Fiction's Footsteps

Writing, Fiction, Focus

2011-01-24T09:28:00.000-08:00

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...

Scenes II

2010-11-04T18:57:00.000-07:00

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 up...to 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."

Scenes

2010-11-03T12:10:00.000-07:00

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.

Another Change-up in Fiction Land

2010-11-02T13:52:00.000-07:00

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."

"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."

"Money?"

"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.

We Interrupt Our Regularly Scheduled Text...

2010-11-01T22:00:00.000-07:00

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!

Revolution

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.

Rogues Gallery Writers Book Release Success!!!

2010-10-08T14:36:00.000-07:00

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 (http://www.mopjockey.com/2010/10/writing-is-easy.html#more) and we look forward to reading more of Jaycee's blogs. His site is a riot!

http://www.amazon.com/Writing-is-Easy-ebook/dp/B0040GJHPY/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1286573684&sr=8-2

September Moon

2010-09-24T13:06:00.000-07:00

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:
michaelrayking.moon@blogger.com. The title of your poem is the subject line, the body of your poem is the body of the email!

Please remember to click "Follow" to the right!!!

Moon Project

2010-08-26T06:28:00.000-07:00

My heart's been struck lately by how beautiful this life is and how so many people wish to destroy it. We have Muslims slaughtering people, serial killers and pedophiles everywhere. There's murder, not just throughout the world but in our own streets. Sensibilities are destroyed at every turn and common sense gives way to the blind following of leaders who at best are only serving themselves and on the other side of the spectrum, serving our enemies.

This ridiculousness and weakness steals our self esteem and our creativity. I've decided to begin a project. Anyone may join in. I think I'll name the project "MoonStruck". (Yes I know about the movie. The movie has nothing to do with this.)

Each month I'm going to post at least one poem based on the moon. Each month's "moon" piece will have the month's name followed by the word "moon". Other words may be added, ie "Hot August Moon", or simply be titled "August Moon, September Moon, etc.".

The purpose of this project is to produce creative poetry that builds the writer's self esteem. It takes courage to write AND publish a piece of poetry. Anyone who wishes to participate may send me their poem(s) related to the moon to author@michaelrayking.com. If I enjoy the poem, I'll post it here on my blog.

This is an opportunity for writers to 'guest blog' on my site, and hopefully cull a tremendous collection of poetry on a focused subject. My first poem is simply titled, August Moon.

Be sure to include your name with the poem. Hey, a short paragraph about you would be nice to include as well. Relate the poem to the month's moon in some way, but the subject matter will be up to you. I'll post what I feel are the best. Actually, I'll probably post most of them as long as they are not vulgar. This is poetry... Also, I will not publish any of these poems other than on this blog site. If at some point, a collection of poetry is published, it will happen with the written consent of the author. I have no plans for a publication, but, heck, one never knows. This could become such a good project that I feel compelled to get the work "out there" in a more widespread market. For now, though, this is simply writers doing what they love...

August Moon

Her voice of light crafts a song

Wisps and curls of gossamer clouds

Chorused by innumerable stars

Grandeur to the celestial horizon

Soft melodies hum the wind

She tickles imagination

Leaves rustle, branches bend

Comfort for the dullest of hearts

She lends light to the lonely

Frees captive souls from slumberless nights

Passes a free spirit through the essence of man as

Peace stands firm under an August Moon

There's my August foray into the MoonStruck project. This may not be my only one. If you concoct more than one poem, feel free to send them. Remember the topic and title! Anything outside this will not be considered.

Baby Steps

2010-06-14T13:15:00.000-07:00

You wouldn't know fiction is my passion by the way I post to this site, would you? I love writing and fiction dominates my dreams but I appear to struggle to get a rhythm going.

I post sporadically, I dream too much and I follow through far less often than is needed to be successful so far. I must write "so far" or I'll simply give up. Many factors spring into a writer's life that derails even the best of plans.

I wonder at times at my decision to pursue The Dream. Yes, I want (and need) to make money writing, but that's not The Dream. The Dream is to be successful. Success can involve many facets and take on many faces. Money is simply one of those faces.

I envy those who make writing their 'hobby' and don't quit their day jobs - only for a moment each day. Then I look at what I'm doing, the amount of time I have left in this life (nanoseconds to maybe thirty years) and I come to the conclusion that writing is a noble way to exit.

I could slave away for a corporation like millions or billions of contemporaries, but that life is not my desire. So what if I fail? So what if people scoff at my writing and laugh at my foibles? What will it matter to me a hundred years from now?

Yes, I'm ranting a bit. I'm upset that I've allowed too many obstacles to my writing hold sway over my determination to press forward. I'm ranting because I remain my own worst enemy. I'm ranting as a means to jolt myself back on track.

Yes, these are baby steps. Yes, there are many trials ahead. Yes, I love what I do. For this reason, I continue to write, struggles and all. Fiction will come yet from these fingers...

The Cold Bite of Autumn (Part 11)

2010-05-17T13:41:00.000-07:00

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.

Okay, Another Poem

2010-05-11T09:22:00.000-07:00

Soft West Virginia Rain

Soft West Virginia rain cascades to my spirit
Gentle droplets on a lush emotional landscape
Sadness mixed with joy
Solitude varied from melancholy to peace.

Soft West Virginia rain defines my heart
Life-giving and placid, home and friends
Tranquility wafts like breezes through a calm drizzle
Cares of the world no longer piercing my mind.

Soft West Virginia rain tugs at my soul,
Whispering pleas to stay my feet
Soft West Virginia rain mends me whole
And I wonder at how I could ever leave.

New Poem

2010-05-03T08:30:00.000-07:00

Fiction’s Footsteps

Fiction’s footsteps – no footprints at the beach
Washed away by tides of undiscerning minds
Nor imprints in the desert
Blown away by uncaring winds of disinterest

Fiction’s footsteps stroll pristine snows
Grand stories stray from well-traveled paths
Scribed into virgin white landscapes
Until the warmth of time descends on this writer’s world

Fiction’s footsteps follow less defined paths
Than well-worn trails of everyday life
Fiction’s footsteps beg the blank canvas and solitude
Snowfalls bless upon the writer’s landscape

Yes, fiction’s footsteps fade over time – nothing left behind
But oh what a life a story clasps
As it takes on its form, shape and meaning
From the fingers of a loving author

Writers! Write!!!!

2010-04-26T10:03:00.000-07:00

Holy crap! Has it really been two and a half weeks since my last post? What a slacker, eh? Writers beware - this is a profession that easily sucks you into a) procrastination (like we need any help in that area anyway, right?), b) slackerdom (my own word - different from procrastination in that a slacker actually DOES something albeit in small quantities), c) self-esteem issues (again, like we didn't have those to begin with...), and finally d) panic mode (brought on, of course, by the aforementioned big three...).

I suffer all these yet I write. The key is write. How the hell many times do we have to be told this? I visited Ann Rice's FaceBook page and she's on there repeating the mantra. I even friended 6 people (mainly because when I clicked on "like" as I've done hundreds of times on other peoples comments, a box popped up asking me to friend the 48,000 people on her FB page). 4 people actually friended me back! I have no clue who they are, but I'll be finding out soon I suppose.

What is interesting are the two who did not friend me. One in Texas wanted to know when we met and the other clearly and concisely told me it was apparent we did not know each other but we are currently writing back and forth on each others wall because she is interested in my connection to writing. I may have actually made a friend. Too cool!

I have to answer the one who wants to know when we met. I'd hate to have her think I was a one night stand she had while bingeing or something of that ilk. On the other hand, I've never been a one night stand. This might be the closest I ever come... Hmmm. Ethical dilemma...

Back to the post at hand. Creating content that drives people to read you is tough. You must step out there and make yourself vulnerable to criticism. This is something that comes very hard for me and I'm sure many others. If you can't do it, you need to move on. I've tried to be the nice, vanilla kinda writer that doesn't offend or challenge people negatively. No one wants to read my shit. That's the bottom line. Yes, I put the word "shit" in there on purpose. What a rebel, eh?

Post consistently. Find your niche and invite people in. Crap! That's precisely what I'm missing here! I haven't invited other writers to my blog. Oh yeah, I invited people, but not specifically writers. I must do this. If you are a writer reading this, then that means I'm doing what I need to do.

Hub Pages has been my most successful outreach to writers. I need to get out there and write more articles. I also need to promote like by fellow Rogues Gallery Writer - Rebekah Hunter Scott. Check this out. She landed the following radio interview scheduled for May 2nd. Here's the link: http://www.blogtalkradio.com/esteemyourself

It's stuff like that a writer must do to get recognized and sell books. Consistent blog posts are another. I need to post like Rebekah - two to three times a week. I also need to write something that grabs. This is good advice for all writers. Step out of comfort zones and safe places. Hey, if they throw tomatoes at us, at least these days they're virtual tomatoes, not nearly so messy...

As promised, I will be posting the next portion of The Cold Bite of Autumn this week. Come back and see if I'm as good as my word...

2010-04-08T12:50:00.000-07:00

Wow! Publishing can take a toll on your writing career. I need to pick up my story where it left off and allow it to grow like I know it can. Instead, of course, I pursue the business aspects of writing - especially publishing - and let all that creativity die on the brain stem.

The Cold Bite of Autumn aspires to be my manifesto work that grows from my innermost mind into the most ultimate of writing complexities - a novel. At this moment the story is nothing more that a cheap trinket in a curio shop.

The power needed to complete the writing cycle of nothing, creation, refinement, re-creation and finally nothing overwhelms the writing mind with visions of impossibilities rattling around their cortex...

Writers create from nothing but the space between their ears and the maze within their hearts. Writers understand each other up to a point. We all fight our demons. We all suffer our pathetic excuses. We all nod our heads and even forgive others of their time-management conundrums. Yet we seldom forgive ourselves purely. We do it temporarily, but ultimately we blame ourselves for not pressing forward in a more timely fashion.

These types of things are apt to happen to creative folk. We bounce around in our right brained world never considering how poorly this world melds with the analytical left brain universe. We wander around, staggering buffoons for the world to see and we have the audacity to ask this same world to read just how inept or imaginatively corrupt we are. Fiction's Footsteps appear to be less than baby steps at this point, but if you've never attempted to write a book, don't come bitchin' to me about dangling participles and incomplete sentences. At least I'm giving it the old
heave-ho!

Until next week...

Musings on Writing and Negativity

2010-03-31T07:59:00.001-07:00

Writing takes on many diverse faces. "Faces" does not go deep enough on second thought. The depths of the writing psyche can overwhelm any writer. I should go out on a limb and say ALL writers suffer at one time or another the debilitating complexities of writing.

We stumble over our lives as writers, searching for that next connection with the ever elusive muse. Often we stress and force ourselves into non-production because we need to work. We need to connect with that aspect of ourselves that screams to be let out, but we find we cannot lay siege to free our creative side - we must softly approach and coax it out.

I know, I'm very abstract today, but I'm moving toward the ultimate goal of getting quality word down on screen. Just keying those last two words of that sentence, my curiosity is piqued and I want to divert off to all the cliche's that have to change to stay modern. The 'get it down on paper' applies less and less these days. I don't often write longhand anymore because I don't like to transcribe (as well as have to decipher my own penmanship...).

I have promised more fiction on this blog, and I shall deliver. I personally enjoy writing The Cold Bite of Autumn. For me, fiction writing is vacation time! I could key forever on stories and be a happy camper. It's what Tiggers do best! One day, I will get there.

Today I am working on the blogs, websites and any other more 'business' aspects of my vocation. I'm quitting my last remaining "job" where I actually receive a regular paycheck. This drives me into minor panic mode as well as major excitement mode. I do not possess an income necessary to meet my bills, yet I've hired an employee, and I'm quitting my only guaranteed money.

All for the greater good, though. I'm telling you writers - you MUST go after your dream. Passive approaches do not yield results. You commit to it and stop playing with it or all your writing dreams become intellectual toys. Pay your dues. As Popeye would say, "takes your chances". As you live and breathe, your chances stand before you.

I'm in New York writing this. I had to escape the drudgery and prison of preconceived notions about what I'm supposed to be doing as a writer and publisher. I've spent money I don't really have, I've abandoned my wife and three of four children for a week and I've taken on the 'monster' of my life - will I pursue and handle success.

Again, abstract, I know. But I suffer from a fear of success. This is insidious. I'm my own worst enemy. But I've surrounded myself with people who are positive, supportive, and progressive. The more I'm in this writing business, the more I see where the vast majority of people will bring you down. My encouragement to any writer who stumbles across this blog - find those writers who are "doing it". I don't mean necessarily the ones who have already made a big splash in the writing world. I'm speaking of the writers who doggedly move forward and who offer positive support. You desperately need these people in your life.

I'm thankful for the Rogues Gallery Writers. They are there for me and I for them. We are "doing it". I'm also very glad to have made connections with writers who have reached a level of success and are still hungry. Margie Lawson is a wonderful writer who has excellent material that puts incredible tools into writer's hands. Connecting with successful writers is good too!

This is my third day away from the pressures of home, business and many of the things that squelch my writing. As writers, though, most of the writing "baggage" is carried around in our hearts and minds. I'm freeing myself of some of those tethers. Sometimes a writer simply must 'detox' from the toxic world in which we live. I too often find myself surrounded by negativity. Negativity is the slayer of your muse and we as writers hand our creative side over to this destructive concept. The only negativity that can live within you is that which you allow.

Easy words to live, much more difficult to practice. Walk away from the negativity in your writing life. Hell, walk away from it in your everyday life. You do not need it. Negativity will rob you of every dream you'll ever have.

Admonishments from the Fiction's Footsteps author.

Writer's Hell

2010-03-24T06:35:00.000-07:00

Writing can shove anchors down your "lazy-spine". Lazy may be unkind, but what else do you call it when you simply don't pull up your desk chair and write? Is there any other descriptive?

The reason most people do not write quickly becomes a scenario of intrusive tasks like taking out the garbage and repairing that window that's been busted for the past three years. Marriages improve and relationships blossom. Spouses and significant others revel in your new career because all the sudden you spend more quality time with them.

Then the dark clouds form over your eyes, and a crazed gleam gets caught flashing out at the world and you've transcended from marital or relationship bliss into Writer's Hell. That place where you know you need to write - in fact you MUST write - and you've created a daily routine that brims with duties and obligations that quarantine you from any appreciable writing time. That's Writing Hell.

Writing Hell then becomes a series of critical comments from significant others who do not understand that the next 2 to 14 hours get your mind body and soul with no time for food, kisses or even the neanderthal grunt. Deadlines loom and pressure builds as brain cells and synapses fire off like a 4th of July extravaganza. You perspire and fear for the circuitry in your keyboard and your mouse slips from your sweaty fingers.

Most of all you find your brain contains nothing intelligent except old algebraic formulas from 10th grade. Irritability sets in as significant others (including children, pets and small flying insects) attempt to distract your last remaining grip on 'the muse'. A pencil dropped in another room sends your ass skyward and your slippery hands to the doorknob. A fly buzzes your head like a low-flying jet and defensive maneuvers cause you to miss the doorknob. Your nose attempts to french the wood door and gets no love in return. Fury sends you into a Fred Flintstone beating of the door as you scream out the names of your loved ones in the hopes of detecting the location of the offending pencil dropper.

Suddenly the door opens causing you to levitate backwards for a moment with surreal images of books and chairs and computer screen glows panning across the scene before everything accelerates into the pain of the spike of a callously kicked off high heel impales a kidney and the cry of a mortally wounded soldier escapes your lips despite your urgency to appear sane and be able to avoid a Baker Act.

As they help you up from the floor your eyes glisten with the moisture of inspiration. Your nerves tingle and goosebumps decorate your arms like tiny armadas sailing off to war and your spirit soars as you shoo your rescuers out the door in the interest of genius about to be unleashed on the electrons staring at you expectantly from your monitor.

Ah yes, it's the writer's life for me! And Writer's Hell? A figment of your imagination like its cousin - Writer's Block. This day stands tall for this writer and the multitudes that will revel in his creation...

He's Baaaaack!!!!!!!!!!

2010-03-11T12:22:00.000-08:00

It's time to get back in the saddle - to fire up the keyboard and head on into Writing Town! Clever little beasties thwarted my writing the past couple months - obligations real and imagined, emergencies the same, and a general lack of self confidence.

I hope I'm not the only writer out here that suffers debilitating bouts of questioning abilities, direction and goals. If so, I may be doomed to die an obscure writing death. If that be so, then bring it on. I can handle it simply because I have to. Writing is not just a hobby, vocation, or passion. Writing becomes obsession at some point. I fail to recognize a good reason to fight this insanity. In fact, I ache to embrace it. So bring on the crazy, frantic - "I don't know where my next dollar is coming from" way of life.

I'm returning to my fiction story here as well. I like the story even if none of you ever read it. I want to even cartoonize the daggone thing if I can figure out how to do it. I know, I know - it's called "graphic novel". They're still comic books to me...

Look for more consistent posts from here on out. My discipline level must pick up or I'm dead meat. Let me know if you read this. Don't leave me hanging, thinking the only thing that sees these words are the electrons on which they're inscribed.

See? This post was worth reading just for that last sentence...

Nanowrimo Comes to a Close

2009-11-30T09:00:00.000-08:00

I posted to the Rogues Gallery Writers blog at the beginning of the month about Nanowrimo. Today is the last day of this crazy, inovational contest that challenges writers to pound out a full manuscript in thirty days. At the time of this writing, my personal word count is in doubt. Will I make the 50,000 words required to complete a successful Nano run?

There are a few hundred thousand who will complete the contest. My hat is off to anyone who even stepped up and attempted this writing gauntlet. You have to have writing guts. You have to have desire. You have to have a personality that thrives on perseverance. Then you have to make it happen.

I have successfully completed this task once. I would like to think as I key this that I have done it again. The feeling of writing invincibility is tremendous. The feeling of "I can write a book in thirty days euphoria" overwhelms you. Completing a successful Nanowrimo novel is the equivalent of winning an Olympic 100 meter dash.

You are wasted. Exhausted. Anxious to do it again while you kick back and bask in the glory of achievement. The largest difference between completing Nanowrimo and the Olympics though, is that few if any will see your accomplishment. But isn't that the way of the writer?

Sure, we all desire notoriety and popularity in the book sales department, but few of us crave the physical limelight of being placed before the masses visually.

Nanowrimo has come to its 2009 end. A sad day, yet one of grand euphoria for those who cross that finish line. Another wonderful aspect of this contest is that there are a few hundred thousand winners. Unlike the Olympics where only one can be on top, here a multitude can feel the glow that comes from attaining a monumental task.

For those who did not enter, know this: When you see we Nano's out there cranking out product while you struggle for a meager word count, don't look at us with contempt. Know that we were once there with you - we simply found an answer and ran with it. You can do the same.

You don't even have to wait for November. There's a new month ahead of you and a whole set of new ones on the horizon. Compete in your own private Nanowrimo. No one has to know, but I warn you - when your word count begins to soar, others will notice the pimp in your writer's step. They'll ask what your secret is.

It's up to you whether you tell them or not.

Write on!

The Cold Bite of Autumn (pt. 10)

2009-11-23T09:00:00.000-08:00

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."

The Cold Bite of Autumn (pt. 9)

2009-11-16T09:00:00.000-08:00

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."

"Money?"

"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."

The Cold Bite of Autumn (pt.8)

2009-11-09T09:00:00.000-08:00

"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."

Creating Product

2009-11-02T09:00:00.000-08:00

Fiction's Footsteps is an interesting project. I'm attempting to write it without using notes or outlines. I just look at the previous post and continue the story from there.

Plot twists could spring from anything that may have happened during a day in my life. The unpredictability of this project could make it somewhat less than satisfying, but it may surprise and deliver a story we can sink our teeth into.

The Cold Bite of Autumn explores my ability (and lust) to create an alternate world that is accessible to most people and a joy to write. So far, I am encouraged by the writing. My writing is in need of overhauling so much, I fear when I click the "Publish Post" button.

No writer wishes to create product that stinks. Hell, we all dream of writing the "Great American Novel. Realistically speaking, most of us have a ton of work to do.

I will continue to create product, post it to this page, and hope that someone 'discovers' me and finds the fiction palatable and especially enjoyable.

The Cold Bite of Autumn (pt.7)

2009-10-26T11:46:00.000-07:00

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."

"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."

The Cold Bite of Autumn (pt.6)

2009-10-19T09:00:00.000-07:00

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 at his back. 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.

The Cold Bite of Autumn (pt.5)

2009-10-12T09:00:00.000-07:00

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 woke, 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 door creaked open. "I'm never bored," he thought as hard shoes clicked to her bedside.

New Fiction Posts

2009-10-07T11:00:00.000-07:00

Hello fan. Oh! There's two of you? Well then, hello fans! Yes, this writing gig is a tough business. You write and write and write and who reads or cares? Two, three people? Well, as long as there is at least one, all is well.

I have decided to commit more seriously to The Cold Bite of Autumn. I'm even considering using the story as my main novel premise in this year's Nanowrimo contest. What is Nanowrimo? Egad! Tis only the most intense writing month of the year!

Na(tional)no(vel)wri(ting)mo(nth) begins November 1, 2009 at midnight October 31st. It runs until midnight November 30th. Basically all you do is write 50,000 words in thirty days or less. I've entered twice, finished (or won) once. Yes, in 2007 I wrote 50,186 words in 29 days. What a sense of accomplishment. That breaks down to 1667 words per day. Currently I am averaging 2000 words per day. Today's count should clock in around 4000. That's where I want to be.

Ok, so The Cold Bite of Autumn has now become a priority. I will commit to posting a new installment every Monday. The next two installments are already written, so look for them beginning Monday October 12th. If I am a good boy, I will keep this up until I have a viable book or someone tells me to hang up my thumb drive and get a real job!

This is a serious undertaking. I must do that thing which most writers rail against - I must discipline myself. I can and will do this. Hopefully you'll follow me down the storyline and we'll meet at the other end satisfied.

Wow, too bad writing like that gets missed by the masses!

Crazy, Hazy Days of Writing

2009-10-05T09:42:00.000-07:00

C. Astrid Weber said, "The coroner will find ink in my veins and blood on my typewriter keys." Hopefully this describes me one day. While the typewriter has gone the way of Click Clacks and Wheelos (remember those?), a keyboard is a reliable facsimile.

I look at what I'm attempting to do as a writer and publisher and I am amazed. Amazed I'm not in bankruptcy court (yet), amazed I'm still married, amazed I know my children's names and amazed I still yearn for more.

Writing is much too complicated to maintain sanity, yet it is a simple process. Simply you, a keyboard and a blank screen. If you go retro, it's you, a pen and a blank page. Simple. The complexity enters from our minds. No writer has a static mind that just sits and contemplates his next dinner menu.

Ok, sometimes we do, but most often we fight self-made demons. The wicked witch that won't let us write even though she's not even around. She's in our mind. Who is she? A wife, a girlfriend, a mother, a daughter. Change gender there wherever suits you.

Then there's chores, jobs, responsibilities. They demand first priority.

I pose you a question. How old are you? Easy answer in terms of actual years lived on this earth, right? But my question, as many of my question do, has a much more sinister, diabolical intent. What if I changed it to - How old are you in relation to your pending death? Oh God, now he's going morbid on us, right?

No. I'm attempting to get you to snap out of your brainwashed stupor. I'm not being condescending here. I often have to do this to myself. What are you here for? How old do you have to be before you understand or realize that the excuses you have for not writing are imposed upon you by others. You must take control of your life. Your writing life.

So now the question becomes - How old is your writing life? Most of our "writing lives" stay on life support. We just give it the bare essentials and call that good enough. How many of us are willing to put it all on the line for our writing lives?

I don't see many honest hands. Mine screams to shoot up in pride and self promotion. But in order for the hand to be honest, it first must be at the task of promoting writing as a vocation day in and day out, with writing being the primary work of the day and all other items secondary. Working on the "writing life" involves a commitment that is not there at your regular job. It's not there in your marriage. Nor you friendships. The commitment to write has to become obsession.

Am I saying you are to trash your other relationships? Absolutely not. Relationships are the fertile ground from which ideas for writing spring. How do you juggle all this then? How do you work another job, have a life (relationship-wise) and keep up with all that happens around you? The answer lies solely within your own psyche. How important is it (writing) to you?

If writing is your passion, you'll marry someone who supports your passion. Someone who loves your passion. Someone willing to take a back seat to it. Not all the time, mind you, but it could be often.

You will also find work that allows you to make writing your priority.

Lastly, when it comes to trimmed hedges or writing, you choose writing. When it comes to mown lawn or writing, you choose writing. When it comes to a leaky roof or writing, you choose writing.

When the situation becomes simply a leaky roof, you fix the roof. When it is simply a lawn that needs mown, you mow the lawn. When it's just a hedge that needs trimmed, you trim the hedge. But never, ever, choose against writing.

What does that do to your life? Make it crazy? Make the days turn into hazy, vague remembrances of keyboards, supporting drinks and words? Absolutely. So again, I ask you, "How old are you?" Are you so old that you've given up on your dreams? Are you so old that writing is just a hobby that'll never amount to anything? Are you so old that our insane society has declared you mundane and a slave to its dictates?

Or are you forever young, vibrant and excited, if nowhere else, than on the printed page. If you aspire to write, I pray that you are forever young. I also ask the same for myself. I get trapped. I fall down. But when we're young, we pop right back up and go at it again. Don't let this world tell you how to live your life.

Jump up into the crazy, hazy days of writing and let your spirit soar.

What I Need as a Writer

2009-09-30T18:33:00.000-07:00

Nothing like the pressure of the social networks to get a writer going. Once I posted my daily word count on Facebook, I nailed the lid of my excuse coffin shut. I exposed my desire to produce daily to the world. Is anyone watching? Most likely not at this point of my career. I'm about the only one all worked up about it. I have been unwilling to produce much in the way of new material for quite some time. Now I must produce daily.

Why?

Because I have pride and I desire to succeed. To succeed as a writer, get this - you must write! What is the one thing a writer struggles to do on a daily basis? Write. Crazy, isn't it? We are a strange lot. I haven't received any input on my "Cold Bite of Autumn" that I'm creating here and only here on my blog.

I'm sure that doesn't necessarily means it's shit, but writers can psyche themselves out and believe all kinds of nonsense like that. Or is it nonsense? I find it interesting that writers slave away at their (our) words with no real hope of anyone really taking them to any high level. I personally don't write to be shallow. I'm definitely not writing for market or I'd be making more money, so what is in this gig for us?

My reward is accomplishment. I may never be considered a brilliant writer. I've read brilliant writers and I'm here to tell you most are not published. That is the unpublicized aspect of writing. Those writers who can wrench your gut out most often squirrel their manuscripts away in a closet and hide behind a low self-esteem or a fear of failure/success mindset.

I've listened to people's writing that ripped my soul and I've watched sadly as they convince themselves in every way possible that they could never make it as a writer. They become a self-fulfilling prophecy. Sure, even thought their writing is pristine and powerful is no guarantee of success, but they have material most of us would die for!

I've attempted to encourage them to step out and make their writing public. To take that chance and put themselves out there for the world to see, but I've also seen years of negativity having beaten them down. Years of people saying both verbally and non-verbally that they will never amount to anything significant.

What really kills me is that the people who often become "significant" have no real claim to fame or intelligence other than the fact that they are willing to expose their creativity to a world that has a voracious appetite for creative material. There is so much weak writing in the world today that I am positive I fall in the upper half of the crap pile. I could be way up there. I may never be able to gauge where I stand in the avalanche of writing in this world, but at least I know I'm in there giving it the ol' college try.

This little blog is brought to you by: "Buck up! YOU could be the next Rowlings, Grisham, Hemmingway! Don't let the world beat you down. Grow some balls! Get off your ass! Get out there and make something happen! One day you'll be dead."

Why do I write THIS day? Because one day I'll be dead. I hope to continue my little story, "The Cold Bite of Autumn". I sincerely hope I'll develop a following. If it's only you, that is all I need.

The Cold Bite of Autumn (pt.4)

2009-08-04T14:02:00.000-07:00

Daniel sat inside her room like a pensive husband. Most of the staff thought they were married and he didn't correct them. Not a single soul came to visit.

He checked up on whether anyone had notified next of kin and found that she had none. In fact, the hospital had been unable to trace anything through her driver's license. This woman had no job, no family and no history. The hospital personnel were unconcerned, especially since he stuck around, but Daniel knew trouble coursed through people with no histories.

Daniel felt a half-smile creep onto his face. A month's leave from police work lay ahead of him and the first day a near-dead chick crawls up into his yard and pique's his interest. Big Joe would be pretty pissed off if he knew Daniel paced this woman's hospital room instead of kicking back a few cold ones on the beach.

He crossed his arms and patted his waist on both sides of his body. The reassuring resistance of his non-issue hardware met his light touches. Daniel repositioned the chair for a strong surveillance view of the parking lot and the door to the room. Instinct told him to expect visitor. That same expectation screamed visitors to her room meant trouble.

If this woman proved to be another rotten peach, Daniel might need more than a month of R&R. The last woman he hooked up with put him on leave in the first place. Her death and his involvement forced Big Joe's hand. This chick might end up squelching his career.

The Cold Bite of Autumn (pt.3)

2009-07-25T16:03:00.000-07:00

The woman's driver's license said her name was Cheryl Ann Socia. Thirty years old and blue eyed, the picture did not do her justice, of course. 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.

Writing Enemies

2009-07-21T17:46:00.000-07:00

Yes, writers have enemies. Our most formidable foe is ourselves. We run from our work like children from daily chores. Any excuse is acceptable if it relieves us of the duty that writing brings to us each and every day.

Idiocy, if you think about it. What do most all writers claim? "I LOVE to write." Yet we avoid doing it with distractions apparent and subtle. We play Spider Solitaire or War Craft. We decide the hedges we loathed trimming are now our most important priority.

Why? Why can't we simply sit down and do that which we know we love? I believe this fundamental question is what separates the Wannabe writers from the Gonnabe's and I Am's. I'm writing a paper called Wannabe's, Gonnabe's and I Am's.

Wannabe's talk about writing. They have great ideas for that blockbuster novel, the one that will sell millions of copies and land them on Oprah. They dog writers groups and established writers looking for that magic formula that will translate their words into gold. There's a home run waiting on them if they just swing that bat hard and true enough.

What Wannabe's don't know and often never get past is the fact that they are the PITCHER not the batter. Nothing happens, no ball gets put into play until they throw out that first pitch. Without a product, the Wannabe is going to die on the vine.

Let's not be too hard on the Wannabe though. All writers were Wannabe's at one time in their life. It's a stage that must be traversed. A writer must listen and learn and transition from the Wannabe stage into a Gonnabe.

The Gonnabe is a writer who actually begins to get it. This writer starts to get serious and sits down and puts words to paper (or electrons to screen). This writer still doesn't know quite what is involved, necessarily, but he/she pushes on, hopefully with a clear cut goal in sight.

It's critical that the Gonnabe completes a book. Too often the Gonnabe bogs down and switches to another "great idea" because the one being worked on has fizzled. Often, the Gonnabe deserts a project that is very close to a completed manuscript. In any case, it is a heck of a lot closer to complete than beginning from scratch.

The Gonnabe has to pursue writing with a more rabid mentality. The Gonnabe has to establish a "hell or high water" approach to completing projects. How the Gonnabe achieves this is not so important as simply attaining a draft manuscript. THEN, the Gonnabe has to weather the fact that he/she must go through many revisions, edits and rewrites to tighten up the original work.

This process, if approached from the right mindset, is very rewarding. As the Gonnabe works and works and works the manuscript, it becomes a living entity no longer needing life to be breathed into it by the writer's hands. Often, the Gonnabe gets sick and totally disgusted with the manuscript and just wants to move on to the next project. Here is where the Gonnabe must stick it out and polish the manuscript to its greatest potential.

Once that is completed, the opportunity presents itself for the Gonnabe to realize the transition to I am. I am is a tenuous pinnacle. It is far to easy to slide back into that Gonnabe stage where many projects make him/her feel like they are progressing but actually they've become stagnant. Or worse, the slide can go all the way back to Wannabe where all they are doing is talking writing.

I am is defined by confidence and a writing regimen of some sort. Without consistent writing in some way, shape or form, the I am is doomed to slip back. One advantage the I Am has over the other two is the knowledge that they were once there and can get back again.

I've run this gauntlet and I'm ready to get back to that point where I am producing once again. I slipped back to Wannabe for a while. I let the excuses build - I'm working so hard on Toastmasters, Publishing, running two other businesses in addition to working, taking care of four children, leading two writers' groups, chair a board of deacons at church and actually paying attention to the woman I love.

A near death experience (very, very near death) catapulted me to pursuing my writing dream. Michael Jackson's untimely death is another moment to contemplate. Forget whether we like him or loath him, he was my age. MY AGE. We were born the same year. He is dead. I have not achieved what I desire to accomplish in the writing world.

Therefore, I must pick myself up from my Wannabe ass, kick it into a Gonnabe gear so that once again I can realize I AM AN AUTHOR! The great writers get here and stay here, at least from my perspective. Once a writer defeats himself (his own worst enemy), he then has the opportunity to do great things. This is my rant, and you have heard me!

DarkThorn

www.michaelrayking.com

The Cold Bite of Autumn (pt.2)

2009-07-21T15:59:00.000-07:00

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. She attempted to pull herself forward with her arms but could raise neither high enough to do any good.

She heard the front door creak slightly and pictured a little old woman afraid of her own shadow opening it. Instead, a burly man swung the door open boldly, pushed open a 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.

A Story by Any Other Name...

2009-07-11T14:48:00.001-07:00

...would read as sweet. When I dream of writing, I dream of intricate characters intertwining their emotional desperations with the bravado's of strength they attempt to maintain. The problem quickly becomes - each character cannot get what he or she wants without exposing the vulnerability that consumes them.

When I practice writing, I do the same. I search for characters that feel. Characters that experience the emotional travails we all go through at some point in our lives. Rich characters make great stepping stones for stories marinated in passion.

When actually writing, I find these ideals elusive. The mission is to achieve that perfect story, the one that makes the young girls sigh and the old women cry. One day I'll write it. I'll know it, and you'll know it. Until then, follow my trek and let me know if I'm on the right path.

Each post on this blog is a rose petal peeled off its stem, falling to some destination unknown. Sometimes the petals will fall to the ground and rot like our bodies one day will do. Other times the petals will fall upon willing eyes that take in their plight and give them life through readership. Some will fall into the hands of evil and perverse people who would tear down all hope for the writer if his destiny lay in their hands. Others will nurture the petals with helpful comments and encouraging words. And so goes the petals that fall.

Walk with me through the world of writing. The stroll should be most entertaining!

DarkThorn

http://www.roguesgallerywriters.blogspot.com/
http://www.michaelrayking.com/

The Cold Bite of Autumn (pt. 1)

2009-07-01T10:26:00.000-07:00