16 May 2012

Chinese Whispering series - free for limited time on Kindle


Today is the first of our Kindle Free days - lasting from 00:01 Pacific time, 08:00 Uk time and 18:00 Australian time.


WHAT MAKES CHINESE WHISPERINGS ANTHOLOGIES UNIQUE?

Each anthology is a collection of interwoven short stories by emerging writers handpicked from across the English-speaking world. Unlike other anthologies, Chinese Whisperings is created in a sequential fashion and each story stands on its own merits while contributing to a larger, connected narrative.

The Red Book, the first of the anthologies has each successive writer taking a minor character from the preceding story and telling their story as the major character in the next story. Each writer also references events from the preceding story to tie the ten stories together. The anthology can be re forward, or backward, or begun in any place because of its circular nature.

The Yin and Yang Book takes the concept a step further, with the anthology played across parallel airport universes stemming from a decision to retrieve a stolen painting or to leave without it. It's a sliding doors/spider web hybrid. Readers will see common characters slipping across the two universes, some of them behaving in slightly different ways. The parallel universes are anchored between a common prologue and epilogue. 

TWITTER HASHTAG
#chinesewhisperings

BOOK BLURB - Red Book
In a small North American university town ten lives are intersecting…


Miranda reaps what she has sown.
Mitchell understands there is no resisting fate.
Clint dreams of forging a violent destiny.
Elizabeth is about to make a discovery.
Robin hides a terrible secret.
Simon hasn’t slept in ten days.
Sam is pursued by nightmares.
Susie has lost everything.
David has just been found.
Jake atones for past evils.

Ten ordinary people struggling to keep their sanity in an insane world.

TABLE OF CONTENTS
Mercurial Jodi Cleghorn (Ed)
Kraepelin’s Child Annie Evett
Discovery Paul Servini
Innocence Tina Hunter
Not Myself Dale Challener Roe
Not My Name Jasmine Gallant
Out Of The Darkness Rob Diaz II
Heartache Emma Newman
One in the Chamber Paul Anderson (Ed)

BOOK BLURB - Yin and Yang
7.30AM. THE INTERNATIONAL TERMINAL OF A MAJOR EUROPEAN AIRPORT IS POISED ON THE BRINK OF CHAOS.

7.35AM. PANGAEAN AIRLINES, EUROPE’S PREMIER CARRIER, IS PLACED INTO RECEIVERSHIP, CANCELLING ALL FLIGHTS AND IMPOUNDING THOUSANDS OF ITEMS OF LUGGAGE.

The Yin and Yang Book follows the complicated web of events stemming from a suitcase, a stolen van Gogh painting, one woman on the run from her employers and the consequences of her decision to stay or go.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Prologue Jodi Cleghorn (ed)
Three Monkeys Paul Servini
Three Rings Chris Chartrand
Dogs of War Tony Noland
This Be the Verse Dan Powell
Providence Dale Challener Roe
No Passengers Allowed J.M. Strother
Thirteen Feathers Rob Diaz II
One Behind the Eye Richard Jay Parker
Chase the Day Jason Coggins
Somewhere to Pray (Kurush)  Benjamin Solah
The Guilty One Emma Newman
Excess Baggage Carrie Clevenger
Where the Heart Is Tina Hunter
The Other Side of Limbo Claudia Osmond
Freedom Laura Eno
Cobalt Blue Jasmine Gallant
The Strangest Comfort Icy Sedgwick
Lost and Found Jen Brubacher
Kanyasulkam Annie Evett
Double Talk Lily Mulholland
Epilogue  Paul Anderson (Ed)

And for shits and giggles...The Clash.

10 May 2012

"27" #Fridayflash



Photo credit: mconnors from morguefile.com

It wasn’t like I told her I’d love her forever. Or any at all. The posts she wrote about me on the public band forums were unforgiving, at the very least. I carried on with my life, hoping she’d give up, find someone else to obsess over but after fourteen months, I couldn’t take it anymore.

She’d taken the very thing I held most dear and destroyed my faith in it. The music in me was dead. My guitar sulked under a thin coating of dust. My curtains remained drawn to the day, as if I was some kind of nocturnal inhuman creature. I shied away from cameras while out and about, when before I’d embraced them.

She’d broken my trust in her. The things I’d told her that I’d never admitted to anyone. She’d poured my secret thoughts into the ear of anyone with more than five minutes to listen. My private fears, dripped out of her non-stop mouth. My voice died. The stage stood empty in my mind. There was no melody to draw life out of my slumped and lanky form.

My wrist bones stood pronounced, my cheekbones so sharp they could cut paper. Sunken hollows lay in half-circles under my eyes. I was frozen; an effigy of what was once great and powerful. The women had once ran their fingers through my blond hair. Now it flooded down my back like a road of static. I knew I was bad. I was fully aware of what the shit I was on would do. I just didn’t care. I didn’t want to want anything anymore, and I had plenty of money to get it.

I lay prone on the ratty couch, with the old dust cover haphazard, fingers brushing the raised rubbery buttons of the remote. I watched TV with one eye open, the other buried in a pillow of tears of regret. I had to pee. My stomach rumbled, pissed off that it’d been three days without solid food. A half-glass of water and a bottle of pills beckoned from the low coffee table.

It’d be so easy.

The thought hit me like a fully-loaded semi hauler. I didn’t have to go through day after day. I could give myself over to the great beyond. Past the tunnel and the blinding light. I knew there wasn’t a light. I’d nearly died twice while on the road in Europe because of a deadly booze and drugs one-two punch. Not the same booze. Not the same drugs. I was desensitized to danger but I wasn’t completely stupid. Just ignorant of the fact I was still mortal, just like every single one of my fans. The people out on the street. The callers, pushers, hookers, and kids that came up to my knee.

I don’t think I did it because of her. I did it because of her. That she’d happened, and that I’d let it. The case with her shit magnified my self-loathing to high definition. Bile rose in my throat, looking at those pills in that cautionary orange bottle. They were in arm’s reach. Mistake? Or solution?

I was irrational. I growled into the faded fabric and bit the cushion. My heart pounded in my chest like a fist on an oak door. The urge to pee became more insistent. I pushed up off the couch and swung my lowered head in the bathroom’s direction. I let forward momentum carry me there, slamming against the jutted ceramic sink. One of the twin faucets never stopped dripping. I’d taken pliers to it once;  I could see the rings of effort still around the narrow chrome.

Pee. Right. I positioned myself in front of the toilet, unzipped my fly and braced myself against the wall with one hand as I held my dick with the other. Her pink-handled razor was still on the shelf at eye-level. I glared at it until my eyes swam out of focus then swatted it into the bathtub. The clatter was loud in that small room. After I zipped up, I turned on the cold water and let it flow over my fingers.

I was a waste.

I dried my hands on a towel, avoiding my reflection in the mirror. I was afraid of seeing myself worse than I already pictured in my mind. My body had nearly atrophied in my year of seclusion and self-abuse. I resembled Jesus on the cross, just give me a cloth diaper and a crown of thorns.

I didn’t believe in God. If there was one, he was an asshole. Or a bitch. Yeah, that was probably it. A vengeful bitch that took particular pleasure in tormenting those guys that would try to rise to the top. I just liked singing.

Another woman had called me songbird once. I think I was fifteen. I gave her the finger. Literally. I was lucky. I always looked older than my real age. She thought I was eighteen. I may as well been. I never finished school. I didn’t need to. I’d been taken under Precocious’ wing by that time. He was the first gay man I’d ever encountered. Offers were made and declined. I was only interested in pussy. Including when I was obliterated.

I put my hands on the doorsill and rested my head on them. My knees trembled. Why was I thinking of my benefactor when he was gone eight years already? Sweat beaded on my brow. Great, I was probably getting sick. It didn’t matter. None of it did.

I’d eat, but only to make my stomach shut up. The growling was reverb in my ears and I whimpered against my skin. It was over. All of it was gone. I couldn’t reach out for my star any more than I could reach for that bottle of pills. But they would be there.

I staggered back into the den and glared at the telephone blinking stupidly with unanswered messages. My manager, my friends, wrong number. I knew what they would be already. We have a contract, we miss you, can I speak to Fernando?

I didn’t have a cellphone. I didn’t text or Tweet, or Facebook like everybody else on the planet. I was old-fashioned in that way even though I wasn’t old, despite the deep objection in my bones. It was just a setback, I’d told my manager Mindy. She’d said she was waiting on new material. I told her I was working on it.

I was a fucking liar. My name was Ren.

03 May 2012

I'm in a vampire story contest...#FridayFlash

There's some good stories here, and no I didn't vote for myself, but you can vote for me if you like. My story is called "The End is the Beginning" here in this listing:

The Were-Traveler Issue 4

This is my Roman vampire, and not Xan from Crooked Fang. Not all my vampires are smart-asses. ;)