Monday, January 24, 2011

Writing, Fiction, Focus

One of the toughest situations a writer faces is focus. Not simply focus on the story at hand, but focus on items such as writing time, deadlines, new ideas, organization, finances, interaction with other writers, etc. This installment of Fiction's Footsteps is a bit of housecleaning. A clearing of the writing cobwebs, if you will. Even if you won't, I'm still going to do this...

Confidence is king when it comes to fiction or any writing for that matter. You must have a conviction of your heart that what you are about to put on screen will indeed be read-worthy. To accomplish this, you must feel secure in your ability to convey ideas, fantasies, situations and nuances to prospective readers. No small task.

Most of the writers I meet possess this odd tendency to focus on mistakes and blunders. Writers will often downgrade their abilities to others as some warped aberrational humility which serves only to lessen their footprint on this world. I'm not suggesting all writers should become egomaniacs, but more confidence in their craft certainly would not hurt.

I'm not simply speaking of other writers, I include myself in this category. Writing is a lonely business, at least the physical act of writing is solitary. I don't necessarily view writing as 'lonely' because my characters keep me entertained. Outside of the imagination, though, writing consists of you, your writing medium, and your imagination. No one will do this for you. If someone did, then the writing would not be yours, correct?

Writers struggle to discipline themselves adequate writing time in many cases. I hear the excuses every day about time. Hell, I use half of those excuses myself! The fact remains, you have time to write. You simply do not focus and MAKE time to write.

Finances embody another writing bugaboo. Writers don't want to focus on business. Business is the bane of most writers. Business jerks writers out of their 'zone' and into the real world where they must act and behave in a responsible manner so the food on their table does not slip away into dust and collections notices. For many writers, finances can decimate their writing by distracting them with jobs. Yes, work with something other than a keyboard and a dream...

Writers tend to throw away new ideas. I know, foolish, isn't it? Often writers get so tunnel visioned by the project they're working on, they neglect the delightful nuggets of some other work that may pop into their heads. Writers should focus on taking down insightful notes to be accessed at a later date rather than hoping they'll remember when they need it.

Interaction with other writers is a lifeline to a writing career. I'm sure there are exceptions out there, but most writers desperately need other writers if for no other reason than to stay sane. Writing requires a person to steep themselves in their own mind. That's enough to drive anyone crazy. Writers should focus on separating out time for people who share their love of words. This interaction most often proves motivational as well as often inspires writers in new directions.

Now that I've got that out of the way, it's time to focus on fiction...

Thursday, November 4, 2010

Scenes II

As a continuation of yesterday's scene, I will finish off the tryst between Daniel and Samantha. As you will recall, Sam was kicking Daniel's ass until he came back at her like a man, giving her no quarter in a fight. She walked away with the excellent line, "If a man can't kick my ass, he can't have it." One of my better lines I've written in a while. I certainly hope there's more to come.

Love Scene (cont'd)

Daniel swiped at grass ground into the elbow of his jacket then eyed the screen door. In one abrupt move he simultaneously ripped at the zipper of his jacket and sprinted for the porch. Once inside, the jacket flew airborne in the general direction of the closet, his shoes fluttered in opposite directions and his breath rose and fell more quickly than he wanted to acknowledge.

"My, my. My macho man appears to be in a hurry."

Samantha stood statuesque by the closet and a crumpled pile of clothes. She wore a purple and black dragon print silk robe tied loose at her waist. Her black hair posed around her neck and on her shoulders like a television hair commercial. She winked at Daniel, took one end of the robe's silk belt between a forefinger and thumb and little by little, pulled it away from her body. They locked eyes as the belt separated from itself and plunged the narrow gap in front into an open invitation.

"You have a strange mating ritual. Beat the shit out of a guy, then expect him to run after you."

"And yet, here you are."

Samantha brushed her shoulders back in one slow, sensual movement and the robe obeyed and piled itself to the floor. Another liquid motion sent both her hands behind her ears for handfuls of hair which she slid between open fingers until the strands settled back into their prescribed places. Meanwhile, her hands continued down from her shoulders, over her breasts and finished up at her waist.

"Maybe I like strange mating rituals."

"Maybe I just like mating. What do you think?" Samantha rotated and accentuated each hip as she turned.

"I don't see that thinking does much good here."

Daniel strolled to her back and place his right hand on her right hip. He snaked his left up between her breasts as she lay her head back on his shoulder. He pressed into her and she relaxed her stance to use his body for support.

"Good call soldier. Nothing like a wild romp before things get crazy."

"I can't help but think you're up to something."

"It's obvious you're something." Samantha laughed and dove on the bed. "C'mon. Let's see what you got soldier boy."

Daniel's remaining clothes hit the floor as he landed on the bed beside Samantha.

"Pretty fucking bold to clock me and then seduce me." He rose up on his left elbow and stroked her hair.

"A gals gotta do what a guy won't sometimes. C'mon. We've been holed up here three months and you haven't so much as tried to get in my pants. Don't you guys ever have any fun on a mission?"

She played the fingers of her left hand down his side, leaned forward and grabbed his ass.

"That's not fair. Most of the time I'm off with a bunch of other guys. When I'm not, the woman is usually married."

"And you let that stop you."

"Do you want to screw or are you going to keep crackin' on me?"

She shoved him onto his back, mounted and worked a slow grind with her hands around his throat. His hips caught the rhythm and joined in as he fondled her breasts.

"I like to be in control. You need to remember that."

"I saved your sweet ass. You need to remember that."

She picked up the pace and tightened her grip on his throat.

"No need for me to remember. I don't give a shit." Just as she started thrusting her pelvis forward while she kept applying pressure to his throat until he passed out. She slipped off him, slapped his face and said, "Next time you have to kick my ass for real to get any."

Wednesday, November 3, 2010


Hello Phantom blog readers. Today I've decided to write scenes for this book. Since I struggle with outlines, I've decided that scenes will help. By writing and categorizing scenes, I can then assemble them in an order that will read well. Achieving an overall smooth reading experience is my goal. Without further adieu, how 'bout a love scene?

Love Scene

The fist rocketed at his head the instant he pushed the door open. Wood scraps launched from his arms as he fell backward with the punch. The sting on his left cheek preceded a sharp pain in his left ribcage. Daniel borrowed the momentum from the attack and rolled off the porch onto the cold, stiff ground.

He popped to his feet crouched and ready.

"Hell, I thought you might have more than that." Samantha pulled a second glove on as she strolled down the steps.

"Why do I always get the psycho bitches?" Daniel muttered.

"I don't like the bitch label much. Just pisses me off more."

Her left leg darted at Daniel's head. He flicked the kick away with his right palm and swept his own left foot at her shin as he spun around while still crouched. She stood firm and took the contact, heels dug in. Daniel tumbled over the ground and fended off a flurry of kicks. He managed to scramble back to his feet.

"Look. I don't know what the hell your game is here, but I could have broken that leg."

"Coulda, woulda. I've heard that shit before."

She feigned a swipe with her left fist then drove her right from her shoulder to his nose. As he fell to his back, a bewildered look glazed over his eyes. He stayed down, rose up only to his right elbow and said, "I like a bitch who can throw a punch like that."

"You trying to provoke me? I told you not to call me that."

Samantha bore down on him with a quick flick of her heal at his head. This time Daniel fell back well in advance of the attack, sprung to his feet. A violent uppercut caught her forehead with the base of the palm of his right hand. A couple kicks to her stomach stumbled her backward. Two jabs caught alternate cheeks as Daniel pressed his advance. The blows knocked her to her back.

"That's where you belong, bitch, on your back." Daniel smiled as she spat blood into the turf.

"You may be man enough after all." She pushed up to her feet, bowed and walked toward the door.

"What the hell..."

"Are you coming or are you going to stand there like an idiot." She stopped at the steps, turned and beckoned a pointer finger at him.

"You can't be propositioning me after all that."

"Let's just say if a man can't kick my ass, he can't have it." She turned and opened the screen door.

Tuesday, November 2, 2010

Another Change-up in Fiction Land

I've decided to pick up the story of The Cold Bite of Autumn. I started this story in '09 and it's been hanging out there in no author's land for a while. I'll put it together and post it here. The sci-fi story will still be written, I just don't know when...

The Cold Bite of Autumn

Dead wheels and lifeless bodies lay curled around an old oak tree. Crisp October air bit at Cheryl's throat as she staggered down the country road. The Milky Way shot silent stares at her as the heels of her shoes clicked erratically down the asphalt. Puffs of breath hung behind her like tiny clouds, slowly dissipating into oblivion. One moment they'd been laughing, whooping it up at Ted's expense.

In a blink of her eye, grim visages of death accused her of murder. All three men splayed around the car discarded marionettes, lifelines cut by callous disregard for good sense. Why death skipped over her screamed of mystery or fate's cruel sentence.

She placed one foot in front of the other. Each step took patience and care. Something felt broken. Maybe her ankle. Maybe her leg. The pain when she placed her left foot to the road played pinball throughout her body.

Dull light from a rickety front porch competed with the heavens for attention. Cheryl focused her eyes as much as possible on that lonely bulb. She managed a low, guttural keening. Perhaps fate desired that she live. After all, she tried her best to kill them all, including herself. Yet, she crawled from the wreckage and struck out for life. If another life awaited her, surely these three men would seek her out, if for no other reason than to find out - why?

Cheryl stumbled past a decrepit gate and fell into the rocky yard. A scream of pain ripped from her lips despite her sense that she could not hurt anymore than she already did. Her hands dug into the hard soil so as to pull herself forward. Neither arm held enough strength to do any good.

The front door creaked and she pictured a little old woman afraid of her own shadow opening it. Instead, a burly man flung the door open, shoved the screen door and took the steps two at a time. In an instant he knelt beside her.

"What happened? Car wreck?"

All Cheryl could do was nod. She felt his hands probing around gingerly but with enough force that when he touched her ankle she cried out.

"That's pretty messed up. Probably broken. Looks like you've lost some blood too. Do you feel cold?"

She nodded again, thankful her mouth was incapable of betraying her. She wanted to scream, "I should have died too." Bastards. They were supposed to all die together. Her benefactor kept taking an inventory until he was sure there were no other major injuries.

"I'll have an ambulance here in a second." The man stood up, bound back up the steps and was swallowed by the dim lit house. His muffled voice trailed off into a silken mist as Cheryl lost consciousness.

The woman's driver's license said her name was Cheryl A. Socia. Thirty years old and blue eyed, the picture did not do her justice. From what Daniel Thorgrave could tell, she worked out, took care of herself and did not use or need make-up. The license said she was five foot six, but her fetal position on the ground made height impossible to see.

"Her friends are all dead," the ambulance driver told him as he helped load her in the back. "Their car's wrapped around a tree about a half mile down the road from here. She's tough."

He slammed the door shut and bound around to the driver's side door and took off. Daniel hesitated, then grabbed the keys in his pocket. If her friends were all dead, maybe he could help her. Something in her eyes when they had their brief conversation disturbed him.

As he pulled out of the driveway, he shook his head and decided he had no sense whatsoever. Chasing after a near-dead woman he didn't know because of a gut feeling reminded him of numerous other mistakes he'd made in his life. Hopefully this woman would turn out to be normal.

Daniel dozed off early around dinner time. Cheryl remained in a coma but the nurses brought him a tray without asking. As soon as she left, he settled back. Around ten o'clock he awoke, poked at the cold turkey and gravy and opted for the cherry pie instead.

As the last bite disappeared into his mouth, a white van parked and cut its lights - too quickly. He wiped the sleep from his eyes and took in the two men that climbed from their respective doors - passenger front door and the door directly behind the driver.

He glanced around the room for areas to conceal himself. The only apparent place was the bathroom. He needed something closer to Cheryl. He pulled the curtain far enough to place a chair behind it but not enough to make someone check to see if there was another patient in the room. He stood on the chair moved around and checked for squeaks or other telltale noises. Satisfied of its silence, he hopped down and rigged the nurse station call button behind the curtain.

He pulled out his pistol, clicked off the safety, and remounted the chair. One day he would figure out why all the troubled women fell his way. He smiled as the door creaked open. "I'm never bored," he thought as hard shoes clicked to her bedside.

A moan jerked his head toward hers even though he couldn't see her. The footsteps paused then quickly approached the bed.

"Samantha," a man's voice whispered. "Samantha can you hear me? It's Harold."

Another moan as well as movement of bed linens. Daniel imagined that guy trying to wake her up.

"Samantha, we hafta know what happened. Did they get the message out? Samantha."

Another moan, this time more vocal. Daniel realized the jerk was shaking her.

"Dumb ass. she's on more drugs than your local junkie," he thought as he pulled back the curtain for a better view. Harold's back faced him as did Cheryl or Samantha's bruised face. Harold gave up shaking her and pulled a needle from his pocket.

"That's all folks," Daniel mused as he pressed the nurse call button. Almost immediately two distinct knocks struck the door followed by a third emphatic one. Obviously this meant Harold should depart pronto. He shoved the needle back into his pocket and fled out the door.

Daniel stepped down and rubbed his scratchy face with his non-pistol hand. Cheryl/Samantha moaned again. He flicked the safety back on and placed the gun in his pants as the nurse walked in.

"Is everything alright?" she asked as she checked Cheryl/Samantha's pulse.

"She began moaning a few minutes ago. That's a good sign, right?" He knew her moans meant she was coming out of the coma, but he wanted to play the concerned husband role to the hilt.

"Oh absolutely. In fact, we were getting concerned about her. The broken ankle and busted ribs are one thing, but head injuries and concussions are another. Her vitals are strong. Don't worry, she'll be ok." The nurse gave him a reassuring nod and left the room.

"She'll be ok until those goons find out whether this "message" was sent or not," he muttered to the closed door. Time to plan his next move. Boy, Big Jim was sure going to be pissed at him this time.

Half a day later, Cheryl/Samantha opened her eyes. Daniel remained still to see if she could focus on her surroundings.

"Where am I and who the hell are you?" She squinted his direction and rubbed her left hand on her temple.

"The hospital - and I should ask the same of you. Is it Samantha or Cheryl?"

Her pause revealed a struggle with who she was speaking to and how Daniel fit into her web of lies.

"Samantha," she decided.

"Nice of you to be so, shall we say - forthcoming?"

"Fuck you."

"Harold came by to see you."

An eyebrow betrayed her otherwise calm face. "Harold who?"

"If that's the thanks I get for chasing him off before he injects you with something nasty, you need to find your manners."

"You're in over your head hero. You shoulda let him do it. Woulda saved all of us some trouble."

"He and his buddy will be back soon. It's been about eight hours. Why don't you let me help you. I'm not asking you to tell me what this is all about, although it would be nice."

"You're dead just being in this room mister."


"Daniel. Once they find out you've helped me, you'll die. They will find out." Samantha folded her hands on her lap and began to flex her fingers.

"That may be true, but I'll take a few with me before I go." Daniel collected some clothes he purchased for her after Harold left the building.

"No, you mustn't." Samantha's face contorted in bloodless white lines and a set jaw. "They're the good guys."

If they're the good guys, what's that make you?"

An evil bitch, Samantha thought as she sized up Daniel. "Let's just say I'm not the pristinely perfect lady. I have a few undesirable personality flaws."

"Oh? For example ..."

"I kill people for a living. I lie about everything and I don't floss." Daniel didn't react and she didn't like that one bit. She'd have to take a different tack.

"Did you kill those men in the car with you?"

He was cleaning his nails, not looking directly at her. This troubled her even more. He's not looking for body language clues. "Yes."

"I thought you lied about everything."

"Maybe I am."

"You're not. Why take yourself out along with them? Was that the plan?"

He's much too close to the truth. "I don't think you need to know all this. Go away and maybe they won't know you were ever here."

"We both know it's too late for that. If I'm going to go down, at least give me the satisfaction of knowing why." Daniel looked up and met her eyes with a cool stare.

"You could be anyone. If I talk to you, I could spill secrets that would cause far too many problems. Especially if you're the enemy."

"Look Samantha, you're the one who crawled up to my house broken and bleeding. If you singled your enemy out like that, then you are one incredibly talented agent. I just don't want to be caught up in something without knowing the score."

"Now who's lying? You love not knowing what's happening. It's the thrill of the hunt." Samantha vaguely remembered his house and the creaky screen door. The wreck felt like it happened years ago instead of days.

"Touche`." Daniel stood up and tossed some clothes on her stomach. "Get dressed under the sheet in case the nurse comes in. We're outta here."

Once in the car, Samantha shrugged off the oversized coat with the floppy hood. Walking was out of the question for a while. Somehow, Daniel had requisitioned crutches for her and they left the hospital in plain sight - she in a wheelchair and Daniel pushing, toting a doting husband's compliment of suitcases, crutches and make-up bags.

She had to admit he could be very resourceful. Where he came up with all the loot she never figured out. A good field agent would do the same. This worried her. Daniel promised to be more than he appeared.

"We're headed for the mountains, in case you're wondering," Daniel said as the car woke to his key.

"Don't tell me. You just happen to have a cabin up there."

"No, but I happen to know someone who does and they won't be using it anytime soon."

"Do you make it a habit of barging in on other people's property like that?"

"Only when I need to. This is a need to situation." Daniel turned the radio down to a whisper and asked, "Why'd you kill them?"

"They had turned."


"Does it really matter?"

"I suppose not. How long had you worked with them?"

"Four years."

"Why aren't you lying? I thought you always lied."

"What's the point? I only lie when I need to." Samantha shifted in the seat. Her ankle ached from all the activity during there 'escape' from the hospital.

"So you decided to go out with them. They must have meant something to you."

"Bastards. They welcomed me into the group. We were going to be rich. No one could touch us. Let the world go to hell while we all sit back, drink heavily and fuck like rabbits."

"Were you tempted?" Daniel glanced her way. She felt his eyes study her face.

"Yeah." She lowered her head and muttered, "I was tempted."

"What made you decide to do the job. I presume you infiltrated them for that purpose."

"I gathered information I couldn't live with."

"What kind of information."

"Now you want me to lie. Let's leave it at money, alcohol and sex wouldn't be enough for me to be able to live with myself. They were into something nasty."

"Fair enough - for now. We'll need to hole up a while for your ankle to heal."

"What about you? You appear to know way too much about my line of work. What's your story?"

"I kill women."

She shot a glance his way then felt her face flush when she noticed he'd seen. "Ok, that's funny."

"No really. I don't lie. Women seem to die around me. I suppose it's my engaging personality."

"How do they die?"

"Not by my hand. They all seem to ... have issues. Drugs, pimps, agents, husbands. You name it, I've seen it."

"A dead babe magnet, eh?" She smiled for the first time.

"It ain't all that funny lady."

Daniel carried her into the cabin. Frost would surely cover the world in the morning. The pale sky was giving way to darkness. He sat her on the couch, went back to the car and fished out their minimal belongings - three bags of groceries and one bag of clothes. "I'll get us better clothes tomorrow."

"Hell, I'm not going anywhere anytime soon." Samantha laid down on the couch and propped her bad ankle up on the cushioned arm. "I think I'm going to like having a man wait on me hand and foot."

Daniel grunted, strolled to the kitchen and began to unpack their food. "Mac and cheese ok for tonight?"

"Oh my god, a gourmet in the making. I'm not cooking so I suppose it will have to do."

"What are the odds they are onto us already?"

"Took you a while to get there. You should have asked that before we left the hospital. We're both as good as dead right now."

"So what are they waiting for? If they know who I am, where we are and what we know, where's the holdup?"

"They may be waiting to see if you get anywhere with me."

"Isn't that a long shot?"

"With what I know, they'll gamble for the info."

"Why don't you just give it to them? What makes them want to kill you?"

Samantha rolled onto her side. She stared at the oak floor and said, "I turned."

"You turned? How long?"

"Months. They had me as a target. We were almost there. The first of the money had already come in when I killed one of their assassins. I didn't care. One more job and we were to be paid in full."

"So these three guys meant a lot to you."

"Only the world."

Daniel stepped back and scanned the cabin. One room, one queen bed, one door. Substantial floor space, even with a small table, allowed a sense of openness. Claustrophobia might otherwise overwhelm anyone staying here for any length of time.

"They meant the world, and you turned. That means you thought they could pull it off."

Samantha's lips tightened and her voice thinned to an icy whisper, "what it meant was I thought I had a chance to get back a life."

"My apologies," he said as he put dry goods in the small pantry. "I didn't know you were so emotionally involved."

"Yeah, that's something that doesn't usually come with the territory does it?" Samantha laid back and stared at the ceiling. "I don't know when it happened or how, but somewhere I lost my edge."

"By edge, you mean your ability to distance yourself from feeling?"

"No, losing my desire to kill. Too many people need to die to make this world a better place. I knew I had no chance to kill them all and I also knew my contributions were limited at best, so what's the point? I just wanted to settle down and forget."

Daniel opened the door, hesitated and said, "I'm going to scrounge up some firewood. Back in a few." The door clanked shut followed by footsteps fading from the cabin porch.

Tomorrow, a new, live story update. For now, you are caught up with The Cold Bite of Autumn.

Monday, November 1, 2010

We Interrupt Our Regularly Scheduled Text...

October's "Moon Project" poem will be posted Monday, November 1st or Tuesday the 2nd. This is due to the poem being penned All Hallow's Eve, mucho, mucho late. I still need to transcribe the poem to the computer, therefore, my apologies.

In the interim, I offer this. Nanowrimo is upon us. I will construct over the course of the next 30 days, a novel. The goal is to complete 50,000 words in thirty days. At least that is the goal of Nanowrimo. MY goal is to not only 'win' by reaching the word count, but have a viable rough draft copy of a novel in the process.

I've decided to use my blog as the vehicle for this book. I shall post every day (I hope). Each post will be a section or scene that appears in the book.

Be forewarned: The order of the the scenes and sections will NOT be the order they appear in the finished product. I believe strongly that non-linear writing produces better fiction.This blog will be a poster child for this philosophy.

So read on at your peril. Let the Nanowrimo begin!


Harry slipped into the cube, shoes in hand and breath in lungs. To this point, no one had ever paid attention to him while unplugged, but the feeling they "saw" him skittered through his entire body. The last time he invaded someone's space like this he pissed himself. Unplugging meant everything - even the catheter.

A woman sat poised in her office chair, full banks of monitors made up the floor, walls and ceiling. The voyeuristic nature of what surrounded him jacked all his sensory neurons to levels he never knew when plugged in. Why they went to these lengths for realism amazed him. After all, the headpiece and ocular implants covered everything the eye could see.

Some doubt crept into his mind. Silver tingles of fear tangled themselves around his legs and taunted his gut even as he sat cautious and quite on the floor behind the woman. The screens gave him the setting. This woman worked in a lab that documented nourishment output to the four levels of lower right quadrant of the nation.

Harry knew she actually worked in Nourishment Systems but doubted she commanded such rank. The daily sensorivisuals rarely placed a person in their own environment. Boredom continued to be the major cause of reconditioning of workers - Harry's particular department, and he actually holds an office high up in the hierarchy.

Lighting in the room flickered. The woman's matted white hair flung around her head and whipped her lips with each panicked snap of her head side to side. She looked far too pale to take on a full rape. Flabby muscles hung like drooping ooze underneath her biceps. Her sunken eyes revealed the same dead look Harry now came to expect in his fellow citizens.

"Who's there", came a pathetic voice undoubtedly enhanced for the rapist entering her senorivisual. "I have a weapon and I know how to use it."

Harry could walk up to her, poke her in the nose and put her out of commission for months. In fact, the first time he witnessed the reality of his world, he'd done just that. Now he waited and watched.

On the screen/wall to the woman's right a darkened figure approached. Harry slipped quickly to his feet as the wall slid noiselessly toward the woman. Other room changes took effect. Sensory devices pushed out from walls, the floor, the ceiling. Each would bring home the rape in total realism to the woman in conjunction with the visuals she saw in her optic nerves.

"Bring it on Bitch," came the callous response, hard and harsh as metal grinding metal. Harry knew somewhere a man stood in his room seeing, hearing and feeling everything Harry witnessed in this room.

On the screen a man's hand darted for her right wrist. Out of the wall, a grey arm shot forth and wrapped the wrist tight while it jerked the arm up her back. Another grey arm whisked silent to the other wrist and slapped it over the right one.

A hoarse gurgle of pain shot out of the woman's mouth that sounded about as sexy as puke in a hollow waste tube. No worries for the man on the other end of this. All he would hear would be a tantalizing scream.

The passivity of those participating in the sensorivisuals roiled Harry's stomach. The 'Masters' as he labeled them, supplied all the physical reactions the participants need to enjoy the heightened ecstasy desired. Harry watched as the woman ground her teeth and moaned vicious, violent hoarse grunts.

The floor, ceiling and walls now boasted dozens of manipulating devices that licked at the old woman's body like grey, lifeless snakes animated for the sole purpose of torture. Clothes ripped and strewn about the room, the woman kicked an fought her attacker to little avail.

Harry watched, passive in his stance and stare. He adjusted his position as the scene played out before him and avoided the rape-machine in action.  After twenty minutes the woman lay in a heap under her desk. The man laughed, derision and hatred curdled into one voice. Both would piece their clothes back together - or not - and walk home to their respective hives.

Nudity only struck citizen's eyes through their vision prosthetics. Touch remained one of the highest taboos on Earth. Ocular implants made certain citizens saw only what they needed to see. Harry slipped through the system's cracks. His only goal now?

Locate and recruit people who peek out to find what life really unveils for the eyes instead of what is programmed in. The same hollow look that haunted the old woman's eyes during her ecstasy now camped out in the resignation of another SV stimulant that did not work.

This one will be in reconditioning within the month. Harry's first recruit had been an accident. Walking down Main Artery dodging the hordes who would run him down without notice or care, he glanced left and locked eyes with a girl no older than 25. Her shriek had actually diverted one pedestrian that may have bowled her over otherwise.

The girl's number was 3047685439. Harry owned a number as well - 3864474865. Once he learned about his ancestors, he took on the name Harry. Harry named this first recruit Sue.

Sue turned out to be beyond skittish. She feared everything about her new found freedom. She feared the constables, the machines and the grid. Everything and everyone 'followed' her and made note of what she did and how she reacted to differing situations.

Harry decided caution demanded his attention and he obeyed. He covered all his tracks, even with Sue.

Friday, October 8, 2010

Rogues Gallery Writers Book Release Success!!!

Working a book into the public consciousness is not simple matter. Along the way an author, or in our case authors, must get help. Publicity becomes the name of the game once a book comes out, and the writer who can keep their book relevant actually wins himself an opportunity for the book to do well sales-wise.

For this reason, authors put on book release parties to attempt to generate some initial energy for the long haul (usually a year or two) of marketing and promoting a book to success. The Rogues put on a grand show Saturday, October 2nd at A Taste of Portugal in Palm Coast.

Without realizing it, we also affected a very talented writer in his own right, Jaycee Adams. His review of our book AND party defines the type of publicity any writer craves. The positive energy in his review had buoyed all four of us and we look forward to getting this book into the conversation of people everywhere.

We appreciate this article ( and we look forward to reading more of Jaycee's blogs. His site is a riot!

Friday, September 24, 2010

September Moon

Yes, it is time for the next moon installment. I've opened this up to other writers. If you would like your "Moon" poem to possibly be posted to this site, email your poem with the title as the subject line and the body of the poem as the body of the email. I will select all appropriate entries. Please consider following this blog by clicking on "follow" to the right. Here is my September Moon entries:

Lonesome Moon

Autumn looms on winds of change
Cottonball clouds veil her face
Footsteps rhythm this darkened eve,
Forlorn features and salt sea swells.

Caution rules, no means to unite
Hungry gaze on glistening ocean mirrors
Silver tears slice at the eye
Dusty memories rip at the heart.

Sleepless walks in dreamless nights
Aimless goals and purposeless ambition
Lonesome Moon rules only the landscape
The heart, the soul and the world.

Mistress Moon

Mistress Moon of murky eve
Lends opportunity to decieve
Outright owner of evening's gloom
Subtle hints of approaching doom

Clouds may veil her September face
Stars wink, pale and out of place
She demands her lovers' compliance
Glowering white-eyed at any defiance

Her perch stems from gravity's rule
She plays each human a merciless fool
For believing the lies of yesterday's breath
And existence ends only in death

Upon this life's cease and desist
Forgotten, the billions of lovers who kissed,

Each one united and forsworn to swoon.
Forgotten by all but the Mistress Moon

That's it for me this month for my moonwalk!  I hope to see posts from many writers!! Use this email address:  The title of your poem is the subject line, the body of your poem is the body of the email!

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