Cruising Altitude 2.0

CATCH FIRE - CassaFire Book Launch

2012-02-28T05:00:00.000-06:00

Hey gang! Today is the Catch Fire Blog Party, celebrating the release of CassaFire by our own Ninja Captain Alex J. Cavanaugh! The goal is to help CassaFire “catch fire” on the best seller charts and achieve the success of the first book, CassaStar. There’s also a special package of prizes being given away at the author’s blog (see picture below) as well as book giveaways during his two-week blog tour. See Alex’s site for details: http://alexjcavanaugh.blogspot.com/

Alex's blog tour runs from today through March 9 – and anyone who comments on his blog posts during that time can win a special package from his publisher: copy of CassaFire and CassaStar, a large tote bag, and a mug. The Twitter hashtag for the party is #CatchFire

CassaFire

by Alex J. Cavanaugh

CassaStar was just the beginning…

The Vindicarn War is a distant memory and Byron’s days of piloting Cosbolt fighters are over. He has kept the promise he made to his fallen mentor and friend - to probe space on an exploration vessel. Shuttle work is dull, but it’s a free and solitary existence. The senior officer is content with his life aboard the Rennather.

The detection of alien ruins sends the exploration ship to the distant planet of Tgren. If their scientists can decipher the language, they can unlock the secrets of this device. Is it a key to the Tgren’s civilization or a weapon of unimaginable power? Tensions mount as their new allies are suspicious of the Cassan’s technology and strange mental abilities.

To complicate matters, the Tgrens are showing signs of mental powers themselves; the strongest of which belongs to a pilot named Athee, a woman whose skills rival Byron’s unique abilities. Forced to train her mind and further develop her flying aptitude, he finds his patience strained. Add a reluctant friendship with a young scientist, and he feels invaded on every level. All Byron wanted was his privacy…

Available today!

Science fiction - space opera/adventure

Print ISBN 978-0-9827139-4-5, $15.95, 6x9 Trade paperback, 240 pages

EBook ISBN 978-0-9827139-6-9, $4.99, available in all formats

CassaFire is the sequel to Cavanaugh’s first book, CassaStar, an Amazon Top Ten Best Seller:

“…calls to mind the youthful focus of Robert Heinlein’s early military sf, as well as the excitement of space opera epitomized by the many Star Wars novels. Fast-paced military action and a youthful protagonist make this a good choice for both young adult and adult fans of space wars.” - Library Journal

You can visit the author’s site at http://alexjcavanaugh.blogspot.com/

You can get the book here:

Barnes and Noble

Amazon

Amazon Kindle

WRiTE CLUB - The Quarter-Finals - Bout 1

2012-02-27T05:00:00.000-06:00

The march continues and at it's inevitable conclusion, only one will remain. This week we will tap two more to move on and set up the epic battle we've all been waiting for since November. You've probably seen all four of these WRiTER's in action before, but just in case your new to WRiTE CLUB you can find a list of their previous bouts here.

The first match-up, determined by a random drawing, is below. Read each submission carefully and vote for the one that in your mind deserves to keep marching. No, it is not an easy task...but it really shouldn't be. Hairs will be split, deeper meanings will be contemplated, and even coins will be tossed, but a choice has to be made.

And so...

Welcome back to the ring in the far corner.....CASEY BROOKS

When a princess misbehaves, most kings and queens send them to their chambers. Not mine. No, my parents send me to the dungeons. And I don’t get to just sit there and “think about what I’ve done.” I have to clean. It probably says something about my temperament that we have the cleanest dungeons in all of Farfel. Even now, as I sat on my royal *ahem* and polished the bars outside the second-largest cell for VIPs only (Very Important Prisoners), I was hard pressed to find even one speck of dust. Of course, that might be because I’ve been on dungeon duty every day this week. (Let me just say – cleaning out chamber pots? Not. Fun.)

On Sunday, I was punished for putting a snake in Prince Alec’s salad. I know, I know. Not that original, but he yelled louder than a banshee from the Mountains of Mystery.

On Monday, I ever-so-innocently suggested that the prince resembled a blue pincushion – what with his puffy sleeves and all – and my parents sent me down here again. (Though, I noticed they didn’t disagree with my assessment of his outfit).

Tuesday morning, I pushed the prince into the fountain during our supposed-to-be-romantic walk. Of course my parents didn’t believe me when I said I was protecting the prince from a very deadly looking wasp.

Really, I was surprised they still wanted to go forward with the whole marriage thing. I mean, I had hoped that if I made my thoughts on the matter clear, then they would let me out of it. But, no.

Maybe the fountain thing was too subtle.

“Maybe the prince should just go back to where he belongs,” I muttered as I scrubbed at the prison bars. After all, my parents couldn’t force me to marry Prince Alec in one week.

Right?

“That’s easy to arrange, you know,” a lilting female voice answered me. I nearly jumped out of my corset.

Peering through the bars, I saw two baby blue eyes staring back at me. They reminded me of the prince’s unfortunately puffy coat. I hate to admit it, but I judged her a little bit because of that.

“I thought this cell was empty,” I said stupidly. I was too surprised to come up with something more witty.

“New arrival. Just got here today.” She seemed unconcerned by the fact that she was a prisoner in the king’s dungeons. Calmly and primly, she sat by the cell bars, looking at me with an expression that could only be described as boredom.

She was also the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.

I judged her for that too. It wasn’t fair that she could have lustrous golden hair that cascaded down her back in waves (even while as a prisoner in a dungeon!) while my lady maids forced me to sit for an hour each day simply to have a semblance of curl.

But if she could help me … who was I to judge?

And their opponent in the near corner...JAMIE STUART

Charlene Gentry didn't know what to expect when she died. She wasn't necessarily an evil person, so would heaven welcome her? She wasn't an angel, either, so would hell be her destination? Not that she had a choice, but she assumed those were her only two options.

Certainly not 5542 Sycamore Lane.

She must be dead. How else could she explain the view of her bedroom from above? She didn't own a mirror on the ceiling, as badly as she had dreamed of putting one up there. And the eyes of the body – her body – lying on the bed below were closed.

The front door slammed. "Charlie? You here?"

Robbie. Her big brother finally made it. Was he in time? How long had her body been lying there? Minutes? Hours?

"I'm in the bedroom!" She yelled, but did he hear her? Dammit! How could she move to him? Was she stuck up on the ceiling for all eternity?

The sliding door to the backyard opened. "Hey, fella. Whatcha doing out here?"

Barnaby's claws ticked, ticked, ticked, as they skittered across the kitchen floor. Soon the chocolate lab burst through the bedroom door, Robbie close behind.

"Charlie?" He rushed to her body and placed his fingers against the neck.

Did he get a pulse? Was she still alive? He pulled out his cell.

"It's my sister. I think she OD'd."

"No, I didn't," she said. "It's not what you think."

"Fifty-five forty-two Sycamore Lane… No… Yes… Okay. Please hurry." He dropped the phone on the bed and proceeded to perform CPR. Barnaby whined.

"That's it. Resuscitate me. Bring me back, Robbie!"

After several pumps on her chest, he blew air into her mouth. He repeated the process and checked her neck. "Dammit, Charlie. Come back! Don't leave me."

She willed herself to be by his side, and it happened. So that's how it worked! "I haven't left you," she said. "Don't give up!"

He didn't react to her words, but he continued with the CPR.

Where was the ambulance? They should have been here by now. She only lived a couple of blocks away.

Robbie checked her neck again and started to cry.

"No! I don't want to die!" She reached out for him and her hand went through his body.

He didn't feel her. She was nothing.

"How could you be so stupid? I trusted you!" He fell to his knees and placed his head on the bed.

His sobs wrenched her heart, if she even had one anymore. She couldn't blame him. She was stupid. Not for overdosing – she'd been clean for a year – but for trusting Carl. That bastard had killed her.

She had never believed in ghosts before. Looked like she was one now. Was she stuck inside the house forever?

Oh crap. Maybe she was in hell.

A to Z Challenge Survival Kit

2012-02-24T05:00:00.000-06:00

Heyeveryone, I’m not here right now because I’m over on the A to Z Challenge sitetalking about my Survival Kit. Stopon over if you get a chance. Otherwiseyou can leave a message at the beep.

*BEEP*

WRiTE CLUB and Other Hodge Podge

2012-02-22T05:00:00.000-06:00

Sorryfor delaying the WRiTE CLUBquarter-finals for a week, but I felt Monday’spost had an important message that couldn’t wait. Anyway, the voting was really tight last weekwith three votes being the largest margin of victory, but here are ourquarter-finalists:

AnneShirley

JamieStuart

CaseyBrooks

Andthe fourth wildcard selection, which had the most number of votes amongst thenon-winners, had to be decided by tie-breaker…which is me. This is exactly why I’ve kept myself in thedark regarding our WRiTER’s realidentities, so I can focus solely on the writing. My choices came down between Lily Masonand Lucky Left Hook, and I chose…

LuckyLeft Hook

Bothwriters demonstrated masterful command of the material and offered very compellingpieces, but in the end I chose the submission I lingered on the longest. Kind of like an aftertaste, but in a goodway.

Thefirst quarter final bout will be next Monday…with the voting remaining open fortwo days…and the second bout will be posted on Wednesday, also open for votingfor two days. Our two finalists, onceselected, will have one week to prepare a new 500 word submission to WOW thehungry crowd in the final round. I can’twait!

Ialso have some other stuff going on I wanted to let you in on. On Friday, February 24^th, I’ll beguest posting on the A to Z Challengeblog. I’ll be revealing DL’s A to Z Survival Guide, so you’ll definitely want to check that out.

NextTuesday will be Alex J. Cavanaugh’s CassaFire CatchFire book launch blog party, which I’ll be taking part in, so make plans tostop by for that.

Keepingwith this year’s philosophy of making it uncomfortable in my comfort zone, Isigned up for the DFW WritersConference in Dallas May 19-20. I’llbe tackling my first pitch session that weekend and I’m alreadyhyper-ventilating. If anyone isattending that particular conference or if you’re a blogger in the Dallas-Ft.Worth area, give me a shout and we’ll see if we can arrange a get together!

Andfinally, my wife’s favorite author is Diana Gabaldon. She was reading Diana’s blog recently andcame across a particularly interesting post. My wife thought of me…and you guys & gals…thinking the article wouldbe informational for us. She wasright. It you ever wanted to know why ittakes so long for a manuscript to go from the author’s hands to the bookshelf,read Diana Gabaldon’s post here.

HappyHump Day everyone! :)

Be the Ball

2012-02-20T05:00:00.000-06:00

I'mdelaying the WRiTE CLUBquarter-final round for a couple of days because I have something I need to sayas a result of the ORIGINSblogfest last week.

I’minto sports. I’ve played them andcoached them at a very high level, but now I’m just an avid fan (mostlycollege). Something continually stressedwhen learning a sport is a concept of visualization. Whatever it is you’re trying to master…layingdown a bunt, perfecting your soccer dribble, or mastering a two-handedbackhand… you have to visualize doing it first. In your mind’s eye, if you can see yourself performing the activity,then you should be able to do it for real. Pretty simple stuff, right?

Backwhen I was coaching and I brought up this concept to my kids, I always linkedit to the movie CADDYSHACK. Remember the part of the movie where ChevyChase is tutoring the young caddy on how to drive the golf ball a long way andhe tells him to, “be the ball”? Yeah,it’s funny and the kids can relate to it, but I use that to make a point. When it comes to imagining doingsomething…and doing it flawlessly…you have to be focused and 100 % willing togive it your all. Every single detailmatters!

Whenit comes to our writing, the same concept applies. How many of you have taken a picture like theone above? Come on, don’t be shy. Raise those hands up. Yes, it’s a picture taken at my local Barnes& Noble of the space on the shelf (in the mystery section) where my bookwill someday reside. If you haven’ttaken that picture yet, do it this weekend! Be the ball!

Thisis a picture of my feet, and more specifically the shoes on my feet. They were a Christmas gift given to me by mywife, a very special gift. Those of youwho have read my book know their significance, but for the rest of you justknow that they play a profound part in my book FALLEN KNIGHT. I can now wear a personification of mydream. Be the ball!

Thisis a book cover mock-up a friend did for me. I’m not sure it’ll work because it gives off too much of a YA feel andit’s really an adult mystery/thriller, but you get the idea. Looking at this makes me feel like one day areal version will exist. Be the ball!

Heedinga recent commenter's suggestion, I've removed the word aspiring from thedescription of myself on my blog. I've alsocommitted to establishing a specialized authorpage on Facebook and I'm going to have someone (winking at Tiana) help me turnmy blog into an actual web page. Be the ball!

Iread 215+ ORIGIN’s last week, and something I picked up on is that althoughmost everyone could remember where they started, very few had a good handle onwhere they were going. My advice to anyof you who see yourself in that boat…visualize the destination! I don’t mean daydream about what it would belike to have published a book…I mean see it specifically. Take that book shelf picture and make it yourbackground on your monitor and/or smart phone. Find a picture of an author at a book signing and super-impose your faceover theirs. Whatever it takes. See it…then be it!

Be the ball!

What are you doing to visualize your goal?

WRiTE CLUB - Round of Six - Bout 3

2012-02-18T05:00:00.000-06:00

Time for the final bout in this round of six. Once again the voting will remainopen for two days, or until Sunday at midnight. Monday morning we'll launch straight into the quarter-final round between the four remaining WRiTER's. After that round and we've narrowed the twelve down to two, both WRiTER's will be given one week to submit a new 500 word writing sample.

But let's not get ahead of ourselves. Please read the submission from each WRiTER carefully to determine how itstacks up against their new opponent. Leaveyour vote for the sample that resonates with you the most. Don’t forget to offer some opinions if youhave time. Anyone reading this can vote,so blog/tweet/facebook/text/smoke signal everyone you know and get them toparticipate as well. Good luck to both WRiTER’s!

And now…..

Passing through the ropes and making their way to the far corner is....ART GALLERY

I've been stealing glances at him for the last twoweeks. Always reclined back in his chairwith his elbow resting on the table, a cigarette perched between his finger andhis thumb. Most of us are just so stiff and formal in here, especially me withmy hands crossed demurely over my velvet coat and my hair pinned up properlyunder my hat as I sit on the terrace with my baby sister. His aspect is muchmore appealing. I wish I could lounge like that in a rumpled white T-shirt androwing pants, smoking a cigarette and relaxing with friends.

We're both part of the permanent collection here but havefrequently been on loan to other museums, so we've rarely hung for long in thesame gallery. I learned from the docent who leads tours through theImpressionist wing that he's a Renoir, like me, so I always figured he was justthe same old, same old. But now that I look—really look—I see we are quitedistinct.

It may have been his suave nonchalance that drew me in, butit's his entrancing, cerulean eyes that keep me looking back. I know he'scomprised of the same sweeping blurs of brushstrokes as I am, but from thedistance between our opposite walls, he's a defined, striking figure, and hissang-froid eyes are as beautiful as anything I've ever seen.

I thought I'd been discreet in my glances, but one day hecaught me. And winked. I’d flicked my eyes away, pretending to examine the longboat in his background, but when my gaze drifted back a few minutes later hewas unabashedly staring at me. He’d smirked and tapped out his ashes as hereturned his attention to his friends, but things have been heating up eversince.

More often than not, when I direct my gaze to him, he'salready looking at me, one corner of his mouth turned up in a half smile that Iinterpret in oh-so-many delicious ways. That’s when the canvas under me startsto warm, and the heat must be radiating to my baby sister because she's beenshooting me odd looks. Something's got to give or soon I'll be nothing but amyriad of melted oils on the floor beneath my frame.

Fortunately, something is going to give. Yesterday his eyeslingered on mine for a particularly lusty moment before pointing with a slightnod of his head toward Monet’s haystacks at the far end of the gallery. The lumps of dried wheat are bulky enough fortwo figures to hide behind. Unnoticed. Today he repeated the motion and wrappedhis enticing lips around a silent "Tonight."

It's not unprecedented for images to leave their paintings for a rendezvous—from what I've heard through the paintvine all manner of things go on in the modern art gallery—but amongst us staid, Impressionist pieces, it's fairly uncommon. I've never done it, nor have I dreamed of doing it. Until him.

And their opponent in the near corner....ANNE SHIRLEY

They say that when you're about to die, your whole lifeflashes before your eyes.

Turns out it's true.

I sprawl in a pool of my own blood. The sky comes in and outof focus, and it's an unnatural color, like a bruised plum. Bombs explode to myright, spewing smoke tongues that smother the earth. Two men hover over me -Lieutenant Daniels and that baby-faced soldier who cried the night we gotdeported. I think they're trying to staunch the oozing wound on my thigh, butI'm not too sure.

My mind is going. Lying there on the battlefield, all I cansee is Molly. Molly wearing her Dodgers cap in the kitchen, making breakfast,telling the dog to get down, stay there, good boy. Peter! Emily! Hurry up oryou'll be late!

Wagging tail. The crisp smell of cinnamon French toast.Backpacks zipping. Sneakers skidding because the bus is pulling around thecorner. Shit, I'm going to miss it! YOUNG MAN, don't ever let me hear you saythat word again! Giggles. Peter said a bad word, Mom.

Little arms thrown around my neck. I love you, Daddy. I loveyou too, sweetheart.

The baby-faced soldier's voice slices through my delirium."He just call me sweetheart?"

"Don't flatter yourself, son. He's feverish. Hand methat bandage."

"Yes, sir."

Lieutenant Daniels' ruddy face appears. "Jackson.You're gonna be all right, you hear me?"

A church decorated in red, white, and blue. My father lyingthere in his coffin. I kiss his cold forehead, the way he used to kiss minewhen I was sick. I love you, Dad. My turn to fight for peace. I swear I'll makeyou proud.

San Francisco Bay, holding hands with Molly, heart racingbecause I'm about to ask her to marry me.

The doctor's office with Pat, my frat brother, my footballbuddy. The cancer will take me over, Jackson. No, it won't, I won't let it.You're gonna be just fine, Pat.

"He's going, going, gone," the young solidermutters.

"Don't count him out yet," Lieutenant Danielssays.

As if on cue, I sit up. Everything, everyone I love. I don'tknow if I'll see any of them again. But there's still breath in my body. Wherethere's breath, there's life. And where there's life, there's fight.

"Jackson. Get down, we need to clean that wound!"

"Where are you going?!"

I crawl out of our hideout. Dragging my bad leg, I sling mygun over one shoulder.

There's a small army of them, tongues lolling from theirlifeless faces. Green skin curdled like bad cheese. Slowly, they lurch towardme with sickening hunger, moving around the mutilated bodies of my fallencomrades.

I imagine them bending over Molly, the kids cowering in thedoorway.

I load my gun.

They want my brains. I want them dead. Even deader than theyalready are.

"YOU'RE GOING DOWN, BITCHES!" I scream.

"Jackson, no!" Lieutenant Daniels howls.

I throw myself at the zombies.

WRiTE CLUB,it’s not about the last man/woman standing, it’s about who knocks the audienceout!

WRiTE CLUB - Round of Six - Bout 2

2012-02-16T05:00:00.000-06:00

Here's the second of three bouts between our sixsemi-finalist. The voting will remainopen for two days until the third and final bout of this round on Saturday. Read the submission from each WRiTER carefully to determine how itstacks up against their new opponent. Leaveyour vote for the sample that resonates with you the most. Don’t forget to offer some opinions if youhave time. Anyone reading this can vote,so blog/tweet/facebook/text/smoke signal everyone you know and get them toparticipate as well. Good luck to both WRiTER’s!

And now…..

In the near corner, welcome back to the ring.....LILY MASON

Mr. Griffin held out a lumpy gold paperweight the size of his palm. "This is all I have that'll hold a spell for an extended period of time.”

I plucked it from his palm and held it up to the light. A frog prince with a jewel-encrusted crown and two glittering emerald eyes returned my gaze. I smiled at it, my stomach fluttering as the urge to kiss it overwhelmed me. Feeling silly, I gave him a quick peck on the lips.

Mr. Griffin gave me an amused look while Angie giggled.

"In the original fairytale, the princess threw the frog against a wall before he turned into the handsome prince." Mr. Griffin said.

Angie scoffed. "She physically abused prince charming while he was a frog and he still married her? Jeez, what a loser."

The frog’s glittering eyes watched me. I narrowed my eyes and whispered to him, "Is that what I’m supposed to do?"

Angie lunged forward. "You’re already dating a frog, let me try."

I dodged her and tossed the frog. It sailed through the air and struck the wall, leaving a dent the size of my fist before thunking to the floor. It wobbled to a stop at my feet like a boomerang.

I looked sheepishly at Mr. Griffin, my cheeks burning. My apology barely bubbled out before the door opened and my ex, Jesse stepped through it.

My breath caught and I stared. He had been gone for sixteen months. No goodbye. No forwarding address. He simply vanished.

He’d been working out while he was gone. His grey t-shirt hugged his chest and arms. The hand in his front jeans pocket tugged his waistline down just enough to reveal a little skin. He could model for one of those ads where they sold clothes using nearly naked hotties.

Angie gave me a wide-eyed look before running over to give him a hug. She squealed when he picked her up and twirled her around.

I rolled my eyes. What a suck up.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Mr. Griffin said, holding out his hand, “How are you?”

Jesse shook hands before his gaze shifted to me, his mouth set in a thin hard line. “I’m fine, sir.”

Mr. Griffin glanced at us, cleared his throat, and said, “Angie, I need your help out front.”

Reluctantly, Angie smacked Jesse on the butt and followed her dad out of the room, shooting me a wicked smile.

Feeling awkward, I picked up the frog. I hefted it in my palm twice, admiring the weight of it. I contemplated pitching it at Jesse’s head, but set it on the table instead.

When I looked up, he was close. Too close. There was a white scar above his lip that hadn’t been there before.

I decided focusing on his lips was a bad idea. “Did you come to apologize for being a jerk?”

His bright blue eyes studied my face. “I missed you too.”

And in the other corner....JAMIE STUART

Charlene Gentry didn't know what to expect when she died. She wasn't necessarily an evil person, so would heaven welcome her? She wasn't an angel, either, so would hell be her destination? Not that she had a choice, but she assumed those were her only two options.

Certainly not 5542 Sycamore Lane.

She must be dead. How else could she explain the view of her bedroom from above? She didn't own a mirror on the ceiling, as badly as she had dreamed of putting one up there. And the eyes of the body – her body – lying on the bed below were closed.

The front door slammed. "Charlie? You here?"

Robbie. Her big brother finally made it. Was he in time? How long had her body been lying there? Minutes? Hours?

"I'm in the bedroom!" She yelled, but did he hear her? Dammit! How could she move to him? Was she stuck up on the ceiling for all eternity?

The sliding door to the backyard opened. "Hey, fella. Whatcha doing out here?"

Barnaby's claws ticked, ticked, ticked, as they skittered across the kitchen floor. Soon the chocolate lab burst through the bedroom door, Robbie close behind.

"Charlie?" He rushed to her body and placed his fingers against the neck.

Did he get a pulse? Was she still alive? He pulled out his cell.

"It's my sister. I think she OD'd."

"No, I didn't," she said. "It's not what you think."

"Fifty-five forty-two Sycamore Lane… No… Yes… Okay. Please hurry." He dropped the phone on the bed and proceeded to perform CPR. Barnaby whined.

"That's it. Resuscitate me. Bring me back, Robbie!"

After several pumps on her chest, he blew air into her mouth. He repeated the process and checked her neck. "Dammit, Charlie. Come back! Don't leave me."

She willed herself to be by his side, and it happened. So that's how it worked! "I haven't left you," she said. "Don't give up!"

He didn't react to her words, but he continued with the CPR.

Where was the ambulance? They should have been here by now. She only lived a couple of blocks away.

Robbie checked her neck again and started to cry.

"No! I don't want to die!" She reached out for him and her hand went through his body.

He didn't feel her. She was nothing.

"How could you be so stupid? I trusted you!" He fell to his knees and placed his head on the bed.

His sobs wrenched her heart, if she even had one anymore. She couldn't blame him. She was stupid. Not for overdosing – she'd been clean for a year – but for trusting Carl. That bastard had killed her.

She had never believed in ghosts before. Looked like she was one now. Was she stuck inside the house forever?

Oh crap. Maybe she was in hell.

Best of luck to both WRiTER's. In WRiTE CLUB,it’s not about the last man/woman standing, it’s about who knocks the audienceout!

WRiTE CLUB - Round of Six - Bout 1

2012-02-14T05:00:00.000-06:00

If your visiting to read my ORIGIN story, that post is here.

Todaybegins the first of three bouts between our six semi-finalist. The voting will remain open for two daysuntil the next bout on Thursday. Readthe submission from each WRiTERcarefully to determine how it stacks up against their new opponent. Leave your vote for the sample that resonateswith you the most. Don’t forget to offersome opinions if you have time. Anyonereading this can vote, so blog/tweet/facebook/text/smoke signal everyone youknow and get them to participate as well. Good luck to both WRiTER’s!

And now…..

In the near corner, welcome back to the ring.....LUCKY LEFT HOOK

I watch thegirl as I have every day for the last five days. She moves around the outdoorpatio of the restaurant while balancing a drink-loaded tray. The effort forcesan small, apple-sized bicep to form in her slender arm. I imagine her shinyblack hair falling to her shoulders as the red stick holding her careless knotbobs lazily. The girl drops her pen and moves to place the tray on an emptytable.

As shebends to retrieve it, my eyes meet her almond-shaped dark ones for an instance,and I look away. I'm not quick enough and recognize that she's angry.

Does shethink I am stalking her? Probably. I'll have to skip a couple of days. I don'twant to scare her. And then again, she doesn't actually look scared. She looksangry with a touch of curious.

"Can Iget you anything else?" The waiter, a man with thinning hair arrangedacross the top of his head, holds the black restaurant bill folder in his hand.I can tell that he wants the table for his next customer as I look around atthe crowded tables. He drums the edge of the bill folder with his neat, thinfingers. I can see the speculation in his eyes as they move over my t-shirt andholey jeans. His eyes say, "Doesn't this kid have a summer job?" Thewaiter smiles, but it's a fake smile that matches his equally fake tan.

"No.Just the check." I steal a glance in her direction for fear that she will disappearinto the crowded dining room inside. It's too late and she's gone.

I glance atthe ticket that's been placed in front of me and retrieve my wallet. Throwing acouple of bills on the table, I take one last sip of my water and craneforward, looking through french doors into the dining area.

"What'syour problem?"

Her huskyvoice electrifies my senses. I've heard it in my dreams hundreds of times. Idon't answer immediately. My rehearsed line tumbles from my brain and is lost.

I turnafter a measured second that seems like hours. "I have a proposition foryou." The words are all wrong. Her proximity makes me nervous that shewill read my mind and know.

She laughs,a brittle sound that doesn't match what I know of her. In my dreams, she is allsweetness. It startles me when she places her hand on the back of my chair andleans down to whisper. "Listen, creep. I will say this one time. You showup here again and my brother will take a sharp knife to your tender and delicateplaces. Capiche?"

Thejuxtaposition of her words and what I know of us is almost more than I canstand. I wish to start over, but there's no beginning that would be right.

"Seiko,I need your help." I think of the photograph in my wallet.

And in the other corner....CASEY BROOKS

On Sunday, I was punished for putting a snake in PrinceAlec’s salad. I know, I know. Not that original, but he yelled louder than abanshee from the Mountains of Mystery.

On Monday, I ever-so-innocently suggested that the princeresembled a blue pincushion – what with his puffy sleeves and all – and myparents sent me down here again. (Though, I noticed they didn’t disagree withmy assessment of his outfit).

Tuesday morning, I pushed the prince into the fountainduring our supposed-to-be-romantic walk. Of course my parents didn’t believe mewhen I said I was protecting the prince from a very deadly looking wasp.

Really, I was surprised they still wanted to go forwardwith the whole marriage thing. I mean, I had hoped that if I made my thoughtson the matter clear, then they would let me out of it. But, no.

Maybe the fountain thing was too subtle.

“Maybe the prince should just go back to where hebelongs,” I muttered as I scrubbed at the prison bars. After all, my parentscouldn’t force me to marry Prince Alec in one week.

Right?

“That’s easy to arrange, you know,” a lilting femalevoice answered me. I nearly jumped out of my corset.

Peering through the bars, I saw two baby blue eyesstaring back at me. They reminded me of the prince’s unfortunately puffy coat.I hate to admit it, but I judged her a little bit because of that.

“I thought this cell was empty,” I said stupidly. I wastoo surprised to come up with something more witty.

“New arrival. Just got here today.” She seemedunconcerned by the fact that she was a prisoner in the king’s dungeons. Calmlyand primly, she sat by the cell bars, looking at me with an expression thatcould only be described as boredom.

She was also the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.

I judged her for that too. It wasn’t fair that she couldhave lustrous golden hair that cascaded down her back in waves (even while as aprisoner in a dungeon!) while my lady maids forced me to sit for an hour eachday simply to have a semblance of curl.

But if she could help me … who was I to judge?

In WRiTE CLUB,it’s not about the last man/woman standing, it’s about who knocks the audienceout!

PS. Happy Valentine Day!! <3

My Origin Story

2012-02-13T05:00:00.000-06:00

Welcome one and all to the OriginsBlogfest. I don't know about you, but I'm eager to readeveryone's story of how their writing journey began. I want to thank Katie, Alex and Matt for helping me pull this off. Simply click on the link above to access thelist of all those participating. My ownentry is below. Followers who have beenwith me a while might have seen this before, and if so you won't hurt myfeelings by moving on to the next offering. For the rest of you, I hope you like reading my rather unique story.Maybe you’ll even consider coming back on a regular basis. :)

Enjoy the blogfest!

Up until the late-spring of1974, I had never written a fictional story. Oh, I used my active imagination to make up plenty of tales and in gradeschool I was known to organize plays for the neighborhood, but I never had aninclination to put anything down on paper. That moment finally came when I was a juniorin high school and the summer break was just over the horizon.

Our English teacher, whosename escapes me now, wanted to do something different for the end of the year. She devised an unusual project that combinedelements of writing, presentation skills, and multi-media. The catch was that it had to be worked on inteams of four. As she broke us down and announcedthe groupings it was clear to me that some in-decipherable logic was used to selectwho wound up in what pod. When I heardthe other names in my group I suddenly broke out in a cold sweat.

One boy was a longtime friend,another I vaguely knew, but the final name was the one that continued ringingin my ears. Vicki M. Everybody knewVicki. She was a cheerleader, but notjust any cheerleader. She was theprettiest, friendliest, most popular girl in school, who was also blessed withintimidating intelligence. I had neverspoken a word to her, not even to bless a sneeze. I was quite certain that ifshe said anything to me, all of my clothes would suddenly disappear and therewould be no recovering from the depth of my nakedness.

I was still getting over theshock of hearing her name in the same breath as my own when we received ourassignment. Each team was to create a ten-minuteaudio recording in the style of an old time broadcast serial such as Dick Tracyor Little Orphan Annie, during the golden years of radio. The kicker…thematerial used for the show also had to be from an original idea, meaning thegroups had to write their own scripts.

The teacher let us devotethe last thirty minutes of class to our projects, so the class shuffled chairs aroundto form team circles. Vicki quickly tookcharge and asked if anybody had ideas about a story, but I had already vanishedinto her hypnotic blue eyes. I thinkeveryone half-expected straight-A Vicki to come up with a story, but she bashfullyadmitted to being better with numbers and facts, then fiction. Seeing an opportunity, I hastily volunteeredto write the entire script. A bold move,certainly, especially considering up until then I had never written a story ofany sort. But this was something I feltI could do, and it would be a surefire way to impress Vicki. Somebody else cameup with the idea of doing a radio spot along the lines of a Thriller Theaterand that’s when everyone turned to me. CouldI come up with story along those lines by the next day? “No problem,” I said, my sphincter nowclamped so tight I couldn’t pass a microbe. What had I done?

That night I barricadedmyself in my room with a legal pad, pen, a tall glass of milk and stack ofOreo’s. I was motivated by two forces, adeep desire to impress Vicki and become a blip on her radar, and abone-chilling fear of failure. Surprisingly, the words started to flow almostimmediately. I wrote a simple storyinvolving a family who purchases an antique floor-standing mirror and thestrange things that happen when their small son starts playing with amysterious friend he finds in the mirror.

I read the story to the teamthe next day. Everyone, especiallyVicki, LOVED it. We then set about thetask of recording the episode. Therewere acting roles to be assigned (Vicki was the mother), proper backgroundmusic to choose, and figuring out how to create the different soundeffects. The entire project took twoweeks to finish, most of the time working at my house because I lived closestto school. Having Vicki in my home everyday was magical! My mom’s house the plants seemed to bloom brighter and thesnacks she laid out for us never tasted so sweet.

Then the day came when allthe teams were to present their project. By luck of the draw, our tape was scheduled to play last. One by one we listened to each group’s tapesand I have to say the talent on display was truly impressive. Then it came our turn. While our tape played I stared down at mydesk top, unable to look at my classmates faces, worried that my story wouldn’tbe as well received as it’d been with my team.

Our tape garnered theloudest applause of the day and Vicki gave each of us a genuine hug. I still remember that embrace and the way itmade me feel.

Our euphoria ended abruptlywhen the teacher called us aside and demanded we tell her where we got thestory we used, upset that we had not used original material as she instructed.When we finally convinced her that I had written the story myself, she was soimpressed that she urged me to submit the story to several writing contests. Weekslater she was still pushing me to enter the story somewhere, but I neverfollowed through with her suggestions. Ipreferred to stay out of the spotlight, content with the only reward that mattered. The admiration of Vicky M.

After that I couldn’t stop writing. Ihad finally found something I was really good at and others…mostly adults…tooknotice of. I ended up working for theschool newspaper my senior year, but after high school my creative writing tooka back seat to life. College, a career,a wife and three kids all ganged up on me and successfully forced my urge towrite into an extended hibernation. Butnow it’s awake again…with a vengeance!

The last time I saw Vick M wasat graduation, but to this day I still carry the original copy of that scriptin my backpack. It now serves as a reminderof a simpler life, the birth of a passion, and the existence of undiscoveredpossibilities.

WRiTE CLUB - The Semi-Finalist

2012-02-12T09:56:00.000-06:00

It wasn't pretty, there were some knock down drag outs, butwe have narrowed our list down to six. For me, what these semi-final rounds have demonstrated is that sometimesthis competition comes down to the luck of the draw...or a single word. You might argue, what is the point of WRiTE CLUB if LUCK is a contributing factor in who advances. Shouldn't the goal be to see the best writingrise to the top? I would counter that makingit in the publishing business requires some element of luck, and the truth is thebest writing doesn't always make it to the shelf. The contest ended for some very talented WRiTER's in this round, but thatdoesn't diminish their accomplishments or their futures in any way. For six others, the contest goes on and thatelement of luck still exists, but good fortune can only place them in the bestpossible position to advance and their writing skill still decides their fate.

Here are our six semi-finalist:

Round 1 - Art Gallery

Round 2 - Lucky LeftHook

Round 3 - CaseyBrooks

Round 4 - Lily Mason

Round 5 - JamieStuart

Round 6 - AnneShirley

These six will once again be randomly paired for theirnext bout, which will begin on Tuesday (February 14). In this round each bout will remain open forvoting for two days and the WRiTER's will be puttingtheir previous round submissions to the test once again. There will be three matches, with threewinners, but a fourth "wildcard" winner will also move onto the quarter-finalround. The loser with the most voteswill become that wildcard.

I will announce the four winners next Monday (February 20th).

Anyone reading this can vote, so blog / tweet / facebook/ text / smoke signal everyone you know and get them to participate aswell. We only averaged 23 votes per boutin the last round, which is nothing like I hoped we see.

Good luck to all of our WRiTER’s!

Don’t forget the WRiTE CLUB motto, it’s not about the last man/woman standing, it’sabout who knocks the audience out!

WRiTE CLUB - Semi-Finals Round 6

2012-02-11T05:00:00.000-06:00

Here we are...the last of the semi-finals. I think you all will agree that this has beena tough...TOUGH competition. Despite theappearance to the otherwise, the opponents in each bout were randomly drawn outof a hat by me wife. Fairness is ratedabove all else in WRiTE CLUB.

I will announce all six winners Sunday at noon, and thenwe'll match them up (using the same method) for the phase which will kick offnext Tuesday (right after the ORIGINSblogfest). Read the submission fromeach WRiTER carefully and leave yourvote for the sample that resonates with you the most. Don’t forget to offer some opinions if youhave time. Anyone reading this can vote,so blog / tweet / facebook / text / smoke signal everyone you know and get themto participate as well. Good luck toboth WRiTER’s!

And now…..

All the way from our very first round, here she isagain.....ANNE SHIRLEY

They say that when you're about to die, your whole life flashes before your eyes.

Turns out it's true.

I sprawl in a pool of my own blood. The sky comes in and out of focus, and it's an unnatural color, like a bruised plum. Bombs explode to my right, spewing smoke tongues that smother the earth. Two men hover over me - Lieutenant Daniels and that baby-faced soldier who cried the night we got deported. I think they're trying to staunch the oozing wound on my thigh, but I'm not too sure.

My mind is going. Lying there on the battlefield, all I can see is Molly. Molly wearing her Dodgers cap in the kitchen, making breakfast, telling the dog to get down, stay there, good boy. Peter! Emily! Hurry up or you'll be late!

Wagging tail. The crisp smell of cinnamon French toast. Backpacks zipping. Sneakers skidding because the bus is pulling around the corner. Shit, I'm going to miss it! YOUNG MAN, don't ever let me hear you say that word again! Giggles. Peter said a bad word, Mom.

Little arms thrown around my neck. I love you, Daddy. I love you too, sweetheart.

The baby-faced soldier's voice slices through my delirium. "He just call me sweetheart?"

"Don't flatter yourself, son. He's feverish. Hand me that bandage."

"Yes, sir."

Lieutenant Daniels' ruddy face appears. "Jackson. You're gonna be all right, you hear me?"

A church decorated in red, white, and blue. My father lying there in his coffin. I kiss his cold forehead, the way he used to kiss mine when I was sick. I love you, Dad. My turn to fight for peace. I swear I'll make you proud.

San Francisco Bay, holding hands with Molly, heart racing because I'm about to ask her to marry me.

The doctor's office with Pat, my frat brother, my football buddy. The cancer will take me over, Jackson. No, it won't, I won't let it. You're gonna be just fine, Pat.

"He's going, going, gone," the young solider mutters.

"Don't count him out yet," Lieutenant Daniels says.

As if on cue, I sit up. Everything, everyone I love. I don't know if I'll see any of them again. But there's still breath in my body. Where there's breath, there's life. And where there's life, there's fight.

"Jackson. Get down, we need to clean that wound!"

"Where are you going?!"

I crawl out of our hideout. Dragging my bad leg, I sling my gun over one shoulder.

There's a small army of them, tongues lolling from their lifeless faces. Green skin curdled like bad cheese. Slowly, they lurch toward me with sickening hunger, moving around the mutilated bodies of my fallen comrades.

I imagine them bending over Molly, the kids cowering in the doorway.

I load my gun.

They want my brains. I want them dead. Even deader than they already are.

"YOU'RE GOING DOWN, BITCHES!" I scream.

"Jackson, no!" Lieutenant Daniels howls.

I throw myself at the zombies.

Against our last winner, theround twelve survivor....EMMILOUHAYRISS

Late May, and it was already hot. And wet. Sweat pasted the few escaped strands of stringy blonde hair to my damp neck, and I tried not to stir up dust as I walked.

It was my last day working for Dr. Green, the only large-animal vet in Dabb Creek, but it wasn’t much different from my first. Only that day it’d been storming, and Doc said to meet him in Mrs. Blalock’s barn.

Jackson and D’Lo had to tag along, of course. They didn’t think I’d go through with it. I think even Dr. Green was skeptical, which is why he said I’d have to palpate the widow’s best milking cow before he’d agree to make me his assistant.

Palpate. I knew what that meant. Fancy word for sticking your hand up a cow’s backside to see if she’s pregnant. They didn’t think I could do it because I was so little. Years of stretching and drinking milk had only got me up to five-foot tall, but I climbed up on that stool, set my jaw, and plunged right in.

“Make your hand like a wedge, Prentiss…” Dr. Green stood close by, holding up Elsie’s tail. His man-sized plastic glove went all the way over my shoulder to my neck, and it was slathered in lubricant. It kept me clean, but I was getting the full experience of hot, smelly cow butt.

“Now slowly reach all the way to your elbow,” he said.

Thunder rumbled low outside, and the hiss of rain grew louder. I closed my eyes and followed his instructions, focusing on what I was trying to find rather than where I was trying to find it.

“Let the contractions pass,” he said, referencing the muscle spasms I felt around my forearm. “Now feel downward to locate the uterus, not forward. Careful… see if you can detect the embryo.”

I heard D’Lo snorting behind me, but I wouldn’t look at him. I wouldn’t look at anything. My throat was constricting like I might throw up, but there was no way I was doing that.

“Feel it?” The doctor asked.

I shook my head, eyes still closed, unable to speak. The cow seemed as tense as me, but whether it was from the growing storm or my arm sinking deeper into her hindquarters, I couldn’t tell.

“Keep feeling… gently,” Dr. Green urged. “Anybody can learn palpation. It’s the most accurate procedure for determining pregnancy in dairy cows. And the cheapest…”

“I got it!” My breath rushed out in a gush.

I did. I felt a definite lump spilling over the pubic bone. Elsie’s calf.

“Now. Make a mental note of the size,” he said. “She’s about 90 days along.”

“I feel it,” I repeated, my muscles starting to relax. “It’s about the size of my palm.”

“Good…” Dr. Green smiled. “Now ease your arm out…”

As I walked down the dusty road, I remembered Jackson’s smug look and D’Lo’s expletives of praise.

WRiTECLUB's motto, it’s not about the last man/woman standing, it’s about whoknocks the audience out!

WRiTE CLUB - Semi-Finals Round 5

2012-02-10T06:00:00.000-06:00

If you’re here for the I’LL TUMBLE 4YA Blogfest, that post is located HERE.

The semi-finals are almost complete and both the audienceand the WRiTER’s are ragged! Now it’stime for Round 5.

Here’s my spiel again…the winners will be announced at noonon Sunday and the next round will kick off next Tuesday (right after the ORIGINSblogfest). Read the submission fromeach WRiTER carefully and leave your vote for the sample that resonates withyou the most. Don’t forget to offer someopinions if you have time. Anyonereading this can vote, so blog / tweet / facebook / text / smoke signaleveryone you know and get them to participate as well. Good luck to both WRiTER’s!

And now…..

Stepping into the ring is the winner of round two, back for more is .....JAMIE STUART

Charlene Gentry didn't know what to expect when she died. She wasn't necessarily an evil person, so would heaven welcome her? She wasn't an angel, either, so would hell be her destination? Not that she had a choice, but she assumed those were her only two options.

Certainly not 5542 Sycamore Lane.

She must be dead. How else could she explain the view of her bedroom from above? She didn't own a mirror on the ceiling, as badly as she had dreamed of putting one up there. And the eyes of the body – her body – lying on the bed below were closed.

The front door slammed. "Charlie? You here?"

Robbie. Her big brother finally made it. Was he in time? How long had her body been lying there? Minutes? Hours?

"I'm in the bedroom!" She yelled, but did he hear her? Dammit! How could she move to him? Was she stuck up on the ceiling for all eternity?

The sliding door to the backyard opened. "Hey, fella. Whatcha doing out here?"

Barnaby's claws ticked, ticked, ticked, as they skittered across the kitchen floor. Soon the chocolate lab burst through the bedroom door, Robbie close behind.

"Charlie?" He rushed to her body and placed his fingers against the neck.

Did he get a pulse? Was she still alive? He pulled out his cell.

"It's my sister. I think she OD'd."

"No, I didn't," she said. "It's not what you think."

"Fifty-five forty-two Sycamore Lane… No… Yes… Okay. Please hurry." He dropped the phone on the bed and proceeded to perform CPR. Barnaby whined.

"That's it. Resuscitate me. Bring me back, Robbie!"

After several pumps on her chest, he blew air into her mouth. He repeated the process and checked her neck. "Dammit, Charlie. Come back! Don't leave me."

She willed herself to be by his side, and it happened. So that's how it worked! "I haven't left you," she said. "Don't give up!"

He didn't react to her words, but he continued with the CPR.

Where was the ambulance? They should have been here by now. She only lived a couple of blocks away.

Robbie checked her neck again and started to cry.

"No! I don't want to die!" She reached out for him and her hand went through his body.

He didn't feel her. She was nothing.

"How could you be so stupid? I trusted you!" He fell to his knees and placed his head on the bed.

His sobs wrenched her heart, if she even had one anymore. She couldn't blame him. She was stupid. Not for overdosing – she'd been clean for a year – but for trusting Carl. That bastard had killed her.

She had never believed in ghosts before. Looked like she was one now. Was she stuck inside the house forever? Oh crap. Maybe she was in hell.

And in the other corner is our round five winner...PANAMA RED

In the past, I done everything I could to stay out of their way, all of them. Especially when things get private. After more than a hundred years, I figure let the live ones live their lives. Soon enough they’ll see all the opportunities they missed. All the little things they thought were so unimportant that shoulda been done. Like those two. I wonder if he knows what her favorite color is, or if she can sing. Sure, he knows how she tastes, but does he take the time to hold her hand, lay awake at night and listen to her breathe. Does he listen to her talk? And does he hear what she says? Can he hold her when she cries and not say a word? Can he hold her gently and not be running his hands all over her? Don’t look like it.

There’s been plenty of time for me to watch folks. I only get to watch the ones come to live in this place or the ones come to visit their own dead. Neither are the happiest souls. For years this place sat empty. The ranch was all mine, but all I could do was sit and watch it rot.

Course, the rotting started long before that. I don’t know what Pa was thinking. After I was shot, he went to pieces. Emily been crazy for years. I think maybe she never was right in the head. Her being only six years old when I was born, our Ma dying, and then Pa giving me to her to tend, she raised me up more like a plaything than a person.

From the day my grand-daddy homesteaded this little valley, people thought it was cursed. The Williams, and now the Bakers, seem to have such incredible bad luck. There was a time when I myself woulda thought that a curse. Today, after so much time and so much watching of folks, I see clearly it ain’t no curse. It ain’t even bad luck. More like poor judgment and bad choices.

Take Miss Sandra Baker. She and that ranch kid were certainly about to make a bad choice out there in the barn. Not to say it ain’t one I woulda made myself. Especially with her being so willin’. In my time, if I’da met a girl like Sandra Baker and she was that willin’, we woulda been married by her fifteenth birthday. By now, she woulda had a baby on her hip or one in her belly for sure. I woulda been a little smarter than to be foolin’ with her in her daddy’s barn, though. It’s a good way to get shot. What do I know about women like Sandra Baker? I only got nineteen years with never an opportunity to be smart or foolish around women. Everything I know comes from watchin’.

Getting shot is something I know about. I still can’t figure out exactly what happened.

Now it's time for you to do your part, which includes getting all of your friends to come cast a vote as well. Remember the WRiTE CLUB motto,it’s not about the last man/woman standing, it’s about who knocks the audienceout!

I’ll Tumble 4 YA Blogfest

2012-02-10T04:00:00.000-06:00

Prompted by the creative mind of Nicki Elson, I bring you my entryfor the I’LLTUMBLE 4 YA Blogfest. We aresupposed to Post a picture, video, orwhatever of the celebrity you most tumbled for in the 80s---along with yourfeeble justifications, of course.

If it were not for the celebritylimitation, I’d be telling you about my best friend and future wife rightnow. We met in 1981 and were married in1983, so obviously I devoted a good portion of the eighties crushing onher. But we are supposed to select acelebrity, so I’ll follow the rules and reveal the personality that I mosthearted back then.

Yep…Halloween girl herself…Jaime Lynn Curtis. Although the movie was officially released in1978, I didn’t get around to seeing it for a couple years and that’s when myinfatuation with JLC began. She exudedthat “girl next door” persona that I responded to. And even as her career tookoff (Halloween 2, The Fog, Trading Places, Perfect, A Fish Called Wanda, TrueLies, etc…) and she adopted more of a sex appeal image, to me she stillmaintained that endearing quality I enjoyed.

So, there you have it…my youthful crush exposed. What a wonderful journey down memory lanethis turned out to be! Thanks Nicki!! :)