tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12725040725118445222024-03-05T13:57:54.316-05:00Oscar's Bruised Petals featuring S.A. Garcia's MutteringsCome see the amazing thoughts rambling through an old author's mind.S.A. Garciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09126875507639117068noreply@blogger.comBlogger138125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1272504072511844522.post-69299675535690370782016-10-01T01:17:00.003-04:002016-10-01T01:18:59.692-04:00Resting Murder Face<style>
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<br />
I forget where I read the term resting murder face, but the
expression fits me well. I inherited the look from my father, who, although he
was a Marine who saw active duty in the Korean War, was a gentle man. But if
something pissed him off, yeah, he looked like a stone-cold killer.
<br />
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<br /></div>
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More than once I’ve had people at work walk past me, pause,
and claim, “You look like you’re contemplating using a knife or a gun.” I’m
like “huh?” They claim I look ready to kill someone when there I sat wondering
if I want to start my audit or straighten up the supply cabinet. </div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>Note: </b>Jeremy Renner claims he has resting murder face—he has nothing on my death gaze. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Tonight resting murder face made a return. After the
much-needed rain that coated our region for the past few days, I stepped onto
our small back porch to see how the plants had responded to the rain. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Where was the porch welcome mat? Oh look, the mat had landed
on the lone brave caladium I had planted in the shade garden. Six chewed baby
carrots littered the porch’s edge.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I felt resting murder face set in. Obviously some critter(s)
had messed about on the porch. I bet they had grabbed the baby carrots from our
messy neighbors who toss their garbage out in Target bags every night against
the fence line. But why had the critters moved the welcome mat?<br />
<br />
If the possums were involved, they had probably mated on it. I have seen such
behavior before this time. Yuck.</div>
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I wish we could move away from this urban mess featuring sex-crazed
possums, squeaky raccoons, manic squirrels, relentless groundhogs, and feral
cats. Yeah, right.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Arrrrgh, there goes that damned skunk again! I am not glaring at that critter. No way!</span>
S.A. Garciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09126875507639117068noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1272504072511844522.post-1839117974093929112016-09-05T02:22:00.000-04:002016-09-05T02:23:20.477-04:00Hail Labor Day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjry0njDSProlqEtLO9VFr8En8Tf8ixPodvZDoB7aux9jPqQO_uuQJlHVvq-e1hzJ-J_BxLecxB95FXxpL7stnS83eZlmIGC_xeYVsBAJboOphyfJ-FbLzIqYP1F9V7YZO340tpZ1Mb_VE/s1600/b2e8b5c3073bbc099ead3265e2363685.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjry0njDSProlqEtLO9VFr8En8Tf8ixPodvZDoB7aux9jPqQO_uuQJlHVvq-e1hzJ-J_BxLecxB95FXxpL7stnS83eZlmIGC_xeYVsBAJboOphyfJ-FbLzIqYP1F9V7YZO340tpZ1Mb_VE/s400/b2e8b5c3073bbc099ead3265e2363685.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br />
I see Google has changed their logo to praise laborers. That's wonderful.<br />
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<br /></div>
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The thing is I don’t see any writers or artists in the celebratory logo. Do we not
labor? Do we not stress our minds? </div>
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<br /></div>
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We do, on a constant basis. Physical laborers leave their
job and return home. They complete their task. Of course they might go home and
work around the house or work on the side. </div>
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<br /></div>
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The thing is just because a writer isn’t tapping away at
their keyboard doesn’t mean they aren’t laboring. Our minds are like hamster
wheels, always thinking, seeing, seeking the next twist and turn. A writer’s
mind never shuts down. I’m sure I’m like others who write themselves to sleep,
working on a block in a story until it breaks apart.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Writers labor. Oh do they, to the point of depression, pain,
and sadness—and madness. </div>
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<br /></div>
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On Labor Day, never discount artists and writers. We might
not lift heavy physical loads, but damn, we lift heavy mental loads.</div>
S.A. Garciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09126875507639117068noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1272504072511844522.post-77697217187097007762016-09-03T02:43:00.000-04:002016-09-03T02:43:19.601-04:00Why I Adore Rafa Nadal<br /><br />
<img alt="Sept 2, 2016; New York, NY, USA; Rafael Nadal of Spain returning a shot between his legs to Andrey Kuznetsov of Russia (not pictured) on day five of the 2016 U.S. Open tennis tournament at USTA Billie Jean King National Tennis Center. Mandatory Credit: Robert Deutsch-USA TODAY Sports ORG XMIT: USATSI-326036 ORIG FILE ID: 20160902_ads_usa_154.JPG" class="size-full wp-image-622575" height="308" src="https://usatftw.files.wordpress.com/2016/09/usp_tennis__u-s_84883462.jpg?w=1000&h=772" width="400" /><br />
<br />
Legs of steel and massive arms…this old lesbian does
appreciate supremely hot tennis players. Is it a little sexist to regard them
as works of breathing art? Apologies. Trust me, I also appreciate their amazing
talent.
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<br /></div>
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I adore Rafa Nadal. He’s a warrior, a powerful force of
nature, an inspiration. Sadly, just as his fans feared, his muscular playing
style is breaking down his strong body. His knee, his shoulder, and lately, his
wrist—they have started failing him. Nadal’s 30th birthday did him no favors.</div>
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<br /></div>
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But he comes back and triumphs. Oh does he. Fine, Nadal
didn’t medal in the men’s singles at the Rio Olympics, but he scored doubles
gold. He played multiple matches each day. He fought, displayed humility, and
class every inch of the way, and showed the world he’s not finished.</div>
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<br /></div>
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He’s battled his way into the round of 16 at the US Open,
playing tennis like the champion he is, clean and lethal. After this, even if
he doesn’t win his next match, he’ll be ranked third in the world. <br />
<br />
Nadal will always be number one for me, along with my faves Rafter, Edberg, and
the brilliant Bjorn Borg. </div>
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<br /></div>
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It’s the thigh muscles. Be still my fluttering heart. I am a
thigh slut.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
S.A. Garciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09126875507639117068noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1272504072511844522.post-27940689717790528602016-08-27T01:58:00.000-04:002016-08-27T01:58:00.347-04:00Fabion and an Elf for All Centuries
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<br />
How weird… I just looked at the reviews for <i><b>An Elf for All
Centuries</b></i> on Goodreads. Why so many reviews from 2015? The novel was out of
print by then. Yeah, perhaps people didn’t read it until then. Still, it freaks
me out a bit because free copies were supplied on a Goodreads feed I never
approved. A reader informed me of the nasty problem.
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<br /></div>
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What I am not surprised is how people hated Fabion and did
not finish the book. Hello, can we say character growth? I started out with a
character so ridiculous that you had to know he’d change.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Guess Fabion didn’t change fast enough for some readers.
That’s fine. Fabion needed to change on his time line. I couldn’t ruin his
progress.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Fabion is very dear to me. He’s one of a kind, and I will
never write a character of his nature ever again. He broke my mental mode.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Although Amando from <i><b>Temptation of the Incubus</b></i> (MLR Press) comes
close. Even Sam Devine from <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Divine Devine’s Love Song </i></b>(Dreamspinner) is
in the same league—although he knows he’s a rogue scoundrel. Still, his heroic
nature battles to save the day.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I write my best when I aim for over the top characters. That
is not easy. Those characters need to speak to me. Unless they create a
connection to me, I can’t find them.</div>
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">Writing is a battle I live to fight. Come on, words, let’s wrestle. I’ll
pull a story and hopefully a few great characters from your squirmy depths.<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
</span>
S.A. Garciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09126875507639117068noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1272504072511844522.post-76350759407148311502016-08-22T01:16:00.000-04:002016-08-22T01:17:29.988-04:00Accepting My Shortcomings <style>
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<br />
I read speculative fiction because I admire the writers who
do it well. China Melville, Caitlín R. Kiernan, Elizabeth Hand, Peter Straub, and
Laird Barron, who has blossomed into what I am dying to do… hilarious parody
horror. Maybe parody is the wrong word, but his latest novella “Xs for Eyes” is
damned near perfect. I want to beat and kiss him for writing the bizarre book.
Trust me, it is amazing.
<br />
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<br /></div>
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Jeff VanderMeer’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Southern
Reach</i> trilogy blew my mind. If you haven’t read it yet, go buy it now. The
first two books build to a jaw-dropping third book. It is brilliant and
twisted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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I love reading authors who teach me the writing craft. These
are the authors who inspire me to keep banging my head against the keyboard.
Will I ever reach their brilliance? A defeated part of me claims no, never ever.
I don’t have the special creative gene. But that one little stubborn spark
keeps kicking my ass to write and rewrite and keep going because perhaps
someday I’ll creep over the line and have a following. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I’ll settle for a club or a gang. </div>
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<br /></div>
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As my wise beyond her years niece Denise (who is a doctor)
once said to me, “is anyone making you write?”</div>
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<br /></div>
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“Hell no, I write because I need to write.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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“Are you published?”</div>
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<br /></div>
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“Yes.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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“Then keep writing and stop worrying.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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Denise is a damned brilliant woman. And I do look up to her.
She’s twenty year younger and much wiser and braver than I. She spent two years
teaching in a remote South African village.</div>
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<br /></div>
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So yeah, I need to keep writing and stop worrying. I’ll read
those who inspire me, and hope my words reach a few readers.</div>
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Someday perhaps I’ll reach more than a few readers. One can only hope.<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
</span>
S.A. Garciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09126875507639117068noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1272504072511844522.post-71535039987274895332016-08-21T01:44:00.001-04:002016-08-21T01:44:15.415-04:00It's All About Life
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Why haven’t I blogged in two years? It’s not like I have
nothing to say… I’m always spouting off about something. But somehow a weird
blockage happened regarding my blog. The problem is I fuss too hard over blog
posts, regarding them as little essays that must be perfect. Part of the
problem is I am a lousy typist—typos abound—and I always fret over the word arrangement.</div>
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<br /></div>
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That’s stupid, eh? I want to correct my blog transgressions.
Let’s see if I can blog for a solid month. There’s plenty to talk about—tragic
flooding in Louisiana, fires in California, illegal shootings, a certain
horrific presidential candidate (the one with the little hands and nasty hair),
music, art, life…like tonight Prof Sandy and I were honored with a visit from
our friend Gail Demi. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Why wait for an event? Talk about life. Without it, we’d be
dead. Okay, that silly statement deserves a glass of wine. </div>
S.A. Garciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09126875507639117068noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1272504072511844522.post-90757965796040958322016-08-20T03:30:00.000-04:002016-08-20T03:30:07.625-04:00The Miracle of Bowie’s “TVC15”
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<img alt="Image result for david bowie" class="rg_i rg_ic" data-src="https://encrypted-tbn1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTWvVtnuN1P1IWq-1E_dDqDRrz3fXJpo7qSGAkytZImb2dt0FEtIA" data-sz="f" name="RGh1X88_-H4HdM:" src="https://encrypted-tbn1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTWvVtnuN1P1IWq-1E_dDqDRrz3fXJpo7qSGAkytZImb2dt0FEtIA" style="height: 183px; margin-left: -4px; margin-right: -16px; margin-top: 0px; width: 275px;" /><br />
<br />
A long time ago, I owned an indie music pub. B-Side lasted
for ten years. We paid writers and photographers—never made a profit, but the
powers that be did fund a few amazing vacations for us and others on the staff.
I’d say “Hey, we want to put XXX on the cover.” The publicity person would say,
“We can send you to XXX to cover XXX for a weekend.”
<br />
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<br /></div>
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I worked with the various firms to expand the weekend to a
week. I saved them money on the airfare, and we received a few great vacations.
</div>
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<br /></div>
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I had a blast interviewing various musicians: Tori Amos,
Trent Reznor (Death Valley vacation— how fitting) Peter Murphy, Love and
Rockets (California vacation), the Cranberries (great Ireland vacation), Radiohead,
Al Jourgensen, and, my apex, David Bowie (another California vacation).</div>
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<br /></div>
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Imagine, my little indie pub scored an interview with David
Bowie during press for his “Outside” album. Talking to him was a fangirl’s
dream. We talked about art, his wandering in the musical wilderness, his crass
commercial phase—it was amazing. I criticized certain musical moves he had made
and he agreed with me. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve always been a critical bitch, and talking to Bowie blew
my mind. We talked about Giotto, art murder, self-destruction—I will always
treasure talking to Bowie. Seriously, I felt like I had met him at a party and
realized he was seriously cool. Yeah, he was seriously cool. No ego at all.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Which is why I come here to say Bowie’s “TVC15” is the best
pop song ever.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
EVER.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The lyrics? They are fun, but not crucial to the song. It’s
the music and the riffs which are killer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The various builds, the flourishes, the bass lines, the sax lines, the
piano riffs… they work behind Bowie’s lyrics to create an astonishing musical
tapestry. The build is sheer majesty.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The first time I heard this song back in 1976, I was hooked.
Thirty years later, I’m still hooked. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Give it a listen. And raise a toast to the master
changeling—our wonderful David Bowie.</div>
S.A. Garciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09126875507639117068noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1272504072511844522.post-84159947265076821252014-07-11T00:39:00.001-04:002014-07-11T00:39:15.094-04:00Come Celebrate Canes & Scales: The Novel, With A Giveaway!
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The decision to take my first novella <i><b>Canes and Scales</b></i> and
turn it into an epic fantasy didn’t come easily. In fact, at first I wanted
write two more novellas and create a series. Luckily Elizabeth North at
Dreamspinner advised me to go for one large novel. Good thing—I’d probably
still fuss over finishing the series.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This time I outlined the chapters, not the norm for me. I’ll
draft rough outlines, but this time I wanted control. I already struggled with
stylistic problems—my writing had changes in the last few years. Of course my
main characters Alasdaire and Linden wanted more page time – what character
doesn’t want more time to shine—but at a certain point they decided not to play
nice with the storyline. They rebelled. Alasdaire and Linden refused to “talk”
to me anymore. It’s a wacky but true concept.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The total disconnect drove me batty.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I originally planned to release the novel on its third
anniversary.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That didn’t happen since Alasdaire and Linden delighted in
shunning me. Fine. I shunned them in turn and worked on other short stories and
novels. Ocassionally I’d poke at an earlier chapter that needed work, or
realize I needed a strong new character to help the plot. Unfortunately, the
novel refused to move past a certain sticky chapter. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Until the EUREKA! evening. A mental orgasm provided the
solution. Did I really intend to stage a kidnapping along with more torture?
Much of the novel is based around natural magic. Why wasn’t I listening to the
book? Why not let the magic work for the characters?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Once I moved past my nefarious plans for Alasdaire and
Linden, they worked with me. Together we created an entirely new ending.
Everyone felt happy. Alasdaire escaped kidnapping and torture. Linden escaped
mental disintegration.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I escaped from thinking I’d never finish my book! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here’s an <b><i>exclusive, never see before excerpt:</i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27.35pt;">
Enterna Afratair, Supreme Duke of the Southern
Totandia Empire, stared over his dry, desolate realm. A strong full moon washed
light over the land. Twisted analita trees, towering Nerdean roses, and
firespike palms created dark shapes against the horizon. Tonight only a few of
the firespikes had burst into flame. Deeper shadowy areas showed the many
canyons scattered through the realm. In the deep canyon beyond the palace, the
dwindling Sira River still flowed, sluggish but supportive to the crops
cleverly trained to grow against the canyon walls. If the Sira dried up—Enterna
refused to contemplate the disaster. The dry earth had already devoured streams
in many other canyons.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27.35pt;">
He felt his deep frown carve lines into his stern
features. The simple act made his dry skin ache. When had be turned into a
frail old creature?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27.35pt;">
He shook his head. Long gone were the satisfying days
when the elves had still occupied large parts of Ardaul, living in the ancient
forests and deep river valleys in peace. The elves had been free to travel as
they pleased, to trade goods and charms. They had bothered no one. They had
tended their shrines and lived for the earth.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27.35pt;">
During his long-ago youth, Enterna had visited every
remote shrine hiding under the old oak trees in Southern Ardaul’s Summerlands.
The elves had never bothered to establish shrines north of Summerlands. The
vast, largely treeless Great Pastures beyond did not call to them. The shrines
were ancient constructs, yet still attuned to the elves’ natural world. The
journey had been risky but necessary. Every elven ruler needed to keep the
shines alive.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27.35pt;">
Once the Serpents had decided to flex their lethal
power, they had driven the elves back to their true realm, to sacred
Hast’ntrata, hiding deep in the Nerdean Canyons. The Serpents had tricked those
who wanted to remain into slavery. The Serpents didn’t understand elven
culture. Instead of learning, they destroyed. They had little tolerance for
other races. Enterna found their intolerance ironic. Once the Serpents had been
the different ones, after all, marked by random scale patterns and their odd
slit eyes. Over time, breeding with humans had removed those traits from all
but the royalty. Those warped creatures still celebrated their scales.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27.35pt;">
In the light of history, banishment did not matter.
The elves belonged in this savage land. The carnivorous canes had brought them
forth from the earth, and here the canes protected them. Over the years, the
Serpent armies had suffered from the canes’ strong protective magic. Under
Enterna’s guidance, the canes’ lethal barriers triumphed to keep out the armies
led by the slithering Serpent kings. Ultimately the Serpents had retreated.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27.35pt;">
Unfortunately, Hast’ntrata now suffered from the
South Inatoli Desert’s steady northern advance. Viable lands suitable for crops
continuously succumbed to sand and the disappearance of surface water. Despite
strong sorcery, the underground water sources slowly failed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27.35pt;">
Enterna shifted to stare into the north. His frown
deepened.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27.35pt;">
He still mourned for his daughter. What a stubborn
female, exquisite and strong. He had never imagined Anadona capable of blocking
her existence so skillfully. Years ago, Enterna had felt her death like a stab
to the heart. He had warned Anadona not to believe in the aggressive human who
had claimed to love her.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27.35pt;">
He also wondered about his grandson. Until tonight,
Enterna had felt Anadona’s son in a random manner—he was hard to track due to
his human blood. Enterna reasoned <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">why
bother to make peace?</i> Surely Anadona had taught her son to hate her kin.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27.35pt;">
Anadona’s death had supplied Enterna a name: Alasdaire.
He smiled. Anadona had given her son a fine elven name.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27.35pt;">
Tonight Alasdaire’s use of strong elven magic had
burst into Enterna’s mind, awaking him from a troubled sleep. He still couldn’t
believe his half-human grandson owned the power to dreamsave. As far as he
knew, only he owned the fierce power required to weave such a potent spell.
Only profound emotions like hate or love fueled a full dreamsave.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27.35pt;">
Worst of all, his grandson had saved a Serpent
prince.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27.35pt;">
The concept horrified Enterna. Granted, his grandson’s
diluted blood added to his ability to love beyond the elven race, but to save a
Serpent? How troublesome. Enterna needed extensive information on this Prince
Linden. He also needed to meet his grandson. It seemed foolish of him to feel
proud of the half-breed’s magical strength. Perhaps the dreamsave was a fluke.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27.35pt;">
Or perhaps by fluke his grandson nurtured royal
powers that had slowly faded away from the decaying elven court. Enterna suspected
one other in his family still cultivated strong powers, but Deniertaire had
started to embrace darkness and depravity. He had turned away from the earth.
Enterna still wondered whether he should name Deniertaire his heir.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27.35pt;">
It seemed now he might have another option.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27.35pt;">
A hot breeze blew sand into Enterna’s eyes. He
blinked away the irritation. Was this to be his kingdom’s sorry fate, to
succumb to the creeping sand? Why had he pushed Anadona to marry her brother?
Enterna had been such a fool. If she had remained and married a strong, fierce
noble, Enterna could hope magic might strengthen enough to save the kingdom
from the sand. Anadona had strong natural magic in her soul. She must have
passed the power to Alasdaire.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27.35pt;">
Weariness passed through his body. Perhaps the time
had come to yield to the Raven Court’s supreme judgment. He had lived for
entirely too long. As he sighed, Enterna turned and walked through the
struggling royal gardens. The gardeners tried but failed to make the expanse
look cheerful. Only the bloodred Nerdean roses looked healthy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27.35pt;">
The fantastically carved limestone palace loomed
before him, looking eerie in the moonlight. Wind and sandstorms had transformed
the walls into wild curves. A few of the tallest towers had been abandoned. The
crumbling structures could no longer support habitation. Perhaps the time had
also come to live in the canyons along with the remaining elves. His ancestors
had constructed the palace long before the sand began consuming the earth. Why
struggle to maintain it for the remaining nobles?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27.35pt;">
A glass of rose wine sounded perfect. Enterna stepped
forward.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27.35pt;">
He stopped.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27.35pt;">
Dizziness claimed his balance. His sight blurred,
softening the palace walls into sand wisps. The sensation of fading away ate at
Enterna’s consciousness. The sound of his knees hitting the pale flagstones
seemed too loud. How had someone pushed past his strong magical wards? He
slumped to his side. His body shuddered. He tried to resist the attack. Somehow
the force intensified.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27.35pt;">
Who dared to…?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27.35pt;">
Voices sounded around him. The warmth of the
flagstones pressed against his cheek. As darkness claimed him, he sought to
discover who had dared to spell him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27.35pt;">
He fought until a blazing spell signature appeared to
him in mocking triumph.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27.35pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">How sad.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27.35pt;">
Before the hungry magical darkness swallowed him,
Enterna focused and willed his power toward the remote elven shrine dedicated
to Tadn’nast, the Stormraven. He hoped he could make the journey.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27.35pt;">
Soul wind pushed him forward, away from his body.
Enterna allowed his soul to rise. Borne on the wings of the ravens, his soul
fled from his compromised body.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27.35pt;">
Could he look back? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Yes.</i> His body lay still against the flagstones.</div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">The dismal sight urged him on.</span>
<br />
<br />
Do you have a favorite Elf? Comment and enter to win a selection of my books: two novellas, two short stories and special surprises!<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
S.A. Garciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09126875507639117068noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1272504072511844522.post-83793887546074476432014-07-04T17:59:00.000-04:002014-07-04T17:59:04.978-04:00First Time Ever Excerpt from Canes and Scales: The Shadowy Ball
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<div class="Default" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span>Next week <i><b>Canes and Scales: The Novel</b></i> goes live! In th<span style="font-size: small;">e meantime, h</span>ere's another excerpt<span style="font-size: small;"> </span>from <i><b>Canes and Scales: The Novel</b></i>, aka Trauma and Trauma A-Go-Go.</span></span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span>In this excerpt, a festive royal ball turns dangerous for </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Alasdaire, the</span></span> tormented Elf who loves his enemy the Serpent.</span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>The Blurb:</b></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Serpent Prince Linden of Ardaul is determined to drag his
barbaric, power-hungry country into the modern age by encouraging learning,
advances in the sciences, and tolerance. His insane brother Edward, the King,
delights in making him pay for his efforts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Long years of watching his back, fighting wars, and solving
conflicts started by his cruel brother have taken a toll on Linden’s body and
mind, and he needs a respite. When Linden meets an alluring young bed slave
named Alasdaire, his weary heart responds. Alasdaire is an exotic mix of
southern royal Totandian elf and human, and, although he’s also suffered
hardship most of his life, his loving personality captivates the Prince.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Despite their differences, Alasdaire, canes—and Linden,
scales—unite in body and soul, but their romance is nearly shattered by
betrayal. When Linden becomes King, magical assassins, treachery, and threats
plague them. They narrowly escape death more than once. The lovers must
discover who wants them dead and more importantly, where they can turn for aid.
Neither enemies nor allies are what they seem. Only time will tell who means to
harm Linden and Alasdaire—the elves, the imprisoned Edward, or something even
deadlier—and time is one thing they don’t have.</span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span>PG-13
Excerpt Canes & Scales M/M fantasy S.A. Garcia</span></b></span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span>ALASDAIRE</span></b></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span>Gay
activity filled the crowded ballroom. Two wild dances I did not recognize
passed before us. The dancers moved in kinetic loops. Tonight the music sounded
jagged, more feral than what I had heard at Keith’s manor. </span></span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span>I
leaned against Linden’s shoulder. “My love, I do not recognize these odd
dances. Are they from another country?” </span></span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span>He
gestured toward the moving gaiety. “Ah, these are traditional folk dances from
the time of the battle of Adwurtein, which was a mighty win for Ardaul five
hundred years ago. Imagine, my social secretary Sir Newton took my ball request
seriously and scheduled these dances. At the battle of Adwurtein, the mighty
Serpent strangled what used to be Istarnor and added the country to the growing
collection. Now Istarnor is a peaceful Ardaul province, supplying fertile
ground for needed crops along with a prime port. They are part of the
Pastures.” </span></span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span>“Oh.
How lovely.” </span></span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span>He
gripped my thigh again. “Blast, Ala, forgive my unthinking statement.” </span></span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span>“Why
should I forgive you? See, at least under your fair and benevolent rule,
Hast’ntrata will continue to exist on her own. Someday I might visit there
without fear of their reaction to my mixed heritage.” I sighed and shook my
head. “Doubtful, but take heart, your rule should impress on other countries
that Ardaul isn’t dedicated to relentless destruction.” </span></span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span>His
inquisitive stare swept over my sharp smile. Linden pursed his lips and
returned to his eating. </span></span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span>I had
not intended to insult him. I sensed his years as Ardaul’s royal war hero had
made him sensitive about destruction. Instead of asking for forgiveness, I
nibbled a truffle and scallop pâté nested in a puff pastry shell. <i>Delicious.
</i>Tonight little descriptions sat on the plates, so I knew what I was eating.
</span></span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span>I
watched the nobles battle decoratively on the dance floor. The old dances
provided a barbaric flair, featuring arm flailing and plenty of foot stomping.
The dances reminded me more of ancient mating rituals best conducted around a
blazing fire. </span></span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span>I
concentrated on ignoring the bizarre shadows. They collected even closer to me.
Could I banish them? How? I couldn’t stand and try my limited elven magic
during a royal ball. </span></span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span>A
crashing crescendo ended the barbaric music. </span></span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span>Linden
applauded the dancer’s efforts. I sipped my wine. </span></span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span>After
the dancing, the small orchestra played soothing background music. Linden blew
an exasperated sigh against my cheek. “Ala, tell me what is wrong. Your
discomfort pushes at me. Why won’t you tell me what is the matter? What do you
sense? Tell me already.” </span></span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="page-break-before: always; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span>“Fine,
yes, something is amiss, but I don’t know what!” I blinked. “You want the
truth? Everything in this room threatens me. I see things that cannot<span style="font-size: small;"> </span>exist in the logical world lurking in the shadows—in
fact, shadows exist where none should be. Strange magic hammers at my soul.” </span></span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span>Linden
gently grasped my chin. He looked sorrowful. “Then please leave. Abandon the
search. I do not want you hurt.” </span></span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span>I
could barely form words. The magic ate at my senses. “I fear if I abandon this
search something awful will happen. Please don’t send me away, Linden. I need
to be here.” </span></span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span>Duchess
Curselean appeared by my side. She smiled as she held out her hands to me.
“Dear Alasdaire, will you be my partner in the next festive line dance?” </span></span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span>“Yes,
of course.” I stood, barely remaining upright. I glanced over to see a regal
young lady I did not recognize inviting Linden to the dance floor. Ah, Lady
Aless had arrived for her dance. Linden gazed at me with concern until I
nodded. </span></span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span>Sickness
welled within me. I blurted out a flimsy excuse. “Forgive my nerves, Duchess,
but I am not a skilled dancer.” </span></span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span>Alicia
squeezed my fingers. “Do not worry, my friend, this is a simple country line
dance. I promise to guide you.” </span></span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span>What
could I do, rebuff her and create a scene? Perhaps the dancing would confuse
the evil shadows gathering around me. After all, hadn’t I come here to touch
the nobles? I bowed with stiff acceptance, and let Alicia escort me to the
dance floor. Linden stood alongside me across from his partner. Of course, the
king would start the dance. </span></span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span>He
leaned close. “Are you sure you can do this?” </span></span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span>“Yes.”
I looked down the double line. To my horror, the shadows intensified around
certain laughing nobles. Before I could run, the orchestra surged into the
opening notes announcing the dance. Linden bowed, grasped his partner’s hands,
and darted between the double row of clapping nobles. He rolled his broad
shoulders. The music captivated him until Linden forgot himself and moved using
his customary grace. <i>Caution, my love, caution! </i>When the pair reached
the end, I accepted Alicia’s gloved hands in mine and started down the row. </span></span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span>Suddenly
the shadows transformed into huge gray snakes. The scaled beasts lunged at our
light movement. Terror filled my mind. I halted and almost pulled Alicia to the
parquet floor. Hissing snakes crowded around me. I released Alicia and waved my
hands against the air. “No! This is not real. I refute what I see.” </span></span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span>Despite
my wild protests, the salivating serpents crowded around me. I fell to the
floor bellowing like a raving madman, waving my fists against their attack. A
fierce golden serpent clad in a festive blue-and-gold suit lunged down at me. </span></span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span>“Ala!
Ala, what is wrong?” The words sounded concerned. He tricked me into not
pushing him away. </span></span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="page-break-before: always; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span>Linden slashed his venom-dripping fangs into my chest.
The sharp tips ripped open my clothing. The fangs dug into my flesh, deeper,
deeper, until they released burning poison into my body. Fire raced through my
veins, seeking to scorch me from within. Pungent putrefaction spread across my
wounded chest. I smelled my rotting flesh. Numbness attacked my hips, the
sensation swirling down into my legs, halting my attempt to scramble away. </span></span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span>I
desperately pummeled my fists against his head. “Stop! Linden, stop hurting me!
Stop! Leave me alone. This cannot be happening!” </span></span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span>He
hissed at me. A rank stench of decay and despair swirled around me. Pain
released a thousand deadly arrows into my flesh. My skin continued blackening
and bubbling. Decomposing strips sloughed off my hands. </span></span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span>I was
rotting. I screamed as pain defeated my senses. I knew this could not be real,
not unless I had gone insane in a blink…. </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span>I
fell into blackness.</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span><a href="http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/product_info.php?products_id=5202" target="_blank">Pre-Order Canes and Scales: The Novel at Dreamspinner Press</a> </span></span></span></div>
S.A. Garciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09126875507639117068noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1272504072511844522.post-16603431656481655002014-06-27T09:00:00.000-04:002014-06-27T09:00:04.650-04:00Exclusive Excerpt—Canes and Scales: The Novel<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I promised excerpts and I shall deliver. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">This is from <i><b>Canes and Scales: The Novel.</b></i> This ls part of the all new territory.</span><br />
<br />
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<div class="Default" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">PG-13
Excerpt Canes & Scales M/M fantasy S.A. Garcia</span></span></b></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">LINDEN</span></span></b></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">We
stepped into the room. Heads turned toward us. The admiring glances cast my way
made me feel secure in my fashion choices. I inhaled a deep breath and began
greeting the swarm. I don’t know how the numerous nobles expected me to
remember their names. I hadn’t seen many of them in years. Summerlands nobles
enjoyed staying close to home. I impressed myself with how I spun their names
off my tongue. </span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I
maneuvered toward the buffet table. What a sumptuous display, varied in colors
and textures. <i>Wait… no. Oh no. </i>I choked on a sip of wine. I wanted to
strangle Keith. A miniature version of me in uniform, my arms raised to the sky
in triumph, fouled the table’s center. I never, ever wanted to see myself
crafted from rose petals, candied fruit, and other edible treats. </span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I
wanted to eat my head to spare the embarrassment. </span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Cousin!”
Keith slapped my back. “The likeness is remarkable, eh? You look heroic yet
cranky.” </span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I
narrowed my eyelids in scolding. “I thought you liked me, Cuz.” </span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">As he
huffed with mock insult, Keith held up his hands. “I do love you, Cousin. Be
fair, I did spring for top-grade peach-hued rose petals instead of merely using
a peeled potato for your royal head.” </span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I
must admit using black licorice for my boots is hilarious.” </span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“A
lovely touch, eh?” </span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">We
smacked each other’s shoulders as we laughed. </span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“You
have some nerve, slave!” An angry male voice cut through our laughter. </span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“No,
please!” </span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">The
nobles surrounding me turned as one toward the disruption. They sensed
something to slake their thirst for drama. </span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Please,
Baron, I am with the prince!” </span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Powers!
How had Alasdaire ended up parted from me? I thought he still hovered behind
me. The nobles must have cut him off from me. </span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Keith
gripped my arm. I shrugged him off, handing him my wineglass. I pushed my way
toward Alasdaire. He was trying to back away from a tall dark-haired noble. The
noble grabbed Alasdaire’s wrist. </span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Baron,
please let me go!” </span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="page-break-before: always; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Alasdaire tried to yank away from the noble’s grip. I
focused on the hairy hand restraining Alasdaire’s left wrist. When he reached
up to grip Alasdaire’s chin, I almost succumbed to my rage. Instead, I inhaled
a deep breath. </span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I
reached his side. “Alasdaire, are you all right?” </span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">He
radiated shame-tinged anxiety. I automatically put my arm around his shoulder. </span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">A
tall, swarthy noble I did not recognize scowled before he realized who stood
before him. “My Prince!” He released Alasdaire and quickly bowed, red-faced and
nervous. “So good to see you again.” </span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I
flicked through names. Ah, Baron Otto from Mineia in the Western Summerlands
stood before me, “Baron. Is there a problem here?” </span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">He
bowed again. “Not at all. I enjoyed this fair slave last summer. I merely
wanted to experience him again.” </span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I am
sorry, but as he said, he is with me.” </span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“My
apologies, Prince Linden.” </span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">The
Baron bowed and left the ballroom. What a wise man. My heart slowed down. If he
had remained near me, I feared I would punch the Baron until I felt better.
What a sure way to spoil the evening. </span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Low
murmuring rippled through the watching nobles. I suspect I had disappointed
them by not providing a more violent display of temper. </span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Alasdaire
stood staring at the floor, trembling with self-control. I thought he was
willing himself to vanish beneath the floorboards. My lingering rage quickly
turned into concern. I released his shoulder to touch his cheek canes.
“Alasdaire?” </span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">He
stared up at me. His slightly wild expression worried me. “My Prince, let me
return to the suite.” His harsh whisper caught in his throat. “Forgive me. I
can’t remain down here. They stare at me like hungry dogs.” </span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">At
least he kept his voice low. I massaged his upper arms. “Of course. I will come
with you.” </span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">The
wildness faded from his stare. He blinked with surprise. “Truly?” </span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I
raised my hand. “Truly.” I gently gripped his elbow and guided him toward the
side door. All eyes watched us. </span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I
turned to wave. “Farewell, everyone. I fear I must retire for the evening.
Keith, please send up treats and wine to us.” </span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">As we
walked along the long upper corridor, I glanced down to smile at Alasdaire. His
reverent expression made me feel like a true prince riding up on a white
charger to save the day. I enjoyed the emotion. </span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Too
bad I had never eaten my rose-petal head. </span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="page-break-before: always; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Once we escaped to my suite, my guards admitted
servers. To my delight, one large silver tray supported my edible body. Dear
Keith knew how much I wanted to destroy the thing. </span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Alasdaire
and I laughed until we almost cried. The servers stared at us with great
confusion. After they departed, Alasdaire examined my fruit-and-petal faux
body. “They performed an excellent job making you appear heroic.” He tickled
his finger against the figure’s crotch. “Mmm, I want to eat this part. I know
the real thing tastes wonderful.” He fluttered his lashes in sultry tease. </span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Seeing
him act playful relieved me. To celebrate, I reached over and plucked off my
head. Alasdaire gasped before he laughed along with me. I bit into my hair,
revealing a fluffy cream filling. The pastry chef had turned me into a cream
puff. I laughed harder. </span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Alasdaire
dipped his finger into the neck. “How suitable—heroic on the outside, sweet on
the inside.” </span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Watch
out, the chef might have laced the cream with Uurkian pepper sauce. That’s more
accurate to my personality.” </span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Nonsense.”
He seduced me by licking more cream from his finger. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I
popped the remainder of my head into my mouth. A mix of sweetness, floral
accents, and mint met my tongue. I tasted lovely. “Let’s save dessert for
last.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Canes and Scales: The Novel on presale at Dreamspinner Press:</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;"><a href="http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/product_info.php?products_id=5202" target="_blank">Canes and Scales: The Novel 25% Off Now!</a> </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span>S.A. Garciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09126875507639117068noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1272504072511844522.post-1339683420764295082014-06-25T20:59:00.001-04:002014-06-25T20:59:30.473-04:00True Confessions: Why My Writing Sucked
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I probably bore people with blathering on about how I
started writing gay male romance when I was in high school. I really did,
although I couldn’t never say why I liked the idea of two men together rather
than two women. Well, yeah, it’s the whole I hadn’t accepted my own desires yet
concept. </span>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">What I have accepted is how badly I sucked as a writer. I
don’t mean back in high school. I wrote my stories in my trusty marble
composition books—thread bound, never glued— so they’re there for me to read if
I really want to remind myself of how badly I sucked at the craft of writing.
I’m talking about even more recently, like before I started receiving serious
editing from my publishers.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Let me count. Yep, I have ten novels which are either
finished or very close. They patiently wait on my computer for a shot at the
real world.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Why don’t I release them? Because they embarrass me. Yep, I
might have good story lines, but there’s no way in hell or any other realm that
I could release them and feel proud of them. The poor dears sit hoping I’ll fix
them— banish the adjectives, the purple prose, the serious POV problems, the—
you get the picture. <br /><br />
Which brings me to another reason I wanted to revisit <i>Canes and Scales</i>, my
first published novella, and turn it into a novel. <i>C&S</i> deserved a fresh
edit, more chapters, and an edgier story. It deserved my attention as a
published writer who has been slapped up alongside the head for her numerous
verbal transgressions. </span>
</div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I am proud of the results. <i><b>Canes and Scales: The Novel</b></i> doesn’t
suck because this time Dreamspinner’s editors not only slapped, but they also mauled,
pummeled, and beat my words into splendid shape.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I cherish every editorial bruise. Each one is another
learning lesson.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Stay tuned: exclusive <i><b>Canes and Scales: The Novel</b></i> excerpts
to come this week!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">xoxo</span></div>
S.A. Garciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09126875507639117068noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1272504072511844522.post-45843863489261456522014-06-22T16:41:00.000-04:002014-06-22T16:41:24.146-04:00Canes and Scales: the Novel and the MAP!<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I am sooo proud of my map for <i><b>Canes and Scales: The Novel</b></i>. A big fantasy deserves a good map!</span><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3ttRlawENcHfiMpvzft6tUQj3pbHyPGqXgYJ88adoRiBZWHhIzqDWdOWc-_IHypEszunZVaKc6vDxllIlW7vJpriIoBecpJeAB5j2LRQuD0b2OC6b3ceCCpi8IcWTOPDrSsEaNw4F4P8/s1600/Canes+and+Scales+map+8.5x5.5FINAL_large.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3ttRlawENcHfiMpvzft6tUQj3pbHyPGqXgYJ88adoRiBZWHhIzqDWdOWc-_IHypEszunZVaKc6vDxllIlW7vJpriIoBecpJeAB5j2LRQuD0b2OC6b3ceCCpi8IcWTOPDrSsEaNw4F4P8/s1600/Canes+and+Scales+map+8.5x5.5FINAL_large.jpg" height="640" width="414" /></a></div>
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<br />S.A. Garciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09126875507639117068noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1272504072511844522.post-42350570235583653082014-04-12T21:03:00.001-04:002014-04-12T21:03:37.990-04:00Memories of Sally and Andy- RJ Scott's Autisim Blog Hop
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: red;"><i><b>People with autism who find social interaction difficult may
use their special interests to start conversations & feel relaxed </b></i></span></span></div>
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Sally, a friend of mine I used to work with, has an autistic
son named Andy. (I don’t want to use their real names.) Let me provide back story
here. Years ago, Sally suddenly experienced extreme weakness, sometimes to the
point where she blacked out. She suffered chronic pain. Eventually she had to
go on long-term disability leave from work because she couldn’t drive. The
diagnosis: lupus. Putting a name to her problem relieved Sally. She understood
her symptoms would flare up, but at least she knew what she battled.</div>
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Before the diagnosis, Sally described an episode in the
grocery store where she suffered an attack. When Sally collapsed to the floor, Andy,
a normally sweet-natured six year-old, started screaming with fear while he punched
her. She held Andy close as he struggled. It amazed Sally that initially no one
helped her. Sally was almost in tears as she told me feared her fellow shoppers
regarded her as abusive and stayed away. Lucky they finally came to her aid. </div>
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Coping with her illness and caring for Andy was a struggle. Jerry,
her now former husband, didn’t help her much— he was extremely self-centered
and almost acted like Sally put on an act for attention. To add to the stress, Sally
also took care of animals she rescued from kill shelters and put them up for
adoption on Pet Finder. At least Jerry helped with the animals.</div>
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When I visited one evening, it amazed me how Andy interacted
with dwarf bunnies. He curled on a throw rug to snuggle with them, gently
petting them. They seemed to love him. Sally reasoned snuggling the bunnies
soothed Andy. She let them romp free under supervision. To my surprise, Andy
let me pet the bunnies. I told him I had bunnies of my own, although he didn’t
react to my words. </div>
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Other than that happy interaction, Andy acted disinterested
in everything but the bunnies and his favorite Thomas the Train cartoon. Sally
admitted she often played the cartoon to calm down Andy. When not watching the
cartoon or snuggling, Andy wandered back and forth, never making eye contact or
reacting to attempts to interact. Ocassionally he would crawl into Sally’s lap
to rest for a few seconds. I found it interesting how he totally ignored Jerry.</div>
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It wasn’t until I went to leave that I saw an episode
similar to what Sally had experienced in the grocery store. Sally walked me to
the front door. Before I reached the door, Andy ran across the room and threw
himself at the door, kicking and screaming. Sally sat on the floor and held him
until he calmed down. I attempted to leave again, but Andy yanked away from
Sally and did the same thing. </div>
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Sally thought he liked me because I played with the bunnies.
He didn’t want me to leave. </div>
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I felt awful to cause him such distress. I suggested
sneaking out through the back door but it turned out the lock was broken— Jerry
hadn’t gotten around to replacing it. </div>
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I sat down again and waited. Sally held Andy until he pulled
away to return to wandering in an agitated manner. We thought I could try to
leave again. This time Sally halted Andy from hitting the door. She rocked him,
trying to explain to him that I needed to go home to my bunnies. This time he
kept screaming and hitting her.</div>
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Sally urged me to go while she held him. I shut the door behind
me, feeling shaken and sad to disrupt the family. Sally didn’t blame me, but I still
felt guilty. Andy’s outbursts truly showed me it takes a brave, loving person
to raise an autistic child. Many brave loving parents raise similar children
across the world. </div>
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I have no children of my own. I never wanted the
responsibility. That’s why I can’t imagine how hard it is to raise an autistic
child. I have nothing but admiration and awe for such parents.</div>
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The good news is once Sally divorced Jerry, as Andy grew
older, he became more social. She’s coping with her lupus. Nowadays I only see
Sally on Facebook, not in person, but I’ll never forget that night. </div>
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RJ, thanks for hosting this Autism Awareness Blog Hop. </div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Looping back to
the top fact, what do you do to make yourself feel more relaxed in a social
situation? Comment to win the first two books in my Dreamspinner Press Cupid
series: “Cupid Knows Best” and “The Gospel According to Cher.”</div>
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Thank you for reading. </div>
S.A. Garciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09126875507639117068noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1272504072511844522.post-78246879303892413762014-01-18T00:29:00.002-05:002014-01-18T00:29:16.482-05:00Bowie's "We Are the Dead"<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>These lyrics sound oddly timely.</b></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>"We Are The Dead"</b><br /><br />
Something kind of hit me today</span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
I looked at you and wondered if you saw things my way<br /><br />
People will hold us to blame</span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
It hit me today, it hit me today<br /><br />
We're taking it hard all the time</span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
Why don't we pass it by?<br />
Just reply, you've changed your mind<br />
We're fighting with the eyes of the blind<br />
Taking it hard, taking it hard<br /><br />
Yet now</span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
We feel that we are papers, choking on you nightly<br />
They tell me "Son, we want you, be elusive, but don't walk far"<br />
For we're breaking in the new boys, deceive your next of kin<br />
For you're dancing where the dogs decay, defecating ecstasy<br />
You're just an ally of the leecher<br />
Locator for the virgin King, but I love you in your fuck-me pumps<br />
And your nimble dress that trails<br />
Oh, dress yourself, my urchin one, for I hear them on the rails<br />
Because of all we've seen, because of all we've said<br />
We are the dead<br /><br />
One thing kind of touched me today</span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /><br />
I looked at you and counted all the times we had laid</span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
Pressing our love through the night<br /><br />
Knowing it's right, knowing it's right</span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /><br />
Now I'm hoping some one will care</span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
Living on the breath of a hope to be shared<br /><br />
Trusting on the sons of our love</span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
That someone will care, someone will care<br /><br />
But now</span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
We're today's scrambled creatures, locked in tomorrow's double feature<br />
Heaven's on the pillow, its silence competes with hell<br />
It's a twenty-four hour service, guaranteed to make you tell<br /><br />
And the streets are full of press men</span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
Bent on getting hung and buried<br />
And the legendary curtains are drawn 'round Baby Bankrupt<br />
Who sucks you while you're sleeping<br />
It's the theater of financiers<br />
Count them, fifty 'round a table<br />
White and dressed to kill<br /><br />
Oh caress yourself, my juicy</span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
For my hands have all but withered<br />
Oh dress yourself my urchin one, for I hear them on the stairs<br />
Because of all we've seen, because of all we've said<br /><br />
We are the dead</span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
We are the dead<br />
We are the dead </span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="smallfont">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Writer(s): David Bowie<br />
Copyright: Tintoretto Music, Jones Music America, Chrysalis Music Ltd.</span></div>
S.A. Garciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09126875507639117068noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1272504072511844522.post-22148794098804930652014-01-05T01:39:00.000-05:002014-01-05T01:39:50.477-05:00SighReally, sometimes you want to give up. S.A. Garciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09126875507639117068noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1272504072511844522.post-84400366402435132122013-12-13T00:11:00.000-05:002013-12-13T00:19:54.626-05:00My Christmas Present to You: Three Novels!<style>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Holiday stories do not come easily to this cynical old gal.
In fact, last year was the first time I submitted a story for Dreamspinner’s
Advent calendar anthology. My futuristic story was set in a homeless shelter
run by a gay pastor who thinks he’s loosing his mind, but by the end of the
story, a few miracles happen.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I was stunned and delighted when “The Colors of Pastor Saul”
was accepted for publication. I love my Dreamspinner editors.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Upon release, quite a few easily upset souls complained
about the story. Too “sad” too “dark”, too “unsettling”… but wait, I thought, what
about the miracles? Certain readers didn’t want to read about miracles in a
homeless shelter, not for Christmas. These delicate readers wanted holiday
trees and pretty lights…wait, I did feature those items in my story. Hmm. Maybe
the specter of Death during Christmas upset readers. Cue Dickens. Obviously the
oh-so-sensitive souls had never bothered to read Dickens.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Snarky? Me? Absolutely. I don’t tolerate ignorance and
wanting intellect.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Back in March, I attempted to write a cheerful Christmas
story set in 1947 Cornwell. Suddenly the trauma of World War 2 seeped into the celebration. I
gave up and gently placed the story in storage. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">When I saw RJ Scott’s invitation to submit a story to her “Christmas
Delights” anthology, I said what the hell, I’ll give this holiday story game
another shot. This time I selected nice hot sex as the story’s centerpiece. No
trauma, no lurking death… there’s sex, voyeurism, snow, sweat, surprises, and a
1966 cherry red Mustang convertible named Sheila. When I feature a car in a
story, I need to name her something fun. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">There you go. I have discovered the ability to write a
cheerful holiday story. OK, yes, there’s a little trauma, but it’s resolved in
a blink.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">To prove my holiday cheer, I’m giving away a holiday present
of three novels: <i><b>Cupid Knows Best, The Gospel According to Cher</b></i> and <i><b>Love in the
Shadows</b></i>. I’ll even throw in a copy of “The Colors of Pastor Saul.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="color: red;"><b>Your task is simple: recommend a great holiday story to me and end the post with the Mustang's name. *snicker*</b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Good luck!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">My partner Professor Sandy will pick the winner on Sunday night.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Also, hop over to RJ’s blog for the chance to win great
RJ-related prizes!</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><a href="http://rjscottauthor.blogspot.co.uk/2013/11/twentyfivedays.html?zx=3f4838abc9344e2f" target="_blank">RJ Scott</a> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">PS: By the way, the Cornwell story is coming out of storage. I think I found a happy ending. I'm trying, kittens, yes I am. </span></div>
S.A. Garciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09126875507639117068noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1272504072511844522.post-54297988562488986882013-12-05T22:42:00.003-05:002013-12-05T23:00:22.864-05:00Shira Anthony Guest Post: The Blue Notes Series: Love for the Long Haul<style>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Welcome to the Shira Anthony Weekend!<br /><br />Thanks, Sandy, for
hosting me! It’s been a busy
holiday season so far, since I have two releases in my <a href="http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/index.php?cPath=673">Blue Notes
Series</a> of music-themed gay romances: <a href="http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/product_info.php?products_id=4353&cPath=55_484"><i>Encore</i></a> (released November 11th) and <a href="http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/product_info.php?products_id=4479&cPath=673"><i>Symphony in Blue</i></a> (to be released on
Christmas day). <i>Symphony in Blue</i> also happens to be my
10th <a href="http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/index.php?cPath=484">Dreamspinner
Press</a> release, so I’m going all-out with a <b>Blue Notes </b>Holiday 2013 Tour
giveaway contest featuring a grand prize of a Kindle loaded with e-books as
well as other fun goodies (details at the end of the post).</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><b>The Blue Notes
Series</b> books, with the exception of <i>Symphony
in Blue</i>, are standalone novels and can be read in any order. <i>Encore</i>
shares themes in common with the other Blue Notes books: music and musicians, a
heavy focus on character development, and long-term, committed
relationships. It’s this last
theme I’d like to talk a bit about:
love for the long haul.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">I’ve never been a
fan of insta-love. Not only that,
I was the kid who wanted to know what happened to Cinderella and her prince <i>after</i> they got married. When people talk about
happily-ever-afters, I’m thinking <i>years</i>
down the line, not wedding days.
Maybe I wanted a road map for happiness. Maybe I just wanted more realism than I got from
cookie-cutter Harlequin romances.
It really doesn’t matter.
What matters to me is that readers see what it is that makes the men in
my stories want to stay together and how they grow <i>after</i> they tell each other “I love you.” Those are the books I wanted to read, and those are the
books I write. <i>Symphony in Blue </i>and <i>Encore</i> are perfect examples.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjveNQ1LoRnrIlvjEesBiRxiUZtrczmorC_0cgiqdRBGik03ifB2I-XXPf_EhydMKKtVinYCMmMnGhc8ODUrN_4rareW-qVkH4kcS0KfK1D3bpop011YjgITd2BSNzYCKr5aIN2_5C1mZE/s1600/Encore-Build.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjveNQ1LoRnrIlvjEesBiRxiUZtrczmorC_0cgiqdRBGik03ifB2I-XXPf_EhydMKKtVinYCMmMnGhc8ODUrN_4rareW-qVkH4kcS0KfK1D3bpop011YjgITd2BSNzYCKr5aIN2_5C1mZE/s320/Encore-Build.JPG" width="213" /></a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/product_info.php?products_id=4353&cPath=55_484"><i>Encore</i></a> is chronologically the first
book in the series. It begins in
the 1970s and ends in the present day.
Talk about a long haul!
Roger and John meet in high school. They are meant for each other. But it’s the 1970s, and being gay was a million times harder
back then than it is today. I
lived through the 70s and 80s. I remember the whispers and the judgments, the
finger pointing and horrible suggestions that AIDS was some sort of retribution
for the “sin” of homosexuality. I
knew men who lived their lives in the closet. I knew men who died of AIDS. I knew men who struggled to find a way to make relationships
work in spite of the lack of role models for same-sex partners (we weren’t even
talking about marriage back then!).
These are the men who inspired John and Roger’s story. The road to a lasting
happily-ever-after is a very long one in <i>Encore</i>. It’<i>s</i>
a story of young love, and it becomes a story of mature love. The perfect representation of how I see
happily-ever-after. And it takes
John and Roger nearly 30 years to figure out how to make their love work.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzueTpSyM6Zxvh_XiBfUldIYwEbGiVodr_c8vxYxadRDl0XoHaYATLskULpK1vRY4-EWg-QT91iRpZTNYHvB87DgAOx61yUxLidt8rLTganOxDcUa-H7nxO-I22b6lYESM1Jbg8tvBO7c/s1600/Symphony+in+Blue-build+(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzueTpSyM6Zxvh_XiBfUldIYwEbGiVodr_c8vxYxadRDl0XoHaYATLskULpK1vRY4-EWg-QT91iRpZTNYHvB87DgAOx61yUxLidt8rLTganOxDcUa-H7nxO-I22b6lYESM1Jbg8tvBO7c/s320/Symphony+in+Blue-build+(1).jpg" width="213" /></a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/product_info.php?products_id=4479&cPath=673"><i>Symphony in Blue</i></a> is also about the
long haul and watching relationships come into their own. It is also the only sequel in the
series—a direct sequel to the first four books. In it, I revisit the first four couples in the series, and
show how their relationships have grown and the new challenges in their
lives. Is there a
happily-ever-after in each of the first four books? Of course.
Die-hard romantic that I am, I don’t write books without them. But <i>Symphony
in Blue</i> is a perfect illustration of how a happily-ever-after isn’t a
particular place of mind: it’s a
state of mind. So you might think
of it as a second happily-ever-after for each of the couples.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Looking for sexy
hot romances with fluffy scenes? I
think you’ll like the Blue Notes books.
But if you’re also looking for something more—for something more real than
Cinderella and her prince? I think you’ll enjoy these stories about real men in
real relationships. You can find
all of my Dreamspinner Press books by <a href="http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/index.php?cPath=484">clicking here</a>. Want to read more about me and about my
books, including free fiction and excerpts? Check out my website, <a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1272504072511844522">www.shiraanthony.com</a>. <a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1272504072511844522" name="_GoBack"></a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Don’t forget to
enter the Blue Notes Holiday 2013 Blog Tour giveaway by <a href="http://bit.ly/19tSbFv">clicking here (Rafflecopter)</a>. There are plenty of ways to enter, and
you can enter more than once by commenting, tweeting, buying books, and liking
pages. I’ll be drawing winners on
New Year’s Eve at midnight! Good
luck! –Shira</span><br />
</div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-variant: small-caps; line-height: 115%;"><i>ENCORE</i>
EXCERPT:</span></span></b></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-variant: small-caps; line-height: 115%;">Roger watched
</span>the snow fall outside the window of his apartment before glancing over
at the clock. It was nearly 9:00 p.m., and John should have arrived an hour
before.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Promise me you won’t come if the snow gets too bad. You know how I-23
can get,” he’d told John that morning over the phone.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">“I’ll be fine,” John had reassured him. “With the opera rehearsal
schedule and Professor Menard’s vocal performance class, I’d never get to see
you if I waited for perfect weather.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Now, an hour after John was supposed to be here, Roger was pacing the
apartment. Worrying. Imagining John’s car somewhere in a ditch. Or worse.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">He pulled a beer out of the fridge, popped the top, and resumed his
pacing. Ten minutes later, the phone rang.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Hello!” he practically barked into the handset.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Roger?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Oh, hey, Mom.” <i>Fuck.</i> “How’re you doing?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Fine.” She paused, and Roger tried to think of something to get her
off the phone. If John needed to get a hold of him, he didn’t want him to get a
busy signal. “I’m surprised you’re around on a Saturday night. You usually
aren’t.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">“I’ve got an exam on Monday,” he lied. “I can’t talk long.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">“No, of course. I wouldn’t want to keep you from it.” She’d been
thrilled when he’d told her he planned on finishing school in three years. He
hadn’t told her he planned on moving to New York, where John had already been
accepted to do his master’s in conducting at Juilliard.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Thanks, Mom.” Roger pushed back the curtain on the window in the
kitchen with his foot—the long telephone cord didn’t go quite that far. From
here, he could see the parking lot. A blanket of white covered the stripes on
the asphalt. No John.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">“… aren’t you?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Huh?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">“I asked if you were coming over on Monday for dinner.” She sounded
irritated.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Oh, yeah. Right. Sure. I’ll be there.” He had to get her off the
phone. “Look, Mom. I gotta get back to studying. I’ll see you Monday, okay?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Are you sure everything is all right, dear?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">“It’s great, Mom. I really need to go.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Her huff was audible through the handset. “Of course.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Bye.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">He hung up the phone before she could say anything more, and opened the
drapes a bit farther. There had to be at least six inches of snow outside. He
pressed his nose against the cold glass like he had when he’d been a kid, then
closed his eyes. A moment later, the buzzer to the apartment sounded.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><i>Thank God!</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Roger scrambled over to the door and opened it to find a disheveled
John smiling back at him. “Had to ditch the car over by the Woolworth’s. Forgot
my keys. The ploughs haven’t made it this far yet—”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Roger grabbed John and pulled him inside. He was soaking wet, his
shoulder-length hair curled at the ends, but Roger didn’t care. He drew John
against him, wrapped his arms around his shoulders, and just held him.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">“You okay?” John’s voice sounded muffled against Roger’s cheek.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">“I am now.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Can I take this backpack off?” John asked with a soft laugh. “It’s a
little heavy.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Oh. Shit. Sorry.” Roger grabbed the pack off John’s shoulders and
kicked the door shut behind them.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">“You were worried about me.” Not a question, and the way the edges of
John’s mouth edged upward, Roger could tell he was teasing.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Roger was tempted to lie, but he was so relieved, he just sighed and
said, “Yeah.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">John stared at him in surprise. “You really <i>were</i> worried.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Fuck, John, I—”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">John kissed him. He tasted of snow and Coca-Cola. Roger closed his eyes
as their tongues skirted each other in a now-familiar dance. God, he loved
John! More than he could get up the nerve to admit.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">For two years they’d stolen every moment they could, working around
John’s busy schedule and Roger’s mother. Miranda suspected something. Roger was
sure of it. She’d even shown up at the apartment early in the morning on the
weekend. John said he was sure she was trying to catch them together. It made
things a bit more difficult, but they’d worked it out. John stored his things
under the bed, and the bedroom closet was big enough that he could slip inside
and hide. They’d left a few pillows behind Roger’s clothing, as well as a
flashlight and a few books.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Don’t worry about it,” John had said the first time he’d hidden there.
They both knew Roger needed his parents to pay tuition—at least they hadn’t
threatened to stop when Roger announced he was getting his own apartment. “It’s
just for a little while.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Roger came back to himself and realized John was shivering. “Shit,
John. You’re freezing your ass off.” He took John by the hand and led him into
the bedroom. In the light, John’s cheeks looked pink in contrast to his pale
skin. Roger unzipped John’s wet jacket and pushed it off his shoulders. “Stay
right there,” he said before stepping into the bathroom to retrieve a towel.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">John smiled as Roger dried his face and hair. “Feels good. I like it
when you fuss over me.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Roger’s cheeks heated. “Your pants are soaked,” he said in an effort to
mask his embarrassment. He reached for John’s belt, undid the buckle, and
unbuttoned the waist of John’s pants. The room was silent except for the sound
of the zipper and Roger’s heart pounding in his ears. His hands shook as he
pulled John’s pants down—he still hadn’t quite moved past the sinking feeling
in his gut that had lodged itself there when he’d worried something had
happened to John. He could handle a lot, but the thought of losing John
terrified him.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Are you okay?” John was studying him with a strange expression.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Yeah.” <i>I am now.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Roger focused on helping John step out of the cold, damp pants. He knew
if he met John’s gaze, everything he felt would be obvious. It wasn’t just that
he was embarrassed. What he felt was something he’d only begun to understand:
vulnerability. The feeling you get when you realize your entire world would
come to a screeching halt if the certain someone in your life were to vanish.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">John shivered again.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Get under the covers. I’ll be there in a minute.” Roger watched John
pull the warm comforter over himself as he got undressed. He joined John
underneath and skated his palms over John’s cold thighs until they warmed to
his touch.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Feels good.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">“You’re still cold.” Roger wrapped his body around John’s and held him.
John’s skin was slightly damp against his own.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">“I’m fine.” John tucked his chin into the space between Roger’s neck
and shoulder. “Really.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Roger just held him tighter.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Roger?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Hmm?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">“You okay?” John pulled away a bit and looked at him with obvious
concern.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Yeah.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Talk to me, Roger. What’s up?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">It was Roger’s turn to shiver. “I told you. I was just a little
worried.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">“About me?” John reached for Roger’s face and pulled it gently so that
Roger had no choice but to look at him.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Yeah.” He didn’t want to talk about this. He just wanted to hold John
and reassure himself John was safe. He looked away again.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Hey.” John rolled onto his side so his face was next to Roger’s. “You
can tell me, you know. I’m not going to laugh or anything.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">“I know.” Roger hesitated another moment, then said, “It’s just that I
feel like an idiot.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Worrying about me doesn’t make you an idiot.” John leaned in and
kissed Roger’s nose. “It makes me feel good.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Roger’s breath stuttered. “I kept thinking back to that night… the
accident. I kept imagining you in a ditch somewhere. Hurt…. Shit.” He grabbed
John and buried his face in his chest. “I dream about that night sometimes,
except in my dreams, you’re….” He clenched his jaw and blinked back tears. He’d
had a lot of those dreams—nightmares, really—since John had started driving
down from Ann Arbor to stay with him. He dreamed he woke up in the hospital and
instead of John being all right, the doctor told him they’d done everything
they could, and then he was standing in front of a headstone and he knew, he
just <i>knew</i> whose headstone it was.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">“I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you,” Roger whispered. “I’d lose my
mind. I love you so fucking much, I don’t know what I’d do.” It took him a
moment to realize what he’d just said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">John leaned over and kissed him again, this time on the lips. In the
semidarkness, Roger saw John’s eyes sparkle. The edges of his mouth curved
upward in a tentative smile as the kiss broke. “You love me?” he asked.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Roger could only nod.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Thank God. Because I don’t know what <i>I’d</i> do if I was the only
one who felt like that.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">“You love me too.” He said the words as though he didn’t believe them.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Always, Roger.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<h3>
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Blue Notes Holiday 2013 Blog Tour
Info</span></span></b></h3>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">This blog
tour is to celebrate TWO Blue Notes Series releases: <i><b>Encore </b></i>(Blue Notes #5) on November 11, 2013, and <i><b>Symphony
in Blue</b></i> (Blue Notes #4.5) on December 25, 2013 (Christmas Day). <i><b>Symphony in Blue </b></i>is my 10th
Dreamspinner Press release! I’ve
put together a special prize list to celebrate. </span></span><br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Blue Notes
Series Holiday 2013 Giveaway:</span></span></b><br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">·<span style="-moz-font-feature-settings: normal; -moz-font-language-override: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><span style="line-height: 115%;">Begins on release day for <i><b>Encore</b></i>,
November 11, 2013</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">·<span style="-moz-font-feature-settings: normal; -moz-font-language-override: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><span style="line-height: 115%;">Ends on New Year’s Eve, December 31,
2013, at midnight</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">·<span style="-moz-font-feature-settings: normal; -moz-font-language-override: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><span style="line-height: 115%;">Drawings are open to both U.S.
readers and international readers, but physical prizes (Kindle, necklace, book,
and t-shirt) are for U.S. readers only. I will award a virtual set of the first
4 Blue Notes Series books to one winner from outside the U.S.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">·<span style="-moz-font-feature-settings: normal; -moz-font-language-override: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><span style="line-height: 115%;">Prizes (U.S. Only):</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">o<span style="-moz-font-feature-settings: normal; -moz-font-language-override: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><span style="line-height: 115%;">Grand Prize: A Kindle loaded with the
first 4 Blue Notes Series books and some of my other back titles</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">o<span style="-moz-font-feature-settings: normal; -moz-font-language-override: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><span style="line-height: 115%;">1st Place: A sterling silver music
themed necklace</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">o<span style="-moz-font-feature-settings: normal; -moz-font-language-override: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><span style="line-height: 115%;">2nd Place: Winner’s choice of one of
my back titles in paperback (i.e., not including the 2 new releases)</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">o<span style="-moz-font-feature-settings: normal; -moz-font-language-override: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><span style="line-height: 115%;">3rd Place: Blue Notes t-shirt, cover
of the winner’s choice</span></span><br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Buy
Links: Encore: <a href="http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/product_info.php?products_id=4353&cPath=55_484">http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/product_info.php?products_id=4353&cPath=55_484</a></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Symphony in
Blue: <a href="http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/product_info.php?products_id=4479&cPath=55_484">http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/product_info.php?products_id=4479&cPath=55_484</a></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">******</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Remaining Blog Stops
Currently Scheduled:</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">December
10th: <a href="http://talismania-brilliantdisguise.blogspot.com/">Brilliant
Disguise</a> (Tali Spencer’s blog)</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">December
16th: <a href="http://rebeccacohenwrites.wordpress.com/">Rebecca Cohen’s blog</a></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">December
20th: <a href="http://www.purpleroseteahouse.charliecochet.com/">Purple Rose
Teahouse</a> (Charlie Cochet’s blog)</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">December
23rd: <a href="http://www.mrsconditreadsbooks.com/">Mrs. Condits and Friends</a></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">December 25<sup>th</sup>:
<i>Symphony in Blue</i> Release Day Party at
Melanie Marshall’s <a href="http://scatteredthoughtsandroguewords.com/">Scattered
Thoughts and Rogue Words</a></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">December 26<sup>th</sup>:
<a href="http://www.booksuburbia.com/">Book Suburbia</a> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">December
27th: <a href="http://www.helenpattskyn.com/">Helen Pattskyn’s blog</a></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
S.A. Garciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09126875507639117068noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1272504072511844522.post-90543767069831917282013-12-03T23:55:00.001-05:002013-12-03T23:55:28.736-05:00Trying not to Rewrite Marathon Man Dental Scenes <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjth7Xcu2aggAhz5ZWQeUlvRUe877iv15WZwA9Miy4AO6Q0ibfoDg5E7kafMyyekts_K9I5rofYMH5v3L2VaomDU4Z2BgjtTGoNrQPmbweXrSiDZRMgtM-TcxNAuNuw5PqaRqZgtoshH0U/s1600/Marathon_man.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjth7Xcu2aggAhz5ZWQeUlvRUe877iv15WZwA9Miy4AO6Q0ibfoDg5E7kafMyyekts_K9I5rofYMH5v3L2VaomDU4Z2BgjtTGoNrQPmbweXrSiDZRMgtM-TcxNAuNuw5PqaRqZgtoshH0U/s320/Marathon_man.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I’ve long needed serious dental work over the past years.
Yeah, years ago a temporary cap fell off and I never went back, just put up
with the pit in my back right wisdom tooth. Two years ago my lower left wisdom
tooth exploded on the opposite side. I bravely held off until <i><b>ta-da</b></i> I
took a real job again featuring dental insurance. Trust me, writing novels is
NOT good for the teeth.</span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">During the past three weeks, I suffered through rebuilds on
two wisdom teeth in order to put crowns in place. We’re talking those tedious
hour long drilling sessions… followed by sitting for long minutes waiting for
the implant goop to set. Yuck, yuck, yuck.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Instead of panicking, I tried to write while I lay there
helpless to the drill. Aside from writing a scene referencing the movie <i><b>Marathon Man</b></i> where Dustin Hoffman is tortured by Laurence Olivier via dental
drills, I could not focus.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I tried. I think the damned drilling noise destroyed my
concentration. It’s hard to think about anything but that damned drill when
it’s at a high pitched whine or—and I find worse— the low-pitched burr.
Arrrrgh!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Now as the massive anesthesia doses wear off, the temp side
hurts and the new crown hurts. But hey, as least I finally gave my teeth proper
attention.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Just wait, I’ll start grinding at the new cap while I try to
write a scene as I fall into sleep tonight.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I know none of my new novels will feature a dentist. Sorry,
I can’t think of a dentist as sexy. Then again, it might be great aversion
therapy to write about…no. I can’t.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Urrgh.</span></div>
S.A. Garciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09126875507639117068noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1272504072511844522.post-56597601482676378842013-12-01T16:35:00.002-05:002013-12-01T16:35:27.779-05:00FREE Christmas Anthology from Love Lane Books<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlNWaQWgnE1eSCx49zheV6bucXfJf4WNCaBsWeXS6FgZsBtnIJZB1_2ufxnXNLVq1UpFB0hJn1DPolAR6oPZNGbuv0Lf9gr5Z3IvQEH1Al-pIOBtf3JsPKfphlTkxmAuRrdGyQap6UkTs/s1600/Christmas+Delights+V1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlNWaQWgnE1eSCx49zheV6bucXfJf4WNCaBsWeXS6FgZsBtnIJZB1_2ufxnXNLVq1UpFB0hJn1DPolAR6oPZNGbuv0Lf9gr5Z3IvQEH1Al-pIOBtf3JsPKfphlTkxmAuRrdGyQap6UkTs/s320/Christmas+Delights+V1.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I have a story in a <b>FREE</b> Christmas anthology Christmas Delights, it organized, and lovingly promoted by RJ Scott for Love Lane Books. The anthology is a mix of new authors and authors that have been around the block a few times (ahem). </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">My story "Paid with a Full Moon" is a sexy comedy about voyeurism for a good cause...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">To celebrate, on December 13th I'll be giving away a few of my books and RJ will also be giving away goodies. I'll update as the time draws closer.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Here's a run down of authors:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">RJ Scott - Deefur and the Great Mistletoe Incident</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Amber Kell - Christmas Tree Magic</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Meredith Russell - Spiced Apple and Cinnamon</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Diane Adams - Christmas Lightning</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Kay Berrisford - Gifts from the Tree</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Nicole Dennis - Christmas Promise</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Caitlin Ricci - A Jaguar for Christmas</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">John Wiley - Once you go Black Friday</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">SA Garcia - Paid with a Full Moon</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">A.T. Weaver - Josh's Christmas Angel</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Valynda King - Christmas in Hawaii</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Christopher John - Two for Hooking</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Francis Gideon - Mistletoe and YouTube</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Allan Jay - Christmas Angel</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Aisling Mancy - Joyeux Noel</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Gary Hendrickson - Our Best Christmas</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Hollis Shiloh - The Christmas Mansion</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Tom Alexander - Ivy Park</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">AJ Henderson - Christmas Reunion</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Abigail Winters - Love Delayed</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">JC Wallace - Waiting for Snow<br /><br />Here's your chance to grab some free holiday reading.</span></li>
</ul>
<br />
<a href="https://www.lovelanebooks.co.uk/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=16&products_id=56&zenid=9a110ef8e2549971a7b0c008747956f4" target="_blank">Love Lane Books</a>S.A. Garciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09126875507639117068noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1272504072511844522.post-43997657327422079102013-10-15T21:27:00.000-04:002013-10-15T21:27:36.918-04:00Welcome to Oscar Wilde’s 159th Birthday Celebration!
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<b>Welcome to Oscar Wilde’s 159<sup>th</sup> Birthday
Celebration!</b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD43rzzYQWCrqmt1Uoac-I0StNE88UcnbReaK9Sd6Y9LPTTVvpWkJlqdMjyoIZamc3ejHe5qF7hyphenhyphenFNHKYmAvpuOH8QOAa5RFkm8jxKV3q6305rL_SsGdCffNQ77Ajq1XTIRr4ak6UMVhM/s1600/ocscar_b-day-header.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="122" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD43rzzYQWCrqmt1Uoac-I0StNE88UcnbReaK9Sd6Y9LPTTVvpWkJlqdMjyoIZamc3ejHe5qF7hyphenhyphenFNHKYmAvpuOH8QOAa5RFkm8jxKV3q6305rL_SsGdCffNQ77Ajq1XTIRr4ak6UMVhM/s400/ocscar_b-day-header.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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Who doesn’t love Oscar Wilde? He’s like a fabulous mascot. I
think it’s sad that his family— who doesn’t share his name due to shame—
decided to place a glass wall around Oscar’s magnificent tomb in Paris’ Père
Lachaise Cemetery. Yes, people were lipsticking the monument with great
enthusiasm, and, far worse, defacing the statue with graffiti.</div>
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But think about it. Oscar Wilde lived his life with a
barrier around him, one built from his homosexuality. When he broke free and
took a stand, the haters punished him for daring to be smarter, more
self-assured… just all-around braver about his life. People with narrow little
minds wanted to rip Oscar down.<br />
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In the end, they succeeded. But wily Oscar had the last laugh. Now he’s
celebrated as a gay icon. His witty bon-mots are legendary. His plays and books
have stood the test of time and are still part of popular culture.</div>
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Which is why placing a glass wall around his tomb seems
wrong on many emotional levels. They’re trying to box in Oscar again by placing
a barrier around him. When I visited Oscar’s tomb, I didn’t kiss or deface, but
I did hug a corner.</div>
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Oscar’s tomb barrier sparked my short story. Last night
after sipping too much wine, I pounded out my words and cried a river. Tonight,
I fixed the errors in spelling, logic, and overall tone. I cried all over
again.</div>
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I’m starting the b-day celebration a little early.</div>
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In turn for reading and commenting, you’ll be entered into a
drawing for one of my two my new novels: “Love in the Shadows” or “The Gospel
According to Cher.” Keep in mind I can’t send out “The Gospel According to
Cher” until October 28th.</div>
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When I pick the winner on Thursday, I’ll give them the
choice.</div>
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I hope you enjoy my fantasy.</div>
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<b>Oscar’s Army</b></div>
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<b>A PG-13 M/M Fantasy by S.A. Garcia</b></div>
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Why had he done this to himself?</div>
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Alexander Fingal O’Flahertie Riodian shifted his numb ass
against the cold, hard stone base. His romantic Irish Granna had really cursed
him with one helluva long name. Afor— which everyone usually called him—gazed
around the gloomy graveyard. He eyed the stone chin looming above him and
scowled in annoyance. </div>
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Two days of freedom from uniform beckoned to him, yet here
he sat tucked under an angel’s cold stone chest. He perched like an abandoned
gnome, watching as people visited the tomb. They didn’t pay much attention to
him. How odd.</div>
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He shifted again, but seeking comfort on stone was useless.
Had he really promised his Granna he would visit Oscar Wilde’s tomb? Yes. He
had sworn if he had the chance, he would go to Père Lachaise Cemetery and pay
his respects to Oscar. After all, Afor owed Granna everything. His grandmother
had raised him after his sainted mother had died during childbirth. Granna had
raised Afor with unconditional love. </div>
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When she had taken in Birdie after his parents had died, she
had given Afor a new best friend. As the years had passed, Afore and Birdie
realized they were something more than best friends. They worked had Granna’s
Bucks County farm together. Sometimes they worked in the hay wain to see whose
tongue could make the other come first. They both liked that work far better
than plowing.</div>
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Just after Afor’s eighteenth birthday, Granna had caught
Afor and Birdie naked in Afor’s bed. She had come in to fetch Afor’s wash. Afor
had wanted to become invisible, had wanted to deny everything. Instead of
reacting, Granna had blinked, closed the door and never said a word. The two
young men didn’t understand their luck. Birdie had convinced Afor not to ask
Granna about her silence. Why tip the scales?</div>
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In 1918, Afor and Birdie had signed up for duty in France.
They couldn’t wait to fight against the dastardly Germans.</div>
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On that day, Granna had sat Afor down for a good cuppa of
strong Irish tea in the sun-washed kitchen. After she had stirred her usual
five heaping teaspoons of sugar into the warm brew, she sipped. She stirred
again and sipped before she regarded him over the teacup’s china rim. Her
bright blue eyes had sparkled with joy. “Didja know I met Oscar Wilde when he visited
Philadelphia in 1886?”</div>
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“Granna, who’s Oscar Wilde?”</div>
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Afor remembered Granna looking like she had wanted to smack
him back into next year. He’d never forget her heated response. “Oscar Wilde is
one of the greatest Irishmen ever to walk the earth. His wit and wisdom made
the birds sing his name from the trees. He’s a genius or, bless his soul, was a
genius. Those who refused to understand him killed the dear soul by imprisonin’
him.”</div>
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“For what?”</div>
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“For bein’ different! For darin’ to love above all else.
We’re related to him, laddie, removed, yes, but his blood flows in yer veins.”
Granna had sipped tea before she shook her head. A few strands of red and white
hair had tumbled free from her bun. “I’m not surprised you cotton to Birdie.
He’s a right decent fella, but you must be careful. Promise me.” She had
gripped Afor’s forearm with surprising power. “Promise.”</div>
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He had promised. </div>
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Afor shivered and shook his head. Granna had always
understood how he felt toward Birdie. Apparently, this poor Oscar fellow had
ruined his life because he felt the same way. Afor wondered if Oscar had lain
awake at night trying convince himself he could change. Too many sleepless
nights fighting with himself had led Afor to one conclusion: he loved Birdie.</div>
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He wanted to spend his life with Birdie. After the war, they
planned to return to Granna’s farm and continue making it blossom. They
discussed branching out into raising racehorses. The future seemed wide open,
limitless with options. </div>
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A few visitors drifted past Wilde’s tomb. Three smiled; four
scowled. Afor hoped the scowlers didn’t report him to a cemetery official for
sitting here. Afor spoke no French. He wished he had asked someone to write an
explanation for him. “My dying Granna asked me to visit this place.”</div>
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He blinked, telling himself only the strong late evening
sunshine caused his eyes to tear.</div>
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He knew better. </div>
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Granna had died before Afor had reached France. Her proud
heart had given out while he and Birdie had sailed across the Atlantic.</div>
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A lump built in Afor’s throat. Birdie had died a month ago
from a grievous gunshot to the head. The war was finally on the wane, but the
last battle demanded final victims. Afor had tried everything to help his—
lover, but Birdie had died writhing in the blood and mud flooding the filthy
trench, his cornsilk hair filthy and matted with gore and filth. Afor had tried
kissing Birdie back to life until another soldier had punched him in the head.</div>
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Now Afor slumped against cold stone, not caring, he only
wanting to visit Paris and find something to kill his staggering pain. Yet here
he slumped waiting for—something. The sun drifted toward the horizon. Afor
shifted again. He thought some official would come to toss him off the
structure. Around him, the shadows grew deeper. Eerie ground mist rose from the
earth, floating up to obscure the other monuments.</div>
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No one came to bother him, not even when full night claimed
the cemetery. Why hadn’t that last guard chased him away? Afor frowned and
tried to remember coming to the cemetery. He couldn’t remember the journey. His
last memory was of sitting in a bar after drinking too many beers and telling
the soldier who had followed him to fuck off— yes, it had been the same soldier
who had punched him for trying to kiss Birdie back to life.</div>
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A sharp pain blossomed against Afor’s right temple. For a
second, redness veiled his vision. Both sensations vanished.</div>
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Afor sat straighter. What did he hear? Voices echoed from
down the path. He leaned forward, cocking his head. The sound intensified,
coming from all directions.</div>
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A man with a dark brown pageboy haircut walked toward him
through the heavy fog. He wore a smart green velvet suit more suited to an
earlier age. He gestured like a grand magician. “Dear boy, why are you all the
way up there?”</div>
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Afor blinked in bewilderment. How had he gotten up there?
Not only didn’t he remember coming here, but he didn’t remember climbing up on
the tomb. “Sorry, sir, I don’t know.”</div>
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The man smiled with sly comedy. “Well come down already.
We’ve been waiting for you.” The man waved toward his right.</div>
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Afor gasped in delight. “Granna! Birdie!” He easily
propelled himself off the tomb to hug the two most important people in the
world to him. He wrapped their loving warmth around his soul. He felt the
approval of the others who gathered close to touch them. Birdie reached up to
ruffle Afor’s hair. Granna’s lilac and love scent drifted into his nostrils.</div>
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They both looked happy and hale. How could this—</div>
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Another shadowy figure walked close to Afor, she growing
clearer and brighter with every step. Afor stared in amazement. He recognized
the sweet face from old photographs, but before now he had never viewed her
wild green eyes or intense red hair. “Mama?”</div>
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The thin redhead nodded before she reached to touch his damp
cheeks. “Son. My beautiful son.” Afor met his blessed mother for the first time
ever. Everything became clear for him.</div>
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He understood what had happened to him last night. He
understood. </div>
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He accepted his special position into Oscar’s Army. </div>
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Oscar gestured toward the east. “Time to move, my lovelies.
A suffering soul needs release. We need to guide him gently into his new
world.” He clapped his hand against Afor’s shoulder. “We look out for one
another. Will you help me?”</div>
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Afor held out his hands to grip Oscar’s shoulders. “I’m
honored. You—” Afor shivered and shook his head in helpless adoration.</div>
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“Are here for you.” Oscar patted Afor’s cheek before he
turned. “I always like walking toward the East. It feels so adventerous.”</div>
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Birdie cuddled against Afor’s right side. This time Afor
ruffled Birdie’s cornsilk hair. Birdie seemed recreated, he standing proud and
tall, not burdened by the wretched sickness which had defeated him during the
war. Granna and Mama held onto Afor’s left arm. Granna winked at Afor. He
grinned and returned the wink.</div>
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Together they followed Oscar toward the next compassionate
mission. </div>
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Kisses,</div>
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S.A.</div>
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S.A. Garciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09126875507639117068noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1272504072511844522.post-19187292063910120152013-10-14T20:10:00.000-04:002013-10-14T20:10:22.128-04:00Come Celebrate Oscar Wilde's 159th Birthday!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS3Dc-_llhwX_HuqHCY0VewW30h9boSTuaTD6bfcrAc4u9aBOG8i8qgBM1e2NvhLDSrm7ESJKdnLUMdQoC4w0wcEbYpiihzZMDGWYKAOvr6FPcrcz6k9PJ6xWWvAGgk7j6OvF1qNrjFMM/s1600/ocscar_b-day-header.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS3Dc-_llhwX_HuqHCY0VewW30h9boSTuaTD6bfcrAc4u9aBOG8i8qgBM1e2NvhLDSrm7ESJKdnLUMdQoC4w0wcEbYpiihzZMDGWYKAOvr6FPcrcz6k9PJ6xWWvAGgk7j6OvF1qNrjFMM/s640/ocscar_b-day-header.png" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>October 16th</b> is<b> Oscar Wilde's</b>
birthday. To celebrate this fabulous literary and cultural hero, I'll
unleash a free story that has something to do with Oscar along with the
chance to win one of my new books.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Stay tuned, kittens!</span>S.A. Garciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09126875507639117068noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1272504072511844522.post-12614074485016835582013-10-04T19:45:00.001-04:002013-10-04T19:45:43.669-04:00Ramblings of a Reluctant Blogger<br />
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I had all these vague ideas for blog posts and now that I
need them, they’ve whiffed away. Friday nights can have that effect on my
brain. Mainly what I want to do is grab a glass of wine, order a pizza, and sit
and watch a silly movie with Prof Sandy. This whole grand scheme of writing on
my blog every day between my two new releases is off to a grand start. I’ve
posted a grand total of, erm, two. How’s that for consistency?</div>
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I mean what the hell, I don’t want to write a blog post
tonight. I know some people spin out blog posts in an effortless manner. I tent
to regard them as little essays. I take ‘em waaaay too seriously. Why? It’s not
like judges will hold up scores or a reader will snark, “That’s the worst damn
blog post I’ve ever read.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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Well, they might do that, but… hold on, yeah, they could
very well do that. There, you see, in kicked the obsessive personality again,
the personality I tend to instill in a few of my characters.</div>
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<br /></div>
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My characters don’t tend to blog. Wait, Hindy Nardella—the
diva art gallery owner from my upcoming romdramedy <i><b>The Gospel According to
Cher</b></i>—does blog about art and restaurants. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Does writing a Goodreads review count as a blog post? I can
spin out a review far faster than I can craft a blog post. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Well, ya big silly, you could write book reviews for your
blog. No one’s stopping you.</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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Wait, who said that? I think my common sense just took a
potshot at me. How rude. </div>
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<br /></div>
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And lookee there… by rambling on like a drooling goofball, I
just wrote a blog post. Ain’t life grand?</div>
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<br /></div>
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It’s time for a glass of wine to celebrate my achievement.</div>
S.A. Garciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09126875507639117068noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1272504072511844522.post-61410016874265406382013-10-04T00:18:00.004-04:002013-10-04T00:19:49.128-04:00Lobcock! The Fear and Terror of Researching a Historical Novel<style>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Lobcock! The Fear and Terror of Researching a Historical
Novel</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">At the 2010 Readercon, I remember listening to SF author Barry
B. Longyear describing how he wrote <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Confessions
of a Confederate Vampire—The Night</i>, a historical vampire novel set during
the Civil War. The amount of dedication he put into setting the mood for
writing a novel set during the Civil War was impressive, to the point of
playing music from the genre, displaying artifacts on his desk, and even eating
food from the era. It sounded daunting. He had performed a megaton of research,
all organized into folders on his computer.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The problem is there’s not quite as much ready information
floating around about the Carolina colonies circa 1701-1703. Okay, I already
hear an American history major sighing in disgust. Let’s put it this way: I am
not an American history expert. I would have a better chance of writing a novel
about Great Britain because I’ve always been a British history fan.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">In truth, it’s not so much a matter of the broad history; it’s
a matter of seeking out everyday details. One huge question: what type of
clothing did people wear? There’s ready info on what the rich wore, but what
about the common people? What materials were used for clothing? What styles,
colors, or textures were used? I never imagined that folks wore shoes crafted
from wood.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Describing meals is important to me. I hate reading stories
where no one eats. What food did people eat back in 1701 Carolina? What did
they drink? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Then came the matter of what people lived in. What house
styles were in use in 1701-1703 Charleston? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">What type of insults would have filled the air? When I found
a site featuring insults from that timeframe, I jumped for joy. I want to start
calling people lobcocks (a large relaxed penis or a dull inanimate fellow).</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Then I made the mistake of inflicting a serious wound on a
character. Now I needed medical research. Talk about stomach-turning!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">All this research baggage is why I was scared stupid of
attempting to write a M/M historical romance. Fellow writers warned me if I
screwed up a detail, a savvy reader would happily call me out on it. Readers
with degrees in history would wait with daggers, studded clubs, and
blunderbusses. Damn, I do love that word. Fellow writers also warned me that reviewers
would cheerfully point out any mistakes, down to “well, that buckle style
wasn't used until 1715, not 1701.” It made me terrified to talk about shoes,
but I did!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Hell, compared to historical research, fantasy world
building is easy. Let’s face it, when you world build, you call all the shots.
You draw maps, name cities, determine what people, wear, eat and how they live.
It’s a blast. The author is God. How fun is that?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Happily I swallowed down my historical fears and took the
plunge. I researched, researched, and researched the research. The research was
equal parts fun and frustrating. When I found solid, factual information, I
grabbed on with both hands and changed my vague descriptions to match reality. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The result? I am proud to have written “Love in the
Shadows”, a mix of a historical and contemporary romance. The historic novel is
set in 1701 New York, then over 1702-1703, in the Carolina colony, Boston, and
Sweden. At least the contemporary story is set only in Stockholm. I cut myself
a break there. I was also lucky enough to have a Swede read the novel and point
out glaring errors regarding aspects of modern Swedish culture. Many thanks to
Alison and Christina for their valuable support.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">A note to the 16th century Colonial History majors— please, I tried my hardest.
I did. Be gentle with me.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Thanks to Charlie for having me here today! xo</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Here’s the first chapter from “Love in the Shadows,” a
chapter set back in 1701.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-outline-level: 1;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">BLURB:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-outline-level: 1;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">When history,
romance, and the supernatural collide, can love triumph over all?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">Opening an ancient trunk
transforms Doctor Rolfe Almersson’s life. When the spiritually-sensitive
academic breaks his rules about touching an article sans gloves, fierce love
wells at him. The unwrapped parchment reveals a burnt diary written by
Magistrate Nels Halverson. The diary documents meeting seventeen-year-old
orphan Aindrias Aster in 1701. Nels describes their eventual love affair, along
with tragedies and triumphs in infatuated, intimate detail. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">Rolfe’s obsession with his
find overwhelms him. Reading about the men’s evolving relationship influences
Rolfe’s tempestuous relationship with his lover. Will the story’s romance and
tragedy push Rolfe forward into romantic liberation and academic triumph, or
will it ruin his life? </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-outline-level: 1;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-outline-level: 1;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">EXCERPT:</i></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-outline-level: 1;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Afternoon,
January 26, 1701, Kingston, North of the City of New York </i></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(This
is where I wish to begin my memories. I own no reason to begin elsewhere. I
need to begin here. This is when my heart truly started beating.)</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I stealthily raised my worn leather
flask to my lips and indulged in a mouthful of inferior rum. My body needed the
false comfort on this cold, miserable day. Faugh. Winter’s deadly bite ruled
the day. My mind also needed fortification before I conquered the crucial
matter at hand.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Blast Samuel for
running off with a flirtatious doxy. Lively Samuel’s love for lasses had
destroyed his dedication. I had found him at a Quaker orphanage near
Philadelphia. My former clerk was adept in Latin and competitive thought, yet
deep in my heart, I realized that Samuel’s destiny lie elsewhere. The sprightly
youth had never displayed the proper spine to wear the magistrate’s wig. No
wonder he escaped after a mere six months. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Many a day I
wondered if I still had the proper spine myself. After long years as a
competent yet hardly brilliant judicial specimen, did I still deserve the
sacred honor? Did this sad fool deserve to pass judgment on others?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">My thoughts
skidded toward self-defeating bleakness. My fingers clutched the slick reins. I
refrained from indulging in more drink, tucking the half-empty flask into my
right saddle pouch. To arrive reeking of cheap swill seemed unwise. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I urged Bel Canto
forward through the murk. My colleague Howard had warned me that St. Luke’s
Home for Orphans looked more like a stone jail than a benevolent almshouse
guiding young souls toward a better life. His words rang true. The lumpy stone
building looked foul, almost rotten. I curled my upper lip in disgust. However,
three years ago, Howard had unearthed his highly praised clerk from this
establishment. Just after that, a new deacon had stepped into place. The notion
worried me.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">My meager funding
did not allow me to hire a seasoned clerk. I had hired my past clerks from
charitable institutions such as this one. Often my choices worked well for me,
except for poor Charles. Damn. My heart tightened in remorse.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I refocused on my
task, urging Bel Canto to the gate. During my dismount, my coat caught on the
saddle. Happily no one watched my near fall from my horse. When had my life
turned into a sad comedy?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I clanged the
battered outer bell. The worm-eaten, stout wooden outer gate did not raise my
spirits when it opened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Curious
lizard-green eyes set in a gaunt, pockmarked face examined me with suspicion.
“Master Halderson?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“At your service,
sir.” I bowed. “I am here to interview my clerk candidates.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">A cringing boy
scuttled out, pushed forward by the slovenly man in the doorway. He accepted my
horse’s reins with trembling fingers, greeting me with a brief, frightened bow.
“If you please, sir, I shall stable your horse.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“Thank you, lad.”
The poor boy acted positively browbeaten.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">A cold breeze
swooped around me. I slapped down my wrinkled gray greatcoat from flapping up.
A stray raindrop ran behind my collar. Typical. The miserable weather was
accompanied by miserable company. The ill-kept man standing in the home’s outer
doorway sparked worry in my soul. His appallingly defiant stare raised my
hackles. I had done nothing to warrant such a rude welcome. If this was the
teacher’s caliber here, my journey beyond New York’s energetic confines seemed
useless. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The scarecrow’s
reedy voice wavered between respect and mockery. Quite a verbal feat. “Welcome
to St. Luke’s, sir. I’m Master Amos, teacher of numbers. Right this way, if you
please. Deacon Buck will show you the selected candidates. I’m sure one will
suit your legal needs.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“Lead on, Master
Amos.” We entered the dim recesses. The smell of despair, unwashed bodies, and
rotting garbage assailed my nostrils. I was far from a dandy, but the bitter
smell even overwhelmed my senses. I left my wet tricorn on my head. Why expose
my tied-back hair to the cold dampness? This rank, foul place did not deserve
my gentlemanly consideration. At least my casual day wig sat safe in my room.
The infernal curly confection took forever to dry. When wet weather threatened,
I ignored the need to appear proper.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">We entered a
dismal central courtyard. Slick brown rats rooted through a tumbled refuse pile
in the far corner, dispersing only when the youth returned from stabling my
horse and shooed them away. What an unhealthy sight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">In another dreary
corner of the courtyard, five youths, dressed only in patched black breeches
and rough, gray, homespun shirts, stood under a sheltered area. How barbaric to
make them stand in the raw cold without coats. Four appeared to be normal young
men, slightly defiant, nervous, and uncertain. They shivered in the murky damp.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The fifth lad,
taller than the others, stood straight as a slender beech tree challenging a
mountainside’s chill snowfall. The others glanced my way. Number five stared
forward in resolute determination, ignoring me with peculiar intensity.
Tattered ribbon kept his long hair away from his face. Wavy lengths tumbled
down his neck, imprisoned by his tight <span style="color: black;">queue</span>.
The surface of his long face reminded me of rosy marble. A wild pattern of raw,
red eruptions were scattered across his forehead and chin, likely caused by a
mix of adolescent growing pains and poor diet. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Although I tried
not to stare at him, I concentrated on his intelligent face. I realized he was
my choice. Why did he appear desperate? Something in the set of his lips
displayed a deep fear, and I had witnessed enough honest fear to judge the
sensation in my fellow men.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Something in this
hovel terrified the youth.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I studied Deacon
Buck’s poorly-shaven face. Discouragement fluttered through my soul. The man
looked to be a drunkard, a liar, quick to use the whip for punishment. He had
probably procured his current position through patronage, not skill. Nothing
surprising there. Any youth who had advanced into manhood under this creature’s
tutelage could not be trusted as my clerk. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Neverthelsss, I
might as well interview the lads. Perhaps before he passed on, the former
Deacon had skillfully crafted the fifth lad’s mind and soul. I wished for such
a glad outcome.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“Magistrate
Halderson, welcome to Saint Luke’s.” The stout man possessed a whiny voice
which could have irritated a saint. He grabbed my unhappy right hand, squeezing
as if he intended to woo me. His filth skin felt greasy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I feel honored my fine establishment
is still known for producing learned lads. Before you stand five candidates
selected for your clerk position. They can read, write, and think.” The Deacon
raked his piggish stare over my candidate with loathing. “Aye, one of them
thinks a bit too much for his own good.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Buck’s open
antagonism sickened me. “I feel sure I will find a lad to suit my needs.”
Despite my urge to point at the slim youth and declare I would rescue him, I
queried the others in my normal fashion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The first four boys answered in coherent sentences, yet they lacked
outstanding mental abilities. Candidate one, the biblically named Joshua,
displayed a severe stutter, not beneficial in public speaking. Malcolm and Guy
acted too obsequious toward me. How badly had this place treated them? As he
stumbled on his answers, Matthew scratched a nasty magenta neck rash and
refused to meet my gaze. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">My head ached in a
dreadful fashion. One last chance for redemption stood before me. Number five
performed a swift bow and surprised me by speaking first with nervous
authority. His alert, green stare met mine. I half expected him to grasp my
hands and drop to his knees. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“Sir, believe me,
I am a worthy clerk for such an honorable man as yourself. Not only do I read,
speak, and write fluently in English and Latin, but I also communicate in
French and Spanish. My handwriting is superior and neat. My spelling is
flawless.” He darted a sharp glare at the glowering Deacon before he refocused
on me. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“Sir, I am accused
of thinking too much, but an inquisitive mind is essential for learning. I do
not comprehend the law’s sterling rule, but I am a fast study. In addition, I
am healthy, I never fall ill, and I am willing to work as hard as you desire. I
will endure long, hard hours serving you. In addition, sir, I feel ready to
leave this place far, far behind me.” The youth’s intense words ended in a
second bow. He looked down at his battered, square shoe tips. Rich, pink color
stained his pale cheeks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">My mind reeled.
What an astonishingly forward speech. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Something haunted
this lad enough to make him beg for the clerk’s position. Indeed, the poor boy
acted no different than a shunned leper offered a king’s grand palace. I hardly
considered the unpaid two-year clerk’s position a prize.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Deacon Buck
snorted in reprimand. He glared as if his irritated vengeance could melt flesh.
“This miserable sinner acts awfully bold for his place in life. You can tell he
thinks right highly of himself. Sir, trust me, young Aster is an insufferable
brat. The chit is not worthy of your important time.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">How odd. I smiled
in arch reply. “Pray tell, sir, why do you present this sinful brat to me?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The Deacon flapped
his chapped lips in annoyance until he shrugged off my question. “The law
requires I offer you my eldest lads for the position. This dense wretch falls
into the category. I’d hardly select Aster to present to you.” The miscreant
cozied up to me with physical camaraderie. I almost stepped away from his swill-tainted
breath. “Listen well, sir. I warn you, he is not your choice. Mark my words,
this mouthy cur’s fantasies, endless questions, and lies will make your ears
bleed. Aster’s brash speech shows his shameless disposition. Is that any way
for a callow bumpkin to talk to someone like you, sir?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Buck’s crude
character assassination stiffened Aster’s body. “I am not a liar, sir.” His
defensive assertion barely broke a whisper.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“Did the good
magistrate ask your opinion, you bold scum?” Buck lifted his grimy right hand
in a threatening gesture. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The Deacon’s hand
never completed its threat. If his corrupt flesh had touched Aster’s skin, I
might have disgraced myself by punching Buck’s warty nose. Something evil had
happened between my candidate and the Deacon. I ignored the vile man, returning
my attention to my prime applicant. “Master Aster, I need to see a sample of
your handwriting. Deacon, may we use a desk?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">This time the
Deacon included me in his glare. My stern, cold stare devoured his mistake,
pummeled it, and spat the mess into his face. I possessed a dangerous gaze,
ripe with my icy Swedish heritage. I suspected Viking blood fueled my finest
stares.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Buck struggled to
conquer my will, but he failed. After ungraciously accepting defeat, the ogre
angrily gestured toward a narrow opening across the courtyard. My cutting smile
betrayed my frigid mood. We traveled down a rank hallway littered with
dust-decorated cobwebs which smelled, to my dismay, worse than the fetid
courtyard. Did any room in this pit smell remotely pleasant? Horrible. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Our mismatched
trio entered a crowded office. The sty resembled the town dump. The sputtering
oil lamp’s flicker had blackened the small paned windows. The familiar, welcome
aroma of old pipe smoke masked another sinister stench, something my nostrils
equated with dire rot. How fitting.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Buck slumped
behind his disorderly desk. A crusty inkwell, and a few tattered quills jammed
into a broken ceramic mug added to the clutter.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">My nervous
candidate shuffled his feet. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“What is your full
name?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“Aindrias Aster,
sir.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“What an unusual
name.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“Yes, sir, a
family name given by my poor parents, may they rest in peace. Shall we start,
sir?” Another respectful bow. “Let me select a quill.” Aindrias critically
examined three different quill tips, rapidly dismissing them. Number four
earned a thoughtful frown before Aindrias lifted the rusty pen blade and
sharpened the tip. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">For a second, I
feared Buck might strike Aindrias for his innocent effrontery. My stern stare
halted him as I encouraged Aindrias. “Excellent. A man who understands his
writing quills. You have neat sharpening work.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“Sir, I cannot
abide a dull quill.” Aindrias’s words drifted toward the quill, but they also
aimed for Buck’s ears. “A blunt, ill-treated tool wastes ink and time. Any
instrument not kept tidy is useless.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Aindrias stirred
the ink and performed a few practice flourishes. His fingers pantomimed a
beautifully light touch. He finished his preparation and nodded in approval.
His gaze shyly questioned me. “What shall I write, sir?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Without asking, I
selected a clean parchment page, cleared an area on the desk, and silently
dared Buck to challenge me. The lout remained quiet. “While I recite, take
notes in Latin, please.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">To my
satisfaction, Aindrias smiled as if I offered him heavenly solace. His pen
anticipated my words. I subjugated my amused smile and spoke in my normal trial
pace. Aindrias’s pen raced across the paper with graceful speed, the flow
broken only for the needed ink dip. He performed the mundane task with neat
precision. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I droned on about
nothing in particular, glancing at Aindrias’s tidy, easily readable
handwriting. Once I finished speaking, I read the written page and nodded with
sincere appreciation. Every Latin word appeared correct. He performed well
under stress. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Intelligent
Aindrias was my perfect candidate.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">His tall grace
made me wonder about his true age. “How old are you, Aindrias?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">My question
encouraged Aindrias to stand straighter, trying to appear older by squaring his
slight shoulders under his threadbare shirt. He reminded me of a young rooster
facing down an older, far more experienced cock. He hiked his pointed chin
in<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the air with stubborn pride. “I
turned seventeen a few days ago, sir. I am plenty old enough for the job. Truly
I am, sir.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">His age suited the
position. My choice made complete sense to me. Unlike Charles, Aindrias would
be my proud achievement. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Deep in my soul, a
knowing voice straight from Hell hissed, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Wrong.”</i>
Black-winged guilt smiled and danced in bony malevolence.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Begone! I vowed to
wait. I would.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I swore to myself
on Charles’s sacred soul. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The act nearly
brought me to tears.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(I need to break here. Writing this account
is more difficult than I ever imagined. A jolt of sherry comforts me.)</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.mlrbooks.com/ShowBook.php?book=SAG_LITS">Love in the Shadows
from MLR Press</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
S.A. Garciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09126875507639117068noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1272504072511844522.post-33773977709076782102013-09-25T23:35:00.002-04:002013-09-26T00:08:42.409-04:00Marketing: A Gianormous Pain in the Ass<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Marketing, marketing, marketing. Blog hops, chats, guest posts, blog posts, Facebook chats…
I’ve come to the decision that marketing is a colossal, gianormous pain in the ass.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">This comes from someone who used to work in marketing. The thing is I marketed something else, not my own work.
To me, and I don’t want to sound disparaging, marketing one’s work is like cheerleading in a deep space void. It’s not fun. Face it, too many writers hate marketing. Not that I’d rather suffer a root canal, but to me, marketing your own novel reaches hideous levels of ouchiness. Yeah, that’s not a word. Tough. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">In this brave new world of publishing, writers need to shoulder a portion of the marketing burden. Hence the dreaded blog hop, which has nothing to do with sweet fuzzy bunnies.
I’ve done intensive blog hops for my past releases. Did they help? I hope so, although with one book I probably would have had better luck standing on my front steps and yelling about the storyline. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Which is why with my next two releases, I’m pretty much going to remain at my home base, drink, and indulge in acting silly. I have a few events scheduled, but nothing like the twelve days of hell I’ve subjected myself for past releases. My take is everything is in the hands of the beloved readers. If the book doesn’t appeal to them, no amount of shouting and jumping up and down while tossing rainbow glitter and red roses at them will make them want to read it. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Am I jealous of writers who somehow make a book sound like the best thing invented since chocolate chip cookies even before it’s published? Hell yes. Can I make my book sound equally important? Hell no, although if people liked my books as much as chocolate chip cookies, I will not complain.
Consider this my slow start-up. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> I order you to like these books as much as chocolate chip cookies. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> My first release with MLR Press,<i><b> Love in the Shadows</b></i>, will be available perhaps as early as tomorrow, <b>September 26</b>. Oh dear, I scheduled a blog post on October 1st. See, I’m already panicking.
Here’s the pretty cover and the blurb: </span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgplExSGTCQXQV0C0ZTgL_6a2ioS12SOXY5yTQGiss8tjNKb369DUKYuTIiv_VswxR94Btpz9Mp-jetT_FvrB_WTUDFKPYAF2TVw9fXXe2FZueveAAVzHgV8N30uvkcF3Ppa11GRrXkdCY/s1600/Love_In_the_Shadows.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgplExSGTCQXQV0C0ZTgL_6a2ioS12SOXY5yTQGiss8tjNKb369DUKYuTIiv_VswxR94Btpz9Mp-jetT_FvrB_WTUDFKPYAF2TVw9fXXe2FZueveAAVzHgV8N30uvkcF3Ppa11GRrXkdCY/s400/Love_In_the_Shadows.png" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
Opening an ancient trunk transforms Doctor Rolfe Almersson’s life. When the spiritually-sensitive academic breaks his rules about touching an article sans gloves, fierce love wells at him. The unwrapped parchment reveals a burnt diary written by Magistrate Nels Halverson. The diary documents meeting seventeen-year-old orphan Aindrias Aster in 1701. Nels describes their eventual love affair, along with tragedies and triumphs in infatuated, intimate detail.
Rolfe’s obsession with his find overwhelms him. Reading about the men’s evolving relationship influences Rolfe’s tempestuous relationship with his lover. Will the story’s
romance and tragedy push Rolfe forward into romantic liberation and academic triumph or will it ruin his life? </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> My late October release, <i><b>The Gospel According to Cher</b></i> — due out from Dreamspinner— doesn’t have a pretty cover yet. I expect to see a proof any minute.
I can offer you <i><b>The Gospel According to Cher’s</b></i> blurb: </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Hindy Nardella, gallery owner and tidy leather diva, isn’t sure about love anymore. His most-recent ex-lover said “sayonara” and headed for Japan despite a week of Hindy begging him to stay. The man before that bid Hindy “namaste” before heading for Nepal seeking salvation. Hindy will accept advice from anywhere, even a tacky Cupid music box which only plays Cher's "Believe," and vivid dreams compelling him to leave NYC and head for the Adirondacks.
Cupid leads Hindy straight to a leather bar in the mountains and an exotic drag queen named Patrice O'Malley. For Patrice, who’s near-perfect beauty belies his lack of confidence, it's lust at first sight, but Hindy has doubts born of his recent run of bad luck in romance. But when Patrice saves Hindy from death by a falling chunk of airplane blue ice, Cupid slams into Hindy's heart, and Hindy begins to believe in miracles again. Dangers and challenges arise, involving, among other things, crazy ex-lovers, rampaging mosquitoes, and a phantom moose. But life together awaits back in NYC, if they can survive, trust in each other, and believe in life after love. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> There’s my slow marketing salvo. Now I want a chocolate chip cookie. Naw, I’ll stick with my wine.
</span>S.A. Garciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09126875507639117068noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1272504072511844522.post-91327104672039234472013-08-23T23:47:00.001-04:002013-08-25T02:01:54.091-04:00Back to School Blog Hop<style>
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<img alt="Back To School" src="http://www.allisoncassatta.com/images/BacktoSchool%20Blog%20Hop.jpg" width="145" /><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I have to admit, I didn’t appreciate the “back to school”
concept until I went to art college. Before then, I was one of those kids who
hated going back to school, no matter if it meant new clothes. Until I
rebelled, my mom usually made my back to school clothes. Yeah, thrifty but not
cool. Back to school also meant getting up early every day and, worst of all,
gym classes. All bookish geeks regard gym classes as hell on earth.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I swore that’s why I attended art college. No damned gym classes, no math… none
of that pesky brain-and body hurtin’ nonsense for me, no way.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Art college was an eye-opener for this shy geek. Everyone
wandered about discussing ideas for projects and possibilities. If the grad
students liked you, you ended up in their studio smoking pot while attending private
critiques. Back in the day before computers, everything was done by hand,
including the typesetting. Does anyone even use Letraset press type anymore?
Yeah, try spelling out a headline at 1:00 AM after having been up since 6:00 AM.
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The experience taught me so much. It was all about art and
working in fun with the art. We lived with art while exploring the far
horizons. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I always wanted to write about my art college experience using
a M/M twist. All these personalities I remembered lurked around in my head, which
is why I started “Cupid Knows Best” quite a few years ago. Carl Conrad, the
novel’s main character, is a composite using a few different professors. I won’t
name names. I’m sure someone like Carl exists in the world, only I haven’t met
him yet, at least not in real life. Hell, I spent plenty of time with him as he
poured out his story. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">As he created his story, Carl’s obsessive nature almost
drove me crazy. Marcelino Moya—the hot, sexy Argentinean wild child and object
of Carl’s obsession— was crazy to write in a different way. He kept me guessing
the entire time. He was out there, waaay out in the stratosphere. Marcelino
kept both Carl and I guessing until the truth was revealed which cleared up the
romantic uncertain to allow a happing ending.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Writing about their budding romance made the concept of back
to school into a sexy something I could support one-hundred percent. I wish my
college days had been that spicy.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Want to join them as they go back to school? Here’s the
excerpt where Carl first sees his new obsession:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">BLURB:</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">When it comes to
his professional life, photographer Carl Conrad is at the top of his game. He
molds impressionable minds at university by day and jets off to Paris for
gallery showings on long weekends. Unfortunately, he pays for it with his
disastrous personal life: Carl kicked his boyfriend to the curb after one too
many punches, so now it’s just him and his hamsters, one of which he suspects
may be a space alien.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">Then Cupid takes
pity on Carl and hits him where it hurts. It takes Carl all of three seconds to
fall head over heels in lust with set design student Marcelino Moya, despite
the man’s questionable—okay, deplorable—fashion sense. Convincing Marcelino to
give him a chance is the hard part, but Carl is up for the challenge, pun
definitely intended.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">Marcelino plays hard to get, but he isn</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">'</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">t immune to
Carl</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">'</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">s charms. Carl talks him around to dinner, dating, and
eventually moving in. There</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">'</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">s just one tiny word standing between Carl and perfect
happiness. Why won</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">'</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">t Marcelino say it?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>EXCERPT:</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">"</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Hello, everyone, sorry to be late. As
you know, I</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">'</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">m
Professor Carl Conrad. Wow, is everyone here for this class?</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">"</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> Their enthusiastic nods told me yes.
Groan. </span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">"</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Really?
Wow again. Well, let</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">'</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">s see what</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">'</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">s
going on here.</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">"</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Someone had neglected to study the student list before
arriving in class. The document had resided in my e-mail in-box for weeks, but
as I planned my escape from Martin, reading the names lurked low on my priority
list. Usually I enjoyed examining the names and trying to imagine what a
student looked like ahead of time. To my surprise, my random guesses often rang
true.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Had I brought the list with me? Whoops. I fumbled
through my notes and papers. Amused little smiles aimed at me. I smiled back
and took the time to examine faces. A lame joke about setting a bad example by
being late almost emerged when the most amazing sensation hit me.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Great googly moogly on hot buttered cinnamon raisin
toast, this wild feeling felt nothing like Martin</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">'</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">s hard fist hitting my cheek. Damn, I
shouldn</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">'</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">t
have skipped lunch.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I mentally aimed my inner camera lens and focused
directly on achingly delicious subject matter. My lens zoomed in and ignored
everyone else in the room<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">. Buzz, click,
frame, and drool</i>. The wild scene lasted for a split second. Everything
moved in slow motion. Fascinating how the world transformed into a weird
fantasy.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Yes, I had been hit in the head too many times.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Today the new lust of my messed-up life sat before me
in masculine perfection.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Okay, aside from his outrageous outfit, complete with
magenta socks and orange Keds, the vision embraced masculine perfection.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Boom, done. My heart</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">'</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">s quick decision made sense to me. My
cock and brain deliberated for a few seconds until they signed off on the
magical contract. Master Lust stepped forward and turned Heart, Brain, and Cock
into a strange version of the Supremes backing the divine Diana. They crooned
in romantic urgency.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Did the manly subject matter at the other end of my
lusting mental lens accept my desire? Falling in lust never seemed hard, but
convincing the unaware victim he needed me as much as I desired him would
provide the true challenge.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I located the wrinkled list. My waking brain operated
on autopilot. My mouth opened and closed while I spoke to the students. The
advanced class</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">'</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">s
basic concepts filled the air. The new students learned what I expected from
their creativity over the upcoming semester.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">In the background, oozing lust kept shrieking in joy
while turning cartwheels in my mind. Damn, lust needed to cut its jagged
toenails.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The time came to scare certain students into dropping
the class before they found themselves in serious trouble. Nothing upset me
more than a heartbroken student wailing in distress when I smacked a dreaded </span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">"</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">incomplete</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">"</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> on them. Well, lately Martin had
upset me more, but—</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Lust kicked and stomped me into focus. It controlled
my primitive urges. The panting ooze admired the tasty man sitting a mere five
feet away from my twitching right hand. Ooo-la-la, two simple steps would allow
my happy fingers to caress his tea-hued cheek. Touching his tempting flesh
might be worth dismissal.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Eager lust battered my senses into mush. My opening
blather concluded. I needed to begin the roll call. The desire to attach a name
to the appealing man ruled me.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The alpha-ordered list refused to cooperate. The sixth
name jumped out at me. The letters danced, waved, and wiggled their taut asses
at me before they calmed down and resumed spelling his name. I sensed the
reality. The seductive man looked like his name in a luscious manner far beyond
my lust-fried comprehension.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I clapped my hands in decision. Expectant young faces
regarded me with varying emotions. </span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">"</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Before I call the roll, time for one
last reality check. Is there anyone here who wants to drop the class? If you
have any, and I mean any doubt about this class, please make it easy on
everyone, especially me, and bail now. Remember this is an advanced class. We</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">'</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">ll mainly focus—hey, a little photo
humor there—on learning the digital process, but if anyone is interested, we
may play in the darkroom a few times. Don</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">'</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">t let my cuddly reputation fool you; I am a stickler
about deadlines. Once a project is a week late, I lop off ten grade points,
which means after a month you have an F. Above all, I expect performance,
dedication, and drive.</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">"</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> I hoped that the students didn</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">'</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">t expect the same responsible trio from me.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">No one screamed, </span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">"</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Please, you wicked, cruel bastard,
let me leave now!</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">"</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">
I hated turning away eager students, but a seventeen-person class meant mayhem
in the critique situation.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Please, mayhem in an empty classroom with a
classically muscled dark body pressed close in passion suited me.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Agggh. I needed to cease waffling. Sanity slapped me
to move along and finally call the roll. In a minute I</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">'</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">d obtain a name for the exquisite
face. Excitement flushed me until I feared my pores might spring lust leaks.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I shrugged and cast my special evil grin over the poor
young dears. </span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">"</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Okay,
everyone wants to stick around for the torment? You have been warned. Time to
establish who belongs before I make my decisions. Jeremy Atkinson?</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">"</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">A tall slender guy with long red dreads tossed me a
friendly wave.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">"</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Jill Carlotta?</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">"</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">A Goth brunette sporting too much eyeliner and enough
piercings to threaten a weather balloon managed a bored nod. There sat a
potential attitude problem.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I tried not to grin. </span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">"</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Ralph Digglestaff?</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">"</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Not the name I expected to match with the burly, bald
dark-skinned dude waving at me. What a great porn star handle.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">"</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Bill Harrison?</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">"</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">A man who looked like James Dean’s long-lost love
child nodded in lazy regard.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">"</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Hello, Rachel. I guess I didn</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">'</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">t scare you away last time.</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">"</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The petite blonde woman snapped her gum and grinned. </span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">"</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Nope, Prof C, I am back for more.</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">"</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">"</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Brave woman.</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">"</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The moment arrived in grand glory. My heart tightened
in anticipation. </span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">"</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Marcelino
Moya?</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">"</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">"</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Right here.</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">"</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Bull’s-eye. Hold on, did I hear a faint accent? My
desperate-for-more-words lust pushed me. I raised a curious eyebrow toward my
new erotic partner. </span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">"</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I guess your parents wanted to give you a memorable name.</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">"</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> The seductive man looked like his
name in a luscious manner far beyond my lust-fried comprehension.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Possibly the most sensual grin ever to grace human
lips appeared. </span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">"</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">It
is a memorable name, which is helpful in the performing arts. I can</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">'</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">t wait to see the words </span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">'</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">set designs by Marcelino Moya</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">'</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> appear for real on the silver
screen.</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">"</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">
The way he rolled his name off his tongue threatened my tattered reason. His
cock-stiffening grin grew wider and sexier. Now how was such a miracle
possible? The man</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">'</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">s
generous mouth shape needed a </span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">"</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">proceed with caution</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">"</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> warning flashing beneath the succulent skin.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27.35pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Yum, my dream was a performing arts hunk possessing a
subtle Hispanic accent. Deeee-licious. Yippee on high, mark me smitten to the
skies. Ha, if I walked back out onto Broadway and let the mad cabbie plow me
down, I wouldn</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">'</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">t
even feel the pain. Instead I</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">'</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">d float right over the problem held aloft by Cupid</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">'</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">s blessed wings. The blind bow boy</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">'</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">s arrows had pierced my heart. Now I
needed to bribe him to aim at luscious Marcelino</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">'</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">s masculine bounty.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27.35pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Mmm, Marcelino. The rare name tasted fine on my tongue.
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I wonder what he uses for a nickname? I
wonder how his full lips taste?</i></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27.35pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">An alarm rang in my mind. Lust scowled in annoyance. I
wondered if he was gay. Yeeeeah, sigh, my heated lust always overlooked the
crucial details.</span></span><br />
<br />
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