these are all pictures from my trip. I love it that Anne has all kinds of pictures of birds or coffee. Me? It's all about the food and alcoholic beverages, apparently.

Seriously, by next week, I hope to have more done. I always think I can accomplish more than I do while conferencing. I'm also going to do the second half on that procrastination post. Once I find my notes. The messy desk gnomes are stalking me, too.

Random Fiction: The Emancipation of Thomas Forrest

2010-06-07T22:15:00.000-07:00

My mind works in random ways. I didn't mean for The Agency to kick off a mini-serial, but it appears to have. Since others requested more about Thomas/Forrest and Raven, and it's fascinating to have a character with enough independence to try and change his own name, I felt they deserved a little more air time. I'm posting it on Tuesday since it's a little long for a Friday Flash. You can find other serials by searching the #TuesdaySerial hashtag on Twitter.

The Emancipation of Thomas Forrest

Forrest hated the smell of stale coffee. No matter how many times he made a fresh pot for the waiting room during the day, the smell still lingered, and he could almost see the brown fog gathered in the corner. If he had even just a little bit of magic, he could dissipate it or change it – maybe to the smell of pancakes, which he loved – but as it was, he just had to live with the odor and the fact that he'd never rise above his status of clerical minion. He held his breath, extracted the pot and basket, and took them to the break room to be washed.

"Forrest!" Jeanine's voice was like… He paused to come up with the right analogy. It changed daily. Today, her screeching reminded him of tires on pavement in the Concrete Realm, the sound of desperate braking just before the crunch of collision.

"Yes, Mistress?"

"Where are you?"

"Break room."

The break room of the Minion Placement Agency had a dimensional fault in the center. He could walk through it with no difficulty except his hair literally stood on end from the energy for a few minutes. It zapped people and creatures with magical abilities to random places, so Jeanine made him cross it to get to the sink. Several times a day. Sometimes he thought he would be able to zap her, but the energy never stuck around long. It made the rent on the place cheap, but damned inconvenient for him. As a minion himself, though, he couldn't complain.

She smiled when she saw his hair on end.

"Time to trim your eyebrows. You look like a Marx Brother."

"Yes, Mistress."

"I'm going back to the castle. Lock up here after you clean up. Pick up a pizza from Gargoyli's on the way home, pepperoni and pineapple with extra cheese."

He bowed, and she disappeared. He made sure the waiting room was neat and completed the janitorial tasks for the evening. The doorknob shocked him when he went to lock the door to the back alley, and he sighed. He bet she left that little present for him.

"Mr. Forrest?"

He jumped and whirled around, the key held out like a wand. Not like he had any magic to defend himself, but he'd bluff for as long as he could. Then he recognized the black feather cloak, somber face, and black hair and lipstick of one of the day's earlier clients.

"Mr. Raven, you startled me."

"I apologize." The tall man fell into step with Forrest. "I have a proposition for you."

"Thanks, but I'm not that kind of minion. I can direct you to Elvira's Pet Store if you're looking for—"

Mr. Raven shook his head. "Not that type of proposition. I sense in you a great talent, and I would like to take you on as my minion."

Forrest studied the man more closely. That black lipstick and nail polish really needed to go, but otherwise, he could pass for a villain that others would take seriously.

"I don't have any talent worth mentioning other than super-organization," Forrest said. "And Jeanine got me cheap and doesn't let her bargains go easily. You should've seen the ratty recliner she kept for decades in the waiting room!"

Before he could give any other examples, his skin tingled, and his lower abdomen spasmed. He doubled over, and Raven bent to help him. A lightning bolt flashed over their heads.

"There you are, Raven!"

Forrest couldn't see much from his kneeling position, but he saw glittery boots approach from the end of the alley.

"Sinestra!" Raven stood and held his hands out in front of him. "What are you doing here?"

"Coming after you, my love! I knew I smelled your magic when I stopped by this pathetic little agency this afternoon."

Forrest raised his head to see the 3:00 client he'd placed a nice little pixie with earlier that day. Scratch the pixie, he thought. This lady needed something with more oomph!

"I got a restraining order against you," Raven said. "By order of, ah…"

"Magic Judiciary five-oh-one-three," Forrest gasped, remembering the clerical reference number of the magical restraining orders from his minion continuing education course the previous spring. He could feel the energy gathering around them.

"Right, that." Raven crossed his arms. "I hereby banish you by order of the Magic Judiciary 5013 to the Far Reaches of Beyond!"

Forrest raised his eyebrows when she actually disappeared. His stomach stopped dancing, and he staggered to his feet.

"Sorry about that," he said.

"Nonsense!" Raven gave his shoulder a hearty squeeze. "If you hadn't sensed her magic before she appeared, she would have knocked my head off with that lightning bolt! See? I knew you had talent! Not everyone can sense power like the gathering clouds of a storm."

"Is that what those stomach cramps and skin tingles were?"

"Exactly! Come, now. Let's get some dinner and figure out how to emancipate you."

They picked up the pizza and took the Express Path to Jeanine's castle.

She frowned when they walked into the Great Room. She sat in her favorite red velvet chair by the fire, her feet up on a matching ottoman, and a glass of wine in her hand. "Forrest! How many times have I told you not to bring work back with you?"

"I'm here for a different purpose, Madam." Mr. Raven bowed. "I would like to take your minion."

Jeanine looked more surprised than angry. Her red lips formed a perfect oval for a moment, and then she said, "Whatever for? He has no magical talent, and he's useless in a laboratory."

"I am opening a restaurant and need a general manager."

Forrest noticed that he didn't say anything about that other talent.

"No dice." She waved him away. "I need him for the business."

"What if I were to make you a generous offer for him, say, five bars of gold?"

Her lip circle returned and stretched into an oval. "Five bars?"

Raven nodded. Forrest noted the man was full of surprises.

"Fine." Jeanine jumped to her feet and shook Raven's hand. Before Forrest could register what had happened, he and Raven stood outside. He felt like he had just been released from a tight vest and could breathe fully.

"What just happened?"

"I emancipated you."

Forrest went to bow to Raven, but the other man stopped him.

"I work from loyalty, not fear. This is not a Concrete Realm corporation, so you're an employee, not a minion."

"Thank you."

"What do you choose for your name?"

"I've always liked Thomas." Forrest grinned. "It's what I call myself in my head. Seems more normal."

"Then let us be on our way, Thomas Forrest. We have work to do, and you will find I have many enemies. I need a talent such as yours to know when a threat is real."

"What kind of restaurant are we opening?"

"A public house, also known as a pub. I was going to open a coffee shop, but for one small detail: I cannot stand the smell."

On Process and Progress (or lack thereof): The 4 P's of Procrastination

2010-06-02T07:46:00.001-07:00

I sat down at the beginning of May and mapped out short- and long-term writing goals. They were brilliant! They were ambitious! They were doable if I had a parallel life, a twenty-nine hour day, or lots more organizational skill than I actually possess.

Yeah, I'm one who favorites tweets pointing to articles on finding time to write and has even bookmarked Mari Blaser's blog post on it. Have I actually read any of them? No. I haven't had the time. I feel guilty about reading things on finding the time to write when I should actually be writing.

Of course, the question isn't really how to find time to write, but on how to stop procrastinating about writing. Over the past month and during Lent, when my project was to achieve balance (at which I failed miserably), I've come to realize that there are four things standing in my way, and they feed into each other. I call them the four P's of Procrastination:

1. Personality

I'm a Myers-Briggs INFJ, which means I'm introverted, see things in a big-picture, possibilities-oriented way, make decisions according to values (although I split that one), and like for things to be predictable and to go according to plan. You can probably see how this personality type works for and against me, especially since the introverted part directs the energy inward. In essence, I get stuck because I prefer conceptualization and planning, e.g., "the fun stuff" to execution, or the nuts-and-bolts getting to whatever it is. So, I'm great at setting goals, but not so great on the follow-through.

2. Time Perception

Basically, I like to finish what I start, and I want big chunks of time to do it. Fifteen minutes of free time to write? Ha, that's barely enough for me to get started with my pre-writing ritual. I feel like I need two hours to really get something done. That brings me to…

3. Process Issues

My pre-writing ritual typically goes like this:

10 minutes looking at comics online to "relax my mind"

10 minutes checking Twitter and following Favorites to blog posts by other people, but not the time-management ones that make me feel guilty

5 minutes convincing the gray cat not to sit on the laptop keyboard and randomly open windows

5 minutes trying to convince the black and white cat not to jump on my lap, an action that will lead to a fight with the gray cat. Usually black and white cat ends up on the back of my chair.

5 minutes to make tea, get a glass of wine, or other refreshment

10 minutes to remember where the hell I was in my work-in-progress and review most recent entry…

You get the idea. By then, it's been 45 minutes, and it's time to move on to something else. It drives me crazy when someone says, "Oh, I must be ADD" because I think that's an excuse for the whatever percent of us who don't have ADD, so I'm not going to say it, but I realize that I have a problem with distractions. What are they distracting me from?

4. Feelings of overwhelm that come from Perfectionism.

I just asked Hubby if he thinks I'm a perfectionist. He gave me that, "Oh, crap, there's no right answer to this question!" look, which likely means, "Uh, yeah. Duh." That's one of the things I realized during my Lenten project: I procrastinate because I don't like for things not to come out perfectly the first try. This has been a lifelong struggle for me, a sort-of Type A personality. Hubby calls me a "Type A and a half," or not quite Type A, but also not laid-back enough to be Type B.

The problem is that I see what things could be – remember that N part of the personality type? – but they don't start out that way, and I lack patience. This causes me to set goals that are too high, which leads me to be overwhelmed and procrastinate (see: pre-writing routine). I think this is why I like writing #fridayflash stories. I can knock one of those out in 30-60 minutes, revise it in the same amount of time, and be done with it. Longer works take more effort.

Now that I've recognized these things, what am I going to do about them? That will be the subject of my next blog post on writing. Meanwhile, I'm going to knock out a travel blog post so I continue to feel good about myself.

Friday Flash Fiction: The Agency

2010-05-28T09:12:00.000-07:00

The idea for this one came out of a conversation I had last weekend with a friend who asked what I wanted in a minion. Yes, I love my friends. If you know of any minions looking for work, please direct them my way. I promise I'll be nice to them as long as they behave.

This week has been insane with regard to work and getting ready for vacation, so I apologize to those whose #FridayFlash stories I didn't get to read and comment on yet from last week. I'm going to try to catch up soon.

The Agency

"What are you looking for in a minion?" Forrest raised his eyebrows and invited the individual across from him to impress him with something witty, clever, and original.

Instead, the dour man with the black lipstick and fingernails and raven feathers woven in his long, stringy hair said, "Unquestioning obedience."

"I've heard that before." Forrest added a cheerful upswing to "that" in his tone to make it sound less flippant. "Let me see what I can do to find you the perfect one. Will this assistant need to have any special skills?"

"Some rudimentary chemistry knowledge and a love of Edgar Allen Poe, Mary Shelley, and Bram Stoker." He shifted in his seat, and his long, charcoal-colored robe rustled.

"Ah, the classics!" Forrest tapped on his black (of course) keyboard and picked at a piece of feather that had drifted to land on his grey sweater vest while the profiles loaded. The Minion Placement Agency had a policy that their employees were never to look more threatening than the clients.

This particular client raised his eyebrows and inclined his head. Forrest surmised that he lacked a sense of humor, so that was noted in his profile. That would greatly reduce the intelligence quotient of whoever was placed with him. Smart minions needed someone who could joke with them.

"This will just take a few moments, Mr. Raven," Forrest said. "Could I have someone fetch you some coffee?"

"Yes. Black. Decaf."

Forrest nodded to Jeanine, the secretary who hovered nearby. Really, she was his boss, but they had to put on appearances. For female clients, they'd trade places, and Jeanine would even whip him a little.

"One coffee!" She smiled and handed the cobalt mug to Mr. Raven.

"It's decaf, right?"

"Oh, I forgot. It will take me a moment to brew a fresh pot. Is that okay?"

"No, Jeanine, it is NOT okay." Forrest rose to his feet and held his breath so that his face would turn red faster. "What kind of impression are you giving this gentleman of our organization? You can't even fetch coffee!"

"Really, it's okay, I can wait," Mr. Raven said.

"No, it is unacceptable! You're fired, young lady! I cannot deal with this gross incompetence."

"No, don't do that!' Mr. Raven stood to block Jeanine, who cowered away from Forrest's purported rage. "It's not her fault. You're being too hard on her!"

"Well, if it's okay with you, Mr. Raven," Forrest said and took a deep breath. The computer crowed to let him know it was done searching. "Ah, here we go. I'm sorry, we don't have anyone with the skills you're looking for right now." He smiled and mopped his brow with a white handkerchief. "Please forgive my outburst. We'll keep your requirements on file and let you know if we have someone come in who'd be a good fit for you."

After Mr. Raven left, Jeanine looked at Forrest and said, "Unquestioning obedience, my ass."

Forrest nodded. He noted Mr. Raven's reaction in the profile. "He was just a big old softy at heart. It's nice to know that whoever he gets will be going to a good home."

"Stop being so sentimental, Forrest. Run the search for real, and then fetch me a bagel."

"Yes, ma'am." Once again, Forrest hoped his profile would pop up as a match, but he knew he was too smart to be happy with Mr. Raven, who still lacked a sense of humor no matter how kind he would be. Forrest wouldn't be able to switch minionhood that easily, at least not this minute, but there was a Lady Sinestra coming in later...

Friday Flash Fiction: We Love Yankees

2010-05-21T08:48:00.000-07:00

I thought I was stuck for #FridayFlash this week, but then I remembered this Southern Gothic tale I'd written for a writing group a few years ago. It's funny how experience changes your writing, especially over the span of years. That might make a good blog post at some point, so I'll just say now that I'm glad to have mostly kicked the "as" habit. For more flash fiction, search the #fridayflash hashtag on Twitter.

We Love Yankees

The First Primitive Church of the Holy Redeemer had the prettiest garden in Sleepy Hills, Georgia. That’s what Missy Smythe thought as she walked down Main Street, camera in hand, looking for local color she could capture and bring back to her studio.

“You look like a young lady who’s going somewhere.” The pleasant drawl belonged to a tall man, grey-haired, with glasses, who knelt behind a hydrangea with a fist full of weeds. The plant had balls of flowers bigger than Missy's head, each one a brilliant shade of pink or blue. Bees buzzed around them.

Missy smiled. “I don’t know about going,” she said, “I’m just trying to get home." She’d had a fight with her boyfriend Beau at the Country Bear Jamboree in Disney World, and he'd canceled her ticket and left her there. After renting a car and heading up I-75, she took a random exit in South Georgia just to drive in the shade, and here she was, walking down Main Street with dwindling hopes of finding a coffee shop with something frozen.

The man took off one of his leather gardening gloves. “I’m Rick,” he said and held his hand out, “the pastor.”

“I’m Missy. I’m just passing through.” She shook his hand. It seemed cool in spite of the day's heat.

“Well now, Missy, no one just 'passes through' Sleepy Hills. Why don’t you come to the Church tonight? We’re having a covered dish, and we’d love to have you.”

“A what?”

“A covered dish, when everyone brings something. But you’d be our guest.”

“Oh, a potluck! That’s what we call them at home.”

“And where’s home for you?”

“Connecticut.”

The corners of Rick’s eyes crinkled when he smiled. “We love Yankees around here. We even use Yankee fertilizer on our garden.”

“It’s lovely.” Missy tilted up a crimson hibiscus flower as big as a dinner plate. “I’ve never seen flowers so big! Or bright.”

“It’s the perfect place for them to grow, here in front of the house of God.”

Missy released the flower and with her friendliest smile excused herself. She wasn’t in the mood to talk about God today. In fact, she’d been having sinful thoughts about what to do to Beau when she got back home. Maybe she'd stay a while, make him worry about her…

Main Street brought her into town, where she found an old-fashioned Confectionary Shop. The smell of freshly baked bread lured her in.

“May I help you?” asked a petite woman, her hair a helmet of gray curls frosted with the flour that hung in the air. The white lace curtains in the windows blocked out more light that Missy would've thought possible. The cookies and cakes slumbered inside the glass cases like lumpy gremlins. A large black fly bumped against the inside of the window with a buzz-thunk.

“I think so. Do you know where I might find a hotel?”

The woman cocked her head. “Are you new in town, honey?”

“Just passing through. Pastor Rick invited me to a covered dish tonight at the church, and I need a place to stay.”

The woman smiled. “Well, then, you’ll likely be staying at the church.”

“Oh, do they have a guest house?”

“Somethin’ like that.”

Missy watched the flour motes drift in the dim sunlight streaming through the windows. “He didn’t say anything about it.”

“You’ll probably be invited to later. Most Yankees are.”

“Really?”

“And I’ll even bake some of my special cookies for the occasion. We like Yankees here.”

“So I’ve heard.”

Missy felt a droplet of sweat trickle down the back of her neck. The air that swirled the flour didn’t touch the oven-like heat of the store.

“Can I get you something, honey?”

Missy shook her head. The air pressed her eardrums and shot fingers of pain through her temples. “I think I’ll go now.”

“Take a cookie, dear.”

Missy reached for her purse, but the woman shook her head. “Welcome to Sleepy Hills.”

Back in the full sunlight of the sidewalk, Missy took a couple of deep breaths and tried to calm the raised hair on the back of her neck and arms. Something wasn’t right about this place. But they liked Yankees, so she kept walking and munched on the cookie, which tasted of ginger and something else she couldn’t place.

Missy walked back to where she thought she’d parked, but the rental wasn’t there.

A deep breath, then another. Stranded in a weird Southern town with nothing but her camera and her purse. Check that. Her camera. She’d lost her purse. She walked back the way she came, but she didn’t see it, and the Confectionary Store was closed. She couldn’t even find a pay phone. Finally, she went back to the church and knocked on the door.

The wooden door of the church, pitted and scarred from a hundred years of humid summers and dry winters, swung in.

“Hello?” she called. No answer. The air, cool and inviting, drew her in. She found a pew and decided to wait until Pastor Rick re-appeared. Someone couldn't just disappear forever, right?

The late afternoon light streamed through the stained glass windows and colored Missy, the pews, and the flagstone floor of the church in splotches of crimson, green, and gold. She reached for her camera, but her clumsy fingers wouldn’t work. The colors ran into each other, mixing and melting until a black vortex sucked them in. It, too, faded with the buzz-thunk of a fly against the window.

~~~

Pastor Rick found Missy slumped against the corner of the pew and gave her a shake. Nothing. The girl’s shoulder felt cool.

“Well, Miss Ida May, we have another one.”

Ida May, flour still in her curls, shook her head. “Poor dear, the heat must’ve gotten to her.”

They exchanged a knowing smile.

“What should we do?”

“I’m sure she’ll be comfortable resting for eternity in your garden.”

“True. Yankees do make the best fertilizer.”

Friday Flash Fiction: A Balance of Souls

2010-05-13T07:04:00.001-07:00

Vampires are interesting because they're conflicted, and I've gotten tired of the whiny ones. They're not my usual thing, but I guess every spec fic writer has to do a vampire story at one point, so I consider this to be my "getting them out of my system" tale. Comments welcome, as always! For more flash fiction, search the #fridayflash hashtag on Twitter

A Balance of Souls

Elizabeth fled to the orchard. She ignored the cries of her nurse behind her, "Lady, stop! Please, Lady, listen to your mother!" At sixteen, Elizabeth was too old to listen to her mother, especially when she had such horrible things to say.

Once sure she had outrun the elderly nursemaid, Elizabeth slumped against a gnarled trunk. Nurse never came into the orchard after dusk, and the sun would set any minute. The dying light of the day gilded the west side of the trees and cast dark shadows to the east.

Once she caught her breath, she yawned. Every night for the past month, she'd woken to see a figure standing at the foot of her bed. The apparition itself wouldn't have bothered her so much – perhaps it was her guardian angel, or the day's patron saint – but for the smells of blood and gunpowder. It reminded her of when her father and brothers would go hunting and come back bloody and reeking of death. Sleep had become hard to find.

What would be worse, she wondered, to be lost to the dark creatures that hunted in the orchard at night, or to be sent to the Convent of Perpetual Sorrow? Wasn't there a third choice?

"Your father lost everything when his cargo ship sank last month," her mother had told her that afternoon. "We have nothing for a dowry or education. Mother Margaret will accept you into the convent with this." She held out a gold Rosary with pearl Hail Mary beads and diamond and ruby decade beads.

If only they had sold the Rosary, they would have had enough, but it had been her great-grandmother's.

"But Eric's parents have plenty of money! They won't care if I don't have a dowry."

That's when her mother had taken Elizabeth's face in her cold, dry hands. "Eric was killed in the war, Elizabeth. A month ago. They just found out."

Tears slipped down Elizabeth's cheeks, and she slid to the ground. She didn't remember the rest of the conversation or running out of the house, only when her feet had met the dirt path to the orchard where she and Eric had courted under Nurse's watchful eye.

She raised her hand to wipe her eyes. She heard clinking and saw that she held great-grandmother's Rosary. Her mother must have handed it to her before she told her about Eric.

The pearl beads slipped through Elizabeth's fingers. "I'm lost. Hail Mary, the Lord is with you, help me find my way…"

A tall figure stepped out of the shadows between two large trees, and Elizabeth shrieked, then looked closer. She rolled to her knees, breathless at the sight of the face she thought she'd never see again. "Eric? You were killed in battle."

"So they say." He lifted her chin with cold fingers. She could barely make out his face in the waning light. Yes, it was him, but there was something strange...

"They said you were dead. They gave your sword and gun to your father." She rose to her feet and stumbled before she regained them. The Rosary clinked and swung with her drunken motions. "I… I can't marry you. There's no money for a dowry."

"Even if there was, it's too late for that," he said. "Things have changed. I've changed."

She felt her mouth press into the thin line that was her mother's disapproving expression. "What do you mean, you've changed? Your parents have plenty of money! And they'll be happy to see you."

He shook his head. "Not like this. I came to say goodbye, Elizabeth."

She touched his cheek. It was so cold! He lit a match, and she saw in the seconds between when the flame flared and faded that he had changed. His skin, always pale, now was white, and his sad smile showed her…fangs. Nurse had been right! Vampires did hunt in the orchard after dark.

She gasped and stepped back, crossing herself with the Rosary. "Who did this to you?"

"It was a creature, a man dressed like a looter, who crossed the lines after the battle. He found me. He asked if I wanted to die. I said no, and that's when he did it. If I had known…"

"Have you killed anyone?" she asked. "Oh, Eric, your soul! You'll go to Hell!"

"No, only animals." He looked away. "But time grows short. I feel the thirst."

"Stay with me tonight," she said, remembering Nurse's stories. She came up with a plan to save him. "You can be gone in the morning. And I shall go into the convent and pray for your soul."

He nodded. They talked all night of their childhoods, and the plans that they had made for when he got back from the war. Elizabeth saw the sky lightening to the East.

"I want to come with you," she said.

"What?" He looked at her with narrowed eyes.

"Let me join you. There's no life for me here, and I'll die in the convent!"

"Are you sure?"

She nodded and offered her neck, the spot where he had often stolen kisses. She gasped when she felt his fangs slide through her skin, and she let him drain her as she kept one eye on the sky.

"Now you," he said. He bit a pair of holes in his wrist and held it to her mouth. She turned her head away.

"Elizabeth, drink!"

Her vision swam, each breath an effort. "No."

"But you said…"

"I'm saving your soul, Eric," she said. "Wait for me, my love." The rim of the sun peeked over the horizon and shone through the spaces between the leaves. She closed her eyes so as not to see him burn, but she heard and smelled it, the popping and sizzling, blood and gunpowder. She curled her fingers around the Rosary and prayed, "Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners, now at the hour of our death…"

Book Review: The Golden Cockerel by Kenneth G. Allen, Jr.

2010-05-09T13:25:00.001-07:00

It's hard to write, finish, and revise a book, and it takes courage and money to get it out there if the author wants to take the self-published route. Readers who are interested in self-published books but who don't want to waste their time on low-quality ones need a place to go for reviews. My goal is to post a review of a self-published book two or three times per month so that authors and readers can connect with each other. I'm also going to try and get author interviews so that readers can meet the people behind the books. At first, reviews and interviews will be posted separately due to time constraints. Oh, and I'm going to try and keep things fun, so be warned.

A disclaimer: I'm going to start with books by authors I know through real-life connections and through Twitter. If you're interested in getting your book reviewed and are willing to be interviewed by an otherworldly catfish, please email my assistant at bert{at}ceciliadominic.com or follow Bert on Twitter and message him there.

Title: The Golden Cockerel: A New Odyssey
Author: Kenneth G. Allen, Jr.
Genre: Historical Fiction with Paranormal Elements

The title of Kenneth G. Allen, Jr.'s novel The Golden Cockerel: A New Odyssey seems ambitious, but after reading this tale of adventure, lust, battles, and celestial influence, I believe it is warranted. Set in the Roman Empire of the first century A.D., The Golden Cockerel follows the adventures of landowner Gaius Petronicus and his fourteen-year-old slave Justinian as they cross the Mediterranean in search of Gaius' kidnapped daughter Portia.

Justinian, really Justa, disguised as a boy to increase her value, is a member of the new Christian religion and has the power to heal. Gaius still follows the Roman gods. In many books set in this or similar eras, the author's religious agenda shines through, but Allen does well in balancing the two, and he stays out of the way of the story, which is neither pro-Christian nor pro-Pagan. The characters' cleverness influence the storyline more than the gods' actions, which helps to avoid tiresome Deus ex Machina plot twists.

Allen's research pays off in a novel that comes across as authentic both with regard to setting and culture. No fear of Americans running around dressed as Romans in an earlier time! I caught myself being angry that Gaius and crew could kidnap a woman from a savage island with the plan of selling her into slavery in what seemed to be a callous manner, but that was my American principle of individual freedom clashing with the Roman mindset of "if you're not a Roman citizen, you're fair game." It helps that later on in the book, Gaius comes up against the same principle, but turned against him by a greedy politician.

I only have two complaints about The Golden Cockerel. First, the story starts a little slowly, but it picks up quickly as it allows us to know the characters. Second, speaking of characters, keeping track of the large cast can be difficult, especially of the ones who drop out for a bit and come back later. The book may have benefited from one less subplot, as well, but Allen does a good job of tying them all together in the end.

With regard to formatting and quality, my compliments go to Dog Ear Publishing. Allen speaks highly of them, and the book itself is a work of art with great cover design and line drawings at the beginning of each chapter. Allen also provides a list of Latin terms at the end, but most of them can be figured out from context.

The Golden Cockerel is a fun journey through ancient Rome with believable characters and a nice balance of Christan and Pagan influence. It's definitely worth the seventeen bucks and is available on Amazon.com.

My first guest post! and Call for blog links

2010-05-03T11:12:00.001-07:00

I'm so excited! My first guest post is up at the Peevish Penman -- Articles about Writing blog. The stages of grief aren't just for death and dying anymore (but it really is a lighthearted article). Thanks for the invite, Carrie!

This brings me to another topic. I'd love to get a list of favorite writing blogs for the sidebar. So, if you have one or know of a good one you'd like me to check out and link to, please let me know.

Have a great week!

Friday Flash Fiction: S.O.B.

2010-04-30T08:26:00.001-07:00

Now that Always a Bridesmaid is over, I'm going to return to self-contained stories for my Friday Flash contributions. I'll be starting a new serial for The Penny Dreadful within the next month once I get some groundwork laid, but I plan to keep the serial separate from Friday Flash. Stay tuned!

I've never written anything in second person P.O.V. before, so feedback is welcome as to whether this one worked.

Friday Flash: S.O.B.

I just had a perfect evening out with my wife and daughter, and now you're going to jump out from behind that dumpster and point a gun at us? Damnit, yes, Jenny, you told me not to take this shortcut to the car!

Yes, I know you want my wallet and my wife's purse. Go ahead and hand it over, Jenny. I told you to upload those pictures of little Tommy to the computer from your phone. Now what pocket did I put that wallet in?

There's no reason to yell. As you can see, we're being quite cooperative.

I couldn't help but notice that your hand shook slightly when you took Jenny's purse, and I see the corner of your eye twitching. I'm a neurologist – that's a nerve doctor, you know – and I've seen those signs before. Yes, yes, I'll make the explanation quick. I understand you have credit cards and identities to steal.

Well, those nervous twitches could be early signs of a stroke or pulmonary embolism, where a clot dislodges from a blood vessel and then re-lodges in the lungs or brain, which blocks the blood from where it needs to go. Tell me, are you feeling a little tight in your chest? I see the gun is trembling – would that be from a sudden pain in your right shoulder? Your breathing sounds labored. We call that S.O.B., or Shortness of Breath in the medical world. Yes, it's a little medical humor to set you at ease. It wouldn't do for you to stroke out after such a good haul, now, would it?

What if I told you that you look just like the guy we treated in the E.R. yesterday? He'd come in with a lovely P.E. That's the clot in the lungs. I've heard it's quite a painful way to go, like suffocating on land. Is your throat feeling a little sore? That could be another early sign, especially if your breath is short.

My, that's a nasty wheeze you've developed! Go on, back away into the shadows. Seems your date with the Grim Reaper is coming sooner than you've expected. You're blinking rapidly – vision's swimming, is it? And that wheeze is much worse. Your heart must be going a million beats a minute. Don't worry, I've never heard of it exploding in someone's chest – yet. Go on and have a seat. We won't bother you.

Maybe you should let me take your pulse. You'll have to put the gun aside first. Yes, let me feel on either side of your neck. There!

Okay, Jenny, I found the carotid arteries and knocked him out. You can get your purse and call the cops on your cell phone. I've got my wallet. They don't call me Doctor Vulcan Death Grip for nothing, even if I am a psychologist!

Always a Bridesmaid: Finale

2010-04-26T15:00:00.000-07:00

Yes, it's the final part! It's a bit too long for a #fridayflash, so I decided to release it with my author chat with The Penny Dreadful. Your comments, as always, are welcome. Look for a surprise after the story. To read the first parts, go to the More Fiction page on my website.

XII. Collision

For a moment, Toby and Tiffany looked at each other like they had the day before. Thunder roared across the sky, and Tiffany shook herself out of the thrall.

"Where's Bert?"

"He's under the table in his container in a paper bag. There are holes in it so he can see out. I still can't believe I'm toting around a talking fish, by the way."

Tiffany smothered a laugh, and the hair stood up on the back of her neck. A chilly breeze ruffled her dress, and she remembered ghost-Danny's warning, "He's going to take as many souls as he can with him!"

"What is it?" asked Toby.

"I think they're coming!" Tiffany told him. She could see shadows moving through the crowd, and she smelled the sulphur-dirty feet aroma of Lydia's first husband's spirit. The woman in front of her turned around, and Tiffany saw it was Amber, in jeans and a shirt with "Bridesmaid" stenciled on it.

"Is he here?" Amber whispered.

"Why should I tell you?" Tiffany couldn't help it – she was mad at the girl for holding back on her.

"I'm sorry!" The breeze ruffled Amber's hair, and she brushed it out of her mouth. "Yes, I want peace for Danny. As for Lydia…" She shook her head. "I still can't forgive her. She knew about the curse! She'd had a dream, but she wouldn't believe it or get help. I would have bailed on this one if she hadn't talked to you."

A huge gust of wind knocked the tables with the gifts and goodies legs-over-top, and the guests scrambled to pick up scattered presents. Tiffany dove for her cupcakes and brownies, but Toby grabbed her arm.

"Bert!" He cried. They found the fish in a wet paper bag with only a half-inch of water in his bowl.

"Help!' The fish's mouth moved. "I can't breathe air!"

"Some guardian spirit you are," Toby said, but Tiffany could see his concern when his eyes met hers. "Can I go to your place and get some water?"

She nodded and gave him the key, and then realized what a stupid thing she had done. Danny's ghost had warned, "Only one can stop him, and time grows short." What if that one was Toby? And she had just sent him away! Gigantic raindrops splotched her hot pink dress, and she lost sight of Toby in the downpour.

"What is it?" Amber asked. "You look panicked."

"Remember Danny's warning?"

Amber's eyes grew wide. "Where's Toby?"

"Getting more water for Bert." Tiffany gripped Amber's forearm. She'd spotted him, the man in the tuxedo from her dream. He stood a few feet away and seemed to be looking for something. Or someone. "And the demon is here!"

"Where?" Amber looked around, her wet, stringy hair clinging to her face. "I don't see one."

"The guy in the tuxedo."

"But he doesn't have horns!"

"Un-freaking-believable." Tiffany dragged Amber behind a nearby tree so the demon wouldn't spot them. "They don't look like the ones in the movies. Demons gain nothing by being obvious, even if they're the best-dressed guys in the park."

"What are you going to do?"

"My guess is that he's after Lydia, so I'm going to follow him."

"Uh, Tiffany?'

"What?"

"He's right behind you."

Tiffany felt the demon's hands sear the flesh of both her upper arms when he grabbed her, turned her around, and grabbed her again and held her at arms' length. She saw Lydia behind him.

"What do you want from me?"

His black eyes glittered in the watery daylight, and he drew his lips back in a feral grin. "I'm here for my wedding, little dancer."

Tiffany's heart beat in her stomach. Or maybe her stomach climbed up to her throat. Either way, in his grip, she felt like she would simultaneously choke, faint, vomit, and scream. And maybe die.

She did manage to choke out, "I'm not available. Always a bridesmaid, you know."

"I can feel the energy around you, ma petite. All the wet dreams you engendered in your previous life, and the hopes you give girls now. I want to consume all of it."

Tiffany remembered that Azmodeous was the demon of lust, and it all clicked into place: why Lydia had consented to let Amber tell her secret and her later visit with Trent. It was all to draw Tiffany in as the new object of the demon's attentions. There had been a bargain for Lydia's freedom, and the price was Tiffany.

---

Toby ran across the square and toward Tiffany's street. He held Bert's container in front of him and rolled his feet so the fish wouldn't lose any more of his precious water. Large drops splashed into the bowl, and Toby slowed. The water that hit his exposed skin felt like tablespoon-sized liquid projectiles, but they seemed to have a good effect on the fish.

A black Camaro rolled to a halt in front of him, and a slender man with black goatee got out.

"Raphe?" Toby asked.

"Did you find her?" Again, Raphe's leather jacket and hair seemed untouched by the deluge.

"Who?"

"The girl. The bait for the demon! I had to leave you to make preparations for his binding, but I figured you'd watch out for her like you did in the dream."

"Tiffany!"

"Yeesh, man," Bert said, his bowl now almost full. "I'm flattered ya left the hot blonde to help me out – you're a real bro – but that was a dumb move."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Why don't you try to think straight while you're suffocating?"

Toby shook his head, and he, Raphe, and the fish headed back across the square at a jog. The rain came down so thickly that he couldn't see but ten feet in front of him. A monster jumped out of the mist at them, and Toby dodged to the side. Raphe stopped and held a hand in front of him.

"Out of my way, bug-boy!"

Trent, dressed in flame-proof armor and wielding a huge sword, paused. "You're not a demon. You're –" His jaw dropped.

"You're in the way," Raphe said and waved him aside. "You can follow us if you want, but just watch."

"Where'd he get the armor and sword?" asked Toby.

"Southern boys keep all kinds of crap in their cars."

---

"Is Lydia finally free now?" Tiffany asked. Maybe if she could keep him talking, she could figure out an escape route. Not that his grip was lessening.

"To be with a man she doesn't love?" The demon laughed. "Who says I'm not without my sense of irony? There will be no love or lust in that marriage. She wanted to play it safe, so I let her." He would have continued, but a stream of cold water interrupted him, and he staggered backwards, spluttering. Tiffany took advantage of the distraction to knee him in the nuts.

"Geronimo!" Bert yelled as he tumbled out of the plastic to-go bowl that Toby held over the demon's head. Trent charged through the rain, his sword pointed at the demon, who handily tripped him, grabbed the sword, and leapt back, still bent in pain.

"I'm not going back to Egypt, Raphael," he snarled at the slender man with dark hair and goatee who had followed Toby.

"Idiot!" Bert gasped from the ground. Tiffany wanted to go to him, but Toby held her back. He still held Bert's bowl, turned up again to catch the rain.

"Did you prepare for something like this?" he asked.

Tiffany pulled the two halves of the rose quartz heart that Amber had broken from her purse. She watched the demon and the unarmed archangel circle each other. She could feel the power pulsing off of Raphael, but Azmodeous had absorbed some energy from her, and she could see the sword glowing red. Whoever lost that battle would have to retreat and regroup, and if that was Raphael, they were in trouble.

"I did some reading, but of course it's not relevant now." She dropped the two halves of the heart into the bowl and whispered, "Virgin water, gift of the Goddess, absorb the chaste love between brother and sister and the energy of years of mourning." She grabbed the bowl and crept behind the demon, who focused his attention on Raphael. She poured the water over him, and he howled, especially when the heart, now whole, touched his shoulder. A cloud of steam rose up around him, and Raphael pushed her out of the way. She landed on the ground beside a forlorn object on the ground: a smoked bearded catfish.

"Oh, Bert!" she said and knelt beside him. She picked up the body of the fish, which still steamed.

"Heya, doll, what can I say?" The catfish gasped. "It's the handsome ones who die young in these tales."

"But you weren't … You didn't…"

"I told Toby to catch the rainwater and dump it on Azzie. Trust me, me and Raphe, we've done this before. Nice work with your knee, by the way. Demons have 'em, too. And that move with the crystal – brilliant!"

"Thanks."

"Now you just gotta let things take their course."

She placed him back on the ground, and he disappeared in a sizzle of smoke that smelled like fried catfish.

"See ya in another life, doll!"

"Is he gone?" asked Toby. He knelt beside her.

Tiffany nodded. It felt like she had the heart lodged in her throat and knew that all the water on her cheeks wasn't the rain. "But he left this." She picked up the dried bleached white skeleton and handed it to Toby.

"What's that?"

Raphe emerged from the cloud of steam. "Bound him again! Nice spell, witch."

Tiffany blushed. "Thank you, Archangel."

Raphe nodded at the catfish skeleton, which Toby held with his thumb and forefinger. "That will cure your father. Just grind it up, mix it into a paste, and put it over his eyes, and he'll be good as new. No more brain tumor or blindness."

"What about Lydia?" asked Amber.

"Oh, I'll take care of her." Tiffany turned toward the middle of the square, where the couples gathered again. She saw Lydia support a limping Trent.

"Tiffany, wait," said Toby.

She turned. "What?"

"Whatever she did to you, this isn't going to be over until she's happily married." He gestured toward the couples. "And this isn't going to cut it."

"Then go stop her." Tiffany watched Toby walk away and sighed. He'd talk some sense into his cousin, especially now that the demon had been bound. Again, apparently.

"It's been going on since Biblical times," Raphe told her and came to stand beside her. "Some stories get told again and again even if the Protestants kicked them out of their Bible."

Toby approached her, Lydia and Trent behind him. "Yes," he told them, "the demon is gone. Tiffany and Raphe vanquished him!"

Lydia looked incredulous. Trent, pissed off. Raphe winked at Tiffany.

"You mean I'm free?" Lydia asked. "Oh, thank you!" She came toward Tiffany, arms outstretched in preparation for a hug.

Tiffany stepped aside, and Lydia ended up face-first in the mud.

"Now if you'll excuse me," Tiffany said. "I have charms to work for deserving brides. Toby, I believe we have some things to discuss, like the proper way to prepare an ichthys powder for healing."

"I'll catch you later, Lydia," Toby said. He followed Tiffany, Raphe a step behind. "What was that about?"

She started to tell him, "Well, your cousin almost trapped me into an eternity of hell married to a demon," but stopped. Their family relationship was more important, and he really needed to keep Lydia from marrying Trent.

"Go keep her from making this huge mistake, and then we'll talk."

Before he could say anything else, Amber ran up to them. "I saw Danny!" she said. "And he was whole and smiling and not stinky!" She threw her arms around Tiffany. "Thank you, thank you!"

"You're welcome. Just… Don't tell anyone about my past, okay?"

"Done."

"Your secret is safe with me, too," Toby told her. "Hey, after the non-wedding, how about I come by your place? We'll talk about the ichthys spell, and maybe you can help me with some of my other problems back home. You see, there's this chick who's blackmailing me to marry her…"

Tiffany held up her hand. "You can tell me later." She watched Toby and Amber walk away together and noted the couple potential there. Maybe she shouldn't have let Amber polish all that charmed rose quartz – she'd be a guy magnet for a few days.

"And what for you now, witch?"

She'd forgotten about Raphe, who stood a few feet away.. "I've realized that I'm missing a lot more of my past than I thought. I need to find it back."

He nodded. "It's time. Azmodeous was only the first of your battles. The others won't be won so easily, and you will need access to all your skills and memories."

Tiffany saw him as the splendorous archangel Raphael for a moment before he disappeared. It didn't comfort her.

"All right, Tiffany Chiffon, or whoever you are," she told herself. "It's time to stop playing around and get serious." She looked back at Toby, who held an animated conversation with Lydia, and smiled. "And maybe you won't always be a bridesmaid, after all."

End

Oh, no, I've killed Bert! Don't worry, he has decided to emerge from the Great Beyond and join us on Twitter. Follow him at BertTheCatfish. You can't keep a fish with a big mouth quiet!