Mindspeak

"Under the Dogwood Tree" #Fridayflash

2012-01-26T19:30:00.007-06:00

Photo credit: taliesin from morguefile.com

It began with a family picnic on that cool November day. Gray shredded clouds lay feathered against the elusive blue of sky. Frosty eddies of air mingled with scents of cinnamon and apple pie, buttery mashed potatoes and sweet raspberry lemonade. A deep-broiled brisket, browned and tender with gravy awaited us as we picked our way through the old cemetery that occupied the corner of Pinecroft and Hillsbury. Warm summer had persisted through the weeks prior to the day and emboldened by a confident forecast, we’d settled on this day to gather and eat in the waning sunshine.

Ours was a strange custom, born of generations encouraged to remain close to those that had gone before us. Memorial parks were still parks after all, and with the headstones flat and nestled in among the freshly-cut turf, one could pretend this was only a place in which to rejoice in the bounties of life.

Lilly, with her little velvet coat and matching dusky rose ribbon in her gold-spun hair, walked with Theodore in his gentle navy blue frock to compliment his dark curls and shining leather uppers. My children. I’d brought them along with Anthony, my loving husband of more than twenty years. His urn sat silent and patient as I chattered to it as if he were lying in the grass beside me. I knew his bones were ash; he never wanted to lie rotting in the ground as his father before him. Still, dinner was had here in Hillcroft Memorial Park, a clever combination of names from the two intersecting streets, and Anthony came along, though he never had much to say.

I glanced up to watch Theodore and Lilly hop over gravestones and relate spooky stories to one another, their high voices carrying bits of their tales to me over the breeze. I wasn’t hungry, but I ate Anthony’s portion anyway. Today was special.

After the children returned to settle and eat, we cleaned our area and locked the basket in the car. Anthony came with us.

“Did you find it?” I asked Lilly, older by two years than her smaller brother.

She blinked and pointed in a direction and we detoured our path. Under the spread embrace of a dogwood tree, I spotted it. The children broke away to reach it before I did. A simple square, set in the ground, blades of grass drooping inward to it. I regarded the urn in my hand. A tear escaped to slide down my cheek.

Only now could I afford to lay him to rest not rotting. He was dust already. Memories of his laugh, his smile, his hand on my cheek raced through my mind. A year. Nothing more. An unstoppable sequence of days, carrying him away from us.

I knelt beside the hole and set the urn in place.

Next year’s picnic, we would eat under the dogwood tree.

"Resurrection" #Fridayflash

2012-01-19T19:03:00.003-06:00

Photo credit: click from morguefile.com

The earth lay covered over with a blanket of fresh-fallen snow. Grave diggers cleared away a patch and broke ground. They worked well into the day, their sweat and breath steaming in the chilly air. When they’d finished, a doorway stood open, sunk into the ground. A haven for the dead. A subterranean bed. A regal casket was carried out by solemn pallbearers, silver watch chains winking in the gloom of black. Fingerprints marring the elegant brass handles were wiped clean with a white handkerchief, produced from an unknown pocket.

Mourners stood in quiet rows, swaying to hypnotic drone of the priest’s eulogy. He blessed the raw earth’s open wound.

I am the Resurrection and the Life.

The coffin sank into the earth on whispering pulleys.

I am the Resurrection and the Life.

Holy water rained down without a sound.

A sharp cry from one of the onlookers punched through the priest’s words. The woman fainted. Prayer continued, though no one was listening.

Light faded from the heavens. The ceremony had come to the final words.

May his soul and the souls of all the faithful departed through the mercy of God rest in peace.

The fragile form within the luxurious box was sandwiched between heaven and hell, forever locked in earth’s embrace.

Ashes to ashes

Dust to dust.

A star shot through the yawning sky. Gentle mists of dew shook from the upper branches of trees in the early morning breeze. Birds stirred and flitted about overhead, busy already capturing fleeing insects. They chirruped like crickets themselves, obviously pleased with the day’s bounty.

It was a golden sunrise, like the exterior curve of a ripe apple from the fabled Herculean myth. Shrouds of woolen clouds framed the skies, idyllic and yet ignorant in their silent grandeur.

Day returned.

"The Light" - A Paranomal #Fridayflash

2012-01-12T17:14:00.004-06:00

Photo credit: streetfishing from morguefile.com

Rain spattered over the cooling hood like blood, tinted carmine and blue alternately by rotating lights. Stein got out of the car. Ahead of him lay a dead woman marked pale and still by the patrol car’s headlights. He greeted the officer and together they gazed absently at the grisly scene before them. Her dress, once a deep blue satin, was ripped and sullen. The impact had left her barefoot, as being struck by a speeding vehicle often would. The chance-shower paused, as if catching a breath.

“Around what time was she found?” Stein dipped his fingers into the inside pocket of his wool overcoat to fish out a cigarette. A stray breeze caught the Zippo’s flame, wrestling with the golden tongue before he cupped his hand over the determined tiny fire. The dead woman’s blonde hair was soaked in almost equal halves of blood and rain.

“Around midnight.” The officer’s badge read C. Johnson. His face may as well been carved in flint. He dragged his dark fingers up under his plastic-covered police cap through the wiry salt-and-pepper hairs, reseating it on his head afterwards. “The coroner estimates time of death to be about nine yesterday evening, but the cold could be fucking with her temperature.”

Stein grunted in assent, his eyes dazzled again and again by the camera flash as a photographer captured each fatal detail. The dead woman’s diamond wedding ring cast off a shine like a distant star.

“The driver never stopped. No signs of braking at all. Since the road is so far out, we’re figuring it took hours for the next motorist to drive by and see her lying there.”

Stein shrugged. “Or there were more, but you know people…they don’t like to get involved.”

Johnson snorted. “They would have had to drive around her then, with her right there in the middle of the road.”

Blood pooled around the dead woman’s head, sticky and diluted from the light shower. The cleaners were attempting to separate her body from the blacktop. Stein exhaled a plume of smoke and dropped the cigarette at his feet, fating the fading glow into final darkness on the damp pavement.

The crime scene dissipated like fog in the sun. He turned to the woman who stared with wide eyes, her fingers covering her mouth. Her deep blue dress lay in solemn folds against her legs. She stepped forward on tentative bare feet.

“Do you remember anything?” Stein considered lighting another cigarette, then decided against it. He stood patient, awaiting the woman’s response. She’d stopped at the edge of where the blood stain had been moments before.

She shook her head. “Teddy and I were fighting—he said some words. We were on our way to my mother’s. He was saying awful things about her.” She turned to face Stein, her makeup smeared in black tracks over her pallid cheeks with tears.

“Go on…”

“I told him that if he hated her so much he shouldn’t have come. He told me he didn’t trust me driving alone. We argued.”

“And then what?”

“He…hit me. He was yelling terrible things. He stopped the car and told me to get out.”

“And did you?”

She nodded. “Yes. He drove off and left me there on the side of the road.” She tucked her bottom lip behind her teeth. “The next thing I knew, you were there. Waiting for me.”

“That’s what I do. Wait.” Stein put an arm around her shoulder, walking her back to his car. Long and low, people said about it when asked. Black, or the deadest shade of purple they’d ever saw. He opened the passenger door and she lowered herself into the ashen seat. Stein got in behind the wheel. Cool blue light washed over his features as the engine rumbled into life. “I’ll get you to where you need to go next.”

The woman instinctively reached for her seatbelt, but found there was none. “Where are we going?”

“I’m taking you home.” He glanced at her huddled against the door with eyes the color of tombstones. “Your name is Allis Forn. You died in 1979. Do you know what today’s date is?”

“No…what is it?”

He told her and she broke into tears. Thirty-two years she’d waited.

They drove towards the light.

Getting the Cover Art You Want: A How-To

2012-01-11T18:32:00.002-06:00

Photo credit: johmau from morguefile.com

By Nerine Dorman

So, you’ve written a work of fiction. Be it a short story, novella or a full-length epic, you’ve either decided to embark upon self-publishing it via a platform such as Smashwords, or you’re lucky enough to bring it out with a small press that will allow you to provide your own cover art. It’s thrilling to see your baby’s cover art as a thumbnail on Amazon but, by equal measure, if you’re not 100% happy with the final results; if the font is just horrid and gets lost in the background, or if the publisher provided an illustrator who got things just plain wrong... It’s going to be damaging to your career and give potential readers the wrong impression about your writing, if they buy it at all.

How do you get the cover art that you want?

Know what you want. Keep it simple. Think about an essential theme of your novel. Look at other novels in the genre. Which covers do you like? What makes them effective? When you’re up on Amazon, you’ll appear with the whole gamut of authors, from J.K. Rowling and her Harry Potterverse down to Joe Public who’s written about his pet hamster Sammy. Is there a scene from your novel, or perhaps a relationship you’d like to bring to the fore?

When Carrie and I worked on the illustration for our short story, Just My Blood Type, our tale took place in a bar. Drinks and vampires came to mind, hence the two shot glasses filled with a liquid that was supposed to be rum but suggested blood. We wanted something simple and classy.

Blood and Fire was different. The story is a paranormal thriller featuring two supernatural beings in a fast-paced, conflict-laden situation, so we felt we wanted to show the two at each other’s throats because of the potential for conflict between them. The image must communicate this tension between the two but also leave potential readers guessing when they saw the cover art. Our illustrator was selected on the basis that he specialises in comic books. The typographical treatment harkens back to classic Sandman graphic novels.

Preliminary sketch for Blood and Fire

Remember, you don’t have to be absolutely literal in depicting a scene from your story. Before you start hunting down illustrators and graphic designers, or even better, artists who provide both services (they do exist), do yourself a huge favour and find out from your publisher what the technical specifications of its book covers are. These include the dimensions, as well as the resolution of the image (depth and width), which will need to be high-resolution of around 300 dpi in most cases (don’t worry, your artist will know what this means). These details must be briefed to your artists.

Choosing the right artist can be a real bitch. Not everyone will have friends who are gifted illustrators or photographers. I’m just absurdly lucky to be in the midst of a highly creative arts community in Cape Town. But if you’re stuck, I suggest swinging past http://www.deviantart.com where there are thousands of fantastic artists showcasing their work. Find one who resonates with you and for the love of all that is unholy, don’t just go with someone who’ll do something for free. A trade exchange of some sort is fine but remember if you pay peanuts, it's likely you’ll work with monkeys. Rather spend money on a good artist. And do yourself a huge favour: ask for references.

Last sketch before color

When you have your artist, communicate with them exactly what you want. This may involve finding sample images similar in style to what you have in mind. Write a creative brief, draw stick figures but brief your artist properly so that you are both on the same page and understand each other. I was lucky enough to be physically present to direct the shoot for Just My Blood Type. With Blood and Fire, I took care to give a detailed brief via email, and the illustrator later thanked me for being so thorough in communicating exactly what I wanted, down to the last belt buckle.

Artists like to be given direction when they are creating a unique work for a client. They don’t like it when they are asked to “Oh, just draw something.” Remember that they are not mind-readers. Also, their time is money, and neither of you want to go back and forth until everyone’s wound up in knots when they could have spent their time on something useful.

Another important factor to consider is leaving enough space so that you can later crop an image closer. Bear in mind where you’d like to have your title and name to appear.

Typography is just as important as the final illustration. An otherwise beautiful illustration or photo can be ruined by heinous text; fonts that are too overpowering, too textured on a busy background or treated in an amateur fashion. One good example is the font Papyrus used with any Egyptian-themed story. Or Comic Book Sans, in any situation. There are many no-nos that an experienced, qualified DTP artist or graphic designer will avoid. A number of self-taught garage designers won’t know any better, and need to be avoided too.

Once again, provide your graphic designer with samples of book covers in the same genre as your story, ones that you like and that communicate clearly. And trust me, it’s worth your while finding the right person for the job. Ask to see their creative portfolio before you make your decision. And when you work with them, ask them for more than one option. Don’t be afraid to ask them make changes until you are 100% happy. A professional should be willing to hear your side of the story while also standing his or her ground when you’re barking up the wrong tree. When you have three or more options you like, don’t make a final decision immediately. Get colour print-outs and show them to people whose opinion you trust. Ask them which cover they prefer, and why? Sleep on it then go back with your choice.

As a last word, I’ll state there is absolutely no excuse for shit cover art these days. One of my pet hates is when people feel that it’s okay to skimp if it’s for the electronic market. Bullshit. Repeat after me: bullshit. Nothing publicly distributed should be a throw-away. You want to put the thumbnail of your story on the same page where your favourite authors’ novels appear and feel justifiably proud.

Bio: Apart from her work as a newspaper sub-editor and writer, freelance fiction editing and being a multi-published author, Nerine Dorman is also a qualified graphic designer. She majored in illustration and photography, and has more than a decade of experience in the media industry under her belt, spanning magazine publishing, below-the-line marketing communications, print management and newspaper publishing.

Purchase Blood and Fire on Amazon (currently only version available)

Download Just My Blood Type, free on Smashwords

Nerine Dorman on Facebook

Creepy Green Editor on Facebook

Bracing Myself for Twelve

2012-01-09T18:48:00.002-06:00

At the end of 2011, I was at a crossroads, deciding where I wanted to take my next step in writing stories. I knew Blood and Fire had been accepted, and Crooked Fang is still at the publisher’s, awaiting the final razor. I’ve been forging ahead with Pale Rider, the second installment in the Crooked Fang series and all in all, I’ll venture to say the character Xan Marcelles has found a receptive audience.

So what’s next? Resolutions? Promises? Try a vague guess at what I might fall into next. Real life, as always, takes an alternating leap ahead of what still feels like hobbyist writing, so the progress is slower than one might expect. At the rate I’m going, averaging a number of approximately five-thousand words a week, Pale Rider has a way to go. My mind itches to do something different, something…meaner.

There’s been requests for more stories from myself and my co-author Nerine Dorman, and I believe we shall be answering that call once again. Nothing solid yet, but we’re attempting a sketch on our longest work together yet. I’ll keep you posted on that front.

Back to the mean stuff. Rubbing shoulders with some of today’s horror greats has tickled my fancy to come up with something …horrid, but again, nothing definite yet. I had a concept for a Purgatory-like literaryscape, and I’d like to explore that universe further. I have hopes that place too will find a receptive readership.

Writing Blood and Fire with Nerine made me realize just how out of practice I am at penning horror-style stories. Maybe I’ll post a few excerpts right here for your appraisal.

Twenty-twelve promises to be the turning point in my status as an author. How will I fare?

Only time will tell.

-CC

Blood and Fire on Amazon

BLOOD AND FIRE

2012-01-03T19:22:00.000-06:00

I’ve been talking about BLOOD AND FIRE that I co-wrote with Nerine Dorman and posting little hints about the book coming out in February. Well, scratch that. It’s out now. We submitted it to Dark Continents and ding! There it was a few days later. (For links, see bottom of post.)

SURPRISE!

And the cover is as Nerine would say, feeeelthy-gorgeous. Two talented artsmen each contributed their expertise and skill to create a cover worthy of the NYT Bestseller list (in my opinion, of course). Nerine and I tossed around some ideas simply because we had such a ball writing and promoting JUST MY BLOOD TYPE, and she has INKARNA coming out in May 2012, so we dreamed up BLOOD AND FIRE.

It had its difficulties. We’d originally planned to project it as another teaser-style book similar to JUST MY BLOOD TYPE, but Nerine caught word that DCP was looking for new shorter works. We decided to go for it. The book was nearly finished, and with the new objective, we had to go back (especially me) and fill in some things that would enable it to be a stand-alone story. Cramming all that info into a book 22k words long without making it one big fat info-dump proved quite challenging. But we managed.

We had the cover art already ready, after a back-and-forth with the artist, fine-tuning parts of the two characters, me for Xan, and Nerine for Ash. He came through beautifully, and signing off on that was a definite proud moment.

We sent our then current draft of the story to Cat Hellisen for the first beta-read. At this point, I’ve learned a lot about how valuable a beta reader can be to your WIPs. Get one. You really want to pass it under a new pair of eyeballs so you get a circumspect point of view.

Our second beta reader, Melissa Ecker, gave a great perspective on Americanizing some of Nerine’s more obscure references. Her questioning helped us expand on previously vague ideas. As she did it last-minute, and with a WIP on her own, her time was greatly cherished.

Nerine fell ill during the last part of the process and ended up finalizing details from her hospital bed. It was a frantic rush for the cover to meet deadline.

After all the edits were done, and we submitted it to the publisher for review, we needed typography on the cover. What some of you may not know is just how important typography can be to a book cover, especially an ebook. Consider how you view your choices when buying an ebook. Thumbnails. The art and especially the font needs to be easy to spot and hopefully read, even when it’s not much bigger than a postage stamp. Nerine worked with her husband to come up with the perfect typography treatment, via a series of emails and talks. And he did a wonderful job!

I’m proud to present to you Xan Marcelles’s next adventure, BLOOD AND FIRE, and introduce Ashton Kennedy (whose part was written by Nerine Dorman) for your reading pleasure.

BLOOD AND FIRE is only available via Amazon’s Kindle or Kindle apps at this time (all other formats after 90 days), but you can read it on Apple devices, Android via the app, and even just your computer. Consider a read for less than a fancy Starbucks coffee.

Buy BLOOD AND FIRE on Amazon

Add BLOOD AND FIRE to Goodreads

Add/Download JUST MY BLOOD TYPE - free!

Thank you to the kind participation of the artists:

Art by Daniel S. Hugo – website

Typography by Thomas Dorman – website

A note of appreciation for our beta-readers:

Cat Hellisen – website

Melissa Ecker – website

Special thanks to my talented co-author:

Nerine Dorman – Facebook page

Don’t forget to like the CROOKED FANG Facebook page for more updates on Xan Marcelles!

CROOKED FANG website

CROOKED FANG is due out in August 2012 from Lyrical Press in most electronic formats.

BLOOD AND FIRE - My upcoming collab

2011-11-08T11:02:00.001-06:00

I know I haven't blogged or posted many stories lately, but I do assure you that I have been working on Crooked Fang-related material! Here's a quick link to the post over at crookedfang.com.
(the excerpt and picture looked better on the white background)
<----small preview...

Nerine Dorman and I will be releasing this for a menial price in February 2012 in all electronic formats.

Don't forget, Crooked Fang itself will be unleashed upon the world May 2012!

See Nerine Dorman's post for the other half here!

Help this band achieve their dream

2011-11-02T05:39:00.000-05:00

With three days left, the clock is running out. Sitting at 71% of goal, the $2k is so close, yet so far away. I'm asking you to reach out, share, and donate. Even $5 and a post to your Twitter or Facebook wall would do a big favor to this local Austin band.

Get swag from Powderburn! See "Lights Go Down" vid:

You can pledge here:

ONE FIX, their last album is here at a name-your-own-price bargain.

Last Call for Horror Submissions!

2011-10-08T11:07:00.000-05:00

We’re at the Last Call for Bloody Parchment Horror Anthology submissions and really want to see your work! I’ll be one of the judges this year and we have a cool grand prize win of a manuscript assessment, plus a round of up to novel length (!!) edits! This is a big deal, people. Editing is expensive!

Edits will be performed by the luxe Nerine Dorman, who also happens to be my editor for Crooked Fang. You can story like I do!

Submit your horror pieces of up to 3k (or questions) to Nerine.

Visit the site at http://www.shadowrealminc.com/bloodyparchment/

Submission guidelines: http://bloodyparchment.blogspot.com/

Deadline is October 31st, so get those subs in. I promise we don't bite...much.

Feature at A Reader's Heaven

2011-09-01T20:06:00.000-05:00

This made me so happy this morning to be part of their month-long Indie author spotlight. I was even number one! Wow, thanks so much for the warm words and high vote of confidence Paul!

A Reader's Heaven presents Carrie Clevenger

Book Review: Lost at the Con

2011-09-01T19:00:00.003-05:00

Lost at the Con by Bryan Young

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Cobb is a jerk, a completely unlikeable self-proclaimed asshole, yet he did odd things that kept me guessing about him. Full of priceless scenes and numerous geek-specific references, Bryan Young nonetheless presents a believable 'noob' of the whole sci-fi/fantasy/cosplay convention phenomenon.

Cons (no pun intended) were a few formatting issues when the character submitted his 'reports' and a couple of typos, but nothing to truly jerk one out of the reader experience. The last half somewhat chugs along initially (but you are rewarded with a very fun culmination of a sub-plot) and there are repeated incidences (lines everywhere) but I attribute this to the author's inclination towards thorough environmental description.

A fun ride, even for non-geeks. I recommend this book to anyone looking for a book to have you laughing out loud for real. Bryan Young is a very skilled writer with wonderful character development skills, a bonus in my book. I look forward to his future releases.

View all my reviews

Book Review: Fallen Nation: Party At The World's End

2011-08-27T21:08:00.001-05:00

Fallen Nation: Party At The World's End by James Curcio

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Wow is my one word for this stunning novel. I give it four stars mainly because it's a little rough, typos and just a few rough edges to make it not perfect, but what book is really perfect, right?

Let's get to the good stuff. James Curcio is an outstanding author. This book is a modern-day crusade against, well you fill in the blank. Comparable to masterpieces dealing with matters of the mind as Pink Floyd's The Wall, Curcio's book hops heads effortlessly, taking the reader into deeper waters, weaving in mythological lore applied to today's society. The plot itself is fairly straight forward, mixed in with a dose of insanity, (but is it really?) a diverse cast of characters, and lots of toe-curling sexy scenes. Add in a big-bang of an ending in this quick read and you have what amounts to a fine piece of independent literature.

But don't take my word for it...check it out yourself.

View all my reviews

Re: My Last Post - Clarification

2011-08-25T18:20:00.002-05:00

My last blog post was intended to be a general blurb, about how trying to sell books has changed. I see there’s some kind of odd reception, as there usually is with all of my writing. Point is, I’m not worried. I have been asked time and time again how I do what I do, and I was going to make a set of posts detailing some aspects of my strategy but I don’t feel I should. I’m not looking for criticism or to be exposed as someone who ultimately wants to make a sale. Let me explain in my oh-so-bitchy-but-makes-sense sort of way:

It’s an achievement. It’s my dream.

We all have aspirations and dreams, whether it’s to build a house to specs, or to finally own that shiny sports car. Mine is to make books. I like writing books and having them be nice and edited, and look sharp in the final formatting. The truth is this: I write because I love the story. I am encouraged to write more because of my readers. I don’t write to become a best seller, or famous, or rich. I’m not looking to eat off my proceeds. I’m even considering different charities to donate portions to.

In conclusion to my gripety-gripe-gripe post, I leave you with this:

Whatever your goal is—it should include a plan to succeed.

Think about that.

Photo credit: clarita from morguefile.com

How Not to Sell Books

2011-08-22T19:44:00.000-05:00

To sell books, you must not sell books. Let me say that again. You have to sell everything but the book. You must sell yourself as a reliable source of entertainment/information. You must give incentive to your readers. You must answer the question why should I buy your books over my other choices?

I haven’t sold a single book yet, but I have downloads. Free tidbits I give to share my world with this world in hopes that it will establish a bond of trust between me and a prospective reader. I spend a good deal of time thinking of new ways to delight and amaze my growing audience. All without selling a single book. Without screaming into the hurricane that is the literary world.

I’ve seen reports of people selling unholy amounts of ebooks. The first question a person would ask is not how, but why? These are not the same questions. An example of why would be that the book was free for a certain amount of time, skyrocketing it into the stratosphere of top-tendom. (I made that up right here)

Maybe it has a pretty cover. Humans are still visual creatures. Anyone trolling the porn on Tumblr can appreciate the free visuals. Art is eye candy and tantalizes the brain.

Maybe it was a dollar before the big boom of self-published entrepreneurs. A charter member of the Only-A-Buck club. In that case, we must thank it. It’s made it even more difficult for authors intending to live off their earnings to have a ghost of a chance with a book that costs even $1.01.

Maybe it had big corporation backing and a massive marketing campaign. Ah, now this is where it gets fuzzy. Which is the right way to market a product, in this case a book?

The answer is there is no easy answer. The saving grace? Stats. If you have books out on the market, a Facebook page or even a blog, chances are you have stats available to you to show visitor interest, buying trends, even the best days and times to speak to your audience for the maximum effect. This is where I’ve dug in. I’ve found what it is that people enjoy having in their lives. One is cheap entertainment. Another is company, much like a friend, and in many cases, formed friendships.

Why do we pick up books? Is it in support of an independent author? Boredom? A focused interest?

You better find these things out if you want to survive.

(Photo credit: ardelfin from morguefile.com)

The Big Sleep, a #Fridayflash

2011-08-18T18:04:00.001-05:00

So I did without a little sleep here and there. The extra hours were great for productivity—those hours after the wee one went to bed and before the sun came in to bid me do the Devil’s work at Big Name Corporation. Driving was the hardest part. Icy cold a/c spewing from the vents in December, shaking my head back and forth to rattle out the snooze spiderwebs. Acid metal in July. Windows all the way down as I yanked my aching, splintering bones through another bitch of a day.

I figured it out. How to not sleep. The best thing ever, because I could just keep working. Burning my candle at both ends ’til what I had left was a puddle of flaming wax searing the skin from my hands. It was a breakthrough. Everyone left me be when they realized I’d discovered that magical secret. They were obviously jealous of me.

It wasn’t until the men from the bank came to collect the things from my house that I fully understood the permanence of what I’d done.

Photo credit: wintersixfour from morguefile.com

Goiter Ghost, a #Fridayflash

2011-08-12T03:11:00.002-05:00

Morning Bob, how’s that woman coming along? You read her the Riot Act like I told you?

Yeap and she didn’t like it one bit. Took the kids and went to her mother’s.

She’s an ornery one, that Regina.

That woman wasn’t just the orneriest thing out there in the swamp. There was that ghost goiter, Sangerria.

--like a real ghost?

Yes like a real ghost, now shut up, you’re breakin’ the ambulance.

Don’t you mean ambivalence?

Whatever. Me and Johnny grabbed our bibles and rifles and took on off out there in Jim’s old T so we could get a good look at the Devil.

You can’t see the Devil, Bob.

I know that but that goiter had to be the next best thing. Pale as a corpse with yellow eyes. It snapped and hissed at the both of us but we held fast. See, there was a screwdriver buried deep in its side. It was in a heap of pain and probably dying.

So what’d you do? Pull it out and make friends?

Hell no. We did what any self-respecting country boys would’ve done. We had him for dinner.

(Photo credit: gxman from morguefile.com)

Publishing Update - August

2011-08-06T00:58:00.002-05:00

In my last blog post I hinted at holding a contract for publishing of Crooked Fang, the novel I’ve been working on forever and a day. It is time to announce that particular publisher. I created a Crooked Fang newsletter and released it out Friday to the mailing list and to the general public today. You'll find the full publishing announcement, plus other links and tidbits in there, as Xan worded them better than I could have. [wink]

Crooked Fang newsletter (browser edition)

What’s next on the agenda for me? More Crooked Fang. Since I can’t seem to work without concrete deadlines, I’m imposing them on myself. This is also how I finished the first novel. My schedule is as follows:

· August 2011– Outline of Crooked Fang 2 completed

· September 2011 – Anthology with two other female authors submitted

· November 2011 – First draft of Crooked Fang 2 completed

· February 2012 – Second draft of Crooked Fang completed, submitted for beta view

· May 2012 – Crooked Fang (first novel) releases, Crooked Fang 2 goes into publisher’s hands.

All too often I hear people state that they have a novel in the works, but either don’t know how to finish it, or feel overwhelmed by the daunting aspect of revision. To this I say: Do it. Just keep working on it. Even if it’s a page a day. Don’t stop believing in your story.

Other News – Crooked Fang

I’m currently working on merchandise, focusing on wearables and stickers. Granted, I have no concept of how great the desire is for branded Crooked Fang gear, so I plan to release a limited line initially, increasing as demand also increases, if it does.

Testing t-shirt design and graphics application

There are a few other creative ideas in the mixer also, but nothing fully gelled. I’ll keep you posted.I also want to start releasing flash stories again, hoping for one a month, maybe more as time allows.Again to those of you who read my words, thank you immensely for your support as I walk in a different direction. The terrain is becoming more familiar as I go, but it’s still an uncertain future.

-CC

Contract Pending - Crooked Fang (Going to the Dark Side)

2011-08-01T06:37:00.004-05:00

I announced a few months back that I was finishing Crooked Fang, the novel and would be self-printing both the book and the accompanying album. Embittered by small burns left behind on my resume of writing, I wasn’t looking for a publisher to trust any longer. I’d set up a team of devoted individuals to help me achieve my dream of creating a full-length novel.

Things have changed.

I’ve submitted to a publisher and have received an offer for contract. Crooked Fang will be published soon in the near-future in ebook format. Printed versions should follow eventually.

I will be releasing a public Crooked Fang newsletter once the contract has been signed. Album details will also be included in this special edition. I really appreciate all of you and your support for me throughout this entire process.

Here's my latest interview over at Feral Intensity.

Newest Feature for Xan Marcelles - Free Download

2011-06-22T22:32:00.001-05:00

I had the distinct pleasure of working with an author I admire, the rather-luxe Nerine Dorman. Together we came up with a short teaser story featuring Therese Willegen and Xan Marcelles (from Crooked Fang) for our combined readers.

I would love it if you'd give it a try. Approx 9k words. You can download it directly from Smashwords in any format you desire. Feel free to review it on Goodreads.

Crooked Fang Facebook page
Nerine Dorman on Facebook

Writing is...Worth Fighting For

2011-06-09T17:49:00.002-05:00

I was tagged by Icy Sedgwick for this meme “Writing is…”

Writing is worth fighting for. It’s worth the loss of sleep that a new idea or a plot unkink causes. It’s worth the money spent on obscure, rare, or collectible volumes of research. It’s worth the time spent hunched over the keyboard so long my back cracks when I finally stand up. It’s worth starving over for just a few more hours until I can wrap up a scene or put the final touches on a short story.

There is no easy way to write. To write, I must suffer in isolation. I must buy strange music and subject myself to oddball hours to seek the silence that exists only when the others are sleeping. But I’m not the only one who must bend to the will of inspiration. My family has to understand why they can’t visit on a deadline weekend, or why I can’t just sit down and watch a movie when I’m posed in front of an open Word doc so long I may as well gather dust.

I must battle with my introverted nature when promoting my writing. I must spend months of my life writing blurbs, editing commas, and thinking/pursuing new and interesting ways to convince others to read what I’ve produced. The quaint, quiet writer of yesteryear has gone. Now an author must Tweet, Facebook and blog if he/she wishes to enjoy even an intermediate measure of success.

So then here I blog.

I tag:

Nerine Dorman

WookiesGirl

Jeremy Wagner

Richard Godwin

Ray Garton

June Updates, Crooked Fang News - A Letter to my Readers

2011-06-05T10:18:00.004-05:00

Hi everyone!

It’s been some time since I’ve updated this blog with much to read, and for that I’m sorry. But I’ve been busy working behind the scenes on so many things.

Crooked Fang

As many of you knew, I was writing a web serial called Crooked Fang. After receiving so much encouragement, I pulled the contents of the blog and compiled the story with intentions to make it into a true-blue novel. That particular project is in the revision stage, which is the stage before submission to the publisher. Currently it’s about 1/3 complete, which is great considering I’m fairly much retyping the entire thing and also writing more scenes into the story.

My newsletter mailing list has appreciated a substantial amount of growth, and for that I truly wish to thank you. The fact that each of you subscribed voluntarily and humor me by reading whatever static Xan throws out every Saturday night keeps me with full intentions to continue making it a high-priority item.

Scrivener has been a great big help with compiling Crooked Fang, and for those of you skeptical of its usability, there are a number of very useful video tutorials. One ten-minute video set me on the right path and although I still keep a master Word doc, I’m slowly learning to trust in this wonderful writing software.

Here’s a screenshot of it in action, straight from my desktop:

The revisions are tentatively scheduled for completion by the end of July. I’ll keep you posted on my progress.

Future Plans

I’m in talks with a possible home for Crooked Fang, but the challenge has been to find a publisher willing to take a chance on something not done very frequently before, and that’s a multimedia production. Because of this, the album will most likely precede the book itself. No worries though, we’re looking at putting out a Crooked Fang album 2, which will lean more towards the metal genre in music. Feedback is always welcome. I would enjoy hearing what any of you imagine Crooked Fang would sound like as a real band.

After I finish the Crooked Fang novel, I’ve already got the second one partially written. I also have plans for my 500 project, a horror/thriller novel featuring the Grim Reaper. That too has an album in talks. The album would feature various artists and have a wide range of sounds, as I am very much a David Lynch fan.

And that’s about it for future plans. Along the way, I might put out little short stories here and there, but my focus will remain primarily on the aforementioned projects.

Feel free to join me on Twitter or my Facebook page. You can also give Crooked Fang a like on Facebook. For fresh Crooked Fang flash stories, you’ll need to sign up for the Crooked Fang newsletter. The sign-up is located on the Crooked Fang site just above the big blue bass on the right sidebar.

I really look forward to the rest of this year and the next and only hope that I can fulfill your expectations from me. Thanks for reading and being my friend.

Book Review: Khepera Redeemed, by Nerine Dorman

2011-05-20T22:02:00.002-05:00

Khepera Redeemed by Nerine Dorman

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I love the direction this second book in the series took. Dorman flashes more magic and world-building knowledge at us than you can shake a deathrattle at. Jamie (who now calls himself James) continues in his evolution as a human even as he comes face-to-face with something more terrifying and powerful than even he could ever imagine.

Where does the author come up with this? This book was even better than Khepera Rising, which also received the highest rating from me. I think that this book is more general-public-reading friendly, as its contents concentrate on worlds other than ours, rather than Jamie's questionable moral standing.

If you enjoy books of magic, and tire of the friendly, fuzzy magician books and fairies of urban fantasy, look no further. This was an amazing book.

View all my reviews

My Romance Cherry has Been Popped

2011-05-19T17:33:00.000-05:00

Tainted Love by Therése von Willegen

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

There's so much to like about this story. Smokin' hot read, tall, dark and looming dead center in the book? You bet. Couple that with a heart of gold, not-so-easy resolution and well, you get the idea. Tainted Love takes place not in your usual humdrum American city but South Africa, in a city called Cape Town. The little taste of exotic culture really spices up the scenes and Therese has a way with descriptions and words that will knock your stockings off. Get it, if only for the gorgeous "scenes". Mm.

View all my reviews

Shade

2011-05-19T04:31:00.002-05:00

Something about my life traded in a parade of egos and glittering trail of what could be disturbs me. A piece of the pie, tin star in my eyes, reaching for that next branch in the tree. Take time to assess the damage of being me, around me, inside me, and figure out if you come out on top.

Stop.

I'm closing the door, pulling up anchor and departing golden shores to give this black mist in the distance its due. Without a fucking clue I'll drive all night if it'll only lead me to where I was supposed to be. A little bit of me in encased in words and typography on my screen. A breath I made extends half way across my universe and darker things lurk in shade where it's just a little bit cooler.

A few degrees.

Photo credit: mirabbi from morguefile.com

Book Review: Khepera Rising, by Nerine Dorman

2011-04-20T05:37:00.000-05:00

Khepera Rising by Nerine Dorman

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

James “Jamie” Guillaume starts out as a thirty-something man who runs an occult shop, has a proud reputation as South Africa’s “Wickedest Man”, has his pick of all the kindergoths in town at his disposal, and wears carefully applied make-up, completing his immersion in his self-constructed fantasy world. Piece-by-piece, this meticulously-maintained environment is slowly reduced, laying bare the true man beneath the veneer and positioning him against larger-than-life adversaries.

Khepera Rising is a stunning masterpiece of dark paranormal urban fantasy beyond typical glittery fae or vampires. This book is reserved for readers who want to sink chest-deep in satiny prose, vivid descriptions, and a plot that keeps them turning the page long after their body has made the call for sleep in the wee hours of the morning.

I finished this book in two day’s time only because I simply found it impossible to put the book down. The characters are each bright and memorable, and I didn’t run into the problem I encounter often, which is forgetting who is who and wondering what exactly their significance in the greater scheme of things is. No, every individual is well-placed, an essential piece of a magnificent chess set in Dorman’s universe.

Dorman further flexes her literary skills by exposing her in-depth knowledge of the subject matter and takes her reader by the hand to lead them through a labyrinth of blacker subjects than your typical St. Martin’s novel. This book provides a deeply engrossing and educational read, set on the shores of Cape Town, in South Africa.

Not since Dean Koontz’s olden horror-writing days have I been so enthralled by a story.

View all my reviews

A Moment of Pause

2011-04-14T04:57:00.006-05:00

Remember if you knew. Discover if you're still in the dark. It's been a year, leaving me at a loss yet I feel my part is to ensure everyone gets a chance to love Peter as much as we do:

His family has put together a blog and is doing regular postings of their memories of him.

The Official Type O Negative website is hosting fan-created art in a special gallery.

MetalSucks did an extensive two-part interview with his family and friends. These are really in-depth memories/thoughts. It was often hard for them to speak:

Part I

Part II

Code Bass Radio is doing a special show in Peter Steele's honour today.
The listen-to link is here.

Nerine Dorman did a heartfelt post here.

Self-Publishing: Behind the Scenes with G.L. Drummond - Guest Post

2011-04-11T03:27:00.001-05:00

G.L. Drummond

Hey there! Many thanks to the lovely and talented Carrie for allowing me to be here today.

I’m going to babble about the self-publishing process as I personally do it, using my newest title, Code Walker, as my example.

My tools are MS Word and YWriter5.

Obviously, the first step is to write, and complete, a story. Which can be a bit difficult for me, since I’m the Hop-a-long Cassidy type of writer. Code Walker is an excellent example, as I began writing it back in 2008, and then set it aside for two years before recently completing it.

I used to post each new part to my blog or a site that I belonged to for feedback while writing. I don’t do that anymore, though I do have five beta readers that I send works in progress to.

Beta readers are invaluable. They offer constructive criticism, point out inconsistencies, and help steer me away from trusting the reader too much. I have a habit of thinking readers can read my past brainwaves and will KNOW what I meant when writing a particular scene.

I am an alien, y’all. My brainwaves don’t always stretch into the future for readers to tune in to. Heh.

During the writing and beta readers’ comments, I go over the story a dozen or more times. Polishing, re-wording, cutting, and adding as needed. Once the story is the best it can be from all of that, I send it in for editing. I have two lovely ladies who edit my works, @BiblioBrat and @tmycann.

Both are excellent editors. Editing fees can range from $20 or so, up to several hundred or even $1k, depending on the final manuscript’s word count.

While the story’s in edits, it’s time to come up with a blurb and the cover.

I suck at the blurbage, and usually ask my editors and/or Kate Smith, a fellow KKP author, to write one, or to clean up the fumbling garbage I spew out. For Code Walker, I asked Kate to come up with a blurb:

In the fickle worlds created when cyberspace and reality overlap, it’s all too easy to blur and shift lines…moral lines, lawful lines, lines of code and destiny, until the surreal becomes real. Walking those lines back to the source, and rebooting the system, isn’t exactly a job for a girl who plays nice - but it does pay extremely well.

As Riley Cabot never qualified as a ‘nice girl’, life as the Code Walker is sweet.

Only thing about codes is that they break.

This year, I’m doing something new where covers are concerned. Before, I used the tools I had available (namely Poser) to create my covers. But after a few fellow indie authors politely pointed out that my covers might be partially responsible for my rather pathetic sales, it was time for a change.

Since I currently can’t afford to shell out $100 or more per cover, I’m still designing my own. But I’ve begun using stock photography instead. There are several sites where you can purchase royalty free licenses for quite reasonable fees.

Code Walker’s cover cost a whopping $29 in licensing fees, and took about 4 hours to create. First, I selected some images and used the preview of each to create cover mockups. Once I had one that I liked, I purchased the licenses and downloaded the larger, higher quality images. Then all I had to do was put them together (I didn’t use Photoshop for this cover, but FireWorks).

One thing to note: Code Walker isn’t long enough to justify releasing a print version, so its cover is purely for web advertising. Advertising usage is allowed under the standard license – but print book covers aren’t always included in the standard licenses. So check for that if you take the same route and plan to release a print version too.

By then, I’ve likely received the edited manuscript, so it’s time to approve edits and make any suggested changes that I agree with. To be honest, I do usually agree with changes my editors suggest. It’s rare that I don’t, but it does occasionally happen.

Now the story is ready to become an ebook. I use the Smashwords’ style guide to format it (it’s a free download). Something I’ve learned is that the final .doc can usually be uploaded to Amazon’s KDP without doing more than changing a bit of the info on the copyright page.

I prefer to distribute my ebooks DRM free where possible – Amazon and Smashwords.

Here’s where it might get a bit tricky: you have to upload the file to Smashwords before you can purchase an ISBN for it. So I upload, purchase that, add the number to the file in the appropriate spot, then re-upload the file.

An ISBN is $9.95 through Smashwords, if you want your own imprint to be listed as the publisher of record. If you don’t care, Smashwords has freebies and getting one of those means that they will be listed as the publisher of record for your ebook.

I have my own imprint (Katarr Kanticles Press), so prefer to purchase ISBNs.

Last, I opt-in through Smashwords to distribute it through their partners, which include B&N, Kobo, Sony, and others.

Ta-dah! New ebook published and distributed.

Code Walker’s wrap up:

Roughly 70 hours writing/acting on beta readers’ advice/polishing. Four hours to design the cover. A couple of hours approving edits; the same for formatting, and an hour or so to upload to Amazon and Smashwords. Production expenses are just under $400 for editing, an ISBN, and stock image license fees. I don’t count my time in those, because you start thinking about charging higher prices.

Oh, I forgot to mention pricing. That’s something else I’ve made changes to this year, and I price based on finished word count.

Hope you enjoyed this behind the scenes peek at my self-publishing process. Thanks again, Carrie! =)

Thanks Gayla for your insight into the self-publishing industry. You are truly a shining example of professionalism in Indie and take your craft seriously (else you wouldn't have all those spreadsheets and historical stats!). I want to wish you good luck with attaining your first 500 sales.

To all my readers, please consider buying this book up to help Gayla attain that goal. It's on sale right now for under an American Dollar. See links below.

- CC

Code Walker is on sale for 99 cents during the blog tour at Amazon and Smashwords . After that, the cover price will be $2.99, and it will be available at other sites.

G.L. Drummond is a sword-toting alien with a fetish for fur and four-legged creatures who writes fiction & tweets. Indie author/self-publisher.

http://gldrummond.com and/or http://feralintensity.com

Follow her on Twitter for highly amusing tweets about House Hunny, her adventures in writing, and the paper toss gig.

Why I Do Them - Writing

2011-04-07T08:07:00.006-05:00

Storytelling is composed of several factors: Plot, characters, and of course, conflict. It also imitates life, art, music, film, and each other. Considering a genre dead due to 'it's been done' is a fool's statement. If that were the case, whatever genre was pronounced dead would not sell not even one single copy and the reason they do not stop selling is because people are still interested in the genre/subject matter.

I've been asked why I write vampires on more than one occasion and my answer is always the same: I like history. I'm not into bloodletting (well since I was 15 or so), or wearing black lace (looks funny when with a kiddo at the store and I work at home), and as much as I'd love to, I don't drive a real hearse or sleep in a coffin.

My characters are endlessly fun to me because I can take people from different eras and have them interact. A man from ancient Rome hanging around with a fellow who was cut down in the eighties, for instance. What would they have to say to one another? I bet it'd be funny. Vampires are nice and convenient for me because of their immortality, human appearance and resilience. I suppose they are like fanged comic superheroes/villains.

When I write them I try to imagine as closely as possible what their daily (or nightly) obstacles would be. In Crooked Fang, the main character (a vampire) lives in a tavern. It makes sense, right? What if he's called out during the day for a reason? Maybe a fire or someone is injured? How would he react to such things?

There's a predatory feel to vampires that seems to appeal. Angry? Tear out some throats. Bored? Drive a motorcycle at 180 mph on an icy road. Feel those emotions because emotion is good even if it's only a black one.

Excerpt*:

He disappeared in the shadows once he reached the overhang and I heard the garage door open. I shook my head at the noise he was making and cursed when he snapped the light on. New vampires still carry habits of the living, like turning on lights when they enter a dark room, even though they don't need to. We're creatures of the night, we can see in the dark. I covered my face with my hand as he rummaged around in plain view of anyone from that angle. Thankfully he found the box quickly and turned the light off again. Then slammed the fucking garage door down. He came back over to me and I slapped him in the head.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Ow!” He whimpered and rubbed his head. “What did I do wrong?”

I yanked a few bags out of the box and carefully unfolded them. “Okay, so I'm going to lift him up and you just get his legs in the bag.”

Serv nodded and I grabbed dead Freddie under his arms and hefted him in the air. Serv fussed a little with opening the bag, but got the corpse's feet in it by easing the plastic up over the legs. Freddie was a pretty small guy so we got him almost all the way in, fit another bag over the exposed head and shoulders, and then lined the trunk with about three more bags. He didn't fit. I jerked him back out of the cavity and threw him on the ground.

“Now what?”

“Now I get to take the fucking spare out,” I said, turning the giant wing-nut to free the spare tire from the floor of the trunk. “This is starting to be a pain in the ass.”

“Well maybe you shouldn't go around killing people then.”

- Crooked Fang

Therein lies the challenges and joys of writing such a limited character. Sure he can jump off a building and survive but he burns up in sunlight. Interesting. Makes for good story. And there you have it. Why I do them. Vampires I mean. Write them.

Yeah.

Follow Crooked Fang's Facebook Page

Crooked Fang, the novel and the album is due out in Autumn, 2011.

*Rough excerpt. My editor will be waving her magic wand and making it legibler. Or something.

"Race" #Fridayflash

2011-03-25T07:00:00.008-05:00

Brit slipped on his racing gloves, smoking a cigarette down to the filter, only to light another one. His knuckles strained against the English leather, fingers clamped tight atop the steering wheel.

“He's not going to show after all.” He smirked, relaxing slightly. Cockiness reared its pointed head and he took a nip from the silver flask in his inside jacket pocket. The blue 'Stang purred around him in approval. Nothing could beat his car. Underneath the hood he had a secret. A little switch under the dash. One flick and he was gone daddy gone.

Thunder rolled in off the highway. A deep rumble drifting up to the precipice. Ghastly blue reflected off the scraggly weeds clinging to life on the rocky edges.

“I'll be damned,” Brit growled and popped the handbrake.

The stranger rolled up next to him and tipped his hat. Lightning flashed overhead without the barest threat of rain. Brit shivered and gave a curt nod to his opponent.

Cindy went to stand between the two cars, short plaid skirt whipping in the breeze. Her fishnets were torn, exposing white flesh. She pulled a scarf from around her wrist and raked her blonde hair from one cheek to blow Brit a kiss. He heard the stranger's laugh.

The scarf went up. Then down.

Cindy was pelted with thousand of tiny bits of rock and dirt as the two muscle cars blew out of there, nose-and-nose, flank-to-flank. Tires scudded on the dirt, chrome flashing as both cars gained purchase at the same time. Brit had to admit, the old man was good. He dug the gearshift into fourth and the 'Stang screamed in response, ripping it up to fifth again once he'd gained on the stranger. The 'Stang chomped up the dirt, snarling as Brit pushed it to redline. He flipped on the radio and cranked up a metal song, riding the high that only this kind of race could provide.

The stranger cut him off at the curve, snapping back into first place. Brit cursed and slapped the wheel. The ass end of the 'Stang skidded in a half-arc before Brit commandeered it back into submission. The stranger had no brake lights.

They broke out of the turn clawing for lead, the stranger's ghoulish Dodge pissing blue flame, dwindling arcs of cerulean embers left to bounce to nothingness in the rearview. A cold bead of sweat rolled down in Brit's left eye and he brushed it away. He could see the shimmer of the violet haze as he pulled to the stranger's rear wheel on his side. The inside of the car was black as a sack of crows.

The straightaway loomed ahead and Brit flipped the switch, releasing the nitro into the engine. The 'Stang shrieked and rocketed forward. He laughed like a madman as he saw the black Dodge fall behind, until the headlights were two little dots in the mirror.

The nitrous gave out almost as quick as it'd kicked in and the 'Stang's speed fell. The finish was up ahead somewhere. Brit peered through the dirty windshield and didn't see the black Dodge fly up behind him.

Metal collided with a sick crunch, and Brit was thrown forward into the steering wheel. He downshifted and tried to shake his tail but the stranger might as well been painted there. Another impact, and Brit busted his lip on his own skull ring. He tried to brake, but they didn't respond. The 'Stang went faster.

They blew past the waiting victory committee and out towards the mesa's edge. The stranger showed no relent and kept his nose up Brit's tailpipe, smashing into it every now and then. Brit'd go left, the black Dodge would swerve left. Brit swung to the right and the stranger would smash into him until he went straight again. The end of the road showed in his headlights. Brit shit his pants as he drove through the barrier.

The fall took forever.

What Happens in Vegas - A Conclusion

2011-03-17T15:16:00.000-05:00

Hello again,

The past twenty hours have been a complete mess, but I have learned a valuable lesson. Sometimes you have to let the other team win to protect your star athletes. I didn't know I'd get such a turnout to my defense. It's amazing how much support I received.

Unless I find copy-and-paste in the future, I'm not going to look. I have alerts installed that inform of the goings-on like any good little writer should. I'm not admitting defeat, only an agreement extended to stay in my corner and not let the small things/similarities/discussions provoke me.

The large blog of explanation has been pulled because I want this to be over. I can see from here it has flamed out of control due to the passionate people involved and that's not what I came here for. That's not what I stand for as a writer.

I came here to write fiction. And you all wondered why I never blogged about myself. Reality can be frightening.

CC

On M.

2011-03-16T08:41:00.002-05:00

I'm an easy going writer, or at least I'd like to think I am. Sometimes I pull other people close in order to share my universe and fundamentals with me. I pit my characters against other people's characters. And sometimes, I get burned.

The letter "M" by itself is no big deal. I have two people I know whose names start with M, and who sign their letters as simply M. And then I have "M".

M is a character who has a name of Magnus. He has been shared with a few writing partners and not so much the public because I'm working on Crooked Fang. Imagine my shock when a former writing companion decided to use that mechanic in her newest release.

My M goes only by M. I can prove it. He even has a Twitter account. He has gone by only M for a long stinking time, and this author couldn't wait to prove that it doesn't mean a damn stuck it in her excerpt not once, but twice in one page. I'm gobsmacked.

There have been other infractions of course, little things I've let slide. But this M thing? It really burns me raw. Really raw. Why? Because I've used it for years and now it's being used in a book that also has a title that runs a parallel to M's little nickname. A M/M book.

So you, author. I hope you're proud of what you did there. There's a fine line between inspiration and absolute imitation.

Watch yourself.

CC

Important Announcement Regarding Crooked Fang

2011-03-11T18:45:00.000-06:00

Greetings friends,

In June of 2009, I started Crooked Fang as my way to tell the story of Xan Marcelles. It started out as a screw-off project, wasn't updated regularly, and really just made no sense at all. But I enjoyed writing him as a strong main character, whereas before he'd always been a secondary. He had a good strong voice, and he had his own story. So I kept up on it. With the support of my new-found network on Twitter, his readership grew at a respectable rate, and the feedback I received encouraged me to try harder, and to perform at a more professional level. I started posting weekly, even though every indication insisted that I didn't have the time. At the time I was also doing weekly flash fiction via #Fridayflash which I eventually halted in favor of more pressing projects, but at the front always was my beloved Crooked Fang.

Friends, readers, I've decided that Crooked Fang can indeed be made into a novel, and with the help of some very generous and talented people, I am working to make this dream a reality, even to the extent of producing an original album after fate or destiny crossed my path with a certain musician.

I hope to have this all worked out by October, or at the very least the album. The novel should release around the same time but bear in mind, this is all brand new to me. Those of you who know me know when I plan something I take years to execute it and when I do execute it, I set fires.

So I'm throwing down a match, watching the trail blaze up to the date I have in mind for Crooked Fang to become a reality. Will it glow in the night as a beacon? Or will it explode?

Only time will tell.

Crooked Fang has been posted for free to any internet passersby for nearly two years. As of April 1, 2011 that will no longer be the case. I have a Guest List, which is a personal email list used by Xan Marcelles “himself” to email his readers. Only those people will continue to enjoy the story's continuation and extras while I finalize the first draft and beyond, up to publication.

For any of you interested in joining this exclusive list to receive communications regarding the project and from the vampire himself, please email this address and simply state you wish to be signed up. This is a legalities to prevent accusation of spam, and there are no exceptions to this rule to receive these sorts of goodies.

You can also “Like” Crooked Fang at his gorgeous new Facebook page address.

For what it's worth, I'm excited. Scared. Amused. Very broke. This is not a tiny undertaking.

I think you will all be pleasantly surprised at the manifest of my team's efforts.

Kindest regards,

Carrie Clevenger

FLASHDRIVE online book

2011-02-17T05:57:00.000-06:00

I'm really proud of this project, mainly because I love cars. It's been lying in wait for about a year, so I was surprised to get the green light of releasing this link.

Take a look. My story is called "Fly".

Crooked Fang demo release delayed

2011-02-12T09:42:00.000-06:00

I want to thank you for your support in Crooked Fang; it's already been a wild ride. Last night I introduced the musician to the production team and he recorded guitar and bass tracks. We still need drums and vocals recorded for “Night of the Dead” demo, which brings me to this announcement:

The free demo “Night of the Dead” will not be released on February 14th as originally predicted. We want to deliver only the best final product possible and have changed the method of recording mid-production. The new song will be ready for download in the next couple of weeks.

I'll be announcing a new release date soon.

Carrie Clevenger

Of Dust and Spirit

2011-01-11T05:21:00.001-06:00

Would this crumbling sort of grey fall away to expose the tattered chosen? Dead fingers grasp at the last space of air left behind in flight to take hold of something that will all-too-soon grow cold. This grave in stride, where one must end up when they’ve died and there is no second stop beyond. Still one longs to hold this strange memory, giving the illusion and questioning a certain conspiracy of where the road must end. One pretends in fact, that this person has not gone along and instead remains strong, an entity to benefit the rest of those left behind.

We create Heaven.

A holding tank or golden pastures to pleasure and entreat those who met certain demise. Fly in friendly skies on pretty wings all white and pristine; an idyllic scene to bring more to this deceived population. This congregation with scales in their eyes cannot realize that there is only a finite level of life left in these human batteries. The soul encased in flesh is best when still fresh and not left long to pull loose of moorings tossed aside.

We die without expectation.

Photo credit: lkc from morguefile.com

Their Dark Masters - Available for purchase

2011-01-07T04:19:00.000-06:00

I've been waiting for this book to be born! As a vampire writer myself, this brings me joy to know they all don't have to sparkle.

Gregory Miller- Journey to the crypt of an ancient vampire. You alone know his sacred resting place. He has promised to take you with him, when all time has ended and all things have died.

Lily Childs- A centuries-old triptych tells the story of things to come. A museum curator will come to learn its deadly secrets, and pay the ultimate price for knowledge.

Lee Hughes- Where do the lost boys of England go when there is no more room to take them in? A child discovers the truth, and makes a stand against evil.

Brian K. Ladd- A monastery houses the secrets of eternal life, and a monk must battle to keep them hidden.

From the editor:

This book is for those who have lost and are lost, and those who need to be spirited away. It is full of the most finely-crafted tales I have yet had the opportunity to edit, and now I turn them over to you, the reader. Enjoy.
-Mark A. Crittenden

On Amazon

2010-2011 Retrospect and Plans!

2010-12-27T17:35:00.002-06:00

Photo credit: seemann from morguefile.com

2010 was a full year of—what exactly, will take more than more sentence. There were triumphs, losses, surprises, and hardships I haven’t really experienced before.

Published! (In no particular order)

Best of Friday Flash ‘09
Howl – Tales of the Feral and Infernal (Lame Goat Press)
Daily Bites of Flesh 2011 – Pill Hill Press
The Yin Book – Chinese Whisperings (imprint of Emergent Publishing)
Various free e-books and ‘zines produced by peers in the industry

Promoted! At my day job, with a new region of responsibilities. I also went to the night-shift.

Husband found a job after nearly two years of struggle!

Flash-flood total loss of our other car prompted my first solo finance of a new vehicle.

New, more spacious apartment on Christmas Day.

Great things happened to me this year. I learned new things, met new people:

I gained a greater appreciation and understanding for social networking. Facebook has become a new favorite haunt. I attribute 98% of my blog traffic and writing career to Twitter.

I made a good deal of new friends, notably in or from New York and Australia. I also started looking in my own backyard and made a few connections in the Austin music industry.

I learned about the music industry, received a guitar to start practicing on, and continue to research in hopes of improving the final version of Crooked Fang.

Speaking of Crooked Fang…

PLANS FOR 2011

Crooked Fang!

The Album - Album-writing is in process. My chosen musician (who chooses only to be known as “K.” right now) is a veritable genius at guitar, bass guitar, song-writing, and has the sound I’ve been looking for.

The Book – The book Crooked Fang will be based on the free story previously posted at www.crookedfang.com. Currently with an editor for ~~slaughter~~ appraisal/approval.

The Merchandise – It is possible that merchandise bearing my own custom Crooked Fang logo will be available later this year. I will keep you posted on this. Better news, look for a free Crooked Fang sample mp3 for download by spring 2011.

Support Crooked Fang by continuing to repost, retweet, and sharing the website url with everyone you think might be interested in the story. Support independent press!

More blah-blah-blah (as yet unconfirmed)

I have good intentions to produce a fresh new novella-length story for another independent press. I’m tickled pink that they even asked me if I was interested.

Further work on unannounced Emergent projects. (I consider Emergent my home-base)

Continue my studies with music, music history and influence, and especially my newest passion—music production.

If you’ve read this far, cheers! Your care and support is grandly appreciated. I cannot thank my friends and colleagues enough for their support. I cannot repay my family for the time I take to pursue my arts, but they are outstanding in their complete tolerance and understanding.

Thank you all! Without you, I’m nothing.

Carrie Clevenger

Austin

Christmas Day 2010

Knock-Knock

2010-12-16T10:24:00.005-06:00

There's a knocking going on. I've tried to ignore it. Squashed a pillow over my head to suffocate it, but I can't get away from it. It taps through the threads of the sort of thing that an ex could do and that is follow you wherever you dared to flee. It's driving me crazy and even though I try to ignore, it insists on having its fun as it beats on my door.

It sounds like when the dice are thrown across the floor, kinda soft like that but then a little more louder and sturdier like knuckles on oak or the drop of a token on a polished bar counter. I guess what it amounts to is that no one else can hear it, so they've told me I'm little loose up there and there's nothing to fear, just to steer clear of hallucinogens and especially the old whiskey and the occasional beer.

I can still feel it thumping through my feet and the bottom of my padded seat, this tenderizing-meat-sound, that's all in the air and swirls around till I'm thinking there's just going to be nothing left…

Ah. So we finally meet, Death.

Photo credit: fieryn from morguefile.com

"Frankie's Girl" #Fridayflash

2010-12-16T03:50:00.001-06:00

Me and the boys suited up in civvies and strutted off the carrier in style, looking to find some fine dames that loved GI's. After taking a stroll to a pay phone, we split a cabbie to downtown where the dance halls smiled out at us in a blaze of neon and sidewalk callers, all touting a drink or two on sale--that one there had ladies' night, and this one here had cold beer on tap.

It was before the television set showed up in society enough to keep us from looking at each other and just stare at that boob tube, suckin' down Bloody Mary after dry Martini. My pals knew I had some crazy tastes, and that included girls. I liked them spicy and fast; smoky-eyed, red-lipped, leggy blondes, with their pretty little skirts and their carefully coiffed hair. I enjoyed the heck out of mussing that hair-do up time after time.

This girl was different. I almost tripped over my own tongue, even though she wasn't a blonde. She was a sultry brunette and wore her hair down over her shoulders, a blue ribbon in her hair to match her eyes exactly. Ivory skin, untouched by age.

I felt like all the air had been sucked out of me and replaced with furnace exhaust. She was a pretty girl, heck pretty didn't even scratch the surface of who she was. I fell back off of my stool, staggering around like a newborn calf, with hands comprised of all thumbs and a tongue as dry and swollen as last month's stockings. Somehow I managed to reach her side where she perched on the red velor-topped-chrome barstool. The bartender smirked at me and retreated to the opposite end of his work station, content to watch me bungle this meeting up from a safe distance, far beyond the potential fallout radius. I mumbled something not in the way of thanks and rested my elbows on the bar, my brain chugging in high steam, desperately scrambling for something smooth to say.

What would Frankie say? I mumbled to myself, unaware that it was also out loud.

“If you're gonna flirt sailor, best to start with talkin' to me instead of yourself.”

She turned her body towards me, uncrossing and crossing her legs again, a gay blue scarf tied casually around her swan neck, peering at me through the sweetest blue eyes I ever did see.

“Care for a drink?” I asked, smacking dry lips before she shoved her drink towards me instead. I hesitated, eying the twin, slim red straws poking up out of it.

“Go ahead sailor. I ain't got cooties. Not any you should be worryin' about anyway. You look like you need it more than me.”

I almost could hear my neck creak as I screwed my head up and down, grinding my teeth in anticipation of some crazy dame's drink. My smile must've clued her in. It was rum and Coca-Cola.

“It's been a long time since I've tasted that,” I said, and she waved it away when I tried to give it back.

“It's ladies' night sailor. In case you don't know, all my drinks are free.”

“All the girls get free drinks tonight?”

She shrugged and looked around us. She was the only dame in there, and we were surrounded by drifting clouds of smoke, and the sweet strains of jazz filtered in through a radio in the corner playing some late night show. I never heard it before, but never forgot it.

“I'm Doris,” she said and held out a delicate hand expectantly; it was the way we treated ladies back then, when they still wanted to be sweet delicate things for us to cherish and protect. I bent my head to kiss her cool skin, taking in a noseful of air to enjoy her scent.

“Is that Frankie?” she asked, jerking her hand out of mine to leave me blinking in surprise, a kiddish smirk spreading across her perfect cheeks, like she was up to something. She pulled me off my stool, suddenly on her feet.

“Dance with me sailor,” she said in a low purr close to my ear. I shook off a shiver.

“By the way I'm And—“

My words were stifled by her finger held against my lips.

“And I don't need to know. And you don't need to tell, do you sailor?”

“Do you do this often?” I asked in a rush of breath, pulling her hand away from my mouth.

“Shh sailor—it's my song.”

Want to know what happened next? "Before Sunrise"

The Complete Work "Before Sunrise" A Completion

2010-12-16T03:50:00.000-06:00

(Now if you read "Frankie's Girl", this is what happened afterwards...)

That Old Black Magic was playing on that radio and I could barely hear it, so she made a turn-it-up gesture to the bartender who couldn't stop staring at me, now that I'd broken the ice. Jealousy smoldered in his beady dark eyes. I almost stuck my tongue out at him, but Doris pulled me into a heated dance, and I was swirling her around me, her skirt blossoming over and over; the sweet smell of martinis and fancy Paris perfume, heady and bizarre, inscribing forever in memory of what a perfect girl could be. She was perfect, and she wanted me.

My pals knew better than pry me away from my new obsession and all but tiptoed past our huddled forms there in the darkest corner on their way out the door.

“You got someplace to be tonight sailor?” she said, breaking our kiss to light a cigarette, her azure gaze intense in the dying of a bent match. She offered me a cigarette, and I accepted, even though I didn't smoke. I was willing to do just about anything to make sure the night never ended. We smoked and drank, and we talked about me. I don't think I learned much beyond her name and the fact that I was in love with her.

She had a car outside, a long black car, shine on the half-moon hubcaps and another place to kiss and feel what I hoped would be mine before sunrise.

After an hour of heavy petting, me wearing some of that blood-red lipstick, we were chased out of the parking lot and she drove us down to the dock, my hand creeping up her slender thigh. She smiled and parked behind the service building, and we slid over the leather interior of her car, our bodies tangled and slippery with sweat.

“I have to ship out tomorrow,” I said as we shared cigarettes and whiskey from her compact silver flask.

“I know,” she said, cutting those limpid pools of the bluest damn blue I'd ever seen at me. “Sometimes you just take a moment, y'know?”

“But I don't know a thing about you,” I said, hearing a whine enter my voice. I wanted to keep her close to me for always.

“I travel a lot,” she said finally, giving me a half-roll of her eyes and an innocent smile. “Chances are, I'll see you at least once more.”

I bit my lip and nodded, squinting at the brightening of the sky, like a slow light reluctant to wake up, and I just wanted to turn it off, fall back in her arms, and stay there.

I didn't. Instead, I stepped out of the car, ignoring the faint creak of the shocks relieved of my weight, shut the door, and leaned into the window.

“Bye Doris. I hope I see you again.”

She lit a cigarette, releasing a delicate plume of smoke from between her lips, red as apples in Washington.

“It's time for me to go,” she said, and nodded at me. I backed away from the window and strolled back down to the carrier, whistling a gay Sinatra tune, hands stuffed deep in my pockets.

The day was long, and I did my duties with a weary smile on my face as we sailed farther and farther away from shore. Doris. Doris. Doris.

My mind was branded with those ruby lips. Her silken fingertips. Her smoky breath, sweet with citrus. A day passed. Another day passed, and another still. The light she ignited in me burned slowly, dulling as the years passed, to a burning coal deep in my heart.

I finished my stint with the Navy and returned home to the states, where I met a sweet girl from Indiana named Joyce and married her. We started a family and life progressed beyond slow dances to the tinny notes drifting from a radio, to the point of sitting in a recliner, slack-jawed at whatever crime-thriller happened to be on television.

Still, I always kept Doris in my heart.

At sixty-seven, my smoking habit caught up with me, suddenly and violently, landing me in the Sisters of Mercy hospital. I had less than a month to live. Joyce came to see me as much as she could, but with the kids still living at home, her course was set. I lay propped up by pillows, my ruined lungs struggling to support my system and supply me with oxygen, sucking as deep as I could on the aerator.

The sounds of my pulse beeping over the monitor annoyed me, and I called for the nurse to put it on silent so I could sleep for the night. But it wasn't Kathryn the nurse that walked through my door. It was Doris, not a day older even though fifty years had passed.

“I told you that you'd see me again,” she said, that kiddish grin bringing tears to my eyes.

“Don't look at me like this Doris,” I said, though I was convinced she was obviously an apparition of a desperate dying brain.

She stepped forward, and my eyes took in her modern dress: royal blue, wrap-style to match those radiant azure irises. “You're a mess sailor,” she purred and stood at my side, her cold hand talking mine. I couldn't help but gaze longingly up at her.

“How?” I whispered.

“How am I here?” She smiled, her lips the same color as when I'd seen them last; her hair was still dark as a raven's wing, but shorter, with less curl. “I guess that is a hard question to answer. I could ask you why you're here,” she said, her blue eyes cutting left and right to take in the sterile surroundings.

“I'm dying Doris,” I said, dark anger descending upon me, unbidden. “I started smoking after I met you, and here I am. A lifetime later, I'm dying, old, and used up while you stand there just looking as pretty as you did the night I met you. Leave me alone Doris. Let me die in peace.”

She appeared to think, cocking her head in curiosity. “Are you in pain?”

“Thanks to the morphine? No.”

“No need to get sore, sailor,” she said, that adolescent grin creeping to her cheeks again. Seeing her here, at this age made me feel old and perverted. We couldn't have been more than seventeen back then.

“My name,” I gasped, “Is fuckin' Andrew, Doris, but you wanted to keep that knowledge secret. You never wanted to know my name. Why?”

Her gaze dropped to my hospital-issue blanket, somewhere between the color of ash and a robin's egg. She picked at a loose thread.

“Don't make this harder than it has to be, sailor. Everything will make sense. Come with me.”

She tore the IV tube and needle from my hand with a protest of sticky tape. I rose from the pillows, strangely invigorated by that touch, and found my feet before stripping off the heart monitor. The machine protested at once.

Nurse Kathryn rushed into room 203 to respond to a request from an old WWII veteran to silence the beeping by his bed, so when she heard the error tone coming from his doorway, she wasn't alarmed. That easy demeanor changed when her eyes fell on an empty bed. With a startled gasp, she wheeled around on rubber-soled sensible shoes and rushed back to the nurse's station.

I rode in silence as Doris drove the long, lean Cadillac towards an unknown destination. It no longer mattered where I was going. My vision dimmed as the lack of oxygen set in. She patted my thigh and assured me we'd be there soon. 'There' ended up being a little no place down by the stream and the power plant.
Her hand grazed across my face, day-old gray stubble registering every last sensation of her youthful skin on mine. I saw myself in her eyes: an old man, paper-thin wattle draped below sagging neck, the wrinkles in my cheeks, deep lines surrounding my lips. Lips that once carried her name with dignity and grace. I wasn't anywhere near her in age, and as her plush mouth pressed to mine like pillows over hard horn, I startled.
“Shh sailor,” she said, cooing in my ear to assure me. My mind reeled with the very wrongness of all of this.
“You knew me once,” she whispered. “In the backseat of my Cadillac. No need to be shy.”
“I could be your father,” I said in a raspy voice that couldn't be mine, but it was now. She pushed me towards nostalgia. Tears spilled over my cheeks and sank to the underside of my chin.
“You're not my father,” she stated, as if it were plain truth, which it was, but I was not swayed. My wife's mouth hadn't felt like Doris's in decades. My eyes were drawn to the curves beneath her blouse. My hands itched to take them. Hands with tissue-thin skin, littered with age spots from too many days in the sun. She took my hands in hers, and put them there for me. I hissed and snatched them away as if her breasts were a hot coal stove.
“I can't be the man you're thinking of Doris,” I said, “What are you doing here with me? Find another sailor and steal his heart.” I licked dry lips and shook my head. “Mine doesn't have much longer to beat.”
I glared at her in annoyance, but changed my tune when she took my head in her hands and sank little pinpricks into my neck, like kitten fangs. Fangs. I struggled against the initial drain, but my weak heart and lungs couldn't persist in the conflict.
Resigned, I leaned into her, my fingers numb and my mouth dry, until warm fluid splashed across my lips. I opened my eyes and blinked. Her face hovered over mine and I drank from a creamy swell of breast, only it wasn't milk, but blood.
“Vampire,” I gurgled, rivulets of red rushing down my chin. I swallowed. Passed out.
The day passed. One more day.

I awoke in a strange bed, sitting bolt-upright to feel for Joyce, or the IV stand, or anything familiar. In the distance, faint but familiar, That Old Black Magic played from a radio in the corner. My eyes caught the sight of my hands.
Hands young, sturdy skinned, free of spots or wrinkles; hands like a seventeen-year-old.

END.

"Hive" #Fridayflash

2010-12-16T03:49:00.002-06:00

The day that the United Nations decreed that the entire globe should have free access to the internet was touted as the finest achievement in history. Low-cost computing machines were delivered to villages and towns alike. The world rejoiced at the benefits of the Information Superhighway, but there were indisputable changes.

The differences were menial at first. Global social networking took the human race by storm, leading them to reveal things one couldn’t even tell the person they were sitting next to at work. Screen names became popular brands, with certain individuals quickly climbing the ranks of popularity. Every word was admired. Every link shared, enjoyed. Private videos of family outings were placed on public display in hopes that the number of views would exceed that of their neighbors.

The evening newspaper was the first victim of the New World, falling victim to the constant demand for news now, an impossible feat for a simple physical publication to fulfill. Television news felt the pressure next, and eventually armed their TV journalists with 24-7 webcams, issuing instructions to travel constantly, and switch off when sleep came. Prime-time television gave way to recordable programming, instant and on-demand to feed the hungering masses that desired a virtual library at their fingertips.

No longer were there longing glances, walks in the sunset, or just holding hands. Fathers no longer tinkered with the family car on Sunday, and moms no longer baked cookies. Lawns stood weeded and tall-grassed. No one stopped to glance at his or her watch, pause at a pay phone, or engage in idle conversation on the bus. Libraries and museums lost their funding and closed to the public. The theaters stood dormant and dusty, their props ghostly shapes in the gathering gloom of the empty stage.

Artificial insemination was the norm, convenient and sterile, for those who even desired the necessary distraction of reproduction. Increasing numbers of senior citizens roamed the streets in roving gangs, angry and senile, rabid and strong. Board games were discontinued. Music stores trapped in brick and mortar shut their doors for the last time. Book stores stood endangered, yet the publishing industry was voracious and growing, accepting anything with less than fifteen grammatical errors under the assumption that someone would buy it. Someone would understand it.

Eventually, they didn't need portable computers and desktop machines. The human brain was capable of receiving the necessary signal to assault their entire waking consciousness upon the online world. Soon after, dream records were broadcast at one's discretionary whim, after a group of dedicated individuals weeded out the more-explicit scenes.

Schools and universities were closed. Playgrounds and courtyards overgrew with vines and invited wild animals.

Electric vehicles replaced cars, but no one had the need to leave their homes. Work was done with an ordinary thought, education was acquirable by anyone with a lucid, dreaming mind, and wares were available at the blink of an eye at check out.

The remaining youth population no longer cruised the streets or hung out at the mall, and if they were actually seen outside their homes, were consistently sending texts and video messages to their hundreds of virtual friends to document their journey. Years went by. The population continued to age. Children forgot what was in them to grow into adults and find love. Sentiments were words. Words were text. Text was safe.

A Presidential decree went out. Bonuses were offered to bio forms reproducing and creating young to further sustain the species. Her words were lost between a mind-video of a kid dancing to the latest hit “Ina-Gadda-da-blah-blah,” and a LOLcat doing the impression of INVIZIBUL FELLASHEO.

Those That Did Not Have Internet erected billboards to drum up support in returning to the roots of human socialization, i.e., face-to-face. The majority of the species continued to ignore and even embrace the warning signs.

It would take thousands of years, they said. Nothing for them to worry about. But smoking and drinking interrupted brain waves and broke up the constant feed, and health improved. The Wii Fit was incomparable to any other form of fitness and lack of interest in fattening foods, such as McDonald's, or Hula Hut caused the weight/height ratio to drop significantly.

A species of long-living, slender and pale beings. Always connected. Always sharing. A perfect world.

One ripe for the picking, the sentient being thought as it opened a cyclopean eye to the blue-green jewel draped on the universal fabric. In the Great Disconnect, the humans felt no pain, only the soft intrusion of darkness as their minds slept alone for the first time in better than two hundred years.

"The Wedding Gift" #Fridayflash

2010-12-16T03:49:00.001-06:00

Alison and I met by absolute chance while cowering in the same destitute FedEx truck almost a year ago. She looked so colorful in among the white parcels and brown boxes that I had to find out everything I could about her. Every so often she or I would run across another Normal, and we'd invite them back, but they rarely came. The last Normal to cross our threshold hung outside the attic window as a warning to any new thieves.

But he'd brought a blessing in his belongings: a simple solitaire diamond ring, and after Ali'd clobbered him and before I'd finally unloaded twin barrels of buckshot into him, we found some of our rations and this exquisite little ring. Well, I did. I pocketed it before she glanced up, pretending to take extreme intrigue in the double-knitted wool socks.

I wiggle my toes in those socks now and swallow hard. Can it possibly be called love, this thing we share? Enough to take her by the hand, get on one bended knee and profess eternity?

“Michael.” She comes in, closing the door with a smart snap behind her.

“They're coming. They've figured out that the bodies out front are a decoy.”

I snatch my boots up from beside the little fire and stomp my feet into them. “Pack what you can into that big bag, and I'll go have a look—“

“No Michael,” she says, slapping a hand over my arm. Her eyes are intense and 120% serious. “They're too close. If you go outside, you'll just give them something new to sniff out.”

The barricade, as she called it, is a cattle gate-style assembly of plywood and scrap-metal fencing, cultivating a virtual maze around the Victorian-style three-bedroom house. I know whose house it was, but my old fifth-grade teacher wouldn't need it now. She's probably still out there somewhere, chewing on the principal's face. She hasn't been in the population we've already taken down.

After weeks of fighting them off, we retreated into this house, building the fence as we could inside. I took it outside by armed escort. At night, we huddled up in the basement, the door locked and bolted with a gasoline-soaked rag crammed in the crack under the door.

They wander around top-side relentlessly, growling and chewing and occasionally attacking each other over a particularly-tasty morsel. They lap like dogs at oil-slicked puddles and meander off in packs of a dozen or more, one always assuming the alpha position of each little pod.

Ali and I were the last of the group of nine, as no one could handle the pressure as well as we could. Some shot themselves, wasting precious bullets, others were caught out after sunset gathering supplies. The sun slowed them down considerably, and heat seemed to infuriate them further.

“I was about to ask you something,” I say, snapping myself from reverie. She frowns at me, that delicate cleft in her sweet little chin deepening as her bottom lip rolls out and her cerulean eyes question me.

I take her hand in mine, slipping the ring on just as smooth as I've rehearsed it in my head, over and over. She snatches her hand away.

“What's this?”

“Be my wife,” I whisper, my hands hanging at my sides like counterweights in a grandfather clock's glass belly.

“Michael—“

“Before you object, keep in mind that I'm all you've got now. Unless there are more out there, somewhere.” I pant, the asthma kicking in as it hasn't since I quit smoking over six months ago.

“Michael, of course I will, but right now? You really want to think about marriage right now?”

I hand her her shotgun, together we load our weapons in silence. I pull her close, and her hand goes to my hair. We gaze into one another's eyes.

The door blows inward in a starburst radius of splinters. We don't look. We can't look. It's too hard to see the faces of those you used to know, coming to eat your flesh from your bones and make you just like them.

Not taking my eyes from hers, I position my shotgun under her chin, and hers under mine. Our lips meet tenderly, hesitantly, then fully as the dozens of the Others file into the room. Hairless and some missing limbs, eyes, noses and parts of ears, they sniff the air and lick their teeth in anticipation of something not dead.

“Now,” I say, breaking the kiss to pull the trigger, hoping she does the sa—

"Truth Lies Behind the Smile" #Fridayflash

2010-12-16T03:49:00.000-06:00

I think part of him wants this. He accepts my tenuous invitation quickly, perhaps because I haven't requested anything of him in a very long while. Agreement is struck, location established as the lake we used to go to.

In his hand, a bottle of cheap merlot; I can only think it's because he never took the time to know me, else it'd be white or even blush. A pinot. A chardonnay. I sip at the offered glass and smile.

Conversation ensues. His breaths distract. The pier creaks beneath us. Ducks quack in sporadic babbles behind the cattails. He talks in circles. I smile.

It's cold outside, but I take off my sweatshirt. I'm not wearing a bra. His breaths are more distracting. I suggest a swim. He doesn't hesitate and starts to unbuckle his belt. I press my fingers over the buckle. He asks about my warmth. Where I am headed, it is always warm. The Bible tells me so. Our eyes meet and I smile.

###

Bubbles blossom like pearls pushed out from his lips; his eyes, huge in their deepening color. The bottom never seemed any farther away than now. Fingers spread and paddle against the cold. The jacket comes off, increasing buoyancy. Arms like oars, not fins. Feet encased in weighty boots make no good rudder. The air expels again. His body thrashes and curls in on itself. The spine curves; movements quicken.

He’s got to be breathing in by now. An eruption of bubbles, small like spray, tickle my nose. He’s still so strong. His hands find mine atop his shoulders. I turn my face away from the splashes. The surface is a frothing torrent, swirls, and one big bubble.

It floats on the surface for a few seconds, in defiance of the act. One last breath held by thin miraculous walls of saliva. It pops, leaving only silence and ripples. It makes me smile.

"Tin Cans" #Poetry

2010-12-16T03:48:00.000-06:00

I strike—

thick.

Tin cans in a lightning bolt.

A distant cadence

but a little better

That much bloodied

Definitely wetter

A ten-thousand watt grin

I stomp my feet

and call out the passes

You bring the wine

I've got the glasses

In fact I might just

maybe might not

Need you after all...

Now that's original sin.

In Memorandum.

2010-11-10T07:16:00.001-06:00

I died last night.

The crows pierced the clouds overhead and the stars fell in and I died. Glistening veins pouring like a river, slinking over time-worn bones and the worms. Breeding, bursting, popping inside like crackling wood. Fires of love and life smoldered to a slow smoky trail of ashes. A blinding light, trailing over fingers, twitching as they curl under for the last time. Cold steel divides the line between flesh and meat, extracting my insides. Questioning the manner in which I passed. Burning skin twisting in the flames as it chars into dust.

Let me join my brothers.

Ahead is green. Seeping into the risk of me. Breathing for me. Being me. Thoughts faded and irrelevant to doing. Expectations rinsed away to expose the very center of me. Existing as a memory of many.

I am free.

Photo credit: lorettaflame from morguefile.com

Halloween Trio #2 "The Downside of 24-Hour-Stores" (repost)

2010-10-29T12:00:00.001-05:00

Photo credit: clarita from morguefile.com

I’d be crazy not to follow you where you live. Your eyes, your lips—I can taste them when I bite the air. You pass through the aisles of flowers and the light glints off your horn-rimmed glasses. You clear your throat and clutch your handbag closer. I pause on the next row and stoop to catch a glimpse of your fingers caressing satin petals. You raise your eyes to mine, between pert stalks of begonias.

A gasp.

You spin on your heel and proceed the way you came. Tomato plants whisper past your bare legs.

Short skirt.You remind me of someone.

I halt midstep.

You seem genuinely concerned.

Am I not following closely enough?

I’ll apologize into your skin.

I can smell your go-go boots. White leather. Flesh beaten into a semblance of innocence. Plasticine over your calves, leaving the knees bare. A symphony of gold and shimmering pinks with coffee. You disappear around the corner. I give chase.

The sliding doors part to depart you and I stop too late.

The parking lot resounds with screams of agony as the first rays burn my eyes.

Halloween Trio #1 "Nightlife" (repost)

2010-10-28T06:29:00.000-05:00

Photo credit: spiroll from morguefile.com

“Early to bed

And early to rise

Makes a man or woman

Miss out on the night life.”

Early to Bed – Morphine

Deidre watched me from across the room, one leg thrown over the other like she’d been molded that way.

“You staying up much longer?” she said, reaching across the arm of the sofa for her glass of wine. Her diamond anklet twinkled in the 40-watt bulb’s light from under the amber art-deco lampshade. I shrugged, leaned back against the leather lounge chair and changed the channel. She sighed, swirled the wine around in her glass.

“You always end up staying up too late,” she pouted, her cerulean blue eyes struggling to meet mine. It was one feature I always liked about her. When we’d met for the first time, amidst curled smoke and the dark stench of expensive liquors, I couldn’t stop staring at them.

“Forget it Greg,” she said and stood. “I’m going to bed.”

I watched her climb the stairs and closed my eyes. It’d been months since I’d climbed those stairs behind her. I think it was about the same time she quit her nighttime job as a singer and given up on her figure. She still had her fake breasts. But her body’d caught up with them to justify their size.

I glanced upstairs just as the light went out in the bedroom. Half-past midnight I rose from my chair and went to the kitchen to pour myself a glass of scotch, plunking three ice cubes in it to chill the flavor. I followed it up with two more, just standing there.

It was a slow death, our marriage. A stalemate because neither would give in.

I picked up the bottle and took it into my office and shut the door. I could hear her faint snores overhead through the ceiling. I flicked the power switch on my Mac and sunk into my three-thousand dollar chair. It was the best seat in the house, and Deidre’d never sat in it. It didn’t have her stink or sweat on it.

A message popped up on the screen, making me smile.

Hey baby.

I twisted the cap off the scotch and drank right out of the bottle before responding.

Sorry I’m late.

The response came quick.

It’s alright. It’s her loss she can’t stay up later.

I laughed a little to myself, softly, lest the sleeping giant hear me.

You know I’d rather have you. What are you doing tonight?

Another drink. I licked my lips waiting for the reply.

You, I hope.

Just the words I wanted to see.

Where to meet?

Why don’t you come here? I typed.

LOL, are you serious?

Yeah. We have a pool…

Mm. Sexy.

I realized I’d been holding my breath and let it out in a shudder.

You got it. If she wakes up, it’s all on you, lover.

Fair enough, I typed back.

~~~

Forty-five minutes later, a silver BMW graced my drive. Clad only in my boxers, I directed it into the garage, closing the door behind it. The engine cut out, and the door opened.

“I can’t believe you did it,” I said, my voice colored with lust.

He smiled; a slow spread of those lips, and his dark eyes shined with devilish intentions. My bare chest crushed against the smooth tailored fabric of his shirt.

“Why don’t we just kill her,” he breathed into my mouth ahead of a scorching, biting kiss, sucking my bottom lip before we parted, me blinking in disbelief.

“Kill her?”

He nodded once and licked my taste from his lips, closing the door soundlessly behind him.

The more my mind turned it over, the more I liked the idea of her being dead.

~~~

I admit, we both had more than enough scotch to excuse the behavior. First it was a messy concept: an ax, or a knife through the heart. He suggested we stake her like a vampire and we laughed before fucking again. Spent, drunk and homicidal, we finally decided to smother her with a pillow.

“A pillow?” he laughed, and kissed me in the chilling waters of the pool. We were both naked with the pool lights out. She’d have to look hard to even see us from the second floor. I looked above us. The moon was neatly out of sight behind a copse of cloud cover.

I rose up out of the water without warning and grabbed a towel.

“Now?” he said, following suit. I watched his dripping form and grinned.

“Sick,” he said and popped my bare ass with his towel. We went inside to get dressed.

~~~

The bedroom was pitch-black; I had the windows covered with heavy drapes because I slept in most mornings. Owning my own bank chain did have its perks. I could feel him press against me as we crept across the room with my guidance. I knew the layout, he didn’t.

Deidre was a back-sleeper, which made it relatively easy. I picked up the pillow from my side of the bed and crawled up beside her. She snored gently, before snorting when I clamped the pillow over her face.

Her body came alive with movement and I could hear her scream through the feathers. We bought the good pillows, thickly stuffed with goose down and 400-threadcount casing. The pillow was built to kill, but she wouldn’t give up that quickly.

Her arms flailed until she found my face and dug her hundred-dollar manicured nails deep into my skin, cutting red slashes, demanding I let go but I didn’t. I could feel the blood trickle down my cheeks and clung to her as she bucked like a pissed-off bronco at a rodeo. Her fat thighs slapped together as she kicked, drawing her knees up to slam into my spine. I cried out and she threw me off her to fall on my head in the darkness. With a banshee scream, she leapt on me and I squirmed out from under her, throwing her back into the window. She ripped the curtains down and I took the initiative to wrap them tightly around her neck. I held it tight, until she stopped struggling and I held something limp in the eerie milk-stain of the full moon's light.

She was finally dead. I released the fabric, clenching my fists over and over, my heart thundering in my ears. Behind me I heard a low rumble and turned.

Where my lover was, there stood a monstrous black beast.

On-Air #Poetry

2010-10-23T10:24:00.001-05:00

Whisper

Bring it all out into the open

This terrifying world of

words left unspoken

In the morning be sure to bring

another line

drop your dime

and listen to me as I speak

Ten worlds apart this

heart brought forth with electric spark

left out to grow and mold and to get

quickly old to bring a play in all the

words I might say

There's no play with this, the one that I know I'll

find within the confines of beaten atrocities

Kick the soul from the corpse and beat the dead

Horse to drive it down deeper

and so much farther into this cracked

ground

to lie to rest the very goddamn best

You thought you could do for me

You see?

I bring it here to spread it out and face your fears and

your burned and ashen tears that aren't really there

I swear

If someone does not change the station I am going to cut him.

On the fucking air.

- Carrie Clevenger

Photo credit: pablogv2004 from morguefile.com

This is Non-Fiction: Lectori Salutem

2010-10-21T08:00:00.000-05:00

First of all I'd like to thank you that read my blog. I want to give you everything I have just to see you smile or cry with my stories. I don't plan for them to be scary, but I want them to make you think.

I'll make this quick, before I lose my nerve. I'm going to stop sharing for awhile. Write a lot of nothing and keep them close to my chest instead of rushing out to greet the world at my door with fresh fiction.

You did nothing wrong. Neither did I, but I'm dealing with an internal situation that dictates I must regroup. I'm fine. I'm not dying, not any faster than I should be. I had a door open for me, a sense of excitement, and then I had it taken away because of what I do when I'm not writing or being a mother and a wife.

It pains me but I must make a decision. What will it be?

I guess I'll know in a bit.

C.C.

"House-Fishing - A Love Story" #Fridayflash

2010-10-15T06:57:00.000-05:00

I can't not write stories and I love to share what I've done. For those of you familiar with Crooked Fang, here is Xan Marcelles as a human Gabriel Nez and very vulnerable to Jessica DiGiovanni, Realtor...Just a sweet slice. Smile with your coffee and see why Gabriel Nez/Xan Marcelles has stolen my head and heart for ten years. - C.C.

She kind of gave me the eye as her lips mouthed the real estate words a buyer wanted to hear: Spacious walk-in closets, garden tub, ceramic tile. I don’t think I ever heard ceiling fans said in a sexier breath before. After the short tour (and every other stalling tactic I could think of) we found ourselves standing on either side of the bar in what I’d already decided was going to be my house. I’d buy anything if she came with it. Her first name rolled around in my head and I wondered what it’d feel like to say it in her mouth as I kissed her.

“Mr. Nez?” I blinked. She’d been talking to me for a few minutes and I’d completely not heard her.

“Please, call me Gabriel or even Gabe,” I said, my heart twisting in my chest, wanting to burrow deeper. She smiled, brightening the entire kitchen. I couldn’t help but return the gesture.

“Gabriel,” she said in the same voice that had just described the sexiest ceiling fans in the world. “You seem distracted.” She tilted her head in question. God, she was cute. Cuter than cute, like fine-cute. That smile again. She had me figured out. Had to. I couldn’t be standing there not-red.

“Sorry,” tumbled out of my mouth, “I just…”

Say it. You’re Beautiful. Say it Idiot.

“I just think the house is great,” I managed to finish, kicking myself in the mental balls for lack of the same.

She straightened her shoulders. I had to congrat myself for snapping her back into business mode. “So you’re interested in making an offer.”

“I am,” I said, “Let’s go get a drink. I’ll buy.”

Her eyes widened then narrowed. “Mr. Nez, I am on the job. And I drove you here.”

I licked my lips. I’d already stuck my neck out. Might as well go for the gold. “After work then. Please say yes.”

She blinked. “Yes.” Abject horror. “I mean—“

“Nope, I got a yes out of you.”

Her look of surprise slowly melted into a smile, reaching her turquoise eyes. They had little gold flecks in them. Sigh. “Alright.”

“And call me Gabriel, or even Gabe.”

“What does your girlfriend call you?”

I snorted. “You’re fishing.”

She turned on her heel, her spun-silk ponytail swishing a fresh breeze of Jessica-perfume over me. I swayed on my feet and followed her back outside to the Cadillac.

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” I said as she unlocked the doors. The door handle was scalding to the touch in the sun. I opened the door as fast as I could and we both backed away from the opened car to let the heat escape. She met my eyes.

“I find that really hard to believe Gabriel.”

I loved the way she said my name. It was like a breath with sound, but a Jessica-breath. I was Jessica-smitten. She could’ve taken me in an arm wrestling match because my knees felt like jelly.

“It’s not so hard to believe,” I countered. “I work two jobs, and spend the rest of my time either sleeping or fiddling with things in the house. Aside from a drink after work sometimes, I just don’t get out much.”

“You’re an artist right?”

I laughed. “You know all this stuff about me already. No fair.”

She grinned and dropped into the driver’s seat to turn on the car and I got in on the passenger side. “I know your credit score,” she said, sticking out her tongue.

“You gonna tell me?”

She shook her head and I felt that stupid smile creep up on my face again. The whole goddamn car smelled like her. I just wanted to kiss her all over.

“It’s against the law.”

“I bet you tell your boyfriend his.”

She bit the inside of her cheek to hide the smile. “Now you’re fishing.”

I shook my head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, crazy house-lady.”

Our giggles died down and we were just kind of staring into one another’s eyes, faces drawing closer together until she blinked hard a couple of times and jerked away to back out of the driveway.

Photo credit: EmmiP from morguefile.com

A Call for Your Coffee Money

2010-10-13T21:35:00.003-05:00

Photo credit: hotblack from morguefile.com

Christina Vincent's friend contacted me to tell me that Patience, a dear friend of hers, just lost her husband. It was sudden (seems to have been cardiac arrest), and there is not only a hole in this woman’s life but a financial struggle as well, which is the absolute last thing that someone should have to consider after the loss of a life partner. This man was in his thirties.

Sweet Libertine Cosmetics has teamed up with countless retailers to put together a raffle. Every $5 gets a chance at feel-good loot and you can help Patience survive on top of that. Hot-damn.

Help someone who needs it.

Click this to give up a cup of overpriced fattening coffee so I can get stuff
or
I have money. Gimme the direct fund link.

Launching Sunday 10.10.2010 - Chinese Whisperings

2010-10-08T15:56:00.004-05:00

I'd love to take this opportunity to thank all of you who read and support my work. As some of you may know I've been involved with a global literary project called Chinese Whisperings. Today, I'd like to unveil the cover art by Lucas Clevenger for the two e-books here, side-by-side:

We are proud to present these two e-volumes for purchase starting 10 October 2010 (that's Sunday) and invite you to read an incredible journey of stories interwoven together like never before. Both e-books have the same beginning but from there, one decision made by a woman to either retrieve or abandon her suitcase takes the reader by the hand on a wild journey through countless lives.

The Chinese Whisperings website has 750-word excerpts available for all of the stories.

My particular story, "Excess Baggage" is featured in The Yin Book.

Here are the official blurbs and author lists for each volume:

Yin Book Blurb:

In the international terminal of a large European airport, Monday morning is about to get a whole lot worse. At 7.35am Pangaean Airlines, one of Europe’s major carriers, is put into receivership grounding all flights, stranding thousands of passengers and impounding tonnes of luggage. But all is not as appears on the surface and the sliding-doors moment of one woman deciding to abandon her suitcase will ricochet through the lives around her.

Prologue--Jodi Cleghorn (Ed)

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)

Yang Book Blurb:

In the international terminal of a large European airport, Monday morning is about to get a whole lot worse. At 7.35am Pangaean Airlines, one of Europe’s major carriers, is put into receivership grounding all flights, stranding thousands of passengers and impounding tonnes of luggage. But all is not as appears on the surface and the sliding-doors moment of one woman deciding to retrieve her suitcase will ricochet through the lives around her.

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
Epilogue--Paul Anderson (Ed)

Finally, let me share the most beautiful of the Lucas Clevenger e-book covers, The Yin and Yang Book:

This e-book cover reminds me of looking up through the trees at dusk. Just gorgeous.

The links:

Chinese Whisperings on Facebook
Chinese Whisperings Website
Chinese Whisperings book shop

"Dirty Dish" #Fridayflash

2010-10-07T11:13:00.002-05:00

Yet another experiment in writing. Dead silence does work wonders. - CC

She’s taken her small shoes and handbags and left him with closet space. He appreciates the extra three feet of davenport. He’s covered up the flowered print. He’ll put it out for bulk rubbish in February.

She’s grilled for CAUCASIAN MALE. It seems wise. Her mother would have approved of his severe haircut and pencil-thin mustache.

He thinks about CAUCASIAN MALE often. 5’11” with a slight list to his step from an old football injury. CAUCASIAN MALE with the sideways smile—he should have caught that the first time she shared it with him over boiled potatoes.

He’s stretched out. He’s waiting.

The dirty dish is still in the sink. He’s decided to leave it til Wednesday. She’d hate that.

Photo credit: alvimann from morguefile.com

"Sin" #Fridayflash

2010-09-30T13:46:00.000-05:00

There's an angel in the window, face dappled by silver rain. Her eyes stretch towards heaven as she lifts the cup to her lips and shifts a bit in her chair. Feathers drift to the floor and are swept away by the barista before she's asked to leave.

She steps outside and hugs her arms as the icy rain penetrates her clothes and punches holes in her wings. Red neon bleeds over pinions as he stands in the shadows. He beckons her to his side, fingers clutching slender hips to turn and press her supine against the steaming hood of his car. Black, churning, scaled. Wicked whispers in her ear and she draws him forward for a kiss.

Her wings enfold them, graze the muscles of his back, clothed in incredible black, an absence of nothingness, less than not, as if light had never been. He bites her lip; his hands wander, seeking her skin and her wings shiver. A sigh like wind in trees and he slips inside. She sings in soft whispers; her fingers dig into his arms as the pace increases and intensifies.

They call out in unison. A gentle moment—sweet nuzzles and scalding kisses. Her wings spread.

He watches her ascend into the heavy rain.

Photo credit: firebetty74 from morguefile.com

"Three" #Fridayflash

2010-09-23T15:16:00.000-05:00

Photo credit: marko from morguefile.com

Lisa's eyes reflected the glow from the sandy bed, too long ago to be called a river. Pale like moon soil and powdered moth wings. A cloud of dust erupted on the horizon, swirling around six blue lights, splitting apart, two to a being, until they drew near and I could see they were headlights. Three of them, with respective specters behind their windscreens, bony knuckles ridged and accusatory.

They circled us like vultures—tighter and tighter—in spirals of questionable intent. Glowing eyes; burning lights that felt like acid on the skin. There were two, one fat-fendered with the suggestion of green flames, that writhed and licked above the slick rubber that churned beneath like angry hooves. The second, a black Mustang, the lights bleeding to urine-yellow at a certain angle. The driver pressed his skull against the glass and grinned as the draft made her skirt fly up around her legs.

The third was almost reptilian in appearance, long and low, inky-black scaled flesh glinting violet in the light around them, gasping gills in its sides snorting blue fire and in the driver's seat—

An arc of spirits in a close vortex, blotting out the moon and choking our lungs with silt from the dead riverbed. Whispered pleasures, treasures, and torment and the third stopped, tires pouring out of slim wheel wells like viscous oil, clutching the hard packed earth as the dust settled and I was looking into the face of Death itself.

______

I let out a breath; Lisa shook me, clutching an armful of firewood. I opened my eyes and lifted my head to look at her.

“You have to stay awake to see them,” she chided. I rolled over on my side and smiled.

She was wrong.

"Angel on the Roof" #Fridayflash

2010-09-16T10:33:00.004-05:00

Of course Jonathan tried to prepare for it. His entire college career was settled on the intricacies of Medieval wisdom and ignorance; costume and custom, effecting him to settle on a light suit of custom-crafted aluminum armor. He packed with him action figures, hoping to win over the king. His iPod was capable of going 22 hours on a single charge but his Kindle could last a month. The time machine made no fantastic swirls of color, but rather hissed and coughed a puff of smoke that cleared the rest of the University wing when he went.

He awoke some time later on his side, full backpack stabilizing his body from sliding the rest of the way down the steeply pitched roof of the great castle. Fantastic! He said to himself, the Earth moved! He attempted to extract his notepad and ink pen, but the bloody thing slipped out of his hand, slid down the roof, over the edge and poink! hit a passerby right on the top of his head.

Anonchio was on his way to answer to a debt when the bizarre twig fell from the sky. Looking upwards, he saw a shining figure.

“Oy! You up ere!” He shouted. The shining figure looked around and went back to rummaging through what appeared to be a blue sack.

“Who’s that you be shouting at Anon?” His wife peeked out from the confines of the cart, sewing needles in hand.

“Th’ bloke right up ‘ere!” Anonchio pointed skyward with a thick, stubby finger and his wife followed it until her eyes widened.

“Why, there’s an angel on the castle! We must tell the king!”

Anonchio and his wife hurried into the crowd and spread the word of the uncommon roof occupant. Meanwhile, Jonathan continued to assess his situation and realized that he’d made a grave mistake. The roof was too high to jump, or even be rescued. He could climb down, but not in his armor.

It was a stupid idea to wear it anyway, he thought to himself as he stripped the shining coat off, piece-by-piece. By now a large crowd had gathered below to witness the angel. Converts were made, plagues were healed, and an old woman could walk again. All in the Power of His Spirit.

The artifacts of thin, sparkling metal were viciously fought over as they landed. Scholars scratched their chins at the angel’s words, which sounded a bit vulgar. Still, they scribbled down their interpretation of the creature’s warnings and wisdom as divine.

They prayed for the angel to descend for three days in the stagnant heat and searing sun.

On the third day, the angel flew from the roof in the guise of a dead man, skin blistered and pockmarked, with a large pouch of tiny idols, a small metal window and shattered glass but made horrid sounds from two tentacle-like appendages , and a larger square that when anyone looked upon it, could see His Word. His name was J. R. Tolkien, and as far as the scribes could ascertain, was an astounding windbag of needless description.

The strange corpse and its belongings were suddenly considered a work of the Devil, and the transcribed statements, the Kindle, and the i-Pod (designed by an entity in California named Apple) were promptly tossed into the fire by the Church, and all was eventually forgotten.

The old God made more sense.

(Photo credit: badeendjuh from morguefile.com)

Guest Blog - Cecilia Tan: The Plot Thickens

2010-09-13T11:32:00.000-05:00

Beloved readers of my mindless drivel, please give a warm welcome to one of the most accomplished women (and erotic writers of GLBT fiction) I've met this year, Ms. Cecilia Tan - CC

I used to think that plot was my weakest point. When I was an aspiring writer, I could sit down and write the first chapter of a novel, and then I would look at it and say... but what happens next? I thought I was supposed to write out a plan of what would happen chapter by chapter, but I would draw a blank. So I thought I "could not plot." I thought about the Hobbit, and the Lord of the Rings (two of my favorite works) and how the plot was basically a long road trip. "There and back again." Both of those books seemed to just go from one event to another, like a parade. This, and then this, and then this. I just couldn't seem to do that myself, though.

Star Wars was my first clue that I had to think about plot a different
way. Star Wars (the original movie) has a very tight plot that
includes several twists. Like for example, our main characters travel
to a planet to fulfill their quest, only to find the planet is GONE.
And then they land in the lap of Darth Vader. Hijinks ensue. However,
I still thought of plot as one long, logical chain of linked events,
but now the chain could have a knot in it.

What I did instead of write novels then, was concentrate on short
stories. Short stories don't have anywhere near that much plot. A
story might have as few as two scenes--or even only one scene and a
flashback. And I wrote a lot of erotic short stories, where the plot
had a kind of foregone conclusion. The fun in writing them wasn't in
finding out whether there would be sex, but how the characters enjoyed
it, what went on in their heads, and what kind of language expressed a
potentially predictable outcome (no pun intended).

When I got to grad school, though, pursuing a masters degree in
writing, they gave me a better way to think about plot than the chain
of links. My very first seminar, on novel writing, introduced the
concept of the Three Act Structure. I took a screenplay writing class
at the same time, and lo, they also used the Three Act Structure. The
idea of rising action, a turning point, and then falling action made
so much sense in my brain. Now instead of thinking of my plots as "one
thing leads to another," I now see them as a kind of Rube Goldberg
contraption. Remember the old kid's game Mouse Trap? You spent most of
the beginning of the game assembling this contraption, which if done
right, when the end comes, everything will fall into place and the toy
mouse would be caught.

For me now, writing a novel is like that. I spend the first half to
two thirds of the book setting up all the dominoes. Then things reach
a turning point, and boom, the dominoes all begin to fall.

This sounds a bit more methodical than it is. I've now written a dozen
novels, and someone asked me recently whether I am a "plotter" or a
"pantser" (seat of the pants writer). The truth is that I'm half of
each. When you are a published author, publishers require you to write
a plot synopsis to sell them future works. You turn in a sample
chapter or two, and an outline detailing what's going to happen in the
book.

Everyone knows, though, that as you actually write the book, you might
discover that things that seemed reasonable to everyone in the
synopsis will turn out to be unworkable in the actual text. I think of
it like this. The synopsis is a map that you made when you surveyed
the mountain from a helicopter. Now when you write the book though,
you are actually climbing the mountain. You find when you are closer
to the ground and struggling to get up there, that there are rocky
outcroppings and crevasses and things that you could not see from the
air. So your general path up the mountain is pretty close to the
original plan, usually, but it may deviate.

Where I find I deviate the most, is on the way down the other side of
the mountain. In the rising action, the climbing part, my plot plan is
usually quite accurate. Then I get to the top of the mountain, the big
turning point, and I look down the other side and I think, holy crap,
how the hell am I going to get down this? However, once you start
going down, you can't stop. Everything will start falling, and you
just have to trust that if you set everything up right, it's all going
to fall into place.

Now that I've done it a bunch of times, I trust myself more than I did
the first few climbs. The result is that I'm a plotter for the first
half, and a pantser for the second half. Everything follows the plan
up to the turning point, and then everything falls apart... but falls
into place if I just keep writing and discovering what's REALLY going
on.

My best example of this is THE SIREN AND THE SWORD, which is the first
book of my four-book paranormal erotic romance series, Magic University. The books are a bit like Harry Potter for grown-ups. At a
magical college, our main character learns about life, love, and
magic, including erotic magic. Like the Potter books, each book takes
place in one of the years of school, and there is a mystery plot to be
solved in each individual book, as well as an overarching plot that
carries through all four.

In THE SIREN AND THE SWORD, the mystery is that of a siren haunting
the school library. All is well and good while the siren seems to do
little other than have steamy, middle-of-the-night sex with students
who spent the night in the stacks. This changes when the best friend
of our hero gets attacked and is left in a coma, and the Powers That
Be seem to be unable to find the culprit. Our Hero goes into Scooby Doo
mode and works to solve the mystery. Pretty straightforward, no?

The catch is that I didn't know who the culprit was. I had set up a
red herring, and then there was a character I thought was likely to
turn out to be it... but I figured I'd find out for sure when I
actually got to that point in the book. When I started writing the
scene where the culprit is actually caught, I suddenly discovered who
it had been all along. I then went back to the first half of the book,
to put in the set-ups, to stand up the dominoes that would point in
that direction... and discovered they were ALREADY THERE. Apparently
my subconscious had known all along what was going on, and everything
lined up quite neatly at the end.

Most of my other novels have followed this pattern, though not quite
to that degree of discovery. The technique of "write for discovery" is
one I embrace, but the important part to remember is that one must
actually write, not just jot or plot.

Meanwhile, you may recall that I said Magic University is a four-book
series (well, five, as it includes a book of short stories, too, but
the overarching plot covers four books). This means that technically,
in our big overarching plot we have rising action for the first 2-3
books, and then falling action for the last 1-2, right?

Guess what? Book 1, other than the little surprise about the culprit,
went more or less as planned. In book two, THE TOWER AND THE TEARS,
Kyle refused to get paired up with the girlfriend I had planned for
him, and at the end of that book, which is supposed to be the turning
point of the whole series... has fallen completely in love with a
character who wasn't even in the original plan! As you can imagine,
this meant that the plot of book three, THE INCUBUS AND THE ANGEL, was
significantly different than what was in the proposal I sold the
publisher, but they still quite liked it.

And now, cue the ominous music, I must sit down and write book four,
having gone completely off the original map. The truth is, I don't
actually know who our main character will end up with. All I know is
this is a quest for true love, and that it's going to have a happy
ending. But I won't know until I get there how it's going to work out.
I trust that my subconscious knows perfectly well... but I'm going to
have to write the entire book to find out.

Wish me luck and godspeed!

About the Author: Cecilia Tan is a writer, editor, and sexuality
activist. She is the author of Mind Games, The Hot Streak, White
Flames, Edge Plays, Black Feathers, The Velderet, and Telepaths Don’t
Need Safewords, as well as the Magic University series of paranormal
erotic romances, and the currently ongoing gay web serials The
Prince's Boy and Daron's Guitar Chronicles. She has the distinction of
being perhaps the only writer to have erotic fiction published in both
Penthouse and Ms. magazines, as well as in scores of other magazines
and anthologies including Asimov’s, Best American Erotica, and Nerve.

Related Links:
The Magic University Series: Info page

Print Book buy links:
The Siren and the Sword
The Tower and the Tears

Ebook buy links:
Mind Games
The Siren and the Sword
The Tower and the Tears
The Incubus and the Angel

"Neurotic" #Fridayflash

2010-09-09T03:12:00.001-05:00

Photo credit: reccaphoenix from morguefile.com

“Hello I’m neurotic

Creating problems that don’t exist…”

Blue Lights –Pretty Girls Make Graves

The thrumming pulse resonating through the wooden floor was more than Hannah could stand; red lightning flickered in her vision. She beat her head in the corner and clawed at imaginary spiderwebs. The scent of coffee lingered—airborne criteria to indicate that an attack was about to start. They were sporadic, yet eventual, and so Hannah lived the life of the Medicated and Sedated.

Her hands trembled. Her chest caved in on itself. A sundae of eclectic blossoms adorned her vision.

Long. Deep. Bright.

The dinette stood brave under a month’s pile of laundry and schoolwork. There was no school anymore. There were people in school. People in Laundromats. Store-people were different; store-people were occupied. Robotic. Hungry. Hannah tossed dirty clothes to the floor and swept away used department store bags. She bought new clothes every week. She ate pizza or Chinese every day.

The college fund would last at least another year.

Long enough to go outside. To go someplace else.

To hide.

Her hand landed on the orange prescription bottle and she shook out a pill. She shook out two. Water. Washed it down. Shook the bottle and washed more down and scratched her belly until there were red ribbons. She fell into endless night.

~*~

A sound awoke her.

Beeping.

Her eyes fluttered open. Looked around.

She pushed a hand through her hair and stopped midway. Her hand. It wasn’t her hand. It was wrinkled.

"Spoiler" #Fridayflash

2010-09-02T04:41:00.004-05:00

Photo credit: alvimann from morguefile.com

This story is unique. An experiment from a dream I had this week. Hi-five to my muse. He gave me this, but on one condition: I had to write it backwards. So here is a story-written backwards. Enjoy - CC.

There’s a dull gleam to the moment you realize is your last.

In the side-view, I saw it. Real, but not real. It couldn’t be real. It was flying, and we were going close to one-hundred-twenty miles an hour. A death head in pursuit. A bony sound on the rear spoiler. Like pebbles hitting a window. I heard it before he did.

I glanced over at Bryan, his arms held straight out like he was pushing the steering wheel away, but his knuckles bled white. His eyes were locked on the road. I asked him why was he moving; we could get a better look if we stopped where the grass wasn’t so high. There was no moon, but we could see.

Hey wait, stop the car. Oh my God. Stop the car!

A beeping sound—echoing. A sound off of the old Doctor Who, when they still used wavy tricks to make the opening title interesting.

Religious icons of every creed and culture glowed phosphorescently in the sky, over to the right, like fit-together shapes. Like Tetris. A powdered-diamond-blast-pattern of stars filled the spaces between, gradually melting behind the clouds. Clouds to the left, smoked and swirling, geometric—like Incan designs—squared and labyrinthine. I looked out the windshield, hand pressed against the cold glass.

We were on our way home after a party. It was 3AM.

Saturday Special Feature: Meet Marc Nash

2010-08-28T10:00:00.015-05:00

You've read about him on Twitter. He even guises as a woman. This attracted my curiosity long ago, when I thought that Karen Dash was his wife! I browsed his site and found out that he does what I do, and that is character tweeting. He even has a book out:
A,B & E

Meet Marc Nash. The man is a veritable vortex of mystery and talent, with stories that send you scurrying for the dictionary and yet drive you back for more.

I DMed him back a week or two ago and requested to do a proper interview to expose the process, a viewing of the pistons and gears in place, a vivisection of the man behind the woman, @ExisleMoll on Twitter:

How long have you been writing? Has it been easy? Is your family supportive?

To answer the last one first, my family are neither supportive nor unsupportive. They just let me get on with it and shake their heads bemusedly saying 'well thank goodness none of that stuff enters our home life'. I haven't told my wife or boys that I've dressed up as a nurse or a bachelorette, um mainly because it hasn't cropped up in conversation. My boys have seen my YouTube video readings done in balaclavas and other masks. They think it's cool to have a Dad that does things a bit different to most other fathers at school, but there again they wish I designed video games so they could be the first at school to have them...
I've been writing seriously since college starting with plays, some 25 years now. I switched to novels when my twin boys came along and I couldn't hang out at theatres every night. Has it been easy? The words come easily, I'm always trying to catch up with my own material, writing around work and family, so that writer's block is never an issue for me. But it's been hard writing for 25 years virtually in a vacuum. By writing such idiosyncratic stuff, it's very hard to get the industry professionals interested, but by coming online and meeting a community of people I've been bolstered by the response that maybe I haven't been wasting my life up until now, that I could be on to something, however niche in scale it may be.

Where did you grow up? What was that like for you? Has it has any impact on your writing?

London. I have a love-hate relationship with my own nation, the things I cherish about our country and the things that make me foam at the mouth. Most of my writing reflects that in some ways, searching out notions of identity both for myself and my fellow countrymen, where I fit in with the norm and where I absolutely don't. Growing up I was an only child, so I had the twin impetuses of having to make my own entertainment which helped develop my imagination, but also that my parents included me when they had their friends over, so that I was always observing adult behaviour. Since one of my parents had an addiction, though not one where you take harmful things into your body, I got to see some pretty screwed up and broken examples of adulthood close up.
I'm still trying to decide whether man is fundamentally an inherently flawed creature beyond much hope of redemption and reclamation, or whether we are all salvageable, only life circumstances often get in the way. It's essentially a very political question, but one again I probe in my writing.

Your writing stands out among the rest because of the mind-boggling diversity of your words. I find myself using the dictionary on more than a few pieces. Can you give me a little bit of your education/work background to share what leads you to this practice?

Although I had a high standard of education up to University level, I never read anything but comics until I was 14 years old and studied History rather than English Literature. To this day I've never read any Dickens, Hardy or any of the so called classics of the English literary canon. I do read a lot now though, but it's all contemporary. For my University degree I switched from History to politics and psychology which gave me all sorts of material which I still draw on. But the main thing about College was that I got to write in the first place, cos I was disillusioned with academia, but there were all these theatre stages and wannabe actors who would put on my plays. For work I've been really lucky, falling into both of the only two jobs that I've ever done since leaving College.
I worked for 20 years in a cutting edge record store that allowed me to experience the counter-culture and recently moving into the world of journalism and freedom of expression all around the world. I have to say though, I'd drop either like a shot if writing ever got full-time, which I don't think is likely.
The language thing? I just find words imprecise and slippery. More often than not they fail to convey the meaning they're supposed to do. My playwriting was a good education in what people really mean but fail to articulate in words.

What is your preferred genre to write in?

Oh dear, 'genre' is a word I refuse to acknowledge or attribute any validity to. I understand the need to know which shelves books are found in the store, but in an internet age, labelling things by genre just seems to diminish the work the way I see it. It's the same with blurbs, if I could distill the novel down to a strapline, then I wouldn't have bothered writing 65,000 words in the first place! I might make a distinction between fiction that is escapist and fiction that engages with reality, but even then there's plenty of readers who like to read both. But of the two, I veer towards the latter, though that doesn't mean I won't write 'fabulist' tales where a toy panda, a patch of wasteland, or a waterbed and quilt are the narrators...

Who is your intended audience (for your book and your Fridayflash)?

Anyone who wants something a bit different in what they read. People who like to be challenged, by ideas, by narrative form and by language and voice. The beauty of the internet is that any such readers can come back to a writer and start a conversation and a discussion about what they've just read with you, the writer. My writing seeks to engage with and interrogate the world we live in, to make connections and spin images that are maybe out of the everyday and ordinary. If that's your thing, I may just be a writer for you!

You have a book. A real book out there in the wild. What's it about?

The best vantage to look back on your own country is from exile. Karen Dash has fled her gangster husband in fear of her life and holed up in a Club 18-30 holiday resort in island Greece. Yet every day she is tormented by swathes of her country folk bringing home directly back to her as the British do when they go on holiday. They erect a local British 'Green Zone' of binge drinking, sex and violence and the local culture be damned. Meanwhile back in Britain, a nurse also has to sow up the victims of the same pleasure pursuits. How are the two women who have never met linked?

Thanks Marc for the opportunity (and the Dustin Hoffman-esque authorly picture!) to get to know you. All interested can purchase Marc's book here:

A, B & E - US Amazon
A, B & E - UK Amazon

Sample it first at Freado

Jailed #Fridayflash

2010-08-26T16:18:00.001-05:00

Photo credit: cooee from morguefile.com

“I write foresight,

One day you’ll find me in the distance

More sublime

But still never died before.”

Jail - NOLA (Down)

Ice crusted the glass; white piled in small drifts around the wipers. The moon smiled at me from her gleam on the hood, but my headlights were dismal candles, mocked by the enshrouding mystery of early morning fog.

I felt something. Something there. A chill that snaked down my spine, blossoming in spider-pricked gooseflesh on my entirety. My fingers cowered in their leather gloves, nearly releasing the steering wheel. A stunning realization that I was not alone in the car. I was afraid to look.

Afraid I’d be right.

The fog divided by the hood wisped along the window. Ghosts of sky, weighed down with wet and white to blanket the earth of mortals. I summoned the courage to take a quick glance at the passenger seat.

Nothing, aside from silvered shadows diffused by the windshield. I took a shuddering breath. Switched on the heat. The car felt like a tomb.

Glanced in the rearview mirror. Nothing but darkness and my wild, staring eyes. Adrenalin surged through me, thrilling my muscles. I increased my speed to shorten the duration to the next town. I’d get out. Shake it off. Maybe get a motel room. I wasn’t as young as I used to be; I could drive for twenty-four hours back when I was twenty.

But not here. I wouldn’t—couldn’t—get out here. This was in-between land, this dazed cushion of damp down and beguiling muted colors.

I turned up the radio. Rich, mahogany tones of bass guitar and silken deep voices comforted me. The ice crept in from the outside. My breath was frozen and fell to my lap like snow. I dropped my gaze to my thighs. A flash of light. Thunder in my ears, trapped. Rushing.

It was dark then. Only the green dials gave approximation of where the dash could be. I felt disengaged. Wet. Before the window closed on my last breath, I finally saw him. He was there to meet me, only he couldn’t follow.

Then it was dark no more.

BeMused

2010-08-25T21:45:00.002-05:00

I feel sometimes

Like writing my own future

Igniting the candle

To rocket me to my next

Wild tale

An insinuation of delegation

A shrugging of responsibilities

To frolic and splash in the river

Ride white horse through

Valleys of wonder

Splendor all over

Invent new ways

To say I love you

To hold a body close

So hearts tremble together

A tenderness unfound anywhere

Else in this universe

Still, I consent to overture

And descent to my own melody

Because after all it’s tragedy

And apathy that seem to trend best.

Once painted, the corner stays wet

And I sit in it to watch the room

Crumble to dust.

I don’t want to write anymore.

Photo credit: penywise from morguefile.com

Special Feature - Help This Austin Teacher Get Books!

2010-08-21T02:13:00.001-05:00

Help this Austin teacher gather books for her students. Amazon features her picks on a School Book list. Take the time to pick out a book or two for the good of a high school student. Pick a book, any book. Select Jessica Beck at check-out for shipping address.

School book wish list

Special Feature "The Dream is Dead"

2010-08-14T03:25:00.003-05:00

It was the perfect drug for the times. Mesh traded for lace, traded for nylon stockings, and the best part?

Youth faded. It dulled and conformed, consist-icized to constricted positioning, arguments of logic and the final acceptance of belief, time, and all that consisted of pieces. Pieces of you; pieces of her. Places to please and treasure the time when her boot heels dusted that dance floor, black lace trailing a dream that never blossomed; only her tattoos were hidden after five years under corporate sleeves and that clove cigarette so mystified and died back when the smoking ban killed all forms of self-pacification.

It’s an arrow to the psyche, this welling of feelings and hurt residing from something that sliced through the ego twenty years ago. Zits traded for wrinkles, tongue ring traded for rings around the eyes, and a sigh into the bottom of the last glass of amber solidification.

Perfect drug equals that which made her believe the minivan far exceeded her LeBaron convertible; replaces her secret lover on the beaches of memory. Purple hair dye washed down the drain to maintain that concrete anonymity of Life as it Should Be.

Piss in a barrel, stack cards on top and pick her future. Sensible heels or spiked demeanor. Bills aren’t paid with attitude honey. Individuality is fucking overrated.

The dream is dead.